Split (1)

train · 762 rows

split stringclasses 3 values	document_id stringlengths 5 5	questions listlengths 4 10	options listlengths 4 10	gold_label listlengths 4 10	difficult listlengths 4 10	text listlengths 4 10
train	63919	[ "Where was David?", "Why couldn’t David move after he first opened his eyes?", "Why did David press the button?", "What did David determine the black box was for?", "Why didn’t David awaken the woman first?", "How did suspension help the crew?", "Was the ship on target, within maximum deviation from schedule?", "What would happen if they didn’t change course?", "What is the crew’s mission?" ]	[ [ "Dead", "On Earth", "A weightless spaceship", "A small room" ], [ "He was in suspension.", "He was in a tight space.", "He had a wide seatbelt on.", "He was weightless." ], [ "He understood his name.", "The experiment was successful.", "He wanted to leave the spaceship.", "He wanted to get more information from the voice." ], [ "Storage of canned food", "A navigation device", "A device to deliver medication", "Testing equipment" ], [ "He had amnesia and forgot.", "She was important to the mission.", "He stumbled and hurt himself.", "He found her beautiful and didn’t want to harm her." ], [ "They could survive without oxygen.", "They could live on an inhospitable planet.", "They could survive with lack of gravity.", "They could travel through space for a long distance." ], [ "Yes, they were within 5 degrees", "No, they were over by 8 degrees", "Yes, they were over by only 3 degrees.", "No, they were under by 2 degrees" ], [ "They would run out of oxygen before landing.", "They would crash into the yellow-white star.", "They would be thrown out of the sun’s orbit.", "They would die before arriving back to Earth." ], [ "To conduct tests about life in space", "To experiment with suspension and memory", "To return to Earth as quickly as possible", "To explore possible planets to support life" ] ]	[ 3, 3, 4, 3, 4, 4, 2, 2, 4 ]	[ 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 1, 0, 1 ]	[ [ "I looked in the direction of the sound. Above my feet a bulkhead\n loomed. There were round dials set in a row above a speaker. Over the\n mesh-covered speaker, two knobs glowed red. I ran the words over in\n my sluggish mind, thinking about an answer. The muscles in my throat\n tightened up in reflex as I tried to bring some unity into the jumble\n of thoughts and ideas that kept forming. One word formed out of the\n rush of anxiety.\n\n\n \"No.\"\n\n\n I shouted a protest against the strangeness of the room. I looked to\n the right, my eyes following the curving ceiling that started at the\n cot. The curve met another straight bulkhead on the left. I was in a\n small room, gray in color, like dull metal. Overhead a bright light\n burned into my vision. I wondered where in the universe I was.\n\n\n \"Your name is David Corbin. If you understand, press button A on your\n right.\"", "CAPTAIN CHAOS\nBy D. ALLEN MORRISSEY\nScience equipped David Corbin with borrowed time;\n \nsent him winging out in a state of suspension to future\n \ncenturies ... to a dark blue world whose only defense\n \nwas to seal tight the prying minds of foolish interlopers.\n[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Planet Stories November 1952.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nI heard the voice as I opened my eyes. I was lying down, still not\n aware of where I was, waiting for the voice.\n\n\n \"Your name is David Corbin. Do you understand?\"", "\"If you understand, press button A on your right.\"\n\n\n What should I understand? That I was floating in a room that had a\n curved wall ... that nothing was right in this hostile room?\n\n\n When I reached the cot I held it and drew myself down. I glanced at the\n planes of the room, trying to place it with other rooms I could see in\n my mind. Gray walls with a crazy curved ceiling ... a door to my left\n that appeared to be air tight.\n\n\n I stared at my familiar hands. I rubbed them across my face, feeling\n the solidity of flesh and bone, afraid to think too hard about myself.\n\n\n \"My name ... my name is....\"\n\n\n \"Your name is David Corbin.\"", "Back in the room where I had awakened, I touched the panel with the\n glowing eyes. It had asked me if I understood. Now it must tell me why\n I didn't. It had to help me, that flat metallic voice that repeated the\n same words. It must tell me....\n\n\n \"Your name is David Corbin. If you understand, press button A on your\n right.\"\n\n\n I pressed the button by the cot. The red lights blinked out as I stood\n in patient attention, trying to outguess the voice. I recalled a\n phrase ... some words about precaution.\n\n\n Precaution against forgetting.\n\n\n It was crazy, but I trusted the panel. It was the only thing I saw that\n could help me, guard me against another shock like seeing outside of\n the clear portholes.\n\n\n \"It is assumed the experiment is a success,\" the voice said.\n\n\n What experiment?", "I looked out at deep space, star systems in clusters. I shut my eyes.\n When I looked again I knew where I was. Why the little room had been\n shaped like quarter round. Why I drifted weightlessly. Why I was....\n\n\n David Corbin.\n\n\n I knew more of the puzzle. Something was wrong. After the first shock\n of looking out, I accepted the fact that I was in a space ship, yet I\n couldn't read the maps that were fastened to a table, nor understand\n the function or design of the compact machinery.\n\n\n WHY, Why, Why? The thought kept pounding at me. I was afraid to touch\n anything in the room. I pressed against the clear window, wondering if\n the stars were familiar. I had a brief vivid picture of a night sky on\n Earth. This was not the same sky.", "tapering legs, soft curves that were carved out of flesh colored stone.\n Yet not stone. I held her small hand, then put it back on the cot. Her\n attire was brief like the rest of us, shorts and a man's shirt. Golden\n hair curled up around her lovely face. I wondered if she would ever\n smile or move that graceful head. I rolled back her eyelid and looked\n at a deep blue eye that stared back in glassy surprise. Four people in\n all, depending on a blind helpless fool who didn't know their names or\n the reason for that dependence. I sat beside her on the cot until I\n could stand it no longer.", "The silence was a force in itself, pressing down from the metal walls,\n driving me back to the comforting smallness of the room where I had\n been reborn. I laughed bitterly, thinking about the aptness of that. I\n had literally been reborn in this room, equipped with half ideas, and\n no point to start from, no premise to seek. I sensed the place to start\n from was back in the room. I searched it carefully.", "Searching the ship made me forget my fear. I hoped I would find some\n answers. I went from the nose to the last bulkhead in a frenzy of\n floating motion, looking behind each door until I went as far as I\n could. There were two levels to the ship. They both ended in the lead\n shield that was set where the swell of the curve was biggest. It meant\n the engine or engines took up half the ship, cut off from the forward\n half by the instrument studded shield. I retraced my steps and took a\n rough estimate of size. The ship, as I called it, was at least four\n hundred feet long, fifty feet in diameter on the inside.", "Minutes later I realized the apparatus by the cot was different. It\n was the same type of black box, but out from it was a metal arm, bent\n in a funny angle. At the tip of the arm, a needle gleamed dully and I\n rubbed the deep gash on my leg. I bent the arm back until the angle\n looked right. It was then I realized the needle came to a spot where it\n could have hit my neck when I lay down. My shout of excitement rang out\n in the room, as I pictured the action of the extended arm. I lost my\n sudden elation in the cabin where the girl lay. The box behind her head\n was completely closed, and it didn't yield to the pressure I applied.\n It had a cover, but no other opening where an arm could extend. I ran", "She tightened up in my arms. \"Yes. It's....\" She looked at us for help,\n frightened by the lack of clothing we wore, by the bleak room. Her eyes\n circled the room. \"I'm afraid,\" she cried. I held her and she shook\n uncontrollably.\n\n\n \"What's happened to me?\" she asked.\n\n\n The dark haired man came into the room, silent and watchful. My\n companion motioned to him. \"Get Carl and meet us in Control.\"\n\n\n The man looked at me and I nodded. \"We'll be there in a moment. I'm\n afraid we've got trouble.\"\n\n\n He nodded and pushed away from us. The girl screamed and covered her\n face with her hands. I turned to the other man. \"What's your name?\"\n\n\n \"Croft. John Croft.\"\n\n\n \"John, what are your duties if any?\"", "\"Can I?\" I asked.\nWe set up a temporary plan of action. Paul took Karen to the laboratory\n in an effort to help her remember her job. Carl went back to divide the\n rations.\n\n\n I was to study the charts and manuals. It was better than doing\n nothing, and I went into the navigation room and sat down. Earth was\n an infinitesimal point somewhere behind us on the galactic plane, and\n no one else was trained to navigate. The ship thundered to life as I\n sat there. The blast roared once ... twice, then settled into a muted\n crescendo of sound that hummed through the walls. I went into the\n control room and watched John at the panel.\n\n\n \"I wish I knew what you were doing,\" I said savagely.\n\n\n \"Give it time.\"\n\n\n \"We can't spare any, can we?\" I asked.\n\n\n \"I wish we knew. What about her—Dr. Thiesen?\"", "I had a glimpse of his contorted face as I dove at the control board.\n My hands hit buttons, thumbed a switch and then a sudden force threw me\n to the right. I slammed into the panel on the right, as the pressure\n of the change dimmed my vision. Reflex made me look up at the radar\n control screen.\n\n\n It wasn't operating.\n\n\n John let go of the padded chair, grinning weakly. I was busy for a few\n seconds, feeding compensation into the gyros. Relief flooded through me\n like warm liquid. I hung on the intercom for support, drawing air into\n my heaving lungs.\n\n\n \"What—made you—think of that,\" I asked weakly.\n\n\n \"Shock treatment.\"\n\n\n \"I must have acted on instinct.\"\n\n\n \"You did. Even for a sick man that was pretty fast,\" he laughed.", "I held my bruised hands to my mouth, and I knew that was all the\n message there was. In blind panic I pushed away from the panel.\n Something tripped me and I fell back in a graceless arc. I pushed away\n from the floor, barely feeling the pain in my leg, and went into the\n hall.\n\n\n Pain burned along my leg but I couldn't stop. In the first panic of\n waking up in strangeness I had missed the other doors in the passage.\n The first swung back to reveal a deep closet holding five bulky suits.\n The second room was like my own. A dark haired, deep chested man lay on\n the cot. His muscular body was secured by a wide belt. He was as still\n as death, motionless without warmth or breath as I hovered over him.\n\n\n I couldn't remember his face.", "\"What do you mean? What can't you remember?\" he asked. He stood up\n slowly, edging around towards the door. I didn't want to fight him. I\n wanted him to understand. \"Look, I'm in trouble. Nothing fits, except\n my name.\"\n\n\n \"You don't know me?\"\n\n\n \"No.\"\n\n\n \"Are you serious?\"\n\n\n \"Yes, yes. I don't know why but it's happened.\"\n\n\n He let his breath out in a whistle. \"For God's sake. Any bump on your\n head?\"\n\n\n \"I feel all right physically. I just can't place enough.\"\n\n\n \"The others. What about the others?\" he blurted.\n\n\n \"I don't know. You're the first besides myself. I don't know how I\n stumbled on the way to revive you.\"", "The next room held another man. He was young and wiry, like an athlete\n cast in marble, dark haired and big jawed. A glassy eye stared up when\n I rolled back his eyelid. The eyelid remained open until I closed it\n and went on. Another room ... another man ... another stranger. This\n man was tall and raw boned, light of skin and hair, as dead as the\n others.\n\n\n A flat, illogical voice had instructed me to revive these men. I\n shivered in spite of the warmth of the room, studying the black box\n that squatted on a shelf by his head. My hand shook when I touched\n the metal. I dared not try to operate anything. Revive the others ...\n instructions without knowledge were useless to me. I stopped looking\n into the doors in the passageway and went back to the room with the\n portholes. Everything lay in readiness, fastened down star charts,\n instruments, glittering equipment. There was no feeling of disorder or\n use in the room. It waited for human hands to make it operate.", "He shook his head, watching me like I was a freak. \"Let's check the\n rest right away.\"\n\n\n \"Yes. I've got to know if they are like me. I'm afraid to think they\n might be.\"\n\n\n \"Maybe it's temporary. We can figure something out.\"\nII\n\n\n The second man, the dark haired one, opened his eyes and recognized us.\n He asked questions in rapid fire excitement. The third man, the tall\n Viking, was all right until he moved. The weightless sensation made him\n violently sick. We put him back on the cot, securing him again with\n the belt, but the sight of us floating made him shake. He was retching\n without results when we drifted out. I followed him to the girl's\n quarters.\n\n\n \"What about her. Why is she here?\" I asked my companion.\n\n\n He lifted the cover from the apparatus. \"She's the chemist in the crew.\"", "\"I can think again, John. I know who I am,\" I shouted. I threw my arms\n around his massive shoulders. \"You did it.\"\n\n\n \"You gave me the idea, Mister, talking about Dr. Thiesen.\"\n\n\n \"It worked. I'm okay,\" I said in giddy relief.\n\n\n \"I don't have to tell you I was scared as hell. I wish you could have\n seen your face, the look in your eyes when I woke up.\"\n\n\n \"I wouldn't want to wake up like that again.\"\n\n\n \"You're all right now?\" he asked. I grinned and nodded an answer. I saw\n John as he was at the base, big and competent, sweating in the blazing\n sun.\n\n\n I thought about the rest of the crew too. \"We're heading right for a\n star....\"", "\"It's been dead ahead for hours,\" he grunted. I leaned over and threw\n the intercom to open. \"This is control. Listen ... everyone. I'm over\n it. Disregard the warning siren ... we were testing the ship.\"\n\n\n The lab light blinked on as Paul cut in. \"What was it ... hey, you said\n you're all right.\"\n\n\n \"John did it. He hit the alarm figuring I would react. Listen, Paul. Is\n any one hurt?\"\n\n\n \"No. Carl is here too. His stomach flopped again but he's okay. What\n about food. We're supposed to be checked before we eat.\"\n\n\n \"We'll have to go ahead without it. Any change?\"\n\n\n \"No, I put her to bed. Shall I bring food?\"", "It was effortless to move. I turned on my side like a swimmer and went\n hand over hand, shooting down the corridor. I braced against forward\n motion and stopped against a door at the end. Behind me I could see the\n opened door I had left, and the thought of that questioning voice made\n me want to move. I swung the door open, catching a glimpse of a room\n crowded with equipment and....\nI will always remember the scream of terror, the paralyzing fright of\n what I saw through the portholes in the wall of the room. I saw the\n blackest night, pierced by brilliance that blinded me. There was no\n depth to the searing brightness of countless stars. They seemed to\n press against the glass, blobs of fire against a black curtain burning\n into my eyes and brain.\n\n\n It was space.", "\"That had me wondering for a while. I don't know. Anyway how could you\n go about making her remember?\"\n\n\n \"Throw a crisis, some situation at her, I guess.\"\n\n\n He shrugged, letting his sure hands rest on the panel of dials. I\n headed back towards the lab. If I could help her I might help myself.\n I was past the rooms when the horn blasted through the corridor. I\n turned automatically with the sound, pushing against the rail, towards\n the control room. Deep in my mind I could see danger, and without\n questioning why I knew I had to be at Control when the sound knifed\n through the stillness. John was shouting as I thrust my way into the\n room.\n\"Turn the ship. There's something dead ahead.\"" ], [ "tapering legs, soft curves that were carved out of flesh colored stone.\n Yet not stone. I held her small hand, then put it back on the cot. Her\n attire was brief like the rest of us, shorts and a man's shirt. Golden\n hair curled up around her lovely face. I wondered if she would ever\n smile or move that graceful head. I rolled back her eyelid and looked\n at a deep blue eye that stared back in glassy surprise. Four people in\n all, depending on a blind helpless fool who didn't know their names or\n the reason for that dependence. I sat beside her on the cot until I\n could stand it no longer.", "I looked in the direction of the sound. Above my feet a bulkhead\n loomed. There were round dials set in a row above a speaker. Over the\n mesh-covered speaker, two knobs glowed red. I ran the words over in\n my sluggish mind, thinking about an answer. The muscles in my throat\n tightened up in reflex as I tried to bring some unity into the jumble\n of thoughts and ideas that kept forming. One word formed out of the\n rush of anxiety.\n\n\n \"No.\"\n\n\n I shouted a protest against the strangeness of the room. I looked to\n the right, my eyes following the curving ceiling that started at the\n cot. The curve met another straight bulkhead on the left. I was in a\n small room, gray in color, like dull metal. Overhead a bright light\n burned into my vision. I wondered where in the universe I was.\n\n\n \"Your name is David Corbin. If you understand, press button A on your\n right.\"", "I held my bruised hands to my mouth, and I knew that was all the\n message there was. In blind panic I pushed away from the panel.\n Something tripped me and I fell back in a graceless arc. I pushed away\n from the floor, barely feeling the pain in my leg, and went into the\n hall.\n\n\n Pain burned along my leg but I couldn't stop. In the first panic of\n waking up in strangeness I had missed the other doors in the passage.\n The first swung back to reveal a deep closet holding five bulky suits.\n The second room was like my own. A dark haired, deep chested man lay on\n the cot. His muscular body was secured by a wide belt. He was as still\n as death, motionless without warmth or breath as I hovered over him.\n\n\n I couldn't remember his face.", "Back in the room where I had awakened, I touched the panel with the\n glowing eyes. It had asked me if I understood. Now it must tell me why\n I didn't. It had to help me, that flat metallic voice that repeated the\n same words. It must tell me....\n\n\n \"Your name is David Corbin. If you understand, press button A on your\n right.\"\n\n\n I pressed the button by the cot. The red lights blinked out as I stood\n in patient attention, trying to outguess the voice. I recalled a\n phrase ... some words about precaution.\n\n\n Precaution against forgetting.\n\n\n It was crazy, but I trusted the panel. It was the only thing I saw that\n could help me, guard me against another shock like seeing outside of\n the clear portholes.\n\n\n \"It is assumed the experiment is a success,\" the voice said.\n\n\n What experiment?", "I stared at the speaker in the wall. The mesh-covered hole and the two\n lights looked like a caricature of a face, set in a panel of dials. I\n twisted my head to look for the button. I pushed away from the close\n wall but I couldn't move. I reached down to the tightness that held my\n body, found the wide strap that held me and fumbled with the buckle.\n I threw it off and pushed myself up from the hard cot. I heard myself\n yell in surprise as I floated up towards the light overhead.\n\n\n I was weightless.\n\n\n How do you describe being weightless when you are born into a world\n bound by gravity. I twisted and shut my eyes in terror. There was no\n sensation of place, no feeling of up or down, no direction. My back\n bumped against the ceiling and I opened my eyes to stare at the cot and\n floor. I was concentrating too hard on remembering to be frightened for\n long. I pushed away from the warm metal and the floor moved up to meet\n me.", "\"If you understand, press button A on your right.\"\n\n\n What should I understand? That I was floating in a room that had a\n curved wall ... that nothing was right in this hostile room?\n\n\n When I reached the cot I held it and drew myself down. I glanced at the\n planes of the room, trying to place it with other rooms I could see in\n my mind. Gray walls with a crazy curved ceiling ... a door to my left\n that appeared to be air tight.\n\n\n I stared at my familiar hands. I rubbed them across my face, feeling\n the solidity of flesh and bone, afraid to think too hard about myself.\n\n\n \"My name ... my name is....\"\n\n\n \"Your name is David Corbin.\"", "The next room held another man. He was young and wiry, like an athlete\n cast in marble, dark haired and big jawed. A glassy eye stared up when\n I rolled back his eyelid. The eyelid remained open until I closed it\n and went on. Another room ... another man ... another stranger. This\n man was tall and raw boned, light of skin and hair, as dead as the\n others.\n\n\n A flat, illogical voice had instructed me to revive these men. I\n shivered in spite of the warmth of the room, studying the black box\n that squatted on a shelf by his head. My hand shook when I touched\n the metal. I dared not try to operate anything. Revive the others ...\n instructions without knowledge were useless to me. I stopped looking\n into the doors in the passageway and went back to the room with the\n portholes. Everything lay in readiness, fastened down star charts,\n instruments, glittering equipment. There was no feeling of disorder or\n use in the room. It waited for human hands to make it operate.", "It was effortless to move. I turned on my side like a swimmer and went\n hand over hand, shooting down the corridor. I braced against forward\n motion and stopped against a door at the end. Behind me I could see the\n opened door I had left, and the thought of that questioning voice made\n me want to move. I swung the door open, catching a glimpse of a room\n crowded with equipment and....\nI will always remember the scream of terror, the paralyzing fright of\n what I saw through the portholes in the wall of the room. I saw the\n blackest night, pierced by brilliance that blinded me. There was no\n depth to the searing brightness of countless stars. They seemed to\n press against the glass, blobs of fire against a black curtain burning\n into my eyes and brain.\n\n\n It was space.", "CAPTAIN CHAOS\nBy D. ALLEN MORRISSEY\nScience equipped David Corbin with borrowed time;\n \nsent him winging out in a state of suspension to future\n \ncenturies ... to a dark blue world whose only defense\n \nwas to seal tight the prying minds of foolish interlopers.\n[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Planet Stories November 1952.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nI heard the voice as I opened my eyes. I was lying down, still not\n aware of where I was, waiting for the voice.\n\n\n \"Your name is David Corbin. Do you understand?\"", "Minutes later I realized the apparatus by the cot was different. It\n was the same type of black box, but out from it was a metal arm, bent\n in a funny angle. At the tip of the arm, a needle gleamed dully and I\n rubbed the deep gash on my leg. I bent the arm back until the angle\n looked right. It was then I realized the needle came to a spot where it\n could have hit my neck when I lay down. My shout of excitement rang out\n in the room, as I pictured the action of the extended arm. I lost my\n sudden elation in the cabin where the girl lay. The box behind her head\n was completely closed, and it didn't yield to the pressure I applied.\n It had a cover, but no other opening where an arm could extend. I ran", "I looked out at deep space, star systems in clusters. I shut my eyes.\n When I looked again I knew where I was. Why the little room had been\n shaped like quarter round. Why I drifted weightlessly. Why I was....\n\n\n David Corbin.\n\n\n I knew more of the puzzle. Something was wrong. After the first shock\n of looking out, I accepted the fact that I was in a space ship, yet I\n couldn't read the maps that were fastened to a table, nor understand\n the function or design of the compact machinery.\n\n\n WHY, Why, Why? The thought kept pounding at me. I was afraid to touch\n anything in the room. I pressed against the clear window, wondering if\n the stars were familiar. I had a brief vivid picture of a night sky on\n Earth. This was not the same sky.", "I swung the massive cover off and set it down. The equipment waited for\n the touch of a button and it went into operation. I stepped back as the\n tubes glowed to life and the arm swung down with the gleaming needle.\n The needle went into the corded neck of the man. The fluid chamber\n drained under pressure and the arm moved back.\n\n\n I stood by the man for long minutes. Finally it came. He stirred\n restlessly, closing his hands into fists. The deep chest rose and fell\n unevenly as he breathed. Finally the eyes opened and he looked at me.\n I watched him adjust to the room. It was in his eyes, wide at first,\n moving about the confines of the room back to me.\n\n\n \"It looks like we made it,\" he said.\n\n\n \"Yes.\"\n\n\n He unfastened the belt and sat up. I pushed him back as he floated up\n finding little humor in the comic expression on his face.", "The silence was a force in itself, pressing down from the metal walls,\n driving me back to the comforting smallness of the room where I had\n been reborn. I laughed bitterly, thinking about the aptness of that. I\n had literally been reborn in this room, equipped with half ideas, and\n no point to start from, no premise to seek. I sensed the place to start\n from was back in the room. I searched it carefully.", "He shook his head, watching me like I was a freak. \"Let's check the\n rest right away.\"\n\n\n \"Yes. I've got to know if they are like me. I'm afraid to think they\n might be.\"\n\n\n \"Maybe it's temporary. We can figure something out.\"\nII\n\n\n The second man, the dark haired one, opened his eyes and recognized us.\n He asked questions in rapid fire excitement. The third man, the tall\n Viking, was all right until he moved. The weightless sensation made him\n violently sick. We put him back on the cot, securing him again with\n the belt, but the sight of us floating made him shake. He was retching\n without results when we drifted out. I followed him to the girl's\n quarters.\n\n\n \"What about her. Why is she here?\" I asked my companion.\n\n\n He lifted the cover from the apparatus. \"She's the chemist in the crew.\"", "I stared at the speaker. How long did this go on? The name meant\n nothing to me, but I thought about it, watching the relentless lights\n that shone below the dials. I stood up slowly and looked at myself. I\n was naked except for heavy shorts, and there was no clue to my name in\n the pockets. The room was warm and the air I had been breathing was\n good but it seemed wrong to be dressed like this. I didn't know why. I\n thought about insanity, and the room seemed to fit my thoughts. When\n the voice repeated the message again I had to act. Walking was like\n treading water that couldn't be seen or felt.\n\n\n I floated against the door, twisting the handle in fear that it\n wouldn't turn. The handle clanged as I pushed it down and I stared at\n the opposite wall of a narrow gray passageway. I pushed out into it and\n grasped the metal rail that ran along the wall. I reasoned it was there\n to propel yourself through the passageway in this weightless atmosphere.", "\"What do you mean? What can't you remember?\" he asked. He stood up\n slowly, edging around towards the door. I didn't want to fight him. I\n wanted him to understand. \"Look, I'm in trouble. Nothing fits, except\n my name.\"\n\n\n \"You don't know me?\"\n\n\n \"No.\"\n\n\n \"Are you serious?\"\n\n\n \"Yes, yes. I don't know why but it's happened.\"\n\n\n He let his breath out in a whistle. \"For God's sake. Any bump on your\n head?\"\n\n\n \"I feel all right physically. I just can't place enough.\"\n\n\n \"The others. What about the others?\" he blurted.\n\n\n \"I don't know. You're the first besides myself. I don't know how I\n stumbled on the way to revive you.\"", "We were out of luck with the girl. She woke up and she was frightened.\n We questioned her and she was coherent but she couldn't remember. I\n tried to smile as I sat on the cot, wondering what she was thinking.\n\n\n \"How do you feel?\" I asked.\n\n\n Her face was a mask of wide-eyed fear as she shook her head.\n\n\n \"Can you remember?\"\n\n\n \"I don't know.\" Blue eyes stared at me in fear. Her voice was low.\n\n\n \"Do you know my name?\"\n\n\n The question frightened her. \"Should I? I feel so strange. Give me a\n minute to think.\"\n\n\n I let her sit up slowly. \"Do you know your name?\"", "In the laboratory on the lower level I went over the rows of cans and\n tubes fastened to the shelves. There were earths and minerals, seeds\n and chemicals, testing equipment in compact drawers, but nothing marked\n for me. I wondered if I was an engineer or a pilot, or perhaps a doctor\n sent along to safeguard the others. Complete amnesia would have been\n terrible enough but this half knowledge, part awareness and association\n with the ship was a frightening force that seemed ready to break out of\n me.\n\n\n I went back to the cabin where the powerful man lay. I had to risk\n failure with one of them. I didn't want it to be the girl. I fought\n down the thought that he might be the key man, remembering the voice\n that had given the message. It was up to me, and soon. The metal in the\n box would have withstood a bullet. It couldn't be pried apart, and I\n searched again and again for a release mechanism.\n\n\n I found it.", "She tightened up in my arms. \"Yes. It's....\" She looked at us for help,\n frightened by the lack of clothing we wore, by the bleak room. Her eyes\n circled the room. \"I'm afraid,\" she cried. I held her and she shook\n uncontrollably.\n\n\n \"What's happened to me?\" she asked.\n\n\n The dark haired man came into the room, silent and watchful. My\n companion motioned to him. \"Get Carl and meet us in Control.\"\n\n\n The man looked at me and I nodded. \"We'll be there in a moment. I'm\n afraid we've got trouble.\"\n\n\n He nodded and pushed away from us. The girl screamed and covered her\n face with her hands. I turned to the other man. \"What's your name?\"\n\n\n \"Croft. John Croft.\"\n\n\n \"John, what are your duties if any?\"", "The ports on the side were shielded and I stared out at static energy,\n hung motionless in a world of searing light. There was no distortion,\n no movement outside and I glanced back at the dials. What speeds were\n they recording? What speeds and perhaps, what distance? It was useless\n to translate the markings. They stood for anything I might guess, and\n something kept pricking my mind, telling me I had no time to guess. I\n thought of time again. I was supposed to act according to ... plan. Did\n that mean ... in time ... in time. I went back down the passageway.\nThe fourth small room was the same. Except for the woman. She lay on a\n cot, young and beautiful, even in the death-like immobility I had come\n to accept. Her beauty was graceful lines of face and her figure—smooth" ], [ "\"If you understand, press button A on your right.\"\n\n\n What should I understand? That I was floating in a room that had a\n curved wall ... that nothing was right in this hostile room?\n\n\n When I reached the cot I held it and drew myself down. I glanced at the\n planes of the room, trying to place it with other rooms I could see in\n my mind. Gray walls with a crazy curved ceiling ... a door to my left\n that appeared to be air tight.\n\n\n I stared at my familiar hands. I rubbed them across my face, feeling\n the solidity of flesh and bone, afraid to think too hard about myself.\n\n\n \"My name ... my name is....\"\n\n\n \"Your name is David Corbin.\"", "Back in the room where I had awakened, I touched the panel with the\n glowing eyes. It had asked me if I understood. Now it must tell me why\n I didn't. It had to help me, that flat metallic voice that repeated the\n same words. It must tell me....\n\n\n \"Your name is David Corbin. If you understand, press button A on your\n right.\"\n\n\n I pressed the button by the cot. The red lights blinked out as I stood\n in patient attention, trying to outguess the voice. I recalled a\n phrase ... some words about precaution.\n\n\n Precaution against forgetting.\n\n\n It was crazy, but I trusted the panel. It was the only thing I saw that\n could help me, guard me against another shock like seeing outside of\n the clear portholes.\n\n\n \"It is assumed the experiment is a success,\" the voice said.\n\n\n What experiment?", "I looked in the direction of the sound. Above my feet a bulkhead\n loomed. There were round dials set in a row above a speaker. Over the\n mesh-covered speaker, two knobs glowed red. I ran the words over in\n my sluggish mind, thinking about an answer. The muscles in my throat\n tightened up in reflex as I tried to bring some unity into the jumble\n of thoughts and ideas that kept forming. One word formed out of the\n rush of anxiety.\n\n\n \"No.\"\n\n\n I shouted a protest against the strangeness of the room. I looked to\n the right, my eyes following the curving ceiling that started at the\n cot. The curve met another straight bulkhead on the left. I was in a\n small room, gray in color, like dull metal. Overhead a bright light\n burned into my vision. I wondered where in the universe I was.\n\n\n \"Your name is David Corbin. If you understand, press button A on your\n right.\"", "I had a glimpse of his contorted face as I dove at the control board.\n My hands hit buttons, thumbed a switch and then a sudden force threw me\n to the right. I slammed into the panel on the right, as the pressure\n of the change dimmed my vision. Reflex made me look up at the radar\n control screen.\n\n\n It wasn't operating.\n\n\n John let go of the padded chair, grinning weakly. I was busy for a few\n seconds, feeding compensation into the gyros. Relief flooded through me\n like warm liquid. I hung on the intercom for support, drawing air into\n my heaving lungs.\n\n\n \"What—made you—think of that,\" I asked weakly.\n\n\n \"Shock treatment.\"\n\n\n \"I must have acted on instinct.\"\n\n\n \"You did. Even for a sick man that was pretty fast,\" he laughed.", "Minutes later I realized the apparatus by the cot was different. It\n was the same type of black box, but out from it was a metal arm, bent\n in a funny angle. At the tip of the arm, a needle gleamed dully and I\n rubbed the deep gash on my leg. I bent the arm back until the angle\n looked right. It was then I realized the needle came to a spot where it\n could have hit my neck when I lay down. My shout of excitement rang out\n in the room, as I pictured the action of the extended arm. I lost my\n sudden elation in the cabin where the girl lay. The box behind her head\n was completely closed, and it didn't yield to the pressure I applied.\n It had a cover, but no other opening where an arm could extend. I ran", "I looked out at deep space, star systems in clusters. I shut my eyes.\n When I looked again I knew where I was. Why the little room had been\n shaped like quarter round. Why I drifted weightlessly. Why I was....\n\n\n David Corbin.\n\n\n I knew more of the puzzle. Something was wrong. After the first shock\n of looking out, I accepted the fact that I was in a space ship, yet I\n couldn't read the maps that were fastened to a table, nor understand\n the function or design of the compact machinery.\n\n\n WHY, Why, Why? The thought kept pounding at me. I was afraid to touch\n anything in the room. I pressed against the clear window, wondering if\n the stars were familiar. I had a brief vivid picture of a night sky on\n Earth. This was not the same sky.", "The silence was a force in itself, pressing down from the metal walls,\n driving me back to the comforting smallness of the room where I had\n been reborn. I laughed bitterly, thinking about the aptness of that. I\n had literally been reborn in this room, equipped with half ideas, and\n no point to start from, no premise to seek. I sensed the place to start\n from was back in the room. I searched it carefully.", "In the laboratory on the lower level I went over the rows of cans and\n tubes fastened to the shelves. There were earths and minerals, seeds\n and chemicals, testing equipment in compact drawers, but nothing marked\n for me. I wondered if I was an engineer or a pilot, or perhaps a doctor\n sent along to safeguard the others. Complete amnesia would have been\n terrible enough but this half knowledge, part awareness and association\n with the ship was a frightening force that seemed ready to break out of\n me.\n\n\n I went back to the cabin where the powerful man lay. I had to risk\n failure with one of them. I didn't want it to be the girl. I fought\n down the thought that he might be the key man, remembering the voice\n that had given the message. It was up to me, and soon. The metal in the\n box would have withstood a bullet. It couldn't be pried apart, and I\n searched again and again for a release mechanism.\n\n\n I found it.", "CAPTAIN CHAOS\nBy D. ALLEN MORRISSEY\nScience equipped David Corbin with borrowed time;\n \nsent him winging out in a state of suspension to future\n \ncenturies ... to a dark blue world whose only defense\n \nwas to seal tight the prying minds of foolish interlopers.\n[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Planet Stories November 1952.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nI heard the voice as I opened my eyes. I was lying down, still not\n aware of where I was, waiting for the voice.\n\n\n \"Your name is David Corbin. Do you understand?\"", "\"It's been dead ahead for hours,\" he grunted. I leaned over and threw\n the intercom to open. \"This is control. Listen ... everyone. I'm over\n it. Disregard the warning siren ... we were testing the ship.\"\n\n\n The lab light blinked on as Paul cut in. \"What was it ... hey, you said\n you're all right.\"\n\n\n \"John did it. He hit the alarm figuring I would react. Listen, Paul. Is\n any one hurt?\"\n\n\n \"No. Carl is here too. His stomach flopped again but he's okay. What\n about food. We're supposed to be checked before we eat.\"\n\n\n \"We'll have to go ahead without it. Any change?\"\n\n\n \"No, I put her to bed. Shall I bring food?\"", "The next room held another man. He was young and wiry, like an athlete\n cast in marble, dark haired and big jawed. A glassy eye stared up when\n I rolled back his eyelid. The eyelid remained open until I closed it\n and went on. Another room ... another man ... another stranger. This\n man was tall and raw boned, light of skin and hair, as dead as the\n others.\n\n\n A flat, illogical voice had instructed me to revive these men. I\n shivered in spite of the warmth of the room, studying the black box\n that squatted on a shelf by his head. My hand shook when I touched\n the metal. I dared not try to operate anything. Revive the others ...\n instructions without knowledge were useless to me. I stopped looking\n into the doors in the passageway and went back to the room with the\n portholes. Everything lay in readiness, fastened down star charts,\n instruments, glittering equipment. There was no feeling of disorder or\n use in the room. It waited for human hands to make it operate.", "I stared at the speaker in the wall. The mesh-covered hole and the two\n lights looked like a caricature of a face, set in a panel of dials. I\n twisted my head to look for the button. I pushed away from the close\n wall but I couldn't move. I reached down to the tightness that held my\n body, found the wide strap that held me and fumbled with the buckle.\n I threw it off and pushed myself up from the hard cot. I heard myself\n yell in surprise as I floated up towards the light overhead.\n\n\n I was weightless.\n\n\n How do you describe being weightless when you are born into a world\n bound by gravity. I twisted and shut my eyes in terror. There was no\n sensation of place, no feeling of up or down, no direction. My back\n bumped against the ceiling and I opened my eyes to stare at the cot and\n floor. I was concentrating too hard on remembering to be frightened for\n long. I pushed away from the warm metal and the floor moved up to meet\n me.", "It was effortless to move. I turned on my side like a swimmer and went\n hand over hand, shooting down the corridor. I braced against forward\n motion and stopped against a door at the end. Behind me I could see the\n opened door I had left, and the thought of that questioning voice made\n me want to move. I swung the door open, catching a glimpse of a room\n crowded with equipment and....\nI will always remember the scream of terror, the paralyzing fright of\n what I saw through the portholes in the wall of the room. I saw the\n blackest night, pierced by brilliance that blinded me. There was no\n depth to the searing brightness of countless stars. They seemed to\n press against the glass, blobs of fire against a black curtain burning\n into my eyes and brain.\n\n\n It was space.", "\"Automatic control. I helped to install it.\"\n\n\n \"Can you run this ship? How about the other two?\"\n\n\n He hit his hands together. \"You fly it, sir. Can't you think?\"\n\n\n \"I'm trying. I know the ship is familiar, but I've looked it over.\n Maybe I'm trying too hard.\"\n\n\n \"You flew her from earth until we went into suspension,\" he said.\n\n\n \"I can't remember when,\" I said. I held the trembling girl against me,\n shaking my head.\n\n\n He glanced at the girl. \"If the calculations are right it was more than\n a hundred years ago.\"", "I swung the massive cover off and set it down. The equipment waited for\n the touch of a button and it went into operation. I stepped back as the\n tubes glowed to life and the arm swung down with the gleaming needle.\n The needle went into the corded neck of the man. The fluid chamber\n drained under pressure and the arm moved back.\n\n\n I stood by the man for long minutes. Finally it came. He stirred\n restlessly, closing his hands into fists. The deep chest rose and fell\n unevenly as he breathed. Finally the eyes opened and he looked at me.\n I watched him adjust to the room. It was in his eyes, wide at first,\n moving about the confines of the room back to me.\n\n\n \"It looks like we made it,\" he said.\n\n\n \"Yes.\"\n\n\n He unfastened the belt and sat up. I pushed him back as he floated up\n finding little humor in the comic expression on his face.", "I stared at the speaker. How long did this go on? The name meant\n nothing to me, but I thought about it, watching the relentless lights\n that shone below the dials. I stood up slowly and looked at myself. I\n was naked except for heavy shorts, and there was no clue to my name in\n the pockets. The room was warm and the air I had been breathing was\n good but it seemed wrong to be dressed like this. I didn't know why. I\n thought about insanity, and the room seemed to fit my thoughts. When\n the voice repeated the message again I had to act. Walking was like\n treading water that couldn't be seen or felt.\n\n\n I floated against the door, twisting the handle in fear that it\n wouldn't turn. The handle clanged as I pushed it down and I stared at\n the opposite wall of a narrow gray passageway. I pushed out into it and\n grasped the metal rail that ran along the wall. I reasoned it was there\n to propel yourself through the passageway in this weightless atmosphere.", "Searching the ship made me forget my fear. I hoped I would find some\n answers. I went from the nose to the last bulkhead in a frenzy of\n floating motion, looking behind each door until I went as far as I\n could. There were two levels to the ship. They both ended in the lead\n shield that was set where the swell of the curve was biggest. It meant\n the engine or engines took up half the ship, cut off from the forward\n half by the instrument studded shield. I retraced my steps and took a\n rough estimate of size. The ship, as I called it, was at least four\n hundred feet long, fifty feet in diameter on the inside.", "\"That had me wondering for a while. I don't know. Anyway how could you\n go about making her remember?\"\n\n\n \"Throw a crisis, some situation at her, I guess.\"\n\n\n He shrugged, letting his sure hands rest on the panel of dials. I\n headed back towards the lab. If I could help her I might help myself.\n I was past the rooms when the horn blasted through the corridor. I\n turned automatically with the sound, pushing against the rail, towards\n the control room. Deep in my mind I could see danger, and without\n questioning why I knew I had to be at Control when the sound knifed\n through the stillness. John was shouting as I thrust my way into the\n room.\n\"Turn the ship. There's something dead ahead.\"", "I held my bruised hands to my mouth, and I knew that was all the\n message there was. In blind panic I pushed away from the panel.\n Something tripped me and I fell back in a graceless arc. I pushed away\n from the floor, barely feeling the pain in my leg, and went into the\n hall.\n\n\n Pain burned along my leg but I couldn't stop. In the first panic of\n waking up in strangeness I had missed the other doors in the passage.\n The first swung back to reveal a deep closet holding five bulky suits.\n The second room was like my own. A dark haired, deep chested man lay on\n the cot. His muscular body was secured by a wide belt. He was as still\n as death, motionless without warmth or breath as I hovered over him.\n\n\n I couldn't remember his face.", "The ports on the side were shielded and I stared out at static energy,\n hung motionless in a world of searing light. There was no distortion,\n no movement outside and I glanced back at the dials. What speeds were\n they recording? What speeds and perhaps, what distance? It was useless\n to translate the markings. They stood for anything I might guess, and\n something kept pricking my mind, telling me I had no time to guess. I\n thought of time again. I was supposed to act according to ... plan. Did\n that mean ... in time ... in time. I went back down the passageway.\nThe fourth small room was the same. Except for the woman. She lay on a\n cot, young and beautiful, even in the death-like immobility I had come\n to accept. Her beauty was graceful lines of face and her figure—smooth" ], [ "Minutes later I realized the apparatus by the cot was different. It\n was the same type of black box, but out from it was a metal arm, bent\n in a funny angle. At the tip of the arm, a needle gleamed dully and I\n rubbed the deep gash on my leg. I bent the arm back until the angle\n looked right. It was then I realized the needle came to a spot where it\n could have hit my neck when I lay down. My shout of excitement rang out\n in the room, as I pictured the action of the extended arm. I lost my\n sudden elation in the cabin where the girl lay. The box behind her head\n was completely closed, and it didn't yield to the pressure I applied.\n It had a cover, but no other opening where an arm could extend. I ran", "I looked in the direction of the sound. Above my feet a bulkhead\n loomed. There were round dials set in a row above a speaker. Over the\n mesh-covered speaker, two knobs glowed red. I ran the words over in\n my sluggish mind, thinking about an answer. The muscles in my throat\n tightened up in reflex as I tried to bring some unity into the jumble\n of thoughts and ideas that kept forming. One word formed out of the\n rush of anxiety.\n\n\n \"No.\"\n\n\n I shouted a protest against the strangeness of the room. I looked to\n the right, my eyes following the curving ceiling that started at the\n cot. The curve met another straight bulkhead on the left. I was in a\n small room, gray in color, like dull metal. Overhead a bright light\n burned into my vision. I wondered where in the universe I was.\n\n\n \"Your name is David Corbin. If you understand, press button A on your\n right.\"", "Back in the room where I had awakened, I touched the panel with the\n glowing eyes. It had asked me if I understood. Now it must tell me why\n I didn't. It had to help me, that flat metallic voice that repeated the\n same words. It must tell me....\n\n\n \"Your name is David Corbin. If you understand, press button A on your\n right.\"\n\n\n I pressed the button by the cot. The red lights blinked out as I stood\n in patient attention, trying to outguess the voice. I recalled a\n phrase ... some words about precaution.\n\n\n Precaution against forgetting.\n\n\n It was crazy, but I trusted the panel. It was the only thing I saw that\n could help me, guard me against another shock like seeing outside of\n the clear portholes.\n\n\n \"It is assumed the experiment is a success,\" the voice said.\n\n\n What experiment?", "In the laboratory on the lower level I went over the rows of cans and\n tubes fastened to the shelves. There were earths and minerals, seeds\n and chemicals, testing equipment in compact drawers, but nothing marked\n for me. I wondered if I was an engineer or a pilot, or perhaps a doctor\n sent along to safeguard the others. Complete amnesia would have been\n terrible enough but this half knowledge, part awareness and association\n with the ship was a frightening force that seemed ready to break out of\n me.\n\n\n I went back to the cabin where the powerful man lay. I had to risk\n failure with one of them. I didn't want it to be the girl. I fought\n down the thought that he might be the key man, remembering the voice\n that had given the message. It was up to me, and soon. The metal in the\n box would have withstood a bullet. It couldn't be pried apart, and I\n searched again and again for a release mechanism.\n\n\n I found it.", "Searching the ship made me forget my fear. I hoped I would find some\n answers. I went from the nose to the last bulkhead in a frenzy of\n floating motion, looking behind each door until I went as far as I\n could. There were two levels to the ship. They both ended in the lead\n shield that was set where the swell of the curve was biggest. It meant\n the engine or engines took up half the ship, cut off from the forward\n half by the instrument studded shield. I retraced my steps and took a\n rough estimate of size. The ship, as I called it, was at least four\n hundred feet long, fifty feet in diameter on the inside.", "\"If you understand, press button A on your right.\"\n\n\n What should I understand? That I was floating in a room that had a\n curved wall ... that nothing was right in this hostile room?\n\n\n When I reached the cot I held it and drew myself down. I glanced at the\n planes of the room, trying to place it with other rooms I could see in\n my mind. Gray walls with a crazy curved ceiling ... a door to my left\n that appeared to be air tight.\n\n\n I stared at my familiar hands. I rubbed them across my face, feeling\n the solidity of flesh and bone, afraid to think too hard about myself.\n\n\n \"My name ... my name is....\"\n\n\n \"Your name is David Corbin.\"", "The next room held another man. He was young and wiry, like an athlete\n cast in marble, dark haired and big jawed. A glassy eye stared up when\n I rolled back his eyelid. The eyelid remained open until I closed it\n and went on. Another room ... another man ... another stranger. This\n man was tall and raw boned, light of skin and hair, as dead as the\n others.\n\n\n A flat, illogical voice had instructed me to revive these men. I\n shivered in spite of the warmth of the room, studying the black box\n that squatted on a shelf by his head. My hand shook when I touched\n the metal. I dared not try to operate anything. Revive the others ...\n instructions without knowledge were useless to me. I stopped looking\n into the doors in the passageway and went back to the room with the\n portholes. Everything lay in readiness, fastened down star charts,\n instruments, glittering equipment. There was no feeling of disorder or\n use in the room. It waited for human hands to make it operate.", "I had a glimpse of his contorted face as I dove at the control board.\n My hands hit buttons, thumbed a switch and then a sudden force threw me\n to the right. I slammed into the panel on the right, as the pressure\n of the change dimmed my vision. Reflex made me look up at the radar\n control screen.\n\n\n It wasn't operating.\n\n\n John let go of the padded chair, grinning weakly. I was busy for a few\n seconds, feeding compensation into the gyros. Relief flooded through me\n like warm liquid. I hung on the intercom for support, drawing air into\n my heaving lungs.\n\n\n \"What—made you—think of that,\" I asked weakly.\n\n\n \"Shock treatment.\"\n\n\n \"I must have acted on instinct.\"\n\n\n \"You did. Even for a sick man that was pretty fast,\" he laughed.", "I looked out at deep space, star systems in clusters. I shut my eyes.\n When I looked again I knew where I was. Why the little room had been\n shaped like quarter round. Why I drifted weightlessly. Why I was....\n\n\n David Corbin.\n\n\n I knew more of the puzzle. Something was wrong. After the first shock\n of looking out, I accepted the fact that I was in a space ship, yet I\n couldn't read the maps that were fastened to a table, nor understand\n the function or design of the compact machinery.\n\n\n WHY, Why, Why? The thought kept pounding at me. I was afraid to touch\n anything in the room. I pressed against the clear window, wondering if\n the stars were familiar. I had a brief vivid picture of a night sky on\n Earth. This was not the same sky.", "CAPTAIN CHAOS\nBy D. ALLEN MORRISSEY\nScience equipped David Corbin with borrowed time;\n \nsent him winging out in a state of suspension to future\n \ncenturies ... to a dark blue world whose only defense\n \nwas to seal tight the prying minds of foolish interlopers.\n[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Planet Stories November 1952.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nI heard the voice as I opened my eyes. I was lying down, still not\n aware of where I was, waiting for the voice.\n\n\n \"Your name is David Corbin. Do you understand?\"", "The silence was a force in itself, pressing down from the metal walls,\n driving me back to the comforting smallness of the room where I had\n been reborn. I laughed bitterly, thinking about the aptness of that. I\n had literally been reborn in this room, equipped with half ideas, and\n no point to start from, no premise to seek. I sensed the place to start\n from was back in the room. I searched it carefully.", "It was effortless to move. I turned on my side like a swimmer and went\n hand over hand, shooting down the corridor. I braced against forward\n motion and stopped against a door at the end. Behind me I could see the\n opened door I had left, and the thought of that questioning voice made\n me want to move. I swung the door open, catching a glimpse of a room\n crowded with equipment and....\nI will always remember the scream of terror, the paralyzing fright of\n what I saw through the portholes in the wall of the room. I saw the\n blackest night, pierced by brilliance that blinded me. There was no\n depth to the searing brightness of countless stars. They seemed to\n press against the glass, blobs of fire against a black curtain burning\n into my eyes and brain.\n\n\n It was space.", "\"That had me wondering for a while. I don't know. Anyway how could you\n go about making her remember?\"\n\n\n \"Throw a crisis, some situation at her, I guess.\"\n\n\n He shrugged, letting his sure hands rest on the panel of dials. I\n headed back towards the lab. If I could help her I might help myself.\n I was past the rooms when the horn blasted through the corridor. I\n turned automatically with the sound, pushing against the rail, towards\n the control room. Deep in my mind I could see danger, and without\n questioning why I knew I had to be at Control when the sound knifed\n through the stillness. John was shouting as I thrust my way into the\n room.\n\"Turn the ship. There's something dead ahead.\"", "Not mine. Not now.\n\n\n I went past the room into another, where the curves were more sharp. I\n could visualize the tapering hull leading to the nose of the ship. This\n room was filled with equipment that formed a room out of the bordered\n area I stood in. I sat in the deep chair facing the panel of dials and\n instruments, in easy reach. I ran my hands over the dials, the rows of\n smooth colored buttons, wondering.", "\"It's been dead ahead for hours,\" he grunted. I leaned over and threw\n the intercom to open. \"This is control. Listen ... everyone. I'm over\n it. Disregard the warning siren ... we were testing the ship.\"\n\n\n The lab light blinked on as Paul cut in. \"What was it ... hey, you said\n you're all right.\"\n\n\n \"John did it. He hit the alarm figuring I would react. Listen, Paul. Is\n any one hurt?\"\n\n\n \"No. Carl is here too. His stomach flopped again but he's okay. What\n about food. We're supposed to be checked before we eat.\"\n\n\n \"We'll have to go ahead without it. Any change?\"\n\n\n \"No, I put her to bed. Shall I bring food?\"", "\"You have been removed from suspension. Assume manual control of this\n ship.\"\n\n\n Control of a ship? Going where?\n\n\n \"Do not begin operations until the others are removed from suspension.\"\n\n\n What others? Tell me what to do.\n\n\n \"Rely on instructions for factoring when you check the coordinates.\n Your maximum deviation from schedule cannot exceed two degrees. Adopt\n emergency procedures as you see fit. Good luck.\"\n\n\n The voice snapped off and I laughed hysterically. None of it had made\n sense, and I cursed whatever madness had put me here.\n\n\n \"Tell me what to do,\" I shouted wildly. I hammered the hard metal until\n the pain in my hands made me stop.\n\n\n \"I can't remember what to do.\"", "The ports on the side were shielded and I stared out at static energy,\n hung motionless in a world of searing light. There was no distortion,\n no movement outside and I glanced back at the dials. What speeds were\n they recording? What speeds and perhaps, what distance? It was useless\n to translate the markings. They stood for anything I might guess, and\n something kept pricking my mind, telling me I had no time to guess. I\n thought of time again. I was supposed to act according to ... plan. Did\n that mean ... in time ... in time. I went back down the passageway.\nThe fourth small room was the same. Except for the woman. She lay on a\n cot, young and beautiful, even in the death-like immobility I had come\n to accept. Her beauty was graceful lines of face and her figure—smooth", "\"Automatic control. I helped to install it.\"\n\n\n \"Can you run this ship? How about the other two?\"\n\n\n He hit his hands together. \"You fly it, sir. Can't you think?\"\n\n\n \"I'm trying. I know the ship is familiar, but I've looked it over.\n Maybe I'm trying too hard.\"\n\n\n \"You flew her from earth until we went into suspension,\" he said.\n\n\n \"I can't remember when,\" I said. I held the trembling girl against me,\n shaking my head.\n\n\n He glanced at the girl. \"If the calculations are right it was more than\n a hundred years ago.\"", "I stared at the speaker. How long did this go on? The name meant\n nothing to me, but I thought about it, watching the relentless lights\n that shone below the dials. I stood up slowly and looked at myself. I\n was naked except for heavy shorts, and there was no clue to my name in\n the pockets. The room was warm and the air I had been breathing was\n good but it seemed wrong to be dressed like this. I didn't know why. I\n thought about insanity, and the room seemed to fit my thoughts. When\n the voice repeated the message again I had to act. Walking was like\n treading water that couldn't be seen or felt.\n\n\n I floated against the door, twisting the handle in fear that it\n wouldn't turn. The handle clanged as I pushed it down and I stared at\n the opposite wall of a narrow gray passageway. I pushed out into it and\n grasped the metal rail that ran along the wall. I reasoned it was there\n to propel yourself through the passageway in this weightless atmosphere.", "\"Can I?\" I asked.\nWe set up a temporary plan of action. Paul took Karen to the laboratory\n in an effort to help her remember her job. Carl went back to divide the\n rations.\n\n\n I was to study the charts and manuals. It was better than doing\n nothing, and I went into the navigation room and sat down. Earth was\n an infinitesimal point somewhere behind us on the galactic plane, and\n no one else was trained to navigate. The ship thundered to life as I\n sat there. The blast roared once ... twice, then settled into a muted\n crescendo of sound that hummed through the walls. I went into the\n control room and watched John at the panel.\n\n\n \"I wish I knew what you were doing,\" I said savagely.\n\n\n \"Give it time.\"\n\n\n \"We can't spare any, can we?\" I asked.\n\n\n \"I wish we knew. What about her—Dr. Thiesen?\"" ], [ "tapering legs, soft curves that were carved out of flesh colored stone.\n Yet not stone. I held her small hand, then put it back on the cot. Her\n attire was brief like the rest of us, shorts and a man's shirt. Golden\n hair curled up around her lovely face. I wondered if she would ever\n smile or move that graceful head. I rolled back her eyelid and looked\n at a deep blue eye that stared back in glassy surprise. Four people in\n all, depending on a blind helpless fool who didn't know their names or\n the reason for that dependence. I sat beside her on the cot until I\n could stand it no longer.", "\"That had me wondering for a while. I don't know. Anyway how could you\n go about making her remember?\"\n\n\n \"Throw a crisis, some situation at her, I guess.\"\n\n\n He shrugged, letting his sure hands rest on the panel of dials. I\n headed back towards the lab. If I could help her I might help myself.\n I was past the rooms when the horn blasted through the corridor. I\n turned automatically with the sound, pushing against the rail, towards\n the control room. Deep in my mind I could see danger, and without\n questioning why I knew I had to be at Control when the sound knifed\n through the stillness. John was shouting as I thrust my way into the\n room.\n\"Turn the ship. There's something dead ahead.\"", "She tightened up in my arms. \"Yes. It's....\" She looked at us for help,\n frightened by the lack of clothing we wore, by the bleak room. Her eyes\n circled the room. \"I'm afraid,\" she cried. I held her and she shook\n uncontrollably.\n\n\n \"What's happened to me?\" she asked.\n\n\n The dark haired man came into the room, silent and watchful. My\n companion motioned to him. \"Get Carl and meet us in Control.\"\n\n\n The man looked at me and I nodded. \"We'll be there in a moment. I'm\n afraid we've got trouble.\"\n\n\n He nodded and pushed away from us. The girl screamed and covered her\n face with her hands. I turned to the other man. \"What's your name?\"\n\n\n \"Croft. John Croft.\"\n\n\n \"John, what are your duties if any?\"", "Minutes later I realized the apparatus by the cot was different. It\n was the same type of black box, but out from it was a metal arm, bent\n in a funny angle. At the tip of the arm, a needle gleamed dully and I\n rubbed the deep gash on my leg. I bent the arm back until the angle\n looked right. It was then I realized the needle came to a spot where it\n could have hit my neck when I lay down. My shout of excitement rang out\n in the room, as I pictured the action of the extended arm. I lost my\n sudden elation in the cabin where the girl lay. The box behind her head\n was completely closed, and it didn't yield to the pressure I applied.\n It had a cover, but no other opening where an arm could extend. I ran", "The next room held another man. He was young and wiry, like an athlete\n cast in marble, dark haired and big jawed. A glassy eye stared up when\n I rolled back his eyelid. The eyelid remained open until I closed it\n and went on. Another room ... another man ... another stranger. This\n man was tall and raw boned, light of skin and hair, as dead as the\n others.\n\n\n A flat, illogical voice had instructed me to revive these men. I\n shivered in spite of the warmth of the room, studying the black box\n that squatted on a shelf by his head. My hand shook when I touched\n the metal. I dared not try to operate anything. Revive the others ...\n instructions without knowledge were useless to me. I stopped looking\n into the doors in the passageway and went back to the room with the\n portholes. Everything lay in readiness, fastened down star charts,\n instruments, glittering equipment. There was no feeling of disorder or\n use in the room. It waited for human hands to make it operate.", "He shook his head, watching me like I was a freak. \"Let's check the\n rest right away.\"\n\n\n \"Yes. I've got to know if they are like me. I'm afraid to think they\n might be.\"\n\n\n \"Maybe it's temporary. We can figure something out.\"\nII\n\n\n The second man, the dark haired one, opened his eyes and recognized us.\n He asked questions in rapid fire excitement. The third man, the tall\n Viking, was all right until he moved. The weightless sensation made him\n violently sick. We put him back on the cot, securing him again with\n the belt, but the sight of us floating made him shake. He was retching\n without results when we drifted out. I followed him to the girl's\n quarters.\n\n\n \"What about her. Why is she here?\" I asked my companion.\n\n\n He lifted the cover from the apparatus. \"She's the chemist in the crew.\"", "I held my bruised hands to my mouth, and I knew that was all the\n message there was. In blind panic I pushed away from the panel.\n Something tripped me and I fell back in a graceless arc. I pushed away\n from the floor, barely feeling the pain in my leg, and went into the\n hall.\n\n\n Pain burned along my leg but I couldn't stop. In the first panic of\n waking up in strangeness I had missed the other doors in the passage.\n The first swung back to reveal a deep closet holding five bulky suits.\n The second room was like my own. A dark haired, deep chested man lay on\n the cot. His muscular body was secured by a wide belt. He was as still\n as death, motionless without warmth or breath as I hovered over him.\n\n\n I couldn't remember his face.", "We were out of luck with the girl. She woke up and she was frightened.\n We questioned her and she was coherent but she couldn't remember. I\n tried to smile as I sat on the cot, wondering what she was thinking.\n\n\n \"How do you feel?\" I asked.\n\n\n Her face was a mask of wide-eyed fear as she shook her head.\n\n\n \"Can you remember?\"\n\n\n \"I don't know.\" Blue eyes stared at me in fear. Her voice was low.\n\n\n \"Do you know my name?\"\n\n\n The question frightened her. \"Should I? I feel so strange. Give me a\n minute to think.\"\n\n\n I let her sit up slowly. \"Do you know your name?\"", "\"If you understand, press button A on your right.\"\n\n\n What should I understand? That I was floating in a room that had a\n curved wall ... that nothing was right in this hostile room?\n\n\n When I reached the cot I held it and drew myself down. I glanced at the\n planes of the room, trying to place it with other rooms I could see in\n my mind. Gray walls with a crazy curved ceiling ... a door to my left\n that appeared to be air tight.\n\n\n I stared at my familiar hands. I rubbed them across my face, feeling\n the solidity of flesh and bone, afraid to think too hard about myself.\n\n\n \"My name ... my name is....\"\n\n\n \"Your name is David Corbin.\"", "Back in the room where I had awakened, I touched the panel with the\n glowing eyes. It had asked me if I understood. Now it must tell me why\n I didn't. It had to help me, that flat metallic voice that repeated the\n same words. It must tell me....\n\n\n \"Your name is David Corbin. If you understand, press button A on your\n right.\"\n\n\n I pressed the button by the cot. The red lights blinked out as I stood\n in patient attention, trying to outguess the voice. I recalled a\n phrase ... some words about precaution.\n\n\n Precaution against forgetting.\n\n\n It was crazy, but I trusted the panel. It was the only thing I saw that\n could help me, guard me against another shock like seeing outside of\n the clear portholes.\n\n\n \"It is assumed the experiment is a success,\" the voice said.\n\n\n What experiment?", "In the laboratory on the lower level I went over the rows of cans and\n tubes fastened to the shelves. There were earths and minerals, seeds\n and chemicals, testing equipment in compact drawers, but nothing marked\n for me. I wondered if I was an engineer or a pilot, or perhaps a doctor\n sent along to safeguard the others. Complete amnesia would have been\n terrible enough but this half knowledge, part awareness and association\n with the ship was a frightening force that seemed ready to break out of\n me.\n\n\n I went back to the cabin where the powerful man lay. I had to risk\n failure with one of them. I didn't want it to be the girl. I fought\n down the thought that he might be the key man, remembering the voice\n that had given the message. It was up to me, and soon. The metal in the\n box would have withstood a bullet. It couldn't be pried apart, and I\n searched again and again for a release mechanism.\n\n\n I found it.", "CAPTAIN CHAOS\nBy D. ALLEN MORRISSEY\nScience equipped David Corbin with borrowed time;\n \nsent him winging out in a state of suspension to future\n \ncenturies ... to a dark blue world whose only defense\n \nwas to seal tight the prying minds of foolish interlopers.\n[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Planet Stories November 1952.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nI heard the voice as I opened my eyes. I was lying down, still not\n aware of where I was, waiting for the voice.\n\n\n \"Your name is David Corbin. Do you understand?\"", "I looked in the direction of the sound. Above my feet a bulkhead\n loomed. There were round dials set in a row above a speaker. Over the\n mesh-covered speaker, two knobs glowed red. I ran the words over in\n my sluggish mind, thinking about an answer. The muscles in my throat\n tightened up in reflex as I tried to bring some unity into the jumble\n of thoughts and ideas that kept forming. One word formed out of the\n rush of anxiety.\n\n\n \"No.\"\n\n\n I shouted a protest against the strangeness of the room. I looked to\n the right, my eyes following the curving ceiling that started at the\n cot. The curve met another straight bulkhead on the left. I was in a\n small room, gray in color, like dull metal. Overhead a bright light\n burned into my vision. I wondered where in the universe I was.\n\n\n \"Your name is David Corbin. If you understand, press button A on your\n right.\"", "The ports on the side were shielded and I stared out at static energy,\n hung motionless in a world of searing light. There was no distortion,\n no movement outside and I glanced back at the dials. What speeds were\n they recording? What speeds and perhaps, what distance? It was useless\n to translate the markings. They stood for anything I might guess, and\n something kept pricking my mind, telling me I had no time to guess. I\n thought of time again. I was supposed to act according to ... plan. Did\n that mean ... in time ... in time. I went back down the passageway.\nThe fourth small room was the same. Except for the woman. She lay on a\n cot, young and beautiful, even in the death-like immobility I had come\n to accept. Her beauty was graceful lines of face and her figure—smooth", "I swung the massive cover off and set it down. The equipment waited for\n the touch of a button and it went into operation. I stepped back as the\n tubes glowed to life and the arm swung down with the gleaming needle.\n The needle went into the corded neck of the man. The fluid chamber\n drained under pressure and the arm moved back.\n\n\n I stood by the man for long minutes. Finally it came. He stirred\n restlessly, closing his hands into fists. The deep chest rose and fell\n unevenly as he breathed. Finally the eyes opened and he looked at me.\n I watched him adjust to the room. It was in his eyes, wide at first,\n moving about the confines of the room back to me.\n\n\n \"It looks like we made it,\" he said.\n\n\n \"Yes.\"\n\n\n He unfastened the belt and sat up. I pushed him back as he floated up\n finding little humor in the comic expression on his face.", "\"She's in the lab. I don't think that will do much good. She's got to\n be shocked out of a mental state like that.\"\n\n\n \"I guess you're right,\" he said slowly. \"She's trained to administer\n the suspension on the return trip.\"\n\n\n I let my breath out slowly. \"I didn't think about that.\"\n\n\n \"We couldn't even get part way back in a lifetime,\" he said.\n\n\n \"How old are you, John?\"\n\n\n \"Twenty-eight.\"\n\n\n \"What about me?\"\n\n\n \"Thirty.\" He stared at the panel in thought for a minutes. \"What about\n shock treatment? It sounds risky.\"\n\n\n \"I know. It's the only thing I could think of. Why didn't everyone\n react the same?\"", "\"Automatic control. I helped to install it.\"\n\n\n \"Can you run this ship? How about the other two?\"\n\n\n He hit his hands together. \"You fly it, sir. Can't you think?\"\n\n\n \"I'm trying. I know the ship is familiar, but I've looked it over.\n Maybe I'm trying too hard.\"\n\n\n \"You flew her from earth until we went into suspension,\" he said.\n\n\n \"I can't remember when,\" I said. I held the trembling girl against me,\n shaking my head.\n\n\n He glanced at the girl. \"If the calculations are right it was more than\n a hundred years ago.\"", "my fingers over the unbroken surface, prying over the thin crack at\n the base helplessly. If some sort of antidote was to be administered\n manually I was lost. I had no knowledge of what to inject or where to\n look for it. The chamber of the needle that had awakened me was empty.\n That meant a measured amount.", "I looked out at deep space, star systems in clusters. I shut my eyes.\n When I looked again I knew where I was. Why the little room had been\n shaped like quarter round. Why I drifted weightlessly. Why I was....\n\n\n David Corbin.\n\n\n I knew more of the puzzle. Something was wrong. After the first shock\n of looking out, I accepted the fact that I was in a space ship, yet I\n couldn't read the maps that were fastened to a table, nor understand\n the function or design of the compact machinery.\n\n\n WHY, Why, Why? The thought kept pounding at me. I was afraid to touch\n anything in the room. I pressed against the clear window, wondering if\n the stars were familiar. I had a brief vivid picture of a night sky on\n Earth. This was not the same sky.", "\"It's been dead ahead for hours,\" he grunted. I leaned over and threw\n the intercom to open. \"This is control. Listen ... everyone. I'm over\n it. Disregard the warning siren ... we were testing the ship.\"\n\n\n The lab light blinked on as Paul cut in. \"What was it ... hey, you said\n you're all right.\"\n\n\n \"John did it. He hit the alarm figuring I would react. Listen, Paul. Is\n any one hurt?\"\n\n\n \"No. Carl is here too. His stomach flopped again but he's okay. What\n about food. We're supposed to be checked before we eat.\"\n\n\n \"We'll have to go ahead without it. Any change?\"\n\n\n \"No, I put her to bed. Shall I bring food?\"" ], [ "\"You have been removed from suspension. Assume manual control of this\n ship.\"\n\n\n Control of a ship? Going where?\n\n\n \"Do not begin operations until the others are removed from suspension.\"\n\n\n What others? Tell me what to do.\n\n\n \"Rely on instructions for factoring when you check the coordinates.\n Your maximum deviation from schedule cannot exceed two degrees. Adopt\n emergency procedures as you see fit. Good luck.\"\n\n\n The voice snapped off and I laughed hysterically. None of it had made\n sense, and I cursed whatever madness had put me here.\n\n\n \"Tell me what to do,\" I shouted wildly. I hammered the hard metal until\n the pain in my hands made me stop.\n\n\n \"I can't remember what to do.\"", "Searching the ship made me forget my fear. I hoped I would find some\n answers. I went from the nose to the last bulkhead in a frenzy of\n floating motion, looking behind each door until I went as far as I\n could. There were two levels to the ship. They both ended in the lead\n shield that was set where the swell of the curve was biggest. It meant\n the engine or engines took up half the ship, cut off from the forward\n half by the instrument studded shield. I retraced my steps and took a\n rough estimate of size. The ship, as I called it, was at least four\n hundred feet long, fifty feet in diameter on the inside.", "\"It's been dead ahead for hours,\" he grunted. I leaned over and threw\n the intercom to open. \"This is control. Listen ... everyone. I'm over\n it. Disregard the warning siren ... we were testing the ship.\"\n\n\n The lab light blinked on as Paul cut in. \"What was it ... hey, you said\n you're all right.\"\n\n\n \"John did it. He hit the alarm figuring I would react. Listen, Paul. Is\n any one hurt?\"\n\n\n \"No. Carl is here too. His stomach flopped again but he's okay. What\n about food. We're supposed to be checked before we eat.\"\n\n\n \"We'll have to go ahead without it. Any change?\"\n\n\n \"No, I put her to bed. Shall I bring food?\"", "\"Automatic control. I helped to install it.\"\n\n\n \"Can you run this ship? How about the other two?\"\n\n\n He hit his hands together. \"You fly it, sir. Can't you think?\"\n\n\n \"I'm trying. I know the ship is familiar, but I've looked it over.\n Maybe I'm trying too hard.\"\n\n\n \"You flew her from earth until we went into suspension,\" he said.\n\n\n \"I can't remember when,\" I said. I held the trembling girl against me,\n shaking my head.\n\n\n He glanced at the girl. \"If the calculations are right it was more than\n a hundred years ago.\"", "It was effortless to move. I turned on my side like a swimmer and went\n hand over hand, shooting down the corridor. I braced against forward\n motion and stopped against a door at the end. Behind me I could see the\n opened door I had left, and the thought of that questioning voice made\n me want to move. I swung the door open, catching a glimpse of a room\n crowded with equipment and....\nI will always remember the scream of terror, the paralyzing fright of\n what I saw through the portholes in the wall of the room. I saw the\n blackest night, pierced by brilliance that blinded me. There was no\n depth to the searing brightness of countless stars. They seemed to\n press against the glass, blobs of fire against a black curtain burning\n into my eyes and brain.\n\n\n It was space.", "He shook his head, watching me like I was a freak. \"Let's check the\n rest right away.\"\n\n\n \"Yes. I've got to know if they are like me. I'm afraid to think they\n might be.\"\n\n\n \"Maybe it's temporary. We can figure something out.\"\nII\n\n\n The second man, the dark haired one, opened his eyes and recognized us.\n He asked questions in rapid fire excitement. The third man, the tall\n Viking, was all right until he moved. The weightless sensation made him\n violently sick. We put him back on the cot, securing him again with\n the belt, but the sight of us floating made him shake. He was retching\n without results when we drifted out. I followed him to the girl's\n quarters.\n\n\n \"What about her. Why is she here?\" I asked my companion.\n\n\n He lifted the cover from the apparatus. \"She's the chemist in the crew.\"", "\"I can think again, John. I know who I am,\" I shouted. I threw my arms\n around his massive shoulders. \"You did it.\"\n\n\n \"You gave me the idea, Mister, talking about Dr. Thiesen.\"\n\n\n \"It worked. I'm okay,\" I said in giddy relief.\n\n\n \"I don't have to tell you I was scared as hell. I wish you could have\n seen your face, the look in your eyes when I woke up.\"\n\n\n \"I wouldn't want to wake up like that again.\"\n\n\n \"You're all right now?\" he asked. I grinned and nodded an answer. I saw\n John as he was at the base, big and competent, sweating in the blazing\n sun.\n\n\n I thought about the rest of the crew too. \"We're heading right for a\n star....\"", "\"We set out from Earth for a single star in the direction of the center\n of our Galaxy.\"\n\n\n \"From Earth? How could we?\"\n\n\n \"Let's move slowly, sir,\" he said. \"We're moving fast. I don't know if\n you can picture it, but we're going about one hundred thousand miles an\n hour.\"\n\n\n \"Through space?\"\n\n\n \"Yes.\"\n\n\n \"What direction?\"\n\n\n Paul cut in. \"It's a G type star, like our own sun in mass and\n luminosity. We hope to find a planetary system capable of supporting\n life.\"\n\n\n \"I can't grasp it. How can we go very far in a lifetime?\"\n\n\n \"It can be done in two lifetimes,\" John said quietly.\n\n\n \"You said I had flown this ship. You meant before this suspension.\"", "I had a glimpse of his contorted face as I dove at the control board.\n My hands hit buttons, thumbed a switch and then a sudden force threw me\n to the right. I slammed into the panel on the right, as the pressure\n of the change dimmed my vision. Reflex made me look up at the radar\n control screen.\n\n\n It wasn't operating.\n\n\n John let go of the padded chair, grinning weakly. I was busy for a few\n seconds, feeding compensation into the gyros. Relief flooded through me\n like warm liquid. I hung on the intercom for support, drawing air into\n my heaving lungs.\n\n\n \"What—made you—think of that,\" I asked weakly.\n\n\n \"Shock treatment.\"\n\n\n \"I must have acted on instinct.\"\n\n\n \"You did. Even for a sick man that was pretty fast,\" he laughed.", "We assembled in the control room for a council. We were all a little\n better for being together. John Croft named the others for me. I\n searched each face without recognition. The blond man was Carl Herrick,\n a metallurgist. His lean face was white from his spell but he was\n better. Paul Sample was a biologist, John said. He was lithe and\n restless, with dark eyes that studied the rest of us. I looked at the\n girl. She was staring out of the ports, her hands pressed against the\n transparent break in the smooth wall. Karen Thiesen was a chemist, now\n frightened and trying to remember.\n\n\n I wasn't in much better condition. \"Look, if it comes too fast for me,\n for any of us, we'll stop. John, you can lead off.\"\n\n\n \"You ask the questions,\" he said.\n\n\n I indicated the ship. \"Where in creation are we going?\"", "In the laboratory on the lower level I went over the rows of cans and\n tubes fastened to the shelves. There were earths and minerals, seeds\n and chemicals, testing equipment in compact drawers, but nothing marked\n for me. I wondered if I was an engineer or a pilot, or perhaps a doctor\n sent along to safeguard the others. Complete amnesia would have been\n terrible enough but this half knowledge, part awareness and association\n with the ship was a frightening force that seemed ready to break out of\n me.\n\n\n I went back to the cabin where the powerful man lay. I had to risk\n failure with one of them. I didn't want it to be the girl. I fought\n down the thought that he might be the key man, remembering the voice\n that had given the message. It was up to me, and soon. The metal in the\n box would have withstood a bullet. It couldn't be pried apart, and I\n searched again and again for a release mechanism.\n\n\n I found it.", "I stared at the speaker in the wall. The mesh-covered hole and the two\n lights looked like a caricature of a face, set in a panel of dials. I\n twisted my head to look for the button. I pushed away from the close\n wall but I couldn't move. I reached down to the tightness that held my\n body, found the wide strap that held me and fumbled with the buckle.\n I threw it off and pushed myself up from the hard cot. I heard myself\n yell in surprise as I floated up towards the light overhead.\n\n\n I was weightless.\n\n\n How do you describe being weightless when you are born into a world\n bound by gravity. I twisted and shut my eyes in terror. There was no\n sensation of place, no feeling of up or down, no direction. My back\n bumped against the ceiling and I opened my eyes to stare at the cot and\n floor. I was concentrating too hard on remembering to be frightened for\n long. I pushed away from the warm metal and the floor moved up to meet\n me.", "\"She's in the lab. I don't think that will do much good. She's got to\n be shocked out of a mental state like that.\"\n\n\n \"I guess you're right,\" he said slowly. \"She's trained to administer\n the suspension on the return trip.\"\n\n\n I let my breath out slowly. \"I didn't think about that.\"\n\n\n \"We couldn't even get part way back in a lifetime,\" he said.\n\n\n \"How old are you, John?\"\n\n\n \"Twenty-eight.\"\n\n\n \"What about me?\"\n\n\n \"Thirty.\" He stared at the panel in thought for a minutes. \"What about\n shock treatment? It sounds risky.\"\n\n\n \"I know. It's the only thing I could think of. Why didn't everyone\n react the same?\"", "\"Yes. That's why we can cross space to a near star.\"\n\n\n \"How long ago was it?\"\n\n\n \"It was set at about a hundred years, sir. Doesn't that fit at all?\"\n\n\n \"I can't believe it's possible.\"\n\n\n Carl caught my eye. \"Captain, we save this time without aging at all.\n It puts us near a calculated destination.\"\n\n\n \"We've lost our lifetime.\" It was Karen. She had been crying silently\n while we talked.\n\n\n \"Don't think about it,\" Paul said. \"We can still pull this out all\n right if you don't lose your nerve.\"\n\n\n \"What are we to do?\" she asked.\n\n\n John answered for me. \"First we've got to find out where we are. I know\n this ship but I can't fly it.\"", "\"That had me wondering for a while. I don't know. Anyway how could you\n go about making her remember?\"\n\n\n \"Throw a crisis, some situation at her, I guess.\"\n\n\n He shrugged, letting his sure hands rest on the panel of dials. I\n headed back towards the lab. If I could help her I might help myself.\n I was past the rooms when the horn blasted through the corridor. I\n turned automatically with the sound, pushing against the rail, towards\n the control room. Deep in my mind I could see danger, and without\n questioning why I knew I had to be at Control when the sound knifed\n through the stillness. John was shouting as I thrust my way into the\n room.\n\"Turn the ship. There's something dead ahead.\"", "\"No gravity,\" he grunted and sat back.\n\n\n \"You get used to it fast,\" I answered. I thought of what to say as he\n watched me. \"How do you feel?\"\n\n\n He shrugged at the question. \"Fine, I guess. Funny, I can't remember.\"\n\n\n He saw it in my face, making him stop. \"I can't remember dropping off\n to sleep,\" he finished.\n\n\n I held his hard arm. \"What else? How much do you remember?\"\n\n\n \"I'm all right,\" he answered. \"There aren't supposed to be any effects\n from this.\"\n\n\n \"Who is in charge of this ship?\" I asked.\n\n\n He tensed suddenly. \"You are, sir. Why?\"\n\n\n I moved away from the cot. \"Listen, I can't remember. I don't know your\n name or anything about this ship.\"", "I swung the massive cover off and set it down. The equipment waited for\n the touch of a button and it went into operation. I stepped back as the\n tubes glowed to life and the arm swung down with the gleaming needle.\n The needle went into the corded neck of the man. The fluid chamber\n drained under pressure and the arm moved back.\n\n\n I stood by the man for long minutes. Finally it came. He stirred\n restlessly, closing his hands into fists. The deep chest rose and fell\n unevenly as he breathed. Finally the eyes opened and he looked at me.\n I watched him adjust to the room. It was in his eyes, wide at first,\n moving about the confines of the room back to me.\n\n\n \"It looks like we made it,\" he said.\n\n\n \"Yes.\"\n\n\n He unfastened the belt and sat up. I pushed him back as he floated up\n finding little humor in the comic expression on his face.", "I stared at the speaker. How long did this go on? The name meant\n nothing to me, but I thought about it, watching the relentless lights\n that shone below the dials. I stood up slowly and looked at myself. I\n was naked except for heavy shorts, and there was no clue to my name in\n the pockets. The room was warm and the air I had been breathing was\n good but it seemed wrong to be dressed like this. I didn't know why. I\n thought about insanity, and the room seemed to fit my thoughts. When\n the voice repeated the message again I had to act. Walking was like\n treading water that couldn't be seen or felt.\n\n\n I floated against the door, twisting the handle in fear that it\n wouldn't turn. The handle clanged as I pushed it down and I stared at\n the opposite wall of a narrow gray passageway. I pushed out into it and\n grasped the metal rail that ran along the wall. I reasoned it was there\n to propel yourself through the passageway in this weightless atmosphere.", "I looked out at deep space, star systems in clusters. I shut my eyes.\n When I looked again I knew where I was. Why the little room had been\n shaped like quarter round. Why I drifted weightlessly. Why I was....\n\n\n David Corbin.\n\n\n I knew more of the puzzle. Something was wrong. After the first shock\n of looking out, I accepted the fact that I was in a space ship, yet I\n couldn't read the maps that were fastened to a table, nor understand\n the function or design of the compact machinery.\n\n\n WHY, Why, Why? The thought kept pounding at me. I was afraid to touch\n anything in the room. I pressed against the clear window, wondering if\n the stars were familiar. I had a brief vivid picture of a night sky on\n Earth. This was not the same sky.", "The next room held another man. He was young and wiry, like an athlete\n cast in marble, dark haired and big jawed. A glassy eye stared up when\n I rolled back his eyelid. The eyelid remained open until I closed it\n and went on. Another room ... another man ... another stranger. This\n man was tall and raw boned, light of skin and hair, as dead as the\n others.\n\n\n A flat, illogical voice had instructed me to revive these men. I\n shivered in spite of the warmth of the room, studying the black box\n that squatted on a shelf by his head. My hand shook when I touched\n the metal. I dared not try to operate anything. Revive the others ...\n instructions without knowledge were useless to me. I stopped looking\n into the doors in the passageway and went back to the room with the\n portholes. Everything lay in readiness, fastened down star charts,\n instruments, glittering equipment. There was no feeling of disorder or\n use in the room. It waited for human hands to make it operate." ], [ "I glanced at John. He rubbed his stomach. \"Yes,\" I answered. \"Bring it\n when you can. I've got to find out where we are.\"\n\n\n We had to get off course before we ran into the yellow-white star that\n had been picked for us. Food was set down by me, grew cold and was\n carried away and I was still rechecking the figures. We were on a line\n ten degrees above the galactic plane. The parallactic baseline from\n Earth to the single star could be in error several degrees, or we could\n be right on the calculated position of the star. The radar confirmed\n my findings ... and my worst fears. When we set it for direction and\n distance, the screen glowed to life and recorded the star dead ahead.", "In all the distant star clusters, only this G type star was thought to\n have a planetary system like our own. We were out on a gamble to find\n a planet capable of supporting life. The idea had intrigued scientists\n before I had first looked up at the night sky. When I was sure the\n electronically recorded course was accurate for time, I checked\n direction and speed from the readings and plotted our position. If I\n was right we were much closer than we wanted to be. The bright pips on\n the screen gave us the distance and size of the star while we fed the\n figures into the calculator for our rate of approach.", "Searching the ship made me forget my fear. I hoped I would find some\n answers. I went from the nose to the last bulkhead in a frenzy of\n floating motion, looking behind each door until I went as far as I\n could. There were two levels to the ship. They both ended in the lead\n shield that was set where the swell of the curve was biggest. It meant\n the engine or engines took up half the ship, cut off from the forward\n half by the instrument studded shield. I retraced my steps and took a\n rough estimate of size. The ship, as I called it, was at least four\n hundred feet long, fifty feet in diameter on the inside.", "\"You have been removed from suspension. Assume manual control of this\n ship.\"\n\n\n Control of a ship? Going where?\n\n\n \"Do not begin operations until the others are removed from suspension.\"\n\n\n What others? Tell me what to do.\n\n\n \"Rely on instructions for factoring when you check the coordinates.\n Your maximum deviation from schedule cannot exceed two degrees. Adopt\n emergency procedures as you see fit. Good luck.\"\n\n\n The voice snapped off and I laughed hysterically. None of it had made\n sense, and I cursed whatever madness had put me here.\n\n\n \"Tell me what to do,\" I shouted wildly. I hammered the hard metal until\n the pain in my hands made me stop.\n\n\n \"I can't remember what to do.\"", "We assembled in the control room for a council. We were all a little\n better for being together. John Croft named the others for me. I\n searched each face without recognition. The blond man was Carl Herrick,\n a metallurgist. His lean face was white from his spell but he was\n better. Paul Sample was a biologist, John said. He was lithe and\n restless, with dark eyes that studied the rest of us. I looked at the\n girl. She was staring out of the ports, her hands pressed against the\n transparent break in the smooth wall. Karen Thiesen was a chemist, now\n frightened and trying to remember.\n\n\n I wasn't in much better condition. \"Look, if it comes too fast for me,\n for any of us, we'll stop. John, you can lead off.\"\n\n\n \"You ask the questions,\" he said.\n\n\n I indicated the ship. \"Where in creation are we going?\"", "\"Automatic control. I helped to install it.\"\n\n\n \"Can you run this ship? How about the other two?\"\n\n\n He hit his hands together. \"You fly it, sir. Can't you think?\"\n\n\n \"I'm trying. I know the ship is familiar, but I've looked it over.\n Maybe I'm trying too hard.\"\n\n\n \"You flew her from earth until we went into suspension,\" he said.\n\n\n \"I can't remember when,\" I said. I held the trembling girl against me,\n shaking my head.\n\n\n He glanced at the girl. \"If the calculations are right it was more than\n a hundred years ago.\"", "\"It's been dead ahead for hours,\" he grunted. I leaned over and threw\n the intercom to open. \"This is control. Listen ... everyone. I'm over\n it. Disregard the warning siren ... we were testing the ship.\"\n\n\n The lab light blinked on as Paul cut in. \"What was it ... hey, you said\n you're all right.\"\n\n\n \"John did it. He hit the alarm figuring I would react. Listen, Paul. Is\n any one hurt?\"\n\n\n \"No. Carl is here too. His stomach flopped again but he's okay. What\n about food. We're supposed to be checked before we eat.\"\n\n\n \"We'll have to go ahead without it. Any change?\"\n\n\n \"No, I put her to bed. Shall I bring food?\"", "\"Yes. That's why we can cross space to a near star.\"\n\n\n \"How long ago was it?\"\n\n\n \"It was set at about a hundred years, sir. Doesn't that fit at all?\"\n\n\n \"I can't believe it's possible.\"\n\n\n Carl caught my eye. \"Captain, we save this time without aging at all.\n It puts us near a calculated destination.\"\n\n\n \"We've lost our lifetime.\" It was Karen. She had been crying silently\n while we talked.\n\n\n \"Don't think about it,\" Paul said. \"We can still pull this out all\n right if you don't lose your nerve.\"\n\n\n \"What are we to do?\" she asked.\n\n\n John answered for me. \"First we've got to find out where we are. I know\n this ship but I can't fly it.\"", "The ports on the side were shielded and I stared out at static energy,\n hung motionless in a world of searing light. There was no distortion,\n no movement outside and I glanced back at the dials. What speeds were\n they recording? What speeds and perhaps, what distance? It was useless\n to translate the markings. They stood for anything I might guess, and\n something kept pricking my mind, telling me I had no time to guess. I\n thought of time again. I was supposed to act according to ... plan. Did\n that mean ... in time ... in time. I went back down the passageway.\nThe fourth small room was the same. Except for the woman. She lay on a\n cot, young and beautiful, even in the death-like immobility I had come\n to accept. Her beauty was graceful lines of face and her figure—smooth", "\"A girl?\"\n\n\n \"Dr. Thiesen is an expert, trained for this,\" he said.\n\n\n I looked at her. She looked anything but like a chemist.\n\n\n \"There must be men who could have been sent. I've been wondering why a\n girl.\"\n\n\n \"I don't know why, Captain. You tried to stop her before. Age and\n experience were all that mattered to the brass.\"\n\n\n \"It's a bad thing to do.\"\n\n\n \"I suppose. The mission stated one chemist.\"\n\n\n \"What is the mission of this ship?\" I asked.\n\n\n He held up his hand. \"We'd better wait, sir. Everything was supposed to\n be all right on this end. First you, then Carl, sick to his stomach.\"\n\n\n \"Okay. I'll hold the questions until we see about her.\"", "\"We set out from Earth for a single star in the direction of the center\n of our Galaxy.\"\n\n\n \"From Earth? How could we?\"\n\n\n \"Let's move slowly, sir,\" he said. \"We're moving fast. I don't know if\n you can picture it, but we're going about one hundred thousand miles an\n hour.\"\n\n\n \"Through space?\"\n\n\n \"Yes.\"\n\n\n \"What direction?\"\n\n\n Paul cut in. \"It's a G type star, like our own sun in mass and\n luminosity. We hope to find a planetary system capable of supporting\n life.\"\n\n\n \"I can't grasp it. How can we go very far in a lifetime?\"\n\n\n \"It can be done in two lifetimes,\" John said quietly.\n\n\n \"You said I had flown this ship. You meant before this suspension.\"", "\"Can I?\" I asked.\nWe set up a temporary plan of action. Paul took Karen to the laboratory\n in an effort to help her remember her job. Carl went back to divide the\n rations.\n\n\n I was to study the charts and manuals. It was better than doing\n nothing, and I went into the navigation room and sat down. Earth was\n an infinitesimal point somewhere behind us on the galactic plane, and\n no one else was trained to navigate. The ship thundered to life as I\n sat there. The blast roared once ... twice, then settled into a muted\n crescendo of sound that hummed through the walls. I went into the\n control room and watched John at the panel.\n\n\n \"I wish I knew what you were doing,\" I said savagely.\n\n\n \"Give it time.\"\n\n\n \"We can't spare any, can we?\" I asked.\n\n\n \"I wish we knew. What about her—Dr. Thiesen?\"", "I had a glimpse of his contorted face as I dove at the control board.\n My hands hit buttons, thumbed a switch and then a sudden force threw me\n to the right. I slammed into the panel on the right, as the pressure\n of the change dimmed my vision. Reflex made me look up at the radar\n control screen.\n\n\n It wasn't operating.\n\n\n John let go of the padded chair, grinning weakly. I was busy for a few\n seconds, feeding compensation into the gyros. Relief flooded through me\n like warm liquid. I hung on the intercom for support, drawing air into\n my heaving lungs.\n\n\n \"What—made you—think of that,\" I asked weakly.\n\n\n \"Shock treatment.\"\n\n\n \"I must have acted on instinct.\"\n\n\n \"You did. Even for a sick man that was pretty fast,\" he laughed.", "\"That had me wondering for a while. I don't know. Anyway how could you\n go about making her remember?\"\n\n\n \"Throw a crisis, some situation at her, I guess.\"\n\n\n He shrugged, letting his sure hands rest on the panel of dials. I\n headed back towards the lab. If I could help her I might help myself.\n I was past the rooms when the horn blasted through the corridor. I\n turned automatically with the sound, pushing against the rail, towards\n the control room. Deep in my mind I could see danger, and without\n questioning why I knew I had to be at Control when the sound knifed\n through the stillness. John was shouting as I thrust my way into the\n room.\n\"Turn the ship. There's something dead ahead.\"", "\"I can think again, John. I know who I am,\" I shouted. I threw my arms\n around his massive shoulders. \"You did it.\"\n\n\n \"You gave me the idea, Mister, talking about Dr. Thiesen.\"\n\n\n \"It worked. I'm okay,\" I said in giddy relief.\n\n\n \"I don't have to tell you I was scared as hell. I wish you could have\n seen your face, the look in your eyes when I woke up.\"\n\n\n \"I wouldn't want to wake up like that again.\"\n\n\n \"You're all right now?\" he asked. I grinned and nodded an answer. I saw\n John as he was at the base, big and competent, sweating in the blazing\n sun.\n\n\n I thought about the rest of the crew too. \"We're heading right for a\n star....\"", "Spectroscopic tests were run on the sun and checked against the figures\n that had been calculated on Earth. We analyzed temperature, magnetic\n fields, radial motion, density and luminosity, checking against the\n standards the scientists had constructed. It was a G type star like our\n own. It had more density and temperature and suitable planets or not,\n we had to change course in a hurry. Carl analyzed the findings while we\n came to a decision. Somewhere along an orbit that might be two hundred\n miles across, our hypothetical planet circled this star. That distance\n was selected when the planets in Earth's solar system had proved to be\n barren. If the observations on this star were correct, we could expect\n to find a planet in a state of fertility ... if it existed ... if it\n were suitable for colonization ... if we could find it.", "Not mine. Not now.\n\n\n I went past the room into another, where the curves were more sharp. I\n could visualize the tapering hull leading to the nose of the ship. This\n room was filled with equipment that formed a room out of the bordered\n area I stood in. I sat in the deep chair facing the panel of dials and\n instruments, in easy reach. I ran my hands over the dials, the rows of\n smooth colored buttons, wondering.", "I looked in the direction of the sound. Above my feet a bulkhead\n loomed. There were round dials set in a row above a speaker. Over the\n mesh-covered speaker, two knobs glowed red. I ran the words over in\n my sluggish mind, thinking about an answer. The muscles in my throat\n tightened up in reflex as I tried to bring some unity into the jumble\n of thoughts and ideas that kept forming. One word formed out of the\n rush of anxiety.\n\n\n \"No.\"\n\n\n I shouted a protest against the strangeness of the room. I looked to\n the right, my eyes following the curving ceiling that started at the\n cot. The curve met another straight bulkhead on the left. I was in a\n small room, gray in color, like dull metal. Overhead a bright light\n burned into my vision. I wondered where in the universe I was.\n\n\n \"Your name is David Corbin. If you understand, press button A on your\n right.\"", "In the laboratory on the lower level I went over the rows of cans and\n tubes fastened to the shelves. There were earths and minerals, seeds\n and chemicals, testing equipment in compact drawers, but nothing marked\n for me. I wondered if I was an engineer or a pilot, or perhaps a doctor\n sent along to safeguard the others. Complete amnesia would have been\n terrible enough but this half knowledge, part awareness and association\n with the ship was a frightening force that seemed ready to break out of\n me.\n\n\n I went back to the cabin where the powerful man lay. I had to risk\n failure with one of them. I didn't want it to be the girl. I fought\n down the thought that he might be the key man, remembering the voice\n that had given the message. It was up to me, and soon. The metal in the\n box would have withstood a bullet. It couldn't be pried apart, and I\n searched again and again for a release mechanism.\n\n\n I found it.", "I looked out at deep space, star systems in clusters. I shut my eyes.\n When I looked again I knew where I was. Why the little room had been\n shaped like quarter round. Why I drifted weightlessly. Why I was....\n\n\n David Corbin.\n\n\n I knew more of the puzzle. Something was wrong. After the first shock\n of looking out, I accepted the fact that I was in a space ship, yet I\n couldn't read the maps that were fastened to a table, nor understand\n the function or design of the compact machinery.\n\n\n WHY, Why, Why? The thought kept pounding at me. I was afraid to touch\n anything in the room. I pressed against the clear window, wondering if\n the stars were familiar. I had a brief vivid picture of a night sky on\n Earth. This was not the same sky." ], [ "\"That had me wondering for a while. I don't know. Anyway how could you\n go about making her remember?\"\n\n\n \"Throw a crisis, some situation at her, I guess.\"\n\n\n He shrugged, letting his sure hands rest on the panel of dials. I\n headed back towards the lab. If I could help her I might help myself.\n I was past the rooms when the horn blasted through the corridor. I\n turned automatically with the sound, pushing against the rail, towards\n the control room. Deep in my mind I could see danger, and without\n questioning why I knew I had to be at Control when the sound knifed\n through the stillness. John was shouting as I thrust my way into the\n room.\n\"Turn the ship. There's something dead ahead.\"", "I glanced at John. He rubbed his stomach. \"Yes,\" I answered. \"Bring it\n when you can. I've got to find out where we are.\"\n\n\n We had to get off course before we ran into the yellow-white star that\n had been picked for us. Food was set down by me, grew cold and was\n carried away and I was still rechecking the figures. We were on a line\n ten degrees above the galactic plane. The parallactic baseline from\n Earth to the single star could be in error several degrees, or we could\n be right on the calculated position of the star. The radar confirmed\n my findings ... and my worst fears. When we set it for direction and\n distance, the screen glowed to life and recorded the star dead ahead.", "\"It's been dead ahead for hours,\" he grunted. I leaned over and threw\n the intercom to open. \"This is control. Listen ... everyone. I'm over\n it. Disregard the warning siren ... we were testing the ship.\"\n\n\n The lab light blinked on as Paul cut in. \"What was it ... hey, you said\n you're all right.\"\n\n\n \"John did it. He hit the alarm figuring I would react. Listen, Paul. Is\n any one hurt?\"\n\n\n \"No. Carl is here too. His stomach flopped again but he's okay. What\n about food. We're supposed to be checked before we eat.\"\n\n\n \"We'll have to go ahead without it. Any change?\"\n\n\n \"No, I put her to bed. Shall I bring food?\"", "I had a glimpse of his contorted face as I dove at the control board.\n My hands hit buttons, thumbed a switch and then a sudden force threw me\n to the right. I slammed into the panel on the right, as the pressure\n of the change dimmed my vision. Reflex made me look up at the radar\n control screen.\n\n\n It wasn't operating.\n\n\n John let go of the padded chair, grinning weakly. I was busy for a few\n seconds, feeding compensation into the gyros. Relief flooded through me\n like warm liquid. I hung on the intercom for support, drawing air into\n my heaving lungs.\n\n\n \"What—made you—think of that,\" I asked weakly.\n\n\n \"Shock treatment.\"\n\n\n \"I must have acted on instinct.\"\n\n\n \"You did. Even for a sick man that was pretty fast,\" he laughed.", "\"I can think again, John. I know who I am,\" I shouted. I threw my arms\n around his massive shoulders. \"You did it.\"\n\n\n \"You gave me the idea, Mister, talking about Dr. Thiesen.\"\n\n\n \"It worked. I'm okay,\" I said in giddy relief.\n\n\n \"I don't have to tell you I was scared as hell. I wish you could have\n seen your face, the look in your eyes when I woke up.\"\n\n\n \"I wouldn't want to wake up like that again.\"\n\n\n \"You're all right now?\" he asked. I grinned and nodded an answer. I saw\n John as he was at the base, big and competent, sweating in the blazing\n sun.\n\n\n I thought about the rest of the crew too. \"We're heading right for a\n star....\"", "\"Can I?\" I asked.\nWe set up a temporary plan of action. Paul took Karen to the laboratory\n in an effort to help her remember her job. Carl went back to divide the\n rations.\n\n\n I was to study the charts and manuals. It was better than doing\n nothing, and I went into the navigation room and sat down. Earth was\n an infinitesimal point somewhere behind us on the galactic plane, and\n no one else was trained to navigate. The ship thundered to life as I\n sat there. The blast roared once ... twice, then settled into a muted\n crescendo of sound that hummed through the walls. I went into the\n control room and watched John at the panel.\n\n\n \"I wish I knew what you were doing,\" I said savagely.\n\n\n \"Give it time.\"\n\n\n \"We can't spare any, can we?\" I asked.\n\n\n \"I wish we knew. What about her—Dr. Thiesen?\"", "In all the distant star clusters, only this G type star was thought to\n have a planetary system like our own. We were out on a gamble to find\n a planet capable of supporting life. The idea had intrigued scientists\n before I had first looked up at the night sky. When I was sure the\n electronically recorded course was accurate for time, I checked\n direction and speed from the readings and plotted our position. If I\n was right we were much closer than we wanted to be. The bright pips on\n the screen gave us the distance and size of the star while we fed the\n figures into the calculator for our rate of approach.", "\"Yes. That's why we can cross space to a near star.\"\n\n\n \"How long ago was it?\"\n\n\n \"It was set at about a hundred years, sir. Doesn't that fit at all?\"\n\n\n \"I can't believe it's possible.\"\n\n\n Carl caught my eye. \"Captain, we save this time without aging at all.\n It puts us near a calculated destination.\"\n\n\n \"We've lost our lifetime.\" It was Karen. She had been crying silently\n while we talked.\n\n\n \"Don't think about it,\" Paul said. \"We can still pull this out all\n right if you don't lose your nerve.\"\n\n\n \"What are we to do?\" she asked.\n\n\n John answered for me. \"First we've got to find out where we are. I know\n this ship but I can't fly it.\"", "We assembled in the control room for a council. We were all a little\n better for being together. John Croft named the others for me. I\n searched each face without recognition. The blond man was Carl Herrick,\n a metallurgist. His lean face was white from his spell but he was\n better. Paul Sample was a biologist, John said. He was lithe and\n restless, with dark eyes that studied the rest of us. I looked at the\n girl. She was staring out of the ports, her hands pressed against the\n transparent break in the smooth wall. Karen Thiesen was a chemist, now\n frightened and trying to remember.\n\n\n I wasn't in much better condition. \"Look, if it comes too fast for me,\n for any of us, we'll stop. John, you can lead off.\"\n\n\n \"You ask the questions,\" he said.\n\n\n I indicated the ship. \"Where in creation are we going?\"", "Searching the ship made me forget my fear. I hoped I would find some\n answers. I went from the nose to the last bulkhead in a frenzy of\n floating motion, looking behind each door until I went as far as I\n could. There were two levels to the ship. They both ended in the lead\n shield that was set where the swell of the curve was biggest. It meant\n the engine or engines took up half the ship, cut off from the forward\n half by the instrument studded shield. I retraced my steps and took a\n rough estimate of size. The ship, as I called it, was at least four\n hundred feet long, fifty feet in diameter on the inside.", "\"She's in the lab. I don't think that will do much good. She's got to\n be shocked out of a mental state like that.\"\n\n\n \"I guess you're right,\" he said slowly. \"She's trained to administer\n the suspension on the return trip.\"\n\n\n I let my breath out slowly. \"I didn't think about that.\"\n\n\n \"We couldn't even get part way back in a lifetime,\" he said.\n\n\n \"How old are you, John?\"\n\n\n \"Twenty-eight.\"\n\n\n \"What about me?\"\n\n\n \"Thirty.\" He stared at the panel in thought for a minutes. \"What about\n shock treatment? It sounds risky.\"\n\n\n \"I know. It's the only thing I could think of. Why didn't everyone\n react the same?\"", "\"Automatic control. I helped to install it.\"\n\n\n \"Can you run this ship? How about the other two?\"\n\n\n He hit his hands together. \"You fly it, sir. Can't you think?\"\n\n\n \"I'm trying. I know the ship is familiar, but I've looked it over.\n Maybe I'm trying too hard.\"\n\n\n \"You flew her from earth until we went into suspension,\" he said.\n\n\n \"I can't remember when,\" I said. I held the trembling girl against me,\n shaking my head.\n\n\n He glanced at the girl. \"If the calculations are right it was more than\n a hundred years ago.\"", "Spectroscopic tests were run on the sun and checked against the figures\n that had been calculated on Earth. We analyzed temperature, magnetic\n fields, radial motion, density and luminosity, checking against the\n standards the scientists had constructed. It was a G type star like our\n own. It had more density and temperature and suitable planets or not,\n we had to change course in a hurry. Carl analyzed the findings while we\n came to a decision. Somewhere along an orbit that might be two hundred\n miles across, our hypothetical planet circled this star. That distance\n was selected when the planets in Earth's solar system had proved to be\n barren. If the observations on this star were correct, we could expect\n to find a planet in a state of fertility ... if it existed ... if it\n were suitable for colonization ... if we could find it.", "\"You have been removed from suspension. Assume manual control of this\n ship.\"\n\n\n Control of a ship? Going where?\n\n\n \"Do not begin operations until the others are removed from suspension.\"\n\n\n What others? Tell me what to do.\n\n\n \"Rely on instructions for factoring when you check the coordinates.\n Your maximum deviation from schedule cannot exceed two degrees. Adopt\n emergency procedures as you see fit. Good luck.\"\n\n\n The voice snapped off and I laughed hysterically. None of it had made\n sense, and I cursed whatever madness had put me here.\n\n\n \"Tell me what to do,\" I shouted wildly. I hammered the hard metal until\n the pain in my hands made me stop.\n\n\n \"I can't remember what to do.\"", "The ports on the side were shielded and I stared out at static energy,\n hung motionless in a world of searing light. There was no distortion,\n no movement outside and I glanced back at the dials. What speeds were\n they recording? What speeds and perhaps, what distance? It was useless\n to translate the markings. They stood for anything I might guess, and\n something kept pricking my mind, telling me I had no time to guess. I\n thought of time again. I was supposed to act according to ... plan. Did\n that mean ... in time ... in time. I went back down the passageway.\nThe fourth small room was the same. Except for the woman. She lay on a\n cot, young and beautiful, even in the death-like immobility I had come\n to accept. Her beauty was graceful lines of face and her figure—smooth", "He shook his head, watching me like I was a freak. \"Let's check the\n rest right away.\"\n\n\n \"Yes. I've got to know if they are like me. I'm afraid to think they\n might be.\"\n\n\n \"Maybe it's temporary. We can figure something out.\"\nII\n\n\n The second man, the dark haired one, opened his eyes and recognized us.\n He asked questions in rapid fire excitement. The third man, the tall\n Viking, was all right until he moved. The weightless sensation made him\n violently sick. We put him back on the cot, securing him again with\n the belt, but the sight of us floating made him shake. He was retching\n without results when we drifted out. I followed him to the girl's\n quarters.\n\n\n \"What about her. Why is she here?\" I asked my companion.\n\n\n He lifted the cover from the apparatus. \"She's the chemist in the crew.\"", "\"A girl?\"\n\n\n \"Dr. Thiesen is an expert, trained for this,\" he said.\n\n\n I looked at her. She looked anything but like a chemist.\n\n\n \"There must be men who could have been sent. I've been wondering why a\n girl.\"\n\n\n \"I don't know why, Captain. You tried to stop her before. Age and\n experience were all that mattered to the brass.\"\n\n\n \"It's a bad thing to do.\"\n\n\n \"I suppose. The mission stated one chemist.\"\n\n\n \"What is the mission of this ship?\" I asked.\n\n\n He held up his hand. \"We'd better wait, sir. Everything was supposed to\n be all right on this end. First you, then Carl, sick to his stomach.\"\n\n\n \"Okay. I'll hold the questions until we see about her.\"", "It was effortless to move. I turned on my side like a swimmer and went\n hand over hand, shooting down the corridor. I braced against forward\n motion and stopped against a door at the end. Behind me I could see the\n opened door I had left, and the thought of that questioning voice made\n me want to move. I swung the door open, catching a glimpse of a room\n crowded with equipment and....\nI will always remember the scream of terror, the paralyzing fright of\n what I saw through the portholes in the wall of the room. I saw the\n blackest night, pierced by brilliance that blinded me. There was no\n depth to the searing brightness of countless stars. They seemed to\n press against the glass, blobs of fire against a black curtain burning\n into my eyes and brain.\n\n\n It was space.", "\"No gravity,\" he grunted and sat back.\n\n\n \"You get used to it fast,\" I answered. I thought of what to say as he\n watched me. \"How do you feel?\"\n\n\n He shrugged at the question. \"Fine, I guess. Funny, I can't remember.\"\n\n\n He saw it in my face, making him stop. \"I can't remember dropping off\n to sleep,\" he finished.\n\n\n I held his hard arm. \"What else? How much do you remember?\"\n\n\n \"I'm all right,\" he answered. \"There aren't supposed to be any effects\n from this.\"\n\n\n \"Who is in charge of this ship?\" I asked.\n\n\n He tensed suddenly. \"You are, sir. Why?\"\n\n\n I moved away from the cot. \"Listen, I can't remember. I don't know your\n name or anything about this ship.\"", "She tightened up in my arms. \"Yes. It's....\" She looked at us for help,\n frightened by the lack of clothing we wore, by the bleak room. Her eyes\n circled the room. \"I'm afraid,\" she cried. I held her and she shook\n uncontrollably.\n\n\n \"What's happened to me?\" she asked.\n\n\n The dark haired man came into the room, silent and watchful. My\n companion motioned to him. \"Get Carl and meet us in Control.\"\n\n\n The man looked at me and I nodded. \"We'll be there in a moment. I'm\n afraid we've got trouble.\"\n\n\n He nodded and pushed away from us. The girl screamed and covered her\n face with her hands. I turned to the other man. \"What's your name?\"\n\n\n \"Croft. John Croft.\"\n\n\n \"John, what are your duties if any?\"" ], [ "We assembled in the control room for a council. We were all a little\n better for being together. John Croft named the others for me. I\n searched each face without recognition. The blond man was Carl Herrick,\n a metallurgist. His lean face was white from his spell but he was\n better. Paul Sample was a biologist, John said. He was lithe and\n restless, with dark eyes that studied the rest of us. I looked at the\n girl. She was staring out of the ports, her hands pressed against the\n transparent break in the smooth wall. Karen Thiesen was a chemist, now\n frightened and trying to remember.\n\n\n I wasn't in much better condition. \"Look, if it comes too fast for me,\n for any of us, we'll stop. John, you can lead off.\"\n\n\n \"You ask the questions,\" he said.\n\n\n I indicated the ship. \"Where in creation are we going?\"", "\"A girl?\"\n\n\n \"Dr. Thiesen is an expert, trained for this,\" he said.\n\n\n I looked at her. She looked anything but like a chemist.\n\n\n \"There must be men who could have been sent. I've been wondering why a\n girl.\"\n\n\n \"I don't know why, Captain. You tried to stop her before. Age and\n experience were all that mattered to the brass.\"\n\n\n \"It's a bad thing to do.\"\n\n\n \"I suppose. The mission stated one chemist.\"\n\n\n \"What is the mission of this ship?\" I asked.\n\n\n He held up his hand. \"We'd better wait, sir. Everything was supposed to\n be all right on this end. First you, then Carl, sick to his stomach.\"\n\n\n \"Okay. I'll hold the questions until we see about her.\"", "\"I can think again, John. I know who I am,\" I shouted. I threw my arms\n around his massive shoulders. \"You did it.\"\n\n\n \"You gave me the idea, Mister, talking about Dr. Thiesen.\"\n\n\n \"It worked. I'm okay,\" I said in giddy relief.\n\n\n \"I don't have to tell you I was scared as hell. I wish you could have\n seen your face, the look in your eyes when I woke up.\"\n\n\n \"I wouldn't want to wake up like that again.\"\n\n\n \"You're all right now?\" he asked. I grinned and nodded an answer. I saw\n John as he was at the base, big and competent, sweating in the blazing\n sun.\n\n\n I thought about the rest of the crew too. \"We're heading right for a\n star....\"", "Searching the ship made me forget my fear. I hoped I would find some\n answers. I went from the nose to the last bulkhead in a frenzy of\n floating motion, looking behind each door until I went as far as I\n could. There were two levels to the ship. They both ended in the lead\n shield that was set where the swell of the curve was biggest. It meant\n the engine or engines took up half the ship, cut off from the forward\n half by the instrument studded shield. I retraced my steps and took a\n rough estimate of size. The ship, as I called it, was at least four\n hundred feet long, fifty feet in diameter on the inside.", "\"Yes. That's why we can cross space to a near star.\"\n\n\n \"How long ago was it?\"\n\n\n \"It was set at about a hundred years, sir. Doesn't that fit at all?\"\n\n\n \"I can't believe it's possible.\"\n\n\n Carl caught my eye. \"Captain, we save this time without aging at all.\n It puts us near a calculated destination.\"\n\n\n \"We've lost our lifetime.\" It was Karen. She had been crying silently\n while we talked.\n\n\n \"Don't think about it,\" Paul said. \"We can still pull this out all\n right if you don't lose your nerve.\"\n\n\n \"What are we to do?\" she asked.\n\n\n John answered for me. \"First we've got to find out where we are. I know\n this ship but I can't fly it.\"", "\"We set out from Earth for a single star in the direction of the center\n of our Galaxy.\"\n\n\n \"From Earth? How could we?\"\n\n\n \"Let's move slowly, sir,\" he said. \"We're moving fast. I don't know if\n you can picture it, but we're going about one hundred thousand miles an\n hour.\"\n\n\n \"Through space?\"\n\n\n \"Yes.\"\n\n\n \"What direction?\"\n\n\n Paul cut in. \"It's a G type star, like our own sun in mass and\n luminosity. We hope to find a planetary system capable of supporting\n life.\"\n\n\n \"I can't grasp it. How can we go very far in a lifetime?\"\n\n\n \"It can be done in two lifetimes,\" John said quietly.\n\n\n \"You said I had flown this ship. You meant before this suspension.\"", "\"It's been dead ahead for hours,\" he grunted. I leaned over and threw\n the intercom to open. \"This is control. Listen ... everyone. I'm over\n it. Disregard the warning siren ... we were testing the ship.\"\n\n\n The lab light blinked on as Paul cut in. \"What was it ... hey, you said\n you're all right.\"\n\n\n \"John did it. He hit the alarm figuring I would react. Listen, Paul. Is\n any one hurt?\"\n\n\n \"No. Carl is here too. His stomach flopped again but he's okay. What\n about food. We're supposed to be checked before we eat.\"\n\n\n \"We'll have to go ahead without it. Any change?\"\n\n\n \"No, I put her to bed. Shall I bring food?\"", "In the laboratory on the lower level I went over the rows of cans and\n tubes fastened to the shelves. There were earths and minerals, seeds\n and chemicals, testing equipment in compact drawers, but nothing marked\n for me. I wondered if I was an engineer or a pilot, or perhaps a doctor\n sent along to safeguard the others. Complete amnesia would have been\n terrible enough but this half knowledge, part awareness and association\n with the ship was a frightening force that seemed ready to break out of\n me.\n\n\n I went back to the cabin where the powerful man lay. I had to risk\n failure with one of them. I didn't want it to be the girl. I fought\n down the thought that he might be the key man, remembering the voice\n that had given the message. It was up to me, and soon. The metal in the\n box would have withstood a bullet. It couldn't be pried apart, and I\n searched again and again for a release mechanism.\n\n\n I found it.", "The next room held another man. He was young and wiry, like an athlete\n cast in marble, dark haired and big jawed. A glassy eye stared up when\n I rolled back his eyelid. The eyelid remained open until I closed it\n and went on. Another room ... another man ... another stranger. This\n man was tall and raw boned, light of skin and hair, as dead as the\n others.\n\n\n A flat, illogical voice had instructed me to revive these men. I\n shivered in spite of the warmth of the room, studying the black box\n that squatted on a shelf by his head. My hand shook when I touched\n the metal. I dared not try to operate anything. Revive the others ...\n instructions without knowledge were useless to me. I stopped looking\n into the doors in the passageway and went back to the room with the\n portholes. Everything lay in readiness, fastened down star charts,\n instruments, glittering equipment. There was no feeling of disorder or\n use in the room. It waited for human hands to make it operate.", "It was effortless to move. I turned on my side like a swimmer and went\n hand over hand, shooting down the corridor. I braced against forward\n motion and stopped against a door at the end. Behind me I could see the\n opened door I had left, and the thought of that questioning voice made\n me want to move. I swung the door open, catching a glimpse of a room\n crowded with equipment and....\nI will always remember the scream of terror, the paralyzing fright of\n what I saw through the portholes in the wall of the room. I saw the\n blackest night, pierced by brilliance that blinded me. There was no\n depth to the searing brightness of countless stars. They seemed to\n press against the glass, blobs of fire against a black curtain burning\n into my eyes and brain.\n\n\n It was space.", "\"You have been removed from suspension. Assume manual control of this\n ship.\"\n\n\n Control of a ship? Going where?\n\n\n \"Do not begin operations until the others are removed from suspension.\"\n\n\n What others? Tell me what to do.\n\n\n \"Rely on instructions for factoring when you check the coordinates.\n Your maximum deviation from schedule cannot exceed two degrees. Adopt\n emergency procedures as you see fit. Good luck.\"\n\n\n The voice snapped off and I laughed hysterically. None of it had made\n sense, and I cursed whatever madness had put me here.\n\n\n \"Tell me what to do,\" I shouted wildly. I hammered the hard metal until\n the pain in my hands made me stop.\n\n\n \"I can't remember what to do.\"", "He shook his head, watching me like I was a freak. \"Let's check the\n rest right away.\"\n\n\n \"Yes. I've got to know if they are like me. I'm afraid to think they\n might be.\"\n\n\n \"Maybe it's temporary. We can figure something out.\"\nII\n\n\n The second man, the dark haired one, opened his eyes and recognized us.\n He asked questions in rapid fire excitement. The third man, the tall\n Viking, was all right until he moved. The weightless sensation made him\n violently sick. We put him back on the cot, securing him again with\n the belt, but the sight of us floating made him shake. He was retching\n without results when we drifted out. I followed him to the girl's\n quarters.\n\n\n \"What about her. Why is she here?\" I asked my companion.\n\n\n He lifted the cover from the apparatus. \"She's the chemist in the crew.\"", "I looked in the direction of the sound. Above my feet a bulkhead\n loomed. There were round dials set in a row above a speaker. Over the\n mesh-covered speaker, two knobs glowed red. I ran the words over in\n my sluggish mind, thinking about an answer. The muscles in my throat\n tightened up in reflex as I tried to bring some unity into the jumble\n of thoughts and ideas that kept forming. One word formed out of the\n rush of anxiety.\n\n\n \"No.\"\n\n\n I shouted a protest against the strangeness of the room. I looked to\n the right, my eyes following the curving ceiling that started at the\n cot. The curve met another straight bulkhead on the left. I was in a\n small room, gray in color, like dull metal. Overhead a bright light\n burned into my vision. I wondered where in the universe I was.\n\n\n \"Your name is David Corbin. If you understand, press button A on your\n right.\"", "\"Automatic control. I helped to install it.\"\n\n\n \"Can you run this ship? How about the other two?\"\n\n\n He hit his hands together. \"You fly it, sir. Can't you think?\"\n\n\n \"I'm trying. I know the ship is familiar, but I've looked it over.\n Maybe I'm trying too hard.\"\n\n\n \"You flew her from earth until we went into suspension,\" he said.\n\n\n \"I can't remember when,\" I said. I held the trembling girl against me,\n shaking my head.\n\n\n He glanced at the girl. \"If the calculations are right it was more than\n a hundred years ago.\"", "\"Can I?\" I asked.\nWe set up a temporary plan of action. Paul took Karen to the laboratory\n in an effort to help her remember her job. Carl went back to divide the\n rations.\n\n\n I was to study the charts and manuals. It was better than doing\n nothing, and I went into the navigation room and sat down. Earth was\n an infinitesimal point somewhere behind us on the galactic plane, and\n no one else was trained to navigate. The ship thundered to life as I\n sat there. The blast roared once ... twice, then settled into a muted\n crescendo of sound that hummed through the walls. I went into the\n control room and watched John at the panel.\n\n\n \"I wish I knew what you were doing,\" I said savagely.\n\n\n \"Give it time.\"\n\n\n \"We can't spare any, can we?\" I asked.\n\n\n \"I wish we knew. What about her—Dr. Thiesen?\"", "In all the distant star clusters, only this G type star was thought to\n have a planetary system like our own. We were out on a gamble to find\n a planet capable of supporting life. The idea had intrigued scientists\n before I had first looked up at the night sky. When I was sure the\n electronically recorded course was accurate for time, I checked\n direction and speed from the readings and plotted our position. If I\n was right we were much closer than we wanted to be. The bright pips on\n the screen gave us the distance and size of the star while we fed the\n figures into the calculator for our rate of approach.", "She tightened up in my arms. \"Yes. It's....\" She looked at us for help,\n frightened by the lack of clothing we wore, by the bleak room. Her eyes\n circled the room. \"I'm afraid,\" she cried. I held her and she shook\n uncontrollably.\n\n\n \"What's happened to me?\" she asked.\n\n\n The dark haired man came into the room, silent and watchful. My\n companion motioned to him. \"Get Carl and meet us in Control.\"\n\n\n The man looked at me and I nodded. \"We'll be there in a moment. I'm\n afraid we've got trouble.\"\n\n\n He nodded and pushed away from us. The girl screamed and covered her\n face with her hands. I turned to the other man. \"What's your name?\"\n\n\n \"Croft. John Croft.\"\n\n\n \"John, what are your duties if any?\"", "\"That had me wondering for a while. I don't know. Anyway how could you\n go about making her remember?\"\n\n\n \"Throw a crisis, some situation at her, I guess.\"\n\n\n He shrugged, letting his sure hands rest on the panel of dials. I\n headed back towards the lab. If I could help her I might help myself.\n I was past the rooms when the horn blasted through the corridor. I\n turned automatically with the sound, pushing against the rail, towards\n the control room. Deep in my mind I could see danger, and without\n questioning why I knew I had to be at Control when the sound knifed\n through the stillness. John was shouting as I thrust my way into the\n room.\n\"Turn the ship. There's something dead ahead.\"", "I looked out at deep space, star systems in clusters. I shut my eyes.\n When I looked again I knew where I was. Why the little room had been\n shaped like quarter round. Why I drifted weightlessly. Why I was....\n\n\n David Corbin.\n\n\n I knew more of the puzzle. Something was wrong. After the first shock\n of looking out, I accepted the fact that I was in a space ship, yet I\n couldn't read the maps that were fastened to a table, nor understand\n the function or design of the compact machinery.\n\n\n WHY, Why, Why? The thought kept pounding at me. I was afraid to touch\n anything in the room. I pressed against the clear window, wondering if\n the stars were familiar. I had a brief vivid picture of a night sky on\n Earth. This was not the same sky.", "\"No gravity,\" he grunted and sat back.\n\n\n \"You get used to it fast,\" I answered. I thought of what to say as he\n watched me. \"How do you feel?\"\n\n\n He shrugged at the question. \"Fine, I guess. Funny, I can't remember.\"\n\n\n He saw it in my face, making him stop. \"I can't remember dropping off\n to sleep,\" he finished.\n\n\n I held his hard arm. \"What else? How much do you remember?\"\n\n\n \"I'm all right,\" he answered. \"There aren't supposed to be any effects\n from this.\"\n\n\n \"Who is in charge of this ship?\" I asked.\n\n\n He tensed suddenly. \"You are, sir. Why?\"\n\n\n I moved away from the cot. \"Listen, I can't remember. I don't know your\n name or anything about this ship.\"" ] ]
train	20015	[ "Why is it suspected that William Shawn blushed at Green's remark? ", "What's true of Ross's accounts of Shawn?", "What is the writer's view of Mehta's works?", "What stance does the writer take in regards to Tina Brown. ", "What is an underlying issue that the writer touches upon throughout the whole passage?", "How do Ross and Mehta view Brown's acquisition of the magazine?", "What best summarizes what the author has to say about William Shawn? " ]	[ [ "He was known for disallowing sexual content from his publications and was put off by the comment.", "As someone who looked into risque material himself, it piqued his curiosity. ", "The phrasing took him by surprise. It's not the answer he thought he'd receive. ", "He was prudish in nature, and he was embarrassed by it. " ], [ "She had a difficult time describing her true feelings. ", "She contradicts herself often. She describes him one way than an inverse way pages later. ", "She tells the objective truth about her and Shawn, and the relationship they shared. ", "She has a habit of glorifying Shawn. " ], [ "They found it boring. ", "They wished that Shawn set a restriction on how many words he allowed Mehta to publish. ", "They appreciate that he persisted in telling his story. ", "Like other critics, they found the growing word count intolerable. " ], [ "A neutral one. The anecdotes offered are too biased to make a judgement either way. ", "They agree with Ross, that Brown carried the same mentality as Shawn. ", "Brown's presence saddened Shawn, as evidence by him no longer reading the magazine. ", "Brown has built on William Shawn's legacy in her own way. " ], [ "The two memoirs are completely inaccurate, and thus nothing that is offered can be true. ", "Shawn clearly had deep relationships with many people. Thus, it's hard to fully understand his life and his thoughts. ", "Shawn had been cheating on his wife, and even without getting a proper divorce he still pursued Ross. ", "There are different sources with differing opinions, making it hard to infer the total truth about Shawn and later Tina Brown. " ], [ "Neither has a strong opinion on the matter, until after Shawn's death. ", "Mehta felt betrayed by being let go; Ross said she saw the same personality in her as Shawn and was glad to be invited back. ", "Ross was glad to see it brought a new interest in the magazine to Shawn, despite Mehta feeling otherwise. ", "Mehta resents that Shawn passed away so soon after her being brought on, while Ross was just happy to have a job again. " ], [ "He had a magnetic personality, as shown in the way Ross and Mehta gravitated towards him. ", "While quiet on the outside, he was a man prone to adultery.", "He was a respectable man with complexities that weren't always obvious and is hard to pin down based on the stories told of him.", "He lived a simple life and worked hard to publish his magazine. " ] ]	[ 2, 2, 3, 1, 4, 2, 3 ]	[ 1, 1, 0, 1, 0, 1, 1 ]	[ [ "Was Shawn blushing out of prudishness, as we are meant to infer? This was, after all, a man renowned for his retiring propriety, a man who sedulously barred anything smacking of the salacious--from lingerie ads to four-letter words--from the magazine he stewarded from 1952 until 1987, five years before his death. But after reading these two new memoirs about Shawn, I wonder. \"He longed for the earthiest and wildest kinds of sexual adventures,\" Lillian Ross discloses in hers, adding that he lusted after Hannah Arendt, Evonne Goolagong, and Madonna. As for Ved Mehta, he reports that Shawn's favorite thing to watch on television was \"people dancing uninhibitedly\" ( Soul Train , one guesses). I suspect Shawn did not blush at the \"cunty fingers\" remark out of prudery. He blushed because it had hit too close to home.", "And what does she think of Mrs. Shawn? \"I found her to be sensitive and likeable.\" Plus, she could \"do a mean Charleston.\" There is nothing more poignant than the image of an openly cheated-upon and humiliated wife doing \"a mean Charleston.\" \n\n William Shawn's indispensability as an editor is amply manifest in Ross' memoir. Word repetition? \"Whatever reporting Bill asked me to do turned out to be both challenging and fun. ... For me, reporting and writing for the magazine was fun, pure fun. ... It was never 'work' for me. It was fun.\" Even in praising his skill as an editor, she betrays the presence of its absence. \"All writers, of course, have needed the one called the 'editor,' who singularly, almost mystically, embodies the many-faceted, unique life force infusing the entire enchilada.\" Nice touch, that enchilada.", "Like Ross, Mehta struggles to express William Shawn's ineffable virtues. \"It is as if, Mehta, he were beyond our human conception,\" Janet Flanner tells him once to calm him down. At times I wondered whether the author, in his ecstasies of devotion, had not inadvertently committed plagiarism. His words on Mr. Shawn sound suspiciously like those of Mr. Pooter on his boss Mr. Perkupp in The Diary of a Nobody . Compare. Mehta on Shawn: \"His words were so generous that I could scarcely find my tongue, even to thank him.\" Pooter on Perkupp: \"My heart was too full to thank him.\" Mehta: \"I started saying to myself compulsively, 'I wish Mr. Shawn would ring,' at the oddest times of the day or night. ... How I longed for the parade of proofs, the excitement of rewriting and perfecting!\" Pooter: \"Mr. Perkupp, I will work night and day to serve you!\"", "Goings On About Town \n\n One of the funniest moments in Brendan Gill's 1975 memoir, Here at \"The New Yorker ,\" comes during a luncheon at the now vanished Ritz in Manhattan. At the table are Gill; William Shawn, then editor of The New Yorker ; and the reclusive English writer Henry Green. Green's new novel, Loving , has just received a very favorable review in The New Yorker . Shawn--\"with his usual hushed delicacy of speech and manner\"--inquires of the novelist whether he could possibly reveal what prompted the creation of such an exquisite work. Green obliges. \"I once asked an old butler in Ireland what had been the happiest times of his life,\" he says. \"The butler replied, 'Lying in bed on Sunday morning, eating tea and toast with cunty fingers.' \" \n\n This was not the explanation Shawn was expecting, Gill tells us. \"Discs of bright red begin to burn in his cheeks.\"", "Lillian Ross, by contrast, takes a rather cheerful view of the Brown dispensation. Indeed, the new editor even coaxed Ross into re-joining the magazine, just as she was booting Mehta out. \"I found that she possessed--under the usual disguises--her own share of Bill's kind of naivete, insight, and sensitivity,\" Ross says of Brown. \"She, too, 'got it.' \" A few months after Brown was appointed editor, Shawn died at the age of 85. He had long since stopped reading his beloved magazine, in sorrow and relief. That's if you believe Mehta. Ross assures us that Mr. Shawn was reading Tina Brown's New Yorker \"with new interest\" in the weeks prior to his death.", "Now, Ross seems like a nice lady, and I certainly have nothing against adultery, which I hear is being carried on in the best circles these days. But the public flaunting of adultery--especially when spouses and children are around--well, it brings out the bourgeois in me. It also made me feel funny about William Shawn, whom I have always regarded as a great man. I loved his New Yorker . The prose it contained--the gray stuff around the cartoons--was balm for the soul: unfailingly clear, precise, logical, and quietly stylish. So what if the articles were occasionally boring? It was a sweet sort of boredom, serene and restorative, not at all like the kind induced by magazines today, which is more akin to nervous exhaustion. Besides, the moral tone of the magazine was almost wholly admirable--it was ahead of the pack on Hiroshima, civil rights, Vietnam, Watergate, the environment--and this was very much Shawn's doing. I do not like to think of him in an illicit love nest, eating tea and toast with cunty fingers.", "Shawn was managing editor of The New Yorker when he hired Ross in 1945 as the magazine's second woman reporter (the first was Andy Logan). He was short and balding but had pale blue eyes to die for. As for Ross, \"I was aware of the fact that I was not unappealing.\" During a late-night editorial session, she says, Shawn blurted out his love. A few weeks later at the office, their eyes met. Without a word--even, it seems, to the cab driver--they hied uptown to the Plaza, where matters were consummated. Thereafter, the couple set up housekeeping together in an apartment 20 blocks downtown from the Shawn residence on upper Fifth Avenue and stoically endured the sufferings of Shawn's wife, who did not want a divorce.", "Happily, Ross has sprinkled her memoir with clues that it is not to be taken as entirely factual. To say that Shawn was \"a man who grieved over all living creatures\" is forgivable hyperbole; but later to add that he \"mourned\" for Si Newhouse when Newhouse unceremoniously fired him in 1987 (a couple of years after buying the magazine)--well, that's a bit much. Even Jesus had his limits.", "Has Tina Brown betrayed the legacy of William Shawn, as Mehta fiercely believes, or has she continued and built upon it, as Ross is evidently convinced? Have the changes she has wrought enlivened a stodgy magazine or vulgarized a dignified one--or both? These are weighty questions, and one is of course loath to compromise one's life chances by hazarding unripe opinions in a public forum such as this.", "When cocktail party malcontents mocked Shawn's New Yorker in the late '70s and early '80s, they would make fun of such things as E.J. Kahn's five-part series on \"Grains of the World\" or Elizabeth Drew's supposedly soporific reporting from Washington. But Ved Mehta was always the butt of the worst abuse. Shawn was allowing him to publish an autobiography in the pages of the magazine that was mounting up to millions of words over the years, and the very idea of it seemed to bore people silly. After the publication of two early installments, \"Daddyji\" and \"Mamaji,\" each the length of a book, one critic cried: \"Enoughji!\"", "Both these memoirs must be read by everyone--everyone, that is, who takes seriously the important business of sorting out precisely how he or she feels about The New Yorker , then and now. Of the two, Mehta's is far and away the more entertaining. This may seem odd, for Mehta is reputed to be a very dull writer whereas Ross is a famously zippy one. Moreover, Mehta writes as Shawn's adoring acolyte, whereas Ross writes as his longtime adulterous lover. Just knowing that Mrs. Shawn is still alive adds a certain tension to reading much of what this Other Woman chooses to divulge. Evidently, \"Bill\" and Lillian loved each other with a fine, pure love, a love that was more than love, a love coveted by the winged seraphs of heaven. \"We had indeed become one,\" she tells us, freely venting the inflations of her heart.", "Mehta's multivolume autobiography, titled Continents of Exile , has loss as its overarching theme: loss of sight, of childhood, of home and country, and now--with this volume--loss of Mr. Shawn's New Yorker . The memoir takes us from the time the author was hired as a staff writer in the early '60s up to 1994, when he was \"terminated\" by the loathed Tina Brown in her vandalization of his cherished magazine. Mehta evidently loved William Shawn at least as much as Lillian Ross did, although his love was not requited in the same way. He likens the revered editor to the character Prince Myshkin in The Idiot : innocent and vulnerable, someone who must be protected. And long-suffering, one might infer: \"He was so careful of not hurting anyone's feelings that he often listened to utterly fatuous arguments for hours on end.\"", "Elsewhere, Ross refers to her lover's \"very powerful masculinity,\" only to note on the very next page that \"if he suffered a paper cut on a finger and saw blood, he would come into my office, looking pale.\" She declares that \"Bill was incapable of engendering a cliché, in deed as well as in word.\" But then she puts the most toe-curling clichés into his mouth: \"Why am I more ghost than man?\" Or: \"We must arrest our love in midflight. And we fix it forever as of today, a point of pure light that will reach into eternity.\" (File that under Romantic Effusions We Doubt Ever Got Uttered.) Nor is Ross incapable of a melodramatic cliché herself. \"Why can't we just live, just live ?\" she cries in anguish when she and Shawn, walking hand in hand out of Central Park, chance to see Shawn's wife slowly making her way down the block with a burden of packages.", "Mehta's writerly persona, a disarming mixture of the feline and the naive, is perfect for relating the little scandals that worried The New Yorker in the late '70s (plagiarism, frozen turbot), the drama of finding a worthy candidate to succeed the aging Shawn as editor, the purchase of the magazine by the evil Si Newhouse (\"We all took fright\") and the resultant plague of Gottliebs and Florios visited upon it, and what he sees as the final debacle: Tinaji.", "I am not sure I have made it sound this way so far, but Mehta's book is completely engrossing--the most enjoyable book, I think, I have ever reviewed. It oozes affection and conviction, crackles with anger, and is stuffed with thumping good stories. Many are about Mehta's daft colleagues at The New Yorker , such as the guy in the next office: \n\n His door was always shut, but I could hear him through the wall that separated his cubicle from mine typing without pause. ... Even the changing of the paper in the typewriter seemed somehow to be incorporated into the rhythmic rat-tat-tat ... year after year went by to the sound of his typing but without a word from his typewriter appearing in the magazine.", "But it kept coming. And I, for one, was grateful. Here was a boy growing up in Punjab during the fall of the Raj and the Partition, a boy who had been blinded by meningitis at the age of 3, roller-skating through the back streets of Lahore as Sikhs slaughtered Hindus and Hindus slaughtered Muslims and civilization was collapsing and then, decades later, having made his way from India to an Arkansas school for the blind to Balliol College, Oxford, to The New Yorker , re-creating the whole thing in Proustian detail and better-than-Proustian prose ... !", "Or the great and eccentric Irish writer Maeve Breenan, who fetched up as a bag lady. Or the legendary St. Clair McKelway, whose decisive breakdown came when he hailed a cab and prevailed upon the driver to take him to the New Yorker office at 24 West 43 rd St. \"O.K., Mac, if that's what you want.\" He was in Boston at the time. (McKelway later told Mehta that if the cabby had not called him \"Mac,\" his nickname, an alarm might have gone off in his head.)" ], [ "Happily, Ross has sprinkled her memoir with clues that it is not to be taken as entirely factual. To say that Shawn was \"a man who grieved over all living creatures\" is forgivable hyperbole; but later to add that he \"mourned\" for Si Newhouse when Newhouse unceremoniously fired him in 1987 (a couple of years after buying the magazine)--well, that's a bit much. Even Jesus had his limits.", "Like Ross, Mehta struggles to express William Shawn's ineffable virtues. \"It is as if, Mehta, he were beyond our human conception,\" Janet Flanner tells him once to calm him down. At times I wondered whether the author, in his ecstasies of devotion, had not inadvertently committed plagiarism. His words on Mr. Shawn sound suspiciously like those of Mr. Pooter on his boss Mr. Perkupp in The Diary of a Nobody . Compare. Mehta on Shawn: \"His words were so generous that I could scarcely find my tongue, even to thank him.\" Pooter on Perkupp: \"My heart was too full to thank him.\" Mehta: \"I started saying to myself compulsively, 'I wish Mr. Shawn would ring,' at the oddest times of the day or night. ... How I longed for the parade of proofs, the excitement of rewriting and perfecting!\" Pooter: \"Mr. Perkupp, I will work night and day to serve you!\"", "And what does she think of Mrs. Shawn? \"I found her to be sensitive and likeable.\" Plus, she could \"do a mean Charleston.\" There is nothing more poignant than the image of an openly cheated-upon and humiliated wife doing \"a mean Charleston.\" \n\n William Shawn's indispensability as an editor is amply manifest in Ross' memoir. Word repetition? \"Whatever reporting Bill asked me to do turned out to be both challenging and fun. ... For me, reporting and writing for the magazine was fun, pure fun. ... It was never 'work' for me. It was fun.\" Even in praising his skill as an editor, she betrays the presence of its absence. \"All writers, of course, have needed the one called the 'editor,' who singularly, almost mystically, embodies the many-faceted, unique life force infusing the entire enchilada.\" Nice touch, that enchilada.", "Both these memoirs must be read by everyone--everyone, that is, who takes seriously the important business of sorting out precisely how he or she feels about The New Yorker , then and now. Of the two, Mehta's is far and away the more entertaining. This may seem odd, for Mehta is reputed to be a very dull writer whereas Ross is a famously zippy one. Moreover, Mehta writes as Shawn's adoring acolyte, whereas Ross writes as his longtime adulterous lover. Just knowing that Mrs. Shawn is still alive adds a certain tension to reading much of what this Other Woman chooses to divulge. Evidently, \"Bill\" and Lillian loved each other with a fine, pure love, a love that was more than love, a love coveted by the winged seraphs of heaven. \"We had indeed become one,\" she tells us, freely venting the inflations of her heart.", "Elsewhere, Ross refers to her lover's \"very powerful masculinity,\" only to note on the very next page that \"if he suffered a paper cut on a finger and saw blood, he would come into my office, looking pale.\" She declares that \"Bill was incapable of engendering a cliché, in deed as well as in word.\" But then she puts the most toe-curling clichés into his mouth: \"Why am I more ghost than man?\" Or: \"We must arrest our love in midflight. And we fix it forever as of today, a point of pure light that will reach into eternity.\" (File that under Romantic Effusions We Doubt Ever Got Uttered.) Nor is Ross incapable of a melodramatic cliché herself. \"Why can't we just live, just live ?\" she cries in anguish when she and Shawn, walking hand in hand out of Central Park, chance to see Shawn's wife slowly making her way down the block with a burden of packages.", "Shawn was managing editor of The New Yorker when he hired Ross in 1945 as the magazine's second woman reporter (the first was Andy Logan). He was short and balding but had pale blue eyes to die for. As for Ross, \"I was aware of the fact that I was not unappealing.\" During a late-night editorial session, she says, Shawn blurted out his love. A few weeks later at the office, their eyes met. Without a word--even, it seems, to the cab driver--they hied uptown to the Plaza, where matters were consummated. Thereafter, the couple set up housekeeping together in an apartment 20 blocks downtown from the Shawn residence on upper Fifth Avenue and stoically endured the sufferings of Shawn's wife, who did not want a divorce.", "Was Shawn blushing out of prudishness, as we are meant to infer? This was, after all, a man renowned for his retiring propriety, a man who sedulously barred anything smacking of the salacious--from lingerie ads to four-letter words--from the magazine he stewarded from 1952 until 1987, five years before his death. But after reading these two new memoirs about Shawn, I wonder. \"He longed for the earthiest and wildest kinds of sexual adventures,\" Lillian Ross discloses in hers, adding that he lusted after Hannah Arendt, Evonne Goolagong, and Madonna. As for Ved Mehta, he reports that Shawn's favorite thing to watch on television was \"people dancing uninhibitedly\" ( Soul Train , one guesses). I suspect Shawn did not blush at the \"cunty fingers\" remark out of prudery. He blushed because it had hit too close to home.", "Now, Ross seems like a nice lady, and I certainly have nothing against adultery, which I hear is being carried on in the best circles these days. But the public flaunting of adultery--especially when spouses and children are around--well, it brings out the bourgeois in me. It also made me feel funny about William Shawn, whom I have always regarded as a great man. I loved his New Yorker . The prose it contained--the gray stuff around the cartoons--was balm for the soul: unfailingly clear, precise, logical, and quietly stylish. So what if the articles were occasionally boring? It was a sweet sort of boredom, serene and restorative, not at all like the kind induced by magazines today, which is more akin to nervous exhaustion. Besides, the moral tone of the magazine was almost wholly admirable--it was ahead of the pack on Hiroshima, civil rights, Vietnam, Watergate, the environment--and this was very much Shawn's doing. I do not like to think of him in an illicit love nest, eating tea and toast with cunty fingers.", "Lillian Ross, by contrast, takes a rather cheerful view of the Brown dispensation. Indeed, the new editor even coaxed Ross into re-joining the magazine, just as she was booting Mehta out. \"I found that she possessed--under the usual disguises--her own share of Bill's kind of naivete, insight, and sensitivity,\" Ross says of Brown. \"She, too, 'got it.' \" A few months after Brown was appointed editor, Shawn died at the age of 85. He had long since stopped reading his beloved magazine, in sorrow and relief. That's if you believe Mehta. Ross assures us that Mr. Shawn was reading Tina Brown's New Yorker \"with new interest\" in the weeks prior to his death.", "Mehta's multivolume autobiography, titled Continents of Exile , has loss as its overarching theme: loss of sight, of childhood, of home and country, and now--with this volume--loss of Mr. Shawn's New Yorker . The memoir takes us from the time the author was hired as a staff writer in the early '60s up to 1994, when he was \"terminated\" by the loathed Tina Brown in her vandalization of his cherished magazine. Mehta evidently loved William Shawn at least as much as Lillian Ross did, although his love was not requited in the same way. He likens the revered editor to the character Prince Myshkin in The Idiot : innocent and vulnerable, someone who must be protected. And long-suffering, one might infer: \"He was so careful of not hurting anyone's feelings that he often listened to utterly fatuous arguments for hours on end.\"", "Has Tina Brown betrayed the legacy of William Shawn, as Mehta fiercely believes, or has she continued and built upon it, as Ross is evidently convinced? Have the changes she has wrought enlivened a stodgy magazine or vulgarized a dignified one--or both? These are weighty questions, and one is of course loath to compromise one's life chances by hazarding unripe opinions in a public forum such as this.", "When cocktail party malcontents mocked Shawn's New Yorker in the late '70s and early '80s, they would make fun of such things as E.J. Kahn's five-part series on \"Grains of the World\" or Elizabeth Drew's supposedly soporific reporting from Washington. But Ved Mehta was always the butt of the worst abuse. Shawn was allowing him to publish an autobiography in the pages of the magazine that was mounting up to millions of words over the years, and the very idea of it seemed to bore people silly. After the publication of two early installments, \"Daddyji\" and \"Mamaji,\" each the length of a book, one critic cried: \"Enoughji!\"", "Mehta's writerly persona, a disarming mixture of the feline and the naive, is perfect for relating the little scandals that worried The New Yorker in the late '70s (plagiarism, frozen turbot), the drama of finding a worthy candidate to succeed the aging Shawn as editor, the purchase of the magazine by the evil Si Newhouse (\"We all took fright\") and the resultant plague of Gottliebs and Florios visited upon it, and what he sees as the final debacle: Tinaji.", "Goings On About Town \n\n One of the funniest moments in Brendan Gill's 1975 memoir, Here at \"The New Yorker ,\" comes during a luncheon at the now vanished Ritz in Manhattan. At the table are Gill; William Shawn, then editor of The New Yorker ; and the reclusive English writer Henry Green. Green's new novel, Loving , has just received a very favorable review in The New Yorker . Shawn--\"with his usual hushed delicacy of speech and manner\"--inquires of the novelist whether he could possibly reveal what prompted the creation of such an exquisite work. Green obliges. \"I once asked an old butler in Ireland what had been the happiest times of his life,\" he says. \"The butler replied, 'Lying in bed on Sunday morning, eating tea and toast with cunty fingers.' \" \n\n This was not the explanation Shawn was expecting, Gill tells us. \"Discs of bright red begin to burn in his cheeks.\"", "I am not sure I have made it sound this way so far, but Mehta's book is completely engrossing--the most enjoyable book, I think, I have ever reviewed. It oozes affection and conviction, crackles with anger, and is stuffed with thumping good stories. Many are about Mehta's daft colleagues at The New Yorker , such as the guy in the next office: \n\n His door was always shut, but I could hear him through the wall that separated his cubicle from mine typing without pause. ... Even the changing of the paper in the typewriter seemed somehow to be incorporated into the rhythmic rat-tat-tat ... year after year went by to the sound of his typing but without a word from his typewriter appearing in the magazine.", "But it kept coming. And I, for one, was grateful. Here was a boy growing up in Punjab during the fall of the Raj and the Partition, a boy who had been blinded by meningitis at the age of 3, roller-skating through the back streets of Lahore as Sikhs slaughtered Hindus and Hindus slaughtered Muslims and civilization was collapsing and then, decades later, having made his way from India to an Arkansas school for the blind to Balliol College, Oxford, to The New Yorker , re-creating the whole thing in Proustian detail and better-than-Proustian prose ... !", "Or the great and eccentric Irish writer Maeve Breenan, who fetched up as a bag lady. Or the legendary St. Clair McKelway, whose decisive breakdown came when he hailed a cab and prevailed upon the driver to take him to the New Yorker office at 24 West 43 rd St. \"O.K., Mac, if that's what you want.\" He was in Boston at the time. (McKelway later told Mehta that if the cabby had not called him \"Mac,\" his nickname, an alarm might have gone off in his head.)" ], [ "Mehta's multivolume autobiography, titled Continents of Exile , has loss as its overarching theme: loss of sight, of childhood, of home and country, and now--with this volume--loss of Mr. Shawn's New Yorker . The memoir takes us from the time the author was hired as a staff writer in the early '60s up to 1994, when he was \"terminated\" by the loathed Tina Brown in her vandalization of his cherished magazine. Mehta evidently loved William Shawn at least as much as Lillian Ross did, although his love was not requited in the same way. He likens the revered editor to the character Prince Myshkin in The Idiot : innocent and vulnerable, someone who must be protected. And long-suffering, one might infer: \"He was so careful of not hurting anyone's feelings that he often listened to utterly fatuous arguments for hours on end.\"", "Mehta's writerly persona, a disarming mixture of the feline and the naive, is perfect for relating the little scandals that worried The New Yorker in the late '70s (plagiarism, frozen turbot), the drama of finding a worthy candidate to succeed the aging Shawn as editor, the purchase of the magazine by the evil Si Newhouse (\"We all took fright\") and the resultant plague of Gottliebs and Florios visited upon it, and what he sees as the final debacle: Tinaji.", "I am not sure I have made it sound this way so far, but Mehta's book is completely engrossing--the most enjoyable book, I think, I have ever reviewed. It oozes affection and conviction, crackles with anger, and is stuffed with thumping good stories. Many are about Mehta's daft colleagues at The New Yorker , such as the guy in the next office: \n\n His door was always shut, but I could hear him through the wall that separated his cubicle from mine typing without pause. ... Even the changing of the paper in the typewriter seemed somehow to be incorporated into the rhythmic rat-tat-tat ... year after year went by to the sound of his typing but without a word from his typewriter appearing in the magazine.", "Like Ross, Mehta struggles to express William Shawn's ineffable virtues. \"It is as if, Mehta, he were beyond our human conception,\" Janet Flanner tells him once to calm him down. At times I wondered whether the author, in his ecstasies of devotion, had not inadvertently committed plagiarism. His words on Mr. Shawn sound suspiciously like those of Mr. Pooter on his boss Mr. Perkupp in The Diary of a Nobody . Compare. Mehta on Shawn: \"His words were so generous that I could scarcely find my tongue, even to thank him.\" Pooter on Perkupp: \"My heart was too full to thank him.\" Mehta: \"I started saying to myself compulsively, 'I wish Mr. Shawn would ring,' at the oddest times of the day or night. ... How I longed for the parade of proofs, the excitement of rewriting and perfecting!\" Pooter: \"Mr. Perkupp, I will work night and day to serve you!\"", "When cocktail party malcontents mocked Shawn's New Yorker in the late '70s and early '80s, they would make fun of such things as E.J. Kahn's five-part series on \"Grains of the World\" or Elizabeth Drew's supposedly soporific reporting from Washington. But Ved Mehta was always the butt of the worst abuse. Shawn was allowing him to publish an autobiography in the pages of the magazine that was mounting up to millions of words over the years, and the very idea of it seemed to bore people silly. After the publication of two early installments, \"Daddyji\" and \"Mamaji,\" each the length of a book, one critic cried: \"Enoughji!\"", "Both these memoirs must be read by everyone--everyone, that is, who takes seriously the important business of sorting out precisely how he or she feels about The New Yorker , then and now. Of the two, Mehta's is far and away the more entertaining. This may seem odd, for Mehta is reputed to be a very dull writer whereas Ross is a famously zippy one. Moreover, Mehta writes as Shawn's adoring acolyte, whereas Ross writes as his longtime adulterous lover. Just knowing that Mrs. Shawn is still alive adds a certain tension to reading much of what this Other Woman chooses to divulge. Evidently, \"Bill\" and Lillian loved each other with a fine, pure love, a love that was more than love, a love coveted by the winged seraphs of heaven. \"We had indeed become one,\" she tells us, freely venting the inflations of her heart.", "But it kept coming. And I, for one, was grateful. Here was a boy growing up in Punjab during the fall of the Raj and the Partition, a boy who had been blinded by meningitis at the age of 3, roller-skating through the back streets of Lahore as Sikhs slaughtered Hindus and Hindus slaughtered Muslims and civilization was collapsing and then, decades later, having made his way from India to an Arkansas school for the blind to Balliol College, Oxford, to The New Yorker , re-creating the whole thing in Proustian detail and better-than-Proustian prose ... !", "Lillian Ross, by contrast, takes a rather cheerful view of the Brown dispensation. Indeed, the new editor even coaxed Ross into re-joining the magazine, just as she was booting Mehta out. \"I found that she possessed--under the usual disguises--her own share of Bill's kind of naivete, insight, and sensitivity,\" Ross says of Brown. \"She, too, 'got it.' \" A few months after Brown was appointed editor, Shawn died at the age of 85. He had long since stopped reading his beloved magazine, in sorrow and relief. That's if you believe Mehta. Ross assures us that Mr. Shawn was reading Tina Brown's New Yorker \"with new interest\" in the weeks prior to his death.", "Was Shawn blushing out of prudishness, as we are meant to infer? This was, after all, a man renowned for his retiring propriety, a man who sedulously barred anything smacking of the salacious--from lingerie ads to four-letter words--from the magazine he stewarded from 1952 until 1987, five years before his death. But after reading these two new memoirs about Shawn, I wonder. \"He longed for the earthiest and wildest kinds of sexual adventures,\" Lillian Ross discloses in hers, adding that he lusted after Hannah Arendt, Evonne Goolagong, and Madonna. As for Ved Mehta, he reports that Shawn's favorite thing to watch on television was \"people dancing uninhibitedly\" ( Soul Train , one guesses). I suspect Shawn did not blush at the \"cunty fingers\" remark out of prudery. He blushed because it had hit too close to home.", "Has Tina Brown betrayed the legacy of William Shawn, as Mehta fiercely believes, or has she continued and built upon it, as Ross is evidently convinced? Have the changes she has wrought enlivened a stodgy magazine or vulgarized a dignified one--or both? These are weighty questions, and one is of course loath to compromise one's life chances by hazarding unripe opinions in a public forum such as this.", "And what does she think of Mrs. Shawn? \"I found her to be sensitive and likeable.\" Plus, she could \"do a mean Charleston.\" There is nothing more poignant than the image of an openly cheated-upon and humiliated wife doing \"a mean Charleston.\" \n\n William Shawn's indispensability as an editor is amply manifest in Ross' memoir. Word repetition? \"Whatever reporting Bill asked me to do turned out to be both challenging and fun. ... For me, reporting and writing for the magazine was fun, pure fun. ... It was never 'work' for me. It was fun.\" Even in praising his skill as an editor, she betrays the presence of its absence. \"All writers, of course, have needed the one called the 'editor,' who singularly, almost mystically, embodies the many-faceted, unique life force infusing the entire enchilada.\" Nice touch, that enchilada.", "Goings On About Town \n\n One of the funniest moments in Brendan Gill's 1975 memoir, Here at \"The New Yorker ,\" comes during a luncheon at the now vanished Ritz in Manhattan. At the table are Gill; William Shawn, then editor of The New Yorker ; and the reclusive English writer Henry Green. Green's new novel, Loving , has just received a very favorable review in The New Yorker . Shawn--\"with his usual hushed delicacy of speech and manner\"--inquires of the novelist whether he could possibly reveal what prompted the creation of such an exquisite work. Green obliges. \"I once asked an old butler in Ireland what had been the happiest times of his life,\" he says. \"The butler replied, 'Lying in bed on Sunday morning, eating tea and toast with cunty fingers.' \" \n\n This was not the explanation Shawn was expecting, Gill tells us. \"Discs of bright red begin to burn in his cheeks.\"", "Elsewhere, Ross refers to her lover's \"very powerful masculinity,\" only to note on the very next page that \"if he suffered a paper cut on a finger and saw blood, he would come into my office, looking pale.\" She declares that \"Bill was incapable of engendering a cliché, in deed as well as in word.\" But then she puts the most toe-curling clichés into his mouth: \"Why am I more ghost than man?\" Or: \"We must arrest our love in midflight. And we fix it forever as of today, a point of pure light that will reach into eternity.\" (File that under Romantic Effusions We Doubt Ever Got Uttered.) Nor is Ross incapable of a melodramatic cliché herself. \"Why can't we just live, just live ?\" she cries in anguish when she and Shawn, walking hand in hand out of Central Park, chance to see Shawn's wife slowly making her way down the block with a burden of packages.", "Happily, Ross has sprinkled her memoir with clues that it is not to be taken as entirely factual. To say that Shawn was \"a man who grieved over all living creatures\" is forgivable hyperbole; but later to add that he \"mourned\" for Si Newhouse when Newhouse unceremoniously fired him in 1987 (a couple of years after buying the magazine)--well, that's a bit much. Even Jesus had his limits.", "Now, Ross seems like a nice lady, and I certainly have nothing against adultery, which I hear is being carried on in the best circles these days. But the public flaunting of adultery--especially when spouses and children are around--well, it brings out the bourgeois in me. It also made me feel funny about William Shawn, whom I have always regarded as a great man. I loved his New Yorker . The prose it contained--the gray stuff around the cartoons--was balm for the soul: unfailingly clear, precise, logical, and quietly stylish. So what if the articles were occasionally boring? It was a sweet sort of boredom, serene and restorative, not at all like the kind induced by magazines today, which is more akin to nervous exhaustion. Besides, the moral tone of the magazine was almost wholly admirable--it was ahead of the pack on Hiroshima, civil rights, Vietnam, Watergate, the environment--and this was very much Shawn's doing. I do not like to think of him in an illicit love nest, eating tea and toast with cunty fingers.", "Or the great and eccentric Irish writer Maeve Breenan, who fetched up as a bag lady. Or the legendary St. Clair McKelway, whose decisive breakdown came when he hailed a cab and prevailed upon the driver to take him to the New Yorker office at 24 West 43 rd St. \"O.K., Mac, if that's what you want.\" He was in Boston at the time. (McKelway later told Mehta that if the cabby had not called him \"Mac,\" his nickname, an alarm might have gone off in his head.)", "Shawn was managing editor of The New Yorker when he hired Ross in 1945 as the magazine's second woman reporter (the first was Andy Logan). He was short and balding but had pale blue eyes to die for. As for Ross, \"I was aware of the fact that I was not unappealing.\" During a late-night editorial session, she says, Shawn blurted out his love. A few weeks later at the office, their eyes met. Without a word--even, it seems, to the cab driver--they hied uptown to the Plaza, where matters were consummated. Thereafter, the couple set up housekeeping together in an apartment 20 blocks downtown from the Shawn residence on upper Fifth Avenue and stoically endured the sufferings of Shawn's wife, who did not want a divorce." ], [ "Has Tina Brown betrayed the legacy of William Shawn, as Mehta fiercely believes, or has she continued and built upon it, as Ross is evidently convinced? Have the changes she has wrought enlivened a stodgy magazine or vulgarized a dignified one--or both? These are weighty questions, and one is of course loath to compromise one's life chances by hazarding unripe opinions in a public forum such as this.", "Lillian Ross, by contrast, takes a rather cheerful view of the Brown dispensation. Indeed, the new editor even coaxed Ross into re-joining the magazine, just as she was booting Mehta out. \"I found that she possessed--under the usual disguises--her own share of Bill's kind of naivete, insight, and sensitivity,\" Ross says of Brown. \"She, too, 'got it.' \" A few months after Brown was appointed editor, Shawn died at the age of 85. He had long since stopped reading his beloved magazine, in sorrow and relief. That's if you believe Mehta. Ross assures us that Mr. Shawn was reading Tina Brown's New Yorker \"with new interest\" in the weeks prior to his death.", "Mehta's multivolume autobiography, titled Continents of Exile , has loss as its overarching theme: loss of sight, of childhood, of home and country, and now--with this volume--loss of Mr. Shawn's New Yorker . The memoir takes us from the time the author was hired as a staff writer in the early '60s up to 1994, when he was \"terminated\" by the loathed Tina Brown in her vandalization of his cherished magazine. Mehta evidently loved William Shawn at least as much as Lillian Ross did, although his love was not requited in the same way. He likens the revered editor to the character Prince Myshkin in The Idiot : innocent and vulnerable, someone who must be protected. And long-suffering, one might infer: \"He was so careful of not hurting anyone's feelings that he often listened to utterly fatuous arguments for hours on end.\"", "Mehta's writerly persona, a disarming mixture of the feline and the naive, is perfect for relating the little scandals that worried The New Yorker in the late '70s (plagiarism, frozen turbot), the drama of finding a worthy candidate to succeed the aging Shawn as editor, the purchase of the magazine by the evil Si Newhouse (\"We all took fright\") and the resultant plague of Gottliebs and Florios visited upon it, and what he sees as the final debacle: Tinaji.", "Happily, Ross has sprinkled her memoir with clues that it is not to be taken as entirely factual. To say that Shawn was \"a man who grieved over all living creatures\" is forgivable hyperbole; but later to add that he \"mourned\" for Si Newhouse when Newhouse unceremoniously fired him in 1987 (a couple of years after buying the magazine)--well, that's a bit much. Even Jesus had his limits.", "And what does she think of Mrs. Shawn? \"I found her to be sensitive and likeable.\" Plus, she could \"do a mean Charleston.\" There is nothing more poignant than the image of an openly cheated-upon and humiliated wife doing \"a mean Charleston.\" \n\n William Shawn's indispensability as an editor is amply manifest in Ross' memoir. Word repetition? \"Whatever reporting Bill asked me to do turned out to be both challenging and fun. ... For me, reporting and writing for the magazine was fun, pure fun. ... It was never 'work' for me. It was fun.\" Even in praising his skill as an editor, she betrays the presence of its absence. \"All writers, of course, have needed the one called the 'editor,' who singularly, almost mystically, embodies the many-faceted, unique life force infusing the entire enchilada.\" Nice touch, that enchilada.", "Now, Ross seems like a nice lady, and I certainly have nothing against adultery, which I hear is being carried on in the best circles these days. But the public flaunting of adultery--especially when spouses and children are around--well, it brings out the bourgeois in me. It also made me feel funny about William Shawn, whom I have always regarded as a great man. I loved his New Yorker . The prose it contained--the gray stuff around the cartoons--was balm for the soul: unfailingly clear, precise, logical, and quietly stylish. So what if the articles were occasionally boring? It was a sweet sort of boredom, serene and restorative, not at all like the kind induced by magazines today, which is more akin to nervous exhaustion. Besides, the moral tone of the magazine was almost wholly admirable--it was ahead of the pack on Hiroshima, civil rights, Vietnam, Watergate, the environment--and this was very much Shawn's doing. I do not like to think of him in an illicit love nest, eating tea and toast with cunty fingers.", "Both these memoirs must be read by everyone--everyone, that is, who takes seriously the important business of sorting out precisely how he or she feels about The New Yorker , then and now. Of the two, Mehta's is far and away the more entertaining. This may seem odd, for Mehta is reputed to be a very dull writer whereas Ross is a famously zippy one. Moreover, Mehta writes as Shawn's adoring acolyte, whereas Ross writes as his longtime adulterous lover. Just knowing that Mrs. Shawn is still alive adds a certain tension to reading much of what this Other Woman chooses to divulge. Evidently, \"Bill\" and Lillian loved each other with a fine, pure love, a love that was more than love, a love coveted by the winged seraphs of heaven. \"We had indeed become one,\" she tells us, freely venting the inflations of her heart.", "Was Shawn blushing out of prudishness, as we are meant to infer? This was, after all, a man renowned for his retiring propriety, a man who sedulously barred anything smacking of the salacious--from lingerie ads to four-letter words--from the magazine he stewarded from 1952 until 1987, five years before his death. But after reading these two new memoirs about Shawn, I wonder. \"He longed for the earthiest and wildest kinds of sexual adventures,\" Lillian Ross discloses in hers, adding that he lusted after Hannah Arendt, Evonne Goolagong, and Madonna. As for Ved Mehta, he reports that Shawn's favorite thing to watch on television was \"people dancing uninhibitedly\" ( Soul Train , one guesses). I suspect Shawn did not blush at the \"cunty fingers\" remark out of prudery. He blushed because it had hit too close to home.", "Like Ross, Mehta struggles to express William Shawn's ineffable virtues. \"It is as if, Mehta, he were beyond our human conception,\" Janet Flanner tells him once to calm him down. At times I wondered whether the author, in his ecstasies of devotion, had not inadvertently committed plagiarism. His words on Mr. Shawn sound suspiciously like those of Mr. Pooter on his boss Mr. Perkupp in The Diary of a Nobody . Compare. Mehta on Shawn: \"His words were so generous that I could scarcely find my tongue, even to thank him.\" Pooter on Perkupp: \"My heart was too full to thank him.\" Mehta: \"I started saying to myself compulsively, 'I wish Mr. Shawn would ring,' at the oddest times of the day or night. ... How I longed for the parade of proofs, the excitement of rewriting and perfecting!\" Pooter: \"Mr. Perkupp, I will work night and day to serve you!\"", "Goings On About Town \n\n One of the funniest moments in Brendan Gill's 1975 memoir, Here at \"The New Yorker ,\" comes during a luncheon at the now vanished Ritz in Manhattan. At the table are Gill; William Shawn, then editor of The New Yorker ; and the reclusive English writer Henry Green. Green's new novel, Loving , has just received a very favorable review in The New Yorker . Shawn--\"with his usual hushed delicacy of speech and manner\"--inquires of the novelist whether he could possibly reveal what prompted the creation of such an exquisite work. Green obliges. \"I once asked an old butler in Ireland what had been the happiest times of his life,\" he says. \"The butler replied, 'Lying in bed on Sunday morning, eating tea and toast with cunty fingers.' \" \n\n This was not the explanation Shawn was expecting, Gill tells us. \"Discs of bright red begin to burn in his cheeks.\"", "Shawn was managing editor of The New Yorker when he hired Ross in 1945 as the magazine's second woman reporter (the first was Andy Logan). He was short and balding but had pale blue eyes to die for. As for Ross, \"I was aware of the fact that I was not unappealing.\" During a late-night editorial session, she says, Shawn blurted out his love. A few weeks later at the office, their eyes met. Without a word--even, it seems, to the cab driver--they hied uptown to the Plaza, where matters were consummated. Thereafter, the couple set up housekeeping together in an apartment 20 blocks downtown from the Shawn residence on upper Fifth Avenue and stoically endured the sufferings of Shawn's wife, who did not want a divorce.", "When cocktail party malcontents mocked Shawn's New Yorker in the late '70s and early '80s, they would make fun of such things as E.J. Kahn's five-part series on \"Grains of the World\" or Elizabeth Drew's supposedly soporific reporting from Washington. But Ved Mehta was always the butt of the worst abuse. Shawn was allowing him to publish an autobiography in the pages of the magazine that was mounting up to millions of words over the years, and the very idea of it seemed to bore people silly. After the publication of two early installments, \"Daddyji\" and \"Mamaji,\" each the length of a book, one critic cried: \"Enoughji!\"", "I am not sure I have made it sound this way so far, but Mehta's book is completely engrossing--the most enjoyable book, I think, I have ever reviewed. It oozes affection and conviction, crackles with anger, and is stuffed with thumping good stories. Many are about Mehta's daft colleagues at The New Yorker , such as the guy in the next office: \n\n His door was always shut, but I could hear him through the wall that separated his cubicle from mine typing without pause. ... Even the changing of the paper in the typewriter seemed somehow to be incorporated into the rhythmic rat-tat-tat ... year after year went by to the sound of his typing but without a word from his typewriter appearing in the magazine.", "But it kept coming. And I, for one, was grateful. Here was a boy growing up in Punjab during the fall of the Raj and the Partition, a boy who had been blinded by meningitis at the age of 3, roller-skating through the back streets of Lahore as Sikhs slaughtered Hindus and Hindus slaughtered Muslims and civilization was collapsing and then, decades later, having made his way from India to an Arkansas school for the blind to Balliol College, Oxford, to The New Yorker , re-creating the whole thing in Proustian detail and better-than-Proustian prose ... !", "Elsewhere, Ross refers to her lover's \"very powerful masculinity,\" only to note on the very next page that \"if he suffered a paper cut on a finger and saw blood, he would come into my office, looking pale.\" She declares that \"Bill was incapable of engendering a cliché, in deed as well as in word.\" But then she puts the most toe-curling clichés into his mouth: \"Why am I more ghost than man?\" Or: \"We must arrest our love in midflight. And we fix it forever as of today, a point of pure light that will reach into eternity.\" (File that under Romantic Effusions We Doubt Ever Got Uttered.) Nor is Ross incapable of a melodramatic cliché herself. \"Why can't we just live, just live ?\" she cries in anguish when she and Shawn, walking hand in hand out of Central Park, chance to see Shawn's wife slowly making her way down the block with a burden of packages.", "Or the great and eccentric Irish writer Maeve Breenan, who fetched up as a bag lady. Or the legendary St. Clair McKelway, whose decisive breakdown came when he hailed a cab and prevailed upon the driver to take him to the New Yorker office at 24 West 43 rd St. \"O.K., Mac, if that's what you want.\" He was in Boston at the time. (McKelway later told Mehta that if the cabby had not called him \"Mac,\" his nickname, an alarm might have gone off in his head.)" ], [ "But it kept coming. And I, for one, was grateful. Here was a boy growing up in Punjab during the fall of the Raj and the Partition, a boy who had been blinded by meningitis at the age of 3, roller-skating through the back streets of Lahore as Sikhs slaughtered Hindus and Hindus slaughtered Muslims and civilization was collapsing and then, decades later, having made his way from India to an Arkansas school for the blind to Balliol College, Oxford, to The New Yorker , re-creating the whole thing in Proustian detail and better-than-Proustian prose ... !", "I am not sure I have made it sound this way so far, but Mehta's book is completely engrossing--the most enjoyable book, I think, I have ever reviewed. It oozes affection and conviction, crackles with anger, and is stuffed with thumping good stories. Many are about Mehta's daft colleagues at The New Yorker , such as the guy in the next office: \n\n His door was always shut, but I could hear him through the wall that separated his cubicle from mine typing without pause. ... Even the changing of the paper in the typewriter seemed somehow to be incorporated into the rhythmic rat-tat-tat ... year after year went by to the sound of his typing but without a word from his typewriter appearing in the magazine.", "Goings On About Town \n\n One of the funniest moments in Brendan Gill's 1975 memoir, Here at \"The New Yorker ,\" comes during a luncheon at the now vanished Ritz in Manhattan. At the table are Gill; William Shawn, then editor of The New Yorker ; and the reclusive English writer Henry Green. Green's new novel, Loving , has just received a very favorable review in The New Yorker . Shawn--\"with his usual hushed delicacy of speech and manner\"--inquires of the novelist whether he could possibly reveal what prompted the creation of such an exquisite work. Green obliges. \"I once asked an old butler in Ireland what had been the happiest times of his life,\" he says. \"The butler replied, 'Lying in bed on Sunday morning, eating tea and toast with cunty fingers.' \" \n\n This was not the explanation Shawn was expecting, Gill tells us. \"Discs of bright red begin to burn in his cheeks.\"", "Elsewhere, Ross refers to her lover's \"very powerful masculinity,\" only to note on the very next page that \"if he suffered a paper cut on a finger and saw blood, he would come into my office, looking pale.\" She declares that \"Bill was incapable of engendering a cliché, in deed as well as in word.\" But then she puts the most toe-curling clichés into his mouth: \"Why am I more ghost than man?\" Or: \"We must arrest our love in midflight. And we fix it forever as of today, a point of pure light that will reach into eternity.\" (File that under Romantic Effusions We Doubt Ever Got Uttered.) Nor is Ross incapable of a melodramatic cliché herself. \"Why can't we just live, just live ?\" she cries in anguish when she and Shawn, walking hand in hand out of Central Park, chance to see Shawn's wife slowly making her way down the block with a burden of packages.", "And what does she think of Mrs. Shawn? \"I found her to be sensitive and likeable.\" Plus, she could \"do a mean Charleston.\" There is nothing more poignant than the image of an openly cheated-upon and humiliated wife doing \"a mean Charleston.\" \n\n William Shawn's indispensability as an editor is amply manifest in Ross' memoir. Word repetition? \"Whatever reporting Bill asked me to do turned out to be both challenging and fun. ... For me, reporting and writing for the magazine was fun, pure fun. ... It was never 'work' for me. It was fun.\" Even in praising his skill as an editor, she betrays the presence of its absence. \"All writers, of course, have needed the one called the 'editor,' who singularly, almost mystically, embodies the many-faceted, unique life force infusing the entire enchilada.\" Nice touch, that enchilada.", "Like Ross, Mehta struggles to express William Shawn's ineffable virtues. \"It is as if, Mehta, he were beyond our human conception,\" Janet Flanner tells him once to calm him down. At times I wondered whether the author, in his ecstasies of devotion, had not inadvertently committed plagiarism. His words on Mr. Shawn sound suspiciously like those of Mr. Pooter on his boss Mr. Perkupp in The Diary of a Nobody . Compare. Mehta on Shawn: \"His words were so generous that I could scarcely find my tongue, even to thank him.\" Pooter on Perkupp: \"My heart was too full to thank him.\" Mehta: \"I started saying to myself compulsively, 'I wish Mr. Shawn would ring,' at the oddest times of the day or night. ... How I longed for the parade of proofs, the excitement of rewriting and perfecting!\" Pooter: \"Mr. Perkupp, I will work night and day to serve you!\"", "Was Shawn blushing out of prudishness, as we are meant to infer? This was, after all, a man renowned for his retiring propriety, a man who sedulously barred anything smacking of the salacious--from lingerie ads to four-letter words--from the magazine he stewarded from 1952 until 1987, five years before his death. But after reading these two new memoirs about Shawn, I wonder. \"He longed for the earthiest and wildest kinds of sexual adventures,\" Lillian Ross discloses in hers, adding that he lusted after Hannah Arendt, Evonne Goolagong, and Madonna. As for Ved Mehta, he reports that Shawn's favorite thing to watch on television was \"people dancing uninhibitedly\" ( Soul Train , one guesses). I suspect Shawn did not blush at the \"cunty fingers\" remark out of prudery. He blushed because it had hit too close to home.", "Now, Ross seems like a nice lady, and I certainly have nothing against adultery, which I hear is being carried on in the best circles these days. But the public flaunting of adultery--especially when spouses and children are around--well, it brings out the bourgeois in me. It also made me feel funny about William Shawn, whom I have always regarded as a great man. I loved his New Yorker . The prose it contained--the gray stuff around the cartoons--was balm for the soul: unfailingly clear, precise, logical, and quietly stylish. So what if the articles were occasionally boring? It was a sweet sort of boredom, serene and restorative, not at all like the kind induced by magazines today, which is more akin to nervous exhaustion. Besides, the moral tone of the magazine was almost wholly admirable--it was ahead of the pack on Hiroshima, civil rights, Vietnam, Watergate, the environment--and this was very much Shawn's doing. I do not like to think of him in an illicit love nest, eating tea and toast with cunty fingers.", "Mehta's writerly persona, a disarming mixture of the feline and the naive, is perfect for relating the little scandals that worried The New Yorker in the late '70s (plagiarism, frozen turbot), the drama of finding a worthy candidate to succeed the aging Shawn as editor, the purchase of the magazine by the evil Si Newhouse (\"We all took fright\") and the resultant plague of Gottliebs and Florios visited upon it, and what he sees as the final debacle: Tinaji.", "Mehta's multivolume autobiography, titled Continents of Exile , has loss as its overarching theme: loss of sight, of childhood, of home and country, and now--with this volume--loss of Mr. Shawn's New Yorker . The memoir takes us from the time the author was hired as a staff writer in the early '60s up to 1994, when he was \"terminated\" by the loathed Tina Brown in her vandalization of his cherished magazine. Mehta evidently loved William Shawn at least as much as Lillian Ross did, although his love was not requited in the same way. He likens the revered editor to the character Prince Myshkin in The Idiot : innocent and vulnerable, someone who must be protected. And long-suffering, one might infer: \"He was so careful of not hurting anyone's feelings that he often listened to utterly fatuous arguments for hours on end.\"", "When cocktail party malcontents mocked Shawn's New Yorker in the late '70s and early '80s, they would make fun of such things as E.J. Kahn's five-part series on \"Grains of the World\" or Elizabeth Drew's supposedly soporific reporting from Washington. But Ved Mehta was always the butt of the worst abuse. Shawn was allowing him to publish an autobiography in the pages of the magazine that was mounting up to millions of words over the years, and the very idea of it seemed to bore people silly. After the publication of two early installments, \"Daddyji\" and \"Mamaji,\" each the length of a book, one critic cried: \"Enoughji!\"", "Happily, Ross has sprinkled her memoir with clues that it is not to be taken as entirely factual. To say that Shawn was \"a man who grieved over all living creatures\" is forgivable hyperbole; but later to add that he \"mourned\" for Si Newhouse when Newhouse unceremoniously fired him in 1987 (a couple of years after buying the magazine)--well, that's a bit much. Even Jesus had his limits.", "Or the great and eccentric Irish writer Maeve Breenan, who fetched up as a bag lady. Or the legendary St. Clair McKelway, whose decisive breakdown came when he hailed a cab and prevailed upon the driver to take him to the New Yorker office at 24 West 43 rd St. \"O.K., Mac, if that's what you want.\" He was in Boston at the time. (McKelway later told Mehta that if the cabby had not called him \"Mac,\" his nickname, an alarm might have gone off in his head.)", "Has Tina Brown betrayed the legacy of William Shawn, as Mehta fiercely believes, or has she continued and built upon it, as Ross is evidently convinced? Have the changes she has wrought enlivened a stodgy magazine or vulgarized a dignified one--or both? These are weighty questions, and one is of course loath to compromise one's life chances by hazarding unripe opinions in a public forum such as this.", "Both these memoirs must be read by everyone--everyone, that is, who takes seriously the important business of sorting out precisely how he or she feels about The New Yorker , then and now. Of the two, Mehta's is far and away the more entertaining. This may seem odd, for Mehta is reputed to be a very dull writer whereas Ross is a famously zippy one. Moreover, Mehta writes as Shawn's adoring acolyte, whereas Ross writes as his longtime adulterous lover. Just knowing that Mrs. Shawn is still alive adds a certain tension to reading much of what this Other Woman chooses to divulge. Evidently, \"Bill\" and Lillian loved each other with a fine, pure love, a love that was more than love, a love coveted by the winged seraphs of heaven. \"We had indeed become one,\" she tells us, freely venting the inflations of her heart.", "Shawn was managing editor of The New Yorker when he hired Ross in 1945 as the magazine's second woman reporter (the first was Andy Logan). He was short and balding but had pale blue eyes to die for. As for Ross, \"I was aware of the fact that I was not unappealing.\" During a late-night editorial session, she says, Shawn blurted out his love. A few weeks later at the office, their eyes met. Without a word--even, it seems, to the cab driver--they hied uptown to the Plaza, where matters were consummated. Thereafter, the couple set up housekeeping together in an apartment 20 blocks downtown from the Shawn residence on upper Fifth Avenue and stoically endured the sufferings of Shawn's wife, who did not want a divorce.", "Lillian Ross, by contrast, takes a rather cheerful view of the Brown dispensation. Indeed, the new editor even coaxed Ross into re-joining the magazine, just as she was booting Mehta out. \"I found that she possessed--under the usual disguises--her own share of Bill's kind of naivete, insight, and sensitivity,\" Ross says of Brown. \"She, too, 'got it.' \" A few months after Brown was appointed editor, Shawn died at the age of 85. He had long since stopped reading his beloved magazine, in sorrow and relief. That's if you believe Mehta. Ross assures us that Mr. Shawn was reading Tina Brown's New Yorker \"with new interest\" in the weeks prior to his death." ], [ "Lillian Ross, by contrast, takes a rather cheerful view of the Brown dispensation. Indeed, the new editor even coaxed Ross into re-joining the magazine, just as she was booting Mehta out. \"I found that she possessed--under the usual disguises--her own share of Bill's kind of naivete, insight, and sensitivity,\" Ross says of Brown. \"She, too, 'got it.' \" A few months after Brown was appointed editor, Shawn died at the age of 85. He had long since stopped reading his beloved magazine, in sorrow and relief. That's if you believe Mehta. Ross assures us that Mr. Shawn was reading Tina Brown's New Yorker \"with new interest\" in the weeks prior to his death.", "Has Tina Brown betrayed the legacy of William Shawn, as Mehta fiercely believes, or has she continued and built upon it, as Ross is evidently convinced? Have the changes she has wrought enlivened a stodgy magazine or vulgarized a dignified one--or both? These are weighty questions, and one is of course loath to compromise one's life chances by hazarding unripe opinions in a public forum such as this.", "Like Ross, Mehta struggles to express William Shawn's ineffable virtues. \"It is as if, Mehta, he were beyond our human conception,\" Janet Flanner tells him once to calm him down. At times I wondered whether the author, in his ecstasies of devotion, had not inadvertently committed plagiarism. His words on Mr. Shawn sound suspiciously like those of Mr. Pooter on his boss Mr. Perkupp in The Diary of a Nobody . Compare. Mehta on Shawn: \"His words were so generous that I could scarcely find my tongue, even to thank him.\" Pooter on Perkupp: \"My heart was too full to thank him.\" Mehta: \"I started saying to myself compulsively, 'I wish Mr. Shawn would ring,' at the oddest times of the day or night. ... How I longed for the parade of proofs, the excitement of rewriting and perfecting!\" Pooter: \"Mr. Perkupp, I will work night and day to serve you!\"", "Mehta's multivolume autobiography, titled Continents of Exile , has loss as its overarching theme: loss of sight, of childhood, of home and country, and now--with this volume--loss of Mr. Shawn's New Yorker . The memoir takes us from the time the author was hired as a staff writer in the early '60s up to 1994, when he was \"terminated\" by the loathed Tina Brown in her vandalization of his cherished magazine. Mehta evidently loved William Shawn at least as much as Lillian Ross did, although his love was not requited in the same way. He likens the revered editor to the character Prince Myshkin in The Idiot : innocent and vulnerable, someone who must be protected. And long-suffering, one might infer: \"He was so careful of not hurting anyone's feelings that he often listened to utterly fatuous arguments for hours on end.\"", "Happily, Ross has sprinkled her memoir with clues that it is not to be taken as entirely factual. To say that Shawn was \"a man who grieved over all living creatures\" is forgivable hyperbole; but later to add that he \"mourned\" for Si Newhouse when Newhouse unceremoniously fired him in 1987 (a couple of years after buying the magazine)--well, that's a bit much. Even Jesus had his limits.", "Both these memoirs must be read by everyone--everyone, that is, who takes seriously the important business of sorting out precisely how he or she feels about The New Yorker , then and now. Of the two, Mehta's is far and away the more entertaining. This may seem odd, for Mehta is reputed to be a very dull writer whereas Ross is a famously zippy one. Moreover, Mehta writes as Shawn's adoring acolyte, whereas Ross writes as his longtime adulterous lover. Just knowing that Mrs. Shawn is still alive adds a certain tension to reading much of what this Other Woman chooses to divulge. Evidently, \"Bill\" and Lillian loved each other with a fine, pure love, a love that was more than love, a love coveted by the winged seraphs of heaven. \"We had indeed become one,\" she tells us, freely venting the inflations of her heart.", "Mehta's writerly persona, a disarming mixture of the feline and the naive, is perfect for relating the little scandals that worried The New Yorker in the late '70s (plagiarism, frozen turbot), the drama of finding a worthy candidate to succeed the aging Shawn as editor, the purchase of the magazine by the evil Si Newhouse (\"We all took fright\") and the resultant plague of Gottliebs and Florios visited upon it, and what he sees as the final debacle: Tinaji.", "And what does she think of Mrs. Shawn? \"I found her to be sensitive and likeable.\" Plus, she could \"do a mean Charleston.\" There is nothing more poignant than the image of an openly cheated-upon and humiliated wife doing \"a mean Charleston.\" \n\n William Shawn's indispensability as an editor is amply manifest in Ross' memoir. Word repetition? \"Whatever reporting Bill asked me to do turned out to be both challenging and fun. ... For me, reporting and writing for the magazine was fun, pure fun. ... It was never 'work' for me. It was fun.\" Even in praising his skill as an editor, she betrays the presence of its absence. \"All writers, of course, have needed the one called the 'editor,' who singularly, almost mystically, embodies the many-faceted, unique life force infusing the entire enchilada.\" Nice touch, that enchilada.", "I am not sure I have made it sound this way so far, but Mehta's book is completely engrossing--the most enjoyable book, I think, I have ever reviewed. It oozes affection and conviction, crackles with anger, and is stuffed with thumping good stories. Many are about Mehta's daft colleagues at The New Yorker , such as the guy in the next office: \n\n His door was always shut, but I could hear him through the wall that separated his cubicle from mine typing without pause. ... Even the changing of the paper in the typewriter seemed somehow to be incorporated into the rhythmic rat-tat-tat ... year after year went by to the sound of his typing but without a word from his typewriter appearing in the magazine.", "Shawn was managing editor of The New Yorker when he hired Ross in 1945 as the magazine's second woman reporter (the first was Andy Logan). He was short and balding but had pale blue eyes to die for. As for Ross, \"I was aware of the fact that I was not unappealing.\" During a late-night editorial session, she says, Shawn blurted out his love. A few weeks later at the office, their eyes met. Without a word--even, it seems, to the cab driver--they hied uptown to the Plaza, where matters were consummated. Thereafter, the couple set up housekeeping together in an apartment 20 blocks downtown from the Shawn residence on upper Fifth Avenue and stoically endured the sufferings of Shawn's wife, who did not want a divorce.", "Was Shawn blushing out of prudishness, as we are meant to infer? This was, after all, a man renowned for his retiring propriety, a man who sedulously barred anything smacking of the salacious--from lingerie ads to four-letter words--from the magazine he stewarded from 1952 until 1987, five years before his death. But after reading these two new memoirs about Shawn, I wonder. \"He longed for the earthiest and wildest kinds of sexual adventures,\" Lillian Ross discloses in hers, adding that he lusted after Hannah Arendt, Evonne Goolagong, and Madonna. As for Ved Mehta, he reports that Shawn's favorite thing to watch on television was \"people dancing uninhibitedly\" ( Soul Train , one guesses). I suspect Shawn did not blush at the \"cunty fingers\" remark out of prudery. He blushed because it had hit too close to home.", "Now, Ross seems like a nice lady, and I certainly have nothing against adultery, which I hear is being carried on in the best circles these days. But the public flaunting of adultery--especially when spouses and children are around--well, it brings out the bourgeois in me. It also made me feel funny about William Shawn, whom I have always regarded as a great man. I loved his New Yorker . The prose it contained--the gray stuff around the cartoons--was balm for the soul: unfailingly clear, precise, logical, and quietly stylish. So what if the articles were occasionally boring? It was a sweet sort of boredom, serene and restorative, not at all like the kind induced by magazines today, which is more akin to nervous exhaustion. Besides, the moral tone of the magazine was almost wholly admirable--it was ahead of the pack on Hiroshima, civil rights, Vietnam, Watergate, the environment--and this was very much Shawn's doing. I do not like to think of him in an illicit love nest, eating tea and toast with cunty fingers.", "When cocktail party malcontents mocked Shawn's New Yorker in the late '70s and early '80s, they would make fun of such things as E.J. Kahn's five-part series on \"Grains of the World\" or Elizabeth Drew's supposedly soporific reporting from Washington. But Ved Mehta was always the butt of the worst abuse. Shawn was allowing him to publish an autobiography in the pages of the magazine that was mounting up to millions of words over the years, and the very idea of it seemed to bore people silly. After the publication of two early installments, \"Daddyji\" and \"Mamaji,\" each the length of a book, one critic cried: \"Enoughji!\"", "Elsewhere, Ross refers to her lover's \"very powerful masculinity,\" only to note on the very next page that \"if he suffered a paper cut on a finger and saw blood, he would come into my office, looking pale.\" She declares that \"Bill was incapable of engendering a cliché, in deed as well as in word.\" But then she puts the most toe-curling clichés into his mouth: \"Why am I more ghost than man?\" Or: \"We must arrest our love in midflight. And we fix it forever as of today, a point of pure light that will reach into eternity.\" (File that under Romantic Effusions We Doubt Ever Got Uttered.) Nor is Ross incapable of a melodramatic cliché herself. \"Why can't we just live, just live ?\" she cries in anguish when she and Shawn, walking hand in hand out of Central Park, chance to see Shawn's wife slowly making her way down the block with a burden of packages.", "But it kept coming. And I, for one, was grateful. Here was a boy growing up in Punjab during the fall of the Raj and the Partition, a boy who had been blinded by meningitis at the age of 3, roller-skating through the back streets of Lahore as Sikhs slaughtered Hindus and Hindus slaughtered Muslims and civilization was collapsing and then, decades later, having made his way from India to an Arkansas school for the blind to Balliol College, Oxford, to The New Yorker , re-creating the whole thing in Proustian detail and better-than-Proustian prose ... !", "Goings On About Town \n\n One of the funniest moments in Brendan Gill's 1975 memoir, Here at \"The New Yorker ,\" comes during a luncheon at the now vanished Ritz in Manhattan. At the table are Gill; William Shawn, then editor of The New Yorker ; and the reclusive English writer Henry Green. Green's new novel, Loving , has just received a very favorable review in The New Yorker . Shawn--\"with his usual hushed delicacy of speech and manner\"--inquires of the novelist whether he could possibly reveal what prompted the creation of such an exquisite work. Green obliges. \"I once asked an old butler in Ireland what had been the happiest times of his life,\" he says. \"The butler replied, 'Lying in bed on Sunday morning, eating tea and toast with cunty fingers.' \" \n\n This was not the explanation Shawn was expecting, Gill tells us. \"Discs of bright red begin to burn in his cheeks.\"", "Or the great and eccentric Irish writer Maeve Breenan, who fetched up as a bag lady. Or the legendary St. Clair McKelway, whose decisive breakdown came when he hailed a cab and prevailed upon the driver to take him to the New Yorker office at 24 West 43 rd St. \"O.K., Mac, if that's what you want.\" He was in Boston at the time. (McKelway later told Mehta that if the cabby had not called him \"Mac,\" his nickname, an alarm might have gone off in his head.)" ], [ "And what does she think of Mrs. Shawn? \"I found her to be sensitive and likeable.\" Plus, she could \"do a mean Charleston.\" There is nothing more poignant than the image of an openly cheated-upon and humiliated wife doing \"a mean Charleston.\" \n\n William Shawn's indispensability as an editor is amply manifest in Ross' memoir. Word repetition? \"Whatever reporting Bill asked me to do turned out to be both challenging and fun. ... For me, reporting and writing for the magazine was fun, pure fun. ... It was never 'work' for me. It was fun.\" Even in praising his skill as an editor, she betrays the presence of its absence. \"All writers, of course, have needed the one called the 'editor,' who singularly, almost mystically, embodies the many-faceted, unique life force infusing the entire enchilada.\" Nice touch, that enchilada.", "Like Ross, Mehta struggles to express William Shawn's ineffable virtues. \"It is as if, Mehta, he were beyond our human conception,\" Janet Flanner tells him once to calm him down. At times I wondered whether the author, in his ecstasies of devotion, had not inadvertently committed plagiarism. His words on Mr. Shawn sound suspiciously like those of Mr. Pooter on his boss Mr. Perkupp in The Diary of a Nobody . Compare. Mehta on Shawn: \"His words were so generous that I could scarcely find my tongue, even to thank him.\" Pooter on Perkupp: \"My heart was too full to thank him.\" Mehta: \"I started saying to myself compulsively, 'I wish Mr. Shawn would ring,' at the oddest times of the day or night. ... How I longed for the parade of proofs, the excitement of rewriting and perfecting!\" Pooter: \"Mr. Perkupp, I will work night and day to serve you!\"", "Now, Ross seems like a nice lady, and I certainly have nothing against adultery, which I hear is being carried on in the best circles these days. But the public flaunting of adultery--especially when spouses and children are around--well, it brings out the bourgeois in me. It also made me feel funny about William Shawn, whom I have always regarded as a great man. I loved his New Yorker . The prose it contained--the gray stuff around the cartoons--was balm for the soul: unfailingly clear, precise, logical, and quietly stylish. So what if the articles were occasionally boring? It was a sweet sort of boredom, serene and restorative, not at all like the kind induced by magazines today, which is more akin to nervous exhaustion. Besides, the moral tone of the magazine was almost wholly admirable--it was ahead of the pack on Hiroshima, civil rights, Vietnam, Watergate, the environment--and this was very much Shawn's doing. I do not like to think of him in an illicit love nest, eating tea and toast with cunty fingers.", "Has Tina Brown betrayed the legacy of William Shawn, as Mehta fiercely believes, or has she continued and built upon it, as Ross is evidently convinced? Have the changes she has wrought enlivened a stodgy magazine or vulgarized a dignified one--or both? These are weighty questions, and one is of course loath to compromise one's life chances by hazarding unripe opinions in a public forum such as this.", "Lillian Ross, by contrast, takes a rather cheerful view of the Brown dispensation. Indeed, the new editor even coaxed Ross into re-joining the magazine, just as she was booting Mehta out. \"I found that she possessed--under the usual disguises--her own share of Bill's kind of naivete, insight, and sensitivity,\" Ross says of Brown. \"She, too, 'got it.' \" A few months after Brown was appointed editor, Shawn died at the age of 85. He had long since stopped reading his beloved magazine, in sorrow and relief. That's if you believe Mehta. Ross assures us that Mr. Shawn was reading Tina Brown's New Yorker \"with new interest\" in the weeks prior to his death.", "Both these memoirs must be read by everyone--everyone, that is, who takes seriously the important business of sorting out precisely how he or she feels about The New Yorker , then and now. Of the two, Mehta's is far and away the more entertaining. This may seem odd, for Mehta is reputed to be a very dull writer whereas Ross is a famously zippy one. Moreover, Mehta writes as Shawn's adoring acolyte, whereas Ross writes as his longtime adulterous lover. Just knowing that Mrs. Shawn is still alive adds a certain tension to reading much of what this Other Woman chooses to divulge. Evidently, \"Bill\" and Lillian loved each other with a fine, pure love, a love that was more than love, a love coveted by the winged seraphs of heaven. \"We had indeed become one,\" she tells us, freely venting the inflations of her heart.", "Was Shawn blushing out of prudishness, as we are meant to infer? This was, after all, a man renowned for his retiring propriety, a man who sedulously barred anything smacking of the salacious--from lingerie ads to four-letter words--from the magazine he stewarded from 1952 until 1987, five years before his death. But after reading these two new memoirs about Shawn, I wonder. \"He longed for the earthiest and wildest kinds of sexual adventures,\" Lillian Ross discloses in hers, adding that he lusted after Hannah Arendt, Evonne Goolagong, and Madonna. As for Ved Mehta, he reports that Shawn's favorite thing to watch on television was \"people dancing uninhibitedly\" ( Soul Train , one guesses). I suspect Shawn did not blush at the \"cunty fingers\" remark out of prudery. He blushed because it had hit too close to home.", "Happily, Ross has sprinkled her memoir with clues that it is not to be taken as entirely factual. To say that Shawn was \"a man who grieved over all living creatures\" is forgivable hyperbole; but later to add that he \"mourned\" for Si Newhouse when Newhouse unceremoniously fired him in 1987 (a couple of years after buying the magazine)--well, that's a bit much. Even Jesus had his limits.", "Mehta's multivolume autobiography, titled Continents of Exile , has loss as its overarching theme: loss of sight, of childhood, of home and country, and now--with this volume--loss of Mr. Shawn's New Yorker . The memoir takes us from the time the author was hired as a staff writer in the early '60s up to 1994, when he was \"terminated\" by the loathed Tina Brown in her vandalization of his cherished magazine. Mehta evidently loved William Shawn at least as much as Lillian Ross did, although his love was not requited in the same way. He likens the revered editor to the character Prince Myshkin in The Idiot : innocent and vulnerable, someone who must be protected. And long-suffering, one might infer: \"He was so careful of not hurting anyone's feelings that he often listened to utterly fatuous arguments for hours on end.\"", "When cocktail party malcontents mocked Shawn's New Yorker in the late '70s and early '80s, they would make fun of such things as E.J. Kahn's five-part series on \"Grains of the World\" or Elizabeth Drew's supposedly soporific reporting from Washington. But Ved Mehta was always the butt of the worst abuse. Shawn was allowing him to publish an autobiography in the pages of the magazine that was mounting up to millions of words over the years, and the very idea of it seemed to bore people silly. After the publication of two early installments, \"Daddyji\" and \"Mamaji,\" each the length of a book, one critic cried: \"Enoughji!\"", "Goings On About Town \n\n One of the funniest moments in Brendan Gill's 1975 memoir, Here at \"The New Yorker ,\" comes during a luncheon at the now vanished Ritz in Manhattan. At the table are Gill; William Shawn, then editor of The New Yorker ; and the reclusive English writer Henry Green. Green's new novel, Loving , has just received a very favorable review in The New Yorker . Shawn--\"with his usual hushed delicacy of speech and manner\"--inquires of the novelist whether he could possibly reveal what prompted the creation of such an exquisite work. Green obliges. \"I once asked an old butler in Ireland what had been the happiest times of his life,\" he says. \"The butler replied, 'Lying in bed on Sunday morning, eating tea and toast with cunty fingers.' \" \n\n This was not the explanation Shawn was expecting, Gill tells us. \"Discs of bright red begin to burn in his cheeks.\"", "Mehta's writerly persona, a disarming mixture of the feline and the naive, is perfect for relating the little scandals that worried The New Yorker in the late '70s (plagiarism, frozen turbot), the drama of finding a worthy candidate to succeed the aging Shawn as editor, the purchase of the magazine by the evil Si Newhouse (\"We all took fright\") and the resultant plague of Gottliebs and Florios visited upon it, and what he sees as the final debacle: Tinaji.", "Shawn was managing editor of The New Yorker when he hired Ross in 1945 as the magazine's second woman reporter (the first was Andy Logan). He was short and balding but had pale blue eyes to die for. As for Ross, \"I was aware of the fact that I was not unappealing.\" During a late-night editorial session, she says, Shawn blurted out his love. A few weeks later at the office, their eyes met. Without a word--even, it seems, to the cab driver--they hied uptown to the Plaza, where matters were consummated. Thereafter, the couple set up housekeeping together in an apartment 20 blocks downtown from the Shawn residence on upper Fifth Avenue and stoically endured the sufferings of Shawn's wife, who did not want a divorce.", "Elsewhere, Ross refers to her lover's \"very powerful masculinity,\" only to note on the very next page that \"if he suffered a paper cut on a finger and saw blood, he would come into my office, looking pale.\" She declares that \"Bill was incapable of engendering a cliché, in deed as well as in word.\" But then she puts the most toe-curling clichés into his mouth: \"Why am I more ghost than man?\" Or: \"We must arrest our love in midflight. And we fix it forever as of today, a point of pure light that will reach into eternity.\" (File that under Romantic Effusions We Doubt Ever Got Uttered.) Nor is Ross incapable of a melodramatic cliché herself. \"Why can't we just live, just live ?\" she cries in anguish when she and Shawn, walking hand in hand out of Central Park, chance to see Shawn's wife slowly making her way down the block with a burden of packages.", "I am not sure I have made it sound this way so far, but Mehta's book is completely engrossing--the most enjoyable book, I think, I have ever reviewed. It oozes affection and conviction, crackles with anger, and is stuffed with thumping good stories. Many are about Mehta's daft colleagues at The New Yorker , such as the guy in the next office: \n\n His door was always shut, but I could hear him through the wall that separated his cubicle from mine typing without pause. ... Even the changing of the paper in the typewriter seemed somehow to be incorporated into the rhythmic rat-tat-tat ... year after year went by to the sound of his typing but without a word from his typewriter appearing in the magazine.", "But it kept coming. And I, for one, was grateful. Here was a boy growing up in Punjab during the fall of the Raj and the Partition, a boy who had been blinded by meningitis at the age of 3, roller-skating through the back streets of Lahore as Sikhs slaughtered Hindus and Hindus slaughtered Muslims and civilization was collapsing and then, decades later, having made his way from India to an Arkansas school for the blind to Balliol College, Oxford, to The New Yorker , re-creating the whole thing in Proustian detail and better-than-Proustian prose ... !", "Or the great and eccentric Irish writer Maeve Breenan, who fetched up as a bag lady. Or the legendary St. Clair McKelway, whose decisive breakdown came when he hailed a cab and prevailed upon the driver to take him to the New Yorker office at 24 West 43 rd St. \"O.K., Mac, if that's what you want.\" He was in Boston at the time. (McKelway later told Mehta that if the cabby had not called him \"Mac,\" his nickname, an alarm might have gone off in his head.)" ] ]
train	61052	[ "In the beginning, how does the author try to make you feel about this world?", "Why were they getting the jeeps out?", "Which words best describe the mob of creatures?", "Which word doesn't describe the cadets?", "What isn't a reason that it was foolish for Gwayne to leave the ship in such a hurry?", "What isn't a reason for bringing the creature back to the ship?", "Why was space exploration so important?", "Why was the fuel drained out of Hennessy's ship's tank?", "Why did Gwayne decide that they all had to stay?" ]	[ [ "skeptical but optimistic", "curious and interested", "like it's uninhabited and scary", "like it's a place unworthy of going to" ], [ "to tour the planet", "to attack the natives", "to find the lost crew", "to go on an urgent rescue mission" ], [ "ugly, hairy, and clever", "monstrous, large, and foolish", "slow, strong, and mean", "tall, thick, and caring" ], [ "cautious", "naïve", "embellishers", "young" ], [ "the air is dangerous for him to breathe", "he forgot to bring the radio", "they didn't know for sure what was out there", "he was outnumbered" ], [ "they want to learn more about him", "they want to know why the ship had been hidden", "they want to know what happened to Hennessy's group", "they want revenge for what it did to the cadets" ], [ "it was trendy to live on a different planet", "there was a lot of interest in life on other planets", "they were running out of time on Earth", "people were trying to leave the wars on Earth" ], [ "Gwayne doesn't know", "Hennessy drained it so they couldn't leave", "it was destroyed by creatures from the planet", "the blobs used it for energy" ], [ "to discover all of the secrets on the planet", "because it was the best chance at human survival", "because everyone outside the hull is beyond saving", "to try to save Hennessy and his crew" ] ]	[ 4, 4, 1, 1, 1, 4, 3, 2, 2 ]	[ 1, 0, 0, 0, 1, 1, 0, 1, 0 ]	[ [ "And there were no worlds perfect for him, as Earth had been. The\n explorers went out in desperation to find what they could; the\n terraforming teams did what they could. And then the big starships\n began filling worlds with colonists, carried in deep sleep to conserve\n space.\n\n\n Almost eighty worlds. The nearest a four month journey from Earth and\n four more months back.\n\n\n In another ten years, the sun would explode, leaving man only on the\n footholds he was trying to dig among other solar systems. Maybe some\n of the strange worlds would let men spread his seed again. Maybe none\n would be spawning grounds for mankind in spite of the efforts. Each was\n precious as a haven for the race.\n\n\n If this world could be used, it would be nearer than most. If not, as\n it now seemed, no more time could be wasted here.", "\"And they don't have to be close to do it. We've all been outside the\n hull. It doesn't show yet—but we're changed. In another month, Earth\n food would kill us. We've got to stay here. We'll bury the ships deeper\n this time, and Earth won't find us. They can't risk trying a colony\n where three ships vanish, so we'll just disappear. And they'll never\n know.\"\n\n\n Nobody would know. Their children—odd children who matured in eight\n years—would be primitive savages in three generations. The Earth\n tools would be useless, impossible for the hands so radically changed.\n Nothing from the ship would last. Books could never be read by the new\n eyes. And in time, Earth wouldn't even be a memory to this world.", "But\nsomething\nhad happened to the exploration party fifteen years\n back, and to the more recent ship under Hennessy that was sent to check\n up.\nHe turned to the port to stare out at the planet. The Sol-type sun\n must be rising, since there was a dim light. But the thick clouds that\n wrapped the entire world diffused its rays into a haze. For a change,\n it wasn't raining, though the ground was covered by thick swirls of\n fog. In the distance, the tops of shrubs that made a scrub forest\n glowed yellow-green. Motions around them suggested a herd of feeding\n animals. Details were impossible to see through the haze. Even the\n deep gorge where they'd found Hennessy's carefully buried ship was\n completely hidden by the fog.\n\n\n There were three of the blobs dancing about over the grazing animals\n now, as they often seemed to do. Gwayne stared at them for a minute,\n trying to read sense into the things. If he had time to study them....", "It was the only thing they could do. Earth needed a place to plant her\n seed, but no world other than Earth could ever be trusted to preserve\n that seed for generation after generation. Some worlds already were\n becoming uncertain.\n\n\n Here, though, the blobs had adapted men to the alien world instead of\n men having to adapt the whole planet to their needs. Here, the strange\n children of man's race could grow, develop and begin the long trek back\n to civilization. The gadgets would be lost for a time. But perhaps\n some of the attitudes of civilized man would remain to make the next\n rise to culture a better one.", "Maybe there would never be a full answer, but he had to find\n something—and find it fast. Earth needed every world she could make\n remotely habitable, or mankind was probably doomed to extinction.\nThe race had blundered safely through its discovery of atomic weapons\n into a peace that had lasted two hundred years. It had managed to\n prevent an interplanetary war with the Venus colonists. It had found\n a drive that led to the stars, and hadn't even found intelligent life\n there to be dangerous on the few worlds that had cultures of their own.\n\n\n But forty years ago, observations from beyond the Solar System had\n finally proved that the sun was going to go nova.\n\n\n It wouldn't be much of an explosion, as such things go—but it would\n render the whole Solar System uninhabitable for millenia. To survive,\n man had to colonize.", "Primitives could be overcome, maybe. It would be ruthless and unfair to\n strip them of their world, but the first law was survival.\n\n\n But how could primitives do what these must have done?\n\n\n He studied the spear he had salvaged. It was on a staff made of\n cemented bits of smaller wood from the scrub growth, skillfully\n laminated. The point was of delicately chipped flint, done as no human\n hand had been able to do for centuries.\n\n\n \"Beautiful primitive work,\" he muttered.\n\n\n Jane pulled the coffee cup away from her lips and snorted. \"You can\n see a lot more of it out there,\" she suggested.", "Barker nodded grimly. \"I'll try, though I can't risk drugs on an alien\n metabolism.\" He sucked in on the cigarette he'd dug out, then spat\n sickly. Smoke and this air made a foul combination. \"Bob, it still\n makes no sense. We've scoured this planet by infra-red, and there was\n no sign of native villages or culture. We should have found some.\"\n\n\n \"Troglodytes, maybe,\" Gwayne guessed. \"Anyhow, send for me when you get\n anything. I've got to get this ship back to Earth. We're overstaying\n our time here already.\"\n\n\n The reports from the cadets were satisfactory enough. They'd been\n picked up and carried, but no harm had been done them. Now they were\n busy being little heroes. Gwayne sentenced them to quarters as soon\n as he could, knowing their stories would only get wilder and less\n informative with retelling.", "He went to the port and glanced out. About sixty of the things were\n squatting in the clearing fog, holding lances and staring at the ship.\n They were perhaps a thousand yards away, waiting patiently. For what?\n For the return of their leader—or for something that would give the\n ship to them?\n\n\n Gwayne grabbed the phone and called Barker. \"How's the captive coming?\"\n\n\n Barker's voice sounded odd.\n\n\n \"Physically fine. You can see him. But—\"\n\n\n Gwayne dropped the phone and headed for the little sick bay. He swore\n at Doc for not calling him at once, and then at himself for not\n checking up sooner. Then he stopped at the sound of voices.\n\n\n There was the end of a question from Barker and a thick, harsh growling\n sound that lifted the hair along the nape of Gwayne's neck. Barker\n seemed to understand, and was making a comment as the captain dashed in.", "Spawning Ground\nBy LESTER DEL REY\nThey weren't human. They were something\n\n more—and something less—they were,\n\n in short, humanity's hopes for survival!\n\n\n [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nThe Starship\nPandora\ncreaked and groaned as her landing pads settled\n unevenly in the mucky surface of the ugly world outside. She seemed to\n be restless to end her fool's errand here, two hundred light years from\n the waiting hordes on Earth. Straining metal plates twanged and echoed\n through her hallways.", "\"About a dozen blobs held something like a convention a little ways\n north of us. They broke up about an hour ago and streaked off into the\n clouds.\" The blobs were a peculiarity of this planet about which nobody\n knew anything. They looked like overgrown fireballs, but seemed to have\n an almost sentient curiosity about anything moving on the ground. \"And\n our two cadets sneaked out again. Barker followed them, but lost them\n in the murk. I've kept a signal going to guide them back.\"\n\n\n Gwayne swore softly to himself. Earth couldn't turn out enough starmen\n in the schools, so promising kids were being shipped out for training\n as cadets on their twelfth birthday. The two he'd drawn, Kaufman and\n Pinelli, seemed to be totally devoid of any sense of caution.", "But there was no time.\n\n\n Earth had ordered him to detour here, after leaving his load of\n deep-sleep stored colonists on Official World 71, to check on any sign\n of Hennessy. He'd been here a week longer than he should have stayed\n already. If there was no sign in another day or so of what had happened\n to the men who'd deserted their ship and its equipment, he'd have to\n report back.\n\n\n He would have left before, if a recent landslip hadn't exposed enough\n of the buried ship for his metal locators to spot from the air by\n luck. It had obviously been hidden deep enough to foil the detectors\n originally.\n\n\n \"Bob!\" Jane Corey's voice cut through his pondering. \"Bob, there are\n the kids!\"\n\n\n Before he could swing to follow her pointing finger, movement caught\n his eye.", "She was silent a long time, staring out of the port toward what must\n now be her home. Then she sighed. \"You'll need practice, but the others\n don't know you as well as I do, Bob. I guess we can fix it so they'll\n believe it all. And it's too late now. But we haven't really been\n changed yet, have we?\"\n\n\n \"No,\" he admitted. Damn his voice! He'd never been good at lying. \"No.\n They have to touch us. I've been touched, but the rest could go back.\"\n\n\n She nodded. He waited for the condemnation, but there was only\n puzzlement in her face. \"Why?\"\n\n\n And then, before he could answer, her own intelligence gave her the\n same answer he had found for himself. \"The spawning ground!\"", "There was no time for suits or helmets. The air on the planet was\n irritating and vile smelling, but it could be breathed. He leaped to\n the seat, to see that the driver was Doctor Barker. At a gesture, the\n jeep rolled down the ramp, grinding its gears into second as it picked\n up speed. The other two followed.\n\n\n There was no sign of the cadets at first. Then Gwayne spotted them;\n surrounded by the menacing horde. Seen from here, the things looked\n horrible in a travesty of manhood.\n\n\n The huge leader suddenly waved and pointed toward the jeeps that were\n racing toward him. He made a fantastic leap backwards. Others swung\n about, two of them grabbing up the cadets. The jeep was doing twenty\n miles an hour now, but the horde began to increase the distance, in\n spite of the load of the two struggling boys! The creatures dived\n downward into lower ground, beginning to disappear into the mists.", "Under the dancing blobs, a horde of things was heading for the cadets.\n Shaggy heads, brute bodies vaguely man-like! One seemed to be almost\n eight feet tall, leading the others directly toward the spacesuited\n cadets. Some of the horde were carrying spears or sticks. There was a\n momentary halt, and then the leader lifted one arm, as if motioning the\n others forward.\n\"Get the jeeps out!\" Gwayne yelled at Jane. He yanked the door of\n the little officers' lift open and jabbed the down button. It was\n agonizingly slow, but faster than climbing down. He ripped the door\n back at the exit deck. Men were dashing in, stumbling around in\n confusion. But someone was taking over now—one of the crew women. The\n jeeps were lining up. One, at the front, was stuttering into life, and\n Gwayne dashed for it as the exit port slid back.", "Three. Seven. Zero.\n\n\n The answers were right.\n\n\n By the time the session was over, Gwayne had begun to understand the\n twisted speech from inhuman vocal cords better. But the story took a\n long time telling.\n\n\n When it was finished, Gwayne and Barker sat for long minutes in\n silence. Finally Gwayne drew a shuddering breath and stood up. \"Is it\n possible, Doc?\"", "The kids of the exploring party....\nBack in the control room, Gwayne found the emergency release levers,\n set the combinations and pressed the studs. There was a hiss and gurgle\n as the great tanks of fuel discharged their contents out onto the\n ground where no ingenuity could ever recover it to bring life to the\n ship again.\n\n\n He'd have to tell the men and women of the crew later, after he'd had\n time to organize things and present it all in a way they could accept,\n however much they might hate it at first. But there was no putting off\n giving the gist of it to Jane.\n\n\n \"It was the blobs,\" he summarized it. \"They seem to be amused by men.\n They don't require anything from us, but they like us around. Hennessy\n doesn't know why. They can change our cells, adapt us. Before men came,\n all life here had twelve legs. Now they're changing that, as we've seen.", "Some day, though, their children would find a way to the starlanes\n again, looking for other worlds. With the blobs to help them, they\n could adapt to most worlds. The unchanged spirit would lead them\n through all space, and the changing bodies would claim worlds beyond\n numbering.\n\n\n Some day, the whole universe would be a spawning ground for the\n children of men!", "\"We're needed here,\" he told her, his voice pleading for the\n understanding he couldn't yet fully give himself. \"These people need\n as rich a set of bloodlines as possible to give the new race strength.\n The fifty men and women on this ship will be needed to start them with\n a decent chance. We can't go to Earth, where nobody would believe or\n accept the idea—or even let us come back. We have to stay here.\"\n\n\n She smiled then and moved toward him, groping for his strength. \"Be\n fruitful,\" she whispered. \"Be fruitful and spawn and replenish an\n earth.\"\n\n\n \"No,\" he told her. \"Replenish the stars.\"\n\n\n But she was no longer listening, and that part of his idea could wait.", "Captain Gwayne cursed and rolled over, reaching for his boots. He was\n a big, rawboned man, barely forty; but ten years of responsibility\n had pressed down his shoulders and put age-feigning hollows under his\n reddened eyes. The starlanes between Earth and her potential colonies\n were rough on the men who traveled them now. He shuffled toward the\n control room, grumbling at the heavy gravity.\n\n\n Lieutenant Jane Corey looked up, nodding a blonde head at him as he\n moved toward the ever-waiting pot of murky coffee. \"Morning, Bob. You\n need a shave.\"\n\n\n \"Yeah.\" He swallowed the hot coffee without tasting it, then ran a\n hand across the dark stubble on his chin. It could wait. \"Anything new\n during the night?\"", "\"Follow the blobs,\" Gwayne yelled. He realized now he'd been a fool to\n leave his suit; the radio would have let him keep in contact with the\n kids. But it was too late to go back.\n\n\n The blobs danced after the horde. Barker bounced the jeep downward into\n a gorge. Somewhere the man had learned to drive superlatively; but he\n had to slow as the fog thickened lower down.\n\n\n Then it cleared to show the mob of creatures doubling back on their own\n trail to confuse the pursuers.\n\n\n There was no time to stop. The jeep plowed through them. Gwayne had a\n glimpse of five-foot bodies tumbling out of the way. Monstrously coarse\n faces were half hidden by thick hair. A spear crunched against the\n windshield from behind, and Gwayne caught it before it could foul the\n steering wheel. It had a wickedly beautiful point of stone." ], [ "Under the dancing blobs, a horde of things was heading for the cadets.\n Shaggy heads, brute bodies vaguely man-like! One seemed to be almost\n eight feet tall, leading the others directly toward the spacesuited\n cadets. Some of the horde were carrying spears or sticks. There was a\n momentary halt, and then the leader lifted one arm, as if motioning the\n others forward.\n\"Get the jeeps out!\" Gwayne yelled at Jane. He yanked the door of\n the little officers' lift open and jabbed the down button. It was\n agonizingly slow, but faster than climbing down. He ripped the door\n back at the exit deck. Men were dashing in, stumbling around in\n confusion. But someone was taking over now—one of the crew women. The\n jeeps were lining up. One, at the front, was stuttering into life, and\n Gwayne dashed for it as the exit port slid back.", "There was no time for suits or helmets. The air on the planet was\n irritating and vile smelling, but it could be breathed. He leaped to\n the seat, to see that the driver was Doctor Barker. At a gesture, the\n jeep rolled down the ramp, grinding its gears into second as it picked\n up speed. The other two followed.\n\n\n There was no sign of the cadets at first. Then Gwayne spotted them;\n surrounded by the menacing horde. Seen from here, the things looked\n horrible in a travesty of manhood.\n\n\n The huge leader suddenly waved and pointed toward the jeeps that were\n racing toward him. He made a fantastic leap backwards. Others swung\n about, two of them grabbing up the cadets. The jeep was doing twenty\n miles an hour now, but the horde began to increase the distance, in\n spite of the load of the two struggling boys! The creatures dived\n downward into lower ground, beginning to disappear into the mists.", "The wheels locked and the jeep slid protestingly forward. The creature\n leaped back. But Gwayne was out of the jeep before it stopped, diving\n for the figure. It dropped the boys with a surprised grunt.\nThe arms were thin and grotesque below the massively distorted\n shoulders, but amazingly strong. Gwayne felt them wrench at him as his\n hands locked on the thick throat. A stench of alien flesh was in his\n nose as the thing fell backwards. Doc Barker had hit it seconds after\n the captain's attack. Its head hit rocky ground with a dull, heavy\n sound, and it collapsed. Gwayne eased back slowly, but it made no\n further move, though it was still breathing.", "The creatures vanished as Barker fought to turn to follow them. The\n other jeeps were coming up, by the sound of their motors, but too late\n to help. They'd have to get to the group with the cadets in a hurry or\n the horde would all vanish in the uneven ground, hidden by the fog.\n\n\n A blob dropped down, almost touching Gwayne.\n\n\n He threw up an instinctive hand. There was a tingling as the creature\n seemed to pass around it. It lifted a few inches and drifted off.\n\n\n Abruptly, Barker's foot ground at the brake. Gwayne jolted forward\n against the windshield, just as he made out the form of the eight-foot\n leader. The thing was standing directly ahead of him, a cadet on each\n shoulder.", "Another jeep had drawn up, and men were examining the cadets. Pinelli\n was either laughing or crying, and Kaufman was trying to break free to\n kick at the monster. But neither had been harmed. The two were loaded\n onto a jeep while men helped Barker and Gwayne stow the bound monster\n on another before heading back.\n\n\n \"No sign of skull fracture. My God, what a tough brute!\" Barker shook\n his own head, as if feeling the shock of the monster's landing.\n\n\n \"I hope so,\" Gwayne told him. \"I want that thing to live—and you're\n detailed to save it and revive it. Find out if it can make sign\n language or draw pictures. I want to know what happened to Hennessy\n and why that ship was buried against detection. This thing may be the\n answer.\"", "The blobs had left the herd. Now the three were streaking at fantastic\n speed to a spot near the ship, to hover excitedly above something that\n moved there.\n\n\n He saw the two cadets then, heading back to the waiting ship, just\n beyond the movement he'd seen through the mist.\n\n\n Whatever was making the fog swirl must have reached higher ground.\n Something began to heave upwards. It was too far to see clearly, but\n Gwayne grabbed the microphone, yelling into the radio toward the cadets.\n\n\n They must have seen whatever it was just as the call reached them.\n Young Kaufman grabbed at Pinelli, and they swung around together.\n\n\n Then the mists cleared.", "\"Follow the blobs,\" Gwayne yelled. He realized now he'd been a fool to\n leave his suit; the radio would have let him keep in contact with the\n kids. But it was too late to go back.\n\n\n The blobs danced after the horde. Barker bounced the jeep downward into\n a gorge. Somewhere the man had learned to drive superlatively; but he\n had to slow as the fog thickened lower down.\n\n\n Then it cleared to show the mob of creatures doubling back on their own\n trail to confuse the pursuers.\n\n\n There was no time to stop. The jeep plowed through them. Gwayne had a\n glimpse of five-foot bodies tumbling out of the way. Monstrously coarse\n faces were half hidden by thick hair. A spear crunched against the\n windshield from behind, and Gwayne caught it before it could foul the\n steering wheel. It had a wickedly beautiful point of stone.", "He went to the port and glanced out. About sixty of the things were\n squatting in the clearing fog, holding lances and staring at the ship.\n They were perhaps a thousand yards away, waiting patiently. For what?\n For the return of their leader—or for something that would give the\n ship to them?\n\n\n Gwayne grabbed the phone and called Barker. \"How's the captive coming?\"\n\n\n Barker's voice sounded odd.\n\n\n \"Physically fine. You can see him. But—\"\n\n\n Gwayne dropped the phone and headed for the little sick bay. He swore\n at Doc for not calling him at once, and then at himself for not\n checking up sooner. Then he stopped at the sound of voices.\n\n\n There was the end of a question from Barker and a thick, harsh growling\n sound that lifted the hair along the nape of Gwayne's neck. Barker\n seemed to understand, and was making a comment as the captain dashed in.", "But there was no time.\n\n\n Earth had ordered him to detour here, after leaving his load of\n deep-sleep stored colonists on Official World 71, to check on any sign\n of Hennessy. He'd been here a week longer than he should have stayed\n already. If there was no sign in another day or so of what had happened\n to the men who'd deserted their ship and its equipment, he'd have to\n report back.\n\n\n He would have left before, if a recent landslip hadn't exposed enough\n of the buried ship for his metal locators to spot from the air by\n luck. It had obviously been hidden deep enough to foil the detectors\n originally.\n\n\n \"Bob!\" Jane Corey's voice cut through his pondering. \"Bob, there are\n the kids!\"\n\n\n Before he could swing to follow her pointing finger, movement caught\n his eye.", "Primitives could be overcome, maybe. It would be ruthless and unfair to\n strip them of their world, but the first law was survival.\n\n\n But how could primitives do what these must have done?\n\n\n He studied the spear he had salvaged. It was on a staff made of\n cemented bits of smaller wood from the scrub growth, skillfully\n laminated. The point was of delicately chipped flint, done as no human\n hand had been able to do for centuries.\n\n\n \"Beautiful primitive work,\" he muttered.\n\n\n Jane pulled the coffee cup away from her lips and snorted. \"You can\n see a lot more of it out there,\" she suggested.", "Of course there was no obvious need for caution here. The blobs hadn't\n seemed dangerous, and the local animals were apparently all herbivorous\n and harmless. They were ugly enough, looking like insects in spite of\n their internal skeletons, with anywhere from four to twelve legs each\n on their segmented bodies. None acted like dangerous beasts.", "If they could get any story from the captured creature, they might save\n time and be better off than trying to dig through Hennessy's ship. That\n was almost certainly spoorless by now. The only possible answer seemed\n to be that the exploring expedition and Hennessy's rescue group had\n been overcome by the aliens.\n\n\n It was an answer, but it left a lot of questions. How could the\n primitives have gotten to the men inside Hennessy's ship? Why was its\n fuel dumped? Only men would have known how to do that. And who told\n these creatures that a space ship's metal finders could be fooled by a\n little more than a hundred feet of solid rock? They'd buried the ship\n cunningly, and only the accidental slippage had undone their work.", "But\nsomething\nhad happened to the exploration party fifteen years\n back, and to the more recent ship under Hennessy that was sent to check\n up.\nHe turned to the port to stare out at the planet. The Sol-type sun\n must be rising, since there was a dim light. But the thick clouds that\n wrapped the entire world diffused its rays into a haze. For a change,\n it wasn't raining, though the ground was covered by thick swirls of\n fog. In the distance, the tops of shrubs that made a scrub forest\n glowed yellow-green. Motions around them suggested a herd of feeding\n animals. Details were impossible to see through the haze. Even the\n deep gorge where they'd found Hennessy's carefully buried ship was\n completely hidden by the fog.\n\n\n There were three of the blobs dancing about over the grazing animals\n now, as they often seemed to do. Gwayne stared at them for a minute,\n trying to read sense into the things. If he had time to study them....", "\"About a dozen blobs held something like a convention a little ways\n north of us. They broke up about an hour ago and streaked off into the\n clouds.\" The blobs were a peculiarity of this planet about which nobody\n knew anything. They looked like overgrown fireballs, but seemed to have\n an almost sentient curiosity about anything moving on the ground. \"And\n our two cadets sneaked out again. Barker followed them, but lost them\n in the murk. I've kept a signal going to guide them back.\"\n\n\n Gwayne swore softly to himself. Earth couldn't turn out enough starmen\n in the schools, so promising kids were being shipped out for training\n as cadets on their twelfth birthday. The two he'd drawn, Kaufman and\n Pinelli, seemed to be totally devoid of any sense of caution.", "She was silent a long time, staring out of the port toward what must\n now be her home. Then she sighed. \"You'll need practice, but the others\n don't know you as well as I do, Bob. I guess we can fix it so they'll\n believe it all. And it's too late now. But we haven't really been\n changed yet, have we?\"\n\n\n \"No,\" he admitted. Damn his voice! He'd never been good at lying. \"No.\n They have to touch us. I've been touched, but the rest could go back.\"\n\n\n She nodded. He waited for the condemnation, but there was only\n puzzlement in her face. \"Why?\"\n\n\n And then, before he could answer, her own intelligence gave her the\n same answer he had found for himself. \"The spawning ground!\"", "It was the only thing they could do. Earth needed a place to plant her\n seed, but no world other than Earth could ever be trusted to preserve\n that seed for generation after generation. Some worlds already were\n becoming uncertain.\n\n\n Here, though, the blobs had adapted men to the alien world instead of\n men having to adapt the whole planet to their needs. Here, the strange\n children of man's race could grow, develop and begin the long trek back\n to civilization. The gadgets would be lost for a time. But perhaps\n some of the attitudes of civilized man would remain to make the next\n rise to culture a better one.", "Barker nodded grimly. \"I'll try, though I can't risk drugs on an alien\n metabolism.\" He sucked in on the cigarette he'd dug out, then spat\n sickly. Smoke and this air made a foul combination. \"Bob, it still\n makes no sense. We've scoured this planet by infra-red, and there was\n no sign of native villages or culture. We should have found some.\"\n\n\n \"Troglodytes, maybe,\" Gwayne guessed. \"Anyhow, send for me when you get\n anything. I've got to get this ship back to Earth. We're overstaying\n our time here already.\"\n\n\n The reports from the cadets were satisfactory enough. They'd been\n picked up and carried, but no harm had been done them. Now they were\n busy being little heroes. Gwayne sentenced them to quarters as soon\n as he could, knowing their stories would only get wilder and less\n informative with retelling.", "The kids of the exploring party....\nBack in the control room, Gwayne found the emergency release levers,\n set the combinations and pressed the studs. There was a hiss and gurgle\n as the great tanks of fuel discharged their contents out onto the\n ground where no ingenuity could ever recover it to bring life to the\n ship again.\n\n\n He'd have to tell the men and women of the crew later, after he'd had\n time to organize things and present it all in a way they could accept,\n however much they might hate it at first. But there was no putting off\n giving the gist of it to Jane.\n\n\n \"It was the blobs,\" he summarized it. \"They seem to be amused by men.\n They don't require anything from us, but they like us around. Hennessy\n doesn't know why. They can change our cells, adapt us. Before men came,\n all life here had twelve legs. Now they're changing that, as we've seen.", "And there were no worlds perfect for him, as Earth had been. The\n explorers went out in desperation to find what they could; the\n terraforming teams did what they could. And then the big starships\n began filling worlds with colonists, carried in deep sleep to conserve\n space.\n\n\n Almost eighty worlds. The nearest a four month journey from Earth and\n four more months back.\n\n\n In another ten years, the sun would explode, leaving man only on the\n footholds he was trying to dig among other solar systems. Maybe some\n of the strange worlds would let men spread his seed again. Maybe none\n would be spawning grounds for mankind in spite of the efforts. Each was\n precious as a haven for the race.\n\n\n If this world could be used, it would be nearer than most. If not, as\n it now seemed, no more time could be wasted here.", "Three. Seven. Zero.\n\n\n The answers were right.\n\n\n By the time the session was over, Gwayne had begun to understand the\n twisted speech from inhuman vocal cords better. But the story took a\n long time telling.\n\n\n When it was finished, Gwayne and Barker sat for long minutes in\n silence. Finally Gwayne drew a shuddering breath and stood up. \"Is it\n possible, Doc?\"" ], [ "The creatures vanished as Barker fought to turn to follow them. The\n other jeeps were coming up, by the sound of their motors, but too late\n to help. They'd have to get to the group with the cadets in a hurry or\n the horde would all vanish in the uneven ground, hidden by the fog.\n\n\n A blob dropped down, almost touching Gwayne.\n\n\n He threw up an instinctive hand. There was a tingling as the creature\n seemed to pass around it. It lifted a few inches and drifted off.\n\n\n Abruptly, Barker's foot ground at the brake. Gwayne jolted forward\n against the windshield, just as he made out the form of the eight-foot\n leader. The thing was standing directly ahead of him, a cadet on each\n shoulder.", "\"Follow the blobs,\" Gwayne yelled. He realized now he'd been a fool to\n leave his suit; the radio would have let him keep in contact with the\n kids. But it was too late to go back.\n\n\n The blobs danced after the horde. Barker bounced the jeep downward into\n a gorge. Somewhere the man had learned to drive superlatively; but he\n had to slow as the fog thickened lower down.\n\n\n Then it cleared to show the mob of creatures doubling back on their own\n trail to confuse the pursuers.\n\n\n There was no time to stop. The jeep plowed through them. Gwayne had a\n glimpse of five-foot bodies tumbling out of the way. Monstrously coarse\n faces were half hidden by thick hair. A spear crunched against the\n windshield from behind, and Gwayne caught it before it could foul the\n steering wheel. It had a wickedly beautiful point of stone.", "Under the dancing blobs, a horde of things was heading for the cadets.\n Shaggy heads, brute bodies vaguely man-like! One seemed to be almost\n eight feet tall, leading the others directly toward the spacesuited\n cadets. Some of the horde were carrying spears or sticks. There was a\n momentary halt, and then the leader lifted one arm, as if motioning the\n others forward.\n\"Get the jeeps out!\" Gwayne yelled at Jane. He yanked the door of\n the little officers' lift open and jabbed the down button. It was\n agonizingly slow, but faster than climbing down. He ripped the door\n back at the exit deck. Men were dashing in, stumbling around in\n confusion. But someone was taking over now—one of the crew women. The\n jeeps were lining up. One, at the front, was stuttering into life, and\n Gwayne dashed for it as the exit port slid back.", "There was no time for suits or helmets. The air on the planet was\n irritating and vile smelling, but it could be breathed. He leaped to\n the seat, to see that the driver was Doctor Barker. At a gesture, the\n jeep rolled down the ramp, grinding its gears into second as it picked\n up speed. The other two followed.\n\n\n There was no sign of the cadets at first. Then Gwayne spotted them;\n surrounded by the menacing horde. Seen from here, the things looked\n horrible in a travesty of manhood.\n\n\n The huge leader suddenly waved and pointed toward the jeeps that were\n racing toward him. He made a fantastic leap backwards. Others swung\n about, two of them grabbing up the cadets. The jeep was doing twenty\n miles an hour now, but the horde began to increase the distance, in\n spite of the load of the two struggling boys! The creatures dived\n downward into lower ground, beginning to disappear into the mists.", "The wheels locked and the jeep slid protestingly forward. The creature\n leaped back. But Gwayne was out of the jeep before it stopped, diving\n for the figure. It dropped the boys with a surprised grunt.\nThe arms were thin and grotesque below the massively distorted\n shoulders, but amazingly strong. Gwayne felt them wrench at him as his\n hands locked on the thick throat. A stench of alien flesh was in his\n nose as the thing fell backwards. Doc Barker had hit it seconds after\n the captain's attack. Its head hit rocky ground with a dull, heavy\n sound, and it collapsed. Gwayne eased back slowly, but it made no\n further move, though it was still breathing.", "He went to the port and glanced out. About sixty of the things were\n squatting in the clearing fog, holding lances and staring at the ship.\n They were perhaps a thousand yards away, waiting patiently. For what?\n For the return of their leader—or for something that would give the\n ship to them?\n\n\n Gwayne grabbed the phone and called Barker. \"How's the captive coming?\"\n\n\n Barker's voice sounded odd.\n\n\n \"Physically fine. You can see him. But—\"\n\n\n Gwayne dropped the phone and headed for the little sick bay. He swore\n at Doc for not calling him at once, and then at himself for not\n checking up sooner. Then he stopped at the sound of voices.\n\n\n There was the end of a question from Barker and a thick, harsh growling\n sound that lifted the hair along the nape of Gwayne's neck. Barker\n seemed to understand, and was making a comment as the captain dashed in.", "The blobs had left the herd. Now the three were streaking at fantastic\n speed to a spot near the ship, to hover excitedly above something that\n moved there.\n\n\n He saw the two cadets then, heading back to the waiting ship, just\n beyond the movement he'd seen through the mist.\n\n\n Whatever was making the fog swirl must have reached higher ground.\n Something began to heave upwards. It was too far to see clearly, but\n Gwayne grabbed the microphone, yelling into the radio toward the cadets.\n\n\n They must have seen whatever it was just as the call reached them.\n Young Kaufman grabbed at Pinelli, and they swung around together.\n\n\n Then the mists cleared.", "Of course there was no obvious need for caution here. The blobs hadn't\n seemed dangerous, and the local animals were apparently all herbivorous\n and harmless. They were ugly enough, looking like insects in spite of\n their internal skeletons, with anywhere from four to twelve legs each\n on their segmented bodies. None acted like dangerous beasts.", "\"No,\" Barker said flatly. He spread his hands and grimaced. \"No. Not\n by what I know. But it happened. I've looked at a few tissues under\n the microscope. The changes are there. It's hard to believe about\n their kids. Adults in eight years, but they stay shorter. It can't be\n a hereditary change—the things that affect the body don't change the\n germ plasm. But in this case, what changed Hennessy is real, so maybe\n the fact that the change is passed on is as real as he claims.\"\n\n\n Gwayne led the former Hennessy to the exit. The waiting blobs dropped\n down to touch the monstrous man, then leaped up again. The crowd of\n monsters began moving forward toward their leader. A few were almost as\n tall as Hennessy, but most were not more than five feet high.", "Another jeep had drawn up, and men were examining the cadets. Pinelli\n was either laughing or crying, and Kaufman was trying to break free to\n kick at the monster. But neither had been harmed. The two were loaded\n onto a jeep while men helped Barker and Gwayne stow the bound monster\n on another before heading back.\n\n\n \"No sign of skull fracture. My God, what a tough brute!\" Barker shook\n his own head, as if feeling the shock of the monster's landing.\n\n\n \"I hope so,\" Gwayne told him. \"I want that thing to live—and you're\n detailed to save it and revive it. Find out if it can make sign\n language or draw pictures. I want to know what happened to Hennessy\n and why that ship was buried against detection. This thing may be the\n answer.\"", "But\nsomething\nhad happened to the exploration party fifteen years\n back, and to the more recent ship under Hennessy that was sent to check\n up.\nHe turned to the port to stare out at the planet. The Sol-type sun\n must be rising, since there was a dim light. But the thick clouds that\n wrapped the entire world diffused its rays into a haze. For a change,\n it wasn't raining, though the ground was covered by thick swirls of\n fog. In the distance, the tops of shrubs that made a scrub forest\n glowed yellow-green. Motions around them suggested a herd of feeding\n animals. Details were impossible to see through the haze. Even the\n deep gorge where they'd found Hennessy's carefully buried ship was\n completely hidden by the fog.\n\n\n There were three of the blobs dancing about over the grazing animals\n now, as they often seemed to do. Gwayne stared at them for a minute,\n trying to read sense into the things. If he had time to study them....", "\"About a dozen blobs held something like a convention a little ways\n north of us. They broke up about an hour ago and streaked off into the\n clouds.\" The blobs were a peculiarity of this planet about which nobody\n knew anything. They looked like overgrown fireballs, but seemed to have\n an almost sentient curiosity about anything moving on the ground. \"And\n our two cadets sneaked out again. Barker followed them, but lost them\n in the murk. I've kept a signal going to guide them back.\"\n\n\n Gwayne swore softly to himself. Earth couldn't turn out enough starmen\n in the schools, so promising kids were being shipped out for training\n as cadets on their twelfth birthday. The two he'd drawn, Kaufman and\n Pinelli, seemed to be totally devoid of any sense of caution.", "Three. Seven. Zero.\n\n\n The answers were right.\n\n\n By the time the session was over, Gwayne had begun to understand the\n twisted speech from inhuman vocal cords better. But the story took a\n long time telling.\n\n\n When it was finished, Gwayne and Barker sat for long minutes in\n silence. Finally Gwayne drew a shuddering breath and stood up. \"Is it\n possible, Doc?\"", "If they could get any story from the captured creature, they might save\n time and be better off than trying to dig through Hennessy's ship. That\n was almost certainly spoorless by now. The only possible answer seemed\n to be that the exploring expedition and Hennessy's rescue group had\n been overcome by the aliens.\n\n\n It was an answer, but it left a lot of questions. How could the\n primitives have gotten to the men inside Hennessy's ship? Why was its\n fuel dumped? Only men would have known how to do that. And who told\n these creatures that a space ship's metal finders could be fooled by a\n little more than a hundred feet of solid rock? They'd buried the ship\n cunningly, and only the accidental slippage had undone their work.", "She was silent a long time, staring out of the port toward what must\n now be her home. Then she sighed. \"You'll need practice, but the others\n don't know you as well as I do, Bob. I guess we can fix it so they'll\n believe it all. And it's too late now. But we haven't really been\n changed yet, have we?\"\n\n\n \"No,\" he admitted. Damn his voice! He'd never been good at lying. \"No.\n They have to touch us. I've been touched, but the rest could go back.\"\n\n\n She nodded. He waited for the condemnation, but there was only\n puzzlement in her face. \"Why?\"\n\n\n And then, before he could answer, her own intelligence gave her the\n same answer he had found for himself. \"The spawning ground!\"", "Barker nodded grimly. \"I'll try, though I can't risk drugs on an alien\n metabolism.\" He sucked in on the cigarette he'd dug out, then spat\n sickly. Smoke and this air made a foul combination. \"Bob, it still\n makes no sense. We've scoured this planet by infra-red, and there was\n no sign of native villages or culture. We should have found some.\"\n\n\n \"Troglodytes, maybe,\" Gwayne guessed. \"Anyhow, send for me when you get\n anything. I've got to get this ship back to Earth. We're overstaying\n our time here already.\"\n\n\n The reports from the cadets were satisfactory enough. They'd been\n picked up and carried, but no harm had been done them. Now they were\n busy being little heroes. Gwayne sentenced them to quarters as soon\n as he could, knowing their stories would only get wilder and less\n informative with retelling.", "Spawning Ground\nBy LESTER DEL REY\nThey weren't human. They were something\n\n more—and something less—they were,\n\n in short, humanity's hopes for survival!\n\n\n [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nThe Starship\nPandora\ncreaked and groaned as her landing pads settled\n unevenly in the mucky surface of the ugly world outside. She seemed to\n be restless to end her fool's errand here, two hundred light years from\n the waiting hordes on Earth. Straining metal plates twanged and echoed\n through her hallways.", "\"He never meant to hurt the kids—just to talk to them,\" Barker cut in\n quickly. \"I've got some of the story. He's changed. He can't talk very\n well. Says they've had to change the language around to make the sounds\n fit, and he's forgotten how to use what normal English he can. But it\n gets easier as you listen. It's Hennessy, all right. I'm certain.\"\n\n\n Gwayne had his own ideas on that. It was easy for an alien to seize\n on the gold ornament of a captive earthman, even to learn a little\n English, maybe. But Hennessy had been his friend.\n\n\n \"How many barmaids in the Cheshire Cat? How many pups did your oldest\n kid's dog have? How many were brown?\"\n\n\n The lips contorted into something vaguely like a smile, and the\n curiously shaped fingers that could handle no human-designed equipment\n spread out.", "Primitives could be overcome, maybe. It would be ruthless and unfair to\n strip them of their world, but the first law was survival.\n\n\n But how could primitives do what these must have done?\n\n\n He studied the spear he had salvaged. It was on a staff made of\n cemented bits of smaller wood from the scrub growth, skillfully\n laminated. The point was of delicately chipped flint, done as no human\n hand had been able to do for centuries.\n\n\n \"Beautiful primitive work,\" he muttered.\n\n\n Jane pulled the coffee cup away from her lips and snorted. \"You can\n see a lot more of it out there,\" she suggested.", "The captive was sitting on the bunk, unbound and oddly unmenacing. The\n thick features were relaxed and yet somehow intent. He seemed to make\n some kind of a salute as he saw Gwayne enter, and his eyes burned up\n unerringly toward the device on the officer's cap.\n\n\n \"Haarroo, Cabbaan!\" the thing said.\n\"Captain Gwayne, may I present your former friend, Captain Hennessy?\"\n Barker said. There was a grin on the doctor's lips, but his face was\n taut with strain.\n\n\n The creature nodded slowly and drew something from the thick hair on\n its head. It was the golden comet of a captain." ], [ "There was no time for suits or helmets. The air on the planet was\n irritating and vile smelling, but it could be breathed. He leaped to\n the seat, to see that the driver was Doctor Barker. At a gesture, the\n jeep rolled down the ramp, grinding its gears into second as it picked\n up speed. The other two followed.\n\n\n There was no sign of the cadets at first. Then Gwayne spotted them;\n surrounded by the menacing horde. Seen from here, the things looked\n horrible in a travesty of manhood.\n\n\n The huge leader suddenly waved and pointed toward the jeeps that were\n racing toward him. He made a fantastic leap backwards. Others swung\n about, two of them grabbing up the cadets. The jeep was doing twenty\n miles an hour now, but the horde began to increase the distance, in\n spite of the load of the two struggling boys! The creatures dived\n downward into lower ground, beginning to disappear into the mists.", "Under the dancing blobs, a horde of things was heading for the cadets.\n Shaggy heads, brute bodies vaguely man-like! One seemed to be almost\n eight feet tall, leading the others directly toward the spacesuited\n cadets. Some of the horde were carrying spears or sticks. There was a\n momentary halt, and then the leader lifted one arm, as if motioning the\n others forward.\n\"Get the jeeps out!\" Gwayne yelled at Jane. He yanked the door of\n the little officers' lift open and jabbed the down button. It was\n agonizingly slow, but faster than climbing down. He ripped the door\n back at the exit deck. Men were dashing in, stumbling around in\n confusion. But someone was taking over now—one of the crew women. The\n jeeps were lining up. One, at the front, was stuttering into life, and\n Gwayne dashed for it as the exit port slid back.", "\"About a dozen blobs held something like a convention a little ways\n north of us. They broke up about an hour ago and streaked off into the\n clouds.\" The blobs were a peculiarity of this planet about which nobody\n knew anything. They looked like overgrown fireballs, but seemed to have\n an almost sentient curiosity about anything moving on the ground. \"And\n our two cadets sneaked out again. Barker followed them, but lost them\n in the murk. I've kept a signal going to guide them back.\"\n\n\n Gwayne swore softly to himself. Earth couldn't turn out enough starmen\n in the schools, so promising kids were being shipped out for training\n as cadets on their twelfth birthday. The two he'd drawn, Kaufman and\n Pinelli, seemed to be totally devoid of any sense of caution.", "The creatures vanished as Barker fought to turn to follow them. The\n other jeeps were coming up, by the sound of their motors, but too late\n to help. They'd have to get to the group with the cadets in a hurry or\n the horde would all vanish in the uneven ground, hidden by the fog.\n\n\n A blob dropped down, almost touching Gwayne.\n\n\n He threw up an instinctive hand. There was a tingling as the creature\n seemed to pass around it. It lifted a few inches and drifted off.\n\n\n Abruptly, Barker's foot ground at the brake. Gwayne jolted forward\n against the windshield, just as he made out the form of the eight-foot\n leader. The thing was standing directly ahead of him, a cadet on each\n shoulder.", "The blobs had left the herd. Now the three were streaking at fantastic\n speed to a spot near the ship, to hover excitedly above something that\n moved there.\n\n\n He saw the two cadets then, heading back to the waiting ship, just\n beyond the movement he'd seen through the mist.\n\n\n Whatever was making the fog swirl must have reached higher ground.\n Something began to heave upwards. It was too far to see clearly, but\n Gwayne grabbed the microphone, yelling into the radio toward the cadets.\n\n\n They must have seen whatever it was just as the call reached them.\n Young Kaufman grabbed at Pinelli, and they swung around together.\n\n\n Then the mists cleared.", "Another jeep had drawn up, and men were examining the cadets. Pinelli\n was either laughing or crying, and Kaufman was trying to break free to\n kick at the monster. But neither had been harmed. The two were loaded\n onto a jeep while men helped Barker and Gwayne stow the bound monster\n on another before heading back.\n\n\n \"No sign of skull fracture. My God, what a tough brute!\" Barker shook\n his own head, as if feeling the shock of the monster's landing.\n\n\n \"I hope so,\" Gwayne told him. \"I want that thing to live—and you're\n detailed to save it and revive it. Find out if it can make sign\n language or draw pictures. I want to know what happened to Hennessy\n and why that ship was buried against detection. This thing may be the\n answer.\"", "Barker nodded grimly. \"I'll try, though I can't risk drugs on an alien\n metabolism.\" He sucked in on the cigarette he'd dug out, then spat\n sickly. Smoke and this air made a foul combination. \"Bob, it still\n makes no sense. We've scoured this planet by infra-red, and there was\n no sign of native villages or culture. We should have found some.\"\n\n\n \"Troglodytes, maybe,\" Gwayne guessed. \"Anyhow, send for me when you get\n anything. I've got to get this ship back to Earth. We're overstaying\n our time here already.\"\n\n\n The reports from the cadets were satisfactory enough. They'd been\n picked up and carried, but no harm had been done them. Now they were\n busy being little heroes. Gwayne sentenced them to quarters as soon\n as he could, knowing their stories would only get wilder and less\n informative with retelling.", "He went to the port and glanced out. About sixty of the things were\n squatting in the clearing fog, holding lances and staring at the ship.\n They were perhaps a thousand yards away, waiting patiently. For what?\n For the return of their leader—or for something that would give the\n ship to them?\n\n\n Gwayne grabbed the phone and called Barker. \"How's the captive coming?\"\n\n\n Barker's voice sounded odd.\n\n\n \"Physically fine. You can see him. But—\"\n\n\n Gwayne dropped the phone and headed for the little sick bay. He swore\n at Doc for not calling him at once, and then at himself for not\n checking up sooner. Then he stopped at the sound of voices.\n\n\n There was the end of a question from Barker and a thick, harsh growling\n sound that lifted the hair along the nape of Gwayne's neck. Barker\n seemed to understand, and was making a comment as the captain dashed in.", "The captive was sitting on the bunk, unbound and oddly unmenacing. The\n thick features were relaxed and yet somehow intent. He seemed to make\n some kind of a salute as he saw Gwayne enter, and his eyes burned up\n unerringly toward the device on the officer's cap.\n\n\n \"Haarroo, Cabbaan!\" the thing said.\n\"Captain Gwayne, may I present your former friend, Captain Hennessy?\"\n Barker said. There was a grin on the doctor's lips, but his face was\n taut with strain.\n\n\n The creature nodded slowly and drew something from the thick hair on\n its head. It was the golden comet of a captain.", "But there was no time.\n\n\n Earth had ordered him to detour here, after leaving his load of\n deep-sleep stored colonists on Official World 71, to check on any sign\n of Hennessy. He'd been here a week longer than he should have stayed\n already. If there was no sign in another day or so of what had happened\n to the men who'd deserted their ship and its equipment, he'd have to\n report back.\n\n\n He would have left before, if a recent landslip hadn't exposed enough\n of the buried ship for his metal locators to spot from the air by\n luck. It had obviously been hidden deep enough to foil the detectors\n originally.\n\n\n \"Bob!\" Jane Corey's voice cut through his pondering. \"Bob, there are\n the kids!\"\n\n\n Before he could swing to follow her pointing finger, movement caught\n his eye.", "\"No,\" Barker said flatly. He spread his hands and grimaced. \"No. Not\n by what I know. But it happened. I've looked at a few tissues under\n the microscope. The changes are there. It's hard to believe about\n their kids. Adults in eight years, but they stay shorter. It can't be\n a hereditary change—the things that affect the body don't change the\n germ plasm. But in this case, what changed Hennessy is real, so maybe\n the fact that the change is passed on is as real as he claims.\"\n\n\n Gwayne led the former Hennessy to the exit. The waiting blobs dropped\n down to touch the monstrous man, then leaped up again. The crowd of\n monsters began moving forward toward their leader. A few were almost as\n tall as Hennessy, but most were not more than five feet high.", "The wheels locked and the jeep slid protestingly forward. The creature\n leaped back. But Gwayne was out of the jeep before it stopped, diving\n for the figure. It dropped the boys with a surprised grunt.\nThe arms were thin and grotesque below the massively distorted\n shoulders, but amazingly strong. Gwayne felt them wrench at him as his\n hands locked on the thick throat. A stench of alien flesh was in his\n nose as the thing fell backwards. Doc Barker had hit it seconds after\n the captain's attack. Its head hit rocky ground with a dull, heavy\n sound, and it collapsed. Gwayne eased back slowly, but it made no\n further move, though it was still breathing.", "Three. Seven. Zero.\n\n\n The answers were right.\n\n\n By the time the session was over, Gwayne had begun to understand the\n twisted speech from inhuman vocal cords better. But the story took a\n long time telling.\n\n\n When it was finished, Gwayne and Barker sat for long minutes in\n silence. Finally Gwayne drew a shuddering breath and stood up. \"Is it\n possible, Doc?\"", "She was silent a long time, staring out of the port toward what must\n now be her home. Then she sighed. \"You'll need practice, but the others\n don't know you as well as I do, Bob. I guess we can fix it so they'll\n believe it all. And it's too late now. But we haven't really been\n changed yet, have we?\"\n\n\n \"No,\" he admitted. Damn his voice! He'd never been good at lying. \"No.\n They have to touch us. I've been touched, but the rest could go back.\"\n\n\n She nodded. He waited for the condemnation, but there was only\n puzzlement in her face. \"Why?\"\n\n\n And then, before he could answer, her own intelligence gave her the\n same answer he had found for himself. \"The spawning ground!\"", "Of course there was no obvious need for caution here. The blobs hadn't\n seemed dangerous, and the local animals were apparently all herbivorous\n and harmless. They were ugly enough, looking like insects in spite of\n their internal skeletons, with anywhere from four to twelve legs each\n on their segmented bodies. None acted like dangerous beasts.", "\"Follow the blobs,\" Gwayne yelled. He realized now he'd been a fool to\n leave his suit; the radio would have let him keep in contact with the\n kids. But it was too late to go back.\n\n\n The blobs danced after the horde. Barker bounced the jeep downward into\n a gorge. Somewhere the man had learned to drive superlatively; but he\n had to slow as the fog thickened lower down.\n\n\n Then it cleared to show the mob of creatures doubling back on their own\n trail to confuse the pursuers.\n\n\n There was no time to stop. The jeep plowed through them. Gwayne had a\n glimpse of five-foot bodies tumbling out of the way. Monstrously coarse\n faces were half hidden by thick hair. A spear crunched against the\n windshield from behind, and Gwayne caught it before it could foul the\n steering wheel. It had a wickedly beautiful point of stone.", "But\nsomething\nhad happened to the exploration party fifteen years\n back, and to the more recent ship under Hennessy that was sent to check\n up.\nHe turned to the port to stare out at the planet. The Sol-type sun\n must be rising, since there was a dim light. But the thick clouds that\n wrapped the entire world diffused its rays into a haze. For a change,\n it wasn't raining, though the ground was covered by thick swirls of\n fog. In the distance, the tops of shrubs that made a scrub forest\n glowed yellow-green. Motions around them suggested a herd of feeding\n animals. Details were impossible to see through the haze. Even the\n deep gorge where they'd found Hennessy's carefully buried ship was\n completely hidden by the fog.\n\n\n There were three of the blobs dancing about over the grazing animals\n now, as they often seemed to do. Gwayne stared at them for a minute,\n trying to read sense into the things. If he had time to study them....", "\"And they don't have to be close to do it. We've all been outside the\n hull. It doesn't show yet—but we're changed. In another month, Earth\n food would kill us. We've got to stay here. We'll bury the ships deeper\n this time, and Earth won't find us. They can't risk trying a colony\n where three ships vanish, so we'll just disappear. And they'll never\n know.\"\n\n\n Nobody would know. Their children—odd children who matured in eight\n years—would be primitive savages in three generations. The Earth\n tools would be useless, impossible for the hands so radically changed.\n Nothing from the ship would last. Books could never be read by the new\n eyes. And in time, Earth wouldn't even be a memory to this world.", "Primitives could be overcome, maybe. It would be ruthless and unfair to\n strip them of their world, but the first law was survival.\n\n\n But how could primitives do what these must have done?\n\n\n He studied the spear he had salvaged. It was on a staff made of\n cemented bits of smaller wood from the scrub growth, skillfully\n laminated. The point was of delicately chipped flint, done as no human\n hand had been able to do for centuries.\n\n\n \"Beautiful primitive work,\" he muttered.\n\n\n Jane pulled the coffee cup away from her lips and snorted. \"You can\n see a lot more of it out there,\" she suggested.", "Captain Gwayne cursed and rolled over, reaching for his boots. He was\n a big, rawboned man, barely forty; but ten years of responsibility\n had pressed down his shoulders and put age-feigning hollows under his\n reddened eyes. The starlanes between Earth and her potential colonies\n were rough on the men who traveled them now. He shuffled toward the\n control room, grumbling at the heavy gravity.\n\n\n Lieutenant Jane Corey looked up, nodding a blonde head at him as he\n moved toward the ever-waiting pot of murky coffee. \"Morning, Bob. You\n need a shave.\"\n\n\n \"Yeah.\" He swallowed the hot coffee without tasting it, then ran a\n hand across the dark stubble on his chin. It could wait. \"Anything new\n during the night?\"" ], [ "He went to the port and glanced out. About sixty of the things were\n squatting in the clearing fog, holding lances and staring at the ship.\n They were perhaps a thousand yards away, waiting patiently. For what?\n For the return of their leader—or for something that would give the\n ship to them?\n\n\n Gwayne grabbed the phone and called Barker. \"How's the captive coming?\"\n\n\n Barker's voice sounded odd.\n\n\n \"Physically fine. You can see him. But—\"\n\n\n Gwayne dropped the phone and headed for the little sick bay. He swore\n at Doc for not calling him at once, and then at himself for not\n checking up sooner. Then he stopped at the sound of voices.\n\n\n There was the end of a question from Barker and a thick, harsh growling\n sound that lifted the hair along the nape of Gwayne's neck. Barker\n seemed to understand, and was making a comment as the captain dashed in.", "The blobs had left the herd. Now the three were streaking at fantastic\n speed to a spot near the ship, to hover excitedly above something that\n moved there.\n\n\n He saw the two cadets then, heading back to the waiting ship, just\n beyond the movement he'd seen through the mist.\n\n\n Whatever was making the fog swirl must have reached higher ground.\n Something began to heave upwards. It was too far to see clearly, but\n Gwayne grabbed the microphone, yelling into the radio toward the cadets.\n\n\n They must have seen whatever it was just as the call reached them.\n Young Kaufman grabbed at Pinelli, and they swung around together.\n\n\n Then the mists cleared.", "But\nsomething\nhad happened to the exploration party fifteen years\n back, and to the more recent ship under Hennessy that was sent to check\n up.\nHe turned to the port to stare out at the planet. The Sol-type sun\n must be rising, since there was a dim light. But the thick clouds that\n wrapped the entire world diffused its rays into a haze. For a change,\n it wasn't raining, though the ground was covered by thick swirls of\n fog. In the distance, the tops of shrubs that made a scrub forest\n glowed yellow-green. Motions around them suggested a herd of feeding\n animals. Details were impossible to see through the haze. Even the\n deep gorge where they'd found Hennessy's carefully buried ship was\n completely hidden by the fog.\n\n\n There were three of the blobs dancing about over the grazing animals\n now, as they often seemed to do. Gwayne stared at them for a minute,\n trying to read sense into the things. If he had time to study them....", "There was no time for suits or helmets. The air on the planet was\n irritating and vile smelling, but it could be breathed. He leaped to\n the seat, to see that the driver was Doctor Barker. At a gesture, the\n jeep rolled down the ramp, grinding its gears into second as it picked\n up speed. The other two followed.\n\n\n There was no sign of the cadets at first. Then Gwayne spotted them;\n surrounded by the menacing horde. Seen from here, the things looked\n horrible in a travesty of manhood.\n\n\n The huge leader suddenly waved and pointed toward the jeeps that were\n racing toward him. He made a fantastic leap backwards. Others swung\n about, two of them grabbing up the cadets. The jeep was doing twenty\n miles an hour now, but the horde began to increase the distance, in\n spite of the load of the two struggling boys! The creatures dived\n downward into lower ground, beginning to disappear into the mists.", "Under the dancing blobs, a horde of things was heading for the cadets.\n Shaggy heads, brute bodies vaguely man-like! One seemed to be almost\n eight feet tall, leading the others directly toward the spacesuited\n cadets. Some of the horde were carrying spears or sticks. There was a\n momentary halt, and then the leader lifted one arm, as if motioning the\n others forward.\n\"Get the jeeps out!\" Gwayne yelled at Jane. He yanked the door of\n the little officers' lift open and jabbed the down button. It was\n agonizingly slow, but faster than climbing down. He ripped the door\n back at the exit deck. Men were dashing in, stumbling around in\n confusion. But someone was taking over now—one of the crew women. The\n jeeps were lining up. One, at the front, was stuttering into life, and\n Gwayne dashed for it as the exit port slid back.", "But there was no time.\n\n\n Earth had ordered him to detour here, after leaving his load of\n deep-sleep stored colonists on Official World 71, to check on any sign\n of Hennessy. He'd been here a week longer than he should have stayed\n already. If there was no sign in another day or so of what had happened\n to the men who'd deserted their ship and its equipment, he'd have to\n report back.\n\n\n He would have left before, if a recent landslip hadn't exposed enough\n of the buried ship for his metal locators to spot from the air by\n luck. It had obviously been hidden deep enough to foil the detectors\n originally.\n\n\n \"Bob!\" Jane Corey's voice cut through his pondering. \"Bob, there are\n the kids!\"\n\n\n Before he could swing to follow her pointing finger, movement caught\n his eye.", "Three. Seven. Zero.\n\n\n The answers were right.\n\n\n By the time the session was over, Gwayne had begun to understand the\n twisted speech from inhuman vocal cords better. But the story took a\n long time telling.\n\n\n When it was finished, Gwayne and Barker sat for long minutes in\n silence. Finally Gwayne drew a shuddering breath and stood up. \"Is it\n possible, Doc?\"", "\"About a dozen blobs held something like a convention a little ways\n north of us. They broke up about an hour ago and streaked off into the\n clouds.\" The blobs were a peculiarity of this planet about which nobody\n knew anything. They looked like overgrown fireballs, but seemed to have\n an almost sentient curiosity about anything moving on the ground. \"And\n our two cadets sneaked out again. Barker followed them, but lost them\n in the murk. I've kept a signal going to guide them back.\"\n\n\n Gwayne swore softly to himself. Earth couldn't turn out enough starmen\n in the schools, so promising kids were being shipped out for training\n as cadets on their twelfth birthday. The two he'd drawn, Kaufman and\n Pinelli, seemed to be totally devoid of any sense of caution.", "If they could get any story from the captured creature, they might save\n time and be better off than trying to dig through Hennessy's ship. That\n was almost certainly spoorless by now. The only possible answer seemed\n to be that the exploring expedition and Hennessy's rescue group had\n been overcome by the aliens.\n\n\n It was an answer, but it left a lot of questions. How could the\n primitives have gotten to the men inside Hennessy's ship? Why was its\n fuel dumped? Only men would have known how to do that. And who told\n these creatures that a space ship's metal finders could be fooled by a\n little more than a hundred feet of solid rock? They'd buried the ship\n cunningly, and only the accidental slippage had undone their work.", "\"Follow the blobs,\" Gwayne yelled. He realized now he'd been a fool to\n leave his suit; the radio would have let him keep in contact with the\n kids. But it was too late to go back.\n\n\n The blobs danced after the horde. Barker bounced the jeep downward into\n a gorge. Somewhere the man had learned to drive superlatively; but he\n had to slow as the fog thickened lower down.\n\n\n Then it cleared to show the mob of creatures doubling back on their own\n trail to confuse the pursuers.\n\n\n There was no time to stop. The jeep plowed through them. Gwayne had a\n glimpse of five-foot bodies tumbling out of the way. Monstrously coarse\n faces were half hidden by thick hair. A spear crunched against the\n windshield from behind, and Gwayne caught it before it could foul the\n steering wheel. It had a wickedly beautiful point of stone.", "Barker nodded grimly. \"I'll try, though I can't risk drugs on an alien\n metabolism.\" He sucked in on the cigarette he'd dug out, then spat\n sickly. Smoke and this air made a foul combination. \"Bob, it still\n makes no sense. We've scoured this planet by infra-red, and there was\n no sign of native villages or culture. We should have found some.\"\n\n\n \"Troglodytes, maybe,\" Gwayne guessed. \"Anyhow, send for me when you get\n anything. I've got to get this ship back to Earth. We're overstaying\n our time here already.\"\n\n\n The reports from the cadets were satisfactory enough. They'd been\n picked up and carried, but no harm had been done them. Now they were\n busy being little heroes. Gwayne sentenced them to quarters as soon\n as he could, knowing their stories would only get wilder and less\n informative with retelling.", "And there were no worlds perfect for him, as Earth had been. The\n explorers went out in desperation to find what they could; the\n terraforming teams did what they could. And then the big starships\n began filling worlds with colonists, carried in deep sleep to conserve\n space.\n\n\n Almost eighty worlds. The nearest a four month journey from Earth and\n four more months back.\n\n\n In another ten years, the sun would explode, leaving man only on the\n footholds he was trying to dig among other solar systems. Maybe some\n of the strange worlds would let men spread his seed again. Maybe none\n would be spawning grounds for mankind in spite of the efforts. Each was\n precious as a haven for the race.\n\n\n If this world could be used, it would be nearer than most. If not, as\n it now seemed, no more time could be wasted here.", "The wheels locked and the jeep slid protestingly forward. The creature\n leaped back. But Gwayne was out of the jeep before it stopped, diving\n for the figure. It dropped the boys with a surprised grunt.\nThe arms were thin and grotesque below the massively distorted\n shoulders, but amazingly strong. Gwayne felt them wrench at him as his\n hands locked on the thick throat. A stench of alien flesh was in his\n nose as the thing fell backwards. Doc Barker had hit it seconds after\n the captain's attack. Its head hit rocky ground with a dull, heavy\n sound, and it collapsed. Gwayne eased back slowly, but it made no\n further move, though it was still breathing.", "Captain Gwayne cursed and rolled over, reaching for his boots. He was\n a big, rawboned man, barely forty; but ten years of responsibility\n had pressed down his shoulders and put age-feigning hollows under his\n reddened eyes. The starlanes between Earth and her potential colonies\n were rough on the men who traveled them now. He shuffled toward the\n control room, grumbling at the heavy gravity.\n\n\n Lieutenant Jane Corey looked up, nodding a blonde head at him as he\n moved toward the ever-waiting pot of murky coffee. \"Morning, Bob. You\n need a shave.\"\n\n\n \"Yeah.\" He swallowed the hot coffee without tasting it, then ran a\n hand across the dark stubble on his chin. It could wait. \"Anything new\n during the night?\"", "Another jeep had drawn up, and men were examining the cadets. Pinelli\n was either laughing or crying, and Kaufman was trying to break free to\n kick at the monster. But neither had been harmed. The two were loaded\n onto a jeep while men helped Barker and Gwayne stow the bound monster\n on another before heading back.\n\n\n \"No sign of skull fracture. My God, what a tough brute!\" Barker shook\n his own head, as if feeling the shock of the monster's landing.\n\n\n \"I hope so,\" Gwayne told him. \"I want that thing to live—and you're\n detailed to save it and revive it. Find out if it can make sign\n language or draw pictures. I want to know what happened to Hennessy\n and why that ship was buried against detection. This thing may be the\n answer.\"", "The kids of the exploring party....\nBack in the control room, Gwayne found the emergency release levers,\n set the combinations and pressed the studs. There was a hiss and gurgle\n as the great tanks of fuel discharged their contents out onto the\n ground where no ingenuity could ever recover it to bring life to the\n ship again.\n\n\n He'd have to tell the men and women of the crew later, after he'd had\n time to organize things and present it all in a way they could accept,\n however much they might hate it at first. But there was no putting off\n giving the gist of it to Jane.\n\n\n \"It was the blobs,\" he summarized it. \"They seem to be amused by men.\n They don't require anything from us, but they like us around. Hennessy\n doesn't know why. They can change our cells, adapt us. Before men came,\n all life here had twelve legs. Now they're changing that, as we've seen.", "\"We're needed here,\" he told her, his voice pleading for the\n understanding he couldn't yet fully give himself. \"These people need\n as rich a set of bloodlines as possible to give the new race strength.\n The fifty men and women on this ship will be needed to start them with\n a decent chance. We can't go to Earth, where nobody would believe or\n accept the idea—or even let us come back. We have to stay here.\"\n\n\n She smiled then and moved toward him, groping for his strength. \"Be\n fruitful,\" she whispered. \"Be fruitful and spawn and replenish an\n earth.\"\n\n\n \"No,\" he told her. \"Replenish the stars.\"\n\n\n But she was no longer listening, and that part of his idea could wait.", "The captive was sitting on the bunk, unbound and oddly unmenacing. The\n thick features were relaxed and yet somehow intent. He seemed to make\n some kind of a salute as he saw Gwayne enter, and his eyes burned up\n unerringly toward the device on the officer's cap.\n\n\n \"Haarroo, Cabbaan!\" the thing said.\n\"Captain Gwayne, may I present your former friend, Captain Hennessy?\"\n Barker said. There was a grin on the doctor's lips, but his face was\n taut with strain.\n\n\n The creature nodded slowly and drew something from the thick hair on\n its head. It was the golden comet of a captain.", "It was the only thing they could do. Earth needed a place to plant her\n seed, but no world other than Earth could ever be trusted to preserve\n that seed for generation after generation. Some worlds already were\n becoming uncertain.\n\n\n Here, though, the blobs had adapted men to the alien world instead of\n men having to adapt the whole planet to their needs. Here, the strange\n children of man's race could grow, develop and begin the long trek back\n to civilization. The gadgets would be lost for a time. But perhaps\n some of the attitudes of civilized man would remain to make the next\n rise to culture a better one.", "She was silent a long time, staring out of the port toward what must\n now be her home. Then she sighed. \"You'll need practice, but the others\n don't know you as well as I do, Bob. I guess we can fix it so they'll\n believe it all. And it's too late now. But we haven't really been\n changed yet, have we?\"\n\n\n \"No,\" he admitted. Damn his voice! He'd never been good at lying. \"No.\n They have to touch us. I've been touched, but the rest could go back.\"\n\n\n She nodded. He waited for the condemnation, but there was only\n puzzlement in her face. \"Why?\"\n\n\n And then, before he could answer, her own intelligence gave her the\n same answer he had found for himself. \"The spawning ground!\"" ], [ "Another jeep had drawn up, and men were examining the cadets. Pinelli\n was either laughing or crying, and Kaufman was trying to break free to\n kick at the monster. But neither had been harmed. The two were loaded\n onto a jeep while men helped Barker and Gwayne stow the bound monster\n on another before heading back.\n\n\n \"No sign of skull fracture. My God, what a tough brute!\" Barker shook\n his own head, as if feeling the shock of the monster's landing.\n\n\n \"I hope so,\" Gwayne told him. \"I want that thing to live—and you're\n detailed to save it and revive it. Find out if it can make sign\n language or draw pictures. I want to know what happened to Hennessy\n and why that ship was buried against detection. This thing may be the\n answer.\"", "He went to the port and glanced out. About sixty of the things were\n squatting in the clearing fog, holding lances and staring at the ship.\n They were perhaps a thousand yards away, waiting patiently. For what?\n For the return of their leader—or for something that would give the\n ship to them?\n\n\n Gwayne grabbed the phone and called Barker. \"How's the captive coming?\"\n\n\n Barker's voice sounded odd.\n\n\n \"Physically fine. You can see him. But—\"\n\n\n Gwayne dropped the phone and headed for the little sick bay. He swore\n at Doc for not calling him at once, and then at himself for not\n checking up sooner. Then he stopped at the sound of voices.\n\n\n There was the end of a question from Barker and a thick, harsh growling\n sound that lifted the hair along the nape of Gwayne's neck. Barker\n seemed to understand, and was making a comment as the captain dashed in.", "If they could get any story from the captured creature, they might save\n time and be better off than trying to dig through Hennessy's ship. That\n was almost certainly spoorless by now. The only possible answer seemed\n to be that the exploring expedition and Hennessy's rescue group had\n been overcome by the aliens.\n\n\n It was an answer, but it left a lot of questions. How could the\n primitives have gotten to the men inside Hennessy's ship? Why was its\n fuel dumped? Only men would have known how to do that. And who told\n these creatures that a space ship's metal finders could be fooled by a\n little more than a hundred feet of solid rock? They'd buried the ship\n cunningly, and only the accidental slippage had undone their work.", "She was silent a long time, staring out of the port toward what must\n now be her home. Then she sighed. \"You'll need practice, but the others\n don't know you as well as I do, Bob. I guess we can fix it so they'll\n believe it all. And it's too late now. But we haven't really been\n changed yet, have we?\"\n\n\n \"No,\" he admitted. Damn his voice! He'd never been good at lying. \"No.\n They have to touch us. I've been touched, but the rest could go back.\"\n\n\n She nodded. He waited for the condemnation, but there was only\n puzzlement in her face. \"Why?\"\n\n\n And then, before he could answer, her own intelligence gave her the\n same answer he had found for himself. \"The spawning ground!\"", "The wheels locked and the jeep slid protestingly forward. The creature\n leaped back. But Gwayne was out of the jeep before it stopped, diving\n for the figure. It dropped the boys with a surprised grunt.\nThe arms were thin and grotesque below the massively distorted\n shoulders, but amazingly strong. Gwayne felt them wrench at him as his\n hands locked on the thick throat. A stench of alien flesh was in his\n nose as the thing fell backwards. Doc Barker had hit it seconds after\n the captain's attack. Its head hit rocky ground with a dull, heavy\n sound, and it collapsed. Gwayne eased back slowly, but it made no\n further move, though it was still breathing.", "\"We're needed here,\" he told her, his voice pleading for the\n understanding he couldn't yet fully give himself. \"These people need\n as rich a set of bloodlines as possible to give the new race strength.\n The fifty men and women on this ship will be needed to start them with\n a decent chance. We can't go to Earth, where nobody would believe or\n accept the idea—or even let us come back. We have to stay here.\"\n\n\n She smiled then and moved toward him, groping for his strength. \"Be\n fruitful,\" she whispered. \"Be fruitful and spawn and replenish an\n earth.\"\n\n\n \"No,\" he told her. \"Replenish the stars.\"\n\n\n But she was no longer listening, and that part of his idea could wait.", "But\nsomething\nhad happened to the exploration party fifteen years\n back, and to the more recent ship under Hennessy that was sent to check\n up.\nHe turned to the port to stare out at the planet. The Sol-type sun\n must be rising, since there was a dim light. But the thick clouds that\n wrapped the entire world diffused its rays into a haze. For a change,\n it wasn't raining, though the ground was covered by thick swirls of\n fog. In the distance, the tops of shrubs that made a scrub forest\n glowed yellow-green. Motions around them suggested a herd of feeding\n animals. Details were impossible to see through the haze. Even the\n deep gorge where they'd found Hennessy's carefully buried ship was\n completely hidden by the fog.\n\n\n There were three of the blobs dancing about over the grazing animals\n now, as they often seemed to do. Gwayne stared at them for a minute,\n trying to read sense into the things. If he had time to study them....", "The captive was sitting on the bunk, unbound and oddly unmenacing. The\n thick features were relaxed and yet somehow intent. He seemed to make\n some kind of a salute as he saw Gwayne enter, and his eyes burned up\n unerringly toward the device on the officer's cap.\n\n\n \"Haarroo, Cabbaan!\" the thing said.\n\"Captain Gwayne, may I present your former friend, Captain Hennessy?\"\n Barker said. There was a grin on the doctor's lips, but his face was\n taut with strain.\n\n\n The creature nodded slowly and drew something from the thick hair on\n its head. It was the golden comet of a captain.", "The blobs had left the herd. Now the three were streaking at fantastic\n speed to a spot near the ship, to hover excitedly above something that\n moved there.\n\n\n He saw the two cadets then, heading back to the waiting ship, just\n beyond the movement he'd seen through the mist.\n\n\n Whatever was making the fog swirl must have reached higher ground.\n Something began to heave upwards. It was too far to see clearly, but\n Gwayne grabbed the microphone, yelling into the radio toward the cadets.\n\n\n They must have seen whatever it was just as the call reached them.\n Young Kaufman grabbed at Pinelli, and they swung around together.\n\n\n Then the mists cleared.", "There was no time for suits or helmets. The air on the planet was\n irritating and vile smelling, but it could be breathed. He leaped to\n the seat, to see that the driver was Doctor Barker. At a gesture, the\n jeep rolled down the ramp, grinding its gears into second as it picked\n up speed. The other two followed.\n\n\n There was no sign of the cadets at first. Then Gwayne spotted them;\n surrounded by the menacing horde. Seen from here, the things looked\n horrible in a travesty of manhood.\n\n\n The huge leader suddenly waved and pointed toward the jeeps that were\n racing toward him. He made a fantastic leap backwards. Others swung\n about, two of them grabbing up the cadets. The jeep was doing twenty\n miles an hour now, but the horde began to increase the distance, in\n spite of the load of the two struggling boys! The creatures dived\n downward into lower ground, beginning to disappear into the mists.", "The kids of the exploring party....\nBack in the control room, Gwayne found the emergency release levers,\n set the combinations and pressed the studs. There was a hiss and gurgle\n as the great tanks of fuel discharged their contents out onto the\n ground where no ingenuity could ever recover it to bring life to the\n ship again.\n\n\n He'd have to tell the men and women of the crew later, after he'd had\n time to organize things and present it all in a way they could accept,\n however much they might hate it at first. But there was no putting off\n giving the gist of it to Jane.\n\n\n \"It was the blobs,\" he summarized it. \"They seem to be amused by men.\n They don't require anything from us, but they like us around. Hennessy\n doesn't know why. They can change our cells, adapt us. Before men came,\n all life here had twelve legs. Now they're changing that, as we've seen.", "Of course there was no obvious need for caution here. The blobs hadn't\n seemed dangerous, and the local animals were apparently all herbivorous\n and harmless. They were ugly enough, looking like insects in spite of\n their internal skeletons, with anywhere from four to twelve legs each\n on their segmented bodies. None acted like dangerous beasts.", "Barker nodded grimly. \"I'll try, though I can't risk drugs on an alien\n metabolism.\" He sucked in on the cigarette he'd dug out, then spat\n sickly. Smoke and this air made a foul combination. \"Bob, it still\n makes no sense. We've scoured this planet by infra-red, and there was\n no sign of native villages or culture. We should have found some.\"\n\n\n \"Troglodytes, maybe,\" Gwayne guessed. \"Anyhow, send for me when you get\n anything. I've got to get this ship back to Earth. We're overstaying\n our time here already.\"\n\n\n The reports from the cadets were satisfactory enough. They'd been\n picked up and carried, but no harm had been done them. Now they were\n busy being little heroes. Gwayne sentenced them to quarters as soon\n as he could, knowing their stories would only get wilder and less\n informative with retelling.", "It was the only thing they could do. Earth needed a place to plant her\n seed, but no world other than Earth could ever be trusted to preserve\n that seed for generation after generation. Some worlds already were\n becoming uncertain.\n\n\n Here, though, the blobs had adapted men to the alien world instead of\n men having to adapt the whole planet to their needs. Here, the strange\n children of man's race could grow, develop and begin the long trek back\n to civilization. The gadgets would be lost for a time. But perhaps\n some of the attitudes of civilized man would remain to make the next\n rise to culture a better one.", "\"And they don't have to be close to do it. We've all been outside the\n hull. It doesn't show yet—but we're changed. In another month, Earth\n food would kill us. We've got to stay here. We'll bury the ships deeper\n this time, and Earth won't find us. They can't risk trying a colony\n where three ships vanish, so we'll just disappear. And they'll never\n know.\"\n\n\n Nobody would know. Their children—odd children who matured in eight\n years—would be primitive savages in three generations. The Earth\n tools would be useless, impossible for the hands so radically changed.\n Nothing from the ship would last. Books could never be read by the new\n eyes. And in time, Earth wouldn't even be a memory to this world.", "Three. Seven. Zero.\n\n\n The answers were right.\n\n\n By the time the session was over, Gwayne had begun to understand the\n twisted speech from inhuman vocal cords better. But the story took a\n long time telling.\n\n\n When it was finished, Gwayne and Barker sat for long minutes in\n silence. Finally Gwayne drew a shuddering breath and stood up. \"Is it\n possible, Doc?\"", "The creatures vanished as Barker fought to turn to follow them. The\n other jeeps were coming up, by the sound of their motors, but too late\n to help. They'd have to get to the group with the cadets in a hurry or\n the horde would all vanish in the uneven ground, hidden by the fog.\n\n\n A blob dropped down, almost touching Gwayne.\n\n\n He threw up an instinctive hand. There was a tingling as the creature\n seemed to pass around it. It lifted a few inches and drifted off.\n\n\n Abruptly, Barker's foot ground at the brake. Gwayne jolted forward\n against the windshield, just as he made out the form of the eight-foot\n leader. The thing was standing directly ahead of him, a cadet on each\n shoulder.", "But there was no time.\n\n\n Earth had ordered him to detour here, after leaving his load of\n deep-sleep stored colonists on Official World 71, to check on any sign\n of Hennessy. He'd been here a week longer than he should have stayed\n already. If there was no sign in another day or so of what had happened\n to the men who'd deserted their ship and its equipment, he'd have to\n report back.\n\n\n He would have left before, if a recent landslip hadn't exposed enough\n of the buried ship for his metal locators to spot from the air by\n luck. It had obviously been hidden deep enough to foil the detectors\n originally.\n\n\n \"Bob!\" Jane Corey's voice cut through his pondering. \"Bob, there are\n the kids!\"\n\n\n Before he could swing to follow her pointing finger, movement caught\n his eye.", "And there were no worlds perfect for him, as Earth had been. The\n explorers went out in desperation to find what they could; the\n terraforming teams did what they could. And then the big starships\n began filling worlds with colonists, carried in deep sleep to conserve\n space.\n\n\n Almost eighty worlds. The nearest a four month journey from Earth and\n four more months back.\n\n\n In another ten years, the sun would explode, leaving man only on the\n footholds he was trying to dig among other solar systems. Maybe some\n of the strange worlds would let men spread his seed again. Maybe none\n would be spawning grounds for mankind in spite of the efforts. Each was\n precious as a haven for the race.\n\n\n If this world could be used, it would be nearer than most. If not, as\n it now seemed, no more time could be wasted here.", "Under the dancing blobs, a horde of things was heading for the cadets.\n Shaggy heads, brute bodies vaguely man-like! One seemed to be almost\n eight feet tall, leading the others directly toward the spacesuited\n cadets. Some of the horde were carrying spears or sticks. There was a\n momentary halt, and then the leader lifted one arm, as if motioning the\n others forward.\n\"Get the jeeps out!\" Gwayne yelled at Jane. He yanked the door of\n the little officers' lift open and jabbed the down button. It was\n agonizingly slow, but faster than climbing down. He ripped the door\n back at the exit deck. Men were dashing in, stumbling around in\n confusion. But someone was taking over now—one of the crew women. The\n jeeps were lining up. One, at the front, was stuttering into life, and\n Gwayne dashed for it as the exit port slid back." ], [ "And there were no worlds perfect for him, as Earth had been. The\n explorers went out in desperation to find what they could; the\n terraforming teams did what they could. And then the big starships\n began filling worlds with colonists, carried in deep sleep to conserve\n space.\n\n\n Almost eighty worlds. The nearest a four month journey from Earth and\n four more months back.\n\n\n In another ten years, the sun would explode, leaving man only on the\n footholds he was trying to dig among other solar systems. Maybe some\n of the strange worlds would let men spread his seed again. Maybe none\n would be spawning grounds for mankind in spite of the efforts. Each was\n precious as a haven for the race.\n\n\n If this world could be used, it would be nearer than most. If not, as\n it now seemed, no more time could be wasted here.", "It was the only thing they could do. Earth needed a place to plant her\n seed, but no world other than Earth could ever be trusted to preserve\n that seed for generation after generation. Some worlds already were\n becoming uncertain.\n\n\n Here, though, the blobs had adapted men to the alien world instead of\n men having to adapt the whole planet to their needs. Here, the strange\n children of man's race could grow, develop and begin the long trek back\n to civilization. The gadgets would be lost for a time. But perhaps\n some of the attitudes of civilized man would remain to make the next\n rise to culture a better one.", "\"We're needed here,\" he told her, his voice pleading for the\n understanding he couldn't yet fully give himself. \"These people need\n as rich a set of bloodlines as possible to give the new race strength.\n The fifty men and women on this ship will be needed to start them with\n a decent chance. We can't go to Earth, where nobody would believe or\n accept the idea—or even let us come back. We have to stay here.\"\n\n\n She smiled then and moved toward him, groping for his strength. \"Be\n fruitful,\" she whispered. \"Be fruitful and spawn and replenish an\n earth.\"\n\n\n \"No,\" he told her. \"Replenish the stars.\"\n\n\n But she was no longer listening, and that part of his idea could wait.", "Some day, though, their children would find a way to the starlanes\n again, looking for other worlds. With the blobs to help them, they\n could adapt to most worlds. The unchanged spirit would lead them\n through all space, and the changing bodies would claim worlds beyond\n numbering.\n\n\n Some day, the whole universe would be a spawning ground for the\n children of men!", "Maybe there would never be a full answer, but he had to find\n something—and find it fast. Earth needed every world she could make\n remotely habitable, or mankind was probably doomed to extinction.\nThe race had blundered safely through its discovery of atomic weapons\n into a peace that had lasted two hundred years. It had managed to\n prevent an interplanetary war with the Venus colonists. It had found\n a drive that led to the stars, and hadn't even found intelligent life\n there to be dangerous on the few worlds that had cultures of their own.\n\n\n But forty years ago, observations from beyond the Solar System had\n finally proved that the sun was going to go nova.\n\n\n It wouldn't be much of an explosion, as such things go—but it would\n render the whole Solar System uninhabitable for millenia. To survive,\n man had to colonize.", "\"And they don't have to be close to do it. We've all been outside the\n hull. It doesn't show yet—but we're changed. In another month, Earth\n food would kill us. We've got to stay here. We'll bury the ships deeper\n this time, and Earth won't find us. They can't risk trying a colony\n where three ships vanish, so we'll just disappear. And they'll never\n know.\"\n\n\n Nobody would know. Their children—odd children who matured in eight\n years—would be primitive savages in three generations. The Earth\n tools would be useless, impossible for the hands so radically changed.\n Nothing from the ship would last. Books could never be read by the new\n eyes. And in time, Earth wouldn't even be a memory to this world.", "But\nsomething\nhad happened to the exploration party fifteen years\n back, and to the more recent ship under Hennessy that was sent to check\n up.\nHe turned to the port to stare out at the planet. The Sol-type sun\n must be rising, since there was a dim light. But the thick clouds that\n wrapped the entire world diffused its rays into a haze. For a change,\n it wasn't raining, though the ground was covered by thick swirls of\n fog. In the distance, the tops of shrubs that made a scrub forest\n glowed yellow-green. Motions around them suggested a herd of feeding\n animals. Details were impossible to see through the haze. Even the\n deep gorge where they'd found Hennessy's carefully buried ship was\n completely hidden by the fog.\n\n\n There were three of the blobs dancing about over the grazing animals\n now, as they often seemed to do. Gwayne stared at them for a minute,\n trying to read sense into the things. If he had time to study them....", "If they could get any story from the captured creature, they might save\n time and be better off than trying to dig through Hennessy's ship. That\n was almost certainly spoorless by now. The only possible answer seemed\n to be that the exploring expedition and Hennessy's rescue group had\n been overcome by the aliens.\n\n\n It was an answer, but it left a lot of questions. How could the\n primitives have gotten to the men inside Hennessy's ship? Why was its\n fuel dumped? Only men would have known how to do that. And who told\n these creatures that a space ship's metal finders could be fooled by a\n little more than a hundred feet of solid rock? They'd buried the ship\n cunningly, and only the accidental slippage had undone their work.", "The kids of the exploring party....\nBack in the control room, Gwayne found the emergency release levers,\n set the combinations and pressed the studs. There was a hiss and gurgle\n as the great tanks of fuel discharged their contents out onto the\n ground where no ingenuity could ever recover it to bring life to the\n ship again.\n\n\n He'd have to tell the men and women of the crew later, after he'd had\n time to organize things and present it all in a way they could accept,\n however much they might hate it at first. But there was no putting off\n giving the gist of it to Jane.\n\n\n \"It was the blobs,\" he summarized it. \"They seem to be amused by men.\n They don't require anything from us, but they like us around. Hennessy\n doesn't know why. They can change our cells, adapt us. Before men came,\n all life here had twelve legs. Now they're changing that, as we've seen.", "Captain Gwayne cursed and rolled over, reaching for his boots. He was\n a big, rawboned man, barely forty; but ten years of responsibility\n had pressed down his shoulders and put age-feigning hollows under his\n reddened eyes. The starlanes between Earth and her potential colonies\n were rough on the men who traveled them now. He shuffled toward the\n control room, grumbling at the heavy gravity.\n\n\n Lieutenant Jane Corey looked up, nodding a blonde head at him as he\n moved toward the ever-waiting pot of murky coffee. \"Morning, Bob. You\n need a shave.\"\n\n\n \"Yeah.\" He swallowed the hot coffee without tasting it, then ran a\n hand across the dark stubble on his chin. It could wait. \"Anything new\n during the night?\"", "Under the dancing blobs, a horde of things was heading for the cadets.\n Shaggy heads, brute bodies vaguely man-like! One seemed to be almost\n eight feet tall, leading the others directly toward the spacesuited\n cadets. Some of the horde were carrying spears or sticks. There was a\n momentary halt, and then the leader lifted one arm, as if motioning the\n others forward.\n\"Get the jeeps out!\" Gwayne yelled at Jane. He yanked the door of\n the little officers' lift open and jabbed the down button. It was\n agonizingly slow, but faster than climbing down. He ripped the door\n back at the exit deck. Men were dashing in, stumbling around in\n confusion. But someone was taking over now—one of the crew women. The\n jeeps were lining up. One, at the front, was stuttering into life, and\n Gwayne dashed for it as the exit port slid back.", "But there was no time.\n\n\n Earth had ordered him to detour here, after leaving his load of\n deep-sleep stored colonists on Official World 71, to check on any sign\n of Hennessy. He'd been here a week longer than he should have stayed\n already. If there was no sign in another day or so of what had happened\n to the men who'd deserted their ship and its equipment, he'd have to\n report back.\n\n\n He would have left before, if a recent landslip hadn't exposed enough\n of the buried ship for his metal locators to spot from the air by\n luck. It had obviously been hidden deep enough to foil the detectors\n originally.\n\n\n \"Bob!\" Jane Corey's voice cut through his pondering. \"Bob, there are\n the kids!\"\n\n\n Before he could swing to follow her pointing finger, movement caught\n his eye.", "\"About a dozen blobs held something like a convention a little ways\n north of us. They broke up about an hour ago and streaked off into the\n clouds.\" The blobs were a peculiarity of this planet about which nobody\n knew anything. They looked like overgrown fireballs, but seemed to have\n an almost sentient curiosity about anything moving on the ground. \"And\n our two cadets sneaked out again. Barker followed them, but lost them\n in the murk. I've kept a signal going to guide them back.\"\n\n\n Gwayne swore softly to himself. Earth couldn't turn out enough starmen\n in the schools, so promising kids were being shipped out for training\n as cadets on their twelfth birthday. The two he'd drawn, Kaufman and\n Pinelli, seemed to be totally devoid of any sense of caution.", "The blobs had left the herd. Now the three were streaking at fantastic\n speed to a spot near the ship, to hover excitedly above something that\n moved there.\n\n\n He saw the two cadets then, heading back to the waiting ship, just\n beyond the movement he'd seen through the mist.\n\n\n Whatever was making the fog swirl must have reached higher ground.\n Something began to heave upwards. It was too far to see clearly, but\n Gwayne grabbed the microphone, yelling into the radio toward the cadets.\n\n\n They must have seen whatever it was just as the call reached them.\n Young Kaufman grabbed at Pinelli, and they swung around together.\n\n\n Then the mists cleared.", "Primitives could be overcome, maybe. It would be ruthless and unfair to\n strip them of their world, but the first law was survival.\n\n\n But how could primitives do what these must have done?\n\n\n He studied the spear he had salvaged. It was on a staff made of\n cemented bits of smaller wood from the scrub growth, skillfully\n laminated. The point was of delicately chipped flint, done as no human\n hand had been able to do for centuries.\n\n\n \"Beautiful primitive work,\" he muttered.\n\n\n Jane pulled the coffee cup away from her lips and snorted. \"You can\n see a lot more of it out there,\" she suggested.", "There was no time for suits or helmets. The air on the planet was\n irritating and vile smelling, but it could be breathed. He leaped to\n the seat, to see that the driver was Doctor Barker. At a gesture, the\n jeep rolled down the ramp, grinding its gears into second as it picked\n up speed. The other two followed.\n\n\n There was no sign of the cadets at first. Then Gwayne spotted them;\n surrounded by the menacing horde. Seen from here, the things looked\n horrible in a travesty of manhood.\n\n\n The huge leader suddenly waved and pointed toward the jeeps that were\n racing toward him. He made a fantastic leap backwards. Others swung\n about, two of them grabbing up the cadets. The jeep was doing twenty\n miles an hour now, but the horde began to increase the distance, in\n spite of the load of the two struggling boys! The creatures dived\n downward into lower ground, beginning to disappear into the mists.", "Barker nodded grimly. \"I'll try, though I can't risk drugs on an alien\n metabolism.\" He sucked in on the cigarette he'd dug out, then spat\n sickly. Smoke and this air made a foul combination. \"Bob, it still\n makes no sense. We've scoured this planet by infra-red, and there was\n no sign of native villages or culture. We should have found some.\"\n\n\n \"Troglodytes, maybe,\" Gwayne guessed. \"Anyhow, send for me when you get\n anything. I've got to get this ship back to Earth. We're overstaying\n our time here already.\"\n\n\n The reports from the cadets were satisfactory enough. They'd been\n picked up and carried, but no harm had been done them. Now they were\n busy being little heroes. Gwayne sentenced them to quarters as soon\n as he could, knowing their stories would only get wilder and less\n informative with retelling.", "Another jeep had drawn up, and men were examining the cadets. Pinelli\n was either laughing or crying, and Kaufman was trying to break free to\n kick at the monster. But neither had been harmed. The two were loaded\n onto a jeep while men helped Barker and Gwayne stow the bound monster\n on another before heading back.\n\n\n \"No sign of skull fracture. My God, what a tough brute!\" Barker shook\n his own head, as if feeling the shock of the monster's landing.\n\n\n \"I hope so,\" Gwayne told him. \"I want that thing to live—and you're\n detailed to save it and revive it. Find out if it can make sign\n language or draw pictures. I want to know what happened to Hennessy\n and why that ship was buried against detection. This thing may be the\n answer.\"", "She was silent a long time, staring out of the port toward what must\n now be her home. Then she sighed. \"You'll need practice, but the others\n don't know you as well as I do, Bob. I guess we can fix it so they'll\n believe it all. And it's too late now. But we haven't really been\n changed yet, have we?\"\n\n\n \"No,\" he admitted. Damn his voice! He'd never been good at lying. \"No.\n They have to touch us. I've been touched, but the rest could go back.\"\n\n\n She nodded. He waited for the condemnation, but there was only\n puzzlement in her face. \"Why?\"\n\n\n And then, before he could answer, her own intelligence gave her the\n same answer he had found for himself. \"The spawning ground!\"", "Spawning Ground\nBy LESTER DEL REY\nThey weren't human. They were something\n\n more—and something less—they were,\n\n in short, humanity's hopes for survival!\n\n\n [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nThe Starship\nPandora\ncreaked and groaned as her landing pads settled\n unevenly in the mucky surface of the ugly world outside. She seemed to\n be restless to end her fool's errand here, two hundred light years from\n the waiting hordes on Earth. Straining metal plates twanged and echoed\n through her hallways." ], [ "If they could get any story from the captured creature, they might save\n time and be better off than trying to dig through Hennessy's ship. That\n was almost certainly spoorless by now. The only possible answer seemed\n to be that the exploring expedition and Hennessy's rescue group had\n been overcome by the aliens.\n\n\n It was an answer, but it left a lot of questions. How could the\n primitives have gotten to the men inside Hennessy's ship? Why was its\n fuel dumped? Only men would have known how to do that. And who told\n these creatures that a space ship's metal finders could be fooled by a\n little more than a hundred feet of solid rock? They'd buried the ship\n cunningly, and only the accidental slippage had undone their work.", "But there was no time.\n\n\n Earth had ordered him to detour here, after leaving his load of\n deep-sleep stored colonists on Official World 71, to check on any sign\n of Hennessy. He'd been here a week longer than he should have stayed\n already. If there was no sign in another day or so of what had happened\n to the men who'd deserted their ship and its equipment, he'd have to\n report back.\n\n\n He would have left before, if a recent landslip hadn't exposed enough\n of the buried ship for his metal locators to spot from the air by\n luck. It had obviously been hidden deep enough to foil the detectors\n originally.\n\n\n \"Bob!\" Jane Corey's voice cut through his pondering. \"Bob, there are\n the kids!\"\n\n\n Before he could swing to follow her pointing finger, movement caught\n his eye.", "The captive was sitting on the bunk, unbound and oddly unmenacing. The\n thick features were relaxed and yet somehow intent. He seemed to make\n some kind of a salute as he saw Gwayne enter, and his eyes burned up\n unerringly toward the device on the officer's cap.\n\n\n \"Haarroo, Cabbaan!\" the thing said.\n\"Captain Gwayne, may I present your former friend, Captain Hennessy?\"\n Barker said. There was a grin on the doctor's lips, but his face was\n taut with strain.\n\n\n The creature nodded slowly and drew something from the thick hair on\n its head. It was the golden comet of a captain.", "The kids of the exploring party....\nBack in the control room, Gwayne found the emergency release levers,\n set the combinations and pressed the studs. There was a hiss and gurgle\n as the great tanks of fuel discharged their contents out onto the\n ground where no ingenuity could ever recover it to bring life to the\n ship again.\n\n\n He'd have to tell the men and women of the crew later, after he'd had\n time to organize things and present it all in a way they could accept,\n however much they might hate it at first. But there was no putting off\n giving the gist of it to Jane.\n\n\n \"It was the blobs,\" he summarized it. \"They seem to be amused by men.\n They don't require anything from us, but they like us around. Hennessy\n doesn't know why. They can change our cells, adapt us. Before men came,\n all life here had twelve legs. Now they're changing that, as we've seen.", "Another jeep had drawn up, and men were examining the cadets. Pinelli\n was either laughing or crying, and Kaufman was trying to break free to\n kick at the monster. But neither had been harmed. The two were loaded\n onto a jeep while men helped Barker and Gwayne stow the bound monster\n on another before heading back.\n\n\n \"No sign of skull fracture. My God, what a tough brute!\" Barker shook\n his own head, as if feeling the shock of the monster's landing.\n\n\n \"I hope so,\" Gwayne told him. \"I want that thing to live—and you're\n detailed to save it and revive it. Find out if it can make sign\n language or draw pictures. I want to know what happened to Hennessy\n and why that ship was buried against detection. This thing may be the\n answer.\"", "\"He never meant to hurt the kids—just to talk to them,\" Barker cut in\n quickly. \"I've got some of the story. He's changed. He can't talk very\n well. Says they've had to change the language around to make the sounds\n fit, and he's forgotten how to use what normal English he can. But it\n gets easier as you listen. It's Hennessy, all right. I'm certain.\"\n\n\n Gwayne had his own ideas on that. It was easy for an alien to seize\n on the gold ornament of a captive earthman, even to learn a little\n English, maybe. But Hennessy had been his friend.\n\n\n \"How many barmaids in the Cheshire Cat? How many pups did your oldest\n kid's dog have? How many were brown?\"\n\n\n The lips contorted into something vaguely like a smile, and the\n curiously shaped fingers that could handle no human-designed equipment\n spread out.", "But\nsomething\nhad happened to the exploration party fifteen years\n back, and to the more recent ship under Hennessy that was sent to check\n up.\nHe turned to the port to stare out at the planet. The Sol-type sun\n must be rising, since there was a dim light. But the thick clouds that\n wrapped the entire world diffused its rays into a haze. For a change,\n it wasn't raining, though the ground was covered by thick swirls of\n fog. In the distance, the tops of shrubs that made a scrub forest\n glowed yellow-green. Motions around them suggested a herd of feeding\n animals. Details were impossible to see through the haze. Even the\n deep gorge where they'd found Hennessy's carefully buried ship was\n completely hidden by the fog.\n\n\n There were three of the blobs dancing about over the grazing animals\n now, as they often seemed to do. Gwayne stared at them for a minute,\n trying to read sense into the things. If he had time to study them....", "\"And they don't have to be close to do it. We've all been outside the\n hull. It doesn't show yet—but we're changed. In another month, Earth\n food would kill us. We've got to stay here. We'll bury the ships deeper\n this time, and Earth won't find us. They can't risk trying a colony\n where three ships vanish, so we'll just disappear. And they'll never\n know.\"\n\n\n Nobody would know. Their children—odd children who matured in eight\n years—would be primitive savages in three generations. The Earth\n tools would be useless, impossible for the hands so radically changed.\n Nothing from the ship would last. Books could never be read by the new\n eyes. And in time, Earth wouldn't even be a memory to this world.", "And there were no worlds perfect for him, as Earth had been. The\n explorers went out in desperation to find what they could; the\n terraforming teams did what they could. And then the big starships\n began filling worlds with colonists, carried in deep sleep to conserve\n space.\n\n\n Almost eighty worlds. The nearest a four month journey from Earth and\n four more months back.\n\n\n In another ten years, the sun would explode, leaving man only on the\n footholds he was trying to dig among other solar systems. Maybe some\n of the strange worlds would let men spread his seed again. Maybe none\n would be spawning grounds for mankind in spite of the efforts. Each was\n precious as a haven for the race.\n\n\n If this world could be used, it would be nearer than most. If not, as\n it now seemed, no more time could be wasted here.", "The blobs had left the herd. Now the three were streaking at fantastic\n speed to a spot near the ship, to hover excitedly above something that\n moved there.\n\n\n He saw the two cadets then, heading back to the waiting ship, just\n beyond the movement he'd seen through the mist.\n\n\n Whatever was making the fog swirl must have reached higher ground.\n Something began to heave upwards. It was too far to see clearly, but\n Gwayne grabbed the microphone, yelling into the radio toward the cadets.\n\n\n They must have seen whatever it was just as the call reached them.\n Young Kaufman grabbed at Pinelli, and they swung around together.\n\n\n Then the mists cleared.", "He went to the port and glanced out. About sixty of the things were\n squatting in the clearing fog, holding lances and staring at the ship.\n They were perhaps a thousand yards away, waiting patiently. For what?\n For the return of their leader—or for something that would give the\n ship to them?\n\n\n Gwayne grabbed the phone and called Barker. \"How's the captive coming?\"\n\n\n Barker's voice sounded odd.\n\n\n \"Physically fine. You can see him. But—\"\n\n\n Gwayne dropped the phone and headed for the little sick bay. He swore\n at Doc for not calling him at once, and then at himself for not\n checking up sooner. Then he stopped at the sound of voices.\n\n\n There was the end of a question from Barker and a thick, harsh growling\n sound that lifted the hair along the nape of Gwayne's neck. Barker\n seemed to understand, and was making a comment as the captain dashed in.", "Captain Gwayne cursed and rolled over, reaching for his boots. He was\n a big, rawboned man, barely forty; but ten years of responsibility\n had pressed down his shoulders and put age-feigning hollows under his\n reddened eyes. The starlanes between Earth and her potential colonies\n were rough on the men who traveled them now. He shuffled toward the\n control room, grumbling at the heavy gravity.\n\n\n Lieutenant Jane Corey looked up, nodding a blonde head at him as he\n moved toward the ever-waiting pot of murky coffee. \"Morning, Bob. You\n need a shave.\"\n\n\n \"Yeah.\" He swallowed the hot coffee without tasting it, then ran a\n hand across the dark stubble on his chin. It could wait. \"Anything new\n during the night?\"", "The wheels locked and the jeep slid protestingly forward. The creature\n leaped back. But Gwayne was out of the jeep before it stopped, diving\n for the figure. It dropped the boys with a surprised grunt.\nThe arms were thin and grotesque below the massively distorted\n shoulders, but amazingly strong. Gwayne felt them wrench at him as his\n hands locked on the thick throat. A stench of alien flesh was in his\n nose as the thing fell backwards. Doc Barker had hit it seconds after\n the captain's attack. Its head hit rocky ground with a dull, heavy\n sound, and it collapsed. Gwayne eased back slowly, but it made no\n further move, though it was still breathing.", "It was the only thing they could do. Earth needed a place to plant her\n seed, but no world other than Earth could ever be trusted to preserve\n that seed for generation after generation. Some worlds already were\n becoming uncertain.\n\n\n Here, though, the blobs had adapted men to the alien world instead of\n men having to adapt the whole planet to their needs. Here, the strange\n children of man's race could grow, develop and begin the long trek back\n to civilization. The gadgets would be lost for a time. But perhaps\n some of the attitudes of civilized man would remain to make the next\n rise to culture a better one.", "There was no time for suits or helmets. The air on the planet was\n irritating and vile smelling, but it could be breathed. He leaped to\n the seat, to see that the driver was Doctor Barker. At a gesture, the\n jeep rolled down the ramp, grinding its gears into second as it picked\n up speed. The other two followed.\n\n\n There was no sign of the cadets at first. Then Gwayne spotted them;\n surrounded by the menacing horde. Seen from here, the things looked\n horrible in a travesty of manhood.\n\n\n The huge leader suddenly waved and pointed toward the jeeps that were\n racing toward him. He made a fantastic leap backwards. Others swung\n about, two of them grabbing up the cadets. The jeep was doing twenty\n miles an hour now, but the horde began to increase the distance, in\n spite of the load of the two struggling boys! The creatures dived\n downward into lower ground, beginning to disappear into the mists.", "She was silent a long time, staring out of the port toward what must\n now be her home. Then she sighed. \"You'll need practice, but the others\n don't know you as well as I do, Bob. I guess we can fix it so they'll\n believe it all. And it's too late now. But we haven't really been\n changed yet, have we?\"\n\n\n \"No,\" he admitted. Damn his voice! He'd never been good at lying. \"No.\n They have to touch us. I've been touched, but the rest could go back.\"\n\n\n She nodded. He waited for the condemnation, but there was only\n puzzlement in her face. \"Why?\"\n\n\n And then, before he could answer, her own intelligence gave her the\n same answer he had found for himself. \"The spawning ground!\"", "Under the dancing blobs, a horde of things was heading for the cadets.\n Shaggy heads, brute bodies vaguely man-like! One seemed to be almost\n eight feet tall, leading the others directly toward the spacesuited\n cadets. Some of the horde were carrying spears or sticks. There was a\n momentary halt, and then the leader lifted one arm, as if motioning the\n others forward.\n\"Get the jeeps out!\" Gwayne yelled at Jane. He yanked the door of\n the little officers' lift open and jabbed the down button. It was\n agonizingly slow, but faster than climbing down. He ripped the door\n back at the exit deck. Men were dashing in, stumbling around in\n confusion. But someone was taking over now—one of the crew women. The\n jeeps were lining up. One, at the front, was stuttering into life, and\n Gwayne dashed for it as the exit port slid back.", "\"About a dozen blobs held something like a convention a little ways\n north of us. They broke up about an hour ago and streaked off into the\n clouds.\" The blobs were a peculiarity of this planet about which nobody\n knew anything. They looked like overgrown fireballs, but seemed to have\n an almost sentient curiosity about anything moving on the ground. \"And\n our two cadets sneaked out again. Barker followed them, but lost them\n in the murk. I've kept a signal going to guide them back.\"\n\n\n Gwayne swore softly to himself. Earth couldn't turn out enough starmen\n in the schools, so promising kids were being shipped out for training\n as cadets on their twelfth birthday. The two he'd drawn, Kaufman and\n Pinelli, seemed to be totally devoid of any sense of caution.", "Barker nodded grimly. \"I'll try, though I can't risk drugs on an alien\n metabolism.\" He sucked in on the cigarette he'd dug out, then spat\n sickly. Smoke and this air made a foul combination. \"Bob, it still\n makes no sense. We've scoured this planet by infra-red, and there was\n no sign of native villages or culture. We should have found some.\"\n\n\n \"Troglodytes, maybe,\" Gwayne guessed. \"Anyhow, send for me when you get\n anything. I've got to get this ship back to Earth. We're overstaying\n our time here already.\"\n\n\n The reports from the cadets were satisfactory enough. They'd been\n picked up and carried, but no harm had been done them. Now they were\n busy being little heroes. Gwayne sentenced them to quarters as soon\n as he could, knowing their stories would only get wilder and less\n informative with retelling.", "\"We're needed here,\" he told her, his voice pleading for the\n understanding he couldn't yet fully give himself. \"These people need\n as rich a set of bloodlines as possible to give the new race strength.\n The fifty men and women on this ship will be needed to start them with\n a decent chance. We can't go to Earth, where nobody would believe or\n accept the idea—or even let us come back. We have to stay here.\"\n\n\n She smiled then and moved toward him, groping for his strength. \"Be\n fruitful,\" she whispered. \"Be fruitful and spawn and replenish an\n earth.\"\n\n\n \"No,\" he told her. \"Replenish the stars.\"\n\n\n But she was no longer listening, and that part of his idea could wait." ], [ "He went to the port and glanced out. About sixty of the things were\n squatting in the clearing fog, holding lances and staring at the ship.\n They were perhaps a thousand yards away, waiting patiently. For what?\n For the return of their leader—or for something that would give the\n ship to them?\n\n\n Gwayne grabbed the phone and called Barker. \"How's the captive coming?\"\n\n\n Barker's voice sounded odd.\n\n\n \"Physically fine. You can see him. But—\"\n\n\n Gwayne dropped the phone and headed for the little sick bay. He swore\n at Doc for not calling him at once, and then at himself for not\n checking up sooner. Then he stopped at the sound of voices.\n\n\n There was the end of a question from Barker and a thick, harsh growling\n sound that lifted the hair along the nape of Gwayne's neck. Barker\n seemed to understand, and was making a comment as the captain dashed in.", "Three. Seven. Zero.\n\n\n The answers were right.\n\n\n By the time the session was over, Gwayne had begun to understand the\n twisted speech from inhuman vocal cords better. But the story took a\n long time telling.\n\n\n When it was finished, Gwayne and Barker sat for long minutes in\n silence. Finally Gwayne drew a shuddering breath and stood up. \"Is it\n possible, Doc?\"", "The blobs had left the herd. Now the three were streaking at fantastic\n speed to a spot near the ship, to hover excitedly above something that\n moved there.\n\n\n He saw the two cadets then, heading back to the waiting ship, just\n beyond the movement he'd seen through the mist.\n\n\n Whatever was making the fog swirl must have reached higher ground.\n Something began to heave upwards. It was too far to see clearly, but\n Gwayne grabbed the microphone, yelling into the radio toward the cadets.\n\n\n They must have seen whatever it was just as the call reached them.\n Young Kaufman grabbed at Pinelli, and they swung around together.\n\n\n Then the mists cleared.", "\"We're needed here,\" he told her, his voice pleading for the\n understanding he couldn't yet fully give himself. \"These people need\n as rich a set of bloodlines as possible to give the new race strength.\n The fifty men and women on this ship will be needed to start them with\n a decent chance. We can't go to Earth, where nobody would believe or\n accept the idea—or even let us come back. We have to stay here.\"\n\n\n She smiled then and moved toward him, groping for his strength. \"Be\n fruitful,\" she whispered. \"Be fruitful and spawn and replenish an\n earth.\"\n\n\n \"No,\" he told her. \"Replenish the stars.\"\n\n\n But she was no longer listening, and that part of his idea could wait.", "\"Follow the blobs,\" Gwayne yelled. He realized now he'd been a fool to\n leave his suit; the radio would have let him keep in contact with the\n kids. But it was too late to go back.\n\n\n The blobs danced after the horde. Barker bounced the jeep downward into\n a gorge. Somewhere the man had learned to drive superlatively; but he\n had to slow as the fog thickened lower down.\n\n\n Then it cleared to show the mob of creatures doubling back on their own\n trail to confuse the pursuers.\n\n\n There was no time to stop. The jeep plowed through them. Gwayne had a\n glimpse of five-foot bodies tumbling out of the way. Monstrously coarse\n faces were half hidden by thick hair. A spear crunched against the\n windshield from behind, and Gwayne caught it before it could foul the\n steering wheel. It had a wickedly beautiful point of stone.", "The wheels locked and the jeep slid protestingly forward. The creature\n leaped back. But Gwayne was out of the jeep before it stopped, diving\n for the figure. It dropped the boys with a surprised grunt.\nThe arms were thin and grotesque below the massively distorted\n shoulders, but amazingly strong. Gwayne felt them wrench at him as his\n hands locked on the thick throat. A stench of alien flesh was in his\n nose as the thing fell backwards. Doc Barker had hit it seconds after\n the captain's attack. Its head hit rocky ground with a dull, heavy\n sound, and it collapsed. Gwayne eased back slowly, but it made no\n further move, though it was still breathing.", "She was silent a long time, staring out of the port toward what must\n now be her home. Then she sighed. \"You'll need practice, but the others\n don't know you as well as I do, Bob. I guess we can fix it so they'll\n believe it all. And it's too late now. But we haven't really been\n changed yet, have we?\"\n\n\n \"No,\" he admitted. Damn his voice! He'd never been good at lying. \"No.\n They have to touch us. I've been touched, but the rest could go back.\"\n\n\n She nodded. He waited for the condemnation, but there was only\n puzzlement in her face. \"Why?\"\n\n\n And then, before he could answer, her own intelligence gave her the\n same answer he had found for himself. \"The spawning ground!\"", "There was no time for suits or helmets. The air on the planet was\n irritating and vile smelling, but it could be breathed. He leaped to\n the seat, to see that the driver was Doctor Barker. At a gesture, the\n jeep rolled down the ramp, grinding its gears into second as it picked\n up speed. The other two followed.\n\n\n There was no sign of the cadets at first. Then Gwayne spotted them;\n surrounded by the menacing horde. Seen from here, the things looked\n horrible in a travesty of manhood.\n\n\n The huge leader suddenly waved and pointed toward the jeeps that were\n racing toward him. He made a fantastic leap backwards. Others swung\n about, two of them grabbing up the cadets. The jeep was doing twenty\n miles an hour now, but the horde began to increase the distance, in\n spite of the load of the two struggling boys! The creatures dived\n downward into lower ground, beginning to disappear into the mists.", "Barker nodded grimly. \"I'll try, though I can't risk drugs on an alien\n metabolism.\" He sucked in on the cigarette he'd dug out, then spat\n sickly. Smoke and this air made a foul combination. \"Bob, it still\n makes no sense. We've scoured this planet by infra-red, and there was\n no sign of native villages or culture. We should have found some.\"\n\n\n \"Troglodytes, maybe,\" Gwayne guessed. \"Anyhow, send for me when you get\n anything. I've got to get this ship back to Earth. We're overstaying\n our time here already.\"\n\n\n The reports from the cadets were satisfactory enough. They'd been\n picked up and carried, but no harm had been done them. Now they were\n busy being little heroes. Gwayne sentenced them to quarters as soon\n as he could, knowing their stories would only get wilder and less\n informative with retelling.", "Under the dancing blobs, a horde of things was heading for the cadets.\n Shaggy heads, brute bodies vaguely man-like! One seemed to be almost\n eight feet tall, leading the others directly toward the spacesuited\n cadets. Some of the horde were carrying spears or sticks. There was a\n momentary halt, and then the leader lifted one arm, as if motioning the\n others forward.\n\"Get the jeeps out!\" Gwayne yelled at Jane. He yanked the door of\n the little officers' lift open and jabbed the down button. It was\n agonizingly slow, but faster than climbing down. He ripped the door\n back at the exit deck. Men were dashing in, stumbling around in\n confusion. But someone was taking over now—one of the crew women. The\n jeeps were lining up. One, at the front, was stuttering into life, and\n Gwayne dashed for it as the exit port slid back.", "The kids of the exploring party....\nBack in the control room, Gwayne found the emergency release levers,\n set the combinations and pressed the studs. There was a hiss and gurgle\n as the great tanks of fuel discharged their contents out onto the\n ground where no ingenuity could ever recover it to bring life to the\n ship again.\n\n\n He'd have to tell the men and women of the crew later, after he'd had\n time to organize things and present it all in a way they could accept,\n however much they might hate it at first. But there was no putting off\n giving the gist of it to Jane.\n\n\n \"It was the blobs,\" he summarized it. \"They seem to be amused by men.\n They don't require anything from us, but they like us around. Hennessy\n doesn't know why. They can change our cells, adapt us. Before men came,\n all life here had twelve legs. Now they're changing that, as we've seen.", "It was the only thing they could do. Earth needed a place to plant her\n seed, but no world other than Earth could ever be trusted to preserve\n that seed for generation after generation. Some worlds already were\n becoming uncertain.\n\n\n Here, though, the blobs had adapted men to the alien world instead of\n men having to adapt the whole planet to their needs. Here, the strange\n children of man's race could grow, develop and begin the long trek back\n to civilization. The gadgets would be lost for a time. But perhaps\n some of the attitudes of civilized man would remain to make the next\n rise to culture a better one.", "But\nsomething\nhad happened to the exploration party fifteen years\n back, and to the more recent ship under Hennessy that was sent to check\n up.\nHe turned to the port to stare out at the planet. The Sol-type sun\n must be rising, since there was a dim light. But the thick clouds that\n wrapped the entire world diffused its rays into a haze. For a change,\n it wasn't raining, though the ground was covered by thick swirls of\n fog. In the distance, the tops of shrubs that made a scrub forest\n glowed yellow-green. Motions around them suggested a herd of feeding\n animals. Details were impossible to see through the haze. Even the\n deep gorge where they'd found Hennessy's carefully buried ship was\n completely hidden by the fog.\n\n\n There were three of the blobs dancing about over the grazing animals\n now, as they often seemed to do. Gwayne stared at them for a minute,\n trying to read sense into the things. If he had time to study them....", "\"No,\" Barker said flatly. He spread his hands and grimaced. \"No. Not\n by what I know. But it happened. I've looked at a few tissues under\n the microscope. The changes are there. It's hard to believe about\n their kids. Adults in eight years, but they stay shorter. It can't be\n a hereditary change—the things that affect the body don't change the\n germ plasm. But in this case, what changed Hennessy is real, so maybe\n the fact that the change is passed on is as real as he claims.\"\n\n\n Gwayne led the former Hennessy to the exit. The waiting blobs dropped\n down to touch the monstrous man, then leaped up again. The crowd of\n monsters began moving forward toward their leader. A few were almost as\n tall as Hennessy, but most were not more than five feet high.", "Another jeep had drawn up, and men were examining the cadets. Pinelli\n was either laughing or crying, and Kaufman was trying to break free to\n kick at the monster. But neither had been harmed. The two were loaded\n onto a jeep while men helped Barker and Gwayne stow the bound monster\n on another before heading back.\n\n\n \"No sign of skull fracture. My God, what a tough brute!\" Barker shook\n his own head, as if feeling the shock of the monster's landing.\n\n\n \"I hope so,\" Gwayne told him. \"I want that thing to live—and you're\n detailed to save it and revive it. Find out if it can make sign\n language or draw pictures. I want to know what happened to Hennessy\n and why that ship was buried against detection. This thing may be the\n answer.\"", "\"And they don't have to be close to do it. We've all been outside the\n hull. It doesn't show yet—but we're changed. In another month, Earth\n food would kill us. We've got to stay here. We'll bury the ships deeper\n this time, and Earth won't find us. They can't risk trying a colony\n where three ships vanish, so we'll just disappear. And they'll never\n know.\"\n\n\n Nobody would know. Their children—odd children who matured in eight\n years—would be primitive savages in three generations. The Earth\n tools would be useless, impossible for the hands so radically changed.\n Nothing from the ship would last. Books could never be read by the new\n eyes. And in time, Earth wouldn't even be a memory to this world.", "The creatures vanished as Barker fought to turn to follow them. The\n other jeeps were coming up, by the sound of their motors, but too late\n to help. They'd have to get to the group with the cadets in a hurry or\n the horde would all vanish in the uneven ground, hidden by the fog.\n\n\n A blob dropped down, almost touching Gwayne.\n\n\n He threw up an instinctive hand. There was a tingling as the creature\n seemed to pass around it. It lifted a few inches and drifted off.\n\n\n Abruptly, Barker's foot ground at the brake. Gwayne jolted forward\n against the windshield, just as he made out the form of the eight-foot\n leader. The thing was standing directly ahead of him, a cadet on each\n shoulder.", "\"He never meant to hurt the kids—just to talk to them,\" Barker cut in\n quickly. \"I've got some of the story. He's changed. He can't talk very\n well. Says they've had to change the language around to make the sounds\n fit, and he's forgotten how to use what normal English he can. But it\n gets easier as you listen. It's Hennessy, all right. I'm certain.\"\n\n\n Gwayne had his own ideas on that. It was easy for an alien to seize\n on the gold ornament of a captive earthman, even to learn a little\n English, maybe. But Hennessy had been his friend.\n\n\n \"How many barmaids in the Cheshire Cat? How many pups did your oldest\n kid's dog have? How many were brown?\"\n\n\n The lips contorted into something vaguely like a smile, and the\n curiously shaped fingers that could handle no human-designed equipment\n spread out.", "But there was no time.\n\n\n Earth had ordered him to detour here, after leaving his load of\n deep-sleep stored colonists on Official World 71, to check on any sign\n of Hennessy. He'd been here a week longer than he should have stayed\n already. If there was no sign in another day or so of what had happened\n to the men who'd deserted their ship and its equipment, he'd have to\n report back.\n\n\n He would have left before, if a recent landslip hadn't exposed enough\n of the buried ship for his metal locators to spot from the air by\n luck. It had obviously been hidden deep enough to foil the detectors\n originally.\n\n\n \"Bob!\" Jane Corey's voice cut through his pondering. \"Bob, there are\n the kids!\"\n\n\n Before he could swing to follow her pointing finger, movement caught\n his eye.", "\"About a dozen blobs held something like a convention a little ways\n north of us. They broke up about an hour ago and streaked off into the\n clouds.\" The blobs were a peculiarity of this planet about which nobody\n knew anything. They looked like overgrown fireballs, but seemed to have\n an almost sentient curiosity about anything moving on the ground. \"And\n our two cadets sneaked out again. Barker followed them, but lost them\n in the murk. I've kept a signal going to guide them back.\"\n\n\n Gwayne swore softly to himself. Earth couldn't turn out enough starmen\n in the schools, so promising kids were being shipped out for training\n as cadets on their twelfth birthday. The two he'd drawn, Kaufman and\n Pinelli, seemed to be totally devoid of any sense of caution." ] ]
train	61380	[ "Based on the article, does McCray know he is being watched?", "What best describes Hatcher's team?", "What was the author's purpose on including a section about Hatcher's feedings?", "What can you conclude about Hatcher's relationship with the rest of his team?", "What feeling did McCray and Hatcher both feel at least once during this article?" ]	[ [ "No, or else he would have tried speaking with Hatcher and his team.", "Yes, because he was trying to escape where he was.", "No, or else he would not have tried to establish communication with the woman who appeared.", "Yes, because he was trying to radio Jodrell Bank so he could safely escape." ], [ "They are careless with decisions.", "They are hasty with decisions.", "They have cruel intentions towards humans.", "They are ignorant about humans." ], [ "To give insight on Hatcher's personality.", "To show that McCray will have to feed like Hatcher if he does not return to Jodrell Bank because there is no human food where he is.", "To further elaborate how different Hatcher and his kind are from a human.", "To show how grotesque his feeding process is." ], [ "He fights with them.", "He does not understand his team.", "He does not always agree with them.", "He is much more brilliant than his team." ], [ "Alarm", "Excitement", "Confidence", "Rage" ] ]	[ 1, 4, 3, 3, 1 ]	[ 1, 1, 0, 1, 1 ]	[ [ "The pinkish lights went out. He was in the dark again, worse dark than\n before.\n\n\n For before the light had gone, McCray had seen what had escaped\n his eyes before. The suit and the microphone were clear enough in\n the pinkish glimmer; but the hand—his own hand, cupped to hold the\n microphone—he had not seen at all. Nor his arm. Nor, in one fleeting\n moment of study, his chest.\n\n\n McCray could not see any part of his own body at all.\nII\n\n\n Someone else could.\n\n\n Someone was watching Herrell McCray, with the clinical fascination\n of a biochemist observing the wigglings of paramecia in a new\n antibiotic—and with the prayerful emotions of a starving, shipwrecked,\n sailor, watching the inward bobbing drift of a wave-born cask that\nmay\ncontain food.", "McCray caught it up and headed for the door. It felt good in his\n gauntlets, a rewarding weight; any weapon straightens the back of the\n man who holds it, and McCray was grateful for this one. With something\n concrete to do he could postpone questioning. Never mind why he had\n been brought here; never mind how. Never mind what he would, or could,\n do next; all those questions could recede into the background of his\n mind while he swung the ax and battered his way out of this poisoned\n oven.\nCrash-clang!\nThe double jolt ran up the shaft of the ax, through his\n gauntlets and into his arm; but he was making progress, he could see\n the plastic—or whatever it was—of the door. It was chipping out. Not\n easily, very reluctantly; but flaking out in chips that left a white\n powdery residue.\n\n\n At this rate, he thought grimly, he would be an hour getting through\n it. Did he have an hour?", "But it did not take an hour. One blow was luckier than the rest; it\n must have snapped the lock mechanism. The door shook and slid ajar.\n McCray got the thin of the blade into the crack and pried it wide.\n\n\n He was in another room, maybe a hall, large and bare.\n\n\n McCray put the broad of his back against the broken door and pressed it\n as nearly closed as he could; it might not keep the gas and heat out,\n but it would retard them.", "Not everything he saw was familiar. The walls of the room itself were\n strange. They were not metal or plaster or knotty pine; they were\n not papered, painted or overlaid with stucco. They seemed to be made\n of some sort of hard organic compound, perhaps a sort of plastic or\n processed cellulose. It was hard to tell colors in the pinkish light.\n But they seemed to have none. They were \"neutral\"—the color of aged\n driftwood or unbleached cloth.\n\n\n Three of the walls were that way, and the floor and ceiling. The fourth\n wall was something else. Areas in it had the appearance of gratings;\n from them issued the pungent, distasteful halogen odor. They might be\n ventilators, he thought; but if so the air they brought in was worse\n than what he already had.\n\n\n McCray was beginning to feel more confident. It was astonishing how a\n little light made an impossible situation bearable, how quickly his\n courage flowed back when he could see again.", "The room was again unlighted—at least to McCray's eyes. There was not\n even that pink pseudo-light that had baffled him; here was nothing\n but the beam of his suit lamp. What it showed was cryptic. There were\n evidences of use: shelves, boxy contraptions that might have been\n cupboards, crude level surfaces attached to the walls that might have\n been workbenches. Yet they were queerly contrived, for it was not\n possible to guess from them much about the creatures who used them.\n Some were near the floor, some at waist height, some even suspended\n from the ceiling itself. A man would need a ladder to work at these\n benches and McCray, staring, thought briefly of many-armed blind giants\n or shapeless huge intelligent amoebae, and felt the skin prickle at the\n back of his neck.", "Hatcher studied him frostily; his patience was not, after all, endless.\n \"No matter,\" he said at last. \"Bring the other one in.\"\n\n\n And then, in a completely different mood, \"We may need him badly. We\n may be in the process of killing our first one now.\"\n\n\n \"Killing him, Hatcher?\"\n\n\n Hatcher rose and shook himself, his mindless members floating away like\n puppies dislodged from suck. \"Council's orders,\" he said. \"We've got to\n go into Stage Two of the project at once.\"\nIII\n\n\n Before Stage Two began, or before Herrell McCray realized it had begun,\n he had an inspiration.\n\n\n The dark was absolute, but he remembered where the spacesuit had been\n and groped his way to it and, yes, it had what all spacesuits had to\n have. It had a light. He found the toggle that turned it on and pressed\n it.", "In fact, they were. He could recognize barrel, chamber, trigger, even\n a couple of cartridges, neatly opened and the grains of powder stacked\n beside them. It was an older, clumsier model than the kind he had seen\n in survival locker, on the\nJodrell Bank\n—and abruptly wished he were\n carrying now—but it was a pistol. Another trophy, like the strange\n assortment in the other room? He could not guess. But the others had\n been more familiar; they all have come from his own ship. He was\n prepared to swear that nothing like this antique had been aboard.\n\n\n The drone began again in his ear, as it had at five-minute intervals\n all along:\n\n\n \"Herrell McCray, Herrell McCray, Herrell McCray, this is\nJodrell Bank\ncalling Herrell McCray....\"", "The probe team had had a shock.\n\n\n \"Paranormal powers,\" muttered Hatcher's second in command, and the\n others mumbled agreement. Hatcher ordered silence, studying the\n specimen from Earth.\n\n\n After a long moment he turned his senses from the Earthman.\n \"Incredible—but it's true enough,\" he said. \"I'd better report. Watch\n him,\" he added, but that was surely unnecessary. Their job was to\n watch McCray, and they would do their job; and even more, not one of\n them could have looked away to save his life from the spectacle of\n a creature as odd and, from their point of view, hideously alien as\n Herrell McCray.\nHatcher hurried through the halls of the great buried structure in\n which he worked, toward the place where the supervising council of all\n probes would be in permanent session. They admitted him at once.\n\n\n Hatcher identified himself and gave a quick, concise report:", "Still, it led in the proper direction. McCray added one more\n inexplicable fact to his file and walked through. He was in another\n hall—or tunnel—rising quite steeply to the right. By his reckoning it\n was the proper direction. He labored up it, sweating under the weight\n of the suit, and found another open door, this one round, and behind\n it—\n\n\n Yes, there was the woman whose voice he had heard.\n\n\n It was a woman, all right. The voice had been so strained that he\n hadn't been positive. Even now, short black hair might not have proved\n it, and she was lying face down but the waist and hips were a woman's,\n even though she wore a bulky, quilted suit of coveralls.\n\n\n He knelt beside her and gently turned her face.\n\n\n She was unconscious. Broad, dark face, with no make-up; she was\n apparently in her late thirties. She appeared to be Chinese.", "Physically they were nothing alike. Hatcher was a three-foot,\n hard-shelled sphere of jelly. He had \"arms\" and \"legs,\" but they were\n not organically attached to \"himself.\" They were snakelike things which\n obeyed the orders of his brain as well as your mind can make your toes\n curl; but they did not touch him directly. Indeed, they worked as well\n a yard or a quarter-mile away as they did when, rarely, they rested\n in the crevices they had been formed from in his \"skin.\" At greater\n distances they worked less well, for reasons irrelevant to the Law of\n Inverse Squares.\n\n\n Hatcher's principal task at this moment was to run the \"probe team\"\n which had McCray under observation, and he was more than a little\n excited. His members, disposed about the room where he had sent them on\n various errands, quivered and shook a little; yet they were the calmest\n limbs in the room; the members of the other team workers were in a\n state of violent commotion.", "The room was totally dark, and it seemed to be furnished with a\n collection of hard, sharp, sticky and knobby objects of various shapes\n and a number of inconvenient sizes. McCray tripped over something\n that rocked under his feet and fell against something that clattered\n hollowly. He picked himself up, braced against something that smelled\n dangerously of halogen compounds, and scratched his shoulder, right\n through his space-tunic, against something that vibrated as he touched\n it.\n\n\n McCray had no idea where he was, and no way to find out.\n\n\n Not only was he in darkness, but in utter silence as well. No. Not\n quite utter silence.\n\n\n Somewhere, just at the threshold of his senses, there was something\n like a voice. He could not quite hear it, but it was there. He sat as\n still as he could, listening; it remained elusive.\n\n\n Probably it was only an illusion.", "Hatcher hesitated. \"No,\" he said at last. \"The male is responding well.\n Remember that when last this experiment was done every subject died; he\n is alive at least. But I am wondering. We can't quite communicate with\n the female—\"\n\n\n \"But?\"\n\n\n \"But I'm not sure that others can't.\"\nThe woman's voice was at such close range that McCray's suit radio made\n a useful RDF set. He located her direction easily enough, shielding the\n tiny built-in antenna with the tungsten-steel blade of the ax, while\n she begged him to hurry. Her voice was heavily accented, with some\n words in a language he did not recognize. She seemed to be in shock.\n\n\n McCray was hardly surprised at that; he had been close enough to shock\n himself. He tried to reassure her as he searched for a way out of the\n hall, but in the middle of a word her voice stopped.", "But the room itself was hard fact. McCray swore violently and out loud.\n\n\n It was crazy and impossible. There simply was no way for him to get\n from a warm, bright navigator's cubicle on\nStarship Jodrell Bank\nto\n this damned, dark, dismal hole of a place where everything was out to\n hurt him and nothing explained what was going on. He cried aloud in\n exasperation: \"If I could only\nsee\n!\"\n\n\n He tripped and fell against something that was soft, slimy and, like\n baker's dough, not at all resilient.\n\n\n A flickering halo of pinkish light appeared. He sat up, startled. He\n was looking at something that resembled a suit of medieval armor.\nIt was, he saw in a moment, not armor but a spacesuit. But what was the\n light? And what were these other things in the room?", "He hesitated, hefting the ax, glancing back at the way he had come.\n There had to be a way out, even if it meant chopping through a wall.\n\n\n When he turned around again there was a door. It was oddly shaped and\n unlike the door he had hewn through, but clearly a door all the same,\n and it was open.\n\n\n McCray regarded it grimly. He went back in his memory with meticulous\n care. Had he not looked at, this very spot a matter of moments before?\n He had. And had there been an open door then? There had not. There\n hadn't been even a shadowy outline of the three-sided, uneven opening\n that stood there now.", "McCray switched the light on and looked around. There seemed to be no\n change.\n\n\n And yet, surely, it was warmer in here.\n\n\n He could see no difference; but perhaps, he thought, he could smell\n one. The unpleasant halogen odor from the grating was surely stronger\n now. He stood there, perplexed.\n\n\n A tinny little voice from the helmet of the space suit said sharply,\n amazement in its tone, \"McCray, is that you? Where the devil are you\n calling from?\"\n\n\n He forgot smell, sound and temperature and leaped for the suit. \"This\n is Herrell McCray,\" he cried. \"I'm in a room of some sort, apparently\n on a planet of approximate Earth mass. I don't know—\"\n\n\n \"McCray!\" cried the tiny voice in his ear. \"Where are you? This is\nJodrell Bank\ncalling. Answer, please!\"", "The council conferred among itself for a moment, Hatcher waiting. It\n was not really a waste of time for him; with the organs he had left in\n the probe-team room, he was in fairly close touch with what was going\n on—knew that McCray was once again fumbling among the objects in the\n dark, knew that the team-members had tried illuminating the room for\n him briefly and again produced the rising panic.\n\n\n Still, Hatcher fretted. He wanted to get back.\n\n\n \"Stop fidgeting,\" commanded the council leader abruptly. \"Hatcher, you\n are to establish communication at once.\"", "If the evidence of his radio contradicted common sense, common sense\n was wrong. Perhaps it was impossible to believe what the radio's\n message implied; but it was not necessary to \"believe,\" only to act.\n\n\n McCray thumbed down the transmitter button and gave a concise report\n of his situation and his guesses. \"I don't know how I got here. I\n don't know how long I've been gone, since I was unconscious for a\n time. However, if the transmission lag is a reliable indication—\" he\n swallowed and went on—\"I'd estimate I am something more than five\n hundred light-years away from you at this moment. That's all I have to\n say, except for one more word: Help.\"\n\n\n He grinned sourly and released the button. The message was on its way,\n and it would be hours before he could have a reply. Therefore he had to\n consider what to do next.", "He stood still, thinking. Item, a short time ago—subjectively it\n seemed to be minutes—he had been aboard the\nJodrell Bank\nwith\n nothing more on his mind than completing his check-sighting and meeting\n one of the female passengers for coffee. Item, apart from being\n shaken up and—he admitted it—scared damn near witless, he did not\n seem to be hurt. Item, wherever he was now, it became, not so much what\n had happened to him, but what had happened to the ship?\n\n\n He allowed that thought to seep into his mind. Suppose there had been\n an accident to the\nJodrell Bank\n.\n\n\n He could, of course, be dead. All this could be the fantasies of a\n cooling brain.\n\n\n McCray grinned into the pink-lit darkness. The thought had somehow\n refreshed him, like icewater between rounds, and with a clearing head\n he remembered what a spacesuit was good for.\n\n\n It held a radio.", "He could see the fumes in the room now. The heat was building up.\n\n\n Automatically—now that he had put it on and so started its\n servo-circuits operating—the suit was cooling him. This was a\n deep-space suit, regulation garb when going outside the pressure hull\n of an FTL ship. It was good up to at least five hundred degrees in thin\n air, perhaps three or four hundred in dense. In thin air or in space it\n was the elastic joints and couplings that depolymerized when the heat\n grew too great; in dense air, with conduction pouring energy in faster\n than the cooling coils could suck it out and hurl it away, it was the\n refrigerating equipment that broke down.\n\n\n McCray had no way of knowing just how hot it was going to get. Nor,\n for that matter, had the suit been designed to operate in a corrosive\n medium.", "He pressed the unsealing tabs, slipped his hand into the vacant chest\n of the suit and pulled out the hand mike. \"This is Herrell McCray,\" he\n said, \"calling the\nJodrell Bank\n.\"\n\n\n No response. He frowned. \"This is Herrell McCray, calling\nJodrell\n Bank\n.\n\n\n \"Herrell McCray, calling anybody, come in, please.\"\n\n\n But there was no answer.\n\n\n Thoughtfully he replaced the microphone. This was ultrawave radio,\n something more than a million times faster than light, with a range\n measured, at least, in hundreds of light-years. If there was no answer,\n he was a good long way from anywhere.\n\n\n Of course, the thing might not be operating.\n\n\n He reached for the microphone again—\n\n\n He cried aloud." ], [ "Physically they were nothing alike. Hatcher was a three-foot,\n hard-shelled sphere of jelly. He had \"arms\" and \"legs,\" but they were\n not organically attached to \"himself.\" They were snakelike things which\n obeyed the orders of his brain as well as your mind can make your toes\n curl; but they did not touch him directly. Indeed, they worked as well\n a yard or a quarter-mile away as they did when, rarely, they rested\n in the crevices they had been formed from in his \"skin.\" At greater\n distances they worked less well, for reasons irrelevant to the Law of\n Inverse Squares.\n\n\n Hatcher's principal task at this moment was to run the \"probe team\"\n which had McCray under observation, and he was more than a little\n excited. His members, disposed about the room where he had sent them on\n various errands, quivered and shook a little; yet they were the calmest\n limbs in the room; the members of the other team workers were in a\n state of violent commotion.", "Suppose you call him \"Hatcher\" (and suppose you call it a \"him.\")\n Hatcher was not exactly male, because his race had no true males; but\n it did have females and he was certainly not that. Hatcher did not in\n any way look like a human being, but they had features in common.\n\n\n If Hatcher and McCray had somehow managed to strike up an acquaintance,\n they might have got along very well. Hatcher, like McCray, was an\n adventurous soul, young, able, well-learned in the technical sciences\n of his culture. Both enjoyed games—McCray baseball, poker and\n three-dimensional chess; Hatcher a number of sports which defy human\n description. Both held positions of some importance—considering their\n ages—in the affairs of their respective worlds.", "The council conferred among itself for a moment, Hatcher waiting. It\n was not really a waste of time for him; with the organs he had left in\n the probe-team room, he was in fairly close touch with what was going\n on—knew that McCray was once again fumbling among the objects in the\n dark, knew that the team-members had tried illuminating the room for\n him briefly and again produced the rising panic.\n\n\n Still, Hatcher fretted. He wanted to get back.\n\n\n \"Stop fidgeting,\" commanded the council leader abruptly. \"Hatcher, you\n are to establish communication at once.\"", "Hatcher studied him frostily; his patience was not, after all, endless.\n \"No matter,\" he said at last. \"Bring the other one in.\"\n\n\n And then, in a completely different mood, \"We may need him badly. We\n may be in the process of killing our first one now.\"\n\n\n \"Killing him, Hatcher?\"\n\n\n Hatcher rose and shook himself, his mindless members floating away like\n puppies dislodged from suck. \"Council's orders,\" he said. \"We've got to\n go into Stage Two of the project at once.\"\nIII\n\n\n Before Stage Two began, or before Herrell McCray realized it had begun,\n he had an inspiration.\n\n\n The dark was absolute, but he remembered where the spacesuit had been\n and groped his way to it and, yes, it had what all spacesuits had to\n have. It had a light. He found the toggle that turned it on and pressed\n it.", "Hatcher, who was not human, did not possess truly human emotions; but\n he did feel amazement when he was amazed, and fear when there was\n cause to be afraid. These specimens, obtained with so much difficulty,\n needed so badly, were his responsibility. He knew the issues involved\n much better than any of his helpers. They could only be surprised at\n the queer antics of the aliens with attached limbs and strange powers.\n Hatcher knew that this was not a freak show, but a matter of life and\n death. He said, musing:\n\n\n \"This new one, I cannot communicate with her, but I get—almost—a\n whisper, now and then. The first one, the male, nothing. But this\n female is perhaps not quite mute.\"\n\n\n \"Then shall we abandon him and work with her, forgetting the first one?\"", "Hatcher did not like the idea of endangering the Earthman. It cannot\n be said that he was emotionally involved; it was not pity or sympathy\n that caused him to regret the dangers in moving too fast toward\n communication. Not even Hatcher had quite got over the revolting\n physical differences between the Earthman and his own people. But\n Hatcher did not want him destroyed. It had been difficult enough\n getting him here.\n\n\n Hatcher checked through the members that he had left with the rest of\n his team and discovered that there were no immediate emergencies, so he\n took time to eat. In Hatcher's race this was accomplished in ways not\n entirely pleasant to Earthmen. A slit in the lower hemisphere of his\n body opened, like a purse, emitting a thin, pussy, fetid fluid which\n Hatcher caught and poured into a disposal trough at the side of the\n eating room. He then stuffed the slit with pulpy vegetation the texture\n of kelp; it closed, and his body was supplied with nourishment for\n another day.", "\"But, sir....\" Hatcher swung closer, his thick skin quivering slightly;\n he would have gestured if he had brought members with him to gesture\n with. \"We've done everything we dare. We've made the place homey\n for him—\" actually, what he said was more like,\nwe've warmed the\n biophysical nuances of his enclosure\n—\"and tried to guess his needs;\n and we're frightening him half to death. We\ncan't\ngo faster. This\n creature is in no way similar to us, you know. He relies on paranormal\n forces—heat, light, kinetic energy—for his life. His chemistry is not\n ours, his processes of thought are not ours, his entire organism is\n closer to the inanimate rocks of a sea-bottom than to ourselves.\"\n\n\n \"Understood, Hatcher. In your first report you stated these creatures\n were intelligent.\"\n\n\n \"Yes, sir. But not in our way.\"", "He returned quickly to the room.\n\n\n His second in command was busy, but one of the other team workers\n reported—nothing new—and asked about Hatcher's appearance before the\n council. Hatcher passed the question off. He considered telling his\n staff about the disappearance of the Central Masses team member, but\n decided against it. He had not been told it was secret. On the other\n hand, he had not been told it was not. Something of this importance was\n not lightly to be gossiped about. For endless generations the threat\n of the Old Ones had hung over his race, those queer, almost mythical\n beings from the Central Masses of the galaxy. One brush with them, in\n ages past, had almost destroyed Hatcher's people. Only by running and\n hiding, bearing one of their planets with them and abandoning it—with\n its population—as a decoy, had they arrived at all.", "The probe team had had a shock.\n\n\n \"Paranormal powers,\" muttered Hatcher's second in command, and the\n others mumbled agreement. Hatcher ordered silence, studying the\n specimen from Earth.\n\n\n After a long moment he turned his senses from the Earthman.\n \"Incredible—but it's true enough,\" he said. \"I'd better report. Watch\n him,\" he added, but that was surely unnecessary. Their job was to\n watch McCray, and they would do their job; and even more, not one of\n them could have looked away to save his life from the spectacle of\n a creature as odd and, from their point of view, hideously alien as\n Herrell McCray.\nHatcher hurried through the halls of the great buried structure in\n which he worked, toward the place where the supervising council of all\n probes would be in permanent session. They admitted him at once.\n\n\n Hatcher identified himself and gave a quick, concise report:", "\"But in\na\nway, and you must learn that way. I know.\" One lobster-claw\n shaped member drifted close to the councillor's body and raised itself\n in an admonitory gesture. \"You want time. But we don't have time,\n Hatcher. Yours is not the only probe team working. The Central Masses\n team has just turned in a most alarming report.\"\n\n\n \"Have they secured a subject?\" Hatcher demanded jealously.\n\n\n The councillor paused. \"Worse than that, Hatcher. I am afraid their\n subjects have secured one of them. One of them is missing.\"\n\n\n There was a moment's silence. Frozen, Hatcher could only wait. The\n council room was like a tableau in a museum until the councillor spoke\n again, each council member poised over his locus-point, his members\n drifting about him.", "Hatcher was patient; he knew his assistant well. Obviously something\n was about to happen. He took the moment to call his members back to\n him for feeding; they dodged back to their niches on his skin, fitted\n themselves into their vestigial slots, poured back their wastes into\n his own circulation and ingested what they needed from the meal he had\n just taken.... \"Now!\" cried the assistant. \"Look!\"\n\n\n At what passed among Hatcher's people for a viewing console an image\n was forming. Actually it was the assistant himself who formed it, not a\n cathode trace or projected shadow; but it showed what it was meant to\n show.\n\n\n Hatcher was startled. \"Another one! And—is it a different species? Or\n merely a different sex?\"\n\n\n \"Study the probe for yourself,\" the assistant invited.", "Now they had detected mapping parties of the Old Ones dangerously near\n the spiral arm of the galaxy in which their planet was located, they\n had begun the Probe Teams to find some way of combating them, or of\n fleeing again.\n\n\n But it seemed that the Probe Teams themselves might be betraying their\n existence to their enemies—\n\n\n \"Hatcher!\"\n\n\n The call was urgent; he hurried to see what it was about. It was his\n second in command, very excited. \"What is it?\" Hatcher demanded.\n\n\n \"Wait....\"", "Hatcher hesitated. \"No,\" he said at last. \"The male is responding well.\n Remember that when last this experiment was done every subject died; he\n is alive at least. But I am wondering. We can't quite communicate with\n the female—\"\n\n\n \"But?\"\n\n\n \"But I'm not sure that others can't.\"\nThe woman's voice was at such close range that McCray's suit radio made\n a useful RDF set. He located her direction easily enough, shielding the\n tiny built-in antenna with the tungsten-steel blade of the ax, while\n she begged him to hurry. Her voice was heavily accented, with some\n words in a language he did not recognize. She seemed to be in shock.\n\n\n McCray was hardly surprised at that; he had been close enough to shock\n himself. He tried to reassure her as he searched for a way out of the\n hall, but in the middle of a word her voice stopped.", "Finally the councillor said, \"I speak for all of us, I think. If the\n Old Ones have seized one of our probers our time margin is considerably\n narrowed. Indeed, we may not have any time at all. You must do\n everything you can to establish communication with your subject.\"\n\n\n \"But the danger to the specimen—\" Hatcher protested automatically.\n\n\n \"—is no greater,\" said the councillor, \"than the danger to every one\n of us if we do not find allies\nnow\n.\"\nHatcher returned to his laboratory gloomily.\n\n\n It was just like the council to put the screws on; they had a\n reputation for demanding results at any cost—even at the cost of\n destroying the only thing you had that would make results possible.", "\"Yes, sir. The staff is preparing a technical description of the forces\n now, but I can say that they are electromagnetic vibrations modulating\n a carrier wave of very high speed, and in turn modulated by the\n vibrations of the atmosphere caused by the subject's own breathing.\"\n\n\n \"Fantastic,\" breathed the councillor, in a tone of dawning hope. \"How\n about communicating with him, Hatcher? Any progress?\"\n\n\n \"Well ... not much, sir. He suddenly panicked. We don't know why; but\n we thought we'd better pull back and let him recover for a while.\"", "But it did not take an hour. One blow was luckier than the rest; it\n must have snapped the lock mechanism. The door shook and slid ajar.\n McCray got the thin of the blade into the crack and pried it wide.\n\n\n He was in another room, maybe a hall, large and bare.\n\n\n McCray put the broad of his back against the broken door and pressed it\n as nearly closed as he could; it might not keep the gas and heat out,\n but it would retard them.", "And louder, blaring, then fading to normal volume as the AVC circuits\n toned the signal down, another voice. A woman's voice, crying out in\n panic and fear: \"\nJodrell Bank!\nWhere are you? Help!\"\nIV\n\n\n Hatcher's second in command said: \"He has got through the first\n survival test. In fact, he broke his way out! What next?\"\n\n\n \"Wait!\" Hatcher ordered sharply. He was watching the new specimen and\n a troublesome thought had occurred to him. The new one was female and\n seemed to be in pain; but it was not the pain that disturbed Hatcher,\n it was something far more immediate to his interests.\n\n\n \"I think,\" he said slowly, \"that they are in contact.\"\n\n\n His assistant vibrated startlement.\n\n\n \"I know,\" Hatcher said, \"but watch. Do you see? He is going straight\n toward her.\"", "McCray caught it up and headed for the door. It felt good in his\n gauntlets, a rewarding weight; any weapon straightens the back of the\n man who holds it, and McCray was grateful for this one. With something\n concrete to do he could postpone questioning. Never mind why he had\n been brought here; never mind how. Never mind what he would, or could,\n do next; all those questions could recede into the background of his\n mind while he swung the ax and battered his way out of this poisoned\n oven.\nCrash-clang!\nThe double jolt ran up the shaft of the ax, through his\n gauntlets and into his arm; but he was making progress, he could see\n the plastic—or whatever it was—of the door. It was chipping out. Not\n easily, very reluctantly; but flaking out in chips that left a white\n powdery residue.\n\n\n At this rate, he thought grimly, he would be an hour getting through\n it. Did he have an hour?", "In fact, they were. He could recognize barrel, chamber, trigger, even\n a couple of cartridges, neatly opened and the grains of powder stacked\n beside them. It was an older, clumsier model than the kind he had seen\n in survival locker, on the\nJodrell Bank\n—and abruptly wished he were\n carrying now—but it was a pistol. Another trophy, like the strange\n assortment in the other room? He could not guess. But the others had\n been more familiar; they all have come from his own ship. He was\n prepared to swear that nothing like this antique had been aboard.\n\n\n The drone began again in his ear, as it had at five-minute intervals\n all along:\n\n\n \"Herrell McCray, Herrell McCray, Herrell McCray, this is\nJodrell Bank\ncalling Herrell McCray....\"", "He tapped half-heartedly at one of the closed cupboards, and was not\n surprised when it proved as refractory as the door. Undoubtedly he\n could batter it open, but it was not likely that much would be left of\n its contents when he was through; and there was the question of time.\n\n\n But his attention was diverted by a gleam from one of the benches.\n Metallic parts lay heaped in a pile. He poked at them with a\n stiff-fingered gauntlet; they were oddly familiar. They were, he\n thought, very much like the parts of a bullet-gun." ], [ "Hatcher, who was not human, did not possess truly human emotions; but\n he did feel amazement when he was amazed, and fear when there was\n cause to be afraid. These specimens, obtained with so much difficulty,\n needed so badly, were his responsibility. He knew the issues involved\n much better than any of his helpers. They could only be surprised at\n the queer antics of the aliens with attached limbs and strange powers.\n Hatcher knew that this was not a freak show, but a matter of life and\n death. He said, musing:\n\n\n \"This new one, I cannot communicate with her, but I get—almost—a\n whisper, now and then. The first one, the male, nothing. But this\n female is perhaps not quite mute.\"\n\n\n \"Then shall we abandon him and work with her, forgetting the first one?\"", "Hatcher did not like the idea of endangering the Earthman. It cannot\n be said that he was emotionally involved; it was not pity or sympathy\n that caused him to regret the dangers in moving too fast toward\n communication. Not even Hatcher had quite got over the revolting\n physical differences between the Earthman and his own people. But\n Hatcher did not want him destroyed. It had been difficult enough\n getting him here.\n\n\n Hatcher checked through the members that he had left with the rest of\n his team and discovered that there were no immediate emergencies, so he\n took time to eat. In Hatcher's race this was accomplished in ways not\n entirely pleasant to Earthmen. A slit in the lower hemisphere of his\n body opened, like a purse, emitting a thin, pussy, fetid fluid which\n Hatcher caught and poured into a disposal trough at the side of the\n eating room. He then stuffed the slit with pulpy vegetation the texture\n of kelp; it closed, and his body was supplied with nourishment for\n another day.", "Hatcher studied him frostily; his patience was not, after all, endless.\n \"No matter,\" he said at last. \"Bring the other one in.\"\n\n\n And then, in a completely different mood, \"We may need him badly. We\n may be in the process of killing our first one now.\"\n\n\n \"Killing him, Hatcher?\"\n\n\n Hatcher rose and shook himself, his mindless members floating away like\n puppies dislodged from suck. \"Council's orders,\" he said. \"We've got to\n go into Stage Two of the project at once.\"\nIII\n\n\n Before Stage Two began, or before Herrell McCray realized it had begun,\n he had an inspiration.\n\n\n The dark was absolute, but he remembered where the spacesuit had been\n and groped his way to it and, yes, it had what all spacesuits had to\n have. It had a light. He found the toggle that turned it on and pressed\n it.", "\"But, sir....\" Hatcher swung closer, his thick skin quivering slightly;\n he would have gestured if he had brought members with him to gesture\n with. \"We've done everything we dare. We've made the place homey\n for him—\" actually, what he said was more like,\nwe've warmed the\n biophysical nuances of his enclosure\n—\"and tried to guess his needs;\n and we're frightening him half to death. We\ncan't\ngo faster. This\n creature is in no way similar to us, you know. He relies on paranormal\n forces—heat, light, kinetic energy—for his life. His chemistry is not\n ours, his processes of thought are not ours, his entire organism is\n closer to the inanimate rocks of a sea-bottom than to ourselves.\"\n\n\n \"Understood, Hatcher. In your first report you stated these creatures\n were intelligent.\"\n\n\n \"Yes, sir. But not in our way.\"", "Hatcher was patient; he knew his assistant well. Obviously something\n was about to happen. He took the moment to call his members back to\n him for feeding; they dodged back to their niches on his skin, fitted\n themselves into their vestigial slots, poured back their wastes into\n his own circulation and ingested what they needed from the meal he had\n just taken.... \"Now!\" cried the assistant. \"Look!\"\n\n\n At what passed among Hatcher's people for a viewing console an image\n was forming. Actually it was the assistant himself who formed it, not a\n cathode trace or projected shadow; but it showed what it was meant to\n show.\n\n\n Hatcher was startled. \"Another one! And—is it a different species? Or\n merely a different sex?\"\n\n\n \"Study the probe for yourself,\" the assistant invited.", "Physically they were nothing alike. Hatcher was a three-foot,\n hard-shelled sphere of jelly. He had \"arms\" and \"legs,\" but they were\n not organically attached to \"himself.\" They were snakelike things which\n obeyed the orders of his brain as well as your mind can make your toes\n curl; but they did not touch him directly. Indeed, they worked as well\n a yard or a quarter-mile away as they did when, rarely, they rested\n in the crevices they had been formed from in his \"skin.\" At greater\n distances they worked less well, for reasons irrelevant to the Law of\n Inverse Squares.\n\n\n Hatcher's principal task at this moment was to run the \"probe team\"\n which had McCray under observation, and he was more than a little\n excited. His members, disposed about the room where he had sent them on\n various errands, quivered and shook a little; yet they were the calmest\n limbs in the room; the members of the other team workers were in a\n state of violent commotion.", "Suppose you call him \"Hatcher\" (and suppose you call it a \"him.\")\n Hatcher was not exactly male, because his race had no true males; but\n it did have females and he was certainly not that. Hatcher did not in\n any way look like a human being, but they had features in common.\n\n\n If Hatcher and McCray had somehow managed to strike up an acquaintance,\n they might have got along very well. Hatcher, like McCray, was an\n adventurous soul, young, able, well-learned in the technical sciences\n of his culture. Both enjoyed games—McCray baseball, poker and\n three-dimensional chess; Hatcher a number of sports which defy human\n description. Both held positions of some importance—considering their\n ages—in the affairs of their respective worlds.", "Hatcher hesitated. \"No,\" he said at last. \"The male is responding well.\n Remember that when last this experiment was done every subject died; he\n is alive at least. But I am wondering. We can't quite communicate with\n the female—\"\n\n\n \"But?\"\n\n\n \"But I'm not sure that others can't.\"\nThe woman's voice was at such close range that McCray's suit radio made\n a useful RDF set. He located her direction easily enough, shielding the\n tiny built-in antenna with the tungsten-steel blade of the ax, while\n she begged him to hurry. Her voice was heavily accented, with some\n words in a language he did not recognize. She seemed to be in shock.\n\n\n McCray was hardly surprised at that; he had been close enough to shock\n himself. He tried to reassure her as he searched for a way out of the\n hall, but in the middle of a word her voice stopped.", "\"Yes, sir. The staff is preparing a technical description of the forces\n now, but I can say that they are electromagnetic vibrations modulating\n a carrier wave of very high speed, and in turn modulated by the\n vibrations of the atmosphere caused by the subject's own breathing.\"\n\n\n \"Fantastic,\" breathed the councillor, in a tone of dawning hope. \"How\n about communicating with him, Hatcher? Any progress?\"\n\n\n \"Well ... not much, sir. He suddenly panicked. We don't know why; but\n we thought we'd better pull back and let him recover for a while.\"", "Finally the councillor said, \"I speak for all of us, I think. If the\n Old Ones have seized one of our probers our time margin is considerably\n narrowed. Indeed, we may not have any time at all. You must do\n everything you can to establish communication with your subject.\"\n\n\n \"But the danger to the specimen—\" Hatcher protested automatically.\n\n\n \"—is no greater,\" said the councillor, \"than the danger to every one\n of us if we do not find allies\nnow\n.\"\nHatcher returned to his laboratory gloomily.\n\n\n It was just like the council to put the screws on; they had a\n reputation for demanding results at any cost—even at the cost of\n destroying the only thing you had that would make results possible.", "The council conferred among itself for a moment, Hatcher waiting. It\n was not really a waste of time for him; with the organs he had left in\n the probe-team room, he was in fairly close touch with what was going\n on—knew that McCray was once again fumbling among the objects in the\n dark, knew that the team-members had tried illuminating the room for\n him briefly and again produced the rising panic.\n\n\n Still, Hatcher fretted. He wanted to get back.\n\n\n \"Stop fidgeting,\" commanded the council leader abruptly. \"Hatcher, you\n are to establish communication at once.\"", "The probe team had had a shock.\n\n\n \"Paranormal powers,\" muttered Hatcher's second in command, and the\n others mumbled agreement. Hatcher ordered silence, studying the\n specimen from Earth.\n\n\n After a long moment he turned his senses from the Earthman.\n \"Incredible—but it's true enough,\" he said. \"I'd better report. Watch\n him,\" he added, but that was surely unnecessary. Their job was to\n watch McCray, and they would do their job; and even more, not one of\n them could have looked away to save his life from the spectacle of\n a creature as odd and, from their point of view, hideously alien as\n Herrell McCray.\nHatcher hurried through the halls of the great buried structure in\n which he worked, toward the place where the supervising council of all\n probes would be in permanent session. They admitted him at once.\n\n\n Hatcher identified himself and gave a quick, concise report:", "\"But in\na\nway, and you must learn that way. I know.\" One lobster-claw\n shaped member drifted close to the councillor's body and raised itself\n in an admonitory gesture. \"You want time. But we don't have time,\n Hatcher. Yours is not the only probe team working. The Central Masses\n team has just turned in a most alarming report.\"\n\n\n \"Have they secured a subject?\" Hatcher demanded jealously.\n\n\n The councillor paused. \"Worse than that, Hatcher. I am afraid their\n subjects have secured one of them. One of them is missing.\"\n\n\n There was a moment's silence. Frozen, Hatcher could only wait. The\n council room was like a tableau in a museum until the councillor spoke\n again, each council member poised over his locus-point, his members\n drifting about him.", "And louder, blaring, then fading to normal volume as the AVC circuits\n toned the signal down, another voice. A woman's voice, crying out in\n panic and fear: \"\nJodrell Bank!\nWhere are you? Help!\"\nIV\n\n\n Hatcher's second in command said: \"He has got through the first\n survival test. In fact, he broke his way out! What next?\"\n\n\n \"Wait!\" Hatcher ordered sharply. He was watching the new specimen and\n a troublesome thought had occurred to him. The new one was female and\n seemed to be in pain; but it was not the pain that disturbed Hatcher,\n it was something far more immediate to his interests.\n\n\n \"I think,\" he said slowly, \"that they are in contact.\"\n\n\n His assistant vibrated startlement.\n\n\n \"I know,\" Hatcher said, \"but watch. Do you see? He is going straight\n toward her.\"", "Not everything he saw was familiar. The walls of the room itself were\n strange. They were not metal or plaster or knotty pine; they were\n not papered, painted or overlaid with stucco. They seemed to be made\n of some sort of hard organic compound, perhaps a sort of plastic or\n processed cellulose. It was hard to tell colors in the pinkish light.\n But they seemed to have none. They were \"neutral\"—the color of aged\n driftwood or unbleached cloth.\n\n\n Three of the walls were that way, and the floor and ceiling. The fourth\n wall was something else. Areas in it had the appearance of gratings;\n from them issued the pungent, distasteful halogen odor. They might be\n ventilators, he thought; but if so the air they brought in was worse\n than what he already had.\n\n\n McCray was beginning to feel more confident. It was astonishing how a\n little light made an impossible situation bearable, how quickly his\n courage flowed back when he could see again.", "He returned quickly to the room.\n\n\n His second in command was busy, but one of the other team workers\n reported—nothing new—and asked about Hatcher's appearance before the\n council. Hatcher passed the question off. He considered telling his\n staff about the disappearance of the Central Masses team member, but\n decided against it. He had not been told it was secret. On the other\n hand, he had not been told it was not. Something of this importance was\n not lightly to be gossiped about. For endless generations the threat\n of the Old Ones had hung over his race, those queer, almost mythical\n beings from the Central Masses of the galaxy. One brush with them, in\n ages past, had almost destroyed Hatcher's people. Only by running and\n hiding, bearing one of their planets with them and abandoning it—with\n its population—as a decoy, had they arrived at all.", "\"The subject recovered consciousness a short time ago and began to\n inspect his enclosure. His method of doing so was to put his own\n members in physical contact with the various objects in the enclosure.\n After observing him do this for a time we concluded he might be unable\n to see and so we illuminated his field of vision for him.\n\n\n \"This appeared to work well for a time. He seemed relatively\n undisturbed. However, he then reverted to physical-contact,\n manipulating certain appurtenances of an artificial skin we had\n provided for him.\n\n\n \"He then began to vibrate the atmosphere by means of resonating organs\n in his breathing passage.\n\n\n \"Simultaneously, the object he was holding, attached to the artificial\n skin, was discovered to be generating paranormal forces.\"\n\n\n The supervising council rocked with excitement. \"You're sure?\" demanded\n one of the councilmen.", "The pinkish lights went out. He was in the dark again, worse dark than\n before.\n\n\n For before the light had gone, McCray had seen what had escaped\n his eyes before. The suit and the microphone were clear enough in\n the pinkish glimmer; but the hand—his own hand, cupped to hold the\n microphone—he had not seen at all. Nor his arm. Nor, in one fleeting\n moment of study, his chest.\n\n\n McCray could not see any part of his own body at all.\nII\n\n\n Someone else could.\n\n\n Someone was watching Herrell McCray, with the clinical fascination\n of a biochemist observing the wigglings of paramecia in a new\n antibiotic—and with the prayerful emotions of a starving, shipwrecked,\n sailor, watching the inward bobbing drift of a wave-born cask that\nmay\ncontain food.", "How to explain a set of Gibbon's\nDecline and Fall of the Roman\n Empire?\nA space-ax? Or the old-fashioned child's rocking-chair, the\n chemistry set—or, most of all, the scrap of gaily printed fabric\n that, when he picked it up, turned out to be a girl's scanty bathing\n suit? It was slightly reassuring, McCray thought, to find that most of\n the objects were more or less familiar. Even the child's chair—why,\n he'd had one more or less like that himself, long before he was old\n enough to go to school. But what were they doing here?", "McCray caught it up and headed for the door. It felt good in his\n gauntlets, a rewarding weight; any weapon straightens the back of the\n man who holds it, and McCray was grateful for this one. With something\n concrete to do he could postpone questioning. Never mind why he had\n been brought here; never mind how. Never mind what he would, or could,\n do next; all those questions could recede into the background of his\n mind while he swung the ax and battered his way out of this poisoned\n oven.\nCrash-clang!\nThe double jolt ran up the shaft of the ax, through his\n gauntlets and into his arm; but he was making progress, he could see\n the plastic—or whatever it was—of the door. It was chipping out. Not\n easily, very reluctantly; but flaking out in chips that left a white\n powdery residue.\n\n\n At this rate, he thought grimly, he would be an hour getting through\n it. Did he have an hour?" ], [ "Physically they were nothing alike. Hatcher was a three-foot,\n hard-shelled sphere of jelly. He had \"arms\" and \"legs,\" but they were\n not organically attached to \"himself.\" They were snakelike things which\n obeyed the orders of his brain as well as your mind can make your toes\n curl; but they did not touch him directly. Indeed, they worked as well\n a yard or a quarter-mile away as they did when, rarely, they rested\n in the crevices they had been formed from in his \"skin.\" At greater\n distances they worked less well, for reasons irrelevant to the Law of\n Inverse Squares.\n\n\n Hatcher's principal task at this moment was to run the \"probe team\"\n which had McCray under observation, and he was more than a little\n excited. His members, disposed about the room where he had sent them on\n various errands, quivered and shook a little; yet they were the calmest\n limbs in the room; the members of the other team workers were in a\n state of violent commotion.", "Suppose you call him \"Hatcher\" (and suppose you call it a \"him.\")\n Hatcher was not exactly male, because his race had no true males; but\n it did have females and he was certainly not that. Hatcher did not in\n any way look like a human being, but they had features in common.\n\n\n If Hatcher and McCray had somehow managed to strike up an acquaintance,\n they might have got along very well. Hatcher, like McCray, was an\n adventurous soul, young, able, well-learned in the technical sciences\n of his culture. Both enjoyed games—McCray baseball, poker and\n three-dimensional chess; Hatcher a number of sports which defy human\n description. Both held positions of some importance—considering their\n ages—in the affairs of their respective worlds.", "The council conferred among itself for a moment, Hatcher waiting. It\n was not really a waste of time for him; with the organs he had left in\n the probe-team room, he was in fairly close touch with what was going\n on—knew that McCray was once again fumbling among the objects in the\n dark, knew that the team-members had tried illuminating the room for\n him briefly and again produced the rising panic.\n\n\n Still, Hatcher fretted. He wanted to get back.\n\n\n \"Stop fidgeting,\" commanded the council leader abruptly. \"Hatcher, you\n are to establish communication at once.\"", "Hatcher, who was not human, did not possess truly human emotions; but\n he did feel amazement when he was amazed, and fear when there was\n cause to be afraid. These specimens, obtained with so much difficulty,\n needed so badly, were his responsibility. He knew the issues involved\n much better than any of his helpers. They could only be surprised at\n the queer antics of the aliens with attached limbs and strange powers.\n Hatcher knew that this was not a freak show, but a matter of life and\n death. He said, musing:\n\n\n \"This new one, I cannot communicate with her, but I get—almost—a\n whisper, now and then. The first one, the male, nothing. But this\n female is perhaps not quite mute.\"\n\n\n \"Then shall we abandon him and work with her, forgetting the first one?\"", "Hatcher did not like the idea of endangering the Earthman. It cannot\n be said that he was emotionally involved; it was not pity or sympathy\n that caused him to regret the dangers in moving too fast toward\n communication. Not even Hatcher had quite got over the revolting\n physical differences between the Earthman and his own people. But\n Hatcher did not want him destroyed. It had been difficult enough\n getting him here.\n\n\n Hatcher checked through the members that he had left with the rest of\n his team and discovered that there were no immediate emergencies, so he\n took time to eat. In Hatcher's race this was accomplished in ways not\n entirely pleasant to Earthmen. A slit in the lower hemisphere of his\n body opened, like a purse, emitting a thin, pussy, fetid fluid which\n Hatcher caught and poured into a disposal trough at the side of the\n eating room. He then stuffed the slit with pulpy vegetation the texture\n of kelp; it closed, and his body was supplied with nourishment for\n another day.", "\"But, sir....\" Hatcher swung closer, his thick skin quivering slightly;\n he would have gestured if he had brought members with him to gesture\n with. \"We've done everything we dare. We've made the place homey\n for him—\" actually, what he said was more like,\nwe've warmed the\n biophysical nuances of his enclosure\n—\"and tried to guess his needs;\n and we're frightening him half to death. We\ncan't\ngo faster. This\n creature is in no way similar to us, you know. He relies on paranormal\n forces—heat, light, kinetic energy—for his life. His chemistry is not\n ours, his processes of thought are not ours, his entire organism is\n closer to the inanimate rocks of a sea-bottom than to ourselves.\"\n\n\n \"Understood, Hatcher. In your first report you stated these creatures\n were intelligent.\"\n\n\n \"Yes, sir. But not in our way.\"", "He returned quickly to the room.\n\n\n His second in command was busy, but one of the other team workers\n reported—nothing new—and asked about Hatcher's appearance before the\n council. Hatcher passed the question off. He considered telling his\n staff about the disappearance of the Central Masses team member, but\n decided against it. He had not been told it was secret. On the other\n hand, he had not been told it was not. Something of this importance was\n not lightly to be gossiped about. For endless generations the threat\n of the Old Ones had hung over his race, those queer, almost mythical\n beings from the Central Masses of the galaxy. One brush with them, in\n ages past, had almost destroyed Hatcher's people. Only by running and\n hiding, bearing one of their planets with them and abandoning it—with\n its population—as a decoy, had they arrived at all.", "Hatcher studied him frostily; his patience was not, after all, endless.\n \"No matter,\" he said at last. \"Bring the other one in.\"\n\n\n And then, in a completely different mood, \"We may need him badly. We\n may be in the process of killing our first one now.\"\n\n\n \"Killing him, Hatcher?\"\n\n\n Hatcher rose and shook himself, his mindless members floating away like\n puppies dislodged from suck. \"Council's orders,\" he said. \"We've got to\n go into Stage Two of the project at once.\"\nIII\n\n\n Before Stage Two began, or before Herrell McCray realized it had begun,\n he had an inspiration.\n\n\n The dark was absolute, but he remembered where the spacesuit had been\n and groped his way to it and, yes, it had what all spacesuits had to\n have. It had a light. He found the toggle that turned it on and pressed\n it.", "Hatcher hesitated. \"No,\" he said at last. \"The male is responding well.\n Remember that when last this experiment was done every subject died; he\n is alive at least. But I am wondering. We can't quite communicate with\n the female—\"\n\n\n \"But?\"\n\n\n \"But I'm not sure that others can't.\"\nThe woman's voice was at such close range that McCray's suit radio made\n a useful RDF set. He located her direction easily enough, shielding the\n tiny built-in antenna with the tungsten-steel blade of the ax, while\n she begged him to hurry. Her voice was heavily accented, with some\n words in a language he did not recognize. She seemed to be in shock.\n\n\n McCray was hardly surprised at that; he had been close enough to shock\n himself. He tried to reassure her as he searched for a way out of the\n hall, but in the middle of a word her voice stopped.", "The probe team had had a shock.\n\n\n \"Paranormal powers,\" muttered Hatcher's second in command, and the\n others mumbled agreement. Hatcher ordered silence, studying the\n specimen from Earth.\n\n\n After a long moment he turned his senses from the Earthman.\n \"Incredible—but it's true enough,\" he said. \"I'd better report. Watch\n him,\" he added, but that was surely unnecessary. Their job was to\n watch McCray, and they would do their job; and even more, not one of\n them could have looked away to save his life from the spectacle of\n a creature as odd and, from their point of view, hideously alien as\n Herrell McCray.\nHatcher hurried through the halls of the great buried structure in\n which he worked, toward the place where the supervising council of all\n probes would be in permanent session. They admitted him at once.\n\n\n Hatcher identified himself and gave a quick, concise report:", "\"But in\na\nway, and you must learn that way. I know.\" One lobster-claw\n shaped member drifted close to the councillor's body and raised itself\n in an admonitory gesture. \"You want time. But we don't have time,\n Hatcher. Yours is not the only probe team working. The Central Masses\n team has just turned in a most alarming report.\"\n\n\n \"Have they secured a subject?\" Hatcher demanded jealously.\n\n\n The councillor paused. \"Worse than that, Hatcher. I am afraid their\n subjects have secured one of them. One of them is missing.\"\n\n\n There was a moment's silence. Frozen, Hatcher could only wait. The\n council room was like a tableau in a museum until the councillor spoke\n again, each council member poised over his locus-point, his members\n drifting about him.", "Hatcher was patient; he knew his assistant well. Obviously something\n was about to happen. He took the moment to call his members back to\n him for feeding; they dodged back to their niches on his skin, fitted\n themselves into their vestigial slots, poured back their wastes into\n his own circulation and ingested what they needed from the meal he had\n just taken.... \"Now!\" cried the assistant. \"Look!\"\n\n\n At what passed among Hatcher's people for a viewing console an image\n was forming. Actually it was the assistant himself who formed it, not a\n cathode trace or projected shadow; but it showed what it was meant to\n show.\n\n\n Hatcher was startled. \"Another one! And—is it a different species? Or\n merely a different sex?\"\n\n\n \"Study the probe for yourself,\" the assistant invited.", "Finally the councillor said, \"I speak for all of us, I think. If the\n Old Ones have seized one of our probers our time margin is considerably\n narrowed. Indeed, we may not have any time at all. You must do\n everything you can to establish communication with your subject.\"\n\n\n \"But the danger to the specimen—\" Hatcher protested automatically.\n\n\n \"—is no greater,\" said the councillor, \"than the danger to every one\n of us if we do not find allies\nnow\n.\"\nHatcher returned to his laboratory gloomily.\n\n\n It was just like the council to put the screws on; they had a\n reputation for demanding results at any cost—even at the cost of\n destroying the only thing you had that would make results possible.", "\"Yes, sir. The staff is preparing a technical description of the forces\n now, but I can say that they are electromagnetic vibrations modulating\n a carrier wave of very high speed, and in turn modulated by the\n vibrations of the atmosphere caused by the subject's own breathing.\"\n\n\n \"Fantastic,\" breathed the councillor, in a tone of dawning hope. \"How\n about communicating with him, Hatcher? Any progress?\"\n\n\n \"Well ... not much, sir. He suddenly panicked. We don't know why; but\n we thought we'd better pull back and let him recover for a while.\"", "Now they had detected mapping parties of the Old Ones dangerously near\n the spiral arm of the galaxy in which their planet was located, they\n had begun the Probe Teams to find some way of combating them, or of\n fleeing again.\n\n\n But it seemed that the Probe Teams themselves might be betraying their\n existence to their enemies—\n\n\n \"Hatcher!\"\n\n\n The call was urgent; he hurried to see what it was about. It was his\n second in command, very excited. \"What is it?\" Hatcher demanded.\n\n\n \"Wait....\"", "And louder, blaring, then fading to normal volume as the AVC circuits\n toned the signal down, another voice. A woman's voice, crying out in\n panic and fear: \"\nJodrell Bank!\nWhere are you? Help!\"\nIV\n\n\n Hatcher's second in command said: \"He has got through the first\n survival test. In fact, he broke his way out! What next?\"\n\n\n \"Wait!\" Hatcher ordered sharply. He was watching the new specimen and\n a troublesome thought had occurred to him. The new one was female and\n seemed to be in pain; but it was not the pain that disturbed Hatcher,\n it was something far more immediate to his interests.\n\n\n \"I think,\" he said slowly, \"that they are in contact.\"\n\n\n His assistant vibrated startlement.\n\n\n \"I know,\" Hatcher said, \"but watch. Do you see? He is going straight\n toward her.\"", "McCray caught it up and headed for the door. It felt good in his\n gauntlets, a rewarding weight; any weapon straightens the back of the\n man who holds it, and McCray was grateful for this one. With something\n concrete to do he could postpone questioning. Never mind why he had\n been brought here; never mind how. Never mind what he would, or could,\n do next; all those questions could recede into the background of his\n mind while he swung the ax and battered his way out of this poisoned\n oven.\nCrash-clang!\nThe double jolt ran up the shaft of the ax, through his\n gauntlets and into his arm; but he was making progress, he could see\n the plastic—or whatever it was—of the door. It was chipping out. Not\n easily, very reluctantly; but flaking out in chips that left a white\n powdery residue.\n\n\n At this rate, he thought grimly, he would be an hour getting through\n it. Did he have an hour?", "But it did not take an hour. One blow was luckier than the rest; it\n must have snapped the lock mechanism. The door shook and slid ajar.\n McCray got the thin of the blade into the crack and pried it wide.\n\n\n He was in another room, maybe a hall, large and bare.\n\n\n McCray put the broad of his back against the broken door and pressed it\n as nearly closed as he could; it might not keep the gas and heat out,\n but it would retard them.", "In fact, they were. He could recognize barrel, chamber, trigger, even\n a couple of cartridges, neatly opened and the grains of powder stacked\n beside them. It was an older, clumsier model than the kind he had seen\n in survival locker, on the\nJodrell Bank\n—and abruptly wished he were\n carrying now—but it was a pistol. Another trophy, like the strange\n assortment in the other room? He could not guess. But the others had\n been more familiar; they all have come from his own ship. He was\n prepared to swear that nothing like this antique had been aboard.\n\n\n The drone began again in his ear, as it had at five-minute intervals\n all along:\n\n\n \"Herrell McCray, Herrell McCray, Herrell McCray, this is\nJodrell Bank\ncalling Herrell McCray....\"", "Not everything he saw was familiar. The walls of the room itself were\n strange. They were not metal or plaster or knotty pine; they were\n not papered, painted or overlaid with stucco. They seemed to be made\n of some sort of hard organic compound, perhaps a sort of plastic or\n processed cellulose. It was hard to tell colors in the pinkish light.\n But they seemed to have none. They were \"neutral\"—the color of aged\n driftwood or unbleached cloth.\n\n\n Three of the walls were that way, and the floor and ceiling. The fourth\n wall was something else. Areas in it had the appearance of gratings;\n from them issued the pungent, distasteful halogen odor. They might be\n ventilators, he thought; but if so the air they brought in was worse\n than what he already had.\n\n\n McCray was beginning to feel more confident. It was astonishing how a\n little light made an impossible situation bearable, how quickly his\n courage flowed back when he could see again." ], [ "Suppose you call him \"Hatcher\" (and suppose you call it a \"him.\")\n Hatcher was not exactly male, because his race had no true males; but\n it did have females and he was certainly not that. Hatcher did not in\n any way look like a human being, but they had features in common.\n\n\n If Hatcher and McCray had somehow managed to strike up an acquaintance,\n they might have got along very well. Hatcher, like McCray, was an\n adventurous soul, young, able, well-learned in the technical sciences\n of his culture. Both enjoyed games—McCray baseball, poker and\n three-dimensional chess; Hatcher a number of sports which defy human\n description. Both held positions of some importance—considering their\n ages—in the affairs of their respective worlds.", "Physically they were nothing alike. Hatcher was a three-foot,\n hard-shelled sphere of jelly. He had \"arms\" and \"legs,\" but they were\n not organically attached to \"himself.\" They were snakelike things which\n obeyed the orders of his brain as well as your mind can make your toes\n curl; but they did not touch him directly. Indeed, they worked as well\n a yard or a quarter-mile away as they did when, rarely, they rested\n in the crevices they had been formed from in his \"skin.\" At greater\n distances they worked less well, for reasons irrelevant to the Law of\n Inverse Squares.\n\n\n Hatcher's principal task at this moment was to run the \"probe team\"\n which had McCray under observation, and he was more than a little\n excited. His members, disposed about the room where he had sent them on\n various errands, quivered and shook a little; yet they were the calmest\n limbs in the room; the members of the other team workers were in a\n state of violent commotion.", "Hatcher, who was not human, did not possess truly human emotions; but\n he did feel amazement when he was amazed, and fear when there was\n cause to be afraid. These specimens, obtained with so much difficulty,\n needed so badly, were his responsibility. He knew the issues involved\n much better than any of his helpers. They could only be surprised at\n the queer antics of the aliens with attached limbs and strange powers.\n Hatcher knew that this was not a freak show, but a matter of life and\n death. He said, musing:\n\n\n \"This new one, I cannot communicate with her, but I get—almost—a\n whisper, now and then. The first one, the male, nothing. But this\n female is perhaps not quite mute.\"\n\n\n \"Then shall we abandon him and work with her, forgetting the first one?\"", "Hatcher studied him frostily; his patience was not, after all, endless.\n \"No matter,\" he said at last. \"Bring the other one in.\"\n\n\n And then, in a completely different mood, \"We may need him badly. We\n may be in the process of killing our first one now.\"\n\n\n \"Killing him, Hatcher?\"\n\n\n Hatcher rose and shook himself, his mindless members floating away like\n puppies dislodged from suck. \"Council's orders,\" he said. \"We've got to\n go into Stage Two of the project at once.\"\nIII\n\n\n Before Stage Two began, or before Herrell McCray realized it had begun,\n he had an inspiration.\n\n\n The dark was absolute, but he remembered where the spacesuit had been\n and groped his way to it and, yes, it had what all spacesuits had to\n have. It had a light. He found the toggle that turned it on and pressed\n it.", "The probe team had had a shock.\n\n\n \"Paranormal powers,\" muttered Hatcher's second in command, and the\n others mumbled agreement. Hatcher ordered silence, studying the\n specimen from Earth.\n\n\n After a long moment he turned his senses from the Earthman.\n \"Incredible—but it's true enough,\" he said. \"I'd better report. Watch\n him,\" he added, but that was surely unnecessary. Their job was to\n watch McCray, and they would do their job; and even more, not one of\n them could have looked away to save his life from the spectacle of\n a creature as odd and, from their point of view, hideously alien as\n Herrell McCray.\nHatcher hurried through the halls of the great buried structure in\n which he worked, toward the place where the supervising council of all\n probes would be in permanent session. They admitted him at once.\n\n\n Hatcher identified himself and gave a quick, concise report:", "Hatcher hesitated. \"No,\" he said at last. \"The male is responding well.\n Remember that when last this experiment was done every subject died; he\n is alive at least. But I am wondering. We can't quite communicate with\n the female—\"\n\n\n \"But?\"\n\n\n \"But I'm not sure that others can't.\"\nThe woman's voice was at such close range that McCray's suit radio made\n a useful RDF set. He located her direction easily enough, shielding the\n tiny built-in antenna with the tungsten-steel blade of the ax, while\n she begged him to hurry. Her voice was heavily accented, with some\n words in a language he did not recognize. She seemed to be in shock.\n\n\n McCray was hardly surprised at that; he had been close enough to shock\n himself. He tried to reassure her as he searched for a way out of the\n hall, but in the middle of a word her voice stopped.", "The council conferred among itself for a moment, Hatcher waiting. It\n was not really a waste of time for him; with the organs he had left in\n the probe-team room, he was in fairly close touch with what was going\n on—knew that McCray was once again fumbling among the objects in the\n dark, knew that the team-members had tried illuminating the room for\n him briefly and again produced the rising panic.\n\n\n Still, Hatcher fretted. He wanted to get back.\n\n\n \"Stop fidgeting,\" commanded the council leader abruptly. \"Hatcher, you\n are to establish communication at once.\"", "McCray caught it up and headed for the door. It felt good in his\n gauntlets, a rewarding weight; any weapon straightens the back of the\n man who holds it, and McCray was grateful for this one. With something\n concrete to do he could postpone questioning. Never mind why he had\n been brought here; never mind how. Never mind what he would, or could,\n do next; all those questions could recede into the background of his\n mind while he swung the ax and battered his way out of this poisoned\n oven.\nCrash-clang!\nThe double jolt ran up the shaft of the ax, through his\n gauntlets and into his arm; but he was making progress, he could see\n the plastic—or whatever it was—of the door. It was chipping out. Not\n easily, very reluctantly; but flaking out in chips that left a white\n powdery residue.\n\n\n At this rate, he thought grimly, he would be an hour getting through\n it. Did he have an hour?", "Hatcher did not like the idea of endangering the Earthman. It cannot\n be said that he was emotionally involved; it was not pity or sympathy\n that caused him to regret the dangers in moving too fast toward\n communication. Not even Hatcher had quite got over the revolting\n physical differences between the Earthman and his own people. But\n Hatcher did not want him destroyed. It had been difficult enough\n getting him here.\n\n\n Hatcher checked through the members that he had left with the rest of\n his team and discovered that there were no immediate emergencies, so he\n took time to eat. In Hatcher's race this was accomplished in ways not\n entirely pleasant to Earthmen. A slit in the lower hemisphere of his\n body opened, like a purse, emitting a thin, pussy, fetid fluid which\n Hatcher caught and poured into a disposal trough at the side of the\n eating room. He then stuffed the slit with pulpy vegetation the texture\n of kelp; it closed, and his body was supplied with nourishment for\n another day.", "But it did not take an hour. One blow was luckier than the rest; it\n must have snapped the lock mechanism. The door shook and slid ajar.\n McCray got the thin of the blade into the crack and pried it wide.\n\n\n He was in another room, maybe a hall, large and bare.\n\n\n McCray put the broad of his back against the broken door and pressed it\n as nearly closed as he could; it might not keep the gas and heat out,\n but it would retard them.", "Not everything he saw was familiar. The walls of the room itself were\n strange. They were not metal or plaster or knotty pine; they were\n not papered, painted or overlaid with stucco. They seemed to be made\n of some sort of hard organic compound, perhaps a sort of plastic or\n processed cellulose. It was hard to tell colors in the pinkish light.\n But they seemed to have none. They were \"neutral\"—the color of aged\n driftwood or unbleached cloth.\n\n\n Three of the walls were that way, and the floor and ceiling. The fourth\n wall was something else. Areas in it had the appearance of gratings;\n from them issued the pungent, distasteful halogen odor. They might be\n ventilators, he thought; but if so the air they brought in was worse\n than what he already had.\n\n\n McCray was beginning to feel more confident. It was astonishing how a\n little light made an impossible situation bearable, how quickly his\n courage flowed back when he could see again.", "\"But, sir....\" Hatcher swung closer, his thick skin quivering slightly;\n he would have gestured if he had brought members with him to gesture\n with. \"We've done everything we dare. We've made the place homey\n for him—\" actually, what he said was more like,\nwe've warmed the\n biophysical nuances of his enclosure\n—\"and tried to guess his needs;\n and we're frightening him half to death. We\ncan't\ngo faster. This\n creature is in no way similar to us, you know. He relies on paranormal\n forces—heat, light, kinetic energy—for his life. His chemistry is not\n ours, his processes of thought are not ours, his entire organism is\n closer to the inanimate rocks of a sea-bottom than to ourselves.\"\n\n\n \"Understood, Hatcher. In your first report you stated these creatures\n were intelligent.\"\n\n\n \"Yes, sir. But not in our way.\"", "The pinkish lights went out. He was in the dark again, worse dark than\n before.\n\n\n For before the light had gone, McCray had seen what had escaped\n his eyes before. The suit and the microphone were clear enough in\n the pinkish glimmer; but the hand—his own hand, cupped to hold the\n microphone—he had not seen at all. Nor his arm. Nor, in one fleeting\n moment of study, his chest.\n\n\n McCray could not see any part of his own body at all.\nII\n\n\n Someone else could.\n\n\n Someone was watching Herrell McCray, with the clinical fascination\n of a biochemist observing the wigglings of paramecia in a new\n antibiotic—and with the prayerful emotions of a starving, shipwrecked,\n sailor, watching the inward bobbing drift of a wave-born cask that\nmay\ncontain food.", "Still, it led in the proper direction. McCray added one more\n inexplicable fact to his file and walked through. He was in another\n hall—or tunnel—rising quite steeply to the right. By his reckoning it\n was the proper direction. He labored up it, sweating under the weight\n of the suit, and found another open door, this one round, and behind\n it—\n\n\n Yes, there was the woman whose voice he had heard.\n\n\n It was a woman, all right. The voice had been so strained that he\n hadn't been positive. Even now, short black hair might not have proved\n it, and she was lying face down but the waist and hips were a woman's,\n even though she wore a bulky, quilted suit of coveralls.\n\n\n He knelt beside her and gently turned her face.\n\n\n She was unconscious. Broad, dark face, with no make-up; she was\n apparently in her late thirties. She appeared to be Chinese.", "The room was again unlighted—at least to McCray's eyes. There was not\n even that pink pseudo-light that had baffled him; here was nothing\n but the beam of his suit lamp. What it showed was cryptic. There were\n evidences of use: shelves, boxy contraptions that might have been\n cupboards, crude level surfaces attached to the walls that might have\n been workbenches. Yet they were queerly contrived, for it was not\n possible to guess from them much about the creatures who used them.\n Some were near the floor, some at waist height, some even suspended\n from the ceiling itself. A man would need a ladder to work at these\n benches and McCray, staring, thought briefly of many-armed blind giants\n or shapeless huge intelligent amoebae, and felt the skin prickle at the\n back of his neck.", "Hatcher was patient; he knew his assistant well. Obviously something\n was about to happen. He took the moment to call his members back to\n him for feeding; they dodged back to their niches on his skin, fitted\n themselves into their vestigial slots, poured back their wastes into\n his own circulation and ingested what they needed from the meal he had\n just taken.... \"Now!\" cried the assistant. \"Look!\"\n\n\n At what passed among Hatcher's people for a viewing console an image\n was forming. Actually it was the assistant himself who formed it, not a\n cathode trace or projected shadow; but it showed what it was meant to\n show.\n\n\n Hatcher was startled. \"Another one! And—is it a different species? Or\n merely a different sex?\"\n\n\n \"Study the probe for yourself,\" the assistant invited.", "In fact, they were. He could recognize barrel, chamber, trigger, even\n a couple of cartridges, neatly opened and the grains of powder stacked\n beside them. It was an older, clumsier model than the kind he had seen\n in survival locker, on the\nJodrell Bank\n—and abruptly wished he were\n carrying now—but it was a pistol. Another trophy, like the strange\n assortment in the other room? He could not guess. But the others had\n been more familiar; they all have come from his own ship. He was\n prepared to swear that nothing like this antique had been aboard.\n\n\n The drone began again in his ear, as it had at five-minute intervals\n all along:\n\n\n \"Herrell McCray, Herrell McCray, Herrell McCray, this is\nJodrell Bank\ncalling Herrell McCray....\"", "\"Yes, sir. The staff is preparing a technical description of the forces\n now, but I can say that they are electromagnetic vibrations modulating\n a carrier wave of very high speed, and in turn modulated by the\n vibrations of the atmosphere caused by the subject's own breathing.\"\n\n\n \"Fantastic,\" breathed the councillor, in a tone of dawning hope. \"How\n about communicating with him, Hatcher? Any progress?\"\n\n\n \"Well ... not much, sir. He suddenly panicked. We don't know why; but\n we thought we'd better pull back and let him recover for a while.\"", "He returned quickly to the room.\n\n\n His second in command was busy, but one of the other team workers\n reported—nothing new—and asked about Hatcher's appearance before the\n council. Hatcher passed the question off. He considered telling his\n staff about the disappearance of the Central Masses team member, but\n decided against it. He had not been told it was secret. On the other\n hand, he had not been told it was not. Something of this importance was\n not lightly to be gossiped about. For endless generations the threat\n of the Old Ones had hung over his race, those queer, almost mythical\n beings from the Central Masses of the galaxy. One brush with them, in\n ages past, had almost destroyed Hatcher's people. Only by running and\n hiding, bearing one of their planets with them and abandoning it—with\n its population—as a decoy, had they arrived at all.", "But the room itself was hard fact. McCray swore violently and out loud.\n\n\n It was crazy and impossible. There simply was no way for him to get\n from a warm, bright navigator's cubicle on\nStarship Jodrell Bank\nto\n this damned, dark, dismal hole of a place where everything was out to\n hurt him and nothing explained what was going on. He cried aloud in\n exasperation: \"If I could only\nsee\n!\"\n\n\n He tripped and fell against something that was soft, slimy and, like\n baker's dough, not at all resilient.\n\n\n A flickering halo of pinkish light appeared. He sat up, startled. He\n was looking at something that resembled a suit of medieval armor.\nIt was, he saw in a moment, not armor but a spacesuit. But what was the\n light? And what were these other things in the room?" ] ]
train	51337	[ "What is the flaw in the cousins' plan?", "Why don't the cousins realize the flaw in their plan?", "Why doesn't Martin explain the flaw in the plan to the cousins?", "Why doesn't Ninian know much about meals?", "How does Conrad go back in time?", "How did Ninian, Raymond, and the other cousins go back in time?", "Why does Martin prefer to live on the yacht?" ]	[ [ "Conrad could target their great-great-grandmother and achieve the same result.", "Conrad could target their great-grandmother and achieve the same result.", "They have kept Martin isolated for almost his entire life, he has no son. Therefore, they will cease to exist.", "All Conrad needs to do to find Martin, is to follow the cousins back in time." ], [ "They do not understand time travel.", "They all originated from the same point in time.", "They are highly interbred.", "They are not very intelligent." ], [ "Martin resents the cousins for taking Ninian away from him.", "They have been very generous. Martin is afraid they'll leave, and he won't be wealthy anymore.", "Martin does not want the future generations to turn out like his descendants.", "Martin finds the cousins very irritating. If they can't figure it out, why should he explain it?" ], [ "In the future, all the nutrients a human needs come in an easy-to-swallow capsule.", "In the future, they don't eat meals.", "Ninian is not a chef.", "Ninian is used to having servants plan and serve her meals. She's never had to buy food herself." ], [ "Conrad stole Professor Farkas' time transmitter to send himself back in time.", "Professor Farkas sent him back in time with the time transmitter.", "Conrad built a time transmitter using a copy of Professor Farkas' plans.", "Professor Farkas' assistant sent Conrad back in time using the time transmitter after Conrad gave him a bribe." ], [ "They bribed the assistant for the plans and blackmailed or tortured someone to build the time transmitter for them.", "Professor Farkas' assistant sent them back in time using the time transmitter after they gave him a bribe.", "They bribed the assistant for the plans and hired a gadget enthusiast to build the time transmitter for them.", "Professor Farkas sent them back in time with the time transmitter." ], [ "Martin is used to being isolated now. The people on land live in a different world than he does.", "The people on land were always at war. Martin wants no part of it.", "The people on land are too different from the cousins. Living on the yacht avoids questions from locals.", "Martin thinks being on the ocean will make it harder for Conrad to find him." ] ]	[ 3, 4, 3, 4, 3, 1, 1 ]	[ 0, 1, 1, 0, 0, 1, 1 ]	[ [ "A great many of the cousins turned up at the simple ceremony. All were\n dressed in overwhelming black and showed a great deal of grief. Raymond\n read the burial service, because they didn't dare summon a clerical\n cousin from the future; they were afraid he might prove rather stuffy\n about the entire undertaking.\n\n\n \"He died for all of us,\" Raymond concluded his funeral eulogy over\n Ives, \"so his death was not in vain.\"", "Raymond turned a deep rose. \"Well, doesn't that just go to prove you\n mustn't believe everything you hear?\" The next sentence tumbled out in\n a rush. \"I wormed the whole thing out of him and all of us—the other\n cousins and me—held a council of war, as it were, and we decided it\n was our moral duty to go back in time ourselves and protect you.\" He\n beamed at Martin.\n\n\n The boy smiled slowly. \"Of course. You had to. If Conrad succeeded in\neliminating\nme, then none of you would exist, would you?\"\n\n\n Raymond frowned. Then he shrugged cheerfully. \"Well, you didn't really\n suppose we were going to all this trouble and expense out of sheer\n altruism, did you?\" he asked, turning on the charm which all the\n cousins possessed to a consternating degree.\nMartin had, of course, no illusions on that score; he had learned long\n ago that nobody did anything for nothing. But saying so was unwise.", "More cousins were in residence at once than ever before, because\n they came for the ocean voyage. They spent most of their time aboard\n ship, giving each other parties and playing an\navant-garde\nform of\n shuffleboard and gambling on future sporting events. That last usually\n ended in a brawl, because one cousin was sure to accuse another of\n having got advance information about the results.", "During all this time, Conrad still did not put in an appearance. Martin\n had gotten to be such a crack shot with the ray pistol that he almost\n wished his descendant would show up, so there would be some excitement.\n But he didn't come. And Martin got to thinking....\n\n\n He always felt that if any of the cousins could have come to realize\n the basic flaw in the elaborate plan they had concocted, it would have\n been Ives. However, when the yacht touched at Tierra del Fuego one\n bitter winter, Ives took a severe chill. They sent for a doctor from\n the future—one of the descendants who had been eccentric enough to\n take a medical degree—but he wasn't able to save Ives. The body was\n buried in the frozen ground at Ushuaia, on the southern tip of the\n continent, a hundred years or more before the date of his birth.", "\"Eat, drink and be merry, or whatever you Romans say when you do as you\n do,\" the cousin—who was rather woolly in history; the descendants were\n scraping bottom now—advised.\n\n\n Martin showed his work in Italy, so that the cousin could be\n disillusioned by the current crop of Romans. He found that neither\n purpose nor malice was enough; he was still immeasurably bored.\n However, a museum bought two of the paintings. Martin thought of Ives\n and felt an uncomfortable pang of a sensation he could no longer\n understand.\n\n\n \"Where do you suppose Conrad has been all this time?\" Martin idly asked\n the current cousin—who was passing as his nephew by now.\n\n\n The young man jumped, then glanced around him uncomfortably. \"Conrad's\n a very shrewd fellow,\" he whispered. \"He's biding his time—waiting\n until we're off guard. And then—pow!—he'll attack!\"", "But Martin disagreed.\nThe ceaseless voyaging began again.\nThe Interregnum\nvoyaged to every\n ocean and every sea. Some were blue and some green and some dun. After\n a while, Martin couldn't tell one from another. Cousin after cousin\n came to watch over him and eventually they were as hard for him to tell\n apart as the different oceans.\nAll the cousins were young, for, though they came at different times in\n his life, they had all started out from the same time in theirs. Only\n the young ones had been included in the venture; they did not trust\n their elders.", "\"Just to be on the safe side,\" Martin said, \"I think I'd better have\n one of those guns, too.\"\n\n\n \"A splendid idea!\" enthused Raymond. \"I was just about to think of that\n myself!\"\nWhen it came time for the parting, it was Ninian who cried—tears at\n her own inadequacy, Martin knew, not of sorrow. He was getting skillful\n at understanding his descendants, far better than they at understanding\n him. But then they never really tried. Ninian kissed him wetly on the\n cheek and said she was sure everything would work out all right and\n that she'd come see him again. She never did, though, except at the\n very last.", "From time to time, there were other visitors—Uncles Ives and\n Bartholomew and Olaf, Aunts Ottillie and Grania and Lalage, and many\n more—all cousins to one another, he was told, all descendants of his.\nMartin was never left alone for a minute. He wasn't allowed to play\n with the other kids in the new neighborhood. Not that their parents\n would have let them, anyway. The adults obviously figured that if\n a one-car family hired private tutors for their kid, there must be\n something pretty wrong with him. So Martin and Ninian were just as\n conspicuous as before. But he didn't tip her off. She was grown up; she\n was supposed to know better than he did.\n\n\n He lived well. He had food to eat that he'd never dreamed of before,\n warm clothes that no one had ever worn before him. He was surrounded by\n more luxury than he knew what to do with.", "\"Oh, I see,\" Martin said.\n\n\n He had often fancied that Conrad would prove to be the most stimulating\n member of the whole generation. But it seemed unlikely that he would\n ever have a chance for a conversation with the young man. More than one\n conversation, anyhow.\n\n\n \"When he does show up, I'll protect you,\" the cousin vowed, touching\n his ray gun. \"You haven't a thing to worry about.\"\n\n\n Martin smiled with all the charm he'd had nothing to do but acquire. \"I\n have every confidence in you,\" he told his descendant. He himself had\n given up carrying a gun long ago.", "Martin missed the old neighborhood, though. He missed having other\n kids to play with. He even missed his mother. Sure, she hadn't given\n him enough to eat and she'd beaten him up so hard sometimes that she'd\n nearly killed him—but then there had also been times when she'd hugged\n and kissed him and soaked his collar with her tears. She'd done all\n she could for him, supporting him in the only way she knew how—and if\n respectable society didn't like it, the hell with respectable society.\n\n\n From Ninian and her cousins, there was only an impersonal kindness.\n They made no bones about the fact that they were there only to carry\n out a rather unpleasant duty. Though they were in the house with him,\n in their minds and in their talk they were living in another world—a\n world of warmth and peace and plenty where nobody worked, except in the\n government service or the essential professions. And they seemed to\n think even that kind of job was pretty low-class, though better than\n actually doing anything with the hands.", "So he drew on the family's vast future resources and bought a yacht,\n which Martin christened\nThe Interregnum\n. They traveled about from sea\n to ocean and from ocean to sea, touching at various ports and making\n trips inland. Martin saw the civilized world—mostly in fragments; the\n nearly intact semi-civilized world and the uncivilized world, much the\n same as it had been for centuries. It was like visiting an enormous\n museum; he couldn't seem to identify with his own time any more.\n\n\n The other cousins appeared to find the yacht a congenial head-quarters,\n largely because they could spend so much time far away from the\n contemporary inhabitants of the planet and relax and be themselves. So\n they never moved back to land. Martin spent the rest of his life on\nThe Interregnum\n. He felt curiously safer from Conrad there, although\n there was no valid reason why an ocean should stop a traveler through\n time.", "Sometimes he wondered who Ninian really was. Obviously that story\n about her coming from the future was just a gag. Besides, if she really\n was his great-great-grand-daughter, as she said, why would she tell\n him to call her \"\nAunt Ninian\n\"? Maybe he was only eleven, but he'd\n been around and he knew just what the score was. At first he'd thought\n maybe she was some new kind of social worker, but she acted a little\n too crazy for that.\n\n\n He loved to bait her, as he had loved to bait his mother. It was safer\n with Ninian, though, because when he pushed her too far, she would cry\n instead of mopping up the floor with him.\n\n\n \"But I can't understand,\" he would say, keeping his face straight. \"Why\n do you have to come from the future to protect me against your cousin\n Conrad?\"\n\n\n \"Because he's coming to kill you.\"", "Suddenly that seemed to make Conrad real. Martin felt a vague stirring\n of alarm. He kept his voice composed, however. \"How do you plan to\n protect me when he comes?\"\n\n\n \"Well, each one of us is armed to the teeth, of course,\" Raymond said\n with modest pride, displaying something that looked like a child's\n combination spaceman's gun and death ray, but which, Martin had no\n doubt, was a perfectly genuine—and lethal—weapon. \"And we've got a\n rather elaborate burglar alarm system.\"\n\n\n Martin inspected the system and made one or two changes in the wiring\n which, he felt, would increase its efficiency. But still he was\n dubious. \"Maybe it'll work on someone coming from outside this\nhouse\n,\n but do you think it will work on someone coming from outside this\ntime\n?\"\n\n\n \"Never fear—it has a temporal radius,\" Raymond replied. \"Factory\n guarantee and all that.\"", "But Raymond rushed on: \"Soon as Ninian goes and I'm in full charge,\n we'll get a more isolated place and run it on a far grander scale.\n Ostentation—that's the way to live here and now; the richer you are,\n the more eccentricity you can get away with. And,\" he added, \"I might\n as well be as comfortable as possible while I suffer through this\n wretched historical stint.\"\n\n\n \"So Ninian's going,\" said Martin, wondering why the news made him feel\n curiously desolate. Because, although he supposed he liked her in a\n remote kind of way, he had no fondness for her—or she, he knew, for\n him.", "\"We bribed another set of plans out of another of the professor's\n assistants,\" Raymond continued, as if Martin had answered,\n \"and—ah—induced a handicraft enthusiast to build the gadget for us.\"\nInduced\n, Martin knew, could have meant anything from blackmail to the\n use of the iron maiden.\n\n\n \"Then we were all ready to forestall Conrad. If one of us guarded you\n night and day, he would never be able to carry out his plot. So we made\n our counter-plan, set the machine as far back as it would go—and here\n we are!\"\n\n\n \"I see,\" Martin said.", "So drawing teachers were engaged and Martin became a very competent\n second-rate artist. He knew he would never be able to achieve first\n rank because, even though he was still so young, his work was almost\n purely intellectual. The only emotion he seemed able to feel was\n fear—the ever-present fear that someday he would turn a corridor and\n walk into a man who looked like him—a man who wanted to kill him for\n the sake of an ideal.\n\n\n But the fear did not show in Martin's pictures. They were pretty\n pictures.\nCousin Ives—now that Martin was older, he was told to call the\n descendants\ncousin\n—next assumed guardianship. Ives took his\n responsibilities more seriously than the others did. He even arranged\n to have Martin's work shown at an art gallery. The paintings received\n critical approval, but failed to evoke any enthusiasm. The modest\n sale they enjoyed was mostly to interior decorators. Museums were not\n interested.", "Unaware of the near-contempt in which his young ancestor held him,\n Raymond went on blandly: \"Anyhow, Conrad took it upon himself to\n feel particularly guilty, because, he decided, if it hadn't been for\n the fact that our great-grandfather discovered the super-drive, we\n might never have reached the stars. Which is ridiculous—his feeling\n guilty, I mean. Perhaps a great-grandfather is responsible for his\n great-grandchildren, but a great-grandchild can hardly be held\n accountable for his great-grandfather.\"\n\n\n \"How about a great-great-grandchild?\" Martin couldn't help asking.\nRaymond flushed a delicate pink. \"Do you want to hear the rest of this\n or don't you?\"\n\n\n \"Oh, I do!\" Martin said. He had pieced the whole thing together for\n himself long since, but he wanted to hear how Raymond would put it.", "\"Why should he kill me? I ain't done him nothing.\"\n\n\n Ninian sighed. \"He's dissatisfied with the current social order and\n killing you is part of an elaborate plan he's formulated to change it.\n You wouldn't understand.\"\n\n\n \"You're damn right. I\ndon't\nunderstand. What's it all about in\n straight gas?\"\n\n\n \"Oh, just don't ask any questions,\" Ninian said petulantly. \"When you\n get older, someone will explain the whole thing to you.\"\nSo Martin held his peace, because, on the whole, he liked things the\n way they were. Ninian really was the limit, though. All the people he\n knew lived in scabrous tenement apartments like his, but she seemed to\n think it was disgusting.\n\n\n \"So if you don't like it, clean it up,\" he suggested.\n\n\n She looked at him as if he were out of his mind.", "He nodded, knowing what she meant was that everything was coming out\n wrong. But he didn't try to help her; he just watched to see what\n she'd do next. Already he had begun to assume the detached role of a\n spectator.\n\n\n When it became clear that his mother was never going to show up again,\n Ninian bought one of those smallish, almost identical houses that\n mushroom on the fringes of a city after every war, particularly where\n intensive bombing has created a number of desirable building sites.\n\n\n \"This is a much better neighborhood for a boy to grow up in,\" she\n declared. \"Besides, it's easier to keep an eye on you here.\"\n\n\n And keep an eye on him she did—she or a rather foppish young man who\n came to stay with them occasionally. Martin was told to call him Uncle\n Raymond.", "During those early years, Martin's tutors were exchanged for the\n higher-degreed ones that were now needful. The question inevitably\n arose of what the youth's vocation in that life was going to be. At\n least twenty of the cousins came back through time to hold one of\n their vigorous family councils. Martin was still young enough to enjoy\n such occasions, finding them vastly superior to all other forms of\n entertainment.\n\"This sort of problem wouldn't arise in our day, Martin,\" Raymond\n commented as he took his place at the head of the table, \"because,\n unless one specifically feels a call to some profession or other, one\n just—well, drifts along happily.\"\n\n\n \"Ours is a wonderful world,\" Grania sighed at Martin. \"I only wish we\n could take you there. I'm sure you would like it.\"\n\n\n \"Don't be a fool, Grania!\" Raymond snapped. \"Well, Martin, have you\n made up your mind what you want to be?\"" ], [ "A great many of the cousins turned up at the simple ceremony. All were\n dressed in overwhelming black and showed a great deal of grief. Raymond\n read the burial service, because they didn't dare summon a clerical\n cousin from the future; they were afraid he might prove rather stuffy\n about the entire undertaking.\n\n\n \"He died for all of us,\" Raymond concluded his funeral eulogy over\n Ives, \"so his death was not in vain.\"", "Raymond turned a deep rose. \"Well, doesn't that just go to prove you\n mustn't believe everything you hear?\" The next sentence tumbled out in\n a rush. \"I wormed the whole thing out of him and all of us—the other\n cousins and me—held a council of war, as it were, and we decided it\n was our moral duty to go back in time ourselves and protect you.\" He\n beamed at Martin.\n\n\n The boy smiled slowly. \"Of course. You had to. If Conrad succeeded in\neliminating\nme, then none of you would exist, would you?\"\n\n\n Raymond frowned. Then he shrugged cheerfully. \"Well, you didn't really\n suppose we were going to all this trouble and expense out of sheer\n altruism, did you?\" he asked, turning on the charm which all the\n cousins possessed to a consternating degree.\nMartin had, of course, no illusions on that score; he had learned long\n ago that nobody did anything for nothing. But saying so was unwise.", "During all this time, Conrad still did not put in an appearance. Martin\n had gotten to be such a crack shot with the ray pistol that he almost\n wished his descendant would show up, so there would be some excitement.\n But he didn't come. And Martin got to thinking....\n\n\n He always felt that if any of the cousins could have come to realize\n the basic flaw in the elaborate plan they had concocted, it would have\n been Ives. However, when the yacht touched at Tierra del Fuego one\n bitter winter, Ives took a severe chill. They sent for a doctor from\n the future—one of the descendants who had been eccentric enough to\n take a medical degree—but he wasn't able to save Ives. The body was\n buried in the frozen ground at Ushuaia, on the southern tip of the\n continent, a hundred years or more before the date of his birth.", "More cousins were in residence at once than ever before, because\n they came for the ocean voyage. They spent most of their time aboard\n ship, giving each other parties and playing an\navant-garde\nform of\n shuffleboard and gambling on future sporting events. That last usually\n ended in a brawl, because one cousin was sure to accuse another of\n having got advance information about the results.", "\"Eat, drink and be merry, or whatever you Romans say when you do as you\n do,\" the cousin—who was rather woolly in history; the descendants were\n scraping bottom now—advised.\n\n\n Martin showed his work in Italy, so that the cousin could be\n disillusioned by the current crop of Romans. He found that neither\n purpose nor malice was enough; he was still immeasurably bored.\n However, a museum bought two of the paintings. Martin thought of Ives\n and felt an uncomfortable pang of a sensation he could no longer\n understand.\n\n\n \"Where do you suppose Conrad has been all this time?\" Martin idly asked\n the current cousin—who was passing as his nephew by now.\n\n\n The young man jumped, then glanced around him uncomfortably. \"Conrad's\n a very shrewd fellow,\" he whispered. \"He's biding his time—waiting\n until we're off guard. And then—pow!—he'll attack!\"", "But Martin disagreed.\nThe ceaseless voyaging began again.\nThe Interregnum\nvoyaged to every\n ocean and every sea. Some were blue and some green and some dun. After\n a while, Martin couldn't tell one from another. Cousin after cousin\n came to watch over him and eventually they were as hard for him to tell\n apart as the different oceans.\nAll the cousins were young, for, though they came at different times in\n his life, they had all started out from the same time in theirs. Only\n the young ones had been included in the venture; they did not trust\n their elders.", "From time to time, there were other visitors—Uncles Ives and\n Bartholomew and Olaf, Aunts Ottillie and Grania and Lalage, and many\n more—all cousins to one another, he was told, all descendants of his.\nMartin was never left alone for a minute. He wasn't allowed to play\n with the other kids in the new neighborhood. Not that their parents\n would have let them, anyway. The adults obviously figured that if\n a one-car family hired private tutors for their kid, there must be\n something pretty wrong with him. So Martin and Ninian were just as\n conspicuous as before. But he didn't tip her off. She was grown up; she\n was supposed to know better than he did.\n\n\n He lived well. He had food to eat that he'd never dreamed of before,\n warm clothes that no one had ever worn before him. He was surrounded by\n more luxury than he knew what to do with.", "\"Just to be on the safe side,\" Martin said, \"I think I'd better have\n one of those guns, too.\"\n\n\n \"A splendid idea!\" enthused Raymond. \"I was just about to think of that\n myself!\"\nWhen it came time for the parting, it was Ninian who cried—tears at\n her own inadequacy, Martin knew, not of sorrow. He was getting skillful\n at understanding his descendants, far better than they at understanding\n him. But then they never really tried. Ninian kissed him wetly on the\n cheek and said she was sure everything would work out all right and\n that she'd come see him again. She never did, though, except at the\n very last.", "\"Oh, I see,\" Martin said.\n\n\n He had often fancied that Conrad would prove to be the most stimulating\n member of the whole generation. But it seemed unlikely that he would\n ever have a chance for a conversation with the young man. More than one\n conversation, anyhow.\n\n\n \"When he does show up, I'll protect you,\" the cousin vowed, touching\n his ray gun. \"You haven't a thing to worry about.\"\n\n\n Martin smiled with all the charm he'd had nothing to do but acquire. \"I\n have every confidence in you,\" he told his descendant. He himself had\n given up carrying a gun long ago.", "Unaware of the near-contempt in which his young ancestor held him,\n Raymond went on blandly: \"Anyhow, Conrad took it upon himself to\n feel particularly guilty, because, he decided, if it hadn't been for\n the fact that our great-grandfather discovered the super-drive, we\n might never have reached the stars. Which is ridiculous—his feeling\n guilty, I mean. Perhaps a great-grandfather is responsible for his\n great-grandchildren, but a great-grandchild can hardly be held\n accountable for his great-grandfather.\"\n\n\n \"How about a great-great-grandchild?\" Martin couldn't help asking.\nRaymond flushed a delicate pink. \"Do you want to hear the rest of this\n or don't you?\"\n\n\n \"Oh, I do!\" Martin said. He had pieced the whole thing together for\n himself long since, but he wanted to hear how Raymond would put it.", "Martin missed the old neighborhood, though. He missed having other\n kids to play with. He even missed his mother. Sure, she hadn't given\n him enough to eat and she'd beaten him up so hard sometimes that she'd\n nearly killed him—but then there had also been times when she'd hugged\n and kissed him and soaked his collar with her tears. She'd done all\n she could for him, supporting him in the only way she knew how—and if\n respectable society didn't like it, the hell with respectable society.\n\n\n From Ninian and her cousins, there was only an impersonal kindness.\n They made no bones about the fact that they were there only to carry\n out a rather unpleasant duty. Though they were in the house with him,\n in their minds and in their talk they were living in another world—a\n world of warmth and peace and plenty where nobody worked, except in the\n government service or the essential professions. And they seemed to\n think even that kind of job was pretty low-class, though better than\n actually doing anything with the hands.", "\"Why should he kill me? I ain't done him nothing.\"\n\n\n Ninian sighed. \"He's dissatisfied with the current social order and\n killing you is part of an elaborate plan he's formulated to change it.\n You wouldn't understand.\"\n\n\n \"You're damn right. I\ndon't\nunderstand. What's it all about in\n straight gas?\"\n\n\n \"Oh, just don't ask any questions,\" Ninian said petulantly. \"When you\n get older, someone will explain the whole thing to you.\"\nSo Martin held his peace, because, on the whole, he liked things the\n way they were. Ninian really was the limit, though. All the people he\n knew lived in scabrous tenement apartments like his, but she seemed to\n think it was disgusting.\n\n\n \"So if you don't like it, clean it up,\" he suggested.\n\n\n She looked at him as if he were out of his mind.", "So drawing teachers were engaged and Martin became a very competent\n second-rate artist. He knew he would never be able to achieve first\n rank because, even though he was still so young, his work was almost\n purely intellectual. The only emotion he seemed able to feel was\n fear—the ever-present fear that someday he would turn a corridor and\n walk into a man who looked like him—a man who wanted to kill him for\n the sake of an ideal.\n\n\n But the fear did not show in Martin's pictures. They were pretty\n pictures.\nCousin Ives—now that Martin was older, he was told to call the\n descendants\ncousin\n—next assumed guardianship. Ives took his\n responsibilities more seriously than the others did. He even arranged\n to have Martin's work shown at an art gallery. The paintings received\n critical approval, but failed to evoke any enthusiasm. The modest\n sale they enjoyed was mostly to interior decorators. Museums were not\n interested.", "\"We bribed another set of plans out of another of the professor's\n assistants,\" Raymond continued, as if Martin had answered,\n \"and—ah—induced a handicraft enthusiast to build the gadget for us.\"\nInduced\n, Martin knew, could have meant anything from blackmail to the\n use of the iron maiden.\n\n\n \"Then we were all ready to forestall Conrad. If one of us guarded you\n night and day, he would never be able to carry out his plot. So we made\n our counter-plan, set the machine as far back as it would go—and here\n we are!\"\n\n\n \"I see,\" Martin said.", "But Raymond rushed on: \"Soon as Ninian goes and I'm in full charge,\n we'll get a more isolated place and run it on a far grander scale.\n Ostentation—that's the way to live here and now; the richer you are,\n the more eccentricity you can get away with. And,\" he added, \"I might\n as well be as comfortable as possible while I suffer through this\n wretched historical stint.\"\n\n\n \"So Ninian's going,\" said Martin, wondering why the news made him feel\n curiously desolate. Because, although he supposed he liked her in a\n remote kind of way, he had no fondness for her—or she, he knew, for\n him.", "Sometimes he wondered who Ninian really was. Obviously that story\n about her coming from the future was just a gag. Besides, if she really\n was his great-great-grand-daughter, as she said, why would she tell\n him to call her \"\nAunt Ninian\n\"? Maybe he was only eleven, but he'd\n been around and he knew just what the score was. At first he'd thought\n maybe she was some new kind of social worker, but she acted a little\n too crazy for that.\n\n\n He loved to bait her, as he had loved to bait his mother. It was safer\n with Ninian, though, because when he pushed her too far, she would cry\n instead of mopping up the floor with him.\n\n\n \"But I can't understand,\" he would say, keeping his face straight. \"Why\n do you have to come from the future to protect me against your cousin\n Conrad?\"\n\n\n \"Because he's coming to kill you.\"", "So he drew on the family's vast future resources and bought a yacht,\n which Martin christened\nThe Interregnum\n. They traveled about from sea\n to ocean and from ocean to sea, touching at various ports and making\n trips inland. Martin saw the civilized world—mostly in fragments; the\n nearly intact semi-civilized world and the uncivilized world, much the\n same as it had been for centuries. It was like visiting an enormous\n museum; he couldn't seem to identify with his own time any more.\n\n\n The other cousins appeared to find the yacht a congenial head-quarters,\n largely because they could spend so much time far away from the\n contemporary inhabitants of the planet and relax and be themselves. So\n they never moved back to land. Martin spent the rest of his life on\nThe Interregnum\n. He felt curiously safer from Conrad there, although\n there was no valid reason why an ocean should stop a traveler through\n time.", "Suddenly that seemed to make Conrad real. Martin felt a vague stirring\n of alarm. He kept his voice composed, however. \"How do you plan to\n protect me when he comes?\"\n\n\n \"Well, each one of us is armed to the teeth, of course,\" Raymond said\n with modest pride, displaying something that looked like a child's\n combination spaceman's gun and death ray, but which, Martin had no\n doubt, was a perfectly genuine—and lethal—weapon. \"And we've got a\n rather elaborate burglar alarm system.\"\n\n\n Martin inspected the system and made one or two changes in the wiring\n which, he felt, would increase its efficiency. But still he was\n dubious. \"Maybe it'll work on someone coming from outside this\nhouse\n,\n but do you think it will work on someone coming from outside this\ntime\n?\"\n\n\n \"Never fear—it has a temporal radius,\" Raymond replied. \"Factory\n guarantee and all that.\"", "He nodded, knowing what she meant was that everything was coming out\n wrong. But he didn't try to help her; he just watched to see what\n she'd do next. Already he had begun to assume the detached role of a\n spectator.\n\n\n When it became clear that his mother was never going to show up again,\n Ninian bought one of those smallish, almost identical houses that\n mushroom on the fringes of a city after every war, particularly where\n intensive bombing has created a number of desirable building sites.\n\n\n \"This is a much better neighborhood for a boy to grow up in,\" she\n declared. \"Besides, it's easier to keep an eye on you here.\"\n\n\n And keep an eye on him she did—she or a rather foppish young man who\n came to stay with them occasionally. Martin was told to call him Uncle\n Raymond.", "But he laughed out of the other side of his mouth when she went out and\n hired a private tutor for him. A tutor—in that neighborhood! Martin\n had to beat up every kid on the block before he could walk a step\n without hearing \"Fancy Pants!\" yelled after him.\n\n\n Ninian worried all the time. It wasn't that she cared what these people\n thought of her, for she made no secret of regarding them as little\n better than animals, but she was shy of attracting attention. There\n were an awful lot of people in that neighborhood who felt exactly the\n same way, only she didn't know that, either. She was really pretty\n dumb, Martin thought, for all her fancy lingo.\n\n\n \"It's so hard to think these things out without any prior practical\n application to go by,\" she told him." ], [ "Raymond turned a deep rose. \"Well, doesn't that just go to prove you\n mustn't believe everything you hear?\" The next sentence tumbled out in\n a rush. \"I wormed the whole thing out of him and all of us—the other\n cousins and me—held a council of war, as it were, and we decided it\n was our moral duty to go back in time ourselves and protect you.\" He\n beamed at Martin.\n\n\n The boy smiled slowly. \"Of course. You had to. If Conrad succeeded in\neliminating\nme, then none of you would exist, would you?\"\n\n\n Raymond frowned. Then he shrugged cheerfully. \"Well, you didn't really\n suppose we were going to all this trouble and expense out of sheer\n altruism, did you?\" he asked, turning on the charm which all the\n cousins possessed to a consternating degree.\nMartin had, of course, no illusions on that score; he had learned long\n ago that nobody did anything for nothing. But saying so was unwise.", "\"Oh, I see,\" Martin said.\n\n\n He had often fancied that Conrad would prove to be the most stimulating\n member of the whole generation. But it seemed unlikely that he would\n ever have a chance for a conversation with the young man. More than one\n conversation, anyhow.\n\n\n \"When he does show up, I'll protect you,\" the cousin vowed, touching\n his ray gun. \"You haven't a thing to worry about.\"\n\n\n Martin smiled with all the charm he'd had nothing to do but acquire. \"I\n have every confidence in you,\" he told his descendant. He himself had\n given up carrying a gun long ago.", "During all this time, Conrad still did not put in an appearance. Martin\n had gotten to be such a crack shot with the ray pistol that he almost\n wished his descendant would show up, so there would be some excitement.\n But he didn't come. And Martin got to thinking....\n\n\n He always felt that if any of the cousins could have come to realize\n the basic flaw in the elaborate plan they had concocted, it would have\n been Ives. However, when the yacht touched at Tierra del Fuego one\n bitter winter, Ives took a severe chill. They sent for a doctor from\n the future—one of the descendants who had been eccentric enough to\n take a medical degree—but he wasn't able to save Ives. The body was\n buried in the frozen ground at Ushuaia, on the southern tip of the\n continent, a hundred years or more before the date of his birth.", "\"Just to be on the safe side,\" Martin said, \"I think I'd better have\n one of those guns, too.\"\n\n\n \"A splendid idea!\" enthused Raymond. \"I was just about to think of that\n myself!\"\nWhen it came time for the parting, it was Ninian who cried—tears at\n her own inadequacy, Martin knew, not of sorrow. He was getting skillful\n at understanding his descendants, far better than they at understanding\n him. But then they never really tried. Ninian kissed him wetly on the\n cheek and said she was sure everything would work out all right and\n that she'd come see him again. She never did, though, except at the\n very last.", "\"Eat, drink and be merry, or whatever you Romans say when you do as you\n do,\" the cousin—who was rather woolly in history; the descendants were\n scraping bottom now—advised.\n\n\n Martin showed his work in Italy, so that the cousin could be\n disillusioned by the current crop of Romans. He found that neither\n purpose nor malice was enough; he was still immeasurably bored.\n However, a museum bought two of the paintings. Martin thought of Ives\n and felt an uncomfortable pang of a sensation he could no longer\n understand.\n\n\n \"Where do you suppose Conrad has been all this time?\" Martin idly asked\n the current cousin—who was passing as his nephew by now.\n\n\n The young man jumped, then glanced around him uncomfortably. \"Conrad's\n a very shrewd fellow,\" he whispered. \"He's biding his time—waiting\n until we're off guard. And then—pow!—he'll attack!\"", "\"We bribed another set of plans out of another of the professor's\n assistants,\" Raymond continued, as if Martin had answered,\n \"and—ah—induced a handicraft enthusiast to build the gadget for us.\"\nInduced\n, Martin knew, could have meant anything from blackmail to the\n use of the iron maiden.\n\n\n \"Then we were all ready to forestall Conrad. If one of us guarded you\n night and day, he would never be able to carry out his plot. So we made\n our counter-plan, set the machine as far back as it would go—and here\n we are!\"\n\n\n \"I see,\" Martin said.", "From time to time, there were other visitors—Uncles Ives and\n Bartholomew and Olaf, Aunts Ottillie and Grania and Lalage, and many\n more—all cousins to one another, he was told, all descendants of his.\nMartin was never left alone for a minute. He wasn't allowed to play\n with the other kids in the new neighborhood. Not that their parents\n would have let them, anyway. The adults obviously figured that if\n a one-car family hired private tutors for their kid, there must be\n something pretty wrong with him. So Martin and Ninian were just as\n conspicuous as before. But he didn't tip her off. She was grown up; she\n was supposed to know better than he did.\n\n\n He lived well. He had food to eat that he'd never dreamed of before,\n warm clothes that no one had ever worn before him. He was surrounded by\n more luxury than he knew what to do with.", "A great many of the cousins turned up at the simple ceremony. All were\n dressed in overwhelming black and showed a great deal of grief. Raymond\n read the burial service, because they didn't dare summon a clerical\n cousin from the future; they were afraid he might prove rather stuffy\n about the entire undertaking.\n\n\n \"He died for all of us,\" Raymond concluded his funeral eulogy over\n Ives, \"so his death was not in vain.\"", "But Martin disagreed.\nThe ceaseless voyaging began again.\nThe Interregnum\nvoyaged to every\n ocean and every sea. Some were blue and some green and some dun. After\n a while, Martin couldn't tell one from another. Cousin after cousin\n came to watch over him and eventually they were as hard for him to tell\n apart as the different oceans.\nAll the cousins were young, for, though they came at different times in\n his life, they had all started out from the same time in theirs. Only\n the young ones had been included in the venture; they did not trust\n their elders.", "Suddenly that seemed to make Conrad real. Martin felt a vague stirring\n of alarm. He kept his voice composed, however. \"How do you plan to\n protect me when he comes?\"\n\n\n \"Well, each one of us is armed to the teeth, of course,\" Raymond said\n with modest pride, displaying something that looked like a child's\n combination spaceman's gun and death ray, but which, Martin had no\n doubt, was a perfectly genuine—and lethal—weapon. \"And we've got a\n rather elaborate burglar alarm system.\"\n\n\n Martin inspected the system and made one or two changes in the wiring\n which, he felt, would increase its efficiency. But still he was\n dubious. \"Maybe it'll work on someone coming from outside this\nhouse\n,\n but do you think it will work on someone coming from outside this\ntime\n?\"\n\n\n \"Never fear—it has a temporal radius,\" Raymond replied. \"Factory\n guarantee and all that.\"", "So he drew on the family's vast future resources and bought a yacht,\n which Martin christened\nThe Interregnum\n. They traveled about from sea\n to ocean and from ocean to sea, touching at various ports and making\n trips inland. Martin saw the civilized world—mostly in fragments; the\n nearly intact semi-civilized world and the uncivilized world, much the\n same as it had been for centuries. It was like visiting an enormous\n museum; he couldn't seem to identify with his own time any more.\n\n\n The other cousins appeared to find the yacht a congenial head-quarters,\n largely because they could spend so much time far away from the\n contemporary inhabitants of the planet and relax and be themselves. So\n they never moved back to land. Martin spent the rest of his life on\nThe Interregnum\n. He felt curiously safer from Conrad there, although\n there was no valid reason why an ocean should stop a traveler through\n time.", "Unaware of the near-contempt in which his young ancestor held him,\n Raymond went on blandly: \"Anyhow, Conrad took it upon himself to\n feel particularly guilty, because, he decided, if it hadn't been for\n the fact that our great-grandfather discovered the super-drive, we\n might never have reached the stars. Which is ridiculous—his feeling\n guilty, I mean. Perhaps a great-grandfather is responsible for his\n great-grandchildren, but a great-grandchild can hardly be held\n accountable for his great-grandfather.\"\n\n\n \"How about a great-great-grandchild?\" Martin couldn't help asking.\nRaymond flushed a delicate pink. \"Do you want to hear the rest of this\n or don't you?\"\n\n\n \"Oh, I do!\" Martin said. He had pieced the whole thing together for\n himself long since, but he wanted to hear how Raymond would put it.", "But Raymond rushed on: \"Soon as Ninian goes and I'm in full charge,\n we'll get a more isolated place and run it on a far grander scale.\n Ostentation—that's the way to live here and now; the richer you are,\n the more eccentricity you can get away with. And,\" he added, \"I might\n as well be as comfortable as possible while I suffer through this\n wretched historical stint.\"\n\n\n \"So Ninian's going,\" said Martin, wondering why the news made him feel\n curiously desolate. Because, although he supposed he liked her in a\n remote kind of way, he had no fondness for her—or she, he knew, for\n him.", "\"Why should he kill me? I ain't done him nothing.\"\n\n\n Ninian sighed. \"He's dissatisfied with the current social order and\n killing you is part of an elaborate plan he's formulated to change it.\n You wouldn't understand.\"\n\n\n \"You're damn right. I\ndon't\nunderstand. What's it all about in\n straight gas?\"\n\n\n \"Oh, just don't ask any questions,\" Ninian said petulantly. \"When you\n get older, someone will explain the whole thing to you.\"\nSo Martin held his peace, because, on the whole, he liked things the\n way they were. Ninian really was the limit, though. All the people he\n knew lived in scabrous tenement apartments like his, but she seemed to\n think it was disgusting.\n\n\n \"So if you don't like it, clean it up,\" he suggested.\n\n\n She looked at him as if he were out of his mind.", "Martin didn't care much for their company and associated with them only\n when not to have done so would have been palpably rude. And, though\n they were gregarious young people for the most part, they didn't court\n his society. He suspected that he made them feel uncomfortable.\nHe rather liked Ives, though. Sometimes the two of them would be alone\n together; then Ives would tell Martin of the future world he had come\n from. The picture drawn by Raymond and Ninian had not been entirely\n accurate, Ives admitted. True, there was no war or poverty on Earth\n proper, but that was because there were only a couple of million people\n left on the planet. It was an enclave for the highly privileged, highly\n interbred aristocracy, to which Martin's descendants belonged by virtue\n of their distinguished ancestry.\n\n\n \"Rather feudal, isn't it?\" Martin asked.", "Martin missed the old neighborhood, though. He missed having other\n kids to play with. He even missed his mother. Sure, she hadn't given\n him enough to eat and she'd beaten him up so hard sometimes that she'd\n nearly killed him—but then there had also been times when she'd hugged\n and kissed him and soaked his collar with her tears. She'd done all\n she could for him, supporting him in the only way she knew how—and if\n respectable society didn't like it, the hell with respectable society.\n\n\n From Ninian and her cousins, there was only an impersonal kindness.\n They made no bones about the fact that they were there only to carry\n out a rather unpleasant duty. Though they were in the house with him,\n in their minds and in their talk they were living in another world—a\n world of warmth and peace and plenty where nobody worked, except in the\n government service or the essential professions. And they seemed to\n think even that kind of job was pretty low-class, though better than\n actually doing anything with the hands.", "During those early years, Martin's tutors were exchanged for the\n higher-degreed ones that were now needful. The question inevitably\n arose of what the youth's vocation in that life was going to be. At\n least twenty of the cousins came back through time to hold one of\n their vigorous family councils. Martin was still young enough to enjoy\n such occasions, finding them vastly superior to all other forms of\n entertainment.\n\"This sort of problem wouldn't arise in our day, Martin,\" Raymond\n commented as he took his place at the head of the table, \"because,\n unless one specifically feels a call to some profession or other, one\n just—well, drifts along happily.\"\n\n\n \"Ours is a wonderful world,\" Grania sighed at Martin. \"I only wish we\n could take you there. I'm sure you would like it.\"\n\n\n \"Don't be a fool, Grania!\" Raymond snapped. \"Well, Martin, have you\n made up your mind what you want to be?\"", "So drawing teachers were engaged and Martin became a very competent\n second-rate artist. He knew he would never be able to achieve first\n rank because, even though he was still so young, his work was almost\n purely intellectual. The only emotion he seemed able to feel was\n fear—the ever-present fear that someday he would turn a corridor and\n walk into a man who looked like him—a man who wanted to kill him for\n the sake of an ideal.\n\n\n But the fear did not show in Martin's pictures. They were pretty\n pictures.\nCousin Ives—now that Martin was older, he was told to call the\n descendants\ncousin\n—next assumed guardianship. Ives took his\n responsibilities more seriously than the others did. He even arranged\n to have Martin's work shown at an art gallery. The paintings received\n critical approval, but failed to evoke any enthusiasm. The modest\n sale they enjoyed was mostly to interior decorators. Museums were not\n interested.", "In their world, Martin came to understand, nobody worked with hands;\n everything was done by machinery. All the people ever did was wear\n pretty clothes and have good times and eat all they wanted. There was\n no devastation, no war, no unhappiness, none of the concomitants of\n normal living.\n\n\n It was then that Martin began to realize that either the whole lot of\n them were insane, or what Ninian had told him at first was the truth.\n They came from the future.\nWhen Martin was sixteen, Raymond took him aside for the talk Ninian had\n promised five years before.\n\n\n \"The whole thing's all my brother Conrad's fault. You see, he's an\n idealist,\" Raymond explained, pronouncing the last word with distaste.", "\"Sometimes I'm not altogether sure Conrad was wrong,\" Ives said, after\n a pause. \"Tried to keep us from getting to the stars, hurting the\n people—I expect you could call them people—there. Still—\" he smiled\n shamefacedly—\"couldn't stand by and see my own way of life destroyed,\n could I?\"\n\n\n \"I suppose not,\" Martin said.\n\n\n \"Would take moral courage. I don't have it. None of us does, except\n Conrad, and even he—\" Ives looked out over the sea. \"Must be a better\n way out than Conrad's,\" he said without conviction. \"And everything\n will work out all right in the end. Bound to. No sense to—to anything,\n if it doesn't.\" He glanced wistfully at Martin.\n\n\n \"I hope so,\" said Martin. But he couldn't hope; he couldn't feel; he\n couldn't even seem to care." ], [ "Martin missed the old neighborhood, though. He missed having other\n kids to play with. He even missed his mother. Sure, she hadn't given\n him enough to eat and she'd beaten him up so hard sometimes that she'd\n nearly killed him—but then there had also been times when she'd hugged\n and kissed him and soaked his collar with her tears. She'd done all\n she could for him, supporting him in the only way she knew how—and if\n respectable society didn't like it, the hell with respectable society.\n\n\n From Ninian and her cousins, there was only an impersonal kindness.\n They made no bones about the fact that they were there only to carry\n out a rather unpleasant duty. Though they were in the house with him,\n in their minds and in their talk they were living in another world—a\n world of warmth and peace and plenty where nobody worked, except in the\n government service or the essential professions. And they seemed to\n think even that kind of job was pretty low-class, though better than\n actually doing anything with the hands.", "But Raymond rushed on: \"Soon as Ninian goes and I'm in full charge,\n we'll get a more isolated place and run it on a far grander scale.\n Ostentation—that's the way to live here and now; the richer you are,\n the more eccentricity you can get away with. And,\" he added, \"I might\n as well be as comfortable as possible while I suffer through this\n wretched historical stint.\"\n\n\n \"So Ninian's going,\" said Martin, wondering why the news made him feel\n curiously desolate. Because, although he supposed he liked her in a\n remote kind of way, he had no fondness for her—or she, he knew, for\n him.", "From time to time, there were other visitors—Uncles Ives and\n Bartholomew and Olaf, Aunts Ottillie and Grania and Lalage, and many\n more—all cousins to one another, he was told, all descendants of his.\nMartin was never left alone for a minute. He wasn't allowed to play\n with the other kids in the new neighborhood. Not that their parents\n would have let them, anyway. The adults obviously figured that if\n a one-car family hired private tutors for their kid, there must be\n something pretty wrong with him. So Martin and Ninian were just as\n conspicuous as before. But he didn't tip her off. She was grown up; she\n was supposed to know better than he did.\n\n\n He lived well. He had food to eat that he'd never dreamed of before,\n warm clothes that no one had ever worn before him. He was surrounded by\n more luxury than he knew what to do with.", "He nodded, knowing what she meant was that everything was coming out\n wrong. But he didn't try to help her; he just watched to see what\n she'd do next. Already he had begun to assume the detached role of a\n spectator.\n\n\n When it became clear that his mother was never going to show up again,\n Ninian bought one of those smallish, almost identical houses that\n mushroom on the fringes of a city after every war, particularly where\n intensive bombing has created a number of desirable building sites.\n\n\n \"This is a much better neighborhood for a boy to grow up in,\" she\n declared. \"Besides, it's easier to keep an eye on you here.\"\n\n\n And keep an eye on him she did—she or a rather foppish young man who\n came to stay with them occasionally. Martin was told to call him Uncle\n Raymond.", "The furniture was the latest New Grand Rapids African modern. There\n were tidy, colorful Picasso and Braque prints on the walls. And every\n inch of the floor was modestly covered by carpeting, though the walls\n were mostly unabashed glass. There were hot water and heat all the time\n and a freezer well stocked with food—somewhat erratically chosen, for\n Ninian didn't know much about meals.\n\n\n The non-glass part of the house was of neat, natural-toned wood, with a\n neat green lawn in front and a neat parti-colored garden in back.", "But he laughed out of the other side of his mouth when she went out and\n hired a private tutor for him. A tutor—in that neighborhood! Martin\n had to beat up every kid on the block before he could walk a step\n without hearing \"Fancy Pants!\" yelled after him.\n\n\n Ninian worried all the time. It wasn't that she cared what these people\n thought of her, for she made no secret of regarding them as little\n better than animals, but she was shy of attracting attention. There\n were an awful lot of people in that neighborhood who felt exactly the\n same way, only she didn't know that, either. She was really pretty\n dumb, Martin thought, for all her fancy lingo.\n\n\n \"It's so hard to think these things out without any prior practical\n application to go by,\" she told him.", "Sometimes he wondered who Ninian really was. Obviously that story\n about her coming from the future was just a gag. Besides, if she really\n was his great-great-grand-daughter, as she said, why would she tell\n him to call her \"\nAunt Ninian\n\"? Maybe he was only eleven, but he'd\n been around and he knew just what the score was. At first he'd thought\n maybe she was some new kind of social worker, but she acted a little\n too crazy for that.\n\n\n He loved to bait her, as he had loved to bait his mother. It was safer\n with Ninian, though, because when he pushed her too far, she would cry\n instead of mopping up the floor with him.\n\n\n \"But I can't understand,\" he would say, keeping his face straight. \"Why\n do you have to come from the future to protect me against your cousin\n Conrad?\"\n\n\n \"Because he's coming to kill you.\"", "\"Why should he kill me? I ain't done him nothing.\"\n\n\n Ninian sighed. \"He's dissatisfied with the current social order and\n killing you is part of an elaborate plan he's formulated to change it.\n You wouldn't understand.\"\n\n\n \"You're damn right. I\ndon't\nunderstand. What's it all about in\n straight gas?\"\n\n\n \"Oh, just don't ask any questions,\" Ninian said petulantly. \"When you\n get older, someone will explain the whole thing to you.\"\nSo Martin held his peace, because, on the whole, he liked things the\n way they were. Ninian really was the limit, though. All the people he\n knew lived in scabrous tenement apartments like his, but she seemed to\n think it was disgusting.\n\n\n \"So if you don't like it, clean it up,\" he suggested.\n\n\n She looked at him as if he were out of his mind.", "\"Hire a maid, then!\" he jeered.\n\n\n And darned if that dope didn't go out and get a woman to come clean up\n the place! He was so embarrassed, he didn't even dare show his face in\n the streets—especially with the women buttonholing him and demanding\n to know what gave. They tried talking to Ninian, but she certainly knew\n how to give them the cold shoulder.\n\n\n One day the truant officer came to ask why Martin hadn't been coming\n to school. Very few of the neighborhood kids attended classes very\n regularly, so this was just routine. But Ninian didn't know that and\n she went into a real tizzy, babbling that Martin had been sick and\n would make up the work. Martin nearly did get sick from laughing so\n hard inside.", "\"Just to be on the safe side,\" Martin said, \"I think I'd better have\n one of those guns, too.\"\n\n\n \"A splendid idea!\" enthused Raymond. \"I was just about to think of that\n myself!\"\nWhen it came time for the parting, it was Ninian who cried—tears at\n her own inadequacy, Martin knew, not of sorrow. He was getting skillful\n at understanding his descendants, far better than they at understanding\n him. But then they never really tried. Ninian kissed him wetly on the\n cheek and said she was sure everything would work out all right and\n that she'd come see him again. She never did, though, except at the\n very last.", "Martin didn't care much for their company and associated with them only\n when not to have done so would have been palpably rude. And, though\n they were gregarious young people for the most part, they didn't court\n his society. He suspected that he made them feel uncomfortable.\nHe rather liked Ives, though. Sometimes the two of them would be alone\n together; then Ives would tell Martin of the future world he had come\n from. The picture drawn by Raymond and Ninian had not been entirely\n accurate, Ives admitted. True, there was no war or poverty on Earth\n proper, but that was because there were only a couple of million people\n left on the planet. It was an enclave for the highly privileged, highly\n interbred aristocracy, to which Martin's descendants belonged by virtue\n of their distinguished ancestry.\n\n\n \"Rather feudal, isn't it?\" Martin asked.", "In their world, Martin came to understand, nobody worked with hands;\n everything was done by machinery. All the people ever did was wear\n pretty clothes and have good times and eat all they wanted. There was\n no devastation, no war, no unhappiness, none of the concomitants of\n normal living.\n\n\n It was then that Martin began to realize that either the whole lot of\n them were insane, or what Ninian had told him at first was the truth.\n They came from the future.\nWhen Martin was sixteen, Raymond took him aside for the talk Ninian had\n promised five years before.\n\n\n \"The whole thing's all my brother Conrad's fault. You see, he's an\n idealist,\" Raymond explained, pronouncing the last word with distaste.", "the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nNo one, least of all Martin, could dispute\n \nthat a man's life should be guarded by his\n \nkin—but by those who hadn't been born yet?\nNobody in the neighborhood was surprised when Martin's mother\n disappeared and Ninian came to take care of him. Mothers had a way\n of disappearing around those parts and the kids were often better\n off without them. Martin was no exception. He'd never had it this\n good while he was living with his old lady. As for his father, Martin\n had never had one. He'd been a war baby, born of one of the tides of\n soldiers—enemies and allies, both—that had engulfed the country in\n successive waves and bought or taken the women. So there was no trouble\n that way.", "Raymond didn't seem to think he really did. \"After all,\" he pointed\n out defensively, \"whatever our motives, it has turned into a good\n thing for you. Nice home, cultured companions, all the contemporary\n conveniences, plus some handy anachronisms—I don't see what more you\n could ask for. You're getting the best of all possible worlds. Of\n course Ninian\nwas\na ninny to locate in a mercantile suburb where any\n little thing out of the way will cause talk. How thankful I am that our\n era has completely disposed of the mercantiles—\"\n\n\n \"What did you do with them?\" Martin asked.", "\"Eat, drink and be merry, or whatever you Romans say when you do as you\n do,\" the cousin—who was rather woolly in history; the descendants were\n scraping bottom now—advised.\n\n\n Martin showed his work in Italy, so that the cousin could be\n disillusioned by the current crop of Romans. He found that neither\n purpose nor malice was enough; he was still immeasurably bored.\n However, a museum bought two of the paintings. Martin thought of Ives\n and felt an uncomfortable pang of a sensation he could no longer\n understand.\n\n\n \"Where do you suppose Conrad has been all this time?\" Martin idly asked\n the current cousin—who was passing as his nephew by now.\n\n\n The young man jumped, then glanced around him uncomfortably. \"Conrad's\n a very shrewd fellow,\" he whispered. \"He's biding his time—waiting\n until we're off guard. And then—pow!—he'll attack!\"", "During those early years, Martin's tutors were exchanged for the\n higher-degreed ones that were now needful. The question inevitably\n arose of what the youth's vocation in that life was going to be. At\n least twenty of the cousins came back through time to hold one of\n their vigorous family councils. Martin was still young enough to enjoy\n such occasions, finding them vastly superior to all other forms of\n entertainment.\n\"This sort of problem wouldn't arise in our day, Martin,\" Raymond\n commented as he took his place at the head of the table, \"because,\n unless one specifically feels a call to some profession or other, one\n just—well, drifts along happily.\"\n\n\n \"Ours is a wonderful world,\" Grania sighed at Martin. \"I only wish we\n could take you there. I'm sure you would like it.\"\n\n\n \"Don't be a fool, Grania!\" Raymond snapped. \"Well, Martin, have you\n made up your mind what you want to be?\"", "\"How did they live before? Come to think of it, if you don't work, how\n do\nyou\nlive now?... I don't mean in the now for me, but the now for\n you,\" Martin explained laboriously. It was so difficult to live in the\n past and think in the future.\n\n\n \"I'm trying to talk to you as if you were an adult,\" Raymond said, \"but\n if you will persist in these childish interruptions—\"\n\n\n \"I'm sorry,\" Martin said.\n\n\n But he wasn't, for by now he had little respect left for any of\n his descendants. They were all exceedingly handsome and cultivated\n young people, with superior educations, smooth ways of speaking and\n considerable self-confidence, but they just weren't very bright. And\n he had discovered that Raymond was perhaps the most intelligent of the\n lot. Somewhere in that relatively short span of time, his line or—more\n frightening—his race had lost something vital.", "\"Well, five years is rather a long stretch for any girl to spend in\n exile,\" Raymond explained, \"even though our life spans are a bit longer\n than yours. Besides, you're getting too old now to be under petticoat\n government.\" He looked inquisitively at Martin. \"You're not going to\n go all weepy and make a scene when she leaves, are you?\"\n\n\n \"No....\" Martin said hesitantly. \"Oh, I suppose I will miss her. But we\n aren't very close, so it won't make a real difference.\" That was the\n sad part: he already knew it wouldn't make a difference.\n\n\n Raymond clapped him on the shoulder. \"I knew you weren't a sloppy\n sentimentalist like Conrad. Though you do have rather a look of him,\n you know.\"", "\"Sometimes I'm not altogether sure Conrad was wrong,\" Ives said, after\n a pause. \"Tried to keep us from getting to the stars, hurting the\n people—I expect you could call them people—there. Still—\" he smiled\n shamefacedly—\"couldn't stand by and see my own way of life destroyed,\n could I?\"\n\n\n \"I suppose not,\" Martin said.\n\n\n \"Would take moral courage. I don't have it. None of us does, except\n Conrad, and even he—\" Ives looked out over the sea. \"Must be a better\n way out than Conrad's,\" he said without conviction. \"And everything\n will work out all right in the end. Bound to. No sense to—to anything,\n if it doesn't.\" He glanced wistfully at Martin.\n\n\n \"I hope so,\" said Martin. But he couldn't hope; he couldn't feel; he\n couldn't even seem to care.", "As the years went by, Martin began to lose even his detached interest\n in the land and its doings. Although the yacht frequently touched port\n for fuel or supplies—it was more economical to purchase them in that\n era than to have them shipped from the future—he seldom went ashore,\n and then only at the urging of a newly assigned cousin anxious to see\n the sights. Most of the time Martin spent in watching the sea—and\n sometimes he painted it. There seemed to be a depth to his seascapes\n that his other work lacked.\n\n\n When he was pressed by the current cousin to make a land visit\n somewhere, he decided to exhibit a few of his sea paintings. That way,\n he could fool himself into thinking that there was some purpose to this\n journey. He'd come to believe that perhaps what his life lacked was\n purpose, and for a while he kept looking for meaning everywhere, to the\n cousin's utter disgust." ], [ "So he drew on the family's vast future resources and bought a yacht,\n which Martin christened\nThe Interregnum\n. They traveled about from sea\n to ocean and from ocean to sea, touching at various ports and making\n trips inland. Martin saw the civilized world—mostly in fragments; the\n nearly intact semi-civilized world and the uncivilized world, much the\n same as it had been for centuries. It was like visiting an enormous\n museum; he couldn't seem to identify with his own time any more.\n\n\n The other cousins appeared to find the yacht a congenial head-quarters,\n largely because they could spend so much time far away from the\n contemporary inhabitants of the planet and relax and be themselves. So\n they never moved back to land. Martin spent the rest of his life on\nThe Interregnum\n. He felt curiously safer from Conrad there, although\n there was no valid reason why an ocean should stop a traveler through\n time.", "Suddenly that seemed to make Conrad real. Martin felt a vague stirring\n of alarm. He kept his voice composed, however. \"How do you plan to\n protect me when he comes?\"\n\n\n \"Well, each one of us is armed to the teeth, of course,\" Raymond said\n with modest pride, displaying something that looked like a child's\n combination spaceman's gun and death ray, but which, Martin had no\n doubt, was a perfectly genuine—and lethal—weapon. \"And we've got a\n rather elaborate burglar alarm system.\"\n\n\n Martin inspected the system and made one or two changes in the wiring\n which, he felt, would increase its efficiency. But still he was\n dubious. \"Maybe it'll work on someone coming from outside this\nhouse\n,\n but do you think it will work on someone coming from outside this\ntime\n?\"\n\n\n \"Never fear—it has a temporal radius,\" Raymond replied. \"Factory\n guarantee and all that.\"", "Raymond looked annoyed. \"It's the\nadolescent\nway,\" he said, \"to do\n away with it, rather than find a solution. Would you destroy a whole\n society in order to root out a single injustice?\"\n\n\n \"Not if it were a good one otherwise.\"\n\n\n \"Well, there's your answer. Conrad got the apparatus built, or perhaps\n he built it himself. One doesn't inquire too closely into such\n matters. But when it came to the point, Conrad couldn't bear the idea\n of eliminating our great-grandfather—because our great-grandfather\n was such a\ngood\nman, you know.\" Raymond's expressive upper lip\n curled. \"So Conrad decided to go further back still and get rid of\n his great-grandfather's father—who'd been, by all accounts, a pretty\n worthless character.\"\n\n\n \"That would be me, I suppose,\" Martin said quietly.", "Raymond turned a deep rose. \"Well, doesn't that just go to prove you\n mustn't believe everything you hear?\" The next sentence tumbled out in\n a rush. \"I wormed the whole thing out of him and all of us—the other\n cousins and me—held a council of war, as it were, and we decided it\n was our moral duty to go back in time ourselves and protect you.\" He\n beamed at Martin.\n\n\n The boy smiled slowly. \"Of course. You had to. If Conrad succeeded in\neliminating\nme, then none of you would exist, would you?\"\n\n\n Raymond frowned. Then he shrugged cheerfully. \"Well, you didn't really\n suppose we were going to all this trouble and expense out of sheer\n altruism, did you?\" he asked, turning on the charm which all the\n cousins possessed to a consternating degree.\nMartin had, of course, no illusions on that score; he had learned long\n ago that nobody did anything for nothing. But saying so was unwise.", "Unaware of the near-contempt in which his young ancestor held him,\n Raymond went on blandly: \"Anyhow, Conrad took it upon himself to\n feel particularly guilty, because, he decided, if it hadn't been for\n the fact that our great-grandfather discovered the super-drive, we\n might never have reached the stars. Which is ridiculous—his feeling\n guilty, I mean. Perhaps a great-grandfather is responsible for his\n great-grandchildren, but a great-grandchild can hardly be held\n accountable for his great-grandfather.\"\n\n\n \"How about a great-great-grandchild?\" Martin couldn't help asking.\nRaymond flushed a delicate pink. \"Do you want to hear the rest of this\n or don't you?\"\n\n\n \"Oh, I do!\" Martin said. He had pieced the whole thing together for\n himself long since, but he wanted to hear how Raymond would put it.", "During all this time, Conrad still did not put in an appearance. Martin\n had gotten to be such a crack shot with the ray pistol that he almost\n wished his descendant would show up, so there would be some excitement.\n But he didn't come. And Martin got to thinking....\n\n\n He always felt that if any of the cousins could have come to realize\n the basic flaw in the elaborate plan they had concocted, it would have\n been Ives. However, when the yacht touched at Tierra del Fuego one\n bitter winter, Ives took a severe chill. They sent for a doctor from\n the future—one of the descendants who had been eccentric enough to\n take a medical degree—but he wasn't able to save Ives. The body was\n buried in the frozen ground at Ushuaia, on the southern tip of the\n continent, a hundred years or more before the date of his birth.", "\"Unfortunately, Professor Farkas has just perfected the time\n transmitter. Those government scientists are so infernally\n officious—always inventing such senseless things. It's supposed to\n be hush-hush, but you know how news will leak out when one is always\n desperate for a fresh topic of conversation.\"\n\n\n Anyhow, Raymond went on to explain, Conrad had bribed one of Farkas'\n assistants for a set of the plans. Conrad's idea had been to go back\n in time and \"eliminate!\" their common great-grandfather. In that way,\n there would be no space-drive, and, hence, the Terrestrials would never\n get to the other planets and oppress the local aborigines.\n\n\n \"Sounds like a good way of dealing with the problem,\" Martin observed.", "Sometimes he wondered who Ninian really was. Obviously that story\n about her coming from the future was just a gag. Besides, if she really\n was his great-great-grand-daughter, as she said, why would she tell\n him to call her \"\nAunt Ninian\n\"? Maybe he was only eleven, but he'd\n been around and he knew just what the score was. At first he'd thought\n maybe she was some new kind of social worker, but she acted a little\n too crazy for that.\n\n\n He loved to bait her, as he had loved to bait his mother. It was safer\n with Ninian, though, because when he pushed her too far, she would cry\n instead of mopping up the floor with him.\n\n\n \"But I can't understand,\" he would say, keeping his face straight. \"Why\n do you have to come from the future to protect me against your cousin\n Conrad?\"\n\n\n \"Because he's coming to kill you.\"", "\"Eat, drink and be merry, or whatever you Romans say when you do as you\n do,\" the cousin—who was rather woolly in history; the descendants were\n scraping bottom now—advised.\n\n\n Martin showed his work in Italy, so that the cousin could be\n disillusioned by the current crop of Romans. He found that neither\n purpose nor malice was enough; he was still immeasurably bored.\n However, a museum bought two of the paintings. Martin thought of Ives\n and felt an uncomfortable pang of a sensation he could no longer\n understand.\n\n\n \"Where do you suppose Conrad has been all this time?\" Martin idly asked\n the current cousin—who was passing as his nephew by now.\n\n\n The young man jumped, then glanced around him uncomfortably. \"Conrad's\n a very shrewd fellow,\" he whispered. \"He's biding his time—waiting\n until we're off guard. And then—pow!—he'll attack!\"", "In their world, Martin came to understand, nobody worked with hands;\n everything was done by machinery. All the people ever did was wear\n pretty clothes and have good times and eat all they wanted. There was\n no devastation, no war, no unhappiness, none of the concomitants of\n normal living.\n\n\n It was then that Martin began to realize that either the whole lot of\n them were insane, or what Ninian had told him at first was the truth.\n They came from the future.\nWhen Martin was sixteen, Raymond took him aside for the talk Ninian had\n promised five years before.\n\n\n \"The whole thing's all my brother Conrad's fault. You see, he's an\n idealist,\" Raymond explained, pronouncing the last word with distaste.", "\"How did they live before? Come to think of it, if you don't work, how\n do\nyou\nlive now?... I don't mean in the now for me, but the now for\n you,\" Martin explained laboriously. It was so difficult to live in the\n past and think in the future.\n\n\n \"I'm trying to talk to you as if you were an adult,\" Raymond said, \"but\n if you will persist in these childish interruptions—\"\n\n\n \"I'm sorry,\" Martin said.\n\n\n But he wasn't, for by now he had little respect left for any of\n his descendants. They were all exceedingly handsome and cultivated\n young people, with superior educations, smooth ways of speaking and\n considerable self-confidence, but they just weren't very bright. And\n he had discovered that Raymond was perhaps the most intelligent of the\n lot. Somewhere in that relatively short span of time, his line or—more\n frightening—his race had lost something vital.", "\"Oh, I see,\" Martin said.\n\n\n He had often fancied that Conrad would prove to be the most stimulating\n member of the whole generation. But it seemed unlikely that he would\n ever have a chance for a conversation with the young man. More than one\n conversation, anyhow.\n\n\n \"When he does show up, I'll protect you,\" the cousin vowed, touching\n his ray gun. \"You haven't a thing to worry about.\"\n\n\n Martin smiled with all the charm he'd had nothing to do but acquire. \"I\n have every confidence in you,\" he told his descendant. He himself had\n given up carrying a gun long ago.", "Martin nodded gravely. He was a quiet boy now, his brief past a dim and\n rather ridiculous memory. Who could ever imagine him robbing a grocery\n store or wielding a broken bottle now? He still was rather undersized\n and he'd read so much that he'd weakened his eyes and had to wear\n glasses. His face was pallid, because he spent little time in the sun,\n and his speech rather overbred, his mentors from the future having\n carefully eradicated all current vulgarities.\n\n\n \"And Conrad really got upset over the way Earth has been exploiting\n the not so intelligent life-forms on the other planets,\" Raymond\n continued. \"Which\nis\ndistressing—though, of course, it's not as\n if they were people. Besides, the government has been talking about\n passing laws to do away with the—well, abuses and things like that,\n and I'm sure someday everything will come out all right. However,\n Conrad is so impatient.\"", "\"Sometimes I'm not altogether sure Conrad was wrong,\" Ives said, after\n a pause. \"Tried to keep us from getting to the stars, hurting the\n people—I expect you could call them people—there. Still—\" he smiled\n shamefacedly—\"couldn't stand by and see my own way of life destroyed,\n could I?\"\n\n\n \"I suppose not,\" Martin said.\n\n\n \"Would take moral courage. I don't have it. None of us does, except\n Conrad, and even he—\" Ives looked out over the sea. \"Must be a better\n way out than Conrad's,\" he said without conviction. \"And everything\n will work out all right in the end. Bound to. No sense to—to anything,\n if it doesn't.\" He glanced wistfully at Martin.\n\n\n \"I hope so,\" said Martin. But he couldn't hope; he couldn't feel; he\n couldn't even seem to care.", "As the years went by, Martin began to lose even his detached interest\n in the land and its doings. Although the yacht frequently touched port\n for fuel or supplies—it was more economical to purchase them in that\n era than to have them shipped from the future—he seldom went ashore,\n and then only at the urging of a newly assigned cousin anxious to see\n the sights. Most of the time Martin spent in watching the sea—and\n sometimes he painted it. There seemed to be a depth to his seascapes\n that his other work lacked.\n\n\n When he was pressed by the current cousin to make a land visit\n somewhere, he decided to exhibit a few of his sea paintings. That way,\n he could fool himself into thinking that there was some purpose to this\n journey. He'd come to believe that perhaps what his life lacked was\n purpose, and for a while he kept looking for meaning everywhere, to the\n cousin's utter disgust.", "He nodded, knowing what she meant was that everything was coming out\n wrong. But he didn't try to help her; he just watched to see what\n she'd do next. Already he had begun to assume the detached role of a\n spectator.\n\n\n When it became clear that his mother was never going to show up again,\n Ninian bought one of those smallish, almost identical houses that\n mushroom on the fringes of a city after every war, particularly where\n intensive bombing has created a number of desirable building sites.\n\n\n \"This is a much better neighborhood for a boy to grow up in,\" she\n declared. \"Besides, it's easier to keep an eye on you here.\"\n\n\n And keep an eye on him she did—she or a rather foppish young man who\n came to stay with them occasionally. Martin was told to call him Uncle\n Raymond.", "\"How about a moat?\" Martin suggested when they first came. \"It seems to\n go with a castle.\"\n\"Do you think a moat could stop Conrad?\" Raymond asked, amused.\n\n\n \"No,\" Martin smiled, feeling rather silly, \"but it would make the place\n seem safer somehow.\"\n\n\n The threat of Conrad was beginning to make him grow more and more\n nervous. He got Raymond's permission to take two suits of armor that\n stood in the front hall and present them to a local museum, because\n several times he fancied he saw them move. He also became an adept with\n the ray gun and changed the surrounding landscape quite a bit with it,\n until Raymond warned that this might lead Conrad to them.", "\"We bribed another set of plans out of another of the professor's\n assistants,\" Raymond continued, as if Martin had answered,\n \"and—ah—induced a handicraft enthusiast to build the gadget for us.\"\nInduced\n, Martin knew, could have meant anything from blackmail to the\n use of the iron maiden.\n\n\n \"Then we were all ready to forestall Conrad. If one of us guarded you\n night and day, he would never be able to carry out his plot. So we made\n our counter-plan, set the machine as far back as it would go—and here\n we are!\"\n\n\n \"I see,\" Martin said.", "\"What would you suggest?\" Martin asked.\n\n\n \"How about becoming a painter? Art is eternal. And quite gentlemanly.\n Besides, artists are always expected to be either behind or ahead of\n their times.\"\n\n\n \"Furthermore,\" Ottillie added, \"one more artist couldn't make much\n difference in history. There were so many of them all through the ages.\"\n\n\n Martin couldn't hold back his question. \"What was I, actually, in that\n other time?\"\n\n\n There was a chilly silence.\n\n\n \"Let's not talk about it, dear,\" Lalage finally said. \"Let's just be\n thankful we've saved you from\nthat\n!\"", "But Raymond rushed on: \"Soon as Ninian goes and I'm in full charge,\n we'll get a more isolated place and run it on a far grander scale.\n Ostentation—that's the way to live here and now; the richer you are,\n the more eccentricity you can get away with. And,\" he added, \"I might\n as well be as comfortable as possible while I suffer through this\n wretched historical stint.\"\n\n\n \"So Ninian's going,\" said Martin, wondering why the news made him feel\n curiously desolate. Because, although he supposed he liked her in a\n remote kind of way, he had no fondness for her—or she, he knew, for\n him." ], [ "Raymond turned a deep rose. \"Well, doesn't that just go to prove you\n mustn't believe everything you hear?\" The next sentence tumbled out in\n a rush. \"I wormed the whole thing out of him and all of us—the other\n cousins and me—held a council of war, as it were, and we decided it\n was our moral duty to go back in time ourselves and protect you.\" He\n beamed at Martin.\n\n\n The boy smiled slowly. \"Of course. You had to. If Conrad succeeded in\neliminating\nme, then none of you would exist, would you?\"\n\n\n Raymond frowned. Then he shrugged cheerfully. \"Well, you didn't really\n suppose we were going to all this trouble and expense out of sheer\n altruism, did you?\" he asked, turning on the charm which all the\n cousins possessed to a consternating degree.\nMartin had, of course, no illusions on that score; he had learned long\n ago that nobody did anything for nothing. But saying so was unwise.", "\"Just to be on the safe side,\" Martin said, \"I think I'd better have\n one of those guns, too.\"\n\n\n \"A splendid idea!\" enthused Raymond. \"I was just about to think of that\n myself!\"\nWhen it came time for the parting, it was Ninian who cried—tears at\n her own inadequacy, Martin knew, not of sorrow. He was getting skillful\n at understanding his descendants, far better than they at understanding\n him. But then they never really tried. Ninian kissed him wetly on the\n cheek and said she was sure everything would work out all right and\n that she'd come see him again. She never did, though, except at the\n very last.", "A great many of the cousins turned up at the simple ceremony. All were\n dressed in overwhelming black and showed a great deal of grief. Raymond\n read the burial service, because they didn't dare summon a clerical\n cousin from the future; they were afraid he might prove rather stuffy\n about the entire undertaking.\n\n\n \"He died for all of us,\" Raymond concluded his funeral eulogy over\n Ives, \"so his death was not in vain.\"", "But Raymond rushed on: \"Soon as Ninian goes and I'm in full charge,\n we'll get a more isolated place and run it on a far grander scale.\n Ostentation—that's the way to live here and now; the richer you are,\n the more eccentricity you can get away with. And,\" he added, \"I might\n as well be as comfortable as possible while I suffer through this\n wretched historical stint.\"\n\n\n \"So Ninian's going,\" said Martin, wondering why the news made him feel\n curiously desolate. Because, although he supposed he liked her in a\n remote kind of way, he had no fondness for her—or she, he knew, for\n him.", "He nodded, knowing what she meant was that everything was coming out\n wrong. But he didn't try to help her; he just watched to see what\n she'd do next. Already he had begun to assume the detached role of a\n spectator.\n\n\n When it became clear that his mother was never going to show up again,\n Ninian bought one of those smallish, almost identical houses that\n mushroom on the fringes of a city after every war, particularly where\n intensive bombing has created a number of desirable building sites.\n\n\n \"This is a much better neighborhood for a boy to grow up in,\" she\n declared. \"Besides, it's easier to keep an eye on you here.\"\n\n\n And keep an eye on him she did—she or a rather foppish young man who\n came to stay with them occasionally. Martin was told to call him Uncle\n Raymond.", "Raymond didn't seem to think he really did. \"After all,\" he pointed\n out defensively, \"whatever our motives, it has turned into a good\n thing for you. Nice home, cultured companions, all the contemporary\n conveniences, plus some handy anachronisms—I don't see what more you\n could ask for. You're getting the best of all possible worlds. Of\n course Ninian\nwas\na ninny to locate in a mercantile suburb where any\n little thing out of the way will cause talk. How thankful I am that our\n era has completely disposed of the mercantiles—\"\n\n\n \"What did you do with them?\" Martin asked.", "In their world, Martin came to understand, nobody worked with hands;\n everything was done by machinery. All the people ever did was wear\n pretty clothes and have good times and eat all they wanted. There was\n no devastation, no war, no unhappiness, none of the concomitants of\n normal living.\n\n\n It was then that Martin began to realize that either the whole lot of\n them were insane, or what Ninian had told him at first was the truth.\n They came from the future.\nWhen Martin was sixteen, Raymond took him aside for the talk Ninian had\n promised five years before.\n\n\n \"The whole thing's all my brother Conrad's fault. You see, he's an\n idealist,\" Raymond explained, pronouncing the last word with distaste.", "During those early years, Martin's tutors were exchanged for the\n higher-degreed ones that were now needful. The question inevitably\n arose of what the youth's vocation in that life was going to be. At\n least twenty of the cousins came back through time to hold one of\n their vigorous family councils. Martin was still young enough to enjoy\n such occasions, finding them vastly superior to all other forms of\n entertainment.\n\"This sort of problem wouldn't arise in our day, Martin,\" Raymond\n commented as he took his place at the head of the table, \"because,\n unless one specifically feels a call to some profession or other, one\n just—well, drifts along happily.\"\n\n\n \"Ours is a wonderful world,\" Grania sighed at Martin. \"I only wish we\n could take you there. I'm sure you would like it.\"\n\n\n \"Don't be a fool, Grania!\" Raymond snapped. \"Well, Martin, have you\n made up your mind what you want to be?\"", "Sometimes he wondered who Ninian really was. Obviously that story\n about her coming from the future was just a gag. Besides, if she really\n was his great-great-grand-daughter, as she said, why would she tell\n him to call her \"\nAunt Ninian\n\"? Maybe he was only eleven, but he'd\n been around and he knew just what the score was. At first he'd thought\n maybe she was some new kind of social worker, but she acted a little\n too crazy for that.\n\n\n He loved to bait her, as he had loved to bait his mother. It was safer\n with Ninian, though, because when he pushed her too far, she would cry\n instead of mopping up the floor with him.\n\n\n \"But I can't understand,\" he would say, keeping his face straight. \"Why\n do you have to come from the future to protect me against your cousin\n Conrad?\"\n\n\n \"Because he's coming to kill you.\"", "Raymond looked annoyed. \"It's the\nadolescent\nway,\" he said, \"to do\n away with it, rather than find a solution. Would you destroy a whole\n society in order to root out a single injustice?\"\n\n\n \"Not if it were a good one otherwise.\"\n\n\n \"Well, there's your answer. Conrad got the apparatus built, or perhaps\n he built it himself. One doesn't inquire too closely into such\n matters. But when it came to the point, Conrad couldn't bear the idea\n of eliminating our great-grandfather—because our great-grandfather\n was such a\ngood\nman, you know.\" Raymond's expressive upper lip\n curled. \"So Conrad decided to go further back still and get rid of\n his great-grandfather's father—who'd been, by all accounts, a pretty\n worthless character.\"\n\n\n \"That would be me, I suppose,\" Martin said quietly.", "Suddenly that seemed to make Conrad real. Martin felt a vague stirring\n of alarm. He kept his voice composed, however. \"How do you plan to\n protect me when he comes?\"\n\n\n \"Well, each one of us is armed to the teeth, of course,\" Raymond said\n with modest pride, displaying something that looked like a child's\n combination spaceman's gun and death ray, but which, Martin had no\n doubt, was a perfectly genuine—and lethal—weapon. \"And we've got a\n rather elaborate burglar alarm system.\"\n\n\n Martin inspected the system and made one or two changes in the wiring\n which, he felt, would increase its efficiency. But still he was\n dubious. \"Maybe it'll work on someone coming from outside this\nhouse\n,\n but do you think it will work on someone coming from outside this\ntime\n?\"\n\n\n \"Never fear—it has a temporal radius,\" Raymond replied. \"Factory\n guarantee and all that.\"", "So he drew on the family's vast future resources and bought a yacht,\n which Martin christened\nThe Interregnum\n. They traveled about from sea\n to ocean and from ocean to sea, touching at various ports and making\n trips inland. Martin saw the civilized world—mostly in fragments; the\n nearly intact semi-civilized world and the uncivilized world, much the\n same as it had been for centuries. It was like visiting an enormous\n museum; he couldn't seem to identify with his own time any more.\n\n\n The other cousins appeared to find the yacht a congenial head-quarters,\n largely because they could spend so much time far away from the\n contemporary inhabitants of the planet and relax and be themselves. So\n they never moved back to land. Martin spent the rest of his life on\nThe Interregnum\n. He felt curiously safer from Conrad there, although\n there was no valid reason why an ocean should stop a traveler through\n time.", "\"How did they live before? Come to think of it, if you don't work, how\n do\nyou\nlive now?... I don't mean in the now for me, but the now for\n you,\" Martin explained laboriously. It was so difficult to live in the\n past and think in the future.\n\n\n \"I'm trying to talk to you as if you were an adult,\" Raymond said, \"but\n if you will persist in these childish interruptions—\"\n\n\n \"I'm sorry,\" Martin said.\n\n\n But he wasn't, for by now he had little respect left for any of\n his descendants. They were all exceedingly handsome and cultivated\n young people, with superior educations, smooth ways of speaking and\n considerable self-confidence, but they just weren't very bright. And\n he had discovered that Raymond was perhaps the most intelligent of the\n lot. Somewhere in that relatively short span of time, his line or—more\n frightening—his race had lost something vital.", "Martin didn't care much for their company and associated with them only\n when not to have done so would have been palpably rude. And, though\n they were gregarious young people for the most part, they didn't court\n his society. He suspected that he made them feel uncomfortable.\nHe rather liked Ives, though. Sometimes the two of them would be alone\n together; then Ives would tell Martin of the future world he had come\n from. The picture drawn by Raymond and Ninian had not been entirely\n accurate, Ives admitted. True, there was no war or poverty on Earth\n proper, but that was because there were only a couple of million people\n left on the planet. It was an enclave for the highly privileged, highly\n interbred aristocracy, to which Martin's descendants belonged by virtue\n of their distinguished ancestry.\n\n\n \"Rather feudal, isn't it?\" Martin asked.", "\"Oh, I see,\" Martin said.\n\n\n He had often fancied that Conrad would prove to be the most stimulating\n member of the whole generation. But it seemed unlikely that he would\n ever have a chance for a conversation with the young man. More than one\n conversation, anyhow.\n\n\n \"When he does show up, I'll protect you,\" the cousin vowed, touching\n his ray gun. \"You haven't a thing to worry about.\"\n\n\n Martin smiled with all the charm he'd had nothing to do but acquire. \"I\n have every confidence in you,\" he told his descendant. He himself had\n given up carrying a gun long ago.", "During all this time, Conrad still did not put in an appearance. Martin\n had gotten to be such a crack shot with the ray pistol that he almost\n wished his descendant would show up, so there would be some excitement.\n But he didn't come. And Martin got to thinking....\n\n\n He always felt that if any of the cousins could have come to realize\n the basic flaw in the elaborate plan they had concocted, it would have\n been Ives. However, when the yacht touched at Tierra del Fuego one\n bitter winter, Ives took a severe chill. They sent for a doctor from\n the future—one of the descendants who had been eccentric enough to\n take a medical degree—but he wasn't able to save Ives. The body was\n buried in the frozen ground at Ushuaia, on the southern tip of the\n continent, a hundred years or more before the date of his birth.", "Unaware of the near-contempt in which his young ancestor held him,\n Raymond went on blandly: \"Anyhow, Conrad took it upon himself to\n feel particularly guilty, because, he decided, if it hadn't been for\n the fact that our great-grandfather discovered the super-drive, we\n might never have reached the stars. Which is ridiculous—his feeling\n guilty, I mean. Perhaps a great-grandfather is responsible for his\n great-grandchildren, but a great-grandchild can hardly be held\n accountable for his great-grandfather.\"\n\n\n \"How about a great-great-grandchild?\" Martin couldn't help asking.\nRaymond flushed a delicate pink. \"Do you want to hear the rest of this\n or don't you?\"\n\n\n \"Oh, I do!\" Martin said. He had pieced the whole thing together for\n himself long since, but he wanted to hear how Raymond would put it.", "From time to time, there were other visitors—Uncles Ives and\n Bartholomew and Olaf, Aunts Ottillie and Grania and Lalage, and many\n more—all cousins to one another, he was told, all descendants of his.\nMartin was never left alone for a minute. He wasn't allowed to play\n with the other kids in the new neighborhood. Not that their parents\n would have let them, anyway. The adults obviously figured that if\n a one-car family hired private tutors for their kid, there must be\n something pretty wrong with him. So Martin and Ninian were just as\n conspicuous as before. But he didn't tip her off. She was grown up; she\n was supposed to know better than he did.\n\n\n He lived well. He had food to eat that he'd never dreamed of before,\n warm clothes that no one had ever worn before him. He was surrounded by\n more luxury than he knew what to do with.", "\"Unfortunately, Professor Farkas has just perfected the time\n transmitter. Those government scientists are so infernally\n officious—always inventing such senseless things. It's supposed to\n be hush-hush, but you know how news will leak out when one is always\n desperate for a fresh topic of conversation.\"\n\n\n Anyhow, Raymond went on to explain, Conrad had bribed one of Farkas'\n assistants for a set of the plans. Conrad's idea had been to go back\n in time and \"eliminate!\" their common great-grandfather. In that way,\n there would be no space-drive, and, hence, the Terrestrials would never\n get to the other planets and oppress the local aborigines.\n\n\n \"Sounds like a good way of dealing with the problem,\" Martin observed.", "But Martin disagreed.\nThe ceaseless voyaging began again.\nThe Interregnum\nvoyaged to every\n ocean and every sea. Some were blue and some green and some dun. After\n a while, Martin couldn't tell one from another. Cousin after cousin\n came to watch over him and eventually they were as hard for him to tell\n apart as the different oceans.\nAll the cousins were young, for, though they came at different times in\n his life, they had all started out from the same time in theirs. Only\n the young ones had been included in the venture; they did not trust\n their elders." ], [ "So he drew on the family's vast future resources and bought a yacht,\n which Martin christened\nThe Interregnum\n. They traveled about from sea\n to ocean and from ocean to sea, touching at various ports and making\n trips inland. Martin saw the civilized world—mostly in fragments; the\n nearly intact semi-civilized world and the uncivilized world, much the\n same as it had been for centuries. It was like visiting an enormous\n museum; he couldn't seem to identify with his own time any more.\n\n\n The other cousins appeared to find the yacht a congenial head-quarters,\n largely because they could spend so much time far away from the\n contemporary inhabitants of the planet and relax and be themselves. So\n they never moved back to land. Martin spent the rest of his life on\nThe Interregnum\n. He felt curiously safer from Conrad there, although\n there was no valid reason why an ocean should stop a traveler through\n time.", "As the years went by, Martin began to lose even his detached interest\n in the land and its doings. Although the yacht frequently touched port\n for fuel or supplies—it was more economical to purchase them in that\n era than to have them shipped from the future—he seldom went ashore,\n and then only at the urging of a newly assigned cousin anxious to see\n the sights. Most of the time Martin spent in watching the sea—and\n sometimes he painted it. There seemed to be a depth to his seascapes\n that his other work lacked.\n\n\n When he was pressed by the current cousin to make a land visit\n somewhere, he decided to exhibit a few of his sea paintings. That way,\n he could fool himself into thinking that there was some purpose to this\n journey. He'd come to believe that perhaps what his life lacked was\n purpose, and for a while he kept looking for meaning everywhere, to the\n cousin's utter disgust.", "But Raymond rushed on: \"Soon as Ninian goes and I'm in full charge,\n we'll get a more isolated place and run it on a far grander scale.\n Ostentation—that's the way to live here and now; the richer you are,\n the more eccentricity you can get away with. And,\" he added, \"I might\n as well be as comfortable as possible while I suffer through this\n wretched historical stint.\"\n\n\n \"So Ninian's going,\" said Martin, wondering why the news made him feel\n curiously desolate. Because, although he supposed he liked her in a\n remote kind of way, he had no fondness for her—or she, he knew, for\n him.", "Martin missed the old neighborhood, though. He missed having other\n kids to play with. He even missed his mother. Sure, she hadn't given\n him enough to eat and she'd beaten him up so hard sometimes that she'd\n nearly killed him—but then there had also been times when she'd hugged\n and kissed him and soaked his collar with her tears. She'd done all\n she could for him, supporting him in the only way she knew how—and if\n respectable society didn't like it, the hell with respectable society.\n\n\n From Ninian and her cousins, there was only an impersonal kindness.\n They made no bones about the fact that they were there only to carry\n out a rather unpleasant duty. Though they were in the house with him,\n in their minds and in their talk they were living in another world—a\n world of warmth and peace and plenty where nobody worked, except in the\n government service or the essential professions. And they seemed to\n think even that kind of job was pretty low-class, though better than\n actually doing anything with the hands.", "Martin didn't care much for their company and associated with them only\n when not to have done so would have been palpably rude. And, though\n they were gregarious young people for the most part, they didn't court\n his society. He suspected that he made them feel uncomfortable.\nHe rather liked Ives, though. Sometimes the two of them would be alone\n together; then Ives would tell Martin of the future world he had come\n from. The picture drawn by Raymond and Ninian had not been entirely\n accurate, Ives admitted. True, there was no war or poverty on Earth\n proper, but that was because there were only a couple of million people\n left on the planet. It was an enclave for the highly privileged, highly\n interbred aristocracy, to which Martin's descendants belonged by virtue\n of their distinguished ancestry.\n\n\n \"Rather feudal, isn't it?\" Martin asked.", "From time to time, there were other visitors—Uncles Ives and\n Bartholomew and Olaf, Aunts Ottillie and Grania and Lalage, and many\n more—all cousins to one another, he was told, all descendants of his.\nMartin was never left alone for a minute. He wasn't allowed to play\n with the other kids in the new neighborhood. Not that their parents\n would have let them, anyway. The adults obviously figured that if\n a one-car family hired private tutors for their kid, there must be\n something pretty wrong with him. So Martin and Ninian were just as\n conspicuous as before. But he didn't tip her off. She was grown up; she\n was supposed to know better than he did.\n\n\n He lived well. He had food to eat that he'd never dreamed of before,\n warm clothes that no one had ever worn before him. He was surrounded by\n more luxury than he knew what to do with.", "\"How about a moat?\" Martin suggested when they first came. \"It seems to\n go with a castle.\"\n\"Do you think a moat could stop Conrad?\" Raymond asked, amused.\n\n\n \"No,\" Martin smiled, feeling rather silly, \"but it would make the place\n seem safer somehow.\"\n\n\n The threat of Conrad was beginning to make him grow more and more\n nervous. He got Raymond's permission to take two suits of armor that\n stood in the front hall and present them to a local museum, because\n several times he fancied he saw them move. He also became an adept with\n the ray gun and changed the surrounding landscape quite a bit with it,\n until Raymond warned that this might lead Conrad to them.", "\"Takes time,\" Ives tried to reassure him. \"One day they'll be buying\n your pictures, Martin. Wait and see.\"\n\n\n Ives was the only one of the descendants who seemed to think of Martin\n as an individual. When his efforts to make contact with the other young\n man failed, he got worried and decided that what Martin needed was a\n change of air and scenery.\n\n\n \"'Course you can't go on the Grand Tour. Your son hasn't invented\n space travel yet. But we can go see this world. What's left of it.\n Tourists always like ruins best, anyway.\"", "\"Sometimes I'm not altogether sure Conrad was wrong,\" Ives said, after\n a pause. \"Tried to keep us from getting to the stars, hurting the\n people—I expect you could call them people—there. Still—\" he smiled\n shamefacedly—\"couldn't stand by and see my own way of life destroyed,\n could I?\"\n\n\n \"I suppose not,\" Martin said.\n\n\n \"Would take moral courage. I don't have it. None of us does, except\n Conrad, and even he—\" Ives looked out over the sea. \"Must be a better\n way out than Conrad's,\" he said without conviction. \"And everything\n will work out all right in the end. Bound to. No sense to—to anything,\n if it doesn't.\" He glanced wistfully at Martin.\n\n\n \"I hope so,\" said Martin. But he couldn't hope; he couldn't feel; he\n couldn't even seem to care.", "Raymond and Martin moved into a luxurious mansion in a remote area. The\n site proved a well-chosen one; when the Second Atomic War came, half a\n dozen years later, they weren't touched. Martin was never sure whether\n this had been sheer luck or expert planning. Probably luck, because his\n descendants were exceedingly inept planners.\n\n\n Few people in the world then could afford to live as stylishly as\n Martin and his guardian. The place not only contained every possible\n convenience and gadget but was crammed with bibelots and antiques,\n carefully chosen by Raymond and disputed by Martin, for, to the man\n from the future, all available artifacts were antiques. Otherwise,\n Martin accepted his new surroundings. His sense of wonder had become\n dulled by now and the pink pseudo-Spanish castle—\"architecturally\n dreadful, of course,\" Raymond had said, \"but so hilariously\n typical\"—impressed him far less than had the suburban split-level\n aquarium.", "\"Just to be on the safe side,\" Martin said, \"I think I'd better have\n one of those guns, too.\"\n\n\n \"A splendid idea!\" enthused Raymond. \"I was just about to think of that\n myself!\"\nWhen it came time for the parting, it was Ninian who cried—tears at\n her own inadequacy, Martin knew, not of sorrow. He was getting skillful\n at understanding his descendants, far better than they at understanding\n him. But then they never really tried. Ninian kissed him wetly on the\n cheek and said she was sure everything would work out all right and\n that she'd come see him again. She never did, though, except at the\n very last.", "But he laughed out of the other side of his mouth when she went out and\n hired a private tutor for him. A tutor—in that neighborhood! Martin\n had to beat up every kid on the block before he could walk a step\n without hearing \"Fancy Pants!\" yelled after him.\n\n\n Ninian worried all the time. It wasn't that she cared what these people\n thought of her, for she made no secret of regarding them as little\n better than animals, but she was shy of attracting attention. There\n were an awful lot of people in that neighborhood who felt exactly the\n same way, only she didn't know that, either. She was really pretty\n dumb, Martin thought, for all her fancy lingo.\n\n\n \"It's so hard to think these things out without any prior practical\n application to go by,\" she told him.", "But Martin disagreed.\nThe ceaseless voyaging began again.\nThe Interregnum\nvoyaged to every\n ocean and every sea. Some were blue and some green and some dun. After\n a while, Martin couldn't tell one from another. Cousin after cousin\n came to watch over him and eventually they were as hard for him to tell\n apart as the different oceans.\nAll the cousins were young, for, though they came at different times in\n his life, they had all started out from the same time in theirs. Only\n the young ones had been included in the venture; they did not trust\n their elders.", "\"Oh, I see,\" Martin said.\n\n\n He had often fancied that Conrad would prove to be the most stimulating\n member of the whole generation. But it seemed unlikely that he would\n ever have a chance for a conversation with the young man. More than one\n conversation, anyhow.\n\n\n \"When he does show up, I'll protect you,\" the cousin vowed, touching\n his ray gun. \"You haven't a thing to worry about.\"\n\n\n Martin smiled with all the charm he'd had nothing to do but acquire. \"I\n have every confidence in you,\" he told his descendant. He himself had\n given up carrying a gun long ago.", "\"Well, five years is rather a long stretch for any girl to spend in\n exile,\" Raymond explained, \"even though our life spans are a bit longer\n than yours. Besides, you're getting too old now to be under petticoat\n government.\" He looked inquisitively at Martin. \"You're not going to\n go all weepy and make a scene when she leaves, are you?\"\n\n\n \"No....\" Martin said hesitantly. \"Oh, I suppose I will miss her. But we\n aren't very close, so it won't make a real difference.\" That was the\n sad part: he already knew it wouldn't make a difference.\n\n\n Raymond clapped him on the shoulder. \"I knew you weren't a sloppy\n sentimentalist like Conrad. Though you do have rather a look of him,\n you know.\"", "Ives agreed, adding that the system had, however, been deliberately\n planned, rather than the result of haphazard natural development.\n Everything potentially unpleasant, like the mercantiles, had been\n deported.\n\n\n \"Not only natives livin' on the other worlds,\" Ives said as the two\n of them stood at the ship's rail, surrounded by the limitless expanse\n of some ocean or other. \"People, too. Mostly lower classes, except\n for officials and things. With wars and want and suffering,\" he added\n regretfully, \"same as in your day.... Like now, I mean,\" he corrected\n himself. \"Maybe it\nis\nworse, the way Conrad thinks. More planets\n for us to make trouble on. Three that were habitable aren't any more.\n Bombed. Very thorough job.\"\n\n\n \"Oh,\" Martin murmured, trying to sound shocked, horrified—interested,\n even.", "During all this time, Conrad still did not put in an appearance. Martin\n had gotten to be such a crack shot with the ray pistol that he almost\n wished his descendant would show up, so there would be some excitement.\n But he didn't come. And Martin got to thinking....\n\n\n He always felt that if any of the cousins could have come to realize\n the basic flaw in the elaborate plan they had concocted, it would have\n been Ives. However, when the yacht touched at Tierra del Fuego one\n bitter winter, Ives took a severe chill. They sent for a doctor from\n the future—one of the descendants who had been eccentric enough to\n take a medical degree—but he wasn't able to save Ives. The body was\n buried in the frozen ground at Ushuaia, on the southern tip of the\n continent, a hundred years or more before the date of his birth.", "In their world, Martin came to understand, nobody worked with hands;\n everything was done by machinery. All the people ever did was wear\n pretty clothes and have good times and eat all they wanted. There was\n no devastation, no war, no unhappiness, none of the concomitants of\n normal living.\n\n\n It was then that Martin began to realize that either the whole lot of\n them were insane, or what Ninian had told him at first was the truth.\n They came from the future.\nWhen Martin was sixteen, Raymond took him aside for the talk Ninian had\n promised five years before.\n\n\n \"The whole thing's all my brother Conrad's fault. You see, he's an\n idealist,\" Raymond explained, pronouncing the last word with distaste.", "\"Why should he kill me? I ain't done him nothing.\"\n\n\n Ninian sighed. \"He's dissatisfied with the current social order and\n killing you is part of an elaborate plan he's formulated to change it.\n You wouldn't understand.\"\n\n\n \"You're damn right. I\ndon't\nunderstand. What's it all about in\n straight gas?\"\n\n\n \"Oh, just don't ask any questions,\" Ninian said petulantly. \"When you\n get older, someone will explain the whole thing to you.\"\nSo Martin held his peace, because, on the whole, he liked things the\n way they were. Ninian really was the limit, though. All the people he\n knew lived in scabrous tenement apartments like his, but she seemed to\n think it was disgusting.\n\n\n \"So if you don't like it, clean it up,\" he suggested.\n\n\n She looked at him as if he were out of his mind.", "During those early years, Martin's tutors were exchanged for the\n higher-degreed ones that were now needful. The question inevitably\n arose of what the youth's vocation in that life was going to be. At\n least twenty of the cousins came back through time to hold one of\n their vigorous family councils. Martin was still young enough to enjoy\n such occasions, finding them vastly superior to all other forms of\n entertainment.\n\"This sort of problem wouldn't arise in our day, Martin,\" Raymond\n commented as he took his place at the head of the table, \"because,\n unless one specifically feels a call to some profession or other, one\n just—well, drifts along happily.\"\n\n\n \"Ours is a wonderful world,\" Grania sighed at Martin. \"I only wish we\n could take you there. I'm sure you would like it.\"\n\n\n \"Don't be a fool, Grania!\" Raymond snapped. \"Well, Martin, have you\n made up your mind what you want to be?\"" ] ]
train	51296	[ "The tone of the story, especially towards its end, is delivered very simplistically, in an almost child-like fashion. This is to show that the story", "What do the characters refer to as \"the world?\"", "The first time Rikud feels pain or discomfort is when", "What caused the ship to leave its planet initially?", "What is not a theme explored in this story?", "What has conditioning done to the characters?", "As the story reaches its climax, the antagonist is", "One of the main causes of trepidation as Riduk prepares to enter the garden is", "The characters experience many emotions for the first time during the events of this story. What emotion(s) push the characters through the door." ]	[ [ "is like a fable. It offers a moral to the story and teaches a truth about society.", "is like a fairy-tale because the characters go on a magical journey, but its main purpose as a story is to decieve.", "is like a ghost story. It frightens the reader by playing on the dark and supernatural.", "is like mythology because it is folklore that explains society's origins." ], [ "Their ship, which is all they have ever known.", "The men's quarters, which is all they have ever known.", "The planet they are preparing to plummet onto.", "They use it as a general term for the \"universe.\"" ], [ "the light he peered into was too bright, and his eyes hurt as a result.", "he tried to hit his head intentionally.", "he experienced hunger for the first time.", "he hits his head and bleeds for the first time." ], [ "There was a shortage of women, and the main characters were sent to find mates.", "The reason is never disclosed.", "The planet they were from ran out of viable resources.", "They are explorers who got lost, and their fate was to drift the universe." ], [ "Change is necessary and inevitable for survival.", "Fear is a powerful motivator.", "Perception can often be all-encompassing.", "Equality must be realized." ], [ "It has kept them in shape, both mentally and physically, and ready to face the struggles they encounter.", "Nothing. They were left to their own devices for so long that they abandoned any notion.", "It has made them fear one another. ", "It has become a way of life for them. Without the buzzer, their life as they know it ceases to exist." ], [ "Wilm, who appeared out of the blue.", "The garden, because it holds so many evils for the characters as they enter.", "Chuls, as it had been from the story's rising action.", "Crifer, the only person Rikud ever thought of as a companion." ], [ "nothing. Riduk is ready to go.", "is its vast endlessness.", "Riduk is fearful that his shipmates will want to go with him, and he wants the garden and its beauty for himself.", "that Riduk is fearful he will get caught and punished for attempting to leave." ], [ "Sadness", "Hatred and anger.", "Excitement and curiosity.", "Pure happiness." ] ]	[ 1, 1, 1, 2, 4, 4, 4, 2, 2 ]	[ 0, 0, 1, 1, 1, 0, 1, 0, 1 ]	[ [ "This frightened Rikud, although he didn't know why. He'd like it,\n though. Maybe then he could take them outside with him to the big\n garden of the two viewports. And then he wouldn't be afraid because he\n could huddle close to them and he wouldn't be alone.\nRikud heard the throbbing again as he stood in the room of the\n machinery. For a long time he watched the wheels and cogs and gears\n spinning and humming. He watched for he knew not how long. And then he\n began to wonder. If he destroyed the wheels and the cogs and the gears,\n would the buzzer stop? It probably would, because, as Rikud saw it, he\n was clearly an \"unauthorized person.\" He had heard the voice again\n upon entering the room.", "Other hands reached out, and Rikud stumbled. He fell and then someone\n was on top of him, and he struggled. He rolled and was up again, and\n he did not like the sound of the angry voices. Someone said, \"Let us\n do to Rikud what he said he did to the machinery.\" Rikud ran. In the\n darkness, his feet prodded many bodies. There were those who were too\n weak to rise. Rikud, too, felt a strange light-headedness and a gnawing\n hurt in his stomach. But it didn't matter. He heard the angry voices\n and the feet pounding behind him, and he wanted only to get away.\n\n\n It was dark and he was hungry and everyone who was strong enough to run\n was chasing him, but every time he thought of the garden outside, and\n how big it was, the darkness and the hunger and the people chasing him\n were unimportant. It was so big that it would swallow him up completely\n and positively.\n\n\n He became sickly giddy thinking about it.", "Whimpering, he fled.\nAll around Rikud were darkness and hunger and thirst. The buzzer did\n not sound because Rikud had silenced it forever. And no one went to\n eat or drink. Rikud himself had fumbled through the blackness and the\n whimpering to the dining room, his tongue dry and swollen, but the\n smooth belt that flowed with water and with savory dishes did not run\n any more. The machinery, Rikud realized, also was responsible for food.\n\n\n Chuls said, over and over, \"I'm hungry.\"\n\n\n \"We will eat and we will drink when the buzzer tells us,\" Wilm replied\n confidently.\n\n\n \"It won't any more,\" Rikud said.\n\n\n \"What won't?\"\n\n\n \"The buzzer will never sound again. I broke it.\"", "Presently, the members of the crowd had pretty well paired off, each\n partner grabbing for his companion's blouse. They giggled and laughed\n and some began to hop up and down as Crifer had done.\n\n\n A buzzer sounded and automatically Rikud found himself releasing Chuls.\n\n\n Chuls said, forgetting the incident completely, \"Time to retire.\"\n\n\n In a moment, the room was cleared. Rikud stood alone. He cleared his\n throat and listened to the sound, all by itself in the stillness. What\n would have happened if they hadn't retired? But they always did things\n punctually like that, whenever the buzzer sounded. They ate with the\n buzzer, bathed in the health-rays with it, slept with it.\n\n\n What would they do if the buzzer stopped buzzing?", "Under the tube at Rikud's left lay Crifer. The man was short and heavy\n through the shoulders and chest, and he had a lame foot. Every time\n Rikud looked at that foot, it was with a sense of satisfaction. True,\n this was the only case of its kind, the exception to the rule, but it\n proved the world was not perfect. Rikud was guiltily glad when he saw\n Crifer limp.\n\n\n But, if anyone else saw it, he never said a word. Not even Crifer.\nNow Crifer said, \"I've been reading again, Rikud.\"\n\n\n \"Yes?\" Almost no one read any more, and the library was heavy with the\n smell of dust. Reading represented initiative on the part of Crifer; it\n meant that, in the two unoccupied hours before sleep, he went to the\n library and listened to the reading machine. Everyone else simply sat\n about and talked. That was the custom. Everyone did it.", "And when Chuls looked away in disinterest, Rikud became angry. If only\n the man would realize! If only anyone would realize! It all seemed so\n obvious. If he, Rikud, walked from one part of the world to another,\n it was with a purpose—to eat, or to sleep, or perhaps to bathe in the\n health-rays. Now if the world had walked from—somewhere, through the\n vast star-speckled darkness and to the great garden outside, this also\n was purposeful. The world had arrived at the garden for a reason. But\n if everyone lived as if the world still stood in blackness, how could\n they find the nature of that purpose?\n\n\n \"I will eat,\" Chuls said, breaking Rikud's revery.\n\n\n Damn the man, all he did was eat!\n\n\n Yet he did have initiative after a sort. He knew when to eat. Because\n he was hungry.\n\n\n And Rikud, too, was hungry.", "Crifer growled. \"I know. You shouldn't have done it. That was a bad\n thing you did, Rikud.\"\n\n\n \"It was not bad. The world has moved through the blackness and the\n stars and now we should go outside to live in the big garden there\n beyond the viewport.\"\n\n\n \"That's ridiculous,\" Chuls said.\n\n\n Even Crifer now was angry at Rikud. \"He broke the buzzer and no one can\n eat. I hate Rikud, I think.\"\n\n\n There was a lot of noise in the darkness, and someone else said, \"I\n hate Rikud.\" Then everyone was saying it.\n\n\n Rikud was sad. Soon he would die, because no one would go outside with\n him and he could not go outside alone. In five more years he would have\n had a woman, too. He wondered if it was dark and hungry in the women's\n quarters. Did women eat?", "They were strangely shaped in some ways, and yet in others completely\n human, and their voices were high, like singing. Rikud found them oddly\n exciting. He liked them. He liked the garden, for all its hugeness.\n With so many people, and especially now with women, he was not afraid.\n\n\n It was much better than the small world of machinery, buzzer,\n frightening doors and women by appointment only.\n\n\n Rikud felt at home.", "He found a metal rod, bright and shiny, three feet long and half as\n wide as his arm. He tugged at it and it came loose from the wires that\n held it in place. He hefted it carefully for a moment, and then he\n swung the bar into the mass of metal. Each time he heard a grinding,\n crashing sound. He looked as the gears and cogs and wheels crumbled\n under his blows, shattered by the strength of his arm.\nAlmost casually he strode about the room, but his blows were not\n casual. Soon his easy strides had given way to frenzied running. Rikud\n smashed everything in sight.\n\n\n When the lights winked out, he stopped. Anyway, by that time the room\n was a shambles of twisted, broken metal. He laughed, softly at first,\n but presently he was roaring, and the sound doubled and redoubled in\n his ears because now the throbbing had stopped.", "A hand reached out in the darkness and grabbed at his head. He heard\n Crifer's voice. \"I have Rikud's head.\" The voice was nasty, hostile.\n\n\n Crifer, more than anyone, had been his friend. But now that he had\n broken the machinery, Crifer was his enemy, because Crifer came nearer\n to understanding the situation than anyone except Rikud.\n\n\n The hand reached out again, and it struck Rikud hard across the face.\n \"I hit him! I hit him!\"", "He reached up and grasped the handle of the door and he saw that his\n fingers were red with the wetness which had come from his hurt head.\n Slowly he slipped to the cool floor—how his head was burning!—and for\n a long time he lay there, thinking he would never rise again. Inside he\n heard the voices again, and soon a foot and then another pounded on\n the metal of the passage. He heard Crifer's voice louder than the rest:\n \"There is Rikud on the floor!\"\n\n\n Tugging at the handle of the door, Rikud pulled himself upright.\n Something small and brown scurried across the other side of the\n viewport and Rikud imagined it turned to look at him with two hideous\n red eyes.", "\"What are you doing that for?\" demanded Wilm, who was shorter even than\n Crifer, but had no lame foot.\n\n\n \"Doing what?\"\n\n\n \"Speaking so loudly when Chuls, who is close, obviously has no trouble\n hearing you.\"\n\n\n \"Maybe yelling will make him understand.\"\n\n\n Crifer hobbled about on his good foot, doing a meaningless little jig.\n \"Why don't we go see?\" he suggested. Then, confused, he frowned.\n\n\n \"Well, I won't go,\" Chuls replied. \"There's no reason to go. If Rikud\n has been imagining things, why should I?\"\n\n\n \"I imagined nothing. I'll show you—\"\n\n\n \"You'll show me nothing because I won't go.\"", "Rikud grabbed Chuls' blouse with his big fist. Then, startled by what\n he did, his hands began to tremble. But he held on, and he tugged at\n the blouse.\n\n\n \"Stop that,\" said the older man, mildly.\nCrifer hopped up and down. \"Look what Rikud's doing! I don't know what\n he's doing, but look. He's holding Chuls' blouse.\"\n\n\n \"Stop that,\" repeated Chuls, his face reddening.\n\n\n \"Only if you'll go with me.\" Rikud was panting.\n\n\n Chuls tugged at his wrist. By this time a crowd had gathered. Some of\n them watched Crifer jump up and down, but most of them watched Rikud\n holding Chuls' blouse.\n\n\n \"I think I can do that,\" declared Wilm, clutching a fistful of Crifer's\n shirt.", "When he opened the door a strange new noise filled his ears, a gentle\n humming, punctuated by a\nthrob-throb-throb\nwhich sounded not unlike\n the booming of the engines last week, except that this new sound didn't\n blast nearly so loudly against his eardrums. And what met Rikud's\n eyes—he blinked and looked again, but it was still there—cogs and\n gears and wheels and nameless things all strange and beautiful because\n they shone with a luster unfamiliar to him.\n\n\n \"Odd,\" Rikud said aloud. Then he thought, \"Now there's a good word, but\n no one quite seems to know its meaning.\"\n\n\n Odder still was the third door. Rikud suddenly thought there might\n exist an endless succession of them, especially when the third one\n opened on a bare tunnel which led to yet another door.", "He couldn't go alone. He'd die of the strangeness. It was a silly\n thought; no one ever died of anything until he was a hundred. Rikud\n couldn't fathom the rapid thumping of his heart. And Rikud's mouth felt\n dry; he wanted to swallow, but couldn't.\n\n\n Slowly, he took his hand off the door lever. He made his way back\n through the tunnel and then through the room of machinery and finally\n through the little room with the confusing voice to Crifer.\n\n\n By the time he reached the lame-footed man, Rikud was running. He did\n not dare once to look back. He stood shaking at Crifer's side, and\n sweat covered him in a clammy film. He never wanted to look at the\n garden again. Not when he knew there was a door through which he could\n walk and then might find himself in the garden.", "That was maddening. Rikud turned again to the port, where he could see\n nothing but an obscuring cloud of white vapor, murky, swirling, more\n confusing than ever.\n\n\n \"Chuls,\" he called, remembering, \"come here.\"\n\n\n \"I am here,\" said a voice at his elbow.\n\n\n Rikud whirled on the little figure and pointed to the swirling cloud of\n vapor. \"What do you see?\"\n\n\n Chuls looked. \"The viewport, of course.\"\n\n\n \"What else?\"\n\n\n \"Else? Nothing.\"\n\n\n Anger welled up inside Rikud. \"All right,\" he said, \"listen. What do\n you hear?\"\n\n\n \"Broom, brroom, brrroom!\" Chuls imitated the intermittent blasting of\n the engines. \"I'm hungry, Rikud.\"", "But if he didn't open the door and go into the garden outside, he would\n die because he had no food and no water and his stomach gurgled and\n grumbled and hurt. And everyone was chasing him.\n\n\n He stumbled through the darkness and felt his way back to the library,\n through the inner door and into the room with the voice—but the\n voice didn't speak this time—through its door and into the place of\n machinery. Behind him, he could hear the voices at the first door, and\n he thought for a moment that no one would come after him. But he heard\n Crifer yell something, and then feet pounding in the passage.\n\n\n Rikud tripped over something and sprawled awkwardly across the floor.\n He felt a sharp hurt in his head, and when he reached up to touch it\n with his hands there in the darkness, his fingers came away wet.", "Rikud screamed and hurtled back through the corridor, and his face\n was so terrible in the light streaming in through the viewport that\n everyone fled before him. He stumbled again in the place of the\n machinery, and down on his hands and knees he fondled the bits of metal\n which he could see in the dim light through the open door.\n\n\n \"Where's the buzzer?\" he sobbed. \"I must find the buzzer.\"\n\n\n Crifer's voice, from the darkness inside, said, \"You broke it. You\n broke it. And now we will break you—\"\n\n\n Rikud got up and ran. He reached the door again and then he slipped\n down against it, exhausted. Behind him, the voices and the footsteps\n came, and soon he saw Crifer's head peer in through the passageway.\n Then there were others, and then they were walking toward him.", "Somehow, Rikud knew this question for a healthy sign. But he could\n not tell them of his most amazing thought of all. The change in the\n viewport could mean only one thing. The world had been walking—the\n word seemed all wrong to Rikud, but he could think of no other, unless\n it were running. The world had been walking somewhere. That somewhere\n was the garden and the world had arrived.\n\n\n \"It is an old picture of the garden,\" Chuls suggested, \"and the plants\n are different.\"\n\n\n \"Then they've changed?\"\n\n\n \"No, merely different.\"\n\n\n \"Well, what about the viewport?\nIt\nchanged. Where are the stars?\n Where are they, Chuls, if it did not change?\"\n\n\n \"The stars come out at night.\"\n\n\n \"So there is a change from day to night!\"", "Startled, Rikud leaped back. The sullen roar in the rear of the world\n had ceased abruptly. Instead an ominous silence, broken at regular\n intervals by a sharp booming.\n\n\n Change—\n\n\n \"Won't you eat, Rikud?\" Chuls called from somewhere down below.\n\n\n \"Damn the man,\" Rikud thought. Then aloud: \"Yes, I'll eat. Later.\"\n\n\n \"It's time....\" Chuls' voice trailed off again, impotently.\n\n\n But Rikud forgot the old man completely. A new idea occurred to him,\n and for a while he struggled with it. What he saw—what he had always\n seen, except that now there was the added factor of change—perhaps did\n not exist\nin\nthe viewport.\n\n\n Maybe it existed\nthrough\nthe viewport." ], [ "And when Chuls looked away in disinterest, Rikud became angry. If only\n the man would realize! If only anyone would realize! It all seemed so\n obvious. If he, Rikud, walked from one part of the world to another,\n it was with a purpose—to eat, or to sleep, or perhaps to bathe in the\n health-rays. Now if the world had walked from—somewhere, through the\n vast star-speckled darkness and to the great garden outside, this also\n was purposeful. The world had arrived at the garden for a reason. But\n if everyone lived as if the world still stood in blackness, how could\n they find the nature of that purpose?\n\n\n \"I will eat,\" Chuls said, breaking Rikud's revery.\n\n\n Damn the man, all he did was eat!\n\n\n Yet he did have initiative after a sort. He knew when to eat. Because\n he was hungry.\n\n\n And Rikud, too, was hungry.", "The world had come to rest on the garden of the viewport.\nFor a whole week that view did not change, and Rikud had come to accept\n it as fact. There—through the viewport and in it—was a garden. A\n garden larger than the entire world, a garden of plants which Rikud had\n never seen before, although he had always liked to stroll through the\n world's garden and he had come to know every plant well. Nevertheless,\n it was a garden.\n\n\n He told Chuls, but Chuls had responded, \"It is the viewport.\"\n\n\n Crifer, on the other hand, wasn't so sure. \"It looks like the garden,\"\n he admitted to Rikud. \"But why should the garden be in the viewport?\"", "Somehow, Rikud knew this question for a healthy sign. But he could\n not tell them of his most amazing thought of all. The change in the\n viewport could mean only one thing. The world had been walking—the\n word seemed all wrong to Rikud, but he could think of no other, unless\n it were running. The world had been walking somewhere. That somewhere\n was the garden and the world had arrived.\n\n\n \"It is an old picture of the garden,\" Chuls suggested, \"and the plants\n are different.\"\n\n\n \"Then they've changed?\"\n\n\n \"No, merely different.\"\n\n\n \"Well, what about the viewport?\nIt\nchanged. Where are the stars?\n Where are they, Chuls, if it did not change?\"\n\n\n \"The stars come out at night.\"\n\n\n \"So there is a change from day to night!\"", "Rikud muttered to himself and undressed. The world had begun to annoy\n him. Now why shouldn't a man be permitted to do what he wanted, when\n he wanted to do it?\nThere\nwas a strange thought, and Rikud's brain\n whirled once more down the tortuous course of half-formed questions and\n unsatisfactory answers.\n\n\n He had even wondered what it was like to get hurt. No one ever got\n hurt. Once, here in this same ray room, he had had the impulse to hurl\n himself head-first against the wall, just to see what would happen.\n But something soft had cushioned the impact—something which had come\n into being just for the moment and then abruptly passed into non-being\n again, something which was as impalpable as air.", "Startled, Rikud leaped back. The sullen roar in the rear of the world\n had ceased abruptly. Instead an ominous silence, broken at regular\n intervals by a sharp booming.\n\n\n Change—\n\n\n \"Won't you eat, Rikud?\" Chuls called from somewhere down below.\n\n\n \"Damn the man,\" Rikud thought. Then aloud: \"Yes, I'll eat. Later.\"\n\n\n \"It's time....\" Chuls' voice trailed off again, impotently.\n\n\n But Rikud forgot the old man completely. A new idea occurred to him,\n and for a while he struggled with it. What he saw—what he had always\n seen, except that now there was the added factor of change—perhaps did\n not exist\nin\nthe viewport.\n\n\n Maybe it existed\nthrough\nthe viewport.", "Presently, the members of the crowd had pretty well paired off, each\n partner grabbing for his companion's blouse. They giggled and laughed\n and some began to hop up and down as Crifer had done.\n\n\n A buzzer sounded and automatically Rikud found himself releasing Chuls.\n\n\n Chuls said, forgetting the incident completely, \"Time to retire.\"\n\n\n In a moment, the room was cleared. Rikud stood alone. He cleared his\n throat and listened to the sound, all by itself in the stillness. What\n would have happened if they hadn't retired? But they always did things\n punctually like that, whenever the buzzer sounded. They ate with the\n buzzer, bathed in the health-rays with it, slept with it.\n\n\n What would they do if the buzzer stopped buzzing?", "\"What are you doing that for?\" demanded Wilm, who was shorter even than\n Crifer, but had no lame foot.\n\n\n \"Doing what?\"\n\n\n \"Speaking so loudly when Chuls, who is close, obviously has no trouble\n hearing you.\"\n\n\n \"Maybe yelling will make him understand.\"\n\n\n Crifer hobbled about on his good foot, doing a meaningless little jig.\n \"Why don't we go see?\" he suggested. Then, confused, he frowned.\n\n\n \"Well, I won't go,\" Chuls replied. \"There's no reason to go. If Rikud\n has been imagining things, why should I?\"\n\n\n \"I imagined nothing. I'll show you—\"\n\n\n \"You'll show me nothing because I won't go.\"", "Crifer growled. \"I know. You shouldn't have done it. That was a bad\n thing you did, Rikud.\"\n\n\n \"It was not bad. The world has moved through the blackness and the\n stars and now we should go outside to live in the big garden there\n beyond the viewport.\"\n\n\n \"That's ridiculous,\" Chuls said.\n\n\n Even Crifer now was angry at Rikud. \"He broke the buzzer and no one can\n eat. I hate Rikud, I think.\"\n\n\n There was a lot of noise in the darkness, and someone else said, \"I\n hate Rikud.\" Then everyone was saying it.\n\n\n Rikud was sad. Soon he would die, because no one would go outside with\n him and he could not go outside alone. In five more years he would have\n had a woman, too. He wondered if it was dark and hungry in the women's\n quarters. Did women eat?", "Under the tube at Rikud's left lay Crifer. The man was short and heavy\n through the shoulders and chest, and he had a lame foot. Every time\n Rikud looked at that foot, it was with a sense of satisfaction. True,\n this was the only case of its kind, the exception to the rule, but it\n proved the world was not perfect. Rikud was guiltily glad when he saw\n Crifer limp.\n\n\n But, if anyone else saw it, he never said a word. Not even Crifer.\nNow Crifer said, \"I've been reading again, Rikud.\"\n\n\n \"Yes?\" Almost no one read any more, and the library was heavy with the\n smell of dust. Reading represented initiative on the part of Crifer; it\n meant that, in the two unoccupied hours before sleep, he went to the\n library and listened to the reading machine. Everyone else simply sat\n about and talked. That was the custom. Everyone did it.", "Other hands reached out, and Rikud stumbled. He fell and then someone\n was on top of him, and he struggled. He rolled and was up again, and\n he did not like the sound of the angry voices. Someone said, \"Let us\n do to Rikud what he said he did to the machinery.\" Rikud ran. In the\n darkness, his feet prodded many bodies. There were those who were too\n weak to rise. Rikud, too, felt a strange light-headedness and a gnawing\n hurt in his stomach. But it didn't matter. He heard the angry voices\n and the feet pounding behind him, and he wanted only to get away.\n\n\n It was dark and he was hungry and everyone who was strong enough to run\n was chasing him, but every time he thought of the garden outside, and\n how big it was, the darkness and the hunger and the people chasing him\n were unimportant. It was so big that it would swallow him up completely\n and positively.\n\n\n He became sickly giddy thinking about it.", "Whimpering, he fled.\nAll around Rikud were darkness and hunger and thirst. The buzzer did\n not sound because Rikud had silenced it forever. And no one went to\n eat or drink. Rikud himself had fumbled through the blackness and the\n whimpering to the dining room, his tongue dry and swollen, but the\n smooth belt that flowed with water and with savory dishes did not run\n any more. The machinery, Rikud realized, also was responsible for food.\n\n\n Chuls said, over and over, \"I'm hungry.\"\n\n\n \"We will eat and we will drink when the buzzer tells us,\" Wilm replied\n confidently.\n\n\n \"It won't any more,\" Rikud said.\n\n\n \"What won't?\"\n\n\n \"The buzzer will never sound again. I broke it.\"", "He got up slowly and opened the next door. The voices behind him were\n closer now. Light streamed in through the viewport. After the darkness,\n it frightened Rikud and it made his eyes smart, and he could hear those\n behind him retreating to a safe distance. But their voices were not\n far away, and he knew they would come after him because they wanted to\n break him.\n\n\n Rikud looked out upon the garden and he trembled. Out there was life.\n The garden stretched off in unthinkable immensity to the cluster of\n low mounds against the bright blue which roofed the many plants. If\n plants could live out there as they did within the world, then so could\n people. Rikud and his people\nshould\n. This was why the world had moved\n across the darkness and the stars for all Rikud's lifetime and more.\n But he was afraid.", "Rikud had been stopped in this action, although there was no real\n authority to stop him. This puzzled him, because somehow he felt that\n there should have been authority. A long time ago the reading machine\n in the library had told him of the elders—a meaningless term—who had\n governed the world. They told you to do something and you did it, but\n that was silly, because now no one told you to do anything. You only\n listened to the buzzer.", "\"I didn't say that. The stars simply shine at night. Why should they\n shine during the day when the world wants them to shine only at night?\"\n\n\n \"Once they shone all the time.\"\n\n\n \"Naturally,\" said Crifer, becoming interested. \"They are variable.\"\nRikud regretted that he never had had the chance to read that book on\n astronomy. He hadn't been reading too much lately. The voice of the\n reading machine had begun to bore him. He said, \"Well, variable or not,\n our whole perspective has changed.\"", "They were strangely shaped in some ways, and yet in others completely\n human, and their voices were high, like singing. Rikud found them oddly\n exciting. He liked them. He liked the garden, for all its hugeness.\n With so many people, and especially now with women, he was not afraid.\n\n\n It was much better than the small world of machinery, buzzer,\n frightening doors and women by appointment only.\n\n\n Rikud felt at home.", "It was so big.\nThree or four days passed before Rikud calmed himself enough to\n talk about his experience. When he did, only Crifer seemed at all\n interested, yet the lame-footed man's mind was inadequate to cope with\n the situation. He suggested that the viewport might also be variable\n and Rikud found himself wishing that his friend had never read that\n book on astronomy.\n\n\n Chuls did not believe Rikud at all. \"There are not that many doors in\n the world,\" he said. \"The library has a door and there is a door to the\n women's quarters; in five years, the Calculator will send you through\n that. But there are no others.\"\n\n\n Chuls smiled an indulgent smile and Rikud came nearer to him. \"Now, by\n the world, there are two other doors!\"\n\n\n Rikud began to shout, and everyone looked at him queerly.", "But if he wasn't reading himself, Rikud usually went to sleep. All the\n people ever talked about was what they had done during the day, and it\n was always the same.\n\n\n \"Yes,\" said Crifer. \"I found a book about the stars. They're also\n called astronomy, I think.\"\n\n\n This was a new thought to Rikud, and he propped his head up on one\n elbow. \"What did you find out?\"\n\n\n \"That's about all. They're just called astronomy, I think.\"\n\n\n \"Well, where's the book?\" Rikud would read it tomorrow.\n\n\n \"I left it in the library. You can find several of them under\n 'astronomy,' with a cross-reference under 'stars.' They're synonymous\n terms.\"\n\n\n \"You know,\" Rikud said, sitting up now, \"the stars in the viewport are\n changing.\"", "When he opened the door a strange new noise filled his ears, a gentle\n humming, punctuated by a\nthrob-throb-throb\nwhich sounded not unlike\n the booming of the engines last week, except that this new sound didn't\n blast nearly so loudly against his eardrums. And what met Rikud's\n eyes—he blinked and looked again, but it was still there—cogs and\n gears and wheels and nameless things all strange and beautiful because\n they shone with a luster unfamiliar to him.\n\n\n \"Odd,\" Rikud said aloud. Then he thought, \"Now there's a good word, but\n no one quite seems to know its meaning.\"\n\n\n Odder still was the third door. Rikud suddenly thought there might\n exist an endless succession of them, especially when the third one\n opened on a bare tunnel which led to yet another door.", "\"Changing?\" Crifer questioned the fuzzy concept as much as he\n questioned what it might mean in this particular case.\n\n\n \"Yes, there are less of them, and one is bigger and brighter than the\n others.\"\n\n\n \"Astronomy says some stars are variable,\" Crifer offered, but Rikud\n knew his lame-footed companion understood the word no better than he\n did.\n\n\n Over on Rikud's right, Chuls began to dress. \"Variability,\" he told\n them, \"is a contradictory term. Nothing is variable. It can't be.\"\n\n\n \"I'm only saying what I read in the book,\" Crifer protested mildly.\n\n\n \"Well, it's wrong. Variability and change are two words without\n meaning.\"\n\n\n \"People grow old,\" Rikud suggested.", "And Rikud could remember the rest of what the reading machine had said.\n There had been a revolt—again a term without any real meaning, a term\n that could have no reality outside of the reading machine—and the\n elders were overthrown. Here Rikud had been lost utterly. The people\n had decided that they did not know where they were going, or why, and\n that it was unfair that the elders alone had this authority. They were\n born and they lived and they died as the elders directed, like little\n cogs in a great machine. Much of this Rikud could not understand, but\n he knew enough to realize that the reading machine had sided with the\n people against the elders, and it said the people had won." ], [ "Rikud muttered to himself and undressed. The world had begun to annoy\n him. Now why shouldn't a man be permitted to do what he wanted, when\n he wanted to do it?\nThere\nwas a strange thought, and Rikud's brain\n whirled once more down the tortuous course of half-formed questions and\n unsatisfactory answers.\n\n\n He had even wondered what it was like to get hurt. No one ever got\n hurt. Once, here in this same ray room, he had had the impulse to hurl\n himself head-first against the wall, just to see what would happen.\n But something soft had cushioned the impact—something which had come\n into being just for the moment and then abruptly passed into non-being\n again, something which was as impalpable as air.", "Other hands reached out, and Rikud stumbled. He fell and then someone\n was on top of him, and he struggled. He rolled and was up again, and\n he did not like the sound of the angry voices. Someone said, \"Let us\n do to Rikud what he said he did to the machinery.\" Rikud ran. In the\n darkness, his feet prodded many bodies. There were those who were too\n weak to rise. Rikud, too, felt a strange light-headedness and a gnawing\n hurt in his stomach. But it didn't matter. He heard the angry voices\n and the feet pounding behind him, and he wanted only to get away.\n\n\n It was dark and he was hungry and everyone who was strong enough to run\n was chasing him, but every time he thought of the garden outside, and\n how big it was, the darkness and the hunger and the people chasing him\n were unimportant. It was so big that it would swallow him up completely\n and positively.\n\n\n He became sickly giddy thinking about it.", "This frightened Rikud, although he didn't know why. He'd like it,\n though. Maybe then he could take them outside with him to the big\n garden of the two viewports. And then he wouldn't be afraid because he\n could huddle close to them and he wouldn't be alone.\nRikud heard the throbbing again as he stood in the room of the\n machinery. For a long time he watched the wheels and cogs and gears\n spinning and humming. He watched for he knew not how long. And then he\n began to wonder. If he destroyed the wheels and the cogs and the gears,\n would the buzzer stop? It probably would, because, as Rikud saw it, he\n was clearly an \"unauthorized person.\" He had heard the voice again\n upon entering the room.", "And when Chuls looked away in disinterest, Rikud became angry. If only\n the man would realize! If only anyone would realize! It all seemed so\n obvious. If he, Rikud, walked from one part of the world to another,\n it was with a purpose—to eat, or to sleep, or perhaps to bathe in the\n health-rays. Now if the world had walked from—somewhere, through the\n vast star-speckled darkness and to the great garden outside, this also\n was purposeful. The world had arrived at the garden for a reason. But\n if everyone lived as if the world still stood in blackness, how could\n they find the nature of that purpose?\n\n\n \"I will eat,\" Chuls said, breaking Rikud's revery.\n\n\n Damn the man, all he did was eat!\n\n\n Yet he did have initiative after a sort. He knew when to eat. Because\n he was hungry.\n\n\n And Rikud, too, was hungry.", "He reached up and grasped the handle of the door and he saw that his\n fingers were red with the wetness which had come from his hurt head.\n Slowly he slipped to the cool floor—how his head was burning!—and for\n a long time he lay there, thinking he would never rise again. Inside he\n heard the voices again, and soon a foot and then another pounded on\n the metal of the passage. He heard Crifer's voice louder than the rest:\n \"There is Rikud on the floor!\"\n\n\n Tugging at the handle of the door, Rikud pulled himself upright.\n Something small and brown scurried across the other side of the\n viewport and Rikud imagined it turned to look at him with two hideous\n red eyes.", "Rikud screamed and hurtled back through the corridor, and his face\n was so terrible in the light streaming in through the viewport that\n everyone fled before him. He stumbled again in the place of the\n machinery, and down on his hands and knees he fondled the bits of metal\n which he could see in the dim light through the open door.\n\n\n \"Where's the buzzer?\" he sobbed. \"I must find the buzzer.\"\n\n\n Crifer's voice, from the darkness inside, said, \"You broke it. You\n broke it. And now we will break you—\"\n\n\n Rikud got up and ran. He reached the door again and then he slipped\n down against it, exhausted. Behind him, the voices and the footsteps\n came, and soon he saw Crifer's head peer in through the passageway.\n Then there were others, and then they were walking toward him.", "They were strangely shaped in some ways, and yet in others completely\n human, and their voices were high, like singing. Rikud found them oddly\n exciting. He liked them. He liked the garden, for all its hugeness.\n With so many people, and especially now with women, he was not afraid.\n\n\n It was much better than the small world of machinery, buzzer,\n frightening doors and women by appointment only.\n\n\n Rikud felt at home.", "But if he didn't open the door and go into the garden outside, he would\n die because he had no food and no water and his stomach gurgled and\n grumbled and hurt. And everyone was chasing him.\n\n\n He stumbled through the darkness and felt his way back to the library,\n through the inner door and into the room with the voice—but the\n voice didn't speak this time—through its door and into the place of\n machinery. Behind him, he could hear the voices at the first door, and\n he thought for a moment that no one would come after him. But he heard\n Crifer yell something, and then feet pounding in the passage.\n\n\n Rikud tripped over something and sprawled awkwardly across the floor.\n He felt a sharp hurt in his head, and when he reached up to touch it\n with his hands there in the darkness, his fingers came away wet.", "He found a metal rod, bright and shiny, three feet long and half as\n wide as his arm. He tugged at it and it came loose from the wires that\n held it in place. He hefted it carefully for a moment, and then he\n swung the bar into the mass of metal. Each time he heard a grinding,\n crashing sound. He looked as the gears and cogs and wheels crumbled\n under his blows, shattered by the strength of his arm.\nAlmost casually he strode about the room, but his blows were not\n casual. Soon his easy strides had given way to frenzied running. Rikud\n smashed everything in sight.\n\n\n When the lights winked out, he stopped. Anyway, by that time the room\n was a shambles of twisted, broken metal. He laughed, softly at first,\n but presently he was roaring, and the sound doubled and redoubled in\n his ears because now the throbbing had stopped.", "Rikud grabbed Chuls' blouse with his big fist. Then, startled by what\n he did, his hands began to tremble. But he held on, and he tugged at\n the blouse.\n\n\n \"Stop that,\" said the older man, mildly.\nCrifer hopped up and down. \"Look what Rikud's doing! I don't know what\n he's doing, but look. He's holding Chuls' blouse.\"\n\n\n \"Stop that,\" repeated Chuls, his face reddening.\n\n\n \"Only if you'll go with me.\" Rikud was panting.\n\n\n Chuls tugged at his wrist. By this time a crowd had gathered. Some of\n them watched Crifer jump up and down, but most of them watched Rikud\n holding Chuls' blouse.\n\n\n \"I think I can do that,\" declared Wilm, clutching a fistful of Crifer's\n shirt.", "He stared out into the garden, and off into the distance, where the\n blue-white globe which might have been a star stood just above the row\n of mounds.\nCrifer was tugging at him, trying to pull him away from the door, and\n someone was grabbing at his legs, trying to make him fall. He kicked\n out and the hands let go, and then he turned the handle and shoved the\n weight of his body with all his strength against the door.\n\n\n It opened and he stepped outside into the warmth.\n\n\n The air was fresh, fresher than any air Rikud had ever breathed. He\n walked around aimlessly, touching the plants and bending down to feel\n the floor, and sometimes he looked at the blue-white globe on the\n horizon. It was all very beautiful.", "Now in the health room, Rikud felt a warmth in the rays. Grudgingly, he\n had to admit to himself that it was not unpleasant. He could see the\n look of easy contentment on Chuls' face as the rays fanned down upon\n him, bathing his old body in a forgotten magic which, many generations\n before Rikud's time, had negated the necessity for a knowledge of\n medicine. But when, in another ten years, Chuls would perish of old\n age, the rays would no longer suffice. Nothing would, for Chuls. Rikud\n often thought of his own death, still seventy-five years in the future,\n not without a sense of alarm. Yet old Chuls seemed heedless, with only\n a decade to go.", "Under the tube at Rikud's left lay Crifer. The man was short and heavy\n through the shoulders and chest, and he had a lame foot. Every time\n Rikud looked at that foot, it was with a sense of satisfaction. True,\n this was the only case of its kind, the exception to the rule, but it\n proved the world was not perfect. Rikud was guiltily glad when he saw\n Crifer limp.\n\n\n But, if anyone else saw it, he never said a word. Not even Crifer.\nNow Crifer said, \"I've been reading again, Rikud.\"\n\n\n \"Yes?\" Almost no one read any more, and the library was heavy with the\n smell of dust. Reading represented initiative on the part of Crifer; it\n meant that, in the two unoccupied hours before sleep, he went to the\n library and listened to the reading machine. Everyone else simply sat\n about and talked. That was the custom. Everyone did it.", "A hand reached out in the darkness and grabbed at his head. He heard\n Crifer's voice. \"I have Rikud's head.\" The voice was nasty, hostile.\n\n\n Crifer, more than anyone, had been his friend. But now that he had\n broken the machinery, Crifer was his enemy, because Crifer came nearer\n to understanding the situation than anyone except Rikud.\n\n\n The hand reached out again, and it struck Rikud hard across the face.\n \"I hit him! I hit him!\"", "Somehow, Rikud knew this question for a healthy sign. But he could\n not tell them of his most amazing thought of all. The change in the\n viewport could mean only one thing. The world had been walking—the\n word seemed all wrong to Rikud, but he could think of no other, unless\n it were running. The world had been walking somewhere. That somewhere\n was the garden and the world had arrived.\n\n\n \"It is an old picture of the garden,\" Chuls suggested, \"and the plants\n are different.\"\n\n\n \"Then they've changed?\"\n\n\n \"No, merely different.\"\n\n\n \"Well, what about the viewport?\nIt\nchanged. Where are the stars?\n Where are they, Chuls, if it did not change?\"\n\n\n \"The stars come out at night.\"\n\n\n \"So there is a change from day to night!\"", "Startled, Rikud leaped back. The sullen roar in the rear of the world\n had ceased abruptly. Instead an ominous silence, broken at regular\n intervals by a sharp booming.\n\n\n Change—\n\n\n \"Won't you eat, Rikud?\" Chuls called from somewhere down below.\n\n\n \"Damn the man,\" Rikud thought. Then aloud: \"Yes, I'll eat. Later.\"\n\n\n \"It's time....\" Chuls' voice trailed off again, impotently.\n\n\n But Rikud forgot the old man completely. A new idea occurred to him,\n and for a while he struggled with it. What he saw—what he had always\n seen, except that now there was the added factor of change—perhaps did\n not exist\nin\nthe viewport.\n\n\n Maybe it existed\nthrough\nthe viewport.", "That was maddening. Rikud turned again to the port, where he could see\n nothing but an obscuring cloud of white vapor, murky, swirling, more\n confusing than ever.\n\n\n \"Chuls,\" he called, remembering, \"come here.\"\n\n\n \"I am here,\" said a voice at his elbow.\n\n\n Rikud whirled on the little figure and pointed to the swirling cloud of\n vapor. \"What do you see?\"\n\n\n Chuls looked. \"The viewport, of course.\"\n\n\n \"What else?\"\n\n\n \"Else? Nothing.\"\n\n\n Anger welled up inside Rikud. \"All right,\" he said, \"listen. What do\n you hear?\"\n\n\n \"Broom, brroom, brrroom!\" Chuls imitated the intermittent blasting of\n the engines. \"I'm hungry, Rikud.\"", "Whimpering, he fled.\nAll around Rikud were darkness and hunger and thirst. The buzzer did\n not sound because Rikud had silenced it forever. And no one went to\n eat or drink. Rikud himself had fumbled through the blackness and the\n whimpering to the dining room, his tongue dry and swollen, but the\n smooth belt that flowed with water and with savory dishes did not run\n any more. The machinery, Rikud realized, also was responsible for food.\n\n\n Chuls said, over and over, \"I'm hungry.\"\n\n\n \"We will eat and we will drink when the buzzer tells us,\" Wilm replied\n confidently.\n\n\n \"It won't any more,\" Rikud said.\n\n\n \"What won't?\"\n\n\n \"The buzzer will never sound again. I broke it.\"", "Rikud had been stopped in this action, although there was no real\n authority to stop him. This puzzled him, because somehow he felt that\n there should have been authority. A long time ago the reading machine\n in the library had told him of the elders—a meaningless term—who had\n governed the world. They told you to do something and you did it, but\n that was silly, because now no one told you to do anything. You only\n listened to the buzzer.", "The old man turned and strode off down the corridor toward the dining\n room, and Rikud was glad to be alone once more.\nNow the vapor had departed, except for a few tenuous whisps. For a\n moment Rikud thought he could see the gardens rearward in the world.\n But that was silly. What were the gardens doing in the viewport? And\n besides, Rikud had the distinct feeling that here was something far\n vaster than the gardens, although all of it existed in the viewport\n which was no wider than the length of his body. The gardens, moreover,\n did not jump and dance before his eyes the way the viewport gardens\n did. Nor did they spin. Nor did the trees grow larger with every jolt.\n\n\n Rikud sat down hard. He blinked." ], [ "Presently Rikud became aware that his eyes were not tearing any longer,\n and he turned to look at the viewport. What he saw now was so new that\n he couldn't at first accept it. Instead, he blinked and rubbed his\n eyes, sure that the ball of blue-white fire somehow had damaged them.\n But the new view persisted.\n\n\n Of stars there were few, and of the blackness, almost nothing. Gone,\n too, was the burning globe. Something loomed there in the port, so huge\n that it spread out over almost the entire surface. Something big and\n round, all grays and greens and browns, and something for which Rikud\n had no name.\n\n\n A few moments more, and Rikud no longer could see the sphere. A section\n of it had expanded outward and assumed the rectangular shape of the\n viewport, and its size as well. It seemed neatly sheered down the\n middle, so that on one side Rikud saw an expanse of brown and green,\n and on the other, blue.", "Crifer growled. \"I know. You shouldn't have done it. That was a bad\n thing you did, Rikud.\"\n\n\n \"It was not bad. The world has moved through the blackness and the\n stars and now we should go outside to live in the big garden there\n beyond the viewport.\"\n\n\n \"That's ridiculous,\" Chuls said.\n\n\n Even Crifer now was angry at Rikud. \"He broke the buzzer and no one can\n eat. I hate Rikud, I think.\"\n\n\n There was a lot of noise in the darkness, and someone else said, \"I\n hate Rikud.\" Then everyone was saying it.\n\n\n Rikud was sad. Soon he would die, because no one would go outside with\n him and he could not go outside alone. In five more years he would have\n had a woman, too. He wondered if it was dark and hungry in the women's\n quarters. Did women eat?", "And when Chuls looked away in disinterest, Rikud became angry. If only\n the man would realize! If only anyone would realize! It all seemed so\n obvious. If he, Rikud, walked from one part of the world to another,\n it was with a purpose—to eat, or to sleep, or perhaps to bathe in the\n health-rays. Now if the world had walked from—somewhere, through the\n vast star-speckled darkness and to the great garden outside, this also\n was purposeful. The world had arrived at the garden for a reason. But\n if everyone lived as if the world still stood in blackness, how could\n they find the nature of that purpose?\n\n\n \"I will eat,\" Chuls said, breaking Rikud's revery.\n\n\n Damn the man, all he did was eat!\n\n\n Yet he did have initiative after a sort. He knew when to eat. Because\n he was hungry.\n\n\n And Rikud, too, was hungry.", "He got up slowly and opened the next door. The voices behind him were\n closer now. Light streamed in through the viewport. After the darkness,\n it frightened Rikud and it made his eyes smart, and he could hear those\n behind him retreating to a safe distance. But their voices were not\n far away, and he knew they would come after him because they wanted to\n break him.\n\n\n Rikud looked out upon the garden and he trembled. Out there was life.\n The garden stretched off in unthinkable immensity to the cluster of\n low mounds against the bright blue which roofed the many plants. If\n plants could live out there as they did within the world, then so could\n people. Rikud and his people\nshould\n. This was why the world had moved\n across the darkness and the stars for all Rikud's lifetime and more.\n But he was afraid.", "Perhaps they ate plants. Once, in the garden, Rikud had broken off a\n frond and tasted it. It had been bitter, but not unpleasant. Maybe the\n plants in the viewport would even be better.\n\n\n \"We will not be hungry if we go outside,\" he said. \"We can eat there.\"\n\n\n \"We can eat if the buzzer sounds, but it is broken,\" Chuls said dully.\n\n\n Crifer shrilled, \"Maybe it is only variable and will buzz again.\"\n\n\n \"No,\" Rikud assured him. \"It won't.\"\n\n\n \"Then you broke it and I hate you,\" said Crifer. \"We should break you,\n too, to show you how it is to be broken.\"\n\n\n \"We must go outside—through the viewport.\" Rikud listened to the odd\n gurgling sound his stomach made.", "He missed the beginning, but then:\n—therefore, permit no unauthorized persons to go through this\n door. The machinery in the next room is your protection against the\n rigors of space. A thousand years from now, journey's end, you may\n have discarded it for something better—who knows? But if you have\n not, then here is your protection. As nearly as possible, this ship\n is a perfect, self-sustaining world. It is more than that: it is\n human-sustaining as well. Try to hurt yourself and the ship will not\n permit it—within limits, of course. But you can damage the ship, and\n to avoid any possibility of that, no unauthorized persons are to be\n permitted through this door—\nRikud gave the voice up as hopeless. There were too many confusing\n words. What in the world was an unauthorized person? More interesting\n than that, however, was the second door. Would it lead to another\n voice? Rikud hoped that it wouldn't.", "That was maddening. Rikud turned again to the port, where he could see\n nothing but an obscuring cloud of white vapor, murky, swirling, more\n confusing than ever.\n\n\n \"Chuls,\" he called, remembering, \"come here.\"\n\n\n \"I am here,\" said a voice at his elbow.\n\n\n Rikud whirled on the little figure and pointed to the swirling cloud of\n vapor. \"What do you see?\"\n\n\n Chuls looked. \"The viewport, of course.\"\n\n\n \"What else?\"\n\n\n \"Else? Nothing.\"\n\n\n Anger welled up inside Rikud. \"All right,\" he said, \"listen. What do\n you hear?\"\n\n\n \"Broom, brroom, brrroom!\" Chuls imitated the intermittent blasting of\n the engines. \"I'm hungry, Rikud.\"", "The Sense of Wonder\nBy MILTON LESSER\n\n\n Illustrated by HARRY ROSENBAUM\n\n\n [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nWhen nobody aboard ship remembers where it's\n\n going, how can they tell when it has arrived?\nEvery day for a week now, Rikud had come to the viewport to watch\n the great changeless sweep of space. He could not quite explain the\n feelings within him; they were so alien, so unnatural. But ever since\n the engines somewhere in the rear of the world had changed their tone,\n from the steady whining Rikud had heard all twenty-five years of his\n life, to the sullen roar that came to his ears now, the feelings had\n grown.", "Near the ship, water that did not come from a machine gurgled across\n the land, and Rikud lay down and drank. It was cool and good, and when\n he got up, Crifer and Wilm were outside the world, and some of the\n others followed. They stood around for a long time before going to the\n water to drink.\nRikud sat down and tore off a piece of a plant, munching on it. It was\n good.\n\n\n Crifer picked his head up, from the water, his chin wet. \"Even feelings\n are variable. I don't hate you now, Rikud.\"\n\n\n Rikud smiled, staring at the ship. \"People are variable, too, Crifer.\n That is, if those creatures coming from the ship are people.\"\n\n\n \"They're women,\" said Crifer.", "He shrugged and reserved the thought for later. He wanted to see the\n stars again.\nThe view had changed, and the strangeness of it made Rikud's pulses\n leap with excitement. All the stars were paler now than before, and\n where Rikud had seen the one bright central star, he now saw a globe of\n light, white with a tinge of blue in it, and so bright that it hurt his\n eyes to look.\n\n\n Yes, hurt! Rikud looked and looked until his eyes teared and he had to\n turn away. Here was an unknown factor which the perfect world failed\n to control. But how could a star change into a blinking blue-white\n globe—if, indeed, that was the star Rikud had seen earlier? There\n was that word change again. Didn't it have something to do with age?\n Rikud couldn't remember, and he suddenly wished he could read Crifer's\n book on astronomy, which meant the same as stars. Except that it was\n variable, which was like change, being tied up somehow with age.", "Presently, the members of the crowd had pretty well paired off, each\n partner grabbing for his companion's blouse. They giggled and laughed\n and some began to hop up and down as Crifer had done.\n\n\n A buzzer sounded and automatically Rikud found himself releasing Chuls.\n\n\n Chuls said, forgetting the incident completely, \"Time to retire.\"\n\n\n In a moment, the room was cleared. Rikud stood alone. He cleared his\n throat and listened to the sound, all by itself in the stillness. What\n would have happened if they hadn't retired? But they always did things\n punctually like that, whenever the buzzer sounded. They ate with the\n buzzer, bathed in the health-rays with it, slept with it.\n\n\n What would they do if the buzzer stopped buzzing?", "If anyone else had noticed the change, he failed to mention it. This\n disturbed Rikud, although he could not tell why. And, because he had\n realized this odd difference in himself, he kept it locked up inside\n him.\n\n\n Today, space looked somehow different. The stars—it was a meaningless\n concept to Rikud, but that was what everyone called the bright\n pinpoints of light on the black backdrop in the viewport—were not\n apparent in the speckled profusion Rikud had always known. Instead,\n there was more of the blackness, and one very bright star set apart\n by itself in the middle of the viewport.\n\n\n If he had understood the term, Rikud would have told himself this was\n odd. His head ached with the half-born thought. It was—it was—what\n was it?\n\n\n Someone was clomping up the companionway behind Rikud. He turned and\n greeted gray-haired old Chuls.", "He stared out into the garden, and off into the distance, where the\n blue-white globe which might have been a star stood just above the row\n of mounds.\nCrifer was tugging at him, trying to pull him away from the door, and\n someone was grabbing at his legs, trying to make him fall. He kicked\n out and the hands let go, and then he turned the handle and shoved the\n weight of his body with all his strength against the door.\n\n\n It opened and he stepped outside into the warmth.\n\n\n The air was fresh, fresher than any air Rikud had ever breathed. He\n walked around aimlessly, touching the plants and bending down to feel\n the floor, and sometimes he looked at the blue-white globe on the\n horizon. It was all very beautiful.", "But if he wasn't reading himself, Rikud usually went to sleep. All the\n people ever talked about was what they had done during the day, and it\n was always the same.\n\n\n \"Yes,\" said Crifer. \"I found a book about the stars. They're also\n called astronomy, I think.\"\n\n\n This was a new thought to Rikud, and he propped his head up on one\n elbow. \"What did you find out?\"\n\n\n \"That's about all. They're just called astronomy, I think.\"\n\n\n \"Well, where's the book?\" Rikud would read it tomorrow.\n\n\n \"I left it in the library. You can find several of them under\n 'astronomy,' with a cross-reference under 'stars.' They're synonymous\n terms.\"\n\n\n \"You know,\" Rikud said, sitting up now, \"the stars in the viewport are\n changing.\"", "This frightened Rikud, although he didn't know why. He'd like it,\n though. Maybe then he could take them outside with him to the big\n garden of the two viewports. And then he wouldn't be afraid because he\n could huddle close to them and he wouldn't be alone.\nRikud heard the throbbing again as he stood in the room of the\n machinery. For a long time he watched the wheels and cogs and gears\n spinning and humming. He watched for he knew not how long. And then he\n began to wonder. If he destroyed the wheels and the cogs and the gears,\n would the buzzer stop? It probably would, because, as Rikud saw it, he\n was clearly an \"unauthorized person.\" He had heard the voice again\n upon entering the room.", "His head whirled and the viewport seemed to swim in a haze. Could it\n be variable, as Crifer had suggested? He wondered if the scurrying\n brown thing waited somewhere, and nausea struck at the pit of his\n stomach. But if the plants could live out there and the scurrying thing\n could live and that was why the world had moved through the blackness,\n then so could he live out there, and Crifer and all the others....\n\n\n So tightly did he grip the handle that his fingers began to hurt. And\n his heart pounded hard and he felt the pulses leaping on either side of\n his neck.", "Somehow, Rikud knew this question for a healthy sign. But he could\n not tell them of his most amazing thought of all. The change in the\n viewport could mean only one thing. The world had been walking—the\n word seemed all wrong to Rikud, but he could think of no other, unless\n it were running. The world had been walking somewhere. That somewhere\n was the garden and the world had arrived.\n\n\n \"It is an old picture of the garden,\" Chuls suggested, \"and the plants\n are different.\"\n\n\n \"Then they've changed?\"\n\n\n \"No, merely different.\"\n\n\n \"Well, what about the viewport?\nIt\nchanged. Where are the stars?\n Where are they, Chuls, if it did not change?\"\n\n\n \"The stars come out at night.\"\n\n\n \"So there is a change from day to night!\"", "And Rikud could remember the rest of what the reading machine had said.\n There had been a revolt—again a term without any real meaning, a term\n that could have no reality outside of the reading machine—and the\n elders were overthrown. Here Rikud had been lost utterly. The people\n had decided that they did not know where they were going, or why, and\n that it was unfair that the elders alone had this authority. They were\n born and they lived and they died as the elders directed, like little\n cogs in a great machine. Much of this Rikud could not understand, but\n he knew enough to realize that the reading machine had sided with the\n people against the elders, and it said the people had won.", "The world had come to rest on the garden of the viewport.\nFor a whole week that view did not change, and Rikud had come to accept\n it as fact. There—through the viewport and in it—was a garden. A\n garden larger than the entire world, a garden of plants which Rikud had\n never seen before, although he had always liked to stroll through the\n world's garden and he had come to know every plant well. Nevertheless,\n it was a garden.\n\n\n He told Chuls, but Chuls had responded, \"It is the viewport.\"\n\n\n Crifer, on the other hand, wasn't so sure. \"It looks like the garden,\"\n he admitted to Rikud. \"But why should the garden be in the viewport?\"", "It was so big.\nThree or four days passed before Rikud calmed himself enough to\n talk about his experience. When he did, only Crifer seemed at all\n interested, yet the lame-footed man's mind was inadequate to cope with\n the situation. He suggested that the viewport might also be variable\n and Rikud found himself wishing that his friend had never read that\n book on astronomy.\n\n\n Chuls did not believe Rikud at all. \"There are not that many doors in\n the world,\" he said. \"The library has a door and there is a door to the\n women's quarters; in five years, the Calculator will send you through\n that. But there are no others.\"\n\n\n Chuls smiled an indulgent smile and Rikud came nearer to him. \"Now, by\n the world, there are two other doors!\"\n\n\n Rikud began to shout, and everyone looked at him queerly." ], [ "Other hands reached out, and Rikud stumbled. He fell and then someone\n was on top of him, and he struggled. He rolled and was up again, and\n he did not like the sound of the angry voices. Someone said, \"Let us\n do to Rikud what he said he did to the machinery.\" Rikud ran. In the\n darkness, his feet prodded many bodies. There were those who were too\n weak to rise. Rikud, too, felt a strange light-headedness and a gnawing\n hurt in his stomach. But it didn't matter. He heard the angry voices\n and the feet pounding behind him, and he wanted only to get away.\n\n\n It was dark and he was hungry and everyone who was strong enough to run\n was chasing him, but every time he thought of the garden outside, and\n how big it was, the darkness and the hunger and the people chasing him\n were unimportant. It was so big that it would swallow him up completely\n and positively.\n\n\n He became sickly giddy thinking about it.", "Presently, the members of the crowd had pretty well paired off, each\n partner grabbing for his companion's blouse. They giggled and laughed\n and some began to hop up and down as Crifer had done.\n\n\n A buzzer sounded and automatically Rikud found himself releasing Chuls.\n\n\n Chuls said, forgetting the incident completely, \"Time to retire.\"\n\n\n In a moment, the room was cleared. Rikud stood alone. He cleared his\n throat and listened to the sound, all by itself in the stillness. What\n would have happened if they hadn't retired? But they always did things\n punctually like that, whenever the buzzer sounded. They ate with the\n buzzer, bathed in the health-rays with it, slept with it.\n\n\n What would they do if the buzzer stopped buzzing?", "Whimpering, he fled.\nAll around Rikud were darkness and hunger and thirst. The buzzer did\n not sound because Rikud had silenced it forever. And no one went to\n eat or drink. Rikud himself had fumbled through the blackness and the\n whimpering to the dining room, his tongue dry and swollen, but the\n smooth belt that flowed with water and with savory dishes did not run\n any more. The machinery, Rikud realized, also was responsible for food.\n\n\n Chuls said, over and over, \"I'm hungry.\"\n\n\n \"We will eat and we will drink when the buzzer tells us,\" Wilm replied\n confidently.\n\n\n \"It won't any more,\" Rikud said.\n\n\n \"What won't?\"\n\n\n \"The buzzer will never sound again. I broke it.\"", "Crifer growled. \"I know. You shouldn't have done it. That was a bad\n thing you did, Rikud.\"\n\n\n \"It was not bad. The world has moved through the blackness and the\n stars and now we should go outside to live in the big garden there\n beyond the viewport.\"\n\n\n \"That's ridiculous,\" Chuls said.\n\n\n Even Crifer now was angry at Rikud. \"He broke the buzzer and no one can\n eat. I hate Rikud, I think.\"\n\n\n There was a lot of noise in the darkness, and someone else said, \"I\n hate Rikud.\" Then everyone was saying it.\n\n\n Rikud was sad. Soon he would die, because no one would go outside with\n him and he could not go outside alone. In five more years he would have\n had a woman, too. He wondered if it was dark and hungry in the women's\n quarters. Did women eat?", "Under the tube at Rikud's left lay Crifer. The man was short and heavy\n through the shoulders and chest, and he had a lame foot. Every time\n Rikud looked at that foot, it was with a sense of satisfaction. True,\n this was the only case of its kind, the exception to the rule, but it\n proved the world was not perfect. Rikud was guiltily glad when he saw\n Crifer limp.\n\n\n But, if anyone else saw it, he never said a word. Not even Crifer.\nNow Crifer said, \"I've been reading again, Rikud.\"\n\n\n \"Yes?\" Almost no one read any more, and the library was heavy with the\n smell of dust. Reading represented initiative on the part of Crifer; it\n meant that, in the two unoccupied hours before sleep, he went to the\n library and listened to the reading machine. Everyone else simply sat\n about and talked. That was the custom. Everyone did it.", "This frightened Rikud, although he didn't know why. He'd like it,\n though. Maybe then he could take them outside with him to the big\n garden of the two viewports. And then he wouldn't be afraid because he\n could huddle close to them and he wouldn't be alone.\nRikud heard the throbbing again as he stood in the room of the\n machinery. For a long time he watched the wheels and cogs and gears\n spinning and humming. He watched for he knew not how long. And then he\n began to wonder. If he destroyed the wheels and the cogs and the gears,\n would the buzzer stop? It probably would, because, as Rikud saw it, he\n was clearly an \"unauthorized person.\" He had heard the voice again\n upon entering the room.", "He found a metal rod, bright and shiny, three feet long and half as\n wide as his arm. He tugged at it and it came loose from the wires that\n held it in place. He hefted it carefully for a moment, and then he\n swung the bar into the mass of metal. Each time he heard a grinding,\n crashing sound. He looked as the gears and cogs and wheels crumbled\n under his blows, shattered by the strength of his arm.\nAlmost casually he strode about the room, but his blows were not\n casual. Soon his easy strides had given way to frenzied running. Rikud\n smashed everything in sight.\n\n\n When the lights winked out, he stopped. Anyway, by that time the room\n was a shambles of twisted, broken metal. He laughed, softly at first,\n but presently he was roaring, and the sound doubled and redoubled in\n his ears because now the throbbing had stopped.", "A buzzer signified that his fifteen minutes under the rays were up, and\n Chuls said, \"It's almost time for me to eat.\"\n\n\n Rikud frowned. Chuls hadn't even seen the connection between the two\n concepts, yet it was so clear. Or was it? He had had it a moment ago,\n but now it faded, and change and old were just two words.\n\n\n His own buzzer sounded a moment later, and it was with a strange\n feeling of elation that he dressed and made his way back to the\n viewport. When he passed the door which led to the women's half of the\n world, however, he paused. He wanted to open that door and see a woman.\n He had been told about them and he had seen pictures, and he dimly\n remembered his childhood among women. But his feelings had changed;\n this was different. Again there were inexplicable feelings—strange\n channelings of Rikud's energy in new and confusing directions.", "And when Chuls looked away in disinterest, Rikud became angry. If only\n the man would realize! If only anyone would realize! It all seemed so\n obvious. If he, Rikud, walked from one part of the world to another,\n it was with a purpose—to eat, or to sleep, or perhaps to bathe in the\n health-rays. Now if the world had walked from—somewhere, through the\n vast star-speckled darkness and to the great garden outside, this also\n was purposeful. The world had arrived at the garden for a reason. But\n if everyone lived as if the world still stood in blackness, how could\n they find the nature of that purpose?\n\n\n \"I will eat,\" Chuls said, breaking Rikud's revery.\n\n\n Damn the man, all he did was eat!\n\n\n Yet he did have initiative after a sort. He knew when to eat. Because\n he was hungry.\n\n\n And Rikud, too, was hungry.", "Rikud muttered to himself and undressed. The world had begun to annoy\n him. Now why shouldn't a man be permitted to do what he wanted, when\n he wanted to do it?\nThere\nwas a strange thought, and Rikud's brain\n whirled once more down the tortuous course of half-formed questions and\n unsatisfactory answers.\n\n\n He had even wondered what it was like to get hurt. No one ever got\n hurt. Once, here in this same ray room, he had had the impulse to hurl\n himself head-first against the wall, just to see what would happen.\n But something soft had cushioned the impact—something which had come\n into being just for the moment and then abruptly passed into non-being\n again, something which was as impalpable as air.", "They were strangely shaped in some ways, and yet in others completely\n human, and their voices were high, like singing. Rikud found them oddly\n exciting. He liked them. He liked the garden, for all its hugeness.\n With so many people, and especially now with women, he was not afraid.\n\n\n It was much better than the small world of machinery, buzzer,\n frightening doors and women by appointment only.\n\n\n Rikud felt at home.", "He couldn't go alone. He'd die of the strangeness. It was a silly\n thought; no one ever died of anything until he was a hundred. Rikud\n couldn't fathom the rapid thumping of his heart. And Rikud's mouth felt\n dry; he wanted to swallow, but couldn't.\n\n\n Slowly, he took his hand off the door lever. He made his way back\n through the tunnel and then through the room of machinery and finally\n through the little room with the confusing voice to Crifer.\n\n\n By the time he reached the lame-footed man, Rikud was running. He did\n not dare once to look back. He stood shaking at Crifer's side, and\n sweat covered him in a clammy film. He never wanted to look at the\n garden again. Not when he knew there was a door through which he could\n walk and then might find himself in the garden.", "Rikud grabbed Chuls' blouse with his big fist. Then, startled by what\n he did, his hands began to tremble. But he held on, and he tugged at\n the blouse.\n\n\n \"Stop that,\" said the older man, mildly.\nCrifer hopped up and down. \"Look what Rikud's doing! I don't know what\n he's doing, but look. He's holding Chuls' blouse.\"\n\n\n \"Stop that,\" repeated Chuls, his face reddening.\n\n\n \"Only if you'll go with me.\" Rikud was panting.\n\n\n Chuls tugged at his wrist. By this time a crowd had gathered. Some of\n them watched Crifer jump up and down, but most of them watched Rikud\n holding Chuls' blouse.\n\n\n \"I think I can do that,\" declared Wilm, clutching a fistful of Crifer's\n shirt.", "He opened the door and ran through the little corridor to the smaller\n viewport. Outside he could see the stars, and, dimly, the terrain\n beneath them. But everything was so dark that only the stars shone\n clearly. All else was bathed in a shadow of unreality.\n\n\n Rikud never wanted to do anything more than he wanted to open that\n door. But his hands trembled too much when he touched it, and once,\n when he pressed his face close against the viewport, there in the\n darkness, something bright flashed briefly through the sky and was gone.", "When he opened the door a strange new noise filled his ears, a gentle\n humming, punctuated by a\nthrob-throb-throb\nwhich sounded not unlike\n the booming of the engines last week, except that this new sound didn't\n blast nearly so loudly against his eardrums. And what met Rikud's\n eyes—he blinked and looked again, but it was still there—cogs and\n gears and wheels and nameless things all strange and beautiful because\n they shone with a luster unfamiliar to him.\n\n\n \"Odd,\" Rikud said aloud. Then he thought, \"Now there's a good word, but\n no one quite seems to know its meaning.\"\n\n\n Odder still was the third door. Rikud suddenly thought there might\n exist an endless succession of them, especially when the third one\n opened on a bare tunnel which led to yet another door.", "\"In five more years,\" the older man chided, \"you'll be ready to sire\n children. And all you can do in the meantime is gaze out at the stars.\"\n\n\n Rikud knew he should be exercising now, or bathing in the rays of the\n health-lamps. It had never occurred to him that he didn't feel like it;\n he just didn't, without comprehending.\n\n\n Chuls' reminder fostered uneasiness. Often Rikud had dreamed of the\n time he would be thirty and a father. Whom would the Calculator select\n as his mate? The first time this idea had occurred to him, Rikud\n ignored it. But it came again, and each time it left him with a feeling\n he could not explain. Why should he think thoughts that no other man\n had? Why should he think he was thinking such thoughts, when it always\n embroiled him in a hopeless, infinite confusion that left him with a\n headache?", "\"What are you doing that for?\" demanded Wilm, who was shorter even than\n Crifer, but had no lame foot.\n\n\n \"Doing what?\"\n\n\n \"Speaking so loudly when Chuls, who is close, obviously has no trouble\n hearing you.\"\n\n\n \"Maybe yelling will make him understand.\"\n\n\n Crifer hobbled about on his good foot, doing a meaningless little jig.\n \"Why don't we go see?\" he suggested. Then, confused, he frowned.\n\n\n \"Well, I won't go,\" Chuls replied. \"There's no reason to go. If Rikud\n has been imagining things, why should I?\"\n\n\n \"I imagined nothing. I'll show you—\"\n\n\n \"You'll show me nothing because I won't go.\"", "The world had come to rest on the garden of the viewport.\nFor a whole week that view did not change, and Rikud had come to accept\n it as fact. There—through the viewport and in it—was a garden. A\n garden larger than the entire world, a garden of plants which Rikud had\n never seen before, although he had always liked to stroll through the\n world's garden and he had come to know every plant well. Nevertheless,\n it was a garden.\n\n\n He told Chuls, but Chuls had responded, \"It is the viewport.\"\n\n\n Crifer, on the other hand, wasn't so sure. \"It looks like the garden,\"\n he admitted to Rikud. \"But why should the garden be in the viewport?\"", "Somehow, Rikud knew this question for a healthy sign. But he could\n not tell them of his most amazing thought of all. The change in the\n viewport could mean only one thing. The world had been walking—the\n word seemed all wrong to Rikud, but he could think of no other, unless\n it were running. The world had been walking somewhere. That somewhere\n was the garden and the world had arrived.\n\n\n \"It is an old picture of the garden,\" Chuls suggested, \"and the plants\n are different.\"\n\n\n \"Then they've changed?\"\n\n\n \"No, merely different.\"\n\n\n \"Well, what about the viewport?\nIt\nchanged. Where are the stars?\n Where are they, Chuls, if it did not change?\"\n\n\n \"The stars come out at night.\"\n\n\n \"So there is a change from day to night!\"", "Differently.\nHe had long wondered about the door in the back of the library, and\n now, as Crifer sat cross-legged on one of the dusty tables, reading\n machine and book on astronomy or stars in his lap, Rikud approached the\n door.\n\n\n \"What's in here?\" he demanded.\n\n\n \"It's a door, I think,\" said Crifer.\n\n\n \"I know, but what's beyond it?\"\n\n\n \"Beyond it? Oh, you mean\nthrough\nthe door.\"\n\n\n \"Yes.\"\n\n\n \"Well,\" Crifer scratched his head, \"I don't think anyone ever opened\n it. It's only a door.\"\n\n\n \"I will,\" said Rikud.\n\n\n \"You will what?\"\n\n\n \"Open it. Open the door and look inside.\"" ], [ "Presently, the members of the crowd had pretty well paired off, each\n partner grabbing for his companion's blouse. They giggled and laughed\n and some began to hop up and down as Crifer had done.\n\n\n A buzzer sounded and automatically Rikud found himself releasing Chuls.\n\n\n Chuls said, forgetting the incident completely, \"Time to retire.\"\n\n\n In a moment, the room was cleared. Rikud stood alone. He cleared his\n throat and listened to the sound, all by itself in the stillness. What\n would have happened if they hadn't retired? But they always did things\n punctually like that, whenever the buzzer sounded. They ate with the\n buzzer, bathed in the health-rays with it, slept with it.\n\n\n What would they do if the buzzer stopped buzzing?", "Whimpering, he fled.\nAll around Rikud were darkness and hunger and thirst. The buzzer did\n not sound because Rikud had silenced it forever. And no one went to\n eat or drink. Rikud himself had fumbled through the blackness and the\n whimpering to the dining room, his tongue dry and swollen, but the\n smooth belt that flowed with water and with savory dishes did not run\n any more. The machinery, Rikud realized, also was responsible for food.\n\n\n Chuls said, over and over, \"I'm hungry.\"\n\n\n \"We will eat and we will drink when the buzzer tells us,\" Wilm replied\n confidently.\n\n\n \"It won't any more,\" Rikud said.\n\n\n \"What won't?\"\n\n\n \"The buzzer will never sound again. I broke it.\"", "Under the tube at Rikud's left lay Crifer. The man was short and heavy\n through the shoulders and chest, and he had a lame foot. Every time\n Rikud looked at that foot, it was with a sense of satisfaction. True,\n this was the only case of its kind, the exception to the rule, but it\n proved the world was not perfect. Rikud was guiltily glad when he saw\n Crifer limp.\n\n\n But, if anyone else saw it, he never said a word. Not even Crifer.\nNow Crifer said, \"I've been reading again, Rikud.\"\n\n\n \"Yes?\" Almost no one read any more, and the library was heavy with the\n smell of dust. Reading represented initiative on the part of Crifer; it\n meant that, in the two unoccupied hours before sleep, he went to the\n library and listened to the reading machine. Everyone else simply sat\n about and talked. That was the custom. Everyone did it.", "Other hands reached out, and Rikud stumbled. He fell and then someone\n was on top of him, and he struggled. He rolled and was up again, and\n he did not like the sound of the angry voices. Someone said, \"Let us\n do to Rikud what he said he did to the machinery.\" Rikud ran. In the\n darkness, his feet prodded many bodies. There were those who were too\n weak to rise. Rikud, too, felt a strange light-headedness and a gnawing\n hurt in his stomach. But it didn't matter. He heard the angry voices\n and the feet pounding behind him, and he wanted only to get away.\n\n\n It was dark and he was hungry and everyone who was strong enough to run\n was chasing him, but every time he thought of the garden outside, and\n how big it was, the darkness and the hunger and the people chasing him\n were unimportant. It was so big that it would swallow him up completely\n and positively.\n\n\n He became sickly giddy thinking about it.", "Rikud had been stopped in this action, although there was no real\n authority to stop him. This puzzled him, because somehow he felt that\n there should have been authority. A long time ago the reading machine\n in the library had told him of the elders—a meaningless term—who had\n governed the world. They told you to do something and you did it, but\n that was silly, because now no one told you to do anything. You only\n listened to the buzzer.", "And Rikud could remember the rest of what the reading machine had said.\n There had been a revolt—again a term without any real meaning, a term\n that could have no reality outside of the reading machine—and the\n elders were overthrown. Here Rikud had been lost utterly. The people\n had decided that they did not know where they were going, or why, and\n that it was unfair that the elders alone had this authority. They were\n born and they lived and they died as the elders directed, like little\n cogs in a great machine. Much of this Rikud could not understand, but\n he knew enough to realize that the reading machine had sided with the\n people against the elders, and it said the people had won.", "They were strangely shaped in some ways, and yet in others completely\n human, and their voices were high, like singing. Rikud found them oddly\n exciting. He liked them. He liked the garden, for all its hugeness.\n With so many people, and especially now with women, he was not afraid.\n\n\n It was much better than the small world of machinery, buzzer,\n frightening doors and women by appointment only.\n\n\n Rikud felt at home.", "Crifer growled. \"I know. You shouldn't have done it. That was a bad\n thing you did, Rikud.\"\n\n\n \"It was not bad. The world has moved through the blackness and the\n stars and now we should go outside to live in the big garden there\n beyond the viewport.\"\n\n\n \"That's ridiculous,\" Chuls said.\n\n\n Even Crifer now was angry at Rikud. \"He broke the buzzer and no one can\n eat. I hate Rikud, I think.\"\n\n\n There was a lot of noise in the darkness, and someone else said, \"I\n hate Rikud.\" Then everyone was saying it.\n\n\n Rikud was sad. Soon he would die, because no one would go outside with\n him and he could not go outside alone. In five more years he would have\n had a woman, too. He wondered if it was dark and hungry in the women's\n quarters. Did women eat?", "This frightened Rikud, although he didn't know why. He'd like it,\n though. Maybe then he could take them outside with him to the big\n garden of the two viewports. And then he wouldn't be afraid because he\n could huddle close to them and he wouldn't be alone.\nRikud heard the throbbing again as he stood in the room of the\n machinery. For a long time he watched the wheels and cogs and gears\n spinning and humming. He watched for he knew not how long. And then he\n began to wonder. If he destroyed the wheels and the cogs and the gears,\n would the buzzer stop? It probably would, because, as Rikud saw it, he\n was clearly an \"unauthorized person.\" He had heard the voice again\n upon entering the room.", "He found a metal rod, bright and shiny, three feet long and half as\n wide as his arm. He tugged at it and it came loose from the wires that\n held it in place. He hefted it carefully for a moment, and then he\n swung the bar into the mass of metal. Each time he heard a grinding,\n crashing sound. He looked as the gears and cogs and wheels crumbled\n under his blows, shattered by the strength of his arm.\nAlmost casually he strode about the room, but his blows were not\n casual. Soon his easy strides had given way to frenzied running. Rikud\n smashed everything in sight.\n\n\n When the lights winked out, he stopped. Anyway, by that time the room\n was a shambles of twisted, broken metal. He laughed, softly at first,\n but presently he was roaring, and the sound doubled and redoubled in\n his ears because now the throbbing had stopped.", "Rikud screamed and hurtled back through the corridor, and his face\n was so terrible in the light streaming in through the viewport that\n everyone fled before him. He stumbled again in the place of the\n machinery, and down on his hands and knees he fondled the bits of metal\n which he could see in the dim light through the open door.\n\n\n \"Where's the buzzer?\" he sobbed. \"I must find the buzzer.\"\n\n\n Crifer's voice, from the darkness inside, said, \"You broke it. You\n broke it. And now we will break you—\"\n\n\n Rikud got up and ran. He reached the door again and then he slipped\n down against it, exhausted. Behind him, the voices and the footsteps\n came, and soon he saw Crifer's head peer in through the passageway.\n Then there were others, and then they were walking toward him.", "\"In five more years,\" the older man chided, \"you'll be ready to sire\n children. And all you can do in the meantime is gaze out at the stars.\"\n\n\n Rikud knew he should be exercising now, or bathing in the rays of the\n health-lamps. It had never occurred to him that he didn't feel like it;\n he just didn't, without comprehending.\n\n\n Chuls' reminder fostered uneasiness. Often Rikud had dreamed of the\n time he would be thirty and a father. Whom would the Calculator select\n as his mate? The first time this idea had occurred to him, Rikud\n ignored it. But it came again, and each time it left him with a feeling\n he could not explain. Why should he think thoughts that no other man\n had? Why should he think he was thinking such thoughts, when it always\n embroiled him in a hopeless, infinite confusion that left him with a\n headache?", "A buzzer signified that his fifteen minutes under the rays were up, and\n Chuls said, \"It's almost time for me to eat.\"\n\n\n Rikud frowned. Chuls hadn't even seen the connection between the two\n concepts, yet it was so clear. Or was it? He had had it a moment ago,\n but now it faded, and change and old were just two words.\n\n\n His own buzzer sounded a moment later, and it was with a strange\n feeling of elation that he dressed and made his way back to the\n viewport. When he passed the door which led to the women's half of the\n world, however, he paused. He wanted to open that door and see a woman.\n He had been told about them and he had seen pictures, and he dimly\n remembered his childhood among women. But his feelings had changed;\n this was different. Again there were inexplicable feelings—strange\n channelings of Rikud's energy in new and confusing directions.", "Rikud muttered to himself and undressed. The world had begun to annoy\n him. Now why shouldn't a man be permitted to do what he wanted, when\n he wanted to do it?\nThere\nwas a strange thought, and Rikud's brain\n whirled once more down the tortuous course of half-formed questions and\n unsatisfactory answers.\n\n\n He had even wondered what it was like to get hurt. No one ever got\n hurt. Once, here in this same ray room, he had had the impulse to hurl\n himself head-first against the wall, just to see what would happen.\n But something soft had cushioned the impact—something which had come\n into being just for the moment and then abruptly passed into non-being\n again, something which was as impalpable as air.", "And when Chuls looked away in disinterest, Rikud became angry. If only\n the man would realize! If only anyone would realize! It all seemed so\n obvious. If he, Rikud, walked from one part of the world to another,\n it was with a purpose—to eat, or to sleep, or perhaps to bathe in the\n health-rays. Now if the world had walked from—somewhere, through the\n vast star-speckled darkness and to the great garden outside, this also\n was purposeful. The world had arrived at the garden for a reason. But\n if everyone lived as if the world still stood in blackness, how could\n they find the nature of that purpose?\n\n\n \"I will eat,\" Chuls said, breaking Rikud's revery.\n\n\n Damn the man, all he did was eat!\n\n\n Yet he did have initiative after a sort. He knew when to eat. Because\n he was hungry.\n\n\n And Rikud, too, was hungry.", "A hand reached out in the darkness and grabbed at his head. He heard\n Crifer's voice. \"I have Rikud's head.\" The voice was nasty, hostile.\n\n\n Crifer, more than anyone, had been his friend. But now that he had\n broken the machinery, Crifer was his enemy, because Crifer came nearer\n to understanding the situation than anyone except Rikud.\n\n\n The hand reached out again, and it struck Rikud hard across the face.\n \"I hit him! I hit him!\"", "He reached up and grasped the handle of the door and he saw that his\n fingers were red with the wetness which had come from his hurt head.\n Slowly he slipped to the cool floor—how his head was burning!—and for\n a long time he lay there, thinking he would never rise again. Inside he\n heard the voices again, and soon a foot and then another pounded on\n the metal of the passage. He heard Crifer's voice louder than the rest:\n \"There is Rikud on the floor!\"\n\n\n Tugging at the handle of the door, Rikud pulled himself upright.\n Something small and brown scurried across the other side of the\n viewport and Rikud imagined it turned to look at him with two hideous\n red eyes.", "Rikud grabbed Chuls' blouse with his big fist. Then, startled by what\n he did, his hands began to tremble. But he held on, and he tugged at\n the blouse.\n\n\n \"Stop that,\" said the older man, mildly.\nCrifer hopped up and down. \"Look what Rikud's doing! I don't know what\n he's doing, but look. He's holding Chuls' blouse.\"\n\n\n \"Stop that,\" repeated Chuls, his face reddening.\n\n\n \"Only if you'll go with me.\" Rikud was panting.\n\n\n Chuls tugged at his wrist. By this time a crowd had gathered. Some of\n them watched Crifer jump up and down, but most of them watched Rikud\n holding Chuls' blouse.\n\n\n \"I think I can do that,\" declared Wilm, clutching a fistful of Crifer's\n shirt.", "\"What are you doing that for?\" demanded Wilm, who was shorter even than\n Crifer, but had no lame foot.\n\n\n \"Doing what?\"\n\n\n \"Speaking so loudly when Chuls, who is close, obviously has no trouble\n hearing you.\"\n\n\n \"Maybe yelling will make him understand.\"\n\n\n Crifer hobbled about on his good foot, doing a meaningless little jig.\n \"Why don't we go see?\" he suggested. Then, confused, he frowned.\n\n\n \"Well, I won't go,\" Chuls replied. \"There's no reason to go. If Rikud\n has been imagining things, why should I?\"\n\n\n \"I imagined nothing. I'll show you—\"\n\n\n \"You'll show me nothing because I won't go.\"", "Perhaps they ate plants. Once, in the garden, Rikud had broken off a\n frond and tasted it. It had been bitter, but not unpleasant. Maybe the\n plants in the viewport would even be better.\n\n\n \"We will not be hungry if we go outside,\" he said. \"We can eat there.\"\n\n\n \"We can eat if the buzzer sounds, but it is broken,\" Chuls said dully.\n\n\n Crifer shrilled, \"Maybe it is only variable and will buzz again.\"\n\n\n \"No,\" Rikud assured him. \"It won't.\"\n\n\n \"Then you broke it and I hate you,\" said Crifer. \"We should break you,\n too, to show you how it is to be broken.\"\n\n\n \"We must go outside—through the viewport.\" Rikud listened to the odd\n gurgling sound his stomach made." ], [ "A hand reached out in the darkness and grabbed at his head. He heard\n Crifer's voice. \"I have Rikud's head.\" The voice was nasty, hostile.\n\n\n Crifer, more than anyone, had been his friend. But now that he had\n broken the machinery, Crifer was his enemy, because Crifer came nearer\n to understanding the situation than anyone except Rikud.\n\n\n The hand reached out again, and it struck Rikud hard across the face.\n \"I hit him! I hit him!\"", "Rikud screamed and hurtled back through the corridor, and his face\n was so terrible in the light streaming in through the viewport that\n everyone fled before him. He stumbled again in the place of the\n machinery, and down on his hands and knees he fondled the bits of metal\n which he could see in the dim light through the open door.\n\n\n \"Where's the buzzer?\" he sobbed. \"I must find the buzzer.\"\n\n\n Crifer's voice, from the darkness inside, said, \"You broke it. You\n broke it. And now we will break you—\"\n\n\n Rikud got up and ran. He reached the door again and then he slipped\n down against it, exhausted. Behind him, the voices and the footsteps\n came, and soon he saw Crifer's head peer in through the passageway.\n Then there were others, and then they were walking toward him.", "Rikud grabbed Chuls' blouse with his big fist. Then, startled by what\n he did, his hands began to tremble. But he held on, and he tugged at\n the blouse.\n\n\n \"Stop that,\" said the older man, mildly.\nCrifer hopped up and down. \"Look what Rikud's doing! I don't know what\n he's doing, but look. He's holding Chuls' blouse.\"\n\n\n \"Stop that,\" repeated Chuls, his face reddening.\n\n\n \"Only if you'll go with me.\" Rikud was panting.\n\n\n Chuls tugged at his wrist. By this time a crowd had gathered. Some of\n them watched Crifer jump up and down, but most of them watched Rikud\n holding Chuls' blouse.\n\n\n \"I think I can do that,\" declared Wilm, clutching a fistful of Crifer's\n shirt.", "Other hands reached out, and Rikud stumbled. He fell and then someone\n was on top of him, and he struggled. He rolled and was up again, and\n he did not like the sound of the angry voices. Someone said, \"Let us\n do to Rikud what he said he did to the machinery.\" Rikud ran. In the\n darkness, his feet prodded many bodies. There were those who were too\n weak to rise. Rikud, too, felt a strange light-headedness and a gnawing\n hurt in his stomach. But it didn't matter. He heard the angry voices\n and the feet pounding behind him, and he wanted only to get away.\n\n\n It was dark and he was hungry and everyone who was strong enough to run\n was chasing him, but every time he thought of the garden outside, and\n how big it was, the darkness and the hunger and the people chasing him\n were unimportant. It was so big that it would swallow him up completely\n and positively.\n\n\n He became sickly giddy thinking about it.", "He found a metal rod, bright and shiny, three feet long and half as\n wide as his arm. He tugged at it and it came loose from the wires that\n held it in place. He hefted it carefully for a moment, and then he\n swung the bar into the mass of metal. Each time he heard a grinding,\n crashing sound. He looked as the gears and cogs and wheels crumbled\n under his blows, shattered by the strength of his arm.\nAlmost casually he strode about the room, but his blows were not\n casual. Soon his easy strides had given way to frenzied running. Rikud\n smashed everything in sight.\n\n\n When the lights winked out, he stopped. Anyway, by that time the room\n was a shambles of twisted, broken metal. He laughed, softly at first,\n but presently he was roaring, and the sound doubled and redoubled in\n his ears because now the throbbing had stopped.", "He reached up and grasped the handle of the door and he saw that his\n fingers were red with the wetness which had come from his hurt head.\n Slowly he slipped to the cool floor—how his head was burning!—and for\n a long time he lay there, thinking he would never rise again. Inside he\n heard the voices again, and soon a foot and then another pounded on\n the metal of the passage. He heard Crifer's voice louder than the rest:\n \"There is Rikud on the floor!\"\n\n\n Tugging at the handle of the door, Rikud pulled himself upright.\n Something small and brown scurried across the other side of the\n viewport and Rikud imagined it turned to look at him with two hideous\n red eyes.", "But if he didn't open the door and go into the garden outside, he would\n die because he had no food and no water and his stomach gurgled and\n grumbled and hurt. And everyone was chasing him.\n\n\n He stumbled through the darkness and felt his way back to the library,\n through the inner door and into the room with the voice—but the\n voice didn't speak this time—through its door and into the place of\n machinery. Behind him, he could hear the voices at the first door, and\n he thought for a moment that no one would come after him. But he heard\n Crifer yell something, and then feet pounding in the passage.\n\n\n Rikud tripped over something and sprawled awkwardly across the floor.\n He felt a sharp hurt in his head, and when he reached up to touch it\n with his hands there in the darkness, his fingers came away wet.", "This frightened Rikud, although he didn't know why. He'd like it,\n though. Maybe then he could take them outside with him to the big\n garden of the two viewports. And then he wouldn't be afraid because he\n could huddle close to them and he wouldn't be alone.\nRikud heard the throbbing again as he stood in the room of the\n machinery. For a long time he watched the wheels and cogs and gears\n spinning and humming. He watched for he knew not how long. And then he\n began to wonder. If he destroyed the wheels and the cogs and the gears,\n would the buzzer stop? It probably would, because, as Rikud saw it, he\n was clearly an \"unauthorized person.\" He had heard the voice again\n upon entering the room.", "Whimpering, he fled.\nAll around Rikud were darkness and hunger and thirst. The buzzer did\n not sound because Rikud had silenced it forever. And no one went to\n eat or drink. Rikud himself had fumbled through the blackness and the\n whimpering to the dining room, his tongue dry and swollen, but the\n smooth belt that flowed with water and with savory dishes did not run\n any more. The machinery, Rikud realized, also was responsible for food.\n\n\n Chuls said, over and over, \"I'm hungry.\"\n\n\n \"We will eat and we will drink when the buzzer tells us,\" Wilm replied\n confidently.\n\n\n \"It won't any more,\" Rikud said.\n\n\n \"What won't?\"\n\n\n \"The buzzer will never sound again. I broke it.\"", "\"What are you doing that for?\" demanded Wilm, who was shorter even than\n Crifer, but had no lame foot.\n\n\n \"Doing what?\"\n\n\n \"Speaking so loudly when Chuls, who is close, obviously has no trouble\n hearing you.\"\n\n\n \"Maybe yelling will make him understand.\"\n\n\n Crifer hobbled about on his good foot, doing a meaningless little jig.\n \"Why don't we go see?\" he suggested. Then, confused, he frowned.\n\n\n \"Well, I won't go,\" Chuls replied. \"There's no reason to go. If Rikud\n has been imagining things, why should I?\"\n\n\n \"I imagined nothing. I'll show you—\"\n\n\n \"You'll show me nothing because I won't go.\"", "Presently, the members of the crowd had pretty well paired off, each\n partner grabbing for his companion's blouse. They giggled and laughed\n and some began to hop up and down as Crifer had done.\n\n\n A buzzer sounded and automatically Rikud found himself releasing Chuls.\n\n\n Chuls said, forgetting the incident completely, \"Time to retire.\"\n\n\n In a moment, the room was cleared. Rikud stood alone. He cleared his\n throat and listened to the sound, all by itself in the stillness. What\n would have happened if they hadn't retired? But they always did things\n punctually like that, whenever the buzzer sounded. They ate with the\n buzzer, bathed in the health-rays with it, slept with it.\n\n\n What would they do if the buzzer stopped buzzing?", "That was maddening. Rikud turned again to the port, where he could see\n nothing but an obscuring cloud of white vapor, murky, swirling, more\n confusing than ever.\n\n\n \"Chuls,\" he called, remembering, \"come here.\"\n\n\n \"I am here,\" said a voice at his elbow.\n\n\n Rikud whirled on the little figure and pointed to the swirling cloud of\n vapor. \"What do you see?\"\n\n\n Chuls looked. \"The viewport, of course.\"\n\n\n \"What else?\"\n\n\n \"Else? Nothing.\"\n\n\n Anger welled up inside Rikud. \"All right,\" he said, \"listen. What do\n you hear?\"\n\n\n \"Broom, brroom, brrroom!\" Chuls imitated the intermittent blasting of\n the engines. \"I'm hungry, Rikud.\"", "And when Chuls looked away in disinterest, Rikud became angry. If only\n the man would realize! If only anyone would realize! It all seemed so\n obvious. If he, Rikud, walked from one part of the world to another,\n it was with a purpose—to eat, or to sleep, or perhaps to bathe in the\n health-rays. Now if the world had walked from—somewhere, through the\n vast star-speckled darkness and to the great garden outside, this also\n was purposeful. The world had arrived at the garden for a reason. But\n if everyone lived as if the world still stood in blackness, how could\n they find the nature of that purpose?\n\n\n \"I will eat,\" Chuls said, breaking Rikud's revery.\n\n\n Damn the man, all he did was eat!\n\n\n Yet he did have initiative after a sort. He knew when to eat. Because\n he was hungry.\n\n\n And Rikud, too, was hungry.", "Under the tube at Rikud's left lay Crifer. The man was short and heavy\n through the shoulders and chest, and he had a lame foot. Every time\n Rikud looked at that foot, it was with a sense of satisfaction. True,\n this was the only case of its kind, the exception to the rule, but it\n proved the world was not perfect. Rikud was guiltily glad when he saw\n Crifer limp.\n\n\n But, if anyone else saw it, he never said a word. Not even Crifer.\nNow Crifer said, \"I've been reading again, Rikud.\"\n\n\n \"Yes?\" Almost no one read any more, and the library was heavy with the\n smell of dust. Reading represented initiative on the part of Crifer; it\n meant that, in the two unoccupied hours before sleep, he went to the\n library and listened to the reading machine. Everyone else simply sat\n about and talked. That was the custom. Everyone did it.", "Crifer growled. \"I know. You shouldn't have done it. That was a bad\n thing you did, Rikud.\"\n\n\n \"It was not bad. The world has moved through the blackness and the\n stars and now we should go outside to live in the big garden there\n beyond the viewport.\"\n\n\n \"That's ridiculous,\" Chuls said.\n\n\n Even Crifer now was angry at Rikud. \"He broke the buzzer and no one can\n eat. I hate Rikud, I think.\"\n\n\n There was a lot of noise in the darkness, and someone else said, \"I\n hate Rikud.\" Then everyone was saying it.\n\n\n Rikud was sad. Soon he would die, because no one would go outside with\n him and he could not go outside alone. In five more years he would have\n had a woman, too. He wondered if it was dark and hungry in the women's\n quarters. Did women eat?", "They were strangely shaped in some ways, and yet in others completely\n human, and their voices were high, like singing. Rikud found them oddly\n exciting. He liked them. He liked the garden, for all its hugeness.\n With so many people, and especially now with women, he was not afraid.\n\n\n It was much better than the small world of machinery, buzzer,\n frightening doors and women by appointment only.\n\n\n Rikud felt at home.", "He couldn't go alone. He'd die of the strangeness. It was a silly\n thought; no one ever died of anything until he was a hundred. Rikud\n couldn't fathom the rapid thumping of his heart. And Rikud's mouth felt\n dry; he wanted to swallow, but couldn't.\n\n\n Slowly, he took his hand off the door lever. He made his way back\n through the tunnel and then through the room of machinery and finally\n through the little room with the confusing voice to Crifer.\n\n\n By the time he reached the lame-footed man, Rikud was running. He did\n not dare once to look back. He stood shaking at Crifer's side, and\n sweat covered him in a clammy film. He never wanted to look at the\n garden again. Not when he knew there was a door through which he could\n walk and then might find himself in the garden.", "Startled, Rikud leaped back. The sullen roar in the rear of the world\n had ceased abruptly. Instead an ominous silence, broken at regular\n intervals by a sharp booming.\n\n\n Change—\n\n\n \"Won't you eat, Rikud?\" Chuls called from somewhere down below.\n\n\n \"Damn the man,\" Rikud thought. Then aloud: \"Yes, I'll eat. Later.\"\n\n\n \"It's time....\" Chuls' voice trailed off again, impotently.\n\n\n But Rikud forgot the old man completely. A new idea occurred to him,\n and for a while he struggled with it. What he saw—what he had always\n seen, except that now there was the added factor of change—perhaps did\n not exist\nin\nthe viewport.\n\n\n Maybe it existed\nthrough\nthe viewport.", "Rikud muttered to himself and undressed. The world had begun to annoy\n him. Now why shouldn't a man be permitted to do what he wanted, when\n he wanted to do it?\nThere\nwas a strange thought, and Rikud's brain\n whirled once more down the tortuous course of half-formed questions and\n unsatisfactory answers.\n\n\n He had even wondered what it was like to get hurt. No one ever got\n hurt. Once, here in this same ray room, he had had the impulse to hurl\n himself head-first against the wall, just to see what would happen.\n But something soft had cushioned the impact—something which had come\n into being just for the moment and then abruptly passed into non-being\n again, something which was as impalpable as air.", "He got up slowly and opened the next door. The voices behind him were\n closer now. Light streamed in through the viewport. After the darkness,\n it frightened Rikud and it made his eyes smart, and he could hear those\n behind him retreating to a safe distance. But their voices were not\n far away, and he knew they would come after him because they wanted to\n break him.\n\n\n Rikud looked out upon the garden and he trembled. Out there was life.\n The garden stretched off in unthinkable immensity to the cluster of\n low mounds against the bright blue which roofed the many plants. If\n plants could live out there as they did within the world, then so could\n people. Rikud and his people\nshould\n. This was why the world had moved\n across the darkness and the stars for all Rikud's lifetime and more.\n But he was afraid." ], [ "He couldn't go alone. He'd die of the strangeness. It was a silly\n thought; no one ever died of anything until he was a hundred. Rikud\n couldn't fathom the rapid thumping of his heart. And Rikud's mouth felt\n dry; he wanted to swallow, but couldn't.\n\n\n Slowly, he took his hand off the door lever. He made his way back\n through the tunnel and then through the room of machinery and finally\n through the little room with the confusing voice to Crifer.\n\n\n By the time he reached the lame-footed man, Rikud was running. He did\n not dare once to look back. He stood shaking at Crifer's side, and\n sweat covered him in a clammy film. He never wanted to look at the\n garden again. Not when he knew there was a door through which he could\n walk and then might find himself in the garden.", "Only this one was different. In it Rikud saw the viewport. But how? The\n viewport stood on the other end of the world. It did seem smaller, and,\n although it looked out on the garden, Rikud sensed that the topography\n was different. Then the garden extended even farther than he had\n thought. It was endless, extending all the way to a ridge of mounds way\n off in the distance.\n\n\n And this door one could walk through, into the garden. Rikud put his\n hand on the door, all the while watching the garden through the new\n viewport. He began to turn the handle.\n\n\n Then he trembled.\n\n\n What would he do out in the garden?", "They were strangely shaped in some ways, and yet in others completely\n human, and their voices were high, like singing. Rikud found them oddly\n exciting. He liked them. He liked the garden, for all its hugeness.\n With so many people, and especially now with women, he was not afraid.\n\n\n It was much better than the small world of machinery, buzzer,\n frightening doors and women by appointment only.\n\n\n Rikud felt at home.", "This frightened Rikud, although he didn't know why. He'd like it,\n though. Maybe then he could take them outside with him to the big\n garden of the two viewports. And then he wouldn't be afraid because he\n could huddle close to them and he wouldn't be alone.\nRikud heard the throbbing again as he stood in the room of the\n machinery. For a long time he watched the wheels and cogs and gears\n spinning and humming. He watched for he knew not how long. And then he\n began to wonder. If he destroyed the wheels and the cogs and the gears,\n would the buzzer stop? It probably would, because, as Rikud saw it, he\n was clearly an \"unauthorized person.\" He had heard the voice again\n upon entering the room.", "Other hands reached out, and Rikud stumbled. He fell and then someone\n was on top of him, and he struggled. He rolled and was up again, and\n he did not like the sound of the angry voices. Someone said, \"Let us\n do to Rikud what he said he did to the machinery.\" Rikud ran. In the\n darkness, his feet prodded many bodies. There were those who were too\n weak to rise. Rikud, too, felt a strange light-headedness and a gnawing\n hurt in his stomach. But it didn't matter. He heard the angry voices\n and the feet pounding behind him, and he wanted only to get away.\n\n\n It was dark and he was hungry and everyone who was strong enough to run\n was chasing him, but every time he thought of the garden outside, and\n how big it was, the darkness and the hunger and the people chasing him\n were unimportant. It was so big that it would swallow him up completely\n and positively.\n\n\n He became sickly giddy thinking about it.", "He got up slowly and opened the next door. The voices behind him were\n closer now. Light streamed in through the viewport. After the darkness,\n it frightened Rikud and it made his eyes smart, and he could hear those\n behind him retreating to a safe distance. But their voices were not\n far away, and he knew they would come after him because they wanted to\n break him.\n\n\n Rikud looked out upon the garden and he trembled. Out there was life.\n The garden stretched off in unthinkable immensity to the cluster of\n low mounds against the bright blue which roofed the many plants. If\n plants could live out there as they did within the world, then so could\n people. Rikud and his people\nshould\n. This was why the world had moved\n across the darkness and the stars for all Rikud's lifetime and more.\n But he was afraid.", "But if he didn't open the door and go into the garden outside, he would\n die because he had no food and no water and his stomach gurgled and\n grumbled and hurt. And everyone was chasing him.\n\n\n He stumbled through the darkness and felt his way back to the library,\n through the inner door and into the room with the voice—but the\n voice didn't speak this time—through its door and into the place of\n machinery. Behind him, he could hear the voices at the first door, and\n he thought for a moment that no one would come after him. But he heard\n Crifer yell something, and then feet pounding in the passage.\n\n\n Rikud tripped over something and sprawled awkwardly across the floor.\n He felt a sharp hurt in his head, and when he reached up to touch it\n with his hands there in the darkness, his fingers came away wet.", "And when Chuls looked away in disinterest, Rikud became angry. If only\n the man would realize! If only anyone would realize! It all seemed so\n obvious. If he, Rikud, walked from one part of the world to another,\n it was with a purpose—to eat, or to sleep, or perhaps to bathe in the\n health-rays. Now if the world had walked from—somewhere, through the\n vast star-speckled darkness and to the great garden outside, this also\n was purposeful. The world had arrived at the garden for a reason. But\n if everyone lived as if the world still stood in blackness, how could\n they find the nature of that purpose?\n\n\n \"I will eat,\" Chuls said, breaking Rikud's revery.\n\n\n Damn the man, all he did was eat!\n\n\n Yet he did have initiative after a sort. He knew when to eat. Because\n he was hungry.\n\n\n And Rikud, too, was hungry.", "Somehow, Rikud knew this question for a healthy sign. But he could\n not tell them of his most amazing thought of all. The change in the\n viewport could mean only one thing. The world had been walking—the\n word seemed all wrong to Rikud, but he could think of no other, unless\n it were running. The world had been walking somewhere. That somewhere\n was the garden and the world had arrived.\n\n\n \"It is an old picture of the garden,\" Chuls suggested, \"and the plants\n are different.\"\n\n\n \"Then they've changed?\"\n\n\n \"No, merely different.\"\n\n\n \"Well, what about the viewport?\nIt\nchanged. Where are the stars?\n Where are they, Chuls, if it did not change?\"\n\n\n \"The stars come out at night.\"\n\n\n \"So there is a change from day to night!\"", "He stared out into the garden, and off into the distance, where the\n blue-white globe which might have been a star stood just above the row\n of mounds.\nCrifer was tugging at him, trying to pull him away from the door, and\n someone was grabbing at his legs, trying to make him fall. He kicked\n out and the hands let go, and then he turned the handle and shoved the\n weight of his body with all his strength against the door.\n\n\n It opened and he stepped outside into the warmth.\n\n\n The air was fresh, fresher than any air Rikud had ever breathed. He\n walked around aimlessly, touching the plants and bending down to feel\n the floor, and sometimes he looked at the blue-white globe on the\n horizon. It was all very beautiful.", "Rikud screamed and hurtled back through the corridor, and his face\n was so terrible in the light streaming in through the viewport that\n everyone fled before him. He stumbled again in the place of the\n machinery, and down on his hands and knees he fondled the bits of metal\n which he could see in the dim light through the open door.\n\n\n \"Where's the buzzer?\" he sobbed. \"I must find the buzzer.\"\n\n\n Crifer's voice, from the darkness inside, said, \"You broke it. You\n broke it. And now we will break you—\"\n\n\n Rikud got up and ran. He reached the door again and then he slipped\n down against it, exhausted. Behind him, the voices and the footsteps\n came, and soon he saw Crifer's head peer in through the passageway.\n Then there were others, and then they were walking toward him.", "The old man turned and strode off down the corridor toward the dining\n room, and Rikud was glad to be alone once more.\nNow the vapor had departed, except for a few tenuous whisps. For a\n moment Rikud thought he could see the gardens rearward in the world.\n But that was silly. What were the gardens doing in the viewport? And\n besides, Rikud had the distinct feeling that here was something far\n vaster than the gardens, although all of it existed in the viewport\n which was no wider than the length of his body. The gardens, moreover,\n did not jump and dance before his eyes the way the viewport gardens\n did. Nor did they spin. Nor did the trees grow larger with every jolt.\n\n\n Rikud sat down hard. He blinked.", "The world had come to rest on the garden of the viewport.\nFor a whole week that view did not change, and Rikud had come to accept\n it as fact. There—through the viewport and in it—was a garden. A\n garden larger than the entire world, a garden of plants which Rikud had\n never seen before, although he had always liked to stroll through the\n world's garden and he had come to know every plant well. Nevertheless,\n it was a garden.\n\n\n He told Chuls, but Chuls had responded, \"It is the viewport.\"\n\n\n Crifer, on the other hand, wasn't so sure. \"It looks like the garden,\"\n he admitted to Rikud. \"But why should the garden be in the viewport?\"", "He reached up and grasped the handle of the door and he saw that his\n fingers were red with the wetness which had come from his hurt head.\n Slowly he slipped to the cool floor—how his head was burning!—and for\n a long time he lay there, thinking he would never rise again. Inside he\n heard the voices again, and soon a foot and then another pounded on\n the metal of the passage. He heard Crifer's voice louder than the rest:\n \"There is Rikud on the floor!\"\n\n\n Tugging at the handle of the door, Rikud pulled himself upright.\n Something small and brown scurried across the other side of the\n viewport and Rikud imagined it turned to look at him with two hideous\n red eyes.", "\"What are you doing that for?\" demanded Wilm, who was shorter even than\n Crifer, but had no lame foot.\n\n\n \"Doing what?\"\n\n\n \"Speaking so loudly when Chuls, who is close, obviously has no trouble\n hearing you.\"\n\n\n \"Maybe yelling will make him understand.\"\n\n\n Crifer hobbled about on his good foot, doing a meaningless little jig.\n \"Why don't we go see?\" he suggested. Then, confused, he frowned.\n\n\n \"Well, I won't go,\" Chuls replied. \"There's no reason to go. If Rikud\n has been imagining things, why should I?\"\n\n\n \"I imagined nothing. I'll show you—\"\n\n\n \"You'll show me nothing because I won't go.\"", "He opened the door and ran through the little corridor to the smaller\n viewport. Outside he could see the stars, and, dimly, the terrain\n beneath them. But everything was so dark that only the stars shone\n clearly. All else was bathed in a shadow of unreality.\n\n\n Rikud never wanted to do anything more than he wanted to open that\n door. But his hands trembled too much when he touched it, and once,\n when he pressed his face close against the viewport, there in the\n darkness, something bright flashed briefly through the sky and was gone.", "Rikud muttered to himself and undressed. The world had begun to annoy\n him. Now why shouldn't a man be permitted to do what he wanted, when\n he wanted to do it?\nThere\nwas a strange thought, and Rikud's brain\n whirled once more down the tortuous course of half-formed questions and\n unsatisfactory answers.\n\n\n He had even wondered what it was like to get hurt. No one ever got\n hurt. Once, here in this same ray room, he had had the impulse to hurl\n himself head-first against the wall, just to see what would happen.\n But something soft had cushioned the impact—something which had come\n into being just for the moment and then abruptly passed into non-being\n again, something which was as impalpable as air.", "That was maddening. Rikud turned again to the port, where he could see\n nothing but an obscuring cloud of white vapor, murky, swirling, more\n confusing than ever.\n\n\n \"Chuls,\" he called, remembering, \"come here.\"\n\n\n \"I am here,\" said a voice at his elbow.\n\n\n Rikud whirled on the little figure and pointed to the swirling cloud of\n vapor. \"What do you see?\"\n\n\n Chuls looked. \"The viewport, of course.\"\n\n\n \"What else?\"\n\n\n \"Else? Nothing.\"\n\n\n Anger welled up inside Rikud. \"All right,\" he said, \"listen. What do\n you hear?\"\n\n\n \"Broom, brroom, brrroom!\" Chuls imitated the intermittent blasting of\n the engines. \"I'm hungry, Rikud.\"", "Rikud grabbed Chuls' blouse with his big fist. Then, startled by what\n he did, his hands began to tremble. But he held on, and he tugged at\n the blouse.\n\n\n \"Stop that,\" said the older man, mildly.\nCrifer hopped up and down. \"Look what Rikud's doing! I don't know what\n he's doing, but look. He's holding Chuls' blouse.\"\n\n\n \"Stop that,\" repeated Chuls, his face reddening.\n\n\n \"Only if you'll go with me.\" Rikud was panting.\n\n\n Chuls tugged at his wrist. By this time a crowd had gathered. Some of\n them watched Crifer jump up and down, but most of them watched Rikud\n holding Chuls' blouse.\n\n\n \"I think I can do that,\" declared Wilm, clutching a fistful of Crifer's\n shirt.", "Whimpering, he fled.\nAll around Rikud were darkness and hunger and thirst. The buzzer did\n not sound because Rikud had silenced it forever. And no one went to\n eat or drink. Rikud himself had fumbled through the blackness and the\n whimpering to the dining room, his tongue dry and swollen, but the\n smooth belt that flowed with water and with savory dishes did not run\n any more. The machinery, Rikud realized, also was responsible for food.\n\n\n Chuls said, over and over, \"I'm hungry.\"\n\n\n \"We will eat and we will drink when the buzzer tells us,\" Wilm replied\n confidently.\n\n\n \"It won't any more,\" Rikud said.\n\n\n \"What won't?\"\n\n\n \"The buzzer will never sound again. I broke it.\"" ], [ "He couldn't go alone. He'd die of the strangeness. It was a silly\n thought; no one ever died of anything until he was a hundred. Rikud\n couldn't fathom the rapid thumping of his heart. And Rikud's mouth felt\n dry; he wanted to swallow, but couldn't.\n\n\n Slowly, he took his hand off the door lever. He made his way back\n through the tunnel and then through the room of machinery and finally\n through the little room with the confusing voice to Crifer.\n\n\n By the time he reached the lame-footed man, Rikud was running. He did\n not dare once to look back. He stood shaking at Crifer's side, and\n sweat covered him in a clammy film. He never wanted to look at the\n garden again. Not when he knew there was a door through which he could\n walk and then might find himself in the garden.", "But if he didn't open the door and go into the garden outside, he would\n die because he had no food and no water and his stomach gurgled and\n grumbled and hurt. And everyone was chasing him.\n\n\n He stumbled through the darkness and felt his way back to the library,\n through the inner door and into the room with the voice—but the\n voice didn't speak this time—through its door and into the place of\n machinery. Behind him, he could hear the voices at the first door, and\n he thought for a moment that no one would come after him. But he heard\n Crifer yell something, and then feet pounding in the passage.\n\n\n Rikud tripped over something and sprawled awkwardly across the floor.\n He felt a sharp hurt in his head, and when he reached up to touch it\n with his hands there in the darkness, his fingers came away wet.", "He opened the door and ran through the little corridor to the smaller\n viewport. Outside he could see the stars, and, dimly, the terrain\n beneath them. But everything was so dark that only the stars shone\n clearly. All else was bathed in a shadow of unreality.\n\n\n Rikud never wanted to do anything more than he wanted to open that\n door. But his hands trembled too much when he touched it, and once,\n when he pressed his face close against the viewport, there in the\n darkness, something bright flashed briefly through the sky and was gone.", "When he opened the door a strange new noise filled his ears, a gentle\n humming, punctuated by a\nthrob-throb-throb\nwhich sounded not unlike\n the booming of the engines last week, except that this new sound didn't\n blast nearly so loudly against his eardrums. And what met Rikud's\n eyes—he blinked and looked again, but it was still there—cogs and\n gears and wheels and nameless things all strange and beautiful because\n they shone with a luster unfamiliar to him.\n\n\n \"Odd,\" Rikud said aloud. Then he thought, \"Now there's a good word, but\n no one quite seems to know its meaning.\"\n\n\n Odder still was the third door. Rikud suddenly thought there might\n exist an endless succession of them, especially when the third one\n opened on a bare tunnel which led to yet another door.", "Differently.\nHe had long wondered about the door in the back of the library, and\n now, as Crifer sat cross-legged on one of the dusty tables, reading\n machine and book on astronomy or stars in his lap, Rikud approached the\n door.\n\n\n \"What's in here?\" he demanded.\n\n\n \"It's a door, I think,\" said Crifer.\n\n\n \"I know, but what's beyond it?\"\n\n\n \"Beyond it? Oh, you mean\nthrough\nthe door.\"\n\n\n \"Yes.\"\n\n\n \"Well,\" Crifer scratched his head, \"I don't think anyone ever opened\n it. It's only a door.\"\n\n\n \"I will,\" said Rikud.\n\n\n \"You will what?\"\n\n\n \"Open it. Open the door and look inside.\"", "He got up slowly and opened the next door. The voices behind him were\n closer now. Light streamed in through the viewport. After the darkness,\n it frightened Rikud and it made his eyes smart, and he could hear those\n behind him retreating to a safe distance. But their voices were not\n far away, and he knew they would come after him because they wanted to\n break him.\n\n\n Rikud looked out upon the garden and he trembled. Out there was life.\n The garden stretched off in unthinkable immensity to the cluster of\n low mounds against the bright blue which roofed the many plants. If\n plants could live out there as they did within the world, then so could\n people. Rikud and his people\nshould\n. This was why the world had moved\n across the darkness and the stars for all Rikud's lifetime and more.\n But he was afraid.", "He reached up and grasped the handle of the door and he saw that his\n fingers were red with the wetness which had come from his hurt head.\n Slowly he slipped to the cool floor—how his head was burning!—and for\n a long time he lay there, thinking he would never rise again. Inside he\n heard the voices again, and soon a foot and then another pounded on\n the metal of the passage. He heard Crifer's voice louder than the rest:\n \"There is Rikud on the floor!\"\n\n\n Tugging at the handle of the door, Rikud pulled himself upright.\n Something small and brown scurried across the other side of the\n viewport and Rikud imagined it turned to look at him with two hideous\n red eyes.", "It was so big.\nThree or four days passed before Rikud calmed himself enough to\n talk about his experience. When he did, only Crifer seemed at all\n interested, yet the lame-footed man's mind was inadequate to cope with\n the situation. He suggested that the viewport might also be variable\n and Rikud found himself wishing that his friend had never read that\n book on astronomy.\n\n\n Chuls did not believe Rikud at all. \"There are not that many doors in\n the world,\" he said. \"The library has a door and there is a door to the\n women's quarters; in five years, the Calculator will send you through\n that. But there are no others.\"\n\n\n Chuls smiled an indulgent smile and Rikud came nearer to him. \"Now, by\n the world, there are two other doors!\"\n\n\n Rikud began to shout, and everyone looked at him queerly.", "A long pause. Then, \"Can you do it?\"\n\n\n \"I think so.\"\n\n\n \"You can't, probably. How can anyone go where no one has been before?\n There's nothing. It just isn't. It's only a door, Rikud.\"\n\n\n \"No—\" Rikud began, but the words faded off into a sharp intake of\n breath. Rikud had turned the knob and pushed. The door opened silently,\n and Crifer said, \"Doors are variable, too, I think.\"\n\n\n Rikud saw a small room, perhaps half a dozen paces across, at the other\n end of which was another door, just like the first. Halfway across,\n Rikud heard a voice not unlike that of the reading machine.", "Other hands reached out, and Rikud stumbled. He fell and then someone\n was on top of him, and he struggled. He rolled and was up again, and\n he did not like the sound of the angry voices. Someone said, \"Let us\n do to Rikud what he said he did to the machinery.\" Rikud ran. In the\n darkness, his feet prodded many bodies. There were those who were too\n weak to rise. Rikud, too, felt a strange light-headedness and a gnawing\n hurt in his stomach. But it didn't matter. He heard the angry voices\n and the feet pounding behind him, and he wanted only to get away.\n\n\n It was dark and he was hungry and everyone who was strong enough to run\n was chasing him, but every time he thought of the garden outside, and\n how big it was, the darkness and the hunger and the people chasing him\n were unimportant. It was so big that it would swallow him up completely\n and positively.\n\n\n He became sickly giddy thinking about it.", "He stared out into the garden, and off into the distance, where the\n blue-white globe which might have been a star stood just above the row\n of mounds.\nCrifer was tugging at him, trying to pull him away from the door, and\n someone was grabbing at his legs, trying to make him fall. He kicked\n out and the hands let go, and then he turned the handle and shoved the\n weight of his body with all his strength against the door.\n\n\n It opened and he stepped outside into the warmth.\n\n\n The air was fresh, fresher than any air Rikud had ever breathed. He\n walked around aimlessly, touching the plants and bending down to feel\n the floor, and sometimes he looked at the blue-white globe on the\n horizon. It was all very beautiful.", "Rikud screamed and hurtled back through the corridor, and his face\n was so terrible in the light streaming in through the viewport that\n everyone fled before him. He stumbled again in the place of the\n machinery, and down on his hands and knees he fondled the bits of metal\n which he could see in the dim light through the open door.\n\n\n \"Where's the buzzer?\" he sobbed. \"I must find the buzzer.\"\n\n\n Crifer's voice, from the darkness inside, said, \"You broke it. You\n broke it. And now we will break you—\"\n\n\n Rikud got up and ran. He reached the door again and then he slipped\n down against it, exhausted. Behind him, the voices and the footsteps\n came, and soon he saw Crifer's head peer in through the passageway.\n Then there were others, and then they were walking toward him.", "This frightened Rikud, although he didn't know why. He'd like it,\n though. Maybe then he could take them outside with him to the big\n garden of the two viewports. And then he wouldn't be afraid because he\n could huddle close to them and he wouldn't be alone.\nRikud heard the throbbing again as he stood in the room of the\n machinery. For a long time he watched the wheels and cogs and gears\n spinning and humming. He watched for he knew not how long. And then he\n began to wonder. If he destroyed the wheels and the cogs and the gears,\n would the buzzer stop? It probably would, because, as Rikud saw it, he\n was clearly an \"unauthorized person.\" He had heard the voice again\n upon entering the room.", "They were strangely shaped in some ways, and yet in others completely\n human, and their voices were high, like singing. Rikud found them oddly\n exciting. He liked them. He liked the garden, for all its hugeness.\n With so many people, and especially now with women, he was not afraid.\n\n\n It was much better than the small world of machinery, buzzer,\n frightening doors and women by appointment only.\n\n\n Rikud felt at home.", "Only this one was different. In it Rikud saw the viewport. But how? The\n viewport stood on the other end of the world. It did seem smaller, and,\n although it looked out on the garden, Rikud sensed that the topography\n was different. Then the garden extended even farther than he had\n thought. It was endless, extending all the way to a ridge of mounds way\n off in the distance.\n\n\n And this door one could walk through, into the garden. Rikud put his\n hand on the door, all the while watching the garden through the new\n viewport. He began to turn the handle.\n\n\n Then he trembled.\n\n\n What would he do out in the garden?", "Perhaps they ate plants. Once, in the garden, Rikud had broken off a\n frond and tasted it. It had been bitter, but not unpleasant. Maybe the\n plants in the viewport would even be better.\n\n\n \"We will not be hungry if we go outside,\" he said. \"We can eat there.\"\n\n\n \"We can eat if the buzzer sounds, but it is broken,\" Chuls said dully.\n\n\n Crifer shrilled, \"Maybe it is only variable and will buzz again.\"\n\n\n \"No,\" Rikud assured him. \"It won't.\"\n\n\n \"Then you broke it and I hate you,\" said Crifer. \"We should break you,\n too, to show you how it is to be broken.\"\n\n\n \"We must go outside—through the viewport.\" Rikud listened to the odd\n gurgling sound his stomach made.", "He missed the beginning, but then:\n—therefore, permit no unauthorized persons to go through this\n door. The machinery in the next room is your protection against the\n rigors of space. A thousand years from now, journey's end, you may\n have discarded it for something better—who knows? But if you have\n not, then here is your protection. As nearly as possible, this ship\n is a perfect, self-sustaining world. It is more than that: it is\n human-sustaining as well. Try to hurt yourself and the ship will not\n permit it—within limits, of course. But you can damage the ship, and\n to avoid any possibility of that, no unauthorized persons are to be\n permitted through this door—\nRikud gave the voice up as hopeless. There were too many confusing\n words. What in the world was an unauthorized person? More interesting\n than that, however, was the second door. Would it lead to another\n voice? Rikud hoped that it wouldn't.", "Presently, the members of the crowd had pretty well paired off, each\n partner grabbing for his companion's blouse. They giggled and laughed\n and some began to hop up and down as Crifer had done.\n\n\n A buzzer sounded and automatically Rikud found himself releasing Chuls.\n\n\n Chuls said, forgetting the incident completely, \"Time to retire.\"\n\n\n In a moment, the room was cleared. Rikud stood alone. He cleared his\n throat and listened to the sound, all by itself in the stillness. What\n would have happened if they hadn't retired? But they always did things\n punctually like that, whenever the buzzer sounded. They ate with the\n buzzer, bathed in the health-rays with it, slept with it.\n\n\n What would they do if the buzzer stopped buzzing?", "He found a metal rod, bright and shiny, three feet long and half as\n wide as his arm. He tugged at it and it came loose from the wires that\n held it in place. He hefted it carefully for a moment, and then he\n swung the bar into the mass of metal. Each time he heard a grinding,\n crashing sound. He looked as the gears and cogs and wheels crumbled\n under his blows, shattered by the strength of his arm.\nAlmost casually he strode about the room, but his blows were not\n casual. Soon his easy strides had given way to frenzied running. Rikud\n smashed everything in sight.\n\n\n When the lights winked out, he stopped. Anyway, by that time the room\n was a shambles of twisted, broken metal. He laughed, softly at first,\n but presently he was roaring, and the sound doubled and redoubled in\n his ears because now the throbbing had stopped.", "Whimpering, he fled.\nAll around Rikud were darkness and hunger and thirst. The buzzer did\n not sound because Rikud had silenced it forever. And no one went to\n eat or drink. Rikud himself had fumbled through the blackness and the\n whimpering to the dining room, his tongue dry and swollen, but the\n smooth belt that flowed with water and with savory dishes did not run\n any more. The machinery, Rikud realized, also was responsible for food.\n\n\n Chuls said, over and over, \"I'm hungry.\"\n\n\n \"We will eat and we will drink when the buzzer tells us,\" Wilm replied\n confidently.\n\n\n \"It won't any more,\" Rikud said.\n\n\n \"What won't?\"\n\n\n \"The buzzer will never sound again. I broke it.\"" ] ]
train	51433	[ "What don't Mia and Ri have in common?", "Which doesn't describe Extrone?", "Why are Ri and Mia the guides?", "Why is Mia most afraid of Extrone?", "How is their world different from ours?", "Who does Extrone trust the most?", "What isn't a reason that Ri turned on Mia?", "What doesn't a farn beast have according to the story?", "Which isn't a reason that Extrone chose Ri as bait?", "What may have gone differently if Ri had listened to Mia?" ]	[ [ "they both think Extrone is going to kill them", "they've killed farn beasts", "they're businessmen", "they both dislike Extrone" ], [ "excitable", "generous", "wealthy", "powerful" ], [ "they're part of Extrone's Hunting Club", "they're the best guides around", "they have experience with the beasts", "they needed the money Extrone was going to pay them" ], [ "he has the military behind him", "they know too much about him now", "he knows too many of their secrets", "he's the only one with a weapon" ], [ "there is distrust among the citizens", "the government is run the same", "they both have powerful armies", "powerful people control what happens next" ], [ "Ri", "Mia", "businessmen", "Lin" ], [ "he thought Mia had a better chance to survive", "Mia's ideas scared him", "he thought his honesty would save him", "he didn't want to be bait" ], [ "a strong sense of smell", "a tail", "mates", "sharp fangs" ], [ "he's upset that Ri killed a farn beast first", "he's the best suited to be bait", "he never planned to let Ri live", "he doesn't trust Ri" ], [ "they could have shared the truth with the galaxy", "they could have killed Extrone", "they both could have escaped Extrone", "they could have discovered the farn beasts without bait" ] ]	[ 1, 2, 3, 2, 2, 4, 1, 1, 2, 2 ]	[ 0, 0, 0, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 1, 1 ]	[ [ "\"\nI\ndidn't tell Extrone, if that's what you're thinking,\" Mia said.\n\n\n Ri's mouth twisted. \"I didn't say you did.\"\n\n\n \"Listen,\" Mia said in a hoarse whisper. \"I just thought. Listen. To\n hell with how he found out. Here's the point. Maybe he'll shoot us,\n too, when the hunt's over.\"\n\n\n Ri licked his lips. \"No. He wouldn't do that. We're not—not just\n anybody. He couldn't kill us like that. Not even\nhim\n. And besides,\n why would he want to do that? It wouldn't do any good to shoot us. Too\n many people already know about the farn beasts. You said that yourself.\"\n\n\n Mia said, \"I hope you're right.\" They stood side by side, studying the\n blast area in silence. Finally, Mia said, \"We better be getting back.\"", "\"It makes you think,\" Mia added. He twitched. \"I'm afraid. I'm afraid\n he'll.... Listen, we'll talk. When we get back to civilization. You,\n me, the bearers. About him. He can't let that happen. He'll kill us\n first.\"\n\n\n Ri looked up at the moon, shivering. \"No. We have friends. We have\n influence. He couldn't just like that—\"\n\n\n \"He could say it was an accident.\"\n\n\n \"No,\" Ri said stubbornly.\n\n\n \"He can say anything,\" Mia insisted. \"He can make people believe\n anything. Whatever he says. There's no way to check on it.\"\n\n\n \"It's getting cold,\" Ri said.\n\n\n \"Listen,\" Mia pleaded.", "He crossed to Mia, who, along with him, had been pressed into Extrone's\n party as guides. Once more, Ri addressed the bearers, \"Be quick, now!\"\n And to Mia, \"God almighty, he was getting mad.\" He ran a hand under his\n collar. \"It's a good thing that farn beast sounded off when it did. I'd\n hate to think of making him climb that ridge.\"\n\n\n Mia glanced nervously over his shoulder. \"It's that damned pilot's\n fault for setting us down on this side. I told him it was the other\n side. I told him so.\"\n\n\n Ri shrugged hopelessly.\n\n\n Mia said, \"I don't think he even saw a blast area over here. I think he\n wanted to get us in trouble.\"\n\n\n \"There shouldn't be one. There shouldn't be a blast area on this side\n of the ridge, too.\"", "\"No,\" Ri said. \"Even if we tried to tell them, they wouldn't listen.\n Everybody would\nknow\nwe were lying. Everything they've come to\n believe would tell them we were lying. Everything they've read, every\n picture they've seen. They wouldn't believe us.\nHe\nknows that.\"\n\n\n \"Listen,\" Mia repeated intently. \"This is important. Right now he\n couldn't afford to let us talk. Not right now. Because the Army is\n not against him. Some officers were here, just before we came back. A\n bearer overheard them talking. They don't\nwant\nto overthrow him!\"\n\n\n Ri's teeth, suddenly, were chattering.", "\"Yes, sir.\nKnow\nyou and love you, sir,\" Ri said.\n\n\n \"Get out!\" Extrone said.\n\"It's frightening,\" Ri said, \"to be that close to him.\"\n\n\n Mia nodded.\n\n\n The two of them, beneath the leaf-swollen branches of the gnarled tree,\n were seated on their sleeping bags. The moon was clear and cold and\n bright in a cloudless sky; a small moon, smooth-surfaced, except for a\n central mountain ridge that bisected it into almost twin hemispheres.\n\n\n \"To think of him. As flesh and blood. Not like the—well; that—what\n we've read about.\"\n\n\n Mia glanced suspiciously around him at the shadows. \"You begin to\n understand a lot of things, after seeing him.\"\n\n\n Ri picked nervously at the cover of his sleeping bag.", "\"You'll be safe,\" Extrone said, studying his face with amusement. \"I'll\n shoot the animal before it reaches you.\"\n\n\n Ri gulped for air. \"But ... if there should be more than one?\"\n\n\n Extrone shrugged.\n\n\n \"I—Look, sir. Listen to me.\" Ri's lips were bloodless and his hands\n were trembling. \"It's not me you want to do this to. It's Mia, sir.\nHe\nkilled a farn beast before\nI\ndid, sir. And last night—last\n night, he—\"\n\n\n \"He what?\" Extrone demanded, leaning forward intently.", "\"That's another lie,\" Mia continued. \"That he protects the people from\n the Army. That's a lie. I don't believe they were\never\nplotting\n against him. Not even at first. I think they\nhelped\nhim, don't you\n see?\"\n\n\n Ri whined nervously.\n\n\n \"It's like this,\" Mia said. \"I see it like this. The Army\nput\nhim in\n power when the people were in rebellion against military rule.\"\nRi swallowed. \"We couldn't make the people believe that.\"\n\n\n \"No?\" Mia challenged. \"Couldn't we? Not today, but what about tomorrow?\n You'll see. Because I think the Army is getting ready to invade the\n alien system!\"\n\n\n \"The people won't support them,\" Ri answered woodenly.\n\n\n \"\nThink.\nIf he tells them to, they will. They trust him.\"", "Ri looked around at the shadows.\n\n\n \"That explains a lot of things,\" Mia said. \"I think the Army's been\n preparing for this for a long time. From the first, maybe. That's why\n Extrone cut off our trade with the aliens. Partly to keep them from\n learning that he was getting ready to invade them, but more to keep\n them from exposing\nhim\nto the people. The aliens wouldn't be fooled\n like we were, so easy.\"\n\n\n \"No!\" Ri snapped. \"It was to keep the natural economic balance.\"\n\n\n \"You know that's not right.\"\n\n\n Ri lay down on his bed roll. \"Don't talk about it. It's not good to\n talk like this. I don't even want to listen.\"", "\"When the invasion starts, he'll have to command\nall\ntheir loyalties.\n To keep them from revolt again. They'd be ready to believe us, then.\n He'll have a hard enough time without people running around trying to\n tell the truth.\"\n\n\n \"You're wrong. He's not like that. I know you're wrong.\"\n\n\n Mia smiled twistedly. \"How many has he already killed? How can we even\n guess?\"\n\n\n Ri swallowed sickly.\n\n\n \"Remember our guide? To keep our hunting territory a secret?\"\n\n\n Ri shuddered. \"That's different. Don't you see? This is not at all like\n that.\"\nWith morning came birds' songs, came dew, came breakfast smells.\n The air was sweet with cooking and it was nostalgic, childhoodlike,\n uncontaminated.", "\"He'll want the bearers to hack a path for him,\" Mia said. \"But we go\n it alone. Damn him.\"\n\n\n Ri twisted his mouth into a sour frown. He wiped at his forehead. \"Hot.\n By God, it's hot. I didn't think it was this hot, the first time we\n were here.\"\n\n\n Mia said, \"The first time,\nwe\nweren't guides. We didn't notice it so\n much then.\"\n\n\n They fought a few yards more into the forest.\n\n\n Then it ended. Or, rather, there was a wide gap. Before them lay a\n blast area, unmistakable. The grass was beginning to grow again, but\n the tree stumps were roasted from the rocket breath.\n\n\n \"This isn't ours!\" Ri said. \"This looks like it was made nearly a year\n ago!\"", "\"That's what I mean. The pilot don't like businessmen. He had it in for\n us.\"\n\n\n Ri cleared his throat nervously. \"Maybe you're right.\"\n\n\n \"It's the Hunting Club he don't like.\"\n\n\n \"I wish to God I'd never heard of a farn beast,\" Ri said. \"At least,\n then, I wouldn't be one of his guides. Why didn't he hire somebody\n else?\"\nMia looked at his companion. He spat. \"What hurts most, he pays us for\n it. I could buy half this planet, and he makes me his guide—at less\n than I pay my secretary.\"\n\n\n \"Well, anyway, we won't have to cross that ridge.\"\n\n\n \"Hey, you!\" Extrone called.\n\n\n The two of them turned immediately.", "Ri rubbed his hands along his thighs; he sighed, a tiny sound,\n ineffectual. He followed Lin beyond an outcropping of shale to where\n Extrone was seated, petting his rifle.\n\n\n Extrone nodded genially. \"The farn beast hunter, eh?\"\n\n\n \"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\n Extrone drummed his fingers on the stock of the blast rifle. \"Tell me\n what they look like,\" he said suddenly.\n\n\n \"Well, sir, they're ... uh....\"\n\n\n \"Pretty frightening?\"\n\n\n \"No, sir.... Well, in a way, sir.\"\n\n\n \"But\nyou\nweren't afraid of them, were you?\"\n\n\n \"No, sir. No, because....\"\n\n\n Extrone was smiling innocently. \"Good. I want you to do something for\n me.\"", "\"You two scout ahead,\" Extrone said. \"See if you can pick up some\n tracks.\"\n\n\n \"Yes, sir,\" Ri said, and instantly the two of them readjusted their\n shoulder straps and started off.\n\n\n Shortly they were inside of the scrub forest, safe from sight. \"Let's\n wait here,\" Mia said.\n\n\n \"No, we better go on. He may have sent a spy in.\"\n\n\n They pushed on, being careful to blaze the trees, because they were not\n professional guides.\n\n\n \"We don't want to get too near,\" Ri said after toiling through the\n forest for many minutes. \"Without guns, we don't want to get near\n enough for the farn beast to charge us.\"\n\n\n They stopped. The forest was dense, the vines clinging.", "\"We didn't have a chance,\" Mia objected. \"Everybody and his brother had\n heard the rumor that farn beasts were somewhere around here. It wasn't\n our fault Extrone found out.\"\n\n\n \"I wish we hadn't shot our guide, then. I wish he was here instead of\n us.\"\n\n\n Mia shook perspiration out of his eyes. \"We should have shot our pilot,\n too. That was our mistake. The pilot must have been the one who told\n Extrone we'd hunted this area.\"\n\n\n \"I didn't think a Club pilot would do that.\"\n\n\n \"After Extrone said he'd hunt farn beasts, even if it meant going to\n the alien system? Listen, you don't know.... Wait a minute.\"\n\n\n There was perspiration on Ri's upper lip.", "\"See that you keep it up that way,\" Extrone said. \"That's the way I\n want you to sound.\" He turned toward Lin. \"We can climb this tree, I\n think.\"\n\n\n Slowly, aided by the bearers, the two men climbed the tree, bark\n peeling away from under their rough boots. Ri watched them hopelessly.\n\n\n Once at the crotch, Extrone settled down, holding the rifle at alert.\n Lin moved to the left, out on the main branch, rested in a smaller\n crotch.\n\n\n Looking down, Extrone said, \"Scream!\" Then, to Lin, \"You feel the\n excitement? It's always in the air like this at a hunt.\"\n\n\n \"I feel it,\" Lin said.\n\n\n Extrone chuckled. \"You were with me on Meizque?\"\n\n\n \"Yes.\"", "Mia's eyes narrowed. \"The military from Xnile?\"\n\n\n \"No,\" Ri said. \"They don't have any rockets this small. And I don't\n think there's another cargo rocket on this planet outside of the one we\n leased from the Club. Except the one\nhe\nbrought.\"\n\n\n \"The ones who discovered the farn beasts in the first place?\" Mia\n asked. \"You think it's their blast?\"\n\n\n \"So?\" Ri said. \"But who are they?\"\nIt was Mia's turn to shrug. \"Whoever they were, they couldn't have been\n hunters. They'd have kept the secret better.\"\n\n\n \"We didn't do so damned well.\"", "\"Oh?\"\n\n\n \"Let's get back to the column.\"\n\"Extrone wants to see you,\" Lin said.\n\n\n Ri twisted at the grass shoot, broke it off, worried and unhappy.\n \"What's he want to see\nme\nfor?\"\n\n\n \"I don't know,\" Lin said curtly.\n\n\n Ri got to his feet. One of his hands reached out, plucked nervously\n at Lin's bare forearm. \"Look,\" he whispered. \"You know him. I have—a\n little money. If you were able to ... if he wants,\" Ri gulped, \"to\ndo\nanything to me—I'd pay you, if you could....\"\n\n\n \"You better come along,\" Lin said, turning.", "\"I ... I....\" Ri glanced nervously at Lin out of the tail of his eye.\n Lin's face was impassive.\n\n\n \"Of\ncourse\nyou will,\" Extrone said genially. \"Get me a rope, Lin. A\n good, long, strong rope.\"\n\n\n \"What are you going to do?\" Ri asked, terrified.\n\n\n \"Why, I'm going to tie the rope around your waist and stake you out as\n bait.\"\n\n\n \"No!\"\n\n\n \"Oh, come now. When the farn beast hears you scream—you\ncan\nscream,\n by the way?\"\n\n\n Ri swallowed.\n\n\n \"We could find a way to make you.\"\n\n\n There was perspiration trickling down Ri's forehead, a single drop,\n creeping toward his nose.", "\"Wait,\" Ri begged, fighting off the rope with his hands. \"You don't\n want to use me, sir. Not after I told you.... Please, sir. If anything\n should happen to me.... Please, sir. Don't do it.\"\n\n\n \"Tie it,\" Extrone ordered.\n\n\n \"No, sir. Please. Oh,\nplease\ndon't, sir.\"\n\n\n \"Tie it,\" Extrone said inexorably.\n\n\n Lin bent with the rope; his face was colorless.\nThey were at the watering hole—Extrone, Lin, two bearers, and Ri.", "\"What'll we tell him?\"\n\n\n \"That we saw tracks. What else can we tell him?\"\n\n\n They turned back along their trail, stumbling over vines.\n\n\n \"It gets hotter at sunset,\" Ri said nervously.\n\n\n \"The breeze dies down.\"\n\n\n \"It's screwy. I didn't think farn beasts had this wide a range. There\n must be a lot of them, to be on both sides of the ridge like this.\"\n\n\n \"There may be a pass,\" Mia said, pushing a vine away.\n\n\n Ri wrinkled his brow, panting. \"I guess that's it. If there were a lot\n of them, we'd have heard something before we did. But even so, it's\n damned funny, when you think about it.\"" ], [ "\"Extrone. Eh?... Oh, you got their ship. Well, why in hell bother\n me?... All right, so they found out I was here. You got them, didn't\n you?\"\n\n\n \"Blasted them right out of space,\" the voice crackled excitedly. \"Right\n in the middle of a radio broadcast, sir.\"\n\n\n \"I don't want to listen to your gabbling when I'm hunting!\" Extrone\n tore off the head-set and handed it to the bearer. \"If they call back,\n find out what they want, first. I don't want to be bothered unless it's\n important.\"\n\n\n \"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\n Extrone squinted up at the sun; his eyes crinkled under the glare, and\n perspiration stood in little droplets on the back of his hands.", "\"Yes, sir.\nKnow\nyou and love you, sir,\" Ri said.\n\n\n \"Get out!\" Extrone said.\n\"It's frightening,\" Ri said, \"to be that close to him.\"\n\n\n Mia nodded.\n\n\n The two of them, beneath the leaf-swollen branches of the gnarled tree,\n were seated on their sleeping bags. The moon was clear and cold and\n bright in a cloudless sky; a small moon, smooth-surfaced, except for a\n central mountain ridge that bisected it into almost twin hemispheres.\n\n\n \"To think of him. As flesh and blood. Not like the—well; that—what\n we've read about.\"\n\n\n Mia glanced suspiciously around him at the shadows. \"You begin to\n understand a lot of things, after seeing him.\"\n\n\n Ri picked nervously at the cover of his sleeping bag.", "And Extrone stepped out of the tent, fully dressed, surly, letting the\n flap slap loudly behind him. He stretched hungrily and stared around\n the camp, his eyes still vacant-mean with sleep.\n\n\n \"Breakfast!\" he shouted, and two bearers came running with a folding\n table and chair. Behind them, a third bearer, carrying a tray of\n various foods; and yet behind him, a fourth, with a steaming pitcher\n and a drinking mug.\n\n\n Extrone ate hugely, with none of the delicacy sometimes affected in his\n conversational gestures. When he had finished, he washed his mouth with\n water and spat on the ground.\n\n\n \"Lin!\" he said.\n\n\n His personal bearer came loping toward him.\n\n\n \"Have you read that manual I gave you?\"\n\n\n Lin nodded. \"Yes.\"", "Extrone nodded. After a moment he said, \"You killed one, I believe, on\nyour\ntrip?\"\n\n\n Ri shifted. \"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\n Extrone held back the flap of the tent. \"Won't you come in?\" he asked\n without any politeness whatever.\n\n\n Ri obeyed the order.\n\n\n The inside of the tent was luxurious. The bed was of bulky feathers,\n costly of transport space, the sleep curtains of silken gauze. The\n floor, heavy, portable tile blocks, not the hollow kind, were neatly\n and smoothly inset into the ground. Hanging from the center, to the\n left of the slender, hand-carved center pole, was a chain of crystals.\n They tinkled lightly when Extrone dropped the flap. The light was\n electric from a portable dynamo. Extrone flipped it on. He crossed to\n the bed, sat down.", "Extrone stared at them for a space. Then, indifferently, he turned\n away, in the direction of a resting bearer. \"You!\" he said. \"Hey! Bring\n me a drink!\" He faced the officers again. He smiled maliciously. \"I'm\n staying here.\"\n\n\n The lead officer licked his firm lower lip. \"But, sir....\"\n\n\n Extrone toyed with his beard. \"About a year ago, gentlemen, there was\n an alien ship around here then, wasn't there? And you destroyed it,\n didn't you?\"\n\n\n \"Yes, sir. When we located it, sir.\"\n\n\n \"You'll destroy this one, too,\" Extrone said.", "Once Extrone unslung his blast rifle and triggered a burst at a tiny,\n arboreal mammal, which, upon the impact, shattered asunder, to\n Extrone's satisfied chuckle, in a burst of blood and fur.\n\n\n When the sun stood high and heat exhaustion made the near-naked bearers\n slump, Extrone permitted a rest. While waiting for the march to resume,\n he sat on the stool with his back against an ancient tree and patted,\n reflectively, the blast rifle, lying across his legs.\n\n\n \"For you, sir,\" the communications man said, interrupting his reverie.\n\n\n \"Damn,\" Extrone muttered. His face twisted in anger. \"It better be\n important.\" He took the head-set and mike and nodded to the bearer. The\n bearer twiddled the dials.", "\"An alien?\" Extrone corrected.\n\n\n \"There's not enough difference between us to matter, sir. Of tearing an\n alien to pieces, sir.\"\n\n\n Extrone laughed harshly. \"It's 'sir' whenever you contradict me?\"\n\n\n Lin's face remained impassive. \"I guess it seems that way. Sir.\"\n\n\n \"Damned few people would dare go as far as you do,\" Extrone said. \"But\n you're afraid of me, too, in your own way, aren't you?\"\n\n\n Lin shrugged. \"Maybe.\"\n\n\n \"I can see you are. Even my wives are. I wonder if anyone can know how\n wonderful it feels to have people\nall\nafraid of you.\"\n\n\n \"The farn beasts, according to the manual....\"\n\n\n \"You are very insistent on one subject.\"", "Extrone's lip twisted in wry amusement. \"If I had waited until it was\n safe for me to hunt on an alien planet, I would not have been able to\n find such an illustrious guide.\"\n\n\n \"... I'm flattered, sir.\"\n\n\n \"Of course,\" Extrone said. \"But you should have spoken to me about it,\n when you discovered the farn beast in our own system.\"\n\n\n \"I realize that, sir. That is, I had intended at the first opportunity,\n sir....\"\n\n\n \"Of course,\" Extrone said dryly. \"Like all of my subjects,\" he waved\n his hand in a broad gesture, \"the highest as well as the lowest slave,\n know me and love me. I know your intentions were the best.\"\n\n\n Ri squirmed, his face pale. \"We do indeed love you, sir.\"\n\n\n Extrone bent forward. \"\nKnow\nme and love me.\"", "Again they turned reluctantly. This time, he did not call them back.\n Instead, with amusement, he watched until they disappeared into the\n tangle of forest.\n\n\n Dusk was falling. The takeoff blast of the rocket illuminated the area,\n casting weird shadows on the gently swaying grasses; there was a hot\n breath of dry air and the rocket dwindled toward the stars.\n\n\n Extrone stood up lazily, stretching. He tossed the empty glass away,\n listened for it to shatter. He reached out, parted the heavy flap to\n his tent.\n\n\n \"Sir?\" Ri said, hurrying toward him in the gathering darkness.\n\n\n \"Eh?\" Extrone said, turning, startled. \"Oh, you. Well?\"\n\n\n \"We ... located signs of the farn beast, sir. To the east.\"", "\"See that you keep it up that way,\" Extrone said. \"That's the way I\n want you to sound.\" He turned toward Lin. \"We can climb this tree, I\n think.\"\n\n\n Slowly, aided by the bearers, the two men climbed the tree, bark\n peeling away from under their rough boots. Ri watched them hopelessly.\n\n\n Once at the crotch, Extrone settled down, holding the rifle at alert.\n Lin moved to the left, out on the main branch, rested in a smaller\n crotch.\n\n\n Looking down, Extrone said, \"Scream!\" Then, to Lin, \"You feel the\n excitement? It's always in the air like this at a hunt.\"\n\n\n \"I feel it,\" Lin said.\n\n\n Extrone chuckled. \"You were with me on Meizque?\"\n\n\n \"Yes.\"", "Occasionally, Extrone halted, motioned for his water carrier, and drank\n deeply of the icy water to allay the heat of the forest, a heat made\n oppressive by the press of foliage against the outside air.\n\n\n Ranging out, on both sides of the central body, the two businessmen\n fought independently against the wild growth, each scouting the flanks\n for farn beasts, and ahead, beyond the cutters, Lin flittered among the\n tree trunks, sometimes far, sometimes near.\n\n\n Extrone carried the only weapon, slung easily over his shoulder, a\n powerful blast rifle, capable of piercing medium armor in sustained\n fire. To his rear, the water carrier was trailed by a man bearing a\n folding stool, and behind him, a man carrying the heavy, high-powered\n two-way communication set.", "\"It's a different one,\" Lin said.\n\n\n \"How do you know?\"\n\n\n \"Hear the lower pitch, the more of a roar?\"\n\n\n \"Hey!\" Extrone shouted. \"You, down there. There are two coming. Now\n let's hear you really scream!\"\n\n\n Ri, below, whimpered childishly and began to retreat toward the tether\n tree, his eyes wide.\n\n\n \"There's a lot of satisfaction in fooling them, too,\" Extrone said.\n \"Making them come to your bait, where you can get at them.\" He\n opened his right hand. \"Choose your ground, set your trap. Bait it.\"\n He snapped his hand into a fist, held the fist up before his eyes,\n imprisoning the idea. \"Spring the trap when the quarry is inside.\n Clever. That makes the waiting more interesting. Waiting to see if they\n really will come to your bait.\"", "\"I meant in our system, sir.\"\n\n\n \"Of course you did,\" Extrone said, lazily tracing the crease of his\n sleeve with his forefinger. \"I imagine these are the only farn beasts\n in our system.\"\n\n\n Ri waited uneasily, not answering.\n\n\n \"Yes,\" Extrone said, \"I imagine they are. It would have been a shame if\n you had killed the last one. Don't you think so?\"\n\n\n Ri's hands worried the sides of his outer garment. \"Yes, sir. It would\n have been.\"\n\n\n Extrone pursed his lips. \"It wouldn't have been very considerate of you\n to—But, still, you gained valuable experience. I'm glad you agreed to\n come along as my guide.\"\n\n\n \"It was an honor, sir.\"", "\"You'll be safe,\" Extrone said, studying his face with amusement. \"I'll\n shoot the animal before it reaches you.\"\n\n\n Ri gulped for air. \"But ... if there should be more than one?\"\n\n\n Extrone shrugged.\n\n\n \"I—Look, sir. Listen to me.\" Ri's lips were bloodless and his hands\n were trembling. \"It's not me you want to do this to. It's Mia, sir.\nHe\nkilled a farn beast before\nI\ndid, sir. And last night—last\n night, he—\"\n\n\n \"He what?\" Extrone demanded, leaning forward intently.", "Ri rubbed his hands along his thighs; he sighed, a tiny sound,\n ineffectual. He followed Lin beyond an outcropping of shale to where\n Extrone was seated, petting his rifle.\n\n\n Extrone nodded genially. \"The farn beast hunter, eh?\"\n\n\n \"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\n Extrone drummed his fingers on the stock of the blast rifle. \"Tell me\n what they look like,\" he said suddenly.\n\n\n \"Well, sir, they're ... uh....\"\n\n\n \"Pretty frightening?\"\n\n\n \"No, sir.... Well, in a way, sir.\"\n\n\n \"But\nyou\nweren't afraid of them, were you?\"\n\n\n \"No, sir. No, because....\"\n\n\n Extrone was smiling innocently. \"Good. I want you to do something for\n me.\"", "Extrone smiled, almost pointed teeth showing through the beard. \"I'm\n glad we won't have to cross the ridge.\"\n\n\n Ri wiped his forehead on the back of his sleeve. \"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\n \"We'll pitch camp right here, then,\" Extrone said. \"We'll go after it\n tomorrow.\" He looked at the sky. \"Have the bearers hurry.\"\n\n\n \"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\n Ri moved away, his pulse gradually slowing. \"You, there!\" he called.\n \"Pitch camp, here!\"", "\"... It's the only thing I know anything about. The farn beast, as I\n was saying, sir, is the particular enemy of men. Or if you like, of\n aliens. Sir.\"\n\n\n \"All right,\" Extrone said, annoyed. \"I'll be careful.\"\n\n\n In the distance, a farn beast coughed.\n\n\n Instantly alert, Extrone said, \"Get the bearers! Have some of them cut\n a path through that damn thicket! And tell those two businessmen to get\n the hell over here!\"\n\n\n Lin smiled, his eyes suddenly afire with the excitement of the hunt.\nFour hours later, they were well into the scrub forest. Extrone walked\n leisurely, well back of the cutters, who hacked away, methodically, at\n the vines and branches which might impede his forward progress. Their\n sharp, awkward knives snickered rhythmically to the rasp of their heavy\n breathing.", "\"That was something, that time.\" He ran his hand along the stock of the\n weapon.\n\n\n The sun headed west, veiling itself with trees; a large insect circled\n Extrone's head. He slapped at it, angry. The forest was quiet,\n underlined by an occasional piping call, something like a whistle. Ri's\n screams were shrill, echoing away, shiveringly. Lin sat quiet, hunched.\n\n\n Extrone's eyes narrowed, and he began to pet the gun stock with quick,\n jerky movements. Lin licked his lips, keeping his eyes on Extrone's\n face. The sun seemed stuck in the sky, and the heat squeezed against\n them, sucking at their breath like a vacuum. The insect went away.\n Still, endless, hopeless, monotonous, Ri screamed.\nA farn beast coughed, far in the matted forest.\n\n\n Extrone laughed nervously. \"He must have heard.\"", "He crossed to Mia, who, along with him, had been pressed into Extrone's\n party as guides. Once more, Ri addressed the bearers, \"Be quick, now!\"\n And to Mia, \"God almighty, he was getting mad.\" He ran a hand under his\n collar. \"It's a good thing that farn beast sounded off when it did. I'd\n hate to think of making him climb that ridge.\"\n\n\n Mia glanced nervously over his shoulder. \"It's that damned pilot's\n fault for setting us down on this side. I told him it was the other\n side. I told him so.\"\n\n\n Ri shrugged hopelessly.\n\n\n Mia said, \"I don't think he even saw a blast area over here. I think he\n wanted to get us in trouble.\"\n\n\n \"There shouldn't be one. There shouldn't be a blast area on this side\n of the ridge, too.\"", "\"You were, I believe, the first ever to kill a farn beast?\" he said.\n\n\n \"I.... No, sir. There must have been previous hunters, sir.\"\nExtrone narrowed his eyes. \"I see by your eyes that you are\n envious—that is the word, isn't it?—of my tent.\"\n\n\n Ri looked away from his face.\n\n\n \"Perhaps I'm envious of your reputation as a hunter. You see, I have\n never killed a farn beast. In fact, I haven't\nseen\na farn beast.\"\n\n\n Ri glanced nervously around the tent, his sharp eyes avoiding Extrone's\n glittering ones. \"Few people have seen them, sir.\"\n\n\n \"Oh?\" Extrone questioned mildly. \"I wouldn't say that. I understand\n that the aliens hunt them quite extensively ... on some of their\n planets.\"" ], [ "He crossed to Mia, who, along with him, had been pressed into Extrone's\n party as guides. Once more, Ri addressed the bearers, \"Be quick, now!\"\n And to Mia, \"God almighty, he was getting mad.\" He ran a hand under his\n collar. \"It's a good thing that farn beast sounded off when it did. I'd\n hate to think of making him climb that ridge.\"\n\n\n Mia glanced nervously over his shoulder. \"It's that damned pilot's\n fault for setting us down on this side. I told him it was the other\n side. I told him so.\"\n\n\n Ri shrugged hopelessly.\n\n\n Mia said, \"I don't think he even saw a blast area over here. I think he\n wanted to get us in trouble.\"\n\n\n \"There shouldn't be one. There shouldn't be a blast area on this side\n of the ridge, too.\"", "\"He'll want the bearers to hack a path for him,\" Mia said. \"But we go\n it alone. Damn him.\"\n\n\n Ri twisted his mouth into a sour frown. He wiped at his forehead. \"Hot.\n By God, it's hot. I didn't think it was this hot, the first time we\n were here.\"\n\n\n Mia said, \"The first time,\nwe\nweren't guides. We didn't notice it so\n much then.\"\n\n\n They fought a few yards more into the forest.\n\n\n Then it ended. Or, rather, there was a wide gap. Before them lay a\n blast area, unmistakable. The grass was beginning to grow again, but\n the tree stumps were roasted from the rocket breath.\n\n\n \"This isn't ours!\" Ri said. \"This looks like it was made nearly a year\n ago!\"", "\"It makes you think,\" Mia added. He twitched. \"I'm afraid. I'm afraid\n he'll.... Listen, we'll talk. When we get back to civilization. You,\n me, the bearers. About him. He can't let that happen. He'll kill us\n first.\"\n\n\n Ri looked up at the moon, shivering. \"No. We have friends. We have\n influence. He couldn't just like that—\"\n\n\n \"He could say it was an accident.\"\n\n\n \"No,\" Ri said stubbornly.\n\n\n \"He can say anything,\" Mia insisted. \"He can make people believe\n anything. Whatever he says. There's no way to check on it.\"\n\n\n \"It's getting cold,\" Ri said.\n\n\n \"Listen,\" Mia pleaded.", "\"You two scout ahead,\" Extrone said. \"See if you can pick up some\n tracks.\"\n\n\n \"Yes, sir,\" Ri said, and instantly the two of them readjusted their\n shoulder straps and started off.\n\n\n Shortly they were inside of the scrub forest, safe from sight. \"Let's\n wait here,\" Mia said.\n\n\n \"No, we better go on. He may have sent a spy in.\"\n\n\n They pushed on, being careful to blaze the trees, because they were not\n professional guides.\n\n\n \"We don't want to get too near,\" Ri said after toiling through the\n forest for many minutes. \"Without guns, we don't want to get near\n enough for the farn beast to charge us.\"\n\n\n They stopped. The forest was dense, the vines clinging.", "\"That's another lie,\" Mia continued. \"That he protects the people from\n the Army. That's a lie. I don't believe they were\never\nplotting\n against him. Not even at first. I think they\nhelped\nhim, don't you\n see?\"\n\n\n Ri whined nervously.\n\n\n \"It's like this,\" Mia said. \"I see it like this. The Army\nput\nhim in\n power when the people were in rebellion against military rule.\"\nRi swallowed. \"We couldn't make the people believe that.\"\n\n\n \"No?\" Mia challenged. \"Couldn't we? Not today, but what about tomorrow?\n You'll see. Because I think the Army is getting ready to invade the\n alien system!\"\n\n\n \"The people won't support them,\" Ri answered woodenly.\n\n\n \"\nThink.\nIf he tells them to, they will. They trust him.\"", "\"That's what I mean. The pilot don't like businessmen. He had it in for\n us.\"\n\n\n Ri cleared his throat nervously. \"Maybe you're right.\"\n\n\n \"It's the Hunting Club he don't like.\"\n\n\n \"I wish to God I'd never heard of a farn beast,\" Ri said. \"At least,\n then, I wouldn't be one of his guides. Why didn't he hire somebody\n else?\"\nMia looked at his companion. He spat. \"What hurts most, he pays us for\n it. I could buy half this planet, and he makes me his guide—at less\n than I pay my secretary.\"\n\n\n \"Well, anyway, we won't have to cross that ridge.\"\n\n\n \"Hey, you!\" Extrone called.\n\n\n The two of them turned immediately.", "\"Yes, sir.\nKnow\nyou and love you, sir,\" Ri said.\n\n\n \"Get out!\" Extrone said.\n\"It's frightening,\" Ri said, \"to be that close to him.\"\n\n\n Mia nodded.\n\n\n The two of them, beneath the leaf-swollen branches of the gnarled tree,\n were seated on their sleeping bags. The moon was clear and cold and\n bright in a cloudless sky; a small moon, smooth-surfaced, except for a\n central mountain ridge that bisected it into almost twin hemispheres.\n\n\n \"To think of him. As flesh and blood. Not like the—well; that—what\n we've read about.\"\n\n\n Mia glanced suspiciously around him at the shadows. \"You begin to\n understand a lot of things, after seeing him.\"\n\n\n Ri picked nervously at the cover of his sleeping bag.", "\"\nI\ndidn't tell Extrone, if that's what you're thinking,\" Mia said.\n\n\n Ri's mouth twisted. \"I didn't say you did.\"\n\n\n \"Listen,\" Mia said in a hoarse whisper. \"I just thought. Listen. To\n hell with how he found out. Here's the point. Maybe he'll shoot us,\n too, when the hunt's over.\"\n\n\n Ri licked his lips. \"No. He wouldn't do that. We're not—not just\n anybody. He couldn't kill us like that. Not even\nhim\n. And besides,\n why would he want to do that? It wouldn't do any good to shoot us. Too\n many people already know about the farn beasts. You said that yourself.\"\n\n\n Mia said, \"I hope you're right.\" They stood side by side, studying the\n blast area in silence. Finally, Mia said, \"We better be getting back.\"", "\"No,\" Ri said. \"Even if we tried to tell them, they wouldn't listen.\n Everybody would\nknow\nwe were lying. Everything they've come to\n believe would tell them we were lying. Everything they've read, every\n picture they've seen. They wouldn't believe us.\nHe\nknows that.\"\n\n\n \"Listen,\" Mia repeated intently. \"This is important. Right now he\n couldn't afford to let us talk. Not right now. Because the Army is\n not against him. Some officers were here, just before we came back. A\n bearer overheard them talking. They don't\nwant\nto overthrow him!\"\n\n\n Ri's teeth, suddenly, were chattering.", "Ri looked around at the shadows.\n\n\n \"That explains a lot of things,\" Mia said. \"I think the Army's been\n preparing for this for a long time. From the first, maybe. That's why\n Extrone cut off our trade with the aliens. Partly to keep them from\n learning that he was getting ready to invade them, but more to keep\n them from exposing\nhim\nto the people. The aliens wouldn't be fooled\n like we were, so easy.\"\n\n\n \"No!\" Ri snapped. \"It was to keep the natural economic balance.\"\n\n\n \"You know that's not right.\"\n\n\n Ri lay down on his bed roll. \"Don't talk about it. It's not good to\n talk like this. I don't even want to listen.\"", "\"You'll be safe,\" Extrone said, studying his face with amusement. \"I'll\n shoot the animal before it reaches you.\"\n\n\n Ri gulped for air. \"But ... if there should be more than one?\"\n\n\n Extrone shrugged.\n\n\n \"I—Look, sir. Listen to me.\" Ri's lips were bloodless and his hands\n were trembling. \"It's not me you want to do this to. It's Mia, sir.\nHe\nkilled a farn beast before\nI\ndid, sir. And last night—last\n night, he—\"\n\n\n \"He what?\" Extrone demanded, leaning forward intently.", "\"When the invasion starts, he'll have to command\nall\ntheir loyalties.\n To keep them from revolt again. They'd be ready to believe us, then.\n He'll have a hard enough time without people running around trying to\n tell the truth.\"\n\n\n \"You're wrong. He's not like that. I know you're wrong.\"\n\n\n Mia smiled twistedly. \"How many has he already killed? How can we even\n guess?\"\n\n\n Ri swallowed sickly.\n\n\n \"Remember our guide? To keep our hunting territory a secret?\"\n\n\n Ri shuddered. \"That's different. Don't you see? This is not at all like\n that.\"\nWith morning came birds' songs, came dew, came breakfast smells.\n The air was sweet with cooking and it was nostalgic, childhoodlike,\n uncontaminated.", "Ri rubbed his hands along his thighs; he sighed, a tiny sound,\n ineffectual. He followed Lin beyond an outcropping of shale to where\n Extrone was seated, petting his rifle.\n\n\n Extrone nodded genially. \"The farn beast hunter, eh?\"\n\n\n \"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\n Extrone drummed his fingers on the stock of the blast rifle. \"Tell me\n what they look like,\" he said suddenly.\n\n\n \"Well, sir, they're ... uh....\"\n\n\n \"Pretty frightening?\"\n\n\n \"No, sir.... Well, in a way, sir.\"\n\n\n \"But\nyou\nweren't afraid of them, were you?\"\n\n\n \"No, sir. No, because....\"\n\n\n Extrone was smiling innocently. \"Good. I want you to do something for\n me.\"", "Extrone asked, \"Is there a pass?\"\n\n\n Ri looked up, studying the terrain. He moved his shoulders. \"I don't\n know, but maybe they range this far. Maybe they're on this side of the\n ridge, too.\"\n\n\n Delicately, Extrone raised a hand to his beard. \"I'd hate to lose a day\n crossing the ridge,\" he said.\n\n\n \"Yes, sir,\" Ri said. Suddenly he threw back his head. \"Listen!\"\n\n\n \"Eh?\" Extrone said.\n\n\n \"Hear it? That cough? I think that's one, from over there. Right up\n ahead of us.\"\n\n\n Extrone raised his eyebrows.\n\n\n This time, the coughing roar was more distant, but distinct.\n\n\n \"It is!\" Ri said. \"It's a farn beast, all right!\"", "\"We didn't have a chance,\" Mia objected. \"Everybody and his brother had\n heard the rumor that farn beasts were somewhere around here. It wasn't\n our fault Extrone found out.\"\n\n\n \"I wish we hadn't shot our guide, then. I wish he was here instead of\n us.\"\n\n\n Mia shook perspiration out of his eyes. \"We should have shot our pilot,\n too. That was our mistake. The pilot must have been the one who told\n Extrone we'd hunted this area.\"\n\n\n \"I didn't think a Club pilot would do that.\"\n\n\n \"After Extrone said he'd hunt farn beasts, even if it meant going to\n the alien system? Listen, you don't know.... Wait a minute.\"\n\n\n There was perspiration on Ri's upper lip.", "\"See that you keep it up that way,\" Extrone said. \"That's the way I\n want you to sound.\" He turned toward Lin. \"We can climb this tree, I\n think.\"\n\n\n Slowly, aided by the bearers, the two men climbed the tree, bark\n peeling away from under their rough boots. Ri watched them hopelessly.\n\n\n Once at the crotch, Extrone settled down, holding the rifle at alert.\n Lin moved to the left, out on the main branch, rested in a smaller\n crotch.\n\n\n Looking down, Extrone said, \"Scream!\" Then, to Lin, \"You feel the\n excitement? It's always in the air like this at a hunt.\"\n\n\n \"I feel it,\" Lin said.\n\n\n Extrone chuckled. \"You were with me on Meizque?\"\n\n\n \"Yes.\"", "Ri breathed with a gurgling sound. \"He said he ought to kill you, sir.\n That's what he said. I heard him, sir. He said he ought to kill you.\n He's the one you ought to use for bait. Then if there was an accident,\n sir, it wouldn't matter, because he said he ought to kill you. I\n wouldn't....\"\n\n\n Extrone said, \"Which one is he?\"\n\n\n \"That one. Right over there.\"\n\n\n \"The one with his back to me?\"\n\n\n \"Yes, sir. That's him. That's him, sir.\"\n\n\n Extrone aimed carefully and fired, full charge, then lowered the rifle\n and said, \"Here comes Lin with the rope, I see.\"\n\n\n Ri was greenish. \"You ... you....\"\n\n\n Extrone turned to Lin. \"Tie one end around his waist.\"", "\"What'll we tell him?\"\n\n\n \"That we saw tracks. What else can we tell him?\"\n\n\n They turned back along their trail, stumbling over vines.\n\n\n \"It gets hotter at sunset,\" Ri said nervously.\n\n\n \"The breeze dies down.\"\n\n\n \"It's screwy. I didn't think farn beasts had this wide a range. There\n must be a lot of them, to be on both sides of the ridge like this.\"\n\n\n \"There may be a pass,\" Mia said, pushing a vine away.\n\n\n Ri wrinkled his brow, panting. \"I guess that's it. If there were a lot\n of them, we'd have heard something before we did. But even so, it's\n damned funny, when you think about it.\"", "\"I ... I....\" Ri glanced nervously at Lin out of the tail of his eye.\n Lin's face was impassive.\n\n\n \"Of\ncourse\nyou will,\" Extrone said genially. \"Get me a rope, Lin. A\n good, long, strong rope.\"\n\n\n \"What are you going to do?\" Ri asked, terrified.\n\n\n \"Why, I'm going to tie the rope around your waist and stake you out as\n bait.\"\n\n\n \"No!\"\n\n\n \"Oh, come now. When the farn beast hears you scream—you\ncan\nscream,\n by the way?\"\n\n\n Ri swallowed.\n\n\n \"We could find a way to make you.\"\n\n\n There was perspiration trickling down Ri's forehead, a single drop,\n creeping toward his nose.", "\"I meant in our system, sir.\"\n\n\n \"Of course you did,\" Extrone said, lazily tracing the crease of his\n sleeve with his forefinger. \"I imagine these are the only farn beasts\n in our system.\"\n\n\n Ri waited uneasily, not answering.\n\n\n \"Yes,\" Extrone said, \"I imagine they are. It would have been a shame if\n you had killed the last one. Don't you think so?\"\n\n\n Ri's hands worried the sides of his outer garment. \"Yes, sir. It would\n have been.\"\n\n\n Extrone pursed his lips. \"It wouldn't have been very considerate of you\n to—But, still, you gained valuable experience. I'm glad you agreed to\n come along as my guide.\"\n\n\n \"It was an honor, sir.\"" ], [ "\"You'll be safe,\" Extrone said, studying his face with amusement. \"I'll\n shoot the animal before it reaches you.\"\n\n\n Ri gulped for air. \"But ... if there should be more than one?\"\n\n\n Extrone shrugged.\n\n\n \"I—Look, sir. Listen to me.\" Ri's lips were bloodless and his hands\n were trembling. \"It's not me you want to do this to. It's Mia, sir.\nHe\nkilled a farn beast before\nI\ndid, sir. And last night—last\n night, he—\"\n\n\n \"He what?\" Extrone demanded, leaning forward intently.", "\"\nI\ndidn't tell Extrone, if that's what you're thinking,\" Mia said.\n\n\n Ri's mouth twisted. \"I didn't say you did.\"\n\n\n \"Listen,\" Mia said in a hoarse whisper. \"I just thought. Listen. To\n hell with how he found out. Here's the point. Maybe he'll shoot us,\n too, when the hunt's over.\"\n\n\n Ri licked his lips. \"No. He wouldn't do that. We're not—not just\n anybody. He couldn't kill us like that. Not even\nhim\n. And besides,\n why would he want to do that? It wouldn't do any good to shoot us. Too\n many people already know about the farn beasts. You said that yourself.\"\n\n\n Mia said, \"I hope you're right.\" They stood side by side, studying the\n blast area in silence. Finally, Mia said, \"We better be getting back.\"", "\"Yes, sir.\nKnow\nyou and love you, sir,\" Ri said.\n\n\n \"Get out!\" Extrone said.\n\"It's frightening,\" Ri said, \"to be that close to him.\"\n\n\n Mia nodded.\n\n\n The two of them, beneath the leaf-swollen branches of the gnarled tree,\n were seated on their sleeping bags. The moon was clear and cold and\n bright in a cloudless sky; a small moon, smooth-surfaced, except for a\n central mountain ridge that bisected it into almost twin hemispheres.\n\n\n \"To think of him. As flesh and blood. Not like the—well; that—what\n we've read about.\"\n\n\n Mia glanced suspiciously around him at the shadows. \"You begin to\n understand a lot of things, after seeing him.\"\n\n\n Ri picked nervously at the cover of his sleeping bag.", "\"It makes you think,\" Mia added. He twitched. \"I'm afraid. I'm afraid\n he'll.... Listen, we'll talk. When we get back to civilization. You,\n me, the bearers. About him. He can't let that happen. He'll kill us\n first.\"\n\n\n Ri looked up at the moon, shivering. \"No. We have friends. We have\n influence. He couldn't just like that—\"\n\n\n \"He could say it was an accident.\"\n\n\n \"No,\" Ri said stubbornly.\n\n\n \"He can say anything,\" Mia insisted. \"He can make people believe\n anything. Whatever he says. There's no way to check on it.\"\n\n\n \"It's getting cold,\" Ri said.\n\n\n \"Listen,\" Mia pleaded.", "He crossed to Mia, who, along with him, had been pressed into Extrone's\n party as guides. Once more, Ri addressed the bearers, \"Be quick, now!\"\n And to Mia, \"God almighty, he was getting mad.\" He ran a hand under his\n collar. \"It's a good thing that farn beast sounded off when it did. I'd\n hate to think of making him climb that ridge.\"\n\n\n Mia glanced nervously over his shoulder. \"It's that damned pilot's\n fault for setting us down on this side. I told him it was the other\n side. I told him so.\"\n\n\n Ri shrugged hopelessly.\n\n\n Mia said, \"I don't think he even saw a blast area over here. I think he\n wanted to get us in trouble.\"\n\n\n \"There shouldn't be one. There shouldn't be a blast area on this side\n of the ridge, too.\"", "\"We didn't have a chance,\" Mia objected. \"Everybody and his brother had\n heard the rumor that farn beasts were somewhere around here. It wasn't\n our fault Extrone found out.\"\n\n\n \"I wish we hadn't shot our guide, then. I wish he was here instead of\n us.\"\n\n\n Mia shook perspiration out of his eyes. \"We should have shot our pilot,\n too. That was our mistake. The pilot must have been the one who told\n Extrone we'd hunted this area.\"\n\n\n \"I didn't think a Club pilot would do that.\"\n\n\n \"After Extrone said he'd hunt farn beasts, even if it meant going to\n the alien system? Listen, you don't know.... Wait a minute.\"\n\n\n There was perspiration on Ri's upper lip.", "\"An alien?\" Extrone corrected.\n\n\n \"There's not enough difference between us to matter, sir. Of tearing an\n alien to pieces, sir.\"\n\n\n Extrone laughed harshly. \"It's 'sir' whenever you contradict me?\"\n\n\n Lin's face remained impassive. \"I guess it seems that way. Sir.\"\n\n\n \"Damned few people would dare go as far as you do,\" Extrone said. \"But\n you're afraid of me, too, in your own way, aren't you?\"\n\n\n Lin shrugged. \"Maybe.\"\n\n\n \"I can see you are. Even my wives are. I wonder if anyone can know how\n wonderful it feels to have people\nall\nafraid of you.\"\n\n\n \"The farn beasts, according to the manual....\"\n\n\n \"You are very insistent on one subject.\"", "\"It's a different one,\" Lin said.\n\n\n \"How do you know?\"\n\n\n \"Hear the lower pitch, the more of a roar?\"\n\n\n \"Hey!\" Extrone shouted. \"You, down there. There are two coming. Now\n let's hear you really scream!\"\n\n\n Ri, below, whimpered childishly and began to retreat toward the tether\n tree, his eyes wide.\n\n\n \"There's a lot of satisfaction in fooling them, too,\" Extrone said.\n \"Making them come to your bait, where you can get at them.\" He\n opened his right hand. \"Choose your ground, set your trap. Bait it.\"\n He snapped his hand into a fist, held the fist up before his eyes,\n imprisoning the idea. \"Spring the trap when the quarry is inside.\n Clever. That makes the waiting more interesting. Waiting to see if they\n really will come to your bait.\"", "Ri rubbed his hands along his thighs; he sighed, a tiny sound,\n ineffectual. He followed Lin beyond an outcropping of shale to where\n Extrone was seated, petting his rifle.\n\n\n Extrone nodded genially. \"The farn beast hunter, eh?\"\n\n\n \"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\n Extrone drummed his fingers on the stock of the blast rifle. \"Tell me\n what they look like,\" he said suddenly.\n\n\n \"Well, sir, they're ... uh....\"\n\n\n \"Pretty frightening?\"\n\n\n \"No, sir.... Well, in a way, sir.\"\n\n\n \"But\nyou\nweren't afraid of them, were you?\"\n\n\n \"No, sir. No, because....\"\n\n\n Extrone was smiling innocently. \"Good. I want you to do something for\n me.\"", "\"You two scout ahead,\" Extrone said. \"See if you can pick up some\n tracks.\"\n\n\n \"Yes, sir,\" Ri said, and instantly the two of them readjusted their\n shoulder straps and started off.\n\n\n Shortly they were inside of the scrub forest, safe from sight. \"Let's\n wait here,\" Mia said.\n\n\n \"No, we better go on. He may have sent a spy in.\"\n\n\n They pushed on, being careful to blaze the trees, because they were not\n professional guides.\n\n\n \"We don't want to get too near,\" Ri said after toiling through the\n forest for many minutes. \"Without guns, we don't want to get near\n enough for the farn beast to charge us.\"\n\n\n They stopped. The forest was dense, the vines clinging.", "\"Oh?\"\n\n\n \"Let's get back to the column.\"\n\"Extrone wants to see you,\" Lin said.\n\n\n Ri twisted at the grass shoot, broke it off, worried and unhappy.\n \"What's he want to see\nme\nfor?\"\n\n\n \"I don't know,\" Lin said curtly.\n\n\n Ri got to his feet. One of his hands reached out, plucked nervously\n at Lin's bare forearm. \"Look,\" he whispered. \"You know him. I have—a\n little money. If you were able to ... if he wants,\" Ri gulped, \"to\ndo\nanything to me—I'd pay you, if you could....\"\n\n\n \"You better come along,\" Lin said, turning.", "\"Extrone. Eh?... Oh, you got their ship. Well, why in hell bother\n me?... All right, so they found out I was here. You got them, didn't\n you?\"\n\n\n \"Blasted them right out of space,\" the voice crackled excitedly. \"Right\n in the middle of a radio broadcast, sir.\"\n\n\n \"I don't want to listen to your gabbling when I'm hunting!\" Extrone\n tore off the head-set and handed it to the bearer. \"If they call back,\n find out what they want, first. I don't want to be bothered unless it's\n important.\"\n\n\n \"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\n Extrone squinted up at the sun; his eyes crinkled under the glare, and\n perspiration stood in little droplets on the back of his hands.", "Ri looked around at the shadows.\n\n\n \"That explains a lot of things,\" Mia said. \"I think the Army's been\n preparing for this for a long time. From the first, maybe. That's why\n Extrone cut off our trade with the aliens. Partly to keep them from\n learning that he was getting ready to invade them, but more to keep\n them from exposing\nhim\nto the people. The aliens wouldn't be fooled\n like we were, so easy.\"\n\n\n \"No!\" Ri snapped. \"It was to keep the natural economic balance.\"\n\n\n \"You know that's not right.\"\n\n\n Ri lay down on his bed roll. \"Don't talk about it. It's not good to\n talk like this. I don't even want to listen.\"", "Since the hole was drying, the left, partially exposed bank was steep\n toward the muddy water. Upon it was green, new grass, tender-tuffed,\n half mashed in places by heavy animal treads. It was there that they\n staked him out, tying the free end of the rope tightly around the base\n of a scaling tree.\n\n\n \"You will scream,\" Extrone instructed. With his rifle, he pointed\n across the water hole. \"The farn beast will come from this direction, I\n imagine.\"\n\n\n Ri was almost slobbering in fear.\n\n\n \"Let me hear you scream,\" Extrone said.\n\n\n Ri moaned weakly.\n\n\n \"You'll have to do better than that.\" Extrone inclined his head toward\n a bearer, who used something Ri couldn't see.\nRi screamed.", "\"See that you keep it up that way,\" Extrone said. \"That's the way I\n want you to sound.\" He turned toward Lin. \"We can climb this tree, I\n think.\"\n\n\n Slowly, aided by the bearers, the two men climbed the tree, bark\n peeling away from under their rough boots. Ri watched them hopelessly.\n\n\n Once at the crotch, Extrone settled down, holding the rifle at alert.\n Lin moved to the left, out on the main branch, rested in a smaller\n crotch.\n\n\n Looking down, Extrone said, \"Scream!\" Then, to Lin, \"You feel the\n excitement? It's always in the air like this at a hunt.\"\n\n\n \"I feel it,\" Lin said.\n\n\n Extrone chuckled. \"You were with me on Meizque?\"\n\n\n \"Yes.\"", "\"That's what I mean. The pilot don't like businessmen. He had it in for\n us.\"\n\n\n Ri cleared his throat nervously. \"Maybe you're right.\"\n\n\n \"It's the Hunting Club he don't like.\"\n\n\n \"I wish to God I'd never heard of a farn beast,\" Ri said. \"At least,\n then, I wouldn't be one of his guides. Why didn't he hire somebody\n else?\"\nMia looked at his companion. He spat. \"What hurts most, he pays us for\n it. I could buy half this planet, and he makes me his guide—at less\n than I pay my secretary.\"\n\n\n \"Well, anyway, we won't have to cross that ridge.\"\n\n\n \"Hey, you!\" Extrone called.\n\n\n The two of them turned immediately.", "Extrone stared at them for a space. Then, indifferently, he turned\n away, in the direction of a resting bearer. \"You!\" he said. \"Hey! Bring\n me a drink!\" He faced the officers again. He smiled maliciously. \"I'm\n staying here.\"\n\n\n The lead officer licked his firm lower lip. \"But, sir....\"\n\n\n Extrone toyed with his beard. \"About a year ago, gentlemen, there was\n an alien ship around here then, wasn't there? And you destroyed it,\n didn't you?\"\n\n\n \"Yes, sir. When we located it, sir.\"\n\n\n \"You'll destroy this one, too,\" Extrone said.", "Extrone's lip twisted in wry amusement. \"If I had waited until it was\n safe for me to hunt on an alien planet, I would not have been able to\n find such an illustrious guide.\"\n\n\n \"... I'm flattered, sir.\"\n\n\n \"Of course,\" Extrone said. \"But you should have spoken to me about it,\n when you discovered the farn beast in our own system.\"\n\n\n \"I realize that, sir. That is, I had intended at the first opportunity,\n sir....\"\n\n\n \"Of course,\" Extrone said dryly. \"Like all of my subjects,\" he waved\n his hand in a broad gesture, \"the highest as well as the lowest slave,\n know me and love me. I know your intentions were the best.\"\n\n\n Ri squirmed, his face pale. \"We do indeed love you, sir.\"\n\n\n Extrone bent forward. \"\nKnow\nme and love me.\"", "\"I ... I....\" Ri glanced nervously at Lin out of the tail of his eye.\n Lin's face was impassive.\n\n\n \"Of\ncourse\nyou will,\" Extrone said genially. \"Get me a rope, Lin. A\n good, long, strong rope.\"\n\n\n \"What are you going to do?\" Ri asked, terrified.\n\n\n \"Why, I'm going to tie the rope around your waist and stake you out as\n bait.\"\n\n\n \"No!\"\n\n\n \"Oh, come now. When the farn beast hears you scream—you\ncan\nscream,\n by the way?\"\n\n\n Ri swallowed.\n\n\n \"We could find a way to make you.\"\n\n\n There was perspiration trickling down Ri's forehead, a single drop,\n creeping toward his nose.", "Again they turned reluctantly. This time, he did not call them back.\n Instead, with amusement, he watched until they disappeared into the\n tangle of forest.\n\n\n Dusk was falling. The takeoff blast of the rocket illuminated the area,\n casting weird shadows on the gently swaying grasses; there was a hot\n breath of dry air and the rocket dwindled toward the stars.\n\n\n Extrone stood up lazily, stretching. He tossed the empty glass away,\n listened for it to shatter. He reached out, parted the heavy flap to\n his tent.\n\n\n \"Sir?\" Ri said, hurrying toward him in the gathering darkness.\n\n\n \"Eh?\" Extrone said, turning, startled. \"Oh, you. Well?\"\n\n\n \"We ... located signs of the farn beast, sir. To the east.\"" ], [ "\"When the invasion starts, he'll have to command\nall\ntheir loyalties.\n To keep them from revolt again. They'd be ready to believe us, then.\n He'll have a hard enough time without people running around trying to\n tell the truth.\"\n\n\n \"You're wrong. He's not like that. I know you're wrong.\"\n\n\n Mia smiled twistedly. \"How many has he already killed? How can we even\n guess?\"\n\n\n Ri swallowed sickly.\n\n\n \"Remember our guide? To keep our hunting territory a secret?\"\n\n\n Ri shuddered. \"That's different. Don't you see? This is not at all like\n that.\"\nWith morning came birds' songs, came dew, came breakfast smells.\n The air was sweet with cooking and it was nostalgic, childhoodlike,\n uncontaminated.", "\"It's a different one,\" Lin said.\n\n\n \"How do you know?\"\n\n\n \"Hear the lower pitch, the more of a roar?\"\n\n\n \"Hey!\" Extrone shouted. \"You, down there. There are two coming. Now\n let's hear you really scream!\"\n\n\n Ri, below, whimpered childishly and began to retreat toward the tether\n tree, his eyes wide.\n\n\n \"There's a lot of satisfaction in fooling them, too,\" Extrone said.\n \"Making them come to your bait, where you can get at them.\" He\n opened his right hand. \"Choose your ground, set your trap. Bait it.\"\n He snapped his hand into a fist, held the fist up before his eyes,\n imprisoning the idea. \"Spring the trap when the quarry is inside.\n Clever. That makes the waiting more interesting. Waiting to see if they\n really will come to your bait.\"", "And Extrone stepped out of the tent, fully dressed, surly, letting the\n flap slap loudly behind him. He stretched hungrily and stared around\n the camp, his eyes still vacant-mean with sleep.\n\n\n \"Breakfast!\" he shouted, and two bearers came running with a folding\n table and chair. Behind them, a third bearer, carrying a tray of\n various foods; and yet behind him, a fourth, with a steaming pitcher\n and a drinking mug.\n\n\n Extrone ate hugely, with none of the delicacy sometimes affected in his\n conversational gestures. When he had finished, he washed his mouth with\n water and spat on the ground.\n\n\n \"Lin!\" he said.\n\n\n His personal bearer came loping toward him.\n\n\n \"Have you read that manual I gave you?\"\n\n\n Lin nodded. \"Yes.\"", "\"I meant in our system, sir.\"\n\n\n \"Of course you did,\" Extrone said, lazily tracing the crease of his\n sleeve with his forefinger. \"I imagine these are the only farn beasts\n in our system.\"\n\n\n Ri waited uneasily, not answering.\n\n\n \"Yes,\" Extrone said, \"I imagine they are. It would have been a shame if\n you had killed the last one. Don't you think so?\"\n\n\n Ri's hands worried the sides of his outer garment. \"Yes, sir. It would\n have been.\"\n\n\n Extrone pursed his lips. \"It wouldn't have been very considerate of you\n to—But, still, you gained valuable experience. I'm glad you agreed to\n come along as my guide.\"\n\n\n \"It was an honor, sir.\"", "\"You were, I believe, the first ever to kill a farn beast?\" he said.\n\n\n \"I.... No, sir. There must have been previous hunters, sir.\"\nExtrone narrowed his eyes. \"I see by your eyes that you are\n envious—that is the word, isn't it?—of my tent.\"\n\n\n Ri looked away from his face.\n\n\n \"Perhaps I'm envious of your reputation as a hunter. You see, I have\n never killed a farn beast. In fact, I haven't\nseen\na farn beast.\"\n\n\n Ri glanced nervously around the tent, his sharp eyes avoiding Extrone's\n glittering ones. \"Few people have seen them, sir.\"\n\n\n \"Oh?\" Extrone questioned mildly. \"I wouldn't say that. I understand\n that the aliens hunt them quite extensively ... on some of their\n planets.\"", "\"We're lucky to rouse one so fast,\" Lin said.\n\n\n Extrone dug his boot cleats into the tree, braced himself. \"I like\n this. There's more excitement in waiting like this than in anything I\n know.\"\n\n\n Lin nodded.\n\n\n \"The waiting, itself, is a lot. The suspense. It's not only the killing\n that matters.\"\n\n\n \"It's not\nonly\nthe killing,\" Lin echoed.\n\n\n \"You understand?\" Extrone said. \"How it is to wait, knowing in just a\n minute something is going to come out of the forest, and you're going\n to kill it?\"\n\n\n \"I know,\" Lin said.\n\n\n \"But it's not only the killing. It's the waiting, too.\"\n\n\n The farn beast coughed again; nearer.", "\"That was something, that time.\" He ran his hand along the stock of the\n weapon.\n\n\n The sun headed west, veiling itself with trees; a large insect circled\n Extrone's head. He slapped at it, angry. The forest was quiet,\n underlined by an occasional piping call, something like a whistle. Ri's\n screams were shrill, echoing away, shiveringly. Lin sat quiet, hunched.\n\n\n Extrone's eyes narrowed, and he began to pet the gun stock with quick,\n jerky movements. Lin licked his lips, keeping his eyes on Extrone's\n face. The sun seemed stuck in the sky, and the heat squeezed against\n them, sucking at their breath like a vacuum. The insect went away.\n Still, endless, hopeless, monotonous, Ri screamed.\nA farn beast coughed, far in the matted forest.\n\n\n Extrone laughed nervously. \"He must have heard.\"", "\"An alien?\" Extrone corrected.\n\n\n \"There's not enough difference between us to matter, sir. Of tearing an\n alien to pieces, sir.\"\n\n\n Extrone laughed harshly. \"It's 'sir' whenever you contradict me?\"\n\n\n Lin's face remained impassive. \"I guess it seems that way. Sir.\"\n\n\n \"Damned few people would dare go as far as you do,\" Extrone said. \"But\n you're afraid of me, too, in your own way, aren't you?\"\n\n\n Lin shrugged. \"Maybe.\"\n\n\n \"I can see you are. Even my wives are. I wonder if anyone can know how\n wonderful it feels to have people\nall\nafraid of you.\"\n\n\n \"The farn beasts, according to the manual....\"\n\n\n \"You are very insistent on one subject.\"", "Again they turned reluctantly. This time, he did not call them back.\n Instead, with amusement, he watched until they disappeared into the\n tangle of forest.\n\n\n Dusk was falling. The takeoff blast of the rocket illuminated the area,\n casting weird shadows on the gently swaying grasses; there was a hot\n breath of dry air and the rocket dwindled toward the stars.\n\n\n Extrone stood up lazily, stretching. He tossed the empty glass away,\n listened for it to shatter. He reached out, parted the heavy flap to\n his tent.\n\n\n \"Sir?\" Ri said, hurrying toward him in the gathering darkness.\n\n\n \"Eh?\" Extrone said, turning, startled. \"Oh, you. Well?\"\n\n\n \"We ... located signs of the farn beast, sir. To the east.\"", "\"Yes, sir.\nKnow\nyou and love you, sir,\" Ri said.\n\n\n \"Get out!\" Extrone said.\n\"It's frightening,\" Ri said, \"to be that close to him.\"\n\n\n Mia nodded.\n\n\n The two of them, beneath the leaf-swollen branches of the gnarled tree,\n were seated on their sleeping bags. The moon was clear and cold and\n bright in a cloudless sky; a small moon, smooth-surfaced, except for a\n central mountain ridge that bisected it into almost twin hemispheres.\n\n\n \"To think of him. As flesh and blood. Not like the—well; that—what\n we've read about.\"\n\n\n Mia glanced suspiciously around him at the shadows. \"You begin to\n understand a lot of things, after seeing him.\"\n\n\n Ri picked nervously at the cover of his sleeping bag.", "Lin shifted, staring toward the forest.\n\n\n \"I've always liked to hunt,\" Extrone said. \"More than anything else, I\n think.\"\n\n\n Lin spat toward the ground. \"People should hunt because they have to.\n For food. For safety.\"\n\n\n \"No,\" Extrone argued. \"People should hunt for the love of hunting.\"\n\n\n \"Killing?\"\n\n\n \"Hunting,\" Extrone repeated harshly.\nThe farn beast coughed. Another answered. They were very near, and\n there was a noise of crackling underbrush.\n\n\n \"He's good bait,\" Extrone said. \"He's fat enough and he knows how to\n scream good.\"\n\n\n Ri had stopped screaming; he was huddled against the tree, fearfully\n eying the forest across from the watering hole.", "\"... It's the only thing I know anything about. The farn beast, as I\n was saying, sir, is the particular enemy of men. Or if you like, of\n aliens. Sir.\"\n\n\n \"All right,\" Extrone said, annoyed. \"I'll be careful.\"\n\n\n In the distance, a farn beast coughed.\n\n\n Instantly alert, Extrone said, \"Get the bearers! Have some of them cut\n a path through that damn thicket! And tell those two businessmen to get\n the hell over here!\"\n\n\n Lin smiled, his eyes suddenly afire with the excitement of the hunt.\nFour hours later, they were well into the scrub forest. Extrone walked\n leisurely, well back of the cutters, who hacked away, methodically, at\n the vines and branches which might impede his forward progress. Their\n sharp, awkward knives snickered rhythmically to the rasp of their heavy\n breathing.", "\"It makes you think,\" Mia added. He twitched. \"I'm afraid. I'm afraid\n he'll.... Listen, we'll talk. When we get back to civilization. You,\n me, the bearers. About him. He can't let that happen. He'll kill us\n first.\"\n\n\n Ri looked up at the moon, shivering. \"No. We have friends. We have\n influence. He couldn't just like that—\"\n\n\n \"He could say it was an accident.\"\n\n\n \"No,\" Ri said stubbornly.\n\n\n \"He can say anything,\" Mia insisted. \"He can make people believe\n anything. Whatever he says. There's no way to check on it.\"\n\n\n \"It's getting cold,\" Ri said.\n\n\n \"Listen,\" Mia pleaded.", "Extrone pushed the table away. He smacked his lips wetly. \"Very\n ludicrous, Lin. Have you noticed that I have two businessmen for\n guides? It occurred to me when I got up. They would have spat on me,\n twenty years ago, damn them.\"\n\n\n Lin waited.\n\n\n \"Now I can spit on them, which pleases me.\"\n\n\n \"The farn beasts are dangerous, sir,\" Lin said.\n\n\n \"Eh? Oh, yes. Those. What did the manual say about them?\"\n\n\n \"I believe they're carnivorous, sir.\"\n\n\n \"An alien manual. That's ludicrous, too. That we have the only\n information on our newly discovered fauna from an alien manual—and, of\n course, two businessmen.\"\n\n\n \"They have very long, sharp fangs, and, when enraged, are capable of\n tearing a man—\"", "Extrone nodded. After a moment he said, \"You killed one, I believe, on\nyour\ntrip?\"\n\n\n Ri shifted. \"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\n Extrone held back the flap of the tent. \"Won't you come in?\" he asked\n without any politeness whatever.\n\n\n Ri obeyed the order.\n\n\n The inside of the tent was luxurious. The bed was of bulky feathers,\n costly of transport space, the sleep curtains of silken gauze. The\n floor, heavy, portable tile blocks, not the hollow kind, were neatly\n and smoothly inset into the ground. Hanging from the center, to the\n left of the slender, hand-carved center pole, was a chain of crystals.\n They tinkled lightly when Extrone dropped the flap. The light was\n electric from a portable dynamo. Extrone flipped it on. He crossed to\n the bed, sat down.", "Occasionally, Extrone halted, motioned for his water carrier, and drank\n deeply of the icy water to allay the heat of the forest, a heat made\n oppressive by the press of foliage against the outside air.\n\n\n Ranging out, on both sides of the central body, the two businessmen\n fought independently against the wild growth, each scouting the flanks\n for farn beasts, and ahead, beyond the cutters, Lin flittered among the\n tree trunks, sometimes far, sometimes near.\n\n\n Extrone carried the only weapon, slung easily over his shoulder, a\n powerful blast rifle, capable of piercing medium armor in sustained\n fire. To his rear, the water carrier was trailed by a man bearing a\n folding stool, and behind him, a man carrying the heavy, high-powered\n two-way communication set.", "Extrone asked, \"Is there a pass?\"\n\n\n Ri looked up, studying the terrain. He moved his shoulders. \"I don't\n know, but maybe they range this far. Maybe they're on this side of the\n ridge, too.\"\n\n\n Delicately, Extrone raised a hand to his beard. \"I'd hate to lose a day\n crossing the ridge,\" he said.\n\n\n \"Yes, sir,\" Ri said. Suddenly he threw back his head. \"Listen!\"\n\n\n \"Eh?\" Extrone said.\n\n\n \"Hear it? That cough? I think that's one, from over there. Right up\n ahead of us.\"\n\n\n Extrone raised his eyebrows.\n\n\n This time, the coughing roar was more distant, but distinct.\n\n\n \"It is!\" Ri said. \"It's a farn beast, all right!\"", "\"He'll want the bearers to hack a path for him,\" Mia said. \"But we go\n it alone. Damn him.\"\n\n\n Ri twisted his mouth into a sour frown. He wiped at his forehead. \"Hot.\n By God, it's hot. I didn't think it was this hot, the first time we\n were here.\"\n\n\n Mia said, \"The first time,\nwe\nweren't guides. We didn't notice it so\n much then.\"\n\n\n They fought a few yards more into the forest.\n\n\n Then it ended. Or, rather, there was a wide gap. Before them lay a\n blast area, unmistakable. The grass was beginning to grow again, but\n the tree stumps were roasted from the rocket breath.\n\n\n \"This isn't ours!\" Ri said. \"This looks like it was made nearly a year\n ago!\"", "Ri looked around at the shadows.\n\n\n \"That explains a lot of things,\" Mia said. \"I think the Army's been\n preparing for this for a long time. From the first, maybe. That's why\n Extrone cut off our trade with the aliens. Partly to keep them from\n learning that he was getting ready to invade them, but more to keep\n them from exposing\nhim\nto the people. The aliens wouldn't be fooled\n like we were, so easy.\"\n\n\n \"No!\" Ri snapped. \"It was to keep the natural economic balance.\"\n\n\n \"You know that's not right.\"\n\n\n Ri lay down on his bed roll. \"Don't talk about it. It's not good to\n talk like this. I don't even want to listen.\"", "Ri rubbed his hands along his thighs; he sighed, a tiny sound,\n ineffectual. He followed Lin beyond an outcropping of shale to where\n Extrone was seated, petting his rifle.\n\n\n Extrone nodded genially. \"The farn beast hunter, eh?\"\n\n\n \"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\n Extrone drummed his fingers on the stock of the blast rifle. \"Tell me\n what they look like,\" he said suddenly.\n\n\n \"Well, sir, they're ... uh....\"\n\n\n \"Pretty frightening?\"\n\n\n \"No, sir.... Well, in a way, sir.\"\n\n\n \"But\nyou\nweren't afraid of them, were you?\"\n\n\n \"No, sir. No, because....\"\n\n\n Extrone was smiling innocently. \"Good. I want you to do something for\n me.\"" ], [ "\"Extrone. Eh?... Oh, you got their ship. Well, why in hell bother\n me?... All right, so they found out I was here. You got them, didn't\n you?\"\n\n\n \"Blasted them right out of space,\" the voice crackled excitedly. \"Right\n in the middle of a radio broadcast, sir.\"\n\n\n \"I don't want to listen to your gabbling when I'm hunting!\" Extrone\n tore off the head-set and handed it to the bearer. \"If they call back,\n find out what they want, first. I don't want to be bothered unless it's\n important.\"\n\n\n \"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\n Extrone squinted up at the sun; his eyes crinkled under the glare, and\n perspiration stood in little droplets on the back of his hands.", "Extrone's lip twisted in wry amusement. \"If I had waited until it was\n safe for me to hunt on an alien planet, I would not have been able to\n find such an illustrious guide.\"\n\n\n \"... I'm flattered, sir.\"\n\n\n \"Of course,\" Extrone said. \"But you should have spoken to me about it,\n when you discovered the farn beast in our own system.\"\n\n\n \"I realize that, sir. That is, I had intended at the first opportunity,\n sir....\"\n\n\n \"Of course,\" Extrone said dryly. \"Like all of my subjects,\" he waved\n his hand in a broad gesture, \"the highest as well as the lowest slave,\n know me and love me. I know your intentions were the best.\"\n\n\n Ri squirmed, his face pale. \"We do indeed love you, sir.\"\n\n\n Extrone bent forward. \"\nKnow\nme and love me.\"", "\"See that you keep it up that way,\" Extrone said. \"That's the way I\n want you to sound.\" He turned toward Lin. \"We can climb this tree, I\n think.\"\n\n\n Slowly, aided by the bearers, the two men climbed the tree, bark\n peeling away from under their rough boots. Ri watched them hopelessly.\n\n\n Once at the crotch, Extrone settled down, holding the rifle at alert.\n Lin moved to the left, out on the main branch, rested in a smaller\n crotch.\n\n\n Looking down, Extrone said, \"Scream!\" Then, to Lin, \"You feel the\n excitement? It's always in the air like this at a hunt.\"\n\n\n \"I feel it,\" Lin said.\n\n\n Extrone chuckled. \"You were with me on Meizque?\"\n\n\n \"Yes.\"", "\"You'll be safe,\" Extrone said, studying his face with amusement. \"I'll\n shoot the animal before it reaches you.\"\n\n\n Ri gulped for air. \"But ... if there should be more than one?\"\n\n\n Extrone shrugged.\n\n\n \"I—Look, sir. Listen to me.\" Ri's lips were bloodless and his hands\n were trembling. \"It's not me you want to do this to. It's Mia, sir.\nHe\nkilled a farn beast before\nI\ndid, sir. And last night—last\n night, he—\"\n\n\n \"He what?\" Extrone demanded, leaning forward intently.", "\"Yes, sir.\nKnow\nyou and love you, sir,\" Ri said.\n\n\n \"Get out!\" Extrone said.\n\"It's frightening,\" Ri said, \"to be that close to him.\"\n\n\n Mia nodded.\n\n\n The two of them, beneath the leaf-swollen branches of the gnarled tree,\n were seated on their sleeping bags. The moon was clear and cold and\n bright in a cloudless sky; a small moon, smooth-surfaced, except for a\n central mountain ridge that bisected it into almost twin hemispheres.\n\n\n \"To think of him. As flesh and blood. Not like the—well; that—what\n we've read about.\"\n\n\n Mia glanced suspiciously around him at the shadows. \"You begin to\n understand a lot of things, after seeing him.\"\n\n\n Ri picked nervously at the cover of his sleeping bag.", "And Extrone stepped out of the tent, fully dressed, surly, letting the\n flap slap loudly behind him. He stretched hungrily and stared around\n the camp, his eyes still vacant-mean with sleep.\n\n\n \"Breakfast!\" he shouted, and two bearers came running with a folding\n table and chair. Behind them, a third bearer, carrying a tray of\n various foods; and yet behind him, a fourth, with a steaming pitcher\n and a drinking mug.\n\n\n Extrone ate hugely, with none of the delicacy sometimes affected in his\n conversational gestures. When he had finished, he washed his mouth with\n water and spat on the ground.\n\n\n \"Lin!\" he said.\n\n\n His personal bearer came loping toward him.\n\n\n \"Have you read that manual I gave you?\"\n\n\n Lin nodded. \"Yes.\"", "Extrone stared at them for a space. Then, indifferently, he turned\n away, in the direction of a resting bearer. \"You!\" he said. \"Hey! Bring\n me a drink!\" He faced the officers again. He smiled maliciously. \"I'm\n staying here.\"\n\n\n The lead officer licked his firm lower lip. \"But, sir....\"\n\n\n Extrone toyed with his beard. \"About a year ago, gentlemen, there was\n an alien ship around here then, wasn't there? And you destroyed it,\n didn't you?\"\n\n\n \"Yes, sir. When we located it, sir.\"\n\n\n \"You'll destroy this one, too,\" Extrone said.", "\"We have a tight patrol, sir. It can't slip through. But it might try a\n long range bombardment, sir.\"\nExtrone said, \"To begin with, they probably don't even know I'm here.\n And they probably couldn't hit this area if they did know. And you\n can't afford to let them get a shot at me, anyway.\"\n\n\n \"That's why we'd like you to return to an inner planet, sir.\"\n\n\n Extrone plucked at his right ear lobe, half closing his eyes. \"You'll\n lose a fleet before you'll dare let anything happen to me, gentlemen.\n I'm quite safe here, I think.\"\n\n\n The bearer brought Extrone his drink.\n\n\n \"Get off,\" Extrone said quietly to the four officers.", "Extrone nodded. After a moment he said, \"You killed one, I believe, on\nyour\ntrip?\"\n\n\n Ri shifted. \"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\n Extrone held back the flap of the tent. \"Won't you come in?\" he asked\n without any politeness whatever.\n\n\n Ri obeyed the order.\n\n\n The inside of the tent was luxurious. The bed was of bulky feathers,\n costly of transport space, the sleep curtains of silken gauze. The\n floor, heavy, portable tile blocks, not the hollow kind, were neatly\n and smoothly inset into the ground. Hanging from the center, to the\n left of the slender, hand-carved center pole, was a chain of crystals.\n They tinkled lightly when Extrone dropped the flap. The light was\n electric from a portable dynamo. Extrone flipped it on. He crossed to\n the bed, sat down.", "\"\nI\ndidn't tell Extrone, if that's what you're thinking,\" Mia said.\n\n\n Ri's mouth twisted. \"I didn't say you did.\"\n\n\n \"Listen,\" Mia said in a hoarse whisper. \"I just thought. Listen. To\n hell with how he found out. Here's the point. Maybe he'll shoot us,\n too, when the hunt's over.\"\n\n\n Ri licked his lips. \"No. He wouldn't do that. We're not—not just\n anybody. He couldn't kill us like that. Not even\nhim\n. And besides,\n why would he want to do that? It wouldn't do any good to shoot us. Too\n many people already know about the farn beasts. You said that yourself.\"\n\n\n Mia said, \"I hope you're right.\" They stood side by side, studying the\n blast area in silence. Finally, Mia said, \"We better be getting back.\"", "Extrone smiled, almost pointed teeth showing through the beard. \"I'm\n glad we won't have to cross the ridge.\"\n\n\n Ri wiped his forehead on the back of his sleeve. \"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\n \"We'll pitch camp right here, then,\" Extrone said. \"We'll go after it\n tomorrow.\" He looked at the sky. \"Have the bearers hurry.\"\n\n\n \"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\n Ri moved away, his pulse gradually slowing. \"You, there!\" he called.\n \"Pitch camp, here!\"", "\"I meant in our system, sir.\"\n\n\n \"Of course you did,\" Extrone said, lazily tracing the crease of his\n sleeve with his forefinger. \"I imagine these are the only farn beasts\n in our system.\"\n\n\n Ri waited uneasily, not answering.\n\n\n \"Yes,\" Extrone said, \"I imagine they are. It would have been a shame if\n you had killed the last one. Don't you think so?\"\n\n\n Ri's hands worried the sides of his outer garment. \"Yes, sir. It would\n have been.\"\n\n\n Extrone pursed his lips. \"It wouldn't have been very considerate of you\n to—But, still, you gained valuable experience. I'm glad you agreed to\n come along as my guide.\"\n\n\n \"It was an honor, sir.\"", "He crossed to Mia, who, along with him, had been pressed into Extrone's\n party as guides. Once more, Ri addressed the bearers, \"Be quick, now!\"\n And to Mia, \"God almighty, he was getting mad.\" He ran a hand under his\n collar. \"It's a good thing that farn beast sounded off when it did. I'd\n hate to think of making him climb that ridge.\"\n\n\n Mia glanced nervously over his shoulder. \"It's that damned pilot's\n fault for setting us down on this side. I told him it was the other\n side. I told him so.\"\n\n\n Ri shrugged hopelessly.\n\n\n Mia said, \"I don't think he even saw a blast area over here. I think he\n wanted to get us in trouble.\"\n\n\n \"There shouldn't be one. There shouldn't be a blast area on this side\n of the ridge, too.\"", "Again they turned reluctantly. This time, he did not call them back.\n Instead, with amusement, he watched until they disappeared into the\n tangle of forest.\n\n\n Dusk was falling. The takeoff blast of the rocket illuminated the area,\n casting weird shadows on the gently swaying grasses; there was a hot\n breath of dry air and the rocket dwindled toward the stars.\n\n\n Extrone stood up lazily, stretching. He tossed the empty glass away,\n listened for it to shatter. He reached out, parted the heavy flap to\n his tent.\n\n\n \"Sir?\" Ri said, hurrying toward him in the gathering darkness.\n\n\n \"Eh?\" Extrone said, turning, startled. \"Oh, you. Well?\"\n\n\n \"We ... located signs of the farn beast, sir. To the east.\"", "\"It's a different one,\" Lin said.\n\n\n \"How do you know?\"\n\n\n \"Hear the lower pitch, the more of a roar?\"\n\n\n \"Hey!\" Extrone shouted. \"You, down there. There are two coming. Now\n let's hear you really scream!\"\n\n\n Ri, below, whimpered childishly and began to retreat toward the tether\n tree, his eyes wide.\n\n\n \"There's a lot of satisfaction in fooling them, too,\" Extrone said.\n \"Making them come to your bait, where you can get at them.\" He\n opened his right hand. \"Choose your ground, set your trap. Bait it.\"\n He snapped his hand into a fist, held the fist up before his eyes,\n imprisoning the idea. \"Spring the trap when the quarry is inside.\n Clever. That makes the waiting more interesting. Waiting to see if they\n really will come to your bait.\"", "Ri breathed with a gurgling sound. \"He said he ought to kill you, sir.\n That's what he said. I heard him, sir. He said he ought to kill you.\n He's the one you ought to use for bait. Then if there was an accident,\n sir, it wouldn't matter, because he said he ought to kill you. I\n wouldn't....\"\n\n\n Extrone said, \"Which one is he?\"\n\n\n \"That one. Right over there.\"\n\n\n \"The one with his back to me?\"\n\n\n \"Yes, sir. That's him. That's him, sir.\"\n\n\n Extrone aimed carefully and fired, full charge, then lowered the rifle\n and said, \"Here comes Lin with the rope, I see.\"\n\n\n Ri was greenish. \"You ... you....\"\n\n\n Extrone turned to Lin. \"Tie one end around his waist.\"", "\"You two scout ahead,\" Extrone said. \"See if you can pick up some\n tracks.\"\n\n\n \"Yes, sir,\" Ri said, and instantly the two of them readjusted their\n shoulder straps and started off.\n\n\n Shortly they were inside of the scrub forest, safe from sight. \"Let's\n wait here,\" Mia said.\n\n\n \"No, we better go on. He may have sent a spy in.\"\n\n\n They pushed on, being careful to blaze the trees, because they were not\n professional guides.\n\n\n \"We don't want to get too near,\" Ri said after toiling through the\n forest for many minutes. \"Without guns, we don't want to get near\n enough for the farn beast to charge us.\"\n\n\n They stopped. The forest was dense, the vines clinging.", "Once Extrone unslung his blast rifle and triggered a burst at a tiny,\n arboreal mammal, which, upon the impact, shattered asunder, to\n Extrone's satisfied chuckle, in a burst of blood and fur.\n\n\n When the sun stood high and heat exhaustion made the near-naked bearers\n slump, Extrone permitted a rest. While waiting for the march to resume,\n he sat on the stool with his back against an ancient tree and patted,\n reflectively, the blast rifle, lying across his legs.\n\n\n \"For you, sir,\" the communications man said, interrupting his reverie.\n\n\n \"Damn,\" Extrone muttered. His face twisted in anger. \"It better be\n important.\" He took the head-set and mike and nodded to the bearer. The\n bearer twiddled the dials.", "\"An alien?\" Extrone corrected.\n\n\n \"There's not enough difference between us to matter, sir. Of tearing an\n alien to pieces, sir.\"\n\n\n Extrone laughed harshly. \"It's 'sir' whenever you contradict me?\"\n\n\n Lin's face remained impassive. \"I guess it seems that way. Sir.\"\n\n\n \"Damned few people would dare go as far as you do,\" Extrone said. \"But\n you're afraid of me, too, in your own way, aren't you?\"\n\n\n Lin shrugged. \"Maybe.\"\n\n\n \"I can see you are. Even my wives are. I wonder if anyone can know how\n wonderful it feels to have people\nall\nafraid of you.\"\n\n\n \"The farn beasts, according to the manual....\"\n\n\n \"You are very insistent on one subject.\"", "Occasionally, Extrone halted, motioned for his water carrier, and drank\n deeply of the icy water to allay the heat of the forest, a heat made\n oppressive by the press of foliage against the outside air.\n\n\n Ranging out, on both sides of the central body, the two businessmen\n fought independently against the wild growth, each scouting the flanks\n for farn beasts, and ahead, beyond the cutters, Lin flittered among the\n tree trunks, sometimes far, sometimes near.\n\n\n Extrone carried the only weapon, slung easily over his shoulder, a\n powerful blast rifle, capable of piercing medium armor in sustained\n fire. To his rear, the water carrier was trailed by a man bearing a\n folding stool, and behind him, a man carrying the heavy, high-powered\n two-way communication set." ], [ "\"It makes you think,\" Mia added. He twitched. \"I'm afraid. I'm afraid\n he'll.... Listen, we'll talk. When we get back to civilization. You,\n me, the bearers. About him. He can't let that happen. He'll kill us\n first.\"\n\n\n Ri looked up at the moon, shivering. \"No. We have friends. We have\n influence. He couldn't just like that—\"\n\n\n \"He could say it was an accident.\"\n\n\n \"No,\" Ri said stubbornly.\n\n\n \"He can say anything,\" Mia insisted. \"He can make people believe\n anything. Whatever he says. There's no way to check on it.\"\n\n\n \"It's getting cold,\" Ri said.\n\n\n \"Listen,\" Mia pleaded.", "\"No,\" Ri said. \"Even if we tried to tell them, they wouldn't listen.\n Everybody would\nknow\nwe were lying. Everything they've come to\n believe would tell them we were lying. Everything they've read, every\n picture they've seen. They wouldn't believe us.\nHe\nknows that.\"\n\n\n \"Listen,\" Mia repeated intently. \"This is important. Right now he\n couldn't afford to let us talk. Not right now. Because the Army is\n not against him. Some officers were here, just before we came back. A\n bearer overheard them talking. They don't\nwant\nto overthrow him!\"\n\n\n Ri's teeth, suddenly, were chattering.", "\"\nI\ndidn't tell Extrone, if that's what you're thinking,\" Mia said.\n\n\n Ri's mouth twisted. \"I didn't say you did.\"\n\n\n \"Listen,\" Mia said in a hoarse whisper. \"I just thought. Listen. To\n hell with how he found out. Here's the point. Maybe he'll shoot us,\n too, when the hunt's over.\"\n\n\n Ri licked his lips. \"No. He wouldn't do that. We're not—not just\n anybody. He couldn't kill us like that. Not even\nhim\n. And besides,\n why would he want to do that? It wouldn't do any good to shoot us. Too\n many people already know about the farn beasts. You said that yourself.\"\n\n\n Mia said, \"I hope you're right.\" They stood side by side, studying the\n blast area in silence. Finally, Mia said, \"We better be getting back.\"", "He crossed to Mia, who, along with him, had been pressed into Extrone's\n party as guides. Once more, Ri addressed the bearers, \"Be quick, now!\"\n And to Mia, \"God almighty, he was getting mad.\" He ran a hand under his\n collar. \"It's a good thing that farn beast sounded off when it did. I'd\n hate to think of making him climb that ridge.\"\n\n\n Mia glanced nervously over his shoulder. \"It's that damned pilot's\n fault for setting us down on this side. I told him it was the other\n side. I told him so.\"\n\n\n Ri shrugged hopelessly.\n\n\n Mia said, \"I don't think he even saw a blast area over here. I think he\n wanted to get us in trouble.\"\n\n\n \"There shouldn't be one. There shouldn't be a blast area on this side\n of the ridge, too.\"", "\"That's another lie,\" Mia continued. \"That he protects the people from\n the Army. That's a lie. I don't believe they were\never\nplotting\n against him. Not even at first. I think they\nhelped\nhim, don't you\n see?\"\n\n\n Ri whined nervously.\n\n\n \"It's like this,\" Mia said. \"I see it like this. The Army\nput\nhim in\n power when the people were in rebellion against military rule.\"\nRi swallowed. \"We couldn't make the people believe that.\"\n\n\n \"No?\" Mia challenged. \"Couldn't we? Not today, but what about tomorrow?\n You'll see. Because I think the Army is getting ready to invade the\n alien system!\"\n\n\n \"The people won't support them,\" Ri answered woodenly.\n\n\n \"\nThink.\nIf he tells them to, they will. They trust him.\"", "\"You'll be safe,\" Extrone said, studying his face with amusement. \"I'll\n shoot the animal before it reaches you.\"\n\n\n Ri gulped for air. \"But ... if there should be more than one?\"\n\n\n Extrone shrugged.\n\n\n \"I—Look, sir. Listen to me.\" Ri's lips were bloodless and his hands\n were trembling. \"It's not me you want to do this to. It's Mia, sir.\nHe\nkilled a farn beast before\nI\ndid, sir. And last night—last\n night, he—\"\n\n\n \"He what?\" Extrone demanded, leaning forward intently.", "Ri looked around at the shadows.\n\n\n \"That explains a lot of things,\" Mia said. \"I think the Army's been\n preparing for this for a long time. From the first, maybe. That's why\n Extrone cut off our trade with the aliens. Partly to keep them from\n learning that he was getting ready to invade them, but more to keep\n them from exposing\nhim\nto the people. The aliens wouldn't be fooled\n like we were, so easy.\"\n\n\n \"No!\" Ri snapped. \"It was to keep the natural economic balance.\"\n\n\n \"You know that's not right.\"\n\n\n Ri lay down on his bed roll. \"Don't talk about it. It's not good to\n talk like this. I don't even want to listen.\"", "\"When the invasion starts, he'll have to command\nall\ntheir loyalties.\n To keep them from revolt again. They'd be ready to believe us, then.\n He'll have a hard enough time without people running around trying to\n tell the truth.\"\n\n\n \"You're wrong. He's not like that. I know you're wrong.\"\n\n\n Mia smiled twistedly. \"How many has he already killed? How can we even\n guess?\"\n\n\n Ri swallowed sickly.\n\n\n \"Remember our guide? To keep our hunting territory a secret?\"\n\n\n Ri shuddered. \"That's different. Don't you see? This is not at all like\n that.\"\nWith morning came birds' songs, came dew, came breakfast smells.\n The air was sweet with cooking and it was nostalgic, childhoodlike,\n uncontaminated.", "\"Yes, sir.\nKnow\nyou and love you, sir,\" Ri said.\n\n\n \"Get out!\" Extrone said.\n\"It's frightening,\" Ri said, \"to be that close to him.\"\n\n\n Mia nodded.\n\n\n The two of them, beneath the leaf-swollen branches of the gnarled tree,\n were seated on their sleeping bags. The moon was clear and cold and\n bright in a cloudless sky; a small moon, smooth-surfaced, except for a\n central mountain ridge that bisected it into almost twin hemispheres.\n\n\n \"To think of him. As flesh and blood. Not like the—well; that—what\n we've read about.\"\n\n\n Mia glanced suspiciously around him at the shadows. \"You begin to\n understand a lot of things, after seeing him.\"\n\n\n Ri picked nervously at the cover of his sleeping bag.", "\"That's what I mean. The pilot don't like businessmen. He had it in for\n us.\"\n\n\n Ri cleared his throat nervously. \"Maybe you're right.\"\n\n\n \"It's the Hunting Club he don't like.\"\n\n\n \"I wish to God I'd never heard of a farn beast,\" Ri said. \"At least,\n then, I wouldn't be one of his guides. Why didn't he hire somebody\n else?\"\nMia looked at his companion. He spat. \"What hurts most, he pays us for\n it. I could buy half this planet, and he makes me his guide—at less\n than I pay my secretary.\"\n\n\n \"Well, anyway, we won't have to cross that ridge.\"\n\n\n \"Hey, you!\" Extrone called.\n\n\n The two of them turned immediately.", "\"He'll want the bearers to hack a path for him,\" Mia said. \"But we go\n it alone. Damn him.\"\n\n\n Ri twisted his mouth into a sour frown. He wiped at his forehead. \"Hot.\n By God, it's hot. I didn't think it was this hot, the first time we\n were here.\"\n\n\n Mia said, \"The first time,\nwe\nweren't guides. We didn't notice it so\n much then.\"\n\n\n They fought a few yards more into the forest.\n\n\n Then it ended. Or, rather, there was a wide gap. Before them lay a\n blast area, unmistakable. The grass was beginning to grow again, but\n the tree stumps were roasted from the rocket breath.\n\n\n \"This isn't ours!\" Ri said. \"This looks like it was made nearly a year\n ago!\"", "\"We didn't have a chance,\" Mia objected. \"Everybody and his brother had\n heard the rumor that farn beasts were somewhere around here. It wasn't\n our fault Extrone found out.\"\n\n\n \"I wish we hadn't shot our guide, then. I wish he was here instead of\n us.\"\n\n\n Mia shook perspiration out of his eyes. \"We should have shot our pilot,\n too. That was our mistake. The pilot must have been the one who told\n Extrone we'd hunted this area.\"\n\n\n \"I didn't think a Club pilot would do that.\"\n\n\n \"After Extrone said he'd hunt farn beasts, even if it meant going to\n the alien system? Listen, you don't know.... Wait a minute.\"\n\n\n There was perspiration on Ri's upper lip.", "Ri breathed with a gurgling sound. \"He said he ought to kill you, sir.\n That's what he said. I heard him, sir. He said he ought to kill you.\n He's the one you ought to use for bait. Then if there was an accident,\n sir, it wouldn't matter, because he said he ought to kill you. I\n wouldn't....\"\n\n\n Extrone said, \"Which one is he?\"\n\n\n \"That one. Right over there.\"\n\n\n \"The one with his back to me?\"\n\n\n \"Yes, sir. That's him. That's him, sir.\"\n\n\n Extrone aimed carefully and fired, full charge, then lowered the rifle\n and said, \"Here comes Lin with the rope, I see.\"\n\n\n Ri was greenish. \"You ... you....\"\n\n\n Extrone turned to Lin. \"Tie one end around his waist.\"", "\"Oh?\"\n\n\n \"Let's get back to the column.\"\n\"Extrone wants to see you,\" Lin said.\n\n\n Ri twisted at the grass shoot, broke it off, worried and unhappy.\n \"What's he want to see\nme\nfor?\"\n\n\n \"I don't know,\" Lin said curtly.\n\n\n Ri got to his feet. One of his hands reached out, plucked nervously\n at Lin's bare forearm. \"Look,\" he whispered. \"You know him. I have—a\n little money. If you were able to ... if he wants,\" Ri gulped, \"to\ndo\nanything to me—I'd pay you, if you could....\"\n\n\n \"You better come along,\" Lin said, turning.", "\"Wait,\" Ri begged, fighting off the rope with his hands. \"You don't\n want to use me, sir. Not after I told you.... Please, sir. If anything\n should happen to me.... Please, sir. Don't do it.\"\n\n\n \"Tie it,\" Extrone ordered.\n\n\n \"No, sir. Please. Oh,\nplease\ndon't, sir.\"\n\n\n \"Tie it,\" Extrone said inexorably.\n\n\n Lin bent with the rope; his face was colorless.\nThey were at the watering hole—Extrone, Lin, two bearers, and Ri.", "Ri rubbed his hands along his thighs; he sighed, a tiny sound,\n ineffectual. He followed Lin beyond an outcropping of shale to where\n Extrone was seated, petting his rifle.\n\n\n Extrone nodded genially. \"The farn beast hunter, eh?\"\n\n\n \"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\n Extrone drummed his fingers on the stock of the blast rifle. \"Tell me\n what they look like,\" he said suddenly.\n\n\n \"Well, sir, they're ... uh....\"\n\n\n \"Pretty frightening?\"\n\n\n \"No, sir.... Well, in a way, sir.\"\n\n\n \"But\nyou\nweren't afraid of them, were you?\"\n\n\n \"No, sir. No, because....\"\n\n\n Extrone was smiling innocently. \"Good. I want you to do something for\n me.\"", "Mia's eyes narrowed. \"The military from Xnile?\"\n\n\n \"No,\" Ri said. \"They don't have any rockets this small. And I don't\n think there's another cargo rocket on this planet outside of the one we\n leased from the Club. Except the one\nhe\nbrought.\"\n\n\n \"The ones who discovered the farn beasts in the first place?\" Mia\n asked. \"You think it's their blast?\"\n\n\n \"So?\" Ri said. \"But who are they?\"\nIt was Mia's turn to shrug. \"Whoever they were, they couldn't have been\n hunters. They'd have kept the secret better.\"\n\n\n \"We didn't do so damned well.\"", "\"I ... I....\" Ri glanced nervously at Lin out of the tail of his eye.\n Lin's face was impassive.\n\n\n \"Of\ncourse\nyou will,\" Extrone said genially. \"Get me a rope, Lin. A\n good, long, strong rope.\"\n\n\n \"What are you going to do?\" Ri asked, terrified.\n\n\n \"Why, I'm going to tie the rope around your waist and stake you out as\n bait.\"\n\n\n \"No!\"\n\n\n \"Oh, come now. When the farn beast hears you scream—you\ncan\nscream,\n by the way?\"\n\n\n Ri swallowed.\n\n\n \"We could find a way to make you.\"\n\n\n There was perspiration trickling down Ri's forehead, a single drop,\n creeping toward his nose.", "\"See that you keep it up that way,\" Extrone said. \"That's the way I\n want you to sound.\" He turned toward Lin. \"We can climb this tree, I\n think.\"\n\n\n Slowly, aided by the bearers, the two men climbed the tree, bark\n peeling away from under their rough boots. Ri watched them hopelessly.\n\n\n Once at the crotch, Extrone settled down, holding the rifle at alert.\n Lin moved to the left, out on the main branch, rested in a smaller\n crotch.\n\n\n Looking down, Extrone said, \"Scream!\" Then, to Lin, \"You feel the\n excitement? It's always in the air like this at a hunt.\"\n\n\n \"I feel it,\" Lin said.\n\n\n Extrone chuckled. \"You were with me on Meizque?\"\n\n\n \"Yes.\"", "\"That was something, that time.\" He ran his hand along the stock of the\n weapon.\n\n\n The sun headed west, veiling itself with trees; a large insect circled\n Extrone's head. He slapped at it, angry. The forest was quiet,\n underlined by an occasional piping call, something like a whistle. Ri's\n screams were shrill, echoing away, shiveringly. Lin sat quiet, hunched.\n\n\n Extrone's eyes narrowed, and he began to pet the gun stock with quick,\n jerky movements. Lin licked his lips, keeping his eyes on Extrone's\n face. The sun seemed stuck in the sky, and the heat squeezed against\n them, sucking at their breath like a vacuum. The insect went away.\n Still, endless, hopeless, monotonous, Ri screamed.\nA farn beast coughed, far in the matted forest.\n\n\n Extrone laughed nervously. \"He must have heard.\"" ], [ "Extrone began to tremble with excitement. \"Here they come!\"\n\n\n The forest sprang apart. Extrone bent forward, the gun still across his\n lap.\n\n\n The farn beast, its tiny eyes red with hate, stepped out on the bank,\n swinging its head wildly, its nostrils flaring in anger. It coughed.\n Its mate appeared beside it. Their tails thrashed against the scrubs\n behind them, rattling leaves.\n\"Shoot!\" Lin hissed. \"For God's sake, shoot!\"\n\n\n \"Wait,\" Extrone said. \"Let's see what they do.\" He had not moved\n the rifle. He was tense, bent forward, his eyes slitted, his breath\n beginning to sound like an asthmatic pump.\n\n\n The lead farn beast sighted Ri. It lowered its head.\n\n\n \"Look!\" Extrone cried excitedly. \"Here it comes!\"", "\"You were, I believe, the first ever to kill a farn beast?\" he said.\n\n\n \"I.... No, sir. There must have been previous hunters, sir.\"\nExtrone narrowed his eyes. \"I see by your eyes that you are\n envious—that is the word, isn't it?—of my tent.\"\n\n\n Ri looked away from his face.\n\n\n \"Perhaps I'm envious of your reputation as a hunter. You see, I have\n never killed a farn beast. In fact, I haven't\nseen\na farn beast.\"\n\n\n Ri glanced nervously around the tent, his sharp eyes avoiding Extrone's\n glittering ones. \"Few people have seen them, sir.\"\n\n\n \"Oh?\" Extrone questioned mildly. \"I wouldn't say that. I understand\n that the aliens hunt them quite extensively ... on some of their\n planets.\"", "\"... It's the only thing I know anything about. The farn beast, as I\n was saying, sir, is the particular enemy of men. Or if you like, of\n aliens. Sir.\"\n\n\n \"All right,\" Extrone said, annoyed. \"I'll be careful.\"\n\n\n In the distance, a farn beast coughed.\n\n\n Instantly alert, Extrone said, \"Get the bearers! Have some of them cut\n a path through that damn thicket! And tell those two businessmen to get\n the hell over here!\"\n\n\n Lin smiled, his eyes suddenly afire with the excitement of the hunt.\nFour hours later, they were well into the scrub forest. Extrone walked\n leisurely, well back of the cutters, who hacked away, methodically, at\n the vines and branches which might impede his forward progress. Their\n sharp, awkward knives snickered rhythmically to the rasp of their heavy\n breathing.", "\"We're lucky to rouse one so fast,\" Lin said.\n\n\n Extrone dug his boot cleats into the tree, braced himself. \"I like\n this. There's more excitement in waiting like this than in anything I\n know.\"\n\n\n Lin nodded.\n\n\n \"The waiting, itself, is a lot. The suspense. It's not only the killing\n that matters.\"\n\n\n \"It's not\nonly\nthe killing,\" Lin echoed.\n\n\n \"You understand?\" Extrone said. \"How it is to wait, knowing in just a\n minute something is going to come out of the forest, and you're going\n to kill it?\"\n\n\n \"I know,\" Lin said.\n\n\n \"But it's not only the killing. It's the waiting, too.\"\n\n\n The farn beast coughed again; nearer.", "Again they turned reluctantly. This time, he did not call them back.\n Instead, with amusement, he watched until they disappeared into the\n tangle of forest.\n\n\n Dusk was falling. The takeoff blast of the rocket illuminated the area,\n casting weird shadows on the gently swaying grasses; there was a hot\n breath of dry air and the rocket dwindled toward the stars.\n\n\n Extrone stood up lazily, stretching. He tossed the empty glass away,\n listened for it to shatter. He reached out, parted the heavy flap to\n his tent.\n\n\n \"Sir?\" Ri said, hurrying toward him in the gathering darkness.\n\n\n \"Eh?\" Extrone said, turning, startled. \"Oh, you. Well?\"\n\n\n \"We ... located signs of the farn beast, sir. To the east.\"", "\"I ... I....\" Ri glanced nervously at Lin out of the tail of his eye.\n Lin's face was impassive.\n\n\n \"Of\ncourse\nyou will,\" Extrone said genially. \"Get me a rope, Lin. A\n good, long, strong rope.\"\n\n\n \"What are you going to do?\" Ri asked, terrified.\n\n\n \"Why, I'm going to tie the rope around your waist and stake you out as\n bait.\"\n\n\n \"No!\"\n\n\n \"Oh, come now. When the farn beast hears you scream—you\ncan\nscream,\n by the way?\"\n\n\n Ri swallowed.\n\n\n \"We could find a way to make you.\"\n\n\n There was perspiration trickling down Ri's forehead, a single drop,\n creeping toward his nose.", "Lin shifted, staring toward the forest.\n\n\n \"I've always liked to hunt,\" Extrone said. \"More than anything else, I\n think.\"\n\n\n Lin spat toward the ground. \"People should hunt because they have to.\n For food. For safety.\"\n\n\n \"No,\" Extrone argued. \"People should hunt for the love of hunting.\"\n\n\n \"Killing?\"\n\n\n \"Hunting,\" Extrone repeated harshly.\nThe farn beast coughed. Another answered. They were very near, and\n there was a noise of crackling underbrush.\n\n\n \"He's good bait,\" Extrone said. \"He's fat enough and he knows how to\n scream good.\"\n\n\n Ri had stopped screaming; he was huddled against the tree, fearfully\n eying the forest across from the watering hole.", "\"I meant in our system, sir.\"\n\n\n \"Of course you did,\" Extrone said, lazily tracing the crease of his\n sleeve with his forefinger. \"I imagine these are the only farn beasts\n in our system.\"\n\n\n Ri waited uneasily, not answering.\n\n\n \"Yes,\" Extrone said, \"I imagine they are. It would have been a shame if\n you had killed the last one. Don't you think so?\"\n\n\n Ri's hands worried the sides of his outer garment. \"Yes, sir. It would\n have been.\"\n\n\n Extrone pursed his lips. \"It wouldn't have been very considerate of you\n to—But, still, you gained valuable experience. I'm glad you agreed to\n come along as my guide.\"\n\n\n \"It was an honor, sir.\"", "Ri rubbed his hands along his thighs; he sighed, a tiny sound,\n ineffectual. He followed Lin beyond an outcropping of shale to where\n Extrone was seated, petting his rifle.\n\n\n Extrone nodded genially. \"The farn beast hunter, eh?\"\n\n\n \"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\n Extrone drummed his fingers on the stock of the blast rifle. \"Tell me\n what they look like,\" he said suddenly.\n\n\n \"Well, sir, they're ... uh....\"\n\n\n \"Pretty frightening?\"\n\n\n \"No, sir.... Well, in a way, sir.\"\n\n\n \"But\nyou\nweren't afraid of them, were you?\"\n\n\n \"No, sir. No, because....\"\n\n\n Extrone was smiling innocently. \"Good. I want you to do something for\n me.\"", "\"You'll be safe,\" Extrone said, studying his face with amusement. \"I'll\n shoot the animal before it reaches you.\"\n\n\n Ri gulped for air. \"But ... if there should be more than one?\"\n\n\n Extrone shrugged.\n\n\n \"I—Look, sir. Listen to me.\" Ri's lips were bloodless and his hands\n were trembling. \"It's not me you want to do this to. It's Mia, sir.\nHe\nkilled a farn beast before\nI\ndid, sir. And last night—last\n night, he—\"\n\n\n \"He what?\" Extrone demanded, leaning forward intently.", "\"What'll we tell him?\"\n\n\n \"That we saw tracks. What else can we tell him?\"\n\n\n They turned back along their trail, stumbling over vines.\n\n\n \"It gets hotter at sunset,\" Ri said nervously.\n\n\n \"The breeze dies down.\"\n\n\n \"It's screwy. I didn't think farn beasts had this wide a range. There\n must be a lot of them, to be on both sides of the ridge like this.\"\n\n\n \"There may be a pass,\" Mia said, pushing a vine away.\n\n\n Ri wrinkled his brow, panting. \"I guess that's it. If there were a lot\n of them, we'd have heard something before we did. But even so, it's\n damned funny, when you think about it.\"", "Ri began to scream again.\n\n\n Still Extrone did not lift his blast rifle. He was laughing. Lin\n waited, frozen, his eyes staring at the farn beast in fascination.\n\n\n The farn beast plunged into the water, which was shallow, and, throwing\n a sheet of it to either side, headed across toward Ri.\n\n\n \"Watch! Watch!\" Extrone cried gleefully.\n\n\n And then the aliens sprang their trap.", "\"You two scout ahead,\" Extrone said. \"See if you can pick up some\n tracks.\"\n\n\n \"Yes, sir,\" Ri said, and instantly the two of them readjusted their\n shoulder straps and started off.\n\n\n Shortly they were inside of the scrub forest, safe from sight. \"Let's\n wait here,\" Mia said.\n\n\n \"No, we better go on. He may have sent a spy in.\"\n\n\n They pushed on, being careful to blaze the trees, because they were not\n professional guides.\n\n\n \"We don't want to get too near,\" Ri said after toiling through the\n forest for many minutes. \"Without guns, we don't want to get near\n enough for the farn beast to charge us.\"\n\n\n They stopped. The forest was dense, the vines clinging.", "\"One is enough in\nmy\ncamp.\"\nThe two of them went forward, alone, into the forest. Extrone moved\n agilely through the tangle, following Lin closely. When they came to\n the tracks, heavily pressed into drying mud around a small watering\n hole, Extrone nodded his head in satisfaction.\n\n\n \"This way,\" Lin said, pointing, and once more the two of them started\n off.\n\n\n They went a good distance through the forest, Extrone becoming more\n alert with each additional foot. Finally, Lin stopped him with a\n restraining hand. \"They may be quite a way ahead. Hadn't we ought to\n bring up the column?\"\n\n\n The farn beast, somewhere beyond a ragged clump of bushes, coughed.\n Extrone clenched the blast rifle convulsively.\n\n\n The farn beast coughed again, more distant this time.\n\n\n \"They're moving away,\" Lin said.", "Extrone's lip twisted in wry amusement. \"If I had waited until it was\n safe for me to hunt on an alien planet, I would not have been able to\n find such an illustrious guide.\"\n\n\n \"... I'm flattered, sir.\"\n\n\n \"Of course,\" Extrone said. \"But you should have spoken to me about it,\n when you discovered the farn beast in our own system.\"\n\n\n \"I realize that, sir. That is, I had intended at the first opportunity,\n sir....\"\n\n\n \"Of course,\" Extrone said dryly. \"Like all of my subjects,\" he waved\n his hand in a broad gesture, \"the highest as well as the lowest slave,\n know me and love me. I know your intentions were the best.\"\n\n\n Ri squirmed, his face pale. \"We do indeed love you, sir.\"\n\n\n Extrone bent forward. \"\nKnow\nme and love me.\"", "\"We didn't have a chance,\" Mia objected. \"Everybody and his brother had\n heard the rumor that farn beasts were somewhere around here. It wasn't\n our fault Extrone found out.\"\n\n\n \"I wish we hadn't shot our guide, then. I wish he was here instead of\n us.\"\n\n\n Mia shook perspiration out of his eyes. \"We should have shot our pilot,\n too. That was our mistake. The pilot must have been the one who told\n Extrone we'd hunted this area.\"\n\n\n \"I didn't think a Club pilot would do that.\"\n\n\n \"After Extrone said he'd hunt farn beasts, even if it meant going to\n the alien system? Listen, you don't know.... Wait a minute.\"\n\n\n There was perspiration on Ri's upper lip.", "\"An alien?\" Extrone corrected.\n\n\n \"There's not enough difference between us to matter, sir. Of tearing an\n alien to pieces, sir.\"\n\n\n Extrone laughed harshly. \"It's 'sir' whenever you contradict me?\"\n\n\n Lin's face remained impassive. \"I guess it seems that way. Sir.\"\n\n\n \"Damned few people would dare go as far as you do,\" Extrone said. \"But\n you're afraid of me, too, in your own way, aren't you?\"\n\n\n Lin shrugged. \"Maybe.\"\n\n\n \"I can see you are. Even my wives are. I wonder if anyone can know how\n wonderful it feels to have people\nall\nafraid of you.\"\n\n\n \"The farn beasts, according to the manual....\"\n\n\n \"You are very insistent on one subject.\"", "Since the hole was drying, the left, partially exposed bank was steep\n toward the muddy water. Upon it was green, new grass, tender-tuffed,\n half mashed in places by heavy animal treads. It was there that they\n staked him out, tying the free end of the rope tightly around the base\n of a scaling tree.\n\n\n \"You will scream,\" Extrone instructed. With his rifle, he pointed\n across the water hole. \"The farn beast will come from this direction, I\n imagine.\"\n\n\n Ri was almost slobbering in fear.\n\n\n \"Let me hear you scream,\" Extrone said.\n\n\n Ri moaned weakly.\n\n\n \"You'll have to do better than that.\" Extrone inclined his head toward\n a bearer, who used something Ri couldn't see.\nRi screamed.", "Extrone pushed the table away. He smacked his lips wetly. \"Very\n ludicrous, Lin. Have you noticed that I have two businessmen for\n guides? It occurred to me when I got up. They would have spat on me,\n twenty years ago, damn them.\"\n\n\n Lin waited.\n\n\n \"Now I can spit on them, which pleases me.\"\n\n\n \"The farn beasts are dangerous, sir,\" Lin said.\n\n\n \"Eh? Oh, yes. Those. What did the manual say about them?\"\n\n\n \"I believe they're carnivorous, sir.\"\n\n\n \"An alien manual. That's ludicrous, too. That we have the only\n information on our newly discovered fauna from an alien manual—and, of\n course, two businessmen.\"\n\n\n \"They have very long, sharp fangs, and, when enraged, are capable of\n tearing a man—\"", "\"\nI\ndidn't tell Extrone, if that's what you're thinking,\" Mia said.\n\n\n Ri's mouth twisted. \"I didn't say you did.\"\n\n\n \"Listen,\" Mia said in a hoarse whisper. \"I just thought. Listen. To\n hell with how he found out. Here's the point. Maybe he'll shoot us,\n too, when the hunt's over.\"\n\n\n Ri licked his lips. \"No. He wouldn't do that. We're not—not just\n anybody. He couldn't kill us like that. Not even\nhim\n. And besides,\n why would he want to do that? It wouldn't do any good to shoot us. Too\n many people already know about the farn beasts. You said that yourself.\"\n\n\n Mia said, \"I hope you're right.\" They stood side by side, studying the\n blast area in silence. Finally, Mia said, \"We better be getting back.\"" ], [ "\"\nI\ndidn't tell Extrone, if that's what you're thinking,\" Mia said.\n\n\n Ri's mouth twisted. \"I didn't say you did.\"\n\n\n \"Listen,\" Mia said in a hoarse whisper. \"I just thought. Listen. To\n hell with how he found out. Here's the point. Maybe he'll shoot us,\n too, when the hunt's over.\"\n\n\n Ri licked his lips. \"No. He wouldn't do that. We're not—not just\n anybody. He couldn't kill us like that. Not even\nhim\n. And besides,\n why would he want to do that? It wouldn't do any good to shoot us. Too\n many people already know about the farn beasts. You said that yourself.\"\n\n\n Mia said, \"I hope you're right.\" They stood side by side, studying the\n blast area in silence. Finally, Mia said, \"We better be getting back.\"", "Ri rubbed his hands along his thighs; he sighed, a tiny sound,\n ineffectual. He followed Lin beyond an outcropping of shale to where\n Extrone was seated, petting his rifle.\n\n\n Extrone nodded genially. \"The farn beast hunter, eh?\"\n\n\n \"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\n Extrone drummed his fingers on the stock of the blast rifle. \"Tell me\n what they look like,\" he said suddenly.\n\n\n \"Well, sir, they're ... uh....\"\n\n\n \"Pretty frightening?\"\n\n\n \"No, sir.... Well, in a way, sir.\"\n\n\n \"But\nyou\nweren't afraid of them, were you?\"\n\n\n \"No, sir. No, because....\"\n\n\n Extrone was smiling innocently. \"Good. I want you to do something for\n me.\"", "\"You'll be safe,\" Extrone said, studying his face with amusement. \"I'll\n shoot the animal before it reaches you.\"\n\n\n Ri gulped for air. \"But ... if there should be more than one?\"\n\n\n Extrone shrugged.\n\n\n \"I—Look, sir. Listen to me.\" Ri's lips were bloodless and his hands\n were trembling. \"It's not me you want to do this to. It's Mia, sir.\nHe\nkilled a farn beast before\nI\ndid, sir. And last night—last\n night, he—\"\n\n\n \"He what?\" Extrone demanded, leaning forward intently.", "\"Yes, sir.\nKnow\nyou and love you, sir,\" Ri said.\n\n\n \"Get out!\" Extrone said.\n\"It's frightening,\" Ri said, \"to be that close to him.\"\n\n\n Mia nodded.\n\n\n The two of them, beneath the leaf-swollen branches of the gnarled tree,\n were seated on their sleeping bags. The moon was clear and cold and\n bright in a cloudless sky; a small moon, smooth-surfaced, except for a\n central mountain ridge that bisected it into almost twin hemispheres.\n\n\n \"To think of him. As flesh and blood. Not like the—well; that—what\n we've read about.\"\n\n\n Mia glanced suspiciously around him at the shadows. \"You begin to\n understand a lot of things, after seeing him.\"\n\n\n Ri picked nervously at the cover of his sleeping bag.", "Ri breathed with a gurgling sound. \"He said he ought to kill you, sir.\n That's what he said. I heard him, sir. He said he ought to kill you.\n He's the one you ought to use for bait. Then if there was an accident,\n sir, it wouldn't matter, because he said he ought to kill you. I\n wouldn't....\"\n\n\n Extrone said, \"Which one is he?\"\n\n\n \"That one. Right over there.\"\n\n\n \"The one with his back to me?\"\n\n\n \"Yes, sir. That's him. That's him, sir.\"\n\n\n Extrone aimed carefully and fired, full charge, then lowered the rifle\n and said, \"Here comes Lin with the rope, I see.\"\n\n\n Ri was greenish. \"You ... you....\"\n\n\n Extrone turned to Lin. \"Tie one end around his waist.\"", "\"That's what I mean. The pilot don't like businessmen. He had it in for\n us.\"\n\n\n Ri cleared his throat nervously. \"Maybe you're right.\"\n\n\n \"It's the Hunting Club he don't like.\"\n\n\n \"I wish to God I'd never heard of a farn beast,\" Ri said. \"At least,\n then, I wouldn't be one of his guides. Why didn't he hire somebody\n else?\"\nMia looked at his companion. He spat. \"What hurts most, he pays us for\n it. I could buy half this planet, and he makes me his guide—at less\n than I pay my secretary.\"\n\n\n \"Well, anyway, we won't have to cross that ridge.\"\n\n\n \"Hey, you!\" Extrone called.\n\n\n The two of them turned immediately.", "\"I ... I....\" Ri glanced nervously at Lin out of the tail of his eye.\n Lin's face was impassive.\n\n\n \"Of\ncourse\nyou will,\" Extrone said genially. \"Get me a rope, Lin. A\n good, long, strong rope.\"\n\n\n \"What are you going to do?\" Ri asked, terrified.\n\n\n \"Why, I'm going to tie the rope around your waist and stake you out as\n bait.\"\n\n\n \"No!\"\n\n\n \"Oh, come now. When the farn beast hears you scream—you\ncan\nscream,\n by the way?\"\n\n\n Ri swallowed.\n\n\n \"We could find a way to make you.\"\n\n\n There was perspiration trickling down Ri's forehead, a single drop,\n creeping toward his nose.", "\"Oh?\"\n\n\n \"Let's get back to the column.\"\n\"Extrone wants to see you,\" Lin said.\n\n\n Ri twisted at the grass shoot, broke it off, worried and unhappy.\n \"What's he want to see\nme\nfor?\"\n\n\n \"I don't know,\" Lin said curtly.\n\n\n Ri got to his feet. One of his hands reached out, plucked nervously\n at Lin's bare forearm. \"Look,\" he whispered. \"You know him. I have—a\n little money. If you were able to ... if he wants,\" Ri gulped, \"to\ndo\nanything to me—I'd pay you, if you could....\"\n\n\n \"You better come along,\" Lin said, turning.", "Extrone nodded. After a moment he said, \"You killed one, I believe, on\nyour\ntrip?\"\n\n\n Ri shifted. \"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\n Extrone held back the flap of the tent. \"Won't you come in?\" he asked\n without any politeness whatever.\n\n\n Ri obeyed the order.\n\n\n The inside of the tent was luxurious. The bed was of bulky feathers,\n costly of transport space, the sleep curtains of silken gauze. The\n floor, heavy, portable tile blocks, not the hollow kind, were neatly\n and smoothly inset into the ground. Hanging from the center, to the\n left of the slender, hand-carved center pole, was a chain of crystals.\n They tinkled lightly when Extrone dropped the flap. The light was\n electric from a portable dynamo. Extrone flipped it on. He crossed to\n the bed, sat down.", "He crossed to Mia, who, along with him, had been pressed into Extrone's\n party as guides. Once more, Ri addressed the bearers, \"Be quick, now!\"\n And to Mia, \"God almighty, he was getting mad.\" He ran a hand under his\n collar. \"It's a good thing that farn beast sounded off when it did. I'd\n hate to think of making him climb that ridge.\"\n\n\n Mia glanced nervously over his shoulder. \"It's that damned pilot's\n fault for setting us down on this side. I told him it was the other\n side. I told him so.\"\n\n\n Ri shrugged hopelessly.\n\n\n Mia said, \"I don't think he even saw a blast area over here. I think he\n wanted to get us in trouble.\"\n\n\n \"There shouldn't be one. There shouldn't be a blast area on this side\n of the ridge, too.\"", "Ri looked around at the shadows.\n\n\n \"That explains a lot of things,\" Mia said. \"I think the Army's been\n preparing for this for a long time. From the first, maybe. That's why\n Extrone cut off our trade with the aliens. Partly to keep them from\n learning that he was getting ready to invade them, but more to keep\n them from exposing\nhim\nto the people. The aliens wouldn't be fooled\n like we were, so easy.\"\n\n\n \"No!\" Ri snapped. \"It was to keep the natural economic balance.\"\n\n\n \"You know that's not right.\"\n\n\n Ri lay down on his bed roll. \"Don't talk about it. It's not good to\n talk like this. I don't even want to listen.\"", "Extrone asked, \"Is there a pass?\"\n\n\n Ri looked up, studying the terrain. He moved his shoulders. \"I don't\n know, but maybe they range this far. Maybe they're on this side of the\n ridge, too.\"\n\n\n Delicately, Extrone raised a hand to his beard. \"I'd hate to lose a day\n crossing the ridge,\" he said.\n\n\n \"Yes, sir,\" Ri said. Suddenly he threw back his head. \"Listen!\"\n\n\n \"Eh?\" Extrone said.\n\n\n \"Hear it? That cough? I think that's one, from over there. Right up\n ahead of us.\"\n\n\n Extrone raised his eyebrows.\n\n\n This time, the coughing roar was more distant, but distinct.\n\n\n \"It is!\" Ri said. \"It's a farn beast, all right!\"", "Extrone's lip twisted in wry amusement. \"If I had waited until it was\n safe for me to hunt on an alien planet, I would not have been able to\n find such an illustrious guide.\"\n\n\n \"... I'm flattered, sir.\"\n\n\n \"Of course,\" Extrone said. \"But you should have spoken to me about it,\n when you discovered the farn beast in our own system.\"\n\n\n \"I realize that, sir. That is, I had intended at the first opportunity,\n sir....\"\n\n\n \"Of course,\" Extrone said dryly. \"Like all of my subjects,\" he waved\n his hand in a broad gesture, \"the highest as well as the lowest slave,\n know me and love me. I know your intentions were the best.\"\n\n\n Ri squirmed, his face pale. \"We do indeed love you, sir.\"\n\n\n Extrone bent forward. \"\nKnow\nme and love me.\"", "Extrone smiled, almost pointed teeth showing through the beard. \"I'm\n glad we won't have to cross the ridge.\"\n\n\n Ri wiped his forehead on the back of his sleeve. \"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\n \"We'll pitch camp right here, then,\" Extrone said. \"We'll go after it\n tomorrow.\" He looked at the sky. \"Have the bearers hurry.\"\n\n\n \"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\n Ri moved away, his pulse gradually slowing. \"You, there!\" he called.\n \"Pitch camp, here!\"", "\"That was something, that time.\" He ran his hand along the stock of the\n weapon.\n\n\n The sun headed west, veiling itself with trees; a large insect circled\n Extrone's head. He slapped at it, angry. The forest was quiet,\n underlined by an occasional piping call, something like a whistle. Ri's\n screams were shrill, echoing away, shiveringly. Lin sat quiet, hunched.\n\n\n Extrone's eyes narrowed, and he began to pet the gun stock with quick,\n jerky movements. Lin licked his lips, keeping his eyes on Extrone's\n face. The sun seemed stuck in the sky, and the heat squeezed against\n them, sucking at their breath like a vacuum. The insect went away.\n Still, endless, hopeless, monotonous, Ri screamed.\nA farn beast coughed, far in the matted forest.\n\n\n Extrone laughed nervously. \"He must have heard.\"", "\"Wait,\" Ri begged, fighting off the rope with his hands. \"You don't\n want to use me, sir. Not after I told you.... Please, sir. If anything\n should happen to me.... Please, sir. Don't do it.\"\n\n\n \"Tie it,\" Extrone ordered.\n\n\n \"No, sir. Please. Oh,\nplease\ndon't, sir.\"\n\n\n \"Tie it,\" Extrone said inexorably.\n\n\n Lin bent with the rope; his face was colorless.\nThey were at the watering hole—Extrone, Lin, two bearers, and Ri.", "Ri began to scream again.\n\n\n Still Extrone did not lift his blast rifle. He was laughing. Lin\n waited, frozen, his eyes staring at the farn beast in fascination.\n\n\n The farn beast plunged into the water, which was shallow, and, throwing\n a sheet of it to either side, headed across toward Ri.\n\n\n \"Watch! Watch!\" Extrone cried gleefully.\n\n\n And then the aliens sprang their trap.", "\"I meant in our system, sir.\"\n\n\n \"Of course you did,\" Extrone said, lazily tracing the crease of his\n sleeve with his forefinger. \"I imagine these are the only farn beasts\n in our system.\"\n\n\n Ri waited uneasily, not answering.\n\n\n \"Yes,\" Extrone said, \"I imagine they are. It would have been a shame if\n you had killed the last one. Don't you think so?\"\n\n\n Ri's hands worried the sides of his outer garment. \"Yes, sir. It would\n have been.\"\n\n\n Extrone pursed his lips. \"It wouldn't have been very considerate of you\n to—But, still, you gained valuable experience. I'm glad you agreed to\n come along as my guide.\"\n\n\n \"It was an honor, sir.\"", "\"See that you keep it up that way,\" Extrone said. \"That's the way I\n want you to sound.\" He turned toward Lin. \"We can climb this tree, I\n think.\"\n\n\n Slowly, aided by the bearers, the two men climbed the tree, bark\n peeling away from under their rough boots. Ri watched them hopelessly.\n\n\n Once at the crotch, Extrone settled down, holding the rifle at alert.\n Lin moved to the left, out on the main branch, rested in a smaller\n crotch.\n\n\n Looking down, Extrone said, \"Scream!\" Then, to Lin, \"You feel the\n excitement? It's always in the air like this at a hunt.\"\n\n\n \"I feel it,\" Lin said.\n\n\n Extrone chuckled. \"You were with me on Meizque?\"\n\n\n \"Yes.\"", "\"It's a different one,\" Lin said.\n\n\n \"How do you know?\"\n\n\n \"Hear the lower pitch, the more of a roar?\"\n\n\n \"Hey!\" Extrone shouted. \"You, down there. There are two coming. Now\n let's hear you really scream!\"\n\n\n Ri, below, whimpered childishly and began to retreat toward the tether\n tree, his eyes wide.\n\n\n \"There's a lot of satisfaction in fooling them, too,\" Extrone said.\n \"Making them come to your bait, where you can get at them.\" He\n opened his right hand. \"Choose your ground, set your trap. Bait it.\"\n He snapped his hand into a fist, held the fist up before his eyes,\n imprisoning the idea. \"Spring the trap when the quarry is inside.\n Clever. That makes the waiting more interesting. Waiting to see if they\n really will come to your bait.\"" ], [ "\"No,\" Ri said. \"Even if we tried to tell them, they wouldn't listen.\n Everybody would\nknow\nwe were lying. Everything they've come to\n believe would tell them we were lying. Everything they've read, every\n picture they've seen. They wouldn't believe us.\nHe\nknows that.\"\n\n\n \"Listen,\" Mia repeated intently. \"This is important. Right now he\n couldn't afford to let us talk. Not right now. Because the Army is\n not against him. Some officers were here, just before we came back. A\n bearer overheard them talking. They don't\nwant\nto overthrow him!\"\n\n\n Ri's teeth, suddenly, were chattering.", "\"It makes you think,\" Mia added. He twitched. \"I'm afraid. I'm afraid\n he'll.... Listen, we'll talk. When we get back to civilization. You,\n me, the bearers. About him. He can't let that happen. He'll kill us\n first.\"\n\n\n Ri looked up at the moon, shivering. \"No. We have friends. We have\n influence. He couldn't just like that—\"\n\n\n \"He could say it was an accident.\"\n\n\n \"No,\" Ri said stubbornly.\n\n\n \"He can say anything,\" Mia insisted. \"He can make people believe\n anything. Whatever he says. There's no way to check on it.\"\n\n\n \"It's getting cold,\" Ri said.\n\n\n \"Listen,\" Mia pleaded.", "\"\nI\ndidn't tell Extrone, if that's what you're thinking,\" Mia said.\n\n\n Ri's mouth twisted. \"I didn't say you did.\"\n\n\n \"Listen,\" Mia said in a hoarse whisper. \"I just thought. Listen. To\n hell with how he found out. Here's the point. Maybe he'll shoot us,\n too, when the hunt's over.\"\n\n\n Ri licked his lips. \"No. He wouldn't do that. We're not—not just\n anybody. He couldn't kill us like that. Not even\nhim\n. And besides,\n why would he want to do that? It wouldn't do any good to shoot us. Too\n many people already know about the farn beasts. You said that yourself.\"\n\n\n Mia said, \"I hope you're right.\" They stood side by side, studying the\n blast area in silence. Finally, Mia said, \"We better be getting back.\"", "He crossed to Mia, who, along with him, had been pressed into Extrone's\n party as guides. Once more, Ri addressed the bearers, \"Be quick, now!\"\n And to Mia, \"God almighty, he was getting mad.\" He ran a hand under his\n collar. \"It's a good thing that farn beast sounded off when it did. I'd\n hate to think of making him climb that ridge.\"\n\n\n Mia glanced nervously over his shoulder. \"It's that damned pilot's\n fault for setting us down on this side. I told him it was the other\n side. I told him so.\"\n\n\n Ri shrugged hopelessly.\n\n\n Mia said, \"I don't think he even saw a blast area over here. I think he\n wanted to get us in trouble.\"\n\n\n \"There shouldn't be one. There shouldn't be a blast area on this side\n of the ridge, too.\"", "\"You'll be safe,\" Extrone said, studying his face with amusement. \"I'll\n shoot the animal before it reaches you.\"\n\n\n Ri gulped for air. \"But ... if there should be more than one?\"\n\n\n Extrone shrugged.\n\n\n \"I—Look, sir. Listen to me.\" Ri's lips were bloodless and his hands\n were trembling. \"It's not me you want to do this to. It's Mia, sir.\nHe\nkilled a farn beast before\nI\ndid, sir. And last night—last\n night, he—\"\n\n\n \"He what?\" Extrone demanded, leaning forward intently.", "\"That's another lie,\" Mia continued. \"That he protects the people from\n the Army. That's a lie. I don't believe they were\never\nplotting\n against him. Not even at first. I think they\nhelped\nhim, don't you\n see?\"\n\n\n Ri whined nervously.\n\n\n \"It's like this,\" Mia said. \"I see it like this. The Army\nput\nhim in\n power when the people were in rebellion against military rule.\"\nRi swallowed. \"We couldn't make the people believe that.\"\n\n\n \"No?\" Mia challenged. \"Couldn't we? Not today, but what about tomorrow?\n You'll see. Because I think the Army is getting ready to invade the\n alien system!\"\n\n\n \"The people won't support them,\" Ri answered woodenly.\n\n\n \"\nThink.\nIf he tells them to, they will. They trust him.\"", "Ri looked around at the shadows.\n\n\n \"That explains a lot of things,\" Mia said. \"I think the Army's been\n preparing for this for a long time. From the first, maybe. That's why\n Extrone cut off our trade with the aliens. Partly to keep them from\n learning that he was getting ready to invade them, but more to keep\n them from exposing\nhim\nto the people. The aliens wouldn't be fooled\n like we were, so easy.\"\n\n\n \"No!\" Ri snapped. \"It was to keep the natural economic balance.\"\n\n\n \"You know that's not right.\"\n\n\n Ri lay down on his bed roll. \"Don't talk about it. It's not good to\n talk like this. I don't even want to listen.\"", "\"When the invasion starts, he'll have to command\nall\ntheir loyalties.\n To keep them from revolt again. They'd be ready to believe us, then.\n He'll have a hard enough time without people running around trying to\n tell the truth.\"\n\n\n \"You're wrong. He's not like that. I know you're wrong.\"\n\n\n Mia smiled twistedly. \"How many has he already killed? How can we even\n guess?\"\n\n\n Ri swallowed sickly.\n\n\n \"Remember our guide? To keep our hunting territory a secret?\"\n\n\n Ri shuddered. \"That's different. Don't you see? This is not at all like\n that.\"\nWith morning came birds' songs, came dew, came breakfast smells.\n The air was sweet with cooking and it was nostalgic, childhoodlike,\n uncontaminated.", "\"Yes, sir.\nKnow\nyou and love you, sir,\" Ri said.\n\n\n \"Get out!\" Extrone said.\n\"It's frightening,\" Ri said, \"to be that close to him.\"\n\n\n Mia nodded.\n\n\n The two of them, beneath the leaf-swollen branches of the gnarled tree,\n were seated on their sleeping bags. The moon was clear and cold and\n bright in a cloudless sky; a small moon, smooth-surfaced, except for a\n central mountain ridge that bisected it into almost twin hemispheres.\n\n\n \"To think of him. As flesh and blood. Not like the—well; that—what\n we've read about.\"\n\n\n Mia glanced suspiciously around him at the shadows. \"You begin to\n understand a lot of things, after seeing him.\"\n\n\n Ri picked nervously at the cover of his sleeping bag.", "\"He'll want the bearers to hack a path for him,\" Mia said. \"But we go\n it alone. Damn him.\"\n\n\n Ri twisted his mouth into a sour frown. He wiped at his forehead. \"Hot.\n By God, it's hot. I didn't think it was this hot, the first time we\n were here.\"\n\n\n Mia said, \"The first time,\nwe\nweren't guides. We didn't notice it so\n much then.\"\n\n\n They fought a few yards more into the forest.\n\n\n Then it ended. Or, rather, there was a wide gap. Before them lay a\n blast area, unmistakable. The grass was beginning to grow again, but\n the tree stumps were roasted from the rocket breath.\n\n\n \"This isn't ours!\" Ri said. \"This looks like it was made nearly a year\n ago!\"", "\"See that you keep it up that way,\" Extrone said. \"That's the way I\n want you to sound.\" He turned toward Lin. \"We can climb this tree, I\n think.\"\n\n\n Slowly, aided by the bearers, the two men climbed the tree, bark\n peeling away from under their rough boots. Ri watched them hopelessly.\n\n\n Once at the crotch, Extrone settled down, holding the rifle at alert.\n Lin moved to the left, out on the main branch, rested in a smaller\n crotch.\n\n\n Looking down, Extrone said, \"Scream!\" Then, to Lin, \"You feel the\n excitement? It's always in the air like this at a hunt.\"\n\n\n \"I feel it,\" Lin said.\n\n\n Extrone chuckled. \"You were with me on Meizque?\"\n\n\n \"Yes.\"", "\"We didn't have a chance,\" Mia objected. \"Everybody and his brother had\n heard the rumor that farn beasts were somewhere around here. It wasn't\n our fault Extrone found out.\"\n\n\n \"I wish we hadn't shot our guide, then. I wish he was here instead of\n us.\"\n\n\n Mia shook perspiration out of his eyes. \"We should have shot our pilot,\n too. That was our mistake. The pilot must have been the one who told\n Extrone we'd hunted this area.\"\n\n\n \"I didn't think a Club pilot would do that.\"\n\n\n \"After Extrone said he'd hunt farn beasts, even if it meant going to\n the alien system? Listen, you don't know.... Wait a minute.\"\n\n\n There was perspiration on Ri's upper lip.", "\"You two scout ahead,\" Extrone said. \"See if you can pick up some\n tracks.\"\n\n\n \"Yes, sir,\" Ri said, and instantly the two of them readjusted their\n shoulder straps and started off.\n\n\n Shortly they were inside of the scrub forest, safe from sight. \"Let's\n wait here,\" Mia said.\n\n\n \"No, we better go on. He may have sent a spy in.\"\n\n\n They pushed on, being careful to blaze the trees, because they were not\n professional guides.\n\n\n \"We don't want to get too near,\" Ri said after toiling through the\n forest for many minutes. \"Without guns, we don't want to get near\n enough for the farn beast to charge us.\"\n\n\n They stopped. The forest was dense, the vines clinging.", "\"That's what I mean. The pilot don't like businessmen. He had it in for\n us.\"\n\n\n Ri cleared his throat nervously. \"Maybe you're right.\"\n\n\n \"It's the Hunting Club he don't like.\"\n\n\n \"I wish to God I'd never heard of a farn beast,\" Ri said. \"At least,\n then, I wouldn't be one of his guides. Why didn't he hire somebody\n else?\"\nMia looked at his companion. He spat. \"What hurts most, he pays us for\n it. I could buy half this planet, and he makes me his guide—at less\n than I pay my secretary.\"\n\n\n \"Well, anyway, we won't have to cross that ridge.\"\n\n\n \"Hey, you!\" Extrone called.\n\n\n The two of them turned immediately.", "Ri breathed with a gurgling sound. \"He said he ought to kill you, sir.\n That's what he said. I heard him, sir. He said he ought to kill you.\n He's the one you ought to use for bait. Then if there was an accident,\n sir, it wouldn't matter, because he said he ought to kill you. I\n wouldn't....\"\n\n\n Extrone said, \"Which one is he?\"\n\n\n \"That one. Right over there.\"\n\n\n \"The one with his back to me?\"\n\n\n \"Yes, sir. That's him. That's him, sir.\"\n\n\n Extrone aimed carefully and fired, full charge, then lowered the rifle\n and said, \"Here comes Lin with the rope, I see.\"\n\n\n Ri was greenish. \"You ... you....\"\n\n\n Extrone turned to Lin. \"Tie one end around his waist.\"", "\"Oh?\"\n\n\n \"Let's get back to the column.\"\n\"Extrone wants to see you,\" Lin said.\n\n\n Ri twisted at the grass shoot, broke it off, worried and unhappy.\n \"What's he want to see\nme\nfor?\"\n\n\n \"I don't know,\" Lin said curtly.\n\n\n Ri got to his feet. One of his hands reached out, plucked nervously\n at Lin's bare forearm. \"Look,\" he whispered. \"You know him. I have—a\n little money. If you were able to ... if he wants,\" Ri gulped, \"to\ndo\nanything to me—I'd pay you, if you could....\"\n\n\n \"You better come along,\" Lin said, turning.", "\"I ... I....\" Ri glanced nervously at Lin out of the tail of his eye.\n Lin's face was impassive.\n\n\n \"Of\ncourse\nyou will,\" Extrone said genially. \"Get me a rope, Lin. A\n good, long, strong rope.\"\n\n\n \"What are you going to do?\" Ri asked, terrified.\n\n\n \"Why, I'm going to tie the rope around your waist and stake you out as\n bait.\"\n\n\n \"No!\"\n\n\n \"Oh, come now. When the farn beast hears you scream—you\ncan\nscream,\n by the way?\"\n\n\n Ri swallowed.\n\n\n \"We could find a way to make you.\"\n\n\n There was perspiration trickling down Ri's forehead, a single drop,\n creeping toward his nose.", "\"Wait,\" Ri begged, fighting off the rope with his hands. \"You don't\n want to use me, sir. Not after I told you.... Please, sir. If anything\n should happen to me.... Please, sir. Don't do it.\"\n\n\n \"Tie it,\" Extrone ordered.\n\n\n \"No, sir. Please. Oh,\nplease\ndon't, sir.\"\n\n\n \"Tie it,\" Extrone said inexorably.\n\n\n Lin bent with the rope; his face was colorless.\nThey were at the watering hole—Extrone, Lin, two bearers, and Ri.", "Ri rubbed his hands along his thighs; he sighed, a tiny sound,\n ineffectual. He followed Lin beyond an outcropping of shale to where\n Extrone was seated, petting his rifle.\n\n\n Extrone nodded genially. \"The farn beast hunter, eh?\"\n\n\n \"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\n Extrone drummed his fingers on the stock of the blast rifle. \"Tell me\n what they look like,\" he said suddenly.\n\n\n \"Well, sir, they're ... uh....\"\n\n\n \"Pretty frightening?\"\n\n\n \"No, sir.... Well, in a way, sir.\"\n\n\n \"But\nyou\nweren't afraid of them, were you?\"\n\n\n \"No, sir. No, because....\"\n\n\n Extrone was smiling innocently. \"Good. I want you to do something for\n me.\"", "\"It's a different one,\" Lin said.\n\n\n \"How do you know?\"\n\n\n \"Hear the lower pitch, the more of a roar?\"\n\n\n \"Hey!\" Extrone shouted. \"You, down there. There are two coming. Now\n let's hear you really scream!\"\n\n\n Ri, below, whimpered childishly and began to retreat toward the tether\n tree, his eyes wide.\n\n\n \"There's a lot of satisfaction in fooling them, too,\" Extrone said.\n \"Making them come to your bait, where you can get at them.\" He\n opened his right hand. \"Choose your ground, set your trap. Bait it.\"\n He snapped his hand into a fist, held the fist up before his eyes,\n imprisoning the idea. \"Spring the trap when the quarry is inside.\n Clever. That makes the waiting more interesting. Waiting to see if they\n really will come to your bait.\"" ] ]
train	20072	[ "How does the author feel about Princess Mononoke?", "How does the animal kingdom feel about Ashitaka?", "How is Miyazaki viewed by his contemporaries?", "How does the author feel about Music of the Heart?", "What is the plot of Music of the Heart?", "How does Princess Mononoke differ from Disney animation?", "How did Meryl Streep prepare for the role of Roberta?", "Who is the antagonist of Princess Mononoke?", "How does the author feel San's relationship with Ashitaka changed her?" ]	[ [ "It is wonderfully strange.", "It is a world that draws you in and takes your breath away. The only distraction is poor voice casting.", "It is a powerful vision of the apocalypse.", "It is technically dazzling." ], [ "They too want to live together in harmony.", "They look upon him with feral hatred.", "They don't like him, some tolerate him.", "They are enemies." ], [ "Miyazaki is homiletic.", "Miyazaki is an inspiration to artists of many genres.", "Miyazaki is contemplative and ferocious.", "Miyazaki is solipsistic." ], [ "The film had lots of areas that could've been improved.", "The director missed his chance to make a great film by making safe choices.", "The film is not going to be nominated for an Academy Award.", "There is not enough footage of the students learning their instruments." ], [ "After a budget cut, a violin teacher in East Harlem arranges a fundraiser at Carnegie Hall.", "A white lady teaches violin in East Harlem.", "A violin teacher in East Harlem takes her students to Carnegie Hall.", "East Harlem students hate their perfectionist violin teacher." ], [ "It is homiletic and solipsistic.", "It is full of splattery carnage.", "There is no pop surrealism like American cartoons.", "It has a pantheistic worldview." ], [ "She learned to play the violin without any former instrument training.", "She began to act very helplessly and feeble around the rest of the cast.", "She is a method actor and became very vulnerable.", "She made herself look dumpy and thick-waisted." ], [ "Lady Eboshi", "The Martian Queen", "Ashitaka", "Moro" ], [ "The character becomes bland as she comes to care for Ashitaka.", "She becomes soft as she comes to care for Ashitaka.", "The originally ferocious character loses some of her edge as she comes to care for Ashitaka.", "San becomes slightly more sympathetic as she comes to care for Ashitaka." ] ]	[ 2, 3, 2, 2, 1, 3, 1, 1, 3 ]	[ 1, 1, 0, 0, 1, 1, 0, 0, 1 ]	[ [ "But then, \"soft\" is not a word you can apply to Princess Mononoke , however pantheistic its worldview. The film, which is rated PG-13, is full of splattery carnage. If Miyazaki in long shot is contemplative, in close-up he's ferocious. He's both inside and outside the action: He knows when to rock your world and when to induce a state of sorrowful detachment. According to the New York Times , Toy Story animators screened reels of his work when their imaginations flagged, and writers for Star Trek named an alien species after one of his features. Watching Princess Mononoke --which has been dubbed to Disney/Miramax specifications by American and English stars but retains its two-hour-plus length, its gory beheadings, and its grim, near-apocalyptic finale--you can understand their worship. It isn't that Miyazaki's work is technically so dazzling in this age of digitized miracles; it's that everything is sublimely in proportion.", "Machines in the Garden \n\n In the animated ecological epic Princess Mononoke , the camera travels over landscapes with a clear, steady gaze, like a Zen hang glider. The images have none of the comin'-at-ya pop-surrealism of American cartoons, many of which have characters that spring out of the frame like jack-in-the-boxes. The Japanese director, Hayao Miyazaki, who spent three years on Princess Mononoke and is reported to have done 70 percent of its paintings himself, seems to work from the outside in: to begin with the curve of the earth, then the mossy hills, the watercolor foliage, the nubby stones, the whorls on the wood, the meticulous carvings on a teacup. He captures the texture of light and the currents of air. You could almost settle down in this landscape. A view of nature that some would call \"tree-hugging\" doesn't feel softheaded when the trees are rendered in such brilliant and robust detail.", "The overfamiliar voices nudge Princess Mononoke closer to its American counterparts--but not by a lot. There's always something wondrously strange. The \"kodamas\" are little tree spirits on doughboy bodies. They cock their trapezoidal dice heads and emit a series of clicks; then their heads pop back with a conclusive rattle. Something about them seems just right; I could watch them for hours. (Miyazaki limits their appearances to seconds--he doesn't wear out their mystery the way that, say, George Lucas would.) And no Hollywood animated feature would end with such a powerful vision of apocalypse, as the land is bestridden by a colossus dropping a thick, caustic, tarlike gel that recalls the post-Hiroshima \"black rain.\" Can you take the kids? I think so. As Miyazaki said at a New York Film Festival press conference, \"Children understand intuitively that the world they have been born into is not a blessed world.\" Princess Mononoke , at least, can tell them why.", "little patience with Ashitaka's call for nature and mankind to live together in harmony; they'd like to eat him. The wolf god, Moro, is slightly more sympathetic, but that's because her adopted \"daughter,\" San (a k a Princess Mononoke),", "The hero, Ashitaka, a warrior from the isolationist Emishi clan, is forced in the first scene to kill a marauding boar--a god turned into a demon (covered in roiling, corrosive worms) by an iron ball lodged in its body. Infected, destined to be consumed by--and to die of--rage, Ashitaka leaves his village in search of the iron ball's source. He discovers a fortress-cum-arms-manufacturing plant called Irontown, presided over by one of the most complex villains in modern film: the regal Lady Eboshi. On one hand, she's a benevolent industrialist who presides over a warmly matriarchal society; on the other, she wants to destroy the forest, harness its resources, and exterminate its animal deities--chiefly the Spirit of the Forest, a magnificent deer god whose touch brings instant life or death, and who transforms at dusk into the towering Night Walker.", "It's a shame that the wolf princess warms up to Ashitaka and spends the rest of the film either saving him or being saved by him. She loses that punk-bitch allure. The voice", "Lady Eboshi--is one of the movie's high points. It's Miyazaki's use of sound--and silence--that takes your breath away: the determined tap of the wolf princess's shoes as she scuttles over the fortress's rooftops; the silence of Eboshi", "P rincess Mononoke builds to a full-scale war between humans and the animal kingdom--which does not, by the way, consist of your father's cartoon critters. In fact, the boars and apes have", "The movie has a scope that makes Hollywood's homiletic, follow-your-dream fables look even more solipsistic. Miyazaki is after nothing less than the moment in our history (the film is set in the 14 th and 15 th centuries) when the power shifted from a \"natural\" world to one shaped by human technology. It's the beginning of what Bill McKibben called \"the end of nature\"--that is, when nature became no longer an autonomous, self-regulating force but one touched (and, in Miyazaki's view, poisoned) by human industry.", "is human. San is first seen sucking a wound of her huge wolf mother, then, as the gore drips from her mouth, training her dark eyes on Ashitaka with feral hatred. Her second appearance--a lone attack on Irontown to assassinate", "voice--I'd be interested to hear the original Japanese actress.) Billy Crudup is just as Disneyfied (Miramaxed?), but that doesn't hurt as much because Ashitaka is conceived from the start as a rather bland ingÃ©nu. Gillian Anderson's growling Moro", "and her army as they stare at this tiny yet formidable tomboy against the black sky. Their battle is so furious that the blades streak and lose definition--it's almost subliminal.", "a voice that the animators deserve. \"Bring the strange-ah to me late-ah,\" she commands in sexy Martian Queen cadences that will stir the loins of Flash Gordon fans everywhere. \"I would like to thank him puh-sonally.\"", "Streep has said that she spent so much of the time on the set learning the violin (she doesn't play any instruments) that she didn't bring the full force of her acting technique to bear on Roberta. Maybe that's why the performance seems so natural. Let her always learn an instrument on the set! Still, she doesn't make much sense of Guaspari. The script, by Pamela Gray ( A Walk on the Moon ), has her students complain of her nastiness and perfectionism, but Streep--who has made herself look dumpy, thick-waisted, and bedraggled--is so busy telegraphing her vulnerability that all we get is dippy niceness. Instead of a monument to an individual's iron will, Music of the Heart becomes the story of a woman so helpless that she arouses the kindness of strangers.", "Some, including the critic at Time , have questioned Soderbergh's sanity. (But of course--Soderbergh flouts time!) I see a method to his madness. Less grandiosely than Harmony Korine in Julien Donkey-Boy , Soderbergh pores over every scene in search of its essential dramatic gesture. He's saying: This --not all that other stuff--is what's important. He telegraphs the ending--you know the Limey will somehow be at the root of his daughter's death--but it's still an emotional wow. The climax justifies the technique. It says the point of this odyssey isn't revenge but regret--for irredeemably blown chances and a tragic waste of love.", "sounds silly (she doesn't have the breath control), and the fey-hick tones of Billy Bob Thornton are too recognizable as the Akim Tamiroff-like mercenary, Jigo. But Minnie Driver--coming off a triumphantly dizzy Jane in Tarzan --once again provides", "\"A special smile ... a certain touch ...\" So begins the elevator-music theme song of Music of the Heart ... \"I never had a lot that I loved so much.\" The credits had just started and I was already looking for a barf bag. Did Miramax and director Wes Craven have to work so hard to schlockify the story of Roberta Guaspari (played here by Meryl Streep), whose violin courses in East Harlem elementary schools have become a beacon for such programs nationwide? A fabled taskmaster (her story was told in the 1996 documentary Small Wonders ), Guaspari used music as a way to teach self-discipline--along with the healthy self-respect that follows in its wake. When the New York school board cut the funding for her program, she proved a marvel of self-promotion, attracting features in all the major dailies and ending up along with her best students at Carnegie Hall for a benefit \"Fiddlefest\"--along with Itzhak Perlman, Isaac Stern, and other legendary \"fiddlers.\"", "But the picture's glory is its layered and intricate syntax. The dialogue moves ahead--there are great gobs of exposition--but the images continually double back: to Stamp and Lesley Ann Warren, as his daughter's acting teacher, simply gazing at each other; or to Stamp sitting on a plane, remembering his daughter as a girl on the beach, the lens of his home movie camera creating an eerily bright--almost supernatural--spot that dances over her face. The film's most violent act happens well off screen. (You hear the distant \"pop-pop-pop-pop-pop\" of the hero's gun.) The rest is only half-glimpsed, fantasized, or saturated by memory--or is the present the memory? Is all of The Limey a temporal hiccup?", "of Claire Danes doesn't help. When Danes says, \"I'd do anything to get you humans out of my forest,\" she sounds like a Valley Girl peeved over lack of parking spaces at the mall. (San needs a more ragged", "actors in the classroom scenes, but the film has a reticence common to most biopics and a mushy, TV-movie humanism that blands out its texture. OK, I was a puddle after some scenes, like the one where Guaspari pushes" ], [ "The hero, Ashitaka, a warrior from the isolationist Emishi clan, is forced in the first scene to kill a marauding boar--a god turned into a demon (covered in roiling, corrosive worms) by an iron ball lodged in its body. Infected, destined to be consumed by--and to die of--rage, Ashitaka leaves his village in search of the iron ball's source. He discovers a fortress-cum-arms-manufacturing plant called Irontown, presided over by one of the most complex villains in modern film: the regal Lady Eboshi. On one hand, she's a benevolent industrialist who presides over a warmly matriarchal society; on the other, she wants to destroy the forest, harness its resources, and exterminate its animal deities--chiefly the Spirit of the Forest, a magnificent deer god whose touch brings instant life or death, and who transforms at dusk into the towering Night Walker.", "little patience with Ashitaka's call for nature and mankind to live together in harmony; they'd like to eat him. The wolf god, Moro, is slightly more sympathetic, but that's because her adopted \"daughter,\" San (a k a Princess Mononoke),", "is human. San is first seen sucking a wound of her huge wolf mother, then, as the gore drips from her mouth, training her dark eyes on Ashitaka with feral hatred. Her second appearance--a lone attack on Irontown to assassinate", "P rincess Mononoke builds to a full-scale war between humans and the animal kingdom--which does not, by the way, consist of your father's cartoon critters. In fact, the boars and apes have", "It's a shame that the wolf princess warms up to Ashitaka and spends the rest of the film either saving him or being saved by him. She loses that punk-bitch allure. The voice", "Lady Eboshi--is one of the movie's high points. It's Miyazaki's use of sound--and silence--that takes your breath away: the determined tap of the wolf princess's shoes as she scuttles over the fortress's rooftops; the silence of Eboshi", "The overfamiliar voices nudge Princess Mononoke closer to its American counterparts--but not by a lot. There's always something wondrously strange. The \"kodamas\" are little tree spirits on doughboy bodies. They cock their trapezoidal dice heads and emit a series of clicks; then their heads pop back with a conclusive rattle. Something about them seems just right; I could watch them for hours. (Miyazaki limits their appearances to seconds--he doesn't wear out their mystery the way that, say, George Lucas would.) And no Hollywood animated feature would end with such a powerful vision of apocalypse, as the land is bestridden by a colossus dropping a thick, caustic, tarlike gel that recalls the post-Hiroshima \"black rain.\" Can you take the kids? I think so. As Miyazaki said at a New York Film Festival press conference, \"Children understand intuitively that the world they have been born into is not a blessed world.\" Princess Mononoke , at least, can tell them why.", "But then, \"soft\" is not a word you can apply to Princess Mononoke , however pantheistic its worldview. The film, which is rated PG-13, is full of splattery carnage. If Miyazaki in long shot is contemplative, in close-up he's ferocious. He's both inside and outside the action: He knows when to rock your world and when to induce a state of sorrowful detachment. According to the New York Times , Toy Story animators screened reels of his work when their imaginations flagged, and writers for Star Trek named an alien species after one of his features. Watching Princess Mononoke --which has been dubbed to Disney/Miramax specifications by American and English stars but retains its two-hour-plus length, its gory beheadings, and its grim, near-apocalyptic finale--you can understand their worship. It isn't that Miyazaki's work is technically so dazzling in this age of digitized miracles; it's that everything is sublimely in proportion.", "The movie has a scope that makes Hollywood's homiletic, follow-your-dream fables look even more solipsistic. Miyazaki is after nothing less than the moment in our history (the film is set in the 14 th and 15 th centuries) when the power shifted from a \"natural\" world to one shaped by human technology. It's the beginning of what Bill McKibben called \"the end of nature\"--that is, when nature became no longer an autonomous, self-regulating force but one touched (and, in Miyazaki's view, poisoned) by human industry.", "Machines in the Garden \n\n In the animated ecological epic Princess Mononoke , the camera travels over landscapes with a clear, steady gaze, like a Zen hang glider. The images have none of the comin'-at-ya pop-surrealism of American cartoons, many of which have characters that spring out of the frame like jack-in-the-boxes. The Japanese director, Hayao Miyazaki, who spent three years on Princess Mononoke and is reported to have done 70 percent of its paintings himself, seems to work from the outside in: to begin with the curve of the earth, then the mossy hills, the watercolor foliage, the nubby stones, the whorls on the wood, the meticulous carvings on a teacup. He captures the texture of light and the currents of air. You could almost settle down in this landscape. A view of nature that some would call \"tree-hugging\" doesn't feel softheaded when the trees are rendered in such brilliant and robust detail.", "voice--I'd be interested to hear the original Japanese actress.) Billy Crudup is just as Disneyfied (Miramaxed?), but that doesn't hurt as much because Ashitaka is conceived from the start as a rather bland ingÃ©nu. Gillian Anderson's growling Moro", "and her army as they stare at this tiny yet formidable tomboy against the black sky. Their battle is so furious that the blades streak and lose definition--it's almost subliminal.", "a voice that the animators deserve. \"Bring the strange-ah to me late-ah,\" she commands in sexy Martian Queen cadences that will stir the loins of Flash Gordon fans everywhere. \"I would like to thank him puh-sonally.\"", "sounds silly (she doesn't have the breath control), and the fey-hick tones of Billy Bob Thornton are too recognizable as the Akim Tamiroff-like mercenary, Jigo. But Minnie Driver--coming off a triumphantly dizzy Jane in Tarzan --once again provides", "of Claire Danes doesn't help. When Danes says, \"I'd do anything to get you humans out of my forest,\" she sounds like a Valley Girl peeved over lack of parking spaces at the mall. (San needs a more ragged", "Hollywood--to go to the Academy Awards--that they neuter themselves. Bending over backward to show how sensitive they can be, they forget that violence--even if it's just emotional violence--belongs in \"ordinary\" dramas, too. Craven does good work with the young", "a student to get her to improve her posture and discovers that the girl is wearing a leg brace. But how much more emotional the Carnegie Hall climax would have been if instead of suddenly seeing these East Harlem kids on", "But the picture's glory is its layered and intricate syntax. The dialogue moves ahead--there are great gobs of exposition--but the images continually double back: to Stamp and Lesley Ann Warren, as his daughter's acting teacher, simply gazing at each other; or to Stamp sitting on a plane, remembering his daughter as a girl on the beach, the lens of his home movie camera creating an eerily bright--almost supernatural--spot that dances over her face. The film's most violent act happens well off screen. (You hear the distant \"pop-pop-pop-pop-pop\" of the hero's gun.) The rest is only half-glimpsed, fantasized, or saturated by memory--or is the present the memory? Is all of The Limey a temporal hiccup?", "Some, including the critic at Time , have questioned Soderbergh's sanity. (But of course--Soderbergh flouts time!) I see a method to his madness. Less grandiosely than Harmony Korine in Julien Donkey-Boy , Soderbergh pores over every scene in search of its essential dramatic gesture. He's saying: This --not all that other stuff--is what's important. He telegraphs the ending--you know the Limey will somehow be at the root of his daughter's death--but it's still an emotional wow. The climax justifies the technique. It says the point of this odyssey isn't revenge but regret--for irredeemably blown chances and a tragic waste of love.", "actors in the classroom scenes, but the film has a reticence common to most biopics and a mushy, TV-movie humanism that blands out its texture. OK, I was a puddle after some scenes, like the one where Guaspari pushes" ], [ "The movie has a scope that makes Hollywood's homiletic, follow-your-dream fables look even more solipsistic. Miyazaki is after nothing less than the moment in our history (the film is set in the 14 th and 15 th centuries) when the power shifted from a \"natural\" world to one shaped by human technology. It's the beginning of what Bill McKibben called \"the end of nature\"--that is, when nature became no longer an autonomous, self-regulating force but one touched (and, in Miyazaki's view, poisoned) by human industry.", "But then, \"soft\" is not a word you can apply to Princess Mononoke , however pantheistic its worldview. The film, which is rated PG-13, is full of splattery carnage. If Miyazaki in long shot is contemplative, in close-up he's ferocious. He's both inside and outside the action: He knows when to rock your world and when to induce a state of sorrowful detachment. According to the New York Times , Toy Story animators screened reels of his work when their imaginations flagged, and writers for Star Trek named an alien species after one of his features. Watching Princess Mononoke --which has been dubbed to Disney/Miramax specifications by American and English stars but retains its two-hour-plus length, its gory beheadings, and its grim, near-apocalyptic finale--you can understand their worship. It isn't that Miyazaki's work is technically so dazzling in this age of digitized miracles; it's that everything is sublimely in proportion.", "Machines in the Garden \n\n In the animated ecological epic Princess Mononoke , the camera travels over landscapes with a clear, steady gaze, like a Zen hang glider. The images have none of the comin'-at-ya pop-surrealism of American cartoons, many of which have characters that spring out of the frame like jack-in-the-boxes. The Japanese director, Hayao Miyazaki, who spent three years on Princess Mononoke and is reported to have done 70 percent of its paintings himself, seems to work from the outside in: to begin with the curve of the earth, then the mossy hills, the watercolor foliage, the nubby stones, the whorls on the wood, the meticulous carvings on a teacup. He captures the texture of light and the currents of air. You could almost settle down in this landscape. A view of nature that some would call \"tree-hugging\" doesn't feel softheaded when the trees are rendered in such brilliant and robust detail.", "Lady Eboshi--is one of the movie's high points. It's Miyazaki's use of sound--and silence--that takes your breath away: the determined tap of the wolf princess's shoes as she scuttles over the fortress's rooftops; the silence of Eboshi", "The overfamiliar voices nudge Princess Mononoke closer to its American counterparts--but not by a lot. There's always something wondrously strange. The \"kodamas\" are little tree spirits on doughboy bodies. They cock their trapezoidal dice heads and emit a series of clicks; then their heads pop back with a conclusive rattle. Something about them seems just right; I could watch them for hours. (Miyazaki limits their appearances to seconds--he doesn't wear out their mystery the way that, say, George Lucas would.) And no Hollywood animated feature would end with such a powerful vision of apocalypse, as the land is bestridden by a colossus dropping a thick, caustic, tarlike gel that recalls the post-Hiroshima \"black rain.\" Can you take the kids? I think so. As Miyazaki said at a New York Film Festival press conference, \"Children understand intuitively that the world they have been born into is not a blessed world.\" Princess Mononoke , at least, can tell them why.", "The hero, Ashitaka, a warrior from the isolationist Emishi clan, is forced in the first scene to kill a marauding boar--a god turned into a demon (covered in roiling, corrosive worms) by an iron ball lodged in its body. Infected, destined to be consumed by--and to die of--rage, Ashitaka leaves his village in search of the iron ball's source. He discovers a fortress-cum-arms-manufacturing plant called Irontown, presided over by one of the most complex villains in modern film: the regal Lady Eboshi. On one hand, she's a benevolent industrialist who presides over a warmly matriarchal society; on the other, she wants to destroy the forest, harness its resources, and exterminate its animal deities--chiefly the Spirit of the Forest, a magnificent deer god whose touch brings instant life or death, and who transforms at dusk into the towering Night Walker.", "little patience with Ashitaka's call for nature and mankind to live together in harmony; they'd like to eat him. The wolf god, Moro, is slightly more sympathetic, but that's because her adopted \"daughter,\" San (a k a Princess Mononoke),", "and her army as they stare at this tiny yet formidable tomboy against the black sky. Their battle is so furious that the blades streak and lose definition--it's almost subliminal.", "P rincess Mononoke builds to a full-scale war between humans and the animal kingdom--which does not, by the way, consist of your father's cartoon critters. In fact, the boars and apes have", "Soderbergh is one of those rare filmmakers who learn on the job. Working within a tight genre structure, he's discovering hundreds of ways of editing a given scene that can give it the richness of a novel. Is he totally successful? No; he misses now and then, which is why the technique sticks out. But what a fantastic effort. See it and weep for what's missing in most other movies.", "voice--I'd be interested to hear the original Japanese actress.) Billy Crudup is just as Disneyfied (Miramaxed?), but that doesn't hurt as much because Ashitaka is conceived from the start as a rather bland ingÃ©nu. Gillian Anderson's growling Moro", "is human. San is first seen sucking a wound of her huge wolf mother, then, as the gore drips from her mouth, training her dark eyes on Ashitaka with feral hatred. Her second appearance--a lone attack on Irontown to assassinate", "But the picture's glory is its layered and intricate syntax. The dialogue moves ahead--there are great gobs of exposition--but the images continually double back: to Stamp and Lesley Ann Warren, as his daughter's acting teacher, simply gazing at each other; or to Stamp sitting on a plane, remembering his daughter as a girl on the beach, the lens of his home movie camera creating an eerily bright--almost supernatural--spot that dances over her face. The film's most violent act happens well off screen. (You hear the distant \"pop-pop-pop-pop-pop\" of the hero's gun.) The rest is only half-glimpsed, fantasized, or saturated by memory--or is the present the memory? Is all of The Limey a temporal hiccup?", "It's a shame that the wolf princess warms up to Ashitaka and spends the rest of the film either saving him or being saved by him. She loses that punk-bitch allure. The voice", "Directors of violent genre pieces like Craven (who got this mainstream gig in return for doing the Scream sequels) or Carl Franklin or Sam Raimi sometimes want so badly to belong to Establishment", "\"A special smile ... a certain touch ...\" So begins the elevator-music theme song of Music of the Heart ... \"I never had a lot that I loved so much.\" The credits had just started and I was already looking for a barf bag. Did Miramax and director Wes Craven have to work so hard to schlockify the story of Roberta Guaspari (played here by Meryl Streep), whose violin courses in East Harlem elementary schools have become a beacon for such programs nationwide? A fabled taskmaster (her story was told in the 1996 documentary Small Wonders ), Guaspari used music as a way to teach self-discipline--along with the healthy self-respect that follows in its wake. When the New York school board cut the funding for her program, she proved a marvel of self-promotion, attracting features in all the major dailies and ending up along with her best students at Carnegie Hall for a benefit \"Fiddlefest\"--along with Itzhak Perlman, Isaac Stern, and other legendary \"fiddlers.\"", "sounds silly (she doesn't have the breath control), and the fey-hick tones of Billy Bob Thornton are too recognizable as the Akim Tamiroff-like mercenary, Jigo. But Minnie Driver--coming off a triumphantly dizzy Jane in Tarzan --once again provides", "Some, including the critic at Time , have questioned Soderbergh's sanity. (But of course--Soderbergh flouts time!) I see a method to his madness. Less grandiosely than Harmony Korine in Julien Donkey-Boy , Soderbergh pores over every scene in search of its essential dramatic gesture. He's saying: This --not all that other stuff--is what's important. He telegraphs the ending--you know the Limey will somehow be at the root of his daughter's death--but it's still an emotional wow. The climax justifies the technique. It says the point of this odyssey isn't revenge but regret--for irredeemably blown chances and a tragic waste of love.", "Hollywood--to go to the Academy Awards--that they neuter themselves. Bending over backward to show how sensitive they can be, they forget that violence--even if it's just emotional violence--belongs in \"ordinary\" dramas, too. Craven does good work with the young", "actors in the classroom scenes, but the film has a reticence common to most biopics and a mushy, TV-movie humanism that blands out its texture. OK, I was a puddle after some scenes, like the one where Guaspari pushes" ], [ "\"A special smile ... a certain touch ...\" So begins the elevator-music theme song of Music of the Heart ... \"I never had a lot that I loved so much.\" The credits had just started and I was already looking for a barf bag. Did Miramax and director Wes Craven have to work so hard to schlockify the story of Roberta Guaspari (played here by Meryl Streep), whose violin courses in East Harlem elementary schools have become a beacon for such programs nationwide? A fabled taskmaster (her story was told in the 1996 documentary Small Wonders ), Guaspari used music as a way to teach self-discipline--along with the healthy self-respect that follows in its wake. When the New York school board cut the funding for her program, she proved a marvel of self-promotion, attracting features in all the major dailies and ending up along with her best students at Carnegie Hall for a benefit \"Fiddlefest\"--along with Itzhak Perlman, Isaac Stern, and other legendary \"fiddlers.\"", "Streep has said that she spent so much of the time on the set learning the violin (she doesn't play any instruments) that she didn't bring the full force of her acting technique to bear on Roberta. Maybe that's why the performance seems so natural. Let her always learn an instrument on the set! Still, she doesn't make much sense of Guaspari. The script, by Pamela Gray ( A Walk on the Moon ), has her students complain of her nastiness and perfectionism, but Streep--who has made herself look dumpy, thick-waisted, and bedraggled--is so busy telegraphing her vulnerability that all we get is dippy niceness. Instead of a monument to an individual's iron will, Music of the Heart becomes the story of a woman so helpless that she arouses the kindness of strangers.", "stage with Perlman, Stern, Joshua Bell, etc., we'd seen them rehearsing first and struggling to keep up. There's too much music of the heart and not enough music of the callused fingers.", "actors in the classroom scenes, but the film has a reticence common to most biopics and a mushy, TV-movie humanism that blands out its texture. OK, I was a puddle after some scenes, like the one where Guaspari pushes", "a student to get her to improve her posture and discovers that the girl is wearing a leg brace. But how much more emotional the Carnegie Hall climax would have been if instead of suddenly seeing these East Harlem kids on", "But the picture's glory is its layered and intricate syntax. The dialogue moves ahead--there are great gobs of exposition--but the images continually double back: to Stamp and Lesley Ann Warren, as his daughter's acting teacher, simply gazing at each other; or to Stamp sitting on a plane, remembering his daughter as a girl on the beach, the lens of his home movie camera creating an eerily bright--almost supernatural--spot that dances over her face. The film's most violent act happens well off screen. (You hear the distant \"pop-pop-pop-pop-pop\" of the hero's gun.) The rest is only half-glimpsed, fantasized, or saturated by memory--or is the present the memory? Is all of The Limey a temporal hiccup?", "Some, including the critic at Time , have questioned Soderbergh's sanity. (But of course--Soderbergh flouts time!) I see a method to his madness. Less grandiosely than Harmony Korine in Julien Donkey-Boy , Soderbergh pores over every scene in search of its essential dramatic gesture. He's saying: This --not all that other stuff--is what's important. He telegraphs the ending--you know the Limey will somehow be at the root of his daughter's death--but it's still an emotional wow. The climax justifies the technique. It says the point of this odyssey isn't revenge but regret--for irredeemably blown chances and a tragic waste of love.", "Hollywood--to go to the Academy Awards--that they neuter themselves. Bending over backward to show how sensitive they can be, they forget that violence--even if it's just emotional violence--belongs in \"ordinary\" dramas, too. Craven does good work with the young", "Soderbergh is one of those rare filmmakers who learn on the job. Working within a tight genre structure, he's discovering hundreds of ways of editing a given scene that can give it the richness of a novel. Is he totally successful? No; he misses now and then, which is why the technique sticks out. But what a fantastic effort. See it and weep for what's missing in most other movies.", "In outline, The Limey is a lean little B-movie revenge melodrama about a felonious Brit (Terence Stamp) who's newly sprung from prison and flies to Southern California to get to the bottom of his beautiful daughter's death: \"My name's Wilson ... Who dunnit?\" The film, directed by Steven Soderbergh, would be worth seeing just for Stamp's performance, at once rock-hard and goofily blinkered, and for Peter Fonda's wittily self-parodic turn as the suspected killer, a music producer who coasts on '60s counterculture easiness while his lackeys do the dirty work. (\"Oh, man,\" he says, the fear finally seeping through the ether. \"This is getting all too close to me.\")", "But then, \"soft\" is not a word you can apply to Princess Mononoke , however pantheistic its worldview. The film, which is rated PG-13, is full of splattery carnage. If Miyazaki in long shot is contemplative, in close-up he's ferocious. He's both inside and outside the action: He knows when to rock your world and when to induce a state of sorrowful detachment. According to the New York Times , Toy Story animators screened reels of his work when their imaginations flagged, and writers for Star Trek named an alien species after one of his features. Watching Princess Mononoke --which has been dubbed to Disney/Miramax specifications by American and English stars but retains its two-hour-plus length, its gory beheadings, and its grim, near-apocalyptic finale--you can understand their worship. It isn't that Miyazaki's work is technically so dazzling in this age of digitized miracles; it's that everything is sublimely in proportion.", "Machines in the Garden \n\n In the animated ecological epic Princess Mononoke , the camera travels over landscapes with a clear, steady gaze, like a Zen hang glider. The images have none of the comin'-at-ya pop-surrealism of American cartoons, many of which have characters that spring out of the frame like jack-in-the-boxes. The Japanese director, Hayao Miyazaki, who spent three years on Princess Mononoke and is reported to have done 70 percent of its paintings himself, seems to work from the outside in: to begin with the curve of the earth, then the mossy hills, the watercolor foliage, the nubby stones, the whorls on the wood, the meticulous carvings on a teacup. He captures the texture of light and the currents of air. You could almost settle down in this landscape. A view of nature that some would call \"tree-hugging\" doesn't feel softheaded when the trees are rendered in such brilliant and robust detail.", "a voice that the animators deserve. \"Bring the strange-ah to me late-ah,\" she commands in sexy Martian Queen cadences that will stir the loins of Flash Gordon fans everywhere. \"I would like to thank him puh-sonally.\"", "The movie has a scope that makes Hollywood's homiletic, follow-your-dream fables look even more solipsistic. Miyazaki is after nothing less than the moment in our history (the film is set in the 14 th and 15 th centuries) when the power shifted from a \"natural\" world to one shaped by human technology. It's the beginning of what Bill McKibben called \"the end of nature\"--that is, when nature became no longer an autonomous, self-regulating force but one touched (and, in Miyazaki's view, poisoned) by human industry.", "Lady Eboshi--is one of the movie's high points. It's Miyazaki's use of sound--and silence--that takes your breath away: the determined tap of the wolf princess's shoes as she scuttles over the fortress's rooftops; the silence of Eboshi", "of Claire Danes doesn't help. When Danes says, \"I'd do anything to get you humans out of my forest,\" she sounds like a Valley Girl peeved over lack of parking spaces at the mall. (San needs a more ragged", "and her army as they stare at this tiny yet formidable tomboy against the black sky. Their battle is so furious that the blades streak and lose definition--it's almost subliminal.", "sounds silly (she doesn't have the breath control), and the fey-hick tones of Billy Bob Thornton are too recognizable as the Akim Tamiroff-like mercenary, Jigo. But Minnie Driver--coming off a triumphantly dizzy Jane in Tarzan --once again provides", "It's a shame that the wolf princess warms up to Ashitaka and spends the rest of the film either saving him or being saved by him. She loses that punk-bitch allure. The voice", "The overfamiliar voices nudge Princess Mononoke closer to its American counterparts--but not by a lot. There's always something wondrously strange. The \"kodamas\" are little tree spirits on doughboy bodies. They cock their trapezoidal dice heads and emit a series of clicks; then their heads pop back with a conclusive rattle. Something about them seems just right; I could watch them for hours. (Miyazaki limits their appearances to seconds--he doesn't wear out their mystery the way that, say, George Lucas would.) And no Hollywood animated feature would end with such a powerful vision of apocalypse, as the land is bestridden by a colossus dropping a thick, caustic, tarlike gel that recalls the post-Hiroshima \"black rain.\" Can you take the kids? I think so. As Miyazaki said at a New York Film Festival press conference, \"Children understand intuitively that the world they have been born into is not a blessed world.\" Princess Mononoke , at least, can tell them why." ], [ "\"A special smile ... a certain touch ...\" So begins the elevator-music theme song of Music of the Heart ... \"I never had a lot that I loved so much.\" The credits had just started and I was already looking for a barf bag. Did Miramax and director Wes Craven have to work so hard to schlockify the story of Roberta Guaspari (played here by Meryl Streep), whose violin courses in East Harlem elementary schools have become a beacon for such programs nationwide? A fabled taskmaster (her story was told in the 1996 documentary Small Wonders ), Guaspari used music as a way to teach self-discipline--along with the healthy self-respect that follows in its wake. When the New York school board cut the funding for her program, she proved a marvel of self-promotion, attracting features in all the major dailies and ending up along with her best students at Carnegie Hall for a benefit \"Fiddlefest\"--along with Itzhak Perlman, Isaac Stern, and other legendary \"fiddlers.\"", "Streep has said that she spent so much of the time on the set learning the violin (she doesn't play any instruments) that she didn't bring the full force of her acting technique to bear on Roberta. Maybe that's why the performance seems so natural. Let her always learn an instrument on the set! Still, she doesn't make much sense of Guaspari. The script, by Pamela Gray ( A Walk on the Moon ), has her students complain of her nastiness and perfectionism, but Streep--who has made herself look dumpy, thick-waisted, and bedraggled--is so busy telegraphing her vulnerability that all we get is dippy niceness. Instead of a monument to an individual's iron will, Music of the Heart becomes the story of a woman so helpless that she arouses the kindness of strangers.", "actors in the classroom scenes, but the film has a reticence common to most biopics and a mushy, TV-movie humanism that blands out its texture. OK, I was a puddle after some scenes, like the one where Guaspari pushes", "stage with Perlman, Stern, Joshua Bell, etc., we'd seen them rehearsing first and struggling to keep up. There's too much music of the heart and not enough music of the callused fingers.", "a student to get her to improve her posture and discovers that the girl is wearing a leg brace. But how much more emotional the Carnegie Hall climax would have been if instead of suddenly seeing these East Harlem kids on", "But the picture's glory is its layered and intricate syntax. The dialogue moves ahead--there are great gobs of exposition--but the images continually double back: to Stamp and Lesley Ann Warren, as his daughter's acting teacher, simply gazing at each other; or to Stamp sitting on a plane, remembering his daughter as a girl on the beach, the lens of his home movie camera creating an eerily bright--almost supernatural--spot that dances over her face. The film's most violent act happens well off screen. (You hear the distant \"pop-pop-pop-pop-pop\" of the hero's gun.) The rest is only half-glimpsed, fantasized, or saturated by memory--or is the present the memory? Is all of The Limey a temporal hiccup?", "In outline, The Limey is a lean little B-movie revenge melodrama about a felonious Brit (Terence Stamp) who's newly sprung from prison and flies to Southern California to get to the bottom of his beautiful daughter's death: \"My name's Wilson ... Who dunnit?\" The film, directed by Steven Soderbergh, would be worth seeing just for Stamp's performance, at once rock-hard and goofily blinkered, and for Peter Fonda's wittily self-parodic turn as the suspected killer, a music producer who coasts on '60s counterculture easiness while his lackeys do the dirty work. (\"Oh, man,\" he says, the fear finally seeping through the ether. \"This is getting all too close to me.\")", "The movie has a scope that makes Hollywood's homiletic, follow-your-dream fables look even more solipsistic. Miyazaki is after nothing less than the moment in our history (the film is set in the 14 th and 15 th centuries) when the power shifted from a \"natural\" world to one shaped by human technology. It's the beginning of what Bill McKibben called \"the end of nature\"--that is, when nature became no longer an autonomous, self-regulating force but one touched (and, in Miyazaki's view, poisoned) by human industry.", "The hero, Ashitaka, a warrior from the isolationist Emishi clan, is forced in the first scene to kill a marauding boar--a god turned into a demon (covered in roiling, corrosive worms) by an iron ball lodged in its body. Infected, destined to be consumed by--and to die of--rage, Ashitaka leaves his village in search of the iron ball's source. He discovers a fortress-cum-arms-manufacturing plant called Irontown, presided over by one of the most complex villains in modern film: the regal Lady Eboshi. On one hand, she's a benevolent industrialist who presides over a warmly matriarchal society; on the other, she wants to destroy the forest, harness its resources, and exterminate its animal deities--chiefly the Spirit of the Forest, a magnificent deer god whose touch brings instant life or death, and who transforms at dusk into the towering Night Walker.", "Some, including the critic at Time , have questioned Soderbergh's sanity. (But of course--Soderbergh flouts time!) I see a method to his madness. Less grandiosely than Harmony Korine in Julien Donkey-Boy , Soderbergh pores over every scene in search of its essential dramatic gesture. He's saying: This --not all that other stuff--is what's important. He telegraphs the ending--you know the Limey will somehow be at the root of his daughter's death--but it's still an emotional wow. The climax justifies the technique. It says the point of this odyssey isn't revenge but regret--for irredeemably blown chances and a tragic waste of love.", "Hollywood--to go to the Academy Awards--that they neuter themselves. Bending over backward to show how sensitive they can be, they forget that violence--even if it's just emotional violence--belongs in \"ordinary\" dramas, too. Craven does good work with the young", "But then, \"soft\" is not a word you can apply to Princess Mononoke , however pantheistic its worldview. The film, which is rated PG-13, is full of splattery carnage. If Miyazaki in long shot is contemplative, in close-up he's ferocious. He's both inside and outside the action: He knows when to rock your world and when to induce a state of sorrowful detachment. According to the New York Times , Toy Story animators screened reels of his work when their imaginations flagged, and writers for Star Trek named an alien species after one of his features. Watching Princess Mononoke --which has been dubbed to Disney/Miramax specifications by American and English stars but retains its two-hour-plus length, its gory beheadings, and its grim, near-apocalyptic finale--you can understand their worship. It isn't that Miyazaki's work is technically so dazzling in this age of digitized miracles; it's that everything is sublimely in proportion.", "Lady Eboshi--is one of the movie's high points. It's Miyazaki's use of sound--and silence--that takes your breath away: the determined tap of the wolf princess's shoes as she scuttles over the fortress's rooftops; the silence of Eboshi", "is human. San is first seen sucking a wound of her huge wolf mother, then, as the gore drips from her mouth, training her dark eyes on Ashitaka with feral hatred. Her second appearance--a lone attack on Irontown to assassinate", "It's a shame that the wolf princess warms up to Ashitaka and spends the rest of the film either saving him or being saved by him. She loses that punk-bitch allure. The voice", "and her army as they stare at this tiny yet formidable tomboy against the black sky. Their battle is so furious that the blades streak and lose definition--it's almost subliminal.", "Machines in the Garden \n\n In the animated ecological epic Princess Mononoke , the camera travels over landscapes with a clear, steady gaze, like a Zen hang glider. The images have none of the comin'-at-ya pop-surrealism of American cartoons, many of which have characters that spring out of the frame like jack-in-the-boxes. The Japanese director, Hayao Miyazaki, who spent three years on Princess Mononoke and is reported to have done 70 percent of its paintings himself, seems to work from the outside in: to begin with the curve of the earth, then the mossy hills, the watercolor foliage, the nubby stones, the whorls on the wood, the meticulous carvings on a teacup. He captures the texture of light and the currents of air. You could almost settle down in this landscape. A view of nature that some would call \"tree-hugging\" doesn't feel softheaded when the trees are rendered in such brilliant and robust detail.", "of Claire Danes doesn't help. When Danes says, \"I'd do anything to get you humans out of my forest,\" she sounds like a Valley Girl peeved over lack of parking spaces at the mall. (San needs a more ragged", "Soderbergh is one of those rare filmmakers who learn on the job. Working within a tight genre structure, he's discovering hundreds of ways of editing a given scene that can give it the richness of a novel. Is he totally successful? No; he misses now and then, which is why the technique sticks out. But what a fantastic effort. See it and weep for what's missing in most other movies.", "little patience with Ashitaka's call for nature and mankind to live together in harmony; they'd like to eat him. The wolf god, Moro, is slightly more sympathetic, but that's because her adopted \"daughter,\" San (a k a Princess Mononoke)," ], [ "But then, \"soft\" is not a word you can apply to Princess Mononoke , however pantheistic its worldview. The film, which is rated PG-13, is full of splattery carnage. If Miyazaki in long shot is contemplative, in close-up he's ferocious. He's both inside and outside the action: He knows when to rock your world and when to induce a state of sorrowful detachment. According to the New York Times , Toy Story animators screened reels of his work when their imaginations flagged, and writers for Star Trek named an alien species after one of his features. Watching Princess Mononoke --which has been dubbed to Disney/Miramax specifications by American and English stars but retains its two-hour-plus length, its gory beheadings, and its grim, near-apocalyptic finale--you can understand their worship. It isn't that Miyazaki's work is technically so dazzling in this age of digitized miracles; it's that everything is sublimely in proportion.", "P rincess Mononoke builds to a full-scale war between humans and the animal kingdom--which does not, by the way, consist of your father's cartoon critters. In fact, the boars and apes have", "Machines in the Garden \n\n In the animated ecological epic Princess Mononoke , the camera travels over landscapes with a clear, steady gaze, like a Zen hang glider. The images have none of the comin'-at-ya pop-surrealism of American cartoons, many of which have characters that spring out of the frame like jack-in-the-boxes. The Japanese director, Hayao Miyazaki, who spent three years on Princess Mononoke and is reported to have done 70 percent of its paintings himself, seems to work from the outside in: to begin with the curve of the earth, then the mossy hills, the watercolor foliage, the nubby stones, the whorls on the wood, the meticulous carvings on a teacup. He captures the texture of light and the currents of air. You could almost settle down in this landscape. A view of nature that some would call \"tree-hugging\" doesn't feel softheaded when the trees are rendered in such brilliant and robust detail.", "The overfamiliar voices nudge Princess Mononoke closer to its American counterparts--but not by a lot. There's always something wondrously strange. The \"kodamas\" are little tree spirits on doughboy bodies. They cock their trapezoidal dice heads and emit a series of clicks; then their heads pop back with a conclusive rattle. Something about them seems just right; I could watch them for hours. (Miyazaki limits their appearances to seconds--he doesn't wear out their mystery the way that, say, George Lucas would.) And no Hollywood animated feature would end with such a powerful vision of apocalypse, as the land is bestridden by a colossus dropping a thick, caustic, tarlike gel that recalls the post-Hiroshima \"black rain.\" Can you take the kids? I think so. As Miyazaki said at a New York Film Festival press conference, \"Children understand intuitively that the world they have been born into is not a blessed world.\" Princess Mononoke , at least, can tell them why.", "The hero, Ashitaka, a warrior from the isolationist Emishi clan, is forced in the first scene to kill a marauding boar--a god turned into a demon (covered in roiling, corrosive worms) by an iron ball lodged in its body. Infected, destined to be consumed by--and to die of--rage, Ashitaka leaves his village in search of the iron ball's source. He discovers a fortress-cum-arms-manufacturing plant called Irontown, presided over by one of the most complex villains in modern film: the regal Lady Eboshi. On one hand, she's a benevolent industrialist who presides over a warmly matriarchal society; on the other, she wants to destroy the forest, harness its resources, and exterminate its animal deities--chiefly the Spirit of the Forest, a magnificent deer god whose touch brings instant life or death, and who transforms at dusk into the towering Night Walker.", "little patience with Ashitaka's call for nature and mankind to live together in harmony; they'd like to eat him. The wolf god, Moro, is slightly more sympathetic, but that's because her adopted \"daughter,\" San (a k a Princess Mononoke),", "Lady Eboshi--is one of the movie's high points. It's Miyazaki's use of sound--and silence--that takes your breath away: the determined tap of the wolf princess's shoes as she scuttles over the fortress's rooftops; the silence of Eboshi", "The movie has a scope that makes Hollywood's homiletic, follow-your-dream fables look even more solipsistic. Miyazaki is after nothing less than the moment in our history (the film is set in the 14 th and 15 th centuries) when the power shifted from a \"natural\" world to one shaped by human technology. It's the beginning of what Bill McKibben called \"the end of nature\"--that is, when nature became no longer an autonomous, self-regulating force but one touched (and, in Miyazaki's view, poisoned) by human industry.", "It's a shame that the wolf princess warms up to Ashitaka and spends the rest of the film either saving him or being saved by him. She loses that punk-bitch allure. The voice", "voice--I'd be interested to hear the original Japanese actress.) Billy Crudup is just as Disneyfied (Miramaxed?), but that doesn't hurt as much because Ashitaka is conceived from the start as a rather bland ingÃ©nu. Gillian Anderson's growling Moro", "is human. San is first seen sucking a wound of her huge wolf mother, then, as the gore drips from her mouth, training her dark eyes on Ashitaka with feral hatred. Her second appearance--a lone attack on Irontown to assassinate", "and her army as they stare at this tiny yet formidable tomboy against the black sky. Their battle is so furious that the blades streak and lose definition--it's almost subliminal.", "sounds silly (she doesn't have the breath control), and the fey-hick tones of Billy Bob Thornton are too recognizable as the Akim Tamiroff-like mercenary, Jigo. But Minnie Driver--coming off a triumphantly dizzy Jane in Tarzan --once again provides", "But the picture's glory is its layered and intricate syntax. The dialogue moves ahead--there are great gobs of exposition--but the images continually double back: to Stamp and Lesley Ann Warren, as his daughter's acting teacher, simply gazing at each other; or to Stamp sitting on a plane, remembering his daughter as a girl on the beach, the lens of his home movie camera creating an eerily bright--almost supernatural--spot that dances over her face. The film's most violent act happens well off screen. (You hear the distant \"pop-pop-pop-pop-pop\" of the hero's gun.) The rest is only half-glimpsed, fantasized, or saturated by memory--or is the present the memory? Is all of The Limey a temporal hiccup?", "a voice that the animators deserve. \"Bring the strange-ah to me late-ah,\" she commands in sexy Martian Queen cadences that will stir the loins of Flash Gordon fans everywhere. \"I would like to thank him puh-sonally.\"", "of Claire Danes doesn't help. When Danes says, \"I'd do anything to get you humans out of my forest,\" she sounds like a Valley Girl peeved over lack of parking spaces at the mall. (San needs a more ragged", "\"A special smile ... a certain touch ...\" So begins the elevator-music theme song of Music of the Heart ... \"I never had a lot that I loved so much.\" The credits had just started and I was already looking for a barf bag. Did Miramax and director Wes Craven have to work so hard to schlockify the story of Roberta Guaspari (played here by Meryl Streep), whose violin courses in East Harlem elementary schools have become a beacon for such programs nationwide? A fabled taskmaster (her story was told in the 1996 documentary Small Wonders ), Guaspari used music as a way to teach self-discipline--along with the healthy self-respect that follows in its wake. When the New York school board cut the funding for her program, she proved a marvel of self-promotion, attracting features in all the major dailies and ending up along with her best students at Carnegie Hall for a benefit \"Fiddlefest\"--along with Itzhak Perlman, Isaac Stern, and other legendary \"fiddlers.\"", "Streep has said that she spent so much of the time on the set learning the violin (she doesn't play any instruments) that she didn't bring the full force of her acting technique to bear on Roberta. Maybe that's why the performance seems so natural. Let her always learn an instrument on the set! Still, she doesn't make much sense of Guaspari. The script, by Pamela Gray ( A Walk on the Moon ), has her students complain of her nastiness and perfectionism, but Streep--who has made herself look dumpy, thick-waisted, and bedraggled--is so busy telegraphing her vulnerability that all we get is dippy niceness. Instead of a monument to an individual's iron will, Music of the Heart becomes the story of a woman so helpless that she arouses the kindness of strangers.", "Soderbergh is one of those rare filmmakers who learn on the job. Working within a tight genre structure, he's discovering hundreds of ways of editing a given scene that can give it the richness of a novel. Is he totally successful? No; he misses now and then, which is why the technique sticks out. But what a fantastic effort. See it and weep for what's missing in most other movies.", "Some, including the critic at Time , have questioned Soderbergh's sanity. (But of course--Soderbergh flouts time!) I see a method to his madness. Less grandiosely than Harmony Korine in Julien Donkey-Boy , Soderbergh pores over every scene in search of its essential dramatic gesture. He's saying: This --not all that other stuff--is what's important. He telegraphs the ending--you know the Limey will somehow be at the root of his daughter's death--but it's still an emotional wow. The climax justifies the technique. It says the point of this odyssey isn't revenge but regret--for irredeemably blown chances and a tragic waste of love." ], [ "Streep has said that she spent so much of the time on the set learning the violin (she doesn't play any instruments) that she didn't bring the full force of her acting technique to bear on Roberta. Maybe that's why the performance seems so natural. Let her always learn an instrument on the set! Still, she doesn't make much sense of Guaspari. The script, by Pamela Gray ( A Walk on the Moon ), has her students complain of her nastiness and perfectionism, but Streep--who has made herself look dumpy, thick-waisted, and bedraggled--is so busy telegraphing her vulnerability that all we get is dippy niceness. Instead of a monument to an individual's iron will, Music of the Heart becomes the story of a woman so helpless that she arouses the kindness of strangers.", "\"A special smile ... a certain touch ...\" So begins the elevator-music theme song of Music of the Heart ... \"I never had a lot that I loved so much.\" The credits had just started and I was already looking for a barf bag. Did Miramax and director Wes Craven have to work so hard to schlockify the story of Roberta Guaspari (played here by Meryl Streep), whose violin courses in East Harlem elementary schools have become a beacon for such programs nationwide? A fabled taskmaster (her story was told in the 1996 documentary Small Wonders ), Guaspari used music as a way to teach self-discipline--along with the healthy self-respect that follows in its wake. When the New York school board cut the funding for her program, she proved a marvel of self-promotion, attracting features in all the major dailies and ending up along with her best students at Carnegie Hall for a benefit \"Fiddlefest\"--along with Itzhak Perlman, Isaac Stern, and other legendary \"fiddlers.\"", "actors in the classroom scenes, but the film has a reticence common to most biopics and a mushy, TV-movie humanism that blands out its texture. OK, I was a puddle after some scenes, like the one where Guaspari pushes", "But the picture's glory is its layered and intricate syntax. The dialogue moves ahead--there are great gobs of exposition--but the images continually double back: to Stamp and Lesley Ann Warren, as his daughter's acting teacher, simply gazing at each other; or to Stamp sitting on a plane, remembering his daughter as a girl on the beach, the lens of his home movie camera creating an eerily bright--almost supernatural--spot that dances over her face. The film's most violent act happens well off screen. (You hear the distant \"pop-pop-pop-pop-pop\" of the hero's gun.) The rest is only half-glimpsed, fantasized, or saturated by memory--or is the present the memory? Is all of The Limey a temporal hiccup?", "sounds silly (she doesn't have the breath control), and the fey-hick tones of Billy Bob Thornton are too recognizable as the Akim Tamiroff-like mercenary, Jigo. But Minnie Driver--coming off a triumphantly dizzy Jane in Tarzan --once again provides", "stage with Perlman, Stern, Joshua Bell, etc., we'd seen them rehearsing first and struggling to keep up. There's too much music of the heart and not enough music of the callused fingers.", "In outline, The Limey is a lean little B-movie revenge melodrama about a felonious Brit (Terence Stamp) who's newly sprung from prison and flies to Southern California to get to the bottom of his beautiful daughter's death: \"My name's Wilson ... Who dunnit?\" The film, directed by Steven Soderbergh, would be worth seeing just for Stamp's performance, at once rock-hard and goofily blinkered, and for Peter Fonda's wittily self-parodic turn as the suspected killer, a music producer who coasts on '60s counterculture easiness while his lackeys do the dirty work. (\"Oh, man,\" he says, the fear finally seeping through the ether. \"This is getting all too close to me.\")", "Some, including the critic at Time , have questioned Soderbergh's sanity. (But of course--Soderbergh flouts time!) I see a method to his madness. Less grandiosely than Harmony Korine in Julien Donkey-Boy , Soderbergh pores over every scene in search of its essential dramatic gesture. He's saying: This --not all that other stuff--is what's important. He telegraphs the ending--you know the Limey will somehow be at the root of his daughter's death--but it's still an emotional wow. The climax justifies the technique. It says the point of this odyssey isn't revenge but regret--for irredeemably blown chances and a tragic waste of love.", "a student to get her to improve her posture and discovers that the girl is wearing a leg brace. But how much more emotional the Carnegie Hall climax would have been if instead of suddenly seeing these East Harlem kids on", "Soderbergh is one of those rare filmmakers who learn on the job. Working within a tight genre structure, he's discovering hundreds of ways of editing a given scene that can give it the richness of a novel. Is he totally successful? No; he misses now and then, which is why the technique sticks out. But what a fantastic effort. See it and weep for what's missing in most other movies.", "Lady Eboshi--is one of the movie's high points. It's Miyazaki's use of sound--and silence--that takes your breath away: the determined tap of the wolf princess's shoes as she scuttles over the fortress's rooftops; the silence of Eboshi", "of Claire Danes doesn't help. When Danes says, \"I'd do anything to get you humans out of my forest,\" she sounds like a Valley Girl peeved over lack of parking spaces at the mall. (San needs a more ragged", "But then, \"soft\" is not a word you can apply to Princess Mononoke , however pantheistic its worldview. The film, which is rated PG-13, is full of splattery carnage. If Miyazaki in long shot is contemplative, in close-up he's ferocious. He's both inside and outside the action: He knows when to rock your world and when to induce a state of sorrowful detachment. According to the New York Times , Toy Story animators screened reels of his work when their imaginations flagged, and writers for Star Trek named an alien species after one of his features. Watching Princess Mononoke --which has been dubbed to Disney/Miramax specifications by American and English stars but retains its two-hour-plus length, its gory beheadings, and its grim, near-apocalyptic finale--you can understand their worship. It isn't that Miyazaki's work is technically so dazzling in this age of digitized miracles; it's that everything is sublimely in proportion.", "a voice that the animators deserve. \"Bring the strange-ah to me late-ah,\" she commands in sexy Martian Queen cadences that will stir the loins of Flash Gordon fans everywhere. \"I would like to thank him puh-sonally.\"", "The movie has a scope that makes Hollywood's homiletic, follow-your-dream fables look even more solipsistic. Miyazaki is after nothing less than the moment in our history (the film is set in the 14 th and 15 th centuries) when the power shifted from a \"natural\" world to one shaped by human technology. It's the beginning of what Bill McKibben called \"the end of nature\"--that is, when nature became no longer an autonomous, self-regulating force but one touched (and, in Miyazaki's view, poisoned) by human industry.", "Hollywood--to go to the Academy Awards--that they neuter themselves. Bending over backward to show how sensitive they can be, they forget that violence--even if it's just emotional violence--belongs in \"ordinary\" dramas, too. Craven does good work with the young", "Machines in the Garden \n\n In the animated ecological epic Princess Mononoke , the camera travels over landscapes with a clear, steady gaze, like a Zen hang glider. The images have none of the comin'-at-ya pop-surrealism of American cartoons, many of which have characters that spring out of the frame like jack-in-the-boxes. The Japanese director, Hayao Miyazaki, who spent three years on Princess Mononoke and is reported to have done 70 percent of its paintings himself, seems to work from the outside in: to begin with the curve of the earth, then the mossy hills, the watercolor foliage, the nubby stones, the whorls on the wood, the meticulous carvings on a teacup. He captures the texture of light and the currents of air. You could almost settle down in this landscape. A view of nature that some would call \"tree-hugging\" doesn't feel softheaded when the trees are rendered in such brilliant and robust detail.", "voice--I'd be interested to hear the original Japanese actress.) Billy Crudup is just as Disneyfied (Miramaxed?), but that doesn't hurt as much because Ashitaka is conceived from the start as a rather bland ingÃ©nu. Gillian Anderson's growling Moro", "and her army as they stare at this tiny yet formidable tomboy against the black sky. Their battle is so furious that the blades streak and lose definition--it's almost subliminal.", "The hero, Ashitaka, a warrior from the isolationist Emishi clan, is forced in the first scene to kill a marauding boar--a god turned into a demon (covered in roiling, corrosive worms) by an iron ball lodged in its body. Infected, destined to be consumed by--and to die of--rage, Ashitaka leaves his village in search of the iron ball's source. He discovers a fortress-cum-arms-manufacturing plant called Irontown, presided over by one of the most complex villains in modern film: the regal Lady Eboshi. On one hand, she's a benevolent industrialist who presides over a warmly matriarchal society; on the other, she wants to destroy the forest, harness its resources, and exterminate its animal deities--chiefly the Spirit of the Forest, a magnificent deer god whose touch brings instant life or death, and who transforms at dusk into the towering Night Walker." ], [ "The hero, Ashitaka, a warrior from the isolationist Emishi clan, is forced in the first scene to kill a marauding boar--a god turned into a demon (covered in roiling, corrosive worms) by an iron ball lodged in its body. Infected, destined to be consumed by--and to die of--rage, Ashitaka leaves his village in search of the iron ball's source. He discovers a fortress-cum-arms-manufacturing plant called Irontown, presided over by one of the most complex villains in modern film: the regal Lady Eboshi. On one hand, she's a benevolent industrialist who presides over a warmly matriarchal society; on the other, she wants to destroy the forest, harness its resources, and exterminate its animal deities--chiefly the Spirit of the Forest, a magnificent deer god whose touch brings instant life or death, and who transforms at dusk into the towering Night Walker.", "little patience with Ashitaka's call for nature and mankind to live together in harmony; they'd like to eat him. The wolf god, Moro, is slightly more sympathetic, but that's because her adopted \"daughter,\" San (a k a Princess Mononoke),", "P rincess Mononoke builds to a full-scale war between humans and the animal kingdom--which does not, by the way, consist of your father's cartoon critters. In fact, the boars and apes have", "is human. San is first seen sucking a wound of her huge wolf mother, then, as the gore drips from her mouth, training her dark eyes on Ashitaka with feral hatred. Her second appearance--a lone attack on Irontown to assassinate", "Lady Eboshi--is one of the movie's high points. It's Miyazaki's use of sound--and silence--that takes your breath away: the determined tap of the wolf princess's shoes as she scuttles over the fortress's rooftops; the silence of Eboshi", "It's a shame that the wolf princess warms up to Ashitaka and spends the rest of the film either saving him or being saved by him. She loses that punk-bitch allure. The voice", "But then, \"soft\" is not a word you can apply to Princess Mononoke , however pantheistic its worldview. The film, which is rated PG-13, is full of splattery carnage. If Miyazaki in long shot is contemplative, in close-up he's ferocious. He's both inside and outside the action: He knows when to rock your world and when to induce a state of sorrowful detachment. According to the New York Times , Toy Story animators screened reels of his work when their imaginations flagged, and writers for Star Trek named an alien species after one of his features. Watching Princess Mononoke --which has been dubbed to Disney/Miramax specifications by American and English stars but retains its two-hour-plus length, its gory beheadings, and its grim, near-apocalyptic finale--you can understand their worship. It isn't that Miyazaki's work is technically so dazzling in this age of digitized miracles; it's that everything is sublimely in proportion.", "The movie has a scope that makes Hollywood's homiletic, follow-your-dream fables look even more solipsistic. Miyazaki is after nothing less than the moment in our history (the film is set in the 14 th and 15 th centuries) when the power shifted from a \"natural\" world to one shaped by human technology. It's the beginning of what Bill McKibben called \"the end of nature\"--that is, when nature became no longer an autonomous, self-regulating force but one touched (and, in Miyazaki's view, poisoned) by human industry.", "The overfamiliar voices nudge Princess Mononoke closer to its American counterparts--but not by a lot. There's always something wondrously strange. The \"kodamas\" are little tree spirits on doughboy bodies. They cock their trapezoidal dice heads and emit a series of clicks; then their heads pop back with a conclusive rattle. Something about them seems just right; I could watch them for hours. (Miyazaki limits their appearances to seconds--he doesn't wear out their mystery the way that, say, George Lucas would.) And no Hollywood animated feature would end with such a powerful vision of apocalypse, as the land is bestridden by a colossus dropping a thick, caustic, tarlike gel that recalls the post-Hiroshima \"black rain.\" Can you take the kids? I think so. As Miyazaki said at a New York Film Festival press conference, \"Children understand intuitively that the world they have been born into is not a blessed world.\" Princess Mononoke , at least, can tell them why.", "Machines in the Garden \n\n In the animated ecological epic Princess Mononoke , the camera travels over landscapes with a clear, steady gaze, like a Zen hang glider. The images have none of the comin'-at-ya pop-surrealism of American cartoons, many of which have characters that spring out of the frame like jack-in-the-boxes. The Japanese director, Hayao Miyazaki, who spent three years on Princess Mononoke and is reported to have done 70 percent of its paintings himself, seems to work from the outside in: to begin with the curve of the earth, then the mossy hills, the watercolor foliage, the nubby stones, the whorls on the wood, the meticulous carvings on a teacup. He captures the texture of light and the currents of air. You could almost settle down in this landscape. A view of nature that some would call \"tree-hugging\" doesn't feel softheaded when the trees are rendered in such brilliant and robust detail.", "voice--I'd be interested to hear the original Japanese actress.) Billy Crudup is just as Disneyfied (Miramaxed?), but that doesn't hurt as much because Ashitaka is conceived from the start as a rather bland ingÃ©nu. Gillian Anderson's growling Moro", "and her army as they stare at this tiny yet formidable tomboy against the black sky. Their battle is so furious that the blades streak and lose definition--it's almost subliminal.", "sounds silly (she doesn't have the breath control), and the fey-hick tones of Billy Bob Thornton are too recognizable as the Akim Tamiroff-like mercenary, Jigo. But Minnie Driver--coming off a triumphantly dizzy Jane in Tarzan --once again provides", "of Claire Danes doesn't help. When Danes says, \"I'd do anything to get you humans out of my forest,\" she sounds like a Valley Girl peeved over lack of parking spaces at the mall. (San needs a more ragged", "In outline, The Limey is a lean little B-movie revenge melodrama about a felonious Brit (Terence Stamp) who's newly sprung from prison and flies to Southern California to get to the bottom of his beautiful daughter's death: \"My name's Wilson ... Who dunnit?\" The film, directed by Steven Soderbergh, would be worth seeing just for Stamp's performance, at once rock-hard and goofily blinkered, and for Peter Fonda's wittily self-parodic turn as the suspected killer, a music producer who coasts on '60s counterculture easiness while his lackeys do the dirty work. (\"Oh, man,\" he says, the fear finally seeping through the ether. \"This is getting all too close to me.\")", "Some, including the critic at Time , have questioned Soderbergh's sanity. (But of course--Soderbergh flouts time!) I see a method to his madness. Less grandiosely than Harmony Korine in Julien Donkey-Boy , Soderbergh pores over every scene in search of its essential dramatic gesture. He's saying: This --not all that other stuff--is what's important. He telegraphs the ending--you know the Limey will somehow be at the root of his daughter's death--but it's still an emotional wow. The climax justifies the technique. It says the point of this odyssey isn't revenge but regret--for irredeemably blown chances and a tragic waste of love.", "Streep has said that she spent so much of the time on the set learning the violin (she doesn't play any instruments) that she didn't bring the full force of her acting technique to bear on Roberta. Maybe that's why the performance seems so natural. Let her always learn an instrument on the set! Still, she doesn't make much sense of Guaspari. The script, by Pamela Gray ( A Walk on the Moon ), has her students complain of her nastiness and perfectionism, but Streep--who has made herself look dumpy, thick-waisted, and bedraggled--is so busy telegraphing her vulnerability that all we get is dippy niceness. Instead of a monument to an individual's iron will, Music of the Heart becomes the story of a woman so helpless that she arouses the kindness of strangers.", "But the picture's glory is its layered and intricate syntax. The dialogue moves ahead--there are great gobs of exposition--but the images continually double back: to Stamp and Lesley Ann Warren, as his daughter's acting teacher, simply gazing at each other; or to Stamp sitting on a plane, remembering his daughter as a girl on the beach, the lens of his home movie camera creating an eerily bright--almost supernatural--spot that dances over her face. The film's most violent act happens well off screen. (You hear the distant \"pop-pop-pop-pop-pop\" of the hero's gun.) The rest is only half-glimpsed, fantasized, or saturated by memory--or is the present the memory? Is all of The Limey a temporal hiccup?", "a voice that the animators deserve. \"Bring the strange-ah to me late-ah,\" she commands in sexy Martian Queen cadences that will stir the loins of Flash Gordon fans everywhere. \"I would like to thank him puh-sonally.\"", "\"A special smile ... a certain touch ...\" So begins the elevator-music theme song of Music of the Heart ... \"I never had a lot that I loved so much.\" The credits had just started and I was already looking for a barf bag. Did Miramax and director Wes Craven have to work so hard to schlockify the story of Roberta Guaspari (played here by Meryl Streep), whose violin courses in East Harlem elementary schools have become a beacon for such programs nationwide? A fabled taskmaster (her story was told in the 1996 documentary Small Wonders ), Guaspari used music as a way to teach self-discipline--along with the healthy self-respect that follows in its wake. When the New York school board cut the funding for her program, she proved a marvel of self-promotion, attracting features in all the major dailies and ending up along with her best students at Carnegie Hall for a benefit \"Fiddlefest\"--along with Itzhak Perlman, Isaac Stern, and other legendary \"fiddlers.\"" ], [ "is human. San is first seen sucking a wound of her huge wolf mother, then, as the gore drips from her mouth, training her dark eyes on Ashitaka with feral hatred. Her second appearance--a lone attack on Irontown to assassinate", "little patience with Ashitaka's call for nature and mankind to live together in harmony; they'd like to eat him. The wolf god, Moro, is slightly more sympathetic, but that's because her adopted \"daughter,\" San (a k a Princess Mononoke),", "It's a shame that the wolf princess warms up to Ashitaka and spends the rest of the film either saving him or being saved by him. She loses that punk-bitch allure. The voice", "The hero, Ashitaka, a warrior from the isolationist Emishi clan, is forced in the first scene to kill a marauding boar--a god turned into a demon (covered in roiling, corrosive worms) by an iron ball lodged in its body. Infected, destined to be consumed by--and to die of--rage, Ashitaka leaves his village in search of the iron ball's source. He discovers a fortress-cum-arms-manufacturing plant called Irontown, presided over by one of the most complex villains in modern film: the regal Lady Eboshi. On one hand, she's a benevolent industrialist who presides over a warmly matriarchal society; on the other, she wants to destroy the forest, harness its resources, and exterminate its animal deities--chiefly the Spirit of the Forest, a magnificent deer god whose touch brings instant life or death, and who transforms at dusk into the towering Night Walker.", "voice--I'd be interested to hear the original Japanese actress.) Billy Crudup is just as Disneyfied (Miramaxed?), but that doesn't hurt as much because Ashitaka is conceived from the start as a rather bland ingÃ©nu. Gillian Anderson's growling Moro", "The movie has a scope that makes Hollywood's homiletic, follow-your-dream fables look even more solipsistic. Miyazaki is after nothing less than the moment in our history (the film is set in the 14 th and 15 th centuries) when the power shifted from a \"natural\" world to one shaped by human technology. It's the beginning of what Bill McKibben called \"the end of nature\"--that is, when nature became no longer an autonomous, self-regulating force but one touched (and, in Miyazaki's view, poisoned) by human industry.", "Lady Eboshi--is one of the movie's high points. It's Miyazaki's use of sound--and silence--that takes your breath away: the determined tap of the wolf princess's shoes as she scuttles over the fortress's rooftops; the silence of Eboshi", "But then, \"soft\" is not a word you can apply to Princess Mononoke , however pantheistic its worldview. The film, which is rated PG-13, is full of splattery carnage. If Miyazaki in long shot is contemplative, in close-up he's ferocious. He's both inside and outside the action: He knows when to rock your world and when to induce a state of sorrowful detachment. According to the New York Times , Toy Story animators screened reels of his work when their imaginations flagged, and writers for Star Trek named an alien species after one of his features. Watching Princess Mononoke --which has been dubbed to Disney/Miramax specifications by American and English stars but retains its two-hour-plus length, its gory beheadings, and its grim, near-apocalyptic finale--you can understand their worship. It isn't that Miyazaki's work is technically so dazzling in this age of digitized miracles; it's that everything is sublimely in proportion.", "The overfamiliar voices nudge Princess Mononoke closer to its American counterparts--but not by a lot. There's always something wondrously strange. The \"kodamas\" are little tree spirits on doughboy bodies. They cock their trapezoidal dice heads and emit a series of clicks; then their heads pop back with a conclusive rattle. Something about them seems just right; I could watch them for hours. (Miyazaki limits their appearances to seconds--he doesn't wear out their mystery the way that, say, George Lucas would.) And no Hollywood animated feature would end with such a powerful vision of apocalypse, as the land is bestridden by a colossus dropping a thick, caustic, tarlike gel that recalls the post-Hiroshima \"black rain.\" Can you take the kids? I think so. As Miyazaki said at a New York Film Festival press conference, \"Children understand intuitively that the world they have been born into is not a blessed world.\" Princess Mononoke , at least, can tell them why.", "Machines in the Garden \n\n In the animated ecological epic Princess Mononoke , the camera travels over landscapes with a clear, steady gaze, like a Zen hang glider. The images have none of the comin'-at-ya pop-surrealism of American cartoons, many of which have characters that spring out of the frame like jack-in-the-boxes. The Japanese director, Hayao Miyazaki, who spent three years on Princess Mononoke and is reported to have done 70 percent of its paintings himself, seems to work from the outside in: to begin with the curve of the earth, then the mossy hills, the watercolor foliage, the nubby stones, the whorls on the wood, the meticulous carvings on a teacup. He captures the texture of light and the currents of air. You could almost settle down in this landscape. A view of nature that some would call \"tree-hugging\" doesn't feel softheaded when the trees are rendered in such brilliant and robust detail.", "of Claire Danes doesn't help. When Danes says, \"I'd do anything to get you humans out of my forest,\" she sounds like a Valley Girl peeved over lack of parking spaces at the mall. (San needs a more ragged", "P rincess Mononoke builds to a full-scale war between humans and the animal kingdom--which does not, by the way, consist of your father's cartoon critters. In fact, the boars and apes have", "and her army as they stare at this tiny yet formidable tomboy against the black sky. Their battle is so furious that the blades streak and lose definition--it's almost subliminal.", "Streep has said that she spent so much of the time on the set learning the violin (she doesn't play any instruments) that she didn't bring the full force of her acting technique to bear on Roberta. Maybe that's why the performance seems so natural. Let her always learn an instrument on the set! Still, she doesn't make much sense of Guaspari. The script, by Pamela Gray ( A Walk on the Moon ), has her students complain of her nastiness and perfectionism, but Streep--who has made herself look dumpy, thick-waisted, and bedraggled--is so busy telegraphing her vulnerability that all we get is dippy niceness. Instead of a monument to an individual's iron will, Music of the Heart becomes the story of a woman so helpless that she arouses the kindness of strangers.", "Some, including the critic at Time , have questioned Soderbergh's sanity. (But of course--Soderbergh flouts time!) I see a method to his madness. Less grandiosely than Harmony Korine in Julien Donkey-Boy , Soderbergh pores over every scene in search of its essential dramatic gesture. He's saying: This --not all that other stuff--is what's important. He telegraphs the ending--you know the Limey will somehow be at the root of his daughter's death--but it's still an emotional wow. The climax justifies the technique. It says the point of this odyssey isn't revenge but regret--for irredeemably blown chances and a tragic waste of love.", "a voice that the animators deserve. \"Bring the strange-ah to me late-ah,\" she commands in sexy Martian Queen cadences that will stir the loins of Flash Gordon fans everywhere. \"I would like to thank him puh-sonally.\"", "\"A special smile ... a certain touch ...\" So begins the elevator-music theme song of Music of the Heart ... \"I never had a lot that I loved so much.\" The credits had just started and I was already looking for a barf bag. Did Miramax and director Wes Craven have to work so hard to schlockify the story of Roberta Guaspari (played here by Meryl Streep), whose violin courses in East Harlem elementary schools have become a beacon for such programs nationwide? A fabled taskmaster (her story was told in the 1996 documentary Small Wonders ), Guaspari used music as a way to teach self-discipline--along with the healthy self-respect that follows in its wake. When the New York school board cut the funding for her program, she proved a marvel of self-promotion, attracting features in all the major dailies and ending up along with her best students at Carnegie Hall for a benefit \"Fiddlefest\"--along with Itzhak Perlman, Isaac Stern, and other legendary \"fiddlers.\"", "a student to get her to improve her posture and discovers that the girl is wearing a leg brace. But how much more emotional the Carnegie Hall climax would have been if instead of suddenly seeing these East Harlem kids on", "sounds silly (she doesn't have the breath control), and the fey-hick tones of Billy Bob Thornton are too recognizable as the Akim Tamiroff-like mercenary, Jigo. But Minnie Driver--coming off a triumphantly dizzy Jane in Tarzan --once again provides", "But the picture's glory is its layered and intricate syntax. The dialogue moves ahead--there are great gobs of exposition--but the images continually double back: to Stamp and Lesley Ann Warren, as his daughter's acting teacher, simply gazing at each other; or to Stamp sitting on a plane, remembering his daughter as a girl on the beach, the lens of his home movie camera creating an eerily bright--almost supernatural--spot that dances over her face. The film's most violent act happens well off screen. (You hear the distant \"pop-pop-pop-pop-pop\" of the hero's gun.) The rest is only half-glimpsed, fantasized, or saturated by memory--or is the present the memory? Is all of The Limey a temporal hiccup?" ] ]
train	26741	[ "What is the relationship between Paul and Rupert?", "Where can a person go to be with friendly faces in Tangier?", "What is Paul doing in Tangier?", "What is Rupert doing in Tangier?", "Why does Paul think aliens are watching Earth?", "Why does Rupert like Tangier?", "How does Rupert feel about Paul?", "Why does Paul think an alien wouldn't be able to hide on Earth?" ]	[ [ "They are two Americans who happen to meet in Tangier.", "They are friends from Liverpool, vacationing in Tangier.", "They play cards together in Tangier.", "They are acquaintances. They met in Tangier." ], [ "The Place de France", "The Boulevard Pasteur", "The Cafe de Paris", "The Grand Socco" ], [ "He is on a business trip to find a source of protein.", "He is on a business trip scouting locations for thrill-seeking tourists.", "He is vacationing.", "He is in Tangier to watch the satellite launch." ], [ "He is on a business trip to find a source of protein.", "He is vacationing.", "He is on a mission to encourage international conflict.", "He is in Tangier to watch the satellite launch." ], [ "The aliens are watching Earth's civilization go through wars and struggles as a form of amusement.", "They want to invite Earth to join the Galactic League of civilized planets.", "Man has invented the H-Bomb. The aliens are scared.", "The aliens are preparing to harvest humans as a food source." ], [ "Tangier is full of criminals and subversives of various sorts.", "Tangier is right in the center of things.", "No one questions what he's doing in Tangier.", "The current exchange rate makes Tangier a cheap place to live." ], [ "Rupert thinks of Paul as a kindred spirit.", "Rupert is annoyed that Paul sat down at his table.", "Rupert suspects Paul might be a Russian spy.", "Paul is easy-going, but Rupert doesn't know him that well." ], [ "Aliens don't look like Earthlings.", "An alien would not be able to mimic a human enough to fit in with society.", "An alien wouldn't be able to assimilate into Earth's backward culture.", "The Earth has so many intelligence agencies, at least one would be watching when an alien gave itself away." ] ]	[ 4, 3, 1, 3, 1, 3, 4, 4 ]	[ 0, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 1, 1 ]	[ [ "Paul said, \"How are you,\n Rupert? Haven't seen you for\n donkey's years.\"\n\n\n The waiter came along and\n Paul ordered a glass of beer.\n Paul was an easy-going, sallow-faced\n little man. I vaguely remembered\n somebody saying he\n was from Liverpool and in\n exports.\n\n\n \"What's in the newspaper?\"\n he said, disinterestedly.\n\n\n \"Pogo and Albert are going\n to fight a duel,\" I told him, \"and\n Lil Abner is becoming a rock'n'roll\n singer.\"\n\n\n He grunted.\n\n\n \"Oh,\" I said, \"the intellectual\n type.\" I scanned the front page.\n \"The Russkies have put up\n another manned satellite.\"\n\n\n \"They have, eh? How big?\"\n\n\n \"Several times bigger than\n anything we Americans have.\"", "I shook my head. \"Not necessarily.\n The first time I ever considered\n this possibility, it seemed\n to me that such an alien would\n base himself in London or New\n York. Somewhere where he could\n use the libraries for research,\n get the daily newspapers and\n the magazines. Be right in the\n center of things. But now I don't\n think so. I think he'd be right\n here in Tangier.\"\n\n\n \"Why Tangier?\"\n\n\n \"It's the one town in the world\n where anything goes. Nobody\n gives a damn about you or your\n affairs. For instance, I've known\n you a year or more now, and I\n haven't the slightest idea of how\n you make your living.\"\n\n\n \"That's right,\" Paul admitted.\n \"In this town you seldom even\n ask a man where's he's from. He\n can be British, a White Russian,\n a Basque or a Sikh and nobody\n could care less. Where are\nyou\nfrom, Rupert?\"", "Paul said, \"I got it. So they're\n scared and are keeping an eye on\n us. That's an old one. I've read\n that a dozen times, dished up\n different.\"\n\n\n I shifted my shoulders. \"Well,\n it's one possibility.\"", "In spite of recent changes, the\n town still has its unique qualities.\n As a result of them the permanent\n population includes\n smugglers and black-marketeers,\n fugitives from justice and international\n con men, espionage\n and counter-espionage agents,\n homosexuals, nymphomaniacs, alcoholics,\n drug addicts, displaced\n persons, ex-royalty, and subversives\n of every flavor. Local law\n limits the activities of few of\n these.\n\n\n Like I said, it's quite a town.\nI looked up from my\nHerald\n Tribune\nand said, \"Hello, Paul.\n Anything new cooking?\"\n\n\n He sank into the chair opposite\n me and looked around for\n the waiter. The tables were all\n crowded and since mine was a\n face he recognized, he assumed\n he was welcome to intrude. It was\n more or less standard procedure\n at the Cafe de Paris. It wasn't\n a place to go if you wanted to\n be alone.", "Paul said seriously, \"You\n know, there's only one big snag\n in this sort of talk. I've sorted\n the whole thing out before, and\n you always come up against this\n brick wall. Where are they, these\n observers, or scholars, or spies\n or whatever they are? Sooner\n or later we'd nab one of them.\n You know, Scotland Yard, or\n the F.B.I., or Russia's secret\n police, or the French Sûreté, or\n Interpol. This world is so deep\n in police, counter-espionage outfits\n and security agents that an\n alien would slip up in time, no\n matter how much he'd been\n trained. Sooner or later, he'd slip\n up, and they'd nab him.\"", "We didn't say anything else for\n a while and I began to wonder\n if I could go back to my paper\n without rubbing him the wrong\n way. I didn't know Paul very\n well, but, for that matter, it's\n comparatively seldom you ever\n get to know anybody very well\n in Tangier. Largely, cards are\n played close to the chest.\nMy beer came and a plate of\n tapas for us both. Tapas at the\n Cafe de Paris are apt to be\n potato salad, a few anchovies,\n olives, and possibly some cheese.\n Free lunch, they used to call it\n in the States.\n\n\n Just to say something, I said,\n \"Where do you think they came\n from?\" And when he looked\n blank, I added, \"The Flying\n Saucers.\"\n\n\n He grinned. \"From Mars or\n Venus, or someplace.\"", "The beer came and looked\n good, so I ordered a glass too.\n\n\n Paul said, \"What ever happened\n to those poxy flying\n saucers?\"\n\n\n \"What flying saucers?\"\n\n\n A French girl went by with a\n poodle so finely clipped as to look\n as though it'd been shaven. The\n girl was in the latest from\n Paris. Every pore in place. We\n both looked after her.\n\n\n \"You know, what everybody\n was seeing a few years ago. It's\n too bad one of these bloody manned\n satellites wasn't up then.\n Maybe they would've seen one.\"\n\n\n \"That's an idea,\" I said.", "\"California,\" I told him.\n\n\n \"No, you're not,\" he grinned.\n\n\n I was taken aback. \"What do\n you mean?\"\n\n\n \"I felt your mind probe back\n a few minutes ago when I was\n talking about Scotland Yard or\n the F.B.I. possibly flushing an\n alien. Telepathy is a sense not\n trained by the humanoids. If\n they had it, your job—and mine—would\n be considerably more\n difficult. Let's face it, in spite of\n these human bodies we're disguised\n in, neither of us is\n humanoid. Where are you really\n from, Rupert?\"\n\n\n \"Aldebaran,\" I said. \"How\n about you?\"\n\n\n \"Deneb,\" he told me, shaking.\n\n\n We had a laugh and ordered\n another beer.\n\n\n \"What're you doing here on\n Earth?\" I asked him.", "\"Well, hell, suppose for instance\n there's this big Galactic League\n of civilized planets. But it's restricted,\n see. You're not eligible\n for membership until you, well,\n say until you've developed space\n flight. Then you're invited into\n the club. Meanwhile, they send\n secret missions down from time\n to time to keep an eye on your\n progress.\"\n\n\n Paul grinned at me. \"I see you\n read the same poxy stuff I do.\"\n\n\n A Moorish girl went by dressed\n in a neatly tailored gray\n jellaba, European style high-heeled\n shoes, and a pinkish silk\n veil so transparent that you\n could see she wore lipstick. Very\n provocative, dark eyes can be\n over a veil. We both looked\n after her.\n\n\n I said, \"Or, here's another\n one. Suppose you have a very\n advanced civilization on, say,\n Mars.\"", "\"Ummmm,\" I said. \"Too bad\n none of them ever crashed, or\n landed on the Yale football field\n and said\nTake me to your cheerleader\n,\n or something.\"\n\n\n Paul yawned and said, \"That\n was always the trouble with those\n crackpot blokes' explanations of\n them. If they were aliens from\n space, then why not show themselves?\"\n\n\n I ate one of the potato chips.\n It'd been cooked in rancid olive\n oil.\n\n\n I said, \"Oh, there are various\n answers to that one. We could\n probably sit around here and\n think of two or three that made\n sense.\"\n\n\n Paul was mildly interested.\n \"Like what?\"", "\"Researching for one of our\n meat trusts. We're protein\n eaters. Humanoid flesh is considered\n quite a delicacy. How\n about you?\"\n\n\n \"Scouting the place for thrill\n tourists. My job is to go around\n to these backward cultures and\n help stir up inter-tribal, or international,\n conflicts—all according\n to how advanced they\n are. Then our tourists come in—well\n shielded, of course—and get\n their kicks watching it.\"\n\n\n Paul frowned. \"That sort of\n practice could spoil an awful\n lot of good meat.\"\nTHE END\nTranscriber's Note:\nThis etext was produced from\nAmazing Stories\nDecember 1960.\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.\n copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and\n typographical errors have been corrected without note.", "\"I got a better one. How's\n this. There's this alien life form\n that's way ahead of us. Their\n civilization is so old that they\n don't have any records of when\n it began and how it was in the\n early days. They've gone beyond\n things like wars and depressions\n and revolutions, and greed for\n power or any of these things\n giving us a bad time here on\n Earth. They're all like scholars,\n get it? And some of them are\n pretty jolly well taken by Earth,\n especially the way we are right\n now, with all the problems, get\n it? Things developing so fast we\n don't know where we're going\n or how we're going to get there.\"\nI finished my beer and clapped\n my hands for Mouley. \"How do\n you mean,\nwhere we're going\n?\"", "\"Well, take half the countries\n in the world today. They're trying\n to industrialize, modernize,\n catch up with the advanced countries.\n Look at Egypt, and Israel,\n and India and China, and Yugoslavia\n and Brazil, and all the\n rest. Trying to drag themselves\n up to the level of the advanced\n countries, and all using different\n methods of doing it. But look\n at the so-called advanced countries.\n Up to their bottoms in\n problems. Juvenile delinquents,\n climbing crime and suicide rates,\n the loony-bins full of the balmy,\n unemployed, threat of war,\n spending all their money on armaments\n instead of things like\n schools. All the bloody mess of\n it. Why, a man from Mars would\n be fascinated, like.\"\n\n\n Mouley came shuffling up in\n his babouche slippers and we\n both ordered another schooner\n of beer.", "One can't be too cautious about the\n \n people one meets in Tangier. They're all\n \n weirdies of one kind or another.\n \n Me? Oh,\nI'm A Stranger\n \nHere Myself\nBy MACK REYNOLDS\nThe\n Place de France is the\n town's hub. It marks the end\n of Boulevard Pasteur, the main\n drag of the westernized part of\n the city, and the beginning of\n Rue de la Liberté, which leads\n down to the Grand Socco and\n the medina. In a three-minute\n walk from the Place de France\n you can go from an ultra-modern,\n California-like resort to the\n Baghdad of Harun al-Rashid.\n\n\n It's quite a town, Tangier.", "\"Not Mars. No air, and too\n bloody dry to support life.\"\n\n\n \"Don't interrupt, please,\" I\n said with mock severity. \"This\n is a very old civilization and as\n the planet began to lose its\n water and air, it withdrew underground.\n Uses hydroponics and\n so forth, husbands its water and\n air. Isn't that what we'd do, in\n a few million years, if Earth lost\n its water and air?\"\n\n\n \"I suppose so,\" he said. \"Anyway,\n what about them?\"\n\n\n \"Well, they observe how man\n is going through a scientific\n boom, an industrial boom, a\n population boom. A boom, period.\n Any day now he's going to have\n practical space ships. Meanwhile,\n he's also got the H-Bomb and\n the way he beats the drums on\n both sides of the Curtain, he's\n not against using it, if he could\n get away with it.\"", "Tangier is possibly the most\n cosmopolitan city in the world.\n In native costume you'll see\n Berber and Rif, Arab and Blue\n Man, and occasionally a Senegalese\n from further south. In\n European dress you'll see Japs\n and Chinese, Hindus and Turks,\n Levantines and Filipinos, North\n Americans and South Americans,\n and, of course, even Europeans—from\n both sides of the\n Curtain.\n\n\n In Tangier you'll find some of\n the world's poorest and some of\n the richest. The poorest will try\n to sell you anything from a\n shoeshine to their not very lily-white\n bodies, and the richest will\n avoid your eyes, afraid\nyou\nmight try to sell them something.", "King-size sidewalk cafes occupy\n three of the strategic\n corners on the Place de France.\n The Cafe de Paris serves the\n best draft beer in town, gets all\n the better custom, and has three\n shoeshine boys attached to the\n establishment. You can sit of a\n sunny morning and read the\n Paris edition of the New York\nHerald Tribune\nwhile getting\n your shoes done up like mirrors\n for thirty Moroccan francs\n which comes to about five cents\n at current exchange.\n\n\n You can sit there, after the\n paper's read, sip your expresso\n and watch the people go by." ], [ "One can't be too cautious about the\n \n people one meets in Tangier. They're all\n \n weirdies of one kind or another.\n \n Me? Oh,\nI'm A Stranger\n \nHere Myself\nBy MACK REYNOLDS\nThe\n Place de France is the\n town's hub. It marks the end\n of Boulevard Pasteur, the main\n drag of the westernized part of\n the city, and the beginning of\n Rue de la Liberté, which leads\n down to the Grand Socco and\n the medina. In a three-minute\n walk from the Place de France\n you can go from an ultra-modern,\n California-like resort to the\n Baghdad of Harun al-Rashid.\n\n\n It's quite a town, Tangier.", "Tangier is possibly the most\n cosmopolitan city in the world.\n In native costume you'll see\n Berber and Rif, Arab and Blue\n Man, and occasionally a Senegalese\n from further south. In\n European dress you'll see Japs\n and Chinese, Hindus and Turks,\n Levantines and Filipinos, North\n Americans and South Americans,\n and, of course, even Europeans—from\n both sides of the\n Curtain.\n\n\n In Tangier you'll find some of\n the world's poorest and some of\n the richest. The poorest will try\n to sell you anything from a\n shoeshine to their not very lily-white\n bodies, and the richest will\n avoid your eyes, afraid\nyou\nmight try to sell them something.", "We didn't say anything else for\n a while and I began to wonder\n if I could go back to my paper\n without rubbing him the wrong\n way. I didn't know Paul very\n well, but, for that matter, it's\n comparatively seldom you ever\n get to know anybody very well\n in Tangier. Largely, cards are\n played close to the chest.\nMy beer came and a plate of\n tapas for us both. Tapas at the\n Cafe de Paris are apt to be\n potato salad, a few anchovies,\n olives, and possibly some cheese.\n Free lunch, they used to call it\n in the States.\n\n\n Just to say something, I said,\n \"Where do you think they came\n from?\" And when he looked\n blank, I added, \"The Flying\n Saucers.\"\n\n\n He grinned. \"From Mars or\n Venus, or someplace.\"", "I shook my head. \"Not necessarily.\n The first time I ever considered\n this possibility, it seemed\n to me that such an alien would\n base himself in London or New\n York. Somewhere where he could\n use the libraries for research,\n get the daily newspapers and\n the magazines. Be right in the\n center of things. But now I don't\n think so. I think he'd be right\n here in Tangier.\"\n\n\n \"Why Tangier?\"\n\n\n \"It's the one town in the world\n where anything goes. Nobody\n gives a damn about you or your\n affairs. For instance, I've known\n you a year or more now, and I\n haven't the slightest idea of how\n you make your living.\"\n\n\n \"That's right,\" Paul admitted.\n \"In this town you seldom even\n ask a man where's he's from. He\n can be British, a White Russian,\n a Basque or a Sikh and nobody\n could care less. Where are\nyou\nfrom, Rupert?\"", "In spite of recent changes, the\n town still has its unique qualities.\n As a result of them the permanent\n population includes\n smugglers and black-marketeers,\n fugitives from justice and international\n con men, espionage\n and counter-espionage agents,\n homosexuals, nymphomaniacs, alcoholics,\n drug addicts, displaced\n persons, ex-royalty, and subversives\n of every flavor. Local law\n limits the activities of few of\n these.\n\n\n Like I said, it's quite a town.\nI looked up from my\nHerald\n Tribune\nand said, \"Hello, Paul.\n Anything new cooking?\"\n\n\n He sank into the chair opposite\n me and looked around for\n the waiter. The tables were all\n crowded and since mine was a\n face he recognized, he assumed\n he was welcome to intrude. It was\n more or less standard procedure\n at the Cafe de Paris. It wasn't\n a place to go if you wanted to\n be alone.", "King-size sidewalk cafes occupy\n three of the strategic\n corners on the Place de France.\n The Cafe de Paris serves the\n best draft beer in town, gets all\n the better custom, and has three\n shoeshine boys attached to the\n establishment. You can sit of a\n sunny morning and read the\n Paris edition of the New York\nHerald Tribune\nwhile getting\n your shoes done up like mirrors\n for thirty Moroccan francs\n which comes to about five cents\n at current exchange.\n\n\n You can sit there, after the\n paper's read, sip your expresso\n and watch the people go by.", "Paul said, \"How are you,\n Rupert? Haven't seen you for\n donkey's years.\"\n\n\n The waiter came along and\n Paul ordered a glass of beer.\n Paul was an easy-going, sallow-faced\n little man. I vaguely remembered\n somebody saying he\n was from Liverpool and in\n exports.\n\n\n \"What's in the newspaper?\"\n he said, disinterestedly.\n\n\n \"Pogo and Albert are going\n to fight a duel,\" I told him, \"and\n Lil Abner is becoming a rock'n'roll\n singer.\"\n\n\n He grunted.\n\n\n \"Oh,\" I said, \"the intellectual\n type.\" I scanned the front page.\n \"The Russkies have put up\n another manned satellite.\"\n\n\n \"They have, eh? How big?\"\n\n\n \"Several times bigger than\n anything we Americans have.\"", "The beer came and looked\n good, so I ordered a glass too.\n\n\n Paul said, \"What ever happened\n to those poxy flying\n saucers?\"\n\n\n \"What flying saucers?\"\n\n\n A French girl went by with a\n poodle so finely clipped as to look\n as though it'd been shaven. The\n girl was in the latest from\n Paris. Every pore in place. We\n both looked after her.\n\n\n \"You know, what everybody\n was seeing a few years ago. It's\n too bad one of these bloody manned\n satellites wasn't up then.\n Maybe they would've seen one.\"\n\n\n \"That's an idea,\" I said.", "\"I got a better one. How's\n this. There's this alien life form\n that's way ahead of us. Their\n civilization is so old that they\n don't have any records of when\n it began and how it was in the\n early days. They've gone beyond\n things like wars and depressions\n and revolutions, and greed for\n power or any of these things\n giving us a bad time here on\n Earth. They're all like scholars,\n get it? And some of them are\n pretty jolly well taken by Earth,\n especially the way we are right\n now, with all the problems, get\n it? Things developing so fast we\n don't know where we're going\n or how we're going to get there.\"\nI finished my beer and clapped\n my hands for Mouley. \"How do\n you mean,\nwhere we're going\n?\"", "\"Well, hell, suppose for instance\n there's this big Galactic League\n of civilized planets. But it's restricted,\n see. You're not eligible\n for membership until you, well,\n say until you've developed space\n flight. Then you're invited into\n the club. Meanwhile, they send\n secret missions down from time\n to time to keep an eye on your\n progress.\"\n\n\n Paul grinned at me. \"I see you\n read the same poxy stuff I do.\"\n\n\n A Moorish girl went by dressed\n in a neatly tailored gray\n jellaba, European style high-heeled\n shoes, and a pinkish silk\n veil so transparent that you\n could see she wore lipstick. Very\n provocative, dark eyes can be\n over a veil. We both looked\n after her.\n\n\n I said, \"Or, here's another\n one. Suppose you have a very\n advanced civilization on, say,\n Mars.\"", "\"California,\" I told him.\n\n\n \"No, you're not,\" he grinned.\n\n\n I was taken aback. \"What do\n you mean?\"\n\n\n \"I felt your mind probe back\n a few minutes ago when I was\n talking about Scotland Yard or\n the F.B.I. possibly flushing an\n alien. Telepathy is a sense not\n trained by the humanoids. If\n they had it, your job—and mine—would\n be considerably more\n difficult. Let's face it, in spite of\n these human bodies we're disguised\n in, neither of us is\n humanoid. Where are you really\n from, Rupert?\"\n\n\n \"Aldebaran,\" I said. \"How\n about you?\"\n\n\n \"Deneb,\" he told me, shaking.\n\n\n We had a laugh and ordered\n another beer.\n\n\n \"What're you doing here on\n Earth?\" I asked him.", "\"Well, take half the countries\n in the world today. They're trying\n to industrialize, modernize,\n catch up with the advanced countries.\n Look at Egypt, and Israel,\n and India and China, and Yugoslavia\n and Brazil, and all the\n rest. Trying to drag themselves\n up to the level of the advanced\n countries, and all using different\n methods of doing it. But look\n at the so-called advanced countries.\n Up to their bottoms in\n problems. Juvenile delinquents,\n climbing crime and suicide rates,\n the loony-bins full of the balmy,\n unemployed, threat of war,\n spending all their money on armaments\n instead of things like\n schools. All the bloody mess of\n it. Why, a man from Mars would\n be fascinated, like.\"\n\n\n Mouley came shuffling up in\n his babouche slippers and we\n both ordered another schooner\n of beer.", "Paul said, \"I got it. So they're\n scared and are keeping an eye on\n us. That's an old one. I've read\n that a dozen times, dished up\n different.\"\n\n\n I shifted my shoulders. \"Well,\n it's one possibility.\"", "Paul said seriously, \"You\n know, there's only one big snag\n in this sort of talk. I've sorted\n the whole thing out before, and\n you always come up against this\n brick wall. Where are they, these\n observers, or scholars, or spies\n or whatever they are? Sooner\n or later we'd nab one of them.\n You know, Scotland Yard, or\n the F.B.I., or Russia's secret\n police, or the French Sûreté, or\n Interpol. This world is so deep\n in police, counter-espionage outfits\n and security agents that an\n alien would slip up in time, no\n matter how much he'd been\n trained. Sooner or later, he'd slip\n up, and they'd nab him.\"", "\"Ummmm,\" I said. \"Too bad\n none of them ever crashed, or\n landed on the Yale football field\n and said\nTake me to your cheerleader\n,\n or something.\"\n\n\n Paul yawned and said, \"That\n was always the trouble with those\n crackpot blokes' explanations of\n them. If they were aliens from\n space, then why not show themselves?\"\n\n\n I ate one of the potato chips.\n It'd been cooked in rancid olive\n oil.\n\n\n I said, \"Oh, there are various\n answers to that one. We could\n probably sit around here and\n think of two or three that made\n sense.\"\n\n\n Paul was mildly interested.\n \"Like what?\"", "\"Not Mars. No air, and too\n bloody dry to support life.\"\n\n\n \"Don't interrupt, please,\" I\n said with mock severity. \"This\n is a very old civilization and as\n the planet began to lose its\n water and air, it withdrew underground.\n Uses hydroponics and\n so forth, husbands its water and\n air. Isn't that what we'd do, in\n a few million years, if Earth lost\n its water and air?\"\n\n\n \"I suppose so,\" he said. \"Anyway,\n what about them?\"\n\n\n \"Well, they observe how man\n is going through a scientific\n boom, an industrial boom, a\n population boom. A boom, period.\n Any day now he's going to have\n practical space ships. Meanwhile,\n he's also got the H-Bomb and\n the way he beats the drums on\n both sides of the Curtain, he's\n not against using it, if he could\n get away with it.\"", "\"Researching for one of our\n meat trusts. We're protein\n eaters. Humanoid flesh is considered\n quite a delicacy. How\n about you?\"\n\n\n \"Scouting the place for thrill\n tourists. My job is to go around\n to these backward cultures and\n help stir up inter-tribal, or international,\n conflicts—all according\n to how advanced they\n are. Then our tourists come in—well\n shielded, of course—and get\n their kicks watching it.\"\n\n\n Paul frowned. \"That sort of\n practice could spoil an awful\n lot of good meat.\"\nTHE END\nTranscriber's Note:\nThis etext was produced from\nAmazing Stories\nDecember 1960.\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.\n copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and\n typographical errors have been corrected without note." ], [ "I shook my head. \"Not necessarily.\n The first time I ever considered\n this possibility, it seemed\n to me that such an alien would\n base himself in London or New\n York. Somewhere where he could\n use the libraries for research,\n get the daily newspapers and\n the magazines. Be right in the\n center of things. But now I don't\n think so. I think he'd be right\n here in Tangier.\"\n\n\n \"Why Tangier?\"\n\n\n \"It's the one town in the world\n where anything goes. Nobody\n gives a damn about you or your\n affairs. For instance, I've known\n you a year or more now, and I\n haven't the slightest idea of how\n you make your living.\"\n\n\n \"That's right,\" Paul admitted.\n \"In this town you seldom even\n ask a man where's he's from. He\n can be British, a White Russian,\n a Basque or a Sikh and nobody\n could care less. Where are\nyou\nfrom, Rupert?\"", "We didn't say anything else for\n a while and I began to wonder\n if I could go back to my paper\n without rubbing him the wrong\n way. I didn't know Paul very\n well, but, for that matter, it's\n comparatively seldom you ever\n get to know anybody very well\n in Tangier. Largely, cards are\n played close to the chest.\nMy beer came and a plate of\n tapas for us both. Tapas at the\n Cafe de Paris are apt to be\n potato salad, a few anchovies,\n olives, and possibly some cheese.\n Free lunch, they used to call it\n in the States.\n\n\n Just to say something, I said,\n \"Where do you think they came\n from?\" And when he looked\n blank, I added, \"The Flying\n Saucers.\"\n\n\n He grinned. \"From Mars or\n Venus, or someplace.\"", "In spite of recent changes, the\n town still has its unique qualities.\n As a result of them the permanent\n population includes\n smugglers and black-marketeers,\n fugitives from justice and international\n con men, espionage\n and counter-espionage agents,\n homosexuals, nymphomaniacs, alcoholics,\n drug addicts, displaced\n persons, ex-royalty, and subversives\n of every flavor. Local law\n limits the activities of few of\n these.\n\n\n Like I said, it's quite a town.\nI looked up from my\nHerald\n Tribune\nand said, \"Hello, Paul.\n Anything new cooking?\"\n\n\n He sank into the chair opposite\n me and looked around for\n the waiter. The tables were all\n crowded and since mine was a\n face he recognized, he assumed\n he was welcome to intrude. It was\n more or less standard procedure\n at the Cafe de Paris. It wasn't\n a place to go if you wanted to\n be alone.", "One can't be too cautious about the\n \n people one meets in Tangier. They're all\n \n weirdies of one kind or another.\n \n Me? Oh,\nI'm A Stranger\n \nHere Myself\nBy MACK REYNOLDS\nThe\n Place de France is the\n town's hub. It marks the end\n of Boulevard Pasteur, the main\n drag of the westernized part of\n the city, and the beginning of\n Rue de la Liberté, which leads\n down to the Grand Socco and\n the medina. In a three-minute\n walk from the Place de France\n you can go from an ultra-modern,\n California-like resort to the\n Baghdad of Harun al-Rashid.\n\n\n It's quite a town, Tangier.", "Tangier is possibly the most\n cosmopolitan city in the world.\n In native costume you'll see\n Berber and Rif, Arab and Blue\n Man, and occasionally a Senegalese\n from further south. In\n European dress you'll see Japs\n and Chinese, Hindus and Turks,\n Levantines and Filipinos, North\n Americans and South Americans,\n and, of course, even Europeans—from\n both sides of the\n Curtain.\n\n\n In Tangier you'll find some of\n the world's poorest and some of\n the richest. The poorest will try\n to sell you anything from a\n shoeshine to their not very lily-white\n bodies, and the richest will\n avoid your eyes, afraid\nyou\nmight try to sell them something.", "Paul said, \"How are you,\n Rupert? Haven't seen you for\n donkey's years.\"\n\n\n The waiter came along and\n Paul ordered a glass of beer.\n Paul was an easy-going, sallow-faced\n little man. I vaguely remembered\n somebody saying he\n was from Liverpool and in\n exports.\n\n\n \"What's in the newspaper?\"\n he said, disinterestedly.\n\n\n \"Pogo and Albert are going\n to fight a duel,\" I told him, \"and\n Lil Abner is becoming a rock'n'roll\n singer.\"\n\n\n He grunted.\n\n\n \"Oh,\" I said, \"the intellectual\n type.\" I scanned the front page.\n \"The Russkies have put up\n another manned satellite.\"\n\n\n \"They have, eh? How big?\"\n\n\n \"Several times bigger than\n anything we Americans have.\"", "Paul said, \"I got it. So they're\n scared and are keeping an eye on\n us. That's an old one. I've read\n that a dozen times, dished up\n different.\"\n\n\n I shifted my shoulders. \"Well,\n it's one possibility.\"", "Paul said seriously, \"You\n know, there's only one big snag\n in this sort of talk. I've sorted\n the whole thing out before, and\n you always come up against this\n brick wall. Where are they, these\n observers, or scholars, or spies\n or whatever they are? Sooner\n or later we'd nab one of them.\n You know, Scotland Yard, or\n the F.B.I., or Russia's secret\n police, or the French Sûreté, or\n Interpol. This world is so deep\n in police, counter-espionage outfits\n and security agents that an\n alien would slip up in time, no\n matter how much he'd been\n trained. Sooner or later, he'd slip\n up, and they'd nab him.\"", "The beer came and looked\n good, so I ordered a glass too.\n\n\n Paul said, \"What ever happened\n to those poxy flying\n saucers?\"\n\n\n \"What flying saucers?\"\n\n\n A French girl went by with a\n poodle so finely clipped as to look\n as though it'd been shaven. The\n girl was in the latest from\n Paris. Every pore in place. We\n both looked after her.\n\n\n \"You know, what everybody\n was seeing a few years ago. It's\n too bad one of these bloody manned\n satellites wasn't up then.\n Maybe they would've seen one.\"\n\n\n \"That's an idea,\" I said.", "\"Well, hell, suppose for instance\n there's this big Galactic League\n of civilized planets. But it's restricted,\n see. You're not eligible\n for membership until you, well,\n say until you've developed space\n flight. Then you're invited into\n the club. Meanwhile, they send\n secret missions down from time\n to time to keep an eye on your\n progress.\"\n\n\n Paul grinned at me. \"I see you\n read the same poxy stuff I do.\"\n\n\n A Moorish girl went by dressed\n in a neatly tailored gray\n jellaba, European style high-heeled\n shoes, and a pinkish silk\n veil so transparent that you\n could see she wore lipstick. Very\n provocative, dark eyes can be\n over a veil. We both looked\n after her.\n\n\n I said, \"Or, here's another\n one. Suppose you have a very\n advanced civilization on, say,\n Mars.\"", "King-size sidewalk cafes occupy\n three of the strategic\n corners on the Place de France.\n The Cafe de Paris serves the\n best draft beer in town, gets all\n the better custom, and has three\n shoeshine boys attached to the\n establishment. You can sit of a\n sunny morning and read the\n Paris edition of the New York\nHerald Tribune\nwhile getting\n your shoes done up like mirrors\n for thirty Moroccan francs\n which comes to about five cents\n at current exchange.\n\n\n You can sit there, after the\n paper's read, sip your expresso\n and watch the people go by.", "\"Ummmm,\" I said. \"Too bad\n none of them ever crashed, or\n landed on the Yale football field\n and said\nTake me to your cheerleader\n,\n or something.\"\n\n\n Paul yawned and said, \"That\n was always the trouble with those\n crackpot blokes' explanations of\n them. If they were aliens from\n space, then why not show themselves?\"\n\n\n I ate one of the potato chips.\n It'd been cooked in rancid olive\n oil.\n\n\n I said, \"Oh, there are various\n answers to that one. We could\n probably sit around here and\n think of two or three that made\n sense.\"\n\n\n Paul was mildly interested.\n \"Like what?\"", "\"Well, take half the countries\n in the world today. They're trying\n to industrialize, modernize,\n catch up with the advanced countries.\n Look at Egypt, and Israel,\n and India and China, and Yugoslavia\n and Brazil, and all the\n rest. Trying to drag themselves\n up to the level of the advanced\n countries, and all using different\n methods of doing it. But look\n at the so-called advanced countries.\n Up to their bottoms in\n problems. Juvenile delinquents,\n climbing crime and suicide rates,\n the loony-bins full of the balmy,\n unemployed, threat of war,\n spending all their money on armaments\n instead of things like\n schools. All the bloody mess of\n it. Why, a man from Mars would\n be fascinated, like.\"\n\n\n Mouley came shuffling up in\n his babouche slippers and we\n both ordered another schooner\n of beer.", "\"Researching for one of our\n meat trusts. We're protein\n eaters. Humanoid flesh is considered\n quite a delicacy. How\n about you?\"\n\n\n \"Scouting the place for thrill\n tourists. My job is to go around\n to these backward cultures and\n help stir up inter-tribal, or international,\n conflicts—all according\n to how advanced they\n are. Then our tourists come in—well\n shielded, of course—and get\n their kicks watching it.\"\n\n\n Paul frowned. \"That sort of\n practice could spoil an awful\n lot of good meat.\"\nTHE END\nTranscriber's Note:\nThis etext was produced from\nAmazing Stories\nDecember 1960.\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.\n copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and\n typographical errors have been corrected without note.", "\"I got a better one. How's\n this. There's this alien life form\n that's way ahead of us. Their\n civilization is so old that they\n don't have any records of when\n it began and how it was in the\n early days. They've gone beyond\n things like wars and depressions\n and revolutions, and greed for\n power or any of these things\n giving us a bad time here on\n Earth. They're all like scholars,\n get it? And some of them are\n pretty jolly well taken by Earth,\n especially the way we are right\n now, with all the problems, get\n it? Things developing so fast we\n don't know where we're going\n or how we're going to get there.\"\nI finished my beer and clapped\n my hands for Mouley. \"How do\n you mean,\nwhere we're going\n?\"", "\"California,\" I told him.\n\n\n \"No, you're not,\" he grinned.\n\n\n I was taken aback. \"What do\n you mean?\"\n\n\n \"I felt your mind probe back\n a few minutes ago when I was\n talking about Scotland Yard or\n the F.B.I. possibly flushing an\n alien. Telepathy is a sense not\n trained by the humanoids. If\n they had it, your job—and mine—would\n be considerably more\n difficult. Let's face it, in spite of\n these human bodies we're disguised\n in, neither of us is\n humanoid. Where are you really\n from, Rupert?\"\n\n\n \"Aldebaran,\" I said. \"How\n about you?\"\n\n\n \"Deneb,\" he told me, shaking.\n\n\n We had a laugh and ordered\n another beer.\n\n\n \"What're you doing here on\n Earth?\" I asked him.", "\"Not Mars. No air, and too\n bloody dry to support life.\"\n\n\n \"Don't interrupt, please,\" I\n said with mock severity. \"This\n is a very old civilization and as\n the planet began to lose its\n water and air, it withdrew underground.\n Uses hydroponics and\n so forth, husbands its water and\n air. Isn't that what we'd do, in\n a few million years, if Earth lost\n its water and air?\"\n\n\n \"I suppose so,\" he said. \"Anyway,\n what about them?\"\n\n\n \"Well, they observe how man\n is going through a scientific\n boom, an industrial boom, a\n population boom. A boom, period.\n Any day now he's going to have\n practical space ships. Meanwhile,\n he's also got the H-Bomb and\n the way he beats the drums on\n both sides of the Curtain, he's\n not against using it, if he could\n get away with it.\"" ], [ "I shook my head. \"Not necessarily.\n The first time I ever considered\n this possibility, it seemed\n to me that such an alien would\n base himself in London or New\n York. Somewhere where he could\n use the libraries for research,\n get the daily newspapers and\n the magazines. Be right in the\n center of things. But now I don't\n think so. I think he'd be right\n here in Tangier.\"\n\n\n \"Why Tangier?\"\n\n\n \"It's the one town in the world\n where anything goes. Nobody\n gives a damn about you or your\n affairs. For instance, I've known\n you a year or more now, and I\n haven't the slightest idea of how\n you make your living.\"\n\n\n \"That's right,\" Paul admitted.\n \"In this town you seldom even\n ask a man where's he's from. He\n can be British, a White Russian,\n a Basque or a Sikh and nobody\n could care less. Where are\nyou\nfrom, Rupert?\"", "We didn't say anything else for\n a while and I began to wonder\n if I could go back to my paper\n without rubbing him the wrong\n way. I didn't know Paul very\n well, but, for that matter, it's\n comparatively seldom you ever\n get to know anybody very well\n in Tangier. Largely, cards are\n played close to the chest.\nMy beer came and a plate of\n tapas for us both. Tapas at the\n Cafe de Paris are apt to be\n potato salad, a few anchovies,\n olives, and possibly some cheese.\n Free lunch, they used to call it\n in the States.\n\n\n Just to say something, I said,\n \"Where do you think they came\n from?\" And when he looked\n blank, I added, \"The Flying\n Saucers.\"\n\n\n He grinned. \"From Mars or\n Venus, or someplace.\"", "One can't be too cautious about the\n \n people one meets in Tangier. They're all\n \n weirdies of one kind or another.\n \n Me? Oh,\nI'm A Stranger\n \nHere Myself\nBy MACK REYNOLDS\nThe\n Place de France is the\n town's hub. It marks the end\n of Boulevard Pasteur, the main\n drag of the westernized part of\n the city, and the beginning of\n Rue de la Liberté, which leads\n down to the Grand Socco and\n the medina. In a three-minute\n walk from the Place de France\n you can go from an ultra-modern,\n California-like resort to the\n Baghdad of Harun al-Rashid.\n\n\n It's quite a town, Tangier.", "Tangier is possibly the most\n cosmopolitan city in the world.\n In native costume you'll see\n Berber and Rif, Arab and Blue\n Man, and occasionally a Senegalese\n from further south. In\n European dress you'll see Japs\n and Chinese, Hindus and Turks,\n Levantines and Filipinos, North\n Americans and South Americans,\n and, of course, even Europeans—from\n both sides of the\n Curtain.\n\n\n In Tangier you'll find some of\n the world's poorest and some of\n the richest. The poorest will try\n to sell you anything from a\n shoeshine to their not very lily-white\n bodies, and the richest will\n avoid your eyes, afraid\nyou\nmight try to sell them something.", "Paul said, \"How are you,\n Rupert? Haven't seen you for\n donkey's years.\"\n\n\n The waiter came along and\n Paul ordered a glass of beer.\n Paul was an easy-going, sallow-faced\n little man. I vaguely remembered\n somebody saying he\n was from Liverpool and in\n exports.\n\n\n \"What's in the newspaper?\"\n he said, disinterestedly.\n\n\n \"Pogo and Albert are going\n to fight a duel,\" I told him, \"and\n Lil Abner is becoming a rock'n'roll\n singer.\"\n\n\n He grunted.\n\n\n \"Oh,\" I said, \"the intellectual\n type.\" I scanned the front page.\n \"The Russkies have put up\n another manned satellite.\"\n\n\n \"They have, eh? How big?\"\n\n\n \"Several times bigger than\n anything we Americans have.\"", "In spite of recent changes, the\n town still has its unique qualities.\n As a result of them the permanent\n population includes\n smugglers and black-marketeers,\n fugitives from justice and international\n con men, espionage\n and counter-espionage agents,\n homosexuals, nymphomaniacs, alcoholics,\n drug addicts, displaced\n persons, ex-royalty, and subversives\n of every flavor. Local law\n limits the activities of few of\n these.\n\n\n Like I said, it's quite a town.\nI looked up from my\nHerald\n Tribune\nand said, \"Hello, Paul.\n Anything new cooking?\"\n\n\n He sank into the chair opposite\n me and looked around for\n the waiter. The tables were all\n crowded and since mine was a\n face he recognized, he assumed\n he was welcome to intrude. It was\n more or less standard procedure\n at the Cafe de Paris. It wasn't\n a place to go if you wanted to\n be alone.", "\"California,\" I told him.\n\n\n \"No, you're not,\" he grinned.\n\n\n I was taken aback. \"What do\n you mean?\"\n\n\n \"I felt your mind probe back\n a few minutes ago when I was\n talking about Scotland Yard or\n the F.B.I. possibly flushing an\n alien. Telepathy is a sense not\n trained by the humanoids. If\n they had it, your job—and mine—would\n be considerably more\n difficult. Let's face it, in spite of\n these human bodies we're disguised\n in, neither of us is\n humanoid. Where are you really\n from, Rupert?\"\n\n\n \"Aldebaran,\" I said. \"How\n about you?\"\n\n\n \"Deneb,\" he told me, shaking.\n\n\n We had a laugh and ordered\n another beer.\n\n\n \"What're you doing here on\n Earth?\" I asked him.", "Paul said seriously, \"You\n know, there's only one big snag\n in this sort of talk. I've sorted\n the whole thing out before, and\n you always come up against this\n brick wall. Where are they, these\n observers, or scholars, or spies\n or whatever they are? Sooner\n or later we'd nab one of them.\n You know, Scotland Yard, or\n the F.B.I., or Russia's secret\n police, or the French Sûreté, or\n Interpol. This world is so deep\n in police, counter-espionage outfits\n and security agents that an\n alien would slip up in time, no\n matter how much he'd been\n trained. Sooner or later, he'd slip\n up, and they'd nab him.\"", "King-size sidewalk cafes occupy\n three of the strategic\n corners on the Place de France.\n The Cafe de Paris serves the\n best draft beer in town, gets all\n the better custom, and has three\n shoeshine boys attached to the\n establishment. You can sit of a\n sunny morning and read the\n Paris edition of the New York\nHerald Tribune\nwhile getting\n your shoes done up like mirrors\n for thirty Moroccan francs\n which comes to about five cents\n at current exchange.\n\n\n You can sit there, after the\n paper's read, sip your expresso\n and watch the people go by.", "The beer came and looked\n good, so I ordered a glass too.\n\n\n Paul said, \"What ever happened\n to those poxy flying\n saucers?\"\n\n\n \"What flying saucers?\"\n\n\n A French girl went by with a\n poodle so finely clipped as to look\n as though it'd been shaven. The\n girl was in the latest from\n Paris. Every pore in place. We\n both looked after her.\n\n\n \"You know, what everybody\n was seeing a few years ago. It's\n too bad one of these bloody manned\n satellites wasn't up then.\n Maybe they would've seen one.\"\n\n\n \"That's an idea,\" I said.", "\"Well, hell, suppose for instance\n there's this big Galactic League\n of civilized planets. But it's restricted,\n see. You're not eligible\n for membership until you, well,\n say until you've developed space\n flight. Then you're invited into\n the club. Meanwhile, they send\n secret missions down from time\n to time to keep an eye on your\n progress.\"\n\n\n Paul grinned at me. \"I see you\n read the same poxy stuff I do.\"\n\n\n A Moorish girl went by dressed\n in a neatly tailored gray\n jellaba, European style high-heeled\n shoes, and a pinkish silk\n veil so transparent that you\n could see she wore lipstick. Very\n provocative, dark eyes can be\n over a veil. We both looked\n after her.\n\n\n I said, \"Or, here's another\n one. Suppose you have a very\n advanced civilization on, say,\n Mars.\"", "Paul said, \"I got it. So they're\n scared and are keeping an eye on\n us. That's an old one. I've read\n that a dozen times, dished up\n different.\"\n\n\n I shifted my shoulders. \"Well,\n it's one possibility.\"", "\"Well, take half the countries\n in the world today. They're trying\n to industrialize, modernize,\n catch up with the advanced countries.\n Look at Egypt, and Israel,\n and India and China, and Yugoslavia\n and Brazil, and all the\n rest. Trying to drag themselves\n up to the level of the advanced\n countries, and all using different\n methods of doing it. But look\n at the so-called advanced countries.\n Up to their bottoms in\n problems. Juvenile delinquents,\n climbing crime and suicide rates,\n the loony-bins full of the balmy,\n unemployed, threat of war,\n spending all their money on armaments\n instead of things like\n schools. All the bloody mess of\n it. Why, a man from Mars would\n be fascinated, like.\"\n\n\n Mouley came shuffling up in\n his babouche slippers and we\n both ordered another schooner\n of beer.", "\"I got a better one. How's\n this. There's this alien life form\n that's way ahead of us. Their\n civilization is so old that they\n don't have any records of when\n it began and how it was in the\n early days. They've gone beyond\n things like wars and depressions\n and revolutions, and greed for\n power or any of these things\n giving us a bad time here on\n Earth. They're all like scholars,\n get it? And some of them are\n pretty jolly well taken by Earth,\n especially the way we are right\n now, with all the problems, get\n it? Things developing so fast we\n don't know where we're going\n or how we're going to get there.\"\nI finished my beer and clapped\n my hands for Mouley. \"How do\n you mean,\nwhere we're going\n?\"", "\"Not Mars. No air, and too\n bloody dry to support life.\"\n\n\n \"Don't interrupt, please,\" I\n said with mock severity. \"This\n is a very old civilization and as\n the planet began to lose its\n water and air, it withdrew underground.\n Uses hydroponics and\n so forth, husbands its water and\n air. Isn't that what we'd do, in\n a few million years, if Earth lost\n its water and air?\"\n\n\n \"I suppose so,\" he said. \"Anyway,\n what about them?\"\n\n\n \"Well, they observe how man\n is going through a scientific\n boom, an industrial boom, a\n population boom. A boom, period.\n Any day now he's going to have\n practical space ships. Meanwhile,\n he's also got the H-Bomb and\n the way he beats the drums on\n both sides of the Curtain, he's\n not against using it, if he could\n get away with it.\"", "\"Researching for one of our\n meat trusts. We're protein\n eaters. Humanoid flesh is considered\n quite a delicacy. How\n about you?\"\n\n\n \"Scouting the place for thrill\n tourists. My job is to go around\n to these backward cultures and\n help stir up inter-tribal, or international,\n conflicts—all according\n to how advanced they\n are. Then our tourists come in—well\n shielded, of course—and get\n their kicks watching it.\"\n\n\n Paul frowned. \"That sort of\n practice could spoil an awful\n lot of good meat.\"\nTHE END\nTranscriber's Note:\nThis etext was produced from\nAmazing Stories\nDecember 1960.\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.\n copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and\n typographical errors have been corrected without note.", "\"Ummmm,\" I said. \"Too bad\n none of them ever crashed, or\n landed on the Yale football field\n and said\nTake me to your cheerleader\n,\n or something.\"\n\n\n Paul yawned and said, \"That\n was always the trouble with those\n crackpot blokes' explanations of\n them. If they were aliens from\n space, then why not show themselves?\"\n\n\n I ate one of the potato chips.\n It'd been cooked in rancid olive\n oil.\n\n\n I said, \"Oh, there are various\n answers to that one. We could\n probably sit around here and\n think of two or three that made\n sense.\"\n\n\n Paul was mildly interested.\n \"Like what?\"" ], [ "Paul said seriously, \"You\n know, there's only one big snag\n in this sort of talk. I've sorted\n the whole thing out before, and\n you always come up against this\n brick wall. Where are they, these\n observers, or scholars, or spies\n or whatever they are? Sooner\n or later we'd nab one of them.\n You know, Scotland Yard, or\n the F.B.I., or Russia's secret\n police, or the French Sûreté, or\n Interpol. This world is so deep\n in police, counter-espionage outfits\n and security agents that an\n alien would slip up in time, no\n matter how much he'd been\n trained. Sooner or later, he'd slip\n up, and they'd nab him.\"", "\"Ummmm,\" I said. \"Too bad\n none of them ever crashed, or\n landed on the Yale football field\n and said\nTake me to your cheerleader\n,\n or something.\"\n\n\n Paul yawned and said, \"That\n was always the trouble with those\n crackpot blokes' explanations of\n them. If they were aliens from\n space, then why not show themselves?\"\n\n\n I ate one of the potato chips.\n It'd been cooked in rancid olive\n oil.\n\n\n I said, \"Oh, there are various\n answers to that one. We could\n probably sit around here and\n think of two or three that made\n sense.\"\n\n\n Paul was mildly interested.\n \"Like what?\"", "Paul said, \"I got it. So they're\n scared and are keeping an eye on\n us. That's an old one. I've read\n that a dozen times, dished up\n different.\"\n\n\n I shifted my shoulders. \"Well,\n it's one possibility.\"", "\"Well, hell, suppose for instance\n there's this big Galactic League\n of civilized planets. But it's restricted,\n see. You're not eligible\n for membership until you, well,\n say until you've developed space\n flight. Then you're invited into\n the club. Meanwhile, they send\n secret missions down from time\n to time to keep an eye on your\n progress.\"\n\n\n Paul grinned at me. \"I see you\n read the same poxy stuff I do.\"\n\n\n A Moorish girl went by dressed\n in a neatly tailored gray\n jellaba, European style high-heeled\n shoes, and a pinkish silk\n veil so transparent that you\n could see she wore lipstick. Very\n provocative, dark eyes can be\n over a veil. We both looked\n after her.\n\n\n I said, \"Or, here's another\n one. Suppose you have a very\n advanced civilization on, say,\n Mars.\"", "The beer came and looked\n good, so I ordered a glass too.\n\n\n Paul said, \"What ever happened\n to those poxy flying\n saucers?\"\n\n\n \"What flying saucers?\"\n\n\n A French girl went by with a\n poodle so finely clipped as to look\n as though it'd been shaven. The\n girl was in the latest from\n Paris. Every pore in place. We\n both looked after her.\n\n\n \"You know, what everybody\n was seeing a few years ago. It's\n too bad one of these bloody manned\n satellites wasn't up then.\n Maybe they would've seen one.\"\n\n\n \"That's an idea,\" I said.", "\"I got a better one. How's\n this. There's this alien life form\n that's way ahead of us. Their\n civilization is so old that they\n don't have any records of when\n it began and how it was in the\n early days. They've gone beyond\n things like wars and depressions\n and revolutions, and greed for\n power or any of these things\n giving us a bad time here on\n Earth. They're all like scholars,\n get it? And some of them are\n pretty jolly well taken by Earth,\n especially the way we are right\n now, with all the problems, get\n it? Things developing so fast we\n don't know where we're going\n or how we're going to get there.\"\nI finished my beer and clapped\n my hands for Mouley. \"How do\n you mean,\nwhere we're going\n?\"", "We didn't say anything else for\n a while and I began to wonder\n if I could go back to my paper\n without rubbing him the wrong\n way. I didn't know Paul very\n well, but, for that matter, it's\n comparatively seldom you ever\n get to know anybody very well\n in Tangier. Largely, cards are\n played close to the chest.\nMy beer came and a plate of\n tapas for us both. Tapas at the\n Cafe de Paris are apt to be\n potato salad, a few anchovies,\n olives, and possibly some cheese.\n Free lunch, they used to call it\n in the States.\n\n\n Just to say something, I said,\n \"Where do you think they came\n from?\" And when he looked\n blank, I added, \"The Flying\n Saucers.\"\n\n\n He grinned. \"From Mars or\n Venus, or someplace.\"", "I shook my head. \"Not necessarily.\n The first time I ever considered\n this possibility, it seemed\n to me that such an alien would\n base himself in London or New\n York. Somewhere where he could\n use the libraries for research,\n get the daily newspapers and\n the magazines. Be right in the\n center of things. But now I don't\n think so. I think he'd be right\n here in Tangier.\"\n\n\n \"Why Tangier?\"\n\n\n \"It's the one town in the world\n where anything goes. Nobody\n gives a damn about you or your\n affairs. For instance, I've known\n you a year or more now, and I\n haven't the slightest idea of how\n you make your living.\"\n\n\n \"That's right,\" Paul admitted.\n \"In this town you seldom even\n ask a man where's he's from. He\n can be British, a White Russian,\n a Basque or a Sikh and nobody\n could care less. Where are\nyou\nfrom, Rupert?\"", "\"California,\" I told him.\n\n\n \"No, you're not,\" he grinned.\n\n\n I was taken aback. \"What do\n you mean?\"\n\n\n \"I felt your mind probe back\n a few minutes ago when I was\n talking about Scotland Yard or\n the F.B.I. possibly flushing an\n alien. Telepathy is a sense not\n trained by the humanoids. If\n they had it, your job—and mine—would\n be considerably more\n difficult. Let's face it, in spite of\n these human bodies we're disguised\n in, neither of us is\n humanoid. Where are you really\n from, Rupert?\"\n\n\n \"Aldebaran,\" I said. \"How\n about you?\"\n\n\n \"Deneb,\" he told me, shaking.\n\n\n We had a laugh and ordered\n another beer.\n\n\n \"What're you doing here on\n Earth?\" I asked him.", "\"Not Mars. No air, and too\n bloody dry to support life.\"\n\n\n \"Don't interrupt, please,\" I\n said with mock severity. \"This\n is a very old civilization and as\n the planet began to lose its\n water and air, it withdrew underground.\n Uses hydroponics and\n so forth, husbands its water and\n air. Isn't that what we'd do, in\n a few million years, if Earth lost\n its water and air?\"\n\n\n \"I suppose so,\" he said. \"Anyway,\n what about them?\"\n\n\n \"Well, they observe how man\n is going through a scientific\n boom, an industrial boom, a\n population boom. A boom, period.\n Any day now he's going to have\n practical space ships. Meanwhile,\n he's also got the H-Bomb and\n the way he beats the drums on\n both sides of the Curtain, he's\n not against using it, if he could\n get away with it.\"", "Paul said, \"How are you,\n Rupert? Haven't seen you for\n donkey's years.\"\n\n\n The waiter came along and\n Paul ordered a glass of beer.\n Paul was an easy-going, sallow-faced\n little man. I vaguely remembered\n somebody saying he\n was from Liverpool and in\n exports.\n\n\n \"What's in the newspaper?\"\n he said, disinterestedly.\n\n\n \"Pogo and Albert are going\n to fight a duel,\" I told him, \"and\n Lil Abner is becoming a rock'n'roll\n singer.\"\n\n\n He grunted.\n\n\n \"Oh,\" I said, \"the intellectual\n type.\" I scanned the front page.\n \"The Russkies have put up\n another manned satellite.\"\n\n\n \"They have, eh? How big?\"\n\n\n \"Several times bigger than\n anything we Americans have.\"", "\"Researching for one of our\n meat trusts. We're protein\n eaters. Humanoid flesh is considered\n quite a delicacy. How\n about you?\"\n\n\n \"Scouting the place for thrill\n tourists. My job is to go around\n to these backward cultures and\n help stir up inter-tribal, or international,\n conflicts—all according\n to how advanced they\n are. Then our tourists come in—well\n shielded, of course—and get\n their kicks watching it.\"\n\n\n Paul frowned. \"That sort of\n practice could spoil an awful\n lot of good meat.\"\nTHE END\nTranscriber's Note:\nThis etext was produced from\nAmazing Stories\nDecember 1960.\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.\n copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and\n typographical errors have been corrected without note.", "\"Well, take half the countries\n in the world today. They're trying\n to industrialize, modernize,\n catch up with the advanced countries.\n Look at Egypt, and Israel,\n and India and China, and Yugoslavia\n and Brazil, and all the\n rest. Trying to drag themselves\n up to the level of the advanced\n countries, and all using different\n methods of doing it. But look\n at the so-called advanced countries.\n Up to their bottoms in\n problems. Juvenile delinquents,\n climbing crime and suicide rates,\n the loony-bins full of the balmy,\n unemployed, threat of war,\n spending all their money on armaments\n instead of things like\n schools. All the bloody mess of\n it. Why, a man from Mars would\n be fascinated, like.\"\n\n\n Mouley came shuffling up in\n his babouche slippers and we\n both ordered another schooner\n of beer.", "In spite of recent changes, the\n town still has its unique qualities.\n As a result of them the permanent\n population includes\n smugglers and black-marketeers,\n fugitives from justice and international\n con men, espionage\n and counter-espionage agents,\n homosexuals, nymphomaniacs, alcoholics,\n drug addicts, displaced\n persons, ex-royalty, and subversives\n of every flavor. Local law\n limits the activities of few of\n these.\n\n\n Like I said, it's quite a town.\nI looked up from my\nHerald\n Tribune\nand said, \"Hello, Paul.\n Anything new cooking?\"\n\n\n He sank into the chair opposite\n me and looked around for\n the waiter. The tables were all\n crowded and since mine was a\n face he recognized, he assumed\n he was welcome to intrude. It was\n more or less standard procedure\n at the Cafe de Paris. It wasn't\n a place to go if you wanted to\n be alone.", "One can't be too cautious about the\n \n people one meets in Tangier. They're all\n \n weirdies of one kind or another.\n \n Me? Oh,\nI'm A Stranger\n \nHere Myself\nBy MACK REYNOLDS\nThe\n Place de France is the\n town's hub. It marks the end\n of Boulevard Pasteur, the main\n drag of the westernized part of\n the city, and the beginning of\n Rue de la Liberté, which leads\n down to the Grand Socco and\n the medina. In a three-minute\n walk from the Place de France\n you can go from an ultra-modern,\n California-like resort to the\n Baghdad of Harun al-Rashid.\n\n\n It's quite a town, Tangier.", "King-size sidewalk cafes occupy\n three of the strategic\n corners on the Place de France.\n The Cafe de Paris serves the\n best draft beer in town, gets all\n the better custom, and has three\n shoeshine boys attached to the\n establishment. You can sit of a\n sunny morning and read the\n Paris edition of the New York\nHerald Tribune\nwhile getting\n your shoes done up like mirrors\n for thirty Moroccan francs\n which comes to about five cents\n at current exchange.\n\n\n You can sit there, after the\n paper's read, sip your expresso\n and watch the people go by.", "Tangier is possibly the most\n cosmopolitan city in the world.\n In native costume you'll see\n Berber and Rif, Arab and Blue\n Man, and occasionally a Senegalese\n from further south. In\n European dress you'll see Japs\n and Chinese, Hindus and Turks,\n Levantines and Filipinos, North\n Americans and South Americans,\n and, of course, even Europeans—from\n both sides of the\n Curtain.\n\n\n In Tangier you'll find some of\n the world's poorest and some of\n the richest. The poorest will try\n to sell you anything from a\n shoeshine to their not very lily-white\n bodies, and the richest will\n avoid your eyes, afraid\nyou\nmight try to sell them something." ], [ "I shook my head. \"Not necessarily.\n The first time I ever considered\n this possibility, it seemed\n to me that such an alien would\n base himself in London or New\n York. Somewhere where he could\n use the libraries for research,\n get the daily newspapers and\n the magazines. Be right in the\n center of things. But now I don't\n think so. I think he'd be right\n here in Tangier.\"\n\n\n \"Why Tangier?\"\n\n\n \"It's the one town in the world\n where anything goes. Nobody\n gives a damn about you or your\n affairs. For instance, I've known\n you a year or more now, and I\n haven't the slightest idea of how\n you make your living.\"\n\n\n \"That's right,\" Paul admitted.\n \"In this town you seldom even\n ask a man where's he's from. He\n can be British, a White Russian,\n a Basque or a Sikh and nobody\n could care less. Where are\nyou\nfrom, Rupert?\"", "We didn't say anything else for\n a while and I began to wonder\n if I could go back to my paper\n without rubbing him the wrong\n way. I didn't know Paul very\n well, but, for that matter, it's\n comparatively seldom you ever\n get to know anybody very well\n in Tangier. Largely, cards are\n played close to the chest.\nMy beer came and a plate of\n tapas for us both. Tapas at the\n Cafe de Paris are apt to be\n potato salad, a few anchovies,\n olives, and possibly some cheese.\n Free lunch, they used to call it\n in the States.\n\n\n Just to say something, I said,\n \"Where do you think they came\n from?\" And when he looked\n blank, I added, \"The Flying\n Saucers.\"\n\n\n He grinned. \"From Mars or\n Venus, or someplace.\"", "Tangier is possibly the most\n cosmopolitan city in the world.\n In native costume you'll see\n Berber and Rif, Arab and Blue\n Man, and occasionally a Senegalese\n from further south. In\n European dress you'll see Japs\n and Chinese, Hindus and Turks,\n Levantines and Filipinos, North\n Americans and South Americans,\n and, of course, even Europeans—from\n both sides of the\n Curtain.\n\n\n In Tangier you'll find some of\n the world's poorest and some of\n the richest. The poorest will try\n to sell you anything from a\n shoeshine to their not very lily-white\n bodies, and the richest will\n avoid your eyes, afraid\nyou\nmight try to sell them something.", "One can't be too cautious about the\n \n people one meets in Tangier. They're all\n \n weirdies of one kind or another.\n \n Me? Oh,\nI'm A Stranger\n \nHere Myself\nBy MACK REYNOLDS\nThe\n Place de France is the\n town's hub. It marks the end\n of Boulevard Pasteur, the main\n drag of the westernized part of\n the city, and the beginning of\n Rue de la Liberté, which leads\n down to the Grand Socco and\n the medina. In a three-minute\n walk from the Place de France\n you can go from an ultra-modern,\n California-like resort to the\n Baghdad of Harun al-Rashid.\n\n\n It's quite a town, Tangier.", "In spite of recent changes, the\n town still has its unique qualities.\n As a result of them the permanent\n population includes\n smugglers and black-marketeers,\n fugitives from justice and international\n con men, espionage\n and counter-espionage agents,\n homosexuals, nymphomaniacs, alcoholics,\n drug addicts, displaced\n persons, ex-royalty, and subversives\n of every flavor. Local law\n limits the activities of few of\n these.\n\n\n Like I said, it's quite a town.\nI looked up from my\nHerald\n Tribune\nand said, \"Hello, Paul.\n Anything new cooking?\"\n\n\n He sank into the chair opposite\n me and looked around for\n the waiter. The tables were all\n crowded and since mine was a\n face he recognized, he assumed\n he was welcome to intrude. It was\n more or less standard procedure\n at the Cafe de Paris. It wasn't\n a place to go if you wanted to\n be alone.", "Paul said, \"How are you,\n Rupert? Haven't seen you for\n donkey's years.\"\n\n\n The waiter came along and\n Paul ordered a glass of beer.\n Paul was an easy-going, sallow-faced\n little man. I vaguely remembered\n somebody saying he\n was from Liverpool and in\n exports.\n\n\n \"What's in the newspaper?\"\n he said, disinterestedly.\n\n\n \"Pogo and Albert are going\n to fight a duel,\" I told him, \"and\n Lil Abner is becoming a rock'n'roll\n singer.\"\n\n\n He grunted.\n\n\n \"Oh,\" I said, \"the intellectual\n type.\" I scanned the front page.\n \"The Russkies have put up\n another manned satellite.\"\n\n\n \"They have, eh? How big?\"\n\n\n \"Several times bigger than\n anything we Americans have.\"", "King-size sidewalk cafes occupy\n three of the strategic\n corners on the Place de France.\n The Cafe de Paris serves the\n best draft beer in town, gets all\n the better custom, and has three\n shoeshine boys attached to the\n establishment. You can sit of a\n sunny morning and read the\n Paris edition of the New York\nHerald Tribune\nwhile getting\n your shoes done up like mirrors\n for thirty Moroccan francs\n which comes to about five cents\n at current exchange.\n\n\n You can sit there, after the\n paper's read, sip your expresso\n and watch the people go by.", "\"California,\" I told him.\n\n\n \"No, you're not,\" he grinned.\n\n\n I was taken aback. \"What do\n you mean?\"\n\n\n \"I felt your mind probe back\n a few minutes ago when I was\n talking about Scotland Yard or\n the F.B.I. possibly flushing an\n alien. Telepathy is a sense not\n trained by the humanoids. If\n they had it, your job—and mine—would\n be considerably more\n difficult. Let's face it, in spite of\n these human bodies we're disguised\n in, neither of us is\n humanoid. Where are you really\n from, Rupert?\"\n\n\n \"Aldebaran,\" I said. \"How\n about you?\"\n\n\n \"Deneb,\" he told me, shaking.\n\n\n We had a laugh and ordered\n another beer.\n\n\n \"What're you doing here on\n Earth?\" I asked him.", "\"Well, take half the countries\n in the world today. They're trying\n to industrialize, modernize,\n catch up with the advanced countries.\n Look at Egypt, and Israel,\n and India and China, and Yugoslavia\n and Brazil, and all the\n rest. Trying to drag themselves\n up to the level of the advanced\n countries, and all using different\n methods of doing it. But look\n at the so-called advanced countries.\n Up to their bottoms in\n problems. Juvenile delinquents,\n climbing crime and suicide rates,\n the loony-bins full of the balmy,\n unemployed, threat of war,\n spending all their money on armaments\n instead of things like\n schools. All the bloody mess of\n it. Why, a man from Mars would\n be fascinated, like.\"\n\n\n Mouley came shuffling up in\n his babouche slippers and we\n both ordered another schooner\n of beer.", "The beer came and looked\n good, so I ordered a glass too.\n\n\n Paul said, \"What ever happened\n to those poxy flying\n saucers?\"\n\n\n \"What flying saucers?\"\n\n\n A French girl went by with a\n poodle so finely clipped as to look\n as though it'd been shaven. The\n girl was in the latest from\n Paris. Every pore in place. We\n both looked after her.\n\n\n \"You know, what everybody\n was seeing a few years ago. It's\n too bad one of these bloody manned\n satellites wasn't up then.\n Maybe they would've seen one.\"\n\n\n \"That's an idea,\" I said.", "\"Well, hell, suppose for instance\n there's this big Galactic League\n of civilized planets. But it's restricted,\n see. You're not eligible\n for membership until you, well,\n say until you've developed space\n flight. Then you're invited into\n the club. Meanwhile, they send\n secret missions down from time\n to time to keep an eye on your\n progress.\"\n\n\n Paul grinned at me. \"I see you\n read the same poxy stuff I do.\"\n\n\n A Moorish girl went by dressed\n in a neatly tailored gray\n jellaba, European style high-heeled\n shoes, and a pinkish silk\n veil so transparent that you\n could see she wore lipstick. Very\n provocative, dark eyes can be\n over a veil. We both looked\n after her.\n\n\n I said, \"Or, here's another\n one. Suppose you have a very\n advanced civilization on, say,\n Mars.\"", "\"I got a better one. How's\n this. There's this alien life form\n that's way ahead of us. Their\n civilization is so old that they\n don't have any records of when\n it began and how it was in the\n early days. They've gone beyond\n things like wars and depressions\n and revolutions, and greed for\n power or any of these things\n giving us a bad time here on\n Earth. They're all like scholars,\n get it? And some of them are\n pretty jolly well taken by Earth,\n especially the way we are right\n now, with all the problems, get\n it? Things developing so fast we\n don't know where we're going\n or how we're going to get there.\"\nI finished my beer and clapped\n my hands for Mouley. \"How do\n you mean,\nwhere we're going\n?\"", "Paul said seriously, \"You\n know, there's only one big snag\n in this sort of talk. I've sorted\n the whole thing out before, and\n you always come up against this\n brick wall. Where are they, these\n observers, or scholars, or spies\n or whatever they are? Sooner\n or later we'd nab one of them.\n You know, Scotland Yard, or\n the F.B.I., or Russia's secret\n police, or the French Sûreté, or\n Interpol. This world is so deep\n in police, counter-espionage outfits\n and security agents that an\n alien would slip up in time, no\n matter how much he'd been\n trained. Sooner or later, he'd slip\n up, and they'd nab him.\"", "\"Not Mars. No air, and too\n bloody dry to support life.\"\n\n\n \"Don't interrupt, please,\" I\n said with mock severity. \"This\n is a very old civilization and as\n the planet began to lose its\n water and air, it withdrew underground.\n Uses hydroponics and\n so forth, husbands its water and\n air. Isn't that what we'd do, in\n a few million years, if Earth lost\n its water and air?\"\n\n\n \"I suppose so,\" he said. \"Anyway,\n what about them?\"\n\n\n \"Well, they observe how man\n is going through a scientific\n boom, an industrial boom, a\n population boom. A boom, period.\n Any day now he's going to have\n practical space ships. Meanwhile,\n he's also got the H-Bomb and\n the way he beats the drums on\n both sides of the Curtain, he's\n not against using it, if he could\n get away with it.\"", "\"Ummmm,\" I said. \"Too bad\n none of them ever crashed, or\n landed on the Yale football field\n and said\nTake me to your cheerleader\n,\n or something.\"\n\n\n Paul yawned and said, \"That\n was always the trouble with those\n crackpot blokes' explanations of\n them. If they were aliens from\n space, then why not show themselves?\"\n\n\n I ate one of the potato chips.\n It'd been cooked in rancid olive\n oil.\n\n\n I said, \"Oh, there are various\n answers to that one. We could\n probably sit around here and\n think of two or three that made\n sense.\"\n\n\n Paul was mildly interested.\n \"Like what?\"", "Paul said, \"I got it. So they're\n scared and are keeping an eye on\n us. That's an old one. I've read\n that a dozen times, dished up\n different.\"\n\n\n I shifted my shoulders. \"Well,\n it's one possibility.\"", "\"Researching for one of our\n meat trusts. We're protein\n eaters. Humanoid flesh is considered\n quite a delicacy. How\n about you?\"\n\n\n \"Scouting the place for thrill\n tourists. My job is to go around\n to these backward cultures and\n help stir up inter-tribal, or international,\n conflicts—all according\n to how advanced they\n are. Then our tourists come in—well\n shielded, of course—and get\n their kicks watching it.\"\n\n\n Paul frowned. \"That sort of\n practice could spoil an awful\n lot of good meat.\"\nTHE END\nTranscriber's Note:\nThis etext was produced from\nAmazing Stories\nDecember 1960.\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.\n copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and\n typographical errors have been corrected without note." ], [ "Paul said, \"How are you,\n Rupert? Haven't seen you for\n donkey's years.\"\n\n\n The waiter came along and\n Paul ordered a glass of beer.\n Paul was an easy-going, sallow-faced\n little man. I vaguely remembered\n somebody saying he\n was from Liverpool and in\n exports.\n\n\n \"What's in the newspaper?\"\n he said, disinterestedly.\n\n\n \"Pogo and Albert are going\n to fight a duel,\" I told him, \"and\n Lil Abner is becoming a rock'n'roll\n singer.\"\n\n\n He grunted.\n\n\n \"Oh,\" I said, \"the intellectual\n type.\" I scanned the front page.\n \"The Russkies have put up\n another manned satellite.\"\n\n\n \"They have, eh? How big?\"\n\n\n \"Several times bigger than\n anything we Americans have.\"", "I shook my head. \"Not necessarily.\n The first time I ever considered\n this possibility, it seemed\n to me that such an alien would\n base himself in London or New\n York. Somewhere where he could\n use the libraries for research,\n get the daily newspapers and\n the magazines. Be right in the\n center of things. But now I don't\n think so. I think he'd be right\n here in Tangier.\"\n\n\n \"Why Tangier?\"\n\n\n \"It's the one town in the world\n where anything goes. Nobody\n gives a damn about you or your\n affairs. For instance, I've known\n you a year or more now, and I\n haven't the slightest idea of how\n you make your living.\"\n\n\n \"That's right,\" Paul admitted.\n \"In this town you seldom even\n ask a man where's he's from. He\n can be British, a White Russian,\n a Basque or a Sikh and nobody\n could care less. Where are\nyou\nfrom, Rupert?\"", "Paul said, \"I got it. So they're\n scared and are keeping an eye on\n us. That's an old one. I've read\n that a dozen times, dished up\n different.\"\n\n\n I shifted my shoulders. \"Well,\n it's one possibility.\"", "We didn't say anything else for\n a while and I began to wonder\n if I could go back to my paper\n without rubbing him the wrong\n way. I didn't know Paul very\n well, but, for that matter, it's\n comparatively seldom you ever\n get to know anybody very well\n in Tangier. Largely, cards are\n played close to the chest.\nMy beer came and a plate of\n tapas for us both. Tapas at the\n Cafe de Paris are apt to be\n potato salad, a few anchovies,\n olives, and possibly some cheese.\n Free lunch, they used to call it\n in the States.\n\n\n Just to say something, I said,\n \"Where do you think they came\n from?\" And when he looked\n blank, I added, \"The Flying\n Saucers.\"\n\n\n He grinned. \"From Mars or\n Venus, or someplace.\"", "Paul said seriously, \"You\n know, there's only one big snag\n in this sort of talk. I've sorted\n the whole thing out before, and\n you always come up against this\n brick wall. Where are they, these\n observers, or scholars, or spies\n or whatever they are? Sooner\n or later we'd nab one of them.\n You know, Scotland Yard, or\n the F.B.I., or Russia's secret\n police, or the French Sûreté, or\n Interpol. This world is so deep\n in police, counter-espionage outfits\n and security agents that an\n alien would slip up in time, no\n matter how much he'd been\n trained. Sooner or later, he'd slip\n up, and they'd nab him.\"", "In spite of recent changes, the\n town still has its unique qualities.\n As a result of them the permanent\n population includes\n smugglers and black-marketeers,\n fugitives from justice and international\n con men, espionage\n and counter-espionage agents,\n homosexuals, nymphomaniacs, alcoholics,\n drug addicts, displaced\n persons, ex-royalty, and subversives\n of every flavor. Local law\n limits the activities of few of\n these.\n\n\n Like I said, it's quite a town.\nI looked up from my\nHerald\n Tribune\nand said, \"Hello, Paul.\n Anything new cooking?\"\n\n\n He sank into the chair opposite\n me and looked around for\n the waiter. The tables were all\n crowded and since mine was a\n face he recognized, he assumed\n he was welcome to intrude. It was\n more or less standard procedure\n at the Cafe de Paris. It wasn't\n a place to go if you wanted to\n be alone.", "The beer came and looked\n good, so I ordered a glass too.\n\n\n Paul said, \"What ever happened\n to those poxy flying\n saucers?\"\n\n\n \"What flying saucers?\"\n\n\n A French girl went by with a\n poodle so finely clipped as to look\n as though it'd been shaven. The\n girl was in the latest from\n Paris. Every pore in place. We\n both looked after her.\n\n\n \"You know, what everybody\n was seeing a few years ago. It's\n too bad one of these bloody manned\n satellites wasn't up then.\n Maybe they would've seen one.\"\n\n\n \"That's an idea,\" I said.", "\"Ummmm,\" I said. \"Too bad\n none of them ever crashed, or\n landed on the Yale football field\n and said\nTake me to your cheerleader\n,\n or something.\"\n\n\n Paul yawned and said, \"That\n was always the trouble with those\n crackpot blokes' explanations of\n them. If they were aliens from\n space, then why not show themselves?\"\n\n\n I ate one of the potato chips.\n It'd been cooked in rancid olive\n oil.\n\n\n I said, \"Oh, there are various\n answers to that one. We could\n probably sit around here and\n think of two or three that made\n sense.\"\n\n\n Paul was mildly interested.\n \"Like what?\"", "\"California,\" I told him.\n\n\n \"No, you're not,\" he grinned.\n\n\n I was taken aback. \"What do\n you mean?\"\n\n\n \"I felt your mind probe back\n a few minutes ago when I was\n talking about Scotland Yard or\n the F.B.I. possibly flushing an\n alien. Telepathy is a sense not\n trained by the humanoids. If\n they had it, your job—and mine—would\n be considerably more\n difficult. Let's face it, in spite of\n these human bodies we're disguised\n in, neither of us is\n humanoid. Where are you really\n from, Rupert?\"\n\n\n \"Aldebaran,\" I said. \"How\n about you?\"\n\n\n \"Deneb,\" he told me, shaking.\n\n\n We had a laugh and ordered\n another beer.\n\n\n \"What're you doing here on\n Earth?\" I asked him.", "\"Well, hell, suppose for instance\n there's this big Galactic League\n of civilized planets. But it's restricted,\n see. You're not eligible\n for membership until you, well,\n say until you've developed space\n flight. Then you're invited into\n the club. Meanwhile, they send\n secret missions down from time\n to time to keep an eye on your\n progress.\"\n\n\n Paul grinned at me. \"I see you\n read the same poxy stuff I do.\"\n\n\n A Moorish girl went by dressed\n in a neatly tailored gray\n jellaba, European style high-heeled\n shoes, and a pinkish silk\n veil so transparent that you\n could see she wore lipstick. Very\n provocative, dark eyes can be\n over a veil. We both looked\n after her.\n\n\n I said, \"Or, here's another\n one. Suppose you have a very\n advanced civilization on, say,\n Mars.\"", "\"Researching for one of our\n meat trusts. We're protein\n eaters. Humanoid flesh is considered\n quite a delicacy. How\n about you?\"\n\n\n \"Scouting the place for thrill\n tourists. My job is to go around\n to these backward cultures and\n help stir up inter-tribal, or international,\n conflicts—all according\n to how advanced they\n are. Then our tourists come in—well\n shielded, of course—and get\n their kicks watching it.\"\n\n\n Paul frowned. \"That sort of\n practice could spoil an awful\n lot of good meat.\"\nTHE END\nTranscriber's Note:\nThis etext was produced from\nAmazing Stories\nDecember 1960.\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.\n copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and\n typographical errors have been corrected without note.", "\"I got a better one. How's\n this. There's this alien life form\n that's way ahead of us. Their\n civilization is so old that they\n don't have any records of when\n it began and how it was in the\n early days. They've gone beyond\n things like wars and depressions\n and revolutions, and greed for\n power or any of these things\n giving us a bad time here on\n Earth. They're all like scholars,\n get it? And some of them are\n pretty jolly well taken by Earth,\n especially the way we are right\n now, with all the problems, get\n it? Things developing so fast we\n don't know where we're going\n or how we're going to get there.\"\nI finished my beer and clapped\n my hands for Mouley. \"How do\n you mean,\nwhere we're going\n?\"", "\"Well, take half the countries\n in the world today. They're trying\n to industrialize, modernize,\n catch up with the advanced countries.\n Look at Egypt, and Israel,\n and India and China, and Yugoslavia\n and Brazil, and all the\n rest. Trying to drag themselves\n up to the level of the advanced\n countries, and all using different\n methods of doing it. But look\n at the so-called advanced countries.\n Up to their bottoms in\n problems. Juvenile delinquents,\n climbing crime and suicide rates,\n the loony-bins full of the balmy,\n unemployed, threat of war,\n spending all their money on armaments\n instead of things like\n schools. All the bloody mess of\n it. Why, a man from Mars would\n be fascinated, like.\"\n\n\n Mouley came shuffling up in\n his babouche slippers and we\n both ordered another schooner\n of beer.", "\"Not Mars. No air, and too\n bloody dry to support life.\"\n\n\n \"Don't interrupt, please,\" I\n said with mock severity. \"This\n is a very old civilization and as\n the planet began to lose its\n water and air, it withdrew underground.\n Uses hydroponics and\n so forth, husbands its water and\n air. Isn't that what we'd do, in\n a few million years, if Earth lost\n its water and air?\"\n\n\n \"I suppose so,\" he said. \"Anyway,\n what about them?\"\n\n\n \"Well, they observe how man\n is going through a scientific\n boom, an industrial boom, a\n population boom. A boom, period.\n Any day now he's going to have\n practical space ships. Meanwhile,\n he's also got the H-Bomb and\n the way he beats the drums on\n both sides of the Curtain, he's\n not against using it, if he could\n get away with it.\"", "One can't be too cautious about the\n \n people one meets in Tangier. They're all\n \n weirdies of one kind or another.\n \n Me? Oh,\nI'm A Stranger\n \nHere Myself\nBy MACK REYNOLDS\nThe\n Place de France is the\n town's hub. It marks the end\n of Boulevard Pasteur, the main\n drag of the westernized part of\n the city, and the beginning of\n Rue de la Liberté, which leads\n down to the Grand Socco and\n the medina. In a three-minute\n walk from the Place de France\n you can go from an ultra-modern,\n California-like resort to the\n Baghdad of Harun al-Rashid.\n\n\n It's quite a town, Tangier.", "King-size sidewalk cafes occupy\n three of the strategic\n corners on the Place de France.\n The Cafe de Paris serves the\n best draft beer in town, gets all\n the better custom, and has three\n shoeshine boys attached to the\n establishment. You can sit of a\n sunny morning and read the\n Paris edition of the New York\nHerald Tribune\nwhile getting\n your shoes done up like mirrors\n for thirty Moroccan francs\n which comes to about five cents\n at current exchange.\n\n\n You can sit there, after the\n paper's read, sip your expresso\n and watch the people go by.", "Tangier is possibly the most\n cosmopolitan city in the world.\n In native costume you'll see\n Berber and Rif, Arab and Blue\n Man, and occasionally a Senegalese\n from further south. In\n European dress you'll see Japs\n and Chinese, Hindus and Turks,\n Levantines and Filipinos, North\n Americans and South Americans,\n and, of course, even Europeans—from\n both sides of the\n Curtain.\n\n\n In Tangier you'll find some of\n the world's poorest and some of\n the richest. The poorest will try\n to sell you anything from a\n shoeshine to their not very lily-white\n bodies, and the richest will\n avoid your eyes, afraid\nyou\nmight try to sell them something." ], [ "Paul said seriously, \"You\n know, there's only one big snag\n in this sort of talk. I've sorted\n the whole thing out before, and\n you always come up against this\n brick wall. Where are they, these\n observers, or scholars, or spies\n or whatever they are? Sooner\n or later we'd nab one of them.\n You know, Scotland Yard, or\n the F.B.I., or Russia's secret\n police, or the French Sûreté, or\n Interpol. This world is so deep\n in police, counter-espionage outfits\n and security agents that an\n alien would slip up in time, no\n matter how much he'd been\n trained. Sooner or later, he'd slip\n up, and they'd nab him.\"", "\"Ummmm,\" I said. \"Too bad\n none of them ever crashed, or\n landed on the Yale football field\n and said\nTake me to your cheerleader\n,\n or something.\"\n\n\n Paul yawned and said, \"That\n was always the trouble with those\n crackpot blokes' explanations of\n them. If they were aliens from\n space, then why not show themselves?\"\n\n\n I ate one of the potato chips.\n It'd been cooked in rancid olive\n oil.\n\n\n I said, \"Oh, there are various\n answers to that one. We could\n probably sit around here and\n think of two or three that made\n sense.\"\n\n\n Paul was mildly interested.\n \"Like what?\"", "\"Well, hell, suppose for instance\n there's this big Galactic League\n of civilized planets. But it's restricted,\n see. You're not eligible\n for membership until you, well,\n say until you've developed space\n flight. Then you're invited into\n the club. Meanwhile, they send\n secret missions down from time\n to time to keep an eye on your\n progress.\"\n\n\n Paul grinned at me. \"I see you\n read the same poxy stuff I do.\"\n\n\n A Moorish girl went by dressed\n in a neatly tailored gray\n jellaba, European style high-heeled\n shoes, and a pinkish silk\n veil so transparent that you\n could see she wore lipstick. Very\n provocative, dark eyes can be\n over a veil. We both looked\n after her.\n\n\n I said, \"Or, here's another\n one. Suppose you have a very\n advanced civilization on, say,\n Mars.\"", "I shook my head. \"Not necessarily.\n The first time I ever considered\n this possibility, it seemed\n to me that such an alien would\n base himself in London or New\n York. Somewhere where he could\n use the libraries for research,\n get the daily newspapers and\n the magazines. Be right in the\n center of things. But now I don't\n think so. I think he'd be right\n here in Tangier.\"\n\n\n \"Why Tangier?\"\n\n\n \"It's the one town in the world\n where anything goes. Nobody\n gives a damn about you or your\n affairs. For instance, I've known\n you a year or more now, and I\n haven't the slightest idea of how\n you make your living.\"\n\n\n \"That's right,\" Paul admitted.\n \"In this town you seldom even\n ask a man where's he's from. He\n can be British, a White Russian,\n a Basque or a Sikh and nobody\n could care less. Where are\nyou\nfrom, Rupert?\"", "\"California,\" I told him.\n\n\n \"No, you're not,\" he grinned.\n\n\n I was taken aback. \"What do\n you mean?\"\n\n\n \"I felt your mind probe back\n a few minutes ago when I was\n talking about Scotland Yard or\n the F.B.I. possibly flushing an\n alien. Telepathy is a sense not\n trained by the humanoids. If\n they had it, your job—and mine—would\n be considerably more\n difficult. Let's face it, in spite of\n these human bodies we're disguised\n in, neither of us is\n humanoid. Where are you really\n from, Rupert?\"\n\n\n \"Aldebaran,\" I said. \"How\n about you?\"\n\n\n \"Deneb,\" he told me, shaking.\n\n\n We had a laugh and ordered\n another beer.\n\n\n \"What're you doing here on\n Earth?\" I asked him.", "Paul said, \"I got it. So they're\n scared and are keeping an eye on\n us. That's an old one. I've read\n that a dozen times, dished up\n different.\"\n\n\n I shifted my shoulders. \"Well,\n it's one possibility.\"", "We didn't say anything else for\n a while and I began to wonder\n if I could go back to my paper\n without rubbing him the wrong\n way. I didn't know Paul very\n well, but, for that matter, it's\n comparatively seldom you ever\n get to know anybody very well\n in Tangier. Largely, cards are\n played close to the chest.\nMy beer came and a plate of\n tapas for us both. Tapas at the\n Cafe de Paris are apt to be\n potato salad, a few anchovies,\n olives, and possibly some cheese.\n Free lunch, they used to call it\n in the States.\n\n\n Just to say something, I said,\n \"Where do you think they came\n from?\" And when he looked\n blank, I added, \"The Flying\n Saucers.\"\n\n\n He grinned. \"From Mars or\n Venus, or someplace.\"", "The beer came and looked\n good, so I ordered a glass too.\n\n\n Paul said, \"What ever happened\n to those poxy flying\n saucers?\"\n\n\n \"What flying saucers?\"\n\n\n A French girl went by with a\n poodle so finely clipped as to look\n as though it'd been shaven. The\n girl was in the latest from\n Paris. Every pore in place. We\n both looked after her.\n\n\n \"You know, what everybody\n was seeing a few years ago. It's\n too bad one of these bloody manned\n satellites wasn't up then.\n Maybe they would've seen one.\"\n\n\n \"That's an idea,\" I said.", "\"Not Mars. No air, and too\n bloody dry to support life.\"\n\n\n \"Don't interrupt, please,\" I\n said with mock severity. \"This\n is a very old civilization and as\n the planet began to lose its\n water and air, it withdrew underground.\n Uses hydroponics and\n so forth, husbands its water and\n air. Isn't that what we'd do, in\n a few million years, if Earth lost\n its water and air?\"\n\n\n \"I suppose so,\" he said. \"Anyway,\n what about them?\"\n\n\n \"Well, they observe how man\n is going through a scientific\n boom, an industrial boom, a\n population boom. A boom, period.\n Any day now he's going to have\n practical space ships. Meanwhile,\n he's also got the H-Bomb and\n the way he beats the drums on\n both sides of the Curtain, he's\n not against using it, if he could\n get away with it.\"", "\"I got a better one. How's\n this. There's this alien life form\n that's way ahead of us. Their\n civilization is so old that they\n don't have any records of when\n it began and how it was in the\n early days. They've gone beyond\n things like wars and depressions\n and revolutions, and greed for\n power or any of these things\n giving us a bad time here on\n Earth. They're all like scholars,\n get it? And some of them are\n pretty jolly well taken by Earth,\n especially the way we are right\n now, with all the problems, get\n it? Things developing so fast we\n don't know where we're going\n or how we're going to get there.\"\nI finished my beer and clapped\n my hands for Mouley. \"How do\n you mean,\nwhere we're going\n?\"", "Paul said, \"How are you,\n Rupert? Haven't seen you for\n donkey's years.\"\n\n\n The waiter came along and\n Paul ordered a glass of beer.\n Paul was an easy-going, sallow-faced\n little man. I vaguely remembered\n somebody saying he\n was from Liverpool and in\n exports.\n\n\n \"What's in the newspaper?\"\n he said, disinterestedly.\n\n\n \"Pogo and Albert are going\n to fight a duel,\" I told him, \"and\n Lil Abner is becoming a rock'n'roll\n singer.\"\n\n\n He grunted.\n\n\n \"Oh,\" I said, \"the intellectual\n type.\" I scanned the front page.\n \"The Russkies have put up\n another manned satellite.\"\n\n\n \"They have, eh? How big?\"\n\n\n \"Several times bigger than\n anything we Americans have.\"", "\"Researching for one of our\n meat trusts. We're protein\n eaters. Humanoid flesh is considered\n quite a delicacy. How\n about you?\"\n\n\n \"Scouting the place for thrill\n tourists. My job is to go around\n to these backward cultures and\n help stir up inter-tribal, or international,\n conflicts—all according\n to how advanced they\n are. Then our tourists come in—well\n shielded, of course—and get\n their kicks watching it.\"\n\n\n Paul frowned. \"That sort of\n practice could spoil an awful\n lot of good meat.\"\nTHE END\nTranscriber's Note:\nThis etext was produced from\nAmazing Stories\nDecember 1960.\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.\n copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and\n typographical errors have been corrected without note.", "In spite of recent changes, the\n town still has its unique qualities.\n As a result of them the permanent\n population includes\n smugglers and black-marketeers,\n fugitives from justice and international\n con men, espionage\n and counter-espionage agents,\n homosexuals, nymphomaniacs, alcoholics,\n drug addicts, displaced\n persons, ex-royalty, and subversives\n of every flavor. Local law\n limits the activities of few of\n these.\n\n\n Like I said, it's quite a town.\nI looked up from my\nHerald\n Tribune\nand said, \"Hello, Paul.\n Anything new cooking?\"\n\n\n He sank into the chair opposite\n me and looked around for\n the waiter. The tables were all\n crowded and since mine was a\n face he recognized, he assumed\n he was welcome to intrude. It was\n more or less standard procedure\n at the Cafe de Paris. It wasn't\n a place to go if you wanted to\n be alone.", "\"Well, take half the countries\n in the world today. They're trying\n to industrialize, modernize,\n catch up with the advanced countries.\n Look at Egypt, and Israel,\n and India and China, and Yugoslavia\n and Brazil, and all the\n rest. Trying to drag themselves\n up to the level of the advanced\n countries, and all using different\n methods of doing it. But look\n at the so-called advanced countries.\n Up to their bottoms in\n problems. Juvenile delinquents,\n climbing crime and suicide rates,\n the loony-bins full of the balmy,\n unemployed, threat of war,\n spending all their money on armaments\n instead of things like\n schools. All the bloody mess of\n it. Why, a man from Mars would\n be fascinated, like.\"\n\n\n Mouley came shuffling up in\n his babouche slippers and we\n both ordered another schooner\n of beer.", "One can't be too cautious about the\n \n people one meets in Tangier. They're all\n \n weirdies of one kind or another.\n \n Me? Oh,\nI'm A Stranger\n \nHere Myself\nBy MACK REYNOLDS\nThe\n Place de France is the\n town's hub. It marks the end\n of Boulevard Pasteur, the main\n drag of the westernized part of\n the city, and the beginning of\n Rue de la Liberté, which leads\n down to the Grand Socco and\n the medina. In a three-minute\n walk from the Place de France\n you can go from an ultra-modern,\n California-like resort to the\n Baghdad of Harun al-Rashid.\n\n\n It's quite a town, Tangier.", "Tangier is possibly the most\n cosmopolitan city in the world.\n In native costume you'll see\n Berber and Rif, Arab and Blue\n Man, and occasionally a Senegalese\n from further south. In\n European dress you'll see Japs\n and Chinese, Hindus and Turks,\n Levantines and Filipinos, North\n Americans and South Americans,\n and, of course, even Europeans—from\n both sides of the\n Curtain.\n\n\n In Tangier you'll find some of\n the world's poorest and some of\n the richest. The poorest will try\n to sell you anything from a\n shoeshine to their not very lily-white\n bodies, and the richest will\n avoid your eyes, afraid\nyou\nmight try to sell them something.", "King-size sidewalk cafes occupy\n three of the strategic\n corners on the Place de France.\n The Cafe de Paris serves the\n best draft beer in town, gets all\n the better custom, and has three\n shoeshine boys attached to the\n establishment. You can sit of a\n sunny morning and read the\n Paris edition of the New York\nHerald Tribune\nwhile getting\n your shoes done up like mirrors\n for thirty Moroccan francs\n which comes to about five cents\n at current exchange.\n\n\n You can sit there, after the\n paper's read, sip your expresso\n and watch the people go by." ] ]
train	27588	[ "Why is Trella being attacked?", "Why can't the square-built man defend Trella against the men attacking her?", "Where does the beginning of the story take place? ", "How was Quest able to survive and grow up on Jupiter?", "How was Dr. Mansard's radio and ship drive destroyed?", "What is so significant about the surgiscope?", "What incorrect assumption does Trella make about Blessing? ", "What is Blessing's fear regarding Dr. Mansard?", "What is the central irony of Quest's last words in the story?" ]	[ [ "The author does not give a clear reason for the attackers' motivations", "The attackers wish to steal Trella's documents", "The attackers wish to violate Trella", "The attackers are sent from Dr. Blessing to test Trella's loyalty" ], [ "His programming does not allow it", "He is a strict pacifist", "He is full of cowardice", "He is secretly collaborating with Trella's attackers" ], [ "Saturn", "Jupiter", "One of Jupiter's moons", "One of Saturn's moons" ], [ "Quest's DNA is mutated", "Quest is an android", "Quest's father programmed his DNA for survival", "Quest did not actually grow up on Jupiter" ], [ "Dr. Mansard destroyed it himself to eliminate any record of his survival", "It was never destroyed ", "Blessing intentionally ruined it in the hopes that Mansard would die", "It could not withstand the harsh elements of Jupiter's atmosphere" ], [ "It can allow a surgeon to permanently alter a person's DNA", "It can perform fine operations at a microscopic level", "It can be used to turn a human into an android", "It can probe the brain of any creature, dead or alive" ], [ "He would be thrilled to hear that Quest is alive and well", "He murdered Dr. Mansard and got away with it", "He turned Mansard's son into an android", "He has no prior knowledge of the contents of Mansard's documents" ], [ "Blessing is afraid that Dr. Mansard is not actually deceased and currently plotting against him", "Blessing is afraid that Dr. Mansard will inform Quest that he is actually an android", "Blessing is afraid that Dr. Mansard has set two assassins to come after him and the documentation he stole", "Blessing is afraid that Dr. Mansard left out programming that would prevent Quest from hurting living creatures" ], [ "He claims that \"androids are made\" to justify his human status, disregarding the impact of his father's programming efforts", "He declares that \"androids don't grow up,\" when in reality, his father programmed him to appear to (physically) age", "He states that he \"remembers his boyhood on Jupiter,\" when in reality, he is still a boy", "He says he \"remembers his boyhood on Jupiter,\" when in reality, his memories were programmed into his brain" ] ]	[ 1, 1, 3, 3, 3, 2, 1, 4, 1 ]	[ 0, 0, 0, 1, 1, 0, 1, 1, 1 ]	[ [ "The car whipped into the\n street, careened, and rolled over\n and over, bringing up against a\n tree on the other side in a twisted\n tangle of wreckage.\n\n\n With a horrified gasp, Trella\n ran down the driveway toward\n the smoking heap of metal.\n Quest was already beside it,\n probing it. As she reached his\n side, he lifted the torn body of\n Dom Blessing. Blessing was\n dead.\n\n\n “I'm lucky,” said Quest soberly.\n “I would have murdered\n him.”\n\n\n “But why, Quest? I knew he\n was afraid of you, but he didn't\n tell me why.”", "Trella sighed. Cowardice was\n a state of mind. It was peculiarly\n inappropriate, but not unbelievable,\n that the strongest and\n most agile man on Ganymede\n should be a coward. Well, she\n thought with a rush of sympathy,\n he couldn't help being\n what he was.\nThey had reached the more\n brightly lighted section of the\n city now. Trella could get a cab\n from here, but the Stellar Hotel\n wasn't far. They walked on.\n\n\n Trella had the desk clerk call\n a cab to deliver the unconscious\n Motwick to his home. She and\n Quest had a late sandwich in the\n coffee shop.\n\n\n “I landed here only a week\n ago,” he told her, his eyes frankly\n admiring her honey-colored\n hair and comely face. “I'm heading\n for Earth on the next spaceship.”", "Trella was in the living room\n with Blessing, discussing the instructions\n she was to give to the\n laboratory officials in New York.\n The two bodyguards were with\n them. The other guards were at\n their posts.\n\n\n Trella heard the doorbell ring.\n The heavy oaken front door was\n kept locked now, and the guards\n in the anteroom examined callers\n through a tiny window.\n\n\n Suddenly alarm bells rang all\n over the house. There was a terrific\n crash outside the room as\n the front door splintered. There\n were shouts and the sound of a\n shot.\n\n\n “The steel doors!” cried Blessing,\n turning white. “Let's get\n out of here.”\n\n\n He and his bodyguards ran\n through the back of the house\n out of the garage.\n\n\n Blessing, ahead of the rest,\n leaped into one of the cars and\n started the engine.", "“Bruises? Man, that club\n could have broken your skull!\n Or a couple of ribs, at the very\n least.”\n\n\n “I'm all right,” insisted\n Quest; and when the skeptical\n Jakdane insisted on examining\n him carefully, he had to admit\n it. There was hardly a mark on\n him from the blows.\n\n\n “If it didn't hurt you any\n more than that, why didn't you\n take that stick away from him?”\n demanded Jakdane. “You could\n have, easily.”\n\n\n “I couldn't,” said Quest miserably,\n and turned his face\n away.\n\n\n Later, alone with Trella on\n the control deck, Jakdane gave\n her some sober advice.\n\n\n “If you think you're in love\n with Quest, forget it,” he said.", "She was not at all happy about\n being so strongly attracted to a\n man several inches shorter than\n she. She was particularly unhappy\n about feeling drawn to a\n man who was a coward.\n\n\n The ship that they boarded on\n Moon Nine was one of the newer\n ships that could attain a hundred-mile-per-second\n velocity\n and take a hyperbolic path to\n Earth, but it would still require\n fifty-four days to make the trip.\n So Trella was delighted to find\n that the ship was the\nCometfire\nand its skipper was her old\n friend, dark-eyed, curly-haired\n Jakdane Gille.\n\n\n “Jakdane,” she said, flirting\n with him with her eyes as in\n 54\n days gone by, “I need a chaperon\n this trip, and you're ideal for\n the job.”", "Tentatively, she pushed her\n chair back from the table and\n arose. She had to brush close by\n the other table to get to the bar.\n As she did, the dark, slick-haired\n man reached out and grabbed\n her around the waist with a\n steely arm.\n\n\n Trella swung with her whole\n body, and slapped him so hard\n he nearly fell from his chair. As\n she walked swiftly toward the\n bar, he leaped up to follow her.\n\n\n There were only two other\n people in the Golden Satellite:\n the fat, mustached bartender\n and a short, square-built man at\n the bar. The latter swung\n around at the pistol-like report\n of her slap, and she saw that,\n though no more than four and a\n half feet tall, he was as heavily\n muscled as a lion.\n\n\n 51\n His face was clean and open,\n with close-cropped blond hair\n and honest blue eyes. She ran to\n him.", "“Why? Because he's a coward?\n I know that ought to make\n me despise him, but it doesn't\n any more.”\n\n\n “Not because he's a coward.\n Because he's an android!”\n\n\n “What? Jakdane, you can't be\n serious!”\n\n\n “I am. I say he's an android,\n an artificial imitation of a man.\n It all figures.\n\n\n “Look, Trella, he said he was\n born on Jupiter. A human could\n stand the gravity of Jupiter, inside\n a dome or a ship, but what\n human could stand the rocket acceleration\n necessary to break\n free of Jupiter? Here's a man\n strong enough to break a spaceship\n safety belt just by getting\n up out of his chair against it,\n tough enough to take a beating\n with a heavy stick without being\n injured. How can you believe\n he's really human?”", "The man's eyes went wide and\n he snarled. So quickly it seemed\n impossible, he had unbuckled\n himself from his seat and hurled\n himself backward from the table\n with an incoherent cry. He\n seized the first object his hand\n touched—it happened to be a\n heavy wooden cane leaning\n against Jakdane's bunk—propelled\n himself like a projectile at\n Quest.\n\n\n Quest rose from the table in\n a sudden uncoiling of movement.\n He did not unbuckle his safety\n belt—he rose and it snapped like\n a string.\n\n\n For a moment Trella thought\n he was going to meet Asrange's\n assault. But he fled in a long\n leap toward the companionway\n leading to the astrogation deck\n 56\n above. Landing feet-first in the\n middle of the table and rebounding,\n Asrange pursued with the\n stick upraised.", "“I'm sorry I couldn't fight\n those men for you, Miss, but I\n just couldn't,” he said miserably,\n as though reading her thoughts.\n “But no one will bother you on\n the street if I'm with you.”\n\n\n “A lot of protection you'd be\n if they did!” she snapped. “But\n I'm desperate. You can carry\n him to the Stellar Hotel for me.”\nThe gravity of Ganymede was\n hardly more than that of Earth's\n moon, but the way the man\n picked up the limp Motwick with\n one hand and tossed him over a\n shoulder was startling: as\n though he lifted a feather pillow.\n He followed Trella out the door\n of the Golden Satellite and fell\n in step beside her. Immediately\n she was grateful for his presence.\n The dimly lighted street\n was not crowded, but she didn't\n like the looks of the men she\n saw.", "Evading her attempts to stay\n behind him, the squat man began\n to move down the bar away\n from the approaching Kregg.\n The dark man moved in on\n Trella again as Kregg overtook\n his quarry and swung a huge\n fist like a sledgehammer.\n\n\n Exactly what happened, Trella\n wasn't sure. She had the impression\n that Kregg's fist connected\n squarely with the short man's\n chin\n before\n he dodged to one\n side in a movement so fast it\n was a blur. But that couldn't\n have been, because the short\n man wasn't moved by that blow\n that would have felled a steer,\n and Kregg roared in pain, grabbing\n his injured fist.\n\n\n “The bar!” yelled Kregg. “I\n hit the damn bar!”", "“But my father was able to\n control it in the heavy atmosphere\n of Jupiter, and landed it\n successfully. I was born there,\n and he conditioned me to come\n to Earth and track down Blessing.\n I know now that it was\n part of the conditioning that I\n was unable to fight any other\n man until my task was finished:\n it might have gotten me in trouble\n and diverted me from that\n purpose.”\n\n\n More gently than Trella would\n have believed possible for his\n Jupiter-strong muscles, Quest\n took her in his arms.\n\n\n “Now I can say I love you,”\n he said. “That was part of the\n conditioning too: I couldn't love\n any woman until my job was\n done.”\n\n\n Trella disengaged herself.\n\n\n “I'm sorry,” she said. “Don't\n you know this, too, now: that\n you're not a man, but an android?”", "Through all these years since\n Dr. Mansard's disappearance,\n 55\n Blessing had been searching the\n Jovian moons for a second, hidden\n laboratory of Dr. Mansard.\n When it was found at last, he\n sent Trella, his most trusted\n secretary, to Ganymede to bring\n back to him the notebooks found\n there.\n\n\n Blessing would, of course, be\n happy to learn that a son of Dr.\n Mansard lived, and would see\n that he received his rightful\n share of the inheritance. Because\n of this, Trella was tempted\n to tell Quest the good news\n herself; but she decided against\n it. It was Blessing's privilege to\n do this his own way, and he\n might not appreciate her meddling.\nAt midtrip, Trella made a rueful\n confession to Jakdane.", "“It has been pleasant knowing\n you, Trella,” he said when they\n left the G-boat at White Sands.\n A faraway look came into his\n blue eyes, and he added: “I'm\n sorry things couldn't have been\n different, somehow.”\n\n\n “Let's don't be sorry for what\n we can't help,” she said gently,\n taking his hand in farewell.\n\n\n Trella took a fast plane from\n White Sands, and twenty-four\n hours later walked up the front\n steps of the familiar brownstone\n house on the outskirts of Washington.\n\n\n Dom Blessing himself met her\n at the door, a stooped, graying\n 58\n man who peered at her over his\n spectacles.\n\n\n “You have the papers, eh?”\n he said, spying the brief case.\n “Good, good. Come in and we'll\n see what we have, eh?”", "At this juncture, the bartender\n took a hand. Leaning far\n over the bar, he swung a full\n bottle in a complete arc. It\n smashed on Kregg's head,\n splashing the floor with liquor,\n and Kregg sank stunned to his\n knees. The dark man, who had\n grabbed Trella's arm, released\n her and ran for the door.\n\n\n Moving agilely around the end\n of the bar, the bartender stood\n over Kregg, holding the jagged-edged\n bottleneck in his hand\n menacingly.\n\n\n “Get out!” rumbled the bartender.\n “I'll have no coppers\n raiding my place for the likes of\n you!”\n\n\n Kregg stumbled to his feet\n and staggered out. Trella ran to\n the unconscious Motwick's side.", "Trella was silent, shocked.\n There was something here she\n hadn't known about, hadn't even\n suspected. For some reason, Dom\n Blessing feared Dr. Eriklund\n Mansard … or his heir … or\n his mechanical servant.\nShe was sure that Blessing\n was wrong, that Quest, whether\n man or android, intended no\n 59\n harm to him. Surely, Quest\n would have said something of\n such bitterness during their long\n time together on Ganymede and\n aspace, since he did not know of\n Trella's connection with Blessing.\n But, since this was to be\n the atmosphere of Blessing's\n house, she was glad that he decided\n to assign her to take the\n Mansard papers to the New\n York laboratory.\n\n\n Quest came the day before she\n was scheduled to leave.", "“We'll be traveling companions,\n then,” she said. “I'm going\n back on that ship, too.”\n\n\n For some reason she decided\n against telling him that the\n assignment on which she had\n come to the Jupiter system was\n to gather his own father's notebooks\n and take them back to\n Earth.\nMotwick was an irresponsible\n playboy whom Trella had known\n briefly on Earth, and Trella was\n glad to dispense with his company\n for the remaining three\n weeks before the spaceship\n blasted off. She found herself\n enjoying the steadier companionship\n of Quest.\n\n\n As a matter of fact, she found\n herself enjoying his companionship\n more than she intended to.\n She found herself falling in love\n with him.\n\n\n Now this did not suit her at\n all. Trella had always liked her\n men tall and dark. She had determined\n that when she married\n it would be to a curly-haired six-footer.", "“He came back to Earth with\n you, eh?” asked Blessing intently.\n\n\n “Yes. I'm afraid it's your decision\n whether to let him go on\n living as a man or to tell him\n he's an android and claim ownership\n as Dr. Mansard's heir.”\n\n\n Trella planned to spend a few\n days resting in her employer's\n spacious home, and then to take\n a short vacation before resuming\n her duties as his confidential\n secretary. The next morning\n when she came down from her\n room, a change had been made.\n\n\n Two armed men were with\n Dom Blessing at breakfast and\n accompanied him wherever he\n went. She discovered that two\n more men with guns were stationed\n in the bare anteroom and\n a guard was stationed at every\n entrance to the house.\n\n\n “Why all the protection?” she\n asked Blessing.", "Trella looked at him. He was\n not badly hurt, any more than\n an elephant would have been,\n but his tunic was stained with\n red blood where the bullets had\n struck him. Normal android\n blood was green.\n\n\n “How can you be sure?” she\n asked doubtfully.\n\n\n “Androids are made,” he answered\n with a laugh. “They\n don't grow up. And I remember\n my boyhood on Jupiter very\n well.”\n\n\n He took her in his arms again,\n and this time she did not resist.\n His lips were very human.\nTHE END", "The door from the house shattered\n and Quest burst through.\n The two guards turned and fired\n together.\n\n\n He could be hurt by bullets.\n He was staggered momentarily.\n\n\n Then, in a blur of motion, he\n sprang forward and swept the\n guards aside with one hand with\n such force that they skidded\n across the floor and lay in an\n unconscious heap against the\n rear of the garage. Trella had\n opened the door of the car, but\n it was wrenched from her hand\n as Blessing stepped on the accelerator\n and it leaped into the\n driveway with spinning wheels.\n\n\n Quest was after it, like a\n chunky deer, running faster\n than Trella had ever seen a man\n run before.\n\n\n Blessing slowed for the turn\n at the end of the driveway and\n glanced back over his shoulder.\n Seeing Quest almost upon him,\n he slammed down the accelerator\n and twisted the wheel hard.", "“I never thought of myself in\n quite that light, but maybe\n I'm getting old,” he answered,\n laughing. “What's your trouble,\n Trella?”\n\n\n “I'm in love with that huge\n chunk of man who came aboard\n with me, and I'm not sure I\n ought to be,” she confessed. “I\n may need protection against myself\n till we get to Earth.”\n\n\n “If it's to keep you out of another\n fellow's clutches, I'm your\n man,” agreed Jakdane heartily.\n “I always had a mind to save\n you for myself. I'll guarantee\n you won't have a moment alone\n with him the whole trip.”\n\n\n “You don't have to be that\n thorough about it,” she protested\n hastily. “I want to get a little\n enjoyment out of being in love.\n But if I feel myself weakening\n too much, I'll holler for help.”" ], [ "Evading her attempts to stay\n behind him, the squat man began\n to move down the bar away\n from the approaching Kregg.\n The dark man moved in on\n Trella again as Kregg overtook\n his quarry and swung a huge\n fist like a sledgehammer.\n\n\n Exactly what happened, Trella\n wasn't sure. She had the impression\n that Kregg's fist connected\n squarely with the short man's\n chin\n before\n he dodged to one\n side in a movement so fast it\n was a blur. But that couldn't\n have been, because the short\n man wasn't moved by that blow\n that would have felled a steer,\n and Kregg roared in pain, grabbing\n his injured fist.\n\n\n “The bar!” yelled Kregg. “I\n hit the damn bar!”", "Tentatively, she pushed her\n chair back from the table and\n arose. She had to brush close by\n the other table to get to the bar.\n As she did, the dark, slick-haired\n man reached out and grabbed\n her around the waist with a\n steely arm.\n\n\n Trella swung with her whole\n body, and slapped him so hard\n he nearly fell from his chair. As\n she walked swiftly toward the\n bar, he leaped up to follow her.\n\n\n There were only two other\n people in the Golden Satellite:\n the fat, mustached bartender\n and a short, square-built man at\n the bar. The latter swung\n around at the pistol-like report\n of her slap, and she saw that,\n though no more than four and a\n half feet tall, he was as heavily\n muscled as a lion.\n\n\n 51\n His face was clean and open,\n with close-cropped blond hair\n and honest blue eyes. She ran to\n him.", "“I'm sorry I couldn't fight\n those men for you, Miss, but I\n just couldn't,” he said miserably,\n as though reading her thoughts.\n “But no one will bother you on\n the street if I'm with you.”\n\n\n “A lot of protection you'd be\n if they did!” she snapped. “But\n I'm desperate. You can carry\n him to the Stellar Hotel for me.”\nThe gravity of Ganymede was\n hardly more than that of Earth's\n moon, but the way the man\n picked up the limp Motwick with\n one hand and tossed him over a\n shoulder was startling: as\n though he lifted a feather pillow.\n He followed Trella out the door\n of the Golden Satellite and fell\n in step beside her. Immediately\n she was grateful for his presence.\n The dimly lighted street\n was not crowded, but she didn't\n like the looks of the men she\n saw.", "“Bruises? Man, that club\n could have broken your skull!\n Or a couple of ribs, at the very\n least.”\n\n\n “I'm all right,” insisted\n Quest; and when the skeptical\n Jakdane insisted on examining\n him carefully, he had to admit\n it. There was hardly a mark on\n him from the blows.\n\n\n “If it didn't hurt you any\n more than that, why didn't you\n take that stick away from him?”\n demanded Jakdane. “You could\n have, easily.”\n\n\n “I couldn't,” said Quest miserably,\n and turned his face\n away.\n\n\n Later, alone with Trella on\n the control deck, Jakdane gave\n her some sober advice.\n\n\n “If you think you're in love\n with Quest, forget it,” he said.", "“Help me!” she cried. “Please\n help me!”\n\n\n He began to back away from\n her.\n\n\n “I can't,” he muttered in a\n deep voice. “I can't help you. I\n can't do anything.”\nThe dark man was at her\n heels. In desperation, she dodged\n around the short man and took\n refuge behind him. Her protector\n was obviously unwilling, but\n the dark man, faced with his\n massiveness, took no chances.\n He stopped and shouted:\n\n\n “Kregg!”\n\n\n The other man at the table\n arose, ponderously, and lumbered\n toward them. He was immense,\n at least six and a half\n feet tall, with a brutal, vacant\n face.", "“I never thought of myself in\n quite that light, but maybe\n I'm getting old,” he answered,\n laughing. “What's your trouble,\n Trella?”\n\n\n “I'm in love with that huge\n chunk of man who came aboard\n with me, and I'm not sure I\n ought to be,” she confessed. “I\n may need protection against myself\n till we get to Earth.”\n\n\n “If it's to keep you out of another\n fellow's clutches, I'm your\n man,” agreed Jakdane heartily.\n “I always had a mind to save\n you for myself. I'll guarantee\n you won't have a moment alone\n with him the whole trip.”\n\n\n “You don't have to be that\n thorough about it,” she protested\n hastily. “I want to get a little\n enjoyment out of being in love.\n But if I feel myself weakening\n too much, I'll holler for help.”", "The man's eyes went wide and\n he snarled. So quickly it seemed\n impossible, he had unbuckled\n himself from his seat and hurled\n himself backward from the table\n with an incoherent cry. He\n seized the first object his hand\n touched—it happened to be a\n heavy wooden cane leaning\n against Jakdane's bunk—propelled\n himself like a projectile at\n Quest.\n\n\n Quest rose from the table in\n a sudden uncoiling of movement.\n He did not unbuckle his safety\n belt—he rose and it snapped like\n a string.\n\n\n For a moment Trella thought\n he was going to meet Asrange's\n assault. But he fled in a long\n leap toward the companionway\n leading to the astrogation deck\n 56\n above. Landing feet-first in the\n middle of the table and rebounding,\n Asrange pursued with the\n stick upraised.", "“For the protection of humans,\n there are two psychological\n traits built into every robot\n and android,” said Jakdane\n gently. “The first is that they\n can never, under any circumstances,\n attack a human being,\n even in self defense. The second\n is that, while they may understand\n sexual desire objectively,\n they can never experience it\n themselves.\n\n\n “Those characteristics fit your\n man Quest to a T, Trella. There\n is no other explanation for him:\n he must be an android.”\nTrella did not want to believe\n Jakdane was right, but his reasoning\n was unassailable. Looking\n upon Quest as an android,\n many things were explained: his\n great strength, his short, broad\n build, his immunity to injury,\n his refusal to defend himself\n against a human, his inability to\n return Trella's love for him.", "Trella sighed. Cowardice was\n a state of mind. It was peculiarly\n inappropriate, but not unbelievable,\n that the strongest and\n most agile man on Ganymede\n should be a coward. Well, she\n thought with a rush of sympathy,\n he couldn't help being\n what he was.\nThey had reached the more\n brightly lighted section of the\n city now. Trella could get a cab\n from here, but the Stellar Hotel\n wasn't far. They walked on.\n\n\n Trella had the desk clerk call\n a cab to deliver the unconscious\n Motwick to his home. She and\n Quest had a late sandwich in the\n coffee shop.\n\n\n “I landed here only a week\n ago,” he told her, his eyes frankly\n admiring her honey-colored\n hair and comely face. “I'm heading\n for Earth on the next spaceship.”", "“But my father was able to\n control it in the heavy atmosphere\n of Jupiter, and landed it\n successfully. I was born there,\n and he conditioned me to come\n to Earth and track down Blessing.\n I know now that it was\n part of the conditioning that I\n was unable to fight any other\n man until my task was finished:\n it might have gotten me in trouble\n and diverted me from that\n purpose.”\n\n\n More gently than Trella would\n have believed possible for his\n Jupiter-strong muscles, Quest\n took her in his arms.\n\n\n “Now I can say I love you,”\n he said. “That was part of the\n conditioning too: I couldn't love\n any woman until my job was\n done.”\n\n\n Trella disengaged herself.\n\n\n “I'm sorry,” she said. “Don't\n you know this, too, now: that\n you're not a man, but an android?”", "“Why? Because he's a coward?\n I know that ought to make\n me despise him, but it doesn't\n any more.”\n\n\n “Not because he's a coward.\n Because he's an android!”\n\n\n “What? Jakdane, you can't be\n serious!”\n\n\n “I am. I say he's an android,\n an artificial imitation of a man.\n It all figures.\n\n\n “Look, Trella, he said he was\n born on Jupiter. A human could\n stand the gravity of Jupiter, inside\n a dome or a ship, but what\n human could stand the rocket acceleration\n necessary to break\n free of Jupiter? Here's a man\n strong enough to break a spaceship\n safety belt just by getting\n up out of his chair against it,\n tough enough to take a beating\n with a heavy stick without being\n injured. How can you believe\n he's really human?”", "At this juncture, the bartender\n took a hand. Leaning far\n over the bar, he swung a full\n bottle in a complete arc. It\n smashed on Kregg's head,\n splashing the floor with liquor,\n and Kregg sank stunned to his\n knees. The dark man, who had\n grabbed Trella's arm, released\n her and ran for the door.\n\n\n Moving agilely around the end\n of the bar, the bartender stood\n over Kregg, holding the jagged-edged\n bottleneck in his hand\n menacingly.\n\n\n “Get out!” rumbled the bartender.\n “I'll have no coppers\n raiding my place for the likes of\n you!”\n\n\n Kregg stumbled to his feet\n and staggered out. Trella ran to\n the unconscious Motwick's side.", "She was not at all happy about\n being so strongly attracted to a\n man several inches shorter than\n she. She was particularly unhappy\n about feeling drawn to a\n man who was a coward.\n\n\n The ship that they boarded on\n Moon Nine was one of the newer\n ships that could attain a hundred-mile-per-second\n velocity\n and take a hyperbolic path to\n Earth, but it would still require\n fifty-four days to make the trip.\n So Trella was delighted to find\n that the ship was the\nCometfire\nand its skipper was her old\n friend, dark-eyed, curly-haired\n Jakdane Gille.\n\n\n “Jakdane,” she said, flirting\n with him with her eyes as in\n 54\n days gone by, “I need a chaperon\n this trip, and you're ideal for\n the job.”", "The door from the house shattered\n and Quest burst through.\n The two guards turned and fired\n together.\n\n\n He could be hurt by bullets.\n He was staggered momentarily.\n\n\n Then, in a blur of motion, he\n sprang forward and swept the\n guards aside with one hand with\n such force that they skidded\n across the floor and lay in an\n unconscious heap against the\n rear of the garage. Trella had\n opened the door of the car, but\n it was wrenched from her hand\n as Blessing stepped on the accelerator\n and it leaped into the\n driveway with spinning wheels.\n\n\n Quest was after it, like a\n chunky deer, running faster\n than Trella had ever seen a man\n run before.\n\n\n Blessing slowed for the turn\n at the end of the driveway and\n glanced back over his shoulder.\n Seeing Quest almost upon him,\n he slammed down the accelerator\n and twisted the wheel hard.", "“That means you, too, lady,”\n said the bartender beside her.\n “You and your boy friend get\n out of here. You oughtn't to\n have come here in the first\n place.”\n\n\n “May I help you, Miss?” asked\n a deep, resonant voice behind\n her.\n\n\n She straightened from her\n anxious examination of Motwick.\n The squat man was standing\n there, an apologetic look on\n his face.\n\n\n She looked contemptuously at\n the massive muscles whose help\n had been denied her. Her arm\n ached where the dark man had\n grasped it. The broad face before\n 52\n her was not unhandsome,\n and the blue eyes were disconcertingly\n direct, but she despised\n him for a coward.", "Trella was in the living room\n with Blessing, discussing the instructions\n she was to give to the\n laboratory officials in New York.\n The two bodyguards were with\n them. The other guards were at\n their posts.\n\n\n Trella heard the doorbell ring.\n The heavy oaken front door was\n kept locked now, and the guards\n in the anteroom examined callers\n through a tiny window.\n\n\n Suddenly alarm bells rang all\n over the house. There was a terrific\n crash outside the room as\n the front door splintered. There\n were shouts and the sound of a\n shot.\n\n\n “The steel doors!” cried Blessing,\n turning white. “Let's get\n out of here.”\n\n\n He and his bodyguards ran\n through the back of the house\n out of the garage.\n\n\n Blessing, ahead of the rest,\n leaped into one of the cars and\n started the engine.", "The car whipped into the\n street, careened, and rolled over\n and over, bringing up against a\n tree on the other side in a twisted\n tangle of wreckage.\n\n\n With a horrified gasp, Trella\n ran down the driveway toward\n the smoking heap of metal.\n Quest was already beside it,\n probing it. As she reached his\n side, he lifted the torn body of\n Dom Blessing. Blessing was\n dead.\n\n\n “I'm lucky,” said Quest soberly.\n “I would have murdered\n him.”\n\n\n “But why, Quest? I knew he\n was afraid of you, but he didn't\n tell me why.”", "“He came back to Earth with\n you, eh?” asked Blessing intently.\n\n\n “Yes. I'm afraid it's your decision\n whether to let him go on\n living as a man or to tell him\n he's an android and claim ownership\n as Dr. Mansard's heir.”\n\n\n Trella planned to spend a few\n days resting in her employer's\n spacious home, and then to take\n a short vacation before resuming\n her duties as his confidential\n secretary. The next morning\n when she came down from her\n room, a change had been made.\n\n\n Two armed men were with\n Dom Blessing at breakfast and\n accompanied him wherever he\n went. She discovered that two\n more men with guns were stationed\n in the bare anteroom and\n a guard was stationed at every\n entrance to the house.\n\n\n “Why all the protection?” she\n asked Blessing.", "“It seems I was taking unnecessary\n precautions when I asked\n you to be a chaperon,” she said.\n “I kept waiting for Quest to do\n something, and when he didn't\n I told him I loved him.”\n\n\n “What did he say?”\n\n\n “It's very peculiar,” she said\n unhappily. “He said he\n can't\n love me. He said he wants to\n love me and he feels that he\n should, but there's something in\n him that refuses to permit it.”\n\n\n She expected Jakdane to salve\n her wounded feelings with a\n sympathetic pleasantry, but he\n did not. Instead, he just looked\n at her very thoughtfully and\n said no more about the matter.\n\n\n He explained his attitude\n after Asrange ran amuck.", "In his haste, Quest missed the\n companionway in his leap and\n was cornered against one of the\n bunks. Asrange descended on\n him like an avenging angel and,\n holding onto the bunk with one\n hand, rained savage blows on his\n head and shoulders with the\n heavy stick.\n\n\n Quest made no effort to retaliate.\n He cowered under the attack,\n holding his hands in front\n of him as if to ward it off. In a\n moment, Jakdane and the other\n crewman had reached Asrange\n and pulled him off.\nWhen they had Asrange in\n irons, Jakdane turned to Quest,\n who was now sitting unhappily\n at the table.\n\n\n “Take it easy,” he advised.\n “I'll wake the psychosurgeon\n and have him look you over. Just\n stay there.”\n\n\n Quest shook his head.\n\n\n “Don't bother him,” he said.\n “It's nothing but a few bruises.”" ], [ "Trella was in the living room\n with Blessing, discussing the instructions\n she was to give to the\n laboratory officials in New York.\n The two bodyguards were with\n them. The other guards were at\n their posts.\n\n\n Trella heard the doorbell ring.\n The heavy oaken front door was\n kept locked now, and the guards\n in the anteroom examined callers\n through a tiny window.\n\n\n Suddenly alarm bells rang all\n over the house. There was a terrific\n crash outside the room as\n the front door splintered. There\n were shouts and the sound of a\n shot.\n\n\n “The steel doors!” cried Blessing,\n turning white. “Let's get\n out of here.”\n\n\n He and his bodyguards ran\n through the back of the house\n out of the garage.\n\n\n Blessing, ahead of the rest,\n leaped into one of the cars and\n started the engine.", "Tentatively, she pushed her\n chair back from the table and\n arose. She had to brush close by\n the other table to get to the bar.\n As she did, the dark, slick-haired\n man reached out and grabbed\n her around the waist with a\n steely arm.\n\n\n Trella swung with her whole\n body, and slapped him so hard\n he nearly fell from his chair. As\n she walked swiftly toward the\n bar, he leaped up to follow her.\n\n\n There were only two other\n people in the Golden Satellite:\n the fat, mustached bartender\n and a short, square-built man at\n the bar. The latter swung\n around at the pistol-like report\n of her slap, and she saw that,\n though no more than four and a\n half feet tall, he was as heavily\n muscled as a lion.\n\n\n 51\n His face was clean and open,\n with close-cropped blond hair\n and honest blue eyes. She ran to\n him.", "She accompanied him through\n the bare, windowless anteroom\n which had always seemed to her\n such a strange feature of this\n luxurious house, and they entered\n the big living room. They sat\n before a fire in the old-fashioned\n fireplace and Blessing opened the\n brief case with trembling hands.\n\n\n “There are things here,” he\n said, his eyes sparkling as he\n glanced through the notebooks.\n “Yes, there are things here. We\n shall make something of these,\n Miss Trella, eh?”\n\n\n “I'm glad they're something\n you can use, Mr. Blessing,” she\n said. “There's something else I\n found on my trip, that I think\n I should tell you about.”\n\n\n She told him about Quest.\n\n\n “He thinks he's the son of Dr.\n Mansard,” she finished, “but apparently\n he is, without knowing\n it, an android Dr. Mansard built\n on Jupiter.”", "“That means you, too, lady,”\n said the bartender beside her.\n “You and your boy friend get\n out of here. You oughtn't to\n have come here in the first\n place.”\n\n\n “May I help you, Miss?” asked\n a deep, resonant voice behind\n her.\n\n\n She straightened from her\n anxious examination of Motwick.\n The squat man was standing\n there, an apologetic look on\n his face.\n\n\n She looked contemptuously at\n the massive muscles whose help\n had been denied her. Her arm\n ached where the dark man had\n grasped it. The broad face before\n 52\n her was not unhandsome,\n and the blue eyes were disconcertingly\n direct, but she despised\n him for a coward.", "“Help me!” she cried. “Please\n help me!”\n\n\n He began to back away from\n her.\n\n\n “I can't,” he muttered in a\n deep voice. “I can't help you. I\n can't do anything.”\nThe dark man was at her\n heels. In desperation, she dodged\n around the short man and took\n refuge behind him. Her protector\n was obviously unwilling, but\n the dark man, faced with his\n massiveness, took no chances.\n He stopped and shouted:\n\n\n “Kregg!”\n\n\n The other man at the table\n arose, ponderously, and lumbered\n toward them. He was immense,\n at least six and a half\n feet tall, with a brutal, vacant\n face.", "“It has been pleasant knowing\n you, Trella,” he said when they\n left the G-boat at White Sands.\n A faraway look came into his\n blue eyes, and he added: “I'm\n sorry things couldn't have been\n different, somehow.”\n\n\n “Let's don't be sorry for what\n we can't help,” she said gently,\n taking his hand in farewell.\n\n\n Trella took a fast plane from\n White Sands, and twenty-four\n hours later walked up the front\n steps of the familiar brownstone\n house on the outskirts of Washington.\n\n\n Dom Blessing himself met her\n at the door, a stooped, graying\n 58\n man who peered at her over his\n spectacles.\n\n\n “You have the papers, eh?”\n he said, spying the brief case.\n “Good, good. Come in and we'll\n see what we have, eh?”", "Evading her attempts to stay\n behind him, the squat man began\n to move down the bar away\n from the approaching Kregg.\n The dark man moved in on\n Trella again as Kregg overtook\n his quarry and swung a huge\n fist like a sledgehammer.\n\n\n Exactly what happened, Trella\n wasn't sure. She had the impression\n that Kregg's fist connected\n squarely with the short man's\n chin\n before\n he dodged to one\n side in a movement so fast it\n was a blur. But that couldn't\n have been, because the short\n man wasn't moved by that blow\n that would have felled a steer,\n and Kregg roared in pain, grabbing\n his injured fist.\n\n\n “The bar!” yelled Kregg. “I\n hit the damn bar!”", "The door from the house shattered\n and Quest burst through.\n The two guards turned and fired\n together.\n\n\n He could be hurt by bullets.\n He was staggered momentarily.\n\n\n Then, in a blur of motion, he\n sprang forward and swept the\n guards aside with one hand with\n such force that they skidded\n across the floor and lay in an\n unconscious heap against the\n rear of the garage. Trella had\n opened the door of the car, but\n it was wrenched from her hand\n as Blessing stepped on the accelerator\n and it leaped into the\n driveway with spinning wheels.\n\n\n Quest was after it, like a\n chunky deer, running faster\n than Trella had ever seen a man\n run before.\n\n\n Blessing slowed for the turn\n at the end of the driveway and\n glanced back over his shoulder.\n Seeing Quest almost upon him,\n he slammed down the accelerator\n and twisted the wheel hard.", "“I'm sorry I couldn't fight\n those men for you, Miss, but I\n just couldn't,” he said miserably,\n as though reading her thoughts.\n “But no one will bother you on\n the street if I'm with you.”\n\n\n “A lot of protection you'd be\n if they did!” she snapped. “But\n I'm desperate. You can carry\n him to the Stellar Hotel for me.”\nThe gravity of Ganymede was\n hardly more than that of Earth's\n moon, but the way the man\n picked up the limp Motwick with\n one hand and tossed him over a\n shoulder was startling: as\n though he lifted a feather pillow.\n He followed Trella out the door\n of the Golden Satellite and fell\n in step beside her. Immediately\n she was grateful for his presence.\n The dimly lighted street\n was not crowded, but she didn't\n like the looks of the men she\n saw.", "Trella sighed. Cowardice was\n a state of mind. It was peculiarly\n inappropriate, but not unbelievable,\n that the strongest and\n most agile man on Ganymede\n should be a coward. Well, she\n thought with a rush of sympathy,\n he couldn't help being\n what he was.\nThey had reached the more\n brightly lighted section of the\n city now. Trella could get a cab\n from here, but the Stellar Hotel\n wasn't far. They walked on.\n\n\n Trella had the desk clerk call\n a cab to deliver the unconscious\n Motwick to his home. She and\n Quest had a late sandwich in the\n coffee shop.\n\n\n “I landed here only a week\n ago,” he told her, his eyes frankly\n admiring her honey-colored\n hair and comely face. “I'm heading\n for Earth on the next spaceship.”", "At this juncture, the bartender\n took a hand. Leaning far\n over the bar, he swung a full\n bottle in a complete arc. It\n smashed on Kregg's head,\n splashing the floor with liquor,\n and Kregg sank stunned to his\n knees. The dark man, who had\n grabbed Trella's arm, released\n her and ran for the door.\n\n\n Moving agilely around the end\n of the bar, the bartender stood\n over Kregg, holding the jagged-edged\n bottleneck in his hand\n menacingly.\n\n\n “Get out!” rumbled the bartender.\n “I'll have no coppers\n raiding my place for the likes of\n you!”\n\n\n Kregg stumbled to his feet\n and staggered out. Trella ran to\n the unconscious Motwick's side.", "The car whipped into the\n street, careened, and rolled over\n and over, bringing up against a\n tree on the other side in a twisted\n tangle of wreckage.\n\n\n With a horrified gasp, Trella\n ran down the driveway toward\n the smoking heap of metal.\n Quest was already beside it,\n probing it. As she reached his\n side, he lifted the torn body of\n Dom Blessing. Blessing was\n dead.\n\n\n “I'm lucky,” said Quest soberly.\n “I would have murdered\n him.”\n\n\n “But why, Quest? I knew he\n was afraid of you, but he didn't\n tell me why.”", "She was not at all happy about\n being so strongly attracted to a\n man several inches shorter than\n she. She was particularly unhappy\n about feeling drawn to a\n man who was a coward.\n\n\n The ship that they boarded on\n Moon Nine was one of the newer\n ships that could attain a hundred-mile-per-second\n velocity\n and take a hyperbolic path to\n Earth, but it would still require\n fifty-four days to make the trip.\n So Trella was delighted to find\n that the ship was the\nCometfire\nand its skipper was her old\n friend, dark-eyed, curly-haired\n Jakdane Gille.\n\n\n “Jakdane,” she said, flirting\n with him with her eyes as in\n 54\n days gone by, “I need a chaperon\n this trip, and you're ideal for\n the job.”", "Asrange was the third passenger.\n He was a lean, saturnine\n individual who said little and\n kept to himself as much as possible.\n He was distantly polite in\n his relations with both crew and\n other passengers, and never\n showed the slightest spark of\n emotion … until the day Quest\n squirted coffee on him.\n\n\n It was one of those accidents\n that can occur easily in space.\n The passengers and the two\n crewmen on that particular waking\n shift (including Jakdane)\n were eating lunch on the center-deck.\n Quest picked up his bulb\n of coffee, but inadvertently\n pressed it before he got it to his\n lips. The coffee squirted all over\n the front of Asrange's clean\n white tunic.\n\n\n “I'm sorry!” exclaimed Quest\n in distress.", "“My parents landed on Jupiter,\n and I blasted off from it,”\n he said soberly. “I was born\n there. Have you ever heard of\n Dr. Eriklund Mansard?”\n\n\n “I certainly have,” she said,\n her interest taking a sudden\n upward turn. “He developed the\n surgiscope, didn't he? But his\n ship was drawn into Jupiter and\n lost.”\n\n\n “It was drawn into Jupiter,\n but he landed it successfully,”\n said Quest. “He and my mother\n lived on Jupiter until the oxygen\n equipment wore out at last. I\n was born and brought up there,\n and I was finally able to build\n a small rocket with a powerful\n enough drive to clear the\n planet.”\n\n\n She looked at him. He was\n short, half a head shorter than\n she, but broad and powerful as\n a man might be who had grown\n up in heavy gravity. He trod the\n street with a light, controlled\n step, seeming to deliberately\n hold himself down.", "The man's eyes went wide and\n he snarled. So quickly it seemed\n impossible, he had unbuckled\n himself from his seat and hurled\n himself backward from the table\n with an incoherent cry. He\n seized the first object his hand\n touched—it happened to be a\n heavy wooden cane leaning\n against Jakdane's bunk—propelled\n himself like a projectile at\n Quest.\n\n\n Quest rose from the table in\n a sudden uncoiling of movement.\n He did not unbuckle his safety\n belt—he rose and it snapped like\n a string.\n\n\n For a moment Trella thought\n he was going to meet Asrange's\n assault. But he fled in a long\n leap toward the companionway\n leading to the astrogation deck\n 56\n above. Landing feet-first in the\n middle of the table and rebounding,\n Asrange pursued with the\n stick upraised.", "In his haste, Quest missed the\n companionway in his leap and\n was cornered against one of the\n bunks. Asrange descended on\n him like an avenging angel and,\n holding onto the bunk with one\n hand, rained savage blows on his\n head and shoulders with the\n heavy stick.\n\n\n Quest made no effort to retaliate.\n He cowered under the attack,\n holding his hands in front\n of him as if to ward it off. In a\n moment, Jakdane and the other\n crewman had reached Asrange\n and pulled him off.\nWhen they had Asrange in\n irons, Jakdane turned to Quest,\n who was now sitting unhappily\n at the table.\n\n\n “Take it easy,” he advised.\n “I'll wake the psychosurgeon\n and have him look you over. Just\n stay there.”\n\n\n Quest shook his head.\n\n\n “Don't bother him,” he said.\n “It's nothing but a few bruises.”", "The\nCometfire\nswung around\n great Jupiter in an opening arc\n and plummeted ever more swiftly\n toward the tight circles of the\n inner planets. There were four\n crew members and three passengers\n aboard the ship's tiny personnel\n sphere, and Trella was\n thrown with Quest almost constantly.\n She enjoyed every minute\n of it.\n\n\n She told him only that she\n was a messenger, sent out to\n Ganymede to pick up some important\n papers and take them\n back to Earth. She was tempted\n to tell him what the papers were.\n Her employer had impressed upon\n her that her mission was confidential,\n but surely Dom\n Blessing\n could not object to Dr.\n Mansard's son knowing about it.\n\n\n All these things had happened\n before she was born, and she\n did not know what Dom Blessing's\n relation to Dr. Mansard\n had been, but it must have been\n very close. She knew that Dr.\n Mansard had invented the surgiscope.", "“It seems I was taking unnecessary\n precautions when I asked\n you to be a chaperon,” she said.\n “I kept waiting for Quest to do\n something, and when he didn't\n I told him I loved him.”\n\n\n “What did he say?”\n\n\n “It's very peculiar,” she said\n unhappily. “He said he\n can't\n love me. He said he wants to\n love me and he feels that he\n should, but there's something in\n him that refuses to permit it.”\n\n\n She expected Jakdane to salve\n her wounded feelings with a\n sympathetic pleasantry, but he\n did not. Instead, he just looked\n at her very thoughtfully and\n said no more about the matter.\n\n\n He explained his attitude\n after Asrange ran amuck.", "“We'll be traveling companions,\n then,” she said. “I'm going\n back on that ship, too.”\n\n\n For some reason she decided\n against telling him that the\n assignment on which she had\n come to the Jupiter system was\n to gather his own father's notebooks\n and take them back to\n Earth.\nMotwick was an irresponsible\n playboy whom Trella had known\n briefly on Earth, and Trella was\n glad to dispense with his company\n for the remaining three\n weeks before the spaceship\n blasted off. She found herself\n enjoying the steadier companionship\n of Quest.\n\n\n As a matter of fact, she found\n herself enjoying his companionship\n more than she intended to.\n She found herself falling in love\n with him.\n\n\n Now this did not suit her at\n all. Trella had always liked her\n men tall and dark. She had determined\n that when she married\n it would be to a curly-haired six-footer." ], [ "“My parents landed on Jupiter,\n and I blasted off from it,”\n he said soberly. “I was born\n there. Have you ever heard of\n Dr. Eriklund Mansard?”\n\n\n “I certainly have,” she said,\n her interest taking a sudden\n upward turn. “He developed the\n surgiscope, didn't he? But his\n ship was drawn into Jupiter and\n lost.”\n\n\n “It was drawn into Jupiter,\n but he landed it successfully,”\n said Quest. “He and my mother\n lived on Jupiter until the oxygen\n equipment wore out at last. I\n was born and brought up there,\n and I was finally able to build\n a small rocket with a powerful\n enough drive to clear the\n planet.”\n\n\n She looked at him. He was\n short, half a head shorter than\n she, but broad and powerful as\n a man might be who had grown\n up in heavy gravity. He trod the\n street with a light, controlled\n step, seeming to deliberately\n hold himself down.", "He looked at her in astonishment,\n stunned by her words.\n\n\n “What in space makes you\n think that?” he demanded.\n\n\n “Why, Quest, it's obvious,”\n she cried, tears in her eyes.\n “Everything about you … your\n build, suited for Jupiter's gravity …\n your strength … the\n fact that you were able to live\n in Jupiter's atmosphere after\n the oxygen equipment failed.\n I know you think Dr. Mansard\n was your father, but androids\n often believe that.”\n\n\n He grinned at her.\n\n\n “I'm no android,” he said confidently.\n “Do you forget my father\n was inventor of the surgiscope?\n He knew I'd have to grow\n up on Jupiter, and he operated\n on the genes before I was born.\n He altered my inherited characteristics\n to adapt me to the climate\n of Jupiter … even to\n being able to breathe a chlorine\n atmosphere as well as an oxygen\n atmosphere.”", "Trella remembered the thug\n Kregg striking Quest in the face\n and then crying that he had injured\n his hand on the bar.\n\n\n “But he said Dr. Mansard was\n his father,” protested Trella.\n\n\n “Robots and androids frequently\n look on their makers as\n their parents,” said Jakdane.\n “Quest may not even know he's\n 57\n artificial. Do you know how\n Mansard died?”\n\n\n “The oxygen equipment failed,\n Quest said.”\n\n\n “Yes. Do you know when?”\n\n\n “No. Quest never did tell me,\n that I remember.”\n\n\n “He told me: a year before\n Quest made his rocket flight to\n Ganymede! If the oxygen equipment\n failed, how do you think\n Quest\n lived in the poisonous atmosphere\n of Jupiter, if he's human?”\n\n\n Trella was silent.", "“But my father was able to\n control it in the heavy atmosphere\n of Jupiter, and landed it\n successfully. I was born there,\n and he conditioned me to come\n to Earth and track down Blessing.\n I know now that it was\n part of the conditioning that I\n was unable to fight any other\n man until my task was finished:\n it might have gotten me in trouble\n and diverted me from that\n purpose.”\n\n\n More gently than Trella would\n have believed possible for his\n Jupiter-strong muscles, Quest\n took her in his arms.\n\n\n “Now I can say I love you,”\n he said. “That was part of the\n conditioning too: I couldn't love\n any woman until my job was\n done.”\n\n\n Trella disengaged herself.\n\n\n “I'm sorry,” she said. “Don't\n you know this, too, now: that\n you're not a man, but an android?”", "The transparent dome of Jupiter's\n View was faintly visible\n in the reflected night lights of\n the colonial city, but the lights\n were overwhelmed by the giant,\n vari-colored disc of Jupiter itself,\n riding high in the sky.\n\n\n “I'm Quest Mansard, Miss,”\n said her companion. “I'm just in\n from Jupiter.”\n\n\n “I'm Trella Nuspar,” she said,\n favoring him with a green-eyed\n glance. “You mean Io, don't you—or\n Moon Five?”\n\n\n “No,” he said, grinning at\n her. He had an engaging grin,\n with even white teeth. “I meant\n Jupiter.”\n\n\n “You're lying,” she said flatly.\n “No one has ever landed on\n Jupiter. It would be impossible\n to blast off again.”", "“We'll be traveling companions,\n then,” she said. “I'm going\n back on that ship, too.”\n\n\n For some reason she decided\n against telling him that the\n assignment on which she had\n come to the Jupiter system was\n to gather his own father's notebooks\n and take them back to\n Earth.\nMotwick was an irresponsible\n playboy whom Trella had known\n briefly on Earth, and Trella was\n glad to dispense with his company\n for the remaining three\n weeks before the spaceship\n blasted off. She found herself\n enjoying the steadier companionship\n of Quest.\n\n\n As a matter of fact, she found\n herself enjoying his companionship\n more than she intended to.\n She found herself falling in love\n with him.\n\n\n Now this did not suit her at\n all. Trella had always liked her\n men tall and dark. She had determined\n that when she married\n it would be to a curly-haired six-footer.", "“If Dr. Mansard succeeded in\n landing on Jupiter, why didn't\n anyone ever hear from him\n again?” she demanded.\n\n\n “Because,” said Quest, “his\n radio was sabotaged, just as his\n ship's drive was.”\n\n\n “Jupiter strength,” she murmured,\n looking him over coolly.\n 53\n “You wear Motwick on your\n shoulder like a scarf. But you\n couldn't bring yourself to help\n a woman against two thugs.”\n\n\n He flushed.\n\n\n “I'm sorry,” he said. “That's\n something I couldn't help.”\n\n\n “Why not?”\n\n\n “I don't know. It's not that\n I'm afraid, but there's something\n in me that makes me back\n away from the prospect of fighting\n anyone.”", "Through all these years since\n Dr. Mansard's disappearance,\n 55\n Blessing had been searching the\n Jovian moons for a second, hidden\n laboratory of Dr. Mansard.\n When it was found at last, he\n sent Trella, his most trusted\n secretary, to Ganymede to bring\n back to him the notebooks found\n there.\n\n\n Blessing would, of course, be\n happy to learn that a son of Dr.\n Mansard lived, and would see\n that he received his rightful\n share of the inheritance. Because\n of this, Trella was tempted\n to tell Quest the good news\n herself; but she decided against\n it. It was Blessing's privilege to\n do this his own way, and he\n might not appreciate her meddling.\nAt midtrip, Trella made a rueful\n confession to Jakdane.", "The\nCometfire\nswung around\n great Jupiter in an opening arc\n and plummeted ever more swiftly\n toward the tight circles of the\n inner planets. There were four\n crew members and three passengers\n aboard the ship's tiny personnel\n sphere, and Trella was\n thrown with Quest almost constantly.\n She enjoyed every minute\n of it.\n\n\n She told him only that she\n was a messenger, sent out to\n Ganymede to pick up some important\n papers and take them\n back to Earth. She was tempted\n to tell him what the papers were.\n Her employer had impressed upon\n her that her mission was confidential,\n but surely Dom\n Blessing\n could not object to Dr.\n Mansard's son knowing about it.\n\n\n All these things had happened\n before she was born, and she\n did not know what Dom Blessing's\n relation to Dr. Mansard\n had been, but it must have been\n very close. She knew that Dr.\n Mansard had invented the surgiscope.", "She accompanied him through\n the bare, windowless anteroom\n which had always seemed to her\n such a strange feature of this\n luxurious house, and they entered\n the big living room. They sat\n before a fire in the old-fashioned\n fireplace and Blessing opened the\n brief case with trembling hands.\n\n\n “There are things here,” he\n said, his eyes sparkling as he\n glanced through the notebooks.\n “Yes, there are things here. We\n shall make something of these,\n Miss Trella, eh?”\n\n\n “I'm glad they're something\n you can use, Mr. Blessing,” she\n said. “There's something else I\n found on my trip, that I think\n I should tell you about.”\n\n\n She told him about Quest.\n\n\n “He thinks he's the son of Dr.\n Mansard,” she finished, “but apparently\n he is, without knowing\n it, an android Dr. Mansard built\n on Jupiter.”", "“It was conditioned into me,”\n answered Quest “I didn't know\n 60\n it until just now, when it ended,\n but my father conditioned me\n psychologically from my birth\n to the task of hunting down\n Dom Blessing and killing him. It\n was an unconscious drive in me\n that wouldn't release me until\n the task was finished.\n\n\n “You see, Blessing was my father's\n assistant on Ganymede.\n Right after my father completed\n development of the surgiscope,\n he and my mother blasted off for\n Io. Blessing wanted the valuable\n rights to the surgiscope, and he\n sabotaged the ship's drive so it\n would fall into Jupiter.", "“Bruises? Man, that club\n could have broken your skull!\n Or a couple of ribs, at the very\n least.”\n\n\n “I'm all right,” insisted\n Quest; and when the skeptical\n Jakdane insisted on examining\n him carefully, he had to admit\n it. There was hardly a mark on\n him from the blows.\n\n\n “If it didn't hurt you any\n more than that, why didn't you\n take that stick away from him?”\n demanded Jakdane. “You could\n have, easily.”\n\n\n “I couldn't,” said Quest miserably,\n and turned his face\n away.\n\n\n Later, alone with Trella on\n the control deck, Jakdane gave\n her some sober advice.\n\n\n “If you think you're in love\n with Quest, forget it,” he said.", "In his haste, Quest missed the\n companionway in his leap and\n was cornered against one of the\n bunks. Asrange descended on\n him like an avenging angel and,\n holding onto the bunk with one\n hand, rained savage blows on his\n head and shoulders with the\n heavy stick.\n\n\n Quest made no effort to retaliate.\n He cowered under the attack,\n holding his hands in front\n of him as if to ward it off. In a\n moment, Jakdane and the other\n crewman had reached Asrange\n and pulled him off.\nWhen they had Asrange in\n irons, Jakdane turned to Quest,\n who was now sitting unhappily\n at the table.\n\n\n “Take it easy,” he advised.\n “I'll wake the psychosurgeon\n and have him look you over. Just\n stay there.”\n\n\n Quest shook his head.\n\n\n “Don't bother him,” he said.\n “It's nothing but a few bruises.”", "“Why? Because he's a coward?\n I know that ought to make\n me despise him, but it doesn't\n any more.”\n\n\n “Not because he's a coward.\n Because he's an android!”\n\n\n “What? Jakdane, you can't be\n serious!”\n\n\n “I am. I say he's an android,\n an artificial imitation of a man.\n It all figures.\n\n\n “Look, Trella, he said he was\n born on Jupiter. A human could\n stand the gravity of Jupiter, inside\n a dome or a ship, but what\n human could stand the rocket acceleration\n necessary to break\n free of Jupiter? Here's a man\n strong enough to break a spaceship\n safety belt just by getting\n up out of his chair against it,\n tough enough to take a beating\n with a heavy stick without being\n injured. How can you believe\n he's really human?”", "Asrange was the third passenger.\n He was a lean, saturnine\n individual who said little and\n kept to himself as much as possible.\n He was distantly polite in\n his relations with both crew and\n other passengers, and never\n showed the slightest spark of\n emotion … until the day Quest\n squirted coffee on him.\n\n\n It was one of those accidents\n that can occur easily in space.\n The passengers and the two\n crewmen on that particular waking\n shift (including Jakdane)\n were eating lunch on the center-deck.\n Quest picked up his bulb\n of coffee, but inadvertently\n pressed it before he got it to his\n lips. The coffee squirted all over\n the front of Asrange's clean\n white tunic.\n\n\n “I'm sorry!” exclaimed Quest\n in distress.", "Trella sighed. Cowardice was\n a state of mind. It was peculiarly\n inappropriate, but not unbelievable,\n that the strongest and\n most agile man on Ganymede\n should be a coward. Well, she\n thought with a rush of sympathy,\n he couldn't help being\n what he was.\nThey had reached the more\n brightly lighted section of the\n city now. Trella could get a cab\n from here, but the Stellar Hotel\n wasn't far. They walked on.\n\n\n Trella had the desk clerk call\n a cab to deliver the unconscious\n Motwick to his home. She and\n Quest had a late sandwich in the\n coffee shop.\n\n\n “I landed here only a week\n ago,” he told her, his eyes frankly\n admiring her honey-colored\n hair and comely face. “I'm heading\n for Earth on the next spaceship.”", "The man's eyes went wide and\n he snarled. So quickly it seemed\n impossible, he had unbuckled\n himself from his seat and hurled\n himself backward from the table\n with an incoherent cry. He\n seized the first object his hand\n touched—it happened to be a\n heavy wooden cane leaning\n against Jakdane's bunk—propelled\n himself like a projectile at\n Quest.\n\n\n Quest rose from the table in\n a sudden uncoiling of movement.\n He did not unbuckle his safety\n belt—he rose and it snapped like\n a string.\n\n\n For a moment Trella thought\n he was going to meet Asrange's\n assault. But he fled in a long\n leap toward the companionway\n leading to the astrogation deck\n 56\n above. Landing feet-first in the\n middle of the table and rebounding,\n Asrange pursued with the\n stick upraised.", "“I'm sorry I couldn't fight\n those men for you, Miss, but I\n just couldn't,” he said miserably,\n as though reading her thoughts.\n “But no one will bother you on\n the street if I'm with you.”\n\n\n “A lot of protection you'd be\n if they did!” she snapped. “But\n I'm desperate. You can carry\n him to the Stellar Hotel for me.”\nThe gravity of Ganymede was\n hardly more than that of Earth's\n moon, but the way the man\n picked up the limp Motwick with\n one hand and tossed him over a\n shoulder was startling: as\n though he lifted a feather pillow.\n He followed Trella out the door\n of the Golden Satellite and fell\n in step beside her. Immediately\n she was grateful for his presence.\n The dimly lighted street\n was not crowded, but she didn't\n like the looks of the men she\n saw.", "question: Was he human?\nTrella\n feared she was in\n for trouble even before Motwick's\n head dropped forward on\n his arms in a drunken stupor.\n The two evil-looking men at the\n table nearby had been watching\n her surreptitiously, and now\n they shifted restlessly in their\n chairs.\n\n\n Trella had not wanted to come\n to the Golden Satellite. It was a\n squalid saloon in the rougher\n section of Jupiter's View, the\n terrestrial dome-colony on Ganymede.\n Motwick,\n already\n drunk,\n had insisted.\n\n\n A woman could not possibly\n make her way through these\n streets alone to the better section\n of town, especially one clad\n in a silvery evening dress. Her\n only hope was that this place\n had a telephone. Perhaps she\n could call one of Motwick's\n friends; she had no one on Ganymede\n she could call a real friend\n herself.", "Trella looked at him. He was\n not badly hurt, any more than\n an elephant would have been,\n but his tunic was stained with\n red blood where the bullets had\n struck him. Normal android\n blood was green.\n\n\n “How can you be sure?” she\n asked doubtfully.\n\n\n “Androids are made,” he answered\n with a laugh. “They\n don't grow up. And I remember\n my boyhood on Jupiter very\n well.”\n\n\n He took her in his arms again,\n and this time she did not resist.\n His lips were very human.\nTHE END" ], [ "“If Dr. Mansard succeeded in\n landing on Jupiter, why didn't\n anyone ever hear from him\n again?” she demanded.\n\n\n “Because,” said Quest, “his\n radio was sabotaged, just as his\n ship's drive was.”\n\n\n “Jupiter strength,” she murmured,\n looking him over coolly.\n 53\n “You wear Motwick on your\n shoulder like a scarf. But you\n couldn't bring yourself to help\n a woman against two thugs.”\n\n\n He flushed.\n\n\n “I'm sorry,” he said. “That's\n something I couldn't help.”\n\n\n “Why not?”\n\n\n “I don't know. It's not that\n I'm afraid, but there's something\n in me that makes me back\n away from the prospect of fighting\n anyone.”", "This was an instrument with\n a three-dimensional screen as its\n heart. The screen was a cubical\n frame in which an apparently\n solid image was built up of an\n object under an electron microscope.\nThe actual cutting instrument\n of the surgiscope was an ion\n stream. By operating a tool in\n the three-dimensional screen,\n corresponding movements were\n made by the ion stream on the\n object under the microscope.\n The\n principle\n was the same as\n that used in operation of remote\n control “hands” in atomic laboratories\n to handle hot material,\n and with the surgiscope very\n delicate operations could be performed\n at the cellular level.\n\n\n Dr. Mansard and his wife had\n disappeared into the turbulent\n atmosphere of Jupiter just after\n his invention of the surgiscope,\n and it had been developed by\n Dom Blessing. Its success had\n built Spaceway Instruments, Incorporated,\n which Blessing headed.", "She accompanied him through\n the bare, windowless anteroom\n which had always seemed to her\n such a strange feature of this\n luxurious house, and they entered\n the big living room. They sat\n before a fire in the old-fashioned\n fireplace and Blessing opened the\n brief case with trembling hands.\n\n\n “There are things here,” he\n said, his eyes sparkling as he\n glanced through the notebooks.\n “Yes, there are things here. We\n shall make something of these,\n Miss Trella, eh?”\n\n\n “I'm glad they're something\n you can use, Mr. Blessing,” she\n said. “There's something else I\n found on my trip, that I think\n I should tell you about.”\n\n\n She told him about Quest.\n\n\n “He thinks he's the son of Dr.\n Mansard,” she finished, “but apparently\n he is, without knowing\n it, an android Dr. Mansard built\n on Jupiter.”", "Through all these years since\n Dr. Mansard's disappearance,\n 55\n Blessing had been searching the\n Jovian moons for a second, hidden\n laboratory of Dr. Mansard.\n When it was found at last, he\n sent Trella, his most trusted\n secretary, to Ganymede to bring\n back to him the notebooks found\n there.\n\n\n Blessing would, of course, be\n happy to learn that a son of Dr.\n Mansard lived, and would see\n that he received his rightful\n share of the inheritance. Because\n of this, Trella was tempted\n to tell Quest the good news\n herself; but she decided against\n it. It was Blessing's privilege to\n do this his own way, and he\n might not appreciate her meddling.\nAt midtrip, Trella made a rueful\n confession to Jakdane.", "The\nCometfire\nswung around\n great Jupiter in an opening arc\n and plummeted ever more swiftly\n toward the tight circles of the\n inner planets. There were four\n crew members and three passengers\n aboard the ship's tiny personnel\n sphere, and Trella was\n thrown with Quest almost constantly.\n She enjoyed every minute\n of it.\n\n\n She told him only that she\n was a messenger, sent out to\n Ganymede to pick up some important\n papers and take them\n back to Earth. She was tempted\n to tell him what the papers were.\n Her employer had impressed upon\n her that her mission was confidential,\n but surely Dom\n Blessing\n could not object to Dr.\n Mansard's son knowing about it.\n\n\n All these things had happened\n before she was born, and she\n did not know what Dom Blessing's\n relation to Dr. Mansard\n had been, but it must have been\n very close. She knew that Dr.\n Mansard had invented the surgiscope.", "“He came back to Earth with\n you, eh?” asked Blessing intently.\n\n\n “Yes. I'm afraid it's your decision\n whether to let him go on\n living as a man or to tell him\n he's an android and claim ownership\n as Dr. Mansard's heir.”\n\n\n Trella planned to spend a few\n days resting in her employer's\n spacious home, and then to take\n a short vacation before resuming\n her duties as his confidential\n secretary. The next morning\n when she came down from her\n room, a change had been made.\n\n\n Two armed men were with\n Dom Blessing at breakfast and\n accompanied him wherever he\n went. She discovered that two\n more men with guns were stationed\n in the bare anteroom and\n a guard was stationed at every\n entrance to the house.\n\n\n “Why all the protection?” she\n asked Blessing.", "Trella was silent, shocked.\n There was something here she\n hadn't known about, hadn't even\n suspected. For some reason, Dom\n Blessing feared Dr. Eriklund\n Mansard … or his heir … or\n his mechanical servant.\nShe was sure that Blessing\n was wrong, that Quest, whether\n man or android, intended no\n 59\n harm to him. Surely, Quest\n would have said something of\n such bitterness during their long\n time together on Ganymede and\n aspace, since he did not know of\n Trella's connection with Blessing.\n But, since this was to be\n the atmosphere of Blessing's\n house, she was glad that he decided\n to assign her to take the\n Mansard papers to the New\n York laboratory.\n\n\n Quest came the day before she\n was scheduled to leave.", "Trella remembered the thug\n Kregg striking Quest in the face\n and then crying that he had injured\n his hand on the bar.\n\n\n “But he said Dr. Mansard was\n his father,” protested Trella.\n\n\n “Robots and androids frequently\n look on their makers as\n their parents,” said Jakdane.\n “Quest may not even know he's\n 57\n artificial. Do you know how\n Mansard died?”\n\n\n “The oxygen equipment failed,\n Quest said.”\n\n\n “Yes. Do you know when?”\n\n\n “No. Quest never did tell me,\n that I remember.”\n\n\n “He told me: a year before\n Quest made his rocket flight to\n Ganymede! If the oxygen equipment\n failed, how do you think\n Quest\n lived in the poisonous atmosphere\n of Jupiter, if he's human?”\n\n\n Trella was silent.", "Trella was in the living room\n with Blessing, discussing the instructions\n she was to give to the\n laboratory officials in New York.\n The two bodyguards were with\n them. The other guards were at\n their posts.\n\n\n Trella heard the doorbell ring.\n The heavy oaken front door was\n kept locked now, and the guards\n in the anteroom examined callers\n through a tiny window.\n\n\n Suddenly alarm bells rang all\n over the house. There was a terrific\n crash outside the room as\n the front door splintered. There\n were shouts and the sound of a\n shot.\n\n\n “The steel doors!” cried Blessing,\n turning white. “Let's get\n out of here.”\n\n\n He and his bodyguards ran\n through the back of the house\n out of the garage.\n\n\n Blessing, ahead of the rest,\n leaped into one of the cars and\n started the engine.", "“It was conditioned into me,”\n answered Quest “I didn't know\n 60\n it until just now, when it ended,\n but my father conditioned me\n psychologically from my birth\n to the task of hunting down\n Dom Blessing and killing him. It\n was an unconscious drive in me\n that wouldn't release me until\n the task was finished.\n\n\n “You see, Blessing was my father's\n assistant on Ganymede.\n Right after my father completed\n development of the surgiscope,\n he and my mother blasted off for\n Io. Blessing wanted the valuable\n rights to the surgiscope, and he\n sabotaged the ship's drive so it\n would fall into Jupiter.", "It was not inconceivable that\n she should have unknowingly\n fallen in love with an android.\n Humans could love androids,\n with real affection, even knowing\n that they were artificial.\n There were instances of android\n nursemaids who were virtually\n members of the families owning\n them.\n\n\n She was glad now that she\n had not told Quest of her mission\n to Ganymede. He thought\n he was Dr. Mansard's son, but\n an android had no legal right of\n inheritance from his owner. She\n would leave it to Dom Blessing\n to decide what to do about Quest.\n\n\n Thus she did not, as she had\n intended originally, speak to\n Quest about seeing him again\n after she had completed her assignment.\n Even if Jakdane was\n wrong and Quest was human—as\n now seemed unlikely—Quest\n had told her he could not love\n her. Her best course was to try\n to forget him.\n\n\n Nor did Quest try to arrange\n with her for a later meeting.", "“My parents landed on Jupiter,\n and I blasted off from it,”\n he said soberly. “I was born\n there. Have you ever heard of\n Dr. Eriklund Mansard?”\n\n\n “I certainly have,” she said,\n her interest taking a sudden\n upward turn. “He developed the\n surgiscope, didn't he? But his\n ship was drawn into Jupiter and\n lost.”\n\n\n “It was drawn into Jupiter,\n but he landed it successfully,”\n said Quest. “He and my mother\n lived on Jupiter until the oxygen\n equipment wore out at last. I\n was born and brought up there,\n and I was finally able to build\n a small rocket with a powerful\n enough drive to clear the\n planet.”\n\n\n She looked at him. He was\n short, half a head shorter than\n she, but broad and powerful as\n a man might be who had grown\n up in heavy gravity. He trod the\n street with a light, controlled\n step, seeming to deliberately\n hold himself down.", "In his haste, Quest missed the\n companionway in his leap and\n was cornered against one of the\n bunks. Asrange descended on\n him like an avenging angel and,\n holding onto the bunk with one\n hand, rained savage blows on his\n head and shoulders with the\n heavy stick.\n\n\n Quest made no effort to retaliate.\n He cowered under the attack,\n holding his hands in front\n of him as if to ward it off. In a\n moment, Jakdane and the other\n crewman had reached Asrange\n and pulled him off.\nWhen they had Asrange in\n irons, Jakdane turned to Quest,\n who was now sitting unhappily\n at the table.\n\n\n “Take it easy,” he advised.\n “I'll wake the psychosurgeon\n and have him look you over. Just\n stay there.”\n\n\n Quest shook his head.\n\n\n “Don't bother him,” he said.\n “It's nothing but a few bruises.”", "“It has been pleasant knowing\n you, Trella,” he said when they\n left the G-boat at White Sands.\n A faraway look came into his\n blue eyes, and he added: “I'm\n sorry things couldn't have been\n different, somehow.”\n\n\n “Let's don't be sorry for what\n we can't help,” she said gently,\n taking his hand in farewell.\n\n\n Trella took a fast plane from\n White Sands, and twenty-four\n hours later walked up the front\n steps of the familiar brownstone\n house on the outskirts of Washington.\n\n\n Dom Blessing himself met her\n at the door, a stooped, graying\n 58\n man who peered at her over his\n spectacles.\n\n\n “You have the papers, eh?”\n he said, spying the brief case.\n “Good, good. Come in and we'll\n see what we have, eh?”", "The door from the house shattered\n and Quest burst through.\n The two guards turned and fired\n together.\n\n\n He could be hurt by bullets.\n He was staggered momentarily.\n\n\n Then, in a blur of motion, he\n sprang forward and swept the\n guards aside with one hand with\n such force that they skidded\n across the floor and lay in an\n unconscious heap against the\n rear of the garage. Trella had\n opened the door of the car, but\n it was wrenched from her hand\n as Blessing stepped on the accelerator\n and it leaped into the\n driveway with spinning wheels.\n\n\n Quest was after it, like a\n chunky deer, running faster\n than Trella had ever seen a man\n run before.\n\n\n Blessing slowed for the turn\n at the end of the driveway and\n glanced back over his shoulder.\n Seeing Quest almost upon him,\n he slammed down the accelerator\n and twisted the wheel hard.", "The man's eyes went wide and\n he snarled. So quickly it seemed\n impossible, he had unbuckled\n himself from his seat and hurled\n himself backward from the table\n with an incoherent cry. He\n seized the first object his hand\n touched—it happened to be a\n heavy wooden cane leaning\n against Jakdane's bunk—propelled\n himself like a projectile at\n Quest.\n\n\n Quest rose from the table in\n a sudden uncoiling of movement.\n He did not unbuckle his safety\n belt—he rose and it snapped like\n a string.\n\n\n For a moment Trella thought\n he was going to meet Asrange's\n assault. But he fled in a long\n leap toward the companionway\n leading to the astrogation deck\n 56\n above. Landing feet-first in the\n middle of the table and rebounding,\n Asrange pursued with the\n stick upraised.", "“But my father was able to\n control it in the heavy atmosphere\n of Jupiter, and landed it\n successfully. I was born there,\n and he conditioned me to come\n to Earth and track down Blessing.\n I know now that it was\n part of the conditioning that I\n was unable to fight any other\n man until my task was finished:\n it might have gotten me in trouble\n and diverted me from that\n purpose.”\n\n\n More gently than Trella would\n have believed possible for his\n Jupiter-strong muscles, Quest\n took her in his arms.\n\n\n “Now I can say I love you,”\n he said. “That was part of the\n conditioning too: I couldn't love\n any woman until my job was\n done.”\n\n\n Trella disengaged herself.\n\n\n “I'm sorry,” she said. “Don't\n you know this, too, now: that\n you're not a man, but an android?”", "“Why? Because he's a coward?\n I know that ought to make\n me despise him, but it doesn't\n any more.”\n\n\n “Not because he's a coward.\n Because he's an android!”\n\n\n “What? Jakdane, you can't be\n serious!”\n\n\n “I am. I say he's an android,\n an artificial imitation of a man.\n It all figures.\n\n\n “Look, Trella, he said he was\n born on Jupiter. A human could\n stand the gravity of Jupiter, inside\n a dome or a ship, but what\n human could stand the rocket acceleration\n necessary to break\n free of Jupiter? Here's a man\n strong enough to break a spaceship\n safety belt just by getting\n up out of his chair against it,\n tough enough to take a beating\n with a heavy stick without being\n injured. How can you believe\n he's really human?”", "The car whipped into the\n street, careened, and rolled over\n and over, bringing up against a\n tree on the other side in a twisted\n tangle of wreckage.\n\n\n With a horrified gasp, Trella\n ran down the driveway toward\n the smoking heap of metal.\n Quest was already beside it,\n probing it. As she reached his\n side, he lifted the torn body of\n Dom Blessing. Blessing was\n dead.\n\n\n “I'm lucky,” said Quest soberly.\n “I would have murdered\n him.”\n\n\n “But why, Quest? I knew he\n was afraid of you, but he didn't\n tell me why.”", "“We'll be traveling companions,\n then,” she said. “I'm going\n back on that ship, too.”\n\n\n For some reason she decided\n against telling him that the\n assignment on which she had\n come to the Jupiter system was\n to gather his own father's notebooks\n and take them back to\n Earth.\nMotwick was an irresponsible\n playboy whom Trella had known\n briefly on Earth, and Trella was\n glad to dispense with his company\n for the remaining three\n weeks before the spaceship\n blasted off. She found herself\n enjoying the steadier companionship\n of Quest.\n\n\n As a matter of fact, she found\n herself enjoying his companionship\n more than she intended to.\n She found herself falling in love\n with him.\n\n\n Now this did not suit her at\n all. Trella had always liked her\n men tall and dark. She had determined\n that when she married\n it would be to a curly-haired six-footer." ], [ "This was an instrument with\n a three-dimensional screen as its\n heart. The screen was a cubical\n frame in which an apparently\n solid image was built up of an\n object under an electron microscope.\nThe actual cutting instrument\n of the surgiscope was an ion\n stream. By operating a tool in\n the three-dimensional screen,\n corresponding movements were\n made by the ion stream on the\n object under the microscope.\n The\n principle\n was the same as\n that used in operation of remote\n control “hands” in atomic laboratories\n to handle hot material,\n and with the surgiscope very\n delicate operations could be performed\n at the cellular level.\n\n\n Dr. Mansard and his wife had\n disappeared into the turbulent\n atmosphere of Jupiter just after\n his invention of the surgiscope,\n and it had been developed by\n Dom Blessing. Its success had\n built Spaceway Instruments, Incorporated,\n which Blessing headed.", "The\nCometfire\nswung around\n great Jupiter in an opening arc\n and plummeted ever more swiftly\n toward the tight circles of the\n inner planets. There were four\n crew members and three passengers\n aboard the ship's tiny personnel\n sphere, and Trella was\n thrown with Quest almost constantly.\n She enjoyed every minute\n of it.\n\n\n She told him only that she\n was a messenger, sent out to\n Ganymede to pick up some important\n papers and take them\n back to Earth. She was tempted\n to tell him what the papers were.\n Her employer had impressed upon\n her that her mission was confidential,\n but surely Dom\n Blessing\n could not object to Dr.\n Mansard's son knowing about it.\n\n\n All these things had happened\n before she was born, and she\n did not know what Dom Blessing's\n relation to Dr. Mansard\n had been, but it must have been\n very close. She knew that Dr.\n Mansard had invented the surgiscope.", "“It was conditioned into me,”\n answered Quest “I didn't know\n 60\n it until just now, when it ended,\n but my father conditioned me\n psychologically from my birth\n to the task of hunting down\n Dom Blessing and killing him. It\n was an unconscious drive in me\n that wouldn't release me until\n the task was finished.\n\n\n “You see, Blessing was my father's\n assistant on Ganymede.\n Right after my father completed\n development of the surgiscope,\n he and my mother blasted off for\n Io. Blessing wanted the valuable\n rights to the surgiscope, and he\n sabotaged the ship's drive so it\n would fall into Jupiter.", "He looked at her in astonishment,\n stunned by her words.\n\n\n “What in space makes you\n think that?” he demanded.\n\n\n “Why, Quest, it's obvious,”\n she cried, tears in her eyes.\n “Everything about you … your\n build, suited for Jupiter's gravity …\n your strength … the\n fact that you were able to live\n in Jupiter's atmosphere after\n the oxygen equipment failed.\n I know you think Dr. Mansard\n was your father, but androids\n often believe that.”\n\n\n He grinned at her.\n\n\n “I'm no android,” he said confidently.\n “Do you forget my father\n was inventor of the surgiscope?\n He knew I'd have to grow\n up on Jupiter, and he operated\n on the genes before I was born.\n He altered my inherited characteristics\n to adapt me to the climate\n of Jupiter … even to\n being able to breathe a chlorine\n atmosphere as well as an oxygen\n atmosphere.”", "“My parents landed on Jupiter,\n and I blasted off from it,”\n he said soberly. “I was born\n there. Have you ever heard of\n Dr. Eriklund Mansard?”\n\n\n “I certainly have,” she said,\n her interest taking a sudden\n upward turn. “He developed the\n surgiscope, didn't he? But his\n ship was drawn into Jupiter and\n lost.”\n\n\n “It was drawn into Jupiter,\n but he landed it successfully,”\n said Quest. “He and my mother\n lived on Jupiter until the oxygen\n equipment wore out at last. I\n was born and brought up there,\n and I was finally able to build\n a small rocket with a powerful\n enough drive to clear the\n planet.”\n\n\n She looked at him. He was\n short, half a head shorter than\n she, but broad and powerful as\n a man might be who had grown\n up in heavy gravity. He trod the\n street with a light, controlled\n step, seeming to deliberately\n hold himself down.", "In his haste, Quest missed the\n companionway in his leap and\n was cornered against one of the\n bunks. Asrange descended on\n him like an avenging angel and,\n holding onto the bunk with one\n hand, rained savage blows on his\n head and shoulders with the\n heavy stick.\n\n\n Quest made no effort to retaliate.\n He cowered under the attack,\n holding his hands in front\n of him as if to ward it off. In a\n moment, Jakdane and the other\n crewman had reached Asrange\n and pulled him off.\nWhen they had Asrange in\n irons, Jakdane turned to Quest,\n who was now sitting unhappily\n at the table.\n\n\n “Take it easy,” he advised.\n “I'll wake the psychosurgeon\n and have him look you over. Just\n stay there.”\n\n\n Quest shook his head.\n\n\n “Don't bother him,” he said.\n “It's nothing but a few bruises.”", "She accompanied him through\n the bare, windowless anteroom\n which had always seemed to her\n such a strange feature of this\n luxurious house, and they entered\n the big living room. They sat\n before a fire in the old-fashioned\n fireplace and Blessing opened the\n brief case with trembling hands.\n\n\n “There are things here,” he\n said, his eyes sparkling as he\n glanced through the notebooks.\n “Yes, there are things here. We\n shall make something of these,\n Miss Trella, eh?”\n\n\n “I'm glad they're something\n you can use, Mr. Blessing,” she\n said. “There's something else I\n found on my trip, that I think\n I should tell you about.”\n\n\n She told him about Quest.\n\n\n “He thinks he's the son of Dr.\n Mansard,” she finished, “but apparently\n he is, without knowing\n it, an android Dr. Mansard built\n on Jupiter.”", "Trella remembered the thug\n Kregg striking Quest in the face\n and then crying that he had injured\n his hand on the bar.\n\n\n “But he said Dr. Mansard was\n his father,” protested Trella.\n\n\n “Robots and androids frequently\n look on their makers as\n their parents,” said Jakdane.\n “Quest may not even know he's\n 57\n artificial. Do you know how\n Mansard died?”\n\n\n “The oxygen equipment failed,\n Quest said.”\n\n\n “Yes. Do you know when?”\n\n\n “No. Quest never did tell me,\n that I remember.”\n\n\n “He told me: a year before\n Quest made his rocket flight to\n Ganymede! If the oxygen equipment\n failed, how do you think\n Quest\n lived in the poisonous atmosphere\n of Jupiter, if he's human?”\n\n\n Trella was silent.", "“Why? Because he's a coward?\n I know that ought to make\n me despise him, but it doesn't\n any more.”\n\n\n “Not because he's a coward.\n Because he's an android!”\n\n\n “What? Jakdane, you can't be\n serious!”\n\n\n “I am. I say he's an android,\n an artificial imitation of a man.\n It all figures.\n\n\n “Look, Trella, he said he was\n born on Jupiter. A human could\n stand the gravity of Jupiter, inside\n a dome or a ship, but what\n human could stand the rocket acceleration\n necessary to break\n free of Jupiter? Here's a man\n strong enough to break a spaceship\n safety belt just by getting\n up out of his chair against it,\n tough enough to take a beating\n with a heavy stick without being\n injured. How can you believe\n he's really human?”", "Asrange was the third passenger.\n He was a lean, saturnine\n individual who said little and\n kept to himself as much as possible.\n He was distantly polite in\n his relations with both crew and\n other passengers, and never\n showed the slightest spark of\n emotion … until the day Quest\n squirted coffee on him.\n\n\n It was one of those accidents\n that can occur easily in space.\n The passengers and the two\n crewmen on that particular waking\n shift (including Jakdane)\n were eating lunch on the center-deck.\n Quest picked up his bulb\n of coffee, but inadvertently\n pressed it before he got it to his\n lips. The coffee squirted all over\n the front of Asrange's clean\n white tunic.\n\n\n “I'm sorry!” exclaimed Quest\n in distress.", "Trella was in the living room\n with Blessing, discussing the instructions\n she was to give to the\n laboratory officials in New York.\n The two bodyguards were with\n them. The other guards were at\n their posts.\n\n\n Trella heard the doorbell ring.\n The heavy oaken front door was\n kept locked now, and the guards\n in the anteroom examined callers\n through a tiny window.\n\n\n Suddenly alarm bells rang all\n over the house. There was a terrific\n crash outside the room as\n the front door splintered. There\n were shouts and the sound of a\n shot.\n\n\n “The steel doors!” cried Blessing,\n turning white. “Let's get\n out of here.”\n\n\n He and his bodyguards ran\n through the back of the house\n out of the garage.\n\n\n Blessing, ahead of the rest,\n leaped into one of the cars and\n started the engine.", "“If Dr. Mansard succeeded in\n landing on Jupiter, why didn't\n anyone ever hear from him\n again?” she demanded.\n\n\n “Because,” said Quest, “his\n radio was sabotaged, just as his\n ship's drive was.”\n\n\n “Jupiter strength,” she murmured,\n looking him over coolly.\n 53\n “You wear Motwick on your\n shoulder like a scarf. But you\n couldn't bring yourself to help\n a woman against two thugs.”\n\n\n He flushed.\n\n\n “I'm sorry,” he said. “That's\n something I couldn't help.”\n\n\n “Why not?”\n\n\n “I don't know. It's not that\n I'm afraid, but there's something\n in me that makes me back\n away from the prospect of fighting\n anyone.”", "“That means you, too, lady,”\n said the bartender beside her.\n “You and your boy friend get\n out of here. You oughtn't to\n have come here in the first\n place.”\n\n\n “May I help you, Miss?” asked\n a deep, resonant voice behind\n her.\n\n\n She straightened from her\n anxious examination of Motwick.\n The squat man was standing\n there, an apologetic look on\n his face.\n\n\n She looked contemptuously at\n the massive muscles whose help\n had been denied her. Her arm\n ached where the dark man had\n grasped it. The broad face before\n 52\n her was not unhandsome,\n and the blue eyes were disconcertingly\n direct, but she despised\n him for a coward.", "“But my father was able to\n control it in the heavy atmosphere\n of Jupiter, and landed it\n successfully. I was born there,\n and he conditioned me to come\n to Earth and track down Blessing.\n I know now that it was\n part of the conditioning that I\n was unable to fight any other\n man until my task was finished:\n it might have gotten me in trouble\n and diverted me from that\n purpose.”\n\n\n More gently than Trella would\n have believed possible for his\n Jupiter-strong muscles, Quest\n took her in his arms.\n\n\n “Now I can say I love you,”\n he said. “That was part of the\n conditioning too: I couldn't love\n any woman until my job was\n done.”\n\n\n Trella disengaged herself.\n\n\n “I'm sorry,” she said. “Don't\n you know this, too, now: that\n you're not a man, but an android?”", "Through all these years since\n Dr. Mansard's disappearance,\n 55\n Blessing had been searching the\n Jovian moons for a second, hidden\n laboratory of Dr. Mansard.\n When it was found at last, he\n sent Trella, his most trusted\n secretary, to Ganymede to bring\n back to him the notebooks found\n there.\n\n\n Blessing would, of course, be\n happy to learn that a son of Dr.\n Mansard lived, and would see\n that he received his rightful\n share of the inheritance. Because\n of this, Trella was tempted\n to tell Quest the good news\n herself; but she decided against\n it. It was Blessing's privilege to\n do this his own way, and he\n might not appreciate her meddling.\nAt midtrip, Trella made a rueful\n confession to Jakdane.", "The transparent dome of Jupiter's\n View was faintly visible\n in the reflected night lights of\n the colonial city, but the lights\n were overwhelmed by the giant,\n vari-colored disc of Jupiter itself,\n riding high in the sky.\n\n\n “I'm Quest Mansard, Miss,”\n said her companion. “I'm just in\n from Jupiter.”\n\n\n “I'm Trella Nuspar,” she said,\n favoring him with a green-eyed\n glance. “You mean Io, don't you—or\n Moon Five?”\n\n\n “No,” he said, grinning at\n her. He had an engaging grin,\n with even white teeth. “I meant\n Jupiter.”\n\n\n “You're lying,” she said flatly.\n “No one has ever landed on\n Jupiter. It would be impossible\n to blast off again.”", "She was not at all happy about\n being so strongly attracted to a\n man several inches shorter than\n she. She was particularly unhappy\n about feeling drawn to a\n man who was a coward.\n\n\n The ship that they boarded on\n Moon Nine was one of the newer\n ships that could attain a hundred-mile-per-second\n velocity\n and take a hyperbolic path to\n Earth, but it would still require\n fifty-four days to make the trip.\n So Trella was delighted to find\n that the ship was the\nCometfire\nand its skipper was her old\n friend, dark-eyed, curly-haired\n Jakdane Gille.\n\n\n “Jakdane,” she said, flirting\n with him with her eyes as in\n 54\n days gone by, “I need a chaperon\n this trip, and you're ideal for\n the job.”", "“It seems I was taking unnecessary\n precautions when I asked\n you to be a chaperon,” she said.\n “I kept waiting for Quest to do\n something, and when he didn't\n I told him I loved him.”\n\n\n “What did he say?”\n\n\n “It's very peculiar,” she said\n unhappily. “He said he\n can't\n love me. He said he wants to\n love me and he feels that he\n should, but there's something in\n him that refuses to permit it.”\n\n\n She expected Jakdane to salve\n her wounded feelings with a\n sympathetic pleasantry, but he\n did not. Instead, he just looked\n at her very thoughtfully and\n said no more about the matter.\n\n\n He explained his attitude\n after Asrange ran amuck.", "“It has been pleasant knowing\n you, Trella,” he said when they\n left the G-boat at White Sands.\n A faraway look came into his\n blue eyes, and he added: “I'm\n sorry things couldn't have been\n different, somehow.”\n\n\n “Let's don't be sorry for what\n we can't help,” she said gently,\n taking his hand in farewell.\n\n\n Trella took a fast plane from\n White Sands, and twenty-four\n hours later walked up the front\n steps of the familiar brownstone\n house on the outskirts of Washington.\n\n\n Dom Blessing himself met her\n at the door, a stooped, graying\n 58\n man who peered at her over his\n spectacles.\n\n\n “You have the papers, eh?”\n he said, spying the brief case.\n “Good, good. Come in and we'll\n see what we have, eh?”", "“Bruises? Man, that club\n could have broken your skull!\n Or a couple of ribs, at the very\n least.”\n\n\n “I'm all right,” insisted\n Quest; and when the skeptical\n Jakdane insisted on examining\n him carefully, he had to admit\n it. There was hardly a mark on\n him from the blows.\n\n\n “If it didn't hurt you any\n more than that, why didn't you\n take that stick away from him?”\n demanded Jakdane. “You could\n have, easily.”\n\n\n “I couldn't,” said Quest miserably,\n and turned his face\n away.\n\n\n Later, alone with Trella on\n the control deck, Jakdane gave\n her some sober advice.\n\n\n “If you think you're in love\n with Quest, forget it,” he said." ], [ "She accompanied him through\n the bare, windowless anteroom\n which had always seemed to her\n such a strange feature of this\n luxurious house, and they entered\n the big living room. They sat\n before a fire in the old-fashioned\n fireplace and Blessing opened the\n brief case with trembling hands.\n\n\n “There are things here,” he\n said, his eyes sparkling as he\n glanced through the notebooks.\n “Yes, there are things here. We\n shall make something of these,\n Miss Trella, eh?”\n\n\n “I'm glad they're something\n you can use, Mr. Blessing,” she\n said. “There's something else I\n found on my trip, that I think\n I should tell you about.”\n\n\n She told him about Quest.\n\n\n “He thinks he's the son of Dr.\n Mansard,” she finished, “but apparently\n he is, without knowing\n it, an android Dr. Mansard built\n on Jupiter.”", "Through all these years since\n Dr. Mansard's disappearance,\n 55\n Blessing had been searching the\n Jovian moons for a second, hidden\n laboratory of Dr. Mansard.\n When it was found at last, he\n sent Trella, his most trusted\n secretary, to Ganymede to bring\n back to him the notebooks found\n there.\n\n\n Blessing would, of course, be\n happy to learn that a son of Dr.\n Mansard lived, and would see\n that he received his rightful\n share of the inheritance. Because\n of this, Trella was tempted\n to tell Quest the good news\n herself; but she decided against\n it. It was Blessing's privilege to\n do this his own way, and he\n might not appreciate her meddling.\nAt midtrip, Trella made a rueful\n confession to Jakdane.", "“A wealthy man must be careful,”\n said Blessing cheerfully.\n “When we don't understand all\n the implications of new circumstances,\n we must be prepared for\n anything, eh?”\n\n\n There was only one new circumstance\n Trella could think\n of. Without actually intending\n to, she exclaimed:\n\n\n “You aren't afraid of Quest?\n Why, an android can't hurt a\n human!”\n\n\n Blessing peered at her over his\n spectacles.\n\n\n “And what if he isn't an android,\n eh? And if he is—what if\n old Mansard didn't build in the\n prohibition against harming humans\n that's required by law?\n What about that, eh?”", "The car whipped into the\n street, careened, and rolled over\n and over, bringing up against a\n tree on the other side in a twisted\n tangle of wreckage.\n\n\n With a horrified gasp, Trella\n ran down the driveway toward\n the smoking heap of metal.\n Quest was already beside it,\n probing it. As she reached his\n side, he lifted the torn body of\n Dom Blessing. Blessing was\n dead.\n\n\n “I'm lucky,” said Quest soberly.\n “I would have murdered\n him.”\n\n\n “But why, Quest? I knew he\n was afraid of you, but he didn't\n tell me why.”", "Trella was in the living room\n with Blessing, discussing the instructions\n she was to give to the\n laboratory officials in New York.\n The two bodyguards were with\n them. The other guards were at\n their posts.\n\n\n Trella heard the doorbell ring.\n The heavy oaken front door was\n kept locked now, and the guards\n in the anteroom examined callers\n through a tiny window.\n\n\n Suddenly alarm bells rang all\n over the house. There was a terrific\n crash outside the room as\n the front door splintered. There\n were shouts and the sound of a\n shot.\n\n\n “The steel doors!” cried Blessing,\n turning white. “Let's get\n out of here.”\n\n\n He and his bodyguards ran\n through the back of the house\n out of the garage.\n\n\n Blessing, ahead of the rest,\n leaped into one of the cars and\n started the engine.", "“It has been pleasant knowing\n you, Trella,” he said when they\n left the G-boat at White Sands.\n A faraway look came into his\n blue eyes, and he added: “I'm\n sorry things couldn't have been\n different, somehow.”\n\n\n “Let's don't be sorry for what\n we can't help,” she said gently,\n taking his hand in farewell.\n\n\n Trella took a fast plane from\n White Sands, and twenty-four\n hours later walked up the front\n steps of the familiar brownstone\n house on the outskirts of Washington.\n\n\n Dom Blessing himself met her\n at the door, a stooped, graying\n 58\n man who peered at her over his\n spectacles.\n\n\n “You have the papers, eh?”\n he said, spying the brief case.\n “Good, good. Come in and we'll\n see what we have, eh?”", "Trella was silent, shocked.\n There was something here she\n hadn't known about, hadn't even\n suspected. For some reason, Dom\n Blessing feared Dr. Eriklund\n Mansard … or his heir … or\n his mechanical servant.\nShe was sure that Blessing\n was wrong, that Quest, whether\n man or android, intended no\n 59\n harm to him. Surely, Quest\n would have said something of\n such bitterness during their long\n time together on Ganymede and\n aspace, since he did not know of\n Trella's connection with Blessing.\n But, since this was to be\n the atmosphere of Blessing's\n house, she was glad that he decided\n to assign her to take the\n Mansard papers to the New\n York laboratory.\n\n\n Quest came the day before she\n was scheduled to leave.", "“He came back to Earth with\n you, eh?” asked Blessing intently.\n\n\n “Yes. I'm afraid it's your decision\n whether to let him go on\n living as a man or to tell him\n he's an android and claim ownership\n as Dr. Mansard's heir.”\n\n\n Trella planned to spend a few\n days resting in her employer's\n spacious home, and then to take\n a short vacation before resuming\n her duties as his confidential\n secretary. The next morning\n when she came down from her\n room, a change had been made.\n\n\n Two armed men were with\n Dom Blessing at breakfast and\n accompanied him wherever he\n went. She discovered that two\n more men with guns were stationed\n in the bare anteroom and\n a guard was stationed at every\n entrance to the house.\n\n\n “Why all the protection?” she\n asked Blessing.", "“But my father was able to\n control it in the heavy atmosphere\n of Jupiter, and landed it\n successfully. I was born there,\n and he conditioned me to come\n to Earth and track down Blessing.\n I know now that it was\n part of the conditioning that I\n was unable to fight any other\n man until my task was finished:\n it might have gotten me in trouble\n and diverted me from that\n purpose.”\n\n\n More gently than Trella would\n have believed possible for his\n Jupiter-strong muscles, Quest\n took her in his arms.\n\n\n “Now I can say I love you,”\n he said. “That was part of the\n conditioning too: I couldn't love\n any woman until my job was\n done.”\n\n\n Trella disengaged herself.\n\n\n “I'm sorry,” she said. “Don't\n you know this, too, now: that\n you're not a man, but an android?”", "“We'll be traveling companions,\n then,” she said. “I'm going\n back on that ship, too.”\n\n\n For some reason she decided\n against telling him that the\n assignment on which she had\n come to the Jupiter system was\n to gather his own father's notebooks\n and take them back to\n Earth.\nMotwick was an irresponsible\n playboy whom Trella had known\n briefly on Earth, and Trella was\n glad to dispense with his company\n for the remaining three\n weeks before the spaceship\n blasted off. She found herself\n enjoying the steadier companionship\n of Quest.\n\n\n As a matter of fact, she found\n herself enjoying his companionship\n more than she intended to.\n She found herself falling in love\n with him.\n\n\n Now this did not suit her at\n all. Trella had always liked her\n men tall and dark. She had determined\n that when she married\n it would be to a curly-haired six-footer.", "The door from the house shattered\n and Quest burst through.\n The two guards turned and fired\n together.\n\n\n He could be hurt by bullets.\n He was staggered momentarily.\n\n\n Then, in a blur of motion, he\n sprang forward and swept the\n guards aside with one hand with\n such force that they skidded\n across the floor and lay in an\n unconscious heap against the\n rear of the garage. Trella had\n opened the door of the car, but\n it was wrenched from her hand\n as Blessing stepped on the accelerator\n and it leaped into the\n driveway with spinning wheels.\n\n\n Quest was after it, like a\n chunky deer, running faster\n than Trella had ever seen a man\n run before.\n\n\n Blessing slowed for the turn\n at the end of the driveway and\n glanced back over his shoulder.\n Seeing Quest almost upon him,\n he slammed down the accelerator\n and twisted the wheel hard.", "The\nCometfire\nswung around\n great Jupiter in an opening arc\n and plummeted ever more swiftly\n toward the tight circles of the\n inner planets. There were four\n crew members and three passengers\n aboard the ship's tiny personnel\n sphere, and Trella was\n thrown with Quest almost constantly.\n She enjoyed every minute\n of it.\n\n\n She told him only that she\n was a messenger, sent out to\n Ganymede to pick up some important\n papers and take them\n back to Earth. She was tempted\n to tell him what the papers were.\n Her employer had impressed upon\n her that her mission was confidential,\n but surely Dom\n Blessing\n could not object to Dr.\n Mansard's son knowing about it.\n\n\n All these things had happened\n before she was born, and she\n did not know what Dom Blessing's\n relation to Dr. Mansard\n had been, but it must have been\n very close. She knew that Dr.\n Mansard had invented the surgiscope.", "Trella sighed. Cowardice was\n a state of mind. It was peculiarly\n inappropriate, but not unbelievable,\n that the strongest and\n most agile man on Ganymede\n should be a coward. Well, she\n thought with a rush of sympathy,\n he couldn't help being\n what he was.\nThey had reached the more\n brightly lighted section of the\n city now. Trella could get a cab\n from here, but the Stellar Hotel\n wasn't far. They walked on.\n\n\n Trella had the desk clerk call\n a cab to deliver the unconscious\n Motwick to his home. She and\n Quest had a late sandwich in the\n coffee shop.\n\n\n “I landed here only a week\n ago,” he told her, his eyes frankly\n admiring her honey-colored\n hair and comely face. “I'm heading\n for Earth on the next spaceship.”", "“Bruises? Man, that club\n could have broken your skull!\n Or a couple of ribs, at the very\n least.”\n\n\n “I'm all right,” insisted\n Quest; and when the skeptical\n Jakdane insisted on examining\n him carefully, he had to admit\n it. There was hardly a mark on\n him from the blows.\n\n\n “If it didn't hurt you any\n more than that, why didn't you\n take that stick away from him?”\n demanded Jakdane. “You could\n have, easily.”\n\n\n “I couldn't,” said Quest miserably,\n and turned his face\n away.\n\n\n Later, alone with Trella on\n the control deck, Jakdane gave\n her some sober advice.\n\n\n “If you think you're in love\n with Quest, forget it,” he said.", "She was not at all happy about\n being so strongly attracted to a\n man several inches shorter than\n she. She was particularly unhappy\n about feeling drawn to a\n man who was a coward.\n\n\n The ship that they boarded on\n Moon Nine was one of the newer\n ships that could attain a hundred-mile-per-second\n velocity\n and take a hyperbolic path to\n Earth, but it would still require\n fifty-four days to make the trip.\n So Trella was delighted to find\n that the ship was the\nCometfire\nand its skipper was her old\n friend, dark-eyed, curly-haired\n Jakdane Gille.\n\n\n “Jakdane,” she said, flirting\n with him with her eyes as in\n 54\n days gone by, “I need a chaperon\n this trip, and you're ideal for\n the job.”", "Evading her attempts to stay\n behind him, the squat man began\n to move down the bar away\n from the approaching Kregg.\n The dark man moved in on\n Trella again as Kregg overtook\n his quarry and swung a huge\n fist like a sledgehammer.\n\n\n Exactly what happened, Trella\n wasn't sure. She had the impression\n that Kregg's fist connected\n squarely with the short man's\n chin\n before\n he dodged to one\n side in a movement so fast it\n was a blur. But that couldn't\n have been, because the short\n man wasn't moved by that blow\n that would have felled a steer,\n and Kregg roared in pain, grabbing\n his injured fist.\n\n\n “The bar!” yelled Kregg. “I\n hit the damn bar!”", "Tentatively, she pushed her\n chair back from the table and\n arose. She had to brush close by\n the other table to get to the bar.\n As she did, the dark, slick-haired\n man reached out and grabbed\n her around the waist with a\n steely arm.\n\n\n Trella swung with her whole\n body, and slapped him so hard\n he nearly fell from his chair. As\n she walked swiftly toward the\n bar, he leaped up to follow her.\n\n\n There were only two other\n people in the Golden Satellite:\n the fat, mustached bartender\n and a short, square-built man at\n the bar. The latter swung\n around at the pistol-like report\n of her slap, and she saw that,\n though no more than four and a\n half feet tall, he was as heavily\n muscled as a lion.\n\n\n 51\n His face was clean and open,\n with close-cropped blond hair\n and honest blue eyes. She ran to\n him.", "“It seems I was taking unnecessary\n precautions when I asked\n you to be a chaperon,” she said.\n “I kept waiting for Quest to do\n something, and when he didn't\n I told him I loved him.”\n\n\n “What did he say?”\n\n\n “It's very peculiar,” she said\n unhappily. “He said he\n can't\n love me. He said he wants to\n love me and he feels that he\n should, but there's something in\n him that refuses to permit it.”\n\n\n She expected Jakdane to salve\n her wounded feelings with a\n sympathetic pleasantry, but he\n did not. Instead, he just looked\n at her very thoughtfully and\n said no more about the matter.\n\n\n He explained his attitude\n after Asrange ran amuck.", "“It was conditioned into me,”\n answered Quest “I didn't know\n 60\n it until just now, when it ended,\n but my father conditioned me\n psychologically from my birth\n to the task of hunting down\n Dom Blessing and killing him. It\n was an unconscious drive in me\n that wouldn't release me until\n the task was finished.\n\n\n “You see, Blessing was my father's\n assistant on Ganymede.\n Right after my father completed\n development of the surgiscope,\n he and my mother blasted off for\n Io. Blessing wanted the valuable\n rights to the surgiscope, and he\n sabotaged the ship's drive so it\n would fall into Jupiter.", "“Why? Because he's a coward?\n I know that ought to make\n me despise him, but it doesn't\n any more.”\n\n\n “Not because he's a coward.\n Because he's an android!”\n\n\n “What? Jakdane, you can't be\n serious!”\n\n\n “I am. I say he's an android,\n an artificial imitation of a man.\n It all figures.\n\n\n “Look, Trella, he said he was\n born on Jupiter. A human could\n stand the gravity of Jupiter, inside\n a dome or a ship, but what\n human could stand the rocket acceleration\n necessary to break\n free of Jupiter? Here's a man\n strong enough to break a spaceship\n safety belt just by getting\n up out of his chair against it,\n tough enough to take a beating\n with a heavy stick without being\n injured. How can you believe\n he's really human?”" ], [ "She accompanied him through\n the bare, windowless anteroom\n which had always seemed to her\n such a strange feature of this\n luxurious house, and they entered\n the big living room. They sat\n before a fire in the old-fashioned\n fireplace and Blessing opened the\n brief case with trembling hands.\n\n\n “There are things here,” he\n said, his eyes sparkling as he\n glanced through the notebooks.\n “Yes, there are things here. We\n shall make something of these,\n Miss Trella, eh?”\n\n\n “I'm glad they're something\n you can use, Mr. Blessing,” she\n said. “There's something else I\n found on my trip, that I think\n I should tell you about.”\n\n\n She told him about Quest.\n\n\n “He thinks he's the son of Dr.\n Mansard,” she finished, “but apparently\n he is, without knowing\n it, an android Dr. Mansard built\n on Jupiter.”", "“A wealthy man must be careful,”\n said Blessing cheerfully.\n “When we don't understand all\n the implications of new circumstances,\n we must be prepared for\n anything, eh?”\n\n\n There was only one new circumstance\n Trella could think\n of. Without actually intending\n to, she exclaimed:\n\n\n “You aren't afraid of Quest?\n Why, an android can't hurt a\n human!”\n\n\n Blessing peered at her over his\n spectacles.\n\n\n “And what if he isn't an android,\n eh? And if he is—what if\n old Mansard didn't build in the\n prohibition against harming humans\n that's required by law?\n What about that, eh?”", "Trella was silent, shocked.\n There was something here she\n hadn't known about, hadn't even\n suspected. For some reason, Dom\n Blessing feared Dr. Eriklund\n Mansard … or his heir … or\n his mechanical servant.\nShe was sure that Blessing\n was wrong, that Quest, whether\n man or android, intended no\n 59\n harm to him. Surely, Quest\n would have said something of\n such bitterness during their long\n time together on Ganymede and\n aspace, since he did not know of\n Trella's connection with Blessing.\n But, since this was to be\n the atmosphere of Blessing's\n house, she was glad that he decided\n to assign her to take the\n Mansard papers to the New\n York laboratory.\n\n\n Quest came the day before she\n was scheduled to leave.", "“He came back to Earth with\n you, eh?” asked Blessing intently.\n\n\n “Yes. I'm afraid it's your decision\n whether to let him go on\n living as a man or to tell him\n he's an android and claim ownership\n as Dr. Mansard's heir.”\n\n\n Trella planned to spend a few\n days resting in her employer's\n spacious home, and then to take\n a short vacation before resuming\n her duties as his confidential\n secretary. The next morning\n when she came down from her\n room, a change had been made.\n\n\n Two armed men were with\n Dom Blessing at breakfast and\n accompanied him wherever he\n went. She discovered that two\n more men with guns were stationed\n in the bare anteroom and\n a guard was stationed at every\n entrance to the house.\n\n\n “Why all the protection?” she\n asked Blessing.", "Through all these years since\n Dr. Mansard's disappearance,\n 55\n Blessing had been searching the\n Jovian moons for a second, hidden\n laboratory of Dr. Mansard.\n When it was found at last, he\n sent Trella, his most trusted\n secretary, to Ganymede to bring\n back to him the notebooks found\n there.\n\n\n Blessing would, of course, be\n happy to learn that a son of Dr.\n Mansard lived, and would see\n that he received his rightful\n share of the inheritance. Because\n of this, Trella was tempted\n to tell Quest the good news\n herself; but she decided against\n it. It was Blessing's privilege to\n do this his own way, and he\n might not appreciate her meddling.\nAt midtrip, Trella made a rueful\n confession to Jakdane.", "Trella was in the living room\n with Blessing, discussing the instructions\n she was to give to the\n laboratory officials in New York.\n The two bodyguards were with\n them. The other guards were at\n their posts.\n\n\n Trella heard the doorbell ring.\n The heavy oaken front door was\n kept locked now, and the guards\n in the anteroom examined callers\n through a tiny window.\n\n\n Suddenly alarm bells rang all\n over the house. There was a terrific\n crash outside the room as\n the front door splintered. There\n were shouts and the sound of a\n shot.\n\n\n “The steel doors!” cried Blessing,\n turning white. “Let's get\n out of here.”\n\n\n He and his bodyguards ran\n through the back of the house\n out of the garage.\n\n\n Blessing, ahead of the rest,\n leaped into one of the cars and\n started the engine.", "The car whipped into the\n street, careened, and rolled over\n and over, bringing up against a\n tree on the other side in a twisted\n tangle of wreckage.\n\n\n With a horrified gasp, Trella\n ran down the driveway toward\n the smoking heap of metal.\n Quest was already beside it,\n probing it. As she reached his\n side, he lifted the torn body of\n Dom Blessing. Blessing was\n dead.\n\n\n “I'm lucky,” said Quest soberly.\n “I would have murdered\n him.”\n\n\n “But why, Quest? I knew he\n was afraid of you, but he didn't\n tell me why.”", "“If Dr. Mansard succeeded in\n landing on Jupiter, why didn't\n anyone ever hear from him\n again?” she demanded.\n\n\n “Because,” said Quest, “his\n radio was sabotaged, just as his\n ship's drive was.”\n\n\n “Jupiter strength,” she murmured,\n looking him over coolly.\n 53\n “You wear Motwick on your\n shoulder like a scarf. But you\n couldn't bring yourself to help\n a woman against two thugs.”\n\n\n He flushed.\n\n\n “I'm sorry,” he said. “That's\n something I couldn't help.”\n\n\n “Why not?”\n\n\n “I don't know. It's not that\n I'm afraid, but there's something\n in me that makes me back\n away from the prospect of fighting\n anyone.”", "This was an instrument with\n a three-dimensional screen as its\n heart. The screen was a cubical\n frame in which an apparently\n solid image was built up of an\n object under an electron microscope.\nThe actual cutting instrument\n of the surgiscope was an ion\n stream. By operating a tool in\n the three-dimensional screen,\n corresponding movements were\n made by the ion stream on the\n object under the microscope.\n The\n principle\n was the same as\n that used in operation of remote\n control “hands” in atomic laboratories\n to handle hot material,\n and with the surgiscope very\n delicate operations could be performed\n at the cellular level.\n\n\n Dr. Mansard and his wife had\n disappeared into the turbulent\n atmosphere of Jupiter just after\n his invention of the surgiscope,\n and it had been developed by\n Dom Blessing. Its success had\n built Spaceway Instruments, Incorporated,\n which Blessing headed.", "The\nCometfire\nswung around\n great Jupiter in an opening arc\n and plummeted ever more swiftly\n toward the tight circles of the\n inner planets. There were four\n crew members and three passengers\n aboard the ship's tiny personnel\n sphere, and Trella was\n thrown with Quest almost constantly.\n She enjoyed every minute\n of it.\n\n\n She told him only that she\n was a messenger, sent out to\n Ganymede to pick up some important\n papers and take them\n back to Earth. She was tempted\n to tell him what the papers were.\n Her employer had impressed upon\n her that her mission was confidential,\n but surely Dom\n Blessing\n could not object to Dr.\n Mansard's son knowing about it.\n\n\n All these things had happened\n before she was born, and she\n did not know what Dom Blessing's\n relation to Dr. Mansard\n had been, but it must have been\n very close. She knew that Dr.\n Mansard had invented the surgiscope.", "“That means you, too, lady,”\n said the bartender beside her.\n “You and your boy friend get\n out of here. You oughtn't to\n have come here in the first\n place.”\n\n\n “May I help you, Miss?” asked\n a deep, resonant voice behind\n her.\n\n\n She straightened from her\n anxious examination of Motwick.\n The squat man was standing\n there, an apologetic look on\n his face.\n\n\n She looked contemptuously at\n the massive muscles whose help\n had been denied her. Her arm\n ached where the dark man had\n grasped it. The broad face before\n 52\n her was not unhandsome,\n and the blue eyes were disconcertingly\n direct, but she despised\n him for a coward.", "The door from the house shattered\n and Quest burst through.\n The two guards turned and fired\n together.\n\n\n He could be hurt by bullets.\n He was staggered momentarily.\n\n\n Then, in a blur of motion, he\n sprang forward and swept the\n guards aside with one hand with\n such force that they skidded\n across the floor and lay in an\n unconscious heap against the\n rear of the garage. Trella had\n opened the door of the car, but\n it was wrenched from her hand\n as Blessing stepped on the accelerator\n and it leaped into the\n driveway with spinning wheels.\n\n\n Quest was after it, like a\n chunky deer, running faster\n than Trella had ever seen a man\n run before.\n\n\n Blessing slowed for the turn\n at the end of the driveway and\n glanced back over his shoulder.\n Seeing Quest almost upon him,\n he slammed down the accelerator\n and twisted the wheel hard.", "“But my father was able to\n control it in the heavy atmosphere\n of Jupiter, and landed it\n successfully. I was born there,\n and he conditioned me to come\n to Earth and track down Blessing.\n I know now that it was\n part of the conditioning that I\n was unable to fight any other\n man until my task was finished:\n it might have gotten me in trouble\n and diverted me from that\n purpose.”\n\n\n More gently than Trella would\n have believed possible for his\n Jupiter-strong muscles, Quest\n took her in his arms.\n\n\n “Now I can say I love you,”\n he said. “That was part of the\n conditioning too: I couldn't love\n any woman until my job was\n done.”\n\n\n Trella disengaged herself.\n\n\n “I'm sorry,” she said. “Don't\n you know this, too, now: that\n you're not a man, but an android?”", "“It was conditioned into me,”\n answered Quest “I didn't know\n 60\n it until just now, when it ended,\n but my father conditioned me\n psychologically from my birth\n to the task of hunting down\n Dom Blessing and killing him. It\n was an unconscious drive in me\n that wouldn't release me until\n the task was finished.\n\n\n “You see, Blessing was my father's\n assistant on Ganymede.\n Right after my father completed\n development of the surgiscope,\n he and my mother blasted off for\n Io. Blessing wanted the valuable\n rights to the surgiscope, and he\n sabotaged the ship's drive so it\n would fall into Jupiter.", "It was not inconceivable that\n she should have unknowingly\n fallen in love with an android.\n Humans could love androids,\n with real affection, even knowing\n that they were artificial.\n There were instances of android\n nursemaids who were virtually\n members of the families owning\n them.\n\n\n She was glad now that she\n had not told Quest of her mission\n to Ganymede. He thought\n he was Dr. Mansard's son, but\n an android had no legal right of\n inheritance from his owner. She\n would leave it to Dom Blessing\n to decide what to do about Quest.\n\n\n Thus she did not, as she had\n intended originally, speak to\n Quest about seeing him again\n after she had completed her assignment.\n Even if Jakdane was\n wrong and Quest was human—as\n now seemed unlikely—Quest\n had told her he could not love\n her. Her best course was to try\n to forget him.\n\n\n Nor did Quest try to arrange\n with her for a later meeting.", "“It has been pleasant knowing\n you, Trella,” he said when they\n left the G-boat at White Sands.\n A faraway look came into his\n blue eyes, and he added: “I'm\n sorry things couldn't have been\n different, somehow.”\n\n\n “Let's don't be sorry for what\n we can't help,” she said gently,\n taking his hand in farewell.\n\n\n Trella took a fast plane from\n White Sands, and twenty-four\n hours later walked up the front\n steps of the familiar brownstone\n house on the outskirts of Washington.\n\n\n Dom Blessing himself met her\n at the door, a stooped, graying\n 58\n man who peered at her over his\n spectacles.\n\n\n “You have the papers, eh?”\n he said, spying the brief case.\n “Good, good. Come in and we'll\n see what we have, eh?”", "Trella remembered the thug\n Kregg striking Quest in the face\n and then crying that he had injured\n his hand on the bar.\n\n\n “But he said Dr. Mansard was\n his father,” protested Trella.\n\n\n “Robots and androids frequently\n look on their makers as\n their parents,” said Jakdane.\n “Quest may not even know he's\n 57\n artificial. Do you know how\n Mansard died?”\n\n\n “The oxygen equipment failed,\n Quest said.”\n\n\n “Yes. Do you know when?”\n\n\n “No. Quest never did tell me,\n that I remember.”\n\n\n “He told me: a year before\n Quest made his rocket flight to\n Ganymede! If the oxygen equipment\n failed, how do you think\n Quest\n lived in the poisonous atmosphere\n of Jupiter, if he's human?”\n\n\n Trella was silent.", "“Help me!” she cried. “Please\n help me!”\n\n\n He began to back away from\n her.\n\n\n “I can't,” he muttered in a\n deep voice. “I can't help you. I\n can't do anything.”\nThe dark man was at her\n heels. In desperation, she dodged\n around the short man and took\n refuge behind him. Her protector\n was obviously unwilling, but\n the dark man, faced with his\n massiveness, took no chances.\n He stopped and shouted:\n\n\n “Kregg!”\n\n\n The other man at the table\n arose, ponderously, and lumbered\n toward them. He was immense,\n at least six and a half\n feet tall, with a brutal, vacant\n face.", "“Why? Because he's a coward?\n I know that ought to make\n me despise him, but it doesn't\n any more.”\n\n\n “Not because he's a coward.\n Because he's an android!”\n\n\n “What? Jakdane, you can't be\n serious!”\n\n\n “I am. I say he's an android,\n an artificial imitation of a man.\n It all figures.\n\n\n “Look, Trella, he said he was\n born on Jupiter. A human could\n stand the gravity of Jupiter, inside\n a dome or a ship, but what\n human could stand the rocket acceleration\n necessary to break\n free of Jupiter? Here's a man\n strong enough to break a spaceship\n safety belt just by getting\n up out of his chair against it,\n tough enough to take a beating\n with a heavy stick without being\n injured. How can you believe\n he's really human?”", "“It seems I was taking unnecessary\n precautions when I asked\n you to be a chaperon,” she said.\n “I kept waiting for Quest to do\n something, and when he didn't\n I told him I loved him.”\n\n\n “What did he say?”\n\n\n “It's very peculiar,” she said\n unhappily. “He said he\n can't\n love me. He said he wants to\n love me and he feels that he\n should, but there's something in\n him that refuses to permit it.”\n\n\n She expected Jakdane to salve\n her wounded feelings with a\n sympathetic pleasantry, but he\n did not. Instead, he just looked\n at her very thoughtfully and\n said no more about the matter.\n\n\n He explained his attitude\n after Asrange ran amuck." ], [ "“It seems I was taking unnecessary\n precautions when I asked\n you to be a chaperon,” she said.\n “I kept waiting for Quest to do\n something, and when he didn't\n I told him I loved him.”\n\n\n “What did he say?”\n\n\n “It's very peculiar,” she said\n unhappily. “He said he\n can't\n love me. He said he wants to\n love me and he feels that he\n should, but there's something in\n him that refuses to permit it.”\n\n\n She expected Jakdane to salve\n her wounded feelings with a\n sympathetic pleasantry, but he\n did not. Instead, he just looked\n at her very thoughtfully and\n said no more about the matter.\n\n\n He explained his attitude\n after Asrange ran amuck.", "The car whipped into the\n street, careened, and rolled over\n and over, bringing up against a\n tree on the other side in a twisted\n tangle of wreckage.\n\n\n With a horrified gasp, Trella\n ran down the driveway toward\n the smoking heap of metal.\n Quest was already beside it,\n probing it. As she reached his\n side, he lifted the torn body of\n Dom Blessing. Blessing was\n dead.\n\n\n “I'm lucky,” said Quest soberly.\n “I would have murdered\n him.”\n\n\n “But why, Quest? I knew he\n was afraid of you, but he didn't\n tell me why.”", "“But my father was able to\n control it in the heavy atmosphere\n of Jupiter, and landed it\n successfully. I was born there,\n and he conditioned me to come\n to Earth and track down Blessing.\n I know now that it was\n part of the conditioning that I\n was unable to fight any other\n man until my task was finished:\n it might have gotten me in trouble\n and diverted me from that\n purpose.”\n\n\n More gently than Trella would\n have believed possible for his\n Jupiter-strong muscles, Quest\n took her in his arms.\n\n\n “Now I can say I love you,”\n he said. “That was part of the\n conditioning too: I couldn't love\n any woman until my job was\n done.”\n\n\n Trella disengaged herself.\n\n\n “I'm sorry,” she said. “Don't\n you know this, too, now: that\n you're not a man, but an android?”", "The door from the house shattered\n and Quest burst through.\n The two guards turned and fired\n together.\n\n\n He could be hurt by bullets.\n He was staggered momentarily.\n\n\n Then, in a blur of motion, he\n sprang forward and swept the\n guards aside with one hand with\n such force that they skidded\n across the floor and lay in an\n unconscious heap against the\n rear of the garage. Trella had\n opened the door of the car, but\n it was wrenched from her hand\n as Blessing stepped on the accelerator\n and it leaped into the\n driveway with spinning wheels.\n\n\n Quest was after it, like a\n chunky deer, running faster\n than Trella had ever seen a man\n run before.\n\n\n Blessing slowed for the turn\n at the end of the driveway and\n glanced back over his shoulder.\n Seeing Quest almost upon him,\n he slammed down the accelerator\n and twisted the wheel hard.", "She accompanied him through\n the bare, windowless anteroom\n which had always seemed to her\n such a strange feature of this\n luxurious house, and they entered\n the big living room. They sat\n before a fire in the old-fashioned\n fireplace and Blessing opened the\n brief case with trembling hands.\n\n\n “There are things here,” he\n said, his eyes sparkling as he\n glanced through the notebooks.\n “Yes, there are things here. We\n shall make something of these,\n Miss Trella, eh?”\n\n\n “I'm glad they're something\n you can use, Mr. Blessing,” she\n said. “There's something else I\n found on my trip, that I think\n I should tell you about.”\n\n\n She told him about Quest.\n\n\n “He thinks he's the son of Dr.\n Mansard,” she finished, “but apparently\n he is, without knowing\n it, an android Dr. Mansard built\n on Jupiter.”", "“Bruises? Man, that club\n could have broken your skull!\n Or a couple of ribs, at the very\n least.”\n\n\n “I'm all right,” insisted\n Quest; and when the skeptical\n Jakdane insisted on examining\n him carefully, he had to admit\n it. There was hardly a mark on\n him from the blows.\n\n\n “If it didn't hurt you any\n more than that, why didn't you\n take that stick away from him?”\n demanded Jakdane. “You could\n have, easily.”\n\n\n “I couldn't,” said Quest miserably,\n and turned his face\n away.\n\n\n Later, alone with Trella on\n the control deck, Jakdane gave\n her some sober advice.\n\n\n “If you think you're in love\n with Quest, forget it,” he said.", "“We'll be traveling companions,\n then,” she said. “I'm going\n back on that ship, too.”\n\n\n For some reason she decided\n against telling him that the\n assignment on which she had\n come to the Jupiter system was\n to gather his own father's notebooks\n and take them back to\n Earth.\nMotwick was an irresponsible\n playboy whom Trella had known\n briefly on Earth, and Trella was\n glad to dispense with his company\n for the remaining three\n weeks before the spaceship\n blasted off. She found herself\n enjoying the steadier companionship\n of Quest.\n\n\n As a matter of fact, she found\n herself enjoying his companionship\n more than she intended to.\n She found herself falling in love\n with him.\n\n\n Now this did not suit her at\n all. Trella had always liked her\n men tall and dark. She had determined\n that when she married\n it would be to a curly-haired six-footer.", "In his haste, Quest missed the\n companionway in his leap and\n was cornered against one of the\n bunks. Asrange descended on\n him like an avenging angel and,\n holding onto the bunk with one\n hand, rained savage blows on his\n head and shoulders with the\n heavy stick.\n\n\n Quest made no effort to retaliate.\n He cowered under the attack,\n holding his hands in front\n of him as if to ward it off. In a\n moment, Jakdane and the other\n crewman had reached Asrange\n and pulled him off.\nWhen they had Asrange in\n irons, Jakdane turned to Quest,\n who was now sitting unhappily\n at the table.\n\n\n “Take it easy,” he advised.\n “I'll wake the psychosurgeon\n and have him look you over. Just\n stay there.”\n\n\n Quest shook his head.\n\n\n “Don't bother him,” he said.\n “It's nothing but a few bruises.”", "“It was conditioned into me,”\n answered Quest “I didn't know\n 60\n it until just now, when it ended,\n but my father conditioned me\n psychologically from my birth\n to the task of hunting down\n Dom Blessing and killing him. It\n was an unconscious drive in me\n that wouldn't release me until\n the task was finished.\n\n\n “You see, Blessing was my father's\n assistant on Ganymede.\n Right after my father completed\n development of the surgiscope,\n he and my mother blasted off for\n Io. Blessing wanted the valuable\n rights to the surgiscope, and he\n sabotaged the ship's drive so it\n would fall into Jupiter.", "Through all these years since\n Dr. Mansard's disappearance,\n 55\n Blessing had been searching the\n Jovian moons for a second, hidden\n laboratory of Dr. Mansard.\n When it was found at last, he\n sent Trella, his most trusted\n secretary, to Ganymede to bring\n back to him the notebooks found\n there.\n\n\n Blessing would, of course, be\n happy to learn that a son of Dr.\n Mansard lived, and would see\n that he received his rightful\n share of the inheritance. Because\n of this, Trella was tempted\n to tell Quest the good news\n herself; but she decided against\n it. It was Blessing's privilege to\n do this his own way, and he\n might not appreciate her meddling.\nAt midtrip, Trella made a rueful\n confession to Jakdane.", "“If Dr. Mansard succeeded in\n landing on Jupiter, why didn't\n anyone ever hear from him\n again?” she demanded.\n\n\n “Because,” said Quest, “his\n radio was sabotaged, just as his\n ship's drive was.”\n\n\n “Jupiter strength,” she murmured,\n looking him over coolly.\n 53\n “You wear Motwick on your\n shoulder like a scarf. But you\n couldn't bring yourself to help\n a woman against two thugs.”\n\n\n He flushed.\n\n\n “I'm sorry,” he said. “That's\n something I couldn't help.”\n\n\n “Why not?”\n\n\n “I don't know. It's not that\n I'm afraid, but there's something\n in me that makes me back\n away from the prospect of fighting\n anyone.”", "Trella sighed. Cowardice was\n a state of mind. It was peculiarly\n inappropriate, but not unbelievable,\n that the strongest and\n most agile man on Ganymede\n should be a coward. Well, she\n thought with a rush of sympathy,\n he couldn't help being\n what he was.\nThey had reached the more\n brightly lighted section of the\n city now. Trella could get a cab\n from here, but the Stellar Hotel\n wasn't far. They walked on.\n\n\n Trella had the desk clerk call\n a cab to deliver the unconscious\n Motwick to his home. She and\n Quest had a late sandwich in the\n coffee shop.\n\n\n “I landed here only a week\n ago,” he told her, his eyes frankly\n admiring her honey-colored\n hair and comely face. “I'm heading\n for Earth on the next spaceship.”", "Trella remembered the thug\n Kregg striking Quest in the face\n and then crying that he had injured\n his hand on the bar.\n\n\n “But he said Dr. Mansard was\n his father,” protested Trella.\n\n\n “Robots and androids frequently\n look on their makers as\n their parents,” said Jakdane.\n “Quest may not even know he's\n 57\n artificial. Do you know how\n Mansard died?”\n\n\n “The oxygen equipment failed,\n Quest said.”\n\n\n “Yes. Do you know when?”\n\n\n “No. Quest never did tell me,\n that I remember.”\n\n\n “He told me: a year before\n Quest made his rocket flight to\n Ganymede! If the oxygen equipment\n failed, how do you think\n Quest\n lived in the poisonous atmosphere\n of Jupiter, if he's human?”\n\n\n Trella was silent.", "He looked at her in astonishment,\n stunned by her words.\n\n\n “What in space makes you\n think that?” he demanded.\n\n\n “Why, Quest, it's obvious,”\n she cried, tears in her eyes.\n “Everything about you … your\n build, suited for Jupiter's gravity …\n your strength … the\n fact that you were able to live\n in Jupiter's atmosphere after\n the oxygen equipment failed.\n I know you think Dr. Mansard\n was your father, but androids\n often believe that.”\n\n\n He grinned at her.\n\n\n “I'm no android,” he said confidently.\n “Do you forget my father\n was inventor of the surgiscope?\n He knew I'd have to grow\n up on Jupiter, and he operated\n on the genes before I was born.\n He altered my inherited characteristics\n to adapt me to the climate\n of Jupiter … even to\n being able to breathe a chlorine\n atmosphere as well as an oxygen\n atmosphere.”", "“A wealthy man must be careful,”\n said Blessing cheerfully.\n “When we don't understand all\n the implications of new circumstances,\n we must be prepared for\n anything, eh?”\n\n\n There was only one new circumstance\n Trella could think\n of. Without actually intending\n to, she exclaimed:\n\n\n “You aren't afraid of Quest?\n Why, an android can't hurt a\n human!”\n\n\n Blessing peered at her over his\n spectacles.\n\n\n “And what if he isn't an android,\n eh? And if he is—what if\n old Mansard didn't build in the\n prohibition against harming humans\n that's required by law?\n What about that, eh?”", "Asrange was the third passenger.\n He was a lean, saturnine\n individual who said little and\n kept to himself as much as possible.\n He was distantly polite in\n his relations with both crew and\n other passengers, and never\n showed the slightest spark of\n emotion … until the day Quest\n squirted coffee on him.\n\n\n It was one of those accidents\n that can occur easily in space.\n The passengers and the two\n crewmen on that particular waking\n shift (including Jakdane)\n were eating lunch on the center-deck.\n Quest picked up his bulb\n of coffee, but inadvertently\n pressed it before he got it to his\n lips. The coffee squirted all over\n the front of Asrange's clean\n white tunic.\n\n\n “I'm sorry!” exclaimed Quest\n in distress.", "Trella was silent, shocked.\n There was something here she\n hadn't known about, hadn't even\n suspected. For some reason, Dom\n Blessing feared Dr. Eriklund\n Mansard … or his heir … or\n his mechanical servant.\nShe was sure that Blessing\n was wrong, that Quest, whether\n man or android, intended no\n 59\n harm to him. Surely, Quest\n would have said something of\n such bitterness during their long\n time together on Ganymede and\n aspace, since he did not know of\n Trella's connection with Blessing.\n But, since this was to be\n the atmosphere of Blessing's\n house, she was glad that he decided\n to assign her to take the\n Mansard papers to the New\n York laboratory.\n\n\n Quest came the day before she\n was scheduled to leave.", "“That means you, too, lady,”\n said the bartender beside her.\n “You and your boy friend get\n out of here. You oughtn't to\n have come here in the first\n place.”\n\n\n “May I help you, Miss?” asked\n a deep, resonant voice behind\n her.\n\n\n She straightened from her\n anxious examination of Motwick.\n The squat man was standing\n there, an apologetic look on\n his face.\n\n\n She looked contemptuously at\n the massive muscles whose help\n had been denied her. Her arm\n ached where the dark man had\n grasped it. The broad face before\n 52\n her was not unhandsome,\n and the blue eyes were disconcertingly\n direct, but she despised\n him for a coward.", "It was not inconceivable that\n she should have unknowingly\n fallen in love with an android.\n Humans could love androids,\n with real affection, even knowing\n that they were artificial.\n There were instances of android\n nursemaids who were virtually\n members of the families owning\n them.\n\n\n She was glad now that she\n had not told Quest of her mission\n to Ganymede. He thought\n he was Dr. Mansard's son, but\n an android had no legal right of\n inheritance from his owner. She\n would leave it to Dom Blessing\n to decide what to do about Quest.\n\n\n Thus she did not, as she had\n intended originally, speak to\n Quest about seeing him again\n after she had completed her assignment.\n Even if Jakdane was\n wrong and Quest was human—as\n now seemed unlikely—Quest\n had told her he could not love\n her. Her best course was to try\n to forget him.\n\n\n Nor did Quest try to arrange\n with her for a later meeting.", "The man's eyes went wide and\n he snarled. So quickly it seemed\n impossible, he had unbuckled\n himself from his seat and hurled\n himself backward from the table\n with an incoherent cry. He\n seized the first object his hand\n touched—it happened to be a\n heavy wooden cane leaning\n against Jakdane's bunk—propelled\n himself like a projectile at\n Quest.\n\n\n Quest rose from the table in\n a sudden uncoiling of movement.\n He did not unbuckle his safety\n belt—he rose and it snapped like\n a string.\n\n\n For a moment Trella thought\n he was going to meet Asrange's\n assault. But he fled in a long\n leap toward the companionway\n leading to the astrogation deck\n 56\n above. Landing feet-first in the\n middle of the table and rebounding,\n Asrange pursued with the\n stick upraised." ] ]
train	23791	[ "Why did Pop go to Lunar City?", "How does Pop feel about Sattell?", "Why don't tourists go to Lunar City?", "Why does the red-headed man come to the moon?", "How often does the Lunar colony get supplies delivered from earth?" ]	[ [ "Pop went to Lunar City because the Earth is overcrowded.", "Pop went to Lunar City because Sattell went to Lunar City.", "Pop went to Lunar City because his family was murdered, and he couldn't stand to be on Earth any longer.", "Pop went to Lunar City to mine diamonds." ], [ "Pop thinks Sattell murdered his family, but he wants Sattell to live. Being near Sattell sparks lost memories.", "Pop thinks Sattell murdered his family. Pop wants to torture Sattell.", "Pop thinks Sattell murdered his family Now Sattell is going to destroy Lunar City, and steal the diamonds.", "Sattell murdered Pop's family, Pop wants Sattell dead." ], [ "Lunar City is on the far side of the moon. It's far too cold for tourism.", "Tourists went insane when faced with the vastness of space.", "Lunar City is not a resort, it's a mining town.", "It's too expensive, $100,000 for a 12-day cruise." ], [ "To kill Pop.", "To steal the diamonds.", "To rescue Sattell, the diamonds are his payment.", "To destroy the lunar colony." ], [ "Every twelve days", "Every three months", "Once a month", "Every two weeks" ] ]	[ 2, 1, 2, 3, 4 ]	[ 0, 1, 1, 1, 0 ]	[ [ "But not Pop. He'd come to the\n Moon in the first place because Sattell\n was here. Near Sattell, he found\n memories of times when he was a\n young man with a young wife who\n loved him extravagantly. Then pictures\n of his children came out of\n emptiness and grew sharp and clear.\n He found that he loved them very\n dearly. And when he was near Sattell\n he literally recovered them—in\n the sense that he came to know new\n things about them and had new\n memories of them every day. He\n hadn't yet remembered the crime\n which lost them to him. Until he\n did—and the fact possessed a certain\n grisly humor—Pop didn't even hate\n Sattell. He simply wanted to be near\n him because it enabled him to recover\n new and vivid parts of his\n youth that had been lost.", "All of which happened back on\n Earth and a long time ago. It seemed\n to Pop that the sight of Sattell had\n brought back some vague and cloudy\n memories. They were not sharp,\n though, and he hunted up Sattell\n again to find out if he was right.\n And Sattell went into panic when\n he returned.\n\n\n Nowadays, by the Big Crack, Pop\n wasn't so insistent on seeing Sattell,\n but he was deeply concerned with\n the recovery of the memories that\n Sattell helped bring back. Pop was\n a highly conscientious man. He took\n good care of his job. There was a\n warning-bell in the shack, and when\n a rocketship from Lunar City got\n above the horizon and could send a\n tight beam, the gong clanged loudly,\n and Pop got into a vacuum-suit\n and went out the air lock. He usually\n reached the moondozer about the\n time the ship began to brake for\n landing, and he watched it come in.", "Even when Sattell—whimpering—signed\n up for Lunar City, Pop tracked\n him. By that time he was quite\n sure that Sattell was the man who'd\n killed his family. If so, Sattell had\n profited by less than two days' pay\n for wiping out everything that Pop\n possessed. But Pop wanted it back.\n He couldn't prove Sattell's guilt.\n There was no evidence. In any case,\n he didn't really want Sattell to die.\n If he did, there'd be no way to recover\n more lost memories.", "Somebody back on Earth promoted\n a luxury passenger-line of spaceships\n to ply between Earth and\n Moon. It looked like a perfect set-up.\n Three spacecraft capable of the journey\n came into being with attendant\n reams of publicity. They promised a\n thrill and a new distinction for the\n rich. Guided tours to Lunar! The\n most expensive and most thrilling\n trip in history! One hundred thousand\n dollars for a twelve-day cruise\n through space, with views of the\n Moon's far side and trips through\n Lunar City and a landing in Aristarchus,\n plus sound-tapes of the journey\n and fame hitherto reserved for\n honest explorers!\n\n\n It didn't seem to have anything\n to do with Pop or with Sattell. But\n it did.", "The Crack, of course, was that\n gaping rocky fault which stretches\n nine hundred miles, jaggedly, over\n the side of the Moon that Earth\n never sees. There is one stretch where\n it is a yawning gulf a full half-mile\n wide and unguessably deep. Where\n Pop Young's shack stood it was only\n a hundred yards, but the colony was\n a full mile down, in one wall. There\n is nothing like it on Earth, of course.\n When it was first found, scientists\n descended into it to examine the exposed\n rock-strata and learn the history\n of the Moon before its craters\n were made. But they found more\n than history. They found the reason\n for the colony and the rocket landing\n field and the shack.\n\n\n The reason for Pop was something\n else.", "The sun rose, and baked the\n abomination of desolation which was\n the moonscape. Pop Young meticulously\n touched up the glittering\n triangles which were landing guides\n for the Lunar City ships. They glittered\n from the thinnest conceivable\n layer of magnesium marking-powder.\n He checked over the moondozer.\n He tended the air apparatus. He did\n everything that his job and survival\n required. Ungrudgingly.", "It was just barely past lunar sunrise\n on the far side of the Moon.\n Incredibly long and utterly black\n shadows stretched across the plain,\n and half the rocketship was dazzling\n white and half was blacker than\n blackness itself. The sun still hung\n low indeed in the black, star-speckled\n sky. Pop waded through moondust,\n raising a trail of slowly settling\n powder. He knew only that the ship\n didn't come from Lunar City, but\n from Earth. He couldn't imagine\n why. He did not even wildly connect\n it with what—say—Sattell might\n have written with desperate plausibility\n about greasy-seeming white\n crystals out of the mine, knocking\n about Pop Young's shack in cannisters\n containing a hundred Earth-pounds\n weight of richness.\nPop reached the rocketship. He\n approached the big tail-fins. On one\n of them there were welded ladder-rungs\n going up to the opened air-lock\n door.", "The shack and the job he filled\n were located in the medieval notion\n of the physical appearance of hell.\n By day the environment was heat and\n torment. By night—lunar night, of\n course, and lunar day—it was frigidity\n and horror. Once in two weeks\n Earth-time a rocketship came around\n the horizon from Lunar City with\n stores for the colony deep underground.\n Pop received the stores and\n took care of them. He handed over\n the product of the mine, to be forwarded\n to Earth. The rocket went\n away again. Come nightfall Pop\n lowered the supplies down the long\n cable into the Big Crack to the colony\n far down inside, and freshened up\n the landing field marks with magnesium\n marking-powder if a rocket-blast\n had blurred them. That was\n fundamentally all he had to do. But\n without him the mine down in the\n Crack would have had to shut\n down.", "Sattell had no such device for adjusting\n to the lunar state of things.\n Living on the Moon was bad enough\n anyhow, then, but living one mile\n underground from Pop Young was\n much worse. Sattell clearly remembered\n the crime Pop Young hadn't\n yet recalled. He considered that Pop\n had made no overt attempt to revenge\n himself because he planned\n some retaliation so horrible and lingering\n that it was worth waiting for.\n He came to hate Pop with an insane\n ferocity. And fear. In his mind the\n need to escape became an obsession\n on top of the other psychotic states\n normal to a Moon-colonist.", "But he was helpless. He couldn't\n leave. There was Pop. He couldn't\n kill Pop. He had no chance—and he\n was afraid. The one absurd, irrelevant\n thing he could do was write\n letters back to Earth. He did that.\n He wrote with the desperate, impassioned,\n frantic blend of persuasion\n and information and genius-like invention\n of a prisoner in a high-security\n prison, trying to induce someone\n to help him escape.\n\n\n He had friends, of a sort, but for\n a long time his letters produced\n nothing. The Moon swung in vast\n circles about the Earth, and the Earth\n swung sedately about the Sun. The\n other planets danced their saraband.\n The rest of humanity went about its\n own affairs with fascinated attention.\n But then an event occurred which\n bore directly upon Pop Young and\n Sattell and Pop Young's missing\n years.", "The red-headed man hit him\n again. He was nerve-racked, and,\n therefore, he wanted to hurt.\n\n\n \"Move!\" he rasped. \"I want the\n diamonds you've got for the ship\n from Lunar City! Bring 'em!\" Pop\n licked blood from his lips and the\n man with the weapon raged at him.\n \"Then phone down to the mine!\n Tell Sattell I'm here and he can\n come on up! Tell him to bring any\n more diamonds they've dug up since\n the stuff you've got!\"\n\n\n He leaned forward. His face was\n only inches from Pop Young's. It\n was seamed and hard-bitten and\n nerve-racked. But any man would be\n quivering if he wasn't used to space\n or the feel of one-sixth gravity on\n the Moon. He panted:", "Pop made his way toward it in\n the skittering, skating gait one uses\n in one-sixth gravity. When he was\n within half a mile, an air-lock door\n opened in the ship's side. But nothing\n came out of the lock. No space-suited\n figure. No cargo came drifting\n down with the singular deliberation\n of falling objects on the Moon.", "It was one of the unsuccessful\n luxury-liners sold for scrap. Or perhaps\n it was stolen for the journey\n here. Sattell's associates had had to\n steal or somehow get the fuel, and\n somehow find a pilot. But there were\n diamonds worth at least five million\n dollars waiting for them, and the\n whole job might not have called for\n more than two men—with Sattell as\n a third. According to the economics\n of crime, it was feasible. Anyhow it\n was being done.\n\n\n Pop reached the dust-heap which\n was his shack and went in the air\n lock. Inside, he went to the vision-phone\n and called the mine-colony\n down in the Crack. He gave the\n message he'd been told to pass on.\n Sattell to come up, with what diamonds\n had been dug since the\n regular cannister was sent up for the\n Lunar City ship that would be due\n presently. Otherwise the ship on the\n landing strip would destroy shack\n and Pop and the colony together.", "He didn't do any blasting. He didn't\n find any signs of the sort of\n mineral he required. Marble would\n have been perfect, but there is no\n marble on the Moon. Naturally! Yet\n Pop continued to search absorbedly\n for material with which to capture\n memory. Sattell still seemed necessary,\n but—\n\n\n Early one lunar morning he was\n a good two miles from his shack\n when he saw rocket-fumes in the\n sky. It was most unlikely. He wasn't\n looking for anything of the sort, but\n out of the corner of his eye he observed\n that something moved. Which\n was impossible. He turned his head,\n and there were rocket-fumes coming\n over the horizon, not in the direction\n of Lunar City. Which was more\n impossible still.", "Another shaky question.\n\n\n \"Me?\" asked Pop. \"Oh, I'm going\n to raise what hell I can. There's\n some stuff in that ship I want.\"\n\n\n He switched off the phone. He\n went over to his air apparatus. He\n took down the cannister of diamonds\n which were worth five millions or\n more back on Earth. He found a\n bucket. He dumped the diamonds\n casually into it. They floated downward\n with great deliberation and\n surged from side to side like a liquid\n when they stopped. One-sixth gravity.\n\n\n Pop regarded his drawings meditatively.\n A sketch of his wife as he\n now remembered her. It was very\n good to remember. A drawing of his\n two children, playing together. He\n looked forward to remembering\n much more about them. He grinned.\n\n\n \"That stair-rail,\" he said in deep\n satisfaction. \"That'll do it!\"", "Pop reflected hungrily that it was\n something else to be made permanent\n and inspected from time to time.\n But he wanted more than a drawing\n of this! He wanted to make the memory\n permanent and to extend it—\n\n\n If it had not been for his vacuum\n suit and the cannister he carried, Pop\n would have rubbed his hands.\nTall, jagged crater-walls rose\n from the lunar plain. Monstrous, extended\n inky shadows stretched\n enormous distances, utterly black.\n The sun, like a glowing octopod,\n floated low at the edge of things and\n seemed to hate all creation.\n\n\n Pop reached the rocket. He\n climbed the welded ladder-rungs to\n the air lock. He closed the door. Air\n whined. His suit sagged against his\n body. He took off his helmet.\n\n\n When the red-headed man opened\n the inner door, the hand-weapon\n shook and trembled. Pop said\n calmly:", "The first men to leave the colony\n had to be knocked cold and shipped\n out unconscious. They'd been underground—and\n in low gravity—long\n enough to be utterly unable to face\n the idea of open spaces. Even now\n there were some who had to be carried,\n but there were some tougher\n ones who were able to walk to the\n rocketship if Pop put a tarpaulin\n over their heads so they didn't have\n to see the sky. In any case Pop was\n essential, either for carrying or\n guidance.\nSattell got the shakes when he\n thought of Pop, and Pop rather\n probably knew it. Of course, by the\n time he took the job tending the\n shack, he was pretty certain about\n Sattell. The facts spoke for themselves.", "Pop heard of the quaint commercial\n enterprise through the micro-tapes\n put off at the shack for the men\n down in the mine. Sattell probably\n learned of it the same way. Pop didn't\n even think of it again. It seemed\n to have nothing to do with him. But\n Sattell undoubtedly dealt with it\n fully in his desperate writings back\n to Earth.\nPop matter-of-factly tended the\n shack and the landing field and the\n stores for the Big Crack mine. Between-times\n he made more drawings\n in pursuit of his own private objective.\n Quite accidentally, he developed\n a certain talent professional artists\n might have approved. But he was not", "But it wasn't fun, even underground.\n In the Moon's slight gravity,\n a man is really adjusted to existence\n when he has a well-developed case\n of agoraphobia. With such an aid, a\n man can get into a tiny, coffinlike\n cubbyhole, and feel solidity above\n and below and around him, and\n happily tell himself that it feels delicious.\n Sometimes it does.\n\n\n But Sattell couldn't comfort himself\n so easily. He knew about Pop,\n up on the surface. He'd shipped out,\n whimpering, to the Moon to get far\n away from Pop, and Pop was just\n about a mile overhead and there was\n no way to get around him. It was\n difficult to get away from the mine,\n anyhow. It doesn't take too long for\n the low gravity to tear a man's\n nerves to shreds. He has to develop\n kinks in his head to survive. And\n those kinks—", "He saw the silver needle in the\n sky fighting momentum above a line\n of jagged crater-walls. It slowed, and\n slowed, and curved down as it drew\n nearer. The pilot killed all forward\n motion just above the field and came\n steadily and smoothly down to land\n between the silvery triangles that\n marked the landing place.\n\n\n Instantly the rockets cut off,\n drums of fuel and air and food came\n out of the cargo-hatch and Pop swept\n forward with the dozer. It was a\n miniature tractor with a gigantic\n scoop in front. He pushed a great\n mound of talc-fine dust before him\n to cover up the cargo. It was necessary.\n With freight costing what it\n did, fuel and air and food came\n frozen solid, in containers barely\n thicker than foil. While they stayed\n at space-shadow temperature, the foil\n would hold anything. And a cover of\n insulating moondust with vacuum\n between the grains kept even air\n frozen solid, though in sunlight." ], [ "But not Pop. He'd come to the\n Moon in the first place because Sattell\n was here. Near Sattell, he found\n memories of times when he was a\n young man with a young wife who\n loved him extravagantly. Then pictures\n of his children came out of\n emptiness and grew sharp and clear.\n He found that he loved them very\n dearly. And when he was near Sattell\n he literally recovered them—in\n the sense that he came to know new\n things about them and had new\n memories of them every day. He\n hadn't yet remembered the crime\n which lost them to him. Until he\n did—and the fact possessed a certain\n grisly humor—Pop didn't even hate\n Sattell. He simply wanted to be near\n him because it enabled him to recover\n new and vivid parts of his\n youth that had been lost.", "At such times Pop hardly thought\n of Sattell. He knew he had plenty\n of time for that. He'd started to follow\n Sattell knowing what had happened\n to his wife and children, but\n it was hearsay only. He had no memory\n of them at all. But Sattell stirred\n the lost memories. At first Pop followed\n absorbedly from city to city,\n to recover the years that had been\n wiped out by an axe-blow. He did\n recover a good deal. When Sattell\n fled to another continent, Pop followed\n because he had some distinct\n memories of his wife—and the way\n he'd felt about her—and some fugitive\n mental images of his children.\n When Sattell frenziedly tried to deny\n knowledge of the murder in Tangier,\n Pop had come to remember both his\n children and some of the happiness\n of his married life.", "Pop had come back to consciousness\n in a hospital with a great\n wound in his head and no memory\n of anything that had happened before\n that moment. It was not that his\n identity was in question. When he\n was stronger, the doctors told him\n who he was, and as gently as possible\n what had happened to his wife\n and children. They'd been murdered\n after he was seemingly killed defending\n them. But he didn't remember\n a thing. Not then. It was\n something of a blessing.\n\n\n But when he was physically recovered\n he set about trying to pick\n up the threads of the life he could\n no longer remember. He met Sattell\n quite by accident. Sattell looked familiar.\n Pop eagerly tried to ask him\n questions. And Sattell turned gray\n and frantically denied that he'd ever\n seen Pop before.", "Sattell had no such device for adjusting\n to the lunar state of things.\n Living on the Moon was bad enough\n anyhow, then, but living one mile\n underground from Pop Young was\n much worse. Sattell clearly remembered\n the crime Pop Young hadn't\n yet recalled. He considered that Pop\n had made no overt attempt to revenge\n himself because he planned\n some retaliation so horrible and lingering\n that it was worth waiting for.\n He came to hate Pop with an insane\n ferocity. And fear. In his mind the\n need to escape became an obsession\n on top of the other psychotic states\n normal to a Moon-colonist.", "\"I'd guess,\" said Pop painstakingly,\n \"that Sattell figured it out. He's\n probably got some sort of gun to\n keep you from holding him down\n there. But he won't know his friends\n are here—not right this minute he\n won't.\"\n\n\n A shaking voice asked questions\n from the vision-phone.\n\n\n \"No,\" said Pop, \"they'll do it anyhow.\n If we were able to tell about\n 'em, they'd be chased. But if I'm\n dead and the shacks smashed and\n the cable burnt through, they'll be\n back on Earth long before a new\n cable's been got and let down to you.\n So they'll do all they can no matter\n what I do.\" He added, \"I wouldn't\n tell Sattell a thing about it, if I were\n you. It'll save trouble. Just let him\n keep on waiting for this to happen.\n It'll save you trouble.\"", "Even when Sattell—whimpering—signed\n up for Lunar City, Pop tracked\n him. By that time he was quite\n sure that Sattell was the man who'd\n killed his family. If so, Sattell had\n profited by less than two days' pay\n for wiping out everything that Pop\n possessed. But Pop wanted it back.\n He couldn't prove Sattell's guilt.\n There was no evidence. In any case,\n he didn't really want Sattell to die.\n If he did, there'd be no way to recover\n more lost memories.", "Pop heard of the quaint commercial\n enterprise through the micro-tapes\n put off at the shack for the men\n down in the mine. Sattell probably\n learned of it the same way. Pop didn't\n even think of it again. It seemed\n to have nothing to do with him. But\n Sattell undoubtedly dealt with it\n fully in his desperate writings back\n to Earth.\nPop matter-of-factly tended the\n shack and the landing field and the\n stores for the Big Crack mine. Between-times\n he made more drawings\n in pursuit of his own private objective.\n Quite accidentally, he developed\n a certain talent professional artists\n might have approved. But he was not", "All of which happened back on\n Earth and a long time ago. It seemed\n to Pop that the sight of Sattell had\n brought back some vague and cloudy\n memories. They were not sharp,\n though, and he hunted up Sattell\n again to find out if he was right.\n And Sattell went into panic when\n he returned.\n\n\n Nowadays, by the Big Crack, Pop\n wasn't so insistent on seeing Sattell,\n but he was deeply concerned with\n the recovery of the memories that\n Sattell helped bring back. Pop was\n a highly conscientious man. He took\n good care of his job. There was a\n warning-bell in the shack, and when\n a rocketship from Lunar City got\n above the horizon and could send a\n tight beam, the gong clanged loudly,\n and Pop got into a vacuum-suit\n and went out the air lock. He usually\n reached the moondozer about the\n time the ship began to brake for\n landing, and he watched it come in.", "But he was helpless. He couldn't\n leave. There was Pop. He couldn't\n kill Pop. He had no chance—and he\n was afraid. The one absurd, irrelevant\n thing he could do was write\n letters back to Earth. He did that.\n He wrote with the desperate, impassioned,\n frantic blend of persuasion\n and information and genius-like invention\n of a prisoner in a high-security\n prison, trying to induce someone\n to help him escape.\n\n\n He had friends, of a sort, but for\n a long time his letters produced\n nothing. The Moon swung in vast\n circles about the Earth, and the Earth\n swung sedately about the Sun. The\n other planets danced their saraband.\n The rest of humanity went about its\n own affairs with fascinated attention.\n But then an event occurred which\n bore directly upon Pop Young and\n Sattell and Pop Young's missing\n years.", "The first men to leave the colony\n had to be knocked cold and shipped\n out unconscious. They'd been underground—and\n in low gravity—long\n enough to be utterly unable to face\n the idea of open spaces. Even now\n there were some who had to be carried,\n but there were some tougher\n ones who were able to walk to the\n rocketship if Pop put a tarpaulin\n over their heads so they didn't have\n to see the sky. In any case Pop was\n essential, either for carrying or\n guidance.\nSattell got the shakes when he\n thought of Pop, and Pop rather\n probably knew it. Of course, by the\n time he took the job tending the\n shack, he was pretty certain about\n Sattell. The facts spoke for themselves.", "\"And get it straight! You try\n any tricks and we take off! We\n swing over your shack! The rocket-blast\n smashes it! We burn you\n down! Then we swing over the cable\n down to the mine and the rocket-flame\n melts it! You die and everybody\n in the mine besides! No tricks!\n We didn't come here for nothing!\"\n\n\n He twitched all over. Then he\n struck cruelly again at Pop Young's\n face. He seemed filled with fury, at\n least partly hysterical. It was the tension\n that space-travel—then, at its\n beginning—produced. It was meaningless\n savagery due to terror. But,\n of course, Pop was helpless to resent\n it. There were no weapons on the\n Moon and the mention of Sattell's\n name showed the uselessness of bluff.\n He'd pictured the complete set-up\n by the edge of the Big Crack. Pop\n could do nothing.", "The red-headed man checked\n himself, panting. He drew back and\n slammed the inner lock-door. There\n was the sound of pumping.\n\n\n Pop put his helmet back on and\n sealed it. The outer door opened.\n Outrushing air tugged at Pop. After\n a second or two he went out and\n climbed down the welded-on ladder-bars\n to the ground.\n\n\n He headed back toward his shack.\n Somehow, the mention of Sattell had\n made his mind work better. It always\n did. He began painstakingly to\n put things together. The red-headed\n man knew the routine here in every\n detail. He knew Sattell. That part\n was simple. Sattell had planned this\n multi-million-dollar coup, as a man\n in prison might plan his break. The\n stripped interior of the ship identified\n it.", "Somebody back on Earth promoted\n a luxury passenger-line of spaceships\n to ply between Earth and\n Moon. It looked like a perfect set-up.\n Three spacecraft capable of the journey\n came into being with attendant\n reams of publicity. They promised a\n thrill and a new distinction for the\n rich. Guided tours to Lunar! The\n most expensive and most thrilling\n trip in history! One hundred thousand\n dollars for a twelve-day cruise\n through space, with views of the\n Moon's far side and trips through\n Lunar City and a landing in Aristarchus,\n plus sound-tapes of the journey\n and fame hitherto reserved for\n honest explorers!\n\n\n It didn't seem to have anything\n to do with Pop or with Sattell. But\n it did.", "But it wasn't fun, even underground.\n In the Moon's slight gravity,\n a man is really adjusted to existence\n when he has a well-developed case\n of agoraphobia. With such an aid, a\n man can get into a tiny, coffinlike\n cubbyhole, and feel solidity above\n and below and around him, and\n happily tell himself that it feels delicious.\n Sometimes it does.\n\n\n But Sattell couldn't comfort himself\n so easily. He knew about Pop,\n up on the surface. He'd shipped out,\n whimpering, to the Moon to get far\n away from Pop, and Pop was just\n about a mile overhead and there was\n no way to get around him. It was\n difficult to get away from the mine,\n anyhow. It doesn't take too long for\n the low gravity to tear a man's\n nerves to shreds. He has to develop\n kinks in his head to survive. And\n those kinks—", "Pop didn't wait. He searched\n hopefully. Once a mass of steel plating\n fell only yards from him, but it\n did not interrupt his search.\n\n\n When he went into the shack, he\n grinned to himself. The call-light of\n the vision-phone flickered wildly.\n When he took off his helmet the bell\n clanged incessantly. He answered. A\n shaking voice from the mining-colony\n panted:\n\n\n \"We felt a shock! What happened?\n What do we do?\"\n\n\n \"Don't do a thing,\" advised Pop.\n \"It's all right. I blew up the ship and\n everything's all right. I wouldn't\n even mention it to Sattell if I were\n you.\"", "behind the air-apparatus. It rattled\n if he shook it, and it was worth no\n more than so many pebbles. But\n sometimes Pop wondered if Sattell\n ever thought of the value of the\n mine's production. If he would kill\n a woman and two children and think\n he'd killed a man for no more than\n a hundred dollars, what enormity\n would he commit for a three-gallon\n quantity of uncut diamonds?\nBut he did not dwell on such\n speculation. The sun rose very, very\n slowly in what by convention was\n called the east. It took nearly two\n hours to urge its disk above the\n horizon, and it burned terribly in\n emptiness for fourteen times twenty-four", "Sometimes, in the shack on the far\n side of the Moon, Pop Young had\n odd fancies about Sattell. There was\n the mine, for example. In each two\n Earth-weeks of working, the mine-colony\n nearly filled up a three-gallon\n cannister with greasy-seeming white\n crystals shaped like two pyramids\n base to base. The filled cannister\n would weigh a hundred pounds on\n Earth. Here it weighed eighteen. But\n on Earth its contents would be computed\n in carats, and a hundred\n pounds was worth millions. Yet here\n on the Moon Pop kept a waiting cannister\n on a shelf in his tiny dome,", "He grinned happily down at a section\n of plastic stair-rail he'd found\n not too far from where the ship exploded.\n When the man down in the\n mine cut off, Pop got out of his\n vacuum suit in a hurry. He placed\n the plastic zestfully on the table\n where he'd been restricted to drawing\n pictures of his wife and children\n in order to recover memories of\n them.\n\n\n He began to plan, gloatingly, the\n thing he would carve out of a four-inch\n section of the plastic. When it\n was carved, he'd paint it. While he\n worked, he'd think of Sattell, because\n that was the way to get back the\n missing portions of his life—the\n parts Sattell had managed to get\n away from him. He'd get back more\n than ever, now!", "The shack stood a hundred feet\n from the Big Crack's edge. It looked\n like a dust-heap thirty feet high, and\n it was. The outside was surface\n moondust, piled over a tiny dome to\n be insulation against the cold of\n night and shadow and the furnace\n heat of day. Pop lived in it all alone,\n and in his spare time he worked\n industriously at recovering some\n missing portions of his life that Sattell\n had managed to take away from\n him.\n\n\n He thought often of Sattell, down\n in the colony underground. There\n were galleries and tunnels and living-quarters\n down there. There were\n air-tight bulkheads for safety, and a\n hydroponic garden to keep the air\n fresh, and all sorts of things to make\n life possible for men under if not\n on the Moon.", "\"Now I've got to go handle the\n hoist, if Sattell's coming up from\n the mine. If I don't do it, he don't\n come up.\"\n\n\n The red-headed man snarled. But\n his eyes were on the cannister whose\n contents should weigh a hundred\n pounds on Earth.\n\n\n \"Any tricks,\" he rasped, \"and you\n know what happens!\"\n\n\n \"Yeah,\" said Pop.\n\n\n He stolidly put his helmet back\n on. But his eyes went past the red-headed\n man to the stair that wound\n down, inside the ship, from some\n compartment above. The stair-rail was\n pure, clear, water-white plastic, not\n less than three inches thick. There\n was a lot of it!\n\n\n The inner door closed. Pop opened\n the outer. Air rushed out. He\n climbed painstakingly down to the\n ground. He started back toward the\n shack." ], [ "Somebody back on Earth promoted\n a luxury passenger-line of spaceships\n to ply between Earth and\n Moon. It looked like a perfect set-up.\n Three spacecraft capable of the journey\n came into being with attendant\n reams of publicity. They promised a\n thrill and a new distinction for the\n rich. Guided tours to Lunar! The\n most expensive and most thrilling\n trip in history! One hundred thousand\n dollars for a twelve-day cruise\n through space, with views of the\n Moon's far side and trips through\n Lunar City and a landing in Aristarchus,\n plus sound-tapes of the journey\n and fame hitherto reserved for\n honest explorers!\n\n\n It didn't seem to have anything\n to do with Pop or with Sattell. But\n it did.", "The second luxury liner took off\n with only four passengers and turned\n back before reaching the Moon.\n Space-pilots could take the strain of\n space-flight because they had work\n to do. Workers for the lunar mines\n could make the trip under heavy\n sedation. But it was too early in the\n development of space-travel for\n pleasure-passengers. They weren't\n prepared for the more humbling\n facts of life.", "There were just two passenger\n tours. The first was fully booked.\n But the passengers who paid so highly,\n expected to be pleasantly thrilled\n and shielded from all reasons for\n alarm. And they couldn't be. Something\n happens when a self-centered\n and complacent individual unsuspectingly\n looks out of a spaceship\n port and sees the cosmos unshielded\n by mists or clouds or other aids to\n blindness against reality. It is shattering.", "All of which happened back on\n Earth and a long time ago. It seemed\n to Pop that the sight of Sattell had\n brought back some vague and cloudy\n memories. They were not sharp,\n though, and he hunted up Sattell\n again to find out if he was right.\n And Sattell went into panic when\n he returned.\n\n\n Nowadays, by the Big Crack, Pop\n wasn't so insistent on seeing Sattell,\n but he was deeply concerned with\n the recovery of the memories that\n Sattell helped bring back. Pop was\n a highly conscientious man. He took\n good care of his job. There was a\n warning-bell in the shack, and when\n a rocketship from Lunar City got\n above the horizon and could send a\n tight beam, the gong clanged loudly,\n and Pop got into a vacuum-suit\n and went out the air lock. He usually\n reached the moondozer about the\n time the ship began to brake for\n landing, and he watched it come in.", "The sun rose, and baked the\n abomination of desolation which was\n the moonscape. Pop Young meticulously\n touched up the glittering\n triangles which were landing guides\n for the Lunar City ships. They glittered\n from the thinnest conceivable\n layer of magnesium marking-powder.\n He checked over the moondozer.\n He tended the air apparatus. He did\n everything that his job and survival\n required. Ungrudgingly.", "The Crack, of course, was that\n gaping rocky fault which stretches\n nine hundred miles, jaggedly, over\n the side of the Moon that Earth\n never sees. There is one stretch where\n it is a yawning gulf a full half-mile\n wide and unguessably deep. Where\n Pop Young's shack stood it was only\n a hundred yards, but the colony was\n a full mile down, in one wall. There\n is nothing like it on Earth, of course.\n When it was first found, scientists\n descended into it to examine the exposed\n rock-strata and learn the history\n of the Moon before its craters\n were made. But they found more\n than history. They found the reason\n for the colony and the rocket landing\n field and the shack.\n\n\n The reason for Pop was something\n else.", "He didn't do any blasting. He didn't\n find any signs of the sort of\n mineral he required. Marble would\n have been perfect, but there is no\n marble on the Moon. Naturally! Yet\n Pop continued to search absorbedly\n for material with which to capture\n memory. Sattell still seemed necessary,\n but—\n\n\n Early one lunar morning he was\n a good two miles from his shack\n when he saw rocket-fumes in the\n sky. It was most unlikely. He wasn't\n looking for anything of the sort, but\n out of the corner of his eye he observed\n that something moved. Which\n was impossible. He turned his head,\n and there were rocket-fumes coming\n over the horizon, not in the direction\n of Lunar City. Which was more\n impossible still.", "The shack and the job he filled\n were located in the medieval notion\n of the physical appearance of hell.\n By day the environment was heat and\n torment. By night—lunar night, of\n course, and lunar day—it was frigidity\n and horror. Once in two weeks\n Earth-time a rocketship came around\n the horizon from Lunar City with\n stores for the colony deep underground.\n Pop received the stores and\n took care of them. He handed over\n the product of the mine, to be forwarded\n to Earth. The rocket went\n away again. Come nightfall Pop\n lowered the supplies down the long\n cable into the Big Crack to the colony\n far down inside, and freshened up\n the landing field marks with magnesium\n marking-powder if a rocket-blast\n had blurred them. That was\n fundamentally all he had to do. But\n without him the mine down in the\n Crack would have had to shut\n down.", "A millionaire cut his throat when\n he saw Earth dwindled to a mere\n blue-green ball in vastness. He could\n not endure his own smallness in the\n face of immensity. Not one passenger\n disembarked even for Lunar\n City. Most of them cowered in their\n chairs, hiding their eyes. They were\n the simple cases of hysteria. But the\n richest girl on Earth, who'd had five\n husbands and believed that nothing\n could move her—she went into\n catatonic withdrawal and neither\n saw nor heard nor moved. Two other\n passengers sobbed in improvised\n strait jackets. The first shipload\n started home. Fast.", "But it wasn't fun, even underground.\n In the Moon's slight gravity,\n a man is really adjusted to existence\n when he has a well-developed case\n of agoraphobia. With such an aid, a\n man can get into a tiny, coffinlike\n cubbyhole, and feel solidity above\n and below and around him, and\n happily tell himself that it feels delicious.\n Sometimes it does.\n\n\n But Sattell couldn't comfort himself\n so easily. He knew about Pop,\n up on the surface. He'd shipped out,\n whimpering, to the Moon to get far\n away from Pop, and Pop was just\n about a mile overhead and there was\n no way to get around him. It was\n difficult to get away from the mine,\n anyhow. It doesn't take too long for\n the low gravity to tear a man's\n nerves to shreds. He has to develop\n kinks in his head to survive. And\n those kinks—", "Even when Sattell—whimpering—signed\n up for Lunar City, Pop tracked\n him. By that time he was quite\n sure that Sattell was the man who'd\n killed his family. If so, Sattell had\n profited by less than two days' pay\n for wiping out everything that Pop\n possessed. But Pop wanted it back.\n He couldn't prove Sattell's guilt.\n There was no evidence. In any case,\n he didn't really want Sattell to die.\n If he did, there'd be no way to recover\n more lost memories.", "It was one of the unsuccessful\n luxury-liners sold for scrap. Or perhaps\n it was stolen for the journey\n here. Sattell's associates had had to\n steal or somehow get the fuel, and\n somehow find a pilot. But there were\n diamonds worth at least five million\n dollars waiting for them, and the\n whole job might not have called for\n more than two men—with Sattell as\n a third. According to the economics\n of crime, it was feasible. Anyhow it\n was being done.\n\n\n Pop reached the dust-heap which\n was his shack and went in the air\n lock. Inside, he went to the vision-phone\n and called the mine-colony\n down in the Crack. He gave the\n message he'd been told to pass on.\n Sattell to come up, with what diamonds\n had been dug since the\n regular cannister was sent up for the\n Lunar City ship that would be due\n presently. Otherwise the ship on the\n landing strip would destroy shack\n and Pop and the colony together.", "It was just barely past lunar sunrise\n on the far side of the Moon.\n Incredibly long and utterly black\n shadows stretched across the plain,\n and half the rocketship was dazzling\n white and half was blacker than\n blackness itself. The sun still hung\n low indeed in the black, star-speckled\n sky. Pop waded through moondust,\n raising a trail of slowly settling\n powder. He knew only that the ship\n didn't come from Lunar City, but\n from Earth. He couldn't imagine\n why. He did not even wildly connect\n it with what—say—Sattell might\n have written with desperate plausibility\n about greasy-seeming white\n crystals out of the mine, knocking\n about Pop Young's shack in cannisters\n containing a hundred Earth-pounds\n weight of richness.\nPop reached the rocketship. He\n approached the big tail-fins. On one\n of them there were welded ladder-rungs\n going up to the opened air-lock\n door.", "The red-headed man hit him\n again. He was nerve-racked, and,\n therefore, he wanted to hurt.\n\n\n \"Move!\" he rasped. \"I want the\n diamonds you've got for the ship\n from Lunar City! Bring 'em!\" Pop\n licked blood from his lips and the\n man with the weapon raged at him.\n \"Then phone down to the mine!\n Tell Sattell I'm here and he can\n come on up! Tell him to bring any\n more diamonds they've dug up since\n the stuff you've got!\"\n\n\n He leaned forward. His face was\n only inches from Pop Young's. It\n was seamed and hard-bitten and\n nerve-racked. But any man would be\n quivering if he wasn't used to space\n or the feel of one-sixth gravity on\n the Moon. He panted:", "Pop made his way toward it in\n the skittering, skating gait one uses\n in one-sixth gravity. When he was\n within half a mile, an air-lock door\n opened in the ship's side. But nothing\n came out of the lock. No space-suited\n figure. No cargo came drifting\n down with the singular deliberation\n of falling objects on the Moon.", "Sattell had no such device for adjusting\n to the lunar state of things.\n Living on the Moon was bad enough\n anyhow, then, but living one mile\n underground from Pop Young was\n much worse. Sattell clearly remembered\n the crime Pop Young hadn't\n yet recalled. He considered that Pop\n had made no overt attempt to revenge\n himself because he planned\n some retaliation so horrible and lingering\n that it was worth waiting for.\n He came to hate Pop with an insane\n ferocity. And fear. In his mind the\n need to escape became an obsession\n on top of the other psychotic states\n normal to a Moon-colonist.", "He saw the silver needle in the\n sky fighting momentum above a line\n of jagged crater-walls. It slowed, and\n slowed, and curved down as it drew\n nearer. The pilot killed all forward\n motion just above the field and came\n steadily and smoothly down to land\n between the silvery triangles that\n marked the landing place.\n\n\n Instantly the rockets cut off,\n drums of fuel and air and food came\n out of the cargo-hatch and Pop swept\n forward with the dozer. It was a\n miniature tractor with a gigantic\n scoop in front. He pushed a great\n mound of talc-fine dust before him\n to cover up the cargo. It was necessary.\n With freight costing what it\n did, fuel and air and food came\n frozen solid, in containers barely\n thicker than foil. While they stayed\n at space-shadow temperature, the foil\n would hold anything. And a cover of\n insulating moondust with vacuum\n between the grains kept even air\n frozen solid, though in sunlight.", "The first men to leave the colony\n had to be knocked cold and shipped\n out unconscious. They'd been underground—and\n in low gravity—long\n enough to be utterly unable to face\n the idea of open spaces. Even now\n there were some who had to be carried,\n but there were some tougher\n ones who were able to walk to the\n rocketship if Pop put a tarpaulin\n over their heads so they didn't have\n to see the sky. In any case Pop was\n essential, either for carrying or\n guidance.\nSattell got the shakes when he\n thought of Pop, and Pop rather\n probably knew it. Of course, by the\n time he took the job tending the\n shack, he was pretty certain about\n Sattell. The facts spoke for themselves.", "But not Pop. He'd come to the\n Moon in the first place because Sattell\n was here. Near Sattell, he found\n memories of times when he was a\n young man with a young wife who\n loved him extravagantly. Then pictures\n of his children came out of\n emptiness and grew sharp and clear.\n He found that he loved them very\n dearly. And when he was near Sattell\n he literally recovered them—in\n the sense that he came to know new\n things about them and had new\n memories of them every day. He\n hadn't yet remembered the crime\n which lost them to him. Until he\n did—and the fact possessed a certain\n grisly humor—Pop didn't even hate\n Sattell. He simply wanted to be near\n him because it enabled him to recover\n new and vivid parts of his\n youth that had been lost.", "The shack stood a hundred feet\n from the Big Crack's edge. It looked\n like a dust-heap thirty feet high, and\n it was. The outside was surface\n moondust, piled over a tiny dome to\n be insulation against the cold of\n night and shadow and the furnace\n heat of day. Pop lived in it all alone,\n and in his spare time he worked\n industriously at recovering some\n missing portions of his life that Sattell\n had managed to take away from\n him.\n\n\n He thought often of Sattell, down\n in the colony underground. There\n were galleries and tunnels and living-quarters\n down there. There were\n air-tight bulkheads for safety, and a\n hydroponic garden to keep the air\n fresh, and all sorts of things to make\n life possible for men under if not\n on the Moon." ], [ "The red-headed man hit him\n again. He was nerve-racked, and,\n therefore, he wanted to hurt.\n\n\n \"Move!\" he rasped. \"I want the\n diamonds you've got for the ship\n from Lunar City! Bring 'em!\" Pop\n licked blood from his lips and the\n man with the weapon raged at him.\n \"Then phone down to the mine!\n Tell Sattell I'm here and he can\n come on up! Tell him to bring any\n more diamonds they've dug up since\n the stuff you've got!\"\n\n\n He leaned forward. His face was\n only inches from Pop Young's. It\n was seamed and hard-bitten and\n nerve-racked. But any man would be\n quivering if he wasn't used to space\n or the feel of one-sixth gravity on\n the Moon. He panted:", "The red-headed man checked\n himself, panting. He drew back and\n slammed the inner lock-door. There\n was the sound of pumping.\n\n\n Pop put his helmet back on and\n sealed it. The outer door opened.\n Outrushing air tugged at Pop. After\n a second or two he went out and\n climbed down the welded-on ladder-bars\n to the ground.\n\n\n He headed back toward his shack.\n Somehow, the mention of Sattell had\n made his mind work better. It always\n did. He began painstakingly to\n put things together. The red-headed\n man knew the routine here in every\n detail. He knew Sattell. That part\n was simple. Sattell had planned this\n multi-million-dollar coup, as a man\n in prison might plan his break. The\n stripped interior of the ship identified\n it.", "Pop reflected hungrily that it was\n something else to be made permanent\n and inspected from time to time.\n But he wanted more than a drawing\n of this! He wanted to make the memory\n permanent and to extend it—\n\n\n If it had not been for his vacuum\n suit and the cannister he carried, Pop\n would have rubbed his hands.\nTall, jagged crater-walls rose\n from the lunar plain. Monstrous, extended\n inky shadows stretched\n enormous distances, utterly black.\n The sun, like a glowing octopod,\n floated low at the edge of things and\n seemed to hate all creation.\n\n\n Pop reached the rocket. He\n climbed the welded ladder-rungs to\n the air lock. He closed the door. Air\n whined. His suit sagged against his\n body. He took off his helmet.\n\n\n When the red-headed man opened\n the inner door, the hand-weapon\n shook and trembled. Pop said\n calmly:", "But not Pop. He'd come to the\n Moon in the first place because Sattell\n was here. Near Sattell, he found\n memories of times when he was a\n young man with a young wife who\n loved him extravagantly. Then pictures\n of his children came out of\n emptiness and grew sharp and clear.\n He found that he loved them very\n dearly. And when he was near Sattell\n he literally recovered them—in\n the sense that he came to know new\n things about them and had new\n memories of them every day. He\n hadn't yet remembered the crime\n which lost them to him. Until he\n did—and the fact possessed a certain\n grisly humor—Pop didn't even hate\n Sattell. He simply wanted to be near\n him because it enabled him to recover\n new and vivid parts of his\n youth that had been lost.", "The sun rose, and baked the\n abomination of desolation which was\n the moonscape. Pop Young meticulously\n touched up the glittering\n triangles which were landing guides\n for the Lunar City ships. They glittered\n from the thinnest conceivable\n layer of magnesium marking-powder.\n He checked over the moondozer.\n He tended the air apparatus. He did\n everything that his job and survival\n required. Ungrudgingly.", "But it wasn't fun, even underground.\n In the Moon's slight gravity,\n a man is really adjusted to existence\n when he has a well-developed case\n of agoraphobia. With such an aid, a\n man can get into a tiny, coffinlike\n cubbyhole, and feel solidity above\n and below and around him, and\n happily tell himself that it feels delicious.\n Sometimes it does.\n\n\n But Sattell couldn't comfort himself\n so easily. He knew about Pop,\n up on the surface. He'd shipped out,\n whimpering, to the Moon to get far\n away from Pop, and Pop was just\n about a mile overhead and there was\n no way to get around him. It was\n difficult to get away from the mine,\n anyhow. It doesn't take too long for\n the low gravity to tear a man's\n nerves to shreds. He has to develop\n kinks in his head to survive. And\n those kinks—", "It was just barely past lunar sunrise\n on the far side of the Moon.\n Incredibly long and utterly black\n shadows stretched across the plain,\n and half the rocketship was dazzling\n white and half was blacker than\n blackness itself. The sun still hung\n low indeed in the black, star-speckled\n sky. Pop waded through moondust,\n raising a trail of slowly settling\n powder. He knew only that the ship\n didn't come from Lunar City, but\n from Earth. He couldn't imagine\n why. He did not even wildly connect\n it with what—say—Sattell might\n have written with desperate plausibility\n about greasy-seeming white\n crystals out of the mine, knocking\n about Pop Young's shack in cannisters\n containing a hundred Earth-pounds\n weight of richness.\nPop reached the rocketship. He\n approached the big tail-fins. On one\n of them there were welded ladder-rungs\n going up to the opened air-lock\n door.", "All of which happened back on\n Earth and a long time ago. It seemed\n to Pop that the sight of Sattell had\n brought back some vague and cloudy\n memories. They were not sharp,\n though, and he hunted up Sattell\n again to find out if he was right.\n And Sattell went into panic when\n he returned.\n\n\n Nowadays, by the Big Crack, Pop\n wasn't so insistent on seeing Sattell,\n but he was deeply concerned with\n the recovery of the memories that\n Sattell helped bring back. Pop was\n a highly conscientious man. He took\n good care of his job. There was a\n warning-bell in the shack, and when\n a rocketship from Lunar City got\n above the horizon and could send a\n tight beam, the gong clanged loudly,\n and Pop got into a vacuum-suit\n and went out the air lock. He usually\n reached the moondozer about the\n time the ship began to brake for\n landing, and he watched it come in.", "\"Now I've got to go handle the\n hoist, if Sattell's coming up from\n the mine. If I don't do it, he don't\n come up.\"\n\n\n The red-headed man snarled. But\n his eyes were on the cannister whose\n contents should weigh a hundred\n pounds on Earth.\n\n\n \"Any tricks,\" he rasped, \"and you\n know what happens!\"\n\n\n \"Yeah,\" said Pop.\n\n\n He stolidly put his helmet back\n on. But his eyes went past the red-headed\n man to the stair that wound\n down, inside the ship, from some\n compartment above. The stair-rail was\n pure, clear, water-white plastic, not\n less than three inches thick. There\n was a lot of it!\n\n\n The inner door closed. Pop opened\n the outer. Air rushed out. He\n climbed painstakingly down to the\n ground. He started back toward the\n shack.", "\"And get it straight! You try\n any tricks and we take off! We\n swing over your shack! The rocket-blast\n smashes it! We burn you\n down! Then we swing over the cable\n down to the mine and the rocket-flame\n melts it! You die and everybody\n in the mine besides! No tricks!\n We didn't come here for nothing!\"\n\n\n He twitched all over. Then he\n struck cruelly again at Pop Young's\n face. He seemed filled with fury, at\n least partly hysterical. It was the tension\n that space-travel—then, at its\n beginning—produced. It was meaningless\n savagery due to terror. But,\n of course, Pop was helpless to resent\n it. There were no weapons on the\n Moon and the mention of Sattell's\n name showed the uselessness of bluff.\n He'd pictured the complete set-up\n by the edge of the Big Crack. Pop\n could do nothing.", "\"This,\" snapped the red-headed\n man abruptly, \"is a stickup!\"\n\n\n Pop's eyes went through the inner\n lock-door. He saw that the interior\n of the ship was stripped and bare.\n But a spiral stairway descended from\n some upper compartment. It had a\n handrail of pure, transparent, water-clear\n plastic. The walls were bare insulation,\n but that trace of luxury remained.\n Pop gazed at the plastic,\n fascinated.\n\n\n The red-headed man leaned forward,\n snarling. He slashed Pop\n across the face with the barrel of his\n weapon. It drew blood. It was wanton,\n savage brutality.\n\n\n \"Pay attention!\" snarled the red-headed\n man. \"A stickup, I said! Get\n it? You go get that can of stuff\n from the mine! The diamonds!\n Bring them here! Understand?\"\n\n\n Pop said numbly: \"What the\n hell?\"", "Then he made more sketches. The\n images to be drawn came back more\n clearly when he thought of Sattell,\n so by keeping Sattell in mind he recovered\n the memory of a chair that\n had been in his forgotten home.\n Then he drew his wife sitting in it,\n reading. It felt very good to see her\n again. And he speculated about\n whether Sattell ever thought of millions\n of dollars' worth of new-mined\n diamonds knocking about unguarded\n in the shack, and he suddenly recollected\n clearly the way one of his\n children had looked while playing\n with her doll. He made a quick\n sketch to keep from forgetting that.\n\n\n There was no purpose in the\n sketching, save that he'd lost all his\n young manhood through a senseless\n crime. He wanted his youth back. He\n was recovering it bit by bit. The\n occupation made it absurdly easy to\n live on the surface of the far side of\n the Moon, whether anybody else\n could do it or not.", "The Crack, of course, was that\n gaping rocky fault which stretches\n nine hundred miles, jaggedly, over\n the side of the Moon that Earth\n never sees. There is one stretch where\n it is a yawning gulf a full half-mile\n wide and unguessably deep. Where\n Pop Young's shack stood it was only\n a hundred yards, but the colony was\n a full mile down, in one wall. There\n is nothing like it on Earth, of course.\n When it was first found, scientists\n descended into it to examine the exposed\n rock-strata and learn the history\n of the Moon before its craters\n were made. But they found more\n than history. They found the reason\n for the colony and the rocket landing\n field and the shack.\n\n\n The reason for Pop was something\n else.", "He saw the silver needle in the\n sky fighting momentum above a line\n of jagged crater-walls. It slowed, and\n slowed, and curved down as it drew\n nearer. The pilot killed all forward\n motion just above the field and came\n steadily and smoothly down to land\n between the silvery triangles that\n marked the landing place.\n\n\n Instantly the rockets cut off,\n drums of fuel and air and food came\n out of the cargo-hatch and Pop swept\n forward with the dozer. It was a\n miniature tractor with a gigantic\n scoop in front. He pushed a great\n mound of talc-fine dust before him\n to cover up the cargo. It was necessary.\n With freight costing what it\n did, fuel and air and food came\n frozen solid, in containers barely\n thicker than foil. While they stayed\n at space-shadow temperature, the foil\n would hold anything. And a cover of\n insulating moondust with vacuum\n between the grains kept even air\n frozen solid, though in sunlight.", "Pop made his way toward it in\n the skittering, skating gait one uses\n in one-sixth gravity. When he was\n within half a mile, an air-lock door\n opened in the ship's side. But nothing\n came out of the lock. No space-suited\n figure. No cargo came drifting\n down with the singular deliberation\n of falling objects on the Moon.", "Sattell had no such device for adjusting\n to the lunar state of things.\n Living on the Moon was bad enough\n anyhow, then, but living one mile\n underground from Pop Young was\n much worse. Sattell clearly remembered\n the crime Pop Young hadn't\n yet recalled. He considered that Pop\n had made no overt attempt to revenge\n himself because he planned\n some retaliation so horrible and lingering\n that it was worth waiting for.\n He came to hate Pop with an insane\n ferocity. And fear. In his mind the\n need to escape became an obsession\n on top of the other psychotic states\n normal to a Moon-colonist.", "But he was helpless. He couldn't\n leave. There was Pop. He couldn't\n kill Pop. He had no chance—and he\n was afraid. The one absurd, irrelevant\n thing he could do was write\n letters back to Earth. He did that.\n He wrote with the desperate, impassioned,\n frantic blend of persuasion\n and information and genius-like invention\n of a prisoner in a high-security\n prison, trying to induce someone\n to help him escape.\n\n\n He had friends, of a sort, but for\n a long time his letters produced\n nothing. The Moon swung in vast\n circles about the Earth, and the Earth\n swung sedately about the Sun. The\n other planets danced their saraband.\n The rest of humanity went about its\n own affairs with fascinated attention.\n But then an event occurred which\n bore directly upon Pop Young and\n Sattell and Pop Young's missing\n years.", "The shack and the job he filled\n were located in the medieval notion\n of the physical appearance of hell.\n By day the environment was heat and\n torment. By night—lunar night, of\n course, and lunar day—it was frigidity\n and horror. Once in two weeks\n Earth-time a rocketship came around\n the horizon from Lunar City with\n stores for the colony deep underground.\n Pop received the stores and\n took care of them. He handed over\n the product of the mine, to be forwarded\n to Earth. The rocket went\n away again. Come nightfall Pop\n lowered the supplies down the long\n cable into the Big Crack to the colony\n far down inside, and freshened up\n the landing field marks with magnesium\n marking-powder if a rocket-blast\n had blurred them. That was\n fundamentally all he had to do. But\n without him the mine down in the\n Crack would have had to shut\n down.", "Otherwise, he was wholly matter-of-fact—certainly\n so for the far side\n of the Moon. He was a rather fussy\n housekeeper. The shack above the\n Big Crack's rim was as tidy as any\n lighthouse or fur-trapper's cabin. He\n tended his air-apparatus with a fine\n precision. It was perfectly simple. In\n the shadow of the shack he had an\n unfailing source of extreme low\n temperature. Air from the shack\n flowed into a shadow-chilled pipe.\n Moisture condensed out of it here,\n and CO\n 2\n froze solidly out of it there,", "He didn't do any blasting. He didn't\n find any signs of the sort of\n mineral he required. Marble would\n have been perfect, but there is no\n marble on the Moon. Naturally! Yet\n Pop continued to search absorbedly\n for material with which to capture\n memory. Sattell still seemed necessary,\n but—\n\n\n Early one lunar morning he was\n a good two miles from his shack\n when he saw rocket-fumes in the\n sky. It was most unlikely. He wasn't\n looking for anything of the sort, but\n out of the corner of his eye he observed\n that something moved. Which\n was impossible. He turned his head,\n and there were rocket-fumes coming\n over the horizon, not in the direction\n of Lunar City. Which was more\n impossible still." ], [ "The shack and the job he filled\n were located in the medieval notion\n of the physical appearance of hell.\n By day the environment was heat and\n torment. By night—lunar night, of\n course, and lunar day—it was frigidity\n and horror. Once in two weeks\n Earth-time a rocketship came around\n the horizon from Lunar City with\n stores for the colony deep underground.\n Pop received the stores and\n took care of them. He handed over\n the product of the mine, to be forwarded\n to Earth. The rocket went\n away again. Come nightfall Pop\n lowered the supplies down the long\n cable into the Big Crack to the colony\n far down inside, and freshened up\n the landing field marks with magnesium\n marking-powder if a rocket-blast\n had blurred them. That was\n fundamentally all he had to do. But\n without him the mine down in the\n Crack would have had to shut\n down.", "He envisioned a way to increase\n that recovery. But there was a marked\n shortage of artists' materials on the\n Moon. All freight had to be hauled\n from Earth, on a voyage equal to\n rather more than a thousand times\n around the equator of the Earth.\n Artists' supplies were not often included.\n Pop didn't even ask.", "He saw the silver needle in the\n sky fighting momentum above a line\n of jagged crater-walls. It slowed, and\n slowed, and curved down as it drew\n nearer. The pilot killed all forward\n motion just above the field and came\n steadily and smoothly down to land\n between the silvery triangles that\n marked the landing place.\n\n\n Instantly the rockets cut off,\n drums of fuel and air and food came\n out of the cargo-hatch and Pop swept\n forward with the dozer. It was a\n miniature tractor with a gigantic\n scoop in front. He pushed a great\n mound of talc-fine dust before him\n to cover up the cargo. It was necessary.\n With freight costing what it\n did, fuel and air and food came\n frozen solid, in containers barely\n thicker than foil. While they stayed\n at space-shadow temperature, the foil\n would hold anything. And a cover of\n insulating moondust with vacuum\n between the grains kept even air\n frozen solid, though in sunlight.", "The Crack, of course, was that\n gaping rocky fault which stretches\n nine hundred miles, jaggedly, over\n the side of the Moon that Earth\n never sees. There is one stretch where\n it is a yawning gulf a full half-mile\n wide and unguessably deep. Where\n Pop Young's shack stood it was only\n a hundred yards, but the colony was\n a full mile down, in one wall. There\n is nothing like it on Earth, of course.\n When it was first found, scientists\n descended into it to examine the exposed\n rock-strata and learn the history\n of the Moon before its craters\n were made. But they found more\n than history. They found the reason\n for the colony and the rocket landing\n field and the shack.\n\n\n The reason for Pop was something\n else.", "The first men to leave the colony\n had to be knocked cold and shipped\n out unconscious. They'd been underground—and\n in low gravity—long\n enough to be utterly unable to face\n the idea of open spaces. Even now\n there were some who had to be carried,\n but there were some tougher\n ones who were able to walk to the\n rocketship if Pop put a tarpaulin\n over their heads so they didn't have\n to see the sky. In any case Pop was\n essential, either for carrying or\n guidance.\nSattell got the shakes when he\n thought of Pop, and Pop rather\n probably knew it. Of course, by the\n time he took the job tending the\n shack, he was pretty certain about\n Sattell. The facts spoke for themselves.", "All of which happened back on\n Earth and a long time ago. It seemed\n to Pop that the sight of Sattell had\n brought back some vague and cloudy\n memories. They were not sharp,\n though, and he hunted up Sattell\n again to find out if he was right.\n And Sattell went into panic when\n he returned.\n\n\n Nowadays, by the Big Crack, Pop\n wasn't so insistent on seeing Sattell,\n but he was deeply concerned with\n the recovery of the memories that\n Sattell helped bring back. Pop was\n a highly conscientious man. He took\n good care of his job. There was a\n warning-bell in the shack, and when\n a rocketship from Lunar City got\n above the horizon and could send a\n tight beam, the gong clanged loudly,\n and Pop got into a vacuum-suit\n and went out the air lock. He usually\n reached the moondozer about the\n time the ship began to brake for\n landing, and he watched it come in.", "Sometimes, in the shack on the far\n side of the Moon, Pop Young had\n odd fancies about Sattell. There was\n the mine, for example. In each two\n Earth-weeks of working, the mine-colony\n nearly filled up a three-gallon\n cannister with greasy-seeming white\n crystals shaped like two pyramids\n base to base. The filled cannister\n would weigh a hundred pounds on\n Earth. Here it weighed eighteen. But\n on Earth its contents would be computed\n in carats, and a hundred\n pounds was worth millions. Yet here\n on the Moon Pop kept a waiting cannister\n on a shelf in his tiny dome,", "He began to explore the area outside\n the shack for possible material\n no one would think of sending from\n Earth. He collected stones of various\n sorts, but when warmed up in the\n shack they were useless. He found\n no strictly lunar material which\n would serve for modeling or carving\n portraits in the ground. He found\n minerals which could be pulverized\n and used as pigments, but nothing\n suitable for this new adventure in\n the recovery of lost youth. He even\n considered blasting, to aid his search.\n He could. Down in the mine, blasting\n was done by soaking carbon black—from\n CO\n 2\n —in liquid oxygen, and then\n firing it with a spark. It exploded\n splendidly. And its fumes were\n merely more CO\n 2\n which an air-apparatus\n handled easily.", "Pop made his way toward it in\n the skittering, skating gait one uses\n in one-sixth gravity. When he was\n within half a mile, an air-lock door\n opened in the ship's side. But nothing\n came out of the lock. No space-suited\n figure. No cargo came drifting\n down with the singular deliberation\n of falling objects on the Moon.", "The shack stood a hundred feet\n from the Big Crack's edge. It looked\n like a dust-heap thirty feet high, and\n it was. The outside was surface\n moondust, piled over a tiny dome to\n be insulation against the cold of\n night and shadow and the furnace\n heat of day. Pop lived in it all alone,\n and in his spare time he worked\n industriously at recovering some\n missing portions of his life that Sattell\n had managed to take away from\n him.\n\n\n He thought often of Sattell, down\n in the colony underground. There\n were galleries and tunnels and living-quarters\n down there. There were\n air-tight bulkheads for safety, and a\n hydroponic garden to keep the air\n fresh, and all sorts of things to make\n life possible for men under if not\n on the Moon.", "The sun rose, and baked the\n abomination of desolation which was\n the moonscape. Pop Young meticulously\n touched up the glittering\n triangles which were landing guides\n for the Lunar City ships. They glittered\n from the thinnest conceivable\n layer of magnesium marking-powder.\n He checked over the moondozer.\n He tended the air apparatus. He did\n everything that his job and survival\n required. Ungrudgingly.", "It was one of the unsuccessful\n luxury-liners sold for scrap. Or perhaps\n it was stolen for the journey\n here. Sattell's associates had had to\n steal or somehow get the fuel, and\n somehow find a pilot. But there were\n diamonds worth at least five million\n dollars waiting for them, and the\n whole job might not have called for\n more than two men—with Sattell as\n a third. According to the economics\n of crime, it was feasible. Anyhow it\n was being done.\n\n\n Pop reached the dust-heap which\n was his shack and went in the air\n lock. Inside, he went to the vision-phone\n and called the mine-colony\n down in the Crack. He gave the\n message he'd been told to pass on.\n Sattell to come up, with what diamonds\n had been dug since the\n regular cannister was sent up for the\n Lunar City ship that would be due\n presently. Otherwise the ship on the\n landing strip would destroy shack\n and Pop and the colony together.", "The red-headed man hit him\n again. He was nerve-racked, and,\n therefore, he wanted to hurt.\n\n\n \"Move!\" he rasped. \"I want the\n diamonds you've got for the ship\n from Lunar City! Bring 'em!\" Pop\n licked blood from his lips and the\n man with the weapon raged at him.\n \"Then phone down to the mine!\n Tell Sattell I'm here and he can\n come on up! Tell him to bring any\n more diamonds they've dug up since\n the stuff you've got!\"\n\n\n He leaned forward. His face was\n only inches from Pop Young's. It\n was seamed and hard-bitten and\n nerve-racked. But any man would be\n quivering if he wasn't used to space\n or the feel of one-sixth gravity on\n the Moon. He panted:", "He didn't do any blasting. He didn't\n find any signs of the sort of\n mineral he required. Marble would\n have been perfect, but there is no\n marble on the Moon. Naturally! Yet\n Pop continued to search absorbedly\n for material with which to capture\n memory. Sattell still seemed necessary,\n but—\n\n\n Early one lunar morning he was\n a good two miles from his shack\n when he saw rocket-fumes in the\n sky. It was most unlikely. He wasn't\n looking for anything of the sort, but\n out of the corner of his eye he observed\n that something moved. Which\n was impossible. He turned his head,\n and there were rocket-fumes coming\n over the horizon, not in the direction\n of Lunar City. Which was more\n impossible still.", "It was just barely past lunar sunrise\n on the far side of the Moon.\n Incredibly long and utterly black\n shadows stretched across the plain,\n and half the rocketship was dazzling\n white and half was blacker than\n blackness itself. The sun still hung\n low indeed in the black, star-speckled\n sky. Pop waded through moondust,\n raising a trail of slowly settling\n powder. He knew only that the ship\n didn't come from Lunar City, but\n from Earth. He couldn't imagine\n why. He did not even wildly connect\n it with what—say—Sattell might\n have written with desperate plausibility\n about greasy-seeming white\n crystals out of the mine, knocking\n about Pop Young's shack in cannisters\n containing a hundred Earth-pounds\n weight of richness.\nPop reached the rocketship. He\n approached the big tail-fins. On one\n of them there were welded ladder-rungs\n going up to the opened air-lock\n door.", "But it wasn't fun, even underground.\n In the Moon's slight gravity,\n a man is really adjusted to existence\n when he has a well-developed case\n of agoraphobia. With such an aid, a\n man can get into a tiny, coffinlike\n cubbyhole, and feel solidity above\n and below and around him, and\n happily tell himself that it feels delicious.\n Sometimes it does.\n\n\n But Sattell couldn't comfort himself\n so easily. He knew about Pop,\n up on the surface. He'd shipped out,\n whimpering, to the Moon to get far\n away from Pop, and Pop was just\n about a mile overhead and there was\n no way to get around him. It was\n difficult to get away from the mine,\n anyhow. It doesn't take too long for\n the low gravity to tear a man's\n nerves to shreds. He has to develop\n kinks in his head to survive. And\n those kinks—", "He tore bed linen from his bunk\n and worked on the emptied cannister.\n It was a double container with a\n thermware interior lining. Even on\n Earth newly-mined diamonds sometimes\n fly to pieces from internal\n stress. On the Moon, it was not desirable\n that diamonds be exposed to\n repeated violent changes of temperature.\n So a thermware-lined cannister\n kept them at mine-temperature once\n they were warmed to touchability.", "The second luxury liner took off\n with only four passengers and turned\n back before reaching the Moon.\n Space-pilots could take the strain of\n space-flight because they had work\n to do. Workers for the lunar mines\n could make the trip under heavy\n sedation. But it was too early in the\n development of space-travel for\n pleasure-passengers. They weren't\n prepared for the more humbling\n facts of life.", "\"Now I've got to go handle the\n hoist, if Sattell's coming up from\n the mine. If I don't do it, he don't\n come up.\"\n\n\n The red-headed man snarled. But\n his eyes were on the cannister whose\n contents should weigh a hundred\n pounds on Earth.\n\n\n \"Any tricks,\" he rasped, \"and you\n know what happens!\"\n\n\n \"Yeah,\" said Pop.\n\n\n He stolidly put his helmet back\n on. But his eyes went past the red-headed\n man to the stair that wound\n down, inside the ship, from some\n compartment above. The stair-rail was\n pure, clear, water-white plastic, not\n less than three inches thick. There\n was a lot of it!\n\n\n The inner door closed. Pop opened\n the outer. Air rushed out. He\n climbed painstakingly down to the\n ground. He started back toward the\n shack.", "Somebody back on Earth promoted\n a luxury passenger-line of spaceships\n to ply between Earth and\n Moon. It looked like a perfect set-up.\n Three spacecraft capable of the journey\n came into being with attendant\n reams of publicity. They promised a\n thrill and a new distinction for the\n rich. Guided tours to Lunar! The\n most expensive and most thrilling\n trip in history! One hundred thousand\n dollars for a twelve-day cruise\n through space, with views of the\n Moon's far side and trips through\n Lunar City and a landing in Aristarchus,\n plus sound-tapes of the journey\n and fame hitherto reserved for\n honest explorers!\n\n\n It didn't seem to have anything\n to do with Pop or with Sattell. But\n it did." ] ]
train	29168	[ "Which terms best describe the narrator's tone? ", "Why didn't the narrator provide the leprechauns with the correct equation?", "What is the narrator's ethnicity?", "Why do the leprechauns prefer poets to scientists?", "What motivated the leprechauns to build a spaceship?", "Why is the narrator unafraid to work openly in the park among the leprechauns? Others aren't believers", "What helps Houlihan to focus more intently on his own problem?" ]	[ [ "authoritative and oblivious", "manipulative and meticulous", "congenial and self-aware", "hostile and condescending" ], [ "He knows that the leprechauns are preventing humans from destroying the Earth", "He wants to take credit for the equation and is concerned they will try to get credit first", "In swearing their allegiance to him, they are bound to him for eternity", "He believes humans need to believe in things like leprechauns in order to sustain their own race" ], [ "Irish", "American", "Leprechaun", "Japanese" ], [ "Poets are more likely than scientists to collaborate with leprechauns without expecting compensation", "Poets are less likely than scientists to want to capture and experiment with the leprechauns", "Poets are less likely than scientists to understand the leprechauns' mission", "Poets are more likely than scientists to show compassion to non-human species" ], [ "They desire to seek and add more riches to their already expansive collection", "They believe that humans' obsession with technology will make the world inhabitable", "They fear that their race will soon become extinct due to population decline", "They wish to transport their riches to another location where humans will never steal it" ], [ "He feels that he and the leprechauns can protect themselves through cunning ways and physical strength", "He doubts that his colleagues at the Center would ever venture outdoors to the park area", "He knows that it is rare to find believers among his colleagues and fellow humans", "He believes strongly in the importance of his collaboration with the leprechauns and is willing to take the risk of being discovered" ], [ "collaborating with the leprechauns, who speak his same language", "imagining the pot of gold that awaits him if he is able to solve the equation", "being outdoors, where his creativity is stimulated", "venturing outside of the Center, where he is not worried about competition among colleagues" ] ]	[ 3, 4, 1, 2, 2, 3, 1 ]	[ 0, 1, 0, 1, 1, 0, 1 ]	[ [ "\"And mine's Houlihan, as I've\n told you. Are you convinced now\n that I have no intention of doing\n you any injury?\"\n\n\n \"Mr. Houlihan,\" said Keech,\n drawing a kind of peppered dignity\n up about himself, \"in such matters\n I am never fully convinced. After\n living for many centuries I am all\n too acutely aware of the perversity\n of human nature.\"\n\n\n \"Yes,\" I said. \"Well, as you will\n quickly see, all I want to do is\n talk.\" I nodded as I spoke, and sat\n down cross-legged upon the grass.\n\n\n \"Any Irishman wants to talk, Mr.\n Houlihan.\"\n\n\n \"And often that's\nall\nhe wants,\"\n I said. \"Sit down with me now, and\n stop staring as if I were a snake\n returned to the Island.\"", "I would halt work, pass the time\n of day, and then, in subtle fashion,\n send the intruder on his way. Keech\n and the little people just stood by\n and grinned all the while.\n\n\n At the end of sixteen days I had\n the entire problem all but whipped.\n It is not difficult to understand why.\n The working model and the fact\n that the small people with their\n quick eyes and clever fingers could\n spot all sorts of minute shortcomings\n was a great help. And I was\n hearing the old tongue and talking\n of the old things every day, and\n truly that went far to take the clutter\n out of my mind. I was no longer\n so lonely that I couldn't think properly.", "\"Come along now, people!\" said\n this crotchety one, looking straight\n at me. \"Stop starin' and get to\n work! You'll not be needin' to\n mind that man standin' there! You\n know he can't see nor hear us!\"\n\n\n Oh, it was good to hear the rich\n old tongue again. I smiled, and the\n foreman of the leprechauns—if\n that's what he was—saw me smile\n and became stiff and alert for a moment,\n as though suspecting that perhaps\n I actually could see him. Then\n he shrugged and turned away, clearly\n deeming such a thing impossible.\n\n\n I said, \"Just a minute, friend,\n and I'll beg your pardon. It so happens\n I\ncan\nsee you.\"\n\n\n He whirled to face me again,\n staring open-mouthed. Then he\n said, \"What? What's that, now?\"", "noises. It was in a park near the\n nuclear propulsion center—a cool,\n green spot, with the leaves all telling\n each other to hush, be quiet,\n and the soft breeze stirring them up\n again. I had known precisely such\n a secluded little green sanctuary just\n over the hill from Mr. Riordan's\n farm when I was a boy.", "\"I can see you,\" I said.\n\n\n \"Ohhh!\" he said and put his\n palms to his cheekbones. \"Saints be\n with us! He's a believer! Run everybody—run\n for your lives!\"\n\n\n And they all began running, in\n as many directions as there were\n little souls. They began to scurry\n behind the trees and bushes, and a\n sloping embankment nearby.\n\n\n \"No, wait!\" I said. \"Don't go\n away! I'll not be hurting you!\"\n\n\n They continued to scurry.\n\n\n I knew what it was they feared.\n \"I don't intend catching one of\n you!\" I said. \"Come back, you daft\n little creatures!\"", "Then I waited, but they didn't\n answer. The little people always\n had been shy. Yet without reaching\n a decision in so many words I knew\n suddenly that I\nhad\nto talk to them.\n I'd come to the glen to work out a\n knotty problem, and I was up\n against a blank wall. Simply because\n I was so lonely that my mind had\n become clogged.\n\n\n I knew that if I could just once\n hear the old tongue again, and talk\n about the old things, I might be able\n to think the problem through to a\n satisfactory conclusion.\n\n\n So I stepped back to the tiny\n spaceship, and this time I struck it\n a resounding blow with my fist.\n \"Hear me now, little people! If you\n don't show yourselves and come out\n and talk to me, I'll wreck this spaceship\n from stem to stern!\"\nI heard only the leaves rustling\n softly.", "I walked over to the center of\n the glade where the curious shiny\n object was standing. It was as\n smooth as glass and shaped like a\n huge cigar. There were a pair of\n triangular fins down at the bottom,\n and stubby wings amidships. Of\n course it was a spaceship, or a\n miniature replica of one. I looked\n at it more closely. Everything seemed\n almost miraculously complete\n and workable.\n\n\n I shook my head in wonder, then\n stepped back from the spaceship\n and looked about the glade. I knew\n they were all hiding nearby, watching\n me apprehensively. I lifted my\n head to them.\n\n\n \"Listen to me now, little people!\"\n I called out. \"My name's\n Houlihan of the Roscommon Houlihans.\n I am descended from King\n Niall himself—or so at least my\n father used to say! Come on out\n now, and pass the time o' day!\"", "And they cheered. And little tears\n crept into the corners of some of\n their turned-up eyes.\n\n\n We shook hands, all of us, and I\n left.\nI walked through the park, and\n back to the nuclear propulsion center.\n It was another cool, green morning\n with the leaves making only\n soft noises as the breezes came\n along. It smelled exactly like a\n wood I had known in Roscommon.\n\n\n And I lit my pipe and smoked it\n slowly and chuckled to myself at\n how I had gotten the best of the\n little people. Surely it was not every\n mortal who could accomplish that. I\n had given them the wrong equation,\n of course. They would never get\n their spaceship to work now, and\n later, if they tried to spy out the\n right information I would take special\n measures to prevent it, for I had\n the advantage of being able to see\n them.", "There was a leader, an older one\n with a crank face. He was beating\n the air with his arms and piping:\n \"Over here, now! All right, bring\n those electrical connections over\n here—and see you're not slow as\n treacle about it!\"\n\n\n There were perhaps fifty of the\n little people. I was more than startled\n by it, too. I had not seen little\n people in—oh, close to thirty years.\n I had seen them first as a boy of\n eight, and then, very briefly again,\n on my tenth birthday. And I had\n become convinced they could\nnever\nbe seen here in America. I had\n never seen them so busy, either.\n They were building something in\n the middle of the glade. It was long\n and shiny and upright and a little\n over five feet in height.", "\"A scientist, is it,\" said Keech.\n \"Well, now, that's very interesting.\"\n\n\n \"I'll make no apologies for it,\" I\n said.\n\n\n \"Oh, there's no need for apology,\"\n said Keech. \"Though in truth\n we prefer poets to scientists. But it\n has just now crossed my mind, Mr.\n Houlihan that you, being a scientist,\n might be of help to us.\"\n\n\n \"How?\" I asked.\n\n\n \"Well, I might try starting at the\n beginning,\" he replied.\n\n\n \"You might,\" I said. \"A man\n usually does.\"\n\n\n Keech took out his own pipe—a\n clay dudeen—and looked hopeful.\n I gave him a pinch of tobacco from\n my pouch. \"Well, now,\" he said,\n \"first of all you're no doubt surprised\n to find us here in America.\"", "\"Do you understand? I'll give\n you until I count three to make an\n appearance! One!\"\n\n\n The glade remained deathly silent.\n\n\n \"Two!\"\n\n\n I thought I heard a stirring somewhere,\n as if a small, brittle twig had\n snapped in the underbrush.\n\n\n \"\nThree!\n\"\n\n\n And with that the little people\n suddenly appeared.\n\n\n The leader—he seemed more\n wizened and bent than before—approached\n me slowly and warily as I\n stood there. The others all followed\n at a safe distance. I smiled to reassure\n them and then waved my arm\n in a friendly gesture of greeting.\n\n\n \"Good morning,\" I said.\n\n\n \"Good morning,\" the foreman\n said with some caution. \"My name\n is Keech.\"", "Perhaps you had better take my\n word for it that without this equation—correctly\n stated, mind you—mankind\n would be well advised not\n to make a first trip to the moon.\n And all this talk of coefficients and\n equations sits strangely, you might\n say, upon the tongue of a man\n named Kevin Francis Houlihan.\n But I am, after all, a scientist. If I\n had not been a specialist in my field\n I would hardly have found myself\n engaged in vital research at the\n center.\n\n\n Anyway, I heard these little\n noises in the park. They sounded\n like small working sounds, blending\n in eerily mysterious fashion with a\n chorus of small voices. I thought at\n first it might be children at play,\n but then at the time I was a bit\n absent-minded. I tiptoed to the edge\n of the trees, not wanting to deprive\n any small scalawags of their pleasure,\n and peered out between the\n branches. And what do you suppose\n I saw? Not children, but a\n group of little people, hard at work.", "I nodded and looked grave and\n kneaded my chin for a moment softly.\n \"Well, now, Keech,\" I said\n finally, \"why should I help you?\"\n\n\n \"Ha!\" said Keech, grinning, but\n not with humor, \"the avarice of\n humans! I knew it! Well, Mr. Houlihan,\n I'll give you reason enough.\n The pot o' gold, Mr. Houlihan!\"\n\n\n \"The one at the end of the rainbow?\"\n\n\n \"It's not at the end of the rainbow.\n That's a grandmother's tale.\n Nor is it actually in an earthen\n crock. But there's gold, all right,\n enough to make you rich for the\n rest of your life. And I'll make you\n a proposition.\"\n\n\n \"Go ahead.\"", "\"It may be we never crossed your\n path. It may be you can only see us\n when you're thinkin' of us, and of\n course truly believin' in us. I don't\n know—'tis a thing of the mind, and\n not important at the moment.\n What's important is for us to get\n our first ship to workin' properly\n and then we'll be on our way.\"\n\n\n \"You're determined to go.\"\n\n\n \"Truly we are, Mr. Houlihan.\n Now—to business. Just during\n these last few minutes a certain matter\n has crossed my mind. That's\n why I'm wastin' all this time with\n you, sir. You say you are a scientist.\"\n\n\n \"A nuclear engineer.\"\n\n\n \"Well, then, it may be that you\n can help us—now that you know\n we're here.\"\n\n\n \"Help you?\"", "He shook his head and remained\n standing. \"Have your say, Mr.\n Houlihan. And afterward we'll appreciate\n it if you'll go away and\n leave us to our work.\"\n\n\n \"Well, now, your work,\" I said,\n and glanced at the spaceship.\n \"That's exactly what's got me curious.\"\n\n\n The others had edged in a bit\n now and were standing in a circle,\n intently staring at me. I took out my\n pipe. \"Why,\" I asked, \"would a\n group of little people be building a\n spaceship here in America—out in\n this lonely place?\"", "\"I am surprised from time to\n time to find myself here,\" I said.\n \"But continue.\"\n\n\n \"We had to come here,\" said\n Keech, \"to learn how to make a\n spaceship.\"\n\n\n \"A spaceship, now,\" I said, unconsciously\n adopting some of the\n old manner.\n\n\n \"Leprechauns are not really mechanically\n inclined,\" said Keech.\n \"Their major passions are music\n and laughter and mischief, as anyone\n knows.\"\n\n\n \"Myself included,\" I agreed.\n \"Then why do you need a spaceship?\"\n\n\n \"Well, if I may use an old expression,\n we've had a feelin' lately\n that we're not long for this world.\n Or let me put it this way. We feel\n the world isn't long for itself.\"", "Keech stared back without much\n expression, and said, \"I've been\n wondering how you guessed it was\n a spaceship. I was surprised enough\n when you told me you could see us\n but not overwhelmingly so. I've run\n into believers before who could see\n the little people. It happens every\n so often, though not as frequently\n as it did a century ago. But knowing\n a spaceship at first glance! Well, I\n must confess that\ndoes\nastonish\n me.\"\n\n\n \"And why wouldn't I know a\n spaceship when I see one?\" I said.\n \"It just so happens I'm a doctor of\n science.\"\n\n\n \"A doctor of science, now,\" said\n Keech.\n\n\n \"Invited by the American government\n to work on the first moon\n rocket here at the nuclear propulsion\n center. Since it's no secret I\n can advise you of it.\"", "Now it was a place I came to\n when I had a problem to thrash out.\n That morning I had been trying to\n work out an equation to give the\n coefficient of discharge for the matter\n in combustion. You may call it\n gas, if you wish, for we treated it\n like gas at the center for convenience—as\n it came from the rocket\n tubes in our engine.\n\n\n Without this coefficient to give\n us control, we would have lacked a\n workable equation when we set\n about putting the first moon rocket\n around those extraordinary engines\n of ours, which were still in the undeveloped\n blueprint stage.", "I see I shall have to explain this,\n although I had hoped to get right\n along with my story. When you\n start from scratch, matter discharged\n from any orifice has a velocity directly\n proportional to the square\n root of the pressure-head driving it.\n But when you actually put things\n together, contractions or expansions\n in the gas, surface roughness\n and other factors make the velocity\n a bit smaller.\n\n\n At the terrible discharge speed\n of nuclear explosion—which is\n what the drive amounts to despite\n the fact that it is simply water in\n which nuclear salts have been previously\n dissolved—this small factor\n makes quite a difference. I had\n to figure everything into it—diameter\n of the nozzle, sharpness of the\n edge, the velocity of approach to the\n point of discharge, atomic weight\n and structure— Oh, there is so\n much of this that if you're not a\n nuclear engineer yourself it's certain\n to weary you.", "\"And now, Mr. Houlihan,\" said\n Keech, \"I'll see that a quantity of\n gold is delivered to your rooms tonight,\n and so keep my part of the\n bargain.\"\n\n\n \"I'll not be needing the gold,\" I\n said.\n\n\n Keech's eyebrows popped upward.\n \"What's this now?\"\n\n\n \"I'll not be needing it,\" I repeated.\n \"I don't feel it would be\n right to take it for a service of this\n sort.\"\n\n\n \"Well,\" said Keech in surprise,\n and in some awe, too, \"well, now,\n musha Lord help us! 'Tis the first\n time I ever heard such a speech\n from a mortal.\" He turned to his\n people. \"We'll have three cheers\n now, do you hear, for Mr. Houlihan—friend\n of the little people as\n long as he shall live!\"" ], [ "As for our own rocket ship, it\n should be well on its way by next\n St. Patrick's Day. For I had indeed\n determined the true coefficient of\n discharge, which I never could have\n done so quickly without those sessions\n in the glade with Keech and\n his working model.\n\n\n It would go down in scientific\n literature now, I suppose, as Houlihan's\n Equation, and that was honor\n and glory enough for me. I could\n do without Keech's pot of gold,\n though it would have been pleasant\n to be truly rich for a change.\n\n\n There was no sense in cheating\n him out of the gold to boot, for\n leprechauns are most clever in matters\n of this sort and he would have\n had it back soon enough—or else\n made it a burden in some way.", "And they cheered. And little tears\n crept into the corners of some of\n their turned-up eyes.\n\n\n We shook hands, all of us, and I\n left.\nI walked through the park, and\n back to the nuclear propulsion center.\n It was another cool, green morning\n with the leaves making only\n soft noises as the breezes came\n along. It smelled exactly like a\n wood I had known in Roscommon.\n\n\n And I lit my pipe and smoked it\n slowly and chuckled to myself at\n how I had gotten the best of the\n little people. Surely it was not every\n mortal who could accomplish that. I\n had given them the wrong equation,\n of course. They would never get\n their spaceship to work now, and\n later, if they tried to spy out the\n right information I would take special\n measures to prevent it, for I had\n the advantage of being able to see\n them.", "It was a most fascinating session.\n I had often wished for a true working\n model at the center, but no allowance\n had been inserted in the\n budget for it. Keech brought me\n paper and pencil and I talked with\n the aid of diagrams, as engineers\n are wont to do. Although the pencils\n were small and I had to hold\n them between thumb and forefinger,\n as you would a needle, I was\n able to make many sensible observations\n and even a few innovations.\n\n\n I came back again the next day—and\n every day for the following\n two weeks. It rained several times,\n but Keech and his people made a\n canopy of boughs and leaves and I\n was comfortable enough. Every once\n in a while someone from the town\n or the center itself would pass by,\n and stop to watch me. But of course\n they wouldn't see the leprechauns\n or anything the leprechauns had\n made, not being believers.", "I nodded and looked grave and\n kneaded my chin for a moment softly.\n \"Well, now, Keech,\" I said\n finally, \"why should I help you?\"\n\n\n \"Ha!\" said Keech, grinning, but\n not with humor, \"the avarice of\n humans! I knew it! Well, Mr. Houlihan,\n I'll give you reason enough.\n The pot o' gold, Mr. Houlihan!\"\n\n\n \"The one at the end of the rainbow?\"\n\n\n \"It's not at the end of the rainbow.\n That's a grandmother's tale.\n Nor is it actually in an earthen\n crock. But there's gold, all right,\n enough to make you rich for the\n rest of your life. And I'll make you\n a proposition.\"\n\n\n \"Go ahead.\"", "\"I am surprised from time to\n time to find myself here,\" I said.\n \"But continue.\"\n\n\n \"We had to come here,\" said\n Keech, \"to learn how to make a\n spaceship.\"\n\n\n \"A spaceship, now,\" I said, unconsciously\n adopting some of the\n old manner.\n\n\n \"Leprechauns are not really mechanically\n inclined,\" said Keech.\n \"Their major passions are music\n and laughter and mischief, as anyone\n knows.\"\n\n\n \"Myself included,\" I agreed.\n \"Then why do you need a spaceship?\"\n\n\n \"Well, if I may use an old expression,\n we've had a feelin' lately\n that we're not long for this world.\n Or let me put it this way. We feel\n the world isn't long for itself.\"", "On the sixteenth day I covered a\n piece of paper with tiny mathematical\n symbols and handed it to Keech.\n \"Here is your equation,\" I said. \"It\n will enable you to know your thrust\n at any given moment, under any\n circumstances, in or out of gravity,\n and under all conditions of friction\n and combustion.\"\n\n\n \"Thank you, Mr. Houlihan,\" said\n Keech. All his people had gathered\n in a loose circle, as though attending\n a rite. They were all looking at\n me quietly.\n\n\n \"Mr. Houlihan,\" said Keech,\n \"you will not be forgotten by the\n leprechauns. If we ever meet again,\n upon another world perchance,\n you'll find our friendship always\n eager and ready.\"\n\n\n \"Thank you,\" I said.", "Perhaps you had better take my\n word for it that without this equation—correctly\n stated, mind you—mankind\n would be well advised not\n to make a first trip to the moon.\n And all this talk of coefficients and\n equations sits strangely, you might\n say, upon the tongue of a man\n named Kevin Francis Houlihan.\n But I am, after all, a scientist. If I\n had not been a specialist in my field\n I would hardly have found myself\n engaged in vital research at the\n center.\n\n\n Anyway, I heard these little\n noises in the park. They sounded\n like small working sounds, blending\n in eerily mysterious fashion with a\n chorus of small voices. I thought at\n first it might be children at play,\n but then at the time I was a bit\n absent-minded. I tiptoed to the edge\n of the trees, not wanting to deprive\n any small scalawags of their pleasure,\n and peered out between the\n branches. And what do you suppose\n I saw? Not children, but a\n group of little people, hard at work.", "\"Come along now, people!\" said\n this crotchety one, looking straight\n at me. \"Stop starin' and get to\n work! You'll not be needin' to\n mind that man standin' there! You\n know he can't see nor hear us!\"\n\n\n Oh, it was good to hear the rich\n old tongue again. I smiled, and the\n foreman of the leprechauns—if\n that's what he was—saw me smile\n and became stiff and alert for a moment,\n as though suspecting that perhaps\n I actually could see him. Then\n he shrugged and turned away, clearly\n deeming such a thing impossible.\n\n\n I said, \"Just a minute, friend,\n and I'll beg your pardon. It so happens\n I\ncan\nsee you.\"\n\n\n He whirled to face me again,\n staring open-mouthed. Then he\n said, \"What? What's that, now?\"", "But the glade was silent, and they\n had all disappeared. They thought I\n wanted their crock of gold, of\n course. I'd be entitled to it if I could\n catch one and keep him. Or so the\n legends affirmed, though I've wondered\n often about the truth of them.\n But I was after no gold. I only wanted\n to hear the music of an Irish\n tongue. I was lonely here in America,\n even if I had latched on to a fine\n job of work for almost shamefully\n generous pay. You see, in a place as\n full of science as the nuclear propulsion\n center there is not much\n time for the old things. I very much\n wanted to talk to the little people.", "\"And now, Mr. Houlihan,\" said\n Keech, \"I'll see that a quantity of\n gold is delivered to your rooms tonight,\n and so keep my part of the\n bargain.\"\n\n\n \"I'll not be needing the gold,\" I\n said.\n\n\n Keech's eyebrows popped upward.\n \"What's this now?\"\n\n\n \"I'll not be needing it,\" I repeated.\n \"I don't feel it would be\n right to take it for a service of this\n sort.\"\n\n\n \"Well,\" said Keech in surprise,\n and in some awe, too, \"well, now,\n musha Lord help us! 'Tis the first\n time I ever heard such a speech\n from a mortal.\" He turned to his\n people. \"We'll have three cheers\n now, do you hear, for Mr. Houlihan—friend\n of the little people as\n long as he shall live!\"", "Then I waited, but they didn't\n answer. The little people always\n had been shy. Yet without reaching\n a decision in so many words I knew\n suddenly that I\nhad\nto talk to them.\n I'd come to the glen to work out a\n knotty problem, and I was up\n against a blank wall. Simply because\n I was so lonely that my mind had\n become clogged.\n\n\n I knew that if I could just once\n hear the old tongue again, and talk\n about the old things, I might be able\n to think the problem through to a\n satisfactory conclusion.\n\n\n So I stepped back to the tiny\n spaceship, and this time I struck it\n a resounding blow with my fist.\n \"Hear me now, little people! If you\n don't show yourselves and come out\n and talk to me, I'll wreck this spaceship\n from stem to stern!\"\nI heard only the leaves rustling\n softly.", "I would halt work, pass the time\n of day, and then, in subtle fashion,\n send the intruder on his way. Keech\n and the little people just stood by\n and grinned all the while.\n\n\n At the end of sixteen days I had\n the entire problem all but whipped.\n It is not difficult to understand why.\n The working model and the fact\n that the small people with their\n quick eyes and clever fingers could\n spot all sorts of minute shortcomings\n was a great help. And I was\n hearing the old tongue and talking\n of the old things every day, and\n truly that went far to take the clutter\n out of my mind. I was no longer\n so lonely that I couldn't think properly.", "\"Do you understand? I'll give\n you until I count three to make an\n appearance! One!\"\n\n\n The glade remained deathly silent.\n\n\n \"Two!\"\n\n\n I thought I heard a stirring somewhere,\n as if a small, brittle twig had\n snapped in the underbrush.\n\n\n \"\nThree!\n\"\n\n\n And with that the little people\n suddenly appeared.\n\n\n The leader—he seemed more\n wizened and bent than before—approached\n me slowly and warily as I\n stood there. The others all followed\n at a safe distance. I smiled to reassure\n them and then waved my arm\n in a friendly gesture of greeting.\n\n\n \"Good morning,\" I said.\n\n\n \"Good morning,\" the foreman\n said with some caution. \"My name\n is Keech.\"", "\"I can see you,\" I said.\n\n\n \"Ohhh!\" he said and put his\n palms to his cheekbones. \"Saints be\n with us! He's a believer! Run everybody—run\n for your lives!\"\n\n\n And they all began running, in\n as many directions as there were\n little souls. They began to scurry\n behind the trees and bushes, and a\n sloping embankment nearby.\n\n\n \"No, wait!\" I said. \"Don't go\n away! I'll not be hurting you!\"\n\n\n They continued to scurry.\n\n\n I knew what it was they feared.\n \"I don't intend catching one of\n you!\" I said. \"Come back, you daft\n little creatures!\"", "I walked over to the center of\n the glade where the curious shiny\n object was standing. It was as\n smooth as glass and shaped like a\n huge cigar. There were a pair of\n triangular fins down at the bottom,\n and stubby wings amidships. Of\n course it was a spaceship, or a\n miniature replica of one. I looked\n at it more closely. Everything seemed\n almost miraculously complete\n and workable.\n\n\n I shook my head in wonder, then\n stepped back from the spaceship\n and looked about the glade. I knew\n they were all hiding nearby, watching\n me apprehensively. I lifted my\n head to them.\n\n\n \"Listen to me now, little people!\"\n I called out. \"My name's\n Houlihan of the Roscommon Houlihans.\n I am descended from King\n Niall himself—or so at least my\n father used to say! Come on out\n now, and pass the time o' day!\"", "\"There's another committee\n working on that. 'Tis not our concern.\n I was inclined to suggest the\n constellation Orion, which sounds\n as though it has a good Irish name,\n but I was hooted down. Be that as it\n may, my own job was to go into\n your nuclear center, learn how to\n make the ship, and proceed with its\n construction. Naturally, we didn't\n understand all of your high-flyin'\n science, but some of our people are\n pretty clever at gettin' up replicas\n of things.\"\n\n\n \"You mean you've been spying\n on us at the center all this time? Do\n you know, we often had the feeling\n we were being watched, but we\n thought it was by the Russians.\n There's one thing which puzzles\n me, though. If you've been constantly\n around us—and I'm still\n able to see the little people—why\n did I never see you before?\"", "\"And mine's Houlihan, as I've\n told you. Are you convinced now\n that I have no intention of doing\n you any injury?\"\n\n\n \"Mr. Houlihan,\" said Keech,\n drawing a kind of peppered dignity\n up about himself, \"in such matters\n I am never fully convinced. After\n living for many centuries I am all\n too acutely aware of the perversity\n of human nature.\"\n\n\n \"Yes,\" I said. \"Well, as you will\n quickly see, all I want to do is\n talk.\" I nodded as I spoke, and sat\n down cross-legged upon the grass.\n\n\n \"Any Irishman wants to talk, Mr.\n Houlihan.\"\n\n\n \"And often that's\nall\nhe wants,\"\n I said. \"Sit down with me now, and\n stop staring as if I were a snake\n returned to the Island.\"", "\"The power control, Mr. Houlihan.\n As I understand it, 'tis necessary\n to know at any instant exactly\n how much thrust is bein' delivered\n through the little holes in back.\n And on paper it looks simple\n enough—the square of somethin' or\n other. I've got the figures jotted in\n a book when I need 'em. But when\n you get to doin' it it doesn't come\n out exactly as it does on paper.\"\n\n\n \"You're referring to the necessity\n for a coefficient of discharge.\"\n\n\n \"Whatever it might be named,\"\n said Keech, shrugging. \"'Tis the\n one thing we lack. I suppose eventually\n you people will be gettin'\n around to it. But meanwhile we\n need it right now, if we're to make\n our ship move.\"\n\n\n \"And you want me to help you\n with this?\"\n\n\n \"That is exactly what crossed my\n mind.\"", "\"It may be we never crossed your\n path. It may be you can only see us\n when you're thinkin' of us, and of\n course truly believin' in us. I don't\n know—'tis a thing of the mind, and\n not important at the moment.\n What's important is for us to get\n our first ship to workin' properly\n and then we'll be on our way.\"\n\n\n \"You're determined to go.\"\n\n\n \"Truly we are, Mr. Houlihan.\n Now—to business. Just during\n these last few minutes a certain matter\n has crossed my mind. That's\n why I'm wastin' all this time with\n you, sir. You say you are a scientist.\"\n\n\n \"A nuclear engineer.\"\n\n\n \"Well, then, it may be that you\n can help us—now that you know\n we're here.\"\n\n\n \"Help you?\"", "I scratched my cheek. \"How\n would a man unravel a statement\n such as that?\"\n\n\n \"It's very simple. With all the\n super weapons you mortals have\n developed, there's the distinct possibility\n you might be blowin' us all\n up in the process of destroying\n yourselves.\"\n\n\n \"There\nis\nthat possibility,\" I said.\n\n\n \"Well, then, as I say,\" said\n Keech, \"the little people have decided\n to leave the planet in a spaceship.\n Which we're buildin' here and\n now. We've spied upon you and\n learned how to do it. Well—almost\n how to do it. We haven't learned\n yet how to control the power—\"\n\n\n \"Hold on, now,\" I said. \"Leaving\n the planet, you say. And where\n would you be going?\"" ], [ "\"And mine's Houlihan, as I've\n told you. Are you convinced now\n that I have no intention of doing\n you any injury?\"\n\n\n \"Mr. Houlihan,\" said Keech,\n drawing a kind of peppered dignity\n up about himself, \"in such matters\n I am never fully convinced. After\n living for many centuries I am all\n too acutely aware of the perversity\n of human nature.\"\n\n\n \"Yes,\" I said. \"Well, as you will\n quickly see, all I want to do is\n talk.\" I nodded as I spoke, and sat\n down cross-legged upon the grass.\n\n\n \"Any Irishman wants to talk, Mr.\n Houlihan.\"\n\n\n \"And often that's\nall\nhe wants,\"\n I said. \"Sit down with me now, and\n stop staring as if I were a snake\n returned to the Island.\"", "\"A scientist, is it,\" said Keech.\n \"Well, now, that's very interesting.\"\n\n\n \"I'll make no apologies for it,\" I\n said.\n\n\n \"Oh, there's no need for apology,\"\n said Keech. \"Though in truth\n we prefer poets to scientists. But it\n has just now crossed my mind, Mr.\n Houlihan that you, being a scientist,\n might be of help to us.\"\n\n\n \"How?\" I asked.\n\n\n \"Well, I might try starting at the\n beginning,\" he replied.\n\n\n \"You might,\" I said. \"A man\n usually does.\"\n\n\n Keech took out his own pipe—a\n clay dudeen—and looked hopeful.\n I gave him a pinch of tobacco from\n my pouch. \"Well, now,\" he said,\n \"first of all you're no doubt surprised\n to find us here in America.\"", "I would halt work, pass the time\n of day, and then, in subtle fashion,\n send the intruder on his way. Keech\n and the little people just stood by\n and grinned all the while.\n\n\n At the end of sixteen days I had\n the entire problem all but whipped.\n It is not difficult to understand why.\n The working model and the fact\n that the small people with their\n quick eyes and clever fingers could\n spot all sorts of minute shortcomings\n was a great help. And I was\n hearing the old tongue and talking\n of the old things every day, and\n truly that went far to take the clutter\n out of my mind. I was no longer\n so lonely that I couldn't think properly.", "noises. It was in a park near the\n nuclear propulsion center—a cool,\n green spot, with the leaves all telling\n each other to hush, be quiet,\n and the soft breeze stirring them up\n again. I had known precisely such\n a secluded little green sanctuary just\n over the hill from Mr. Riordan's\n farm when I was a boy.", "\"Come along now, people!\" said\n this crotchety one, looking straight\n at me. \"Stop starin' and get to\n work! You'll not be needin' to\n mind that man standin' there! You\n know he can't see nor hear us!\"\n\n\n Oh, it was good to hear the rich\n old tongue again. I smiled, and the\n foreman of the leprechauns—if\n that's what he was—saw me smile\n and became stiff and alert for a moment,\n as though suspecting that perhaps\n I actually could see him. Then\n he shrugged and turned away, clearly\n deeming such a thing impossible.\n\n\n I said, \"Just a minute, friend,\n and I'll beg your pardon. It so happens\n I\ncan\nsee you.\"\n\n\n He whirled to face me again,\n staring open-mouthed. Then he\n said, \"What? What's that, now?\"", "\"I can see you,\" I said.\n\n\n \"Ohhh!\" he said and put his\n palms to his cheekbones. \"Saints be\n with us! He's a believer! Run everybody—run\n for your lives!\"\n\n\n And they all began running, in\n as many directions as there were\n little souls. They began to scurry\n behind the trees and bushes, and a\n sloping embankment nearby.\n\n\n \"No, wait!\" I said. \"Don't go\n away! I'll not be hurting you!\"\n\n\n They continued to scurry.\n\n\n I knew what it was they feared.\n \"I don't intend catching one of\n you!\" I said. \"Come back, you daft\n little creatures!\"", "There was a leader, an older one\n with a crank face. He was beating\n the air with his arms and piping:\n \"Over here, now! All right, bring\n those electrical connections over\n here—and see you're not slow as\n treacle about it!\"\n\n\n There were perhaps fifty of the\n little people. I was more than startled\n by it, too. I had not seen little\n people in—oh, close to thirty years.\n I had seen them first as a boy of\n eight, and then, very briefly again,\n on my tenth birthday. And I had\n become convinced they could\nnever\nbe seen here in America. I had\n never seen them so busy, either.\n They were building something in\n the middle of the glade. It was long\n and shiny and upright and a little\n over five feet in height.", "And they cheered. And little tears\n crept into the corners of some of\n their turned-up eyes.\n\n\n We shook hands, all of us, and I\n left.\nI walked through the park, and\n back to the nuclear propulsion center.\n It was another cool, green morning\n with the leaves making only\n soft noises as the breezes came\n along. It smelled exactly like a\n wood I had known in Roscommon.\n\n\n And I lit my pipe and smoked it\n slowly and chuckled to myself at\n how I had gotten the best of the\n little people. Surely it was not every\n mortal who could accomplish that. I\n had given them the wrong equation,\n of course. They would never get\n their spaceship to work now, and\n later, if they tried to spy out the\n right information I would take special\n measures to prevent it, for I had\n the advantage of being able to see\n them.", "He shook his head and remained\n standing. \"Have your say, Mr.\n Houlihan. And afterward we'll appreciate\n it if you'll go away and\n leave us to our work.\"\n\n\n \"Well, now, your work,\" I said,\n and glanced at the spaceship.\n \"That's exactly what's got me curious.\"\n\n\n The others had edged in a bit\n now and were standing in a circle,\n intently staring at me. I took out my\n pipe. \"Why,\" I asked, \"would a\n group of little people be building a\n spaceship here in America—out in\n this lonely place?\"", "Then I waited, but they didn't\n answer. The little people always\n had been shy. Yet without reaching\n a decision in so many words I knew\n suddenly that I\nhad\nto talk to them.\n I'd come to the glen to work out a\n knotty problem, and I was up\n against a blank wall. Simply because\n I was so lonely that my mind had\n become clogged.\n\n\n I knew that if I could just once\n hear the old tongue again, and talk\n about the old things, I might be able\n to think the problem through to a\n satisfactory conclusion.\n\n\n So I stepped back to the tiny\n spaceship, and this time I struck it\n a resounding blow with my fist.\n \"Hear me now, little people! If you\n don't show yourselves and come out\n and talk to me, I'll wreck this spaceship\n from stem to stern!\"\nI heard only the leaves rustling\n softly.", "\"Do you understand? I'll give\n you until I count three to make an\n appearance! One!\"\n\n\n The glade remained deathly silent.\n\n\n \"Two!\"\n\n\n I thought I heard a stirring somewhere,\n as if a small, brittle twig had\n snapped in the underbrush.\n\n\n \"\nThree!\n\"\n\n\n And with that the little people\n suddenly appeared.\n\n\n The leader—he seemed more\n wizened and bent than before—approached\n me slowly and warily as I\n stood there. The others all followed\n at a safe distance. I smiled to reassure\n them and then waved my arm\n in a friendly gesture of greeting.\n\n\n \"Good morning,\" I said.\n\n\n \"Good morning,\" the foreman\n said with some caution. \"My name\n is Keech.\"", "Keech stared back without much\n expression, and said, \"I've been\n wondering how you guessed it was\n a spaceship. I was surprised enough\n when you told me you could see us\n but not overwhelmingly so. I've run\n into believers before who could see\n the little people. It happens every\n so often, though not as frequently\n as it did a century ago. But knowing\n a spaceship at first glance! Well, I\n must confess that\ndoes\nastonish\n me.\"\n\n\n \"And why wouldn't I know a\n spaceship when I see one?\" I said.\n \"It just so happens I'm a doctor of\n science.\"\n\n\n \"A doctor of science, now,\" said\n Keech.\n\n\n \"Invited by the American government\n to work on the first moon\n rocket here at the nuclear propulsion\n center. Since it's no secret I\n can advise you of it.\"", "I nodded and looked grave and\n kneaded my chin for a moment softly.\n \"Well, now, Keech,\" I said\n finally, \"why should I help you?\"\n\n\n \"Ha!\" said Keech, grinning, but\n not with humor, \"the avarice of\n humans! I knew it! Well, Mr. Houlihan,\n I'll give you reason enough.\n The pot o' gold, Mr. Houlihan!\"\n\n\n \"The one at the end of the rainbow?\"\n\n\n \"It's not at the end of the rainbow.\n That's a grandmother's tale.\n Nor is it actually in an earthen\n crock. But there's gold, all right,\n enough to make you rich for the\n rest of your life. And I'll make you\n a proposition.\"\n\n\n \"Go ahead.\"", "It was a most fascinating session.\n I had often wished for a true working\n model at the center, but no allowance\n had been inserted in the\n budget for it. Keech brought me\n paper and pencil and I talked with\n the aid of diagrams, as engineers\n are wont to do. Although the pencils\n were small and I had to hold\n them between thumb and forefinger,\n as you would a needle, I was\n able to make many sensible observations\n and even a few innovations.\n\n\n I came back again the next day—and\n every day for the following\n two weeks. It rained several times,\n but Keech and his people made a\n canopy of boughs and leaves and I\n was comfortable enough. Every once\n in a while someone from the town\n or the center itself would pass by,\n and stop to watch me. But of course\n they wouldn't see the leprechauns\n or anything the leprechauns had\n made, not being believers.", "I walked over to the center of\n the glade where the curious shiny\n object was standing. It was as\n smooth as glass and shaped like a\n huge cigar. There were a pair of\n triangular fins down at the bottom,\n and stubby wings amidships. Of\n course it was a spaceship, or a\n miniature replica of one. I looked\n at it more closely. Everything seemed\n almost miraculously complete\n and workable.\n\n\n I shook my head in wonder, then\n stepped back from the spaceship\n and looked about the glade. I knew\n they were all hiding nearby, watching\n me apprehensively. I lifted my\n head to them.\n\n\n \"Listen to me now, little people!\"\n I called out. \"My name's\n Houlihan of the Roscommon Houlihans.\n I am descended from King\n Niall himself—or so at least my\n father used to say! Come on out\n now, and pass the time o' day!\"", "But the glade was silent, and they\n had all disappeared. They thought I\n wanted their crock of gold, of\n course. I'd be entitled to it if I could\n catch one and keep him. Or so the\n legends affirmed, though I've wondered\n often about the truth of them.\n But I was after no gold. I only wanted\n to hear the music of an Irish\n tongue. I was lonely here in America,\n even if I had latched on to a fine\n job of work for almost shamefully\n generous pay. You see, in a place as\n full of science as the nuclear propulsion\n center there is not much\n time for the old things. I very much\n wanted to talk to the little people.", "\"It may be we never crossed your\n path. It may be you can only see us\n when you're thinkin' of us, and of\n course truly believin' in us. I don't\n know—'tis a thing of the mind, and\n not important at the moment.\n What's important is for us to get\n our first ship to workin' properly\n and then we'll be on our way.\"\n\n\n \"You're determined to go.\"\n\n\n \"Truly we are, Mr. Houlihan.\n Now—to business. Just during\n these last few minutes a certain matter\n has crossed my mind. That's\n why I'm wastin' all this time with\n you, sir. You say you are a scientist.\"\n\n\n \"A nuclear engineer.\"\n\n\n \"Well, then, it may be that you\n can help us—now that you know\n we're here.\"\n\n\n \"Help you?\"", "\"I am surprised from time to\n time to find myself here,\" I said.\n \"But continue.\"\n\n\n \"We had to come here,\" said\n Keech, \"to learn how to make a\n spaceship.\"\n\n\n \"A spaceship, now,\" I said, unconsciously\n adopting some of the\n old manner.\n\n\n \"Leprechauns are not really mechanically\n inclined,\" said Keech.\n \"Their major passions are music\n and laughter and mischief, as anyone\n knows.\"\n\n\n \"Myself included,\" I agreed.\n \"Then why do you need a spaceship?\"\n\n\n \"Well, if I may use an old expression,\n we've had a feelin' lately\n that we're not long for this world.\n Or let me put it this way. We feel\n the world isn't long for itself.\"", "Perhaps you had better take my\n word for it that without this equation—correctly\n stated, mind you—mankind\n would be well advised not\n to make a first trip to the moon.\n And all this talk of coefficients and\n equations sits strangely, you might\n say, upon the tongue of a man\n named Kevin Francis Houlihan.\n But I am, after all, a scientist. If I\n had not been a specialist in my field\n I would hardly have found myself\n engaged in vital research at the\n center.\n\n\n Anyway, I heard these little\n noises in the park. They sounded\n like small working sounds, blending\n in eerily mysterious fashion with a\n chorus of small voices. I thought at\n first it might be children at play,\n but then at the time I was a bit\n absent-minded. I tiptoed to the edge\n of the trees, not wanting to deprive\n any small scalawags of their pleasure,\n and peered out between the\n branches. And what do you suppose\n I saw? Not children, but a\n group of little people, hard at work.", "\"And now, Mr. Houlihan,\" said\n Keech, \"I'll see that a quantity of\n gold is delivered to your rooms tonight,\n and so keep my part of the\n bargain.\"\n\n\n \"I'll not be needing the gold,\" I\n said.\n\n\n Keech's eyebrows popped upward.\n \"What's this now?\"\n\n\n \"I'll not be needing it,\" I repeated.\n \"I don't feel it would be\n right to take it for a service of this\n sort.\"\n\n\n \"Well,\" said Keech in surprise,\n and in some awe, too, \"well, now,\n musha Lord help us! 'Tis the first\n time I ever heard such a speech\n from a mortal.\" He turned to his\n people. \"We'll have three cheers\n now, do you hear, for Mr. Houlihan—friend\n of the little people as\n long as he shall live!\"" ], [ "\"I am surprised from time to\n time to find myself here,\" I said.\n \"But continue.\"\n\n\n \"We had to come here,\" said\n Keech, \"to learn how to make a\n spaceship.\"\n\n\n \"A spaceship, now,\" I said, unconsciously\n adopting some of the\n old manner.\n\n\n \"Leprechauns are not really mechanically\n inclined,\" said Keech.\n \"Their major passions are music\n and laughter and mischief, as anyone\n knows.\"\n\n\n \"Myself included,\" I agreed.\n \"Then why do you need a spaceship?\"\n\n\n \"Well, if I may use an old expression,\n we've had a feelin' lately\n that we're not long for this world.\n Or let me put it this way. We feel\n the world isn't long for itself.\"", "But the glade was silent, and they\n had all disappeared. They thought I\n wanted their crock of gold, of\n course. I'd be entitled to it if I could\n catch one and keep him. Or so the\n legends affirmed, though I've wondered\n often about the truth of them.\n But I was after no gold. I only wanted\n to hear the music of an Irish\n tongue. I was lonely here in America,\n even if I had latched on to a fine\n job of work for almost shamefully\n generous pay. You see, in a place as\n full of science as the nuclear propulsion\n center there is not much\n time for the old things. I very much\n wanted to talk to the little people.", "\"A scientist, is it,\" said Keech.\n \"Well, now, that's very interesting.\"\n\n\n \"I'll make no apologies for it,\" I\n said.\n\n\n \"Oh, there's no need for apology,\"\n said Keech. \"Though in truth\n we prefer poets to scientists. But it\n has just now crossed my mind, Mr.\n Houlihan that you, being a scientist,\n might be of help to us.\"\n\n\n \"How?\" I asked.\n\n\n \"Well, I might try starting at the\n beginning,\" he replied.\n\n\n \"You might,\" I said. \"A man\n usually does.\"\n\n\n Keech took out his own pipe—a\n clay dudeen—and looked hopeful.\n I gave him a pinch of tobacco from\n my pouch. \"Well, now,\" he said,\n \"first of all you're no doubt surprised\n to find us here in America.\"", "\"Come along now, people!\" said\n this crotchety one, looking straight\n at me. \"Stop starin' and get to\n work! You'll not be needin' to\n mind that man standin' there! You\n know he can't see nor hear us!\"\n\n\n Oh, it was good to hear the rich\n old tongue again. I smiled, and the\n foreman of the leprechauns—if\n that's what he was—saw me smile\n and became stiff and alert for a moment,\n as though suspecting that perhaps\n I actually could see him. Then\n he shrugged and turned away, clearly\n deeming such a thing impossible.\n\n\n I said, \"Just a minute, friend,\n and I'll beg your pardon. It so happens\n I\ncan\nsee you.\"\n\n\n He whirled to face me again,\n staring open-mouthed. Then he\n said, \"What? What's that, now?\"", "As for our own rocket ship, it\n should be well on its way by next\n St. Patrick's Day. For I had indeed\n determined the true coefficient of\n discharge, which I never could have\n done so quickly without those sessions\n in the glade with Keech and\n his working model.\n\n\n It would go down in scientific\n literature now, I suppose, as Houlihan's\n Equation, and that was honor\n and glory enough for me. I could\n do without Keech's pot of gold,\n though it would have been pleasant\n to be truly rich for a change.\n\n\n There was no sense in cheating\n him out of the gold to boot, for\n leprechauns are most clever in matters\n of this sort and he would have\n had it back soon enough—or else\n made it a burden in some way.", "It was a most fascinating session.\n I had often wished for a true working\n model at the center, but no allowance\n had been inserted in the\n budget for it. Keech brought me\n paper and pencil and I talked with\n the aid of diagrams, as engineers\n are wont to do. Although the pencils\n were small and I had to hold\n them between thumb and forefinger,\n as you would a needle, I was\n able to make many sensible observations\n and even a few innovations.\n\n\n I came back again the next day—and\n every day for the following\n two weeks. It rained several times,\n but Keech and his people made a\n canopy of boughs and leaves and I\n was comfortable enough. Every once\n in a while someone from the town\n or the center itself would pass by,\n and stop to watch me. But of course\n they wouldn't see the leprechauns\n or anything the leprechauns had\n made, not being believers.", "Perhaps you had better take my\n word for it that without this equation—correctly\n stated, mind you—mankind\n would be well advised not\n to make a first trip to the moon.\n And all this talk of coefficients and\n equations sits strangely, you might\n say, upon the tongue of a man\n named Kevin Francis Houlihan.\n But I am, after all, a scientist. If I\n had not been a specialist in my field\n I would hardly have found myself\n engaged in vital research at the\n center.\n\n\n Anyway, I heard these little\n noises in the park. They sounded\n like small working sounds, blending\n in eerily mysterious fashion with a\n chorus of small voices. I thought at\n first it might be children at play,\n but then at the time I was a bit\n absent-minded. I tiptoed to the edge\n of the trees, not wanting to deprive\n any small scalawags of their pleasure,\n and peered out between the\n branches. And what do you suppose\n I saw? Not children, but a\n group of little people, hard at work.", "I nodded and looked grave and\n kneaded my chin for a moment softly.\n \"Well, now, Keech,\" I said\n finally, \"why should I help you?\"\n\n\n \"Ha!\" said Keech, grinning, but\n not with humor, \"the avarice of\n humans! I knew it! Well, Mr. Houlihan,\n I'll give you reason enough.\n The pot o' gold, Mr. Houlihan!\"\n\n\n \"The one at the end of the rainbow?\"\n\n\n \"It's not at the end of the rainbow.\n That's a grandmother's tale.\n Nor is it actually in an earthen\n crock. But there's gold, all right,\n enough to make you rich for the\n rest of your life. And I'll make you\n a proposition.\"\n\n\n \"Go ahead.\"", "I walked over to the center of\n the glade where the curious shiny\n object was standing. It was as\n smooth as glass and shaped like a\n huge cigar. There were a pair of\n triangular fins down at the bottom,\n and stubby wings amidships. Of\n course it was a spaceship, or a\n miniature replica of one. I looked\n at it more closely. Everything seemed\n almost miraculously complete\n and workable.\n\n\n I shook my head in wonder, then\n stepped back from the spaceship\n and looked about the glade. I knew\n they were all hiding nearby, watching\n me apprehensively. I lifted my\n head to them.\n\n\n \"Listen to me now, little people!\"\n I called out. \"My name's\n Houlihan of the Roscommon Houlihans.\n I am descended from King\n Niall himself—or so at least my\n father used to say! Come on out\n now, and pass the time o' day!\"", "\"I can see you,\" I said.\n\n\n \"Ohhh!\" he said and put his\n palms to his cheekbones. \"Saints be\n with us! He's a believer! Run everybody—run\n for your lives!\"\n\n\n And they all began running, in\n as many directions as there were\n little souls. They began to scurry\n behind the trees and bushes, and a\n sloping embankment nearby.\n\n\n \"No, wait!\" I said. \"Don't go\n away! I'll not be hurting you!\"\n\n\n They continued to scurry.\n\n\n I knew what it was they feared.\n \"I don't intend catching one of\n you!\" I said. \"Come back, you daft\n little creatures!\"", "\"And now, Mr. Houlihan,\" said\n Keech, \"I'll see that a quantity of\n gold is delivered to your rooms tonight,\n and so keep my part of the\n bargain.\"\n\n\n \"I'll not be needing the gold,\" I\n said.\n\n\n Keech's eyebrows popped upward.\n \"What's this now?\"\n\n\n \"I'll not be needing it,\" I repeated.\n \"I don't feel it would be\n right to take it for a service of this\n sort.\"\n\n\n \"Well,\" said Keech in surprise,\n and in some awe, too, \"well, now,\n musha Lord help us! 'Tis the first\n time I ever heard such a speech\n from a mortal.\" He turned to his\n people. \"We'll have three cheers\n now, do you hear, for Mr. Houlihan—friend\n of the little people as\n long as he shall live!\"", "And they cheered. And little tears\n crept into the corners of some of\n their turned-up eyes.\n\n\n We shook hands, all of us, and I\n left.\nI walked through the park, and\n back to the nuclear propulsion center.\n It was another cool, green morning\n with the leaves making only\n soft noises as the breezes came\n along. It smelled exactly like a\n wood I had known in Roscommon.\n\n\n And I lit my pipe and smoked it\n slowly and chuckled to myself at\n how I had gotten the best of the\n little people. Surely it was not every\n mortal who could accomplish that. I\n had given them the wrong equation,\n of course. They would never get\n their spaceship to work now, and\n later, if they tried to spy out the\n right information I would take special\n measures to prevent it, for I had\n the advantage of being able to see\n them.", "\"And mine's Houlihan, as I've\n told you. Are you convinced now\n that I have no intention of doing\n you any injury?\"\n\n\n \"Mr. Houlihan,\" said Keech,\n drawing a kind of peppered dignity\n up about himself, \"in such matters\n I am never fully convinced. After\n living for many centuries I am all\n too acutely aware of the perversity\n of human nature.\"\n\n\n \"Yes,\" I said. \"Well, as you will\n quickly see, all I want to do is\n talk.\" I nodded as I spoke, and sat\n down cross-legged upon the grass.\n\n\n \"Any Irishman wants to talk, Mr.\n Houlihan.\"\n\n\n \"And often that's\nall\nhe wants,\"\n I said. \"Sit down with me now, and\n stop staring as if I were a snake\n returned to the Island.\"", "\"Do you understand? I'll give\n you until I count three to make an\n appearance! One!\"\n\n\n The glade remained deathly silent.\n\n\n \"Two!\"\n\n\n I thought I heard a stirring somewhere,\n as if a small, brittle twig had\n snapped in the underbrush.\n\n\n \"\nThree!\n\"\n\n\n And with that the little people\n suddenly appeared.\n\n\n The leader—he seemed more\n wizened and bent than before—approached\n me slowly and warily as I\n stood there. The others all followed\n at a safe distance. I smiled to reassure\n them and then waved my arm\n in a friendly gesture of greeting.\n\n\n \"Good morning,\" I said.\n\n\n \"Good morning,\" the foreman\n said with some caution. \"My name\n is Keech.\"", "On the sixteenth day I covered a\n piece of paper with tiny mathematical\n symbols and handed it to Keech.\n \"Here is your equation,\" I said. \"It\n will enable you to know your thrust\n at any given moment, under any\n circumstances, in or out of gravity,\n and under all conditions of friction\n and combustion.\"\n\n\n \"Thank you, Mr. Houlihan,\" said\n Keech. All his people had gathered\n in a loose circle, as though attending\n a rite. They were all looking at\n me quietly.\n\n\n \"Mr. Houlihan,\" said Keech,\n \"you will not be forgotten by the\n leprechauns. If we ever meet again,\n upon another world perchance,\n you'll find our friendship always\n eager and ready.\"\n\n\n \"Thank you,\" I said.", "Then I waited, but they didn't\n answer. The little people always\n had been shy. Yet without reaching\n a decision in so many words I knew\n suddenly that I\nhad\nto talk to them.\n I'd come to the glen to work out a\n knotty problem, and I was up\n against a blank wall. Simply because\n I was so lonely that my mind had\n become clogged.\n\n\n I knew that if I could just once\n hear the old tongue again, and talk\n about the old things, I might be able\n to think the problem through to a\n satisfactory conclusion.\n\n\n So I stepped back to the tiny\n spaceship, and this time I struck it\n a resounding blow with my fist.\n \"Hear me now, little people! If you\n don't show yourselves and come out\n and talk to me, I'll wreck this spaceship\n from stem to stern!\"\nI heard only the leaves rustling\n softly.", "\"There's another committee\n working on that. 'Tis not our concern.\n I was inclined to suggest the\n constellation Orion, which sounds\n as though it has a good Irish name,\n but I was hooted down. Be that as it\n may, my own job was to go into\n your nuclear center, learn how to\n make the ship, and proceed with its\n construction. Naturally, we didn't\n understand all of your high-flyin'\n science, but some of our people are\n pretty clever at gettin' up replicas\n of things.\"\n\n\n \"You mean you've been spying\n on us at the center all this time? Do\n you know, we often had the feeling\n we were being watched, but we\n thought it was by the Russians.\n There's one thing which puzzles\n me, though. If you've been constantly\n around us—and I'm still\n able to see the little people—why\n did I never see you before?\"", "There was a leader, an older one\n with a crank face. He was beating\n the air with his arms and piping:\n \"Over here, now! All right, bring\n those electrical connections over\n here—and see you're not slow as\n treacle about it!\"\n\n\n There were perhaps fifty of the\n little people. I was more than startled\n by it, too. I had not seen little\n people in—oh, close to thirty years.\n I had seen them first as a boy of\n eight, and then, very briefly again,\n on my tenth birthday. And I had\n become convinced they could\nnever\nbe seen here in America. I had\n never seen them so busy, either.\n They were building something in\n the middle of the glade. It was long\n and shiny and upright and a little\n over five feet in height.", "I would halt work, pass the time\n of day, and then, in subtle fashion,\n send the intruder on his way. Keech\n and the little people just stood by\n and grinned all the while.\n\n\n At the end of sixteen days I had\n the entire problem all but whipped.\n It is not difficult to understand why.\n The working model and the fact\n that the small people with their\n quick eyes and clever fingers could\n spot all sorts of minute shortcomings\n was a great help. And I was\n hearing the old tongue and talking\n of the old things every day, and\n truly that went far to take the clutter\n out of my mind. I was no longer\n so lonely that I couldn't think properly.", "\"It may be we never crossed your\n path. It may be you can only see us\n when you're thinkin' of us, and of\n course truly believin' in us. I don't\n know—'tis a thing of the mind, and\n not important at the moment.\n What's important is for us to get\n our first ship to workin' properly\n and then we'll be on our way.\"\n\n\n \"You're determined to go.\"\n\n\n \"Truly we are, Mr. Houlihan.\n Now—to business. Just during\n these last few minutes a certain matter\n has crossed my mind. That's\n why I'm wastin' all this time with\n you, sir. You say you are a scientist.\"\n\n\n \"A nuclear engineer.\"\n\n\n \"Well, then, it may be that you\n can help us—now that you know\n we're here.\"\n\n\n \"Help you?\"" ], [ "\"I am surprised from time to\n time to find myself here,\" I said.\n \"But continue.\"\n\n\n \"We had to come here,\" said\n Keech, \"to learn how to make a\n spaceship.\"\n\n\n \"A spaceship, now,\" I said, unconsciously\n adopting some of the\n old manner.\n\n\n \"Leprechauns are not really mechanically\n inclined,\" said Keech.\n \"Their major passions are music\n and laughter and mischief, as anyone\n knows.\"\n\n\n \"Myself included,\" I agreed.\n \"Then why do you need a spaceship?\"\n\n\n \"Well, if I may use an old expression,\n we've had a feelin' lately\n that we're not long for this world.\n Or let me put it this way. We feel\n the world isn't long for itself.\"", "As for our own rocket ship, it\n should be well on its way by next\n St. Patrick's Day. For I had indeed\n determined the true coefficient of\n discharge, which I never could have\n done so quickly without those sessions\n in the glade with Keech and\n his working model.\n\n\n It would go down in scientific\n literature now, I suppose, as Houlihan's\n Equation, and that was honor\n and glory enough for me. I could\n do without Keech's pot of gold,\n though it would have been pleasant\n to be truly rich for a change.\n\n\n There was no sense in cheating\n him out of the gold to boot, for\n leprechauns are most clever in matters\n of this sort and he would have\n had it back soon enough—or else\n made it a burden in some way.", "He shook his head and remained\n standing. \"Have your say, Mr.\n Houlihan. And afterward we'll appreciate\n it if you'll go away and\n leave us to our work.\"\n\n\n \"Well, now, your work,\" I said,\n and glanced at the spaceship.\n \"That's exactly what's got me curious.\"\n\n\n The others had edged in a bit\n now and were standing in a circle,\n intently staring at me. I took out my\n pipe. \"Why,\" I asked, \"would a\n group of little people be building a\n spaceship here in America—out in\n this lonely place?\"", "I scratched my cheek. \"How\n would a man unravel a statement\n such as that?\"\n\n\n \"It's very simple. With all the\n super weapons you mortals have\n developed, there's the distinct possibility\n you might be blowin' us all\n up in the process of destroying\n yourselves.\"\n\n\n \"There\nis\nthat possibility,\" I said.\n\n\n \"Well, then, as I say,\" said\n Keech, \"the little people have decided\n to leave the planet in a spaceship.\n Which we're buildin' here and\n now. We've spied upon you and\n learned how to do it. Well—almost\n how to do it. We haven't learned\n yet how to control the power—\"\n\n\n \"Hold on, now,\" I said. \"Leaving\n the planet, you say. And where\n would you be going?\"", "I walked over to the center of\n the glade where the curious shiny\n object was standing. It was as\n smooth as glass and shaped like a\n huge cigar. There were a pair of\n triangular fins down at the bottom,\n and stubby wings amidships. Of\n course it was a spaceship, or a\n miniature replica of one. I looked\n at it more closely. Everything seemed\n almost miraculously complete\n and workable.\n\n\n I shook my head in wonder, then\n stepped back from the spaceship\n and looked about the glade. I knew\n they were all hiding nearby, watching\n me apprehensively. I lifted my\n head to them.\n\n\n \"Listen to me now, little people!\"\n I called out. \"My name's\n Houlihan of the Roscommon Houlihans.\n I am descended from King\n Niall himself—or so at least my\n father used to say! Come on out\n now, and pass the time o' day!\"", "Then I waited, but they didn't\n answer. The little people always\n had been shy. Yet without reaching\n a decision in so many words I knew\n suddenly that I\nhad\nto talk to them.\n I'd come to the glen to work out a\n knotty problem, and I was up\n against a blank wall. Simply because\n I was so lonely that my mind had\n become clogged.\n\n\n I knew that if I could just once\n hear the old tongue again, and talk\n about the old things, I might be able\n to think the problem through to a\n satisfactory conclusion.\n\n\n So I stepped back to the tiny\n spaceship, and this time I struck it\n a resounding blow with my fist.\n \"Hear me now, little people! If you\n don't show yourselves and come out\n and talk to me, I'll wreck this spaceship\n from stem to stern!\"\nI heard only the leaves rustling\n softly.", "\"There's another committee\n working on that. 'Tis not our concern.\n I was inclined to suggest the\n constellation Orion, which sounds\n as though it has a good Irish name,\n but I was hooted down. Be that as it\n may, my own job was to go into\n your nuclear center, learn how to\n make the ship, and proceed with its\n construction. Naturally, we didn't\n understand all of your high-flyin'\n science, but some of our people are\n pretty clever at gettin' up replicas\n of things.\"\n\n\n \"You mean you've been spying\n on us at the center all this time? Do\n you know, we often had the feeling\n we were being watched, but we\n thought it was by the Russians.\n There's one thing which puzzles\n me, though. If you've been constantly\n around us—and I'm still\n able to see the little people—why\n did I never see you before?\"", "\"We'll not be needin' gold where\n we're goin'. It's yours if you show\n us how to make our ship work.\"\n\n\n \"Well, now, that's quite an\n offer,\" I said. Keech had the goodness\n to be quiet while I sat and\n thought for a while. My pipe had\n gone out and I lit it again. I finally\n said, \"Let's have a look at your\n ship's drive and see what we can\n see.\"\n\n\n \"You accept the proposition\n then?\"\n\n\n \"Let's have a look,\" I said, and\n that was all.\n\n\n Well, we had a look, and then\n several looks, and before the morning\n was out we had half the spaceship\n apart, and were deep in argument\n about the whole project.", "On the sixteenth day I covered a\n piece of paper with tiny mathematical\n symbols and handed it to Keech.\n \"Here is your equation,\" I said. \"It\n will enable you to know your thrust\n at any given moment, under any\n circumstances, in or out of gravity,\n and under all conditions of friction\n and combustion.\"\n\n\n \"Thank you, Mr. Houlihan,\" said\n Keech. All his people had gathered\n in a loose circle, as though attending\n a rite. They were all looking at\n me quietly.\n\n\n \"Mr. Houlihan,\" said Keech,\n \"you will not be forgotten by the\n leprechauns. If we ever meet again,\n upon another world perchance,\n you'll find our friendship always\n eager and ready.\"\n\n\n \"Thank you,\" I said.", "And they cheered. And little tears\n crept into the corners of some of\n their turned-up eyes.\n\n\n We shook hands, all of us, and I\n left.\nI walked through the park, and\n back to the nuclear propulsion center.\n It was another cool, green morning\n with the leaves making only\n soft noises as the breezes came\n along. It smelled exactly like a\n wood I had known in Roscommon.\n\n\n And I lit my pipe and smoked it\n slowly and chuckled to myself at\n how I had gotten the best of the\n little people. Surely it was not every\n mortal who could accomplish that. I\n had given them the wrong equation,\n of course. They would never get\n their spaceship to work now, and\n later, if they tried to spy out the\n right information I would take special\n measures to prevent it, for I had\n the advantage of being able to see\n them.", "It was a most fascinating session.\n I had often wished for a true working\n model at the center, but no allowance\n had been inserted in the\n budget for it. Keech brought me\n paper and pencil and I talked with\n the aid of diagrams, as engineers\n are wont to do. Although the pencils\n were small and I had to hold\n them between thumb and forefinger,\n as you would a needle, I was\n able to make many sensible observations\n and even a few innovations.\n\n\n I came back again the next day—and\n every day for the following\n two weeks. It rained several times,\n but Keech and his people made a\n canopy of boughs and leaves and I\n was comfortable enough. Every once\n in a while someone from the town\n or the center itself would pass by,\n and stop to watch me. But of course\n they wouldn't see the leprechauns\n or anything the leprechauns had\n made, not being believers.", "Indeed, I had done a piece of\n work greatly to my advantage, and\n also to the advantage of humankind,\n and when a man can do the first and\n include the second as a fortunate byproduct\n it is a most happy accident.\n\n\n For if I had shown the little people\n how to make a spaceship they\n would have left our world. And\n this world, as long as it lasts—what\n would it be in that event? I ask you\n now, wouldn't we be even\nmore\nlikely to blow ourselves to Kingdom\n Come without the little people here\n for us to believe in every now and\n then?\nTranscriber's Note:\nThis etext was produced from\nFantastic Universe\nSeptember 1955.\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.\n copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and\n typographical errors have been corrected without note.", "\"It may be we never crossed your\n path. It may be you can only see us\n when you're thinkin' of us, and of\n course truly believin' in us. I don't\n know—'tis a thing of the mind, and\n not important at the moment.\n What's important is for us to get\n our first ship to workin' properly\n and then we'll be on our way.\"\n\n\n \"You're determined to go.\"\n\n\n \"Truly we are, Mr. Houlihan.\n Now—to business. Just during\n these last few minutes a certain matter\n has crossed my mind. That's\n why I'm wastin' all this time with\n you, sir. You say you are a scientist.\"\n\n\n \"A nuclear engineer.\"\n\n\n \"Well, then, it may be that you\n can help us—now that you know\n we're here.\"\n\n\n \"Help you?\"", "I nodded and looked grave and\n kneaded my chin for a moment softly.\n \"Well, now, Keech,\" I said\n finally, \"why should I help you?\"\n\n\n \"Ha!\" said Keech, grinning, but\n not with humor, \"the avarice of\n humans! I knew it! Well, Mr. Houlihan,\n I'll give you reason enough.\n The pot o' gold, Mr. Houlihan!\"\n\n\n \"The one at the end of the rainbow?\"\n\n\n \"It's not at the end of the rainbow.\n That's a grandmother's tale.\n Nor is it actually in an earthen\n crock. But there's gold, all right,\n enough to make you rich for the\n rest of your life. And I'll make you\n a proposition.\"\n\n\n \"Go ahead.\"", "Keech stared back without much\n expression, and said, \"I've been\n wondering how you guessed it was\n a spaceship. I was surprised enough\n when you told me you could see us\n but not overwhelmingly so. I've run\n into believers before who could see\n the little people. It happens every\n so often, though not as frequently\n as it did a century ago. But knowing\n a spaceship at first glance! Well, I\n must confess that\ndoes\nastonish\n me.\"\n\n\n \"And why wouldn't I know a\n spaceship when I see one?\" I said.\n \"It just so happens I'm a doctor of\n science.\"\n\n\n \"A doctor of science, now,\" said\n Keech.\n\n\n \"Invited by the American government\n to work on the first moon\n rocket here at the nuclear propulsion\n center. Since it's no secret I\n can advise you of it.\"", "Perhaps you had better take my\n word for it that without this equation—correctly\n stated, mind you—mankind\n would be well advised not\n to make a first trip to the moon.\n And all this talk of coefficients and\n equations sits strangely, you might\n say, upon the tongue of a man\n named Kevin Francis Houlihan.\n But I am, after all, a scientist. If I\n had not been a specialist in my field\n I would hardly have found myself\n engaged in vital research at the\n center.\n\n\n Anyway, I heard these little\n noises in the park. They sounded\n like small working sounds, blending\n in eerily mysterious fashion with a\n chorus of small voices. I thought at\n first it might be children at play,\n but then at the time I was a bit\n absent-minded. I tiptoed to the edge\n of the trees, not wanting to deprive\n any small scalawags of their pleasure,\n and peered out between the\n branches. And what do you suppose\n I saw? Not children, but a\n group of little people, hard at work.", "But the glade was silent, and they\n had all disappeared. They thought I\n wanted their crock of gold, of\n course. I'd be entitled to it if I could\n catch one and keep him. Or so the\n legends affirmed, though I've wondered\n often about the truth of them.\n But I was after no gold. I only wanted\n to hear the music of an Irish\n tongue. I was lonely here in America,\n even if I had latched on to a fine\n job of work for almost shamefully\n generous pay. You see, in a place as\n full of science as the nuclear propulsion\n center there is not much\n time for the old things. I very much\n wanted to talk to the little people.", "\"Come along now, people!\" said\n this crotchety one, looking straight\n at me. \"Stop starin' and get to\n work! You'll not be needin' to\n mind that man standin' there! You\n know he can't see nor hear us!\"\n\n\n Oh, it was good to hear the rich\n old tongue again. I smiled, and the\n foreman of the leprechauns—if\n that's what he was—saw me smile\n and became stiff and alert for a moment,\n as though suspecting that perhaps\n I actually could see him. Then\n he shrugged and turned away, clearly\n deeming such a thing impossible.\n\n\n I said, \"Just a minute, friend,\n and I'll beg your pardon. It so happens\n I\ncan\nsee you.\"\n\n\n He whirled to face me again,\n staring open-mouthed. Then he\n said, \"What? What's that, now?\"", "There was a leader, an older one\n with a crank face. He was beating\n the air with his arms and piping:\n \"Over here, now! All right, bring\n those electrical connections over\n here—and see you're not slow as\n treacle about it!\"\n\n\n There were perhaps fifty of the\n little people. I was more than startled\n by it, too. I had not seen little\n people in—oh, close to thirty years.\n I had seen them first as a boy of\n eight, and then, very briefly again,\n on my tenth birthday. And I had\n become convinced they could\nnever\nbe seen here in America. I had\n never seen them so busy, either.\n They were building something in\n the middle of the glade. It was long\n and shiny and upright and a little\n over five feet in height.", "I would halt work, pass the time\n of day, and then, in subtle fashion,\n send the intruder on his way. Keech\n and the little people just stood by\n and grinned all the while.\n\n\n At the end of sixteen days I had\n the entire problem all but whipped.\n It is not difficult to understand why.\n The working model and the fact\n that the small people with their\n quick eyes and clever fingers could\n spot all sorts of minute shortcomings\n was a great help. And I was\n hearing the old tongue and talking\n of the old things every day, and\n truly that went far to take the clutter\n out of my mind. I was no longer\n so lonely that I couldn't think properly." ], [ "\"Come along now, people!\" said\n this crotchety one, looking straight\n at me. \"Stop starin' and get to\n work! You'll not be needin' to\n mind that man standin' there! You\n know he can't see nor hear us!\"\n\n\n Oh, it was good to hear the rich\n old tongue again. I smiled, and the\n foreman of the leprechauns—if\n that's what he was—saw me smile\n and became stiff and alert for a moment,\n as though suspecting that perhaps\n I actually could see him. Then\n he shrugged and turned away, clearly\n deeming such a thing impossible.\n\n\n I said, \"Just a minute, friend,\n and I'll beg your pardon. It so happens\n I\ncan\nsee you.\"\n\n\n He whirled to face me again,\n staring open-mouthed. Then he\n said, \"What? What's that, now?\"", "\"I can see you,\" I said.\n\n\n \"Ohhh!\" he said and put his\n palms to his cheekbones. \"Saints be\n with us! He's a believer! Run everybody—run\n for your lives!\"\n\n\n And they all began running, in\n as many directions as there were\n little souls. They began to scurry\n behind the trees and bushes, and a\n sloping embankment nearby.\n\n\n \"No, wait!\" I said. \"Don't go\n away! I'll not be hurting you!\"\n\n\n They continued to scurry.\n\n\n I knew what it was they feared.\n \"I don't intend catching one of\n you!\" I said. \"Come back, you daft\n little creatures!\"", "It was a most fascinating session.\n I had often wished for a true working\n model at the center, but no allowance\n had been inserted in the\n budget for it. Keech brought me\n paper and pencil and I talked with\n the aid of diagrams, as engineers\n are wont to do. Although the pencils\n were small and I had to hold\n them between thumb and forefinger,\n as you would a needle, I was\n able to make many sensible observations\n and even a few innovations.\n\n\n I came back again the next day—and\n every day for the following\n two weeks. It rained several times,\n but Keech and his people made a\n canopy of boughs and leaves and I\n was comfortable enough. Every once\n in a while someone from the town\n or the center itself would pass by,\n and stop to watch me. But of course\n they wouldn't see the leprechauns\n or anything the leprechauns had\n made, not being believers.", "\"I am surprised from time to\n time to find myself here,\" I said.\n \"But continue.\"\n\n\n \"We had to come here,\" said\n Keech, \"to learn how to make a\n spaceship.\"\n\n\n \"A spaceship, now,\" I said, unconsciously\n adopting some of the\n old manner.\n\n\n \"Leprechauns are not really mechanically\n inclined,\" said Keech.\n \"Their major passions are music\n and laughter and mischief, as anyone\n knows.\"\n\n\n \"Myself included,\" I agreed.\n \"Then why do you need a spaceship?\"\n\n\n \"Well, if I may use an old expression,\n we've had a feelin' lately\n that we're not long for this world.\n Or let me put it this way. We feel\n the world isn't long for itself.\"", "I walked over to the center of\n the glade where the curious shiny\n object was standing. It was as\n smooth as glass and shaped like a\n huge cigar. There were a pair of\n triangular fins down at the bottom,\n and stubby wings amidships. Of\n course it was a spaceship, or a\n miniature replica of one. I looked\n at it more closely. Everything seemed\n almost miraculously complete\n and workable.\n\n\n I shook my head in wonder, then\n stepped back from the spaceship\n and looked about the glade. I knew\n they were all hiding nearby, watching\n me apprehensively. I lifted my\n head to them.\n\n\n \"Listen to me now, little people!\"\n I called out. \"My name's\n Houlihan of the Roscommon Houlihans.\n I am descended from King\n Niall himself—or so at least my\n father used to say! Come on out\n now, and pass the time o' day!\"", "But the glade was silent, and they\n had all disappeared. They thought I\n wanted their crock of gold, of\n course. I'd be entitled to it if I could\n catch one and keep him. Or so the\n legends affirmed, though I've wondered\n often about the truth of them.\n But I was after no gold. I only wanted\n to hear the music of an Irish\n tongue. I was lonely here in America,\n even if I had latched on to a fine\n job of work for almost shamefully\n generous pay. You see, in a place as\n full of science as the nuclear propulsion\n center there is not much\n time for the old things. I very much\n wanted to talk to the little people.", "\"And mine's Houlihan, as I've\n told you. Are you convinced now\n that I have no intention of doing\n you any injury?\"\n\n\n \"Mr. Houlihan,\" said Keech,\n drawing a kind of peppered dignity\n up about himself, \"in such matters\n I am never fully convinced. After\n living for many centuries I am all\n too acutely aware of the perversity\n of human nature.\"\n\n\n \"Yes,\" I said. \"Well, as you will\n quickly see, all I want to do is\n talk.\" I nodded as I spoke, and sat\n down cross-legged upon the grass.\n\n\n \"Any Irishman wants to talk, Mr.\n Houlihan.\"\n\n\n \"And often that's\nall\nhe wants,\"\n I said. \"Sit down with me now, and\n stop staring as if I were a snake\n returned to the Island.\"", "And they cheered. And little tears\n crept into the corners of some of\n their turned-up eyes.\n\n\n We shook hands, all of us, and I\n left.\nI walked through the park, and\n back to the nuclear propulsion center.\n It was another cool, green morning\n with the leaves making only\n soft noises as the breezes came\n along. It smelled exactly like a\n wood I had known in Roscommon.\n\n\n And I lit my pipe and smoked it\n slowly and chuckled to myself at\n how I had gotten the best of the\n little people. Surely it was not every\n mortal who could accomplish that. I\n had given them the wrong equation,\n of course. They would never get\n their spaceship to work now, and\n later, if they tried to spy out the\n right information I would take special\n measures to prevent it, for I had\n the advantage of being able to see\n them.", "I would halt work, pass the time\n of day, and then, in subtle fashion,\n send the intruder on his way. Keech\n and the little people just stood by\n and grinned all the while.\n\n\n At the end of sixteen days I had\n the entire problem all but whipped.\n It is not difficult to understand why.\n The working model and the fact\n that the small people with their\n quick eyes and clever fingers could\n spot all sorts of minute shortcomings\n was a great help. And I was\n hearing the old tongue and talking\n of the old things every day, and\n truly that went far to take the clutter\n out of my mind. I was no longer\n so lonely that I couldn't think properly.", "\"Do you understand? I'll give\n you until I count three to make an\n appearance! One!\"\n\n\n The glade remained deathly silent.\n\n\n \"Two!\"\n\n\n I thought I heard a stirring somewhere,\n as if a small, brittle twig had\n snapped in the underbrush.\n\n\n \"\nThree!\n\"\n\n\n And with that the little people\n suddenly appeared.\n\n\n The leader—he seemed more\n wizened and bent than before—approached\n me slowly and warily as I\n stood there. The others all followed\n at a safe distance. I smiled to reassure\n them and then waved my arm\n in a friendly gesture of greeting.\n\n\n \"Good morning,\" I said.\n\n\n \"Good morning,\" the foreman\n said with some caution. \"My name\n is Keech.\"", "There was a leader, an older one\n with a crank face. He was beating\n the air with his arms and piping:\n \"Over here, now! All right, bring\n those electrical connections over\n here—and see you're not slow as\n treacle about it!\"\n\n\n There were perhaps fifty of the\n little people. I was more than startled\n by it, too. I had not seen little\n people in—oh, close to thirty years.\n I had seen them first as a boy of\n eight, and then, very briefly again,\n on my tenth birthday. And I had\n become convinced they could\nnever\nbe seen here in America. I had\n never seen them so busy, either.\n They were building something in\n the middle of the glade. It was long\n and shiny and upright and a little\n over five feet in height.", "Perhaps you had better take my\n word for it that without this equation—correctly\n stated, mind you—mankind\n would be well advised not\n to make a first trip to the moon.\n And all this talk of coefficients and\n equations sits strangely, you might\n say, upon the tongue of a man\n named Kevin Francis Houlihan.\n But I am, after all, a scientist. If I\n had not been a specialist in my field\n I would hardly have found myself\n engaged in vital research at the\n center.\n\n\n Anyway, I heard these little\n noises in the park. They sounded\n like small working sounds, blending\n in eerily mysterious fashion with a\n chorus of small voices. I thought at\n first it might be children at play,\n but then at the time I was a bit\n absent-minded. I tiptoed to the edge\n of the trees, not wanting to deprive\n any small scalawags of their pleasure,\n and peered out between the\n branches. And what do you suppose\n I saw? Not children, but a\n group of little people, hard at work.", "As for our own rocket ship, it\n should be well on its way by next\n St. Patrick's Day. For I had indeed\n determined the true coefficient of\n discharge, which I never could have\n done so quickly without those sessions\n in the glade with Keech and\n his working model.\n\n\n It would go down in scientific\n literature now, I suppose, as Houlihan's\n Equation, and that was honor\n and glory enough for me. I could\n do without Keech's pot of gold,\n though it would have been pleasant\n to be truly rich for a change.\n\n\n There was no sense in cheating\n him out of the gold to boot, for\n leprechauns are most clever in matters\n of this sort and he would have\n had it back soon enough—or else\n made it a burden in some way.", "Then I waited, but they didn't\n answer. The little people always\n had been shy. Yet without reaching\n a decision in so many words I knew\n suddenly that I\nhad\nto talk to them.\n I'd come to the glen to work out a\n knotty problem, and I was up\n against a blank wall. Simply because\n I was so lonely that my mind had\n become clogged.\n\n\n I knew that if I could just once\n hear the old tongue again, and talk\n about the old things, I might be able\n to think the problem through to a\n satisfactory conclusion.\n\n\n So I stepped back to the tiny\n spaceship, and this time I struck it\n a resounding blow with my fist.\n \"Hear me now, little people! If you\n don't show yourselves and come out\n and talk to me, I'll wreck this spaceship\n from stem to stern!\"\nI heard only the leaves rustling\n softly.", "\"And now, Mr. Houlihan,\" said\n Keech, \"I'll see that a quantity of\n gold is delivered to your rooms tonight,\n and so keep my part of the\n bargain.\"\n\n\n \"I'll not be needing the gold,\" I\n said.\n\n\n Keech's eyebrows popped upward.\n \"What's this now?\"\n\n\n \"I'll not be needing it,\" I repeated.\n \"I don't feel it would be\n right to take it for a service of this\n sort.\"\n\n\n \"Well,\" said Keech in surprise,\n and in some awe, too, \"well, now,\n musha Lord help us! 'Tis the first\n time I ever heard such a speech\n from a mortal.\" He turned to his\n people. \"We'll have three cheers\n now, do you hear, for Mr. Houlihan—friend\n of the little people as\n long as he shall live!\"", "I nodded and looked grave and\n kneaded my chin for a moment softly.\n \"Well, now, Keech,\" I said\n finally, \"why should I help you?\"\n\n\n \"Ha!\" said Keech, grinning, but\n not with humor, \"the avarice of\n humans! I knew it! Well, Mr. Houlihan,\n I'll give you reason enough.\n The pot o' gold, Mr. Houlihan!\"\n\n\n \"The one at the end of the rainbow?\"\n\n\n \"It's not at the end of the rainbow.\n That's a grandmother's tale.\n Nor is it actually in an earthen\n crock. But there's gold, all right,\n enough to make you rich for the\n rest of your life. And I'll make you\n a proposition.\"\n\n\n \"Go ahead.\"", "noises. It was in a park near the\n nuclear propulsion center—a cool,\n green spot, with the leaves all telling\n each other to hush, be quiet,\n and the soft breeze stirring them up\n again. I had known precisely such\n a secluded little green sanctuary just\n over the hill from Mr. Riordan's\n farm when I was a boy.", "He shook his head and remained\n standing. \"Have your say, Mr.\n Houlihan. And afterward we'll appreciate\n it if you'll go away and\n leave us to our work.\"\n\n\n \"Well, now, your work,\" I said,\n and glanced at the spaceship.\n \"That's exactly what's got me curious.\"\n\n\n The others had edged in a bit\n now and were standing in a circle,\n intently staring at me. I took out my\n pipe. \"Why,\" I asked, \"would a\n group of little people be building a\n spaceship here in America—out in\n this lonely place?\"", "\"A scientist, is it,\" said Keech.\n \"Well, now, that's very interesting.\"\n\n\n \"I'll make no apologies for it,\" I\n said.\n\n\n \"Oh, there's no need for apology,\"\n said Keech. \"Though in truth\n we prefer poets to scientists. But it\n has just now crossed my mind, Mr.\n Houlihan that you, being a scientist,\n might be of help to us.\"\n\n\n \"How?\" I asked.\n\n\n \"Well, I might try starting at the\n beginning,\" he replied.\n\n\n \"You might,\" I said. \"A man\n usually does.\"\n\n\n Keech took out his own pipe—a\n clay dudeen—and looked hopeful.\n I gave him a pinch of tobacco from\n my pouch. \"Well, now,\" he said,\n \"first of all you're no doubt surprised\n to find us here in America.\"", "On the sixteenth day I covered a\n piece of paper with tiny mathematical\n symbols and handed it to Keech.\n \"Here is your equation,\" I said. \"It\n will enable you to know your thrust\n at any given moment, under any\n circumstances, in or out of gravity,\n and under all conditions of friction\n and combustion.\"\n\n\n \"Thank you, Mr. Houlihan,\" said\n Keech. All his people had gathered\n in a loose circle, as though attending\n a rite. They were all looking at\n me quietly.\n\n\n \"Mr. Houlihan,\" said Keech,\n \"you will not be forgotten by the\n leprechauns. If we ever meet again,\n upon another world perchance,\n you'll find our friendship always\n eager and ready.\"\n\n\n \"Thank you,\" I said." ], [ "\"And mine's Houlihan, as I've\n told you. Are you convinced now\n that I have no intention of doing\n you any injury?\"\n\n\n \"Mr. Houlihan,\" said Keech,\n drawing a kind of peppered dignity\n up about himself, \"in such matters\n I am never fully convinced. After\n living for many centuries I am all\n too acutely aware of the perversity\n of human nature.\"\n\n\n \"Yes,\" I said. \"Well, as you will\n quickly see, all I want to do is\n talk.\" I nodded as I spoke, and sat\n down cross-legged upon the grass.\n\n\n \"Any Irishman wants to talk, Mr.\n Houlihan.\"\n\n\n \"And often that's\nall\nhe wants,\"\n I said. \"Sit down with me now, and\n stop staring as if I were a snake\n returned to the Island.\"", "\"It may be we never crossed your\n path. It may be you can only see us\n when you're thinkin' of us, and of\n course truly believin' in us. I don't\n know—'tis a thing of the mind, and\n not important at the moment.\n What's important is for us to get\n our first ship to workin' properly\n and then we'll be on our way.\"\n\n\n \"You're determined to go.\"\n\n\n \"Truly we are, Mr. Houlihan.\n Now—to business. Just during\n these last few minutes a certain matter\n has crossed my mind. That's\n why I'm wastin' all this time with\n you, sir. You say you are a scientist.\"\n\n\n \"A nuclear engineer.\"\n\n\n \"Well, then, it may be that you\n can help us—now that you know\n we're here.\"\n\n\n \"Help you?\"", "\"A scientist, is it,\" said Keech.\n \"Well, now, that's very interesting.\"\n\n\n \"I'll make no apologies for it,\" I\n said.\n\n\n \"Oh, there's no need for apology,\"\n said Keech. \"Though in truth\n we prefer poets to scientists. But it\n has just now crossed my mind, Mr.\n Houlihan that you, being a scientist,\n might be of help to us.\"\n\n\n \"How?\" I asked.\n\n\n \"Well, I might try starting at the\n beginning,\" he replied.\n\n\n \"You might,\" I said. \"A man\n usually does.\"\n\n\n Keech took out his own pipe—a\n clay dudeen—and looked hopeful.\n I gave him a pinch of tobacco from\n my pouch. \"Well, now,\" he said,\n \"first of all you're no doubt surprised\n to find us here in America.\"", "I would halt work, pass the time\n of day, and then, in subtle fashion,\n send the intruder on his way. Keech\n and the little people just stood by\n and grinned all the while.\n\n\n At the end of sixteen days I had\n the entire problem all but whipped.\n It is not difficult to understand why.\n The working model and the fact\n that the small people with their\n quick eyes and clever fingers could\n spot all sorts of minute shortcomings\n was a great help. And I was\n hearing the old tongue and talking\n of the old things every day, and\n truly that went far to take the clutter\n out of my mind. I was no longer\n so lonely that I couldn't think properly.", "I nodded and looked grave and\n kneaded my chin for a moment softly.\n \"Well, now, Keech,\" I said\n finally, \"why should I help you?\"\n\n\n \"Ha!\" said Keech, grinning, but\n not with humor, \"the avarice of\n humans! I knew it! Well, Mr. Houlihan,\n I'll give you reason enough.\n The pot o' gold, Mr. Houlihan!\"\n\n\n \"The one at the end of the rainbow?\"\n\n\n \"It's not at the end of the rainbow.\n That's a grandmother's tale.\n Nor is it actually in an earthen\n crock. But there's gold, all right,\n enough to make you rich for the\n rest of your life. And I'll make you\n a proposition.\"\n\n\n \"Go ahead.\"", "\"And now, Mr. Houlihan,\" said\n Keech, \"I'll see that a quantity of\n gold is delivered to your rooms tonight,\n and so keep my part of the\n bargain.\"\n\n\n \"I'll not be needing the gold,\" I\n said.\n\n\n Keech's eyebrows popped upward.\n \"What's this now?\"\n\n\n \"I'll not be needing it,\" I repeated.\n \"I don't feel it would be\n right to take it for a service of this\n sort.\"\n\n\n \"Well,\" said Keech in surprise,\n and in some awe, too, \"well, now,\n musha Lord help us! 'Tis the first\n time I ever heard such a speech\n from a mortal.\" He turned to his\n people. \"We'll have three cheers\n now, do you hear, for Mr. Houlihan—friend\n of the little people as\n long as he shall live!\"", "He shook his head and remained\n standing. \"Have your say, Mr.\n Houlihan. And afterward we'll appreciate\n it if you'll go away and\n leave us to our work.\"\n\n\n \"Well, now, your work,\" I said,\n and glanced at the spaceship.\n \"That's exactly what's got me curious.\"\n\n\n The others had edged in a bit\n now and were standing in a circle,\n intently staring at me. I took out my\n pipe. \"Why,\" I asked, \"would a\n group of little people be building a\n spaceship here in America—out in\n this lonely place?\"", "\"The power control, Mr. Houlihan.\n As I understand it, 'tis necessary\n to know at any instant exactly\n how much thrust is bein' delivered\n through the little holes in back.\n And on paper it looks simple\n enough—the square of somethin' or\n other. I've got the figures jotted in\n a book when I need 'em. But when\n you get to doin' it it doesn't come\n out exactly as it does on paper.\"\n\n\n \"You're referring to the necessity\n for a coefficient of discharge.\"\n\n\n \"Whatever it might be named,\"\n said Keech, shrugging. \"'Tis the\n one thing we lack. I suppose eventually\n you people will be gettin'\n around to it. But meanwhile we\n need it right now, if we're to make\n our ship move.\"\n\n\n \"And you want me to help you\n with this?\"\n\n\n \"That is exactly what crossed my\n mind.\"", "Then I waited, but they didn't\n answer. The little people always\n had been shy. Yet without reaching\n a decision in so many words I knew\n suddenly that I\nhad\nto talk to them.\n I'd come to the glen to work out a\n knotty problem, and I was up\n against a blank wall. Simply because\n I was so lonely that my mind had\n become clogged.\n\n\n I knew that if I could just once\n hear the old tongue again, and talk\n about the old things, I might be able\n to think the problem through to a\n satisfactory conclusion.\n\n\n So I stepped back to the tiny\n spaceship, and this time I struck it\n a resounding blow with my fist.\n \"Hear me now, little people! If you\n don't show yourselves and come out\n and talk to me, I'll wreck this spaceship\n from stem to stern!\"\nI heard only the leaves rustling\n softly.", "As for our own rocket ship, it\n should be well on its way by next\n St. Patrick's Day. For I had indeed\n determined the true coefficient of\n discharge, which I never could have\n done so quickly without those sessions\n in the glade with Keech and\n his working model.\n\n\n It would go down in scientific\n literature now, I suppose, as Houlihan's\n Equation, and that was honor\n and glory enough for me. I could\n do without Keech's pot of gold,\n though it would have been pleasant\n to be truly rich for a change.\n\n\n There was no sense in cheating\n him out of the gold to boot, for\n leprechauns are most clever in matters\n of this sort and he would have\n had it back soon enough—or else\n made it a burden in some way.", "On the sixteenth day I covered a\n piece of paper with tiny mathematical\n symbols and handed it to Keech.\n \"Here is your equation,\" I said. \"It\n will enable you to know your thrust\n at any given moment, under any\n circumstances, in or out of gravity,\n and under all conditions of friction\n and combustion.\"\n\n\n \"Thank you, Mr. Houlihan,\" said\n Keech. All his people had gathered\n in a loose circle, as though attending\n a rite. They were all looking at\n me quietly.\n\n\n \"Mr. Houlihan,\" said Keech,\n \"you will not be forgotten by the\n leprechauns. If we ever meet again,\n upon another world perchance,\n you'll find our friendship always\n eager and ready.\"\n\n\n \"Thank you,\" I said.", "\"Come along now, people!\" said\n this crotchety one, looking straight\n at me. \"Stop starin' and get to\n work! You'll not be needin' to\n mind that man standin' there! You\n know he can't see nor hear us!\"\n\n\n Oh, it was good to hear the rich\n old tongue again. I smiled, and the\n foreman of the leprechauns—if\n that's what he was—saw me smile\n and became stiff and alert for a moment,\n as though suspecting that perhaps\n I actually could see him. Then\n he shrugged and turned away, clearly\n deeming such a thing impossible.\n\n\n I said, \"Just a minute, friend,\n and I'll beg your pardon. It so happens\n I\ncan\nsee you.\"\n\n\n He whirled to face me again,\n staring open-mouthed. Then he\n said, \"What? What's that, now?\"", "Perhaps you had better take my\n word for it that without this equation—correctly\n stated, mind you—mankind\n would be well advised not\n to make a first trip to the moon.\n And all this talk of coefficients and\n equations sits strangely, you might\n say, upon the tongue of a man\n named Kevin Francis Houlihan.\n But I am, after all, a scientist. If I\n had not been a specialist in my field\n I would hardly have found myself\n engaged in vital research at the\n center.\n\n\n Anyway, I heard these little\n noises in the park. They sounded\n like small working sounds, blending\n in eerily mysterious fashion with a\n chorus of small voices. I thought at\n first it might be children at play,\n but then at the time I was a bit\n absent-minded. I tiptoed to the edge\n of the trees, not wanting to deprive\n any small scalawags of their pleasure,\n and peered out between the\n branches. And what do you suppose\n I saw? Not children, but a\n group of little people, hard at work.", "Every writer must seek his own Flowery Kingdom in imagination's wide\n demesne, and if that search can begin and end on Earth his problem has\n been greatly simplified. In post-war Japan Walt Sheldon has found not only\n serenity, but complete freedom to write undisturbed about the things he\n treasures most. A one-time Air Force officer, he has turned to fantasy in\n his lighter moments, to bring us such brightly sparkling little gems as this.\nhoulihan's\n \nequation\nby ... Walt Sheldon\nThe tiny spaceship had been built for a journey to a star. But its\n small, mischievous pilots had a rendezvous with destiny—on Earth.\nI must\n admit that at first I\n wasn't sure I was hearing those", "I walked over to the center of\n the glade where the curious shiny\n object was standing. It was as\n smooth as glass and shaped like a\n huge cigar. There were a pair of\n triangular fins down at the bottom,\n and stubby wings amidships. Of\n course it was a spaceship, or a\n miniature replica of one. I looked\n at it more closely. Everything seemed\n almost miraculously complete\n and workable.\n\n\n I shook my head in wonder, then\n stepped back from the spaceship\n and looked about the glade. I knew\n they were all hiding nearby, watching\n me apprehensively. I lifted my\n head to them.\n\n\n \"Listen to me now, little people!\"\n I called out. \"My name's\n Houlihan of the Roscommon Houlihans.\n I am descended from King\n Niall himself—or so at least my\n father used to say! Come on out\n now, and pass the time o' day!\"", "Now it was a place I came to\n when I had a problem to thrash out.\n That morning I had been trying to\n work out an equation to give the\n coefficient of discharge for the matter\n in combustion. You may call it\n gas, if you wish, for we treated it\n like gas at the center for convenience—as\n it came from the rocket\n tubes in our engine.\n\n\n Without this coefficient to give\n us control, we would have lacked a\n workable equation when we set\n about putting the first moon rocket\n around those extraordinary engines\n of ours, which were still in the undeveloped\n blueprint stage.", "\"I can see you,\" I said.\n\n\n \"Ohhh!\" he said and put his\n palms to his cheekbones. \"Saints be\n with us! He's a believer! Run everybody—run\n for your lives!\"\n\n\n And they all began running, in\n as many directions as there were\n little souls. They began to scurry\n behind the trees and bushes, and a\n sloping embankment nearby.\n\n\n \"No, wait!\" I said. \"Don't go\n away! I'll not be hurting you!\"\n\n\n They continued to scurry.\n\n\n I knew what it was they feared.\n \"I don't intend catching one of\n you!\" I said. \"Come back, you daft\n little creatures!\"", "It was a most fascinating session.\n I had often wished for a true working\n model at the center, but no allowance\n had been inserted in the\n budget for it. Keech brought me\n paper and pencil and I talked with\n the aid of diagrams, as engineers\n are wont to do. Although the pencils\n were small and I had to hold\n them between thumb and forefinger,\n as you would a needle, I was\n able to make many sensible observations\n and even a few innovations.\n\n\n I came back again the next day—and\n every day for the following\n two weeks. It rained several times,\n but Keech and his people made a\n canopy of boughs and leaves and I\n was comfortable enough. Every once\n in a while someone from the town\n or the center itself would pass by,\n and stop to watch me. But of course\n they wouldn't see the leprechauns\n or anything the leprechauns had\n made, not being believers.", "\"I am surprised from time to\n time to find myself here,\" I said.\n \"But continue.\"\n\n\n \"We had to come here,\" said\n Keech, \"to learn how to make a\n spaceship.\"\n\n\n \"A spaceship, now,\" I said, unconsciously\n adopting some of the\n old manner.\n\n\n \"Leprechauns are not really mechanically\n inclined,\" said Keech.\n \"Their major passions are music\n and laughter and mischief, as anyone\n knows.\"\n\n\n \"Myself included,\" I agreed.\n \"Then why do you need a spaceship?\"\n\n\n \"Well, if I may use an old expression,\n we've had a feelin' lately\n that we're not long for this world.\n Or let me put it this way. We feel\n the world isn't long for itself.\"", "noises. It was in a park near the\n nuclear propulsion center—a cool,\n green spot, with the leaves all telling\n each other to hush, be quiet,\n and the soft breeze stirring them up\n again. I had known precisely such\n a secluded little green sanctuary just\n over the hill from Mr. Riordan's\n farm when I was a boy." ] ]
valid	63401	[ "What was the main reason Jonathan decided to stay on the asteroid?", "What caused Jonathan's spaceship to wreck?", "Why did Ann smile when she met Jonathan?", "Why was Ann worried after she met Jonathan?", "Why did Jonathan fight with Ann?", "Why was Jonathan ashamed when the second girl showed up?", "Why did Jonathan walk when he was injured?", "Why was Jonathan relieved when he entered the spaceship?", "Why did Jonathan laugh at the scientist?" ]	[ [ "His spaceship had wrecked", "He wanted to grow tobacco", "He wanted to smoke cigarettes", "He wanted to be the only man surrounded by women" ], [ "He slept all the way to Jupiter", "The automatic deflectors engaged", "An asteroid entered his autopilot course", "His co-pilot was sick" ], [ "She thought he was there to rescue her", "She knew he thought she was pretty", "She had thought he was dead", "She hadn't seen a man in 3 years" ], [ "She thought they might get captured by local inhabitants", "They were traveling through a meteor field", "She saw Jonathan was covered in bruises", "She could tell Jonathan was uncomfortable" ], [ "He wanted to wrench away her spear", "He didn't want to be held captive by 27 women", "She didn't want him to smoke", "He wanted to go back for his possessions" ], [ "He had attacked a woman", "He was embarrassed by her beauty", "She was wearing a sarong", "He was injured and weak" ], [ "He was trying to maintain what little self-respect he had left", "He was 30 times stronger than on Earth", "He was not afraid", "He thought he could escape" ], [ "He felt comfortable in familiar surroundings", "The women were polite to him", "He was starved and ready to eat", "He thought he could escape like a mouse" ], [ "Because the scientist didn't know how to grow tobacco", "Because the scientist had a nose like a hawk", "Because the scientist was in a hurry to leave", "Because the scientist made such a wrong assumption about him" ] ]	[ 4, 3, 4, 1, 4, 1, 1, 1, 4 ]	[ 0, 0, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 1 ]	[ [ "\"But it will be three years before the asteroid's orbit brings it back\n in the space lanes,\" said Doctor Boynton. \"You don't possibly expect to\n be picked up before then!\"\n\n\n Jonathan shook his head, began to load himself with tools, tobacco\n seed, and cigarettes.\n\n\n \"Odd.\" Doctor Boynton shook his head, turned to the others. \"Though if\n I remember correctly, there was quite an epidemic of hermits during\n the medieval period. It was an esthetic movement. They fled to the\n wilderness to escape the temptation of\nwomen\n.\"\n\n\n Jonathan laughed outright.\n\n\n \"You are sure you won't return, young man?\"", "\"I say,\" said the man who had run out of the cruiser. He was a prim,\n energetic young man. Jonathan noted that he carried the ray gun\n gingerly, respectfully. \"We're a week overdue now,\" he said. \"If you\n have any personal belongings that you'd like to take with you, you'd\n best be getting them aboard.\"\nJonathan's face broke into a grin. He said, \"Do any of you know how to\n grow tobacco?\"\n\n\n They glanced at each other in perplexity.\n\n\n \"I like it here,\" continued Jonathan. \"I'm not going back.\"\n\n\n \"What?\" cried the three explorers in one breath.\n\n\n \"I'm going to stay,\" he repeated. \"I only came back here after the\n cigarettes.\"", "He shook his head. They argued, they cajoled, but Jonathan was adamant.\n He said, \"You might report my accident to Universal. Tell them to stop\n one of their Jupiter-bound freighters here when the asteroid swings\n back in the space ways. I'll have a load for them.\"\n\n\n Inside the ship, Doctor Boynton moved over to a round transparent port\n hole. \"What a strange fellow,\" he murmured. He was just in time to see\n the castaway, loaded like a pack mule, disappear in the direction from\n which he had come.\n\n\n Robinson Crusoe was going back to his man (?) Friday—all twenty-seven\n of them.", "They climbed a ridge, paused at the crest. Below them, he saw a deep\n valley. A stream tumbled through the center of it. There were trees\n along its banks, the first he had seen on the asteroid. At the head of\n the valley, he made out the massive pile of a space liner.\n\n\n They started down a winding path. The space liner disappeared behind\n a promontory of the mountain. Jonathan steeled himself for the coming\n ordeal. He would have sat down and refused to budge except that he knew\n the girls would hoist him on their shoulders and bear him into the camp\n like a bag of meal.\n\n\n The trail debouched into the valley. Just ahead the space liner\n reappeared. He imagined that it had crashed into the mountain, skidded\n and rolled down its side until it lodged beside the stream. It reminded\n him of a wounded dinosaur. Three girls were bathing in the stream. He\n looked away hastily.\n\n\n Someone hailed them from the space ship.", "He shook his head. \"No,\" he reassured her. \"I left him on Mars. He\n had an attack of space sickness. I was all by myself; that was the\n trouble. I'd stay at the controls as long as I could, then lock her on\n her course and snatch a couple of hours' sleep. I can remember crawling\n into my bunk. The next thing I knew you were bending over me.\" He\n paused. \"I guess the automatic deflectors slowed me up or I would have\n been a cinder by this time,\" he said.\n\n\n The girl didn't reply. She continued to watch him, a faint enigmatic\n smile on her lips. Jonathan glanced away in embarrassment. He wished\n that pretty women didn't upset him so. He said nervously, \"Where am I?\n I couldn't have slept all the way to Jupiter.\"\n\n\n The girl shrugged her shoulders.\n\n\n \"I don't know.\"", "\"You don't know!\" He almost forgot his self-consciousness in his\n surprise. His pale blue eyes returned to the landscape. A mile across\n the plain began a range of jagged foothills, which tossed upward\n higher and higher until they merged with the blue saw-edge of a chain\n of mountains. As he looked a puff of smoke belched from a truncated\n cone-shaped peak. A volcano. Otherwise there was no sign of life: just\n he and the strange yellow-headed girl alone in the center of that vast\n rolling prairie.\n\n\n \"I was going to explain,\" he heard her say. \"We think that we are on an\n asteroid.\"\n\n\n \"We?\" he looked back at her.\n\n\n \"Yes. There are twenty-seven of us. We were on our way to Jupiter, too,\n only we were going to be wives for the colonists.\"", "\"I remember,\" he exclaimed. \"Didn't the Jupiter Food-growers\n Association enlist you girls to go to the colonies?\"\n\n\n She nodded her head. \"Only twenty-seven of us came through the crash.\"\n\n\n \"Everybody thought your space ship hit a meteor,\" he said.\n\n\n \"We hit this asteroid.\"\n\n\n \"But that was three years ago.\"\n\n\n \"Has it been that long? We lost track of time.\" She didn't take her\n eyes off him, not for a second. Such attention made him acutely self\n conscious. She said, \"I'm Ann. Ann Clotilde. I was hunting when I saw\n your space ship. You had been thrown clear. You were lying all in a\n heap. I thought you were dead.\" She stooped, picked up a spear.", "Jonathan never stopped until he was back in the canyon leading to the\n plain. His nerves were jumping like fleas. He craved the soothing\n relaxation of a smoke. There was, he remembered, a carton of cigarettes\n at the wreck. He resumed his flight, but at a more sober pace.\n\n\n At the spot where he and Ann had first crawled away from the centaurs,\n he scrambled out of the gulley, glanced in the direction of his space\n ship. He blinked his eyes, stared. Then he waved his arms, shouted and\n tore across the prairie. A trim space cruiser was resting beside the\n wreck of his own. Across its gleaming monaloid hull ran an inscription\n in silver letters: \"INTERSTELLAR COSMOGRAPHY SOCIETY.\"\n\n\n Two men crawled out of Jonathan's wrecked freighter, glanced in\n surprise at Jonathan. A third man ran from the cruiser, a Dixon Ray\n Rifle in his hand.", "He let himself to his hands and knees. \"Ouch!\" he said. He felt like\n he was being jabbed with pins. He must be one big bruise. He scuttled\n after the girl. \"What's wrong?\"\n\n\n The girl looked back at him over her shoulder. \"Centaurs!\" she said. \"I\n didn't know they had returned. There is a small ravine just ahead which\n leads into the hills. I don't think they've seen us. If we can reach\n the hills we'll be safe.\"\n\n\n \"Centaurs! Isn't there anything new under the sun?\"\n\n\n \"Well, personally,\" she replied, \"I never saw a Centaur until I was\n wrecked on this asteroid.\" She reached the ravine, crawled head\n foremost over the edge. Jonathan tumbled after her. He hit the bottom,\n winced, scrambled to his feet. The girl started at a trot for the\n hills. Jonathan, groaning at each step, hobbled beside her.", "He considered the question. More than anything else, he decided, he\n wanted to sleep. \"What?\" he said.\n\n\n \"Is there any possibility of repairing your ship?\" repeated Billy.\n\n\n \"Not outside the space docks.\"\n\n\n They expelled their breath, but not for an instant did they relax\n the barrage of their eyes. He shifted position in embarrassment. The\n movement pulled his muscles like a rack. Furthermore, an overpowering\n lassitude was threatening to pop him off to sleep before their eyes.\n\n\n \"You look exhausted,\" said Ann.\n\n\n Jonathan dragged himself back from the edge of sleep. \"Just tired,\" he\n mumbled. \"Haven't had a good night's rest since I left Mars.\" Indeed\n it was only by the most painful effort that he kept awake at all. His\n eyelids drooped lower and lower.", "\"I'm Jonathan Fawkes,\" said the castaway as he panted up, \"pilot for\n Universal. I was wrecked.\"\n\n\n A tall elderly man held out his hand. He had a small black waxed\n mustache and Van Dyke. He was smoking a venusian cigarette in a\n yellow composition holder. He said, \"I'm Doctor Boynton.\" He had a\n rich cultivated voice, and a nose like a hawk. \"We are members of the\n Interstellar Cosmography Society. We've been commissioned to make a\n cursory examination of this asteroid. You had a nasty crack up, Mr.\n Fawkes. But you are in luck, sir. We were on the point of returning\n when we sighted the wreck.\"", "The next day found Jonathan Fawkes hobbling around by the aid of a\n cane. At the portal of the space ship, he stuck out his head, glanced\n all around warily. None of the girls were in sight. They had, he\n presumed, gone about their chores: hunting, fishing, gathering fruits\n and berries. He emerged all the way and set out for the creek. He\n walked with an exaggerated limp just in case any of them should be\n hanging around. As long as he was an invalid he was safe, he hoped.\n\n\n He sighed. Not every man could be waited on so solicitously by\n twenty-seven handsome strapping amazons. He wished he could carry it\n off in cavalier fashion. He hobbled to the creek, sat down beneath the\n shade of a tree. He just wasn't the type, he supposed. And it might be\n years before they were rescued.", "Amazons and centaurs, he thought again. He couldn't get the problem\n of the girls' phenomenal strength out of his mind. Then it occurred\n to him that the asteroid, most likely, was smaller even than Earth's\n moon. He must weigh about a thirtieth of what he usually did, due to\n the lessened gravity. It also occurred to him that they would be thirty\n times as strong. He was staggered. He wished he had a smoke.\n\n\n At length, the amazons and the centaurs tired of bandying insults\n back and forth. The centaurs galloped off into the prairie, the girls\n resumed their march. Jonathan scrambled up hills, skidded down slopes.\n The brunette was beside him helping him over the rough spots.\n\n\n \"I'm Olga,\" she confided. \"Has anybody ever told you what a handsome\n fellow you are?\" She pinched his cheek. Jonathan blushed.", "The girl shook her head. \"We ran out of tobacco the first few months we\n were here.\"\n\n\n Jonathan turned around, started back for the space ship.\n\n\n \"Where are you going?\" cried Ann in alarm.\n\n\n He said, \"I've got a couple of cartons of cigarettes back at the\n freighter. Centaurs or no centaurs, I'm going to get a smoke.\"\n\n\n \"No!\" She clutched his arm. He was surprised at the strength of her\n grip. \"They'd kill you,\" she said.\n\n\n \"I can sneak back,\" he insisted stubbornly. \"They might loot the ship.\n I don't want to lose those cigarettes. I was hauling some good burley\n tobacco seed too. The colonists were going to experiment with it on\n Ganymede.\"\n\n\n \"No!\"", "\"I did,\" said Olga. She chucked Jonathan under the chin. He shivered\n like an unbroken colt when the bit first goes in its mouth. He felt\n like a mouse hemmed in by a ring of cats.\n\n\n A big rawboned brute of a girl strolled into the circle. She said,\n \"Dinner's ready.\" Her voice was loud, strident. It reminded him of\n the voices of girls in the honky tonks on Venus. She looked at him\n appraisingly as if he were a horse she was about to bid on. \"Bring him\n into the ship,\" she said. \"The man must be starved.\"\n\n\n He was propelled jubilantly into the palatial dining salon of the\n wrecked liner. A long polished meturilium table occupied the center of\n the floor. Automatic weight distributing chairs stood around it. His\n feet sank into a green fiberon carpet. He had stepped back into the\n Thirty-fourth Century from the fabulous barbarian past.", "Jonathan was game, but the nine husky amazons pinned him down by sheer\n weight. They bound him hand and foot. Then four of them picked him up\n bodily, started up the canyon chanting: \"\nHe was a rocket riding daddy\n from Mars.\n\" He recognized it as a popular song of three years ago.\n\n\n Jonathan had never been so humiliated in his life. He was known in the\n spaceways from Mercury to Jupiter as a man to leave alone. His nose had\n been broken three times. A thin white scar crawled down the bronze of\n his left cheek, relic of a barroom brawl on Venus. He was big, rangy,\n tough. And these girls had trounced him. Girls! He almost wept from\n mortification.\n\n\n He said, \"Put me down. I'll walk.\"\n\n\n \"You won't try to get away?\" said Ann.", "Jonathan's hair stood on end. He felt rather than saw Ann Clotilde take\n her stand beside him. He noticed that she was holding her spear at a\n menacing angle. She said in an angry voice: \"He's mine. I found him.\n Leave him alone.\"\n\n\n \"Where do you get that stuff?\" cried Olga. \"Share and share alike, say\n I.\"\n\n\n \"We could draw straws for him,\" suggested the green-eyed blonde.\n\n\n \"Look here,\" Jonathan broke in. \"I've got some say in the matter.\"\n\n\n \"You have not,\" snapped Billy. \"You'll do just as we say.\" She took a\n step toward him.\n\n\n Jonathan edged away in consternation.\n\n\n \"He's going to run!\" Olga shouted.", "With a sigh of relief, he started to sit down. A lithe red-head sprang\n forward and held his chair. They all waited politely for him to be\n seated before they took their places. He felt silly. He felt like\n a captive princess. All the confidence engendered by the familiar\n settings of the space ship went out of him like wind. He, Jonathan\n Fawkes, was a castaway on an asteroid inhabited by twenty-seven wild\n women.\nAs the meal boisterously progressed, he regained sufficient courage\n to glance timidly around. Directly across the table sat a striking,\n grey-eyed girl whose brown hair was coiled severely about her head. She\n looked to him like a stenographer. He watched horrified as she seized\n a whole roast fowl, tore it apart with her fingers, gnawed a leg. She\n caught him staring at her and rolled her eyes at him. He returned his\n gaze to his plate.\n\n\n Olga said: \"Hey, Sultan.\"", "She pointed to the wreck of a small space freighter a dozen feet away.\n Its nose was buried in the turf, folded back like an accordion. It\n had burst open like a ripe watermelon. He was surprised that he had\n survived at all. He scratched his head. \"I was running from Mars to\n Jupiter with a load of seed for the colonists.\"\n\n\n \"Oh!\" said the girl, biting her lips. \"Your co-pilot must be in the\n wreckage.\"", "\"Quiet!\" She shrieked in her loud strident voice. \"Let him be. He can't\n go anywhere for a few days. He's just been through a wreck. He needs\n rest.\" She turned to Jonathan who had shrunk down in his chair. \"How\n about some roast?\" she said.\n\n\n \"No.\" He pushed back his plate with a sigh. \"If I only had a smoke.\"\n\n\n Olga gave her unruly black hair a flirt. \"Isn't that just like a man?\"\n\n\n \"I wouldn't know,\" said the green-eyed blonde. \"I've forgotten what\n they're like.\"\n\n\n Billy said, \"How badly wrecked is your ship?\"\n\n\n \"It's strewn all over the landscape,\" he replied sleepily.\n\n\n \"Is there any chance of patching it up?\"" ], [ "Jonathan never stopped until he was back in the canyon leading to the\n plain. His nerves were jumping like fleas. He craved the soothing\n relaxation of a smoke. There was, he remembered, a carton of cigarettes\n at the wreck. He resumed his flight, but at a more sober pace.\n\n\n At the spot where he and Ann had first crawled away from the centaurs,\n he scrambled out of the gulley, glanced in the direction of his space\n ship. He blinked his eyes, stared. Then he waved his arms, shouted and\n tore across the prairie. A trim space cruiser was resting beside the\n wreck of his own. Across its gleaming monaloid hull ran an inscription\n in silver letters: \"INTERSTELLAR COSMOGRAPHY SOCIETY.\"\n\n\n Two men crawled out of Jonathan's wrecked freighter, glanced in\n surprise at Jonathan. A third man ran from the cruiser, a Dixon Ray\n Rifle in his hand.", "She pointed to the wreck of a small space freighter a dozen feet away.\n Its nose was buried in the turf, folded back like an accordion. It\n had burst open like a ripe watermelon. He was surprised that he had\n survived at all. He scratched his head. \"I was running from Mars to\n Jupiter with a load of seed for the colonists.\"\n\n\n \"Oh!\" said the girl, biting her lips. \"Your co-pilot must be in the\n wreckage.\"", "He shook his head. \"No,\" he reassured her. \"I left him on Mars. He\n had an attack of space sickness. I was all by myself; that was the\n trouble. I'd stay at the controls as long as I could, then lock her on\n her course and snatch a couple of hours' sleep. I can remember crawling\n into my bunk. The next thing I knew you were bending over me.\" He\n paused. \"I guess the automatic deflectors slowed me up or I would have\n been a cinder by this time,\" he said.\n\n\n The girl didn't reply. She continued to watch him, a faint enigmatic\n smile on her lips. Jonathan glanced away in embarrassment. He wished\n that pretty women didn't upset him so. He said nervously, \"Where am I?\n I couldn't have slept all the way to Jupiter.\"\n\n\n The girl shrugged her shoulders.\n\n\n \"I don't know.\"", "\"Quiet!\" She shrieked in her loud strident voice. \"Let him be. He can't\n go anywhere for a few days. He's just been through a wreck. He needs\n rest.\" She turned to Jonathan who had shrunk down in his chair. \"How\n about some roast?\" she said.\n\n\n \"No.\" He pushed back his plate with a sigh. \"If I only had a smoke.\"\n\n\n Olga gave her unruly black hair a flirt. \"Isn't that just like a man?\"\n\n\n \"I wouldn't know,\" said the green-eyed blonde. \"I've forgotten what\n they're like.\"\n\n\n Billy said, \"How badly wrecked is your ship?\"\n\n\n \"It's strewn all over the landscape,\" he replied sleepily.\n\n\n \"Is there any chance of patching it up?\"", "\"I'm Jonathan Fawkes,\" said the castaway as he panted up, \"pilot for\n Universal. I was wrecked.\"\n\n\n A tall elderly man held out his hand. He had a small black waxed\n mustache and Van Dyke. He was smoking a venusian cigarette in a\n yellow composition holder. He said, \"I'm Doctor Boynton.\" He had a\n rich cultivated voice, and a nose like a hawk. \"We are members of the\n Interstellar Cosmography Society. We've been commissioned to make a\n cursory examination of this asteroid. You had a nasty crack up, Mr.\n Fawkes. But you are in luck, sir. We were on the point of returning\n when we sighted the wreck.\"", "\"I remember,\" he exclaimed. \"Didn't the Jupiter Food-growers\n Association enlist you girls to go to the colonies?\"\n\n\n She nodded her head. \"Only twenty-seven of us came through the crash.\"\n\n\n \"Everybody thought your space ship hit a meteor,\" he said.\n\n\n \"We hit this asteroid.\"\n\n\n \"But that was three years ago.\"\n\n\n \"Has it been that long? We lost track of time.\" She didn't take her\n eyes off him, not for a second. Such attention made him acutely self\n conscious. She said, \"I'm Ann. Ann Clotilde. I was hunting when I saw\n your space ship. You had been thrown clear. You were lying all in a\n heap. I thought you were dead.\" She stooped, picked up a spear.", "He shook his head. They argued, they cajoled, but Jonathan was adamant.\n He said, \"You might report my accident to Universal. Tell them to stop\n one of their Jupiter-bound freighters here when the asteroid swings\n back in the space ways. I'll have a load for them.\"\n\n\n Inside the ship, Doctor Boynton moved over to a round transparent port\n hole. \"What a strange fellow,\" he murmured. He was just in time to see\n the castaway, loaded like a pack mule, disappear in the direction from\n which he had come.\n\n\n Robinson Crusoe was going back to his man (?) Friday—all twenty-seven\n of them.", "\"You're not dead?\"\n\n\n \"I've some doubt about that,\" he replied dryly. He levered himself to\n his elbows. The girl, he saw, had bright yellow hair. Her nose was\n pert, tip-tilted. She had on a ragged blue frock and sandals.\n\n\n \"Is—is anything broken?\" she asked.\n\n\n \"Don't know. Help me up.\" Between them he managed to struggle to his\n feet. He winced. He said, \"My name's Jonathan Fawkes. I'm a space pilot\n with Universal. What happened? I feel like I'd been poured out of a\n concrete mixer.\"", "He considered the question. More than anything else, he decided, he\n wanted to sleep. \"What?\" he said.\n\n\n \"Is there any possibility of repairing your ship?\" repeated Billy.\n\n\n \"Not outside the space docks.\"\n\n\n They expelled their breath, but not for an instant did they relax\n the barrage of their eyes. He shifted position in embarrassment. The\n movement pulled his muscles like a rack. Furthermore, an overpowering\n lassitude was threatening to pop him off to sleep before their eyes.\n\n\n \"You look exhausted,\" said Ann.\n\n\n Jonathan dragged himself back from the edge of sleep. \"Just tired,\" he\n mumbled. \"Haven't had a good night's rest since I left Mars.\" Indeed\n it was only by the most painful effort that he kept awake at all. His\n eyelids drooped lower and lower.", "\"But it will be three years before the asteroid's orbit brings it back\n in the space lanes,\" said Doctor Boynton. \"You don't possibly expect to\n be picked up before then!\"\n\n\n Jonathan shook his head, began to load himself with tools, tobacco\n seed, and cigarettes.\n\n\n \"Odd.\" Doctor Boynton shook his head, turned to the others. \"Though if\n I remember correctly, there was quite an epidemic of hermits during\n the medieval period. It was an esthetic movement. They fled to the\n wilderness to escape the temptation of\nwomen\n.\"\n\n\n Jonathan laughed outright.\n\n\n \"You are sure you won't return, young man?\"", "They climbed a ridge, paused at the crest. Below them, he saw a deep\n valley. A stream tumbled through the center of it. There were trees\n along its banks, the first he had seen on the asteroid. At the head of\n the valley, he made out the massive pile of a space liner.\n\n\n They started down a winding path. The space liner disappeared behind\n a promontory of the mountain. Jonathan steeled himself for the coming\n ordeal. He would have sat down and refused to budge except that he knew\n the girls would hoist him on their shoulders and bear him into the camp\n like a bag of meal.\n\n\n The trail debouched into the valley. Just ahead the space liner\n reappeared. He imagined that it had crashed into the mountain, skidded\n and rolled down its side until it lodged beside the stream. It reminded\n him of a wounded dinosaur. Three girls were bathing in the stream. He\n looked away hastily.\n\n\n Someone hailed them from the space ship.", "The next day found Jonathan Fawkes hobbling around by the aid of a\n cane. At the portal of the space ship, he stuck out his head, glanced\n all around warily. None of the girls were in sight. They had, he\n presumed, gone about their chores: hunting, fishing, gathering fruits\n and berries. He emerged all the way and set out for the creek. He\n walked with an exaggerated limp just in case any of them should be\n hanging around. As long as he was an invalid he was safe, he hoped.\n\n\n He sighed. Not every man could be waited on so solicitously by\n twenty-seven handsome strapping amazons. He wished he could carry it\n off in cavalier fashion. He hobbled to the creek, sat down beneath the\n shade of a tree. He just wasn't the type, he supposed. And it might be\n years before they were rescued.", "\"I did,\" said Olga. She chucked Jonathan under the chin. He shivered\n like an unbroken colt when the bit first goes in its mouth. He felt\n like a mouse hemmed in by a ring of cats.\n\n\n A big rawboned brute of a girl strolled into the circle. She said,\n \"Dinner's ready.\" Her voice was loud, strident. It reminded him of\n the voices of girls in the honky tonks on Venus. She looked at him\n appraisingly as if he were a horse she was about to bid on. \"Bring him\n into the ship,\" she said. \"The man must be starved.\"\n\n\n He was propelled jubilantly into the palatial dining salon of the\n wrecked liner. A long polished meturilium table occupied the center of\n the floor. Automatic weight distributing chairs stood around it. His\n feet sank into a green fiberon carpet. He had stepped back into the\n Thirty-fourth Century from the fabulous barbarian past.", "He let himself to his hands and knees. \"Ouch!\" he said. He felt like\n he was being jabbed with pins. He must be one big bruise. He scuttled\n after the girl. \"What's wrong?\"\n\n\n The girl looked back at him over her shoulder. \"Centaurs!\" she said. \"I\n didn't know they had returned. There is a small ravine just ahead which\n leads into the hills. I don't think they've seen us. If we can reach\n the hills we'll be safe.\"\n\n\n \"Centaurs! Isn't there anything new under the sun?\"\n\n\n \"Well, personally,\" she replied, \"I never saw a Centaur until I was\n wrecked on this asteroid.\" She reached the ravine, crawled head\n foremost over the edge. Jonathan tumbled after her. He hit the bottom,\n winced, scrambled to his feet. The girl started at a trot for the\n hills. Jonathan, groaning at each step, hobbled beside her.", "\"Do you feel strong enough to hike back to our camp? It's only about\n four miles,\" she said.\n\n\n \"I think so,\" he said.\nJonathan Fawkes fidgeted uncomfortably. He would rather pilot a space\n ship through a meteor field than face twenty-seven young women. They\n were the only thing in the Spaceways of which he was in awe. Then he\n realized that the girl's dark blue eyes had strayed beyond him. A frown\n of concentration marred her regular features. He turned around.\n\n\n On the rim of the prairie he saw a dozen black specks moving toward\n them.\n\n\n She said: \"Get down!\" Her voice was agitated. She flung herself on her\n stomach and began to crawl away from the wreck. Jonathan Fawkes stared\n after her stupidly. \"Get down!\" she reiterated in a furious voice.", "The girl shook her head. \"We ran out of tobacco the first few months we\n were here.\"\n\n\n Jonathan turned around, started back for the space ship.\n\n\n \"Where are you going?\" cried Ann in alarm.\n\n\n He said, \"I've got a couple of cartons of cigarettes back at the\n freighter. Centaurs or no centaurs, I'm going to get a smoke.\"\n\n\n \"No!\" She clutched his arm. He was surprised at the strength of her\n grip. \"They'd kill you,\" she said.\n\n\n \"I can sneak back,\" he insisted stubbornly. \"They might loot the ship.\n I don't want to lose those cigarettes. I was hauling some good burley\n tobacco seed too. The colonists were going to experiment with it on\n Ganymede.\"\n\n\n \"No!\"", "\"I say,\" said the man who had run out of the cruiser. He was a prim,\n energetic young man. Jonathan noted that he carried the ray gun\n gingerly, respectfully. \"We're a week overdue now,\" he said. \"If you\n have any personal belongings that you'd like to take with you, you'd\n best be getting them aboard.\"\nJonathan's face broke into a grin. He said, \"Do any of you know how to\n grow tobacco?\"\n\n\n They glanced at each other in perplexity.\n\n\n \"I like it here,\" continued Jonathan. \"I'm not going back.\"\n\n\n \"What?\" cried the three explorers in one breath.\n\n\n \"I'm going to stay,\" he repeated. \"I only came back here after the\n cigarettes.\"", "\"You don't know!\" He almost forgot his self-consciousness in his\n surprise. His pale blue eyes returned to the landscape. A mile across\n the plain began a range of jagged foothills, which tossed upward\n higher and higher until they merged with the blue saw-edge of a chain\n of mountains. As he looked a puff of smoke belched from a truncated\n cone-shaped peak. A volcano. Otherwise there was no sign of life: just\n he and the strange yellow-headed girl alone in the center of that vast\n rolling prairie.\n\n\n \"I was going to explain,\" he heard her say. \"We think that we are on an\n asteroid.\"\n\n\n \"We?\" he looked back at her.\n\n\n \"Yes. There are twenty-seven of us. We were on our way to Jupiter, too,\n only we were going to be wives for the colonists.\"", "The Happy Castaway\nBY ROBERT E. McDOWELL\n\n\n Being space-wrecked and marooned is tough\n\n enough. But to face the horrors of such a\n\n planet as this was too much. Imagine Fawkes'\n\n terrible predicament; plenty of food—and\n\n twenty seven beautiful girls for companions.\n\n\n [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Planet Stories Spring 1945.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nJonathan Fawkes opened his eyes. He was flat on his back, and a girl\n was bending over him. He detected a frightened expression on the\n girl's face. His pale blue eyes traveled upward beyond the girl. The\n sky was his roof, yet he distinctly remembered going to sleep on his\n bunk aboard the space ship.", "They flushed a small furry creature from behind a bush. As it sped\n away, it resembled a cottontail of Earth. The girl whipped back her\n arm, flung the spear. It transfixed the rodent. She picked it up, tied\n it to her waist. Jonathan gaped. Such strength and accuracy astounded\n him. He thought, amazons and centaurs. He thought, but this is the year\n 3372; not the time of ancient Greece.\n\n\n The canyon bore to the left. It grew rougher, the walls more\n precipitate. Jonathan limped to a halt. High boots and breeches, the\n uniform of Universal's space pilots, hadn't been designed for walking.\n \"Hold on,\" he said. He felt in his pockets, withdrew an empty cigarette\n package, crumpled it and hurled it to the ground.\n\n\n \"You got a cigarette?\" he asked without much hope." ], [ "\"Don't get up because of me,\" she informed him. \"It's my turn to cook,\n but I saw you out here beneath the trees. Dinner can wait. Jonathan do\n you know that you are irresistible?\" She seized his shoulders, stared\n into his eyes. He couldn't have felt any more uncomfortable had a\n hungry boa constrictor draped itself in his arms. He mopped his brow\n with his sleeve.\n\n\n \"Suppose the rest should come,\" he said in an embarrassed voice.\n\n\n \"They're busy. They won't be here until I call them to lunch. Your\n eyes,\" she said, \"are like deep mysterious pools.\"\n\n\n \"Sure enough?\" said Jonathan with involuntary interest. He began to\n recover his nerve.\n\n\n She said, \"You're the best looking thing.\" She rumpled his hair. \"I\n can't keep my eyes off you.\"", "Jonathan put his arm around her gingerly. \"Ouch!\" He winced. He had\n forgotten his sore muscles.\n\n\n \"I forgot,\" said Ann Clotilde in a contrite voice. She tried to rise.\n \"You're hurt.\"\n\n\n He pulled her back down. \"Not so you could notice it,\" he grinned.\n\n\n \"Well!\" came the strident voice of Billy from behind them. \"We're\nall\nglad to hear that!\"\nJonathan leaped to his feet, dumping Ann to the ground. He jerked\n around. All twenty-six of the girls were lined up on the path. Their\n features were grim. He said: \"I don't feel so well after all.\"\n\n\n \"It don't wash,\" said Billy. \"It's time for a showdown.\"", "\"I'm not afraid,\" said Jonathan hotly. To prove it he trod the narrow\n ledge with scorn. His foot struck a pebble. Both feet went out from\n under him. He slithered halfway over the edge. For one sickening moment\n he thought he was gone, then Ann grabbed him by the scruff of his neck,\n hauled him back to safety. He lay gasping on his stomach. They tied a\n rope around his waist then, and led him the rest of the way to the top\n like a baby on a leash. He was too crestfallen to resent it.\n\n\n The trail came out on a high ridge. They paused on a bluff overlooking\n the prairie.\n\n\n \"Look!\" cried Ann pointing over the edge.", "Jonathan never stopped until he was back in the canyon leading to the\n plain. His nerves were jumping like fleas. He craved the soothing\n relaxation of a smoke. There was, he remembered, a carton of cigarettes\n at the wreck. He resumed his flight, but at a more sober pace.\n\n\n At the spot where he and Ann had first crawled away from the centaurs,\n he scrambled out of the gulley, glanced in the direction of his space\n ship. He blinked his eyes, stared. Then he waved his arms, shouted and\n tore across the prairie. A trim space cruiser was resting beside the\n wreck of his own. Across its gleaming monaloid hull ran an inscription\n in silver letters: \"INTERSTELLAR COSMOGRAPHY SOCIETY.\"\n\n\n Two men crawled out of Jonathan's wrecked freighter, glanced in\n surprise at Jonathan. A third man ran from the cruiser, a Dixon Ray\n Rifle in his hand.", "Jonathan's hair stood on end. He felt rather than saw Ann Clotilde take\n her stand beside him. He noticed that she was holding her spear at a\n menacing angle. She said in an angry voice: \"He's mine. I found him.\n Leave him alone.\"\n\n\n \"Where do you get that stuff?\" cried Olga. \"Share and share alike, say\n I.\"\n\n\n \"We could draw straws for him,\" suggested the green-eyed blonde.\n\n\n \"Look here,\" Jonathan broke in. \"I've got some say in the matter.\"\n\n\n \"You have not,\" snapped Billy. \"You'll do just as we say.\" She took a\n step toward him.\n\n\n Jonathan edged away in consternation.\n\n\n \"He's going to run!\" Olga shouted.", "As a last resort, he supposed, he could hide out in the hills or join\n the centaurs. He rather fancied himself galloping across the plains\n on the back of a centaur. He looked up with a start. Ann Clotilde was\n ambling toward him.\n\n\n \"How's the invalid?\" she said, seating herself beside him.\n\n\n \"Hot, isn't it?\" he said. He started to rise. Ann Clotilde placed the\n flat of her hand on his chest and shoved. \"\nOoof!\n\" he grunted. He sat\n down rather more forcibly than he had risen.", "\"First it's tobacco,\" said Olga; \"now he wants to sleep. Twenty-seven\n girls and he wants to sleep.\"\n\n\n \"He is asleep,\" said the green-eyed blonde.\nJonathan was slumped forward across the table, his head buried in his\n arms.\n\n\n \"Catch a hold,\" said Billy, pushing back from the table. A dozen girls\n volunteered with a rush. \"Hoist!\" said Billy. They lifted him like a\n sleepy child, bore him tenderly up an incline and into a stateroom,\n where they deposited him on the bed.\n\n\n Ann said to Olga; \"Help me with these boots.\" But they resisted every\n tug. \"It's no use,\" groaned Ann, straightening up and wiping her bright\n yellow hair back from her eyes. \"His feet have swollen. We'll have to\n cut them off.\"\n\n\n At these words, Jonathan raised upright as if someone had pulled a rope.", "\"I remember,\" he exclaimed. \"Didn't the Jupiter Food-growers\n Association enlist you girls to go to the colonies?\"\n\n\n She nodded her head. \"Only twenty-seven of us came through the crash.\"\n\n\n \"Everybody thought your space ship hit a meteor,\" he said.\n\n\n \"We hit this asteroid.\"\n\n\n \"But that was three years ago.\"\n\n\n \"Has it been that long? We lost track of time.\" She didn't take her\n eyes off him, not for a second. Such attention made him acutely self\n conscious. She said, \"I'm Ann. Ann Clotilde. I was hunting when I saw\n your space ship. You had been thrown clear. You were lying all in a\n heap. I thought you were dead.\" She stooped, picked up a spear.", "\"A man!\" she breathed. \"By Jupiter and all its little moons, it's a\n man!\"\n\n\n \"Don't let him get away!\" cried Ann.\n\n\n \"Hilda!\" the brunette shrieked. \"A man! It's a man!\"\n\n\n A third girl skidded around the bend in the canyon. Jonathan backed off\n warily.\n\n\n Ann Clotilde cried in anguish: \"Don't let him get away!\"\n\n\n Jonathan chose the centaurs. He wheeled around, dashed back the way\n he had come. Someone tackled him. He rolled on the rocky floor of the\n canyon. He struggled to his feet. He saw six more girls race around the\n bend in the canyon. With shouts of joy they flung themselves on him.", "He shuddered, but looked up questioningly.\n\n\n She said, \"How's the fish?\"\n\n\n \"Good,\" he mumbled between a mouthful. \"Where did you get it?\"\n\n\n \"Caught it,\" said Olga. \"The stream's full of 'em. I'll take you\n fishing tomorrow.\" She winked at him so brazenly that he choked on a\n bone.\n\n\n \"Heaven forbid,\" he said.\n\n\n \"How about coming with me to gather fruit?\" cried the green-eyed\n blonde; \"you great big handsome man.\"\n\n\n \"Or me?\" cried another. And the table was in an uproar.\n\n\n The rawboned woman who had summoned them to dinner, pounded the table\n until the cups and plates danced. Jonathan had gathered that she was\n called Billy.", "He shook his head. \"No,\" he reassured her. \"I left him on Mars. He\n had an attack of space sickness. I was all by myself; that was the\n trouble. I'd stay at the controls as long as I could, then lock her on\n her course and snatch a couple of hours' sleep. I can remember crawling\n into my bunk. The next thing I knew you were bending over me.\" He\n paused. \"I guess the automatic deflectors slowed me up or I would have\n been a cinder by this time,\" he said.\n\n\n The girl didn't reply. She continued to watch him, a faint enigmatic\n smile on her lips. Jonathan glanced away in embarrassment. He wished\n that pretty women didn't upset him so. He said nervously, \"Where am I?\n I couldn't have slept all the way to Jupiter.\"\n\n\n The girl shrugged her shoulders.\n\n\n \"I don't know.\"", "\"No,\" he replied with as much dignity as he could summon while being\n held aloft by four barbarous young women.\n\n\n \"Let him down,\" said Ann. \"We can catch him, anyway, if he makes a\n break.\"\n\n\n Jonathan Fawkes' humiliation was complete. He meekly trudged between\n two husky females, who ogled him shamelessly. He was amazed at the ease\n with which they had carried him. He was six feet three and no light\n weight. He thought enviously of the centaurs, free to gallop across the\n plains. He wished he was a centaur.\n\n\n The trail left the canyon, struggled up the precipitate walls. Jonathan\n picked his way gingerly, hugged the rock. \"Don't be afraid,\" advised\n one of his captors. \"Just don't look down.\"", "\"\nCut off whose feet?\n\" he cried in alarm.\n\n\n \"Not your feet, silly,\" said Ann. \"Your boots.\"\n\n\n \"Lay a hand on those boots,\" he scowled; \"and I'll make me another pair\n out of your hides. They set me back a week's salary.\" Having delivered\n himself of this ultimatum, he went back to sleep.\n\n\n Olga clapped her hand to her forehead. \"And this,\" she cried \"is what\n we've been praying for during the last three years.\"", "He lifted his eyebrows. He thought, she is an amazon! He firmly\n detached her hand.\n\n\n The girl flicked up her spear, nicked his neck with the point of it.\n \"We are going to the camp,\" she said.\n\n\n Jonathan threw himself down backwards, kicked the girl's feet out from\n under her. Like a cat he scrambled up and wrenched the spear away.\n\n\n A voice shouted: \"What's going on there?\"\nHe paused shamefacedly. A second girl, he saw, was running toward\n them from up the canyon. Her bare legs flashed like ivory. She was\n barefooted, and she had black hair. A green cloth was wrapped around\n her sarong fashion. She bounced to a stop in front of Jonathan, her\n brown eyes wide in surprise. He thought her sarong had been a table\n cloth at one time in its history.", "\"Quiet!\" She shrieked in her loud strident voice. \"Let him be. He can't\n go anywhere for a few days. He's just been through a wreck. He needs\n rest.\" She turned to Jonathan who had shrunk down in his chair. \"How\n about some roast?\" she said.\n\n\n \"No.\" He pushed back his plate with a sigh. \"If I only had a smoke.\"\n\n\n Olga gave her unruly black hair a flirt. \"Isn't that just like a man?\"\n\n\n \"I wouldn't know,\" said the green-eyed blonde. \"I've forgotten what\n they're like.\"\n\n\n Billy said, \"How badly wrecked is your ship?\"\n\n\n \"It's strewn all over the landscape,\" he replied sleepily.\n\n\n \"Is there any chance of patching it up?\"", "\"I did,\" said Olga. She chucked Jonathan under the chin. He shivered\n like an unbroken colt when the bit first goes in its mouth. He felt\n like a mouse hemmed in by a ring of cats.\n\n\n A big rawboned brute of a girl strolled into the circle. She said,\n \"Dinner's ready.\" Her voice was loud, strident. It reminded him of\n the voices of girls in the honky tonks on Venus. She looked at him\n appraisingly as if he were a horse she was about to bid on. \"Bring him\n into the ship,\" she said. \"The man must be starved.\"\n\n\n He was propelled jubilantly into the palatial dining salon of the\n wrecked liner. A long polished meturilium table occupied the center of\n the floor. Automatic weight distributing chairs stood around it. His\n feet sank into a green fiberon carpet. He had stepped back into the\n Thirty-fourth Century from the fabulous barbarian past.", "Jonathan was game, but the nine husky amazons pinned him down by sheer\n weight. They bound him hand and foot. Then four of them picked him up\n bodily, started up the canyon chanting: \"\nHe was a rocket riding daddy\n from Mars.\n\" He recognized it as a popular song of three years ago.\n\n\n Jonathan had never been so humiliated in his life. He was known in the\n spaceways from Mercury to Jupiter as a man to leave alone. His nose had\n been broken three times. A thin white scar crawled down the bronze of\n his left cheek, relic of a barroom brawl on Venus. He was big, rangy,\n tough. And these girls had trounced him. Girls! He almost wept from\n mortification.\n\n\n He said, \"Put me down. I'll walk.\"\n\n\n \"You won't try to get away?\" said Ann.", "The girl shook her head. \"We ran out of tobacco the first few months we\n were here.\"\n\n\n Jonathan turned around, started back for the space ship.\n\n\n \"Where are you going?\" cried Ann in alarm.\n\n\n He said, \"I've got a couple of cartons of cigarettes back at the\n freighter. Centaurs or no centaurs, I'm going to get a smoke.\"\n\n\n \"No!\" She clutched his arm. He was surprised at the strength of her\n grip. \"They'd kill you,\" she said.\n\n\n \"I can sneak back,\" he insisted stubbornly. \"They might loot the ship.\n I don't want to lose those cigarettes. I was hauling some good burley\n tobacco seed too. The colonists were going to experiment with it on\n Ganymede.\"\n\n\n \"No!\"", "He considered the question. More than anything else, he decided, he\n wanted to sleep. \"What?\" he said.\n\n\n \"Is there any possibility of repairing your ship?\" repeated Billy.\n\n\n \"Not outside the space docks.\"\n\n\n They expelled their breath, but not for an instant did they relax\n the barrage of their eyes. He shifted position in embarrassment. The\n movement pulled his muscles like a rack. Furthermore, an overpowering\n lassitude was threatening to pop him off to sleep before their eyes.\n\n\n \"You look exhausted,\" said Ann.\n\n\n Jonathan dragged himself back from the edge of sleep. \"Just tired,\" he\n mumbled. \"Haven't had a good night's rest since I left Mars.\" Indeed\n it was only by the most painful effort that he kept awake at all. His\n eyelids drooped lower and lower.", "With a sigh of relief, he started to sit down. A lithe red-head sprang\n forward and held his chair. They all waited politely for him to be\n seated before they took their places. He felt silly. He felt like\n a captive princess. All the confidence engendered by the familiar\n settings of the space ship went out of him like wind. He, Jonathan\n Fawkes, was a castaway on an asteroid inhabited by twenty-seven wild\n women.\nAs the meal boisterously progressed, he regained sufficient courage\n to glance timidly around. Directly across the table sat a striking,\n grey-eyed girl whose brown hair was coiled severely about her head. She\n looked to him like a stenographer. He watched horrified as she seized\n a whole roast fowl, tore it apart with her fingers, gnawed a leg. She\n caught him staring at her and rolled her eyes at him. He returned his\n gaze to his plate.\n\n\n Olga said: \"Hey, Sultan.\"" ], [ "\"I'm not afraid,\" said Jonathan hotly. To prove it he trod the narrow\n ledge with scorn. His foot struck a pebble. Both feet went out from\n under him. He slithered halfway over the edge. For one sickening moment\n he thought he was gone, then Ann grabbed him by the scruff of his neck,\n hauled him back to safety. He lay gasping on his stomach. They tied a\n rope around his waist then, and led him the rest of the way to the top\n like a baby on a leash. He was too crestfallen to resent it.\n\n\n The trail came out on a high ridge. They paused on a bluff overlooking\n the prairie.\n\n\n \"Look!\" cried Ann pointing over the edge.", "Jonathan put his arm around her gingerly. \"Ouch!\" He winced. He had\n forgotten his sore muscles.\n\n\n \"I forgot,\" said Ann Clotilde in a contrite voice. She tried to rise.\n \"You're hurt.\"\n\n\n He pulled her back down. \"Not so you could notice it,\" he grinned.\n\n\n \"Well!\" came the strident voice of Billy from behind them. \"We're\nall\nglad to hear that!\"\nJonathan leaped to his feet, dumping Ann to the ground. He jerked\n around. All twenty-six of the girls were lined up on the path. Their\n features were grim. He said: \"I don't feel so well after all.\"\n\n\n \"It don't wash,\" said Billy. \"It's time for a showdown.\"", "\"Don't get up because of me,\" she informed him. \"It's my turn to cook,\n but I saw you out here beneath the trees. Dinner can wait. Jonathan do\n you know that you are irresistible?\" She seized his shoulders, stared\n into his eyes. He couldn't have felt any more uncomfortable had a\n hungry boa constrictor draped itself in his arms. He mopped his brow\n with his sleeve.\n\n\n \"Suppose the rest should come,\" he said in an embarrassed voice.\n\n\n \"They're busy. They won't be here until I call them to lunch. Your\n eyes,\" she said, \"are like deep mysterious pools.\"\n\n\n \"Sure enough?\" said Jonathan with involuntary interest. He began to\n recover his nerve.\n\n\n She said, \"You're the best looking thing.\" She rumpled his hair. \"I\n can't keep my eyes off you.\"", "Jonathan's hair stood on end. He felt rather than saw Ann Clotilde take\n her stand beside him. He noticed that she was holding her spear at a\n menacing angle. She said in an angry voice: \"He's mine. I found him.\n Leave him alone.\"\n\n\n \"Where do you get that stuff?\" cried Olga. \"Share and share alike, say\n I.\"\n\n\n \"We could draw straws for him,\" suggested the green-eyed blonde.\n\n\n \"Look here,\" Jonathan broke in. \"I've got some say in the matter.\"\n\n\n \"You have not,\" snapped Billy. \"You'll do just as we say.\" She took a\n step toward him.\n\n\n Jonathan edged away in consternation.\n\n\n \"He's going to run!\" Olga shouted.", "As a last resort, he supposed, he could hide out in the hills or join\n the centaurs. He rather fancied himself galloping across the plains\n on the back of a centaur. He looked up with a start. Ann Clotilde was\n ambling toward him.\n\n\n \"How's the invalid?\" she said, seating herself beside him.\n\n\n \"Hot, isn't it?\" he said. He started to rise. Ann Clotilde placed the\n flat of her hand on his chest and shoved. \"\nOoof!\n\" he grunted. He sat\n down rather more forcibly than he had risen.", "Jonathan never stopped until he was back in the canyon leading to the\n plain. His nerves were jumping like fleas. He craved the soothing\n relaxation of a smoke. There was, he remembered, a carton of cigarettes\n at the wreck. He resumed his flight, but at a more sober pace.\n\n\n At the spot where he and Ann had first crawled away from the centaurs,\n he scrambled out of the gulley, glanced in the direction of his space\n ship. He blinked his eyes, stared. Then he waved his arms, shouted and\n tore across the prairie. A trim space cruiser was resting beside the\n wreck of his own. Across its gleaming monaloid hull ran an inscription\n in silver letters: \"INTERSTELLAR COSMOGRAPHY SOCIETY.\"\n\n\n Two men crawled out of Jonathan's wrecked freighter, glanced in\n surprise at Jonathan. A third man ran from the cruiser, a Dixon Ray\n Rifle in his hand.", "\"\nCut off whose feet?\n\" he cried in alarm.\n\n\n \"Not your feet, silly,\" said Ann. \"Your boots.\"\n\n\n \"Lay a hand on those boots,\" he scowled; \"and I'll make me another pair\n out of your hides. They set me back a week's salary.\" Having delivered\n himself of this ultimatum, he went back to sleep.\n\n\n Olga clapped her hand to her forehead. \"And this,\" she cried \"is what\n we've been praying for during the last three years.\"", "\"No,\" he replied with as much dignity as he could summon while being\n held aloft by four barbarous young women.\n\n\n \"Let him down,\" said Ann. \"We can catch him, anyway, if he makes a\n break.\"\n\n\n Jonathan Fawkes' humiliation was complete. He meekly trudged between\n two husky females, who ogled him shamelessly. He was amazed at the ease\n with which they had carried him. He was six feet three and no light\n weight. He thought enviously of the centaurs, free to gallop across the\n plains. He wished he was a centaur.\n\n\n The trail left the canyon, struggled up the precipitate walls. Jonathan\n picked his way gingerly, hugged the rock. \"Don't be afraid,\" advised\n one of his captors. \"Just don't look down.\"", "\"First it's tobacco,\" said Olga; \"now he wants to sleep. Twenty-seven\n girls and he wants to sleep.\"\n\n\n \"He is asleep,\" said the green-eyed blonde.\nJonathan was slumped forward across the table, his head buried in his\n arms.\n\n\n \"Catch a hold,\" said Billy, pushing back from the table. A dozen girls\n volunteered with a rush. \"Hoist!\" said Billy. They lifted him like a\n sleepy child, bore him tenderly up an incline and into a stateroom,\n where they deposited him on the bed.\n\n\n Ann said to Olga; \"Help me with these boots.\" But they resisted every\n tug. \"It's no use,\" groaned Ann, straightening up and wiping her bright\n yellow hair back from her eyes. \"His feet have swollen. We'll have to\n cut them off.\"\n\n\n At these words, Jonathan raised upright as if someone had pulled a rope.", "He shuddered, but looked up questioningly.\n\n\n She said, \"How's the fish?\"\n\n\n \"Good,\" he mumbled between a mouthful. \"Where did you get it?\"\n\n\n \"Caught it,\" said Olga. \"The stream's full of 'em. I'll take you\n fishing tomorrow.\" She winked at him so brazenly that he choked on a\n bone.\n\n\n \"Heaven forbid,\" he said.\n\n\n \"How about coming with me to gather fruit?\" cried the green-eyed\n blonde; \"you great big handsome man.\"\n\n\n \"Or me?\" cried another. And the table was in an uproar.\n\n\n The rawboned woman who had summoned them to dinner, pounded the table\n until the cups and plates danced. Jonathan had gathered that she was\n called Billy.", "\"Quiet!\" She shrieked in her loud strident voice. \"Let him be. He can't\n go anywhere for a few days. He's just been through a wreck. He needs\n rest.\" She turned to Jonathan who had shrunk down in his chair. \"How\n about some roast?\" she said.\n\n\n \"No.\" He pushed back his plate with a sigh. \"If I only had a smoke.\"\n\n\n Olga gave her unruly black hair a flirt. \"Isn't that just like a man?\"\n\n\n \"I wouldn't know,\" said the green-eyed blonde. \"I've forgotten what\n they're like.\"\n\n\n Billy said, \"How badly wrecked is your ship?\"\n\n\n \"It's strewn all over the landscape,\" he replied sleepily.\n\n\n \"Is there any chance of patching it up?\"", "\"I remember,\" he exclaimed. \"Didn't the Jupiter Food-growers\n Association enlist you girls to go to the colonies?\"\n\n\n She nodded her head. \"Only twenty-seven of us came through the crash.\"\n\n\n \"Everybody thought your space ship hit a meteor,\" he said.\n\n\n \"We hit this asteroid.\"\n\n\n \"But that was three years ago.\"\n\n\n \"Has it been that long? We lost track of time.\" She didn't take her\n eyes off him, not for a second. Such attention made him acutely self\n conscious. She said, \"I'm Ann. Ann Clotilde. I was hunting when I saw\n your space ship. You had been thrown clear. You were lying all in a\n heap. I thought you were dead.\" She stooped, picked up a spear.", "\"A man!\" she breathed. \"By Jupiter and all its little moons, it's a\n man!\"\n\n\n \"Don't let him get away!\" cried Ann.\n\n\n \"Hilda!\" the brunette shrieked. \"A man! It's a man!\"\n\n\n A third girl skidded around the bend in the canyon. Jonathan backed off\n warily.\n\n\n Ann Clotilde cried in anguish: \"Don't let him get away!\"\n\n\n Jonathan chose the centaurs. He wheeled around, dashed back the way\n he had come. Someone tackled him. He rolled on the rocky floor of the\n canyon. He struggled to his feet. He saw six more girls race around the\n bend in the canyon. With shouts of joy they flung themselves on him.", "He shook his head. \"No,\" he reassured her. \"I left him on Mars. He\n had an attack of space sickness. I was all by myself; that was the\n trouble. I'd stay at the controls as long as I could, then lock her on\n her course and snatch a couple of hours' sleep. I can remember crawling\n into my bunk. The next thing I knew you were bending over me.\" He\n paused. \"I guess the automatic deflectors slowed me up or I would have\n been a cinder by this time,\" he said.\n\n\n The girl didn't reply. She continued to watch him, a faint enigmatic\n smile on her lips. Jonathan glanced away in embarrassment. He wished\n that pretty women didn't upset him so. He said nervously, \"Where am I?\n I couldn't have slept all the way to Jupiter.\"\n\n\n The girl shrugged her shoulders.\n\n\n \"I don't know.\"", "He considered the question. More than anything else, he decided, he\n wanted to sleep. \"What?\" he said.\n\n\n \"Is there any possibility of repairing your ship?\" repeated Billy.\n\n\n \"Not outside the space docks.\"\n\n\n They expelled their breath, but not for an instant did they relax\n the barrage of their eyes. He shifted position in embarrassment. The\n movement pulled his muscles like a rack. Furthermore, an overpowering\n lassitude was threatening to pop him off to sleep before their eyes.\n\n\n \"You look exhausted,\" said Ann.\n\n\n Jonathan dragged himself back from the edge of sleep. \"Just tired,\" he\n mumbled. \"Haven't had a good night's rest since I left Mars.\" Indeed\n it was only by the most painful effort that he kept awake at all. His\n eyelids drooped lower and lower.", "He lifted his eyebrows. He thought, she is an amazon! He firmly\n detached her hand.\n\n\n The girl flicked up her spear, nicked his neck with the point of it.\n \"We are going to the camp,\" she said.\n\n\n Jonathan threw himself down backwards, kicked the girl's feet out from\n under her. Like a cat he scrambled up and wrenched the spear away.\n\n\n A voice shouted: \"What's going on there?\"\nHe paused shamefacedly. A second girl, he saw, was running toward\n them from up the canyon. Her bare legs flashed like ivory. She was\n barefooted, and she had black hair. A green cloth was wrapped around\n her sarong fashion. She bounced to a stop in front of Jonathan, her\n brown eyes wide in surprise. He thought her sarong had been a table\n cloth at one time in its history.", "The girl shook her head. \"We ran out of tobacco the first few months we\n were here.\"\n\n\n Jonathan turned around, started back for the space ship.\n\n\n \"Where are you going?\" cried Ann in alarm.\n\n\n He said, \"I've got a couple of cartons of cigarettes back at the\n freighter. Centaurs or no centaurs, I'm going to get a smoke.\"\n\n\n \"No!\" She clutched his arm. He was surprised at the strength of her\n grip. \"They'd kill you,\" she said.\n\n\n \"I can sneak back,\" he insisted stubbornly. \"They might loot the ship.\n I don't want to lose those cigarettes. I was hauling some good burley\n tobacco seed too. The colonists were going to experiment with it on\n Ganymede.\"\n\n\n \"No!\"", "\"I did,\" said Olga. She chucked Jonathan under the chin. He shivered\n like an unbroken colt when the bit first goes in its mouth. He felt\n like a mouse hemmed in by a ring of cats.\n\n\n A big rawboned brute of a girl strolled into the circle. She said,\n \"Dinner's ready.\" Her voice was loud, strident. It reminded him of\n the voices of girls in the honky tonks on Venus. She looked at him\n appraisingly as if he were a horse she was about to bid on. \"Bring him\n into the ship,\" she said. \"The man must be starved.\"\n\n\n He was propelled jubilantly into the palatial dining salon of the\n wrecked liner. A long polished meturilium table occupied the center of\n the floor. Automatic weight distributing chairs stood around it. His\n feet sank into a green fiberon carpet. He had stepped back into the\n Thirty-fourth Century from the fabulous barbarian past.", "\"Do you feel strong enough to hike back to our camp? It's only about\n four miles,\" she said.\n\n\n \"I think so,\" he said.\nJonathan Fawkes fidgeted uncomfortably. He would rather pilot a space\n ship through a meteor field than face twenty-seven young women. They\n were the only thing in the Spaceways of which he was in awe. Then he\n realized that the girl's dark blue eyes had strayed beyond him. A frown\n of concentration marred her regular features. He turned around.\n\n\n On the rim of the prairie he saw a dozen black specks moving toward\n them.\n\n\n She said: \"Get down!\" Her voice was agitated. She flung herself on her\n stomach and began to crawl away from the wreck. Jonathan Fawkes stared\n after her stupidly. \"Get down!\" she reiterated in a furious voice.", "Jonathan was game, but the nine husky amazons pinned him down by sheer\n weight. They bound him hand and foot. Then four of them picked him up\n bodily, started up the canyon chanting: \"\nHe was a rocket riding daddy\n from Mars.\n\" He recognized it as a popular song of three years ago.\n\n\n Jonathan had never been so humiliated in his life. He was known in the\n spaceways from Mercury to Jupiter as a man to leave alone. His nose had\n been broken three times. A thin white scar crawled down the bronze of\n his left cheek, relic of a barroom brawl on Venus. He was big, rangy,\n tough. And these girls had trounced him. Girls! He almost wept from\n mortification.\n\n\n He said, \"Put me down. I'll walk.\"\n\n\n \"You won't try to get away?\" said Ann." ], [ "Jonathan put his arm around her gingerly. \"Ouch!\" He winced. He had\n forgotten his sore muscles.\n\n\n \"I forgot,\" said Ann Clotilde in a contrite voice. She tried to rise.\n \"You're hurt.\"\n\n\n He pulled her back down. \"Not so you could notice it,\" he grinned.\n\n\n \"Well!\" came the strident voice of Billy from behind them. \"We're\nall\nglad to hear that!\"\nJonathan leaped to his feet, dumping Ann to the ground. He jerked\n around. All twenty-six of the girls were lined up on the path. Their\n features were grim. He said: \"I don't feel so well after all.\"\n\n\n \"It don't wash,\" said Billy. \"It's time for a showdown.\"", "Jonathan's hair stood on end. He felt rather than saw Ann Clotilde take\n her stand beside him. He noticed that she was holding her spear at a\n menacing angle. She said in an angry voice: \"He's mine. I found him.\n Leave him alone.\"\n\n\n \"Where do you get that stuff?\" cried Olga. \"Share and share alike, say\n I.\"\n\n\n \"We could draw straws for him,\" suggested the green-eyed blonde.\n\n\n \"Look here,\" Jonathan broke in. \"I've got some say in the matter.\"\n\n\n \"You have not,\" snapped Billy. \"You'll do just as we say.\" She took a\n step toward him.\n\n\n Jonathan edged away in consternation.\n\n\n \"He's going to run!\" Olga shouted.", "\"I'm not afraid,\" said Jonathan hotly. To prove it he trod the narrow\n ledge with scorn. His foot struck a pebble. Both feet went out from\n under him. He slithered halfway over the edge. For one sickening moment\n he thought he was gone, then Ann grabbed him by the scruff of his neck,\n hauled him back to safety. He lay gasping on his stomach. They tied a\n rope around his waist then, and led him the rest of the way to the top\n like a baby on a leash. He was too crestfallen to resent it.\n\n\n The trail came out on a high ridge. They paused on a bluff overlooking\n the prairie.\n\n\n \"Look!\" cried Ann pointing over the edge.", "\"Don't get up because of me,\" she informed him. \"It's my turn to cook,\n but I saw you out here beneath the trees. Dinner can wait. Jonathan do\n you know that you are irresistible?\" She seized his shoulders, stared\n into his eyes. He couldn't have felt any more uncomfortable had a\n hungry boa constrictor draped itself in his arms. He mopped his brow\n with his sleeve.\n\n\n \"Suppose the rest should come,\" he said in an embarrassed voice.\n\n\n \"They're busy. They won't be here until I call them to lunch. Your\n eyes,\" she said, \"are like deep mysterious pools.\"\n\n\n \"Sure enough?\" said Jonathan with involuntary interest. He began to\n recover his nerve.\n\n\n She said, \"You're the best looking thing.\" She rumpled his hair. \"I\n can't keep my eyes off you.\"", "\"\nCut off whose feet?\n\" he cried in alarm.\n\n\n \"Not your feet, silly,\" said Ann. \"Your boots.\"\n\n\n \"Lay a hand on those boots,\" he scowled; \"and I'll make me another pair\n out of your hides. They set me back a week's salary.\" Having delivered\n himself of this ultimatum, he went back to sleep.\n\n\n Olga clapped her hand to her forehead. \"And this,\" she cried \"is what\n we've been praying for during the last three years.\"", "Jonathan never stopped until he was back in the canyon leading to the\n plain. His nerves were jumping like fleas. He craved the soothing\n relaxation of a smoke. There was, he remembered, a carton of cigarettes\n at the wreck. He resumed his flight, but at a more sober pace.\n\n\n At the spot where he and Ann had first crawled away from the centaurs,\n he scrambled out of the gulley, glanced in the direction of his space\n ship. He blinked his eyes, stared. Then he waved his arms, shouted and\n tore across the prairie. A trim space cruiser was resting beside the\n wreck of his own. Across its gleaming monaloid hull ran an inscription\n in silver letters: \"INTERSTELLAR COSMOGRAPHY SOCIETY.\"\n\n\n Two men crawled out of Jonathan's wrecked freighter, glanced in\n surprise at Jonathan. A third man ran from the cruiser, a Dixon Ray\n Rifle in his hand.", "As a last resort, he supposed, he could hide out in the hills or join\n the centaurs. He rather fancied himself galloping across the plains\n on the back of a centaur. He looked up with a start. Ann Clotilde was\n ambling toward him.\n\n\n \"How's the invalid?\" she said, seating herself beside him.\n\n\n \"Hot, isn't it?\" he said. He started to rise. Ann Clotilde placed the\n flat of her hand on his chest and shoved. \"\nOoof!\n\" he grunted. He sat\n down rather more forcibly than he had risen.", "He lifted his eyebrows. He thought, she is an amazon! He firmly\n detached her hand.\n\n\n The girl flicked up her spear, nicked his neck with the point of it.\n \"We are going to the camp,\" she said.\n\n\n Jonathan threw himself down backwards, kicked the girl's feet out from\n under her. Like a cat he scrambled up and wrenched the spear away.\n\n\n A voice shouted: \"What's going on there?\"\nHe paused shamefacedly. A second girl, he saw, was running toward\n them from up the canyon. Her bare legs flashed like ivory. She was\n barefooted, and she had black hair. A green cloth was wrapped around\n her sarong fashion. She bounced to a stop in front of Jonathan, her\n brown eyes wide in surprise. He thought her sarong had been a table\n cloth at one time in its history.", "He shuddered, but looked up questioningly.\n\n\n She said, \"How's the fish?\"\n\n\n \"Good,\" he mumbled between a mouthful. \"Where did you get it?\"\n\n\n \"Caught it,\" said Olga. \"The stream's full of 'em. I'll take you\n fishing tomorrow.\" She winked at him so brazenly that he choked on a\n bone.\n\n\n \"Heaven forbid,\" he said.\n\n\n \"How about coming with me to gather fruit?\" cried the green-eyed\n blonde; \"you great big handsome man.\"\n\n\n \"Or me?\" cried another. And the table was in an uproar.\n\n\n The rawboned woman who had summoned them to dinner, pounded the table\n until the cups and plates danced. Jonathan had gathered that she was\n called Billy.", "\"First it's tobacco,\" said Olga; \"now he wants to sleep. Twenty-seven\n girls and he wants to sleep.\"\n\n\n \"He is asleep,\" said the green-eyed blonde.\nJonathan was slumped forward across the table, his head buried in his\n arms.\n\n\n \"Catch a hold,\" said Billy, pushing back from the table. A dozen girls\n volunteered with a rush. \"Hoist!\" said Billy. They lifted him like a\n sleepy child, bore him tenderly up an incline and into a stateroom,\n where they deposited him on the bed.\n\n\n Ann said to Olga; \"Help me with these boots.\" But they resisted every\n tug. \"It's no use,\" groaned Ann, straightening up and wiping her bright\n yellow hair back from her eyes. \"His feet have swollen. We'll have to\n cut them off.\"\n\n\n At these words, Jonathan raised upright as if someone had pulled a rope.", "\"No,\" he replied with as much dignity as he could summon while being\n held aloft by four barbarous young women.\n\n\n \"Let him down,\" said Ann. \"We can catch him, anyway, if he makes a\n break.\"\n\n\n Jonathan Fawkes' humiliation was complete. He meekly trudged between\n two husky females, who ogled him shamelessly. He was amazed at the ease\n with which they had carried him. He was six feet three and no light\n weight. He thought enviously of the centaurs, free to gallop across the\n plains. He wished he was a centaur.\n\n\n The trail left the canyon, struggled up the precipitate walls. Jonathan\n picked his way gingerly, hugged the rock. \"Don't be afraid,\" advised\n one of his captors. \"Just don't look down.\"", "\"A man!\" she breathed. \"By Jupiter and all its little moons, it's a\n man!\"\n\n\n \"Don't let him get away!\" cried Ann.\n\n\n \"Hilda!\" the brunette shrieked. \"A man! It's a man!\"\n\n\n A third girl skidded around the bend in the canyon. Jonathan backed off\n warily.\n\n\n Ann Clotilde cried in anguish: \"Don't let him get away!\"\n\n\n Jonathan chose the centaurs. He wheeled around, dashed back the way\n he had come. Someone tackled him. He rolled on the rocky floor of the\n canyon. He struggled to his feet. He saw six more girls race around the\n bend in the canyon. With shouts of joy they flung themselves on him.", "Jonathan was game, but the nine husky amazons pinned him down by sheer\n weight. They bound him hand and foot. Then four of them picked him up\n bodily, started up the canyon chanting: \"\nHe was a rocket riding daddy\n from Mars.\n\" He recognized it as a popular song of three years ago.\n\n\n Jonathan had never been so humiliated in his life. He was known in the\n spaceways from Mercury to Jupiter as a man to leave alone. His nose had\n been broken three times. A thin white scar crawled down the bronze of\n his left cheek, relic of a barroom brawl on Venus. He was big, rangy,\n tough. And these girls had trounced him. Girls! He almost wept from\n mortification.\n\n\n He said, \"Put me down. I'll walk.\"\n\n\n \"You won't try to get away?\" said Ann.", "\"I remember,\" he exclaimed. \"Didn't the Jupiter Food-growers\n Association enlist you girls to go to the colonies?\"\n\n\n She nodded her head. \"Only twenty-seven of us came through the crash.\"\n\n\n \"Everybody thought your space ship hit a meteor,\" he said.\n\n\n \"We hit this asteroid.\"\n\n\n \"But that was three years ago.\"\n\n\n \"Has it been that long? We lost track of time.\" She didn't take her\n eyes off him, not for a second. Such attention made him acutely self\n conscious. She said, \"I'm Ann. Ann Clotilde. I was hunting when I saw\n your space ship. You had been thrown clear. You were lying all in a\n heap. I thought you were dead.\" She stooped, picked up a spear.", "\"Quiet!\" She shrieked in her loud strident voice. \"Let him be. He can't\n go anywhere for a few days. He's just been through a wreck. He needs\n rest.\" She turned to Jonathan who had shrunk down in his chair. \"How\n about some roast?\" she said.\n\n\n \"No.\" He pushed back his plate with a sigh. \"If I only had a smoke.\"\n\n\n Olga gave her unruly black hair a flirt. \"Isn't that just like a man?\"\n\n\n \"I wouldn't know,\" said the green-eyed blonde. \"I've forgotten what\n they're like.\"\n\n\n Billy said, \"How badly wrecked is your ship?\"\n\n\n \"It's strewn all over the landscape,\" he replied sleepily.\n\n\n \"Is there any chance of patching it up?\"", "The girl shook her head. \"We ran out of tobacco the first few months we\n were here.\"\n\n\n Jonathan turned around, started back for the space ship.\n\n\n \"Where are you going?\" cried Ann in alarm.\n\n\n He said, \"I've got a couple of cartons of cigarettes back at the\n freighter. Centaurs or no centaurs, I'm going to get a smoke.\"\n\n\n \"No!\" She clutched his arm. He was surprised at the strength of her\n grip. \"They'd kill you,\" she said.\n\n\n \"I can sneak back,\" he insisted stubbornly. \"They might loot the ship.\n I don't want to lose those cigarettes. I was hauling some good burley\n tobacco seed too. The colonists were going to experiment with it on\n Ganymede.\"\n\n\n \"No!\"", "He considered the question. More than anything else, he decided, he\n wanted to sleep. \"What?\" he said.\n\n\n \"Is there any possibility of repairing your ship?\" repeated Billy.\n\n\n \"Not outside the space docks.\"\n\n\n They expelled their breath, but not for an instant did they relax\n the barrage of their eyes. He shifted position in embarrassment. The\n movement pulled his muscles like a rack. Furthermore, an overpowering\n lassitude was threatening to pop him off to sleep before their eyes.\n\n\n \"You look exhausted,\" said Ann.\n\n\n Jonathan dragged himself back from the edge of sleep. \"Just tired,\" he\n mumbled. \"Haven't had a good night's rest since I left Mars.\" Indeed\n it was only by the most painful effort that he kept awake at all. His\n eyelids drooped lower and lower.", "The next day found Jonathan Fawkes hobbling around by the aid of a\n cane. At the portal of the space ship, he stuck out his head, glanced\n all around warily. None of the girls were in sight. They had, he\n presumed, gone about their chores: hunting, fishing, gathering fruits\n and berries. He emerged all the way and set out for the creek. He\n walked with an exaggerated limp just in case any of them should be\n hanging around. As long as he was an invalid he was safe, he hoped.\n\n\n He sighed. Not every man could be waited on so solicitously by\n twenty-seven handsome strapping amazons. He wished he could carry it\n off in cavalier fashion. He hobbled to the creek, sat down beneath the\n shade of a tree. He just wasn't the type, he supposed. And it might be\n years before they were rescued.", "He shook his head. \"No,\" he reassured her. \"I left him on Mars. He\n had an attack of space sickness. I was all by myself; that was the\n trouble. I'd stay at the controls as long as I could, then lock her on\n her course and snatch a couple of hours' sleep. I can remember crawling\n into my bunk. The next thing I knew you were bending over me.\" He\n paused. \"I guess the automatic deflectors slowed me up or I would have\n been a cinder by this time,\" he said.\n\n\n The girl didn't reply. She continued to watch him, a faint enigmatic\n smile on her lips. Jonathan glanced away in embarrassment. He wished\n that pretty women didn't upset him so. He said nervously, \"Where am I?\n I couldn't have slept all the way to Jupiter.\"\n\n\n The girl shrugged her shoulders.\n\n\n \"I don't know.\"", "Amazons and centaurs, he thought again. He couldn't get the problem\n of the girls' phenomenal strength out of his mind. Then it occurred\n to him that the asteroid, most likely, was smaller even than Earth's\n moon. He must weigh about a thirtieth of what he usually did, due to\n the lessened gravity. It also occurred to him that they would be thirty\n times as strong. He was staggered. He wished he had a smoke.\n\n\n At length, the amazons and the centaurs tired of bandying insults\n back and forth. The centaurs galloped off into the prairie, the girls\n resumed their march. Jonathan scrambled up hills, skidded down slopes.\n The brunette was beside him helping him over the rough spots.\n\n\n \"I'm Olga,\" she confided. \"Has anybody ever told you what a handsome\n fellow you are?\" She pinched his cheek. Jonathan blushed." ], [ "Jonathan put his arm around her gingerly. \"Ouch!\" He winced. He had\n forgotten his sore muscles.\n\n\n \"I forgot,\" said Ann Clotilde in a contrite voice. She tried to rise.\n \"You're hurt.\"\n\n\n He pulled her back down. \"Not so you could notice it,\" he grinned.\n\n\n \"Well!\" came the strident voice of Billy from behind them. \"We're\nall\nglad to hear that!\"\nJonathan leaped to his feet, dumping Ann to the ground. He jerked\n around. All twenty-six of the girls were lined up on the path. Their\n features were grim. He said: \"I don't feel so well after all.\"\n\n\n \"It don't wash,\" said Billy. \"It's time for a showdown.\"", "\"Don't get up because of me,\" she informed him. \"It's my turn to cook,\n but I saw you out here beneath the trees. Dinner can wait. Jonathan do\n you know that you are irresistible?\" She seized his shoulders, stared\n into his eyes. He couldn't have felt any more uncomfortable had a\n hungry boa constrictor draped itself in his arms. He mopped his brow\n with his sleeve.\n\n\n \"Suppose the rest should come,\" he said in an embarrassed voice.\n\n\n \"They're busy. They won't be here until I call them to lunch. Your\n eyes,\" she said, \"are like deep mysterious pools.\"\n\n\n \"Sure enough?\" said Jonathan with involuntary interest. He began to\n recover his nerve.\n\n\n She said, \"You're the best looking thing.\" She rumpled his hair. \"I\n can't keep my eyes off you.\"", "He lifted his eyebrows. He thought, she is an amazon! He firmly\n detached her hand.\n\n\n The girl flicked up her spear, nicked his neck with the point of it.\n \"We are going to the camp,\" she said.\n\n\n Jonathan threw himself down backwards, kicked the girl's feet out from\n under her. Like a cat he scrambled up and wrenched the spear away.\n\n\n A voice shouted: \"What's going on there?\"\nHe paused shamefacedly. A second girl, he saw, was running toward\n them from up the canyon. Her bare legs flashed like ivory. She was\n barefooted, and she had black hair. A green cloth was wrapped around\n her sarong fashion. She bounced to a stop in front of Jonathan, her\n brown eyes wide in surprise. He thought her sarong had been a table\n cloth at one time in its history.", "Jonathan's hair stood on end. He felt rather than saw Ann Clotilde take\n her stand beside him. He noticed that she was holding her spear at a\n menacing angle. She said in an angry voice: \"He's mine. I found him.\n Leave him alone.\"\n\n\n \"Where do you get that stuff?\" cried Olga. \"Share and share alike, say\n I.\"\n\n\n \"We could draw straws for him,\" suggested the green-eyed blonde.\n\n\n \"Look here,\" Jonathan broke in. \"I've got some say in the matter.\"\n\n\n \"You have not,\" snapped Billy. \"You'll do just as we say.\" She took a\n step toward him.\n\n\n Jonathan edged away in consternation.\n\n\n \"He's going to run!\" Olga shouted.", "He shuddered, but looked up questioningly.\n\n\n She said, \"How's the fish?\"\n\n\n \"Good,\" he mumbled between a mouthful. \"Where did you get it?\"\n\n\n \"Caught it,\" said Olga. \"The stream's full of 'em. I'll take you\n fishing tomorrow.\" She winked at him so brazenly that he choked on a\n bone.\n\n\n \"Heaven forbid,\" he said.\n\n\n \"How about coming with me to gather fruit?\" cried the green-eyed\n blonde; \"you great big handsome man.\"\n\n\n \"Or me?\" cried another. And the table was in an uproar.\n\n\n The rawboned woman who had summoned them to dinner, pounded the table\n until the cups and plates danced. Jonathan had gathered that she was\n called Billy.", "The next day found Jonathan Fawkes hobbling around by the aid of a\n cane. At the portal of the space ship, he stuck out his head, glanced\n all around warily. None of the girls were in sight. They had, he\n presumed, gone about their chores: hunting, fishing, gathering fruits\n and berries. He emerged all the way and set out for the creek. He\n walked with an exaggerated limp just in case any of them should be\n hanging around. As long as he was an invalid he was safe, he hoped.\n\n\n He sighed. Not every man could be waited on so solicitously by\n twenty-seven handsome strapping amazons. He wished he could carry it\n off in cavalier fashion. He hobbled to the creek, sat down beneath the\n shade of a tree. He just wasn't the type, he supposed. And it might be\n years before they were rescued.", "\"A man!\" she breathed. \"By Jupiter and all its little moons, it's a\n man!\"\n\n\n \"Don't let him get away!\" cried Ann.\n\n\n \"Hilda!\" the brunette shrieked. \"A man! It's a man!\"\n\n\n A third girl skidded around the bend in the canyon. Jonathan backed off\n warily.\n\n\n Ann Clotilde cried in anguish: \"Don't let him get away!\"\n\n\n Jonathan chose the centaurs. He wheeled around, dashed back the way\n he had come. Someone tackled him. He rolled on the rocky floor of the\n canyon. He struggled to his feet. He saw six more girls race around the\n bend in the canyon. With shouts of joy they flung themselves on him.", "\"First it's tobacco,\" said Olga; \"now he wants to sleep. Twenty-seven\n girls and he wants to sleep.\"\n\n\n \"He is asleep,\" said the green-eyed blonde.\nJonathan was slumped forward across the table, his head buried in his\n arms.\n\n\n \"Catch a hold,\" said Billy, pushing back from the table. A dozen girls\n volunteered with a rush. \"Hoist!\" said Billy. They lifted him like a\n sleepy child, bore him tenderly up an incline and into a stateroom,\n where they deposited him on the bed.\n\n\n Ann said to Olga; \"Help me with these boots.\" But they resisted every\n tug. \"It's no use,\" groaned Ann, straightening up and wiping her bright\n yellow hair back from her eyes. \"His feet have swollen. We'll have to\n cut them off.\"\n\n\n At these words, Jonathan raised upright as if someone had pulled a rope.", "They climbed a ridge, paused at the crest. Below them, he saw a deep\n valley. A stream tumbled through the center of it. There were trees\n along its banks, the first he had seen on the asteroid. At the head of\n the valley, he made out the massive pile of a space liner.\n\n\n They started down a winding path. The space liner disappeared behind\n a promontory of the mountain. Jonathan steeled himself for the coming\n ordeal. He would have sat down and refused to budge except that he knew\n the girls would hoist him on their shoulders and bear him into the camp\n like a bag of meal.\n\n\n The trail debouched into the valley. Just ahead the space liner\n reappeared. He imagined that it had crashed into the mountain, skidded\n and rolled down its side until it lodged beside the stream. It reminded\n him of a wounded dinosaur. Three girls were bathing in the stream. He\n looked away hastily.\n\n\n Someone hailed them from the space ship.", "\"I'm not afraid,\" said Jonathan hotly. To prove it he trod the narrow\n ledge with scorn. His foot struck a pebble. Both feet went out from\n under him. He slithered halfway over the edge. For one sickening moment\n he thought he was gone, then Ann grabbed him by the scruff of his neck,\n hauled him back to safety. He lay gasping on his stomach. They tied a\n rope around his waist then, and led him the rest of the way to the top\n like a baby on a leash. He was too crestfallen to resent it.\n\n\n The trail came out on a high ridge. They paused on a bluff overlooking\n the prairie.\n\n\n \"Look!\" cried Ann pointing over the edge.", "\"No,\" he replied with as much dignity as he could summon while being\n held aloft by four barbarous young women.\n\n\n \"Let him down,\" said Ann. \"We can catch him, anyway, if he makes a\n break.\"\n\n\n Jonathan Fawkes' humiliation was complete. He meekly trudged between\n two husky females, who ogled him shamelessly. He was amazed at the ease\n with which they had carried him. He was six feet three and no light\n weight. He thought enviously of the centaurs, free to gallop across the\n plains. He wished he was a centaur.\n\n\n The trail left the canyon, struggled up the precipitate walls. Jonathan\n picked his way gingerly, hugged the rock. \"Don't be afraid,\" advised\n one of his captors. \"Just don't look down.\"", "With a sigh of relief, he started to sit down. A lithe red-head sprang\n forward and held his chair. They all waited politely for him to be\n seated before they took their places. He felt silly. He felt like\n a captive princess. All the confidence engendered by the familiar\n settings of the space ship went out of him like wind. He, Jonathan\n Fawkes, was a castaway on an asteroid inhabited by twenty-seven wild\n women.\nAs the meal boisterously progressed, he regained sufficient courage\n to glance timidly around. Directly across the table sat a striking,\n grey-eyed girl whose brown hair was coiled severely about her head. She\n looked to him like a stenographer. He watched horrified as she seized\n a whole roast fowl, tore it apart with her fingers, gnawed a leg. She\n caught him staring at her and rolled her eyes at him. He returned his\n gaze to his plate.\n\n\n Olga said: \"Hey, Sultan.\"", "As a last resort, he supposed, he could hide out in the hills or join\n the centaurs. He rather fancied himself galloping across the plains\n on the back of a centaur. He looked up with a start. Ann Clotilde was\n ambling toward him.\n\n\n \"How's the invalid?\" she said, seating herself beside him.\n\n\n \"Hot, isn't it?\" he said. He started to rise. Ann Clotilde placed the\n flat of her hand on his chest and shoved. \"\nOoof!\n\" he grunted. He sat\n down rather more forcibly than he had risen.", "He shook his head. \"No,\" he reassured her. \"I left him on Mars. He\n had an attack of space sickness. I was all by myself; that was the\n trouble. I'd stay at the controls as long as I could, then lock her on\n her course and snatch a couple of hours' sleep. I can remember crawling\n into my bunk. The next thing I knew you were bending over me.\" He\n paused. \"I guess the automatic deflectors slowed me up or I would have\n been a cinder by this time,\" he said.\n\n\n The girl didn't reply. She continued to watch him, a faint enigmatic\n smile on her lips. Jonathan glanced away in embarrassment. He wished\n that pretty women didn't upset him so. He said nervously, \"Where am I?\n I couldn't have slept all the way to Jupiter.\"\n\n\n The girl shrugged her shoulders.\n\n\n \"I don't know.\"", "A half dozen beasts were trotting beneath on the plain. At first,\n Jonathan mistook them for horses. Then he saw that from the withers up\n they resembled men. Waists, shoulders, arms and heads were identical to\n his own, but their bodies were the bodies of horses.\n\n\n \"Centaurs!\" Jonathan Fawkes said, not believing his eyes.\nThe girls set up a shout and threw stones down at the centaurs, who\n reared, pawed the air, and galloped to a safe distance, from which they\n hurled back insults in a strange tongue. Their voices sounded faintly\n like the neighing of horses.", "Amazons and centaurs, he thought again. He couldn't get the problem\n of the girls' phenomenal strength out of his mind. Then it occurred\n to him that the asteroid, most likely, was smaller even than Earth's\n moon. He must weigh about a thirtieth of what he usually did, due to\n the lessened gravity. It also occurred to him that they would be thirty\n times as strong. He was staggered. He wished he had a smoke.\n\n\n At length, the amazons and the centaurs tired of bandying insults\n back and forth. The centaurs galloped off into the prairie, the girls\n resumed their march. Jonathan scrambled up hills, skidded down slopes.\n The brunette was beside him helping him over the rough spots.\n\n\n \"I'm Olga,\" she confided. \"Has anybody ever told you what a handsome\n fellow you are?\" She pinched his cheek. Jonathan blushed.", "Jonathan was game, but the nine husky amazons pinned him down by sheer\n weight. They bound him hand and foot. Then four of them picked him up\n bodily, started up the canyon chanting: \"\nHe was a rocket riding daddy\n from Mars.\n\" He recognized it as a popular song of three years ago.\n\n\n Jonathan had never been so humiliated in his life. He was known in the\n spaceways from Mercury to Jupiter as a man to leave alone. His nose had\n been broken three times. A thin white scar crawled down the bronze of\n his left cheek, relic of a barroom brawl on Venus. He was big, rangy,\n tough. And these girls had trounced him. Girls! He almost wept from\n mortification.\n\n\n He said, \"Put me down. I'll walk.\"\n\n\n \"You won't try to get away?\" said Ann.", "He let himself to his hands and knees. \"Ouch!\" he said. He felt like\n he was being jabbed with pins. He must be one big bruise. He scuttled\n after the girl. \"What's wrong?\"\n\n\n The girl looked back at him over her shoulder. \"Centaurs!\" she said. \"I\n didn't know they had returned. There is a small ravine just ahead which\n leads into the hills. I don't think they've seen us. If we can reach\n the hills we'll be safe.\"\n\n\n \"Centaurs! Isn't there anything new under the sun?\"\n\n\n \"Well, personally,\" she replied, \"I never saw a Centaur until I was\n wrecked on this asteroid.\" She reached the ravine, crawled head\n foremost over the edge. Jonathan tumbled after her. He hit the bottom,\n winced, scrambled to his feet. The girl started at a trot for the\n hills. Jonathan, groaning at each step, hobbled beside her.", "\"I did,\" said Olga. She chucked Jonathan under the chin. He shivered\n like an unbroken colt when the bit first goes in its mouth. He felt\n like a mouse hemmed in by a ring of cats.\n\n\n A big rawboned brute of a girl strolled into the circle. She said,\n \"Dinner's ready.\" Her voice was loud, strident. It reminded him of\n the voices of girls in the honky tonks on Venus. She looked at him\n appraisingly as if he were a horse she was about to bid on. \"Bring him\n into the ship,\" she said. \"The man must be starved.\"\n\n\n He was propelled jubilantly into the palatial dining salon of the\n wrecked liner. A long polished meturilium table occupied the center of\n the floor. Automatic weight distributing chairs stood around it. His\n feet sank into a green fiberon carpet. He had stepped back into the\n Thirty-fourth Century from the fabulous barbarian past.", "\"I remember,\" he exclaimed. \"Didn't the Jupiter Food-growers\n Association enlist you girls to go to the colonies?\"\n\n\n She nodded her head. \"Only twenty-seven of us came through the crash.\"\n\n\n \"Everybody thought your space ship hit a meteor,\" he said.\n\n\n \"We hit this asteroid.\"\n\n\n \"But that was three years ago.\"\n\n\n \"Has it been that long? We lost track of time.\" She didn't take her\n eyes off him, not for a second. Such attention made him acutely self\n conscious. She said, \"I'm Ann. Ann Clotilde. I was hunting when I saw\n your space ship. You had been thrown clear. You were lying all in a\n heap. I thought you were dead.\" She stooped, picked up a spear." ], [ "The next day found Jonathan Fawkes hobbling around by the aid of a\n cane. At the portal of the space ship, he stuck out his head, glanced\n all around warily. None of the girls were in sight. They had, he\n presumed, gone about their chores: hunting, fishing, gathering fruits\n and berries. He emerged all the way and set out for the creek. He\n walked with an exaggerated limp just in case any of them should be\n hanging around. As long as he was an invalid he was safe, he hoped.\n\n\n He sighed. Not every man could be waited on so solicitously by\n twenty-seven handsome strapping amazons. He wished he could carry it\n off in cavalier fashion. He hobbled to the creek, sat down beneath the\n shade of a tree. He just wasn't the type, he supposed. And it might be\n years before they were rescued.", "He let himself to his hands and knees. \"Ouch!\" he said. He felt like\n he was being jabbed with pins. He must be one big bruise. He scuttled\n after the girl. \"What's wrong?\"\n\n\n The girl looked back at him over her shoulder. \"Centaurs!\" she said. \"I\n didn't know they had returned. There is a small ravine just ahead which\n leads into the hills. I don't think they've seen us. If we can reach\n the hills we'll be safe.\"\n\n\n \"Centaurs! Isn't there anything new under the sun?\"\n\n\n \"Well, personally,\" she replied, \"I never saw a Centaur until I was\n wrecked on this asteroid.\" She reached the ravine, crawled head\n foremost over the edge. Jonathan tumbled after her. He hit the bottom,\n winced, scrambled to his feet. The girl started at a trot for the\n hills. Jonathan, groaning at each step, hobbled beside her.", "\"I'm not afraid,\" said Jonathan hotly. To prove it he trod the narrow\n ledge with scorn. His foot struck a pebble. Both feet went out from\n under him. He slithered halfway over the edge. For one sickening moment\n he thought he was gone, then Ann grabbed him by the scruff of his neck,\n hauled him back to safety. He lay gasping on his stomach. They tied a\n rope around his waist then, and led him the rest of the way to the top\n like a baby on a leash. He was too crestfallen to resent it.\n\n\n The trail came out on a high ridge. They paused on a bluff overlooking\n the prairie.\n\n\n \"Look!\" cried Ann pointing over the edge.", "Jonathan put his arm around her gingerly. \"Ouch!\" He winced. He had\n forgotten his sore muscles.\n\n\n \"I forgot,\" said Ann Clotilde in a contrite voice. She tried to rise.\n \"You're hurt.\"\n\n\n He pulled her back down. \"Not so you could notice it,\" he grinned.\n\n\n \"Well!\" came the strident voice of Billy from behind them. \"We're\nall\nglad to hear that!\"\nJonathan leaped to his feet, dumping Ann to the ground. He jerked\n around. All twenty-six of the girls were lined up on the path. Their\n features were grim. He said: \"I don't feel so well after all.\"\n\n\n \"It don't wash,\" said Billy. \"It's time for a showdown.\"", "\"Don't get up because of me,\" she informed him. \"It's my turn to cook,\n but I saw you out here beneath the trees. Dinner can wait. Jonathan do\n you know that you are irresistible?\" She seized his shoulders, stared\n into his eyes. He couldn't have felt any more uncomfortable had a\n hungry boa constrictor draped itself in his arms. He mopped his brow\n with his sleeve.\n\n\n \"Suppose the rest should come,\" he said in an embarrassed voice.\n\n\n \"They're busy. They won't be here until I call them to lunch. Your\n eyes,\" she said, \"are like deep mysterious pools.\"\n\n\n \"Sure enough?\" said Jonathan with involuntary interest. He began to\n recover his nerve.\n\n\n She said, \"You're the best looking thing.\" She rumpled his hair. \"I\n can't keep my eyes off you.\"", "\"No,\" he replied with as much dignity as he could summon while being\n held aloft by four barbarous young women.\n\n\n \"Let him down,\" said Ann. \"We can catch him, anyway, if he makes a\n break.\"\n\n\n Jonathan Fawkes' humiliation was complete. He meekly trudged between\n two husky females, who ogled him shamelessly. He was amazed at the ease\n with which they had carried him. He was six feet three and no light\n weight. He thought enviously of the centaurs, free to gallop across the\n plains. He wished he was a centaur.\n\n\n The trail left the canyon, struggled up the precipitate walls. Jonathan\n picked his way gingerly, hugged the rock. \"Don't be afraid,\" advised\n one of his captors. \"Just don't look down.\"", "Jonathan's hair stood on end. He felt rather than saw Ann Clotilde take\n her stand beside him. He noticed that she was holding her spear at a\n menacing angle. She said in an angry voice: \"He's mine. I found him.\n Leave him alone.\"\n\n\n \"Where do you get that stuff?\" cried Olga. \"Share and share alike, say\n I.\"\n\n\n \"We could draw straws for him,\" suggested the green-eyed blonde.\n\n\n \"Look here,\" Jonathan broke in. \"I've got some say in the matter.\"\n\n\n \"You have not,\" snapped Billy. \"You'll do just as we say.\" She took a\n step toward him.\n\n\n Jonathan edged away in consternation.\n\n\n \"He's going to run!\" Olga shouted.", "\"Quiet!\" She shrieked in her loud strident voice. \"Let him be. He can't\n go anywhere for a few days. He's just been through a wreck. He needs\n rest.\" She turned to Jonathan who had shrunk down in his chair. \"How\n about some roast?\" she said.\n\n\n \"No.\" He pushed back his plate with a sigh. \"If I only had a smoke.\"\n\n\n Olga gave her unruly black hair a flirt. \"Isn't that just like a man?\"\n\n\n \"I wouldn't know,\" said the green-eyed blonde. \"I've forgotten what\n they're like.\"\n\n\n Billy said, \"How badly wrecked is your ship?\"\n\n\n \"It's strewn all over the landscape,\" he replied sleepily.\n\n\n \"Is there any chance of patching it up?\"", "\"First it's tobacco,\" said Olga; \"now he wants to sleep. Twenty-seven\n girls and he wants to sleep.\"\n\n\n \"He is asleep,\" said the green-eyed blonde.\nJonathan was slumped forward across the table, his head buried in his\n arms.\n\n\n \"Catch a hold,\" said Billy, pushing back from the table. A dozen girls\n volunteered with a rush. \"Hoist!\" said Billy. They lifted him like a\n sleepy child, bore him tenderly up an incline and into a stateroom,\n where they deposited him on the bed.\n\n\n Ann said to Olga; \"Help me with these boots.\" But they resisted every\n tug. \"It's no use,\" groaned Ann, straightening up and wiping her bright\n yellow hair back from her eyes. \"His feet have swollen. We'll have to\n cut them off.\"\n\n\n At these words, Jonathan raised upright as if someone had pulled a rope.", "He lifted his eyebrows. He thought, she is an amazon! He firmly\n detached her hand.\n\n\n The girl flicked up her spear, nicked his neck with the point of it.\n \"We are going to the camp,\" she said.\n\n\n Jonathan threw himself down backwards, kicked the girl's feet out from\n under her. Like a cat he scrambled up and wrenched the spear away.\n\n\n A voice shouted: \"What's going on there?\"\nHe paused shamefacedly. A second girl, he saw, was running toward\n them from up the canyon. Her bare legs flashed like ivory. She was\n barefooted, and she had black hair. A green cloth was wrapped around\n her sarong fashion. She bounced to a stop in front of Jonathan, her\n brown eyes wide in surprise. He thought her sarong had been a table\n cloth at one time in its history.", "A half dozen beasts were trotting beneath on the plain. At first,\n Jonathan mistook them for horses. Then he saw that from the withers up\n they resembled men. Waists, shoulders, arms and heads were identical to\n his own, but their bodies were the bodies of horses.\n\n\n \"Centaurs!\" Jonathan Fawkes said, not believing his eyes.\nThe girls set up a shout and threw stones down at the centaurs, who\n reared, pawed the air, and galloped to a safe distance, from which they\n hurled back insults in a strange tongue. Their voices sounded faintly\n like the neighing of horses.", "\"Why won't the Centaurs follow us into the hills?\" he panted.\n\n\n \"Too rough. They're like horses,\" she said. \"Nothing but a goat could\n get around in the hills.\"\n\n\n The gulley, he saw, was deepening into a respectable canyon, then a\n gorge. In half a mile, the walls towered above them. A narrow ribbon\n of sky was visible overhead. Yellow fern-like plants sprouted from the\n crevices and floor of the canyon.", "Jonathan never stopped until he was back in the canyon leading to the\n plain. His nerves were jumping like fleas. He craved the soothing\n relaxation of a smoke. There was, he remembered, a carton of cigarettes\n at the wreck. He resumed his flight, but at a more sober pace.\n\n\n At the spot where he and Ann had first crawled away from the centaurs,\n he scrambled out of the gulley, glanced in the direction of his space\n ship. He blinked his eyes, stared. Then he waved his arms, shouted and\n tore across the prairie. A trim space cruiser was resting beside the\n wreck of his own. Across its gleaming monaloid hull ran an inscription\n in silver letters: \"INTERSTELLAR COSMOGRAPHY SOCIETY.\"\n\n\n Two men crawled out of Jonathan's wrecked freighter, glanced in\n surprise at Jonathan. A third man ran from the cruiser, a Dixon Ray\n Rifle in his hand.", "They climbed a ridge, paused at the crest. Below them, he saw a deep\n valley. A stream tumbled through the center of it. There were trees\n along its banks, the first he had seen on the asteroid. At the head of\n the valley, he made out the massive pile of a space liner.\n\n\n They started down a winding path. The space liner disappeared behind\n a promontory of the mountain. Jonathan steeled himself for the coming\n ordeal. He would have sat down and refused to budge except that he knew\n the girls would hoist him on their shoulders and bear him into the camp\n like a bag of meal.\n\n\n The trail debouched into the valley. Just ahead the space liner\n reappeared. He imagined that it had crashed into the mountain, skidded\n and rolled down its side until it lodged beside the stream. It reminded\n him of a wounded dinosaur. Three girls were bathing in the stream. He\n looked away hastily.\n\n\n Someone hailed them from the space ship.", "As a last resort, he supposed, he could hide out in the hills or join\n the centaurs. He rather fancied himself galloping across the plains\n on the back of a centaur. He looked up with a start. Ann Clotilde was\n ambling toward him.\n\n\n \"How's the invalid?\" she said, seating herself beside him.\n\n\n \"Hot, isn't it?\" he said. He started to rise. Ann Clotilde placed the\n flat of her hand on his chest and shoved. \"\nOoof!\n\" he grunted. He sat\n down rather more forcibly than he had risen.", "Amazons and centaurs, he thought again. He couldn't get the problem\n of the girls' phenomenal strength out of his mind. Then it occurred\n to him that the asteroid, most likely, was smaller even than Earth's\n moon. He must weigh about a thirtieth of what he usually did, due to\n the lessened gravity. It also occurred to him that they would be thirty\n times as strong. He was staggered. He wished he had a smoke.\n\n\n At length, the amazons and the centaurs tired of bandying insults\n back and forth. The centaurs galloped off into the prairie, the girls\n resumed their march. Jonathan scrambled up hills, skidded down slopes.\n The brunette was beside him helping him over the rough spots.\n\n\n \"I'm Olga,\" she confided. \"Has anybody ever told you what a handsome\n fellow you are?\" She pinched his cheek. Jonathan blushed.", "\"Do you feel strong enough to hike back to our camp? It's only about\n four miles,\" she said.\n\n\n \"I think so,\" he said.\nJonathan Fawkes fidgeted uncomfortably. He would rather pilot a space\n ship through a meteor field than face twenty-seven young women. They\n were the only thing in the Spaceways of which he was in awe. Then he\n realized that the girl's dark blue eyes had strayed beyond him. A frown\n of concentration marred her regular features. He turned around.\n\n\n On the rim of the prairie he saw a dozen black specks moving toward\n them.\n\n\n She said: \"Get down!\" Her voice was agitated. She flung herself on her\n stomach and began to crawl away from the wreck. Jonathan Fawkes stared\n after her stupidly. \"Get down!\" she reiterated in a furious voice.", "Jonathan was game, but the nine husky amazons pinned him down by sheer\n weight. They bound him hand and foot. Then four of them picked him up\n bodily, started up the canyon chanting: \"\nHe was a rocket riding daddy\n from Mars.\n\" He recognized it as a popular song of three years ago.\n\n\n Jonathan had never been so humiliated in his life. He was known in the\n spaceways from Mercury to Jupiter as a man to leave alone. His nose had\n been broken three times. A thin white scar crawled down the bronze of\n his left cheek, relic of a barroom brawl on Venus. He was big, rangy,\n tough. And these girls had trounced him. Girls! He almost wept from\n mortification.\n\n\n He said, \"Put me down. I'll walk.\"\n\n\n \"You won't try to get away?\" said Ann.", "He considered the question. More than anything else, he decided, he\n wanted to sleep. \"What?\" he said.\n\n\n \"Is there any possibility of repairing your ship?\" repeated Billy.\n\n\n \"Not outside the space docks.\"\n\n\n They expelled their breath, but not for an instant did they relax\n the barrage of their eyes. He shifted position in embarrassment. The\n movement pulled his muscles like a rack. Furthermore, an overpowering\n lassitude was threatening to pop him off to sleep before their eyes.\n\n\n \"You look exhausted,\" said Ann.\n\n\n Jonathan dragged himself back from the edge of sleep. \"Just tired,\" he\n mumbled. \"Haven't had a good night's rest since I left Mars.\" Indeed\n it was only by the most painful effort that he kept awake at all. His\n eyelids drooped lower and lower.", "He shook his head. They argued, they cajoled, but Jonathan was adamant.\n He said, \"You might report my accident to Universal. Tell them to stop\n one of their Jupiter-bound freighters here when the asteroid swings\n back in the space ways. I'll have a load for them.\"\n\n\n Inside the ship, Doctor Boynton moved over to a round transparent port\n hole. \"What a strange fellow,\" he murmured. He was just in time to see\n the castaway, loaded like a pack mule, disappear in the direction from\n which he had come.\n\n\n Robinson Crusoe was going back to his man (?) Friday—all twenty-seven\n of them." ], [ "Jonathan never stopped until he was back in the canyon leading to the\n plain. His nerves were jumping like fleas. He craved the soothing\n relaxation of a smoke. There was, he remembered, a carton of cigarettes\n at the wreck. He resumed his flight, but at a more sober pace.\n\n\n At the spot where he and Ann had first crawled away from the centaurs,\n he scrambled out of the gulley, glanced in the direction of his space\n ship. He blinked his eyes, stared. Then he waved his arms, shouted and\n tore across the prairie. A trim space cruiser was resting beside the\n wreck of his own. Across its gleaming monaloid hull ran an inscription\n in silver letters: \"INTERSTELLAR COSMOGRAPHY SOCIETY.\"\n\n\n Two men crawled out of Jonathan's wrecked freighter, glanced in\n surprise at Jonathan. A third man ran from the cruiser, a Dixon Ray\n Rifle in his hand.", "He shook his head. \"No,\" he reassured her. \"I left him on Mars. He\n had an attack of space sickness. I was all by myself; that was the\n trouble. I'd stay at the controls as long as I could, then lock her on\n her course and snatch a couple of hours' sleep. I can remember crawling\n into my bunk. The next thing I knew you were bending over me.\" He\n paused. \"I guess the automatic deflectors slowed me up or I would have\n been a cinder by this time,\" he said.\n\n\n The girl didn't reply. She continued to watch him, a faint enigmatic\n smile on her lips. Jonathan glanced away in embarrassment. He wished\n that pretty women didn't upset him so. He said nervously, \"Where am I?\n I couldn't have slept all the way to Jupiter.\"\n\n\n The girl shrugged her shoulders.\n\n\n \"I don't know.\"", "He considered the question. More than anything else, he decided, he\n wanted to sleep. \"What?\" he said.\n\n\n \"Is there any possibility of repairing your ship?\" repeated Billy.\n\n\n \"Not outside the space docks.\"\n\n\n They expelled their breath, but not for an instant did they relax\n the barrage of their eyes. He shifted position in embarrassment. The\n movement pulled his muscles like a rack. Furthermore, an overpowering\n lassitude was threatening to pop him off to sleep before their eyes.\n\n\n \"You look exhausted,\" said Ann.\n\n\n Jonathan dragged himself back from the edge of sleep. \"Just tired,\" he\n mumbled. \"Haven't had a good night's rest since I left Mars.\" Indeed\n it was only by the most painful effort that he kept awake at all. His\n eyelids drooped lower and lower.", "\"I did,\" said Olga. She chucked Jonathan under the chin. He shivered\n like an unbroken colt when the bit first goes in its mouth. He felt\n like a mouse hemmed in by a ring of cats.\n\n\n A big rawboned brute of a girl strolled into the circle. She said,\n \"Dinner's ready.\" Her voice was loud, strident. It reminded him of\n the voices of girls in the honky tonks on Venus. She looked at him\n appraisingly as if he were a horse she was about to bid on. \"Bring him\n into the ship,\" she said. \"The man must be starved.\"\n\n\n He was propelled jubilantly into the palatial dining salon of the\n wrecked liner. A long polished meturilium table occupied the center of\n the floor. Automatic weight distributing chairs stood around it. His\n feet sank into a green fiberon carpet. He had stepped back into the\n Thirty-fourth Century from the fabulous barbarian past.", "\"But it will be three years before the asteroid's orbit brings it back\n in the space lanes,\" said Doctor Boynton. \"You don't possibly expect to\n be picked up before then!\"\n\n\n Jonathan shook his head, began to load himself with tools, tobacco\n seed, and cigarettes.\n\n\n \"Odd.\" Doctor Boynton shook his head, turned to the others. \"Though if\n I remember correctly, there was quite an epidemic of hermits during\n the medieval period. It was an esthetic movement. They fled to the\n wilderness to escape the temptation of\nwomen\n.\"\n\n\n Jonathan laughed outright.\n\n\n \"You are sure you won't return, young man?\"", "The next day found Jonathan Fawkes hobbling around by the aid of a\n cane. At the portal of the space ship, he stuck out his head, glanced\n all around warily. None of the girls were in sight. They had, he\n presumed, gone about their chores: hunting, fishing, gathering fruits\n and berries. He emerged all the way and set out for the creek. He\n walked with an exaggerated limp just in case any of them should be\n hanging around. As long as he was an invalid he was safe, he hoped.\n\n\n He sighed. Not every man could be waited on so solicitously by\n twenty-seven handsome strapping amazons. He wished he could carry it\n off in cavalier fashion. He hobbled to the creek, sat down beneath the\n shade of a tree. He just wasn't the type, he supposed. And it might be\n years before they were rescued.", "They climbed a ridge, paused at the crest. Below them, he saw a deep\n valley. A stream tumbled through the center of it. There were trees\n along its banks, the first he had seen on the asteroid. At the head of\n the valley, he made out the massive pile of a space liner.\n\n\n They started down a winding path. The space liner disappeared behind\n a promontory of the mountain. Jonathan steeled himself for the coming\n ordeal. He would have sat down and refused to budge except that he knew\n the girls would hoist him on their shoulders and bear him into the camp\n like a bag of meal.\n\n\n The trail debouched into the valley. Just ahead the space liner\n reappeared. He imagined that it had crashed into the mountain, skidded\n and rolled down its side until it lodged beside the stream. It reminded\n him of a wounded dinosaur. Three girls were bathing in the stream. He\n looked away hastily.\n\n\n Someone hailed them from the space ship.", "He shook his head. They argued, they cajoled, but Jonathan was adamant.\n He said, \"You might report my accident to Universal. Tell them to stop\n one of their Jupiter-bound freighters here when the asteroid swings\n back in the space ways. I'll have a load for them.\"\n\n\n Inside the ship, Doctor Boynton moved over to a round transparent port\n hole. \"What a strange fellow,\" he murmured. He was just in time to see\n the castaway, loaded like a pack mule, disappear in the direction from\n which he had come.\n\n\n Robinson Crusoe was going back to his man (?) Friday—all twenty-seven\n of them.", "\"I say,\" said the man who had run out of the cruiser. He was a prim,\n energetic young man. Jonathan noted that he carried the ray gun\n gingerly, respectfully. \"We're a week overdue now,\" he said. \"If you\n have any personal belongings that you'd like to take with you, you'd\n best be getting them aboard.\"\nJonathan's face broke into a grin. He said, \"Do any of you know how to\n grow tobacco?\"\n\n\n They glanced at each other in perplexity.\n\n\n \"I like it here,\" continued Jonathan. \"I'm not going back.\"\n\n\n \"What?\" cried the three explorers in one breath.\n\n\n \"I'm going to stay,\" he repeated. \"I only came back here after the\n cigarettes.\"", "\"Quiet!\" She shrieked in her loud strident voice. \"Let him be. He can't\n go anywhere for a few days. He's just been through a wreck. He needs\n rest.\" She turned to Jonathan who had shrunk down in his chair. \"How\n about some roast?\" she said.\n\n\n \"No.\" He pushed back his plate with a sigh. \"If I only had a smoke.\"\n\n\n Olga gave her unruly black hair a flirt. \"Isn't that just like a man?\"\n\n\n \"I wouldn't know,\" said the green-eyed blonde. \"I've forgotten what\n they're like.\"\n\n\n Billy said, \"How badly wrecked is your ship?\"\n\n\n \"It's strewn all over the landscape,\" he replied sleepily.\n\n\n \"Is there any chance of patching it up?\"", "\"I'm Jonathan Fawkes,\" said the castaway as he panted up, \"pilot for\n Universal. I was wrecked.\"\n\n\n A tall elderly man held out his hand. He had a small black waxed\n mustache and Van Dyke. He was smoking a venusian cigarette in a\n yellow composition holder. He said, \"I'm Doctor Boynton.\" He had a\n rich cultivated voice, and a nose like a hawk. \"We are members of the\n Interstellar Cosmography Society. We've been commissioned to make a\n cursory examination of this asteroid. You had a nasty crack up, Mr.\n Fawkes. But you are in luck, sir. We were on the point of returning\n when we sighted the wreck.\"", "The girl shook her head. \"We ran out of tobacco the first few months we\n were here.\"\n\n\n Jonathan turned around, started back for the space ship.\n\n\n \"Where are you going?\" cried Ann in alarm.\n\n\n He said, \"I've got a couple of cartons of cigarettes back at the\n freighter. Centaurs or no centaurs, I'm going to get a smoke.\"\n\n\n \"No!\" She clutched his arm. He was surprised at the strength of her\n grip. \"They'd kill you,\" she said.\n\n\n \"I can sneak back,\" he insisted stubbornly. \"They might loot the ship.\n I don't want to lose those cigarettes. I was hauling some good burley\n tobacco seed too. The colonists were going to experiment with it on\n Ganymede.\"\n\n\n \"No!\"", "He let himself to his hands and knees. \"Ouch!\" he said. He felt like\n he was being jabbed with pins. He must be one big bruise. He scuttled\n after the girl. \"What's wrong?\"\n\n\n The girl looked back at him over her shoulder. \"Centaurs!\" she said. \"I\n didn't know they had returned. There is a small ravine just ahead which\n leads into the hills. I don't think they've seen us. If we can reach\n the hills we'll be safe.\"\n\n\n \"Centaurs! Isn't there anything new under the sun?\"\n\n\n \"Well, personally,\" she replied, \"I never saw a Centaur until I was\n wrecked on this asteroid.\" She reached the ravine, crawled head\n foremost over the edge. Jonathan tumbled after her. He hit the bottom,\n winced, scrambled to his feet. The girl started at a trot for the\n hills. Jonathan, groaning at each step, hobbled beside her.", "\"You're not dead?\"\n\n\n \"I've some doubt about that,\" he replied dryly. He levered himself to\n his elbows. The girl, he saw, had bright yellow hair. Her nose was\n pert, tip-tilted. She had on a ragged blue frock and sandals.\n\n\n \"Is—is anything broken?\" she asked.\n\n\n \"Don't know. Help me up.\" Between them he managed to struggle to his\n feet. He winced. He said, \"My name's Jonathan Fawkes. I'm a space pilot\n with Universal. What happened? I feel like I'd been poured out of a\n concrete mixer.\"", "She pointed to the wreck of a small space freighter a dozen feet away.\n Its nose was buried in the turf, folded back like an accordion. It\n had burst open like a ripe watermelon. He was surprised that he had\n survived at all. He scratched his head. \"I was running from Mars to\n Jupiter with a load of seed for the colonists.\"\n\n\n \"Oh!\" said the girl, biting her lips. \"Your co-pilot must be in the\n wreckage.\"", "\"I remember,\" he exclaimed. \"Didn't the Jupiter Food-growers\n Association enlist you girls to go to the colonies?\"\n\n\n She nodded her head. \"Only twenty-seven of us came through the crash.\"\n\n\n \"Everybody thought your space ship hit a meteor,\" he said.\n\n\n \"We hit this asteroid.\"\n\n\n \"But that was three years ago.\"\n\n\n \"Has it been that long? We lost track of time.\" She didn't take her\n eyes off him, not for a second. Such attention made him acutely self\n conscious. She said, \"I'm Ann. Ann Clotilde. I was hunting when I saw\n your space ship. You had been thrown clear. You were lying all in a\n heap. I thought you were dead.\" She stooped, picked up a spear.", "\"Do you feel strong enough to hike back to our camp? It's only about\n four miles,\" she said.\n\n\n \"I think so,\" he said.\nJonathan Fawkes fidgeted uncomfortably. He would rather pilot a space\n ship through a meteor field than face twenty-seven young women. They\n were the only thing in the Spaceways of which he was in awe. Then he\n realized that the girl's dark blue eyes had strayed beyond him. A frown\n of concentration marred her regular features. He turned around.\n\n\n On the rim of the prairie he saw a dozen black specks moving toward\n them.\n\n\n She said: \"Get down!\" Her voice was agitated. She flung herself on her\n stomach and began to crawl away from the wreck. Jonathan Fawkes stared\n after her stupidly. \"Get down!\" she reiterated in a furious voice.", "Jonathan was game, but the nine husky amazons pinned him down by sheer\n weight. They bound him hand and foot. Then four of them picked him up\n bodily, started up the canyon chanting: \"\nHe was a rocket riding daddy\n from Mars.\n\" He recognized it as a popular song of three years ago.\n\n\n Jonathan had never been so humiliated in his life. He was known in the\n spaceways from Mercury to Jupiter as a man to leave alone. His nose had\n been broken three times. A thin white scar crawled down the bronze of\n his left cheek, relic of a barroom brawl on Venus. He was big, rangy,\n tough. And these girls had trounced him. Girls! He almost wept from\n mortification.\n\n\n He said, \"Put me down. I'll walk.\"\n\n\n \"You won't try to get away?\" said Ann.", "\"You don't know!\" He almost forgot his self-consciousness in his\n surprise. His pale blue eyes returned to the landscape. A mile across\n the plain began a range of jagged foothills, which tossed upward\n higher and higher until they merged with the blue saw-edge of a chain\n of mountains. As he looked a puff of smoke belched from a truncated\n cone-shaped peak. A volcano. Otherwise there was no sign of life: just\n he and the strange yellow-headed girl alone in the center of that vast\n rolling prairie.\n\n\n \"I was going to explain,\" he heard her say. \"We think that we are on an\n asteroid.\"\n\n\n \"We?\" he looked back at her.\n\n\n \"Yes. There are twenty-seven of us. We were on our way to Jupiter, too,\n only we were going to be wives for the colonists.\"", "Jonathan's hair stood on end. He felt rather than saw Ann Clotilde take\n her stand beside him. He noticed that she was holding her spear at a\n menacing angle. She said in an angry voice: \"He's mine. I found him.\n Leave him alone.\"\n\n\n \"Where do you get that stuff?\" cried Olga. \"Share and share alike, say\n I.\"\n\n\n \"We could draw straws for him,\" suggested the green-eyed blonde.\n\n\n \"Look here,\" Jonathan broke in. \"I've got some say in the matter.\"\n\n\n \"You have not,\" snapped Billy. \"You'll do just as we say.\" She took a\n step toward him.\n\n\n Jonathan edged away in consternation.\n\n\n \"He's going to run!\" Olga shouted." ], [ "\"Don't get up because of me,\" she informed him. \"It's my turn to cook,\n but I saw you out here beneath the trees. Dinner can wait. Jonathan do\n you know that you are irresistible?\" She seized his shoulders, stared\n into his eyes. He couldn't have felt any more uncomfortable had a\n hungry boa constrictor draped itself in his arms. He mopped his brow\n with his sleeve.\n\n\n \"Suppose the rest should come,\" he said in an embarrassed voice.\n\n\n \"They're busy. They won't be here until I call them to lunch. Your\n eyes,\" she said, \"are like deep mysterious pools.\"\n\n\n \"Sure enough?\" said Jonathan with involuntary interest. He began to\n recover his nerve.\n\n\n She said, \"You're the best looking thing.\" She rumpled his hair. \"I\n can't keep my eyes off you.\"", "Jonathan's hair stood on end. He felt rather than saw Ann Clotilde take\n her stand beside him. He noticed that she was holding her spear at a\n menacing angle. She said in an angry voice: \"He's mine. I found him.\n Leave him alone.\"\n\n\n \"Where do you get that stuff?\" cried Olga. \"Share and share alike, say\n I.\"\n\n\n \"We could draw straws for him,\" suggested the green-eyed blonde.\n\n\n \"Look here,\" Jonathan broke in. \"I've got some say in the matter.\"\n\n\n \"You have not,\" snapped Billy. \"You'll do just as we say.\" She took a\n step toward him.\n\n\n Jonathan edged away in consternation.\n\n\n \"He's going to run!\" Olga shouted.", "Jonathan never stopped until he was back in the canyon leading to the\n plain. His nerves were jumping like fleas. He craved the soothing\n relaxation of a smoke. There was, he remembered, a carton of cigarettes\n at the wreck. He resumed his flight, but at a more sober pace.\n\n\n At the spot where he and Ann had first crawled away from the centaurs,\n he scrambled out of the gulley, glanced in the direction of his space\n ship. He blinked his eyes, stared. Then he waved his arms, shouted and\n tore across the prairie. A trim space cruiser was resting beside the\n wreck of his own. Across its gleaming monaloid hull ran an inscription\n in silver letters: \"INTERSTELLAR COSMOGRAPHY SOCIETY.\"\n\n\n Two men crawled out of Jonathan's wrecked freighter, glanced in\n surprise at Jonathan. A third man ran from the cruiser, a Dixon Ray\n Rifle in his hand.", "Jonathan put his arm around her gingerly. \"Ouch!\" He winced. He had\n forgotten his sore muscles.\n\n\n \"I forgot,\" said Ann Clotilde in a contrite voice. She tried to rise.\n \"You're hurt.\"\n\n\n He pulled her back down. \"Not so you could notice it,\" he grinned.\n\n\n \"Well!\" came the strident voice of Billy from behind them. \"We're\nall\nglad to hear that!\"\nJonathan leaped to his feet, dumping Ann to the ground. He jerked\n around. All twenty-six of the girls were lined up on the path. Their\n features were grim. He said: \"I don't feel so well after all.\"\n\n\n \"It don't wash,\" said Billy. \"It's time for a showdown.\"", "\"I'm Jonathan Fawkes,\" said the castaway as he panted up, \"pilot for\n Universal. I was wrecked.\"\n\n\n A tall elderly man held out his hand. He had a small black waxed\n mustache and Van Dyke. He was smoking a venusian cigarette in a\n yellow composition holder. He said, \"I'm Doctor Boynton.\" He had a\n rich cultivated voice, and a nose like a hawk. \"We are members of the\n Interstellar Cosmography Society. We've been commissioned to make a\n cursory examination of this asteroid. You had a nasty crack up, Mr.\n Fawkes. But you are in luck, sir. We were on the point of returning\n when we sighted the wreck.\"", "A half dozen beasts were trotting beneath on the plain. At first,\n Jonathan mistook them for horses. Then he saw that from the withers up\n they resembled men. Waists, shoulders, arms and heads were identical to\n his own, but their bodies were the bodies of horses.\n\n\n \"Centaurs!\" Jonathan Fawkes said, not believing his eyes.\nThe girls set up a shout and threw stones down at the centaurs, who\n reared, pawed the air, and galloped to a safe distance, from which they\n hurled back insults in a strange tongue. Their voices sounded faintly\n like the neighing of horses.", "He shook his head. \"No,\" he reassured her. \"I left him on Mars. He\n had an attack of space sickness. I was all by myself; that was the\n trouble. I'd stay at the controls as long as I could, then lock her on\n her course and snatch a couple of hours' sleep. I can remember crawling\n into my bunk. The next thing I knew you were bending over me.\" He\n paused. \"I guess the automatic deflectors slowed me up or I would have\n been a cinder by this time,\" he said.\n\n\n The girl didn't reply. She continued to watch him, a faint enigmatic\n smile on her lips. Jonathan glanced away in embarrassment. He wished\n that pretty women didn't upset him so. He said nervously, \"Where am I?\n I couldn't have slept all the way to Jupiter.\"\n\n\n The girl shrugged her shoulders.\n\n\n \"I don't know.\"", "\"But it will be three years before the asteroid's orbit brings it back\n in the space lanes,\" said Doctor Boynton. \"You don't possibly expect to\n be picked up before then!\"\n\n\n Jonathan shook his head, began to load himself with tools, tobacco\n seed, and cigarettes.\n\n\n \"Odd.\" Doctor Boynton shook his head, turned to the others. \"Though if\n I remember correctly, there was quite an epidemic of hermits during\n the medieval period. It was an esthetic movement. They fled to the\n wilderness to escape the temptation of\nwomen\n.\"\n\n\n Jonathan laughed outright.\n\n\n \"You are sure you won't return, young man?\"", "\"A man!\" she breathed. \"By Jupiter and all its little moons, it's a\n man!\"\n\n\n \"Don't let him get away!\" cried Ann.\n\n\n \"Hilda!\" the brunette shrieked. \"A man! It's a man!\"\n\n\n A third girl skidded around the bend in the canyon. Jonathan backed off\n warily.\n\n\n Ann Clotilde cried in anguish: \"Don't let him get away!\"\n\n\n Jonathan chose the centaurs. He wheeled around, dashed back the way\n he had come. Someone tackled him. He rolled on the rocky floor of the\n canyon. He struggled to his feet. He saw six more girls race around the\n bend in the canyon. With shouts of joy they flung themselves on him.", "\"I say,\" said the man who had run out of the cruiser. He was a prim,\n energetic young man. Jonathan noted that he carried the ray gun\n gingerly, respectfully. \"We're a week overdue now,\" he said. \"If you\n have any personal belongings that you'd like to take with you, you'd\n best be getting them aboard.\"\nJonathan's face broke into a grin. He said, \"Do any of you know how to\n grow tobacco?\"\n\n\n They glanced at each other in perplexity.\n\n\n \"I like it here,\" continued Jonathan. \"I'm not going back.\"\n\n\n \"What?\" cried the three explorers in one breath.\n\n\n \"I'm going to stay,\" he repeated. \"I only came back here after the\n cigarettes.\"", "\"I did,\" said Olga. She chucked Jonathan under the chin. He shivered\n like an unbroken colt when the bit first goes in its mouth. He felt\n like a mouse hemmed in by a ring of cats.\n\n\n A big rawboned brute of a girl strolled into the circle. She said,\n \"Dinner's ready.\" Her voice was loud, strident. It reminded him of\n the voices of girls in the honky tonks on Venus. She looked at him\n appraisingly as if he were a horse she was about to bid on. \"Bring him\n into the ship,\" she said. \"The man must be starved.\"\n\n\n He was propelled jubilantly into the palatial dining salon of the\n wrecked liner. A long polished meturilium table occupied the center of\n the floor. Automatic weight distributing chairs stood around it. His\n feet sank into a green fiberon carpet. He had stepped back into the\n Thirty-fourth Century from the fabulous barbarian past.", "Amazons and centaurs, he thought again. He couldn't get the problem\n of the girls' phenomenal strength out of his mind. Then it occurred\n to him that the asteroid, most likely, was smaller even than Earth's\n moon. He must weigh about a thirtieth of what he usually did, due to\n the lessened gravity. It also occurred to him that they would be thirty\n times as strong. He was staggered. He wished he had a smoke.\n\n\n At length, the amazons and the centaurs tired of bandying insults\n back and forth. The centaurs galloped off into the prairie, the girls\n resumed their march. Jonathan scrambled up hills, skidded down slopes.\n The brunette was beside him helping him over the rough spots.\n\n\n \"I'm Olga,\" she confided. \"Has anybody ever told you what a handsome\n fellow you are?\" She pinched his cheek. Jonathan blushed.", "He lifted his eyebrows. He thought, she is an amazon! He firmly\n detached her hand.\n\n\n The girl flicked up her spear, nicked his neck with the point of it.\n \"We are going to the camp,\" she said.\n\n\n Jonathan threw himself down backwards, kicked the girl's feet out from\n under her. Like a cat he scrambled up and wrenched the spear away.\n\n\n A voice shouted: \"What's going on there?\"\nHe paused shamefacedly. A second girl, he saw, was running toward\n them from up the canyon. Her bare legs flashed like ivory. She was\n barefooted, and she had black hair. A green cloth was wrapped around\n her sarong fashion. She bounced to a stop in front of Jonathan, her\n brown eyes wide in surprise. He thought her sarong had been a table\n cloth at one time in its history.", "\"No,\" he replied with as much dignity as he could summon while being\n held aloft by four barbarous young women.\n\n\n \"Let him down,\" said Ann. \"We can catch him, anyway, if he makes a\n break.\"\n\n\n Jonathan Fawkes' humiliation was complete. He meekly trudged between\n two husky females, who ogled him shamelessly. He was amazed at the ease\n with which they had carried him. He was six feet three and no light\n weight. He thought enviously of the centaurs, free to gallop across the\n plains. He wished he was a centaur.\n\n\n The trail left the canyon, struggled up the precipitate walls. Jonathan\n picked his way gingerly, hugged the rock. \"Don't be afraid,\" advised\n one of his captors. \"Just don't look down.\"", "Jonathan was game, but the nine husky amazons pinned him down by sheer\n weight. They bound him hand and foot. Then four of them picked him up\n bodily, started up the canyon chanting: \"\nHe was a rocket riding daddy\n from Mars.\n\" He recognized it as a popular song of three years ago.\n\n\n Jonathan had never been so humiliated in his life. He was known in the\n spaceways from Mercury to Jupiter as a man to leave alone. His nose had\n been broken three times. A thin white scar crawled down the bronze of\n his left cheek, relic of a barroom brawl on Venus. He was big, rangy,\n tough. And these girls had trounced him. Girls! He almost wept from\n mortification.\n\n\n He said, \"Put me down. I'll walk.\"\n\n\n \"You won't try to get away?\" said Ann.", "He let himself to his hands and knees. \"Ouch!\" he said. He felt like\n he was being jabbed with pins. He must be one big bruise. He scuttled\n after the girl. \"What's wrong?\"\n\n\n The girl looked back at him over her shoulder. \"Centaurs!\" she said. \"I\n didn't know they had returned. There is a small ravine just ahead which\n leads into the hills. I don't think they've seen us. If we can reach\n the hills we'll be safe.\"\n\n\n \"Centaurs! Isn't there anything new under the sun?\"\n\n\n \"Well, personally,\" she replied, \"I never saw a Centaur until I was\n wrecked on this asteroid.\" She reached the ravine, crawled head\n foremost over the edge. Jonathan tumbled after her. He hit the bottom,\n winced, scrambled to his feet. The girl started at a trot for the\n hills. Jonathan, groaning at each step, hobbled beside her.", "\"I'm not afraid,\" said Jonathan hotly. To prove it he trod the narrow\n ledge with scorn. His foot struck a pebble. Both feet went out from\n under him. He slithered halfway over the edge. For one sickening moment\n he thought he was gone, then Ann grabbed him by the scruff of his neck,\n hauled him back to safety. He lay gasping on his stomach. They tied a\n rope around his waist then, and led him the rest of the way to the top\n like a baby on a leash. He was too crestfallen to resent it.\n\n\n The trail came out on a high ridge. They paused on a bluff overlooking\n the prairie.\n\n\n \"Look!\" cried Ann pointing over the edge.", "He shuddered, but looked up questioningly.\n\n\n She said, \"How's the fish?\"\n\n\n \"Good,\" he mumbled between a mouthful. \"Where did you get it?\"\n\n\n \"Caught it,\" said Olga. \"The stream's full of 'em. I'll take you\n fishing tomorrow.\" She winked at him so brazenly that he choked on a\n bone.\n\n\n \"Heaven forbid,\" he said.\n\n\n \"How about coming with me to gather fruit?\" cried the green-eyed\n blonde; \"you great big handsome man.\"\n\n\n \"Or me?\" cried another. And the table was in an uproar.\n\n\n The rawboned woman who had summoned them to dinner, pounded the table\n until the cups and plates danced. Jonathan had gathered that she was\n called Billy.", "He shook his head. They argued, they cajoled, but Jonathan was adamant.\n He said, \"You might report my accident to Universal. Tell them to stop\n one of their Jupiter-bound freighters here when the asteroid swings\n back in the space ways. I'll have a load for them.\"\n\n\n Inside the ship, Doctor Boynton moved over to a round transparent port\n hole. \"What a strange fellow,\" he murmured. He was just in time to see\n the castaway, loaded like a pack mule, disappear in the direction from\n which he had come.\n\n\n Robinson Crusoe was going back to his man (?) Friday—all twenty-seven\n of them.", "\"First it's tobacco,\" said Olga; \"now he wants to sleep. Twenty-seven\n girls and he wants to sleep.\"\n\n\n \"He is asleep,\" said the green-eyed blonde.\nJonathan was slumped forward across the table, his head buried in his\n arms.\n\n\n \"Catch a hold,\" said Billy, pushing back from the table. A dozen girls\n volunteered with a rush. \"Hoist!\" said Billy. They lifted him like a\n sleepy child, bore him tenderly up an incline and into a stateroom,\n where they deposited him on the bed.\n\n\n Ann said to Olga; \"Help me with these boots.\" But they resisted every\n tug. \"It's no use,\" groaned Ann, straightening up and wiping her bright\n yellow hair back from her eyes. \"His feet have swollen. We'll have to\n cut them off.\"\n\n\n At these words, Jonathan raised upright as if someone had pulled a rope." ] ]
valid	63616	[ "What was Harper's most likely work with the equatorial wells before they sank?", "Why did Harper change his tone regarding a vacation to Mars?", "Why was Harper strongly in favor of automation?", "Why did Harper think of Mrs. Jacobsen when the two robots came to his room?", "Why did the two robots sedate Harper in his room?", "Why did the clerk start mentally preparing his resignation?", "Why did Hayes want to resign?", "How did Harper satisfy his ambitions and solve Hayes' problems?", "How did Harper thank Scribney for having \"rung the bell\"?" ]	[ [ "Treating Martian liquids for commercial use.", "Bolstering the Martian tourist economy.", "Converting the wells into curative springs.", "Sourcing water on Mars." ], [ "He wanted to see the beautiful Emerald Star hotel.", "He was worried about the robots staffing the hotel.", "Bella convinced him he could benefit from some curative rest and relaxation.", "He realized he could profit from a scientific breakthrough." ], [ "New technology was a sign of sophistication.", "He appreciated machine silence and accuracy.", "He wanted to do less work and maximize profits.", "It potentially would save him a lot of money." ], [ "One of the robots looked like her.", "He scoffed again at her irritation with the robots. ", "He realized the man standing behind him in line was her husband.", "He was starting to agree that human customer service might be preferable to robots." ], [ "They were going to put him through an intense fitness, diet, and sleep regimen he had requested.", "They thought he was Jake Ellis.", "They realized he wanted to take advantage of them for his own profit.", "They didn't like him and wanted to scare him." ], [ "He had been hired for another job.", "The robot security guards had lost control.", "He would be blamed for the mess Harper created during his outburst.", "He was tired of working at the hotel." ], [ "Operation Robot was a failed experiment and had lost too much money.", "He was tired of dealing with unruly guests.", "He felt robots were illogical compared to humans.", "He refused to learn how to live with robots." ], [ "He traded out the factory workers for robots, and the factory workers took over the hotel jobs.", "He fired all of the factory workers and replaced them with robots.", "He purchased a controlling interest in Operation Robot.", "He harvested all the fungal enzymes for his company." ], [ "He felt he owed him and promised to reward him in the future.", "He hired him to work as superintendent of a factory at Hagerty's Enzymes.", "He gave him a large stock in Hagerty's Enzymes.", "He squeezed his arm and smiled at him - a rarity for a man like Harper." ] ]	[ 4, 4, 2, 4, 2, 3, 1, 1, 3 ]	[ 0, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 1, 0, 1 ]	[ [ "Harper's hands twitched violently. \"Don't mention that fiasco!\" he\n rasped. \"That deal nearly cost me my shirt! Water, hell! Those wells\n spewed up the craziest conglomeration of liquids ever tapped!\"\nScribney, whose large, phlegmatic person and calm professorial brain\n were the complete antithesis of Harper's picked-crow physique and\n scheming financier's wits, looked severely over his glasses. Harp's\n nervous tribulations were beginning to bore him, as well as interfere\n with the harmony of his home.\n\n\n \"You're away behind the times, Harp,\" he declared. \"Don't you know\n that those have proved to be the most astoundingly curative springs\n ever discovered anywhere? Don't you know that a syndicate has built\n the largest extra-terrestial hotel of the solar system there and that\n people are flocking to it to get cured of whatever ails 'em? Old man,\n you missed a bet!\"", "Harper snorted. His large nose developed the sound magnificently.\n \"Vacation!\" he snorted. \"Batting a silly ball around or dragging a hook\n after a stupid fish! Fine activities for an intelligent middle-aged\n man! And let me correct you. It isn't business worries that are driving\n me to a crack-up. It's the strain of trying to get some sensible,\n reasonable coöperation from the nincompoops I have to hire! It's the\n idiocy of the human race that's got me whipped! It's the—\"\n\n\n \"Hey, Harp, old man!\" His brother-in-law, turning the pages of the\n new colorama magazine, INTERPLANETARY, had paused at a double-spread.\n \"Didn't you have a finger in those Martian equatorial wells they sunk\n twenty years ago?\"", "\"Harp!\" exploded Bella. \"Stop it! Maybe Jackson doesn't know a thing\n about it, whatever it is! If it's something at the Emerald Star Hotel,\n why don't you just go and find out for yourself instead of throwing a\n tantrum? That's the only sensible way!\"\n\n\n \"You're right, Bella,\" agreed Harper incisively. \"I'll go and find out\n for myself. Immediately!\" Scooping up his hat, he left at his usual\n lope.\n\n\n \"Well!\" remarked his sister. \"All I can say is that they'd better turn\n that happy-gas on extra strong for Harp's trip out!\"\nThe trip out did Harper a world of good. Under the influence of the\n soporific gas that permeated the rocket, he really relaxed for the\n first time in years, sinking with the other passengers into a hazy\n lethargy with little sense of passing time and almost no memory of the\n interval.", "The big man placed his large hands on his own capacious stomach and\n groaned. \"I'm sure sorry it was you and not me, pardner. I could use\n some of that treatment right now. Musta been that steak and onions I\n ate after all that tundra dope I've been livin' on.\"\n\n\n \"Tundra?\" A faint spark of alertness lightened Harper's dull rage. \"You\n mean you work out here on the tundra?\"", "Dutifully Scribney remembered and commented on the change the Martian\n springs had effected in the Durants. \"It's the very thing for you,\n Harp,\" he advised. \"You'd get a good rest on the way out. This gas\n they use in the rockets nowadays is as good as a rest-cure; it sort of\n floats you along the time-track in a pleasant daze, they tell me. And\n you can finish the cure at the hotel while looking it over. And not\n only that.\" Confidentially he leaned toward his insignificant looking\n brother-in-law. \"The chemists over at Dade McCann have just isolated an\n enzyme from one species of Martian fungus that breaks down crude oil\n into its components without the need for chemical processing. There's a\n fortune waiting for the man who corners that fungus market and learns\n to process the stuff!\"", "And indeed, Harper was stepping briskly downward, looking spry and fit\n and years younger. He came across to them actually beaming. It was the\n first pleasant expression they had seen on his face in years.\n\n\n \"Well, you old dog!\" exclaimed Scribney affectionately. \"So you did it\n again!\"\n\n\n Harper smirked. \"Yep, I turned a neat little deal. I bought out\n Hagerty's Enzymes and staffed the plant with the hotel's robots. Got\n both of 'em dirt cheap. Both concerns going bankrupt because they\n didn't have sense enough to swap their workers. Feel I owe you a bit\n for that tip about enzymes, Scrib, so I made out a block of stock to\n you. All right?\"", "Leaping from the sofa, Harper rudely snatched the magazine from\n Scribney's hands. He glared at the spread which depicted a star-shaped\n structure of bottle-green glass resting jewel-like on the rufous rock\n of Mars. The main portion of the building consisted of a circular\n skyscraper with a glass-domed roof. Between its star-shaped annexes,\n other domes covered landscaped gardens and noxious pools which in the\n drawing looked lovely and enticing.\n\n\n \"Why, I remember now!\" exclaimed Bella. \"That's where the Durants went\n two years ago! He was about dead and she looked like a hag. They came\n back in wonderful shape. Don't you remember, Scrib?\"", "\"That's right. How'd you think I got in such a helluva shape? I'm\n superintendent of one of the fungus plants. I'm Jake Ellis of Hagerty's\n Enzymes. There's good money in it, but man, what a job! No air worth\n mentionin'. Temperature always freezin' or below. Pressure suits. Huts.\n Factory. Processed food. Nothin' else. Just nothin'. That's where they\n could use some robots. It sure ain't no job for a real live man. And in\n fact, there ain't many men left there. If old man Hagerty only knew it,\n he's about out of business.\"\n\n\n Harper sat up as if he'd been needled. He opened his mouth to speak.\n But just then the door opened briskly and two robots entered. With a\n horrified stare, Harper clutched his maltreated stomach. He saw a third\n robot enter, wheeling a chair.", "Harper gazed out at the stunned audience. This was more like the\n treatment he was accustomed to! Haughtily he squared his bony shoulders\n inside the immense jacket and stepped into the elevator. He was ready\n for the second step of his private Operation Robot.\nBack on Earth it was a warm, misty spring day—the kind of day unknown\n to the planet Mars. Bella and Scribney, superb in new spring outfits,\n waited restlessly while the rocket cooled and the passengers recovered\n from deceleration.\n\n\n \"Look, Scrib!\" Bella clutched Scribney's substantial arm. \"It's finally\n opening.\"\n\n\n They watched the airlock open and the platform wheel into place. They\n watched the passengers descend, looking a trifle dazed.\n\n\n \"There he is!\" cried Bella. \"Why, doesn't he look wonderful! Scrib,\n it's amazing! Look at him!", "The clerk sputtered. Mrs. Jacobsen sputtered. But not for nothing was\n Harper one of the leading business executives of the earth. Harper's\n implacable stare won his point. Wiping beads of moisture from his\n forehead, the clerk fumbled for a card, typed it out, and was about to\n deposit it in the punch box when a fist hit the desk a resounding blow\n and another voice, male, roared out at Harper's elbow.\n\n\n \"This is a helluva joint!\" roared the voice. \"Man could rot away to the\n knees while he's waitin' for accommodations. Service!\" Again his fist\n banged the counter.\n\n\n The clerk jumped. He dropped Harper's card and had to stoop for it.\n Absently holding it, he straightened up to face Mrs. Jacobsen and the\n irate newcomer. Hastily he pushed a tagged key at Harper.", "\"One moment, sir,\" begged that harassed individual. \"Just one moment,\n please.\" He turned back to the woman.\n\n\n But she had turned her glare on Harper. \"You could at least be civil\n enough to wait your turn!\"\n\n\n Harper smirked. \"My good woman, I'm not a robot. Robots, of course,\n are always civil. But you should know by now that civility isn't a\n normal human trait.\" Leaving her temporarily quashed, he beckoned\n authoritatively to the clerk.\n\n\n \"I've just arrived and want to get settled. I'm here merely for a\n rest-cure, no treatments. You can assign my quarters before continuing\n your—ah—discussion with the lady.\"", "Brushing aside the startled secretary in the outer cubicle, Harper\n flapped and shuffled straight into the inner sanctum. The manager, who\n was busy chewing a cigar to shreds behind his fortress of gun metal\n desk, jerked hastily upright and glared at the intruder. \"My good\n man—\" he began.", "Harper tried to let go of everything. He gave in to the chair. And\n gently the chair went to work. It rocked rhythmically, it vibrated\n tenderly. With velvety cushions it massaged his back and arms and legs.\n\n\n For all of five minutes Harper stood it. Then with a frenzied lunge\n he escaped the embrace of the Relaxo-Lounge and fled to a gloriously\n stationary sofa.\n\n\n \"Harp!\" His sister, Bella, was ready to weep with exasperation. \"Dr.\n Franz said it would be just the thing for you! Why won't you give it a\n trial?\"", "It seemed hardly more than a handful of hours until they were strapping\n themselves into deceleration hammocks for the landing. And then Harper\n was waking with lassitude still heavy in his veins. He struggled out of\n the hammock, made his way to the airlock, and found himself whisked by\n pneumatic tube directly into the lobby of the Emerald Star Hotel.\n\n\n Appreciatively he gazed around at the half-acre of moss-gray carpeting,\n green-tinted by the light sifting through the walls of Martian\n copper-glass, and at the vistas of beautiful domed gardens framed by a\n dozen arches. But most of all, the robots won his delighted approval.", "Harp nodded. An idea began to formulate. \"Leave your things, will you?\n I'm desperate! I'm going to see the manager of this madhouse if I have\n to go down dressed in a sheet. Your clothes would be better than that.\"\n\n\n Jake, looking over Harper's skimpy frame, grunted doubtfully. \"Maybe\n you could tie 'em on so they wouldn't slip. And roll up the cuffs. It's\n okay with me, but just don't lose something when you're down there in\n that fancy lobby.\"\n\n\n Harper looked at his watch. \"Time to go. Relax, old man. The robots\n will be along any minute now. If you're the only man in the room, I'm\n sure they'll take you. They aren't equipped to figure it out. And don't\n worry about me. I'll anchor your duds all right.\"", "\"Here you are, Mr. Breen. I'm sure you'll find it comfortable.\" With a\n pallid smile he pressed a button and consigned Harper to the care of a\n silent and efficient robot.\nThe room was more than comfortable. It was beautiful. Its bank of clear\n windows set in the green glass wall framed startling rubicund views of\n the Martian hinterland where, Harper affectionately thought, fungi were\n busy producing enzymes that were going to be worth millions for him and\n his associates. There remained only the small detail of discovering how\n to extract them economically and to process them on this more than arid\n and almost airless planet. Details for his bright young laboratory men;\n mere details....", "He could see at once that they had been developed to an amazingly high\n state of perfection. How, he wondered again, had this been done without\n his knowledge? Was Scrib right? Was he slipping? Gnawing at the doubt,\n he watched the robots moving efficiently about, pushing patients in\n wheelchairs, carrying trays, guiding newcomers, performing janitorial\n duties tirelessly, promptly, and best of all, silently.\n\n\n Harper was enthralled. He'd staff his offices with them. Hang the\n expense! There'd be no more of that obnoxious personal friction and\n proneness to error that was always deviling the most carefully trained\n office staffs! He'd investigate and find out the exact potentialities\n of these robots while here, and then go home and introduce them into\n the field of business. He'd show them whether he was slipping! Briskly\n he went over to the desk.", "Harper glared at the preposterous chair. \"Franz!\" he snarled. \"That\n prize fathead! I've paid him a fortune in fees. I haven't slept for\n weeks. I can't eat anything but soup. My nerves are jangling like\n a four-alarm fire. And what does he prescribe? A blasted jiggling\n baby carriage! Why, I ought to send him the bill for it!\" Completely\n outraged, he lay back on the couch and closed his eyes.\n\n\n \"Now, Harp, you know you've never obeyed his orders. He told you\n last year that you'd have to ease up. Why do you have to try to run\n the whole world? It's the strain of all your business worries that's\n causing your trouble. He told you to take a long vacation or you'd\n crack up. Don't blame him for your own stubbornness.\"", "Harper scowled. \"Oh, haven't I?\" he grated. \"Robots! Do you know what\n they did to me.\" Indignation lit fires in his pale eyes. \"Came in here\n while I was lying down peacefully digesting the first meal I've enjoyed\n in months, dragged me off to the surgery, and pumped it all out! The\n only meal I've enjoyed in months!\" Blackly he sank his chin onto his\n fist and contemplated the outrage.\n\n\n \"Why didn't you stop 'em?\" reasonably asked the visitor.\n\n\n \"Stop a robot?\" Harper glared pityingly. \"How? You can't reason with\n the blasted things. And as for using force—it's man against metal. You\n try it!\" He ground his teeth together in futile rage. \"And to think I\n had the insane notion that robots were the last word! Why, I was ready\n to staff my offices with the things!\"", "Harper opened his eyes. Two robots were bending over him. He saw that\n they were dressed in white, like hospital attendants. But he had no\n further opportunity to examine them. With brisk, well-co-ordinated\n movements they wheeled a stretcher along-side his couch, stuck a hypo\n into his arm, bundled him onto the stretcher and started wheeling him\n out.\n\n\n Harper's tongue finally functioned. \"What's all this?\" he demanded.\n \"There's nothing wrong with me. Let me go!\"\n\n\n He struggled to rise, but a metal hand pushed him firmly on the chest.\n Inexorably it pushed him flat." ], [ "Harper snorted. His large nose developed the sound magnificently.\n \"Vacation!\" he snorted. \"Batting a silly ball around or dragging a hook\n after a stupid fish! Fine activities for an intelligent middle-aged\n man! And let me correct you. It isn't business worries that are driving\n me to a crack-up. It's the strain of trying to get some sensible,\n reasonable coöperation from the nincompoops I have to hire! It's the\n idiocy of the human race that's got me whipped! It's the—\"\n\n\n \"Hey, Harp, old man!\" His brother-in-law, turning the pages of the\n new colorama magazine, INTERPLANETARY, had paused at a double-spread.\n \"Didn't you have a finger in those Martian equatorial wells they sunk\n twenty years ago?\"", "Harper gazed out at the stunned audience. This was more like the\n treatment he was accustomed to! Haughtily he squared his bony shoulders\n inside the immense jacket and stepped into the elevator. He was ready\n for the second step of his private Operation Robot.\nBack on Earth it was a warm, misty spring day—the kind of day unknown\n to the planet Mars. Bella and Scribney, superb in new spring outfits,\n waited restlessly while the rocket cooled and the passengers recovered\n from deceleration.\n\n\n \"Look, Scrib!\" Bella clutched Scribney's substantial arm. \"It's finally\n opening.\"\n\n\n They watched the airlock open and the platform wheel into place. They\n watched the passengers descend, looking a trifle dazed.\n\n\n \"There he is!\" cried Bella. \"Why, doesn't he look wonderful! Scrib,\n it's amazing! Look at him!", "Dutifully Scribney remembered and commented on the change the Martian\n springs had effected in the Durants. \"It's the very thing for you,\n Harp,\" he advised. \"You'd get a good rest on the way out. This gas\n they use in the rockets nowadays is as good as a rest-cure; it sort of\n floats you along the time-track in a pleasant daze, they tell me. And\n you can finish the cure at the hotel while looking it over. And not\n only that.\" Confidentially he leaned toward his insignificant looking\n brother-in-law. \"The chemists over at Dade McCann have just isolated an\n enzyme from one species of Martian fungus that breaks down crude oil\n into its components without the need for chemical processing. There's a\n fortune waiting for the man who corners that fungus market and learns\n to process the stuff!\"", "It seemed hardly more than a handful of hours until they were strapping\n themselves into deceleration hammocks for the landing. And then Harper\n was waking with lassitude still heavy in his veins. He struggled out of\n the hammock, made his way to the airlock, and found himself whisked by\n pneumatic tube directly into the lobby of the Emerald Star Hotel.\n\n\n Appreciatively he gazed around at the half-acre of moss-gray carpeting,\n green-tinted by the light sifting through the walls of Martian\n copper-glass, and at the vistas of beautiful domed gardens framed by a\n dozen arches. But most of all, the robots won his delighted approval.", "\"Harp!\" exploded Bella. \"Stop it! Maybe Jackson doesn't know a thing\n about it, whatever it is! If it's something at the Emerald Star Hotel,\n why don't you just go and find out for yourself instead of throwing a\n tantrum? That's the only sensible way!\"\n\n\n \"You're right, Bella,\" agreed Harper incisively. \"I'll go and find out\n for myself. Immediately!\" Scooping up his hat, he left at his usual\n lope.\n\n\n \"Well!\" remarked his sister. \"All I can say is that they'd better turn\n that happy-gas on extra strong for Harp's trip out!\"\nThe trip out did Harper a world of good. Under the influence of the\n soporific gas that permeated the rocket, he really relaxed for the\n first time in years, sinking with the other passengers into a hazy\n lethargy with little sense of passing time and almost no memory of the\n interval.", "\"Here you are, Mr. Breen. I'm sure you'll find it comfortable.\" With a\n pallid smile he pressed a button and consigned Harper to the care of a\n silent and efficient robot.\nThe room was more than comfortable. It was beautiful. Its bank of clear\n windows set in the green glass wall framed startling rubicund views of\n the Martian hinterland where, Harper affectionately thought, fungi were\n busy producing enzymes that were going to be worth millions for him and\n his associates. There remained only the small detail of discovering how\n to extract them economically and to process them on this more than arid\n and almost airless planet. Details for his bright young laboratory men;\n mere details....", "Leaving his luggage to be unpacked by the robot attendant, he went up\n to the domed roof restaurant. Lunching boldly on broiled halibut with\n consomme, salad and a bland custard, he stared out at the dark blue\n sky of Mars, with Deimos hanging in the east in three-quarter phase\n while Phobos raced up from the west like a meteor behind schedule.\n Leaning back in his cushioned chair, he even more boldly lit a slim\n cigar—his first in months—and inhaled happily. For once old Scribney\n had certainly been right, he reflected. Yes sir, Scrib had rung the\n bell, and he wasn't the man to forget it. With a wonderful sense of\n well-being he returned to his room and prepared to relax.", "Leaping from the sofa, Harper rudely snatched the magazine from\n Scribney's hands. He glared at the spread which depicted a star-shaped\n structure of bottle-green glass resting jewel-like on the rufous rock\n of Mars. The main portion of the building consisted of a circular\n skyscraper with a glass-domed roof. Between its star-shaped annexes,\n other domes covered landscaped gardens and noxious pools which in the\n drawing looked lovely and enticing.\n\n\n \"Why, I remember now!\" exclaimed Bella. \"That's where the Durants went\n two years ago! He was about dead and she looked like a hag. They came\n back in wonderful shape. Don't you remember, Scrib?\"", "\"That's right. How'd you think I got in such a helluva shape? I'm\n superintendent of one of the fungus plants. I'm Jake Ellis of Hagerty's\n Enzymes. There's good money in it, but man, what a job! No air worth\n mentionin'. Temperature always freezin' or below. Pressure suits. Huts.\n Factory. Processed food. Nothin' else. Just nothin'. That's where they\n could use some robots. It sure ain't no job for a real live man. And in\n fact, there ain't many men left there. If old man Hagerty only knew it,\n he's about out of business.\"\n\n\n Harper sat up as if he'd been needled. He opened his mouth to speak.\n But just then the door opened briskly and two robots entered. With a\n horrified stare, Harper clutched his maltreated stomach. He saw a third\n robot enter, wheeling a chair.", "Harper's hands twitched violently. \"Don't mention that fiasco!\" he\n rasped. \"That deal nearly cost me my shirt! Water, hell! Those wells\n spewed up the craziest conglomeration of liquids ever tapped!\"\nScribney, whose large, phlegmatic person and calm professorial brain\n were the complete antithesis of Harper's picked-crow physique and\n scheming financier's wits, looked severely over his glasses. Harp's\n nervous tribulations were beginning to bore him, as well as interfere\n with the harmony of his home.\n\n\n \"You're away behind the times, Harp,\" he declared. \"Don't you know\n that those have proved to be the most astoundingly curative springs\n ever discovered anywhere? Don't you know that a syndicate has built\n the largest extra-terrestial hotel of the solar system there and that\n people are flocking to it to get cured of whatever ails 'em? Old man,\n you missed a bet!\"", "And indeed, Harper was stepping briskly downward, looking spry and fit\n and years younger. He came across to them actually beaming. It was the\n first pleasant expression they had seen on his face in years.\n\n\n \"Well, you old dog!\" exclaimed Scribney affectionately. \"So you did it\n again!\"\n\n\n Harper smirked. \"Yep, I turned a neat little deal. I bought out\n Hagerty's Enzymes and staffed the plant with the hotel's robots. Got\n both of 'em dirt cheap. Both concerns going bankrupt because they\n didn't have sense enough to swap their workers. Feel I owe you a bit\n for that tip about enzymes, Scrib, so I made out a block of stock to\n you. All right?\"", "With hope burgeoning for the first time in weeks, Hayes lifted his\n head. \"My dear Mr. Breen, to get rid of these pestiferous robots, I'll\n back you to the hilt! I'll notify the owners at once. At once, Mr.\n Breen! And while we wait for them, allow me to put you up as a guest of\n the hotel.\" Coming around to Harper, he effusively shook Harp's scrawny\n hand, and then personally escorted him not merely to the door but\n across the lobby to the elevator.", "He was immediately confronted with a sample of that human obstinacy\n that was slowly driving him mad. Machines, he sighed to himself.\n Wonderful silent machines! For a woman was arguing stridently with the\n desk clerk who, poor man, was a high strung fellow human instead of a\n robot. Harper watched him shrinking and turning pale lavender in the\n stress of the argument.\n\n\n \"A nurse!\" shouted the woman. \"I want a nurse! A real woman! For what\n you charge, you should be able to give me a television star if I want\n one! I won't have another of those damnable robots in my room, do you\n hear?\"", "Hayes, the manager, blanched. Then he began to mottle in an apoplectic\n pattern. And suddenly with a gusty sigh, he collapsed into his chair.\n With a shaking hand he mopped his forehead. \"\nMy\nrobots!\" he muttered.\n \"As if I invented the damned things!\"\n\n\n Despondently he looked at Harper. \"Go ahead and sue, Mr. Breen. If you\n don't, somebody else will. And if nobody sues, we'll go broke anyway,\n at the rate our guest list is declining. I'm ready to hand in my\n resignation.\"", "Stolidly they picked Harper up, plunked him into the chair, strapped\n him down and marched out with him.\nDejectedly Ellis returned to his own room. Again he lifted the receiver\n of the room phone; but as usual a robot voice answered sweetly,\n mechanically, and meaninglessly. He hung up and went miserably to bed.\nThere was something nagging at Harper's mind. Something he should do.\n Something that concerned robots. But he was too exhausted to think it\n out.", "Harper opened his eyes. Two robots were bending over him. He saw that\n they were dressed in white, like hospital attendants. But he had no\n further opportunity to examine them. With brisk, well-co-ordinated\n movements they wheeled a stretcher along-side his couch, stuck a hypo\n into his arm, bundled him onto the stretcher and started wheeling him\n out.\n\n\n Harper's tongue finally functioned. \"What's all this?\" he demanded.\n \"There's nothing wrong with me. Let me go!\"\n\n\n He struggled to rise, but a metal hand pushed him firmly on the chest.\n Inexorably it pushed him flat.", "\"One moment, sir,\" begged that harassed individual. \"Just one moment,\n please.\" He turned back to the woman.\n\n\n But she had turned her glare on Harper. \"You could at least be civil\n enough to wait your turn!\"\n\n\n Harper smirked. \"My good woman, I'm not a robot. Robots, of course,\n are always civil. But you should know by now that civility isn't a\n normal human trait.\" Leaving her temporarily quashed, he beckoned\n authoritatively to the clerk.\n\n\n \"I've just arrived and want to get settled. I'm here merely for a\n rest-cure, no treatments. You can assign my quarters before continuing\n your—ah—discussion with the lady.\"", "Harper tried to let go of everything. He gave in to the chair. And\n gently the chair went to work. It rocked rhythmically, it vibrated\n tenderly. With velvety cushions it massaged his back and arms and legs.\n\n\n For all of five minutes Harper stood it. Then with a frenzied lunge\n he escaped the embrace of the Relaxo-Lounge and fled to a gloriously\n stationary sofa.\n\n\n \"Harp!\" His sister, Bella, was ready to weep with exasperation. \"Dr.\n Franz said it would be just the thing for you! Why won't you give it a\n trial?\"", "Harper had guessed right. Gleefully from the doorway of his new room\n he watched the robots wheel away his equally delighted neighbor for\n his first treatment. Then he closed the door and began to don Jake's\n clothing.\n\n\n The result was unique. He looked like a small boy in his father's\n clothes, except for the remarkably aged and gnome-like head sticking\n up on a skinny neck from a collar three sizes too big. And he was\n shoeless. He was completely unable to navigate in Jake's number\n twelves. But Harper was a determined man. He didn't even flinch from\n his image in the mirror. Firmly he stepped over to Jake's telephone.\n \"This is room 618,\" he said authoritatively. \"Send up the elevator for\n me. I want to go down to the lobby.\"", "\"Don't 'my-good-man' me!\" snapped Harper. He glared back at the\n manager. Reaching as far across the expanse of desktop as he could\n stretch, he shook his puny fist. \"Do you know who I am? I'm Harper\n S. Breen, of Breen and Helgart, Incorporated! And do you know why I\n haven't even a card to prove it? Do you know why I have to make my way\n downstairs in garb that makes a laughing stock of me? Do you know why?\n Because that assinine clerk of yours put me in the wrong room and those\n damnable robots of yours then proceeded to make a prisoner of me! Me,\n Harper S. Breen! Why, I'll sue you until you'll be lucky if you have a\n sheet of writing-paper left in this idiot's retreat!\"" ], [ "And indeed, Harper was stepping briskly downward, looking spry and fit\n and years younger. He came across to them actually beaming. It was the\n first pleasant expression they had seen on his face in years.\n\n\n \"Well, you old dog!\" exclaimed Scribney affectionately. \"So you did it\n again!\"\n\n\n Harper smirked. \"Yep, I turned a neat little deal. I bought out\n Hagerty's Enzymes and staffed the plant with the hotel's robots. Got\n both of 'em dirt cheap. Both concerns going bankrupt because they\n didn't have sense enough to swap their workers. Feel I owe you a bit\n for that tip about enzymes, Scrib, so I made out a block of stock to\n you. All right?\"", "He could see at once that they had been developed to an amazingly high\n state of perfection. How, he wondered again, had this been done without\n his knowledge? Was Scrib right? Was he slipping? Gnawing at the doubt,\n he watched the robots moving efficiently about, pushing patients in\n wheelchairs, carrying trays, guiding newcomers, performing janitorial\n duties tirelessly, promptly, and best of all, silently.\n\n\n Harper was enthralled. He'd staff his offices with them. Hang the\n expense! There'd be no more of that obnoxious personal friction and\n proneness to error that was always deviling the most carefully trained\n office staffs! He'd investigate and find out the exact potentialities\n of these robots while here, and then go home and introduce them into\n the field of business. He'd show them whether he was slipping! Briskly\n he went over to the desk.", "\"That's right. How'd you think I got in such a helluva shape? I'm\n superintendent of one of the fungus plants. I'm Jake Ellis of Hagerty's\n Enzymes. There's good money in it, but man, what a job! No air worth\n mentionin'. Temperature always freezin' or below. Pressure suits. Huts.\n Factory. Processed food. Nothin' else. Just nothin'. That's where they\n could use some robots. It sure ain't no job for a real live man. And in\n fact, there ain't many men left there. If old man Hagerty only knew it,\n he's about out of business.\"\n\n\n Harper sat up as if he'd been needled. He opened his mouth to speak.\n But just then the door opened briskly and two robots entered. With a\n horrified stare, Harper clutched his maltreated stomach. He saw a third\n robot enter, wheeling a chair.", "Again he sighed. \"The trouble,\" he explained, \"is that those fool\n robots are completely logical, and people aren't. There's no way to mix\n the two. It's dynamite. Maybe people can gradually learn to live with\n robots, but they haven't yet. Only we had to find it out the hard way.\n We—\" he grimaced disgustedly—\"had to pioneer in the use of robots.\n And it cost us so much that we can't afford to reconvert to human help.\n So—Operation Robot is about to bankrupt the syndicate.\"\n\n\n Listening, an amazing calm settled on Harper. Thoughtfully now he\n hooked a chair to the desk with his stockinged foot, sat down and\n reached for the cigar that Hayes automatically offered him. \"Oh, I\n don't know,\" he said mildly.", "With hope burgeoning for the first time in weeks, Hayes lifted his\n head. \"My dear Mr. Breen, to get rid of these pestiferous robots, I'll\n back you to the hilt! I'll notify the owners at once. At once, Mr.\n Breen! And while we wait for them, allow me to put you up as a guest of\n the hotel.\" Coming around to Harper, he effusively shook Harp's scrawny\n hand, and then personally escorted him not merely to the door but\n across the lobby to the elevator.", "He was immediately confronted with a sample of that human obstinacy\n that was slowly driving him mad. Machines, he sighed to himself.\n Wonderful silent machines! For a woman was arguing stridently with the\n desk clerk who, poor man, was a high strung fellow human instead of a\n robot. Harper watched him shrinking and turning pale lavender in the\n stress of the argument.\n\n\n \"A nurse!\" shouted the woman. \"I want a nurse! A real woman! For what\n you charge, you should be able to give me a television star if I want\n one! I won't have another of those damnable robots in my room, do you\n hear?\"", "Stolidly they picked Harper up, plunked him into the chair, strapped\n him down and marched out with him.\nDejectedly Ellis returned to his own room. Again he lifted the receiver\n of the room phone; but as usual a robot voice answered sweetly,\n mechanically, and meaninglessly. He hung up and went miserably to bed.\nThere was something nagging at Harper's mind. Something he should do.\n Something that concerned robots. But he was too exhausted to think it\n out.", "The clerk was the first to recover from the collective stupor.\n Frantically he pushed the button that would summon the robot guard.\n With a gasp of relief he saw the two massive manlike machines moving\n inexorably forward. He pointed to Harper. \"Get that patient!\" he\n ordered. \"Take him to the—to the mud-baths!\"\n\n\n \"No you don't!\" yelled Harper. \"I want to see the manager!\" Nimbly he\n circled the guard and leaped behind the desk. He began to throw things\n at the robots. Things like inkwells and typewriters and card indexes.\n Especially, card indexes.\n\n\n \"Stop it!\" begged the clerk. \"You'll wreck the system! We'll never get\n it straight again! Stop it!\"\n\n\n \"Call them off!\" snarled Harper. \"Call them off or I'll ruin your\n switchboard!\" He put a shoulder against it and prepared to heave.", "Scribney had gauged his victim's mental processes accurately. The\n magazine sagged in Harp's hands, and his sharp eyes became shrewd and\n calculating. He even forgot to twitch. \"Maybe you're right, Scrib,\" he\n acknowledged. \"Combine a rest-cure with business, eh?\"\n\n\n Raising the magazine, he began reading the advertisement. And that\n was when he saw the line about the robots. \"—the only hotel staffed\n entirely with robot servants—\"\n\n\n \"Robots!\" he shrilled. \"You mean they've developed the things to that\n point? Why hasn't somebody told me? I'll have Jackson's hide! I'll\n disfranchise him! I'll—\"", "\"A wheel chair!\" squeaked the victim. \"I tell you, there's nothing\n wrong with me! Take it away! I'm only here for a rest-cure! Believe me!\n Take it away!\"\n\n\n The robots ignored him. For the first time in his spectacular and\n ruthless career Harper was up against creatures that he could neither\n bribe, persuade nor browbeat, inveigle nor ignore. It shattered his\n ebbing self-confidence. He began waving his hands helplessly.\n\n\n The robots not only ignored Harper. They paid no attention at all to\n Jake Ellis, who was plucking at their metallic arms pleading, \"Take\n me, boys. I need the treatment bad, whatever it is. I need all the\n treatment I can get. Take me! I'm just a wreck, fellers—\"", "Harper scowled. \"Oh, haven't I?\" he grated. \"Robots! Do you know what\n they did to me.\" Indignation lit fires in his pale eyes. \"Came in here\n while I was lying down peacefully digesting the first meal I've enjoyed\n in months, dragged me off to the surgery, and pumped it all out! The\n only meal I've enjoyed in months!\" Blackly he sank his chin onto his\n fist and contemplated the outrage.\n\n\n \"Why didn't you stop 'em?\" reasonably asked the visitor.\n\n\n \"Stop a robot?\" Harper glared pityingly. \"How? You can't reason with\n the blasted things. And as for using force—it's man against metal. You\n try it!\" He ground his teeth together in futile rage. \"And to think I\n had the insane notion that robots were the last word! Why, I was ready\n to staff my offices with the things!\"", "Harper gazed out at the stunned audience. This was more like the\n treatment he was accustomed to! Haughtily he squared his bony shoulders\n inside the immense jacket and stepped into the elevator. He was ready\n for the second step of his private Operation Robot.\nBack on Earth it was a warm, misty spring day—the kind of day unknown\n to the planet Mars. Bella and Scribney, superb in new spring outfits,\n waited restlessly while the rocket cooled and the passengers recovered\n from deceleration.\n\n\n \"Look, Scrib!\" Bella clutched Scribney's substantial arm. \"It's finally\n opening.\"\n\n\n They watched the airlock open and the platform wheel into place. They\n watched the passengers descend, looking a trifle dazed.\n\n\n \"There he is!\" cried Bella. \"Why, doesn't he look wonderful! Scrib,\n it's amazing! Look at him!", "Harper opened his eyes. Two robots were bending over him. He saw that\n they were dressed in white, like hospital attendants. But he had no\n further opportunity to examine them. With brisk, well-co-ordinated\n movements they wheeled a stretcher along-side his couch, stuck a hypo\n into his arm, bundled him onto the stretcher and started wheeling him\n out.\n\n\n Harper's tongue finally functioned. \"What's all this?\" he demanded.\n \"There's nothing wrong with me. Let me go!\"\n\n\n He struggled to rise, but a metal hand pushed him firmly on the chest.\n Inexorably it pushed him flat.", "\"All right?\" Scribney gulped. Why, the dried-up little turnip was human\n after all. \"All right! Yes, sir! But aren't you going to use some of\n those robots for office help? Aren't they efficient and all that?\"\n\n\n Harper's smile vanished. \"Don't even mention such a thing!\" he yelped.\n \"You don't know what you're saying! I lived with those things for\n weeks. I wouldn't have one around! Keep 'em in the factory where they\n belong!\"\n\n\n He glimpsed the composed, wonderfully human face of his secretary,\n waiting patiently in the background. \"Oh there you are, Smythe.\" He\n turned to his relatives. \"Busy day ahead. See you later, folks—\"\n\n\n \"Same old Harp,\" observed Scribney. Then he thought of the block of\n stock. \"What say we celebrate our rise to a position in the syndicate,\n honey?\"", "It seemed hardly more than a handful of hours until they were strapping\n themselves into deceleration hammocks for the landing. And then Harper\n was waking with lassitude still heavy in his veins. He struggled out of\n the hammock, made his way to the airlock, and found himself whisked by\n pneumatic tube directly into the lobby of the Emerald Star Hotel.\n\n\n Appreciatively he gazed around at the half-acre of moss-gray carpeting,\n green-tinted by the light sifting through the walls of Martian\n copper-glass, and at the vistas of beautiful domed gardens framed by a\n dozen arches. But most of all, the robots won his delighted approval.", "Hayes, the manager, blanched. Then he began to mottle in an apoplectic\n pattern. And suddenly with a gusty sigh, he collapsed into his chair.\n With a shaking hand he mopped his forehead. \"\nMy\nrobots!\" he muttered.\n \"As if I invented the damned things!\"\n\n\n Despondently he looked at Harper. \"Go ahead and sue, Mr. Breen. If you\n don't, somebody else will. And if nobody sues, we'll go broke anyway,\n at the rate our guest list is declining. I'm ready to hand in my\n resignation.\"", "He'd guessed right again. \"It will be right up, sir,\" responded the\n robot operator. Hopefully he stepped out into the hall and shuffled to\n the elevator.\nOnly the robots were immune to Harper Breen's progress across the huge\n suave lobby.\n\n\n He was a blot on its rich beauty, a grotesque enigma that rooted the\n other visitors into paralyzed staring groups. Stepping out of the\n elevator, he had laid a course for the desk which loomed like an island\n in a moss-gray lake, and now he strode manfully toward it, ignoring the\n oversize trousers slapping around his stocking feet. Only the robots\n shared his self control.", "Hayes leaned forward like a drowning man sighting a liferaft. \"What\n do you mean, you don't know? You're threatening to take our shirts,\n aren't you?\"\n\n\n Meticulously Harper clipped and lit his cigar. \"It seems to me that\n these robots might be useful in quite another capacity. I might even\n make a deal with your syndicate to take them off your hands—at a\n reasonable price, of course—and forget the outrages I've suffered at\n your establishment.\"\n\n\n Hayes leaned toward him incredulous. \"You mean you want these robots\n after what you've seen and experienced?\"\n\n\n Placidly Harper puffed a smoke ring. \"Of course, you'd have to take\n into consideration that it would be an experiment for me, too. And\n there's the suit I'm clearly justified in instituting. However, I'm\n willing to discuss the matter with your superiors.\"", "Harper had guessed right. Gleefully from the doorway of his new room\n he watched the robots wheel away his equally delighted neighbor for\n his first treatment. Then he closed the door and began to don Jake's\n clothing.\n\n\n The result was unique. He looked like a small boy in his father's\n clothes, except for the remarkably aged and gnome-like head sticking\n up on a skinny neck from a collar three sizes too big. And he was\n shoeless. He was completely unable to navigate in Jake's number\n twelves. But Harper was a determined man. He didn't even flinch from\n his image in the mirror. Firmly he stepped over to Jake's telephone.\n \"This is room 618,\" he said authoritatively. \"Send up the elevator for\n me. I want to go down to the lobby.\"", "The clerk sputtered. Mrs. Jacobsen sputtered. But not for nothing was\n Harper one of the leading business executives of the earth. Harper's\n implacable stare won his point. Wiping beads of moisture from his\n forehead, the clerk fumbled for a card, typed it out, and was about to\n deposit it in the punch box when a fist hit the desk a resounding blow\n and another voice, male, roared out at Harper's elbow.\n\n\n \"This is a helluva joint!\" roared the voice. \"Man could rot away to the\n knees while he's waitin' for accommodations. Service!\" Again his fist\n banged the counter.\n\n\n The clerk jumped. He dropped Harper's card and had to stoop for it.\n Absently holding it, he straightened up to face Mrs. Jacobsen and the\n irate newcomer. Hastily he pushed a tagged key at Harper." ], [ "\"You've got the wrong room!\" yelled Harp. \"Let me go!\" But the hypo\n began to take effect. His yells became weaker and drowsier. Hazily, as\n he drifted off, he thought of Mrs. Jacobsen. Maybe she had something,\n at that.\nThere was a tentative knock on the door. \"Come in,\" called Harper\n bleakly. As soon as the door opened he regretted his invitation, for\n the opening framed the large untidy man who had noisily pounded on the\n desk demanding service while he, Harp, was being registered.\n\n\n \"Say, pardner,\" he said hoarsely, \"you haven't seen any of them robots\n around here, have you?\"", "\"That's right. How'd you think I got in such a helluva shape? I'm\n superintendent of one of the fungus plants. I'm Jake Ellis of Hagerty's\n Enzymes. There's good money in it, but man, what a job! No air worth\n mentionin'. Temperature always freezin' or below. Pressure suits. Huts.\n Factory. Processed food. Nothin' else. Just nothin'. That's where they\n could use some robots. It sure ain't no job for a real live man. And in\n fact, there ain't many men left there. If old man Hagerty only knew it,\n he's about out of business.\"\n\n\n Harper sat up as if he'd been needled. He opened his mouth to speak.\n But just then the door opened briskly and two robots entered. With a\n horrified stare, Harper clutched his maltreated stomach. He saw a third\n robot enter, wheeling a chair.", "Harper had guessed right. Gleefully from the doorway of his new room\n he watched the robots wheel away his equally delighted neighbor for\n his first treatment. Then he closed the door and began to don Jake's\n clothing.\n\n\n The result was unique. He looked like a small boy in his father's\n clothes, except for the remarkably aged and gnome-like head sticking\n up on a skinny neck from a collar three sizes too big. And he was\n shoeless. He was completely unable to navigate in Jake's number\n twelves. But Harper was a determined man. He didn't even flinch from\n his image in the mirror. Firmly he stepped over to Jake's telephone.\n \"This is room 618,\" he said authoritatively. \"Send up the elevator for\n me. I want to go down to the lobby.\"", "Stolidly they picked Harper up, plunked him into the chair, strapped\n him down and marched out with him.\nDejectedly Ellis returned to his own room. Again he lifted the receiver\n of the room phone; but as usual a robot voice answered sweetly,\n mechanically, and meaninglessly. He hung up and went miserably to bed.\nThere was something nagging at Harper's mind. Something he should do.\n Something that concerned robots. But he was too exhausted to think it\n out.", "Harp nodded. An idea began to formulate. \"Leave your things, will you?\n I'm desperate! I'm going to see the manager of this madhouse if I have\n to go down dressed in a sheet. Your clothes would be better than that.\"\n\n\n Jake, looking over Harper's skimpy frame, grunted doubtfully. \"Maybe\n you could tie 'em on so they wouldn't slip. And roll up the cuffs. It's\n okay with me, but just don't lose something when you're down there in\n that fancy lobby.\"\n\n\n Harper looked at his watch. \"Time to go. Relax, old man. The robots\n will be along any minute now. If you're the only man in the room, I'm\n sure they'll take you. They aren't equipped to figure it out. And don't\n worry about me. I'll anchor your duds all right.\"", "He could see at once that they had been developed to an amazingly high\n state of perfection. How, he wondered again, had this been done without\n his knowledge? Was Scrib right? Was he slipping? Gnawing at the doubt,\n he watched the robots moving efficiently about, pushing patients in\n wheelchairs, carrying trays, guiding newcomers, performing janitorial\n duties tirelessly, promptly, and best of all, silently.\n\n\n Harper was enthralled. He'd staff his offices with them. Hang the\n expense! There'd be no more of that obnoxious personal friction and\n proneness to error that was always deviling the most carefully trained\n office staffs! He'd investigate and find out the exact potentialities\n of these robots while here, and then go home and introduce them into\n the field of business. He'd show them whether he was slipping! Briskly\n he went over to the desk.", "\"A wheel chair!\" squeaked the victim. \"I tell you, there's nothing\n wrong with me! Take it away! I'm only here for a rest-cure! Believe me!\n Take it away!\"\n\n\n The robots ignored him. For the first time in his spectacular and\n ruthless career Harper was up against creatures that he could neither\n bribe, persuade nor browbeat, inveigle nor ignore. It shattered his\n ebbing self-confidence. He began waving his hands helplessly.\n\n\n The robots not only ignored Harper. They paid no attention at all to\n Jake Ellis, who was plucking at their metallic arms pleading, \"Take\n me, boys. I need the treatment bad, whatever it is. I need all the\n treatment I can get. Take me! I'm just a wreck, fellers—\"", "Harper opened his eyes. Two robots were bending over him. He saw that\n they were dressed in white, like hospital attendants. But he had no\n further opportunity to examine them. With brisk, well-co-ordinated\n movements they wheeled a stretcher along-side his couch, stuck a hypo\n into his arm, bundled him onto the stretcher and started wheeling him\n out.\n\n\n Harper's tongue finally functioned. \"What's all this?\" he demanded.\n \"There's nothing wrong with me. Let me go!\"\n\n\n He struggled to rise, but a metal hand pushed him firmly on the chest.\n Inexorably it pushed him flat.", "No one within the confines of the huge lobby could have helped hearing.\n The clerk flinched visibly. \"Now, Mrs. Jacobsen,\" he soothed. \"You know\n the hotel is staffed entirely with robots. They're much more expensive,\n really, than human employees, but so much more efficient, you know.\n Admit it, they give excellent service, don't they, now?\" Toothily he\n smiled at the enraged woman.\n\n\n \"That's just it!\" Mrs. Jacobsen glared. \"The service is\ntoo\ngood.\n I might just as well have a set of push buttons in the room. I want\n someone to\nhear\nwhat I say! I want to be able to change my mind once\n in awhile!\"\n\n\n Harper snorted. \"Wants someone she can devil,\" he diagnosed. \"Someone\n she can get a kick out of ordering around.\" With vast contempt he\n stepped to the desk beside her and peremptorily rapped for the clerk.", "He'd guessed right again. \"It will be right up, sir,\" responded the\n robot operator. Hopefully he stepped out into the hall and shuffled to\n the elevator.\nOnly the robots were immune to Harper Breen's progress across the huge\n suave lobby.\n\n\n He was a blot on its rich beauty, a grotesque enigma that rooted the\n other visitors into paralyzed staring groups. Stepping out of the\n elevator, he had laid a course for the desk which loomed like an island\n in a moss-gray lake, and now he strode manfully toward it, ignoring the\n oversize trousers slapping around his stocking feet. Only the robots\n shared his self control.", "Scribney had gauged his victim's mental processes accurately. The\n magazine sagged in Harp's hands, and his sharp eyes became shrewd and\n calculating. He even forgot to twitch. \"Maybe you're right, Scrib,\" he\n acknowledged. \"Combine a rest-cure with business, eh?\"\n\n\n Raising the magazine, he began reading the advertisement. And that\n was when he saw the line about the robots. \"—the only hotel staffed\n entirely with robot servants—\"\n\n\n \"Robots!\" he shrilled. \"You mean they've developed the things to that\n point? Why hasn't somebody told me? I'll have Jackson's hide! I'll\n disfranchise him! I'll—\"", "The clerk sputtered. Mrs. Jacobsen sputtered. But not for nothing was\n Harper one of the leading business executives of the earth. Harper's\n implacable stare won his point. Wiping beads of moisture from his\n forehead, the clerk fumbled for a card, typed it out, and was about to\n deposit it in the punch box when a fist hit the desk a resounding blow\n and another voice, male, roared out at Harper's elbow.\n\n\n \"This is a helluva joint!\" roared the voice. \"Man could rot away to the\n knees while he's waitin' for accommodations. Service!\" Again his fist\n banged the counter.\n\n\n The clerk jumped. He dropped Harper's card and had to stoop for it.\n Absently holding it, he straightened up to face Mrs. Jacobsen and the\n irate newcomer. Hastily he pushed a tagged key at Harper.", "He was immediately confronted with a sample of that human obstinacy\n that was slowly driving him mad. Machines, he sighed to himself.\n Wonderful silent machines! For a woman was arguing stridently with the\n desk clerk who, poor man, was a high strung fellow human instead of a\n robot. Harper watched him shrinking and turning pale lavender in the\n stress of the argument.\n\n\n \"A nurse!\" shouted the woman. \"I want a nurse! A real woman! For what\n you charge, you should be able to give me a television star if I want\n one! I won't have another of those damnable robots in my room, do you\n hear?\"", "With one last appalled glare at the madman, the clerk picked up an\n electric finger and pointed it at the approaching robots. They became\n oddly inanimate.\n\n\n \"That's better!\" Harper straightened up and meticulously smoothed the\n collar of his flapping coat. \"Now—the manager, please.\"\n\n\n \"This—this way, sir.\" With shrinking steps the clerk led Harper across\n the width of the lobby among the fascinated guests. He was beyond\n speech. Opening the inconspicuous door, he waved Harper inside and\n returned doggedly to his desk, where he began to pick up things and at\n the same time phrase his resignation in his mind.", "Harper scowled. \"Oh, haven't I?\" he grated. \"Robots! Do you know what\n they did to me.\" Indignation lit fires in his pale eyes. \"Came in here\n while I was lying down peacefully digesting the first meal I've enjoyed\n in months, dragged me off to the surgery, and pumped it all out! The\n only meal I've enjoyed in months!\" Blackly he sank his chin onto his\n fist and contemplated the outrage.\n\n\n \"Why didn't you stop 'em?\" reasonably asked the visitor.\n\n\n \"Stop a robot?\" Harper glared pityingly. \"How? You can't reason with\n the blasted things. And as for using force—it's man against metal. You\n try it!\" He ground his teeth together in futile rage. \"And to think I\n had the insane notion that robots were the last word! Why, I was ready\n to staff my offices with the things!\"", "Again he sighed. \"The trouble,\" he explained, \"is that those fool\n robots are completely logical, and people aren't. There's no way to mix\n the two. It's dynamite. Maybe people can gradually learn to live with\n robots, but they haven't yet. Only we had to find it out the hard way.\n We—\" he grimaced disgustedly—\"had to pioneer in the use of robots.\n And it cost us so much that we can't afford to reconvert to human help.\n So—Operation Robot is about to bankrupt the syndicate.\"\n\n\n Listening, an amazing calm settled on Harper. Thoughtfully now he\n hooked a chair to the desk with his stockinged foot, sat down and\n reached for the cigar that Hayes automatically offered him. \"Oh, I\n don't know,\" he said mildly.", "With hope burgeoning for the first time in weeks, Hayes lifted his\n head. \"My dear Mr. Breen, to get rid of these pestiferous robots, I'll\n back you to the hilt! I'll notify the owners at once. At once, Mr.\n Breen! And while we wait for them, allow me to put you up as a guest of\n the hotel.\" Coming around to Harper, he effusively shook Harp's scrawny\n hand, and then personally escorted him not merely to the door but\n across the lobby to the elevator.", "He hadn't been awake long this time before Jake Ellis was there again,\n still moaning about his lack of treatments. \"Nothin' yet,\" he gloomily\n informed Harp. \"They haven't been near me. I just can't understand it.\n After I signed up for the works and paid 'em in advance! And I can't\n find any way out of this section. The other two rooms are empty and the\n elevator hasn't got any button. The robots just have to come and get a\n man or he's stuck.\"", "\"Don't 'my-good-man' me!\" snapped Harper. He glared back at the\n manager. Reaching as far across the expanse of desktop as he could\n stretch, he shook his puny fist. \"Do you know who I am? I'm Harper\n S. Breen, of Breen and Helgart, Incorporated! And do you know why I\n haven't even a card to prove it? Do you know why I have to make my way\n downstairs in garb that makes a laughing stock of me? Do you know why?\n Because that assinine clerk of yours put me in the wrong room and those\n damnable robots of yours then proceeded to make a prisoner of me! Me,\n Harper S. Breen! Why, I'll sue you until you'll be lucky if you have a\n sheet of writing-paper left in this idiot's retreat!\"", "The clerk was the first to recover from the collective stupor.\n Frantically he pushed the button that would summon the robot guard.\n With a gasp of relief he saw the two massive manlike machines moving\n inexorably forward. He pointed to Harper. \"Get that patient!\" he\n ordered. \"Take him to the—to the mud-baths!\"\n\n\n \"No you don't!\" yelled Harper. \"I want to see the manager!\" Nimbly he\n circled the guard and leaped behind the desk. He began to throw things\n at the robots. Things like inkwells and typewriters and card indexes.\n Especially, card indexes.\n\n\n \"Stop it!\" begged the clerk. \"You'll wreck the system! We'll never get\n it straight again! Stop it!\"\n\n\n \"Call them off!\" snarled Harper. \"Call them off or I'll ruin your\n switchboard!\" He put a shoulder against it and prepared to heave." ], [ "Stolidly they picked Harper up, plunked him into the chair, strapped\n him down and marched out with him.\nDejectedly Ellis returned to his own room. Again he lifted the receiver\n of the room phone; but as usual a robot voice answered sweetly,\n mechanically, and meaninglessly. He hung up and went miserably to bed.\nThere was something nagging at Harper's mind. Something he should do.\n Something that concerned robots. But he was too exhausted to think it\n out.", "Harper opened his eyes. Two robots were bending over him. He saw that\n they were dressed in white, like hospital attendants. But he had no\n further opportunity to examine them. With brisk, well-co-ordinated\n movements they wheeled a stretcher along-side his couch, stuck a hypo\n into his arm, bundled him onto the stretcher and started wheeling him\n out.\n\n\n Harper's tongue finally functioned. \"What's all this?\" he demanded.\n \"There's nothing wrong with me. Let me go!\"\n\n\n He struggled to rise, but a metal hand pushed him firmly on the chest.\n Inexorably it pushed him flat.", "\"A wheel chair!\" squeaked the victim. \"I tell you, there's nothing\n wrong with me! Take it away! I'm only here for a rest-cure! Believe me!\n Take it away!\"\n\n\n The robots ignored him. For the first time in his spectacular and\n ruthless career Harper was up against creatures that he could neither\n bribe, persuade nor browbeat, inveigle nor ignore. It shattered his\n ebbing self-confidence. He began waving his hands helplessly.\n\n\n The robots not only ignored Harper. They paid no attention at all to\n Jake Ellis, who was plucking at their metallic arms pleading, \"Take\n me, boys. I need the treatment bad, whatever it is. I need all the\n treatment I can get. Take me! I'm just a wreck, fellers—\"", "\"You've got the wrong room!\" yelled Harp. \"Let me go!\" But the hypo\n began to take effect. His yells became weaker and drowsier. Hazily, as\n he drifted off, he thought of Mrs. Jacobsen. Maybe she had something,\n at that.\nThere was a tentative knock on the door. \"Come in,\" called Harper\n bleakly. As soon as the door opened he regretted his invitation, for\n the opening framed the large untidy man who had noisily pounded on the\n desk demanding service while he, Harp, was being registered.\n\n\n \"Say, pardner,\" he said hoarsely, \"you haven't seen any of them robots\n around here, have you?\"", "\"That's right. How'd you think I got in such a helluva shape? I'm\n superintendent of one of the fungus plants. I'm Jake Ellis of Hagerty's\n Enzymes. There's good money in it, but man, what a job! No air worth\n mentionin'. Temperature always freezin' or below. Pressure suits. Huts.\n Factory. Processed food. Nothin' else. Just nothin'. That's where they\n could use some robots. It sure ain't no job for a real live man. And in\n fact, there ain't many men left there. If old man Hagerty only knew it,\n he's about out of business.\"\n\n\n Harper sat up as if he'd been needled. He opened his mouth to speak.\n But just then the door opened briskly and two robots entered. With a\n horrified stare, Harper clutched his maltreated stomach. He saw a third\n robot enter, wheeling a chair.", "He could see at once that they had been developed to an amazingly high\n state of perfection. How, he wondered again, had this been done without\n his knowledge? Was Scrib right? Was he slipping? Gnawing at the doubt,\n he watched the robots moving efficiently about, pushing patients in\n wheelchairs, carrying trays, guiding newcomers, performing janitorial\n duties tirelessly, promptly, and best of all, silently.\n\n\n Harper was enthralled. He'd staff his offices with them. Hang the\n expense! There'd be no more of that obnoxious personal friction and\n proneness to error that was always deviling the most carefully trained\n office staffs! He'd investigate and find out the exact potentialities\n of these robots while here, and then go home and introduce them into\n the field of business. He'd show them whether he was slipping! Briskly\n he went over to the desk.", "The clerk was the first to recover from the collective stupor.\n Frantically he pushed the button that would summon the robot guard.\n With a gasp of relief he saw the two massive manlike machines moving\n inexorably forward. He pointed to Harper. \"Get that patient!\" he\n ordered. \"Take him to the—to the mud-baths!\"\n\n\n \"No you don't!\" yelled Harper. \"I want to see the manager!\" Nimbly he\n circled the guard and leaped behind the desk. He began to throw things\n at the robots. Things like inkwells and typewriters and card indexes.\n Especially, card indexes.\n\n\n \"Stop it!\" begged the clerk. \"You'll wreck the system! We'll never get\n it straight again! Stop it!\"\n\n\n \"Call them off!\" snarled Harper. \"Call them off or I'll ruin your\n switchboard!\" He put a shoulder against it and prepared to heave.", "Harper had guessed right. Gleefully from the doorway of his new room\n he watched the robots wheel away his equally delighted neighbor for\n his first treatment. Then he closed the door and began to don Jake's\n clothing.\n\n\n The result was unique. He looked like a small boy in his father's\n clothes, except for the remarkably aged and gnome-like head sticking\n up on a skinny neck from a collar three sizes too big. And he was\n shoeless. He was completely unable to navigate in Jake's number\n twelves. But Harper was a determined man. He didn't even flinch from\n his image in the mirror. Firmly he stepped over to Jake's telephone.\n \"This is room 618,\" he said authoritatively. \"Send up the elevator for\n me. I want to go down to the lobby.\"", "Harper scowled. \"Oh, haven't I?\" he grated. \"Robots! Do you know what\n they did to me.\" Indignation lit fires in his pale eyes. \"Came in here\n while I was lying down peacefully digesting the first meal I've enjoyed\n in months, dragged me off to the surgery, and pumped it all out! The\n only meal I've enjoyed in months!\" Blackly he sank his chin onto his\n fist and contemplated the outrage.\n\n\n \"Why didn't you stop 'em?\" reasonably asked the visitor.\n\n\n \"Stop a robot?\" Harper glared pityingly. \"How? You can't reason with\n the blasted things. And as for using force—it's man against metal. You\n try it!\" He ground his teeth together in futile rage. \"And to think I\n had the insane notion that robots were the last word! Why, I was ready\n to staff my offices with the things!\"", "Harp nodded. An idea began to formulate. \"Leave your things, will you?\n I'm desperate! I'm going to see the manager of this madhouse if I have\n to go down dressed in a sheet. Your clothes would be better than that.\"\n\n\n Jake, looking over Harper's skimpy frame, grunted doubtfully. \"Maybe\n you could tie 'em on so they wouldn't slip. And roll up the cuffs. It's\n okay with me, but just don't lose something when you're down there in\n that fancy lobby.\"\n\n\n Harper looked at his watch. \"Time to go. Relax, old man. The robots\n will be along any minute now. If you're the only man in the room, I'm\n sure they'll take you. They aren't equipped to figure it out. And don't\n worry about me. I'll anchor your duds all right.\"", "\"Don't 'my-good-man' me!\" snapped Harper. He glared back at the\n manager. Reaching as far across the expanse of desktop as he could\n stretch, he shook his puny fist. \"Do you know who I am? I'm Harper\n S. Breen, of Breen and Helgart, Incorporated! And do you know why I\n haven't even a card to prove it? Do you know why I have to make my way\n downstairs in garb that makes a laughing stock of me? Do you know why?\n Because that assinine clerk of yours put me in the wrong room and those\n damnable robots of yours then proceeded to make a prisoner of me! Me,\n Harper S. Breen! Why, I'll sue you until you'll be lucky if you have a\n sheet of writing-paper left in this idiot's retreat!\"", "Again he sighed. \"The trouble,\" he explained, \"is that those fool\n robots are completely logical, and people aren't. There's no way to mix\n the two. It's dynamite. Maybe people can gradually learn to live with\n robots, but they haven't yet. Only we had to find it out the hard way.\n We—\" he grimaced disgustedly—\"had to pioneer in the use of robots.\n And it cost us so much that we can't afford to reconvert to human help.\n So—Operation Robot is about to bankrupt the syndicate.\"\n\n\n Listening, an amazing calm settled on Harper. Thoughtfully now he\n hooked a chair to the desk with his stockinged foot, sat down and\n reached for the cigar that Hayes automatically offered him. \"Oh, I\n don't know,\" he said mildly.", "With hope burgeoning for the first time in weeks, Hayes lifted his\n head. \"My dear Mr. Breen, to get rid of these pestiferous robots, I'll\n back you to the hilt! I'll notify the owners at once. At once, Mr.\n Breen! And while we wait for them, allow me to put you up as a guest of\n the hotel.\" Coming around to Harper, he effusively shook Harp's scrawny\n hand, and then personally escorted him not merely to the door but\n across the lobby to the elevator.", "Scribney had gauged his victim's mental processes accurately. The\n magazine sagged in Harp's hands, and his sharp eyes became shrewd and\n calculating. He even forgot to twitch. \"Maybe you're right, Scrib,\" he\n acknowledged. \"Combine a rest-cure with business, eh?\"\n\n\n Raising the magazine, he began reading the advertisement. And that\n was when he saw the line about the robots. \"—the only hotel staffed\n entirely with robot servants—\"\n\n\n \"Robots!\" he shrilled. \"You mean they've developed the things to that\n point? Why hasn't somebody told me? I'll have Jackson's hide! I'll\n disfranchise him! I'll—\"", "With one last appalled glare at the madman, the clerk picked up an\n electric finger and pointed it at the approaching robots. They became\n oddly inanimate.\n\n\n \"That's better!\" Harper straightened up and meticulously smoothed the\n collar of his flapping coat. \"Now—the manager, please.\"\n\n\n \"This—this way, sir.\" With shrinking steps the clerk led Harper across\n the width of the lobby among the fascinated guests. He was beyond\n speech. Opening the inconspicuous door, he waved Harper inside and\n returned doggedly to his desk, where he began to pick up things and at\n the same time phrase his resignation in his mind.", "He'd guessed right again. \"It will be right up, sir,\" responded the\n robot operator. Hopefully he stepped out into the hall and shuffled to\n the elevator.\nOnly the robots were immune to Harper Breen's progress across the huge\n suave lobby.\n\n\n He was a blot on its rich beauty, a grotesque enigma that rooted the\n other visitors into paralyzed staring groups. Stepping out of the\n elevator, he had laid a course for the desk which loomed like an island\n in a moss-gray lake, and now he strode manfully toward it, ignoring the\n oversize trousers slapping around his stocking feet. Only the robots\n shared his self control.", "He was immediately confronted with a sample of that human obstinacy\n that was slowly driving him mad. Machines, he sighed to himself.\n Wonderful silent machines! For a woman was arguing stridently with the\n desk clerk who, poor man, was a high strung fellow human instead of a\n robot. Harper watched him shrinking and turning pale lavender in the\n stress of the argument.\n\n\n \"A nurse!\" shouted the woman. \"I want a nurse! A real woman! For what\n you charge, you should be able to give me a television star if I want\n one! I won't have another of those damnable robots in my room, do you\n hear?\"", "Hayes leaned forward like a drowning man sighting a liferaft. \"What\n do you mean, you don't know? You're threatening to take our shirts,\n aren't you?\"\n\n\n Meticulously Harper clipped and lit his cigar. \"It seems to me that\n these robots might be useful in quite another capacity. I might even\n make a deal with your syndicate to take them off your hands—at a\n reasonable price, of course—and forget the outrages I've suffered at\n your establishment.\"\n\n\n Hayes leaned toward him incredulous. \"You mean you want these robots\n after what you've seen and experienced?\"\n\n\n Placidly Harper puffed a smoke ring. \"Of course, you'd have to take\n into consideration that it would be an experiment for me, too. And\n there's the suit I'm clearly justified in instituting. However, I'm\n willing to discuss the matter with your superiors.\"", "He hadn't been awake long this time before Jake Ellis was there again,\n still moaning about his lack of treatments. \"Nothin' yet,\" he gloomily\n informed Harp. \"They haven't been near me. I just can't understand it.\n After I signed up for the works and paid 'em in advance! And I can't\n find any way out of this section. The other two rooms are empty and the\n elevator hasn't got any button. The robots just have to come and get a\n man or he's stuck.\"", "For five days now his pet robots had put him through an ordeal that\n made him flinch every time he thought about it. Which wasn't often,\n since he was almost past thinking. They plunked him into stinking\n mud-baths and held him there until he was well-done to the bone, he\n was sure. They soaked him in foul, steaming irradiated waters until he\n gagged. They brought him weird concoctions to eat and drink and then\n stood over him until he consumed them. They purged and massaged and\n exercised him.\n\n\n Whenever they let him alone, he simply collapsed into bed and slept.\n There was nothing else to do anyway. They'd taken his clothes; and the\n phone, after an announcement that he would have no more service for two\n weeks, gave him nothing but a busy signal." ], [ "Brushing aside the startled secretary in the outer cubicle, Harper\n flapped and shuffled straight into the inner sanctum. The manager, who\n was busy chewing a cigar to shreds behind his fortress of gun metal\n desk, jerked hastily upright and glared at the intruder. \"My good\n man—\" he began.", "\"Persecution, that's what it is!\" he moaned desperately. And he turned\n his back to the mirror, which showed him that he was beginning to look\n flesh-colored instead of the parchment yellow to which he had become\n accustomed. He closed his mind to the fact that he was sleeping for\n hours on end like the proverbial baby, and that he was getting such an\n appetite that he could almost relish even that detestable mush they\n sent him for breakfast. He was determined to be furious. As soon as he\n could wake up enough to be.", "The clerk was the first to recover from the collective stupor.\n Frantically he pushed the button that would summon the robot guard.\n With a gasp of relief he saw the two massive manlike machines moving\n inexorably forward. He pointed to Harper. \"Get that patient!\" he\n ordered. \"Take him to the—to the mud-baths!\"\n\n\n \"No you don't!\" yelled Harper. \"I want to see the manager!\" Nimbly he\n circled the guard and leaped behind the desk. He began to throw things\n at the robots. Things like inkwells and typewriters and card indexes.\n Especially, card indexes.\n\n\n \"Stop it!\" begged the clerk. \"You'll wreck the system! We'll never get\n it straight again! Stop it!\"\n\n\n \"Call them off!\" snarled Harper. \"Call them off or I'll ruin your\n switchboard!\" He put a shoulder against it and prepared to heave.", "Hayes, the manager, blanched. Then he began to mottle in an apoplectic\n pattern. And suddenly with a gusty sigh, he collapsed into his chair.\n With a shaking hand he mopped his forehead. \"\nMy\nrobots!\" he muttered.\n \"As if I invented the damned things!\"\n\n\n Despondently he looked at Harper. \"Go ahead and sue, Mr. Breen. If you\n don't, somebody else will. And if nobody sues, we'll go broke anyway,\n at the rate our guest list is declining. I'm ready to hand in my\n resignation.\"", "\"Don't 'my-good-man' me!\" snapped Harper. He glared back at the\n manager. Reaching as far across the expanse of desktop as he could\n stretch, he shook his puny fist. \"Do you know who I am? I'm Harper\n S. Breen, of Breen and Helgart, Incorporated! And do you know why I\n haven't even a card to prove it? Do you know why I have to make my way\n downstairs in garb that makes a laughing stock of me? Do you know why?\n Because that assinine clerk of yours put me in the wrong room and those\n damnable robots of yours then proceeded to make a prisoner of me! Me,\n Harper S. Breen! Why, I'll sue you until you'll be lucky if you have a\n sheet of writing-paper left in this idiot's retreat!\"", "With one last appalled glare at the madman, the clerk picked up an\n electric finger and pointed it at the approaching robots. They became\n oddly inanimate.\n\n\n \"That's better!\" Harper straightened up and meticulously smoothed the\n collar of his flapping coat. \"Now—the manager, please.\"\n\n\n \"This—this way, sir.\" With shrinking steps the clerk led Harper across\n the width of the lobby among the fascinated guests. He was beyond\n speech. Opening the inconspicuous door, he waved Harper inside and\n returned doggedly to his desk, where he began to pick up things and at\n the same time phrase his resignation in his mind.", "The clerk sputtered. Mrs. Jacobsen sputtered. But not for nothing was\n Harper one of the leading business executives of the earth. Harper's\n implacable stare won his point. Wiping beads of moisture from his\n forehead, the clerk fumbled for a card, typed it out, and was about to\n deposit it in the punch box when a fist hit the desk a resounding blow\n and another voice, male, roared out at Harper's elbow.\n\n\n \"This is a helluva joint!\" roared the voice. \"Man could rot away to the\n knees while he's waitin' for accommodations. Service!\" Again his fist\n banged the counter.\n\n\n The clerk jumped. He dropped Harper's card and had to stoop for it.\n Absently holding it, he straightened up to face Mrs. Jacobsen and the\n irate newcomer. Hastily he pushed a tagged key at Harper.", "Scribney had gauged his victim's mental processes accurately. The\n magazine sagged in Harp's hands, and his sharp eyes became shrewd and\n calculating. He even forgot to twitch. \"Maybe you're right, Scrib,\" he\n acknowledged. \"Combine a rest-cure with business, eh?\"\n\n\n Raising the magazine, he began reading the advertisement. And that\n was when he saw the line about the robots. \"—the only hotel staffed\n entirely with robot servants—\"\n\n\n \"Robots!\" he shrilled. \"You mean they've developed the things to that\n point? Why hasn't somebody told me? I'll have Jackson's hide! I'll\n disfranchise him! I'll—\"", "He could see at once that they had been developed to an amazingly high\n state of perfection. How, he wondered again, had this been done without\n his knowledge? Was Scrib right? Was he slipping? Gnawing at the doubt,\n he watched the robots moving efficiently about, pushing patients in\n wheelchairs, carrying trays, guiding newcomers, performing janitorial\n duties tirelessly, promptly, and best of all, silently.\n\n\n Harper was enthralled. He'd staff his offices with them. Hang the\n expense! There'd be no more of that obnoxious personal friction and\n proneness to error that was always deviling the most carefully trained\n office staffs! He'd investigate and find out the exact potentialities\n of these robots while here, and then go home and introduce them into\n the field of business. He'd show them whether he was slipping! Briskly\n he went over to the desk.", "With hope burgeoning for the first time in weeks, Hayes lifted his\n head. \"My dear Mr. Breen, to get rid of these pestiferous robots, I'll\n back you to the hilt! I'll notify the owners at once. At once, Mr.\n Breen! And while we wait for them, allow me to put you up as a guest of\n the hotel.\" Coming around to Harper, he effusively shook Harp's scrawny\n hand, and then personally escorted him not merely to the door but\n across the lobby to the elevator.", "He'd guessed right again. \"It will be right up, sir,\" responded the\n robot operator. Hopefully he stepped out into the hall and shuffled to\n the elevator.\nOnly the robots were immune to Harper Breen's progress across the huge\n suave lobby.\n\n\n He was a blot on its rich beauty, a grotesque enigma that rooted the\n other visitors into paralyzed staring groups. Stepping out of the\n elevator, he had laid a course for the desk which loomed like an island\n in a moss-gray lake, and now he strode manfully toward it, ignoring the\n oversize trousers slapping around his stocking feet. Only the robots\n shared his self control.", "\"One moment, sir,\" begged that harassed individual. \"Just one moment,\n please.\" He turned back to the woman.\n\n\n But she had turned her glare on Harper. \"You could at least be civil\n enough to wait your turn!\"\n\n\n Harper smirked. \"My good woman, I'm not a robot. Robots, of course,\n are always civil. But you should know by now that civility isn't a\n normal human trait.\" Leaving her temporarily quashed, he beckoned\n authoritatively to the clerk.\n\n\n \"I've just arrived and want to get settled. I'm here merely for a\n rest-cure, no treatments. You can assign my quarters before continuing\n your—ah—discussion with the lady.\"", "Stolidly they picked Harper up, plunked him into the chair, strapped\n him down and marched out with him.\nDejectedly Ellis returned to his own room. Again he lifted the receiver\n of the room phone; but as usual a robot voice answered sweetly,\n mechanically, and meaninglessly. He hung up and went miserably to bed.\nThere was something nagging at Harper's mind. Something he should do.\n Something that concerned robots. But he was too exhausted to think it\n out.", "Again he sighed. \"The trouble,\" he explained, \"is that those fool\n robots are completely logical, and people aren't. There's no way to mix\n the two. It's dynamite. Maybe people can gradually learn to live with\n robots, but they haven't yet. Only we had to find it out the hard way.\n We—\" he grimaced disgustedly—\"had to pioneer in the use of robots.\n And it cost us so much that we can't afford to reconvert to human help.\n So—Operation Robot is about to bankrupt the syndicate.\"\n\n\n Listening, an amazing calm settled on Harper. Thoughtfully now he\n hooked a chair to the desk with his stockinged foot, sat down and\n reached for the cigar that Hayes automatically offered him. \"Oh, I\n don't know,\" he said mildly.", "Harp nodded. An idea began to formulate. \"Leave your things, will you?\n I'm desperate! I'm going to see the manager of this madhouse if I have\n to go down dressed in a sheet. Your clothes would be better than that.\"\n\n\n Jake, looking over Harper's skimpy frame, grunted doubtfully. \"Maybe\n you could tie 'em on so they wouldn't slip. And roll up the cuffs. It's\n okay with me, but just don't lose something when you're down there in\n that fancy lobby.\"\n\n\n Harper looked at his watch. \"Time to go. Relax, old man. The robots\n will be along any minute now. If you're the only man in the room, I'm\n sure they'll take you. They aren't equipped to figure it out. And don't\n worry about me. I'll anchor your duds all right.\"", "For five days now his pet robots had put him through an ordeal that\n made him flinch every time he thought about it. Which wasn't often,\n since he was almost past thinking. They plunked him into stinking\n mud-baths and held him there until he was well-done to the bone, he\n was sure. They soaked him in foul, steaming irradiated waters until he\n gagged. They brought him weird concoctions to eat and drink and then\n stood over him until he consumed them. They purged and massaged and\n exercised him.\n\n\n Whenever they let him alone, he simply collapsed into bed and slept.\n There was nothing else to do anyway. They'd taken his clothes; and the\n phone, after an announcement that he would have no more service for two\n weeks, gave him nothing but a busy signal.", "Leaving his luggage to be unpacked by the robot attendant, he went up\n to the domed roof restaurant. Lunching boldly on broiled halibut with\n consomme, salad and a bland custard, he stared out at the dark blue\n sky of Mars, with Deimos hanging in the east in three-quarter phase\n while Phobos raced up from the west like a meteor behind schedule.\n Leaning back in his cushioned chair, he even more boldly lit a slim\n cigar—his first in months—and inhaled happily. For once old Scribney\n had certainly been right, he reflected. Yes sir, Scrib had rung the\n bell, and he wasn't the man to forget it. With a wonderful sense of\n well-being he returned to his room and prepared to relax.", "Harper had guessed right. Gleefully from the doorway of his new room\n he watched the robots wheel away his equally delighted neighbor for\n his first treatment. Then he closed the door and began to don Jake's\n clothing.\n\n\n The result was unique. He looked like a small boy in his father's\n clothes, except for the remarkably aged and gnome-like head sticking\n up on a skinny neck from a collar three sizes too big. And he was\n shoeless. He was completely unable to navigate in Jake's number\n twelves. But Harper was a determined man. He didn't even flinch from\n his image in the mirror. Firmly he stepped over to Jake's telephone.\n \"This is room 618,\" he said authoritatively. \"Send up the elevator for\n me. I want to go down to the lobby.\"", "Harper scowled. \"Oh, haven't I?\" he grated. \"Robots! Do you know what\n they did to me.\" Indignation lit fires in his pale eyes. \"Came in here\n while I was lying down peacefully digesting the first meal I've enjoyed\n in months, dragged me off to the surgery, and pumped it all out! The\n only meal I've enjoyed in months!\" Blackly he sank his chin onto his\n fist and contemplated the outrage.\n\n\n \"Why didn't you stop 'em?\" reasonably asked the visitor.\n\n\n \"Stop a robot?\" Harper glared pityingly. \"How? You can't reason with\n the blasted things. And as for using force—it's man against metal. You\n try it!\" He ground his teeth together in futile rage. \"And to think I\n had the insane notion that robots were the last word! Why, I was ready\n to staff my offices with the things!\"", "And indeed, Harper was stepping briskly downward, looking spry and fit\n and years younger. He came across to them actually beaming. It was the\n first pleasant expression they had seen on his face in years.\n\n\n \"Well, you old dog!\" exclaimed Scribney affectionately. \"So you did it\n again!\"\n\n\n Harper smirked. \"Yep, I turned a neat little deal. I bought out\n Hagerty's Enzymes and staffed the plant with the hotel's robots. Got\n both of 'em dirt cheap. Both concerns going bankrupt because they\n didn't have sense enough to swap their workers. Feel I owe you a bit\n for that tip about enzymes, Scrib, so I made out a block of stock to\n you. All right?\"" ], [ "Hayes, the manager, blanched. Then he began to mottle in an apoplectic\n pattern. And suddenly with a gusty sigh, he collapsed into his chair.\n With a shaking hand he mopped his forehead. \"\nMy\nrobots!\" he muttered.\n \"As if I invented the damned things!\"\n\n\n Despondently he looked at Harper. \"Go ahead and sue, Mr. Breen. If you\n don't, somebody else will. And if nobody sues, we'll go broke anyway,\n at the rate our guest list is declining. I'm ready to hand in my\n resignation.\"", "With hope burgeoning for the first time in weeks, Hayes lifted his\n head. \"My dear Mr. Breen, to get rid of these pestiferous robots, I'll\n back you to the hilt! I'll notify the owners at once. At once, Mr.\n Breen! And while we wait for them, allow me to put you up as a guest of\n the hotel.\" Coming around to Harper, he effusively shook Harp's scrawny\n hand, and then personally escorted him not merely to the door but\n across the lobby to the elevator.", "Hayes leaned forward like a drowning man sighting a liferaft. \"What\n do you mean, you don't know? You're threatening to take our shirts,\n aren't you?\"\n\n\n Meticulously Harper clipped and lit his cigar. \"It seems to me that\n these robots might be useful in quite another capacity. I might even\n make a deal with your syndicate to take them off your hands—at a\n reasonable price, of course—and forget the outrages I've suffered at\n your establishment.\"\n\n\n Hayes leaned toward him incredulous. \"You mean you want these robots\n after what you've seen and experienced?\"\n\n\n Placidly Harper puffed a smoke ring. \"Of course, you'd have to take\n into consideration that it would be an experiment for me, too. And\n there's the suit I'm clearly justified in instituting. However, I'm\n willing to discuss the matter with your superiors.\"", "Again he sighed. \"The trouble,\" he explained, \"is that those fool\n robots are completely logical, and people aren't. There's no way to mix\n the two. It's dynamite. Maybe people can gradually learn to live with\n robots, but they haven't yet. Only we had to find it out the hard way.\n We—\" he grimaced disgustedly—\"had to pioneer in the use of robots.\n And it cost us so much that we can't afford to reconvert to human help.\n So—Operation Robot is about to bankrupt the syndicate.\"\n\n\n Listening, an amazing calm settled on Harper. Thoughtfully now he\n hooked a chair to the desk with his stockinged foot, sat down and\n reached for the cigar that Hayes automatically offered him. \"Oh, I\n don't know,\" he said mildly.", "\"Persecution, that's what it is!\" he moaned desperately. And he turned\n his back to the mirror, which showed him that he was beginning to look\n flesh-colored instead of the parchment yellow to which he had become\n accustomed. He closed his mind to the fact that he was sleeping for\n hours on end like the proverbial baby, and that he was getting such an\n appetite that he could almost relish even that detestable mush they\n sent him for breakfast. He was determined to be furious. As soon as he\n could wake up enough to be.", "Scribney had gauged his victim's mental processes accurately. The\n magazine sagged in Harp's hands, and his sharp eyes became shrewd and\n calculating. He even forgot to twitch. \"Maybe you're right, Scrib,\" he\n acknowledged. \"Combine a rest-cure with business, eh?\"\n\n\n Raising the magazine, he began reading the advertisement. And that\n was when he saw the line about the robots. \"—the only hotel staffed\n entirely with robot servants—\"\n\n\n \"Robots!\" he shrilled. \"You mean they've developed the things to that\n point? Why hasn't somebody told me? I'll have Jackson's hide! I'll\n disfranchise him! I'll—\"", "Harper glared at the preposterous chair. \"Franz!\" he snarled. \"That\n prize fathead! I've paid him a fortune in fees. I haven't slept for\n weeks. I can't eat anything but soup. My nerves are jangling like\n a four-alarm fire. And what does he prescribe? A blasted jiggling\n baby carriage! Why, I ought to send him the bill for it!\" Completely\n outraged, he lay back on the couch and closed his eyes.\n\n\n \"Now, Harp, you know you've never obeyed his orders. He told you\n last year that you'd have to ease up. Why do you have to try to run\n the whole world? It's the strain of all your business worries that's\n causing your trouble. He told you to take a long vacation or you'd\n crack up. Don't blame him for your own stubbornness.\"", "Brushing aside the startled secretary in the outer cubicle, Harper\n flapped and shuffled straight into the inner sanctum. The manager, who\n was busy chewing a cigar to shreds behind his fortress of gun metal\n desk, jerked hastily upright and glared at the intruder. \"My good\n man—\" he began.", "He hadn't been awake long this time before Jake Ellis was there again,\n still moaning about his lack of treatments. \"Nothin' yet,\" he gloomily\n informed Harp. \"They haven't been near me. I just can't understand it.\n After I signed up for the works and paid 'em in advance! And I can't\n find any way out of this section. The other two rooms are empty and the\n elevator hasn't got any button. The robots just have to come and get a\n man or he's stuck.\"", "Stolidly they picked Harper up, plunked him into the chair, strapped\n him down and marched out with him.\nDejectedly Ellis returned to his own room. Again he lifted the receiver\n of the room phone; but as usual a robot voice answered sweetly,\n mechanically, and meaninglessly. He hung up and went miserably to bed.\nThere was something nagging at Harper's mind. Something he should do.\n Something that concerned robots. But he was too exhausted to think it\n out.", "And indeed, Harper was stepping briskly downward, looking spry and fit\n and years younger. He came across to them actually beaming. It was the\n first pleasant expression they had seen on his face in years.\n\n\n \"Well, you old dog!\" exclaimed Scribney affectionately. \"So you did it\n again!\"\n\n\n Harper smirked. \"Yep, I turned a neat little deal. I bought out\n Hagerty's Enzymes and staffed the plant with the hotel's robots. Got\n both of 'em dirt cheap. Both concerns going bankrupt because they\n didn't have sense enough to swap their workers. Feel I owe you a bit\n for that tip about enzymes, Scrib, so I made out a block of stock to\n you. All right?\"", "\"Don't 'my-good-man' me!\" snapped Harper. He glared back at the\n manager. Reaching as far across the expanse of desktop as he could\n stretch, he shook his puny fist. \"Do you know who I am? I'm Harper\n S. Breen, of Breen and Helgart, Incorporated! And do you know why I\n haven't even a card to prove it? Do you know why I have to make my way\n downstairs in garb that makes a laughing stock of me? Do you know why?\n Because that assinine clerk of yours put me in the wrong room and those\n damnable robots of yours then proceeded to make a prisoner of me! Me,\n Harper S. Breen! Why, I'll sue you until you'll be lucky if you have a\n sheet of writing-paper left in this idiot's retreat!\"", "\"That's right. How'd you think I got in such a helluva shape? I'm\n superintendent of one of the fungus plants. I'm Jake Ellis of Hagerty's\n Enzymes. There's good money in it, but man, what a job! No air worth\n mentionin'. Temperature always freezin' or below. Pressure suits. Huts.\n Factory. Processed food. Nothin' else. Just nothin'. That's where they\n could use some robots. It sure ain't no job for a real live man. And in\n fact, there ain't many men left there. If old man Hagerty only knew it,\n he's about out of business.\"\n\n\n Harper sat up as if he'd been needled. He opened his mouth to speak.\n But just then the door opened briskly and two robots entered. With a\n horrified stare, Harper clutched his maltreated stomach. He saw a third\n robot enter, wheeling a chair.", "Harper had guessed right. Gleefully from the doorway of his new room\n he watched the robots wheel away his equally delighted neighbor for\n his first treatment. Then he closed the door and began to don Jake's\n clothing.\n\n\n The result was unique. He looked like a small boy in his father's\n clothes, except for the remarkably aged and gnome-like head sticking\n up on a skinny neck from a collar three sizes too big. And he was\n shoeless. He was completely unable to navigate in Jake's number\n twelves. But Harper was a determined man. He didn't even flinch from\n his image in the mirror. Firmly he stepped over to Jake's telephone.\n \"This is room 618,\" he said authoritatively. \"Send up the elevator for\n me. I want to go down to the lobby.\"", "He could see at once that they had been developed to an amazingly high\n state of perfection. How, he wondered again, had this been done without\n his knowledge? Was Scrib right? Was he slipping? Gnawing at the doubt,\n he watched the robots moving efficiently about, pushing patients in\n wheelchairs, carrying trays, guiding newcomers, performing janitorial\n duties tirelessly, promptly, and best of all, silently.\n\n\n Harper was enthralled. He'd staff his offices with them. Hang the\n expense! There'd be no more of that obnoxious personal friction and\n proneness to error that was always deviling the most carefully trained\n office staffs! He'd investigate and find out the exact potentialities\n of these robots while here, and then go home and introduce them into\n the field of business. He'd show them whether he was slipping! Briskly\n he went over to the desk.", "Harper's hands twitched violently. \"Don't mention that fiasco!\" he\n rasped. \"That deal nearly cost me my shirt! Water, hell! Those wells\n spewed up the craziest conglomeration of liquids ever tapped!\"\nScribney, whose large, phlegmatic person and calm professorial brain\n were the complete antithesis of Harper's picked-crow physique and\n scheming financier's wits, looked severely over his glasses. Harp's\n nervous tribulations were beginning to bore him, as well as interfere\n with the harmony of his home.\n\n\n \"You're away behind the times, Harp,\" he declared. \"Don't you know\n that those have proved to be the most astoundingly curative springs\n ever discovered anywhere? Don't you know that a syndicate has built\n the largest extra-terrestial hotel of the solar system there and that\n people are flocking to it to get cured of whatever ails 'em? Old man,\n you missed a bet!\"", "\"You've got the wrong room!\" yelled Harp. \"Let me go!\" But the hypo\n began to take effect. His yells became weaker and drowsier. Hazily, as\n he drifted off, he thought of Mrs. Jacobsen. Maybe she had something,\n at that.\nThere was a tentative knock on the door. \"Come in,\" called Harper\n bleakly. As soon as the door opened he regretted his invitation, for\n the opening framed the large untidy man who had noisily pounded on the\n desk demanding service while he, Harp, was being registered.\n\n\n \"Say, pardner,\" he said hoarsely, \"you haven't seen any of them robots\n around here, have you?\"", "\"Harp!\" exploded Bella. \"Stop it! Maybe Jackson doesn't know a thing\n about it, whatever it is! If it's something at the Emerald Star Hotel,\n why don't you just go and find out for yourself instead of throwing a\n tantrum? That's the only sensible way!\"\n\n\n \"You're right, Bella,\" agreed Harper incisively. \"I'll go and find out\n for myself. Immediately!\" Scooping up his hat, he left at his usual\n lope.\n\n\n \"Well!\" remarked his sister. \"All I can say is that they'd better turn\n that happy-gas on extra strong for Harp's trip out!\"\nThe trip out did Harper a world of good. Under the influence of the\n soporific gas that permeated the rocket, he really relaxed for the\n first time in years, sinking with the other passengers into a hazy\n lethargy with little sense of passing time and almost no memory of the\n interval.", "The big man placed his large hands on his own capacious stomach and\n groaned. \"I'm sure sorry it was you and not me, pardner. I could use\n some of that treatment right now. Musta been that steak and onions I\n ate after all that tundra dope I've been livin' on.\"\n\n\n \"Tundra?\" A faint spark of alertness lightened Harper's dull rage. \"You\n mean you work out here on the tundra?\"", "The clerk sputtered. Mrs. Jacobsen sputtered. But not for nothing was\n Harper one of the leading business executives of the earth. Harper's\n implacable stare won his point. Wiping beads of moisture from his\n forehead, the clerk fumbled for a card, typed it out, and was about to\n deposit it in the punch box when a fist hit the desk a resounding blow\n and another voice, male, roared out at Harper's elbow.\n\n\n \"This is a helluva joint!\" roared the voice. \"Man could rot away to the\n knees while he's waitin' for accommodations. Service!\" Again his fist\n banged the counter.\n\n\n The clerk jumped. He dropped Harper's card and had to stoop for it.\n Absently holding it, he straightened up to face Mrs. Jacobsen and the\n irate newcomer. Hastily he pushed a tagged key at Harper." ], [ "With hope burgeoning for the first time in weeks, Hayes lifted his\n head. \"My dear Mr. Breen, to get rid of these pestiferous robots, I'll\n back you to the hilt! I'll notify the owners at once. At once, Mr.\n Breen! And while we wait for them, allow me to put you up as a guest of\n the hotel.\" Coming around to Harper, he effusively shook Harp's scrawny\n hand, and then personally escorted him not merely to the door but\n across the lobby to the elevator.", "And indeed, Harper was stepping briskly downward, looking spry and fit\n and years younger. He came across to them actually beaming. It was the\n first pleasant expression they had seen on his face in years.\n\n\n \"Well, you old dog!\" exclaimed Scribney affectionately. \"So you did it\n again!\"\n\n\n Harper smirked. \"Yep, I turned a neat little deal. I bought out\n Hagerty's Enzymes and staffed the plant with the hotel's robots. Got\n both of 'em dirt cheap. Both concerns going bankrupt because they\n didn't have sense enough to swap their workers. Feel I owe you a bit\n for that tip about enzymes, Scrib, so I made out a block of stock to\n you. All right?\"", "Hayes leaned forward like a drowning man sighting a liferaft. \"What\n do you mean, you don't know? You're threatening to take our shirts,\n aren't you?\"\n\n\n Meticulously Harper clipped and lit his cigar. \"It seems to me that\n these robots might be useful in quite another capacity. I might even\n make a deal with your syndicate to take them off your hands—at a\n reasonable price, of course—and forget the outrages I've suffered at\n your establishment.\"\n\n\n Hayes leaned toward him incredulous. \"You mean you want these robots\n after what you've seen and experienced?\"\n\n\n Placidly Harper puffed a smoke ring. \"Of course, you'd have to take\n into consideration that it would be an experiment for me, too. And\n there's the suit I'm clearly justified in instituting. However, I'm\n willing to discuss the matter with your superiors.\"", "Again he sighed. \"The trouble,\" he explained, \"is that those fool\n robots are completely logical, and people aren't. There's no way to mix\n the two. It's dynamite. Maybe people can gradually learn to live with\n robots, but they haven't yet. Only we had to find it out the hard way.\n We—\" he grimaced disgustedly—\"had to pioneer in the use of robots.\n And it cost us so much that we can't afford to reconvert to human help.\n So—Operation Robot is about to bankrupt the syndicate.\"\n\n\n Listening, an amazing calm settled on Harper. Thoughtfully now he\n hooked a chair to the desk with his stockinged foot, sat down and\n reached for the cigar that Hayes automatically offered him. \"Oh, I\n don't know,\" he said mildly.", "Harper had guessed right. Gleefully from the doorway of his new room\n he watched the robots wheel away his equally delighted neighbor for\n his first treatment. Then he closed the door and began to don Jake's\n clothing.\n\n\n The result was unique. He looked like a small boy in his father's\n clothes, except for the remarkably aged and gnome-like head sticking\n up on a skinny neck from a collar three sizes too big. And he was\n shoeless. He was completely unable to navigate in Jake's number\n twelves. But Harper was a determined man. He didn't even flinch from\n his image in the mirror. Firmly he stepped over to Jake's telephone.\n \"This is room 618,\" he said authoritatively. \"Send up the elevator for\n me. I want to go down to the lobby.\"", "Hayes, the manager, blanched. Then he began to mottle in an apoplectic\n pattern. And suddenly with a gusty sigh, he collapsed into his chair.\n With a shaking hand he mopped his forehead. \"\nMy\nrobots!\" he muttered.\n \"As if I invented the damned things!\"\n\n\n Despondently he looked at Harper. \"Go ahead and sue, Mr. Breen. If you\n don't, somebody else will. And if nobody sues, we'll go broke anyway,\n at the rate our guest list is declining. I'm ready to hand in my\n resignation.\"", "The clerk sputtered. Mrs. Jacobsen sputtered. But not for nothing was\n Harper one of the leading business executives of the earth. Harper's\n implacable stare won his point. Wiping beads of moisture from his\n forehead, the clerk fumbled for a card, typed it out, and was about to\n deposit it in the punch box when a fist hit the desk a resounding blow\n and another voice, male, roared out at Harper's elbow.\n\n\n \"This is a helluva joint!\" roared the voice. \"Man could rot away to the\n knees while he's waitin' for accommodations. Service!\" Again his fist\n banged the counter.\n\n\n The clerk jumped. He dropped Harper's card and had to stoop for it.\n Absently holding it, he straightened up to face Mrs. Jacobsen and the\n irate newcomer. Hastily he pushed a tagged key at Harper.", "Harper's hands twitched violently. \"Don't mention that fiasco!\" he\n rasped. \"That deal nearly cost me my shirt! Water, hell! Those wells\n spewed up the craziest conglomeration of liquids ever tapped!\"\nScribney, whose large, phlegmatic person and calm professorial brain\n were the complete antithesis of Harper's picked-crow physique and\n scheming financier's wits, looked severely over his glasses. Harp's\n nervous tribulations were beginning to bore him, as well as interfere\n with the harmony of his home.\n\n\n \"You're away behind the times, Harp,\" he declared. \"Don't you know\n that those have proved to be the most astoundingly curative springs\n ever discovered anywhere? Don't you know that a syndicate has built\n the largest extra-terrestial hotel of the solar system there and that\n people are flocking to it to get cured of whatever ails 'em? Old man,\n you missed a bet!\"", "Scribney had gauged his victim's mental processes accurately. The\n magazine sagged in Harp's hands, and his sharp eyes became shrewd and\n calculating. He even forgot to twitch. \"Maybe you're right, Scrib,\" he\n acknowledged. \"Combine a rest-cure with business, eh?\"\n\n\n Raising the magazine, he began reading the advertisement. And that\n was when he saw the line about the robots. \"—the only hotel staffed\n entirely with robot servants—\"\n\n\n \"Robots!\" he shrilled. \"You mean they've developed the things to that\n point? Why hasn't somebody told me? I'll have Jackson's hide! I'll\n disfranchise him! I'll—\"", "\"Harp!\" exploded Bella. \"Stop it! Maybe Jackson doesn't know a thing\n about it, whatever it is! If it's something at the Emerald Star Hotel,\n why don't you just go and find out for yourself instead of throwing a\n tantrum? That's the only sensible way!\"\n\n\n \"You're right, Bella,\" agreed Harper incisively. \"I'll go and find out\n for myself. Immediately!\" Scooping up his hat, he left at his usual\n lope.\n\n\n \"Well!\" remarked his sister. \"All I can say is that they'd better turn\n that happy-gas on extra strong for Harp's trip out!\"\nThe trip out did Harper a world of good. Under the influence of the\n soporific gas that permeated the rocket, he really relaxed for the\n first time in years, sinking with the other passengers into a hazy\n lethargy with little sense of passing time and almost no memory of the\n interval.", "Harp nodded. An idea began to formulate. \"Leave your things, will you?\n I'm desperate! I'm going to see the manager of this madhouse if I have\n to go down dressed in a sheet. Your clothes would be better than that.\"\n\n\n Jake, looking over Harper's skimpy frame, grunted doubtfully. \"Maybe\n you could tie 'em on so they wouldn't slip. And roll up the cuffs. It's\n okay with me, but just don't lose something when you're down there in\n that fancy lobby.\"\n\n\n Harper looked at his watch. \"Time to go. Relax, old man. The robots\n will be along any minute now. If you're the only man in the room, I'm\n sure they'll take you. They aren't equipped to figure it out. And don't\n worry about me. I'll anchor your duds all right.\"", "Brushing aside the startled secretary in the outer cubicle, Harper\n flapped and shuffled straight into the inner sanctum. The manager, who\n was busy chewing a cigar to shreds behind his fortress of gun metal\n desk, jerked hastily upright and glared at the intruder. \"My good\n man—\" he began.", "Harper gazed out at the stunned audience. This was more like the\n treatment he was accustomed to! Haughtily he squared his bony shoulders\n inside the immense jacket and stepped into the elevator. He was ready\n for the second step of his private Operation Robot.\nBack on Earth it was a warm, misty spring day—the kind of day unknown\n to the planet Mars. Bella and Scribney, superb in new spring outfits,\n waited restlessly while the rocket cooled and the passengers recovered\n from deceleration.\n\n\n \"Look, Scrib!\" Bella clutched Scribney's substantial arm. \"It's finally\n opening.\"\n\n\n They watched the airlock open and the platform wheel into place. They\n watched the passengers descend, looking a trifle dazed.\n\n\n \"There he is!\" cried Bella. \"Why, doesn't he look wonderful! Scrib,\n it's amazing! Look at him!", "Stolidly they picked Harper up, plunked him into the chair, strapped\n him down and marched out with him.\nDejectedly Ellis returned to his own room. Again he lifted the receiver\n of the room phone; but as usual a robot voice answered sweetly,\n mechanically, and meaninglessly. He hung up and went miserably to bed.\nThere was something nagging at Harper's mind. Something he should do.\n Something that concerned robots. But he was too exhausted to think it\n out.", "Harper snorted. His large nose developed the sound magnificently.\n \"Vacation!\" he snorted. \"Batting a silly ball around or dragging a hook\n after a stupid fish! Fine activities for an intelligent middle-aged\n man! And let me correct you. It isn't business worries that are driving\n me to a crack-up. It's the strain of trying to get some sensible,\n reasonable coöperation from the nincompoops I have to hire! It's the\n idiocy of the human race that's got me whipped! It's the—\"\n\n\n \"Hey, Harp, old man!\" His brother-in-law, turning the pages of the\n new colorama magazine, INTERPLANETARY, had paused at a double-spread.\n \"Didn't you have a finger in those Martian equatorial wells they sunk\n twenty years ago?\"", "He could see at once that they had been developed to an amazingly high\n state of perfection. How, he wondered again, had this been done without\n his knowledge? Was Scrib right? Was he slipping? Gnawing at the doubt,\n he watched the robots moving efficiently about, pushing patients in\n wheelchairs, carrying trays, guiding newcomers, performing janitorial\n duties tirelessly, promptly, and best of all, silently.\n\n\n Harper was enthralled. He'd staff his offices with them. Hang the\n expense! There'd be no more of that obnoxious personal friction and\n proneness to error that was always deviling the most carefully trained\n office staffs! He'd investigate and find out the exact potentialities\n of these robots while here, and then go home and introduce them into\n the field of business. He'd show them whether he was slipping! Briskly\n he went over to the desk.", "\"A wheel chair!\" squeaked the victim. \"I tell you, there's nothing\n wrong with me! Take it away! I'm only here for a rest-cure! Believe me!\n Take it away!\"\n\n\n The robots ignored him. For the first time in his spectacular and\n ruthless career Harper was up against creatures that he could neither\n bribe, persuade nor browbeat, inveigle nor ignore. It shattered his\n ebbing self-confidence. He began waving his hands helplessly.\n\n\n The robots not only ignored Harper. They paid no attention at all to\n Jake Ellis, who was plucking at their metallic arms pleading, \"Take\n me, boys. I need the treatment bad, whatever it is. I need all the\n treatment I can get. Take me! I'm just a wreck, fellers—\"", "\"That's right. How'd you think I got in such a helluva shape? I'm\n superintendent of one of the fungus plants. I'm Jake Ellis of Hagerty's\n Enzymes. There's good money in it, but man, what a job! No air worth\n mentionin'. Temperature always freezin' or below. Pressure suits. Huts.\n Factory. Processed food. Nothin' else. Just nothin'. That's where they\n could use some robots. It sure ain't no job for a real live man. And in\n fact, there ain't many men left there. If old man Hagerty only knew it,\n he's about out of business.\"\n\n\n Harper sat up as if he'd been needled. He opened his mouth to speak.\n But just then the door opened briskly and two robots entered. With a\n horrified stare, Harper clutched his maltreated stomach. He saw a third\n robot enter, wheeling a chair.", "Dutifully Scribney remembered and commented on the change the Martian\n springs had effected in the Durants. \"It's the very thing for you,\n Harp,\" he advised. \"You'd get a good rest on the way out. This gas\n they use in the rockets nowadays is as good as a rest-cure; it sort of\n floats you along the time-track in a pleasant daze, they tell me. And\n you can finish the cure at the hotel while looking it over. And not\n only that.\" Confidentially he leaned toward his insignificant looking\n brother-in-law. \"The chemists over at Dade McCann have just isolated an\n enzyme from one species of Martian fungus that breaks down crude oil\n into its components without the need for chemical processing. There's a\n fortune waiting for the man who corners that fungus market and learns\n to process the stuff!\"", "With one last appalled glare at the madman, the clerk picked up an\n electric finger and pointed it at the approaching robots. They became\n oddly inanimate.\n\n\n \"That's better!\" Harper straightened up and meticulously smoothed the\n collar of his flapping coat. \"Now—the manager, please.\"\n\n\n \"This—this way, sir.\" With shrinking steps the clerk led Harper across\n the width of the lobby among the fascinated guests. He was beyond\n speech. Opening the inconspicuous door, he waved Harper inside and\n returned doggedly to his desk, where he began to pick up things and at\n the same time phrase his resignation in his mind." ], [ "And indeed, Harper was stepping briskly downward, looking spry and fit\n and years younger. He came across to them actually beaming. It was the\n first pleasant expression they had seen on his face in years.\n\n\n \"Well, you old dog!\" exclaimed Scribney affectionately. \"So you did it\n again!\"\n\n\n Harper smirked. \"Yep, I turned a neat little deal. I bought out\n Hagerty's Enzymes and staffed the plant with the hotel's robots. Got\n both of 'em dirt cheap. Both concerns going bankrupt because they\n didn't have sense enough to swap their workers. Feel I owe you a bit\n for that tip about enzymes, Scrib, so I made out a block of stock to\n you. All right?\"", "With hope burgeoning for the first time in weeks, Hayes lifted his\n head. \"My dear Mr. Breen, to get rid of these pestiferous robots, I'll\n back you to the hilt! I'll notify the owners at once. At once, Mr.\n Breen! And while we wait for them, allow me to put you up as a guest of\n the hotel.\" Coming around to Harper, he effusively shook Harp's scrawny\n hand, and then personally escorted him not merely to the door but\n across the lobby to the elevator.", "Scribney had gauged his victim's mental processes accurately. The\n magazine sagged in Harp's hands, and his sharp eyes became shrewd and\n calculating. He even forgot to twitch. \"Maybe you're right, Scrib,\" he\n acknowledged. \"Combine a rest-cure with business, eh?\"\n\n\n Raising the magazine, he began reading the advertisement. And that\n was when he saw the line about the robots. \"—the only hotel staffed\n entirely with robot servants—\"\n\n\n \"Robots!\" he shrilled. \"You mean they've developed the things to that\n point? Why hasn't somebody told me? I'll have Jackson's hide! I'll\n disfranchise him! I'll—\"", "Harper's hands twitched violently. \"Don't mention that fiasco!\" he\n rasped. \"That deal nearly cost me my shirt! Water, hell! Those wells\n spewed up the craziest conglomeration of liquids ever tapped!\"\nScribney, whose large, phlegmatic person and calm professorial brain\n were the complete antithesis of Harper's picked-crow physique and\n scheming financier's wits, looked severely over his glasses. Harp's\n nervous tribulations were beginning to bore him, as well as interfere\n with the harmony of his home.\n\n\n \"You're away behind the times, Harp,\" he declared. \"Don't you know\n that those have proved to be the most astoundingly curative springs\n ever discovered anywhere? Don't you know that a syndicate has built\n the largest extra-terrestial hotel of the solar system there and that\n people are flocking to it to get cured of whatever ails 'em? Old man,\n you missed a bet!\"", "Harper gazed out at the stunned audience. This was more like the\n treatment he was accustomed to! Haughtily he squared his bony shoulders\n inside the immense jacket and stepped into the elevator. He was ready\n for the second step of his private Operation Robot.\nBack on Earth it was a warm, misty spring day—the kind of day unknown\n to the planet Mars. Bella and Scribney, superb in new spring outfits,\n waited restlessly while the rocket cooled and the passengers recovered\n from deceleration.\n\n\n \"Look, Scrib!\" Bella clutched Scribney's substantial arm. \"It's finally\n opening.\"\n\n\n They watched the airlock open and the platform wheel into place. They\n watched the passengers descend, looking a trifle dazed.\n\n\n \"There he is!\" cried Bella. \"Why, doesn't he look wonderful! Scrib,\n it's amazing! Look at him!", "He could see at once that they had been developed to an amazingly high\n state of perfection. How, he wondered again, had this been done without\n his knowledge? Was Scrib right? Was he slipping? Gnawing at the doubt,\n he watched the robots moving efficiently about, pushing patients in\n wheelchairs, carrying trays, guiding newcomers, performing janitorial\n duties tirelessly, promptly, and best of all, silently.\n\n\n Harper was enthralled. He'd staff his offices with them. Hang the\n expense! There'd be no more of that obnoxious personal friction and\n proneness to error that was always deviling the most carefully trained\n office staffs! He'd investigate and find out the exact potentialities\n of these robots while here, and then go home and introduce them into\n the field of business. He'd show them whether he was slipping! Briskly\n he went over to the desk.", "The clerk sputtered. Mrs. Jacobsen sputtered. But not for nothing was\n Harper one of the leading business executives of the earth. Harper's\n implacable stare won his point. Wiping beads of moisture from his\n forehead, the clerk fumbled for a card, typed it out, and was about to\n deposit it in the punch box when a fist hit the desk a resounding blow\n and another voice, male, roared out at Harper's elbow.\n\n\n \"This is a helluva joint!\" roared the voice. \"Man could rot away to the\n knees while he's waitin' for accommodations. Service!\" Again his fist\n banged the counter.\n\n\n The clerk jumped. He dropped Harper's card and had to stoop for it.\n Absently holding it, he straightened up to face Mrs. Jacobsen and the\n irate newcomer. Hastily he pushed a tagged key at Harper.", "\"Harp!\" exploded Bella. \"Stop it! Maybe Jackson doesn't know a thing\n about it, whatever it is! If it's something at the Emerald Star Hotel,\n why don't you just go and find out for yourself instead of throwing a\n tantrum? That's the only sensible way!\"\n\n\n \"You're right, Bella,\" agreed Harper incisively. \"I'll go and find out\n for myself. Immediately!\" Scooping up his hat, he left at his usual\n lope.\n\n\n \"Well!\" remarked his sister. \"All I can say is that they'd better turn\n that happy-gas on extra strong for Harp's trip out!\"\nThe trip out did Harper a world of good. Under the influence of the\n soporific gas that permeated the rocket, he really relaxed for the\n first time in years, sinking with the other passengers into a hazy\n lethargy with little sense of passing time and almost no memory of the\n interval.", "Brushing aside the startled secretary in the outer cubicle, Harper\n flapped and shuffled straight into the inner sanctum. The manager, who\n was busy chewing a cigar to shreds behind his fortress of gun metal\n desk, jerked hastily upright and glared at the intruder. \"My good\n man—\" he began.", "\"All right?\" Scribney gulped. Why, the dried-up little turnip was human\n after all. \"All right! Yes, sir! But aren't you going to use some of\n those robots for office help? Aren't they efficient and all that?\"\n\n\n Harper's smile vanished. \"Don't even mention such a thing!\" he yelped.\n \"You don't know what you're saying! I lived with those things for\n weeks. I wouldn't have one around! Keep 'em in the factory where they\n belong!\"\n\n\n He glimpsed the composed, wonderfully human face of his secretary,\n waiting patiently in the background. \"Oh there you are, Smythe.\" He\n turned to his relatives. \"Busy day ahead. See you later, folks—\"\n\n\n \"Same old Harp,\" observed Scribney. Then he thought of the block of\n stock. \"What say we celebrate our rise to a position in the syndicate,\n honey?\"", "Dutifully Scribney remembered and commented on the change the Martian\n springs had effected in the Durants. \"It's the very thing for you,\n Harp,\" he advised. \"You'd get a good rest on the way out. This gas\n they use in the rockets nowadays is as good as a rest-cure; it sort of\n floats you along the time-track in a pleasant daze, they tell me. And\n you can finish the cure at the hotel while looking it over. And not\n only that.\" Confidentially he leaned toward his insignificant looking\n brother-in-law. \"The chemists over at Dade McCann have just isolated an\n enzyme from one species of Martian fungus that breaks down crude oil\n into its components without the need for chemical processing. There's a\n fortune waiting for the man who corners that fungus market and learns\n to process the stuff!\"", "Harper had guessed right. Gleefully from the doorway of his new room\n he watched the robots wheel away his equally delighted neighbor for\n his first treatment. Then he closed the door and began to don Jake's\n clothing.\n\n\n The result was unique. He looked like a small boy in his father's\n clothes, except for the remarkably aged and gnome-like head sticking\n up on a skinny neck from a collar three sizes too big. And he was\n shoeless. He was completely unable to navigate in Jake's number\n twelves. But Harper was a determined man. He didn't even flinch from\n his image in the mirror. Firmly he stepped over to Jake's telephone.\n \"This is room 618,\" he said authoritatively. \"Send up the elevator for\n me. I want to go down to the lobby.\"", "The big man placed his large hands on his own capacious stomach and\n groaned. \"I'm sure sorry it was you and not me, pardner. I could use\n some of that treatment right now. Musta been that steak and onions I\n ate after all that tundra dope I've been livin' on.\"\n\n\n \"Tundra?\" A faint spark of alertness lightened Harper's dull rage. \"You\n mean you work out here on the tundra?\"", "\"One moment, sir,\" begged that harassed individual. \"Just one moment,\n please.\" He turned back to the woman.\n\n\n But she had turned her glare on Harper. \"You could at least be civil\n enough to wait your turn!\"\n\n\n Harper smirked. \"My good woman, I'm not a robot. Robots, of course,\n are always civil. But you should know by now that civility isn't a\n normal human trait.\" Leaving her temporarily quashed, he beckoned\n authoritatively to the clerk.\n\n\n \"I've just arrived and want to get settled. I'm here merely for a\n rest-cure, no treatments. You can assign my quarters before continuing\n your—ah—discussion with the lady.\"", "\"Don't 'my-good-man' me!\" snapped Harper. He glared back at the\n manager. Reaching as far across the expanse of desktop as he could\n stretch, he shook his puny fist. \"Do you know who I am? I'm Harper\n S. Breen, of Breen and Helgart, Incorporated! And do you know why I\n haven't even a card to prove it? Do you know why I have to make my way\n downstairs in garb that makes a laughing stock of me? Do you know why?\n Because that assinine clerk of yours put me in the wrong room and those\n damnable robots of yours then proceeded to make a prisoner of me! Me,\n Harper S. Breen! Why, I'll sue you until you'll be lucky if you have a\n sheet of writing-paper left in this idiot's retreat!\"", "Leaving his luggage to be unpacked by the robot attendant, he went up\n to the domed roof restaurant. Lunching boldly on broiled halibut with\n consomme, salad and a bland custard, he stared out at the dark blue\n sky of Mars, with Deimos hanging in the east in three-quarter phase\n while Phobos raced up from the west like a meteor behind schedule.\n Leaning back in his cushioned chair, he even more boldly lit a slim\n cigar—his first in months—and inhaled happily. For once old Scribney\n had certainly been right, he reflected. Yes sir, Scrib had rung the\n bell, and he wasn't the man to forget it. With a wonderful sense of\n well-being he returned to his room and prepared to relax.", "Harp nodded. An idea began to formulate. \"Leave your things, will you?\n I'm desperate! I'm going to see the manager of this madhouse if I have\n to go down dressed in a sheet. Your clothes would be better than that.\"\n\n\n Jake, looking over Harper's skimpy frame, grunted doubtfully. \"Maybe\n you could tie 'em on so they wouldn't slip. And roll up the cuffs. It's\n okay with me, but just don't lose something when you're down there in\n that fancy lobby.\"\n\n\n Harper looked at his watch. \"Time to go. Relax, old man. The robots\n will be along any minute now. If you're the only man in the room, I'm\n sure they'll take you. They aren't equipped to figure it out. And don't\n worry about me. I'll anchor your duds all right.\"", "Leaping from the sofa, Harper rudely snatched the magazine from\n Scribney's hands. He glared at the spread which depicted a star-shaped\n structure of bottle-green glass resting jewel-like on the rufous rock\n of Mars. The main portion of the building consisted of a circular\n skyscraper with a glass-domed roof. Between its star-shaped annexes,\n other domes covered landscaped gardens and noxious pools which in the\n drawing looked lovely and enticing.\n\n\n \"Why, I remember now!\" exclaimed Bella. \"That's where the Durants went\n two years ago! He was about dead and she looked like a hag. They came\n back in wonderful shape. Don't you remember, Scrib?\"", "With one last appalled glare at the madman, the clerk picked up an\n electric finger and pointed it at the approaching robots. They became\n oddly inanimate.\n\n\n \"That's better!\" Harper straightened up and meticulously smoothed the\n collar of his flapping coat. \"Now—the manager, please.\"\n\n\n \"This—this way, sir.\" With shrinking steps the clerk led Harper across\n the width of the lobby among the fascinated guests. He was beyond\n speech. Opening the inconspicuous door, he waved Harper inside and\n returned doggedly to his desk, where he began to pick up things and at\n the same time phrase his resignation in his mind.", "\"A wheel chair!\" squeaked the victim. \"I tell you, there's nothing\n wrong with me! Take it away! I'm only here for a rest-cure! Believe me!\n Take it away!\"\n\n\n The robots ignored him. For the first time in his spectacular and\n ruthless career Harper was up against creatures that he could neither\n bribe, persuade nor browbeat, inveigle nor ignore. It shattered his\n ebbing self-confidence. He began waving his hands helplessly.\n\n\n The robots not only ignored Harper. They paid no attention at all to\n Jake Ellis, who was plucking at their metallic arms pleading, \"Take\n me, boys. I need the treatment bad, whatever it is. I need all the\n treatment I can get. Take me! I'm just a wreck, fellers—\"" ] ]
valid	20002	[ "What does the author describe to be a confusing element of the debate on the kin-selection genetic principle?", "How does the author compare the importance of genetic relationship and bonding?", "What argument does the author make about why modern humans are genetically selfish?", "What is the author’s thesis?", "What weight does the author give to the importance of kin-selection earlier in human evolution?", "Who are genetically considered “kin”?", "According to the author, how has the importance of kin-selection changed over human evolution?", "What is revealed about the credentials of the author through the piece?", "How does the author layer ethics into the discussion of kinship?", "Does the author argue that ethics or kinship are more important to modern humans?" ]	[ [ "Traits for kinship did not persist into modern day", "Humans didn’t understand genetics in early evolution", "Humans are capable of treating anyone as kin", "Kin-selection would not have benefitted early humans" ], [ "Genetic relation and bonding are equally important to human capacity of love", "Human capacity to love depends on genetic relation", "Bonding is more important to human capacity to love than genetic relationship", "There is no relationship between bonding and capacity to love" ], [ "Supporting our immediate blood relatives doesn’t help our familial genes persist to the next generation", "Modern humans do not share most of their genes in common, making them selfish", "We fail to see that all modern humans share most of their genes in common, thus, helping any human is helping our genes pass on even if they are unrelated", "Being genetically selfish still helps altruism pass on through modern humans" ], [ "Limiting love to those you are directly genetically related to is nonsensical from both ethical and genetic selection perspectives", "Human evolution depended on naturalistic fallacy", "Limiting love to those you a genetically related to is important to modern humans", "Humans would evolve faster if kinship was universal" ], [ "Early humans had no familial bond with kin, disrupting kin-selection through human evolution", "Traits of kinship were important to familial genetics being passed on, thus kinship was also selected for in early human evolution", "Kin-selection was never all that important to human evolution because altruism would have always been in human DNA", "Traits of kinship would be detrimental to familial genetics being passed on" ], [ "Full siblings", "All humans", "Adoptive children and full siblings", "Friends" ], [ "Kin-selection is more important now than ever before", "There has been no change to the importance of kin-selection over human evolution", "Helping your kin continues to be important to pass along traits of kinship through the population as a whole", "Traits for kinship are throughout the entire human population now, thus supporting only kin is less important in the modern world for kinship to persist" ], [ "Credentials not discussed", "They are a professor of genetics", "They are a genetics enthusiast", "They are a news reporter who interviewed subject matter experts" ], [ "Humans have never considered natural behavior in animals to be unethical ", "Just because a behavior is natural to animals does not mean it is considered ethical", "Natural behaviors in the animal kingdom always lead humans to do what is ethically “good”", "The ethics discussion is unrelated to the kinship arguments" ], [ "No comparative argument is made", "The author posits that kinship and ethics are equally important", "The author posits that kinship is much more important, and natural behaviors explain the ethics", "The author posits that ethical treatment of all humans regardless of kin-status is most important" ] ]	[ 3, 3, 3, 1, 2, 1, 4, 1, 2, 4 ]	[ 0, 0, 1, 1, 1, 0, 1, 0, 1, 1 ]	[ [ "You can be forgiven for doubting my logic. People like me, in writing about kin selection, often talk about full siblings sharing \"half their genes,\" implying that nonrelatives share none. But in truth, you share virtually all your genes with any randomly selected homo sapien on any continent. What people like me really mean is that full siblings share half of any genes that are newly minted--genes that have recently arisen and on which natural selection is just starting to pass judgment. Genes that natural selection fully endorsed long ago--the basic genes for hunger, for lust, for familial love--are in everyone. So genes that originally flourished by bestowing love with discerning selfishness--by discriminating against people not containing copies of themselves--now, having spread through the species, discriminate against people who do contain copies! You may doubt that natural selection, a process that supposedly maximizes genetic selfishness, could fail so abjectly to do so. But it's true. .", "Misconception No. 1: Genes are smart . People often assume that kin-selected altruism is foolproof; that a gene can magically sense copies of itself in other organisms--or, at least, can somehow ascertain with perfect accuracy which organisms are close relatives of its own host organism and thus may carry copies of itself. In truth, genes aren't omniscient, or even sentient. If kin-selected genes are going to induce love of kin, they'll have to determine who qualifies as kin in some pedestrian and probably fallible way.", "non-kin, altruism that presumably is not self-serving at the genetic level. Still, you might argue, in defense of your genes, they usually direct familial love toward genuine kin, and thus usually succeed in being efficiently selfish. Wrong! When genes", "Thanks to the biologist William Hamilton, it is now clear why people feel brotherly love in the literal sense--and sisterly love, maternal love, and paternal love. It's all due to the operation of \"kin selection\" during evolution. A greatly oversimplified textbook example: Two million years ago, two hominids, Loveless Bob and Loving Bob, stand on two different riverbanks, in identical situations. Each is watching his full sibling Bill drown. Loving Bob has a gene inclining him to love his brother and thus jump in the raging river, even though his risk of dying is 10 percent. Loveless Bob has no such gene, and thus stands on the bank wondering whether his brother's corpse will attract any large, edible fish. Which Bob's genes will survive the Darwinian reaper--genes for love or for cold indifference?", "confine altruism to kin, and deny it to needy non-kin, they are in fact failing spectacularly to be efficiently selfish. Because nowadays, copies of these genes do reside in non-kin--in your next-door neighbor and, for that matter, your worst", "Love triumphs. True, there's a one-in-10 chance that the love gene will sink along with Loving Bob. But consider the upside. There's a one-in-two chance that Bob's full sibling Bill has the same gene and, thus, that a successful rescue mission will pluck an otherwise doomed copy of the gene from the dustbin of history. Do the math, and you'll see that, over time, Loving Bobs send more genes to posterity than Loveless Bobs. As love genes spread at the expense of indifference genes, Loveless Bobs slowly become extinct. Die, selfish scum! Genes for sibling love come to permeate our species--as, in fact, they now do. So do genes for maternal love and paternal love. All brought to you by kin selection. \n\n As modern Darwinism gets popularized, the basic idea of kin selection is approaching the status of conventional wisdom. So are some attendant misconceptions.", "For example: Back when Loving Bob was 6 years old, if his mother was nursing some infant named Bill and sleeping by its side every night, there's a very good chance that Bill was Bob's sibling. So a gene disposing Bob to love children whom he sees his mother nurturing could spread through the population until everyone obeys the same rule. But this rule would misfire now and then, when a mother is for some reason nurturing a non-offspring. It's just that the misfiring wouldn't happen often enough to greatly dilute the genetic math favoring the gene's proliferation.", "that sponsor it flourished by encouraging an \"altruism\" that was, in fact, self-serving at the genetic level (the inexorable triumph of Loving Bob's genes). As we've also seen, these genes can be \"fooled\" into encouraging altruism toward", "Little is known about which rules for identifying kin--\"kin-recognition mechanisms\"--do operate in our species. But clearly, they are fallible. Even mothers, who you'd think would have a damn good idea of who their offspring are, can in principle be fooled. When hospital staffers for some reason handed hours-old Kimberly Mays to a mother who was not hers, the mother's kin-recognition mechanisms--a k a bonding processes--kicked in. This woman wound up loving Kimberly like a daughter (though the mother died two years later, so that Kimberly was reared mostly by a stepmother). Meanwhile, Kimberly's genetic mother, having missed years of bonding, can never love Kimberly quite like her own child, even though Kimberly is her own child. Because genetic relationship per se doesn't matter.", "Misconception No. 2: People are smart--or, at least, they are smart Darwinian robots . Darwinian theory does posit that homo sapiens were \"designed\" to get their genes into the next generation, but not that they were designed to do so consciously and rationally. As surrogate mothers have proved, knowing that you've given no genes to an infant needn't stop the bonding process. Thus, \"kin- recognition mechanism\" is a doubly misleading term--first because, as we've seen, the mechanism doesn't positively identify kin, but just identifies factors correlated with kinship; and second because people aren't really aware of doing the identifying. We don't think, \"There's strong evidence that she's my daughter, so I adore her.\" More like, \"God but my daughter's adorable.\"", "enemy. After all, the Darwinian logic behind love of kin was so relentless that these genes permeated our entire species! Loveless Bob is extinct, remember?", "So this past holiday season, as you rushed to buy presents for your kids or your siblings or your nieces or nephews, impelled by \"selfishly\" altruistic genes, you were operating under flawed Darwinian logic. These \"selfish\" genes could do just as much for themselves by encouraging you to instead spend your money on the beggar outside the department store. In fact, they could do more, since the beggar is closer to perishing than your relatives are. (Also, the beggar might buy something useful such as food, as opposed to a hair-eating Cabbage Patch doll.) But our genes are too stupid to so deftly serve their own welfare.", "Readers familiar with my obsessions may fear that this column is just another attempt to spoil everyone's fun, to replace the beautiful mystery of life with ugly Darwinian clarity. Actually, what I hope to dispel isn't pre-Darwinian mystery, but a kind of post-Darwinian mysticism, a confused exaltation of genetic affinity. You see the confusion when biological parents invoke \"blood ties\" to reclaim a child from adoptive parents. You see it when opponents of cross-ethnic adoption argue--as in a New York Times op-ed piece a few months ago--that we must respect \"the strength of the biological and cultural ties that Indian tribes can offer their own children.\" In a sense, you see it every year around Christmas, when people pay lip service to the idea of universal brotherhood but believe in their hearts that it's ridiculous, that truly loving people to whom you aren't related violates some law of nature.", "The Absurdity of Family Love \n\n Don't get me wrong. Kids are great. I have some, and I adore them. Every Christmas I become a slave to my camcorder. Tiny tots with their eyes all aglow, and so on. But now that the radiance of the yuletide season is fading, it's time to confront a sobering scientific truth: The more you think about the biology of parental love, the more absurd it seems. The same goes for love of kin generally--brothers, sisters, nephews, etc.", "Not that I attach much weight to what is and isn't \"good\" from the standpoint of genetic self-interest. As virtually all ethical philosophers who have pondered the matter agree, it doesn't make sense to model our moral values on the logic of nature anyway; to infer ought from is --to commit the \"naturalistic fallacy\"--only leads to moral confusion. For example, you might, after observing the natural behavior of praying mantises, be tempted to conclude that it is morally good for females to eat males after sex--and this, I submit, would be a repugnant and wrongheaded doctrine! (Though slightly less repugnant than the idea of eating males before the sex.)", "This irrelevance of genes is why surrogate motherhood is so messy. Even when, thanks to in vitro fertilization, the birth mother is unrelated to the fetus she carries, she will, upon giving birth, fall in love with the child. During evolution, after all, having a baby come out of your womb was reasonably strong evidence of kinship. The power of the hormones that govern this bonding is familiar to anyone who has watched a woman clutch her just-born child and turn into a love-drunk cuddle-bunny. (When my wife went through this magic moment, I briefly considered snatching the baby and replacing it with an 8-by-10 glossy of myself.) This hormonal power was also observed by researchers studying oxytocin, a hormone that's present in human and other mammalian mothers at birth. The researchers put it in a syringe and used it to shatter all previous records for cuddling among laboratory rats. By the way, the synthetic version of oxytocin, Pitocin, is what doctors use to induce labor.", "Misconception No. 3: Our genes, though perhaps not real smart, aren't downright stupid . Here we come, at last, to the true absurdity of familial love. As we've seen, the genes", "Similarly, the idea that Native American babies, or black babies, or whatever, have some mystical genetic affinity with their \"own\" kind is silly. Obviously, cross-ethnic adoption is dicey. It draws sidelong glances and playground taunts, and it may give the adopted child an identity crisis. But it won't do this because of some ancestral memory in the genes. As attitudes change, cross-ethnic adoption will get easier; and as cross-ethnic adoption gets more common, attitudes will change. (There are other pop-genetics arguments against cross-ethnic adoption, and against adoption in general. One is that genes influence personality so powerfully that mixing unrelated siblings is like mixing oil and water. This idea is .)", "Most people implicitly recognize the naturalistic fallacy in some contexts. They sense that there's something visceral about, say, malice; yet they'll tell you (when not in its thrall) that they disapprove of it. It's obvious, they believe, that the natural strength of hatred is not a good thing. They're right. What is equally right, but a bit less obvious, is that the \"natural\" limits of love aren't necessarily good either. And, on close inspection, these limits turn out not to be all that rigorously \"natural\" anyway.", "It is good news for adoptive parents that neither genetic relationship nor conscious awareness of genetic relationship is a prerequisite for love. Still, it is bad news that maternal bonding begins with hormones at birth. It is also bad news that breast-feeding, which adoptive mothers usually can't do, releases the bonding hormone oxytocin. Then again, there is no reason in principle that adoptive parents couldn't take Pitocin once a day for synthetic bonding sessions. (Oxytocin seems to be part of the bonding formula in men, too.) Besides, some genetic mothers aren't conscious at birth, and many don't breast-feed, yet they all nonetheless wind up loving their kids. As the many successful adoptive parents know, lots of the magic moments that add up to durabonding have nothing to do with birthing or breast-feeding. (Tiny tots, with their eyes all aglow ... )" ], [ "Little is known about which rules for identifying kin--\"kin-recognition mechanisms\"--do operate in our species. But clearly, they are fallible. Even mothers, who you'd think would have a damn good idea of who their offspring are, can in principle be fooled. When hospital staffers for some reason handed hours-old Kimberly Mays to a mother who was not hers, the mother's kin-recognition mechanisms--a k a bonding processes--kicked in. This woman wound up loving Kimberly like a daughter (though the mother died two years later, so that Kimberly was reared mostly by a stepmother). Meanwhile, Kimberly's genetic mother, having missed years of bonding, can never love Kimberly quite like her own child, even though Kimberly is her own child. Because genetic relationship per se doesn't matter.", "It is good news for adoptive parents that neither genetic relationship nor conscious awareness of genetic relationship is a prerequisite for love. Still, it is bad news that maternal bonding begins with hormones at birth. It is also bad news that breast-feeding, which adoptive mothers usually can't do, releases the bonding hormone oxytocin. Then again, there is no reason in principle that adoptive parents couldn't take Pitocin once a day for synthetic bonding sessions. (Oxytocin seems to be part of the bonding formula in men, too.) Besides, some genetic mothers aren't conscious at birth, and many don't breast-feed, yet they all nonetheless wind up loving their kids. As the many successful adoptive parents know, lots of the magic moments that add up to durabonding have nothing to do with birthing or breast-feeding. (Tiny tots, with their eyes all aglow ... )", "Anyway, the main point is that when genetic parents give up a child for adoption and have second thoughts weeks, months, or even years later, their appeals to blood ties should count for zilch. Their love of their child, and their child's love of them, depends not on genetic math but on a long and complex chain of bonding, much of which they have already voluntarily missed out on.", "Readers familiar with my obsessions may fear that this column is just another attempt to spoil everyone's fun, to replace the beautiful mystery of life with ugly Darwinian clarity. Actually, what I hope to dispel isn't pre-Darwinian mystery, but a kind of post-Darwinian mysticism, a confused exaltation of genetic affinity. You see the confusion when biological parents invoke \"blood ties\" to reclaim a child from adoptive parents. You see it when opponents of cross-ethnic adoption argue--as in a New York Times op-ed piece a few months ago--that we must respect \"the strength of the biological and cultural ties that Indian tribes can offer their own children.\" In a sense, you see it every year around Christmas, when people pay lip service to the idea of universal brotherhood but believe in their hearts that it's ridiculous, that truly loving people to whom you aren't related violates some law of nature.", "This irrelevance of genes is why surrogate motherhood is so messy. Even when, thanks to in vitro fertilization, the birth mother is unrelated to the fetus she carries, she will, upon giving birth, fall in love with the child. During evolution, after all, having a baby come out of your womb was reasonably strong evidence of kinship. The power of the hormones that govern this bonding is familiar to anyone who has watched a woman clutch her just-born child and turn into a love-drunk cuddle-bunny. (When my wife went through this magic moment, I briefly considered snatching the baby and replacing it with an 8-by-10 glossy of myself.) This hormonal power was also observed by researchers studying oxytocin, a hormone that's present in human and other mammalian mothers at birth. The researchers put it in a syringe and used it to shatter all previous records for cuddling among laboratory rats. By the way, the synthetic version of oxytocin, Pitocin, is what doctors use to induce labor.", "Thanks to the biologist William Hamilton, it is now clear why people feel brotherly love in the literal sense--and sisterly love, maternal love, and paternal love. It's all due to the operation of \"kin selection\" during evolution. A greatly oversimplified textbook example: Two million years ago, two hominids, Loveless Bob and Loving Bob, stand on two different riverbanks, in identical situations. Each is watching his full sibling Bill drown. Loving Bob has a gene inclining him to love his brother and thus jump in the raging river, even though his risk of dying is 10 percent. Loveless Bob has no such gene, and thus stands on the bank wondering whether his brother's corpse will attract any large, edible fish. Which Bob's genes will survive the Darwinian reaper--genes for love or for cold indifference?", "The Absurdity of Family Love \n\n Don't get me wrong. Kids are great. I have some, and I adore them. Every Christmas I become a slave to my camcorder. Tiny tots with their eyes all aglow, and so on. But now that the radiance of the yuletide season is fading, it's time to confront a sobering scientific truth: The more you think about the biology of parental love, the more absurd it seems. The same goes for love of kin generally--brothers, sisters, nephews, etc.", "For example: Back when Loving Bob was 6 years old, if his mother was nursing some infant named Bill and sleeping by its side every night, there's a very good chance that Bill was Bob's sibling. So a gene disposing Bob to love children whom he sees his mother nurturing could spread through the population until everyone obeys the same rule. But this rule would misfire now and then, when a mother is for some reason nurturing a non-offspring. It's just that the misfiring wouldn't happen often enough to greatly dilute the genetic math favoring the gene's proliferation.", "enemy. After all, the Darwinian logic behind love of kin was so relentless that these genes permeated our entire species! Loveless Bob is extinct, remember?", "Similarly, the idea that Native American babies, or black babies, or whatever, have some mystical genetic affinity with their \"own\" kind is silly. Obviously, cross-ethnic adoption is dicey. It draws sidelong glances and playground taunts, and it may give the adopted child an identity crisis. But it won't do this because of some ancestral memory in the genes. As attitudes change, cross-ethnic adoption will get easier; and as cross-ethnic adoption gets more common, attitudes will change. (There are other pop-genetics arguments against cross-ethnic adoption, and against adoption in general. One is that genes influence personality so powerfully that mixing unrelated siblings is like mixing oil and water. This idea is .)", "Misconception No. 2: People are smart--or, at least, they are smart Darwinian robots . Darwinian theory does posit that homo sapiens were \"designed\" to get their genes into the next generation, but not that they were designed to do so consciously and rationally. As surrogate mothers have proved, knowing that you've given no genes to an infant needn't stop the bonding process. Thus, \"kin- recognition mechanism\" is a doubly misleading term--first because, as we've seen, the mechanism doesn't positively identify kin, but just identifies factors correlated with kinship; and second because people aren't really aware of doing the identifying. We don't think, \"There's strong evidence that she's my daughter, so I adore her.\" More like, \"God but my daughter's adorable.\"", "Misconception No. 3: Our genes, though perhaps not real smart, aren't downright stupid . Here we come, at last, to the true absurdity of familial love. As we've seen, the genes", "You can be forgiven for doubting my logic. People like me, in writing about kin selection, often talk about full siblings sharing \"half their genes,\" implying that nonrelatives share none. But in truth, you share virtually all your genes with any randomly selected homo sapien on any continent. What people like me really mean is that full siblings share half of any genes that are newly minted--genes that have recently arisen and on which natural selection is just starting to pass judgment. Genes that natural selection fully endorsed long ago--the basic genes for hunger, for lust, for familial love--are in everyone. So genes that originally flourished by bestowing love with discerning selfishness--by discriminating against people not containing copies of themselves--now, having spread through the species, discriminate against people who do contain copies! You may doubt that natural selection, a process that supposedly maximizes genetic selfishness, could fail so abjectly to do so. But it's true. .", "non-kin, altruism that presumably is not self-serving at the genetic level. Still, you might argue, in defense of your genes, they usually direct familial love toward genuine kin, and thus usually succeed in being efficiently selfish. Wrong! When genes", "Love triumphs. True, there's a one-in-10 chance that the love gene will sink along with Loving Bob. But consider the upside. There's a one-in-two chance that Bob's full sibling Bill has the same gene and, thus, that a successful rescue mission will pluck an otherwise doomed copy of the gene from the dustbin of history. Do the math, and you'll see that, over time, Loving Bobs send more genes to posterity than Loveless Bobs. As love genes spread at the expense of indifference genes, Loveless Bobs slowly become extinct. Die, selfish scum! Genes for sibling love come to permeate our species--as, in fact, they now do. So do genes for maternal love and paternal love. All brought to you by kin selection. \n\n As modern Darwinism gets popularized, the basic idea of kin selection is approaching the status of conventional wisdom. So are some attendant misconceptions.", "Misconception No. 1: Genes are smart . People often assume that kin-selected altruism is foolproof; that a gene can magically sense copies of itself in other organisms--or, at least, can somehow ascertain with perfect accuracy which organisms are close relatives of its own host organism and thus may carry copies of itself. In truth, genes aren't omniscient, or even sentient. If kin-selected genes are going to induce love of kin, they'll have to determine who qualifies as kin in some pedestrian and probably fallible way.", "that sponsor it flourished by encouraging an \"altruism\" that was, in fact, self-serving at the genetic level (the inexorable triumph of Loving Bob's genes). As we've also seen, these genes can be \"fooled\" into encouraging altruism toward", "Not that I attach much weight to what is and isn't \"good\" from the standpoint of genetic self-interest. As virtually all ethical philosophers who have pondered the matter agree, it doesn't make sense to model our moral values on the logic of nature anyway; to infer ought from is --to commit the \"naturalistic fallacy\"--only leads to moral confusion. For example, you might, after observing the natural behavior of praying mantises, be tempted to conclude that it is morally good for females to eat males after sex--and this, I submit, would be a repugnant and wrongheaded doctrine! (Though slightly less repugnant than the idea of eating males before the sex.)", "So this past holiday season, as you rushed to buy presents for your kids or your siblings or your nieces or nephews, impelled by \"selfishly\" altruistic genes, you were operating under flawed Darwinian logic. These \"selfish\" genes could do just as much for themselves by encouraging you to instead spend your money on the beggar outside the department store. In fact, they could do more, since the beggar is closer to perishing than your relatives are. (Also, the beggar might buy something useful such as food, as opposed to a hair-eating Cabbage Patch doll.) But our genes are too stupid to so deftly serve their own welfare.", "confine altruism to kin, and deny it to needy non-kin, they are in fact failing spectacularly to be efficiently selfish. Because nowadays, copies of these genes do reside in non-kin--in your next-door neighbor and, for that matter, your worst" ], [ "Love triumphs. True, there's a one-in-10 chance that the love gene will sink along with Loving Bob. But consider the upside. There's a one-in-two chance that Bob's full sibling Bill has the same gene and, thus, that a successful rescue mission will pluck an otherwise doomed copy of the gene from the dustbin of history. Do the math, and you'll see that, over time, Loving Bobs send more genes to posterity than Loveless Bobs. As love genes spread at the expense of indifference genes, Loveless Bobs slowly become extinct. Die, selfish scum! Genes for sibling love come to permeate our species--as, in fact, they now do. So do genes for maternal love and paternal love. All brought to you by kin selection. \n\n As modern Darwinism gets popularized, the basic idea of kin selection is approaching the status of conventional wisdom. So are some attendant misconceptions.", "You can be forgiven for doubting my logic. People like me, in writing about kin selection, often talk about full siblings sharing \"half their genes,\" implying that nonrelatives share none. But in truth, you share virtually all your genes with any randomly selected homo sapien on any continent. What people like me really mean is that full siblings share half of any genes that are newly minted--genes that have recently arisen and on which natural selection is just starting to pass judgment. Genes that natural selection fully endorsed long ago--the basic genes for hunger, for lust, for familial love--are in everyone. So genes that originally flourished by bestowing love with discerning selfishness--by discriminating against people not containing copies of themselves--now, having spread through the species, discriminate against people who do contain copies! You may doubt that natural selection, a process that supposedly maximizes genetic selfishness, could fail so abjectly to do so. But it's true. .", "confine altruism to kin, and deny it to needy non-kin, they are in fact failing spectacularly to be efficiently selfish. Because nowadays, copies of these genes do reside in non-kin--in your next-door neighbor and, for that matter, your worst", "So this past holiday season, as you rushed to buy presents for your kids or your siblings or your nieces or nephews, impelled by \"selfishly\" altruistic genes, you were operating under flawed Darwinian logic. These \"selfish\" genes could do just as much for themselves by encouraging you to instead spend your money on the beggar outside the department store. In fact, they could do more, since the beggar is closer to perishing than your relatives are. (Also, the beggar might buy something useful such as food, as opposed to a hair-eating Cabbage Patch doll.) But our genes are too stupid to so deftly serve their own welfare.", "Thanks to the biologist William Hamilton, it is now clear why people feel brotherly love in the literal sense--and sisterly love, maternal love, and paternal love. It's all due to the operation of \"kin selection\" during evolution. A greatly oversimplified textbook example: Two million years ago, two hominids, Loveless Bob and Loving Bob, stand on two different riverbanks, in identical situations. Each is watching his full sibling Bill drown. Loving Bob has a gene inclining him to love his brother and thus jump in the raging river, even though his risk of dying is 10 percent. Loveless Bob has no such gene, and thus stands on the bank wondering whether his brother's corpse will attract any large, edible fish. Which Bob's genes will survive the Darwinian reaper--genes for love or for cold indifference?", "that sponsor it flourished by encouraging an \"altruism\" that was, in fact, self-serving at the genetic level (the inexorable triumph of Loving Bob's genes). As we've also seen, these genes can be \"fooled\" into encouraging altruism toward", "enemy. After all, the Darwinian logic behind love of kin was so relentless that these genes permeated our entire species! Loveless Bob is extinct, remember?", "Not that I attach much weight to what is and isn't \"good\" from the standpoint of genetic self-interest. As virtually all ethical philosophers who have pondered the matter agree, it doesn't make sense to model our moral values on the logic of nature anyway; to infer ought from is --to commit the \"naturalistic fallacy\"--only leads to moral confusion. For example, you might, after observing the natural behavior of praying mantises, be tempted to conclude that it is morally good for females to eat males after sex--and this, I submit, would be a repugnant and wrongheaded doctrine! (Though slightly less repugnant than the idea of eating males before the sex.)", "non-kin, altruism that presumably is not self-serving at the genetic level. Still, you might argue, in defense of your genes, they usually direct familial love toward genuine kin, and thus usually succeed in being efficiently selfish. Wrong! When genes", "For example: Back when Loving Bob was 6 years old, if his mother was nursing some infant named Bill and sleeping by its side every night, there's a very good chance that Bill was Bob's sibling. So a gene disposing Bob to love children whom he sees his mother nurturing could spread through the population until everyone obeys the same rule. But this rule would misfire now and then, when a mother is for some reason nurturing a non-offspring. It's just that the misfiring wouldn't happen often enough to greatly dilute the genetic math favoring the gene's proliferation.", "Misconception No. 3: Our genes, though perhaps not real smart, aren't downright stupid . Here we come, at last, to the true absurdity of familial love. As we've seen, the genes", "Misconception No. 2: People are smart--or, at least, they are smart Darwinian robots . Darwinian theory does posit that homo sapiens were \"designed\" to get their genes into the next generation, but not that they were designed to do so consciously and rationally. As surrogate mothers have proved, knowing that you've given no genes to an infant needn't stop the bonding process. Thus, \"kin- recognition mechanism\" is a doubly misleading term--first because, as we've seen, the mechanism doesn't positively identify kin, but just identifies factors correlated with kinship; and second because people aren't really aware of doing the identifying. We don't think, \"There's strong evidence that she's my daughter, so I adore her.\" More like, \"God but my daughter's adorable.\"", "This irrelevance of genes is why surrogate motherhood is so messy. Even when, thanks to in vitro fertilization, the birth mother is unrelated to the fetus she carries, she will, upon giving birth, fall in love with the child. During evolution, after all, having a baby come out of your womb was reasonably strong evidence of kinship. The power of the hormones that govern this bonding is familiar to anyone who has watched a woman clutch her just-born child and turn into a love-drunk cuddle-bunny. (When my wife went through this magic moment, I briefly considered snatching the baby and replacing it with an 8-by-10 glossy of myself.) This hormonal power was also observed by researchers studying oxytocin, a hormone that's present in human and other mammalian mothers at birth. The researchers put it in a syringe and used it to shatter all previous records for cuddling among laboratory rats. By the way, the synthetic version of oxytocin, Pitocin, is what doctors use to induce labor.", "Misconception No. 1: Genes are smart . People often assume that kin-selected altruism is foolproof; that a gene can magically sense copies of itself in other organisms--or, at least, can somehow ascertain with perfect accuracy which organisms are close relatives of its own host organism and thus may carry copies of itself. In truth, genes aren't omniscient, or even sentient. If kin-selected genes are going to induce love of kin, they'll have to determine who qualifies as kin in some pedestrian and probably fallible way.", "Readers familiar with my obsessions may fear that this column is just another attempt to spoil everyone's fun, to replace the beautiful mystery of life with ugly Darwinian clarity. Actually, what I hope to dispel isn't pre-Darwinian mystery, but a kind of post-Darwinian mysticism, a confused exaltation of genetic affinity. You see the confusion when biological parents invoke \"blood ties\" to reclaim a child from adoptive parents. You see it when opponents of cross-ethnic adoption argue--as in a New York Times op-ed piece a few months ago--that we must respect \"the strength of the biological and cultural ties that Indian tribes can offer their own children.\" In a sense, you see it every year around Christmas, when people pay lip service to the idea of universal brotherhood but believe in their hearts that it's ridiculous, that truly loving people to whom you aren't related violates some law of nature.", "The Absurdity of Family Love \n\n Don't get me wrong. Kids are great. I have some, and I adore them. Every Christmas I become a slave to my camcorder. Tiny tots with their eyes all aglow, and so on. But now that the radiance of the yuletide season is fading, it's time to confront a sobering scientific truth: The more you think about the biology of parental love, the more absurd it seems. The same goes for love of kin generally--brothers, sisters, nephews, etc.", "Similarly, the idea that Native American babies, or black babies, or whatever, have some mystical genetic affinity with their \"own\" kind is silly. Obviously, cross-ethnic adoption is dicey. It draws sidelong glances and playground taunts, and it may give the adopted child an identity crisis. But it won't do this because of some ancestral memory in the genes. As attitudes change, cross-ethnic adoption will get easier; and as cross-ethnic adoption gets more common, attitudes will change. (There are other pop-genetics arguments against cross-ethnic adoption, and against adoption in general. One is that genes influence personality so powerfully that mixing unrelated siblings is like mixing oil and water. This idea is .)", "Little is known about which rules for identifying kin--\"kin-recognition mechanisms\"--do operate in our species. But clearly, they are fallible. Even mothers, who you'd think would have a damn good idea of who their offspring are, can in principle be fooled. When hospital staffers for some reason handed hours-old Kimberly Mays to a mother who was not hers, the mother's kin-recognition mechanisms--a k a bonding processes--kicked in. This woman wound up loving Kimberly like a daughter (though the mother died two years later, so that Kimberly was reared mostly by a stepmother). Meanwhile, Kimberly's genetic mother, having missed years of bonding, can never love Kimberly quite like her own child, even though Kimberly is her own child. Because genetic relationship per se doesn't matter.", "Most people implicitly recognize the naturalistic fallacy in some contexts. They sense that there's something visceral about, say, malice; yet they'll tell you (when not in its thrall) that they disapprove of it. It's obvious, they believe, that the natural strength of hatred is not a good thing. They're right. What is equally right, but a bit less obvious, is that the \"natural\" limits of love aren't necessarily good either. And, on close inspection, these limits turn out not to be all that rigorously \"natural\" anyway.", "It is good news for adoptive parents that neither genetic relationship nor conscious awareness of genetic relationship is a prerequisite for love. Still, it is bad news that maternal bonding begins with hormones at birth. It is also bad news that breast-feeding, which adoptive mothers usually can't do, releases the bonding hormone oxytocin. Then again, there is no reason in principle that adoptive parents couldn't take Pitocin once a day for synthetic bonding sessions. (Oxytocin seems to be part of the bonding formula in men, too.) Besides, some genetic mothers aren't conscious at birth, and many don't breast-feed, yet they all nonetheless wind up loving their kids. As the many successful adoptive parents know, lots of the magic moments that add up to durabonding have nothing to do with birthing or breast-feeding. (Tiny tots, with their eyes all aglow ... )" ], [ "Thanks to the biologist William Hamilton, it is now clear why people feel brotherly love in the literal sense--and sisterly love, maternal love, and paternal love. It's all due to the operation of \"kin selection\" during evolution. A greatly oversimplified textbook example: Two million years ago, two hominids, Loveless Bob and Loving Bob, stand on two different riverbanks, in identical situations. Each is watching his full sibling Bill drown. Loving Bob has a gene inclining him to love his brother and thus jump in the raging river, even though his risk of dying is 10 percent. Loveless Bob has no such gene, and thus stands on the bank wondering whether his brother's corpse will attract any large, edible fish. Which Bob's genes will survive the Darwinian reaper--genes for love or for cold indifference?", "Most people implicitly recognize the naturalistic fallacy in some contexts. They sense that there's something visceral about, say, malice; yet they'll tell you (when not in its thrall) that they disapprove of it. It's obvious, they believe, that the natural strength of hatred is not a good thing. They're right. What is equally right, but a bit less obvious, is that the \"natural\" limits of love aren't necessarily good either. And, on close inspection, these limits turn out not to be all that rigorously \"natural\" anyway.", "Love triumphs. True, there's a one-in-10 chance that the love gene will sink along with Loving Bob. But consider the upside. There's a one-in-two chance that Bob's full sibling Bill has the same gene and, thus, that a successful rescue mission will pluck an otherwise doomed copy of the gene from the dustbin of history. Do the math, and you'll see that, over time, Loving Bobs send more genes to posterity than Loveless Bobs. As love genes spread at the expense of indifference genes, Loveless Bobs slowly become extinct. Die, selfish scum! Genes for sibling love come to permeate our species--as, in fact, they now do. So do genes for maternal love and paternal love. All brought to you by kin selection. \n\n As modern Darwinism gets popularized, the basic idea of kin selection is approaching the status of conventional wisdom. So are some attendant misconceptions.", "that sponsor it flourished by encouraging an \"altruism\" that was, in fact, self-serving at the genetic level (the inexorable triumph of Loving Bob's genes). As we've also seen, these genes can be \"fooled\" into encouraging altruism toward", "This irrelevance of genes is why surrogate motherhood is so messy. Even when, thanks to in vitro fertilization, the birth mother is unrelated to the fetus she carries, she will, upon giving birth, fall in love with the child. During evolution, after all, having a baby come out of your womb was reasonably strong evidence of kinship. The power of the hormones that govern this bonding is familiar to anyone who has watched a woman clutch her just-born child and turn into a love-drunk cuddle-bunny. (When my wife went through this magic moment, I briefly considered snatching the baby and replacing it with an 8-by-10 glossy of myself.) This hormonal power was also observed by researchers studying oxytocin, a hormone that's present in human and other mammalian mothers at birth. The researchers put it in a syringe and used it to shatter all previous records for cuddling among laboratory rats. By the way, the synthetic version of oxytocin, Pitocin, is what doctors use to induce labor.", "So this past holiday season, as you rushed to buy presents for your kids or your siblings or your nieces or nephews, impelled by \"selfishly\" altruistic genes, you were operating under flawed Darwinian logic. These \"selfish\" genes could do just as much for themselves by encouraging you to instead spend your money on the beggar outside the department store. In fact, they could do more, since the beggar is closer to perishing than your relatives are. (Also, the beggar might buy something useful such as food, as opposed to a hair-eating Cabbage Patch doll.) But our genes are too stupid to so deftly serve their own welfare.", "You can be forgiven for doubting my logic. People like me, in writing about kin selection, often talk about full siblings sharing \"half their genes,\" implying that nonrelatives share none. But in truth, you share virtually all your genes with any randomly selected homo sapien on any continent. What people like me really mean is that full siblings share half of any genes that are newly minted--genes that have recently arisen and on which natural selection is just starting to pass judgment. Genes that natural selection fully endorsed long ago--the basic genes for hunger, for lust, for familial love--are in everyone. So genes that originally flourished by bestowing love with discerning selfishness--by discriminating against people not containing copies of themselves--now, having spread through the species, discriminate against people who do contain copies! You may doubt that natural selection, a process that supposedly maximizes genetic selfishness, could fail so abjectly to do so. But it's true. .", "Readers familiar with my obsessions may fear that this column is just another attempt to spoil everyone's fun, to replace the beautiful mystery of life with ugly Darwinian clarity. Actually, what I hope to dispel isn't pre-Darwinian mystery, but a kind of post-Darwinian mysticism, a confused exaltation of genetic affinity. You see the confusion when biological parents invoke \"blood ties\" to reclaim a child from adoptive parents. You see it when opponents of cross-ethnic adoption argue--as in a New York Times op-ed piece a few months ago--that we must respect \"the strength of the biological and cultural ties that Indian tribes can offer their own children.\" In a sense, you see it every year around Christmas, when people pay lip service to the idea of universal brotherhood but believe in their hearts that it's ridiculous, that truly loving people to whom you aren't related violates some law of nature.", "Misconception No. 2: People are smart--or, at least, they are smart Darwinian robots . Darwinian theory does posit that homo sapiens were \"designed\" to get their genes into the next generation, but not that they were designed to do so consciously and rationally. As surrogate mothers have proved, knowing that you've given no genes to an infant needn't stop the bonding process. Thus, \"kin- recognition mechanism\" is a doubly misleading term--first because, as we've seen, the mechanism doesn't positively identify kin, but just identifies factors correlated with kinship; and second because people aren't really aware of doing the identifying. We don't think, \"There's strong evidence that she's my daughter, so I adore her.\" More like, \"God but my daughter's adorable.\"", "For example: Back when Loving Bob was 6 years old, if his mother was nursing some infant named Bill and sleeping by its side every night, there's a very good chance that Bill was Bob's sibling. So a gene disposing Bob to love children whom he sees his mother nurturing could spread through the population until everyone obeys the same rule. But this rule would misfire now and then, when a mother is for some reason nurturing a non-offspring. It's just that the misfiring wouldn't happen often enough to greatly dilute the genetic math favoring the gene's proliferation.", "The Absurdity of Family Love \n\n Don't get me wrong. Kids are great. I have some, and I adore them. Every Christmas I become a slave to my camcorder. Tiny tots with their eyes all aglow, and so on. But now that the radiance of the yuletide season is fading, it's time to confront a sobering scientific truth: The more you think about the biology of parental love, the more absurd it seems. The same goes for love of kin generally--brothers, sisters, nephews, etc.", "Not that I attach much weight to what is and isn't \"good\" from the standpoint of genetic self-interest. As virtually all ethical philosophers who have pondered the matter agree, it doesn't make sense to model our moral values on the logic of nature anyway; to infer ought from is --to commit the \"naturalistic fallacy\"--only leads to moral confusion. For example, you might, after observing the natural behavior of praying mantises, be tempted to conclude that it is morally good for females to eat males after sex--and this, I submit, would be a repugnant and wrongheaded doctrine! (Though slightly less repugnant than the idea of eating males before the sex.)", "Misconception No. 3: Our genes, though perhaps not real smart, aren't downright stupid . Here we come, at last, to the true absurdity of familial love. As we've seen, the genes", "enemy. After all, the Darwinian logic behind love of kin was so relentless that these genes permeated our entire species! Loveless Bob is extinct, remember?", "confine altruism to kin, and deny it to needy non-kin, they are in fact failing spectacularly to be efficiently selfish. Because nowadays, copies of these genes do reside in non-kin--in your next-door neighbor and, for that matter, your worst", "Little is known about which rules for identifying kin--\"kin-recognition mechanisms\"--do operate in our species. But clearly, they are fallible. Even mothers, who you'd think would have a damn good idea of who their offspring are, can in principle be fooled. When hospital staffers for some reason handed hours-old Kimberly Mays to a mother who was not hers, the mother's kin-recognition mechanisms--a k a bonding processes--kicked in. This woman wound up loving Kimberly like a daughter (though the mother died two years later, so that Kimberly was reared mostly by a stepmother). Meanwhile, Kimberly's genetic mother, having missed years of bonding, can never love Kimberly quite like her own child, even though Kimberly is her own child. Because genetic relationship per se doesn't matter.", "Similarly, the idea that Native American babies, or black babies, or whatever, have some mystical genetic affinity with their \"own\" kind is silly. Obviously, cross-ethnic adoption is dicey. It draws sidelong glances and playground taunts, and it may give the adopted child an identity crisis. But it won't do this because of some ancestral memory in the genes. As attitudes change, cross-ethnic adoption will get easier; and as cross-ethnic adoption gets more common, attitudes will change. (There are other pop-genetics arguments against cross-ethnic adoption, and against adoption in general. One is that genes influence personality so powerfully that mixing unrelated siblings is like mixing oil and water. This idea is .)", "Misconception No. 1: Genes are smart . People often assume that kin-selected altruism is foolproof; that a gene can magically sense copies of itself in other organisms--or, at least, can somehow ascertain with perfect accuracy which organisms are close relatives of its own host organism and thus may carry copies of itself. In truth, genes aren't omniscient, or even sentient. If kin-selected genes are going to induce love of kin, they'll have to determine who qualifies as kin in some pedestrian and probably fallible way.", "non-kin, altruism that presumably is not self-serving at the genetic level. Still, you might argue, in defense of your genes, they usually direct familial love toward genuine kin, and thus usually succeed in being efficiently selfish. Wrong! When genes", "It is good news for adoptive parents that neither genetic relationship nor conscious awareness of genetic relationship is a prerequisite for love. Still, it is bad news that maternal bonding begins with hormones at birth. It is also bad news that breast-feeding, which adoptive mothers usually can't do, releases the bonding hormone oxytocin. Then again, there is no reason in principle that adoptive parents couldn't take Pitocin once a day for synthetic bonding sessions. (Oxytocin seems to be part of the bonding formula in men, too.) Besides, some genetic mothers aren't conscious at birth, and many don't breast-feed, yet they all nonetheless wind up loving their kids. As the many successful adoptive parents know, lots of the magic moments that add up to durabonding have nothing to do with birthing or breast-feeding. (Tiny tots, with their eyes all aglow ... )" ], [ "Thanks to the biologist William Hamilton, it is now clear why people feel brotherly love in the literal sense--and sisterly love, maternal love, and paternal love. It's all due to the operation of \"kin selection\" during evolution. A greatly oversimplified textbook example: Two million years ago, two hominids, Loveless Bob and Loving Bob, stand on two different riverbanks, in identical situations. Each is watching his full sibling Bill drown. Loving Bob has a gene inclining him to love his brother and thus jump in the raging river, even though his risk of dying is 10 percent. Loveless Bob has no such gene, and thus stands on the bank wondering whether his brother's corpse will attract any large, edible fish. Which Bob's genes will survive the Darwinian reaper--genes for love or for cold indifference?", "You can be forgiven for doubting my logic. People like me, in writing about kin selection, often talk about full siblings sharing \"half their genes,\" implying that nonrelatives share none. But in truth, you share virtually all your genes with any randomly selected homo sapien on any continent. What people like me really mean is that full siblings share half of any genes that are newly minted--genes that have recently arisen and on which natural selection is just starting to pass judgment. Genes that natural selection fully endorsed long ago--the basic genes for hunger, for lust, for familial love--are in everyone. So genes that originally flourished by bestowing love with discerning selfishness--by discriminating against people not containing copies of themselves--now, having spread through the species, discriminate against people who do contain copies! You may doubt that natural selection, a process that supposedly maximizes genetic selfishness, could fail so abjectly to do so. But it's true. .", "Love triumphs. True, there's a one-in-10 chance that the love gene will sink along with Loving Bob. But consider the upside. There's a one-in-two chance that Bob's full sibling Bill has the same gene and, thus, that a successful rescue mission will pluck an otherwise doomed copy of the gene from the dustbin of history. Do the math, and you'll see that, over time, Loving Bobs send more genes to posterity than Loveless Bobs. As love genes spread at the expense of indifference genes, Loveless Bobs slowly become extinct. Die, selfish scum! Genes for sibling love come to permeate our species--as, in fact, they now do. So do genes for maternal love and paternal love. All brought to you by kin selection. \n\n As modern Darwinism gets popularized, the basic idea of kin selection is approaching the status of conventional wisdom. So are some attendant misconceptions.", "enemy. After all, the Darwinian logic behind love of kin was so relentless that these genes permeated our entire species! Loveless Bob is extinct, remember?", "confine altruism to kin, and deny it to needy non-kin, they are in fact failing spectacularly to be efficiently selfish. Because nowadays, copies of these genes do reside in non-kin--in your next-door neighbor and, for that matter, your worst", "non-kin, altruism that presumably is not self-serving at the genetic level. Still, you might argue, in defense of your genes, they usually direct familial love toward genuine kin, and thus usually succeed in being efficiently selfish. Wrong! When genes", "Misconception No. 1: Genes are smart . People often assume that kin-selected altruism is foolproof; that a gene can magically sense copies of itself in other organisms--or, at least, can somehow ascertain with perfect accuracy which organisms are close relatives of its own host organism and thus may carry copies of itself. In truth, genes aren't omniscient, or even sentient. If kin-selected genes are going to induce love of kin, they'll have to determine who qualifies as kin in some pedestrian and probably fallible way.", "For example: Back when Loving Bob was 6 years old, if his mother was nursing some infant named Bill and sleeping by its side every night, there's a very good chance that Bill was Bob's sibling. So a gene disposing Bob to love children whom he sees his mother nurturing could spread through the population until everyone obeys the same rule. But this rule would misfire now and then, when a mother is for some reason nurturing a non-offspring. It's just that the misfiring wouldn't happen often enough to greatly dilute the genetic math favoring the gene's proliferation.", "Misconception No. 2: People are smart--or, at least, they are smart Darwinian robots . Darwinian theory does posit that homo sapiens were \"designed\" to get their genes into the next generation, but not that they were designed to do so consciously and rationally. As surrogate mothers have proved, knowing that you've given no genes to an infant needn't stop the bonding process. Thus, \"kin- recognition mechanism\" is a doubly misleading term--first because, as we've seen, the mechanism doesn't positively identify kin, but just identifies factors correlated with kinship; and second because people aren't really aware of doing the identifying. We don't think, \"There's strong evidence that she's my daughter, so I adore her.\" More like, \"God but my daughter's adorable.\"", "Little is known about which rules for identifying kin--\"kin-recognition mechanisms\"--do operate in our species. But clearly, they are fallible. Even mothers, who you'd think would have a damn good idea of who their offspring are, can in principle be fooled. When hospital staffers for some reason handed hours-old Kimberly Mays to a mother who was not hers, the mother's kin-recognition mechanisms--a k a bonding processes--kicked in. This woman wound up loving Kimberly like a daughter (though the mother died two years later, so that Kimberly was reared mostly by a stepmother). Meanwhile, Kimberly's genetic mother, having missed years of bonding, can never love Kimberly quite like her own child, even though Kimberly is her own child. Because genetic relationship per se doesn't matter.", "that sponsor it flourished by encouraging an \"altruism\" that was, in fact, self-serving at the genetic level (the inexorable triumph of Loving Bob's genes). As we've also seen, these genes can be \"fooled\" into encouraging altruism toward", "So this past holiday season, as you rushed to buy presents for your kids or your siblings or your nieces or nephews, impelled by \"selfishly\" altruistic genes, you were operating under flawed Darwinian logic. These \"selfish\" genes could do just as much for themselves by encouraging you to instead spend your money on the beggar outside the department store. In fact, they could do more, since the beggar is closer to perishing than your relatives are. (Also, the beggar might buy something useful such as food, as opposed to a hair-eating Cabbage Patch doll.) But our genes are too stupid to so deftly serve their own welfare.", "Not that I attach much weight to what is and isn't \"good\" from the standpoint of genetic self-interest. As virtually all ethical philosophers who have pondered the matter agree, it doesn't make sense to model our moral values on the logic of nature anyway; to infer ought from is --to commit the \"naturalistic fallacy\"--only leads to moral confusion. For example, you might, after observing the natural behavior of praying mantises, be tempted to conclude that it is morally good for females to eat males after sex--and this, I submit, would be a repugnant and wrongheaded doctrine! (Though slightly less repugnant than the idea of eating males before the sex.)", "The Absurdity of Family Love \n\n Don't get me wrong. Kids are great. I have some, and I adore them. Every Christmas I become a slave to my camcorder. Tiny tots with their eyes all aglow, and so on. But now that the radiance of the yuletide season is fading, it's time to confront a sobering scientific truth: The more you think about the biology of parental love, the more absurd it seems. The same goes for love of kin generally--brothers, sisters, nephews, etc.", "This irrelevance of genes is why surrogate motherhood is so messy. Even when, thanks to in vitro fertilization, the birth mother is unrelated to the fetus she carries, she will, upon giving birth, fall in love with the child. During evolution, after all, having a baby come out of your womb was reasonably strong evidence of kinship. The power of the hormones that govern this bonding is familiar to anyone who has watched a woman clutch her just-born child and turn into a love-drunk cuddle-bunny. (When my wife went through this magic moment, I briefly considered snatching the baby and replacing it with an 8-by-10 glossy of myself.) This hormonal power was also observed by researchers studying oxytocin, a hormone that's present in human and other mammalian mothers at birth. The researchers put it in a syringe and used it to shatter all previous records for cuddling among laboratory rats. By the way, the synthetic version of oxytocin, Pitocin, is what doctors use to induce labor.", "Readers familiar with my obsessions may fear that this column is just another attempt to spoil everyone's fun, to replace the beautiful mystery of life with ugly Darwinian clarity. Actually, what I hope to dispel isn't pre-Darwinian mystery, but a kind of post-Darwinian mysticism, a confused exaltation of genetic affinity. You see the confusion when biological parents invoke \"blood ties\" to reclaim a child from adoptive parents. You see it when opponents of cross-ethnic adoption argue--as in a New York Times op-ed piece a few months ago--that we must respect \"the strength of the biological and cultural ties that Indian tribes can offer their own children.\" In a sense, you see it every year around Christmas, when people pay lip service to the idea of universal brotherhood but believe in their hearts that it's ridiculous, that truly loving people to whom you aren't related violates some law of nature.", "Misconception No. 3: Our genes, though perhaps not real smart, aren't downright stupid . Here we come, at last, to the true absurdity of familial love. As we've seen, the genes", "Similarly, the idea that Native American babies, or black babies, or whatever, have some mystical genetic affinity with their \"own\" kind is silly. Obviously, cross-ethnic adoption is dicey. It draws sidelong glances and playground taunts, and it may give the adopted child an identity crisis. But it won't do this because of some ancestral memory in the genes. As attitudes change, cross-ethnic adoption will get easier; and as cross-ethnic adoption gets more common, attitudes will change. (There are other pop-genetics arguments against cross-ethnic adoption, and against adoption in general. One is that genes influence personality so powerfully that mixing unrelated siblings is like mixing oil and water. This idea is .)", "Most people implicitly recognize the naturalistic fallacy in some contexts. They sense that there's something visceral about, say, malice; yet they'll tell you (when not in its thrall) that they disapprove of it. It's obvious, they believe, that the natural strength of hatred is not a good thing. They're right. What is equally right, but a bit less obvious, is that the \"natural\" limits of love aren't necessarily good either. And, on close inspection, these limits turn out not to be all that rigorously \"natural\" anyway.", "It is good news for adoptive parents that neither genetic relationship nor conscious awareness of genetic relationship is a prerequisite for love. Still, it is bad news that maternal bonding begins with hormones at birth. It is also bad news that breast-feeding, which adoptive mothers usually can't do, releases the bonding hormone oxytocin. Then again, there is no reason in principle that adoptive parents couldn't take Pitocin once a day for synthetic bonding sessions. (Oxytocin seems to be part of the bonding formula in men, too.) Besides, some genetic mothers aren't conscious at birth, and many don't breast-feed, yet they all nonetheless wind up loving their kids. As the many successful adoptive parents know, lots of the magic moments that add up to durabonding have nothing to do with birthing or breast-feeding. (Tiny tots, with their eyes all aglow ... )" ], [ "Little is known about which rules for identifying kin--\"kin-recognition mechanisms\"--do operate in our species. But clearly, they are fallible. Even mothers, who you'd think would have a damn good idea of who their offspring are, can in principle be fooled. When hospital staffers for some reason handed hours-old Kimberly Mays to a mother who was not hers, the mother's kin-recognition mechanisms--a k a bonding processes--kicked in. This woman wound up loving Kimberly like a daughter (though the mother died two years later, so that Kimberly was reared mostly by a stepmother). Meanwhile, Kimberly's genetic mother, having missed years of bonding, can never love Kimberly quite like her own child, even though Kimberly is her own child. Because genetic relationship per se doesn't matter.", "non-kin, altruism that presumably is not self-serving at the genetic level. Still, you might argue, in defense of your genes, they usually direct familial love toward genuine kin, and thus usually succeed in being efficiently selfish. Wrong! When genes", "enemy. After all, the Darwinian logic behind love of kin was so relentless that these genes permeated our entire species! Loveless Bob is extinct, remember?", "Thanks to the biologist William Hamilton, it is now clear why people feel brotherly love in the literal sense--and sisterly love, maternal love, and paternal love. It's all due to the operation of \"kin selection\" during evolution. A greatly oversimplified textbook example: Two million years ago, two hominids, Loveless Bob and Loving Bob, stand on two different riverbanks, in identical situations. Each is watching his full sibling Bill drown. Loving Bob has a gene inclining him to love his brother and thus jump in the raging river, even though his risk of dying is 10 percent. Loveless Bob has no such gene, and thus stands on the bank wondering whether his brother's corpse will attract any large, edible fish. Which Bob's genes will survive the Darwinian reaper--genes for love or for cold indifference?", "Misconception No. 1: Genes are smart . People often assume that kin-selected altruism is foolproof; that a gene can magically sense copies of itself in other organisms--or, at least, can somehow ascertain with perfect accuracy which organisms are close relatives of its own host organism and thus may carry copies of itself. In truth, genes aren't omniscient, or even sentient. If kin-selected genes are going to induce love of kin, they'll have to determine who qualifies as kin in some pedestrian and probably fallible way.", "You can be forgiven for doubting my logic. People like me, in writing about kin selection, often talk about full siblings sharing \"half their genes,\" implying that nonrelatives share none. But in truth, you share virtually all your genes with any randomly selected homo sapien on any continent. What people like me really mean is that full siblings share half of any genes that are newly minted--genes that have recently arisen and on which natural selection is just starting to pass judgment. Genes that natural selection fully endorsed long ago--the basic genes for hunger, for lust, for familial love--are in everyone. So genes that originally flourished by bestowing love with discerning selfishness--by discriminating against people not containing copies of themselves--now, having spread through the species, discriminate against people who do contain copies! You may doubt that natural selection, a process that supposedly maximizes genetic selfishness, could fail so abjectly to do so. But it's true. .", "Misconception No. 2: People are smart--or, at least, they are smart Darwinian robots . Darwinian theory does posit that homo sapiens were \"designed\" to get their genes into the next generation, but not that they were designed to do so consciously and rationally. As surrogate mothers have proved, knowing that you've given no genes to an infant needn't stop the bonding process. Thus, \"kin- recognition mechanism\" is a doubly misleading term--first because, as we've seen, the mechanism doesn't positively identify kin, but just identifies factors correlated with kinship; and second because people aren't really aware of doing the identifying. We don't think, \"There's strong evidence that she's my daughter, so I adore her.\" More like, \"God but my daughter's adorable.\"", "The Absurdity of Family Love \n\n Don't get me wrong. Kids are great. I have some, and I adore them. Every Christmas I become a slave to my camcorder. Tiny tots with their eyes all aglow, and so on. But now that the radiance of the yuletide season is fading, it's time to confront a sobering scientific truth: The more you think about the biology of parental love, the more absurd it seems. The same goes for love of kin generally--brothers, sisters, nephews, etc.", "Readers familiar with my obsessions may fear that this column is just another attempt to spoil everyone's fun, to replace the beautiful mystery of life with ugly Darwinian clarity. Actually, what I hope to dispel isn't pre-Darwinian mystery, but a kind of post-Darwinian mysticism, a confused exaltation of genetic affinity. You see the confusion when biological parents invoke \"blood ties\" to reclaim a child from adoptive parents. You see it when opponents of cross-ethnic adoption argue--as in a New York Times op-ed piece a few months ago--that we must respect \"the strength of the biological and cultural ties that Indian tribes can offer their own children.\" In a sense, you see it every year around Christmas, when people pay lip service to the idea of universal brotherhood but believe in their hearts that it's ridiculous, that truly loving people to whom you aren't related violates some law of nature.", "For example: Back when Loving Bob was 6 years old, if his mother was nursing some infant named Bill and sleeping by its side every night, there's a very good chance that Bill was Bob's sibling. So a gene disposing Bob to love children whom he sees his mother nurturing could spread through the population until everyone obeys the same rule. But this rule would misfire now and then, when a mother is for some reason nurturing a non-offspring. It's just that the misfiring wouldn't happen often enough to greatly dilute the genetic math favoring the gene's proliferation.", "Love triumphs. True, there's a one-in-10 chance that the love gene will sink along with Loving Bob. But consider the upside. There's a one-in-two chance that Bob's full sibling Bill has the same gene and, thus, that a successful rescue mission will pluck an otherwise doomed copy of the gene from the dustbin of history. Do the math, and you'll see that, over time, Loving Bobs send more genes to posterity than Loveless Bobs. As love genes spread at the expense of indifference genes, Loveless Bobs slowly become extinct. Die, selfish scum! Genes for sibling love come to permeate our species--as, in fact, they now do. So do genes for maternal love and paternal love. All brought to you by kin selection. \n\n As modern Darwinism gets popularized, the basic idea of kin selection is approaching the status of conventional wisdom. So are some attendant misconceptions.", "confine altruism to kin, and deny it to needy non-kin, they are in fact failing spectacularly to be efficiently selfish. Because nowadays, copies of these genes do reside in non-kin--in your next-door neighbor and, for that matter, your worst", "Similarly, the idea that Native American babies, or black babies, or whatever, have some mystical genetic affinity with their \"own\" kind is silly. Obviously, cross-ethnic adoption is dicey. It draws sidelong glances and playground taunts, and it may give the adopted child an identity crisis. But it won't do this because of some ancestral memory in the genes. As attitudes change, cross-ethnic adoption will get easier; and as cross-ethnic adoption gets more common, attitudes will change. (There are other pop-genetics arguments against cross-ethnic adoption, and against adoption in general. One is that genes influence personality so powerfully that mixing unrelated siblings is like mixing oil and water. This idea is .)", "This irrelevance of genes is why surrogate motherhood is so messy. Even when, thanks to in vitro fertilization, the birth mother is unrelated to the fetus she carries, she will, upon giving birth, fall in love with the child. During evolution, after all, having a baby come out of your womb was reasonably strong evidence of kinship. The power of the hormones that govern this bonding is familiar to anyone who has watched a woman clutch her just-born child and turn into a love-drunk cuddle-bunny. (When my wife went through this magic moment, I briefly considered snatching the baby and replacing it with an 8-by-10 glossy of myself.) This hormonal power was also observed by researchers studying oxytocin, a hormone that's present in human and other mammalian mothers at birth. The researchers put it in a syringe and used it to shatter all previous records for cuddling among laboratory rats. By the way, the synthetic version of oxytocin, Pitocin, is what doctors use to induce labor.", "Misconception No. 3: Our genes, though perhaps not real smart, aren't downright stupid . Here we come, at last, to the true absurdity of familial love. As we've seen, the genes", "Anyway, the main point is that when genetic parents give up a child for adoption and have second thoughts weeks, months, or even years later, their appeals to blood ties should count for zilch. Their love of their child, and their child's love of them, depends not on genetic math but on a long and complex chain of bonding, much of which they have already voluntarily missed out on.", "It is good news for adoptive parents that neither genetic relationship nor conscious awareness of genetic relationship is a prerequisite for love. Still, it is bad news that maternal bonding begins with hormones at birth. It is also bad news that breast-feeding, which adoptive mothers usually can't do, releases the bonding hormone oxytocin. Then again, there is no reason in principle that adoptive parents couldn't take Pitocin once a day for synthetic bonding sessions. (Oxytocin seems to be part of the bonding formula in men, too.) Besides, some genetic mothers aren't conscious at birth, and many don't breast-feed, yet they all nonetheless wind up loving their kids. As the many successful adoptive parents know, lots of the magic moments that add up to durabonding have nothing to do with birthing or breast-feeding. (Tiny tots, with their eyes all aglow ... )", "So this past holiday season, as you rushed to buy presents for your kids or your siblings or your nieces or nephews, impelled by \"selfishly\" altruistic genes, you were operating under flawed Darwinian logic. These \"selfish\" genes could do just as much for themselves by encouraging you to instead spend your money on the beggar outside the department store. In fact, they could do more, since the beggar is closer to perishing than your relatives are. (Also, the beggar might buy something useful such as food, as opposed to a hair-eating Cabbage Patch doll.) But our genes are too stupid to so deftly serve their own welfare.", "that sponsor it flourished by encouraging an \"altruism\" that was, in fact, self-serving at the genetic level (the inexorable triumph of Loving Bob's genes). As we've also seen, these genes can be \"fooled\" into encouraging altruism toward", "Not that I attach much weight to what is and isn't \"good\" from the standpoint of genetic self-interest. As virtually all ethical philosophers who have pondered the matter agree, it doesn't make sense to model our moral values on the logic of nature anyway; to infer ought from is --to commit the \"naturalistic fallacy\"--only leads to moral confusion. For example, you might, after observing the natural behavior of praying mantises, be tempted to conclude that it is morally good for females to eat males after sex--and this, I submit, would be a repugnant and wrongheaded doctrine! (Though slightly less repugnant than the idea of eating males before the sex.)" ], [ "Love triumphs. True, there's a one-in-10 chance that the love gene will sink along with Loving Bob. But consider the upside. There's a one-in-two chance that Bob's full sibling Bill has the same gene and, thus, that a successful rescue mission will pluck an otherwise doomed copy of the gene from the dustbin of history. Do the math, and you'll see that, over time, Loving Bobs send more genes to posterity than Loveless Bobs. As love genes spread at the expense of indifference genes, Loveless Bobs slowly become extinct. Die, selfish scum! Genes for sibling love come to permeate our species--as, in fact, they now do. So do genes for maternal love and paternal love. All brought to you by kin selection. \n\n As modern Darwinism gets popularized, the basic idea of kin selection is approaching the status of conventional wisdom. So are some attendant misconceptions.", "Thanks to the biologist William Hamilton, it is now clear why people feel brotherly love in the literal sense--and sisterly love, maternal love, and paternal love. It's all due to the operation of \"kin selection\" during evolution. A greatly oversimplified textbook example: Two million years ago, two hominids, Loveless Bob and Loving Bob, stand on two different riverbanks, in identical situations. Each is watching his full sibling Bill drown. Loving Bob has a gene inclining him to love his brother and thus jump in the raging river, even though his risk of dying is 10 percent. Loveless Bob has no such gene, and thus stands on the bank wondering whether his brother's corpse will attract any large, edible fish. Which Bob's genes will survive the Darwinian reaper--genes for love or for cold indifference?", "You can be forgiven for doubting my logic. People like me, in writing about kin selection, often talk about full siblings sharing \"half their genes,\" implying that nonrelatives share none. But in truth, you share virtually all your genes with any randomly selected homo sapien on any continent. What people like me really mean is that full siblings share half of any genes that are newly minted--genes that have recently arisen and on which natural selection is just starting to pass judgment. Genes that natural selection fully endorsed long ago--the basic genes for hunger, for lust, for familial love--are in everyone. So genes that originally flourished by bestowing love with discerning selfishness--by discriminating against people not containing copies of themselves--now, having spread through the species, discriminate against people who do contain copies! You may doubt that natural selection, a process that supposedly maximizes genetic selfishness, could fail so abjectly to do so. But it's true. .", "enemy. After all, the Darwinian logic behind love of kin was so relentless that these genes permeated our entire species! Loveless Bob is extinct, remember?", "Misconception No. 1: Genes are smart . People often assume that kin-selected altruism is foolproof; that a gene can magically sense copies of itself in other organisms--or, at least, can somehow ascertain with perfect accuracy which organisms are close relatives of its own host organism and thus may carry copies of itself. In truth, genes aren't omniscient, or even sentient. If kin-selected genes are going to induce love of kin, they'll have to determine who qualifies as kin in some pedestrian and probably fallible way.", "non-kin, altruism that presumably is not self-serving at the genetic level. Still, you might argue, in defense of your genes, they usually direct familial love toward genuine kin, and thus usually succeed in being efficiently selfish. Wrong! When genes", "confine altruism to kin, and deny it to needy non-kin, they are in fact failing spectacularly to be efficiently selfish. Because nowadays, copies of these genes do reside in non-kin--in your next-door neighbor and, for that matter, your worst", "For example: Back when Loving Bob was 6 years old, if his mother was nursing some infant named Bill and sleeping by its side every night, there's a very good chance that Bill was Bob's sibling. So a gene disposing Bob to love children whom he sees his mother nurturing could spread through the population until everyone obeys the same rule. But this rule would misfire now and then, when a mother is for some reason nurturing a non-offspring. It's just that the misfiring wouldn't happen often enough to greatly dilute the genetic math favoring the gene's proliferation.", "Little is known about which rules for identifying kin--\"kin-recognition mechanisms\"--do operate in our species. But clearly, they are fallible. Even mothers, who you'd think would have a damn good idea of who their offspring are, can in principle be fooled. When hospital staffers for some reason handed hours-old Kimberly Mays to a mother who was not hers, the mother's kin-recognition mechanisms--a k a bonding processes--kicked in. This woman wound up loving Kimberly like a daughter (though the mother died two years later, so that Kimberly was reared mostly by a stepmother). Meanwhile, Kimberly's genetic mother, having missed years of bonding, can never love Kimberly quite like her own child, even though Kimberly is her own child. Because genetic relationship per se doesn't matter.", "Misconception No. 2: People are smart--or, at least, they are smart Darwinian robots . Darwinian theory does posit that homo sapiens were \"designed\" to get their genes into the next generation, but not that they were designed to do so consciously and rationally. As surrogate mothers have proved, knowing that you've given no genes to an infant needn't stop the bonding process. Thus, \"kin- recognition mechanism\" is a doubly misleading term--first because, as we've seen, the mechanism doesn't positively identify kin, but just identifies factors correlated with kinship; and second because people aren't really aware of doing the identifying. We don't think, \"There's strong evidence that she's my daughter, so I adore her.\" More like, \"God but my daughter's adorable.\"", "So this past holiday season, as you rushed to buy presents for your kids or your siblings or your nieces or nephews, impelled by \"selfishly\" altruistic genes, you were operating under flawed Darwinian logic. These \"selfish\" genes could do just as much for themselves by encouraging you to instead spend your money on the beggar outside the department store. In fact, they could do more, since the beggar is closer to perishing than your relatives are. (Also, the beggar might buy something useful such as food, as opposed to a hair-eating Cabbage Patch doll.) But our genes are too stupid to so deftly serve their own welfare.", "This irrelevance of genes is why surrogate motherhood is so messy. Even when, thanks to in vitro fertilization, the birth mother is unrelated to the fetus she carries, she will, upon giving birth, fall in love with the child. During evolution, after all, having a baby come out of your womb was reasonably strong evidence of kinship. The power of the hormones that govern this bonding is familiar to anyone who has watched a woman clutch her just-born child and turn into a love-drunk cuddle-bunny. (When my wife went through this magic moment, I briefly considered snatching the baby and replacing it with an 8-by-10 glossy of myself.) This hormonal power was also observed by researchers studying oxytocin, a hormone that's present in human and other mammalian mothers at birth. The researchers put it in a syringe and used it to shatter all previous records for cuddling among laboratory rats. By the way, the synthetic version of oxytocin, Pitocin, is what doctors use to induce labor.", "The Absurdity of Family Love \n\n Don't get me wrong. Kids are great. I have some, and I adore them. Every Christmas I become a slave to my camcorder. Tiny tots with their eyes all aglow, and so on. But now that the radiance of the yuletide season is fading, it's time to confront a sobering scientific truth: The more you think about the biology of parental love, the more absurd it seems. The same goes for love of kin generally--brothers, sisters, nephews, etc.", "that sponsor it flourished by encouraging an \"altruism\" that was, in fact, self-serving at the genetic level (the inexorable triumph of Loving Bob's genes). As we've also seen, these genes can be \"fooled\" into encouraging altruism toward", "Readers familiar with my obsessions may fear that this column is just another attempt to spoil everyone's fun, to replace the beautiful mystery of life with ugly Darwinian clarity. Actually, what I hope to dispel isn't pre-Darwinian mystery, but a kind of post-Darwinian mysticism, a confused exaltation of genetic affinity. You see the confusion when biological parents invoke \"blood ties\" to reclaim a child from adoptive parents. You see it when opponents of cross-ethnic adoption argue--as in a New York Times op-ed piece a few months ago--that we must respect \"the strength of the biological and cultural ties that Indian tribes can offer their own children.\" In a sense, you see it every year around Christmas, when people pay lip service to the idea of universal brotherhood but believe in their hearts that it's ridiculous, that truly loving people to whom you aren't related violates some law of nature.", "Not that I attach much weight to what is and isn't \"good\" from the standpoint of genetic self-interest. As virtually all ethical philosophers who have pondered the matter agree, it doesn't make sense to model our moral values on the logic of nature anyway; to infer ought from is --to commit the \"naturalistic fallacy\"--only leads to moral confusion. For example, you might, after observing the natural behavior of praying mantises, be tempted to conclude that it is morally good for females to eat males after sex--and this, I submit, would be a repugnant and wrongheaded doctrine! (Though slightly less repugnant than the idea of eating males before the sex.)", "Misconception No. 3: Our genes, though perhaps not real smart, aren't downright stupid . Here we come, at last, to the true absurdity of familial love. As we've seen, the genes", "Similarly, the idea that Native American babies, or black babies, or whatever, have some mystical genetic affinity with their \"own\" kind is silly. Obviously, cross-ethnic adoption is dicey. It draws sidelong glances and playground taunts, and it may give the adopted child an identity crisis. But it won't do this because of some ancestral memory in the genes. As attitudes change, cross-ethnic adoption will get easier; and as cross-ethnic adoption gets more common, attitudes will change. (There are other pop-genetics arguments against cross-ethnic adoption, and against adoption in general. One is that genes influence personality so powerfully that mixing unrelated siblings is like mixing oil and water. This idea is .)", "Most people implicitly recognize the naturalistic fallacy in some contexts. They sense that there's something visceral about, say, malice; yet they'll tell you (when not in its thrall) that they disapprove of it. It's obvious, they believe, that the natural strength of hatred is not a good thing. They're right. What is equally right, but a bit less obvious, is that the \"natural\" limits of love aren't necessarily good either. And, on close inspection, these limits turn out not to be all that rigorously \"natural\" anyway.", "It is good news for adoptive parents that neither genetic relationship nor conscious awareness of genetic relationship is a prerequisite for love. Still, it is bad news that maternal bonding begins with hormones at birth. It is also bad news that breast-feeding, which adoptive mothers usually can't do, releases the bonding hormone oxytocin. Then again, there is no reason in principle that adoptive parents couldn't take Pitocin once a day for synthetic bonding sessions. (Oxytocin seems to be part of the bonding formula in men, too.) Besides, some genetic mothers aren't conscious at birth, and many don't breast-feed, yet they all nonetheless wind up loving their kids. As the many successful adoptive parents know, lots of the magic moments that add up to durabonding have nothing to do with birthing or breast-feeding. (Tiny tots, with their eyes all aglow ... )" ], [ "that sponsor it flourished by encouraging an \"altruism\" that was, in fact, self-serving at the genetic level (the inexorable triumph of Loving Bob's genes). As we've also seen, these genes can be \"fooled\" into encouraging altruism toward", "Readers familiar with my obsessions may fear that this column is just another attempt to spoil everyone's fun, to replace the beautiful mystery of life with ugly Darwinian clarity. Actually, what I hope to dispel isn't pre-Darwinian mystery, but a kind of post-Darwinian mysticism, a confused exaltation of genetic affinity. You see the confusion when biological parents invoke \"blood ties\" to reclaim a child from adoptive parents. You see it when opponents of cross-ethnic adoption argue--as in a New York Times op-ed piece a few months ago--that we must respect \"the strength of the biological and cultural ties that Indian tribes can offer their own children.\" In a sense, you see it every year around Christmas, when people pay lip service to the idea of universal brotherhood but believe in their hearts that it's ridiculous, that truly loving people to whom you aren't related violates some law of nature.", "Thanks to the biologist William Hamilton, it is now clear why people feel brotherly love in the literal sense--and sisterly love, maternal love, and paternal love. It's all due to the operation of \"kin selection\" during evolution. A greatly oversimplified textbook example: Two million years ago, two hominids, Loveless Bob and Loving Bob, stand on two different riverbanks, in identical situations. Each is watching his full sibling Bill drown. Loving Bob has a gene inclining him to love his brother and thus jump in the raging river, even though his risk of dying is 10 percent. Loveless Bob has no such gene, and thus stands on the bank wondering whether his brother's corpse will attract any large, edible fish. Which Bob's genes will survive the Darwinian reaper--genes for love or for cold indifference?", "You can be forgiven for doubting my logic. People like me, in writing about kin selection, often talk about full siblings sharing \"half their genes,\" implying that nonrelatives share none. But in truth, you share virtually all your genes with any randomly selected homo sapien on any continent. What people like me really mean is that full siblings share half of any genes that are newly minted--genes that have recently arisen and on which natural selection is just starting to pass judgment. Genes that natural selection fully endorsed long ago--the basic genes for hunger, for lust, for familial love--are in everyone. So genes that originally flourished by bestowing love with discerning selfishness--by discriminating against people not containing copies of themselves--now, having spread through the species, discriminate against people who do contain copies! You may doubt that natural selection, a process that supposedly maximizes genetic selfishness, could fail so abjectly to do so. But it's true. .", "Little is known about which rules for identifying kin--\"kin-recognition mechanisms\"--do operate in our species. But clearly, they are fallible. Even mothers, who you'd think would have a damn good idea of who their offspring are, can in principle be fooled. When hospital staffers for some reason handed hours-old Kimberly Mays to a mother who was not hers, the mother's kin-recognition mechanisms--a k a bonding processes--kicked in. This woman wound up loving Kimberly like a daughter (though the mother died two years later, so that Kimberly was reared mostly by a stepmother). Meanwhile, Kimberly's genetic mother, having missed years of bonding, can never love Kimberly quite like her own child, even though Kimberly is her own child. Because genetic relationship per se doesn't matter.", "This irrelevance of genes is why surrogate motherhood is so messy. Even when, thanks to in vitro fertilization, the birth mother is unrelated to the fetus she carries, she will, upon giving birth, fall in love with the child. During evolution, after all, having a baby come out of your womb was reasonably strong evidence of kinship. The power of the hormones that govern this bonding is familiar to anyone who has watched a woman clutch her just-born child and turn into a love-drunk cuddle-bunny. (When my wife went through this magic moment, I briefly considered snatching the baby and replacing it with an 8-by-10 glossy of myself.) This hormonal power was also observed by researchers studying oxytocin, a hormone that's present in human and other mammalian mothers at birth. The researchers put it in a syringe and used it to shatter all previous records for cuddling among laboratory rats. By the way, the synthetic version of oxytocin, Pitocin, is what doctors use to induce labor.", "For example: Back when Loving Bob was 6 years old, if his mother was nursing some infant named Bill and sleeping by its side every night, there's a very good chance that Bill was Bob's sibling. So a gene disposing Bob to love children whom he sees his mother nurturing could spread through the population until everyone obeys the same rule. But this rule would misfire now and then, when a mother is for some reason nurturing a non-offspring. It's just that the misfiring wouldn't happen often enough to greatly dilute the genetic math favoring the gene's proliferation.", "The Absurdity of Family Love \n\n Don't get me wrong. Kids are great. I have some, and I adore them. Every Christmas I become a slave to my camcorder. Tiny tots with their eyes all aglow, and so on. But now that the radiance of the yuletide season is fading, it's time to confront a sobering scientific truth: The more you think about the biology of parental love, the more absurd it seems. The same goes for love of kin generally--brothers, sisters, nephews, etc.", "Love triumphs. True, there's a one-in-10 chance that the love gene will sink along with Loving Bob. But consider the upside. There's a one-in-two chance that Bob's full sibling Bill has the same gene and, thus, that a successful rescue mission will pluck an otherwise doomed copy of the gene from the dustbin of history. Do the math, and you'll see that, over time, Loving Bobs send more genes to posterity than Loveless Bobs. As love genes spread at the expense of indifference genes, Loveless Bobs slowly become extinct. Die, selfish scum! Genes for sibling love come to permeate our species--as, in fact, they now do. So do genes for maternal love and paternal love. All brought to you by kin selection. \n\n As modern Darwinism gets popularized, the basic idea of kin selection is approaching the status of conventional wisdom. So are some attendant misconceptions.", "Misconception No. 3: Our genes, though perhaps not real smart, aren't downright stupid . Here we come, at last, to the true absurdity of familial love. As we've seen, the genes", "So this past holiday season, as you rushed to buy presents for your kids or your siblings or your nieces or nephews, impelled by \"selfishly\" altruistic genes, you were operating under flawed Darwinian logic. These \"selfish\" genes could do just as much for themselves by encouraging you to instead spend your money on the beggar outside the department store. In fact, they could do more, since the beggar is closer to perishing than your relatives are. (Also, the beggar might buy something useful such as food, as opposed to a hair-eating Cabbage Patch doll.) But our genes are too stupid to so deftly serve their own welfare.", "Most people implicitly recognize the naturalistic fallacy in some contexts. They sense that there's something visceral about, say, malice; yet they'll tell you (when not in its thrall) that they disapprove of it. It's obvious, they believe, that the natural strength of hatred is not a good thing. They're right. What is equally right, but a bit less obvious, is that the \"natural\" limits of love aren't necessarily good either. And, on close inspection, these limits turn out not to be all that rigorously \"natural\" anyway.", "confine altruism to kin, and deny it to needy non-kin, they are in fact failing spectacularly to be efficiently selfish. Because nowadays, copies of these genes do reside in non-kin--in your next-door neighbor and, for that matter, your worst", "enemy. After all, the Darwinian logic behind love of kin was so relentless that these genes permeated our entire species! Loveless Bob is extinct, remember?", "Misconception No. 2: People are smart--or, at least, they are smart Darwinian robots . Darwinian theory does posit that homo sapiens were \"designed\" to get their genes into the next generation, but not that they were designed to do so consciously and rationally. As surrogate mothers have proved, knowing that you've given no genes to an infant needn't stop the bonding process. Thus, \"kin- recognition mechanism\" is a doubly misleading term--first because, as we've seen, the mechanism doesn't positively identify kin, but just identifies factors correlated with kinship; and second because people aren't really aware of doing the identifying. We don't think, \"There's strong evidence that she's my daughter, so I adore her.\" More like, \"God but my daughter's adorable.\"", "non-kin, altruism that presumably is not self-serving at the genetic level. Still, you might argue, in defense of your genes, they usually direct familial love toward genuine kin, and thus usually succeed in being efficiently selfish. Wrong! When genes", "Not that I attach much weight to what is and isn't \"good\" from the standpoint of genetic self-interest. As virtually all ethical philosophers who have pondered the matter agree, it doesn't make sense to model our moral values on the logic of nature anyway; to infer ought from is --to commit the \"naturalistic fallacy\"--only leads to moral confusion. For example, you might, after observing the natural behavior of praying mantises, be tempted to conclude that it is morally good for females to eat males after sex--and this, I submit, would be a repugnant and wrongheaded doctrine! (Though slightly less repugnant than the idea of eating males before the sex.)", "Misconception No. 1: Genes are smart . People often assume that kin-selected altruism is foolproof; that a gene can magically sense copies of itself in other organisms--or, at least, can somehow ascertain with perfect accuracy which organisms are close relatives of its own host organism and thus may carry copies of itself. In truth, genes aren't omniscient, or even sentient. If kin-selected genes are going to induce love of kin, they'll have to determine who qualifies as kin in some pedestrian and probably fallible way.", "It is good news for adoptive parents that neither genetic relationship nor conscious awareness of genetic relationship is a prerequisite for love. Still, it is bad news that maternal bonding begins with hormones at birth. It is also bad news that breast-feeding, which adoptive mothers usually can't do, releases the bonding hormone oxytocin. Then again, there is no reason in principle that adoptive parents couldn't take Pitocin once a day for synthetic bonding sessions. (Oxytocin seems to be part of the bonding formula in men, too.) Besides, some genetic mothers aren't conscious at birth, and many don't breast-feed, yet they all nonetheless wind up loving their kids. As the many successful adoptive parents know, lots of the magic moments that add up to durabonding have nothing to do with birthing or breast-feeding. (Tiny tots, with their eyes all aglow ... )", "Similarly, the idea that Native American babies, or black babies, or whatever, have some mystical genetic affinity with their \"own\" kind is silly. Obviously, cross-ethnic adoption is dicey. It draws sidelong glances and playground taunts, and it may give the adopted child an identity crisis. But it won't do this because of some ancestral memory in the genes. As attitudes change, cross-ethnic adoption will get easier; and as cross-ethnic adoption gets more common, attitudes will change. (There are other pop-genetics arguments against cross-ethnic adoption, and against adoption in general. One is that genes influence personality so powerfully that mixing unrelated siblings is like mixing oil and water. This idea is .)" ], [ "Little is known about which rules for identifying kin--\"kin-recognition mechanisms\"--do operate in our species. But clearly, they are fallible. Even mothers, who you'd think would have a damn good idea of who their offspring are, can in principle be fooled. When hospital staffers for some reason handed hours-old Kimberly Mays to a mother who was not hers, the mother's kin-recognition mechanisms--a k a bonding processes--kicked in. This woman wound up loving Kimberly like a daughter (though the mother died two years later, so that Kimberly was reared mostly by a stepmother). Meanwhile, Kimberly's genetic mother, having missed years of bonding, can never love Kimberly quite like her own child, even though Kimberly is her own child. Because genetic relationship per se doesn't matter.", "non-kin, altruism that presumably is not self-serving at the genetic level. Still, you might argue, in defense of your genes, they usually direct familial love toward genuine kin, and thus usually succeed in being efficiently selfish. Wrong! When genes", "Thanks to the biologist William Hamilton, it is now clear why people feel brotherly love in the literal sense--and sisterly love, maternal love, and paternal love. It's all due to the operation of \"kin selection\" during evolution. A greatly oversimplified textbook example: Two million years ago, two hominids, Loveless Bob and Loving Bob, stand on two different riverbanks, in identical situations. Each is watching his full sibling Bill drown. Loving Bob has a gene inclining him to love his brother and thus jump in the raging river, even though his risk of dying is 10 percent. Loveless Bob has no such gene, and thus stands on the bank wondering whether his brother's corpse will attract any large, edible fish. Which Bob's genes will survive the Darwinian reaper--genes for love or for cold indifference?", "The Absurdity of Family Love \n\n Don't get me wrong. Kids are great. I have some, and I adore them. Every Christmas I become a slave to my camcorder. Tiny tots with their eyes all aglow, and so on. But now that the radiance of the yuletide season is fading, it's time to confront a sobering scientific truth: The more you think about the biology of parental love, the more absurd it seems. The same goes for love of kin generally--brothers, sisters, nephews, etc.", "confine altruism to kin, and deny it to needy non-kin, they are in fact failing spectacularly to be efficiently selfish. Because nowadays, copies of these genes do reside in non-kin--in your next-door neighbor and, for that matter, your worst", "Readers familiar with my obsessions may fear that this column is just another attempt to spoil everyone's fun, to replace the beautiful mystery of life with ugly Darwinian clarity. Actually, what I hope to dispel isn't pre-Darwinian mystery, but a kind of post-Darwinian mysticism, a confused exaltation of genetic affinity. You see the confusion when biological parents invoke \"blood ties\" to reclaim a child from adoptive parents. You see it when opponents of cross-ethnic adoption argue--as in a New York Times op-ed piece a few months ago--that we must respect \"the strength of the biological and cultural ties that Indian tribes can offer their own children.\" In a sense, you see it every year around Christmas, when people pay lip service to the idea of universal brotherhood but believe in their hearts that it's ridiculous, that truly loving people to whom you aren't related violates some law of nature.", "You can be forgiven for doubting my logic. People like me, in writing about kin selection, often talk about full siblings sharing \"half their genes,\" implying that nonrelatives share none. But in truth, you share virtually all your genes with any randomly selected homo sapien on any continent. What people like me really mean is that full siblings share half of any genes that are newly minted--genes that have recently arisen and on which natural selection is just starting to pass judgment. Genes that natural selection fully endorsed long ago--the basic genes for hunger, for lust, for familial love--are in everyone. So genes that originally flourished by bestowing love with discerning selfishness--by discriminating against people not containing copies of themselves--now, having spread through the species, discriminate against people who do contain copies! You may doubt that natural selection, a process that supposedly maximizes genetic selfishness, could fail so abjectly to do so. But it's true. .", "enemy. After all, the Darwinian logic behind love of kin was so relentless that these genes permeated our entire species! Loveless Bob is extinct, remember?", "Misconception No. 2: People are smart--or, at least, they are smart Darwinian robots . Darwinian theory does posit that homo sapiens were \"designed\" to get their genes into the next generation, but not that they were designed to do so consciously and rationally. As surrogate mothers have proved, knowing that you've given no genes to an infant needn't stop the bonding process. Thus, \"kin- recognition mechanism\" is a doubly misleading term--first because, as we've seen, the mechanism doesn't positively identify kin, but just identifies factors correlated with kinship; and second because people aren't really aware of doing the identifying. We don't think, \"There's strong evidence that she's my daughter, so I adore her.\" More like, \"God but my daughter's adorable.\"", "Love triumphs. True, there's a one-in-10 chance that the love gene will sink along with Loving Bob. But consider the upside. There's a one-in-two chance that Bob's full sibling Bill has the same gene and, thus, that a successful rescue mission will pluck an otherwise doomed copy of the gene from the dustbin of history. Do the math, and you'll see that, over time, Loving Bobs send more genes to posterity than Loveless Bobs. As love genes spread at the expense of indifference genes, Loveless Bobs slowly become extinct. Die, selfish scum! Genes for sibling love come to permeate our species--as, in fact, they now do. So do genes for maternal love and paternal love. All brought to you by kin selection. \n\n As modern Darwinism gets popularized, the basic idea of kin selection is approaching the status of conventional wisdom. So are some attendant misconceptions.", "Misconception No. 1: Genes are smart . People often assume that kin-selected altruism is foolproof; that a gene can magically sense copies of itself in other organisms--or, at least, can somehow ascertain with perfect accuracy which organisms are close relatives of its own host organism and thus may carry copies of itself. In truth, genes aren't omniscient, or even sentient. If kin-selected genes are going to induce love of kin, they'll have to determine who qualifies as kin in some pedestrian and probably fallible way.", "For example: Back when Loving Bob was 6 years old, if his mother was nursing some infant named Bill and sleeping by its side every night, there's a very good chance that Bill was Bob's sibling. So a gene disposing Bob to love children whom he sees his mother nurturing could spread through the population until everyone obeys the same rule. But this rule would misfire now and then, when a mother is for some reason nurturing a non-offspring. It's just that the misfiring wouldn't happen often enough to greatly dilute the genetic math favoring the gene's proliferation.", "Most people implicitly recognize the naturalistic fallacy in some contexts. They sense that there's something visceral about, say, malice; yet they'll tell you (when not in its thrall) that they disapprove of it. It's obvious, they believe, that the natural strength of hatred is not a good thing. They're right. What is equally right, but a bit less obvious, is that the \"natural\" limits of love aren't necessarily good either. And, on close inspection, these limits turn out not to be all that rigorously \"natural\" anyway.", "Not that I attach much weight to what is and isn't \"good\" from the standpoint of genetic self-interest. As virtually all ethical philosophers who have pondered the matter agree, it doesn't make sense to model our moral values on the logic of nature anyway; to infer ought from is --to commit the \"naturalistic fallacy\"--only leads to moral confusion. For example, you might, after observing the natural behavior of praying mantises, be tempted to conclude that it is morally good for females to eat males after sex--and this, I submit, would be a repugnant and wrongheaded doctrine! (Though slightly less repugnant than the idea of eating males before the sex.)", "that sponsor it flourished by encouraging an \"altruism\" that was, in fact, self-serving at the genetic level (the inexorable triumph of Loving Bob's genes). As we've also seen, these genes can be \"fooled\" into encouraging altruism toward", "This irrelevance of genes is why surrogate motherhood is so messy. Even when, thanks to in vitro fertilization, the birth mother is unrelated to the fetus she carries, she will, upon giving birth, fall in love with the child. During evolution, after all, having a baby come out of your womb was reasonably strong evidence of kinship. The power of the hormones that govern this bonding is familiar to anyone who has watched a woman clutch her just-born child and turn into a love-drunk cuddle-bunny. (When my wife went through this magic moment, I briefly considered snatching the baby and replacing it with an 8-by-10 glossy of myself.) This hormonal power was also observed by researchers studying oxytocin, a hormone that's present in human and other mammalian mothers at birth. The researchers put it in a syringe and used it to shatter all previous records for cuddling among laboratory rats. By the way, the synthetic version of oxytocin, Pitocin, is what doctors use to induce labor.", "Similarly, the idea that Native American babies, or black babies, or whatever, have some mystical genetic affinity with their \"own\" kind is silly. Obviously, cross-ethnic adoption is dicey. It draws sidelong glances and playground taunts, and it may give the adopted child an identity crisis. But it won't do this because of some ancestral memory in the genes. As attitudes change, cross-ethnic adoption will get easier; and as cross-ethnic adoption gets more common, attitudes will change. (There are other pop-genetics arguments against cross-ethnic adoption, and against adoption in general. One is that genes influence personality so powerfully that mixing unrelated siblings is like mixing oil and water. This idea is .)", "Misconception No. 3: Our genes, though perhaps not real smart, aren't downright stupid . Here we come, at last, to the true absurdity of familial love. As we've seen, the genes", "It is good news for adoptive parents that neither genetic relationship nor conscious awareness of genetic relationship is a prerequisite for love. Still, it is bad news that maternal bonding begins with hormones at birth. It is also bad news that breast-feeding, which adoptive mothers usually can't do, releases the bonding hormone oxytocin. Then again, there is no reason in principle that adoptive parents couldn't take Pitocin once a day for synthetic bonding sessions. (Oxytocin seems to be part of the bonding formula in men, too.) Besides, some genetic mothers aren't conscious at birth, and many don't breast-feed, yet they all nonetheless wind up loving their kids. As the many successful adoptive parents know, lots of the magic moments that add up to durabonding have nothing to do with birthing or breast-feeding. (Tiny tots, with their eyes all aglow ... )", "Anyway, the main point is that when genetic parents give up a child for adoption and have second thoughts weeks, months, or even years later, their appeals to blood ties should count for zilch. Their love of their child, and their child's love of them, depends not on genetic math but on a long and complex chain of bonding, much of which they have already voluntarily missed out on." ], [ "Love triumphs. True, there's a one-in-10 chance that the love gene will sink along with Loving Bob. But consider the upside. There's a one-in-two chance that Bob's full sibling Bill has the same gene and, thus, that a successful rescue mission will pluck an otherwise doomed copy of the gene from the dustbin of history. Do the math, and you'll see that, over time, Loving Bobs send more genes to posterity than Loveless Bobs. As love genes spread at the expense of indifference genes, Loveless Bobs slowly become extinct. Die, selfish scum! Genes for sibling love come to permeate our species--as, in fact, they now do. So do genes for maternal love and paternal love. All brought to you by kin selection. \n\n As modern Darwinism gets popularized, the basic idea of kin selection is approaching the status of conventional wisdom. So are some attendant misconceptions.", "Thanks to the biologist William Hamilton, it is now clear why people feel brotherly love in the literal sense--and sisterly love, maternal love, and paternal love. It's all due to the operation of \"kin selection\" during evolution. A greatly oversimplified textbook example: Two million years ago, two hominids, Loveless Bob and Loving Bob, stand on two different riverbanks, in identical situations. Each is watching his full sibling Bill drown. Loving Bob has a gene inclining him to love his brother and thus jump in the raging river, even though his risk of dying is 10 percent. Loveless Bob has no such gene, and thus stands on the bank wondering whether his brother's corpse will attract any large, edible fish. Which Bob's genes will survive the Darwinian reaper--genes for love or for cold indifference?", "confine altruism to kin, and deny it to needy non-kin, they are in fact failing spectacularly to be efficiently selfish. Because nowadays, copies of these genes do reside in non-kin--in your next-door neighbor and, for that matter, your worst", "enemy. After all, the Darwinian logic behind love of kin was so relentless that these genes permeated our entire species! Loveless Bob is extinct, remember?", "You can be forgiven for doubting my logic. People like me, in writing about kin selection, often talk about full siblings sharing \"half their genes,\" implying that nonrelatives share none. But in truth, you share virtually all your genes with any randomly selected homo sapien on any continent. What people like me really mean is that full siblings share half of any genes that are newly minted--genes that have recently arisen and on which natural selection is just starting to pass judgment. Genes that natural selection fully endorsed long ago--the basic genes for hunger, for lust, for familial love--are in everyone. So genes that originally flourished by bestowing love with discerning selfishness--by discriminating against people not containing copies of themselves--now, having spread through the species, discriminate against people who do contain copies! You may doubt that natural selection, a process that supposedly maximizes genetic selfishness, could fail so abjectly to do so. But it's true. .", "non-kin, altruism that presumably is not self-serving at the genetic level. Still, you might argue, in defense of your genes, they usually direct familial love toward genuine kin, and thus usually succeed in being efficiently selfish. Wrong! When genes", "Little is known about which rules for identifying kin--\"kin-recognition mechanisms\"--do operate in our species. But clearly, they are fallible. Even mothers, who you'd think would have a damn good idea of who their offspring are, can in principle be fooled. When hospital staffers for some reason handed hours-old Kimberly Mays to a mother who was not hers, the mother's kin-recognition mechanisms--a k a bonding processes--kicked in. This woman wound up loving Kimberly like a daughter (though the mother died two years later, so that Kimberly was reared mostly by a stepmother). Meanwhile, Kimberly's genetic mother, having missed years of bonding, can never love Kimberly quite like her own child, even though Kimberly is her own child. Because genetic relationship per se doesn't matter.", "Readers familiar with my obsessions may fear that this column is just another attempt to spoil everyone's fun, to replace the beautiful mystery of life with ugly Darwinian clarity. Actually, what I hope to dispel isn't pre-Darwinian mystery, but a kind of post-Darwinian mysticism, a confused exaltation of genetic affinity. You see the confusion when biological parents invoke \"blood ties\" to reclaim a child from adoptive parents. You see it when opponents of cross-ethnic adoption argue--as in a New York Times op-ed piece a few months ago--that we must respect \"the strength of the biological and cultural ties that Indian tribes can offer their own children.\" In a sense, you see it every year around Christmas, when people pay lip service to the idea of universal brotherhood but believe in their hearts that it's ridiculous, that truly loving people to whom you aren't related violates some law of nature.", "Misconception No. 2: People are smart--or, at least, they are smart Darwinian robots . Darwinian theory does posit that homo sapiens were \"designed\" to get their genes into the next generation, but not that they were designed to do so consciously and rationally. As surrogate mothers have proved, knowing that you've given no genes to an infant needn't stop the bonding process. Thus, \"kin- recognition mechanism\" is a doubly misleading term--first because, as we've seen, the mechanism doesn't positively identify kin, but just identifies factors correlated with kinship; and second because people aren't really aware of doing the identifying. We don't think, \"There's strong evidence that she's my daughter, so I adore her.\" More like, \"God but my daughter's adorable.\"", "The Absurdity of Family Love \n\n Don't get me wrong. Kids are great. I have some, and I adore them. Every Christmas I become a slave to my camcorder. Tiny tots with their eyes all aglow, and so on. But now that the radiance of the yuletide season is fading, it's time to confront a sobering scientific truth: The more you think about the biology of parental love, the more absurd it seems. The same goes for love of kin generally--brothers, sisters, nephews, etc.", "This irrelevance of genes is why surrogate motherhood is so messy. Even when, thanks to in vitro fertilization, the birth mother is unrelated to the fetus she carries, she will, upon giving birth, fall in love with the child. During evolution, after all, having a baby come out of your womb was reasonably strong evidence of kinship. The power of the hormones that govern this bonding is familiar to anyone who has watched a woman clutch her just-born child and turn into a love-drunk cuddle-bunny. (When my wife went through this magic moment, I briefly considered snatching the baby and replacing it with an 8-by-10 glossy of myself.) This hormonal power was also observed by researchers studying oxytocin, a hormone that's present in human and other mammalian mothers at birth. The researchers put it in a syringe and used it to shatter all previous records for cuddling among laboratory rats. By the way, the synthetic version of oxytocin, Pitocin, is what doctors use to induce labor.", "Most people implicitly recognize the naturalistic fallacy in some contexts. They sense that there's something visceral about, say, malice; yet they'll tell you (when not in its thrall) that they disapprove of it. It's obvious, they believe, that the natural strength of hatred is not a good thing. They're right. What is equally right, but a bit less obvious, is that the \"natural\" limits of love aren't necessarily good either. And, on close inspection, these limits turn out not to be all that rigorously \"natural\" anyway.", "Misconception No. 1: Genes are smart . People often assume that kin-selected altruism is foolproof; that a gene can magically sense copies of itself in other organisms--or, at least, can somehow ascertain with perfect accuracy which organisms are close relatives of its own host organism and thus may carry copies of itself. In truth, genes aren't omniscient, or even sentient. If kin-selected genes are going to induce love of kin, they'll have to determine who qualifies as kin in some pedestrian and probably fallible way.", "Not that I attach much weight to what is and isn't \"good\" from the standpoint of genetic self-interest. As virtually all ethical philosophers who have pondered the matter agree, it doesn't make sense to model our moral values on the logic of nature anyway; to infer ought from is --to commit the \"naturalistic fallacy\"--only leads to moral confusion. For example, you might, after observing the natural behavior of praying mantises, be tempted to conclude that it is morally good for females to eat males after sex--and this, I submit, would be a repugnant and wrongheaded doctrine! (Though slightly less repugnant than the idea of eating males before the sex.)", "For example: Back when Loving Bob was 6 years old, if his mother was nursing some infant named Bill and sleeping by its side every night, there's a very good chance that Bill was Bob's sibling. So a gene disposing Bob to love children whom he sees his mother nurturing could spread through the population until everyone obeys the same rule. But this rule would misfire now and then, when a mother is for some reason nurturing a non-offspring. It's just that the misfiring wouldn't happen often enough to greatly dilute the genetic math favoring the gene's proliferation.", "So this past holiday season, as you rushed to buy presents for your kids or your siblings or your nieces or nephews, impelled by \"selfishly\" altruistic genes, you were operating under flawed Darwinian logic. These \"selfish\" genes could do just as much for themselves by encouraging you to instead spend your money on the beggar outside the department store. In fact, they could do more, since the beggar is closer to perishing than your relatives are. (Also, the beggar might buy something useful such as food, as opposed to a hair-eating Cabbage Patch doll.) But our genes are too stupid to so deftly serve their own welfare.", "that sponsor it flourished by encouraging an \"altruism\" that was, in fact, self-serving at the genetic level (the inexorable triumph of Loving Bob's genes). As we've also seen, these genes can be \"fooled\" into encouraging altruism toward", "Misconception No. 3: Our genes, though perhaps not real smart, aren't downright stupid . Here we come, at last, to the true absurdity of familial love. As we've seen, the genes", "Similarly, the idea that Native American babies, or black babies, or whatever, have some mystical genetic affinity with their \"own\" kind is silly. Obviously, cross-ethnic adoption is dicey. It draws sidelong glances and playground taunts, and it may give the adopted child an identity crisis. But it won't do this because of some ancestral memory in the genes. As attitudes change, cross-ethnic adoption will get easier; and as cross-ethnic adoption gets more common, attitudes will change. (There are other pop-genetics arguments against cross-ethnic adoption, and against adoption in general. One is that genes influence personality so powerfully that mixing unrelated siblings is like mixing oil and water. This idea is .)", "Anyway, the main point is that when genetic parents give up a child for adoption and have second thoughts weeks, months, or even years later, their appeals to blood ties should count for zilch. Their love of their child, and their child's love of them, depends not on genetic math but on a long and complex chain of bonding, much of which they have already voluntarily missed out on." ] ]
valid	51650	[ "Why did Matheny want to leave the church?", "Why did Matheny feel guilty about Doran purchasing the ring?", "How many different Martian cons did Matheny speak of to Gus?", "Why was Matheny sent to find a conman from Earth?", "Why was the girl interested in Matheny?", "For Matheny, what was the hardest part about being on Earth?", "What effect did Earth's anti-gambling laws have on Mars?", "Why did Matheny not care about the chips he won?", "How did Peri help con Matheny out of his expense money?", "What did Matheny expect to happen when he went into the church?" ]	[ [ "He was thirsty", "He was no good at playing craps", "He was embarrassed", "He was not religious" ], [ "Doran had never even visited Mars", "It was a fake", "It was made a million years ago and too old for a gift", "It was a priceless artifact that should not be sold" ], [ "4", "3", "2", "1" ], [ "The Martians wanted to start conning Earth", "The Martians did not know what a con was", "The Martians were already making a lot of money conning Earth", "The Martians were already conning Earth but needed help making more money from cons" ], [ "He was exotic", "He was a college professor", "He had a large expense account", "He fought bushcats barehanded in a canal" ], [ "The higher gravity hurt his feet when he walked", "His outdated clothes embarrassed him", "The officials yelling at him upset him", "The thicker air was hard to breathe" ], [ "Gambling was not allowed on Mars", "Martians were not able to run a sweepstakes for Earthlings", "Earthlings were not allowed to gamble while on Mars", "Martians were not allowed to gamble while on Earth" ], [ "He felt out of place", "He was a rich man", "He wanted Doran to have the chips", "He didn't want to win money from a church" ], [ "We never find out for sure", "She went to dinner with him instead of Sastro", "She wore a wispy robe", "She got him drunk in the bar" ], [ "To gamble and win some money", "To play craps with loaded dice", "To sit for awhile and rest", "To play roulette until he figured out the wheel" ] ]	[ 3, 2, 2, 4, 3, 4, 2, 1, 1, 3 ]	[ 0, 0, 1, 0, 1, 1, 0, 1, 1, 1 ]	[ [ "\"No.\" Matheny realized his head was a bit smoky. The walls of the booth\n seemed odd, somehow. They were just leatheroid walls, but they had an\n odd quality.\n\n\n \"No, sorry, Gus,\" he said. \"I spoke too much.\"\n\n\n \"Okay. Forget it. I do not like a man that pries. But look, let's bomb\n out of here, how about it? Go have a little fun.\"\n\n\n \"By all means.\" Matheny disposed of his last beer. \"I could use some\n gaiety.\"\n\n\n \"You have come to the right town then. But let us get you a hotel room\n first and some more up-to-date clothes.\"\n\n\n \"\nAllez\n,\" said Matheny. \"If I don't mean\nallons\n, or maybe\nalors\n.\"", "\"I—I'm not hungry,\" stammered Matheny. \"I just wanted to sit in—\"\n\n\n \"To your left, sir.\"\n\n\n The Martian crossed the lobby. His pipe went out in the breeze from an\n animated angel. Organ music sighed through an open doorway. The series\n of rooms beyond was dim, Gothic, interminable.\n\n\n \"Get your chips right here, sir,\" said the girl in the booth.\n\n\n \"Hm?\" said Matheny.\n\n\n She explained. He bought a few hundred-dollar tokens, dropped a\n fifty-buck coin down a slot marked CONTRIBUTIONS, and sipped the\n martini he got back while he strolled around studying the games.\n He stopped, frowned. Bingo? No, he didn't want to bother learning\n something new. He decided that the roulette wheels were either honest\n or too deep for him. He'd have to relax with a crap game instead.", "\"You're from Mars, aren't you?\" he asked in the friendliest tone\n Matheny had yet heard.\n\n\n \"Yes. Yes, I am. M-my name's Peter Matheny. I, I—\" He stuck out his\n hand to shake and chips rolled over the floor. \"Damn! Oh, excuse me, I\n forgot this was a church. Never mind the chips. No, please. I just want\n to g-g-get the hell out of here.\"\n\n\n \"Good idea. How about a drink? I know a bar downshaft.\"\n\n\n Matheny sighed. \"A drink is what I need the very most.\"\n\n\n \"My name's Doran. Gus Doran. Call me Gus.\"\n\n\n They walked back to the deaconette's booth and Matheny cashed what\n remained of his winnings.", "\"But—I mean—when do we start actually\nplaying\n? What happened to the\n cocked dice?\"\nThe lady drew herself up and jutted an indignant brow at him. \"Sir!\n This is a church!\"\n\n\n \"Oh—I see—excuse me, I, I, I—\" Matheny backed out of the crowd,\n shuddering. He looked around for some place to hide his burning ears.\n\n\n \"You forgot your chips, pal,\" said a voice.\n\n\n \"Oh. Thanks. Thanks ever so much. I, I, that is—\" Matheny cursed\n his knotting tongue.\nDamn it, just because they're so much more\n sophisticated than I, do I have to talk like a leaky boiler?\nThe helpful Earthman was not tall. He was dark and chisel-faced and\n sleekly pomaded, dapper in blue pajamas with a red zigzag, a sleighbell\n cloak and curly-toed slippers.", "The frightful thing about the Earthman was the way he seemed to\n exist only in organized masses. A gypsy snake oil peddler, plodding\n his syrtosaur wagon across Martian sands, just didn't have a prayer\n against, say, the Grant, Harding & Adams Public Relations Agency.\nMatheny puffed smoke and looked around. His feet ached from the weight\n on them. Where could a man sit down? It was hard to make out any\n individual sign through all that flimmering neon. His eye fell on one\n that was distinguished by relative austerity.\nTHE CHURCH OF CHOICE\nEnter, Play, Pray\nThat would do. He took an upward slideramp through several hundred feet\n of altitude, stepped past an aurora curtain, and found himself in a\n marble lobby next to an inspirational newsstand.\n\n\n \"Ah, brother, welcome,\" said a red-haired usherette in demure black\n leotards. \"The peace that passeth all understanding be with you. The\n restaurant is right up those stairs.\"", "\"Well, good luck.\" The official's tone was skeptical. He stamped the\n passport and handed it back. \"There, now, you are free to travel\n anywhere in the Protectorates. But I would advise you to leave the\n capital and get into the sticks—um, I mean the provinces. I am sure\n there must be tolerably competent sales executives in Russia or\n Congolese Belgium or such regions. Frankly, sir, I do not believe you\n can attract anyone out of Newer York.\"\n\n\n \"Thanks,\" said Matheny, \"but, you see, I—we need—that is.... Oh,\n well. Thanks. Good-by.\"", "Matheny hesitated. If only he hadn't taken that last shot! It made him\n want to say yes, immediately, without reservations. And therefore maybe\n he became overcautious.\n\n\n They had instructed him on Mars to take chances if he must.\n\n\n \"I could tell you a thing or two that might give you a better idea,\" he\n said slowly. \"But it would have to be under security.\"\n\n\n \"Okay by me. Room service can send us up an oath box right now.\"\n\n\n \"What? But—but—\" Matheny hung onto himself and tried to believe that\n he had landed on Earth less than six hours ago.\n\n\n In the end, he did call room service and the machine was trundled in.\n Doran swallowed the pill and donned the conditioner helmet without an\n instant's hesitation.", "acreage than his eyes reached, was impressive and all that, but—he\n used to stroll out in the rock garden behind his cottage and smoke a\n pipe in company with Orion. On summer evenings, that is, when the\n temperature wasn't too far below zero.\nWhy did they tap me for this job?\nhe asked himself in a surge of\n homesickness.\nWhat the hell is the Martian Embassy here for?\nHe, Peter Matheny, was no more than a peaceful professor of\n sociodynamics at Devil's Kettle University. Of course, he had advised\n his government before now—in fact, the Red Ankh Society had been his\n idea—but still he was at ease only with his books and his chess and\n his mineral collection, a faculty poker party on Tenthday night and an", "The drop down to cab-ramp level and the short ride afterward sobered\n him; the room rate at the Jupiter-Astoria sobered him still more.\nOh, well\n, he thought,\nif I succeed in this job, no one at home will\n quibble.\nAnd the chamber to which he and Doran were shown was spectacular\n enough, with a pneumo direct to the bar and a full-wall transparency to\n show the vertical incandescence of the towers.\n\n\n \"Whoof!\" Matheny sat down. The chair slithered sensuously about his\n contours. He jumped. \"What the dusty hell—Oh.\" He tried to grin, but\n his face burned. \"I see.\"", "A hell of a good bloke. He knew some very funny stories, too, and\n he laughed at Matheny's, though they were probably too rustic for a\n big-city taste like his.\n\n\n \"What I really want,\" said Matheny, \"what I really want—I mean what\n Mars really needs, get me?—is a confidence man.\"\n\n\n \"A what?\"\n\n\n \"The best and slickest one on Earth, to operate a world-size con game\n for us and make us some real money.\"\n\n\n \"Con man? Oh. A slipstring.\"\n\n\n \"A con by any other name,\" said Matheny, pouring down an akvavit.\nDoran squinted through cigarette smoke. \"You are interesting me\n strangely, my friend. Say on.\"", "\"I shall never reveal to any person unauthorized by yourself whatever\n you may tell me under security, now or at any other time,\" he\n recited. Then, cheerfully: \"And that formula, Pete, happens to be the\n honest-to-zebra truth.\"\n\n\n \"I know.\" Matheny stared, embarrassed, at the carpet. \"I'm sorry\n to—to—I mean of course I trust you, but—\"\n\n\n \"Forget it. I take a hundred security oaths a year, in my line of work.\n Maybe I can help you. I like you, Pete, damn if I don't. And, sure,\n I might stand to get an agent's cut, if I arrange—Go ahead, boy, go\n ahead.\" Doran crossed his legs and leaned back.\n\n\n \"Oh, it's simple enough,\" said Matheny. \"It's only that we already are\n operating con games.\"\n\n\n \"On Mars, you mean?\"", "By that time, they were entering the Paul Bunyan Knotty Pine Bar &\n Grill, on the 73rd Level. Matheny's jaw clanked down.\n\n\n \"Whassa matter?\" asked Doran. \"Ain't you ever seen a ecdysiastic\n technician before?\"\n\n\n \"Uh, yes, but—well, not in a 3-D image under ten magnifications.\"\n\n\n Matheny followed Doran past a sign announcing that this show was for\n purely artistic purposes, into a booth. There a soundproof curtain\n reduced the noise level enough so they could talk in normal voices.\n\n\n \"What'll you have?\" asked Doran. \"It's on me.\"\n\n\n \"Oh, I couldn't let you. I mean—\"\n\n\n \"Nonsense. Welcome to Earth! Care for a thyle and vermouth?\"", "\"I always wanted to,\" said Doran. \"I would like to see the what they\n call City of Time, and so on. As a matter of fact, I have given my\n girl one of those Old Martian rings last Ike's Birthday and she was\n just gazoo about it. A jewel dug out of the City of Time, like,\n made a million years ago by a, uh, extinct race ... I tell you, she\nappreciated\nme for it!\" He winked and nudged.\n\n\n \"Oh,\" said Matheny.\nHe felt a certain guilt. Doran was too pleasant a little man to\n deserve—\n\n\n \"Of course,\" Matheny said ritually, \"I agree with all the archeologists\n it's a crime to sell such scientifically priceless artifacts, but what\n can we do? We must live, and the tourist trade is almost nonexistent.\"", "\"Well, you see, maybe a man like that is just what Mars does need. And\n maybe I have got a few contacts.\"\n\n\n \"What?\" Matheny gaped out of the bathroom.\n\n\n Doran cupped his hands around a fresh cigarette, not looking at him.\n \"I am not that man,\" he said frankly. \"But in my line I get a lot of\n contacts, and not all of them go topside. See what I mean? Like if,\n say, you wanted somebody terminated and could pay for it, I could not\n do it. I would not want to know anything about it. But I could tell you\n a phone number.\"\n\n\n He shrugged and gave the Martian a sidelong glance. \"Sure, you may not\n be interested. But if you are, well, Pete, I was not born yesterday. I\n got tolerance. Like the book says, if you want to get ahead, you have\n got to think positively.\"", "The city roared at him.\n\n\n He fumbled after his pipe.\nOf course\n, he told himself,\nthat's why\n the Embassy can't act. I may find it advisable to go outside the law.\n Please, sir, where can I contact the underworld?\nHe wished gambling were legal on Earth. The Constitution of the Martian\n Republic forbade sumptuary and moral legislation; quite apart from the\n rambunctious individualism which that document formulated, the article\n was a practical necessity. Life was bleak enough on the deserts,\n without being denied the pleasure of trying to bottom-deal some friend\n who was happily trying to mark the cards. Matheny would have found a\n few spins of roulette soothing: it was always an intellectual challenge\n to work out the system by which the management operated a wheel. But\n more, he would have been among people he understood.", "occasional trip to Swindletown—\nMy God\n, thought Matheny,\nhere I am, one solitary outlander in the\n greatest commercial empire the human race has ever seen, and I'm\n supposed to find my planet a con man!\nHe began walking, disconsolately, at random. His lizardskin shirt and\n black culottes drew glances, but derisive ones: their cut was forty\n years out of date. He should find himself a hotel, he thought drearily,\n but he wasn't tired; the spaceport would pneumo his baggage to him\n whenever he did check in. The few Martians who had been to Earth had\n gone into ecstasies over the automation which put any service you could\n name on a twenty-four-hour basis. But it would be a long time before", "\"Ahhh!\" said Matheny. \"Bless you, my friend.\"\n\n\n \"A pleasure.\"\n\n\n \"But now you must let me buy you one.\"\n\n\n \"That is not necessary. After all,\" said Doran with great tact, \"with\n the situation as you have been describing—\"\n\n\n \"Oh, we're not\nthat\npoor! My expense allowance assumes I will\n entertain quite a bit.\"\n\n\n Doran's brows lifted a few minutes of arc. \"You're here on business,\n then?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. I told you we haven't any tourists. I was sent to hire a business\n manager for the Martian export trade.\"", "Matheny felt his eloquence running down and grabbed for the second\n bottle of beer.\n\n\n \"But where do I start?\" he asked plaintively, for his loneliness smote\n him anew. \"I'm just a college professor at home. How would I even get\n to see—\"\n\n\n \"It might be arranged,\" said Doran in a thoughtful tone. \"It just\n might. How much could you pay this fellow?\"\n\n\n \"A hundred megabucks a year, if he'll sign a five-year contract. That's\n Earth years, mind you.\"\n\n\n \"I'm sorry to tell you this, Pete,\" said Doran, \"but while that is not\n bad money, it is not what a high-powered sales scientist gets in Newer\n York. Plus his retirement benefits, which he would lose if he quit\n where he is now at. And I am sure he would not want to settle on Mars\n permanently.\"", "The official patted his comfortable stomach, iridescent in neolon, and\n chuckled patronizingly. \"I am afraid, sir, you won't find many people\n who wish to leave. They wouldn't be able to see the Teamsters Hour on\n Mars, would they?\"\n\n\n \"Oh, we don't expect immigration,\" said Matheny shyly. He was a fairly\n young man, but small, with a dark-thatched, snub-nosed, gray-eyed\n head that seemed too large for his slender body. \"We learned long ago\n that no one is interested any more in giving up even second-class\n citizenship on Earth to live in the Republic. But we only wanted to\n hire——uh, I mean engage—an, an advisor. We're not businessmen. We\n know our export trade hasn't a chance among all your corporations\n unless we get some—a five-year contract...?\"\n\n\n He heard his words trailing off idiotically, and swore at himself.", "\"What's a bushcat? And we don't have canals. The evaporation rate—\"\n\n\n \"Look, Pete,\" said Doran patiently. \"She don't have to know that, does\n she?\"\n\n\n \"Well—well, no. I guess not No.\"\n\n\n \"Let's order you some clothes on the pneumo,\" said Doran. \"I recommend\n you buy from Schwartzherz. Everybody knows he is expensive.\"\nWhile Matheny jittered about, shaving and showering and struggling with\n his new raiment, Doran kept him supplied with akvavit and beer.\n\n\n \"You said one thing, Pete,\" Doran remarked. \"About needing a\n slipstring. A con man, you would call it.\"\n\n\n \"Forget that. Please. I spoke out of turn.\"" ], [ "\"I always wanted to,\" said Doran. \"I would like to see the what they\n call City of Time, and so on. As a matter of fact, I have given my\n girl one of those Old Martian rings last Ike's Birthday and she was\n just gazoo about it. A jewel dug out of the City of Time, like,\n made a million years ago by a, uh, extinct race ... I tell you, she\nappreciated\nme for it!\" He winked and nudged.\n\n\n \"Oh,\" said Matheny.\nHe felt a certain guilt. Doran was too pleasant a little man to\n deserve—\n\n\n \"Of course,\" Matheny said ritually, \"I agree with all the archeologists\n it's a crime to sell such scientifically priceless artifacts, but what\n can we do? We must live, and the tourist trade is almost nonexistent.\"", "\"Yes?\" Matheny faced around, shivering with his own tension.\n\n\n \"I may be able to find the man you want,\" said Doran. \"I just may. It\n will take a few days and might get a little expensive.\"\n\n\n \"You mean.... Mr. Doran—Gus—you could actually—\"\n\n\n \"I cannot promise anything yet except that I will try. Now you finish\n dressing. I will be down in the bar. And I will call up this girl I\n know. We deserve a celebration!\"", "\"I shall never reveal to any person unauthorized by yourself whatever\n you may tell me under security, now or at any other time,\" he\n recited. Then, cheerfully: \"And that formula, Pete, happens to be the\n honest-to-zebra truth.\"\n\n\n \"I know.\" Matheny stared, embarrassed, at the carpet. \"I'm sorry\n to—to—I mean of course I trust you, but—\"\n\n\n \"Forget it. I take a hundred security oaths a year, in my line of work.\n Maybe I can help you. I like you, Pete, damn if I don't. And, sure,\n I might stand to get an agent's cut, if I arrange—Go ahead, boy, go\n ahead.\" Doran crossed his legs and leaned back.\n\n\n \"Oh, it's simple enough,\" said Matheny. \"It's only that we already are\n operating con games.\"\n\n\n \"On Mars, you mean?\"", "\"Ahhh!\" said Matheny. \"Bless you, my friend.\"\n\n\n \"A pleasure.\"\n\n\n \"But now you must let me buy you one.\"\n\n\n \"That is not necessary. After all,\" said Doran with great tact, \"with\n the situation as you have been describing—\"\n\n\n \"Oh, we're not\nthat\npoor! My expense allowance assumes I will\n entertain quite a bit.\"\n\n\n Doran's brows lifted a few minutes of arc. \"You're here on business,\n then?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. I told you we haven't any tourists. I was sent to hire a business\n manager for the Martian export trade.\"", "Matheny hesitated. If only he hadn't taken that last shot! It made him\n want to say yes, immediately, without reservations. And therefore maybe\n he became overcautious.\n\n\n They had instructed him on Mars to take chances if he must.\n\n\n \"I could tell you a thing or two that might give you a better idea,\" he\n said slowly. \"But it would have to be under security.\"\n\n\n \"Okay by me. Room service can send us up an oath box right now.\"\n\n\n \"What? But—but—\" Matheny hung onto himself and tried to believe that\n he had landed on Earth less than six hours ago.\n\n\n In the end, he did call room service and the machine was trundled in.\n Doran swallowed the pill and donned the conditioner helmet without an\n instant's hesitation.", "\"No.\" Matheny realized his head was a bit smoky. The walls of the booth\n seemed odd, somehow. They were just leatheroid walls, but they had an\n odd quality.\n\n\n \"No, sorry, Gus,\" he said. \"I spoke too much.\"\n\n\n \"Okay. Forget it. I do not like a man that pries. But look, let's bomb\n out of here, how about it? Go have a little fun.\"\n\n\n \"By all means.\" Matheny disposed of his last beer. \"I could use some\n gaiety.\"\n\n\n \"You have come to the right town then. But let us get you a hotel room\n first and some more up-to-date clothes.\"\n\n\n \"\nAllez\n,\" said Matheny. \"If I don't mean\nallons\n, or maybe\nalors\n.\"", "\"You're from Mars, aren't you?\" he asked in the friendliest tone\n Matheny had yet heard.\n\n\n \"Yes. Yes, I am. M-my name's Peter Matheny. I, I—\" He stuck out his\n hand to shake and chips rolled over the floor. \"Damn! Oh, excuse me, I\n forgot this was a church. Never mind the chips. No, please. I just want\n to g-g-get the hell out of here.\"\n\n\n \"Good idea. How about a drink? I know a bar downshaft.\"\n\n\n Matheny sighed. \"A drink is what I need the very most.\"\n\n\n \"My name's Doran. Gus Doran. Call me Gus.\"\n\n\n They walked back to the deaconette's booth and Matheny cashed what\n remained of his winnings.", "A hell of a good bloke. He knew some very funny stories, too, and\n he laughed at Matheny's, though they were probably too rustic for a\n big-city taste like his.\n\n\n \"What I really want,\" said Matheny, \"what I really want—I mean what\n Mars really needs, get me?—is a confidence man.\"\n\n\n \"A what?\"\n\n\n \"The best and slickest one on Earth, to operate a world-size con game\n for us and make us some real money.\"\n\n\n \"Con man? Oh. A slipstring.\"\n\n\n \"A con by any other name,\" said Matheny, pouring down an akvavit.\nDoran squinted through cigarette smoke. \"You are interesting me\n strangely, my friend. Say on.\"", "\"Well, you see, maybe a man like that is just what Mars does need. And\n maybe I have got a few contacts.\"\n\n\n \"What?\" Matheny gaped out of the bathroom.\n\n\n Doran cupped his hands around a fresh cigarette, not looking at him.\n \"I am not that man,\" he said frankly. \"But in my line I get a lot of\n contacts, and not all of them go topside. See what I mean? Like if,\n say, you wanted somebody terminated and could pay for it, I could not\n do it. I would not want to know anything about it. But I could tell you\n a phone number.\"\n\n\n He shrugged and gave the Martian a sidelong glance. \"Sure, you may not\n be interested. But if you are, well, Pete, I was not born yesterday. I\n got tolerance. Like the book says, if you want to get ahead, you have\n got to think positively.\"", "\"What's a bushcat? And we don't have canals. The evaporation rate—\"\n\n\n \"Look, Pete,\" said Doran patiently. \"She don't have to know that, does\n she?\"\n\n\n \"Well—well, no. I guess not No.\"\n\n\n \"Let's order you some clothes on the pneumo,\" said Doran. \"I recommend\n you buy from Schwartzherz. Everybody knows he is expensive.\"\nWhile Matheny jittered about, shaving and showering and struggling with\n his new raiment, Doran kept him supplied with akvavit and beer.\n\n\n \"You said one thing, Pete,\" Doran remarked. \"About needing a\n slipstring. A con man, you would call it.\"\n\n\n \"Forget that. Please. I spoke out of turn.\"", "\"And then the Red Ankh Society. You must have seen or heard their ads.\n 'What mysterious knowledge did the Old Martians possess? What was\n the secret wisdom of the Ancient Aliens? Now the incredibly powerful\n semantics of the Red Ankh (not a religious organization) is available\n to a select few—' That's our largest dollar-earning enterprise.\"\n\n\n He would have liked to say it was his suggestion originally, but it\n would have been too presumptuous. He was talking to an Earthman, who\n had heard everything already.\n\n\n Doran whistled.\n\n\n \"That's about all, so far,\" confessed Matheny. \"Perhaps a con is our\n only hope. I've been wondering, maybe we could organize a Martian\n bucket shop, handling Martian securities, but—well, I don't know.\"\n\n\n \"I think—\" Doran removed the helmet and stood up.", "\"I could offer a certain amount of, uh, lagniappe,\" said Matheny. \"That\n is, well, I can draw up to a hundred megabucks myself for, uh, expenses\n and, well ... let me buy you a drink!\"\n\n\n Doran's black eyes frogged at him. \"You might at that,\" said the\n Earthman very softly. \"Yes, you might at that.\"\n\n\n Matheny found himself warming. Gus Doran was an authentic bobber. A\n hell of a swell chap. He explained modestly that he was a free-lance\n business consultant and it was barely possible that he could arrange\n some contacts....\n\n\n \"No, no, no commission, all done in the interest of interplanetary\n friendship ... well, anyhow, let's not talk business now. If you have\n got to stick to beer, Pete, make it a chaser to akvavit. What is\n akvavit? Well, I will just take and show you.\"", "Matheny felt his eloquence running down and grabbed for the second\n bottle of beer.\n\n\n \"But where do I start?\" he asked plaintively, for his loneliness smote\n him anew. \"I'm just a college professor at home. How would I even get\n to see—\"\n\n\n \"It might be arranged,\" said Doran in a thoughtful tone. \"It just\n might. How much could you pay this fellow?\"\n\n\n \"A hundred megabucks a year, if he'll sign a five-year contract. That's\n Earth years, mind you.\"\n\n\n \"I'm sorry to tell you this, Pete,\" said Doran, \"but while that is not\n bad money, it is not what a high-powered sales scientist gets in Newer\n York. Plus his retirement benefits, which he would lose if he quit\n where he is now at. And I am sure he would not want to settle on Mars\n permanently.\"", "The drop down to cab-ramp level and the short ride afterward sobered\n him; the room rate at the Jupiter-Astoria sobered him still more.\nOh, well\n, he thought,\nif I succeed in this job, no one at home will\n quibble.\nAnd the chamber to which he and Doran were shown was spectacular\n enough, with a pneumo direct to the bar and a full-wall transparency to\n show the vertical incandescence of the towers.\n\n\n \"Whoof!\" Matheny sat down. The chair slithered sensuously about his\n contours. He jumped. \"What the dusty hell—Oh.\" He tried to grin, but\n his face burned. \"I see.\"", "By that time, they were entering the Paul Bunyan Knotty Pine Bar &\n Grill, on the 73rd Level. Matheny's jaw clanked down.\n\n\n \"Whassa matter?\" asked Doran. \"Ain't you ever seen a ecdysiastic\n technician before?\"\n\n\n \"Uh, yes, but—well, not in a 3-D image under ten magnifications.\"\n\n\n Matheny followed Doran past a sign announcing that this show was for\n purely artistic purposes, into a booth. There a soundproof curtain\n reduced the noise level enough so they could talk in normal voices.\n\n\n \"What'll you have?\" asked Doran. \"It's on me.\"\n\n\n \"Oh, I couldn't let you. I mean—\"\n\n\n \"Nonsense. Welcome to Earth! Care for a thyle and vermouth?\"", "\"I—I'm not hungry,\" stammered Matheny. \"I just wanted to sit in—\"\n\n\n \"To your left, sir.\"\n\n\n The Martian crossed the lobby. His pipe went out in the breeze from an\n animated angel. Organ music sighed through an open doorway. The series\n of rooms beyond was dim, Gothic, interminable.\n\n\n \"Get your chips right here, sir,\" said the girl in the booth.\n\n\n \"Hm?\" said Matheny.\n\n\n She explained. He bought a few hundred-dollar tokens, dropped a\n fifty-buck coin down a slot marked CONTRIBUTIONS, and sipped the\n martini he got back while he strolled around studying the games.\n He stopped, frowned. Bingo? No, he didn't want to bother learning\n something new. He decided that the roulette wheels were either honest\n or too deep for him. He'd have to relax with a crap game instead.", "\"What's wrong with your own people? I mean, Pete, it is not your fault\n there are so many rackets—uh, taxes—and middlemen and agencies and et\n cetera. That is just the way Earth is set up these days.\"\nMatheny's finger stabbed in the general direction of Doran's pajama\n top. \"Exactly. And who set it up that way? Earthmen. We Martians are\n babes in the desert. What chance do we have to earn dollars on the\n scale we need them, in competition with corporations which could buy\n and sell our whole planet before breakfast? Why, we couldn't afford\n three seconds of commercial time on a Lullaby Pillow 'cast. What we\n need, what we have to hire, is an executive who knows Earth, who's an\n Earthman himself. Let him tell us what will appeal to your people, and\n how to dodge the tax bite and—and—well, you see how it goes, that\n sort of, uh, thing.\"", "Matheny shuddered. \"Good Lord, no!\"\n\n\n \"Huh? But they make thyle right on Mars, don't they?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. And it all goes to Earth and sells at 2000 dollars a fifth. But\n you don't think we'd\ndrink\nit, do you? I mean—well, I imagine it\n doesn't absolutely\nruin\nvermouth. But we don't see those Earthside\n commercials about how sophisticated people like it so much.\"\n\"Well, I'll be a socialist creeper!\" Doran's face split in a grin. \"You\n know, all my life I've hated the stuff and never dared admit it!\" He\n raised a hand. \"Don't worry, I won't blabbo. But I am wondering, if you\n control the thyle industry and sell all those relics at fancy prices,\n why do you call yourselves poor?\"", "\"How about postage stamps?\" inquired Doran. \"Philately is a big\n business, I have heard.\"\n\n\n \"It was our mainstay,\" admitted Matheny, \"but it's been overworked.\n Martian stamps are a drug on the market. What we'd like to operate is a\n sweepstakes, but the anti-gambling laws on Earth forbid that.\"\nDoran whistled. \"I got to give your people credit for enterprise,\n anyway!\" He fingered his mustache. \"Uh, pardon me, but have you tried\n to, well, attract capital from Earth?\"", "\"That is a sexy type of furniture, all right,\" agreed Doran. He lowered\n himself into another chair, cocked his feet on the 3-D and waved a\n cigarette. \"Which speaking of, what say we get some girls? It is not\n too late to catch them at home. A date here will usually start around\n 2100 hours earliest.\"\n\n\n \"What?\"\n\n\n \"You know. Dames. Like a certain blonde warhead with twin radar and\n swivel mounting, and she just loves exotics. Such as you.\"\n\n\n \"Me?\" Matheny heard his voice climb to a schoolboy squeak. \"Me?\n Exotic? Why, I'm just a little college professor. I g-g-g, that is—\"\n His tongue got stuck on his palate. He pulled it loose and moistened\n uncertain lips.\n\n\n \"You are from Mars. Okay? So you fought bushcats barehanded in an\n abandoned canal.\"" ], [ "\"You're from Mars, aren't you?\" he asked in the friendliest tone\n Matheny had yet heard.\n\n\n \"Yes. Yes, I am. M-my name's Peter Matheny. I, I—\" He stuck out his\n hand to shake and chips rolled over the floor. \"Damn! Oh, excuse me, I\n forgot this was a church. Never mind the chips. No, please. I just want\n to g-g-get the hell out of here.\"\n\n\n \"Good idea. How about a drink? I know a bar downshaft.\"\n\n\n Matheny sighed. \"A drink is what I need the very most.\"\n\n\n \"My name's Doran. Gus Doran. Call me Gus.\"\n\n\n They walked back to the deaconette's booth and Matheny cashed what\n remained of his winnings.", "A hell of a good bloke. He knew some very funny stories, too, and\n he laughed at Matheny's, though they were probably too rustic for a\n big-city taste like his.\n\n\n \"What I really want,\" said Matheny, \"what I really want—I mean what\n Mars really needs, get me?—is a confidence man.\"\n\n\n \"A what?\"\n\n\n \"The best and slickest one on Earth, to operate a world-size con game\n for us and make us some real money.\"\n\n\n \"Con man? Oh. A slipstring.\"\n\n\n \"A con by any other name,\" said Matheny, pouring down an akvavit.\nDoran squinted through cigarette smoke. \"You are interesting me\n strangely, my friend. Say on.\"", "\"No.\" Matheny realized his head was a bit smoky. The walls of the booth\n seemed odd, somehow. They were just leatheroid walls, but they had an\n odd quality.\n\n\n \"No, sorry, Gus,\" he said. \"I spoke too much.\"\n\n\n \"Okay. Forget it. I do not like a man that pries. But look, let's bomb\n out of here, how about it? Go have a little fun.\"\n\n\n \"By all means.\" Matheny disposed of his last beer. \"I could use some\n gaiety.\"\n\n\n \"You have come to the right town then. But let us get you a hotel room\n first and some more up-to-date clothes.\"\n\n\n \"\nAllez\n,\" said Matheny. \"If I don't mean\nallons\n, or maybe\nalors\n.\"", "\"I shall never reveal to any person unauthorized by yourself whatever\n you may tell me under security, now or at any other time,\" he\n recited. Then, cheerfully: \"And that formula, Pete, happens to be the\n honest-to-zebra truth.\"\n\n\n \"I know.\" Matheny stared, embarrassed, at the carpet. \"I'm sorry\n to—to—I mean of course I trust you, but—\"\n\n\n \"Forget it. I take a hundred security oaths a year, in my line of work.\n Maybe I can help you. I like you, Pete, damn if I don't. And, sure,\n I might stand to get an agent's cut, if I arrange—Go ahead, boy, go\n ahead.\" Doran crossed his legs and leaned back.\n\n\n \"Oh, it's simple enough,\" said Matheny. \"It's only that we already are\n operating con games.\"\n\n\n \"On Mars, you mean?\"", "\"And then the Red Ankh Society. You must have seen or heard their ads.\n 'What mysterious knowledge did the Old Martians possess? What was\n the secret wisdom of the Ancient Aliens? Now the incredibly powerful\n semantics of the Red Ankh (not a religious organization) is available\n to a select few—' That's our largest dollar-earning enterprise.\"\n\n\n He would have liked to say it was his suggestion originally, but it\n would have been too presumptuous. He was talking to an Earthman, who\n had heard everything already.\n\n\n Doran whistled.\n\n\n \"That's about all, so far,\" confessed Matheny. \"Perhaps a con is our\n only hope. I've been wondering, maybe we could organize a Martian\n bucket shop, handling Martian securities, but—well, I don't know.\"\n\n\n \"I think—\" Doran removed the helmet and stood up.", "\"Ahhh!\" said Matheny. \"Bless you, my friend.\"\n\n\n \"A pleasure.\"\n\n\n \"But now you must let me buy you one.\"\n\n\n \"That is not necessary. After all,\" said Doran with great tact, \"with\n the situation as you have been describing—\"\n\n\n \"Oh, we're not\nthat\npoor! My expense allowance assumes I will\n entertain quite a bit.\"\n\n\n Doran's brows lifted a few minutes of arc. \"You're here on business,\n then?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. I told you we haven't any tourists. I was sent to hire a business\n manager for the Martian export trade.\"", "\"I could offer a certain amount of, uh, lagniappe,\" said Matheny. \"That\n is, well, I can draw up to a hundred megabucks myself for, uh, expenses\n and, well ... let me buy you a drink!\"\n\n\n Doran's black eyes frogged at him. \"You might at that,\" said the\n Earthman very softly. \"Yes, you might at that.\"\n\n\n Matheny found himself warming. Gus Doran was an authentic bobber. A\n hell of a swell chap. He explained modestly that he was a free-lance\n business consultant and it was barely possible that he could arrange\n some contacts....\n\n\n \"No, no, no commission, all done in the interest of interplanetary\n friendship ... well, anyhow, let's not talk business now. If you have\n got to stick to beer, Pete, make it a chaser to akvavit. What is\n akvavit? Well, I will just take and show you.\"", "Matheny hesitated. If only he hadn't taken that last shot! It made him\n want to say yes, immediately, without reservations. And therefore maybe\n he became overcautious.\n\n\n They had instructed him on Mars to take chances if he must.\n\n\n \"I could tell you a thing or two that might give you a better idea,\" he\n said slowly. \"But it would have to be under security.\"\n\n\n \"Okay by me. Room service can send us up an oath box right now.\"\n\n\n \"What? But—but—\" Matheny hung onto himself and tried to believe that\n he had landed on Earth less than six hours ago.\n\n\n In the end, he did call room service and the machine was trundled in.\n Doran swallowed the pill and donned the conditioner helmet without an\n instant's hesitation.", "\"Well, you see, maybe a man like that is just what Mars does need. And\n maybe I have got a few contacts.\"\n\n\n \"What?\" Matheny gaped out of the bathroom.\n\n\n Doran cupped his hands around a fresh cigarette, not looking at him.\n \"I am not that man,\" he said frankly. \"But in my line I get a lot of\n contacts, and not all of them go topside. See what I mean? Like if,\n say, you wanted somebody terminated and could pay for it, I could not\n do it. I would not want to know anything about it. But I could tell you\n a phone number.\"\n\n\n He shrugged and gave the Martian a sidelong glance. \"Sure, you may not\n be interested. But if you are, well, Pete, I was not born yesterday. I\n got tolerance. Like the book says, if you want to get ahead, you have\n got to think positively.\"", "\"That is a sexy type of furniture, all right,\" agreed Doran. He lowered\n himself into another chair, cocked his feet on the 3-D and waved a\n cigarette. \"Which speaking of, what say we get some girls? It is not\n too late to catch them at home. A date here will usually start around\n 2100 hours earliest.\"\n\n\n \"What?\"\n\n\n \"You know. Dames. Like a certain blonde warhead with twin radar and\n swivel mounting, and she just loves exotics. Such as you.\"\n\n\n \"Me?\" Matheny heard his voice climb to a schoolboy squeak. \"Me?\n Exotic? Why, I'm just a little college professor. I g-g-g, that is—\"\n His tongue got stuck on his palate. He pulled it loose and moistened\n uncertain lips.\n\n\n \"You are from Mars. Okay? So you fought bushcats barehanded in an\n abandoned canal.\"", "\"I—I'm not hungry,\" stammered Matheny. \"I just wanted to sit in—\"\n\n\n \"To your left, sir.\"\n\n\n The Martian crossed the lobby. His pipe went out in the breeze from an\n animated angel. Organ music sighed through an open doorway. The series\n of rooms beyond was dim, Gothic, interminable.\n\n\n \"Get your chips right here, sir,\" said the girl in the booth.\n\n\n \"Hm?\" said Matheny.\n\n\n She explained. He bought a few hundred-dollar tokens, dropped a\n fifty-buck coin down a slot marked CONTRIBUTIONS, and sipped the\n martini he got back while he strolled around studying the games.\n He stopped, frowned. Bingo? No, he didn't want to bother learning\n something new. He decided that the roulette wheels were either honest\n or too deep for him. He'd have to relax with a crap game instead.", "\"I don't want to—I mean if you're busy tonight, Mr. Doran—\"\n\n\n \"Nah. I am not doing one thing in particular. Besides, I have never met\n a Martian. I am very interested.\"\n\n\n \"There aren't many of us on Earth,\" agreed Matheny. \"Just a small\n embassy staff and an occasional like me.\"\n\n\n \"I should think you would do a lot of traveling here. The old mother\n planet and so on.\"\n\n\n \"We can't afford it,\" said Matheny. \"What with gravitation and\n distance, such voyages are much too expensive for us to make them for\n pleasure. Not to mention our dollar shortage.\" As they entered the\n shaft, he added wistfully: \"You Earth people have that kind of money,\n at least in your more prosperous brackets. Why don't you send a few\n tourists to us?\"", "\"Is five hundred thousand flat,\" said Peri. \"Too bad I just got an\n awful headache and can't see Mr. Sastro tonight. Where you at, Gus?\"\nThe gravity was not as hard to take as Peter Matheny had expected.\n Three generations on Mars might lengthen the legs and expand the chest\n a trifle, but the genes had come from Earth and the organism readjusts.\n What set him gasping was the air. It weighed like a ton of wool and had\n apparently sopped up half the Atlantic Ocean. Ears trained to listen\n through the Martian atmosphere shuddered from the racket conducted by\n Earth's. The passport official seemed to bellow at him.\n\n\n \"Pardon me for asking this. The United Protectorates welcome all\n visitors to Earth and I assure you, sir, an ordinary five-year visa\n provokes no questions. But since you came on an official courier boat\n of your planet, Mr. Matheny, regulations force me to ask your business.\"\n\n\n \"Well—recruiting.\"", "\"The only beer on Mars comes forty million miles, with interplanetary\n freight charges tacked on,\" said Matheny. \"Heineken's!\"\n\n\n Doran shrugged, dialed the dispenser and fed it coins.\n\n\n \"This is a real interesting talk, Pete,\" he said. \"You are being very\n frank with me. I like a man that is frank.\"\n\n\n Matheny shrugged. \"I haven't told you anything that isn't known to\n every economist.\"\nOf course I haven't. I've not so much as mentioned the Red Ankh, for\n instance. But, in principle, I have told him the truth, told him of our\n need; for even the secret operations do not yield us enough.\nThe beer arrived. Matheny engulfed himself in it. Doran sipped at a\n whiskey sour and unobtrusively set another full bottle in front of the\n Martian.", "By that time, they were entering the Paul Bunyan Knotty Pine Bar &\n Grill, on the 73rd Level. Matheny's jaw clanked down.\n\n\n \"Whassa matter?\" asked Doran. \"Ain't you ever seen a ecdysiastic\n technician before?\"\n\n\n \"Uh, yes, but—well, not in a 3-D image under ten magnifications.\"\n\n\n Matheny followed Doran past a sign announcing that this show was for\n purely artistic purposes, into a booth. There a soundproof curtain\n reduced the noise level enough so they could talk in normal voices.\n\n\n \"What'll you have?\" asked Doran. \"It's on me.\"\n\n\n \"Oh, I couldn't let you. I mean—\"\n\n\n \"Nonsense. Welcome to Earth! Care for a thyle and vermouth?\"", "occasional trip to Swindletown—\nMy God\n, thought Matheny,\nhere I am, one solitary outlander in the\n greatest commercial empire the human race has ever seen, and I'm\n supposed to find my planet a con man!\nHe began walking, disconsolately, at random. His lizardskin shirt and\n black culottes drew glances, but derisive ones: their cut was forty\n years out of date. He should find himself a hotel, he thought drearily,\n but he wasn't tired; the spaceport would pneumo his baggage to him\n whenever he did check in. The few Martians who had been to Earth had\n gone into ecstasies over the automation which put any service you could\n name on a twenty-four-hour basis. But it would be a long time before", "Matheny shuddered. \"Good Lord, no!\"\n\n\n \"Huh? But they make thyle right on Mars, don't they?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. And it all goes to Earth and sells at 2000 dollars a fifth. But\n you don't think we'd\ndrink\nit, do you? I mean—well, I imagine it\n doesn't absolutely\nruin\nvermouth. But we don't see those Earthside\n commercials about how sophisticated people like it so much.\"\n\"Well, I'll be a socialist creeper!\" Doran's face split in a grin. \"You\n know, all my life I've hated the stuff and never dared admit it!\" He\n raised a hand. \"Don't worry, I won't blabbo. But I am wondering, if you\n control the thyle industry and sell all those relics at fancy prices,\n why do you call yourselves poor?\"", "Matheny felt his eloquence running down and grabbed for the second\n bottle of beer.\n\n\n \"But where do I start?\" he asked plaintively, for his loneliness smote\n him anew. \"I'm just a college professor at home. How would I even get\n to see—\"\n\n\n \"It might be arranged,\" said Doran in a thoughtful tone. \"It just\n might. How much could you pay this fellow?\"\n\n\n \"A hundred megabucks a year, if he'll sign a five-year contract. That's\n Earth years, mind you.\"\n\n\n \"I'm sorry to tell you this, Pete,\" said Doran, \"but while that is not\n bad money, it is not what a high-powered sales scientist gets in Newer\n York. Plus his retirement benefits, which he would lose if he quit\n where he is now at. And I am sure he would not want to settle on Mars\n permanently.\"", "\"Of course,\" said Matheny bitterly. \"We offer the most liberal\n concessions in the Solar System. Any little mining company or transport\n firm or—or anybody—who wanted to come and actually invest a few\n dollars in Mars—why, we'd probably give him the President's daughter\n as security. No, the Minister of Ecology has a better-looking one.\n But who's interested? We haven't a thing that Earth hasn't got more\n of. We're only the descendants of a few scientists, a few political\n malcontents, oddballs who happen to prefer elbow room and a bill of\n liberties to the incorporated state—what could General Nucleonics\n hope to get from Mars?\"\n\n\n \"I see. Well, what are you having to drink?\"\n\n\n \"Beer,\" said Matheny without hesitation.\n\n\n \"Huh? Look, pal, this is on me.\"", "acreage than his eyes reached, was impressive and all that, but—he\n used to stroll out in the rock garden behind his cottage and smoke a\n pipe in company with Orion. On summer evenings, that is, when the\n temperature wasn't too far below zero.\nWhy did they tap me for this job?\nhe asked himself in a surge of\n homesickness.\nWhat the hell is the Martian Embassy here for?\nHe, Peter Matheny, was no more than a peaceful professor of\n sociodynamics at Devil's Kettle University. Of course, he had advised\n his government before now—in fact, the Red Ankh Society had been his\n idea—but still he was at ease only with his books and his chess and\n his mineral collection, a faculty poker party on Tenthday night and an" ], [ "A hell of a good bloke. He knew some very funny stories, too, and\n he laughed at Matheny's, though they were probably too rustic for a\n big-city taste like his.\n\n\n \"What I really want,\" said Matheny, \"what I really want—I mean what\n Mars really needs, get me?—is a confidence man.\"\n\n\n \"A what?\"\n\n\n \"The best and slickest one on Earth, to operate a world-size con game\n for us and make us some real money.\"\n\n\n \"Con man? Oh. A slipstring.\"\n\n\n \"A con by any other name,\" said Matheny, pouring down an akvavit.\nDoran squinted through cigarette smoke. \"You are interesting me\n strangely, my friend. Say on.\"", "\"I shall never reveal to any person unauthorized by yourself whatever\n you may tell me under security, now or at any other time,\" he\n recited. Then, cheerfully: \"And that formula, Pete, happens to be the\n honest-to-zebra truth.\"\n\n\n \"I know.\" Matheny stared, embarrassed, at the carpet. \"I'm sorry\n to—to—I mean of course I trust you, but—\"\n\n\n \"Forget it. I take a hundred security oaths a year, in my line of work.\n Maybe I can help you. I like you, Pete, damn if I don't. And, sure,\n I might stand to get an agent's cut, if I arrange—Go ahead, boy, go\n ahead.\" Doran crossed his legs and leaned back.\n\n\n \"Oh, it's simple enough,\" said Matheny. \"It's only that we already are\n operating con games.\"\n\n\n \"On Mars, you mean?\"", "occasional trip to Swindletown—\nMy God\n, thought Matheny,\nhere I am, one solitary outlander in the\n greatest commercial empire the human race has ever seen, and I'm\n supposed to find my planet a con man!\nHe began walking, disconsolately, at random. His lizardskin shirt and\n black culottes drew glances, but derisive ones: their cut was forty\n years out of date. He should find himself a hotel, he thought drearily,\n but he wasn't tired; the spaceport would pneumo his baggage to him\n whenever he did check in. The few Martians who had been to Earth had\n gone into ecstasies over the automation which put any service you could\n name on a twenty-four-hour basis. But it would be a long time before", "\"And then the Red Ankh Society. You must have seen or heard their ads.\n 'What mysterious knowledge did the Old Martians possess? What was\n the secret wisdom of the Ancient Aliens? Now the incredibly powerful\n semantics of the Red Ankh (not a religious organization) is available\n to a select few—' That's our largest dollar-earning enterprise.\"\n\n\n He would have liked to say it was his suggestion originally, but it\n would have been too presumptuous. He was talking to an Earthman, who\n had heard everything already.\n\n\n Doran whistled.\n\n\n \"That's about all, so far,\" confessed Matheny. \"Perhaps a con is our\n only hope. I've been wondering, maybe we could organize a Martian\n bucket shop, handling Martian securities, but—well, I don't know.\"\n\n\n \"I think—\" Doran removed the helmet and stood up.", "Matheny felt his eloquence running down and grabbed for the second\n bottle of beer.\n\n\n \"But where do I start?\" he asked plaintively, for his loneliness smote\n him anew. \"I'm just a college professor at home. How would I even get\n to see—\"\n\n\n \"It might be arranged,\" said Doran in a thoughtful tone. \"It just\n might. How much could you pay this fellow?\"\n\n\n \"A hundred megabucks a year, if he'll sign a five-year contract. That's\n Earth years, mind you.\"\n\n\n \"I'm sorry to tell you this, Pete,\" said Doran, \"but while that is not\n bad money, it is not what a high-powered sales scientist gets in Newer\n York. Plus his retirement benefits, which he would lose if he quit\n where he is now at. And I am sure he would not want to settle on Mars\n permanently.\"", "\"Well, you see, maybe a man like that is just what Mars does need. And\n maybe I have got a few contacts.\"\n\n\n \"What?\" Matheny gaped out of the bathroom.\n\n\n Doran cupped his hands around a fresh cigarette, not looking at him.\n \"I am not that man,\" he said frankly. \"But in my line I get a lot of\n contacts, and not all of them go topside. See what I mean? Like if,\n say, you wanted somebody terminated and could pay for it, I could not\n do it. I would not want to know anything about it. But I could tell you\n a phone number.\"\n\n\n He shrugged and gave the Martian a sidelong glance. \"Sure, you may not\n be interested. But if you are, well, Pete, I was not born yesterday. I\n got tolerance. Like the book says, if you want to get ahead, you have\n got to think positively.\"", "\"What's wrong with your own people? I mean, Pete, it is not your fault\n there are so many rackets—uh, taxes—and middlemen and agencies and et\n cetera. That is just the way Earth is set up these days.\"\nMatheny's finger stabbed in the general direction of Doran's pajama\n top. \"Exactly. And who set it up that way? Earthmen. We Martians are\n babes in the desert. What chance do we have to earn dollars on the\n scale we need them, in competition with corporations which could buy\n and sell our whole planet before breakfast? Why, we couldn't afford\n three seconds of commercial time on a Lullaby Pillow 'cast. What we\n need, what we have to hire, is an executive who knows Earth, who's an\n Earthman himself. Let him tell us what will appeal to your people, and\n how to dodge the tax bite and—and—well, you see how it goes, that\n sort of, uh, thing.\"", "\"How about postage stamps?\" inquired Doran. \"Philately is a big\n business, I have heard.\"\n\n\n \"It was our mainstay,\" admitted Matheny, \"but it's been overworked.\n Martian stamps are a drug on the market. What we'd like to operate is a\n sweepstakes, but the anti-gambling laws on Earth forbid that.\"\nDoran whistled. \"I got to give your people credit for enterprise,\n anyway!\" He fingered his mustache. \"Uh, pardon me, but have you tried\n to, well, attract capital from Earth?\"", "Matheny hesitated. If only he hadn't taken that last shot! It made him\n want to say yes, immediately, without reservations. And therefore maybe\n he became overcautious.\n\n\n They had instructed him on Mars to take chances if he must.\n\n\n \"I could tell you a thing or two that might give you a better idea,\" he\n said slowly. \"But it would have to be under security.\"\n\n\n \"Okay by me. Room service can send us up an oath box right now.\"\n\n\n \"What? But—but—\" Matheny hung onto himself and tried to believe that\n he had landed on Earth less than six hours ago.\n\n\n In the end, he did call room service and the machine was trundled in.\n Doran swallowed the pill and donned the conditioner helmet without an\n instant's hesitation.", "\"What's a bushcat? And we don't have canals. The evaporation rate—\"\n\n\n \"Look, Pete,\" said Doran patiently. \"She don't have to know that, does\n she?\"\n\n\n \"Well—well, no. I guess not No.\"\n\n\n \"Let's order you some clothes on the pneumo,\" said Doran. \"I recommend\n you buy from Schwartzherz. Everybody knows he is expensive.\"\nWhile Matheny jittered about, shaving and showering and struggling with\n his new raiment, Doran kept him supplied with akvavit and beer.\n\n\n \"You said one thing, Pete,\" Doran remarked. \"About needing a\n slipstring. A con man, you would call it.\"\n\n\n \"Forget that. Please. I spoke out of turn.\"", "\"Ahhh!\" said Matheny. \"Bless you, my friend.\"\n\n\n \"A pleasure.\"\n\n\n \"But now you must let me buy you one.\"\n\n\n \"That is not necessary. After all,\" said Doran with great tact, \"with\n the situation as you have been describing—\"\n\n\n \"Oh, we're not\nthat\npoor! My expense allowance assumes I will\n entertain quite a bit.\"\n\n\n Doran's brows lifted a few minutes of arc. \"You're here on business,\n then?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. I told you we haven't any tourists. I was sent to hire a business\n manager for the Martian export trade.\"", "\"I could offer a certain amount of, uh, lagniappe,\" said Matheny. \"That\n is, well, I can draw up to a hundred megabucks myself for, uh, expenses\n and, well ... let me buy you a drink!\"\n\n\n Doran's black eyes frogged at him. \"You might at that,\" said the\n Earthman very softly. \"Yes, you might at that.\"\n\n\n Matheny found himself warming. Gus Doran was an authentic bobber. A\n hell of a swell chap. He explained modestly that he was a free-lance\n business consultant and it was barely possible that he could arrange\n some contacts....\n\n\n \"No, no, no commission, all done in the interest of interplanetary\n friendship ... well, anyhow, let's not talk business now. If you have\n got to stick to beer, Pete, make it a chaser to akvavit. What is\n akvavit? Well, I will just take and show you.\"", "Matheny shuddered. \"Good Lord, no!\"\n\n\n \"Huh? But they make thyle right on Mars, don't they?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. And it all goes to Earth and sells at 2000 dollars a fifth. But\n you don't think we'd\ndrink\nit, do you? I mean—well, I imagine it\n doesn't absolutely\nruin\nvermouth. But we don't see those Earthside\n commercials about how sophisticated people like it so much.\"\n\"Well, I'll be a socialist creeper!\" Doran's face split in a grin. \"You\n know, all my life I've hated the stuff and never dared admit it!\" He\n raised a hand. \"Don't worry, I won't blabbo. But I am wondering, if you\n control the thyle industry and sell all those relics at fancy prices,\n why do you call yourselves poor?\"", "\"Remember Junie O'Brien? The little golden-haired girl on Mars, a\n mathematical prodigy, but dying of an incurable disease? She collected\n Earth coins.\"\n\n\n \"Oh, that. Sure, I remember—Hey! You didn't!\"\n\n\n \"Yes. We made about a billion dollars on that one.\"\n\n\n \"I will be double damned. You know, Pete, I sent her a hundred-buck\n piece myself. Say, how is Junie O'Brien?\"\n\n\n \"Oh, fine. Under a different name, she's now our finance minister.\"\n Matheny stared out the wall, his hands twisting nervously behind his\n back. \"There were no lies involved. She really does have a fatal\n disease. So do you and I. Every day we grow older.\"\n\n\n \"Uh!\" exclaimed Doran.", "acreage than his eyes reached, was impressive and all that, but—he\n used to stroll out in the rock garden behind his cottage and smoke a\n pipe in company with Orion. On summer evenings, that is, when the\n temperature wasn't too far below zero.\nWhy did they tap me for this job?\nhe asked himself in a surge of\n homesickness.\nWhat the hell is the Martian Embassy here for?\nHe, Peter Matheny, was no more than a peaceful professor of\n sociodynamics at Devil's Kettle University. Of course, he had advised\n his government before now—in fact, the Red Ankh Society had been his\n idea—but still he was at ease only with his books and his chess and\n his mineral collection, a faculty poker party on Tenthday night and an", "\"Is five hundred thousand flat,\" said Peri. \"Too bad I just got an\n awful headache and can't see Mr. Sastro tonight. Where you at, Gus?\"\nThe gravity was not as hard to take as Peter Matheny had expected.\n Three generations on Mars might lengthen the legs and expand the chest\n a trifle, but the genes had come from Earth and the organism readjusts.\n What set him gasping was the air. It weighed like a ton of wool and had\n apparently sopped up half the Atlantic Ocean. Ears trained to listen\n through the Martian atmosphere shuddered from the racket conducted by\n Earth's. The passport official seemed to bellow at him.\n\n\n \"Pardon me for asking this. The United Protectorates welcome all\n visitors to Earth and I assure you, sir, an ordinary five-year visa\n provokes no questions. But since you came on an official courier boat\n of your planet, Mr. Matheny, regulations force me to ask your business.\"\n\n\n \"Well—recruiting.\"", "\"Of course,\" said Matheny bitterly. \"We offer the most liberal\n concessions in the Solar System. Any little mining company or transport\n firm or—or anybody—who wanted to come and actually invest a few\n dollars in Mars—why, we'd probably give him the President's daughter\n as security. No, the Minister of Ecology has a better-looking one.\n But who's interested? We haven't a thing that Earth hasn't got more\n of. We're only the descendants of a few scientists, a few political\n malcontents, oddballs who happen to prefer elbow room and a bill of\n liberties to the incorporated state—what could General Nucleonics\n hope to get from Mars?\"\n\n\n \"I see. Well, what are you having to drink?\"\n\n\n \"Beer,\" said Matheny without hesitation.\n\n\n \"Huh? Look, pal, this is on me.\"", "\"I don't want to—I mean if you're busy tonight, Mr. Doran—\"\n\n\n \"Nah. I am not doing one thing in particular. Besides, I have never met\n a Martian. I am very interested.\"\n\n\n \"There aren't many of us on Earth,\" agreed Matheny. \"Just a small\n embassy staff and an occasional like me.\"\n\n\n \"I should think you would do a lot of traveling here. The old mother\n planet and so on.\"\n\n\n \"We can't afford it,\" said Matheny. \"What with gravitation and\n distance, such voyages are much too expensive for us to make them for\n pleasure. Not to mention our dollar shortage.\" As they entered the\n shaft, he added wistfully: \"You Earth people have that kind of money,\n at least in your more prosperous brackets. Why don't you send a few\n tourists to us?\"", "\"You're from Mars, aren't you?\" he asked in the friendliest tone\n Matheny had yet heard.\n\n\n \"Yes. Yes, I am. M-my name's Peter Matheny. I, I—\" He stuck out his\n hand to shake and chips rolled over the floor. \"Damn! Oh, excuse me, I\n forgot this was a church. Never mind the chips. No, please. I just want\n to g-g-get the hell out of here.\"\n\n\n \"Good idea. How about a drink? I know a bar downshaft.\"\n\n\n Matheny sighed. \"A drink is what I need the very most.\"\n\n\n \"My name's Doran. Gus Doran. Call me Gus.\"\n\n\n They walked back to the deaconette's booth and Matheny cashed what\n remained of his winnings.", "\"Trouble with it is, I hear Mars is not so comfortable,\" said Doran. \"I\n mean, do not get me wrong, I don't want to insult you or anything, but\n people come back saying you have given the planet just barely enough\n air to keep a man alive. And there are no cities, just little towns and\n villages and ranches out in the bush. I mean you are being pioneers and\n making a new nation and all that, but people paying half a megabuck for\n their ticket expect some comfort and, uh, you know.\"\n\n\n \"I do know,\" said Matheny. \"But we're poor—a handful of people trying\n to make a world of dust and sand and scrub thorn into fields and woods\n and seas. We can't do it without substantial help from Earth, equipment\n and supplies—which can only be paid for in Earth dollars—and we can't\n export enough to Earth to earn those dollars.\"" ], [ "\"No.\" Matheny realized his head was a bit smoky. The walls of the booth\n seemed odd, somehow. They were just leatheroid walls, but they had an\n odd quality.\n\n\n \"No, sorry, Gus,\" he said. \"I spoke too much.\"\n\n\n \"Okay. Forget it. I do not like a man that pries. But look, let's bomb\n out of here, how about it? Go have a little fun.\"\n\n\n \"By all means.\" Matheny disposed of his last beer. \"I could use some\n gaiety.\"\n\n\n \"You have come to the right town then. But let us get you a hotel room\n first and some more up-to-date clothes.\"\n\n\n \"\nAllez\n,\" said Matheny. \"If I don't mean\nallons\n, or maybe\nalors\n.\"", "\"Yes?\" Matheny faced around, shivering with his own tension.\n\n\n \"I may be able to find the man you want,\" said Doran. \"I just may. It\n will take a few days and might get a little expensive.\"\n\n\n \"You mean.... Mr. Doran—Gus—you could actually—\"\n\n\n \"I cannot promise anything yet except that I will try. Now you finish\n dressing. I will be down in the bar. And I will call up this girl I\n know. We deserve a celebration!\"", "\"That is a sexy type of furniture, all right,\" agreed Doran. He lowered\n himself into another chair, cocked his feet on the 3-D and waved a\n cigarette. \"Which speaking of, what say we get some girls? It is not\n too late to catch them at home. A date here will usually start around\n 2100 hours earliest.\"\n\n\n \"What?\"\n\n\n \"You know. Dames. Like a certain blonde warhead with twin radar and\n swivel mounting, and she just loves exotics. Such as you.\"\n\n\n \"Me?\" Matheny heard his voice climb to a schoolboy squeak. \"Me?\n Exotic? Why, I'm just a little college professor. I g-g-g, that is—\"\n His tongue got stuck on his palate. He pulled it loose and moistened\n uncertain lips.\n\n\n \"You are from Mars. Okay? So you fought bushcats barehanded in an\n abandoned canal.\"", "A hell of a good bloke. He knew some very funny stories, too, and\n he laughed at Matheny's, though they were probably too rustic for a\n big-city taste like his.\n\n\n \"What I really want,\" said Matheny, \"what I really want—I mean what\n Mars really needs, get me?—is a confidence man.\"\n\n\n \"A what?\"\n\n\n \"The best and slickest one on Earth, to operate a world-size con game\n for us and make us some real money.\"\n\n\n \"Con man? Oh. A slipstring.\"\n\n\n \"A con by any other name,\" said Matheny, pouring down an akvavit.\nDoran squinted through cigarette smoke. \"You are interesting me\n strangely, my friend. Say on.\"", "\"I—I'm not hungry,\" stammered Matheny. \"I just wanted to sit in—\"\n\n\n \"To your left, sir.\"\n\n\n The Martian crossed the lobby. His pipe went out in the breeze from an\n animated angel. Organ music sighed through an open doorway. The series\n of rooms beyond was dim, Gothic, interminable.\n\n\n \"Get your chips right here, sir,\" said the girl in the booth.\n\n\n \"Hm?\" said Matheny.\n\n\n She explained. He bought a few hundred-dollar tokens, dropped a\n fifty-buck coin down a slot marked CONTRIBUTIONS, and sipped the\n martini he got back while he strolled around studying the games.\n He stopped, frowned. Bingo? No, he didn't want to bother learning\n something new. He decided that the roulette wheels were either honest\n or too deep for him. He'd have to relax with a crap game instead.", "\"I shall never reveal to any person unauthorized by yourself whatever\n you may tell me under security, now or at any other time,\" he\n recited. Then, cheerfully: \"And that formula, Pete, happens to be the\n honest-to-zebra truth.\"\n\n\n \"I know.\" Matheny stared, embarrassed, at the carpet. \"I'm sorry\n to—to—I mean of course I trust you, but—\"\n\n\n \"Forget it. I take a hundred security oaths a year, in my line of work.\n Maybe I can help you. I like you, Pete, damn if I don't. And, sure,\n I might stand to get an agent's cut, if I arrange—Go ahead, boy, go\n ahead.\" Doran crossed his legs and leaned back.\n\n\n \"Oh, it's simple enough,\" said Matheny. \"It's only that we already are\n operating con games.\"\n\n\n \"On Mars, you mean?\"", "\"You're from Mars, aren't you?\" he asked in the friendliest tone\n Matheny had yet heard.\n\n\n \"Yes. Yes, I am. M-my name's Peter Matheny. I, I—\" He stuck out his\n hand to shake and chips rolled over the floor. \"Damn! Oh, excuse me, I\n forgot this was a church. Never mind the chips. No, please. I just want\n to g-g-get the hell out of here.\"\n\n\n \"Good idea. How about a drink? I know a bar downshaft.\"\n\n\n Matheny sighed. \"A drink is what I need the very most.\"\n\n\n \"My name's Doran. Gus Doran. Call me Gus.\"\n\n\n They walked back to the deaconette's booth and Matheny cashed what\n remained of his winnings.", "\"I always wanted to,\" said Doran. \"I would like to see the what they\n call City of Time, and so on. As a matter of fact, I have given my\n girl one of those Old Martian rings last Ike's Birthday and she was\n just gazoo about it. A jewel dug out of the City of Time, like,\n made a million years ago by a, uh, extinct race ... I tell you, she\nappreciated\nme for it!\" He winked and nudged.\n\n\n \"Oh,\" said Matheny.\nHe felt a certain guilt. Doran was too pleasant a little man to\n deserve—\n\n\n \"Of course,\" Matheny said ritually, \"I agree with all the archeologists\n it's a crime to sell such scientifically priceless artifacts, but what\n can we do? We must live, and the tourist trade is almost nonexistent.\"", "\"Yes. There never were any Old Martians. We erected the ruins fifty\n years ago for the Billingsworth Expedition to find. We've been\n manufacturing relics ever since.\"\n\n\n \"\nHuh?\nWell, why, but—\"\n\n\n \"In this case, it helps to be at the far end of an interplanetary\n haul,\" said Matheny. \"Not many Terrestrial archeologists get to Mars\n and they depend on our people to—Well, anyhow—\"\n\n\n \"I will be clopped! Good for you!\"\nDoran blew up in laughter. \"That is one thing I would never spill, even\n without security. I told you about my girl friend, didn't I?\"\n\n\n \"Yes, and that calls to mind the Little Girl,\" said Matheny\n apologetically. \"She was another official project.\"\n\n\n \"Who?\"", "Matheny hesitated. If only he hadn't taken that last shot! It made him\n want to say yes, immediately, without reservations. And therefore maybe\n he became overcautious.\n\n\n They had instructed him on Mars to take chances if he must.\n\n\n \"I could tell you a thing or two that might give you a better idea,\" he\n said slowly. \"But it would have to be under security.\"\n\n\n \"Okay by me. Room service can send us up an oath box right now.\"\n\n\n \"What? But—but—\" Matheny hung onto himself and tried to believe that\n he had landed on Earth less than six hours ago.\n\n\n In the end, he did call room service and the machine was trundled in.\n Doran swallowed the pill and donned the conditioner helmet without an\n instant's hesitation.", "\"Well, you see, maybe a man like that is just what Mars does need. And\n maybe I have got a few contacts.\"\n\n\n \"What?\" Matheny gaped out of the bathroom.\n\n\n Doran cupped his hands around a fresh cigarette, not looking at him.\n \"I am not that man,\" he said frankly. \"But in my line I get a lot of\n contacts, and not all of them go topside. See what I mean? Like if,\n say, you wanted somebody terminated and could pay for it, I could not\n do it. I would not want to know anything about it. But I could tell you\n a phone number.\"\n\n\n He shrugged and gave the Martian a sidelong glance. \"Sure, you may not\n be interested. But if you are, well, Pete, I was not born yesterday. I\n got tolerance. Like the book says, if you want to get ahead, you have\n got to think positively.\"", "She undulated to the phone and pressed its Accept. \"Hello-o, there,\"\n she said automatically. \"So sorry to keep you waiting. I was just\n taking a bath and—Oh. It's you.\"\n\n\n Gus Doran's prawnlike eyes popped at her. \"Holy Success,\" he whispered\n in awe. \"You sure the wires can carry that much voltage?\"\n\"Well, hurry up with whatever it is,\" snapped Peri. \"I got a date\n tonight.\"\n\n\n \"I'll say you do! With a Martian!\"\nPeri narrowed her silver-blue gaze and looked icily at him. \"You must\n have heard wrong, Gus. He's the heir apparent of Indonesia, Inc.,\n that's who, and if you called up to ask for a piece of him, you can\n just blank right out again. I saw him first!\"", "\"Ahhh!\" said Matheny. \"Bless you, my friend.\"\n\n\n \"A pleasure.\"\n\n\n \"But now you must let me buy you one.\"\n\n\n \"That is not necessary. After all,\" said Doran with great tact, \"with\n the situation as you have been describing—\"\n\n\n \"Oh, we're not\nthat\npoor! My expense allowance assumes I will\n entertain quite a bit.\"\n\n\n Doran's brows lifted a few minutes of arc. \"You're here on business,\n then?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. I told you we haven't any tourists. I was sent to hire a business\n manager for the Martian export trade.\"", "By that time, they were entering the Paul Bunyan Knotty Pine Bar &\n Grill, on the 73rd Level. Matheny's jaw clanked down.\n\n\n \"Whassa matter?\" asked Doran. \"Ain't you ever seen a ecdysiastic\n technician before?\"\n\n\n \"Uh, yes, but—well, not in a 3-D image under ten magnifications.\"\n\n\n Matheny followed Doran past a sign announcing that this show was for\n purely artistic purposes, into a booth. There a soundproof curtain\n reduced the noise level enough so they could talk in normal voices.\n\n\n \"What'll you have?\" asked Doran. \"It's on me.\"\n\n\n \"Oh, I couldn't let you. I mean—\"\n\n\n \"Nonsense. Welcome to Earth! Care for a thyle and vermouth?\"", "acreage than his eyes reached, was impressive and all that, but—he\n used to stroll out in the rock garden behind his cottage and smoke a\n pipe in company with Orion. On summer evenings, that is, when the\n temperature wasn't too far below zero.\nWhy did they tap me for this job?\nhe asked himself in a surge of\n homesickness.\nWhat the hell is the Martian Embassy here for?\nHe, Peter Matheny, was no more than a peaceful professor of\n sociodynamics at Devil's Kettle University. Of course, he had advised\n his government before now—in fact, the Red Ankh Society had been his\n idea—but still he was at ease only with his books and his chess and\n his mineral collection, a faculty poker party on Tenthday night and an", "\"Well, good luck.\" The official's tone was skeptical. He stamped the\n passport and handed it back. \"There, now, you are free to travel\n anywhere in the Protectorates. But I would advise you to leave the\n capital and get into the sticks—um, I mean the provinces. I am sure\n there must be tolerably competent sales executives in Russia or\n Congolese Belgium or such regions. Frankly, sir, I do not believe you\n can attract anyone out of Newer York.\"\n\n\n \"Thanks,\" said Matheny, \"but, you see, I—we need—that is.... Oh,\n well. Thanks. Good-by.\"", "The drop down to cab-ramp level and the short ride afterward sobered\n him; the room rate at the Jupiter-Astoria sobered him still more.\nOh, well\n, he thought,\nif I succeed in this job, no one at home will\n quibble.\nAnd the chamber to which he and Doran were shown was spectacular\n enough, with a pneumo direct to the bar and a full-wall transparency to\n show the vertical incandescence of the towers.\n\n\n \"Whoof!\" Matheny sat down. The chair slithered sensuously about his\n contours. He jumped. \"What the dusty hell—Oh.\" He tried to grin, but\n his face burned. \"I see.\"", "Matheny felt his eloquence running down and grabbed for the second\n bottle of beer.\n\n\n \"But where do I start?\" he asked plaintively, for his loneliness smote\n him anew. \"I'm just a college professor at home. How would I even get\n to see—\"\n\n\n \"It might be arranged,\" said Doran in a thoughtful tone. \"It just\n might. How much could you pay this fellow?\"\n\n\n \"A hundred megabucks a year, if he'll sign a five-year contract. That's\n Earth years, mind you.\"\n\n\n \"I'm sorry to tell you this, Pete,\" said Doran, \"but while that is not\n bad money, it is not what a high-powered sales scientist gets in Newer\n York. Plus his retirement benefits, which he would lose if he quit\n where he is now at. And I am sure he would not want to settle on Mars\n permanently.\"", "\"What's a bushcat? And we don't have canals. The evaporation rate—\"\n\n\n \"Look, Pete,\" said Doran patiently. \"She don't have to know that, does\n she?\"\n\n\n \"Well—well, no. I guess not No.\"\n\n\n \"Let's order you some clothes on the pneumo,\" said Doran. \"I recommend\n you buy from Schwartzherz. Everybody knows he is expensive.\"\nWhile Matheny jittered about, shaving and showering and struggling with\n his new raiment, Doran kept him supplied with akvavit and beer.\n\n\n \"You said one thing, Pete,\" Doran remarked. \"About needing a\n slipstring. A con man, you would call it.\"\n\n\n \"Forget that. Please. I spoke out of turn.\"", "\"But—I mean—when do we start actually\nplaying\n? What happened to the\n cocked dice?\"\nThe lady drew herself up and jutted an indignant brow at him. \"Sir!\n This is a church!\"\n\n\n \"Oh—I see—excuse me, I, I, I—\" Matheny backed out of the crowd,\n shuddering. He looked around for some place to hide his burning ears.\n\n\n \"You forgot your chips, pal,\" said a voice.\n\n\n \"Oh. Thanks. Thanks ever so much. I, I, that is—\" Matheny cursed\n his knotting tongue.\nDamn it, just because they're so much more\n sophisticated than I, do I have to talk like a leaky boiler?\nThe helpful Earthman was not tall. He was dark and chisel-faced and\n sleekly pomaded, dapper in blue pajamas with a red zigzag, a sleighbell\n cloak and curly-toed slippers." ], [ "\"No.\" Matheny realized his head was a bit smoky. The walls of the booth\n seemed odd, somehow. They were just leatheroid walls, but they had an\n odd quality.\n\n\n \"No, sorry, Gus,\" he said. \"I spoke too much.\"\n\n\n \"Okay. Forget it. I do not like a man that pries. But look, let's bomb\n out of here, how about it? Go have a little fun.\"\n\n\n \"By all means.\" Matheny disposed of his last beer. \"I could use some\n gaiety.\"\n\n\n \"You have come to the right town then. But let us get you a hotel room\n first and some more up-to-date clothes.\"\n\n\n \"\nAllez\n,\" said Matheny. \"If I don't mean\nallons\n, or maybe\nalors\n.\"", "\"You're from Mars, aren't you?\" he asked in the friendliest tone\n Matheny had yet heard.\n\n\n \"Yes. Yes, I am. M-my name's Peter Matheny. I, I—\" He stuck out his\n hand to shake and chips rolled over the floor. \"Damn! Oh, excuse me, I\n forgot this was a church. Never mind the chips. No, please. I just want\n to g-g-get the hell out of here.\"\n\n\n \"Good idea. How about a drink? I know a bar downshaft.\"\n\n\n Matheny sighed. \"A drink is what I need the very most.\"\n\n\n \"My name's Doran. Gus Doran. Call me Gus.\"\n\n\n They walked back to the deaconette's booth and Matheny cashed what\n remained of his winnings.", "Matheny hesitated. If only he hadn't taken that last shot! It made him\n want to say yes, immediately, without reservations. And therefore maybe\n he became overcautious.\n\n\n They had instructed him on Mars to take chances if he must.\n\n\n \"I could tell you a thing or two that might give you a better idea,\" he\n said slowly. \"But it would have to be under security.\"\n\n\n \"Okay by me. Room service can send us up an oath box right now.\"\n\n\n \"What? But—but—\" Matheny hung onto himself and tried to believe that\n he had landed on Earth less than six hours ago.\n\n\n In the end, he did call room service and the machine was trundled in.\n Doran swallowed the pill and donned the conditioner helmet without an\n instant's hesitation.", "A hell of a good bloke. He knew some very funny stories, too, and\n he laughed at Matheny's, though they were probably too rustic for a\n big-city taste like his.\n\n\n \"What I really want,\" said Matheny, \"what I really want—I mean what\n Mars really needs, get me?—is a confidence man.\"\n\n\n \"A what?\"\n\n\n \"The best and slickest one on Earth, to operate a world-size con game\n for us and make us some real money.\"\n\n\n \"Con man? Oh. A slipstring.\"\n\n\n \"A con by any other name,\" said Matheny, pouring down an akvavit.\nDoran squinted through cigarette smoke. \"You are interesting me\n strangely, my friend. Say on.\"", "\"Trouble with it is, I hear Mars is not so comfortable,\" said Doran. \"I\n mean, do not get me wrong, I don't want to insult you or anything, but\n people come back saying you have given the planet just barely enough\n air to keep a man alive. And there are no cities, just little towns and\n villages and ranches out in the bush. I mean you are being pioneers and\n making a new nation and all that, but people paying half a megabuck for\n their ticket expect some comfort and, uh, you know.\"\n\n\n \"I do know,\" said Matheny. \"But we're poor—a handful of people trying\n to make a world of dust and sand and scrub thorn into fields and woods\n and seas. We can't do it without substantial help from Earth, equipment\n and supplies—which can only be paid for in Earth dollars—and we can't\n export enough to Earth to earn those dollars.\"", "By that time, they were entering the Paul Bunyan Knotty Pine Bar &\n Grill, on the 73rd Level. Matheny's jaw clanked down.\n\n\n \"Whassa matter?\" asked Doran. \"Ain't you ever seen a ecdysiastic\n technician before?\"\n\n\n \"Uh, yes, but—well, not in a 3-D image under ten magnifications.\"\n\n\n Matheny followed Doran past a sign announcing that this show was for\n purely artistic purposes, into a booth. There a soundproof curtain\n reduced the noise level enough so they could talk in normal voices.\n\n\n \"What'll you have?\" asked Doran. \"It's on me.\"\n\n\n \"Oh, I couldn't let you. I mean—\"\n\n\n \"Nonsense. Welcome to Earth! Care for a thyle and vermouth?\"", "Matheny felt his eloquence running down and grabbed for the second\n bottle of beer.\n\n\n \"But where do I start?\" he asked plaintively, for his loneliness smote\n him anew. \"I'm just a college professor at home. How would I even get\n to see—\"\n\n\n \"It might be arranged,\" said Doran in a thoughtful tone. \"It just\n might. How much could you pay this fellow?\"\n\n\n \"A hundred megabucks a year, if he'll sign a five-year contract. That's\n Earth years, mind you.\"\n\n\n \"I'm sorry to tell you this, Pete,\" said Doran, \"but while that is not\n bad money, it is not what a high-powered sales scientist gets in Newer\n York. Plus his retirement benefits, which he would lose if he quit\n where he is now at. And I am sure he would not want to settle on Mars\n permanently.\"", "occasional trip to Swindletown—\nMy God\n, thought Matheny,\nhere I am, one solitary outlander in the\n greatest commercial empire the human race has ever seen, and I'm\n supposed to find my planet a con man!\nHe began walking, disconsolately, at random. His lizardskin shirt and\n black culottes drew glances, but derisive ones: their cut was forty\n years out of date. He should find himself a hotel, he thought drearily,\n but he wasn't tired; the spaceport would pneumo his baggage to him\n whenever he did check in. The few Martians who had been to Earth had\n gone into ecstasies over the automation which put any service you could\n name on a twenty-four-hour basis. But it would be a long time before", "acreage than his eyes reached, was impressive and all that, but—he\n used to stroll out in the rock garden behind his cottage and smoke a\n pipe in company with Orion. On summer evenings, that is, when the\n temperature wasn't too far below zero.\nWhy did they tap me for this job?\nhe asked himself in a surge of\n homesickness.\nWhat the hell is the Martian Embassy here for?\nHe, Peter Matheny, was no more than a peaceful professor of\n sociodynamics at Devil's Kettle University. Of course, he had advised\n his government before now—in fact, the Red Ankh Society had been his\n idea—but still he was at ease only with his books and his chess and\n his mineral collection, a faculty poker party on Tenthday night and an", "\"Is five hundred thousand flat,\" said Peri. \"Too bad I just got an\n awful headache and can't see Mr. Sastro tonight. Where you at, Gus?\"\nThe gravity was not as hard to take as Peter Matheny had expected.\n Three generations on Mars might lengthen the legs and expand the chest\n a trifle, but the genes had come from Earth and the organism readjusts.\n What set him gasping was the air. It weighed like a ton of wool and had\n apparently sopped up half the Atlantic Ocean. Ears trained to listen\n through the Martian atmosphere shuddered from the racket conducted by\n Earth's. The passport official seemed to bellow at him.\n\n\n \"Pardon me for asking this. The United Protectorates welcome all\n visitors to Earth and I assure you, sir, an ordinary five-year visa\n provokes no questions. But since you came on an official courier boat\n of your planet, Mr. Matheny, regulations force me to ask your business.\"\n\n\n \"Well—recruiting.\"", "The frightful thing about the Earthman was the way he seemed to\n exist only in organized masses. A gypsy snake oil peddler, plodding\n his syrtosaur wagon across Martian sands, just didn't have a prayer\n against, say, the Grant, Harding & Adams Public Relations Agency.\nMatheny puffed smoke and looked around. His feet ached from the weight\n on them. Where could a man sit down? It was hard to make out any\n individual sign through all that flimmering neon. His eye fell on one\n that was distinguished by relative austerity.\nTHE CHURCH OF CHOICE\nEnter, Play, Pray\nThat would do. He took an upward slideramp through several hundred feet\n of altitude, stepped past an aurora curtain, and found himself in a\n marble lobby next to an inspirational newsstand.\n\n\n \"Ah, brother, welcome,\" said a red-haired usherette in demure black\n leotards. \"The peace that passeth all understanding be with you. The\n restaurant is right up those stairs.\"", "\"I—I'm not hungry,\" stammered Matheny. \"I just wanted to sit in—\"\n\n\n \"To your left, sir.\"\n\n\n The Martian crossed the lobby. His pipe went out in the breeze from an\n animated angel. Organ music sighed through an open doorway. The series\n of rooms beyond was dim, Gothic, interminable.\n\n\n \"Get your chips right here, sir,\" said the girl in the booth.\n\n\n \"Hm?\" said Matheny.\n\n\n She explained. He bought a few hundred-dollar tokens, dropped a\n fifty-buck coin down a slot marked CONTRIBUTIONS, and sipped the\n martini he got back while he strolled around studying the games.\n He stopped, frowned. Bingo? No, he didn't want to bother learning\n something new. He decided that the roulette wheels were either honest\n or too deep for him. He'd have to relax with a crap game instead.", "\"I don't want to—I mean if you're busy tonight, Mr. Doran—\"\n\n\n \"Nah. I am not doing one thing in particular. Besides, I have never met\n a Martian. I am very interested.\"\n\n\n \"There aren't many of us on Earth,\" agreed Matheny. \"Just a small\n embassy staff and an occasional like me.\"\n\n\n \"I should think you would do a lot of traveling here. The old mother\n planet and so on.\"\n\n\n \"We can't afford it,\" said Matheny. \"What with gravitation and\n distance, such voyages are much too expensive for us to make them for\n pleasure. Not to mention our dollar shortage.\" As they entered the\n shaft, he added wistfully: \"You Earth people have that kind of money,\n at least in your more prosperous brackets. Why don't you send a few\n tourists to us?\"", "The city roared at him.\n\n\n He fumbled after his pipe.\nOf course\n, he told himself,\nthat's why\n the Embassy can't act. I may find it advisable to go outside the law.\n Please, sir, where can I contact the underworld?\nHe wished gambling were legal on Earth. The Constitution of the Martian\n Republic forbade sumptuary and moral legislation; quite apart from the\n rambunctious individualism which that document formulated, the article\n was a practical necessity. Life was bleak enough on the deserts,\n without being denied the pleasure of trying to bottom-deal some friend\n who was happily trying to mark the cards. Matheny would have found a\n few spins of roulette soothing: it was always an intellectual challenge\n to work out the system by which the management operated a wheel. But\n more, he would have been among people he understood.", "\"Well, you see, maybe a man like that is just what Mars does need. And\n maybe I have got a few contacts.\"\n\n\n \"What?\" Matheny gaped out of the bathroom.\n\n\n Doran cupped his hands around a fresh cigarette, not looking at him.\n \"I am not that man,\" he said frankly. \"But in my line I get a lot of\n contacts, and not all of them go topside. See what I mean? Like if,\n say, you wanted somebody terminated and could pay for it, I could not\n do it. I would not want to know anything about it. But I could tell you\n a phone number.\"\n\n\n He shrugged and gave the Martian a sidelong glance. \"Sure, you may not\n be interested. But if you are, well, Pete, I was not born yesterday. I\n got tolerance. Like the book says, if you want to get ahead, you have\n got to think positively.\"", "The drop down to cab-ramp level and the short ride afterward sobered\n him; the room rate at the Jupiter-Astoria sobered him still more.\nOh, well\n, he thought,\nif I succeed in this job, no one at home will\n quibble.\nAnd the chamber to which he and Doran were shown was spectacular\n enough, with a pneumo direct to the bar and a full-wall transparency to\n show the vertical incandescence of the towers.\n\n\n \"Whoof!\" Matheny sat down. The chair slithered sensuously about his\n contours. He jumped. \"What the dusty hell—Oh.\" He tried to grin, but\n his face burned. \"I see.\"", "Matheny shuddered. \"Good Lord, no!\"\n\n\n \"Huh? But they make thyle right on Mars, don't they?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. And it all goes to Earth and sells at 2000 dollars a fifth. But\n you don't think we'd\ndrink\nit, do you? I mean—well, I imagine it\n doesn't absolutely\nruin\nvermouth. But we don't see those Earthside\n commercials about how sophisticated people like it so much.\"\n\"Well, I'll be a socialist creeper!\" Doran's face split in a grin. \"You\n know, all my life I've hated the stuff and never dared admit it!\" He\n raised a hand. \"Don't worry, I won't blabbo. But I am wondering, if you\n control the thyle industry and sell all those relics at fancy prices,\n why do you call yourselves poor?\"", "\"I shall never reveal to any person unauthorized by yourself whatever\n you may tell me under security, now or at any other time,\" he\n recited. Then, cheerfully: \"And that formula, Pete, happens to be the\n honest-to-zebra truth.\"\n\n\n \"I know.\" Matheny stared, embarrassed, at the carpet. \"I'm sorry\n to—to—I mean of course I trust you, but—\"\n\n\n \"Forget it. I take a hundred security oaths a year, in my line of work.\n Maybe I can help you. I like you, Pete, damn if I don't. And, sure,\n I might stand to get an agent's cut, if I arrange—Go ahead, boy, go\n ahead.\" Doran crossed his legs and leaned back.\n\n\n \"Oh, it's simple enough,\" said Matheny. \"It's only that we already are\n operating con games.\"\n\n\n \"On Mars, you mean?\"", "He had been standing at the table for some time before the rest of the\n congregation really noticed him. Then it was with awe. The first few\n passes he had made were unsuccessful. Earth gravity threw him off.\n But when he got the rhythm of it, he tossed a row of sevens. It was a\n customary form of challenge on Mars. Here, though, they simply pushed\n chips toward him. He missed a throw, as anyone would at home: simple\n courtesy. The next time around, he threw for a seven just to get the\n feel. He got a seven. The dice had not been substituted on him.\n\n\n \"I say!\" he exclaimed. He looked up into eyes and eyes, all around the\n green table. \"I'm sorry. I guess I don't know your rules.\"\n\n\n \"You did all right, brother,\" said a middle-aged lady with an obviously\n surgical bodice.", "\"Ahhh!\" said Matheny. \"Bless you, my friend.\"\n\n\n \"A pleasure.\"\n\n\n \"But now you must let me buy you one.\"\n\n\n \"That is not necessary. After all,\" said Doran with great tact, \"with\n the situation as you have been describing—\"\n\n\n \"Oh, we're not\nthat\npoor! My expense allowance assumes I will\n entertain quite a bit.\"\n\n\n Doran's brows lifted a few minutes of arc. \"You're here on business,\n then?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. I told you we haven't any tourists. I was sent to hire a business\n manager for the Martian export trade.\"" ], [ "\"How about postage stamps?\" inquired Doran. \"Philately is a big\n business, I have heard.\"\n\n\n \"It was our mainstay,\" admitted Matheny, \"but it's been overworked.\n Martian stamps are a drug on the market. What we'd like to operate is a\n sweepstakes, but the anti-gambling laws on Earth forbid that.\"\nDoran whistled. \"I got to give your people credit for enterprise,\n anyway!\" He fingered his mustache. \"Uh, pardon me, but have you tried\n to, well, attract capital from Earth?\"", "The city roared at him.\n\n\n He fumbled after his pipe.\nOf course\n, he told himself,\nthat's why\n the Embassy can't act. I may find it advisable to go outside the law.\n Please, sir, where can I contact the underworld?\nHe wished gambling were legal on Earth. The Constitution of the Martian\n Republic forbade sumptuary and moral legislation; quite apart from the\n rambunctious individualism which that document formulated, the article\n was a practical necessity. Life was bleak enough on the deserts,\n without being denied the pleasure of trying to bottom-deal some friend\n who was happily trying to mark the cards. Matheny would have found a\n few spins of roulette soothing: it was always an intellectual challenge\n to work out the system by which the management operated a wheel. But\n more, he would have been among people he understood.", "He had been standing at the table for some time before the rest of the\n congregation really noticed him. Then it was with awe. The first few\n passes he had made were unsuccessful. Earth gravity threw him off.\n But when he got the rhythm of it, he tossed a row of sevens. It was a\n customary form of challenge on Mars. Here, though, they simply pushed\n chips toward him. He missed a throw, as anyone would at home: simple\n courtesy. The next time around, he threw for a seven just to get the\n feel. He got a seven. The dice had not been substituted on him.\n\n\n \"I say!\" he exclaimed. He looked up into eyes and eyes, all around the\n green table. \"I'm sorry. I guess I don't know your rules.\"\n\n\n \"You did all right, brother,\" said a middle-aged lady with an obviously\n surgical bodice.", "A hell of a good bloke. He knew some very funny stories, too, and\n he laughed at Matheny's, though they were probably too rustic for a\n big-city taste like his.\n\n\n \"What I really want,\" said Matheny, \"what I really want—I mean what\n Mars really needs, get me?—is a confidence man.\"\n\n\n \"A what?\"\n\n\n \"The best and slickest one on Earth, to operate a world-size con game\n for us and make us some real money.\"\n\n\n \"Con man? Oh. A slipstring.\"\n\n\n \"A con by any other name,\" said Matheny, pouring down an akvavit.\nDoran squinted through cigarette smoke. \"You are interesting me\n strangely, my friend. Say on.\"", "\"I—I'm not hungry,\" stammered Matheny. \"I just wanted to sit in—\"\n\n\n \"To your left, sir.\"\n\n\n The Martian crossed the lobby. His pipe went out in the breeze from an\n animated angel. Organ music sighed through an open doorway. The series\n of rooms beyond was dim, Gothic, interminable.\n\n\n \"Get your chips right here, sir,\" said the girl in the booth.\n\n\n \"Hm?\" said Matheny.\n\n\n She explained. He bought a few hundred-dollar tokens, dropped a\n fifty-buck coin down a slot marked CONTRIBUTIONS, and sipped the\n martini he got back while he strolled around studying the games.\n He stopped, frowned. Bingo? No, he didn't want to bother learning\n something new. He decided that the roulette wheels were either honest\n or too deep for him. He'd have to relax with a crap game instead.", "\"Trouble with it is, I hear Mars is not so comfortable,\" said Doran. \"I\n mean, do not get me wrong, I don't want to insult you or anything, but\n people come back saying you have given the planet just barely enough\n air to keep a man alive. And there are no cities, just little towns and\n villages and ranches out in the bush. I mean you are being pioneers and\n making a new nation and all that, but people paying half a megabuck for\n their ticket expect some comfort and, uh, you know.\"\n\n\n \"I do know,\" said Matheny. \"But we're poor—a handful of people trying\n to make a world of dust and sand and scrub thorn into fields and woods\n and seas. We can't do it without substantial help from Earth, equipment\n and supplies—which can only be paid for in Earth dollars—and we can't\n export enough to Earth to earn those dollars.\"", "Matheny shuddered. \"Good Lord, no!\"\n\n\n \"Huh? But they make thyle right on Mars, don't they?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. And it all goes to Earth and sells at 2000 dollars a fifth. But\n you don't think we'd\ndrink\nit, do you? I mean—well, I imagine it\n doesn't absolutely\nruin\nvermouth. But we don't see those Earthside\n commercials about how sophisticated people like it so much.\"\n\"Well, I'll be a socialist creeper!\" Doran's face split in a grin. \"You\n know, all my life I've hated the stuff and never dared admit it!\" He\n raised a hand. \"Don't worry, I won't blabbo. But I am wondering, if you\n control the thyle industry and sell all those relics at fancy prices,\n why do you call yourselves poor?\"", "\"I shall never reveal to any person unauthorized by yourself whatever\n you may tell me under security, now or at any other time,\" he\n recited. Then, cheerfully: \"And that formula, Pete, happens to be the\n honest-to-zebra truth.\"\n\n\n \"I know.\" Matheny stared, embarrassed, at the carpet. \"I'm sorry\n to—to—I mean of course I trust you, but—\"\n\n\n \"Forget it. I take a hundred security oaths a year, in my line of work.\n Maybe I can help you. I like you, Pete, damn if I don't. And, sure,\n I might stand to get an agent's cut, if I arrange—Go ahead, boy, go\n ahead.\" Doran crossed his legs and leaned back.\n\n\n \"Oh, it's simple enough,\" said Matheny. \"It's only that we already are\n operating con games.\"\n\n\n \"On Mars, you mean?\"", "\"And then the Red Ankh Society. You must have seen or heard their ads.\n 'What mysterious knowledge did the Old Martians possess? What was\n the secret wisdom of the Ancient Aliens? Now the incredibly powerful\n semantics of the Red Ankh (not a religious organization) is available\n to a select few—' That's our largest dollar-earning enterprise.\"\n\n\n He would have liked to say it was his suggestion originally, but it\n would have been too presumptuous. He was talking to an Earthman, who\n had heard everything already.\n\n\n Doran whistled.\n\n\n \"That's about all, so far,\" confessed Matheny. \"Perhaps a con is our\n only hope. I've been wondering, maybe we could organize a Martian\n bucket shop, handling Martian securities, but—well, I don't know.\"\n\n\n \"I think—\" Doran removed the helmet and stood up.", "\"Of course,\" said Matheny bitterly. \"We offer the most liberal\n concessions in the Solar System. Any little mining company or transport\n firm or—or anybody—who wanted to come and actually invest a few\n dollars in Mars—why, we'd probably give him the President's daughter\n as security. No, the Minister of Ecology has a better-looking one.\n But who's interested? We haven't a thing that Earth hasn't got more\n of. We're only the descendants of a few scientists, a few political\n malcontents, oddballs who happen to prefer elbow room and a bill of\n liberties to the incorporated state—what could General Nucleonics\n hope to get from Mars?\"\n\n\n \"I see. Well, what are you having to drink?\"\n\n\n \"Beer,\" said Matheny without hesitation.\n\n\n \"Huh? Look, pal, this is on me.\"", "\"Well, you see, maybe a man like that is just what Mars does need. And\n maybe I have got a few contacts.\"\n\n\n \"What?\" Matheny gaped out of the bathroom.\n\n\n Doran cupped his hands around a fresh cigarette, not looking at him.\n \"I am not that man,\" he said frankly. \"But in my line I get a lot of\n contacts, and not all of them go topside. See what I mean? Like if,\n say, you wanted somebody terminated and could pay for it, I could not\n do it. I would not want to know anything about it. But I could tell you\n a phone number.\"\n\n\n He shrugged and gave the Martian a sidelong glance. \"Sure, you may not\n be interested. But if you are, well, Pete, I was not born yesterday. I\n got tolerance. Like the book says, if you want to get ahead, you have\n got to think positively.\"", "The frightful thing about the Earthman was the way he seemed to\n exist only in organized masses. A gypsy snake oil peddler, plodding\n his syrtosaur wagon across Martian sands, just didn't have a prayer\n against, say, the Grant, Harding & Adams Public Relations Agency.\nMatheny puffed smoke and looked around. His feet ached from the weight\n on them. Where could a man sit down? It was hard to make out any\n individual sign through all that flimmering neon. His eye fell on one\n that was distinguished by relative austerity.\nTHE CHURCH OF CHOICE\nEnter, Play, Pray\nThat would do. He took an upward slideramp through several hundred feet\n of altitude, stepped past an aurora curtain, and found himself in a\n marble lobby next to an inspirational newsstand.\n\n\n \"Ah, brother, welcome,\" said a red-haired usherette in demure black\n leotards. \"The peace that passeth all understanding be with you. The\n restaurant is right up those stairs.\"", "\"Well, we do sell a lot of color slides, postcards, baggage labels and\n so on to people who like to act cosmopolitan, and I understand our\n travel posters are quite popular as wall decoration. But all that has\n to be printed on Earth, and the printer and distributor keep most of\n the money. We've sold some books and show tapes, of course, but only\n one has been really successful—\nI Was a Slave Girl on Mars\n.\n\n\n \"Our most prominent novelist was co-opted to ghostwrite that one.\n Again, though, local income taxes took most of the money; authors\n never have been protected the way a businessman is. We do make a high\n percentage of profit on those little certificates you see around—you\n know, the title deeds to one square inch of Mars—but expressed\n absolutely, in dollars, it doesn't amount to much when we start\n shopping for bulldozers and thermonuclear power plants.\"", "occasional trip to Swindletown—\nMy God\n, thought Matheny,\nhere I am, one solitary outlander in the\n greatest commercial empire the human race has ever seen, and I'm\n supposed to find my planet a con man!\nHe began walking, disconsolately, at random. His lizardskin shirt and\n black culottes drew glances, but derisive ones: their cut was forty\n years out of date. He should find himself a hotel, he thought drearily,\n but he wasn't tired; the spaceport would pneumo his baggage to him\n whenever he did check in. The few Martians who had been to Earth had\n gone into ecstasies over the automation which put any service you could\n name on a twenty-four-hour basis. But it would be a long time before", "\"You're from Mars, aren't you?\" he asked in the friendliest tone\n Matheny had yet heard.\n\n\n \"Yes. Yes, I am. M-my name's Peter Matheny. I, I—\" He stuck out his\n hand to shake and chips rolled over the floor. \"Damn! Oh, excuse me, I\n forgot this was a church. Never mind the chips. No, please. I just want\n to g-g-get the hell out of here.\"\n\n\n \"Good idea. How about a drink? I know a bar downshaft.\"\n\n\n Matheny sighed. \"A drink is what I need the very most.\"\n\n\n \"My name's Doran. Gus Doran. Call me Gus.\"\n\n\n They walked back to the deaconette's booth and Matheny cashed what\n remained of his winnings.", "\"But—I mean—when do we start actually\nplaying\n? What happened to the\n cocked dice?\"\nThe lady drew herself up and jutted an indignant brow at him. \"Sir!\n This is a church!\"\n\n\n \"Oh—I see—excuse me, I, I, I—\" Matheny backed out of the crowd,\n shuddering. He looked around for some place to hide his burning ears.\n\n\n \"You forgot your chips, pal,\" said a voice.\n\n\n \"Oh. Thanks. Thanks ever so much. I, I, that is—\" Matheny cursed\n his knotting tongue.\nDamn it, just because they're so much more\n sophisticated than I, do I have to talk like a leaky boiler?\nThe helpful Earthman was not tall. He was dark and chisel-faced and\n sleekly pomaded, dapper in blue pajamas with a red zigzag, a sleighbell\n cloak and curly-toed slippers.", "\"I always wanted to,\" said Doran. \"I would like to see the what they\n call City of Time, and so on. As a matter of fact, I have given my\n girl one of those Old Martian rings last Ike's Birthday and she was\n just gazoo about it. A jewel dug out of the City of Time, like,\n made a million years ago by a, uh, extinct race ... I tell you, she\nappreciated\nme for it!\" He winked and nudged.\n\n\n \"Oh,\" said Matheny.\nHe felt a certain guilt. Doran was too pleasant a little man to\n deserve—\n\n\n \"Of course,\" Matheny said ritually, \"I agree with all the archeologists\n it's a crime to sell such scientifically priceless artifacts, but what\n can we do? We must live, and the tourist trade is almost nonexistent.\"", "\"The only beer on Mars comes forty million miles, with interplanetary\n freight charges tacked on,\" said Matheny. \"Heineken's!\"\n\n\n Doran shrugged, dialed the dispenser and fed it coins.\n\n\n \"This is a real interesting talk, Pete,\" he said. \"You are being very\n frank with me. I like a man that is frank.\"\n\n\n Matheny shrugged. \"I haven't told you anything that isn't known to\n every economist.\"\nOf course I haven't. I've not so much as mentioned the Red Ankh, for\n instance. But, in principle, I have told him the truth, told him of our\n need; for even the secret operations do not yield us enough.\nThe beer arrived. Matheny engulfed himself in it. Doran sipped at a\n whiskey sour and unobtrusively set another full bottle in front of the\n Martian.", "Matheny hesitated. If only he hadn't taken that last shot! It made him\n want to say yes, immediately, without reservations. And therefore maybe\n he became overcautious.\n\n\n They had instructed him on Mars to take chances if he must.\n\n\n \"I could tell you a thing or two that might give you a better idea,\" he\n said slowly. \"But it would have to be under security.\"\n\n\n \"Okay by me. Room service can send us up an oath box right now.\"\n\n\n \"What? But—but—\" Matheny hung onto himself and tried to believe that\n he had landed on Earth less than six hours ago.\n\n\n In the end, he did call room service and the machine was trundled in.\n Doran swallowed the pill and donned the conditioner helmet without an\n instant's hesitation.", "\"Because we are,\" said Matheny. \"By the time the shipping costs have\n been paid on a bottle, and the Earth wholesaler and jobber and sales\n engineer and so on, down to the retailer, have taken their percentage,\n and the advertising agency has been paid, and about fifty separate\n Earth taxes—there's very little profit going back to the distillery\n on Mars. The same principle is what's strangling us on everything. Old\n Martian artifacts aren't really rare, for instance, but freight charges\n and the middlemen here put them out of the mass market.\"\n\n\n \"Have you not got some other business?\"" ], [ "\"I—I'm not hungry,\" stammered Matheny. \"I just wanted to sit in—\"\n\n\n \"To your left, sir.\"\n\n\n The Martian crossed the lobby. His pipe went out in the breeze from an\n animated angel. Organ music sighed through an open doorway. The series\n of rooms beyond was dim, Gothic, interminable.\n\n\n \"Get your chips right here, sir,\" said the girl in the booth.\n\n\n \"Hm?\" said Matheny.\n\n\n She explained. He bought a few hundred-dollar tokens, dropped a\n fifty-buck coin down a slot marked CONTRIBUTIONS, and sipped the\n martini he got back while he strolled around studying the games.\n He stopped, frowned. Bingo? No, he didn't want to bother learning\n something new. He decided that the roulette wheels were either honest\n or too deep for him. He'd have to relax with a crap game instead.", "\"But—I mean—when do we start actually\nplaying\n? What happened to the\n cocked dice?\"\nThe lady drew herself up and jutted an indignant brow at him. \"Sir!\n This is a church!\"\n\n\n \"Oh—I see—excuse me, I, I, I—\" Matheny backed out of the crowd,\n shuddering. He looked around for some place to hide his burning ears.\n\n\n \"You forgot your chips, pal,\" said a voice.\n\n\n \"Oh. Thanks. Thanks ever so much. I, I, that is—\" Matheny cursed\n his knotting tongue.\nDamn it, just because they're so much more\n sophisticated than I, do I have to talk like a leaky boiler?\nThe helpful Earthman was not tall. He was dark and chisel-faced and\n sleekly pomaded, dapper in blue pajamas with a red zigzag, a sleighbell\n cloak and curly-toed slippers.", "\"No.\" Matheny realized his head was a bit smoky. The walls of the booth\n seemed odd, somehow. They were just leatheroid walls, but they had an\n odd quality.\n\n\n \"No, sorry, Gus,\" he said. \"I spoke too much.\"\n\n\n \"Okay. Forget it. I do not like a man that pries. But look, let's bomb\n out of here, how about it? Go have a little fun.\"\n\n\n \"By all means.\" Matheny disposed of his last beer. \"I could use some\n gaiety.\"\n\n\n \"You have come to the right town then. But let us get you a hotel room\n first and some more up-to-date clothes.\"\n\n\n \"\nAllez\n,\" said Matheny. \"If I don't mean\nallons\n, or maybe\nalors\n.\"", "\"I shall never reveal to any person unauthorized by yourself whatever\n you may tell me under security, now or at any other time,\" he\n recited. Then, cheerfully: \"And that formula, Pete, happens to be the\n honest-to-zebra truth.\"\n\n\n \"I know.\" Matheny stared, embarrassed, at the carpet. \"I'm sorry\n to—to—I mean of course I trust you, but—\"\n\n\n \"Forget it. I take a hundred security oaths a year, in my line of work.\n Maybe I can help you. I like you, Pete, damn if I don't. And, sure,\n I might stand to get an agent's cut, if I arrange—Go ahead, boy, go\n ahead.\" Doran crossed his legs and leaned back.\n\n\n \"Oh, it's simple enough,\" said Matheny. \"It's only that we already are\n operating con games.\"\n\n\n \"On Mars, you mean?\"", "Matheny hesitated. If only he hadn't taken that last shot! It made him\n want to say yes, immediately, without reservations. And therefore maybe\n he became overcautious.\n\n\n They had instructed him on Mars to take chances if he must.\n\n\n \"I could tell you a thing or two that might give you a better idea,\" he\n said slowly. \"But it would have to be under security.\"\n\n\n \"Okay by me. Room service can send us up an oath box right now.\"\n\n\n \"What? But—but—\" Matheny hung onto himself and tried to believe that\n he had landed on Earth less than six hours ago.\n\n\n In the end, he did call room service and the machine was trundled in.\n Doran swallowed the pill and donned the conditioner helmet without an\n instant's hesitation.", "\"You're from Mars, aren't you?\" he asked in the friendliest tone\n Matheny had yet heard.\n\n\n \"Yes. Yes, I am. M-my name's Peter Matheny. I, I—\" He stuck out his\n hand to shake and chips rolled over the floor. \"Damn! Oh, excuse me, I\n forgot this was a church. Never mind the chips. No, please. I just want\n to g-g-get the hell out of here.\"\n\n\n \"Good idea. How about a drink? I know a bar downshaft.\"\n\n\n Matheny sighed. \"A drink is what I need the very most.\"\n\n\n \"My name's Doran. Gus Doran. Call me Gus.\"\n\n\n They walked back to the deaconette's booth and Matheny cashed what\n remained of his winnings.", "A hell of a good bloke. He knew some very funny stories, too, and\n he laughed at Matheny's, though they were probably too rustic for a\n big-city taste like his.\n\n\n \"What I really want,\" said Matheny, \"what I really want—I mean what\n Mars really needs, get me?—is a confidence man.\"\n\n\n \"A what?\"\n\n\n \"The best and slickest one on Earth, to operate a world-size con game\n for us and make us some real money.\"\n\n\n \"Con man? Oh. A slipstring.\"\n\n\n \"A con by any other name,\" said Matheny, pouring down an akvavit.\nDoran squinted through cigarette smoke. \"You are interesting me\n strangely, my friend. Say on.\"", "\"Remember Junie O'Brien? The little golden-haired girl on Mars, a\n mathematical prodigy, but dying of an incurable disease? She collected\n Earth coins.\"\n\n\n \"Oh, that. Sure, I remember—Hey! You didn't!\"\n\n\n \"Yes. We made about a billion dollars on that one.\"\n\n\n \"I will be double damned. You know, Pete, I sent her a hundred-buck\n piece myself. Say, how is Junie O'Brien?\"\n\n\n \"Oh, fine. Under a different name, she's now our finance minister.\"\n Matheny stared out the wall, his hands twisting nervously behind his\n back. \"There were no lies involved. She really does have a fatal\n disease. So do you and I. Every day we grow older.\"\n\n\n \"Uh!\" exclaimed Doran.", "The city roared at him.\n\n\n He fumbled after his pipe.\nOf course\n, he told himself,\nthat's why\n the Embassy can't act. I may find it advisable to go outside the law.\n Please, sir, where can I contact the underworld?\nHe wished gambling were legal on Earth. The Constitution of the Martian\n Republic forbade sumptuary and moral legislation; quite apart from the\n rambunctious individualism which that document formulated, the article\n was a practical necessity. Life was bleak enough on the deserts,\n without being denied the pleasure of trying to bottom-deal some friend\n who was happily trying to mark the cards. Matheny would have found a\n few spins of roulette soothing: it was always an intellectual challenge\n to work out the system by which the management operated a wheel. But\n more, he would have been among people he understood.", "He had been standing at the table for some time before the rest of the\n congregation really noticed him. Then it was with awe. The first few\n passes he had made were unsuccessful. Earth gravity threw him off.\n But when he got the rhythm of it, he tossed a row of sevens. It was a\n customary form of challenge on Mars. Here, though, they simply pushed\n chips toward him. He missed a throw, as anyone would at home: simple\n courtesy. The next time around, he threw for a seven just to get the\n feel. He got a seven. The dice had not been substituted on him.\n\n\n \"I say!\" he exclaimed. He looked up into eyes and eyes, all around the\n green table. \"I'm sorry. I guess I don't know your rules.\"\n\n\n \"You did all right, brother,\" said a middle-aged lady with an obviously\n surgical bodice.", "\"Ahhh!\" said Matheny. \"Bless you, my friend.\"\n\n\n \"A pleasure.\"\n\n\n \"But now you must let me buy you one.\"\n\n\n \"That is not necessary. After all,\" said Doran with great tact, \"with\n the situation as you have been describing—\"\n\n\n \"Oh, we're not\nthat\npoor! My expense allowance assumes I will\n entertain quite a bit.\"\n\n\n Doran's brows lifted a few minutes of arc. \"You're here on business,\n then?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. I told you we haven't any tourists. I was sent to hire a business\n manager for the Martian export trade.\"", "acreage than his eyes reached, was impressive and all that, but—he\n used to stroll out in the rock garden behind his cottage and smoke a\n pipe in company with Orion. On summer evenings, that is, when the\n temperature wasn't too far below zero.\nWhy did they tap me for this job?\nhe asked himself in a surge of\n homesickness.\nWhat the hell is the Martian Embassy here for?\nHe, Peter Matheny, was no more than a peaceful professor of\n sociodynamics at Devil's Kettle University. Of course, he had advised\n his government before now—in fact, the Red Ankh Society had been his\n idea—but still he was at ease only with his books and his chess and\n his mineral collection, a faculty poker party on Tenthday night and an", "The drop down to cab-ramp level and the short ride afterward sobered\n him; the room rate at the Jupiter-Astoria sobered him still more.\nOh, well\n, he thought,\nif I succeed in this job, no one at home will\n quibble.\nAnd the chamber to which he and Doran were shown was spectacular\n enough, with a pneumo direct to the bar and a full-wall transparency to\n show the vertical incandescence of the towers.\n\n\n \"Whoof!\" Matheny sat down. The chair slithered sensuously about his\n contours. He jumped. \"What the dusty hell—Oh.\" He tried to grin, but\n his face burned. \"I see.\"", "By that time, they were entering the Paul Bunyan Knotty Pine Bar &\n Grill, on the 73rd Level. Matheny's jaw clanked down.\n\n\n \"Whassa matter?\" asked Doran. \"Ain't you ever seen a ecdysiastic\n technician before?\"\n\n\n \"Uh, yes, but—well, not in a 3-D image under ten magnifications.\"\n\n\n Matheny followed Doran past a sign announcing that this show was for\n purely artistic purposes, into a booth. There a soundproof curtain\n reduced the noise level enough so they could talk in normal voices.\n\n\n \"What'll you have?\" asked Doran. \"It's on me.\"\n\n\n \"Oh, I couldn't let you. I mean—\"\n\n\n \"Nonsense. Welcome to Earth! Care for a thyle and vermouth?\"", "\"Well, you see, maybe a man like that is just what Mars does need. And\n maybe I have got a few contacts.\"\n\n\n \"What?\" Matheny gaped out of the bathroom.\n\n\n Doran cupped his hands around a fresh cigarette, not looking at him.\n \"I am not that man,\" he said frankly. \"But in my line I get a lot of\n contacts, and not all of them go topside. See what I mean? Like if,\n say, you wanted somebody terminated and could pay for it, I could not\n do it. I would not want to know anything about it. But I could tell you\n a phone number.\"\n\n\n He shrugged and gave the Martian a sidelong glance. \"Sure, you may not\n be interested. But if you are, well, Pete, I was not born yesterday. I\n got tolerance. Like the book says, if you want to get ahead, you have\n got to think positively.\"", "\"I could offer a certain amount of, uh, lagniappe,\" said Matheny. \"That\n is, well, I can draw up to a hundred megabucks myself for, uh, expenses\n and, well ... let me buy you a drink!\"\n\n\n Doran's black eyes frogged at him. \"You might at that,\" said the\n Earthman very softly. \"Yes, you might at that.\"\n\n\n Matheny found himself warming. Gus Doran was an authentic bobber. A\n hell of a swell chap. He explained modestly that he was a free-lance\n business consultant and it was barely possible that he could arrange\n some contacts....\n\n\n \"No, no, no commission, all done in the interest of interplanetary\n friendship ... well, anyhow, let's not talk business now. If you have\n got to stick to beer, Pete, make it a chaser to akvavit. What is\n akvavit? Well, I will just take and show you.\"", "\"That is a sexy type of furniture, all right,\" agreed Doran. He lowered\n himself into another chair, cocked his feet on the 3-D and waved a\n cigarette. \"Which speaking of, what say we get some girls? It is not\n too late to catch them at home. A date here will usually start around\n 2100 hours earliest.\"\n\n\n \"What?\"\n\n\n \"You know. Dames. Like a certain blonde warhead with twin radar and\n swivel mounting, and she just loves exotics. Such as you.\"\n\n\n \"Me?\" Matheny heard his voice climb to a schoolboy squeak. \"Me?\n Exotic? Why, I'm just a little college professor. I g-g-g, that is—\"\n His tongue got stuck on his palate. He pulled it loose and moistened\n uncertain lips.\n\n\n \"You are from Mars. Okay? So you fought bushcats barehanded in an\n abandoned canal.\"", "occasional trip to Swindletown—\nMy God\n, thought Matheny,\nhere I am, one solitary outlander in the\n greatest commercial empire the human race has ever seen, and I'm\n supposed to find my planet a con man!\nHe began walking, disconsolately, at random. His lizardskin shirt and\n black culottes drew glances, but derisive ones: their cut was forty\n years out of date. He should find himself a hotel, he thought drearily,\n but he wasn't tired; the spaceport would pneumo his baggage to him\n whenever he did check in. The few Martians who had been to Earth had\n gone into ecstasies over the automation which put any service you could\n name on a twenty-four-hour basis. But it would be a long time before", "\"What's a bushcat? And we don't have canals. The evaporation rate—\"\n\n\n \"Look, Pete,\" said Doran patiently. \"She don't have to know that, does\n she?\"\n\n\n \"Well—well, no. I guess not No.\"\n\n\n \"Let's order you some clothes on the pneumo,\" said Doran. \"I recommend\n you buy from Schwartzherz. Everybody knows he is expensive.\"\nWhile Matheny jittered about, shaving and showering and struggling with\n his new raiment, Doran kept him supplied with akvavit and beer.\n\n\n \"You said one thing, Pete,\" Doran remarked. \"About needing a\n slipstring. A con man, you would call it.\"\n\n\n \"Forget that. Please. I spoke out of turn.\"", "Matheny felt his eloquence running down and grabbed for the second\n bottle of beer.\n\n\n \"But where do I start?\" he asked plaintively, for his loneliness smote\n him anew. \"I'm just a college professor at home. How would I even get\n to see—\"\n\n\n \"It might be arranged,\" said Doran in a thoughtful tone. \"It just\n might. How much could you pay this fellow?\"\n\n\n \"A hundred megabucks a year, if he'll sign a five-year contract. That's\n Earth years, mind you.\"\n\n\n \"I'm sorry to tell you this, Pete,\" said Doran, \"but while that is not\n bad money, it is not what a high-powered sales scientist gets in Newer\n York. Plus his retirement benefits, which he would lose if he quit\n where he is now at. And I am sure he would not want to settle on Mars\n permanently.\"" ], [ "\"Ahhh!\" said Matheny. \"Bless you, my friend.\"\n\n\n \"A pleasure.\"\n\n\n \"But now you must let me buy you one.\"\n\n\n \"That is not necessary. After all,\" said Doran with great tact, \"with\n the situation as you have been describing—\"\n\n\n \"Oh, we're not\nthat\npoor! My expense allowance assumes I will\n entertain quite a bit.\"\n\n\n Doran's brows lifted a few minutes of arc. \"You're here on business,\n then?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. I told you we haven't any tourists. I was sent to hire a business\n manager for the Martian export trade.\"", "\"No.\" Matheny realized his head was a bit smoky. The walls of the booth\n seemed odd, somehow. They were just leatheroid walls, but they had an\n odd quality.\n\n\n \"No, sorry, Gus,\" he said. \"I spoke too much.\"\n\n\n \"Okay. Forget it. I do not like a man that pries. But look, let's bomb\n out of here, how about it? Go have a little fun.\"\n\n\n \"By all means.\" Matheny disposed of his last beer. \"I could use some\n gaiety.\"\n\n\n \"You have come to the right town then. But let us get you a hotel room\n first and some more up-to-date clothes.\"\n\n\n \"\nAllez\n,\" said Matheny. \"If I don't mean\nallons\n, or maybe\nalors\n.\"", "\"I could offer a certain amount of, uh, lagniappe,\" said Matheny. \"That\n is, well, I can draw up to a hundred megabucks myself for, uh, expenses\n and, well ... let me buy you a drink!\"\n\n\n Doran's black eyes frogged at him. \"You might at that,\" said the\n Earthman very softly. \"Yes, you might at that.\"\n\n\n Matheny found himself warming. Gus Doran was an authentic bobber. A\n hell of a swell chap. He explained modestly that he was a free-lance\n business consultant and it was barely possible that he could arrange\n some contacts....\n\n\n \"No, no, no commission, all done in the interest of interplanetary\n friendship ... well, anyhow, let's not talk business now. If you have\n got to stick to beer, Pete, make it a chaser to akvavit. What is\n akvavit? Well, I will just take and show you.\"", "\"Yes?\" Matheny faced around, shivering with his own tension.\n\n\n \"I may be able to find the man you want,\" said Doran. \"I just may. It\n will take a few days and might get a little expensive.\"\n\n\n \"You mean.... Mr. Doran—Gus—you could actually—\"\n\n\n \"I cannot promise anything yet except that I will try. Now you finish\n dressing. I will be down in the bar. And I will call up this girl I\n know. We deserve a celebration!\"", "\"I shall never reveal to any person unauthorized by yourself whatever\n you may tell me under security, now or at any other time,\" he\n recited. Then, cheerfully: \"And that formula, Pete, happens to be the\n honest-to-zebra truth.\"\n\n\n \"I know.\" Matheny stared, embarrassed, at the carpet. \"I'm sorry\n to—to—I mean of course I trust you, but—\"\n\n\n \"Forget it. I take a hundred security oaths a year, in my line of work.\n Maybe I can help you. I like you, Pete, damn if I don't. And, sure,\n I might stand to get an agent's cut, if I arrange—Go ahead, boy, go\n ahead.\" Doran crossed his legs and leaned back.\n\n\n \"Oh, it's simple enough,\" said Matheny. \"It's only that we already are\n operating con games.\"\n\n\n \"On Mars, you mean?\"", "Doran leaned forward as if to climb out of the screen. \"He has got a\n hundred million dollars expense money, and they are not going to audit\n his accounts at home. One hundred million good green certificates,\n legal tender anywhere in the United Protectorates. And he has about\n as much backbone as a piece of steak alga. Kid, if I did not happen to\n have experience otherwise with a small nephew, I would say this will be\n like taking candy from a baby.\"\n\n\n Peri's peaches-and-cream countenance began to resemble peaches and\n cream left overnight on Pluto. \"Badger?\" she asked.\n\n\n \"Sure. You and Sam Wendt handle the routine. I will take the go-between\n angle, so he will think of me as still his friend, because I have other\n plans for him too. But if we can't shake a million out of him for this\n one night's work, there is something akilter. And your share of a\n million is three hundred thirty-three—\"", "A hell of a good bloke. He knew some very funny stories, too, and\n he laughed at Matheny's, though they were probably too rustic for a\n big-city taste like his.\n\n\n \"What I really want,\" said Matheny, \"what I really want—I mean what\n Mars really needs, get me?—is a confidence man.\"\n\n\n \"A what?\"\n\n\n \"The best and slickest one on Earth, to operate a world-size con game\n for us and make us some real money.\"\n\n\n \"Con man? Oh. A slipstring.\"\n\n\n \"A con by any other name,\" said Matheny, pouring down an akvavit.\nDoran squinted through cigarette smoke. \"You are interesting me\n strangely, my friend. Say on.\"", "Doran's thin sharp face grinned. \"You break that date, Peri. Put it off\n or something. I got this Martian for you, see?\"\n\n\n \"So? Since when has all Mars had as much spending money as one big-time\n marijuana rancher? Not to mention the heir ap—\"\n\n\n \"Sure, sure. But how much are those boys going to spend on any girl,\n even a high-level type like you? Listen, I need you just for tonight,\n see? This Martian is strictly from gone. He is here on official\n business, but he is a yokel and I do mean hayseed. Like he asked me\n what the Christmas decorations in all the stores were! And here is the\n solar nexus of it, Peri, kid.\"", "\"What's a bushcat? And we don't have canals. The evaporation rate—\"\n\n\n \"Look, Pete,\" said Doran patiently. \"She don't have to know that, does\n she?\"\n\n\n \"Well—well, no. I guess not No.\"\n\n\n \"Let's order you some clothes on the pneumo,\" said Doran. \"I recommend\n you buy from Schwartzherz. Everybody knows he is expensive.\"\nWhile Matheny jittered about, shaving and showering and struggling with\n his new raiment, Doran kept him supplied with akvavit and beer.\n\n\n \"You said one thing, Pete,\" Doran remarked. \"About needing a\n slipstring. A con man, you would call it.\"\n\n\n \"Forget that. Please. I spoke out of turn.\"", "By that time, they were entering the Paul Bunyan Knotty Pine Bar &\n Grill, on the 73rd Level. Matheny's jaw clanked down.\n\n\n \"Whassa matter?\" asked Doran. \"Ain't you ever seen a ecdysiastic\n technician before?\"\n\n\n \"Uh, yes, but—well, not in a 3-D image under ten magnifications.\"\n\n\n Matheny followed Doran past a sign announcing that this show was for\n purely artistic purposes, into a booth. There a soundproof curtain\n reduced the noise level enough so they could talk in normal voices.\n\n\n \"What'll you have?\" asked Doran. \"It's on me.\"\n\n\n \"Oh, I couldn't let you. I mean—\"\n\n\n \"Nonsense. Welcome to Earth! Care for a thyle and vermouth?\"", "\"I—I'm not hungry,\" stammered Matheny. \"I just wanted to sit in—\"\n\n\n \"To your left, sir.\"\n\n\n The Martian crossed the lobby. His pipe went out in the breeze from an\n animated angel. Organ music sighed through an open doorway. The series\n of rooms beyond was dim, Gothic, interminable.\n\n\n \"Get your chips right here, sir,\" said the girl in the booth.\n\n\n \"Hm?\" said Matheny.\n\n\n She explained. He bought a few hundred-dollar tokens, dropped a\n fifty-buck coin down a slot marked CONTRIBUTIONS, and sipped the\n martini he got back while he strolled around studying the games.\n He stopped, frowned. Bingo? No, he didn't want to bother learning\n something new. He decided that the roulette wheels were either honest\n or too deep for him. He'd have to relax with a crap game instead.", "\"And then the Red Ankh Society. You must have seen or heard their ads.\n 'What mysterious knowledge did the Old Martians possess? What was\n the secret wisdom of the Ancient Aliens? Now the incredibly powerful\n semantics of the Red Ankh (not a religious organization) is available\n to a select few—' That's our largest dollar-earning enterprise.\"\n\n\n He would have liked to say it was his suggestion originally, but it\n would have been too presumptuous. He was talking to an Earthman, who\n had heard everything already.\n\n\n Doran whistled.\n\n\n \"That's about all, so far,\" confessed Matheny. \"Perhaps a con is our\n only hope. I've been wondering, maybe we could organize a Martian\n bucket shop, handling Martian securities, but—well, I don't know.\"\n\n\n \"I think—\" Doran removed the helmet and stood up.", "Matheny hesitated. If only he hadn't taken that last shot! It made him\n want to say yes, immediately, without reservations. And therefore maybe\n he became overcautious.\n\n\n They had instructed him on Mars to take chances if he must.\n\n\n \"I could tell you a thing or two that might give you a better idea,\" he\n said slowly. \"But it would have to be under security.\"\n\n\n \"Okay by me. Room service can send us up an oath box right now.\"\n\n\n \"What? But—but—\" Matheny hung onto himself and tried to believe that\n he had landed on Earth less than six hours ago.\n\n\n In the end, he did call room service and the machine was trundled in.\n Doran swallowed the pill and donned the conditioner helmet without an\n instant's hesitation.", "\"Well, you see, maybe a man like that is just what Mars does need. And\n maybe I have got a few contacts.\"\n\n\n \"What?\" Matheny gaped out of the bathroom.\n\n\n Doran cupped his hands around a fresh cigarette, not looking at him.\n \"I am not that man,\" he said frankly. \"But in my line I get a lot of\n contacts, and not all of them go topside. See what I mean? Like if,\n say, you wanted somebody terminated and could pay for it, I could not\n do it. I would not want to know anything about it. But I could tell you\n a phone number.\"\n\n\n He shrugged and gave the Martian a sidelong glance. \"Sure, you may not\n be interested. But if you are, well, Pete, I was not born yesterday. I\n got tolerance. Like the book says, if you want to get ahead, you have\n got to think positively.\"", "Matheny felt his eloquence running down and grabbed for the second\n bottle of beer.\n\n\n \"But where do I start?\" he asked plaintively, for his loneliness smote\n him anew. \"I'm just a college professor at home. How would I even get\n to see—\"\n\n\n \"It might be arranged,\" said Doran in a thoughtful tone. \"It just\n might. How much could you pay this fellow?\"\n\n\n \"A hundred megabucks a year, if he'll sign a five-year contract. That's\n Earth years, mind you.\"\n\n\n \"I'm sorry to tell you this, Pete,\" said Doran, \"but while that is not\n bad money, it is not what a high-powered sales scientist gets in Newer\n York. Plus his retirement benefits, which he would lose if he quit\n where he is now at. And I am sure he would not want to settle on Mars\n permanently.\"", "She undulated to the phone and pressed its Accept. \"Hello-o, there,\"\n she said automatically. \"So sorry to keep you waiting. I was just\n taking a bath and—Oh. It's you.\"\n\n\n Gus Doran's prawnlike eyes popped at her. \"Holy Success,\" he whispered\n in awe. \"You sure the wires can carry that much voltage?\"\n\"Well, hurry up with whatever it is,\" snapped Peri. \"I got a date\n tonight.\"\n\n\n \"I'll say you do! With a Martian!\"\nPeri narrowed her silver-blue gaze and looked icily at him. \"You must\n have heard wrong, Gus. He's the heir apparent of Indonesia, Inc.,\n that's who, and if you called up to ask for a piece of him, you can\n just blank right out again. I saw him first!\"", "\"You're from Mars, aren't you?\" he asked in the friendliest tone\n Matheny had yet heard.\n\n\n \"Yes. Yes, I am. M-my name's Peter Matheny. I, I—\" He stuck out his\n hand to shake and chips rolled over the floor. \"Damn! Oh, excuse me, I\n forgot this was a church. Never mind the chips. No, please. I just want\n to g-g-get the hell out of here.\"\n\n\n \"Good idea. How about a drink? I know a bar downshaft.\"\n\n\n Matheny sighed. \"A drink is what I need the very most.\"\n\n\n \"My name's Doran. Gus Doran. Call me Gus.\"\n\n\n They walked back to the deaconette's booth and Matheny cashed what\n remained of his winnings.", "occasional trip to Swindletown—\nMy God\n, thought Matheny,\nhere I am, one solitary outlander in the\n greatest commercial empire the human race has ever seen, and I'm\n supposed to find my planet a con man!\nHe began walking, disconsolately, at random. His lizardskin shirt and\n black culottes drew glances, but derisive ones: their cut was forty\n years out of date. He should find himself a hotel, he thought drearily,\n but he wasn't tired; the spaceport would pneumo his baggage to him\n whenever he did check in. The few Martians who had been to Earth had\n gone into ecstasies over the automation which put any service you could\n name on a twenty-four-hour basis. But it would be a long time before", "\"Is five hundred thousand flat,\" said Peri. \"Too bad I just got an\n awful headache and can't see Mr. Sastro tonight. Where you at, Gus?\"\nThe gravity was not as hard to take as Peter Matheny had expected.\n Three generations on Mars might lengthen the legs and expand the chest\n a trifle, but the genes had come from Earth and the organism readjusts.\n What set him gasping was the air. It weighed like a ton of wool and had\n apparently sopped up half the Atlantic Ocean. Ears trained to listen\n through the Martian atmosphere shuddered from the racket conducted by\n Earth's. The passport official seemed to bellow at him.\n\n\n \"Pardon me for asking this. The United Protectorates welcome all\n visitors to Earth and I assure you, sir, an ordinary five-year visa\n provokes no questions. But since you came on an official courier boat\n of your planet, Mr. Matheny, regulations force me to ask your business.\"\n\n\n \"Well—recruiting.\"", "\"But—I mean—when do we start actually\nplaying\n? What happened to the\n cocked dice?\"\nThe lady drew herself up and jutted an indignant brow at him. \"Sir!\n This is a church!\"\n\n\n \"Oh—I see—excuse me, I, I, I—\" Matheny backed out of the crowd,\n shuddering. He looked around for some place to hide his burning ears.\n\n\n \"You forgot your chips, pal,\" said a voice.\n\n\n \"Oh. Thanks. Thanks ever so much. I, I, that is—\" Matheny cursed\n his knotting tongue.\nDamn it, just because they're so much more\n sophisticated than I, do I have to talk like a leaky boiler?\nThe helpful Earthman was not tall. He was dark and chisel-faced and\n sleekly pomaded, dapper in blue pajamas with a red zigzag, a sleighbell\n cloak and curly-toed slippers." ], [ "\"No.\" Matheny realized his head was a bit smoky. The walls of the booth\n seemed odd, somehow. They were just leatheroid walls, but they had an\n odd quality.\n\n\n \"No, sorry, Gus,\" he said. \"I spoke too much.\"\n\n\n \"Okay. Forget it. I do not like a man that pries. But look, let's bomb\n out of here, how about it? Go have a little fun.\"\n\n\n \"By all means.\" Matheny disposed of his last beer. \"I could use some\n gaiety.\"\n\n\n \"You have come to the right town then. But let us get you a hotel room\n first and some more up-to-date clothes.\"\n\n\n \"\nAllez\n,\" said Matheny. \"If I don't mean\nallons\n, or maybe\nalors\n.\"", "\"I—I'm not hungry,\" stammered Matheny. \"I just wanted to sit in—\"\n\n\n \"To your left, sir.\"\n\n\n The Martian crossed the lobby. His pipe went out in the breeze from an\n animated angel. Organ music sighed through an open doorway. The series\n of rooms beyond was dim, Gothic, interminable.\n\n\n \"Get your chips right here, sir,\" said the girl in the booth.\n\n\n \"Hm?\" said Matheny.\n\n\n She explained. He bought a few hundred-dollar tokens, dropped a\n fifty-buck coin down a slot marked CONTRIBUTIONS, and sipped the\n martini he got back while he strolled around studying the games.\n He stopped, frowned. Bingo? No, he didn't want to bother learning\n something new. He decided that the roulette wheels were either honest\n or too deep for him. He'd have to relax with a crap game instead.", "\"But—I mean—when do we start actually\nplaying\n? What happened to the\n cocked dice?\"\nThe lady drew herself up and jutted an indignant brow at him. \"Sir!\n This is a church!\"\n\n\n \"Oh—I see—excuse me, I, I, I—\" Matheny backed out of the crowd,\n shuddering. He looked around for some place to hide his burning ears.\n\n\n \"You forgot your chips, pal,\" said a voice.\n\n\n \"Oh. Thanks. Thanks ever so much. I, I, that is—\" Matheny cursed\n his knotting tongue.\nDamn it, just because they're so much more\n sophisticated than I, do I have to talk like a leaky boiler?\nThe helpful Earthman was not tall. He was dark and chisel-faced and\n sleekly pomaded, dapper in blue pajamas with a red zigzag, a sleighbell\n cloak and curly-toed slippers.", "\"You're from Mars, aren't you?\" he asked in the friendliest tone\n Matheny had yet heard.\n\n\n \"Yes. Yes, I am. M-my name's Peter Matheny. I, I—\" He stuck out his\n hand to shake and chips rolled over the floor. \"Damn! Oh, excuse me, I\n forgot this was a church. Never mind the chips. No, please. I just want\n to g-g-get the hell out of here.\"\n\n\n \"Good idea. How about a drink? I know a bar downshaft.\"\n\n\n Matheny sighed. \"A drink is what I need the very most.\"\n\n\n \"My name's Doran. Gus Doran. Call me Gus.\"\n\n\n They walked back to the deaconette's booth and Matheny cashed what\n remained of his winnings.", "Matheny hesitated. If only he hadn't taken that last shot! It made him\n want to say yes, immediately, without reservations. And therefore maybe\n he became overcautious.\n\n\n They had instructed him on Mars to take chances if he must.\n\n\n \"I could tell you a thing or two that might give you a better idea,\" he\n said slowly. \"But it would have to be under security.\"\n\n\n \"Okay by me. Room service can send us up an oath box right now.\"\n\n\n \"What? But—but—\" Matheny hung onto himself and tried to believe that\n he had landed on Earth less than six hours ago.\n\n\n In the end, he did call room service and the machine was trundled in.\n Doran swallowed the pill and donned the conditioner helmet without an\n instant's hesitation.", "The frightful thing about the Earthman was the way he seemed to\n exist only in organized masses. A gypsy snake oil peddler, plodding\n his syrtosaur wagon across Martian sands, just didn't have a prayer\n against, say, the Grant, Harding & Adams Public Relations Agency.\nMatheny puffed smoke and looked around. His feet ached from the weight\n on them. Where could a man sit down? It was hard to make out any\n individual sign through all that flimmering neon. His eye fell on one\n that was distinguished by relative austerity.\nTHE CHURCH OF CHOICE\nEnter, Play, Pray\nThat would do. He took an upward slideramp through several hundred feet\n of altitude, stepped past an aurora curtain, and found himself in a\n marble lobby next to an inspirational newsstand.\n\n\n \"Ah, brother, welcome,\" said a red-haired usherette in demure black\n leotards. \"The peace that passeth all understanding be with you. The\n restaurant is right up those stairs.\"", "\"Yes?\" Matheny faced around, shivering with his own tension.\n\n\n \"I may be able to find the man you want,\" said Doran. \"I just may. It\n will take a few days and might get a little expensive.\"\n\n\n \"You mean.... Mr. Doran—Gus—you could actually—\"\n\n\n \"I cannot promise anything yet except that I will try. Now you finish\n dressing. I will be down in the bar. And I will call up this girl I\n know. We deserve a celebration!\"", "The drop down to cab-ramp level and the short ride afterward sobered\n him; the room rate at the Jupiter-Astoria sobered him still more.\nOh, well\n, he thought,\nif I succeed in this job, no one at home will\n quibble.\nAnd the chamber to which he and Doran were shown was spectacular\n enough, with a pneumo direct to the bar and a full-wall transparency to\n show the vertical incandescence of the towers.\n\n\n \"Whoof!\" Matheny sat down. The chair slithered sensuously about his\n contours. He jumped. \"What the dusty hell—Oh.\" He tried to grin, but\n his face burned. \"I see.\"", "\"I shall never reveal to any person unauthorized by yourself whatever\n you may tell me under security, now or at any other time,\" he\n recited. Then, cheerfully: \"And that formula, Pete, happens to be the\n honest-to-zebra truth.\"\n\n\n \"I know.\" Matheny stared, embarrassed, at the carpet. \"I'm sorry\n to—to—I mean of course I trust you, but—\"\n\n\n \"Forget it. I take a hundred security oaths a year, in my line of work.\n Maybe I can help you. I like you, Pete, damn if I don't. And, sure,\n I might stand to get an agent's cut, if I arrange—Go ahead, boy, go\n ahead.\" Doran crossed his legs and leaned back.\n\n\n \"Oh, it's simple enough,\" said Matheny. \"It's only that we already are\n operating con games.\"\n\n\n \"On Mars, you mean?\"", "A hell of a good bloke. He knew some very funny stories, too, and\n he laughed at Matheny's, though they were probably too rustic for a\n big-city taste like his.\n\n\n \"What I really want,\" said Matheny, \"what I really want—I mean what\n Mars really needs, get me?—is a confidence man.\"\n\n\n \"A what?\"\n\n\n \"The best and slickest one on Earth, to operate a world-size con game\n for us and make us some real money.\"\n\n\n \"Con man? Oh. A slipstring.\"\n\n\n \"A con by any other name,\" said Matheny, pouring down an akvavit.\nDoran squinted through cigarette smoke. \"You are interesting me\n strangely, my friend. Say on.\"", "occasional trip to Swindletown—\nMy God\n, thought Matheny,\nhere I am, one solitary outlander in the\n greatest commercial empire the human race has ever seen, and I'm\n supposed to find my planet a con man!\nHe began walking, disconsolately, at random. His lizardskin shirt and\n black culottes drew glances, but derisive ones: their cut was forty\n years out of date. He should find himself a hotel, he thought drearily,\n but he wasn't tired; the spaceport would pneumo his baggage to him\n whenever he did check in. The few Martians who had been to Earth had\n gone into ecstasies over the automation which put any service you could\n name on a twenty-four-hour basis. But it would be a long time before", "By that time, they were entering the Paul Bunyan Knotty Pine Bar &\n Grill, on the 73rd Level. Matheny's jaw clanked down.\n\n\n \"Whassa matter?\" asked Doran. \"Ain't you ever seen a ecdysiastic\n technician before?\"\n\n\n \"Uh, yes, but—well, not in a 3-D image under ten magnifications.\"\n\n\n Matheny followed Doran past a sign announcing that this show was for\n purely artistic purposes, into a booth. There a soundproof curtain\n reduced the noise level enough so they could talk in normal voices.\n\n\n \"What'll you have?\" asked Doran. \"It's on me.\"\n\n\n \"Oh, I couldn't let you. I mean—\"\n\n\n \"Nonsense. Welcome to Earth! Care for a thyle and vermouth?\"", "acreage than his eyes reached, was impressive and all that, but—he\n used to stroll out in the rock garden behind his cottage and smoke a\n pipe in company with Orion. On summer evenings, that is, when the\n temperature wasn't too far below zero.\nWhy did they tap me for this job?\nhe asked himself in a surge of\n homesickness.\nWhat the hell is the Martian Embassy here for?\nHe, Peter Matheny, was no more than a peaceful professor of\n sociodynamics at Devil's Kettle University. Of course, he had advised\n his government before now—in fact, the Red Ankh Society had been his\n idea—but still he was at ease only with his books and his chess and\n his mineral collection, a faculty poker party on Tenthday night and an", "\"Well, you see, maybe a man like that is just what Mars does need. And\n maybe I have got a few contacts.\"\n\n\n \"What?\" Matheny gaped out of the bathroom.\n\n\n Doran cupped his hands around a fresh cigarette, not looking at him.\n \"I am not that man,\" he said frankly. \"But in my line I get a lot of\n contacts, and not all of them go topside. See what I mean? Like if,\n say, you wanted somebody terminated and could pay for it, I could not\n do it. I would not want to know anything about it. But I could tell you\n a phone number.\"\n\n\n He shrugged and gave the Martian a sidelong glance. \"Sure, you may not\n be interested. But if you are, well, Pete, I was not born yesterday. I\n got tolerance. Like the book says, if you want to get ahead, you have\n got to think positively.\"", "\"Well, good luck.\" The official's tone was skeptical. He stamped the\n passport and handed it back. \"There, now, you are free to travel\n anywhere in the Protectorates. But I would advise you to leave the\n capital and get into the sticks—um, I mean the provinces. I am sure\n there must be tolerably competent sales executives in Russia or\n Congolese Belgium or such regions. Frankly, sir, I do not believe you\n can attract anyone out of Newer York.\"\n\n\n \"Thanks,\" said Matheny, \"but, you see, I—we need—that is.... Oh,\n well. Thanks. Good-by.\"", "\"Ahhh!\" said Matheny. \"Bless you, my friend.\"\n\n\n \"A pleasure.\"\n\n\n \"But now you must let me buy you one.\"\n\n\n \"That is not necessary. After all,\" said Doran with great tact, \"with\n the situation as you have been describing—\"\n\n\n \"Oh, we're not\nthat\npoor! My expense allowance assumes I will\n entertain quite a bit.\"\n\n\n Doran's brows lifted a few minutes of arc. \"You're here on business,\n then?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. I told you we haven't any tourists. I was sent to hire a business\n manager for the Martian export trade.\"", "\"That is a sexy type of furniture, all right,\" agreed Doran. He lowered\n himself into another chair, cocked his feet on the 3-D and waved a\n cigarette. \"Which speaking of, what say we get some girls? It is not\n too late to catch them at home. A date here will usually start around\n 2100 hours earliest.\"\n\n\n \"What?\"\n\n\n \"You know. Dames. Like a certain blonde warhead with twin radar and\n swivel mounting, and she just loves exotics. Such as you.\"\n\n\n \"Me?\" Matheny heard his voice climb to a schoolboy squeak. \"Me?\n Exotic? Why, I'm just a little college professor. I g-g-g, that is—\"\n His tongue got stuck on his palate. He pulled it loose and moistened\n uncertain lips.\n\n\n \"You are from Mars. Okay? So you fought bushcats barehanded in an\n abandoned canal.\"", "The city roared at him.\n\n\n He fumbled after his pipe.\nOf course\n, he told himself,\nthat's why\n the Embassy can't act. I may find it advisable to go outside the law.\n Please, sir, where can I contact the underworld?\nHe wished gambling were legal on Earth. The Constitution of the Martian\n Republic forbade sumptuary and moral legislation; quite apart from the\n rambunctious individualism which that document formulated, the article\n was a practical necessity. Life was bleak enough on the deserts,\n without being denied the pleasure of trying to bottom-deal some friend\n who was happily trying to mark the cards. Matheny would have found a\n few spins of roulette soothing: it was always an intellectual challenge\n to work out the system by which the management operated a wheel. But\n more, he would have been among people he understood.", "\"What's a bushcat? And we don't have canals. The evaporation rate—\"\n\n\n \"Look, Pete,\" said Doran patiently. \"She don't have to know that, does\n she?\"\n\n\n \"Well—well, no. I guess not No.\"\n\n\n \"Let's order you some clothes on the pneumo,\" said Doran. \"I recommend\n you buy from Schwartzherz. Everybody knows he is expensive.\"\nWhile Matheny jittered about, shaving and showering and struggling with\n his new raiment, Doran kept him supplied with akvavit and beer.\n\n\n \"You said one thing, Pete,\" Doran remarked. \"About needing a\n slipstring. A con man, you would call it.\"\n\n\n \"Forget that. Please. I spoke out of turn.\"", "\"I always wanted to,\" said Doran. \"I would like to see the what they\n call City of Time, and so on. As a matter of fact, I have given my\n girl one of those Old Martian rings last Ike's Birthday and she was\n just gazoo about it. A jewel dug out of the City of Time, like,\n made a million years ago by a, uh, extinct race ... I tell you, she\nappreciated\nme for it!\" He winked and nudged.\n\n\n \"Oh,\" said Matheny.\nHe felt a certain guilt. Doran was too pleasant a little man to\n deserve—\n\n\n \"Of course,\" Matheny said ritually, \"I agree with all the archeologists\n it's a crime to sell such scientifically priceless artifacts, but what\n can we do? We must live, and the tourist trade is almost nonexistent.\"" ] ]
valid	20056	[ "What is true about the subject of the book the author read?", "How does the author view mathematicians?", "What was not true about Nash's college years?", "What is true about the Nobel prize, according to the author?", "What is true about Nash?", "How was Nash distinguished as a professor?", "What was one of Nash's delusions?", "Why were they concerned about giving Nash the prize?", "How did winning the prize impact Nash?", "How does the author feel about mathematicians?" ]	[ [ "He was born crazy but accomplished a lot in life anyway", "He developed mental illness as an adult and never improved", "He pretended to be crazy as an excuse for poor behavior", "He developed mental illness as an adult but later improved" ], [ "They are more likely to be nearsighted ", "They only value abstract things", "They all hallucinate", "They are more likely to be crazy" ], [ "He went away to school", "He fit in well with the mathematical geniuses", "He was accomplished", "He liked to draw attention to himself" ], [ "It is equally easy to win a prize in Economics or Math", "It is easier to win a prize in Economics than in Math", "Mathematicians never win prizes in Economics", "It is easier to win a prize in Math than in Economics" ], [ "Mathematicians were wowed by all of his work", "Mathematicians were wowed by his work at Rand Corporation", "Mathematicians were wowed by his manifold proof", "Mathematicians were wowed by his game theory proof" ], [ "He was known for erratic behavior", "He taught many students", "He helped graduate students solve problems", "He was the life of the party" ], [ "Being a refugee from Europe", "Being in a coma", "Being a father", "Being the leader of a continent" ], [ "He had killed animals as a child", "He was in remission from illness", "He might offend the dignitaries", "He had not worked for very long yet" ], [ "He changed into a kinder man", "He was paralyzed by it", "He moved into a new house", "He felt helpless" ], [ "They scare him", "He relates because he used to be one", "He's never been around them", "He's not interested in knowing more about them" ] ]	[ 4, 4, 2, 2, 3, 1, 4, 3, 1, 2 ]	[ 1, 1, 0, 1, 1, 0, 1, 0, 1, 0 ]	[ [ "The eeriest thing I discovered while reading this superb book was that Nash and I came within a couple of years of crossing paths in a Virginia mental hospital. I was actually working there, but psychiatric aides pick up so many mannerisms of the patients that it's hard to tell the difference after a while. A few years after that I found myself in a mathematics Ph.D. program. You'll be glad to know that I'm in remission.", "He returned to the Princeton area in the 1970s, where he was taken care of by the long-suffering Alicia, now his ex-wife (she supported him partly through computer programming, partly on welfare). He haunted the campus, where students began to call him \"the Phantom.\" They would come to class in the morning to find runic messages he had written on the blackboard at night: \"Mao Tse-Tung's Bar Mitzvah was 13 years, 13 months, and 13 days after Brezhnev's circumcision.\"", "That about marked the end of Nash's career as a mathematical genius. The next year, he was expelled from Rand as a security risk after local police caught him engaging in a lewd act in a public men's room near Muscle Beach. At MIT, where he had been given a teaching job, he hardly bothered with undergraduates and humiliated graduate students by solving their thesis problems. He carried on affairs with several men and a mistress, who bore him a son he refused to lift a finger to support. His cruel streak extended to the woman he married, a beautiful physics student named Alicia who was awed by this \"genius with a penis.\" Once, at a math department picnic, he threw her to the ground and put his foot on her throat.", "Indeed, he has evolved into a \"very fine person,\" according to his ex-wife--humbled by years of psychotic helplessness, buoyed up by the intellectual world's highest accolade. The Nobel has a terrible effect on the productivity of many recipients, paralyzing them with greatness. For Nash it was pure therapy. Then, too, there is the need to take care of his son by Alicia, who--pleiotropically?--inherited both his mathematical promise and his madness. (His older son, the one born out of wedlock, got neither.) The Nobel money bought a new boiler for the little bungalow across from the Princeton train station inhabited by this shaky menage. (When Vanity Fair published an excerpt of A Beautiful Mind , Nash probably became the only person ever featured in that magazine to live in a house clad in \"insulbrick.\")", "As a boy growing up in the hills of West Virginia, Nash enjoyed torturing animals and building homemade bombs with two other unpopular youngsters, one of whom was accidentally killed by a blast. (Given Nash's childhood keenness for explosives and his later penchant for sending odd packages to prominent strangers through the mail, it's a wonder the FBI never got on to him as a Unabomber suspect.) He made his way to Carnegie Tech, where he was a classmate of Andy Warhol's, and thence to Princeton--the world capital of mathematics at the time--at the age of 20.", "All the while, Nash was showing an intense interest in the state of Israel--often a sign of incipient insanity, at least in a non-Jew. Geniuses slipping into madness also tend to disrobe in public (I learned this from a volume on chess prodigies, who have a proclivity for disrobing on public buses). Nash showed up for an MIT New Year's Eve party clad only in a diaper. And then, of course, there was the New York Times , that old mainstay of psychotic delusion--Nash thought aliens were sending him encrypted messages through its pages (come to think of it, that could explain the Times ' odd prose).", "Then, in the '90s, inexplicably, the voices in Nash's head began to quiet down. (Nasar gives an interesting account of just how rare such remissions are among those diagnosed with schizophrenia.) At the same time, the Nobel committee in Stockholm was deciding it was about time to award the prize in economics for game theory. Dare they make a known madman into a laureate? What might he say to King Gustav at the ceremony? Nasar shows her mettle as a reporter here by penetrating the veil of secrecy surrounding the Nobel and revealing the back-stage machinations for and against Nash's candidacy. He did fine at the ceremony, by the way.", "Could there be a similar pleiotropy between madness and mathematics? Reading this absolutely fascinating biography by Sylvia Nasar, an economics writer for the New York Times , I began to wonder. Its subject, John Nash, is a mathematical genius who went crazy at the age of 30 and then, after several decades of flamboyant lunacy, was awarded the Nobel Prize in economics for something he had discovered as a graduate student. (He is now about to turn 70.) Nash is among the latest in a long and distinguished line of mathematicians--stretching back to that morbid paranoiac, Isaac Newton--who have been certifiably insane during parts of their lives.", "Such ebullitions of insanity continued for three decades, becoming more rococo. Nash went to Europe to form a world government, attempting repeatedly to renounce his U.S. citizenship. He did stints in tony asylums, hanging out with Robert Lowell, and in dismal state institutions, where he was subjected daily to insulin-induced comas. He believed himself to be a Palestinian refugee called C.O.R.P.S.E.; a great Japanese shogun, C1423; Esau; the prince of peace; l'homme d'Or ; a mouse. As Nasar observes, his delusions were weirdly inconsistent. He felt himself simultaneously to be the epicenter of the universe--\"I am the left foot of God on earth\"--and an abject, persecuted petitioner.", "In sheer appearance, this cold and aloof Southerner stood out from his fellow math prodigies. A \"beautiful dark-haired young man,\" \"handsome as a god,\" he was 6 feet 1 inch tall, with broad shoulders, a heavily muscled chest (which he liked to show off with see-through Dacron shirts), a tapered waist, and \"rather limp and beautiful hands\" accentuated by long fingernails. Within two years of entering Princeton, Nash had framed and proved the most important proposition in the theory of games. \n\n Mathematically, this was no big deal. Game theory was a somewhat fashionable pursuit for mathematicians in those postwar days, when it looked as if it might do for military science and economics what Newton's calculus had done for physics. But they were bored with it by the early 1950s. Economists, after a few decades of hesitation, picked it up in the '80s and made it a cornerstone of their discipline.", "So maybe there is an accidental, pleiotropic connection between madness and mathematics. Or maybe it isn't so accidental. Mathematicians are, after all, people who fancy that they commune with perfect Platonic objects--abstract spaces, infinite numbers, zeta functions--that are invisible to normal humans. They spend their days piecing together complicated, scrupulously logical tales about these hallucinatory entities, which they believe are vastly more important than anything in the actual world. Is this not a kind of a folie à n (where n equals the number of pure mathematicians worldwide)? \n\n ABeautiful Mind reveals quite a lot about the psychic continuum leading from mathematical genius to madness. It is also a very peculiar redemption story: how three decades of raging schizophrenia, capped by an unexpected Nobel Prize, can transmute a cruel shit into a frail but decent human being.", "When the big breakdown came, it was properly mathematical. Fearing his powers might be waning as he approached 30, Nash decided he would solve the most important unresolved problem in mathematics: the Riemann Zeta conjecture. This bold guess about the solutions to a certain complex-valued infinite series (made by the incomparable Bernhard Riemann in 1859) would, if true, have far-reaching implications for the structure of the most basic of entities, the natural numbers. Before an eager audience of hundreds of mathematicians at Columbia University in 1959, Nash presented his results: a farrago of mathematical lunacy. \"Nash's talk wasn't good or bad,\" said one mathematician present. \"It was horrible.\" Some weeks before, Nash had declined a University of Chicago offer of an endowed chair on the grounds that he was scheduled to become the emperor of Antarctica.", "Just in the last 100 years or so, most of the heroic figures in the foundations of mathematics have landed in mental asylums or have died by their own hand. The greatest of them, Kurt Gödel, starved himself to death in the belief that his colleagues were putting poison in his food. Of the two pioneers of game theory--the field in which Nash garnered his Nobel--one, Ernst Zermelo, was hospitalized for psychosis. The other, John Von Neumann, may not have been clinically insane, but he did serve as the real-life model for the title character in Stanley Kubrick's Dr. Strangelove .", "Nash's breakthrough in game theory got him recruited by the Rand Corp., which was then a secretive military think tank in Santa Monica (its name is an acronym for \"research and development\"). However, the achievement did not greatly impress his fellow mathematicians. To do that, Nash, on a wager, disposed of a deep problem that had baffled the profession since the 19 th century: He showed that any Riemannian manifold possessing a special kind of \"smoothness\" can be embedded in Euclidean space. Manifolds, one must understand, are fairly wild and exotic beasts in mathematics. A famous example is the Klein bottle, a kind of higher-dimensional Moebius strip whose inside is somehow the same as its outside. Euclidean space, by contrast, is orderly and bourgeois. To demonstrate that \"impossible\" manifolds could be coaxed into living in Euclidean space is counterintuitive and pretty exciting. Nash did this by constructing a bizarre set of inequalities that left his fellow mathematicians thoroughly befuddled.", "but the earlier topological theorem did all the work. Still, for an economics theorem, that counts as profound. Economists have been known to win Nobel Prizes for rediscovering theorems in elementary calculus.", "Folie ࠎ \n\n People with high IQs tend to be nearsighted. This is not because they read a lot or stare at computer screens too much. That common-sense hypothesis has been discredited by research. Rather, it is a matter of genetics. The same genes that tend to elevate IQ also tend to affect the shape of the eyeball in a way that leads to myopia. This relationship--known in genetics as \"pleiotropy\"--seems to be completely accidental, a quirk of evolution.", "necessarily exist at least one thing in that domain that will remain unchanged--the \"fixed point.\" Nash found a way of applying this to the domain of all game strategies so that the guaranteed fixed point was the equilibrium for the game--clever,", "at least one coffee molecule must remain absolutely still. Both are direct consequences of a \"fixed-point theorem\" in the branch of mathematics known as topology. This theorem says that for any continuous rearrangement of a domain of things, there will", "can improve his situation by switching to a different strategy. His proof was elegant but slight. A game is guaranteed to have a Nash equilibrium, it turns out, for the same reason that in a cup of coffee that is being stirred,", "other. Each player has several strategy options to choose from. What Nash showed was that in every such game there is what has become known as a \"Nash equilibrium\": a set of strategies, one for each player, such that no player" ], [ "So maybe there is an accidental, pleiotropic connection between madness and mathematics. Or maybe it isn't so accidental. Mathematicians are, after all, people who fancy that they commune with perfect Platonic objects--abstract spaces, infinite numbers, zeta functions--that are invisible to normal humans. They spend their days piecing together complicated, scrupulously logical tales about these hallucinatory entities, which they believe are vastly more important than anything in the actual world. Is this not a kind of a folie à n (where n equals the number of pure mathematicians worldwide)? \n\n ABeautiful Mind reveals quite a lot about the psychic continuum leading from mathematical genius to madness. It is also a very peculiar redemption story: how three decades of raging schizophrenia, capped by an unexpected Nobel Prize, can transmute a cruel shit into a frail but decent human being.", "Just in the last 100 years or so, most of the heroic figures in the foundations of mathematics have landed in mental asylums or have died by their own hand. The greatest of them, Kurt Gödel, starved himself to death in the belief that his colleagues were putting poison in his food. Of the two pioneers of game theory--the field in which Nash garnered his Nobel--one, Ernst Zermelo, was hospitalized for psychosis. The other, John Von Neumann, may not have been clinically insane, but he did serve as the real-life model for the title character in Stanley Kubrick's Dr. Strangelove .", "Could there be a similar pleiotropy between madness and mathematics? Reading this absolutely fascinating biography by Sylvia Nasar, an economics writer for the New York Times , I began to wonder. Its subject, John Nash, is a mathematical genius who went crazy at the age of 30 and then, after several decades of flamboyant lunacy, was awarded the Nobel Prize in economics for something he had discovered as a graduate student. (He is now about to turn 70.) Nash is among the latest in a long and distinguished line of mathematicians--stretching back to that morbid paranoiac, Isaac Newton--who have been certifiably insane during parts of their lives.", "In sheer appearance, this cold and aloof Southerner stood out from his fellow math prodigies. A \"beautiful dark-haired young man,\" \"handsome as a god,\" he was 6 feet 1 inch tall, with broad shoulders, a heavily muscled chest (which he liked to show off with see-through Dacron shirts), a tapered waist, and \"rather limp and beautiful hands\" accentuated by long fingernails. Within two years of entering Princeton, Nash had framed and proved the most important proposition in the theory of games. \n\n Mathematically, this was no big deal. Game theory was a somewhat fashionable pursuit for mathematicians in those postwar days, when it looked as if it might do for military science and economics what Newton's calculus had done for physics. But they were bored with it by the early 1950s. Economists, after a few decades of hesitation, picked it up in the '80s and made it a cornerstone of their discipline.", "That about marked the end of Nash's career as a mathematical genius. The next year, he was expelled from Rand as a security risk after local police caught him engaging in a lewd act in a public men's room near Muscle Beach. At MIT, where he had been given a teaching job, he hardly bothered with undergraduates and humiliated graduate students by solving their thesis problems. He carried on affairs with several men and a mistress, who bore him a son he refused to lift a finger to support. His cruel streak extended to the woman he married, a beautiful physics student named Alicia who was awed by this \"genius with a penis.\" Once, at a math department picnic, he threw her to the ground and put his foot on her throat.", "As a boy growing up in the hills of West Virginia, Nash enjoyed torturing animals and building homemade bombs with two other unpopular youngsters, one of whom was accidentally killed by a blast. (Given Nash's childhood keenness for explosives and his later penchant for sending odd packages to prominent strangers through the mail, it's a wonder the FBI never got on to him as a Unabomber suspect.) He made his way to Carnegie Tech, where he was a classmate of Andy Warhol's, and thence to Princeton--the world capital of mathematics at the time--at the age of 20.", "When the big breakdown came, it was properly mathematical. Fearing his powers might be waning as he approached 30, Nash decided he would solve the most important unresolved problem in mathematics: the Riemann Zeta conjecture. This bold guess about the solutions to a certain complex-valued infinite series (made by the incomparable Bernhard Riemann in 1859) would, if true, have far-reaching implications for the structure of the most basic of entities, the natural numbers. Before an eager audience of hundreds of mathematicians at Columbia University in 1959, Nash presented his results: a farrago of mathematical lunacy. \"Nash's talk wasn't good or bad,\" said one mathematician present. \"It was horrible.\" Some weeks before, Nash had declined a University of Chicago offer of an endowed chair on the grounds that he was scheduled to become the emperor of Antarctica.", "The eeriest thing I discovered while reading this superb book was that Nash and I came within a couple of years of crossing paths in a Virginia mental hospital. I was actually working there, but psychiatric aides pick up so many mannerisms of the patients that it's hard to tell the difference after a while. A few years after that I found myself in a mathematics Ph.D. program. You'll be glad to know that I'm in remission.", "He returned to the Princeton area in the 1970s, where he was taken care of by the long-suffering Alicia, now his ex-wife (she supported him partly through computer programming, partly on welfare). He haunted the campus, where students began to call him \"the Phantom.\" They would come to class in the morning to find runic messages he had written on the blackboard at night: \"Mao Tse-Tung's Bar Mitzvah was 13 years, 13 months, and 13 days after Brezhnev's circumcision.\"", "Nash's breakthrough in game theory got him recruited by the Rand Corp., which was then a secretive military think tank in Santa Monica (its name is an acronym for \"research and development\"). However, the achievement did not greatly impress his fellow mathematicians. To do that, Nash, on a wager, disposed of a deep problem that had baffled the profession since the 19 th century: He showed that any Riemannian manifold possessing a special kind of \"smoothness\" can be embedded in Euclidean space. Manifolds, one must understand, are fairly wild and exotic beasts in mathematics. A famous example is the Klein bottle, a kind of higher-dimensional Moebius strip whose inside is somehow the same as its outside. Euclidean space, by contrast, is orderly and bourgeois. To demonstrate that \"impossible\" manifolds could be coaxed into living in Euclidean space is counterintuitive and pretty exciting. Nash did this by constructing a bizarre set of inequalities that left his fellow mathematicians thoroughly befuddled.", "Indeed, he has evolved into a \"very fine person,\" according to his ex-wife--humbled by years of psychotic helplessness, buoyed up by the intellectual world's highest accolade. The Nobel has a terrible effect on the productivity of many recipients, paralyzing them with greatness. For Nash it was pure therapy. Then, too, there is the need to take care of his son by Alicia, who--pleiotropically?--inherited both his mathematical promise and his madness. (His older son, the one born out of wedlock, got neither.) The Nobel money bought a new boiler for the little bungalow across from the Princeton train station inhabited by this shaky menage. (When Vanity Fair published an excerpt of A Beautiful Mind , Nash probably became the only person ever featured in that magazine to live in a house clad in \"insulbrick.\")", "All the while, Nash was showing an intense interest in the state of Israel--often a sign of incipient insanity, at least in a non-Jew. Geniuses slipping into madness also tend to disrobe in public (I learned this from a volume on chess prodigies, who have a proclivity for disrobing on public buses). Nash showed up for an MIT New Year's Eve party clad only in a diaper. And then, of course, there was the New York Times , that old mainstay of psychotic delusion--Nash thought aliens were sending him encrypted messages through its pages (come to think of it, that could explain the Times ' odd prose).", "but the earlier topological theorem did all the work. Still, for an economics theorem, that counts as profound. Economists have been known to win Nobel Prizes for rediscovering theorems in elementary calculus.", "Then, in the '90s, inexplicably, the voices in Nash's head began to quiet down. (Nasar gives an interesting account of just how rare such remissions are among those diagnosed with schizophrenia.) At the same time, the Nobel committee in Stockholm was deciding it was about time to award the prize in economics for game theory. Dare they make a known madman into a laureate? What might he say to King Gustav at the ceremony? Nasar shows her mettle as a reporter here by penetrating the veil of secrecy surrounding the Nobel and revealing the back-stage machinations for and against Nash's candidacy. He did fine at the ceremony, by the way.", "Folie ࠎ \n\n People with high IQs tend to be nearsighted. This is not because they read a lot or stare at computer screens too much. That common-sense hypothesis has been discredited by research. Rather, it is a matter of genetics. The same genes that tend to elevate IQ also tend to affect the shape of the eyeball in a way that leads to myopia. This relationship--known in genetics as \"pleiotropy\"--seems to be completely accidental, a quirk of evolution.", "necessarily exist at least one thing in that domain that will remain unchanged--the \"fixed point.\" Nash found a way of applying this to the domain of all game strategies so that the guaranteed fixed point was the equilibrium for the game--clever,", "Such ebullitions of insanity continued for three decades, becoming more rococo. Nash went to Europe to form a world government, attempting repeatedly to renounce his U.S. citizenship. He did stints in tony asylums, hanging out with Robert Lowell, and in dismal state institutions, where he was subjected daily to insulin-induced comas. He believed himself to be a Palestinian refugee called C.O.R.P.S.E.; a great Japanese shogun, C1423; Esau; the prince of peace; l'homme d'Or ; a mouse. As Nasar observes, his delusions were weirdly inconsistent. He felt himself simultaneously to be the epicenter of the universe--\"I am the left foot of God on earth\"--and an abject, persecuted petitioner.", "at least one coffee molecule must remain absolutely still. Both are direct consequences of a \"fixed-point theorem\" in the branch of mathematics known as topology. This theorem says that for any continuous rearrangement of a domain of things, there will", "can improve his situation by switching to a different strategy. His proof was elegant but slight. A game is guaranteed to have a Nash equilibrium, it turns out, for the same reason that in a cup of coffee that is being stirred,", "other. Each player has several strategy options to choose from. What Nash showed was that in every such game there is what has become known as a \"Nash equilibrium\": a set of strategies, one for each player, such that no player" ], [ "That about marked the end of Nash's career as a mathematical genius. The next year, he was expelled from Rand as a security risk after local police caught him engaging in a lewd act in a public men's room near Muscle Beach. At MIT, where he had been given a teaching job, he hardly bothered with undergraduates and humiliated graduate students by solving their thesis problems. He carried on affairs with several men and a mistress, who bore him a son he refused to lift a finger to support. His cruel streak extended to the woman he married, a beautiful physics student named Alicia who was awed by this \"genius with a penis.\" Once, at a math department picnic, he threw her to the ground and put his foot on her throat.", "As a boy growing up in the hills of West Virginia, Nash enjoyed torturing animals and building homemade bombs with two other unpopular youngsters, one of whom was accidentally killed by a blast. (Given Nash's childhood keenness for explosives and his later penchant for sending odd packages to prominent strangers through the mail, it's a wonder the FBI never got on to him as a Unabomber suspect.) He made his way to Carnegie Tech, where he was a classmate of Andy Warhol's, and thence to Princeton--the world capital of mathematics at the time--at the age of 20.", "In sheer appearance, this cold and aloof Southerner stood out from his fellow math prodigies. A \"beautiful dark-haired young man,\" \"handsome as a god,\" he was 6 feet 1 inch tall, with broad shoulders, a heavily muscled chest (which he liked to show off with see-through Dacron shirts), a tapered waist, and \"rather limp and beautiful hands\" accentuated by long fingernails. Within two years of entering Princeton, Nash had framed and proved the most important proposition in the theory of games. \n\n Mathematically, this was no big deal. Game theory was a somewhat fashionable pursuit for mathematicians in those postwar days, when it looked as if it might do for military science and economics what Newton's calculus had done for physics. But they were bored with it by the early 1950s. Economists, after a few decades of hesitation, picked it up in the '80s and made it a cornerstone of their discipline.", "When the big breakdown came, it was properly mathematical. Fearing his powers might be waning as he approached 30, Nash decided he would solve the most important unresolved problem in mathematics: the Riemann Zeta conjecture. This bold guess about the solutions to a certain complex-valued infinite series (made by the incomparable Bernhard Riemann in 1859) would, if true, have far-reaching implications for the structure of the most basic of entities, the natural numbers. Before an eager audience of hundreds of mathematicians at Columbia University in 1959, Nash presented his results: a farrago of mathematical lunacy. \"Nash's talk wasn't good or bad,\" said one mathematician present. \"It was horrible.\" Some weeks before, Nash had declined a University of Chicago offer of an endowed chair on the grounds that he was scheduled to become the emperor of Antarctica.", "The eeriest thing I discovered while reading this superb book was that Nash and I came within a couple of years of crossing paths in a Virginia mental hospital. I was actually working there, but psychiatric aides pick up so many mannerisms of the patients that it's hard to tell the difference after a while. A few years after that I found myself in a mathematics Ph.D. program. You'll be glad to know that I'm in remission.", "All the while, Nash was showing an intense interest in the state of Israel--often a sign of incipient insanity, at least in a non-Jew. Geniuses slipping into madness also tend to disrobe in public (I learned this from a volume on chess prodigies, who have a proclivity for disrobing on public buses). Nash showed up for an MIT New Year's Eve party clad only in a diaper. And then, of course, there was the New York Times , that old mainstay of psychotic delusion--Nash thought aliens were sending him encrypted messages through its pages (come to think of it, that could explain the Times ' odd prose).", "Indeed, he has evolved into a \"very fine person,\" according to his ex-wife--humbled by years of psychotic helplessness, buoyed up by the intellectual world's highest accolade. The Nobel has a terrible effect on the productivity of many recipients, paralyzing them with greatness. For Nash it was pure therapy. Then, too, there is the need to take care of his son by Alicia, who--pleiotropically?--inherited both his mathematical promise and his madness. (His older son, the one born out of wedlock, got neither.) The Nobel money bought a new boiler for the little bungalow across from the Princeton train station inhabited by this shaky menage. (When Vanity Fair published an excerpt of A Beautiful Mind , Nash probably became the only person ever featured in that magazine to live in a house clad in \"insulbrick.\")", "Then, in the '90s, inexplicably, the voices in Nash's head began to quiet down. (Nasar gives an interesting account of just how rare such remissions are among those diagnosed with schizophrenia.) At the same time, the Nobel committee in Stockholm was deciding it was about time to award the prize in economics for game theory. Dare they make a known madman into a laureate? What might he say to King Gustav at the ceremony? Nasar shows her mettle as a reporter here by penetrating the veil of secrecy surrounding the Nobel and revealing the back-stage machinations for and against Nash's candidacy. He did fine at the ceremony, by the way.", "Nash's breakthrough in game theory got him recruited by the Rand Corp., which was then a secretive military think tank in Santa Monica (its name is an acronym for \"research and development\"). However, the achievement did not greatly impress his fellow mathematicians. To do that, Nash, on a wager, disposed of a deep problem that had baffled the profession since the 19 th century: He showed that any Riemannian manifold possessing a special kind of \"smoothness\" can be embedded in Euclidean space. Manifolds, one must understand, are fairly wild and exotic beasts in mathematics. A famous example is the Klein bottle, a kind of higher-dimensional Moebius strip whose inside is somehow the same as its outside. Euclidean space, by contrast, is orderly and bourgeois. To demonstrate that \"impossible\" manifolds could be coaxed into living in Euclidean space is counterintuitive and pretty exciting. Nash did this by constructing a bizarre set of inequalities that left his fellow mathematicians thoroughly befuddled.", "Such ebullitions of insanity continued for three decades, becoming more rococo. Nash went to Europe to form a world government, attempting repeatedly to renounce his U.S. citizenship. He did stints in tony asylums, hanging out with Robert Lowell, and in dismal state institutions, where he was subjected daily to insulin-induced comas. He believed himself to be a Palestinian refugee called C.O.R.P.S.E.; a great Japanese shogun, C1423; Esau; the prince of peace; l'homme d'Or ; a mouse. As Nasar observes, his delusions were weirdly inconsistent. He felt himself simultaneously to be the epicenter of the universe--\"I am the left foot of God on earth\"--and an abject, persecuted petitioner.", "He returned to the Princeton area in the 1970s, where he was taken care of by the long-suffering Alicia, now his ex-wife (she supported him partly through computer programming, partly on welfare). He haunted the campus, where students began to call him \"the Phantom.\" They would come to class in the morning to find runic messages he had written on the blackboard at night: \"Mao Tse-Tung's Bar Mitzvah was 13 years, 13 months, and 13 days after Brezhnev's circumcision.\"", "Just in the last 100 years or so, most of the heroic figures in the foundations of mathematics have landed in mental asylums or have died by their own hand. The greatest of them, Kurt Gödel, starved himself to death in the belief that his colleagues were putting poison in his food. Of the two pioneers of game theory--the field in which Nash garnered his Nobel--one, Ernst Zermelo, was hospitalized for psychosis. The other, John Von Neumann, may not have been clinically insane, but he did serve as the real-life model for the title character in Stanley Kubrick's Dr. Strangelove .", "Could there be a similar pleiotropy between madness and mathematics? Reading this absolutely fascinating biography by Sylvia Nasar, an economics writer for the New York Times , I began to wonder. Its subject, John Nash, is a mathematical genius who went crazy at the age of 30 and then, after several decades of flamboyant lunacy, was awarded the Nobel Prize in economics for something he had discovered as a graduate student. (He is now about to turn 70.) Nash is among the latest in a long and distinguished line of mathematicians--stretching back to that morbid paranoiac, Isaac Newton--who have been certifiably insane during parts of their lives.", "So maybe there is an accidental, pleiotropic connection between madness and mathematics. Or maybe it isn't so accidental. Mathematicians are, after all, people who fancy that they commune with perfect Platonic objects--abstract spaces, infinite numbers, zeta functions--that are invisible to normal humans. They spend their days piecing together complicated, scrupulously logical tales about these hallucinatory entities, which they believe are vastly more important than anything in the actual world. Is this not a kind of a folie à n (where n equals the number of pure mathematicians worldwide)? \n\n ABeautiful Mind reveals quite a lot about the psychic continuum leading from mathematical genius to madness. It is also a very peculiar redemption story: how three decades of raging schizophrenia, capped by an unexpected Nobel Prize, can transmute a cruel shit into a frail but decent human being.", "necessarily exist at least one thing in that domain that will remain unchanged--the \"fixed point.\" Nash found a way of applying this to the domain of all game strategies so that the guaranteed fixed point was the equilibrium for the game--clever,", "other. Each player has several strategy options to choose from. What Nash showed was that in every such game there is what has become known as a \"Nash equilibrium\": a set of strategies, one for each player, such that no player", "can improve his situation by switching to a different strategy. His proof was elegant but slight. A game is guaranteed to have a Nash equilibrium, it turns out, for the same reason that in a cup of coffee that is being stirred,", "but the earlier topological theorem did all the work. Still, for an economics theorem, that counts as profound. Economists have been known to win Nobel Prizes for rediscovering theorems in elementary calculus.", "Folie ࠎ \n\n People with high IQs tend to be nearsighted. This is not because they read a lot or stare at computer screens too much. That common-sense hypothesis has been discredited by research. Rather, it is a matter of genetics. The same genes that tend to elevate IQ also tend to affect the shape of the eyeball in a way that leads to myopia. This relationship--known in genetics as \"pleiotropy\"--seems to be completely accidental, a quirk of evolution.", "Agame is just a conflict situation with a bunch of participants, or \"players.\" The players could be poker pals, oligopolists competing to corner a market, or nuclear powers trying to dominate each" ], [ "Then, in the '90s, inexplicably, the voices in Nash's head began to quiet down. (Nasar gives an interesting account of just how rare such remissions are among those diagnosed with schizophrenia.) At the same time, the Nobel committee in Stockholm was deciding it was about time to award the prize in economics for game theory. Dare they make a known madman into a laureate? What might he say to King Gustav at the ceremony? Nasar shows her mettle as a reporter here by penetrating the veil of secrecy surrounding the Nobel and revealing the back-stage machinations for and against Nash's candidacy. He did fine at the ceremony, by the way.", "Indeed, he has evolved into a \"very fine person,\" according to his ex-wife--humbled by years of psychotic helplessness, buoyed up by the intellectual world's highest accolade. The Nobel has a terrible effect on the productivity of many recipients, paralyzing them with greatness. For Nash it was pure therapy. Then, too, there is the need to take care of his son by Alicia, who--pleiotropically?--inherited both his mathematical promise and his madness. (His older son, the one born out of wedlock, got neither.) The Nobel money bought a new boiler for the little bungalow across from the Princeton train station inhabited by this shaky menage. (When Vanity Fair published an excerpt of A Beautiful Mind , Nash probably became the only person ever featured in that magazine to live in a house clad in \"insulbrick.\")", "Could there be a similar pleiotropy between madness and mathematics? Reading this absolutely fascinating biography by Sylvia Nasar, an economics writer for the New York Times , I began to wonder. Its subject, John Nash, is a mathematical genius who went crazy at the age of 30 and then, after several decades of flamboyant lunacy, was awarded the Nobel Prize in economics for something he had discovered as a graduate student. (He is now about to turn 70.) Nash is among the latest in a long and distinguished line of mathematicians--stretching back to that morbid paranoiac, Isaac Newton--who have been certifiably insane during parts of their lives.", "Just in the last 100 years or so, most of the heroic figures in the foundations of mathematics have landed in mental asylums or have died by their own hand. The greatest of them, Kurt Gödel, starved himself to death in the belief that his colleagues were putting poison in his food. Of the two pioneers of game theory--the field in which Nash garnered his Nobel--one, Ernst Zermelo, was hospitalized for psychosis. The other, John Von Neumann, may not have been clinically insane, but he did serve as the real-life model for the title character in Stanley Kubrick's Dr. Strangelove .", "but the earlier topological theorem did all the work. Still, for an economics theorem, that counts as profound. Economists have been known to win Nobel Prizes for rediscovering theorems in elementary calculus.", "So maybe there is an accidental, pleiotropic connection between madness and mathematics. Or maybe it isn't so accidental. Mathematicians are, after all, people who fancy that they commune with perfect Platonic objects--abstract spaces, infinite numbers, zeta functions--that are invisible to normal humans. They spend their days piecing together complicated, scrupulously logical tales about these hallucinatory entities, which they believe are vastly more important than anything in the actual world. Is this not a kind of a folie à n (where n equals the number of pure mathematicians worldwide)? \n\n ABeautiful Mind reveals quite a lot about the psychic continuum leading from mathematical genius to madness. It is also a very peculiar redemption story: how three decades of raging schizophrenia, capped by an unexpected Nobel Prize, can transmute a cruel shit into a frail but decent human being.", "All the while, Nash was showing an intense interest in the state of Israel--often a sign of incipient insanity, at least in a non-Jew. Geniuses slipping into madness also tend to disrobe in public (I learned this from a volume on chess prodigies, who have a proclivity for disrobing on public buses). Nash showed up for an MIT New Year's Eve party clad only in a diaper. And then, of course, there was the New York Times , that old mainstay of psychotic delusion--Nash thought aliens were sending him encrypted messages through its pages (come to think of it, that could explain the Times ' odd prose).", "Such ebullitions of insanity continued for three decades, becoming more rococo. Nash went to Europe to form a world government, attempting repeatedly to renounce his U.S. citizenship. He did stints in tony asylums, hanging out with Robert Lowell, and in dismal state institutions, where he was subjected daily to insulin-induced comas. He believed himself to be a Palestinian refugee called C.O.R.P.S.E.; a great Japanese shogun, C1423; Esau; the prince of peace; l'homme d'Or ; a mouse. As Nasar observes, his delusions were weirdly inconsistent. He felt himself simultaneously to be the epicenter of the universe--\"I am the left foot of God on earth\"--and an abject, persecuted petitioner.", "In sheer appearance, this cold and aloof Southerner stood out from his fellow math prodigies. A \"beautiful dark-haired young man,\" \"handsome as a god,\" he was 6 feet 1 inch tall, with broad shoulders, a heavily muscled chest (which he liked to show off with see-through Dacron shirts), a tapered waist, and \"rather limp and beautiful hands\" accentuated by long fingernails. Within two years of entering Princeton, Nash had framed and proved the most important proposition in the theory of games. \n\n Mathematically, this was no big deal. Game theory was a somewhat fashionable pursuit for mathematicians in those postwar days, when it looked as if it might do for military science and economics what Newton's calculus had done for physics. But they were bored with it by the early 1950s. Economists, after a few decades of hesitation, picked it up in the '80s and made it a cornerstone of their discipline.", "As a boy growing up in the hills of West Virginia, Nash enjoyed torturing animals and building homemade bombs with two other unpopular youngsters, one of whom was accidentally killed by a blast. (Given Nash's childhood keenness for explosives and his later penchant for sending odd packages to prominent strangers through the mail, it's a wonder the FBI never got on to him as a Unabomber suspect.) He made his way to Carnegie Tech, where he was a classmate of Andy Warhol's, and thence to Princeton--the world capital of mathematics at the time--at the age of 20.", "That about marked the end of Nash's career as a mathematical genius. The next year, he was expelled from Rand as a security risk after local police caught him engaging in a lewd act in a public men's room near Muscle Beach. At MIT, where he had been given a teaching job, he hardly bothered with undergraduates and humiliated graduate students by solving their thesis problems. He carried on affairs with several men and a mistress, who bore him a son he refused to lift a finger to support. His cruel streak extended to the woman he married, a beautiful physics student named Alicia who was awed by this \"genius with a penis.\" Once, at a math department picnic, he threw her to the ground and put his foot on her throat.", "The eeriest thing I discovered while reading this superb book was that Nash and I came within a couple of years of crossing paths in a Virginia mental hospital. I was actually working there, but psychiatric aides pick up so many mannerisms of the patients that it's hard to tell the difference after a while. A few years after that I found myself in a mathematics Ph.D. program. You'll be glad to know that I'm in remission.", "When the big breakdown came, it was properly mathematical. Fearing his powers might be waning as he approached 30, Nash decided he would solve the most important unresolved problem in mathematics: the Riemann Zeta conjecture. This bold guess about the solutions to a certain complex-valued infinite series (made by the incomparable Bernhard Riemann in 1859) would, if true, have far-reaching implications for the structure of the most basic of entities, the natural numbers. Before an eager audience of hundreds of mathematicians at Columbia University in 1959, Nash presented his results: a farrago of mathematical lunacy. \"Nash's talk wasn't good or bad,\" said one mathematician present. \"It was horrible.\" Some weeks before, Nash had declined a University of Chicago offer of an endowed chair on the grounds that he was scheduled to become the emperor of Antarctica.", "He returned to the Princeton area in the 1970s, where he was taken care of by the long-suffering Alicia, now his ex-wife (she supported him partly through computer programming, partly on welfare). He haunted the campus, where students began to call him \"the Phantom.\" They would come to class in the morning to find runic messages he had written on the blackboard at night: \"Mao Tse-Tung's Bar Mitzvah was 13 years, 13 months, and 13 days after Brezhnev's circumcision.\"", "Nash's breakthrough in game theory got him recruited by the Rand Corp., which was then a secretive military think tank in Santa Monica (its name is an acronym for \"research and development\"). However, the achievement did not greatly impress his fellow mathematicians. To do that, Nash, on a wager, disposed of a deep problem that had baffled the profession since the 19 th century: He showed that any Riemannian manifold possessing a special kind of \"smoothness\" can be embedded in Euclidean space. Manifolds, one must understand, are fairly wild and exotic beasts in mathematics. A famous example is the Klein bottle, a kind of higher-dimensional Moebius strip whose inside is somehow the same as its outside. Euclidean space, by contrast, is orderly and bourgeois. To demonstrate that \"impossible\" manifolds could be coaxed into living in Euclidean space is counterintuitive and pretty exciting. Nash did this by constructing a bizarre set of inequalities that left his fellow mathematicians thoroughly befuddled.", "necessarily exist at least one thing in that domain that will remain unchanged--the \"fixed point.\" Nash found a way of applying this to the domain of all game strategies so that the guaranteed fixed point was the equilibrium for the game--clever,", "Folie ࠎ \n\n People with high IQs tend to be nearsighted. This is not because they read a lot or stare at computer screens too much. That common-sense hypothesis has been discredited by research. Rather, it is a matter of genetics. The same genes that tend to elevate IQ also tend to affect the shape of the eyeball in a way that leads to myopia. This relationship--known in genetics as \"pleiotropy\"--seems to be completely accidental, a quirk of evolution.", "other. Each player has several strategy options to choose from. What Nash showed was that in every such game there is what has become known as a \"Nash equilibrium\": a set of strategies, one for each player, such that no player", "can improve his situation by switching to a different strategy. His proof was elegant but slight. A game is guaranteed to have a Nash equilibrium, it turns out, for the same reason that in a cup of coffee that is being stirred,", "at least one coffee molecule must remain absolutely still. Both are direct consequences of a \"fixed-point theorem\" in the branch of mathematics known as topology. This theorem says that for any continuous rearrangement of a domain of things, there will" ], [ "That about marked the end of Nash's career as a mathematical genius. The next year, he was expelled from Rand as a security risk after local police caught him engaging in a lewd act in a public men's room near Muscle Beach. At MIT, where he had been given a teaching job, he hardly bothered with undergraduates and humiliated graduate students by solving their thesis problems. He carried on affairs with several men and a mistress, who bore him a son he refused to lift a finger to support. His cruel streak extended to the woman he married, a beautiful physics student named Alicia who was awed by this \"genius with a penis.\" Once, at a math department picnic, he threw her to the ground and put his foot on her throat.", "As a boy growing up in the hills of West Virginia, Nash enjoyed torturing animals and building homemade bombs with two other unpopular youngsters, one of whom was accidentally killed by a blast. (Given Nash's childhood keenness for explosives and his later penchant for sending odd packages to prominent strangers through the mail, it's a wonder the FBI never got on to him as a Unabomber suspect.) He made his way to Carnegie Tech, where he was a classmate of Andy Warhol's, and thence to Princeton--the world capital of mathematics at the time--at the age of 20.", "In sheer appearance, this cold and aloof Southerner stood out from his fellow math prodigies. A \"beautiful dark-haired young man,\" \"handsome as a god,\" he was 6 feet 1 inch tall, with broad shoulders, a heavily muscled chest (which he liked to show off with see-through Dacron shirts), a tapered waist, and \"rather limp and beautiful hands\" accentuated by long fingernails. Within two years of entering Princeton, Nash had framed and proved the most important proposition in the theory of games. \n\n Mathematically, this was no big deal. Game theory was a somewhat fashionable pursuit for mathematicians in those postwar days, when it looked as if it might do for military science and economics what Newton's calculus had done for physics. But they were bored with it by the early 1950s. Economists, after a few decades of hesitation, picked it up in the '80s and made it a cornerstone of their discipline.", "Nash's breakthrough in game theory got him recruited by the Rand Corp., which was then a secretive military think tank in Santa Monica (its name is an acronym for \"research and development\"). However, the achievement did not greatly impress his fellow mathematicians. To do that, Nash, on a wager, disposed of a deep problem that had baffled the profession since the 19 th century: He showed that any Riemannian manifold possessing a special kind of \"smoothness\" can be embedded in Euclidean space. Manifolds, one must understand, are fairly wild and exotic beasts in mathematics. A famous example is the Klein bottle, a kind of higher-dimensional Moebius strip whose inside is somehow the same as its outside. Euclidean space, by contrast, is orderly and bourgeois. To demonstrate that \"impossible\" manifolds could be coaxed into living in Euclidean space is counterintuitive and pretty exciting. Nash did this by constructing a bizarre set of inequalities that left his fellow mathematicians thoroughly befuddled.", "Then, in the '90s, inexplicably, the voices in Nash's head began to quiet down. (Nasar gives an interesting account of just how rare such remissions are among those diagnosed with schizophrenia.) At the same time, the Nobel committee in Stockholm was deciding it was about time to award the prize in economics for game theory. Dare they make a known madman into a laureate? What might he say to King Gustav at the ceremony? Nasar shows her mettle as a reporter here by penetrating the veil of secrecy surrounding the Nobel and revealing the back-stage machinations for and against Nash's candidacy. He did fine at the ceremony, by the way.", "All the while, Nash was showing an intense interest in the state of Israel--often a sign of incipient insanity, at least in a non-Jew. Geniuses slipping into madness also tend to disrobe in public (I learned this from a volume on chess prodigies, who have a proclivity for disrobing on public buses). Nash showed up for an MIT New Year's Eve party clad only in a diaper. And then, of course, there was the New York Times , that old mainstay of psychotic delusion--Nash thought aliens were sending him encrypted messages through its pages (come to think of it, that could explain the Times ' odd prose).", "Indeed, he has evolved into a \"very fine person,\" according to his ex-wife--humbled by years of psychotic helplessness, buoyed up by the intellectual world's highest accolade. The Nobel has a terrible effect on the productivity of many recipients, paralyzing them with greatness. For Nash it was pure therapy. Then, too, there is the need to take care of his son by Alicia, who--pleiotropically?--inherited both his mathematical promise and his madness. (His older son, the one born out of wedlock, got neither.) The Nobel money bought a new boiler for the little bungalow across from the Princeton train station inhabited by this shaky menage. (When Vanity Fair published an excerpt of A Beautiful Mind , Nash probably became the only person ever featured in that magazine to live in a house clad in \"insulbrick.\")", "Just in the last 100 years or so, most of the heroic figures in the foundations of mathematics have landed in mental asylums or have died by their own hand. The greatest of them, Kurt Gödel, starved himself to death in the belief that his colleagues were putting poison in his food. Of the two pioneers of game theory--the field in which Nash garnered his Nobel--one, Ernst Zermelo, was hospitalized for psychosis. The other, John Von Neumann, may not have been clinically insane, but he did serve as the real-life model for the title character in Stanley Kubrick's Dr. Strangelove .", "When the big breakdown came, it was properly mathematical. Fearing his powers might be waning as he approached 30, Nash decided he would solve the most important unresolved problem in mathematics: the Riemann Zeta conjecture. This bold guess about the solutions to a certain complex-valued infinite series (made by the incomparable Bernhard Riemann in 1859) would, if true, have far-reaching implications for the structure of the most basic of entities, the natural numbers. Before an eager audience of hundreds of mathematicians at Columbia University in 1959, Nash presented his results: a farrago of mathematical lunacy. \"Nash's talk wasn't good or bad,\" said one mathematician present. \"It was horrible.\" Some weeks before, Nash had declined a University of Chicago offer of an endowed chair on the grounds that he was scheduled to become the emperor of Antarctica.", "The eeriest thing I discovered while reading this superb book was that Nash and I came within a couple of years of crossing paths in a Virginia mental hospital. I was actually working there, but psychiatric aides pick up so many mannerisms of the patients that it's hard to tell the difference after a while. A few years after that I found myself in a mathematics Ph.D. program. You'll be glad to know that I'm in remission.", "Such ebullitions of insanity continued for three decades, becoming more rococo. Nash went to Europe to form a world government, attempting repeatedly to renounce his U.S. citizenship. He did stints in tony asylums, hanging out with Robert Lowell, and in dismal state institutions, where he was subjected daily to insulin-induced comas. He believed himself to be a Palestinian refugee called C.O.R.P.S.E.; a great Japanese shogun, C1423; Esau; the prince of peace; l'homme d'Or ; a mouse. As Nasar observes, his delusions were weirdly inconsistent. He felt himself simultaneously to be the epicenter of the universe--\"I am the left foot of God on earth\"--and an abject, persecuted petitioner.", "other. Each player has several strategy options to choose from. What Nash showed was that in every such game there is what has become known as a \"Nash equilibrium\": a set of strategies, one for each player, such that no player", "necessarily exist at least one thing in that domain that will remain unchanged--the \"fixed point.\" Nash found a way of applying this to the domain of all game strategies so that the guaranteed fixed point was the equilibrium for the game--clever,", "Could there be a similar pleiotropy between madness and mathematics? Reading this absolutely fascinating biography by Sylvia Nasar, an economics writer for the New York Times , I began to wonder. Its subject, John Nash, is a mathematical genius who went crazy at the age of 30 and then, after several decades of flamboyant lunacy, was awarded the Nobel Prize in economics for something he had discovered as a graduate student. (He is now about to turn 70.) Nash is among the latest in a long and distinguished line of mathematicians--stretching back to that morbid paranoiac, Isaac Newton--who have been certifiably insane during parts of their lives.", "can improve his situation by switching to a different strategy. His proof was elegant but slight. A game is guaranteed to have a Nash equilibrium, it turns out, for the same reason that in a cup of coffee that is being stirred,", "He returned to the Princeton area in the 1970s, where he was taken care of by the long-suffering Alicia, now his ex-wife (she supported him partly through computer programming, partly on welfare). He haunted the campus, where students began to call him \"the Phantom.\" They would come to class in the morning to find runic messages he had written on the blackboard at night: \"Mao Tse-Tung's Bar Mitzvah was 13 years, 13 months, and 13 days after Brezhnev's circumcision.\"", "So maybe there is an accidental, pleiotropic connection between madness and mathematics. Or maybe it isn't so accidental. Mathematicians are, after all, people who fancy that they commune with perfect Platonic objects--abstract spaces, infinite numbers, zeta functions--that are invisible to normal humans. They spend their days piecing together complicated, scrupulously logical tales about these hallucinatory entities, which they believe are vastly more important than anything in the actual world. Is this not a kind of a folie à n (where n equals the number of pure mathematicians worldwide)? \n\n ABeautiful Mind reveals quite a lot about the psychic continuum leading from mathematical genius to madness. It is also a very peculiar redemption story: how three decades of raging schizophrenia, capped by an unexpected Nobel Prize, can transmute a cruel shit into a frail but decent human being.", "but the earlier topological theorem did all the work. Still, for an economics theorem, that counts as profound. Economists have been known to win Nobel Prizes for rediscovering theorems in elementary calculus.", "Agame is just a conflict situation with a bunch of participants, or \"players.\" The players could be poker pals, oligopolists competing to corner a market, or nuclear powers trying to dominate each", "at least one coffee molecule must remain absolutely still. Both are direct consequences of a \"fixed-point theorem\" in the branch of mathematics known as topology. This theorem says that for any continuous rearrangement of a domain of things, there will" ], [ "As a boy growing up in the hills of West Virginia, Nash enjoyed torturing animals and building homemade bombs with two other unpopular youngsters, one of whom was accidentally killed by a blast. (Given Nash's childhood keenness for explosives and his later penchant for sending odd packages to prominent strangers through the mail, it's a wonder the FBI never got on to him as a Unabomber suspect.) He made his way to Carnegie Tech, where he was a classmate of Andy Warhol's, and thence to Princeton--the world capital of mathematics at the time--at the age of 20.", "That about marked the end of Nash's career as a mathematical genius. The next year, he was expelled from Rand as a security risk after local police caught him engaging in a lewd act in a public men's room near Muscle Beach. At MIT, where he had been given a teaching job, he hardly bothered with undergraduates and humiliated graduate students by solving their thesis problems. He carried on affairs with several men and a mistress, who bore him a son he refused to lift a finger to support. His cruel streak extended to the woman he married, a beautiful physics student named Alicia who was awed by this \"genius with a penis.\" Once, at a math department picnic, he threw her to the ground and put his foot on her throat.", "In sheer appearance, this cold and aloof Southerner stood out from his fellow math prodigies. A \"beautiful dark-haired young man,\" \"handsome as a god,\" he was 6 feet 1 inch tall, with broad shoulders, a heavily muscled chest (which he liked to show off with see-through Dacron shirts), a tapered waist, and \"rather limp and beautiful hands\" accentuated by long fingernails. Within two years of entering Princeton, Nash had framed and proved the most important proposition in the theory of games. \n\n Mathematically, this was no big deal. Game theory was a somewhat fashionable pursuit for mathematicians in those postwar days, when it looked as if it might do for military science and economics what Newton's calculus had done for physics. But they were bored with it by the early 1950s. Economists, after a few decades of hesitation, picked it up in the '80s and made it a cornerstone of their discipline.", "Nash's breakthrough in game theory got him recruited by the Rand Corp., which was then a secretive military think tank in Santa Monica (its name is an acronym for \"research and development\"). However, the achievement did not greatly impress his fellow mathematicians. To do that, Nash, on a wager, disposed of a deep problem that had baffled the profession since the 19 th century: He showed that any Riemannian manifold possessing a special kind of \"smoothness\" can be embedded in Euclidean space. Manifolds, one must understand, are fairly wild and exotic beasts in mathematics. A famous example is the Klein bottle, a kind of higher-dimensional Moebius strip whose inside is somehow the same as its outside. Euclidean space, by contrast, is orderly and bourgeois. To demonstrate that \"impossible\" manifolds could be coaxed into living in Euclidean space is counterintuitive and pretty exciting. Nash did this by constructing a bizarre set of inequalities that left his fellow mathematicians thoroughly befuddled.", "When the big breakdown came, it was properly mathematical. Fearing his powers might be waning as he approached 30, Nash decided he would solve the most important unresolved problem in mathematics: the Riemann Zeta conjecture. This bold guess about the solutions to a certain complex-valued infinite series (made by the incomparable Bernhard Riemann in 1859) would, if true, have far-reaching implications for the structure of the most basic of entities, the natural numbers. Before an eager audience of hundreds of mathematicians at Columbia University in 1959, Nash presented his results: a farrago of mathematical lunacy. \"Nash's talk wasn't good or bad,\" said one mathematician present. \"It was horrible.\" Some weeks before, Nash had declined a University of Chicago offer of an endowed chair on the grounds that he was scheduled to become the emperor of Antarctica.", "Then, in the '90s, inexplicably, the voices in Nash's head began to quiet down. (Nasar gives an interesting account of just how rare such remissions are among those diagnosed with schizophrenia.) At the same time, the Nobel committee in Stockholm was deciding it was about time to award the prize in economics for game theory. Dare they make a known madman into a laureate? What might he say to King Gustav at the ceremony? Nasar shows her mettle as a reporter here by penetrating the veil of secrecy surrounding the Nobel and revealing the back-stage machinations for and against Nash's candidacy. He did fine at the ceremony, by the way.", "All the while, Nash was showing an intense interest in the state of Israel--often a sign of incipient insanity, at least in a non-Jew. Geniuses slipping into madness also tend to disrobe in public (I learned this from a volume on chess prodigies, who have a proclivity for disrobing on public buses). Nash showed up for an MIT New Year's Eve party clad only in a diaper. And then, of course, there was the New York Times , that old mainstay of psychotic delusion--Nash thought aliens were sending him encrypted messages through its pages (come to think of it, that could explain the Times ' odd prose).", "Indeed, he has evolved into a \"very fine person,\" according to his ex-wife--humbled by years of psychotic helplessness, buoyed up by the intellectual world's highest accolade. The Nobel has a terrible effect on the productivity of many recipients, paralyzing them with greatness. For Nash it was pure therapy. Then, too, there is the need to take care of his son by Alicia, who--pleiotropically?--inherited both his mathematical promise and his madness. (His older son, the one born out of wedlock, got neither.) The Nobel money bought a new boiler for the little bungalow across from the Princeton train station inhabited by this shaky menage. (When Vanity Fair published an excerpt of A Beautiful Mind , Nash probably became the only person ever featured in that magazine to live in a house clad in \"insulbrick.\")", "Just in the last 100 years or so, most of the heroic figures in the foundations of mathematics have landed in mental asylums or have died by their own hand. The greatest of them, Kurt Gödel, starved himself to death in the belief that his colleagues were putting poison in his food. Of the two pioneers of game theory--the field in which Nash garnered his Nobel--one, Ernst Zermelo, was hospitalized for psychosis. The other, John Von Neumann, may not have been clinically insane, but he did serve as the real-life model for the title character in Stanley Kubrick's Dr. Strangelove .", "Such ebullitions of insanity continued for three decades, becoming more rococo. Nash went to Europe to form a world government, attempting repeatedly to renounce his U.S. citizenship. He did stints in tony asylums, hanging out with Robert Lowell, and in dismal state institutions, where he was subjected daily to insulin-induced comas. He believed himself to be a Palestinian refugee called C.O.R.P.S.E.; a great Japanese shogun, C1423; Esau; the prince of peace; l'homme d'Or ; a mouse. As Nasar observes, his delusions were weirdly inconsistent. He felt himself simultaneously to be the epicenter of the universe--\"I am the left foot of God on earth\"--and an abject, persecuted petitioner.", "The eeriest thing I discovered while reading this superb book was that Nash and I came within a couple of years of crossing paths in a Virginia mental hospital. I was actually working there, but psychiatric aides pick up so many mannerisms of the patients that it's hard to tell the difference after a while. A few years after that I found myself in a mathematics Ph.D. program. You'll be glad to know that I'm in remission.", "Could there be a similar pleiotropy between madness and mathematics? Reading this absolutely fascinating biography by Sylvia Nasar, an economics writer for the New York Times , I began to wonder. Its subject, John Nash, is a mathematical genius who went crazy at the age of 30 and then, after several decades of flamboyant lunacy, was awarded the Nobel Prize in economics for something he had discovered as a graduate student. (He is now about to turn 70.) Nash is among the latest in a long and distinguished line of mathematicians--stretching back to that morbid paranoiac, Isaac Newton--who have been certifiably insane during parts of their lives.", "He returned to the Princeton area in the 1970s, where he was taken care of by the long-suffering Alicia, now his ex-wife (she supported him partly through computer programming, partly on welfare). He haunted the campus, where students began to call him \"the Phantom.\" They would come to class in the morning to find runic messages he had written on the blackboard at night: \"Mao Tse-Tung's Bar Mitzvah was 13 years, 13 months, and 13 days after Brezhnev's circumcision.\"", "necessarily exist at least one thing in that domain that will remain unchanged--the \"fixed point.\" Nash found a way of applying this to the domain of all game strategies so that the guaranteed fixed point was the equilibrium for the game--clever,", "other. Each player has several strategy options to choose from. What Nash showed was that in every such game there is what has become known as a \"Nash equilibrium\": a set of strategies, one for each player, such that no player", "can improve his situation by switching to a different strategy. His proof was elegant but slight. A game is guaranteed to have a Nash equilibrium, it turns out, for the same reason that in a cup of coffee that is being stirred,", "So maybe there is an accidental, pleiotropic connection between madness and mathematics. Or maybe it isn't so accidental. Mathematicians are, after all, people who fancy that they commune with perfect Platonic objects--abstract spaces, infinite numbers, zeta functions--that are invisible to normal humans. They spend their days piecing together complicated, scrupulously logical tales about these hallucinatory entities, which they believe are vastly more important than anything in the actual world. Is this not a kind of a folie à n (where n equals the number of pure mathematicians worldwide)? \n\n ABeautiful Mind reveals quite a lot about the psychic continuum leading from mathematical genius to madness. It is also a very peculiar redemption story: how three decades of raging schizophrenia, capped by an unexpected Nobel Prize, can transmute a cruel shit into a frail but decent human being.", "but the earlier topological theorem did all the work. Still, for an economics theorem, that counts as profound. Economists have been known to win Nobel Prizes for rediscovering theorems in elementary calculus.", "Agame is just a conflict situation with a bunch of participants, or \"players.\" The players could be poker pals, oligopolists competing to corner a market, or nuclear powers trying to dominate each", "at least one coffee molecule must remain absolutely still. Both are direct consequences of a \"fixed-point theorem\" in the branch of mathematics known as topology. This theorem says that for any continuous rearrangement of a domain of things, there will" ], [ "Such ebullitions of insanity continued for three decades, becoming more rococo. Nash went to Europe to form a world government, attempting repeatedly to renounce his U.S. citizenship. He did stints in tony asylums, hanging out with Robert Lowell, and in dismal state institutions, where he was subjected daily to insulin-induced comas. He believed himself to be a Palestinian refugee called C.O.R.P.S.E.; a great Japanese shogun, C1423; Esau; the prince of peace; l'homme d'Or ; a mouse. As Nasar observes, his delusions were weirdly inconsistent. He felt himself simultaneously to be the epicenter of the universe--\"I am the left foot of God on earth\"--and an abject, persecuted petitioner.", "All the while, Nash was showing an intense interest in the state of Israel--often a sign of incipient insanity, at least in a non-Jew. Geniuses slipping into madness also tend to disrobe in public (I learned this from a volume on chess prodigies, who have a proclivity for disrobing on public buses). Nash showed up for an MIT New Year's Eve party clad only in a diaper. And then, of course, there was the New York Times , that old mainstay of psychotic delusion--Nash thought aliens were sending him encrypted messages through its pages (come to think of it, that could explain the Times ' odd prose).", "When the big breakdown came, it was properly mathematical. Fearing his powers might be waning as he approached 30, Nash decided he would solve the most important unresolved problem in mathematics: the Riemann Zeta conjecture. This bold guess about the solutions to a certain complex-valued infinite series (made by the incomparable Bernhard Riemann in 1859) would, if true, have far-reaching implications for the structure of the most basic of entities, the natural numbers. Before an eager audience of hundreds of mathematicians at Columbia University in 1959, Nash presented his results: a farrago of mathematical lunacy. \"Nash's talk wasn't good or bad,\" said one mathematician present. \"It was horrible.\" Some weeks before, Nash had declined a University of Chicago offer of an endowed chair on the grounds that he was scheduled to become the emperor of Antarctica.", "That about marked the end of Nash's career as a mathematical genius. The next year, he was expelled from Rand as a security risk after local police caught him engaging in a lewd act in a public men's room near Muscle Beach. At MIT, where he had been given a teaching job, he hardly bothered with undergraduates and humiliated graduate students by solving their thesis problems. He carried on affairs with several men and a mistress, who bore him a son he refused to lift a finger to support. His cruel streak extended to the woman he married, a beautiful physics student named Alicia who was awed by this \"genius with a penis.\" Once, at a math department picnic, he threw her to the ground and put his foot on her throat.", "The eeriest thing I discovered while reading this superb book was that Nash and I came within a couple of years of crossing paths in a Virginia mental hospital. I was actually working there, but psychiatric aides pick up so many mannerisms of the patients that it's hard to tell the difference after a while. A few years after that I found myself in a mathematics Ph.D. program. You'll be glad to know that I'm in remission.", "As a boy growing up in the hills of West Virginia, Nash enjoyed torturing animals and building homemade bombs with two other unpopular youngsters, one of whom was accidentally killed by a blast. (Given Nash's childhood keenness for explosives and his later penchant for sending odd packages to prominent strangers through the mail, it's a wonder the FBI never got on to him as a Unabomber suspect.) He made his way to Carnegie Tech, where he was a classmate of Andy Warhol's, and thence to Princeton--the world capital of mathematics at the time--at the age of 20.", "Then, in the '90s, inexplicably, the voices in Nash's head began to quiet down. (Nasar gives an interesting account of just how rare such remissions are among those diagnosed with schizophrenia.) At the same time, the Nobel committee in Stockholm was deciding it was about time to award the prize in economics for game theory. Dare they make a known madman into a laureate? What might he say to King Gustav at the ceremony? Nasar shows her mettle as a reporter here by penetrating the veil of secrecy surrounding the Nobel and revealing the back-stage machinations for and against Nash's candidacy. He did fine at the ceremony, by the way.", "Indeed, he has evolved into a \"very fine person,\" according to his ex-wife--humbled by years of psychotic helplessness, buoyed up by the intellectual world's highest accolade. The Nobel has a terrible effect on the productivity of many recipients, paralyzing them with greatness. For Nash it was pure therapy. Then, too, there is the need to take care of his son by Alicia, who--pleiotropically?--inherited both his mathematical promise and his madness. (His older son, the one born out of wedlock, got neither.) The Nobel money bought a new boiler for the little bungalow across from the Princeton train station inhabited by this shaky menage. (When Vanity Fair published an excerpt of A Beautiful Mind , Nash probably became the only person ever featured in that magazine to live in a house clad in \"insulbrick.\")", "Just in the last 100 years or so, most of the heroic figures in the foundations of mathematics have landed in mental asylums or have died by their own hand. The greatest of them, Kurt Gödel, starved himself to death in the belief that his colleagues were putting poison in his food. Of the two pioneers of game theory--the field in which Nash garnered his Nobel--one, Ernst Zermelo, was hospitalized for psychosis. The other, John Von Neumann, may not have been clinically insane, but he did serve as the real-life model for the title character in Stanley Kubrick's Dr. Strangelove .", "Could there be a similar pleiotropy between madness and mathematics? Reading this absolutely fascinating biography by Sylvia Nasar, an economics writer for the New York Times , I began to wonder. Its subject, John Nash, is a mathematical genius who went crazy at the age of 30 and then, after several decades of flamboyant lunacy, was awarded the Nobel Prize in economics for something he had discovered as a graduate student. (He is now about to turn 70.) Nash is among the latest in a long and distinguished line of mathematicians--stretching back to that morbid paranoiac, Isaac Newton--who have been certifiably insane during parts of their lives.", "In sheer appearance, this cold and aloof Southerner stood out from his fellow math prodigies. A \"beautiful dark-haired young man,\" \"handsome as a god,\" he was 6 feet 1 inch tall, with broad shoulders, a heavily muscled chest (which he liked to show off with see-through Dacron shirts), a tapered waist, and \"rather limp and beautiful hands\" accentuated by long fingernails. Within two years of entering Princeton, Nash had framed and proved the most important proposition in the theory of games. \n\n Mathematically, this was no big deal. Game theory was a somewhat fashionable pursuit for mathematicians in those postwar days, when it looked as if it might do for military science and economics what Newton's calculus had done for physics. But they were bored with it by the early 1950s. Economists, after a few decades of hesitation, picked it up in the '80s and made it a cornerstone of their discipline.", "Nash's breakthrough in game theory got him recruited by the Rand Corp., which was then a secretive military think tank in Santa Monica (its name is an acronym for \"research and development\"). However, the achievement did not greatly impress his fellow mathematicians. To do that, Nash, on a wager, disposed of a deep problem that had baffled the profession since the 19 th century: He showed that any Riemannian manifold possessing a special kind of \"smoothness\" can be embedded in Euclidean space. Manifolds, one must understand, are fairly wild and exotic beasts in mathematics. A famous example is the Klein bottle, a kind of higher-dimensional Moebius strip whose inside is somehow the same as its outside. Euclidean space, by contrast, is orderly and bourgeois. To demonstrate that \"impossible\" manifolds could be coaxed into living in Euclidean space is counterintuitive and pretty exciting. Nash did this by constructing a bizarre set of inequalities that left his fellow mathematicians thoroughly befuddled.", "He returned to the Princeton area in the 1970s, where he was taken care of by the long-suffering Alicia, now his ex-wife (she supported him partly through computer programming, partly on welfare). He haunted the campus, where students began to call him \"the Phantom.\" They would come to class in the morning to find runic messages he had written on the blackboard at night: \"Mao Tse-Tung's Bar Mitzvah was 13 years, 13 months, and 13 days after Brezhnev's circumcision.\"", "So maybe there is an accidental, pleiotropic connection between madness and mathematics. Or maybe it isn't so accidental. Mathematicians are, after all, people who fancy that they commune with perfect Platonic objects--abstract spaces, infinite numbers, zeta functions--that are invisible to normal humans. They spend their days piecing together complicated, scrupulously logical tales about these hallucinatory entities, which they believe are vastly more important than anything in the actual world. Is this not a kind of a folie à n (where n equals the number of pure mathematicians worldwide)? \n\n ABeautiful Mind reveals quite a lot about the psychic continuum leading from mathematical genius to madness. It is also a very peculiar redemption story: how three decades of raging schizophrenia, capped by an unexpected Nobel Prize, can transmute a cruel shit into a frail but decent human being.", "necessarily exist at least one thing in that domain that will remain unchanged--the \"fixed point.\" Nash found a way of applying this to the domain of all game strategies so that the guaranteed fixed point was the equilibrium for the game--clever,", "other. Each player has several strategy options to choose from. What Nash showed was that in every such game there is what has become known as a \"Nash equilibrium\": a set of strategies, one for each player, such that no player", "can improve his situation by switching to a different strategy. His proof was elegant but slight. A game is guaranteed to have a Nash equilibrium, it turns out, for the same reason that in a cup of coffee that is being stirred,", "but the earlier topological theorem did all the work. Still, for an economics theorem, that counts as profound. Economists have been known to win Nobel Prizes for rediscovering theorems in elementary calculus.", "at least one coffee molecule must remain absolutely still. Both are direct consequences of a \"fixed-point theorem\" in the branch of mathematics known as topology. This theorem says that for any continuous rearrangement of a domain of things, there will", "Folie ࠎ \n\n People with high IQs tend to be nearsighted. This is not because they read a lot or stare at computer screens too much. That common-sense hypothesis has been discredited by research. Rather, it is a matter of genetics. The same genes that tend to elevate IQ also tend to affect the shape of the eyeball in a way that leads to myopia. This relationship--known in genetics as \"pleiotropy\"--seems to be completely accidental, a quirk of evolution." ], [ "Then, in the '90s, inexplicably, the voices in Nash's head began to quiet down. (Nasar gives an interesting account of just how rare such remissions are among those diagnosed with schizophrenia.) At the same time, the Nobel committee in Stockholm was deciding it was about time to award the prize in economics for game theory. Dare they make a known madman into a laureate? What might he say to King Gustav at the ceremony? Nasar shows her mettle as a reporter here by penetrating the veil of secrecy surrounding the Nobel and revealing the back-stage machinations for and against Nash's candidacy. He did fine at the ceremony, by the way.", "In sheer appearance, this cold and aloof Southerner stood out from his fellow math prodigies. A \"beautiful dark-haired young man,\" \"handsome as a god,\" he was 6 feet 1 inch tall, with broad shoulders, a heavily muscled chest (which he liked to show off with see-through Dacron shirts), a tapered waist, and \"rather limp and beautiful hands\" accentuated by long fingernails. Within two years of entering Princeton, Nash had framed and proved the most important proposition in the theory of games. \n\n Mathematically, this was no big deal. Game theory was a somewhat fashionable pursuit for mathematicians in those postwar days, when it looked as if it might do for military science and economics what Newton's calculus had done for physics. But they were bored with it by the early 1950s. Economists, after a few decades of hesitation, picked it up in the '80s and made it a cornerstone of their discipline.", "When the big breakdown came, it was properly mathematical. Fearing his powers might be waning as he approached 30, Nash decided he would solve the most important unresolved problem in mathematics: the Riemann Zeta conjecture. This bold guess about the solutions to a certain complex-valued infinite series (made by the incomparable Bernhard Riemann in 1859) would, if true, have far-reaching implications for the structure of the most basic of entities, the natural numbers. Before an eager audience of hundreds of mathematicians at Columbia University in 1959, Nash presented his results: a farrago of mathematical lunacy. \"Nash's talk wasn't good or bad,\" said one mathematician present. \"It was horrible.\" Some weeks before, Nash had declined a University of Chicago offer of an endowed chair on the grounds that he was scheduled to become the emperor of Antarctica.", "That about marked the end of Nash's career as a mathematical genius. The next year, he was expelled from Rand as a security risk after local police caught him engaging in a lewd act in a public men's room near Muscle Beach. At MIT, where he had been given a teaching job, he hardly bothered with undergraduates and humiliated graduate students by solving their thesis problems. He carried on affairs with several men and a mistress, who bore him a son he refused to lift a finger to support. His cruel streak extended to the woman he married, a beautiful physics student named Alicia who was awed by this \"genius with a penis.\" Once, at a math department picnic, he threw her to the ground and put his foot on her throat.", "Just in the last 100 years or so, most of the heroic figures in the foundations of mathematics have landed in mental asylums or have died by their own hand. The greatest of them, Kurt Gödel, starved himself to death in the belief that his colleagues were putting poison in his food. Of the two pioneers of game theory--the field in which Nash garnered his Nobel--one, Ernst Zermelo, was hospitalized for psychosis. The other, John Von Neumann, may not have been clinically insane, but he did serve as the real-life model for the title character in Stanley Kubrick's Dr. Strangelove .", "Nash's breakthrough in game theory got him recruited by the Rand Corp., which was then a secretive military think tank in Santa Monica (its name is an acronym for \"research and development\"). However, the achievement did not greatly impress his fellow mathematicians. To do that, Nash, on a wager, disposed of a deep problem that had baffled the profession since the 19 th century: He showed that any Riemannian manifold possessing a special kind of \"smoothness\" can be embedded in Euclidean space. Manifolds, one must understand, are fairly wild and exotic beasts in mathematics. A famous example is the Klein bottle, a kind of higher-dimensional Moebius strip whose inside is somehow the same as its outside. Euclidean space, by contrast, is orderly and bourgeois. To demonstrate that \"impossible\" manifolds could be coaxed into living in Euclidean space is counterintuitive and pretty exciting. Nash did this by constructing a bizarre set of inequalities that left his fellow mathematicians thoroughly befuddled.", "Indeed, he has evolved into a \"very fine person,\" according to his ex-wife--humbled by years of psychotic helplessness, buoyed up by the intellectual world's highest accolade. The Nobel has a terrible effect on the productivity of many recipients, paralyzing them with greatness. For Nash it was pure therapy. Then, too, there is the need to take care of his son by Alicia, who--pleiotropically?--inherited both his mathematical promise and his madness. (His older son, the one born out of wedlock, got neither.) The Nobel money bought a new boiler for the little bungalow across from the Princeton train station inhabited by this shaky menage. (When Vanity Fair published an excerpt of A Beautiful Mind , Nash probably became the only person ever featured in that magazine to live in a house clad in \"insulbrick.\")", "As a boy growing up in the hills of West Virginia, Nash enjoyed torturing animals and building homemade bombs with two other unpopular youngsters, one of whom was accidentally killed by a blast. (Given Nash's childhood keenness for explosives and his later penchant for sending odd packages to prominent strangers through the mail, it's a wonder the FBI never got on to him as a Unabomber suspect.) He made his way to Carnegie Tech, where he was a classmate of Andy Warhol's, and thence to Princeton--the world capital of mathematics at the time--at the age of 20.", "All the while, Nash was showing an intense interest in the state of Israel--often a sign of incipient insanity, at least in a non-Jew. Geniuses slipping into madness also tend to disrobe in public (I learned this from a volume on chess prodigies, who have a proclivity for disrobing on public buses). Nash showed up for an MIT New Year's Eve party clad only in a diaper. And then, of course, there was the New York Times , that old mainstay of psychotic delusion--Nash thought aliens were sending him encrypted messages through its pages (come to think of it, that could explain the Times ' odd prose).", "Could there be a similar pleiotropy between madness and mathematics? Reading this absolutely fascinating biography by Sylvia Nasar, an economics writer for the New York Times , I began to wonder. Its subject, John Nash, is a mathematical genius who went crazy at the age of 30 and then, after several decades of flamboyant lunacy, was awarded the Nobel Prize in economics for something he had discovered as a graduate student. (He is now about to turn 70.) Nash is among the latest in a long and distinguished line of mathematicians--stretching back to that morbid paranoiac, Isaac Newton--who have been certifiably insane during parts of their lives.", "Such ebullitions of insanity continued for three decades, becoming more rococo. Nash went to Europe to form a world government, attempting repeatedly to renounce his U.S. citizenship. He did stints in tony asylums, hanging out with Robert Lowell, and in dismal state institutions, where he was subjected daily to insulin-induced comas. He believed himself to be a Palestinian refugee called C.O.R.P.S.E.; a great Japanese shogun, C1423; Esau; the prince of peace; l'homme d'Or ; a mouse. As Nasar observes, his delusions were weirdly inconsistent. He felt himself simultaneously to be the epicenter of the universe--\"I am the left foot of God on earth\"--and an abject, persecuted petitioner.", "The eeriest thing I discovered while reading this superb book was that Nash and I came within a couple of years of crossing paths in a Virginia mental hospital. I was actually working there, but psychiatric aides pick up so many mannerisms of the patients that it's hard to tell the difference after a while. A few years after that I found myself in a mathematics Ph.D. program. You'll be glad to know that I'm in remission.", "necessarily exist at least one thing in that domain that will remain unchanged--the \"fixed point.\" Nash found a way of applying this to the domain of all game strategies so that the guaranteed fixed point was the equilibrium for the game--clever,", "other. Each player has several strategy options to choose from. What Nash showed was that in every such game there is what has become known as a \"Nash equilibrium\": a set of strategies, one for each player, such that no player", "So maybe there is an accidental, pleiotropic connection between madness and mathematics. Or maybe it isn't so accidental. Mathematicians are, after all, people who fancy that they commune with perfect Platonic objects--abstract spaces, infinite numbers, zeta functions--that are invisible to normal humans. They spend their days piecing together complicated, scrupulously logical tales about these hallucinatory entities, which they believe are vastly more important than anything in the actual world. Is this not a kind of a folie à n (where n equals the number of pure mathematicians worldwide)? \n\n ABeautiful Mind reveals quite a lot about the psychic continuum leading from mathematical genius to madness. It is also a very peculiar redemption story: how three decades of raging schizophrenia, capped by an unexpected Nobel Prize, can transmute a cruel shit into a frail but decent human being.", "He returned to the Princeton area in the 1970s, where he was taken care of by the long-suffering Alicia, now his ex-wife (she supported him partly through computer programming, partly on welfare). He haunted the campus, where students began to call him \"the Phantom.\" They would come to class in the morning to find runic messages he had written on the blackboard at night: \"Mao Tse-Tung's Bar Mitzvah was 13 years, 13 months, and 13 days after Brezhnev's circumcision.\"", "can improve his situation by switching to a different strategy. His proof was elegant but slight. A game is guaranteed to have a Nash equilibrium, it turns out, for the same reason that in a cup of coffee that is being stirred,", "but the earlier topological theorem did all the work. Still, for an economics theorem, that counts as profound. Economists have been known to win Nobel Prizes for rediscovering theorems in elementary calculus.", "Agame is just a conflict situation with a bunch of participants, or \"players.\" The players could be poker pals, oligopolists competing to corner a market, or nuclear powers trying to dominate each", "at least one coffee molecule must remain absolutely still. Both are direct consequences of a \"fixed-point theorem\" in the branch of mathematics known as topology. This theorem says that for any continuous rearrangement of a domain of things, there will" ], [ "Indeed, he has evolved into a \"very fine person,\" according to his ex-wife--humbled by years of psychotic helplessness, buoyed up by the intellectual world's highest accolade. The Nobel has a terrible effect on the productivity of many recipients, paralyzing them with greatness. For Nash it was pure therapy. Then, too, there is the need to take care of his son by Alicia, who--pleiotropically?--inherited both his mathematical promise and his madness. (His older son, the one born out of wedlock, got neither.) The Nobel money bought a new boiler for the little bungalow across from the Princeton train station inhabited by this shaky menage. (When Vanity Fair published an excerpt of A Beautiful Mind , Nash probably became the only person ever featured in that magazine to live in a house clad in \"insulbrick.\")", "Then, in the '90s, inexplicably, the voices in Nash's head began to quiet down. (Nasar gives an interesting account of just how rare such remissions are among those diagnosed with schizophrenia.) At the same time, the Nobel committee in Stockholm was deciding it was about time to award the prize in economics for game theory. Dare they make a known madman into a laureate? What might he say to King Gustav at the ceremony? Nasar shows her mettle as a reporter here by penetrating the veil of secrecy surrounding the Nobel and revealing the back-stage machinations for and against Nash's candidacy. He did fine at the ceremony, by the way.", "That about marked the end of Nash's career as a mathematical genius. The next year, he was expelled from Rand as a security risk after local police caught him engaging in a lewd act in a public men's room near Muscle Beach. At MIT, where he had been given a teaching job, he hardly bothered with undergraduates and humiliated graduate students by solving their thesis problems. He carried on affairs with several men and a mistress, who bore him a son he refused to lift a finger to support. His cruel streak extended to the woman he married, a beautiful physics student named Alicia who was awed by this \"genius with a penis.\" Once, at a math department picnic, he threw her to the ground and put his foot on her throat.", "In sheer appearance, this cold and aloof Southerner stood out from his fellow math prodigies. A \"beautiful dark-haired young man,\" \"handsome as a god,\" he was 6 feet 1 inch tall, with broad shoulders, a heavily muscled chest (which he liked to show off with see-through Dacron shirts), a tapered waist, and \"rather limp and beautiful hands\" accentuated by long fingernails. Within two years of entering Princeton, Nash had framed and proved the most important proposition in the theory of games. \n\n Mathematically, this was no big deal. Game theory was a somewhat fashionable pursuit for mathematicians in those postwar days, when it looked as if it might do for military science and economics what Newton's calculus had done for physics. But they were bored with it by the early 1950s. Economists, after a few decades of hesitation, picked it up in the '80s and made it a cornerstone of their discipline.", "As a boy growing up in the hills of West Virginia, Nash enjoyed torturing animals and building homemade bombs with two other unpopular youngsters, one of whom was accidentally killed by a blast. (Given Nash's childhood keenness for explosives and his later penchant for sending odd packages to prominent strangers through the mail, it's a wonder the FBI never got on to him as a Unabomber suspect.) He made his way to Carnegie Tech, where he was a classmate of Andy Warhol's, and thence to Princeton--the world capital of mathematics at the time--at the age of 20.", "Nash's breakthrough in game theory got him recruited by the Rand Corp., which was then a secretive military think tank in Santa Monica (its name is an acronym for \"research and development\"). However, the achievement did not greatly impress his fellow mathematicians. To do that, Nash, on a wager, disposed of a deep problem that had baffled the profession since the 19 th century: He showed that any Riemannian manifold possessing a special kind of \"smoothness\" can be embedded in Euclidean space. Manifolds, one must understand, are fairly wild and exotic beasts in mathematics. A famous example is the Klein bottle, a kind of higher-dimensional Moebius strip whose inside is somehow the same as its outside. Euclidean space, by contrast, is orderly and bourgeois. To demonstrate that \"impossible\" manifolds could be coaxed into living in Euclidean space is counterintuitive and pretty exciting. Nash did this by constructing a bizarre set of inequalities that left his fellow mathematicians thoroughly befuddled.", "When the big breakdown came, it was properly mathematical. Fearing his powers might be waning as he approached 30, Nash decided he would solve the most important unresolved problem in mathematics: the Riemann Zeta conjecture. This bold guess about the solutions to a certain complex-valued infinite series (made by the incomparable Bernhard Riemann in 1859) would, if true, have far-reaching implications for the structure of the most basic of entities, the natural numbers. Before an eager audience of hundreds of mathematicians at Columbia University in 1959, Nash presented his results: a farrago of mathematical lunacy. \"Nash's talk wasn't good or bad,\" said one mathematician present. \"It was horrible.\" Some weeks before, Nash had declined a University of Chicago offer of an endowed chair on the grounds that he was scheduled to become the emperor of Antarctica.", "All the while, Nash was showing an intense interest in the state of Israel--often a sign of incipient insanity, at least in a non-Jew. Geniuses slipping into madness also tend to disrobe in public (I learned this from a volume on chess prodigies, who have a proclivity for disrobing on public buses). Nash showed up for an MIT New Year's Eve party clad only in a diaper. And then, of course, there was the New York Times , that old mainstay of psychotic delusion--Nash thought aliens were sending him encrypted messages through its pages (come to think of it, that could explain the Times ' odd prose).", "The eeriest thing I discovered while reading this superb book was that Nash and I came within a couple of years of crossing paths in a Virginia mental hospital. I was actually working there, but psychiatric aides pick up so many mannerisms of the patients that it's hard to tell the difference after a while. A few years after that I found myself in a mathematics Ph.D. program. You'll be glad to know that I'm in remission.", "Such ebullitions of insanity continued for three decades, becoming more rococo. Nash went to Europe to form a world government, attempting repeatedly to renounce his U.S. citizenship. He did stints in tony asylums, hanging out with Robert Lowell, and in dismal state institutions, where he was subjected daily to insulin-induced comas. He believed himself to be a Palestinian refugee called C.O.R.P.S.E.; a great Japanese shogun, C1423; Esau; the prince of peace; l'homme d'Or ; a mouse. As Nasar observes, his delusions were weirdly inconsistent. He felt himself simultaneously to be the epicenter of the universe--\"I am the left foot of God on earth\"--and an abject, persecuted petitioner.", "Just in the last 100 years or so, most of the heroic figures in the foundations of mathematics have landed in mental asylums or have died by their own hand. The greatest of them, Kurt Gödel, starved himself to death in the belief that his colleagues were putting poison in his food. Of the two pioneers of game theory--the field in which Nash garnered his Nobel--one, Ernst Zermelo, was hospitalized for psychosis. The other, John Von Neumann, may not have been clinically insane, but he did serve as the real-life model for the title character in Stanley Kubrick's Dr. Strangelove .", "Could there be a similar pleiotropy between madness and mathematics? Reading this absolutely fascinating biography by Sylvia Nasar, an economics writer for the New York Times , I began to wonder. Its subject, John Nash, is a mathematical genius who went crazy at the age of 30 and then, after several decades of flamboyant lunacy, was awarded the Nobel Prize in economics for something he had discovered as a graduate student. (He is now about to turn 70.) Nash is among the latest in a long and distinguished line of mathematicians--stretching back to that morbid paranoiac, Isaac Newton--who have been certifiably insane during parts of their lives.", "necessarily exist at least one thing in that domain that will remain unchanged--the \"fixed point.\" Nash found a way of applying this to the domain of all game strategies so that the guaranteed fixed point was the equilibrium for the game--clever,", "He returned to the Princeton area in the 1970s, where he was taken care of by the long-suffering Alicia, now his ex-wife (she supported him partly through computer programming, partly on welfare). He haunted the campus, where students began to call him \"the Phantom.\" They would come to class in the morning to find runic messages he had written on the blackboard at night: \"Mao Tse-Tung's Bar Mitzvah was 13 years, 13 months, and 13 days after Brezhnev's circumcision.\"", "So maybe there is an accidental, pleiotropic connection between madness and mathematics. Or maybe it isn't so accidental. Mathematicians are, after all, people who fancy that they commune with perfect Platonic objects--abstract spaces, infinite numbers, zeta functions--that are invisible to normal humans. They spend their days piecing together complicated, scrupulously logical tales about these hallucinatory entities, which they believe are vastly more important than anything in the actual world. Is this not a kind of a folie à n (where n equals the number of pure mathematicians worldwide)? \n\n ABeautiful Mind reveals quite a lot about the psychic continuum leading from mathematical genius to madness. It is also a very peculiar redemption story: how three decades of raging schizophrenia, capped by an unexpected Nobel Prize, can transmute a cruel shit into a frail but decent human being.", "but the earlier topological theorem did all the work. Still, for an economics theorem, that counts as profound. Economists have been known to win Nobel Prizes for rediscovering theorems in elementary calculus.", "other. Each player has several strategy options to choose from. What Nash showed was that in every such game there is what has become known as a \"Nash equilibrium\": a set of strategies, one for each player, such that no player", "can improve his situation by switching to a different strategy. His proof was elegant but slight. A game is guaranteed to have a Nash equilibrium, it turns out, for the same reason that in a cup of coffee that is being stirred,", "at least one coffee molecule must remain absolutely still. Both are direct consequences of a \"fixed-point theorem\" in the branch of mathematics known as topology. This theorem says that for any continuous rearrangement of a domain of things, there will", "Agame is just a conflict situation with a bunch of participants, or \"players.\" The players could be poker pals, oligopolists competing to corner a market, or nuclear powers trying to dominate each" ], [ "So maybe there is an accidental, pleiotropic connection between madness and mathematics. Or maybe it isn't so accidental. Mathematicians are, after all, people who fancy that they commune with perfect Platonic objects--abstract spaces, infinite numbers, zeta functions--that are invisible to normal humans. They spend their days piecing together complicated, scrupulously logical tales about these hallucinatory entities, which they believe are vastly more important than anything in the actual world. Is this not a kind of a folie à n (where n equals the number of pure mathematicians worldwide)? \n\n ABeautiful Mind reveals quite a lot about the psychic continuum leading from mathematical genius to madness. It is also a very peculiar redemption story: how three decades of raging schizophrenia, capped by an unexpected Nobel Prize, can transmute a cruel shit into a frail but decent human being.", "The eeriest thing I discovered while reading this superb book was that Nash and I came within a couple of years of crossing paths in a Virginia mental hospital. I was actually working there, but psychiatric aides pick up so many mannerisms of the patients that it's hard to tell the difference after a while. A few years after that I found myself in a mathematics Ph.D. program. You'll be glad to know that I'm in remission.", "Could there be a similar pleiotropy between madness and mathematics? Reading this absolutely fascinating biography by Sylvia Nasar, an economics writer for the New York Times , I began to wonder. Its subject, John Nash, is a mathematical genius who went crazy at the age of 30 and then, after several decades of flamboyant lunacy, was awarded the Nobel Prize in economics for something he had discovered as a graduate student. (He is now about to turn 70.) Nash is among the latest in a long and distinguished line of mathematicians--stretching back to that morbid paranoiac, Isaac Newton--who have been certifiably insane during parts of their lives.", "Just in the last 100 years or so, most of the heroic figures in the foundations of mathematics have landed in mental asylums or have died by their own hand. The greatest of them, Kurt Gödel, starved himself to death in the belief that his colleagues were putting poison in his food. Of the two pioneers of game theory--the field in which Nash garnered his Nobel--one, Ernst Zermelo, was hospitalized for psychosis. The other, John Von Neumann, may not have been clinically insane, but he did serve as the real-life model for the title character in Stanley Kubrick's Dr. Strangelove .", "That about marked the end of Nash's career as a mathematical genius. The next year, he was expelled from Rand as a security risk after local police caught him engaging in a lewd act in a public men's room near Muscle Beach. At MIT, where he had been given a teaching job, he hardly bothered with undergraduates and humiliated graduate students by solving their thesis problems. He carried on affairs with several men and a mistress, who bore him a son he refused to lift a finger to support. His cruel streak extended to the woman he married, a beautiful physics student named Alicia who was awed by this \"genius with a penis.\" Once, at a math department picnic, he threw her to the ground and put his foot on her throat.", "When the big breakdown came, it was properly mathematical. Fearing his powers might be waning as he approached 30, Nash decided he would solve the most important unresolved problem in mathematics: the Riemann Zeta conjecture. This bold guess about the solutions to a certain complex-valued infinite series (made by the incomparable Bernhard Riemann in 1859) would, if true, have far-reaching implications for the structure of the most basic of entities, the natural numbers. Before an eager audience of hundreds of mathematicians at Columbia University in 1959, Nash presented his results: a farrago of mathematical lunacy. \"Nash's talk wasn't good or bad,\" said one mathematician present. \"It was horrible.\" Some weeks before, Nash had declined a University of Chicago offer of an endowed chair on the grounds that he was scheduled to become the emperor of Antarctica.", "In sheer appearance, this cold and aloof Southerner stood out from his fellow math prodigies. A \"beautiful dark-haired young man,\" \"handsome as a god,\" he was 6 feet 1 inch tall, with broad shoulders, a heavily muscled chest (which he liked to show off with see-through Dacron shirts), a tapered waist, and \"rather limp and beautiful hands\" accentuated by long fingernails. Within two years of entering Princeton, Nash had framed and proved the most important proposition in the theory of games. \n\n Mathematically, this was no big deal. Game theory was a somewhat fashionable pursuit for mathematicians in those postwar days, when it looked as if it might do for military science and economics what Newton's calculus had done for physics. But they were bored with it by the early 1950s. Economists, after a few decades of hesitation, picked it up in the '80s and made it a cornerstone of their discipline.", "As a boy growing up in the hills of West Virginia, Nash enjoyed torturing animals and building homemade bombs with two other unpopular youngsters, one of whom was accidentally killed by a blast. (Given Nash's childhood keenness for explosives and his later penchant for sending odd packages to prominent strangers through the mail, it's a wonder the FBI never got on to him as a Unabomber suspect.) He made his way to Carnegie Tech, where he was a classmate of Andy Warhol's, and thence to Princeton--the world capital of mathematics at the time--at the age of 20.", "He returned to the Princeton area in the 1970s, where he was taken care of by the long-suffering Alicia, now his ex-wife (she supported him partly through computer programming, partly on welfare). He haunted the campus, where students began to call him \"the Phantom.\" They would come to class in the morning to find runic messages he had written on the blackboard at night: \"Mao Tse-Tung's Bar Mitzvah was 13 years, 13 months, and 13 days after Brezhnev's circumcision.\"", "Nash's breakthrough in game theory got him recruited by the Rand Corp., which was then a secretive military think tank in Santa Monica (its name is an acronym for \"research and development\"). However, the achievement did not greatly impress his fellow mathematicians. To do that, Nash, on a wager, disposed of a deep problem that had baffled the profession since the 19 th century: He showed that any Riemannian manifold possessing a special kind of \"smoothness\" can be embedded in Euclidean space. Manifolds, one must understand, are fairly wild and exotic beasts in mathematics. A famous example is the Klein bottle, a kind of higher-dimensional Moebius strip whose inside is somehow the same as its outside. Euclidean space, by contrast, is orderly and bourgeois. To demonstrate that \"impossible\" manifolds could be coaxed into living in Euclidean space is counterintuitive and pretty exciting. Nash did this by constructing a bizarre set of inequalities that left his fellow mathematicians thoroughly befuddled.", "Indeed, he has evolved into a \"very fine person,\" according to his ex-wife--humbled by years of psychotic helplessness, buoyed up by the intellectual world's highest accolade. The Nobel has a terrible effect on the productivity of many recipients, paralyzing them with greatness. For Nash it was pure therapy. Then, too, there is the need to take care of his son by Alicia, who--pleiotropically?--inherited both his mathematical promise and his madness. (His older son, the one born out of wedlock, got neither.) The Nobel money bought a new boiler for the little bungalow across from the Princeton train station inhabited by this shaky menage. (When Vanity Fair published an excerpt of A Beautiful Mind , Nash probably became the only person ever featured in that magazine to live in a house clad in \"insulbrick.\")", "All the while, Nash was showing an intense interest in the state of Israel--often a sign of incipient insanity, at least in a non-Jew. Geniuses slipping into madness also tend to disrobe in public (I learned this from a volume on chess prodigies, who have a proclivity for disrobing on public buses). Nash showed up for an MIT New Year's Eve party clad only in a diaper. And then, of course, there was the New York Times , that old mainstay of psychotic delusion--Nash thought aliens were sending him encrypted messages through its pages (come to think of it, that could explain the Times ' odd prose).", "but the earlier topological theorem did all the work. Still, for an economics theorem, that counts as profound. Economists have been known to win Nobel Prizes for rediscovering theorems in elementary calculus.", "Then, in the '90s, inexplicably, the voices in Nash's head began to quiet down. (Nasar gives an interesting account of just how rare such remissions are among those diagnosed with schizophrenia.) At the same time, the Nobel committee in Stockholm was deciding it was about time to award the prize in economics for game theory. Dare they make a known madman into a laureate? What might he say to King Gustav at the ceremony? Nasar shows her mettle as a reporter here by penetrating the veil of secrecy surrounding the Nobel and revealing the back-stage machinations for and against Nash's candidacy. He did fine at the ceremony, by the way.", "Folie ࠎ \n\n People with high IQs tend to be nearsighted. This is not because they read a lot or stare at computer screens too much. That common-sense hypothesis has been discredited by research. Rather, it is a matter of genetics. The same genes that tend to elevate IQ also tend to affect the shape of the eyeball in a way that leads to myopia. This relationship--known in genetics as \"pleiotropy\"--seems to be completely accidental, a quirk of evolution.", "Such ebullitions of insanity continued for three decades, becoming more rococo. Nash went to Europe to form a world government, attempting repeatedly to renounce his U.S. citizenship. He did stints in tony asylums, hanging out with Robert Lowell, and in dismal state institutions, where he was subjected daily to insulin-induced comas. He believed himself to be a Palestinian refugee called C.O.R.P.S.E.; a great Japanese shogun, C1423; Esau; the prince of peace; l'homme d'Or ; a mouse. As Nasar observes, his delusions were weirdly inconsistent. He felt himself simultaneously to be the epicenter of the universe--\"I am the left foot of God on earth\"--and an abject, persecuted petitioner.", "necessarily exist at least one thing in that domain that will remain unchanged--the \"fixed point.\" Nash found a way of applying this to the domain of all game strategies so that the guaranteed fixed point was the equilibrium for the game--clever,", "at least one coffee molecule must remain absolutely still. Both are direct consequences of a \"fixed-point theorem\" in the branch of mathematics known as topology. This theorem says that for any continuous rearrangement of a domain of things, there will", "can improve his situation by switching to a different strategy. His proof was elegant but slight. A game is guaranteed to have a Nash equilibrium, it turns out, for the same reason that in a cup of coffee that is being stirred,", "other. Each player has several strategy options to choose from. What Nash showed was that in every such game there is what has become known as a \"Nash equilibrium\": a set of strategies, one for each player, such that no player" ] ]
valid	51274	[ "What does Maitland think when he is finally told where he is?", "How many times was Maitland taken into the testing room during the story?", "Why did Maitland feel he needed to be left alone at the end of the story?", "What was Maitland’s discovery about where he was taken?", "What was the relationship like between Ingrid and Maitland?", "What history lesson did Ingrid teach Maitland?", "What realization informs Maitland as to where he has been taken?", "What was the nature of Swarts’ research?", "What was the relationship like between Maitland and Swarts over the course of the story?", "Why does Maitland suspect that he was taken?" ]	[ [ "He is angry to find out that time travel is not yet possible", "He is thrilled because he did not know space travel was possible", "He suspected it all along", "He is surprised that the world is so developed in the surrounding area" ], [ "Once", "Once, and then another session of testing within his own personal room", "Never", "Twice" ], [ "He could not relate to Ingrid and Swarts anymore", "Ingrid had offended him", "He had all the information he needed to return home, but just need discreet alone time to send himself home", "He needed to process his disappointment" ], [ "He was in South Africa", "It was not at all what he had expected for the place", "He was on one of Venus’ moons", "He was on another planet" ], [ "Maitland struggled to speak Ingrid’s language, but they were able to communication effectively with gesturing and broken speech", "Maitland was curious about Ingrid and her background, but she was sworn to not speak with him so they never talked", "Ingrid was quite afraid of Maitland because she herself came from the same upbringing", "They got along very well from the start and learned many things from each other" ], [ "The planet was racially divided to this day", "South Africa was very successful at developing technology", "There was an event that made North America inhospitable that Maitland was evacuated from due to his value", "Swarts’ motivation for space travel fueled a space-race" ], [ "Recognizing the botany and geography out his window", "Objects in the sky", "Ingrid’s explanation of geography", "Swarts' accent and mannerisms" ], [ "Understanding cognitive functioning of astro-physicists", "Understanding thought processes of people with desire to travel to Earth’s moon", "Determining how to spark desire for space travel in the population", "Stealing military secrets" ], [ "Swarts never really allowed himself to be known by Maitland", "Maitland doesn’t believe Swarts is telling the truth about where he is", "Maitland suspected it was Swarts that had kidnapped him, and he trusted that no harm would be done to him", "They did not get along at first, but Maitland come to understand Swarts much better and even empathize with what he had to do" ], [ "His kidnappers had wrongly thought of him as a rich person", "He was representative of the location he was kidnapped from and needed to speak for his community", "He was found out as an American spy", "Because he had special knowledge of engine mechanics" ] ]	[ 3, 4, 4, 2, 4, 2, 2, 2, 1, 4 ]	[ 1, 1, 0, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0 ]	[ [ "Impassively, the man said, \"My name is Swarts. You want to know where\n you are. I am not going to tell you.\" He had an accent, European, but\n otherwise unidentifiable. Possibly German. Maitland opened his mouth\n to protest, but Swarts went on, \"However, you're free to do all the\n guessing you want.\" Still there was no suggestion of a smile.\n\n\n \"Now, these are the rules. You'll be here for about a week. You'll have\n three meals a day, served in this room. You will not be allowed to\n leave it except when accompanied by myself. You will not be harmed in\n any way, provided you cooperate. And you can forget the silly idea that\n we want your childish secrets about rocket motors.\" Maitland's heart\n jumped. \"My reason for bringing you here is altogether different. I\n want to give you some psychological tests....\"", "Shock contracted Maitland's diaphragm and spread through his body.\n His breathing quickened.\nNow\nhe remembered what had happened during\n the night, the sound in the darkness, the dimly seen figure, and\n then—what? Blackout....\n\n\n Where was he? Who had brought him here? For what purpose?", "Later, when he had finished the steak and corn on the cob and shredded\n carrots, and a feeling of warm well-being was diffusing from his\n stomach to his extremities, he sat down on the bed to watch the sunset\n and to think.\n\n\n There were three questions for which he required answers before he\n could formulate any plan or policy.\n\n\n Where was he?\n\n\n Who was Swarts?\n\n\n What was the purpose of the \"tests\" he was being given?\n\n\n It was possible, of course, that this was all an elaborate scheme\n for getting military secrets, despite Swarts' protestations to the\n contrary. Maitland frowned. This place certainly didn't have the\n appearance of a military establishment, and so far there had been\n nothing to suggest the kind of interrogation to be expected from\n foreign intelligence officers.", "\"Are you crazy?\" Maitland asked quietly. \"Do you realize that at this\n moment one of the greatest hunts in history must be going on? I'll\n admit I'm baffled as to where we are and how you got me here—but it\n seems to me that you could have found someone less conspicuous to give\n your tests to.\"\n\n\n Briefly, then, Swarts did smile. \"They won't find you,\" he said. \"Now,\n come with me.\"\nAfter that outlandish cell, Swarts' laboratory looked rather\n commonplace. There was something like a surgical cot in the center, and\n a bench along one wall supported several electronics cabinets. A couple\n of them had cathode ray tube screens, and they all presented a normal\n complement of meters, pilot lights, and switches. Cables from them ran\n across the ceiling and came to a focus above the high flat cot in the\n center of the room.", "He was looking at a door in a partly darkened room, and there were\n footsteps outside, a peremptory knocking. The door flew open,\n and outlined against the light of the hall, he saw a man with a\n twelve-gauge shotgun. The man shouted, \"Now I've got you, you\n wife-stealer!\" He swung the shotgun around and pulled the trigger.\n There was a terrible blast of sound and the flash of smokeless\n powder—then blackness.\n\n\n With a deliberate effort, Maitland unclenched his fists and tried to\n slow his breathing. Some kind of emotional reaction test—what was the\n countermove? He closed his eyes, but shortly the muscles around them\n declared excruciatingly that they couldn't keep that up.\n\n\n Now he was looking at a girl. She....\n\n\n Maitland gritted his teeth and fought to use his brain; then he had it.", "If Swarts was irritated, he didn't show it. \"That was the first test,\"\n he said. \"Let me put it another way. I would appreciate it a lot if\n you'd lie down on this cot. I would like to test my apparatus.\"\n\n\n Maitland shook his head stubbornly.\n\n\n \"I see,\" Swarts said. \"You want to find out what you're up against.\"", "He sat down on the edge of the cot and glared helplessly at the floor.\nAbout half an hour later, the door he couldn't open slid aside into the\n wall. The man Maitland had seen outside, now clad in gray trunks and\n sandals, stood across the threshold looking in at him. Maitland stood\n up and stared back, conscious suddenly that in his rumpled pajamas he\n made an unimpressive figure.\n\n\n The fellow looked about forty-five. The first details Maitland noticed\n were the forehead, which was quite broad, and the calm, clear eyes.\n The dark hair, white at the temples, was combed back, still damp from\n swimming. Below, there was a wide mouth and a firm, rounded chin.\n\n\n This man was intelligent, Maitland decided, and extremely sure of\n himself.\n\n\n Somehow, the face didn't go with the rest of him. The man had the head\n of a thinker, the body of a trained athlete—an unusual combination.", "What had he heard? He had a definite impression that the sound had come\n from within the room. It had sounded like someone stumbling into a\n chair, or—\n\n\n Something moved in the darkness on the other side of the room. Maitland\n started to sit up and it was as though a thousand volts had shorted his\n brain....", "His eyes returned to the doors, and he moved over to study the nearer\n one. As he had noticed, there was no knob, but at the right of this\n one, at about waist level, a push-button projected out of the wall. He\n pressed it; the door slid aside and disappeared. Maitland glanced in at\n the disclosed bathroom, then went over to look at the other door.\n\n\n There was no button beside this one, nor any other visible means of\n causing it to open.\n\n\n Baffled, he turned again and looked at the large open window—and\n realized what it was that had made the room seem so queer.\n\n\n It did not look like a jail cell. There were no bars....", "\"Lie down,\" Swarts said. When Maitland hesitated, Swarts added,\n \"Understand one thing—the more you cooperate, the easier things will\n be for you. If necessary, I will use coercion. I can get all my results\n against your will, if I must. I would prefer not to. Please don't make\n me.\"\n\n\n \"What's the idea?\" Maitland asked. \"What is all this?\"\n\n\n Swarts hesitated, though not, Maitland astonishedly felt, to evade an\n answer, but to find the proper words. \"You can think of it as a lie\n detector. These instruments will record your reactions to the tests I\n give you. That is as much as you need to know. Now lie down.\"\n\n\n Maitland stood there for a moment, deliberately relaxing his tensed\n muscles. \"Make me.\"", "\"I do not know everything about you—yet. And I'm testing the\n equipment, calibrating it to your reactions.\" He went on, \"Your\n favorite recreations are chess and reading what you term science\n fiction. Maitland,\nhow would you like to go to the Moon\n?\"\n\n\n Something eager leaped in Maitland's breast at the abrupt question, and\n he tried to turn his head. Then he forced himself to relax. \"What do\n you mean?\"\n\n\n Swarts was chuckling. \"I really hit a semantic push-button there,\n didn't I? Maitland, I brought you here because you're a man who wants\n to go to the Moon. I'm interested in finding out\nwhy\n.\"\nIn the evening a girl brought Maitland his meal. As the door slid\n aside, he automatically stood up, and they stared at each other for\n several seconds.", "Maitland considered a moment, then nodded. Swarts lowered the projector\n to his eyes again, and this time the engineer did not resist.\n\n\n That evening, he could hardly wait for her to come. Too excited to sit\n and watch the sunset, he paced interminably about the room, sometimes\n whistling nervously, snapping his fingers, sitting down and jittering\n one leg. After a while he noticed that he was whistling the same theme\n over and over: a minute's thought identified it as that exuberant\n mounting phrase which recurs in the finale of Beethoven's Ninth\n Symphony.\n\n\n He forgot about it and went on whistling. He was picturing himself\n aboard a ship dropping in toward Mars, making planetfall at Syrtis\n Major; he was seeing visions of Venus and the awesome beauty of Saturn.\n In his mind, he circled the Moon, and viewed the Earth as a huge bright\n globe against the constellations....", "He moved so fast that Maitland couldn't block the blow. It was to the\n solar plexus, just hard enough to double him up, fighting for breath.\n He felt an arm under his back, another behind his knees. Then he was on\n the cot. When he was able to breathe again, there were straps across\n his chest, hips, knees, ankles, and arms, and Swarts was tightening a\n clamp that held his head immovable.\nPresently, a number of tiny electrodes were adhering to his temples and\n to other portions of his body, and a minute microphone was clinging to\n the skin over his heart. These devices terminated in cables that hung\n from the ceiling. A sphygmomanometer sleeve was wrapped tightly around\n his left upper arm, its rubber tube trailing to a small black box\n clamped to the frame of the cot. Another cable left the box and joined\n the others.", "\"I'm adaptable,\" he told himself gleefully. \"I can learn fast. There'll\n be a job for me out there....\"\nIf—\nSuddenly sobered, he rolled over and put his feet on the floor, sat\n in the darkness thinking. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would have to find a\n way of breaking down Swarts' reticence. He would have to make the man\n realize that secrecy wasn't necessary in this case. And if Swarts still\n wouldn't talk, he would have to find a way of forcing the issue. The\n fellow had said that he didn't need cooperation to get his results,\n but—\n\n\n After a while Maitland smiled to himself and went back to bed.\nHe woke in the morning with someone gently shaking his shoulder. He\n rolled over and looked up at the girl who had brought him his meal the\n evening before. There was a tray on the table and he sniffed the smell\n of bacon. The girl smiled at him. She was dressed as before, except\n that she had discarded the white cloak.", "He thought of a fat slob of a bully who had beaten him up one day\n after school. He remembered a talk he had heard by a politician who had\n all the intelligent social responsibility of a rogue gorilla, but no\n more. He brooded over the damnable stupidity and short-sightedness of\n Swarts in standing by his silly rules and not telling him about this\n new world.\n\n\n Within a minute, he was in an ungovernable rage. His muscles tightened\n against the restraining straps. He panted, sweat came out on his\n forehead, and he began to curse. Swarts! How he hated....\n\n\n The scene was suddenly a flock of sheep spread over a green hillside.\n There was blood hammering in Maitland's temples. His face felt hot and\n swollen and he writhed against the restraint of the straps.", "Wordlessly, Maitland climbed to his feet, preceded Swarts to the\n laboratory, lay down and allowed him to fasten the straps and attach\n the instruments, making no resistance at all. When Swarts started\n saying a list of words—doubtlessly some sort of semantic reaction\n test—Maitland began the job of integrating \"csc\n 3\n x dx\" in his head.\n It was a calculation which required great concentration and frequent\n tracing back of steps. After several minutes, he noticed that Swarts\n had stopped calling words. He opened his eyes to find the other man\n standing over him, looking somewhat exasperated and a little baffled.\n\n\n \"What year is this?\" Maitland asked in a conversational tone.\n\n\n \"We'll try another series of tests.\"", "So—Maitland thought—Swarts could record changes in his skin\n potential, heartbeat, and blood pressure: the involuntary responses of\n the body to stimuli.\n\n\n The question was, what were the stimuli to be?\n\n\n \"Your name,\" said Swarts, \"is Robert Lee Maitland. You are thirty-four\n years old. You are an engineer, specialty heat transfer, particularly\n as applied to rocket motors.... No, Mr. Maitland, I'm not going to\n question you about your work; just forget about it. Your home town is\n Madison, Wisconsin....\"\n\n\n \"You seem to know everything about me,\" Maitland said defiantly,\n looking up into the hanging forest of cabling. \"Why this recital?\"", "The scene disappeared, the lenses of the projector retreated from his\n eyes and Swarts was standing over him, white-lipped. Maitland swore at\n him for a few seconds, then relaxed and smiled weakly. His head was\n starting to ache from the effort of blinking.\n\n\n \"What year is this?\" he asked.\n\n\n \"All right,\" Swarts said. \"A.D. 2634.\"\n\n\n Maitland's smile became a grin.\n\"I really haven't the time to waste talking irrelevancies,\" Swarts said\n a while later. \"Honestly. Maitland, I'm working against a time limit.\n If you'll cooperate, I'll tell Ching to answer your questions.\"'\n\n\n \"Ching?\"\n\n\n \"Ingrid Ching is the girl who has been bringing you your meals.\"", "Striding across the room, he lunged forward to peer out and violently\n banged his forehead. He staggered back, grimacing with pain, then\n reached forward cautious fingers and discovered a hard sheet of stuff\n so transparent that he had not even suspected its presence. Not glass!\n Glass was never this clear or strong. A plastic, no doubt, but one he\n hadn't heard of. Security sometimes had disadvantages.\n\n\n He looked out at the peaceful vista of river and prairie. The character\n of the sunlight seemed to indicate that it was afternoon. He became\n aware that he was hungry.\n\n\n Where the devil could this place be? And—muscles tightened about his\n empty stomach—what was in store for him here?\n\n\n He stood trembling, acutely conscious that he was afraid and helpless,\n until a flicker of motion at the bottom of the hill near the river drew\n his attention. Pressing his nose against the window, he strained his\n eyes to see what it was.", "It might be better to tackle the first question first. He looked at\n the Sun, a red spheroid already half below the horizon, and tried to\n think of a region that had this kind of terrain. That prairie out there\n was unique. Almost anywhere in the world, land like that would be\n cultivated, not allowed to go to grass.\n\n\n This might be somewhere in Africa....\n\n\n He shook his head, puzzled. The Sun disappeared and its blood-hued\n glow began to fade from the sky. Maitland sat there, trying to get\n hold of the problem from an angle where it wouldn't just slip away.\n After a while the western sky became a screen of clear luminous blue,\n a backdrop for a pure white brilliant star. As always at that sight,\n Maitland felt his worry drain away, leaving an almost mystical sense of\n peace and an undefinable longing.\n\n\n Venus, the most beautiful of the planets." ], [ "He was looking at a door in a partly darkened room, and there were\n footsteps outside, a peremptory knocking. The door flew open,\n and outlined against the light of the hall, he saw a man with a\n twelve-gauge shotgun. The man shouted, \"Now I've got you, you\n wife-stealer!\" He swung the shotgun around and pulled the trigger.\n There was a terrible blast of sound and the flash of smokeless\n powder—then blackness.\n\n\n With a deliberate effort, Maitland unclenched his fists and tried to\n slow his breathing. Some kind of emotional reaction test—what was the\n countermove? He closed his eyes, but shortly the muscles around them\n declared excruciatingly that they couldn't keep that up.\n\n\n Now he was looking at a girl. She....\n\n\n Maitland gritted his teeth and fought to use his brain; then he had it.", "If Swarts was irritated, he didn't show it. \"That was the first test,\"\n he said. \"Let me put it another way. I would appreciate it a lot if\n you'd lie down on this cot. I would like to test my apparatus.\"\n\n\n Maitland shook his head stubbornly.\n\n\n \"I see,\" Swarts said. \"You want to find out what you're up against.\"", "Impassively, the man said, \"My name is Swarts. You want to know where\n you are. I am not going to tell you.\" He had an accent, European, but\n otherwise unidentifiable. Possibly German. Maitland opened his mouth\n to protest, but Swarts went on, \"However, you're free to do all the\n guessing you want.\" Still there was no suggestion of a smile.\n\n\n \"Now, these are the rules. You'll be here for about a week. You'll have\n three meals a day, served in this room. You will not be allowed to\n leave it except when accompanied by myself. You will not be harmed in\n any way, provided you cooperate. And you can forget the silly idea that\n we want your childish secrets about rocket motors.\" Maitland's heart\n jumped. \"My reason for bringing you here is altogether different. I\n want to give you some psychological tests....\"", "\"I do not know everything about you—yet. And I'm testing the\n equipment, calibrating it to your reactions.\" He went on, \"Your\n favorite recreations are chess and reading what you term science\n fiction. Maitland,\nhow would you like to go to the Moon\n?\"\n\n\n Something eager leaped in Maitland's breast at the abrupt question, and\n he tried to turn his head. Then he forced himself to relax. \"What do\n you mean?\"\n\n\n Swarts was chuckling. \"I really hit a semantic push-button there,\n didn't I? Maitland, I brought you here because you're a man who wants\n to go to the Moon. I'm interested in finding out\nwhy\n.\"\nIn the evening a girl brought Maitland his meal. As the door slid\n aside, he automatically stood up, and they stared at each other for\n several seconds.", "\"Lie down,\" Swarts said. When Maitland hesitated, Swarts added,\n \"Understand one thing—the more you cooperate, the easier things will\n be for you. If necessary, I will use coercion. I can get all my results\n against your will, if I must. I would prefer not to. Please don't make\n me.\"\n\n\n \"What's the idea?\" Maitland asked. \"What is all this?\"\n\n\n Swarts hesitated, though not, Maitland astonishedly felt, to evade an\n answer, but to find the proper words. \"You can think of it as a lie\n detector. These instruments will record your reactions to the tests I\n give you. That is as much as you need to know. Now lie down.\"\n\n\n Maitland stood there for a moment, deliberately relaxing his tensed\n muscles. \"Make me.\"", "Later, when he had finished the steak and corn on the cob and shredded\n carrots, and a feeling of warm well-being was diffusing from his\n stomach to his extremities, he sat down on the bed to watch the sunset\n and to think.\n\n\n There were three questions for which he required answers before he\n could formulate any plan or policy.\n\n\n Where was he?\n\n\n Who was Swarts?\n\n\n What was the purpose of the \"tests\" he was being given?\n\n\n It was possible, of course, that this was all an elaborate scheme\n for getting military secrets, despite Swarts' protestations to the\n contrary. Maitland frowned. This place certainly didn't have the\n appearance of a military establishment, and so far there had been\n nothing to suggest the kind of interrogation to be expected from\n foreign intelligence officers.", "\"Are you crazy?\" Maitland asked quietly. \"Do you realize that at this\n moment one of the greatest hunts in history must be going on? I'll\n admit I'm baffled as to where we are and how you got me here—but it\n seems to me that you could have found someone less conspicuous to give\n your tests to.\"\n\n\n Briefly, then, Swarts did smile. \"They won't find you,\" he said. \"Now,\n come with me.\"\nAfter that outlandish cell, Swarts' laboratory looked rather\n commonplace. There was something like a surgical cot in the center, and\n a bench along one wall supported several electronics cabinets. A couple\n of them had cathode ray tube screens, and they all presented a normal\n complement of meters, pilot lights, and switches. Cables from them ran\n across the ceiling and came to a focus above the high flat cot in the\n center of the room.", "He sat down on the edge of the cot and glared helplessly at the floor.\nAbout half an hour later, the door he couldn't open slid aside into the\n wall. The man Maitland had seen outside, now clad in gray trunks and\n sandals, stood across the threshold looking in at him. Maitland stood\n up and stared back, conscious suddenly that in his rumpled pajamas he\n made an unimpressive figure.\n\n\n The fellow looked about forty-five. The first details Maitland noticed\n were the forehead, which was quite broad, and the calm, clear eyes.\n The dark hair, white at the temples, was combed back, still damp from\n swimming. Below, there was a wide mouth and a firm, rounded chin.\n\n\n This man was intelligent, Maitland decided, and extremely sure of\n himself.\n\n\n Somehow, the face didn't go with the rest of him. The man had the head\n of a thinker, the body of a trained athlete—an unusual combination.", "Wordlessly, Maitland climbed to his feet, preceded Swarts to the\n laboratory, lay down and allowed him to fasten the straps and attach\n the instruments, making no resistance at all. When Swarts started\n saying a list of words—doubtlessly some sort of semantic reaction\n test—Maitland began the job of integrating \"csc\n 3\n x dx\" in his head.\n It was a calculation which required great concentration and frequent\n tracing back of steps. After several minutes, he noticed that Swarts\n had stopped calling words. He opened his eyes to find the other man\n standing over him, looking somewhat exasperated and a little baffled.\n\n\n \"What year is this?\" Maitland asked in a conversational tone.\n\n\n \"We'll try another series of tests.\"", "He moved so fast that Maitland couldn't block the blow. It was to the\n solar plexus, just hard enough to double him up, fighting for breath.\n He felt an arm under his back, another behind his knees. Then he was on\n the cot. When he was able to breathe again, there were straps across\n his chest, hips, knees, ankles, and arms, and Swarts was tightening a\n clamp that held his head immovable.\nPresently, a number of tiny electrodes were adhering to his temples and\n to other portions of his body, and a minute microphone was clinging to\n the skin over his heart. These devices terminated in cables that hung\n from the ceiling. A sphygmomanometer sleeve was wrapped tightly around\n his left upper arm, its rubber tube trailing to a small black box\n clamped to the frame of the cot. Another cable left the box and joined\n the others.", "What had he heard? He had a definite impression that the sound had come\n from within the room. It had sounded like someone stumbling into a\n chair, or—\n\n\n Something moved in the darkness on the other side of the room. Maitland\n started to sit up and it was as though a thousand volts had shorted his\n brain....", "Maitland considered a moment, then nodded. Swarts lowered the projector\n to his eyes again, and this time the engineer did not resist.\n\n\n That evening, he could hardly wait for her to come. Too excited to sit\n and watch the sunset, he paced interminably about the room, sometimes\n whistling nervously, snapping his fingers, sitting down and jittering\n one leg. After a while he noticed that he was whistling the same theme\n over and over: a minute's thought identified it as that exuberant\n mounting phrase which recurs in the finale of Beethoven's Ninth\n Symphony.\n\n\n He forgot about it and went on whistling. He was picturing himself\n aboard a ship dropping in toward Mars, making planetfall at Syrtis\n Major; he was seeing visions of Venus and the awesome beauty of Saturn.\n In his mind, he circled the Moon, and viewed the Earth as a huge bright\n globe against the constellations....", "So—Maitland thought—Swarts could record changes in his skin\n potential, heartbeat, and blood pressure: the involuntary responses of\n the body to stimuli.\n\n\n The question was, what were the stimuli to be?\n\n\n \"Your name,\" said Swarts, \"is Robert Lee Maitland. You are thirty-four\n years old. You are an engineer, specialty heat transfer, particularly\n as applied to rocket motors.... No, Mr. Maitland, I'm not going to\n question you about your work; just forget about it. Your home town is\n Madison, Wisconsin....\"\n\n\n \"You seem to know everything about me,\" Maitland said defiantly,\n looking up into the hanging forest of cabling. \"Why this recital?\"", "His eyes returned to the doors, and he moved over to study the nearer\n one. As he had noticed, there was no knob, but at the right of this\n one, at about waist level, a push-button projected out of the wall. He\n pressed it; the door slid aside and disappeared. Maitland glanced in at\n the disclosed bathroom, then went over to look at the other door.\n\n\n There was no button beside this one, nor any other visible means of\n causing it to open.\n\n\n Baffled, he turned again and looked at the large open window—and\n realized what it was that had made the room seem so queer.\n\n\n It did not look like a jail cell. There were no bars....", "It took Swarts nearly twenty minutes to set up the new apparatus. He\n lowered a bulky affair with two cylindrical tubes like the twin stacks\n of a binocular microscope over Maitland's head, so that the lenses at\n the ends of the tubes were about half an inch from the engineer's\n eyes. He attached tiny clamps to Maitland's eyelashes.\n\n\n \"These will keep you from holding your eyes shut,\" he said. \"You can\n blink, but the springs are too strong for you to hold your eyelids down\n against the tension.\"\n\n\n He inserted button earphones into Maitland's ears—\n\n\n And then the show began.", "Shock contracted Maitland's diaphragm and spread through his body.\n His breathing quickened.\nNow\nhe remembered what had happened during\n the night, the sound in the darkness, the dimly seen figure, and\n then—what? Blackout....\n\n\n Where was he? Who had brought him here? For what purpose?", "\"I'm adaptable,\" he told himself gleefully. \"I can learn fast. There'll\n be a job for me out there....\"\nIf—\nSuddenly sobered, he rolled over and put his feet on the floor, sat\n in the darkness thinking. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would have to find a\n way of breaking down Swarts' reticence. He would have to make the man\n realize that secrecy wasn't necessary in this case. And if Swarts still\n wouldn't talk, he would have to find a way of forcing the issue. The\n fellow had said that he didn't need cooperation to get his results,\n but—\n\n\n After a while Maitland smiled to himself and went back to bed.\nHe woke in the morning with someone gently shaking his shoulder. He\n rolled over and looked up at the girl who had brought him his meal the\n evening before. There was a tray on the table and he sniffed the smell\n of bacon. The girl smiled at him. She was dressed as before, except\n that she had discarded the white cloak.", "\"All right; we'll let it go at that.\"\n\n\n She grinned at him again as the door slid shut.\nSwarts came half an hour later, and Maitland began his planned\n offensive.\n\n\n \"What year is this?\"\n\n\n Swarts' steely eyes locked with his. \"You know what the date is,\" he\n stated.\n\n\n \"No, I don't. Not since yesterday.\"\n\n\n \"Come on,\" Swarts said patiently, \"let's get going. We have a lot to\n get through this morning.\"\n\n\n \"I\nknow\nthis isn't 1950. It's probably not even the 20th Century.\n Venus was a morning star before you brought me here. Now it's an\n evening star.\"\n\n\n \"Never mind that. Come.\"", "The scene disappeared, the lenses of the projector retreated from his\n eyes and Swarts was standing over him, white-lipped. Maitland swore at\n him for a few seconds, then relaxed and smiled weakly. His head was\n starting to ache from the effort of blinking.\n\n\n \"What year is this?\" he asked.\n\n\n \"All right,\" Swarts said. \"A.D. 2634.\"\n\n\n Maitland's smile became a grin.\n\"I really haven't the time to waste talking irrelevancies,\" Swarts said\n a while later. \"Honestly. Maitland, I'm working against a time limit.\n If you'll cooperate, I'll tell Ching to answer your questions.\"'\n\n\n \"Ching?\"\n\n\n \"Ingrid Ching is the girl who has been bringing you your meals.\"", "He thought of a fat slob of a bully who had beaten him up one day\n after school. He remembered a talk he had heard by a politician who had\n all the intelligent social responsibility of a rogue gorilla, but no\n more. He brooded over the damnable stupidity and short-sightedness of\n Swarts in standing by his silly rules and not telling him about this\n new world.\n\n\n Within a minute, he was in an ungovernable rage. His muscles tightened\n against the restraining straps. He panted, sweat came out on his\n forehead, and he began to curse. Swarts! How he hated....\n\n\n The scene was suddenly a flock of sheep spread over a green hillside.\n There was blood hammering in Maitland's temples. His face felt hot and\n swollen and he writhed against the restraint of the straps." ], [ "He was looking at a door in a partly darkened room, and there were\n footsteps outside, a peremptory knocking. The door flew open,\n and outlined against the light of the hall, he saw a man with a\n twelve-gauge shotgun. The man shouted, \"Now I've got you, you\n wife-stealer!\" He swung the shotgun around and pulled the trigger.\n There was a terrible blast of sound and the flash of smokeless\n powder—then blackness.\n\n\n With a deliberate effort, Maitland unclenched his fists and tried to\n slow his breathing. Some kind of emotional reaction test—what was the\n countermove? He closed his eyes, but shortly the muscles around them\n declared excruciatingly that they couldn't keep that up.\n\n\n Now he was looking at a girl. She....\n\n\n Maitland gritted his teeth and fought to use his brain; then he had it.", "\"I'm adaptable,\" he told himself gleefully. \"I can learn fast. There'll\n be a job for me out there....\"\nIf—\nSuddenly sobered, he rolled over and put his feet on the floor, sat\n in the darkness thinking. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would have to find a\n way of breaking down Swarts' reticence. He would have to make the man\n realize that secrecy wasn't necessary in this case. And if Swarts still\n wouldn't talk, he would have to find a way of forcing the issue. The\n fellow had said that he didn't need cooperation to get his results,\n but—\n\n\n After a while Maitland smiled to himself and went back to bed.\nHe woke in the morning with someone gently shaking his shoulder. He\n rolled over and looked up at the girl who had brought him his meal the\n evening before. There was a tray on the table and he sniffed the smell\n of bacon. The girl smiled at him. She was dressed as before, except\n that she had discarded the white cloak.", "Maitland considered a moment, then nodded. Swarts lowered the projector\n to his eyes again, and this time the engineer did not resist.\n\n\n That evening, he could hardly wait for her to come. Too excited to sit\n and watch the sunset, he paced interminably about the room, sometimes\n whistling nervously, snapping his fingers, sitting down and jittering\n one leg. After a while he noticed that he was whistling the same theme\n over and over: a minute's thought identified it as that exuberant\n mounting phrase which recurs in the finale of Beethoven's Ninth\n Symphony.\n\n\n He forgot about it and went on whistling. He was picturing himself\n aboard a ship dropping in toward Mars, making planetfall at Syrtis\n Major; he was seeing visions of Venus and the awesome beauty of Saturn.\n In his mind, he circled the Moon, and viewed the Earth as a huge bright\n globe against the constellations....", "If Swarts was irritated, he didn't show it. \"That was the first test,\"\n he said. \"Let me put it another way. I would appreciate it a lot if\n you'd lie down on this cot. I would like to test my apparatus.\"\n\n\n Maitland shook his head stubbornly.\n\n\n \"I see,\" Swarts said. \"You want to find out what you're up against.\"", "What had he heard? He had a definite impression that the sound had come\n from within the room. It had sounded like someone stumbling into a\n chair, or—\n\n\n Something moved in the darkness on the other side of the room. Maitland\n started to sit up and it was as though a thousand volts had shorted his\n brain....", "He sat down on the edge of the cot and glared helplessly at the floor.\nAbout half an hour later, the door he couldn't open slid aside into the\n wall. The man Maitland had seen outside, now clad in gray trunks and\n sandals, stood across the threshold looking in at him. Maitland stood\n up and stared back, conscious suddenly that in his rumpled pajamas he\n made an unimpressive figure.\n\n\n The fellow looked about forty-five. The first details Maitland noticed\n were the forehead, which was quite broad, and the calm, clear eyes.\n The dark hair, white at the temples, was combed back, still damp from\n swimming. Below, there was a wide mouth and a firm, rounded chin.\n\n\n This man was intelligent, Maitland decided, and extremely sure of\n himself.\n\n\n Somehow, the face didn't go with the rest of him. The man had the head\n of a thinker, the body of a trained athlete—an unusual combination.", "He thought of a fat slob of a bully who had beaten him up one day\n after school. He remembered a talk he had heard by a politician who had\n all the intelligent social responsibility of a rogue gorilla, but no\n more. He brooded over the damnable stupidity and short-sightedness of\n Swarts in standing by his silly rules and not telling him about this\n new world.\n\n\n Within a minute, he was in an ungovernable rage. His muscles tightened\n against the restraining straps. He panted, sweat came out on his\n forehead, and he began to curse. Swarts! How he hated....\n\n\n The scene was suddenly a flock of sheep spread over a green hillside.\n There was blood hammering in Maitland's temples. His face felt hot and\n swollen and he writhed against the restraint of the straps.", "His eyes returned to the doors, and he moved over to study the nearer\n one. As he had noticed, there was no knob, but at the right of this\n one, at about waist level, a push-button projected out of the wall. He\n pressed it; the door slid aside and disappeared. Maitland glanced in at\n the disclosed bathroom, then went over to look at the other door.\n\n\n There was no button beside this one, nor any other visible means of\n causing it to open.\n\n\n Baffled, he turned again and looked at the large open window—and\n realized what it was that had made the room seem so queer.\n\n\n It did not look like a jail cell. There were no bars....", "Later, when he had finished the steak and corn on the cob and shredded\n carrots, and a feeling of warm well-being was diffusing from his\n stomach to his extremities, he sat down on the bed to watch the sunset\n and to think.\n\n\n There were three questions for which he required answers before he\n could formulate any plan or policy.\n\n\n Where was he?\n\n\n Who was Swarts?\n\n\n What was the purpose of the \"tests\" he was being given?\n\n\n It was possible, of course, that this was all an elaborate scheme\n for getting military secrets, despite Swarts' protestations to the\n contrary. Maitland frowned. This place certainly didn't have the\n appearance of a military establishment, and so far there had been\n nothing to suggest the kind of interrogation to be expected from\n foreign intelligence officers.", "\"Lie down,\" Swarts said. When Maitland hesitated, Swarts added,\n \"Understand one thing—the more you cooperate, the easier things will\n be for you. If necessary, I will use coercion. I can get all my results\n against your will, if I must. I would prefer not to. Please don't make\n me.\"\n\n\n \"What's the idea?\" Maitland asked. \"What is all this?\"\n\n\n Swarts hesitated, though not, Maitland astonishedly felt, to evade an\n answer, but to find the proper words. \"You can think of it as a lie\n detector. These instruments will record your reactions to the tests I\n give you. That is as much as you need to know. Now lie down.\"\n\n\n Maitland stood there for a moment, deliberately relaxing his tensed\n muscles. \"Make me.\"", "Impassively, the man said, \"My name is Swarts. You want to know where\n you are. I am not going to tell you.\" He had an accent, European, but\n otherwise unidentifiable. Possibly German. Maitland opened his mouth\n to protest, but Swarts went on, \"However, you're free to do all the\n guessing you want.\" Still there was no suggestion of a smile.\n\n\n \"Now, these are the rules. You'll be here for about a week. You'll have\n three meals a day, served in this room. You will not be allowed to\n leave it except when accompanied by myself. You will not be harmed in\n any way, provided you cooperate. And you can forget the silly idea that\n we want your childish secrets about rocket motors.\" Maitland's heart\n jumped. \"My reason for bringing you here is altogether different. I\n want to give you some psychological tests....\"", "\"Are you crazy?\" Maitland asked quietly. \"Do you realize that at this\n moment one of the greatest hunts in history must be going on? I'll\n admit I'm baffled as to where we are and how you got me here—but it\n seems to me that you could have found someone less conspicuous to give\n your tests to.\"\n\n\n Briefly, then, Swarts did smile. \"They won't find you,\" he said. \"Now,\n come with me.\"\nAfter that outlandish cell, Swarts' laboratory looked rather\n commonplace. There was something like a surgical cot in the center, and\n a bench along one wall supported several electronics cabinets. A couple\n of them had cathode ray tube screens, and they all presented a normal\n complement of meters, pilot lights, and switches. Cables from them ran\n across the ceiling and came to a focus above the high flat cot in the\n center of the room.", "Shock contracted Maitland's diaphragm and spread through his body.\n His breathing quickened.\nNow\nhe remembered what had happened during\n the night, the sound in the darkness, the dimly seen figure, and\n then—what? Blackout....\n\n\n Where was he? Who had brought him here? For what purpose?", "\"I do not know everything about you—yet. And I'm testing the\n equipment, calibrating it to your reactions.\" He went on, \"Your\n favorite recreations are chess and reading what you term science\n fiction. Maitland,\nhow would you like to go to the Moon\n?\"\n\n\n Something eager leaped in Maitland's breast at the abrupt question, and\n he tried to turn his head. Then he forced himself to relax. \"What do\n you mean?\"\n\n\n Swarts was chuckling. \"I really hit a semantic push-button there,\n didn't I? Maitland, I brought you here because you're a man who wants\n to go to the Moon. I'm interested in finding out\nwhy\n.\"\nIn the evening a girl brought Maitland his meal. As the door slid\n aside, he automatically stood up, and they stared at each other for\n several seconds.", "Finally the door slid aside and she appeared, carrying the usual tray\n of food. She smiled at him, making dimples in her golden skin and\n revealing a perfect set of teeth, and put the tray on the table.\n\n\n \"I think you are wonderful,\" she laughed. \"You get everything you\n want, even from Swarts, and I have not been able to get even a little\n of what I want from him. I want to travel in time, go back to your 20th\n Century. And I wanted to talk with you, and he would not let me.\" She\n laughed again, hands on her rounded hips. \"I have never seen him so\n irritated as he was this noon.\"\n\n\n Maitland urged her into the chair and sat down on the edge of the bed.\n Eagerly he asked, \"Why the devil do you want to go to the 20th Century?\n Believe me, I've been there, and what I've seen of this world looks a\n lot better.\"", "He moved so fast that Maitland couldn't block the blow. It was to the\n solar plexus, just hard enough to double him up, fighting for breath.\n He felt an arm under his back, another behind his knees. Then he was on\n the cot. When he was able to breathe again, there were straps across\n his chest, hips, knees, ankles, and arms, and Swarts was tightening a\n clamp that held his head immovable.\nPresently, a number of tiny electrodes were adhering to his temples and\n to other portions of his body, and a minute microphone was clinging to\n the skin over his heart. These devices terminated in cables that hung\n from the ceiling. A sphygmomanometer sleeve was wrapped tightly around\n his left upper arm, its rubber tube trailing to a small black box\n clamped to the frame of the cot. Another cable left the box and joined\n the others.", "A man and a woman were coming toward him up the hill. Evidently they\n had been swimming, for each had a towel; the man's was hung around his\n neck, and the woman was still drying her bobbed black hair.\n\n\n Maitland speculated on the possibility that this might be Sweden; he\n didn't know of any other country where public bathing at this time\n of year was customary. However, that prairie certainly didn't look\n Scandinavian....\n\n\n As they came closer, he saw that both of them had dark uniform suntans\n and showed striking muscular development, like persons who had trained\n for years with weights. They vanished below his field of view,\n presumably into the building.", "It might be better to tackle the first question first. He looked at\n the Sun, a red spheroid already half below the horizon, and tried to\n think of a region that had this kind of terrain. That prairie out there\n was unique. Almost anywhere in the world, land like that would be\n cultivated, not allowed to go to grass.\n\n\n This might be somewhere in Africa....\n\n\n He shook his head, puzzled. The Sun disappeared and its blood-hued\n glow began to fade from the sky. Maitland sat there, trying to get\n hold of the problem from an angle where it wouldn't just slip away.\n After a while the western sky became a screen of clear luminous blue,\n a backdrop for a pure white brilliant star. As always at that sight,\n Maitland felt his worry drain away, leaving an almost mystical sense of\n peace and an undefinable longing.\n\n\n Venus, the most beautiful of the planets.", "\"Because this is the Age of\nMan\n. We are terribly interested in what\n can be done with people. Our scientists, like Swarts, are studying\n human rather than nuclear reactions. We are much more fascinated by the\n life and death of cultures than by the expansion or contraction of the\n Universe. With us, it is the people that are important, not gadgets.\"\n\n\n Maitland stared at her, his face blank. His mind had just manufactured\n a discouraging analogy. His present position was like that of an\n earnest 12th Century crusader, deposited by some freak of nature into\n the year 1950, trying to find a way of reanimating the anti-Mohammedan\n movement. What chance would he have? The unfortunate knight would argue\n in vain that the atomic bomb offered a means of finally destroying the\n infidel....\n\n\n Maitland looked up at the girl, who was regarding him silently with\n troubled eyes. \"I think I'd like to be alone for a while,\" he said.", "Wordlessly, Maitland climbed to his feet, preceded Swarts to the\n laboratory, lay down and allowed him to fasten the straps and attach\n the instruments, making no resistance at all. When Swarts started\n saying a list of words—doubtlessly some sort of semantic reaction\n test—Maitland began the job of integrating \"csc\n 3\n x dx\" in his head.\n It was a calculation which required great concentration and frequent\n tracing back of steps. After several minutes, he noticed that Swarts\n had stopped calling words. He opened his eyes to find the other man\n standing over him, looking somewhat exasperated and a little baffled.\n\n\n \"What year is this?\" Maitland asked in a conversational tone.\n\n\n \"We'll try another series of tests.\"" ], [ "Shock contracted Maitland's diaphragm and spread through his body.\n His breathing quickened.\nNow\nhe remembered what had happened during\n the night, the sound in the darkness, the dimly seen figure, and\n then—what? Blackout....\n\n\n Where was he? Who had brought him here? For what purpose?", "Impassively, the man said, \"My name is Swarts. You want to know where\n you are. I am not going to tell you.\" He had an accent, European, but\n otherwise unidentifiable. Possibly German. Maitland opened his mouth\n to protest, but Swarts went on, \"However, you're free to do all the\n guessing you want.\" Still there was no suggestion of a smile.\n\n\n \"Now, these are the rules. You'll be here for about a week. You'll have\n three meals a day, served in this room. You will not be allowed to\n leave it except when accompanied by myself. You will not be harmed in\n any way, provided you cooperate. And you can forget the silly idea that\n we want your childish secrets about rocket motors.\" Maitland's heart\n jumped. \"My reason for bringing you here is altogether different. I\n want to give you some psychological tests....\"", "\"Are you crazy?\" Maitland asked quietly. \"Do you realize that at this\n moment one of the greatest hunts in history must be going on? I'll\n admit I'm baffled as to where we are and how you got me here—but it\n seems to me that you could have found someone less conspicuous to give\n your tests to.\"\n\n\n Briefly, then, Swarts did smile. \"They won't find you,\" he said. \"Now,\n come with me.\"\nAfter that outlandish cell, Swarts' laboratory looked rather\n commonplace. There was something like a surgical cot in the center, and\n a bench along one wall supported several electronics cabinets. A couple\n of them had cathode ray tube screens, and they all presented a normal\n complement of meters, pilot lights, and switches. Cables from them ran\n across the ceiling and came to a focus above the high flat cot in the\n center of the room.", "He was looking at a door in a partly darkened room, and there were\n footsteps outside, a peremptory knocking. The door flew open,\n and outlined against the light of the hall, he saw a man with a\n twelve-gauge shotgun. The man shouted, \"Now I've got you, you\n wife-stealer!\" He swung the shotgun around and pulled the trigger.\n There was a terrible blast of sound and the flash of smokeless\n powder—then blackness.\n\n\n With a deliberate effort, Maitland unclenched his fists and tried to\n slow his breathing. Some kind of emotional reaction test—what was the\n countermove? He closed his eyes, but shortly the muscles around them\n declared excruciatingly that they couldn't keep that up.\n\n\n Now he was looking at a girl. She....\n\n\n Maitland gritted his teeth and fought to use his brain; then he had it.", "He moved so fast that Maitland couldn't block the blow. It was to the\n solar plexus, just hard enough to double him up, fighting for breath.\n He felt an arm under his back, another behind his knees. Then he was on\n the cot. When he was able to breathe again, there were straps across\n his chest, hips, knees, ankles, and arms, and Swarts was tightening a\n clamp that held his head immovable.\nPresently, a number of tiny electrodes were adhering to his temples and\n to other portions of his body, and a minute microphone was clinging to\n the skin over his heart. These devices terminated in cables that hung\n from the ceiling. A sphygmomanometer sleeve was wrapped tightly around\n his left upper arm, its rubber tube trailing to a small black box\n clamped to the frame of the cot. Another cable left the box and joined\n the others.", "Later, when he had finished the steak and corn on the cob and shredded\n carrots, and a feeling of warm well-being was diffusing from his\n stomach to his extremities, he sat down on the bed to watch the sunset\n and to think.\n\n\n There were three questions for which he required answers before he\n could formulate any plan or policy.\n\n\n Where was he?\n\n\n Who was Swarts?\n\n\n What was the purpose of the \"tests\" he was being given?\n\n\n It was possible, of course, that this was all an elaborate scheme\n for getting military secrets, despite Swarts' protestations to the\n contrary. Maitland frowned. This place certainly didn't have the\n appearance of a military establishment, and so far there had been\n nothing to suggest the kind of interrogation to be expected from\n foreign intelligence officers.", "His eyes returned to the doors, and he moved over to study the nearer\n one. As he had noticed, there was no knob, but at the right of this\n one, at about waist level, a push-button projected out of the wall. He\n pressed it; the door slid aside and disappeared. Maitland glanced in at\n the disclosed bathroom, then went over to look at the other door.\n\n\n There was no button beside this one, nor any other visible means of\n causing it to open.\n\n\n Baffled, he turned again and looked at the large open window—and\n realized what it was that had made the room seem so queer.\n\n\n It did not look like a jail cell. There were no bars....", "He sat down on the edge of the cot and glared helplessly at the floor.\nAbout half an hour later, the door he couldn't open slid aside into the\n wall. The man Maitland had seen outside, now clad in gray trunks and\n sandals, stood across the threshold looking in at him. Maitland stood\n up and stared back, conscious suddenly that in his rumpled pajamas he\n made an unimpressive figure.\n\n\n The fellow looked about forty-five. The first details Maitland noticed\n were the forehead, which was quite broad, and the calm, clear eyes.\n The dark hair, white at the temples, was combed back, still damp from\n swimming. Below, there was a wide mouth and a firm, rounded chin.\n\n\n This man was intelligent, Maitland decided, and extremely sure of\n himself.\n\n\n Somehow, the face didn't go with the rest of him. The man had the head\n of a thinker, the body of a trained athlete—an unusual combination.", "If Swarts was irritated, he didn't show it. \"That was the first test,\"\n he said. \"Let me put it another way. I would appreciate it a lot if\n you'd lie down on this cot. I would like to test my apparatus.\"\n\n\n Maitland shook his head stubbornly.\n\n\n \"I see,\" Swarts said. \"You want to find out what you're up against.\"", "Maitland considered a moment, then nodded. Swarts lowered the projector\n to his eyes again, and this time the engineer did not resist.\n\n\n That evening, he could hardly wait for her to come. Too excited to sit\n and watch the sunset, he paced interminably about the room, sometimes\n whistling nervously, snapping his fingers, sitting down and jittering\n one leg. After a while he noticed that he was whistling the same theme\n over and over: a minute's thought identified it as that exuberant\n mounting phrase which recurs in the finale of Beethoven's Ninth\n Symphony.\n\n\n He forgot about it and went on whistling. He was picturing himself\n aboard a ship dropping in toward Mars, making planetfall at Syrtis\n Major; he was seeing visions of Venus and the awesome beauty of Saturn.\n In his mind, he circled the Moon, and viewed the Earth as a huge bright\n globe against the constellations....", "What had he heard? He had a definite impression that the sound had come\n from within the room. It had sounded like someone stumbling into a\n chair, or—\n\n\n Something moved in the darkness on the other side of the room. Maitland\n started to sit up and it was as though a thousand volts had shorted his\n brain....", "\"Lie down,\" Swarts said. When Maitland hesitated, Swarts added,\n \"Understand one thing—the more you cooperate, the easier things will\n be for you. If necessary, I will use coercion. I can get all my results\n against your will, if I must. I would prefer not to. Please don't make\n me.\"\n\n\n \"What's the idea?\" Maitland asked. \"What is all this?\"\n\n\n Swarts hesitated, though not, Maitland astonishedly felt, to evade an\n answer, but to find the proper words. \"You can think of it as a lie\n detector. These instruments will record your reactions to the tests I\n give you. That is as much as you need to know. Now lie down.\"\n\n\n Maitland stood there for a moment, deliberately relaxing his tensed\n muscles. \"Make me.\"", "\"I do not know everything about you—yet. And I'm testing the\n equipment, calibrating it to your reactions.\" He went on, \"Your\n favorite recreations are chess and reading what you term science\n fiction. Maitland,\nhow would you like to go to the Moon\n?\"\n\n\n Something eager leaped in Maitland's breast at the abrupt question, and\n he tried to turn his head. Then he forced himself to relax. \"What do\n you mean?\"\n\n\n Swarts was chuckling. \"I really hit a semantic push-button there,\n didn't I? Maitland, I brought you here because you're a man who wants\n to go to the Moon. I'm interested in finding out\nwhy\n.\"\nIn the evening a girl brought Maitland his meal. As the door slid\n aside, he automatically stood up, and they stared at each other for\n several seconds.", "He thought of a fat slob of a bully who had beaten him up one day\n after school. He remembered a talk he had heard by a politician who had\n all the intelligent social responsibility of a rogue gorilla, but no\n more. He brooded over the damnable stupidity and short-sightedness of\n Swarts in standing by his silly rules and not telling him about this\n new world.\n\n\n Within a minute, he was in an ungovernable rage. His muscles tightened\n against the restraining straps. He panted, sweat came out on his\n forehead, and he began to curse. Swarts! How he hated....\n\n\n The scene was suddenly a flock of sheep spread over a green hillside.\n There was blood hammering in Maitland's temples. His face felt hot and\n swollen and he writhed against the restraint of the straps.", "A man and a woman were coming toward him up the hill. Evidently they\n had been swimming, for each had a towel; the man's was hung around his\n neck, and the woman was still drying her bobbed black hair.\n\n\n Maitland speculated on the possibility that this might be Sweden; he\n didn't know of any other country where public bathing at this time\n of year was customary. However, that prairie certainly didn't look\n Scandinavian....\n\n\n As they came closer, he saw that both of them had dark uniform suntans\n and showed striking muscular development, like persons who had trained\n for years with weights. They vanished below his field of view,\n presumably into the building.", "\"I'm adaptable,\" he told himself gleefully. \"I can learn fast. There'll\n be a job for me out there....\"\nIf—\nSuddenly sobered, he rolled over and put his feet on the floor, sat\n in the darkness thinking. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would have to find a\n way of breaking down Swarts' reticence. He would have to make the man\n realize that secrecy wasn't necessary in this case. And if Swarts still\n wouldn't talk, he would have to find a way of forcing the issue. The\n fellow had said that he didn't need cooperation to get his results,\n but—\n\n\n After a while Maitland smiled to himself and went back to bed.\nHe woke in the morning with someone gently shaking his shoulder. He\n rolled over and looked up at the girl who had brought him his meal the\n evening before. There was a tray on the table and he sniffed the smell\n of bacon. The girl smiled at him. She was dressed as before, except\n that she had discarded the white cloak.", "Striding across the room, he lunged forward to peer out and violently\n banged his forehead. He staggered back, grimacing with pain, then\n reached forward cautious fingers and discovered a hard sheet of stuff\n so transparent that he had not even suspected its presence. Not glass!\n Glass was never this clear or strong. A plastic, no doubt, but one he\n hadn't heard of. Security sometimes had disadvantages.\n\n\n He looked out at the peaceful vista of river and prairie. The character\n of the sunlight seemed to indicate that it was afternoon. He became\n aware that he was hungry.\n\n\n Where the devil could this place be? And—muscles tightened about his\n empty stomach—what was in store for him here?\n\n\n He stood trembling, acutely conscious that he was afraid and helpless,\n until a flicker of motion at the bottom of the hill near the river drew\n his attention. Pressing his nose against the window, he strained his\n eyes to see what it was.", "Wordlessly, Maitland climbed to his feet, preceded Swarts to the\n laboratory, lay down and allowed him to fasten the straps and attach\n the instruments, making no resistance at all. When Swarts started\n saying a list of words—doubtlessly some sort of semantic reaction\n test—Maitland began the job of integrating \"csc\n 3\n x dx\" in his head.\n It was a calculation which required great concentration and frequent\n tracing back of steps. After several minutes, he noticed that Swarts\n had stopped calling words. He opened his eyes to find the other man\n standing over him, looking somewhat exasperated and a little baffled.\n\n\n \"What year is this?\" Maitland asked in a conversational tone.\n\n\n \"We'll try another series of tests.\"", "The scene disappeared, the lenses of the projector retreated from his\n eyes and Swarts was standing over him, white-lipped. Maitland swore at\n him for a few seconds, then relaxed and smiled weakly. His head was\n starting to ache from the effort of blinking.\n\n\n \"What year is this?\" he asked.\n\n\n \"All right,\" Swarts said. \"A.D. 2634.\"\n\n\n Maitland's smile became a grin.\n\"I really haven't the time to waste talking irrelevancies,\" Swarts said\n a while later. \"Honestly. Maitland, I'm working against a time limit.\n If you'll cooperate, I'll tell Ching to answer your questions.\"'\n\n\n \"Ching?\"\n\n\n \"Ingrid Ching is the girl who has been bringing you your meals.\"", "It might be better to tackle the first question first. He looked at\n the Sun, a red spheroid already half below the horizon, and tried to\n think of a region that had this kind of terrain. That prairie out there\n was unique. Almost anywhere in the world, land like that would be\n cultivated, not allowed to go to grass.\n\n\n This might be somewhere in Africa....\n\n\n He shook his head, puzzled. The Sun disappeared and its blood-hued\n glow began to fade from the sky. Maitland sat there, trying to get\n hold of the problem from an angle where it wouldn't just slip away.\n After a while the western sky became a screen of clear luminous blue,\n a backdrop for a pure white brilliant star. As always at that sight,\n Maitland felt his worry drain away, leaving an almost mystical sense of\n peace and an undefinable longing.\n\n\n Venus, the most beautiful of the planets." ], [ "The scene disappeared, the lenses of the projector retreated from his\n eyes and Swarts was standing over him, white-lipped. Maitland swore at\n him for a few seconds, then relaxed and smiled weakly. His head was\n starting to ache from the effort of blinking.\n\n\n \"What year is this?\" he asked.\n\n\n \"All right,\" Swarts said. \"A.D. 2634.\"\n\n\n Maitland's smile became a grin.\n\"I really haven't the time to waste talking irrelevancies,\" Swarts said\n a while later. \"Honestly. Maitland, I'm working against a time limit.\n If you'll cooperate, I'll tell Ching to answer your questions.\"'\n\n\n \"Ching?\"\n\n\n \"Ingrid Ching is the girl who has been bringing you your meals.\"", "He sat down on the edge of the cot and glared helplessly at the floor.\nAbout half an hour later, the door he couldn't open slid aside into the\n wall. The man Maitland had seen outside, now clad in gray trunks and\n sandals, stood across the threshold looking in at him. Maitland stood\n up and stared back, conscious suddenly that in his rumpled pajamas he\n made an unimpressive figure.\n\n\n The fellow looked about forty-five. The first details Maitland noticed\n were the forehead, which was quite broad, and the calm, clear eyes.\n The dark hair, white at the temples, was combed back, still damp from\n swimming. Below, there was a wide mouth and a firm, rounded chin.\n\n\n This man was intelligent, Maitland decided, and extremely sure of\n himself.\n\n\n Somehow, the face didn't go with the rest of him. The man had the head\n of a thinker, the body of a trained athlete—an unusual combination.", "She had the high cheekbones and almond eyes of an Oriental, skin that\n glowed like gold in the evening light, yet thick coiled braids of\n blonde hair that glittered like polished brass. Shorts and a sleeveless\n blouse of some thick, reddish, metallic-looking fabric clung to her\n body, and over that she was wearing a light, ankle-length cloak of what\n seemed to be white wool.\n\n\n She was looking at him with palpable curiosity and something like\n expectancy. Maitland sighed and said, \"Hello,\" then glanced down\n self-consciously at his wrinkled green pajamas.\nShe smiled, put the tray of food on the table, and swept out, her cloak\n billowing behind her. Maitland remained standing, staring at the closed\n door for a minute after she was gone.", "A man and a woman were coming toward him up the hill. Evidently they\n had been swimming, for each had a towel; the man's was hung around his\n neck, and the woman was still drying her bobbed black hair.\n\n\n Maitland speculated on the possibility that this might be Sweden; he\n didn't know of any other country where public bathing at this time\n of year was customary. However, that prairie certainly didn't look\n Scandinavian....\n\n\n As they came closer, he saw that both of them had dark uniform suntans\n and showed striking muscular development, like persons who had trained\n for years with weights. They vanished below his field of view,\n presumably into the building.", "Maitland considered a moment, then nodded. Swarts lowered the projector\n to his eyes again, and this time the engineer did not resist.\n\n\n That evening, he could hardly wait for her to come. Too excited to sit\n and watch the sunset, he paced interminably about the room, sometimes\n whistling nervously, snapping his fingers, sitting down and jittering\n one leg. After a while he noticed that he was whistling the same theme\n over and over: a minute's thought identified it as that exuberant\n mounting phrase which recurs in the finale of Beethoven's Ninth\n Symphony.\n\n\n He forgot about it and went on whistling. He was picturing himself\n aboard a ship dropping in toward Mars, making planetfall at Syrtis\n Major; he was seeing visions of Venus and the awesome beauty of Saturn.\n In his mind, he circled the Moon, and viewed the Earth as a huge bright\n globe against the constellations....", "If Swarts was irritated, he didn't show it. \"That was the first test,\"\n he said. \"Let me put it another way. I would appreciate it a lot if\n you'd lie down on this cot. I would like to test my apparatus.\"\n\n\n Maitland shook his head stubbornly.\n\n\n \"I see,\" Swarts said. \"You want to find out what you're up against.\"", "He was looking at a door in a partly darkened room, and there were\n footsteps outside, a peremptory knocking. The door flew open,\n and outlined against the light of the hall, he saw a man with a\n twelve-gauge shotgun. The man shouted, \"Now I've got you, you\n wife-stealer!\" He swung the shotgun around and pulled the trigger.\n There was a terrible blast of sound and the flash of smokeless\n powder—then blackness.\n\n\n With a deliberate effort, Maitland unclenched his fists and tried to\n slow his breathing. Some kind of emotional reaction test—what was the\n countermove? He closed his eyes, but shortly the muscles around them\n declared excruciatingly that they couldn't keep that up.\n\n\n Now he was looking at a girl. She....\n\n\n Maitland gritted his teeth and fought to use his brain; then he had it.", "\"Birth control,\" Maitland scoffed. \"How do you make it work—secret\n police?\"\n\n\n \"No. Education. Each of us has the right to two children, and we\n cherish that right so much that we make every effort to see that those\n two are the best children we could possibly produce....\"\n\n\n She broke off, looking a little self-conscious. \"You understand, what\n I have been saying applies to\nmost\nof the world. In some places like\n Aresund, things are different. Backward. I still do not feel that I\n belong here, although the people of the town have accepted me as one of\n them.\"", "\"Lie down,\" Swarts said. When Maitland hesitated, Swarts added,\n \"Understand one thing—the more you cooperate, the easier things will\n be for you. If necessary, I will use coercion. I can get all my results\n against your will, if I must. I would prefer not to. Please don't make\n me.\"\n\n\n \"What's the idea?\" Maitland asked. \"What is all this?\"\n\n\n Swarts hesitated, though not, Maitland astonishedly felt, to evade an\n answer, but to find the proper words. \"You can think of it as a lie\n detector. These instruments will record your reactions to the tests I\n give you. That is as much as you need to know. Now lie down.\"\n\n\n Maitland stood there for a moment, deliberately relaxing his tensed\n muscles. \"Make me.\"", "She shrugged. \"Swarts says that I want to go back to the Dark Age of\n Technology because I have not adapted well to modern culture. Myself,\n I think I have just a romantic nature. Far times and places look more\n exciting....\"\n\n\n \"How do you mean—\" Maitland wrinkled his brow—\"adapt to modern\n culture? Don't tell me\nyou're\nfrom another time!\"\n\n\n \"Oh, no! But my home is Aresund, a little fishing village at the head\n of a fiord in what you would call Norway. So far north, we are much\n behind the times. We live in the old way, from the sea, speak the old\n tongue.\"\nHe looked at her golden features, such a felicitous blend of\n Oriental and European characteristics, and hesitantly asked, \"Maybe\n I shouldn't.... This is a little personal, but ... you don't look\n altogether like the Norwegians of my time.\"", "Impassively, the man said, \"My name is Swarts. You want to know where\n you are. I am not going to tell you.\" He had an accent, European, but\n otherwise unidentifiable. Possibly German. Maitland opened his mouth\n to protest, but Swarts went on, \"However, you're free to do all the\n guessing you want.\" Still there was no suggestion of a smile.\n\n\n \"Now, these are the rules. You'll be here for about a week. You'll have\n three meals a day, served in this room. You will not be allowed to\n leave it except when accompanied by myself. You will not be harmed in\n any way, provided you cooperate. And you can forget the silly idea that\n we want your childish secrets about rocket motors.\" Maitland's heart\n jumped. \"My reason for bringing you here is altogether different. I\n want to give you some psychological tests....\"", "\"I do not know everything about you—yet. And I'm testing the\n equipment, calibrating it to your reactions.\" He went on, \"Your\n favorite recreations are chess and reading what you term science\n fiction. Maitland,\nhow would you like to go to the Moon\n?\"\n\n\n Something eager leaped in Maitland's breast at the abrupt question, and\n he tried to turn his head. Then he forced himself to relax. \"What do\n you mean?\"\n\n\n Swarts was chuckling. \"I really hit a semantic push-button there,\n didn't I? Maitland, I brought you here because you're a man who wants\n to go to the Moon. I'm interested in finding out\nwhy\n.\"\nIn the evening a girl brought Maitland his meal. As the door slid\n aside, he automatically stood up, and they stared at each other for\n several seconds.", "Finally the door slid aside and she appeared, carrying the usual tray\n of food. She smiled at him, making dimples in her golden skin and\n revealing a perfect set of teeth, and put the tray on the table.\n\n\n \"I think you are wonderful,\" she laughed. \"You get everything you\n want, even from Swarts, and I have not been able to get even a little\n of what I want from him. I want to travel in time, go back to your 20th\n Century. And I wanted to talk with you, and he would not let me.\" She\n laughed again, hands on her rounded hips. \"I have never seen him so\n irritated as he was this noon.\"\n\n\n Maitland urged her into the chair and sat down on the edge of the bed.\n Eagerly he asked, \"Why the devil do you want to go to the 20th Century?\n Believe me, I've been there, and what I've seen of this world looks a\n lot better.\"", "\"Are you crazy?\" Maitland asked quietly. \"Do you realize that at this\n moment one of the greatest hunts in history must be going on? I'll\n admit I'm baffled as to where we are and how you got me here—but it\n seems to me that you could have found someone less conspicuous to give\n your tests to.\"\n\n\n Briefly, then, Swarts did smile. \"They won't find you,\" he said. \"Now,\n come with me.\"\nAfter that outlandish cell, Swarts' laboratory looked rather\n commonplace. There was something like a surgical cot in the center, and\n a bench along one wall supported several electronics cabinets. A couple\n of them had cathode ray tube screens, and they all presented a normal\n complement of meters, pilot lights, and switches. Cables from them ran\n across the ceiling and came to a focus above the high flat cot in the\n center of the room.", "Shock contracted Maitland's diaphragm and spread through his body.\n His breathing quickened.\nNow\nhe remembered what had happened during\n the night, the sound in the darkness, the dimly seen figure, and\n then—what? Blackout....\n\n\n Where was he? Who had brought him here? For what purpose?", "\"I'm adaptable,\" he told himself gleefully. \"I can learn fast. There'll\n be a job for me out there....\"\nIf—\nSuddenly sobered, he rolled over and put his feet on the floor, sat\n in the darkness thinking. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would have to find a\n way of breaking down Swarts' reticence. He would have to make the man\n realize that secrecy wasn't necessary in this case. And if Swarts still\n wouldn't talk, he would have to find a way of forcing the issue. The\n fellow had said that he didn't need cooperation to get his results,\n but—\n\n\n After a while Maitland smiled to himself and went back to bed.\nHe woke in the morning with someone gently shaking his shoulder. He\n rolled over and looked up at the girl who had brought him his meal the\n evening before. There was a tray on the table and he sniffed the smell\n of bacon. The girl smiled at him. She was dressed as before, except\n that she had discarded the white cloak.", "Later, when he had finished the steak and corn on the cob and shredded\n carrots, and a feeling of warm well-being was diffusing from his\n stomach to his extremities, he sat down on the bed to watch the sunset\n and to think.\n\n\n There were three questions for which he required answers before he\n could formulate any plan or policy.\n\n\n Where was he?\n\n\n Who was Swarts?\n\n\n What was the purpose of the \"tests\" he was being given?\n\n\n It was possible, of course, that this was all an elaborate scheme\n for getting military secrets, despite Swarts' protestations to the\n contrary. Maitland frowned. This place certainly didn't have the\n appearance of a military establishment, and so far there had been\n nothing to suggest the kind of interrogation to be expected from\n foreign intelligence officers.", "He moved so fast that Maitland couldn't block the blow. It was to the\n solar plexus, just hard enough to double him up, fighting for breath.\n He felt an arm under his back, another behind his knees. Then he was on\n the cot. When he was able to breathe again, there were straps across\n his chest, hips, knees, ankles, and arms, and Swarts was tightening a\n clamp that held his head immovable.\nPresently, a number of tiny electrodes were adhering to his temples and\n to other portions of his body, and a minute microphone was clinging to\n the skin over his heart. These devices terminated in cables that hung\n from the ceiling. A sphygmomanometer sleeve was wrapped tightly around\n his left upper arm, its rubber tube trailing to a small black box\n clamped to the frame of the cot. Another cable left the box and joined\n the others.", "Wordlessly, Maitland climbed to his feet, preceded Swarts to the\n laboratory, lay down and allowed him to fasten the straps and attach\n the instruments, making no resistance at all. When Swarts started\n saying a list of words—doubtlessly some sort of semantic reaction\n test—Maitland began the job of integrating \"csc\n 3\n x dx\" in his head.\n It was a calculation which required great concentration and frequent\n tracing back of steps. After several minutes, he noticed that Swarts\n had stopped calling words. He opened his eyes to find the other man\n standing over him, looking somewhat exasperated and a little baffled.\n\n\n \"What year is this?\" Maitland asked in a conversational tone.\n\n\n \"We'll try another series of tests.\"", "So—Maitland thought—Swarts could record changes in his skin\n potential, heartbeat, and blood pressure: the involuntary responses of\n the body to stimuli.\n\n\n The question was, what were the stimuli to be?\n\n\n \"Your name,\" said Swarts, \"is Robert Lee Maitland. You are thirty-four\n years old. You are an engineer, specialty heat transfer, particularly\n as applied to rocket motors.... No, Mr. Maitland, I'm not going to\n question you about your work; just forget about it. Your home town is\n Madison, Wisconsin....\"\n\n\n \"You seem to know everything about me,\" Maitland said defiantly,\n looking up into the hanging forest of cabling. \"Why this recital?\"" ], [ "The scene disappeared, the lenses of the projector retreated from his\n eyes and Swarts was standing over him, white-lipped. Maitland swore at\n him for a few seconds, then relaxed and smiled weakly. His head was\n starting to ache from the effort of blinking.\n\n\n \"What year is this?\" he asked.\n\n\n \"All right,\" Swarts said. \"A.D. 2634.\"\n\n\n Maitland's smile became a grin.\n\"I really haven't the time to waste talking irrelevancies,\" Swarts said\n a while later. \"Honestly. Maitland, I'm working against a time limit.\n If you'll cooperate, I'll tell Ching to answer your questions.\"'\n\n\n \"Ching?\"\n\n\n \"Ingrid Ching is the girl who has been bringing you your meals.\"", "\"Birth control,\" Maitland scoffed. \"How do you make it work—secret\n police?\"\n\n\n \"No. Education. Each of us has the right to two children, and we\n cherish that right so much that we make every effort to see that those\n two are the best children we could possibly produce....\"\n\n\n She broke off, looking a little self-conscious. \"You understand, what\n I have been saying applies to\nmost\nof the world. In some places like\n Aresund, things are different. Backward. I still do not feel that I\n belong here, although the people of the town have accepted me as one of\n them.\"", "His fear that she would be offended proved to be completely\n unjustified. She merely laughed and said, \"There has been much\n history since 1950. Five hundred years ago, Europe was overrun by\n Pan-Orientals. Today you could not find anywhere a 'pure' European\n or Asiatic.\" She giggled. \"Swarts' ancestors from your time must be\n cursing in their graves. His family is Afrikander all the way back, but\n one of his great-grandfathers was pure-blooded Bantu. His full name is\n Lassisi Swarts.\"\n\n\n Maitland wrinkled his brow. \"Afrikander?\"", "She shrugged. \"Swarts says that I want to go back to the Dark Age of\n Technology because I have not adapted well to modern culture. Myself,\n I think I have just a romantic nature. Far times and places look more\n exciting....\"\n\n\n \"How do you mean—\" Maitland wrinkled his brow—\"adapt to modern\n culture? Don't tell me\nyou're\nfrom another time!\"\n\n\n \"Oh, no! But my home is Aresund, a little fishing village at the head\n of a fiord in what you would call Norway. So far north, we are much\n behind the times. We live in the old way, from the sea, speak the old\n tongue.\"\nHe looked at her golden features, such a felicitous blend of\n Oriental and European characteristics, and hesitantly asked, \"Maybe\n I shouldn't.... This is a little personal, but ... you don't look\n altogether like the Norwegians of my time.\"", "Maitland considered a moment, then nodded. Swarts lowered the projector\n to his eyes again, and this time the engineer did not resist.\n\n\n That evening, he could hardly wait for her to come. Too excited to sit\n and watch the sunset, he paced interminably about the room, sometimes\n whistling nervously, snapping his fingers, sitting down and jittering\n one leg. After a while he noticed that he was whistling the same theme\n over and over: a minute's thought identified it as that exuberant\n mounting phrase which recurs in the finale of Beethoven's Ninth\n Symphony.\n\n\n He forgot about it and went on whistling. He was picturing himself\n aboard a ship dropping in toward Mars, making planetfall at Syrtis\n Major; he was seeing visions of Venus and the awesome beauty of Saturn.\n In his mind, he circled the Moon, and viewed the Earth as a huge bright\n globe against the constellations....", "Finally the door slid aside and she appeared, carrying the usual tray\n of food. She smiled at him, making dimples in her golden skin and\n revealing a perfect set of teeth, and put the tray on the table.\n\n\n \"I think you are wonderful,\" she laughed. \"You get everything you\n want, even from Swarts, and I have not been able to get even a little\n of what I want from him. I want to travel in time, go back to your 20th\n Century. And I wanted to talk with you, and he would not let me.\" She\n laughed again, hands on her rounded hips. \"I have never seen him so\n irritated as he was this noon.\"\n\n\n Maitland urged her into the chair and sat down on the edge of the bed.\n Eagerly he asked, \"Why the devil do you want to go to the 20th Century?\n Believe me, I've been there, and what I've seen of this world looks a\n lot better.\"", "He was looking at a door in a partly darkened room, and there were\n footsteps outside, a peremptory knocking. The door flew open,\n and outlined against the light of the hall, he saw a man with a\n twelve-gauge shotgun. The man shouted, \"Now I've got you, you\n wife-stealer!\" He swung the shotgun around and pulled the trigger.\n There was a terrible blast of sound and the flash of smokeless\n powder—then blackness.\n\n\n With a deliberate effort, Maitland unclenched his fists and tried to\n slow his breathing. Some kind of emotional reaction test—what was the\n countermove? He closed his eyes, but shortly the muscles around them\n declared excruciatingly that they couldn't keep that up.\n\n\n Now he was looking at a girl. She....\n\n\n Maitland gritted his teeth and fought to use his brain; then he had it.", "Impassively, the man said, \"My name is Swarts. You want to know where\n you are. I am not going to tell you.\" He had an accent, European, but\n otherwise unidentifiable. Possibly German. Maitland opened his mouth\n to protest, but Swarts went on, \"However, you're free to do all the\n guessing you want.\" Still there was no suggestion of a smile.\n\n\n \"Now, these are the rules. You'll be here for about a week. You'll have\n three meals a day, served in this room. You will not be allowed to\n leave it except when accompanied by myself. You will not be harmed in\n any way, provided you cooperate. And you can forget the silly idea that\n we want your childish secrets about rocket motors.\" Maitland's heart\n jumped. \"My reason for bringing you here is altogether different. I\n want to give you some psychological tests....\"", "He thought of a fat slob of a bully who had beaten him up one day\n after school. He remembered a talk he had heard by a politician who had\n all the intelligent social responsibility of a rogue gorilla, but no\n more. He brooded over the damnable stupidity and short-sightedness of\n Swarts in standing by his silly rules and not telling him about this\n new world.\n\n\n Within a minute, he was in an ungovernable rage. His muscles tightened\n against the restraining straps. He panted, sweat came out on his\n forehead, and he began to curse. Swarts! How he hated....\n\n\n The scene was suddenly a flock of sheep spread over a green hillside.\n There was blood hammering in Maitland's temples. His face felt hot and\n swollen and he writhed against the restraint of the straps.", "\"Lie down,\" Swarts said. When Maitland hesitated, Swarts added,\n \"Understand one thing—the more you cooperate, the easier things will\n be for you. If necessary, I will use coercion. I can get all my results\n against your will, if I must. I would prefer not to. Please don't make\n me.\"\n\n\n \"What's the idea?\" Maitland asked. \"What is all this?\"\n\n\n Swarts hesitated, though not, Maitland astonishedly felt, to evade an\n answer, but to find the proper words. \"You can think of it as a lie\n detector. These instruments will record your reactions to the tests I\n give you. That is as much as you need to know. Now lie down.\"\n\n\n Maitland stood there for a moment, deliberately relaxing his tensed\n muscles. \"Make me.\"", "She had the high cheekbones and almond eyes of an Oriental, skin that\n glowed like gold in the evening light, yet thick coiled braids of\n blonde hair that glittered like polished brass. Shorts and a sleeveless\n blouse of some thick, reddish, metallic-looking fabric clung to her\n body, and over that she was wearing a light, ankle-length cloak of what\n seemed to be white wool.\n\n\n She was looking at him with palpable curiosity and something like\n expectancy. Maitland sighed and said, \"Hello,\" then glanced down\n self-consciously at his wrinkled green pajamas.\nShe smiled, put the tray of food on the table, and swept out, her cloak\n billowing behind her. Maitland remained standing, staring at the closed\n door for a minute after she was gone.", "If Swarts was irritated, he didn't show it. \"That was the first test,\"\n he said. \"Let me put it another way. I would appreciate it a lot if\n you'd lie down on this cot. I would like to test my apparatus.\"\n\n\n Maitland shook his head stubbornly.\n\n\n \"I see,\" Swarts said. \"You want to find out what you're up against.\"", "So—Maitland thought—Swarts could record changes in his skin\n potential, heartbeat, and blood pressure: the involuntary responses of\n the body to stimuli.\n\n\n The question was, what were the stimuli to be?\n\n\n \"Your name,\" said Swarts, \"is Robert Lee Maitland. You are thirty-four\n years old. You are an engineer, specialty heat transfer, particularly\n as applied to rocket motors.... No, Mr. Maitland, I'm not going to\n question you about your work; just forget about it. Your home town is\n Madison, Wisconsin....\"\n\n\n \"You seem to know everything about me,\" Maitland said defiantly,\n looking up into the hanging forest of cabling. \"Why this recital?\"", "Wordlessly, Maitland climbed to his feet, preceded Swarts to the\n laboratory, lay down and allowed him to fasten the straps and attach\n the instruments, making no resistance at all. When Swarts started\n saying a list of words—doubtlessly some sort of semantic reaction\n test—Maitland began the job of integrating \"csc\n 3\n x dx\" in his head.\n It was a calculation which required great concentration and frequent\n tracing back of steps. After several minutes, he noticed that Swarts\n had stopped calling words. He opened his eyes to find the other man\n standing over him, looking somewhat exasperated and a little baffled.\n\n\n \"What year is this?\" Maitland asked in a conversational tone.\n\n\n \"We'll try another series of tests.\"", "\"Because this is the Age of\nMan\n. We are terribly interested in what\n can be done with people. Our scientists, like Swarts, are studying\n human rather than nuclear reactions. We are much more fascinated by the\n life and death of cultures than by the expansion or contraction of the\n Universe. With us, it is the people that are important, not gadgets.\"\n\n\n Maitland stared at her, his face blank. His mind had just manufactured\n a discouraging analogy. His present position was like that of an\n earnest 12th Century crusader, deposited by some freak of nature into\n the year 1950, trying to find a way of reanimating the anti-Mohammedan\n movement. What chance would he have? The unfortunate knight would argue\n in vain that the atomic bomb offered a means of finally destroying the\n infidel....\n\n\n Maitland looked up at the girl, who was regarding him silently with\n troubled eyes. \"I think I'd like to be alone for a while,\" he said.", "\"Honestly,\" she said, \"I did not know they ever had.\" She hesitated.\n \"Maybe you are asking the wrong question.\"\n\n\n He furrowed his brow, bewildered now by her.\n\n\n \"I mean,\" she explained, \"maybe you should ask why people in the 20th\n Century\ndid\nwant to go to worlds men are not suited to inhabit.\"\n\n\n Maitland felt his face become hot. \"Men can go anywhere, if they want\n to bad enough.\"\n\n\n \"But\nwhy\n?\"\n\n\n Despite his sudden irrational anger toward her, Maitland tried to stick\n to logic. \"Living space, for one thing. The only permanent solution to\n the population problem....\"\n\n\n \"We have no population problem. A hundred years ago, we realized that\n the key to social stability is a limited population. Our economic\n system was built to take care of three hundred million people, and we\n have held the number at that.\"", "A man and a woman were coming toward him up the hill. Evidently they\n had been swimming, for each had a towel; the man's was hung around his\n neck, and the woman was still drying her bobbed black hair.\n\n\n Maitland speculated on the possibility that this might be Sweden; he\n didn't know of any other country where public bathing at this time\n of year was customary. However, that prairie certainly didn't look\n Scandinavian....\n\n\n As they came closer, he saw that both of them had dark uniform suntans\n and showed striking muscular development, like persons who had trained\n for years with weights. They vanished below his field of view,\n presumably into the building.", "\"I'm adaptable,\" he told himself gleefully. \"I can learn fast. There'll\n be a job for me out there....\"\nIf—\nSuddenly sobered, he rolled over and put his feet on the floor, sat\n in the darkness thinking. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would have to find a\n way of breaking down Swarts' reticence. He would have to make the man\n realize that secrecy wasn't necessary in this case. And if Swarts still\n wouldn't talk, he would have to find a way of forcing the issue. The\n fellow had said that he didn't need cooperation to get his results,\n but—\n\n\n After a while Maitland smiled to himself and went back to bed.\nHe woke in the morning with someone gently shaking his shoulder. He\n rolled over and looked up at the girl who had brought him his meal the\n evening before. There was a tray on the table and he sniffed the smell\n of bacon. The girl smiled at him. She was dressed as before, except\n that she had discarded the white cloak.", "As he swung his legs to the floor, she started toward the door,\n carrying the tray with the dirty dishes from yesterday. He stopped her\n with the word, \"Miss!\"\n\n\n She turned, and he thought there was something eager in her face.\n\n\n \"Miss, do you speak my language?\"\n\n\n \"Yes,\" hesitantly. She lingered too long on the hiss of the last\n consonant.\n\n\n \"Miss,\" he asked, watching her face intently, \"what year is this?\"\n\n\n Startlingly, she laughed, a mellow peal of mirth that had nothing\n forced about it. She turned toward the door again and said over her\n shoulder, \"You will have to ask Swarts about that. I cannot tell you.\"\n\n\n \"Wait! You mean you don't know?\"\n\n\n She shook her head. \"I cannot tell you.\"", "\"Are you crazy?\" Maitland asked quietly. \"Do you realize that at this\n moment one of the greatest hunts in history must be going on? I'll\n admit I'm baffled as to where we are and how you got me here—but it\n seems to me that you could have found someone less conspicuous to give\n your tests to.\"\n\n\n Briefly, then, Swarts did smile. \"They won't find you,\" he said. \"Now,\n come with me.\"\nAfter that outlandish cell, Swarts' laboratory looked rather\n commonplace. There was something like a surgical cot in the center, and\n a bench along one wall supported several electronics cabinets. A couple\n of them had cathode ray tube screens, and they all presented a normal\n complement of meters, pilot lights, and switches. Cables from them ran\n across the ceiling and came to a focus above the high flat cot in the\n center of the room." ], [ "Shock contracted Maitland's diaphragm and spread through his body.\n His breathing quickened.\nNow\nhe remembered what had happened during\n the night, the sound in the darkness, the dimly seen figure, and\n then—what? Blackout....\n\n\n Where was he? Who had brought him here? For what purpose?", "Impassively, the man said, \"My name is Swarts. You want to know where\n you are. I am not going to tell you.\" He had an accent, European, but\n otherwise unidentifiable. Possibly German. Maitland opened his mouth\n to protest, but Swarts went on, \"However, you're free to do all the\n guessing you want.\" Still there was no suggestion of a smile.\n\n\n \"Now, these are the rules. You'll be here for about a week. You'll have\n three meals a day, served in this room. You will not be allowed to\n leave it except when accompanied by myself. You will not be harmed in\n any way, provided you cooperate. And you can forget the silly idea that\n we want your childish secrets about rocket motors.\" Maitland's heart\n jumped. \"My reason for bringing you here is altogether different. I\n want to give you some psychological tests....\"", "\"Are you crazy?\" Maitland asked quietly. \"Do you realize that at this\n moment one of the greatest hunts in history must be going on? I'll\n admit I'm baffled as to where we are and how you got me here—but it\n seems to me that you could have found someone less conspicuous to give\n your tests to.\"\n\n\n Briefly, then, Swarts did smile. \"They won't find you,\" he said. \"Now,\n come with me.\"\nAfter that outlandish cell, Swarts' laboratory looked rather\n commonplace. There was something like a surgical cot in the center, and\n a bench along one wall supported several electronics cabinets. A couple\n of them had cathode ray tube screens, and they all presented a normal\n complement of meters, pilot lights, and switches. Cables from them ran\n across the ceiling and came to a focus above the high flat cot in the\n center of the room.", "He was looking at a door in a partly darkened room, and there were\n footsteps outside, a peremptory knocking. The door flew open,\n and outlined against the light of the hall, he saw a man with a\n twelve-gauge shotgun. The man shouted, \"Now I've got you, you\n wife-stealer!\" He swung the shotgun around and pulled the trigger.\n There was a terrible blast of sound and the flash of smokeless\n powder—then blackness.\n\n\n With a deliberate effort, Maitland unclenched his fists and tried to\n slow his breathing. Some kind of emotional reaction test—what was the\n countermove? He closed his eyes, but shortly the muscles around them\n declared excruciatingly that they couldn't keep that up.\n\n\n Now he was looking at a girl. She....\n\n\n Maitland gritted his teeth and fought to use his brain; then he had it.", "Later, when he had finished the steak and corn on the cob and shredded\n carrots, and a feeling of warm well-being was diffusing from his\n stomach to his extremities, he sat down on the bed to watch the sunset\n and to think.\n\n\n There were three questions for which he required answers before he\n could formulate any plan or policy.\n\n\n Where was he?\n\n\n Who was Swarts?\n\n\n What was the purpose of the \"tests\" he was being given?\n\n\n It was possible, of course, that this was all an elaborate scheme\n for getting military secrets, despite Swarts' protestations to the\n contrary. Maitland frowned. This place certainly didn't have the\n appearance of a military establishment, and so far there had been\n nothing to suggest the kind of interrogation to be expected from\n foreign intelligence officers.", "He sat down on the edge of the cot and glared helplessly at the floor.\nAbout half an hour later, the door he couldn't open slid aside into the\n wall. The man Maitland had seen outside, now clad in gray trunks and\n sandals, stood across the threshold looking in at him. Maitland stood\n up and stared back, conscious suddenly that in his rumpled pajamas he\n made an unimpressive figure.\n\n\n The fellow looked about forty-five. The first details Maitland noticed\n were the forehead, which was quite broad, and the calm, clear eyes.\n The dark hair, white at the temples, was combed back, still damp from\n swimming. Below, there was a wide mouth and a firm, rounded chin.\n\n\n This man was intelligent, Maitland decided, and extremely sure of\n himself.\n\n\n Somehow, the face didn't go with the rest of him. The man had the head\n of a thinker, the body of a trained athlete—an unusual combination.", "He moved so fast that Maitland couldn't block the blow. It was to the\n solar plexus, just hard enough to double him up, fighting for breath.\n He felt an arm under his back, another behind his knees. Then he was on\n the cot. When he was able to breathe again, there were straps across\n his chest, hips, knees, ankles, and arms, and Swarts was tightening a\n clamp that held his head immovable.\nPresently, a number of tiny electrodes were adhering to his temples and\n to other portions of his body, and a minute microphone was clinging to\n the skin over his heart. These devices terminated in cables that hung\n from the ceiling. A sphygmomanometer sleeve was wrapped tightly around\n his left upper arm, its rubber tube trailing to a small black box\n clamped to the frame of the cot. Another cable left the box and joined\n the others.", "His eyes returned to the doors, and he moved over to study the nearer\n one. As he had noticed, there was no knob, but at the right of this\n one, at about waist level, a push-button projected out of the wall. He\n pressed it; the door slid aside and disappeared. Maitland glanced in at\n the disclosed bathroom, then went over to look at the other door.\n\n\n There was no button beside this one, nor any other visible means of\n causing it to open.\n\n\n Baffled, he turned again and looked at the large open window—and\n realized what it was that had made the room seem so queer.\n\n\n It did not look like a jail cell. There were no bars....", "What had he heard? He had a definite impression that the sound had come\n from within the room. It had sounded like someone stumbling into a\n chair, or—\n\n\n Something moved in the darkness on the other side of the room. Maitland\n started to sit up and it was as though a thousand volts had shorted his\n brain....", "If Swarts was irritated, he didn't show it. \"That was the first test,\"\n he said. \"Let me put it another way. I would appreciate it a lot if\n you'd lie down on this cot. I would like to test my apparatus.\"\n\n\n Maitland shook his head stubbornly.\n\n\n \"I see,\" Swarts said. \"You want to find out what you're up against.\"", "Maitland considered a moment, then nodded. Swarts lowered the projector\n to his eyes again, and this time the engineer did not resist.\n\n\n That evening, he could hardly wait for her to come. Too excited to sit\n and watch the sunset, he paced interminably about the room, sometimes\n whistling nervously, snapping his fingers, sitting down and jittering\n one leg. After a while he noticed that he was whistling the same theme\n over and over: a minute's thought identified it as that exuberant\n mounting phrase which recurs in the finale of Beethoven's Ninth\n Symphony.\n\n\n He forgot about it and went on whistling. He was picturing himself\n aboard a ship dropping in toward Mars, making planetfall at Syrtis\n Major; he was seeing visions of Venus and the awesome beauty of Saturn.\n In his mind, he circled the Moon, and viewed the Earth as a huge bright\n globe against the constellations....", "\"I do not know everything about you—yet. And I'm testing the\n equipment, calibrating it to your reactions.\" He went on, \"Your\n favorite recreations are chess and reading what you term science\n fiction. Maitland,\nhow would you like to go to the Moon\n?\"\n\n\n Something eager leaped in Maitland's breast at the abrupt question, and\n he tried to turn his head. Then he forced himself to relax. \"What do\n you mean?\"\n\n\n Swarts was chuckling. \"I really hit a semantic push-button there,\n didn't I? Maitland, I brought you here because you're a man who wants\n to go to the Moon. I'm interested in finding out\nwhy\n.\"\nIn the evening a girl brought Maitland his meal. As the door slid\n aside, he automatically stood up, and they stared at each other for\n several seconds.", "\"Lie down,\" Swarts said. When Maitland hesitated, Swarts added,\n \"Understand one thing—the more you cooperate, the easier things will\n be for you. If necessary, I will use coercion. I can get all my results\n against your will, if I must. I would prefer not to. Please don't make\n me.\"\n\n\n \"What's the idea?\" Maitland asked. \"What is all this?\"\n\n\n Swarts hesitated, though not, Maitland astonishedly felt, to evade an\n answer, but to find the proper words. \"You can think of it as a lie\n detector. These instruments will record your reactions to the tests I\n give you. That is as much as you need to know. Now lie down.\"\n\n\n Maitland stood there for a moment, deliberately relaxing his tensed\n muscles. \"Make me.\"", "Striding across the room, he lunged forward to peer out and violently\n banged his forehead. He staggered back, grimacing with pain, then\n reached forward cautious fingers and discovered a hard sheet of stuff\n so transparent that he had not even suspected its presence. Not glass!\n Glass was never this clear or strong. A plastic, no doubt, but one he\n hadn't heard of. Security sometimes had disadvantages.\n\n\n He looked out at the peaceful vista of river and prairie. The character\n of the sunlight seemed to indicate that it was afternoon. He became\n aware that he was hungry.\n\n\n Where the devil could this place be? And—muscles tightened about his\n empty stomach—what was in store for him here?\n\n\n He stood trembling, acutely conscious that he was afraid and helpless,\n until a flicker of motion at the bottom of the hill near the river drew\n his attention. Pressing his nose against the window, he strained his\n eyes to see what it was.", "Wordlessly, Maitland climbed to his feet, preceded Swarts to the\n laboratory, lay down and allowed him to fasten the straps and attach\n the instruments, making no resistance at all. When Swarts started\n saying a list of words—doubtlessly some sort of semantic reaction\n test—Maitland began the job of integrating \"csc\n 3\n x dx\" in his head.\n It was a calculation which required great concentration and frequent\n tracing back of steps. After several minutes, he noticed that Swarts\n had stopped calling words. He opened his eyes to find the other man\n standing over him, looking somewhat exasperated and a little baffled.\n\n\n \"What year is this?\" Maitland asked in a conversational tone.\n\n\n \"We'll try another series of tests.\"", "He thought of a fat slob of a bully who had beaten him up one day\n after school. He remembered a talk he had heard by a politician who had\n all the intelligent social responsibility of a rogue gorilla, but no\n more. He brooded over the damnable stupidity and short-sightedness of\n Swarts in standing by his silly rules and not telling him about this\n new world.\n\n\n Within a minute, he was in an ungovernable rage. His muscles tightened\n against the restraining straps. He panted, sweat came out on his\n forehead, and he began to curse. Swarts! How he hated....\n\n\n The scene was suddenly a flock of sheep spread over a green hillside.\n There was blood hammering in Maitland's temples. His face felt hot and\n swollen and he writhed against the restraint of the straps.", "So—Maitland thought—Swarts could record changes in his skin\n potential, heartbeat, and blood pressure: the involuntary responses of\n the body to stimuli.\n\n\n The question was, what were the stimuli to be?\n\n\n \"Your name,\" said Swarts, \"is Robert Lee Maitland. You are thirty-four\n years old. You are an engineer, specialty heat transfer, particularly\n as applied to rocket motors.... No, Mr. Maitland, I'm not going to\n question you about your work; just forget about it. Your home town is\n Madison, Wisconsin....\"\n\n\n \"You seem to know everything about me,\" Maitland said defiantly,\n looking up into the hanging forest of cabling. \"Why this recital?\"", "The scene disappeared, the lenses of the projector retreated from his\n eyes and Swarts was standing over him, white-lipped. Maitland swore at\n him for a few seconds, then relaxed and smiled weakly. His head was\n starting to ache from the effort of blinking.\n\n\n \"What year is this?\" he asked.\n\n\n \"All right,\" Swarts said. \"A.D. 2634.\"\n\n\n Maitland's smile became a grin.\n\"I really haven't the time to waste talking irrelevancies,\" Swarts said\n a while later. \"Honestly. Maitland, I'm working against a time limit.\n If you'll cooperate, I'll tell Ching to answer your questions.\"'\n\n\n \"Ching?\"\n\n\n \"Ingrid Ching is the girl who has been bringing you your meals.\"", "It might be better to tackle the first question first. He looked at\n the Sun, a red spheroid already half below the horizon, and tried to\n think of a region that had this kind of terrain. That prairie out there\n was unique. Almost anywhere in the world, land like that would be\n cultivated, not allowed to go to grass.\n\n\n This might be somewhere in Africa....\n\n\n He shook his head, puzzled. The Sun disappeared and its blood-hued\n glow began to fade from the sky. Maitland sat there, trying to get\n hold of the problem from an angle where it wouldn't just slip away.\n After a while the western sky became a screen of clear luminous blue,\n a backdrop for a pure white brilliant star. As always at that sight,\n Maitland felt his worry drain away, leaving an almost mystical sense of\n peace and an undefinable longing.\n\n\n Venus, the most beautiful of the planets.", "A man and a woman were coming toward him up the hill. Evidently they\n had been swimming, for each had a towel; the man's was hung around his\n neck, and the woman was still drying her bobbed black hair.\n\n\n Maitland speculated on the possibility that this might be Sweden; he\n didn't know of any other country where public bathing at this time\n of year was customary. However, that prairie certainly didn't look\n Scandinavian....\n\n\n As they came closer, he saw that both of them had dark uniform suntans\n and showed striking muscular development, like persons who had trained\n for years with weights. They vanished below his field of view,\n presumably into the building." ], [ "If Swarts was irritated, he didn't show it. \"That was the first test,\"\n he said. \"Let me put it another way. I would appreciate it a lot if\n you'd lie down on this cot. I would like to test my apparatus.\"\n\n\n Maitland shook his head stubbornly.\n\n\n \"I see,\" Swarts said. \"You want to find out what you're up against.\"", "\"Lie down,\" Swarts said. When Maitland hesitated, Swarts added,\n \"Understand one thing—the more you cooperate, the easier things will\n be for you. If necessary, I will use coercion. I can get all my results\n against your will, if I must. I would prefer not to. Please don't make\n me.\"\n\n\n \"What's the idea?\" Maitland asked. \"What is all this?\"\n\n\n Swarts hesitated, though not, Maitland astonishedly felt, to evade an\n answer, but to find the proper words. \"You can think of it as a lie\n detector. These instruments will record your reactions to the tests I\n give you. That is as much as you need to know. Now lie down.\"\n\n\n Maitland stood there for a moment, deliberately relaxing his tensed\n muscles. \"Make me.\"", "So—Maitland thought—Swarts could record changes in his skin\n potential, heartbeat, and blood pressure: the involuntary responses of\n the body to stimuli.\n\n\n The question was, what were the stimuli to be?\n\n\n \"Your name,\" said Swarts, \"is Robert Lee Maitland. You are thirty-four\n years old. You are an engineer, specialty heat transfer, particularly\n as applied to rocket motors.... No, Mr. Maitland, I'm not going to\n question you about your work; just forget about it. Your home town is\n Madison, Wisconsin....\"\n\n\n \"You seem to know everything about me,\" Maitland said defiantly,\n looking up into the hanging forest of cabling. \"Why this recital?\"", "Impassively, the man said, \"My name is Swarts. You want to know where\n you are. I am not going to tell you.\" He had an accent, European, but\n otherwise unidentifiable. Possibly German. Maitland opened his mouth\n to protest, but Swarts went on, \"However, you're free to do all the\n guessing you want.\" Still there was no suggestion of a smile.\n\n\n \"Now, these are the rules. You'll be here for about a week. You'll have\n three meals a day, served in this room. You will not be allowed to\n leave it except when accompanied by myself. You will not be harmed in\n any way, provided you cooperate. And you can forget the silly idea that\n we want your childish secrets about rocket motors.\" Maitland's heart\n jumped. \"My reason for bringing you here is altogether different. I\n want to give you some psychological tests....\"", "It took Swarts nearly twenty minutes to set up the new apparatus. He\n lowered a bulky affair with two cylindrical tubes like the twin stacks\n of a binocular microscope over Maitland's head, so that the lenses at\n the ends of the tubes were about half an inch from the engineer's\n eyes. He attached tiny clamps to Maitland's eyelashes.\n\n\n \"These will keep you from holding your eyes shut,\" he said. \"You can\n blink, but the springs are too strong for you to hold your eyelids down\n against the tension.\"\n\n\n He inserted button earphones into Maitland's ears—\n\n\n And then the show began.", "Maitland considered a moment, then nodded. Swarts lowered the projector\n to his eyes again, and this time the engineer did not resist.\n\n\n That evening, he could hardly wait for her to come. Too excited to sit\n and watch the sunset, he paced interminably about the room, sometimes\n whistling nervously, snapping his fingers, sitting down and jittering\n one leg. After a while he noticed that he was whistling the same theme\n over and over: a minute's thought identified it as that exuberant\n mounting phrase which recurs in the finale of Beethoven's Ninth\n Symphony.\n\n\n He forgot about it and went on whistling. He was picturing himself\n aboard a ship dropping in toward Mars, making planetfall at Syrtis\n Major; he was seeing visions of Venus and the awesome beauty of Saturn.\n In his mind, he circled the Moon, and viewed the Earth as a huge bright\n globe against the constellations....", "Wordlessly, Maitland climbed to his feet, preceded Swarts to the\n laboratory, lay down and allowed him to fasten the straps and attach\n the instruments, making no resistance at all. When Swarts started\n saying a list of words—doubtlessly some sort of semantic reaction\n test—Maitland began the job of integrating \"csc\n 3\n x dx\" in his head.\n It was a calculation which required great concentration and frequent\n tracing back of steps. After several minutes, he noticed that Swarts\n had stopped calling words. He opened his eyes to find the other man\n standing over him, looking somewhat exasperated and a little baffled.\n\n\n \"What year is this?\" Maitland asked in a conversational tone.\n\n\n \"We'll try another series of tests.\"", "\"Are you crazy?\" Maitland asked quietly. \"Do you realize that at this\n moment one of the greatest hunts in history must be going on? I'll\n admit I'm baffled as to where we are and how you got me here—but it\n seems to me that you could have found someone less conspicuous to give\n your tests to.\"\n\n\n Briefly, then, Swarts did smile. \"They won't find you,\" he said. \"Now,\n come with me.\"\nAfter that outlandish cell, Swarts' laboratory looked rather\n commonplace. There was something like a surgical cot in the center, and\n a bench along one wall supported several electronics cabinets. A couple\n of them had cathode ray tube screens, and they all presented a normal\n complement of meters, pilot lights, and switches. Cables from them ran\n across the ceiling and came to a focus above the high flat cot in the\n center of the room.", "He moved so fast that Maitland couldn't block the blow. It was to the\n solar plexus, just hard enough to double him up, fighting for breath.\n He felt an arm under his back, another behind his knees. Then he was on\n the cot. When he was able to breathe again, there were straps across\n his chest, hips, knees, ankles, and arms, and Swarts was tightening a\n clamp that held his head immovable.\nPresently, a number of tiny electrodes were adhering to his temples and\n to other portions of his body, and a minute microphone was clinging to\n the skin over his heart. These devices terminated in cables that hung\n from the ceiling. A sphygmomanometer sleeve was wrapped tightly around\n his left upper arm, its rubber tube trailing to a small black box\n clamped to the frame of the cot. Another cable left the box and joined\n the others.", "\"I do not know everything about you—yet. And I'm testing the\n equipment, calibrating it to your reactions.\" He went on, \"Your\n favorite recreations are chess and reading what you term science\n fiction. Maitland,\nhow would you like to go to the Moon\n?\"\n\n\n Something eager leaped in Maitland's breast at the abrupt question, and\n he tried to turn his head. Then he forced himself to relax. \"What do\n you mean?\"\n\n\n Swarts was chuckling. \"I really hit a semantic push-button there,\n didn't I? Maitland, I brought you here because you're a man who wants\n to go to the Moon. I'm interested in finding out\nwhy\n.\"\nIn the evening a girl brought Maitland his meal. As the door slid\n aside, he automatically stood up, and they stared at each other for\n several seconds.", "\"Because this is the Age of\nMan\n. We are terribly interested in what\n can be done with people. Our scientists, like Swarts, are studying\n human rather than nuclear reactions. We are much more fascinated by the\n life and death of cultures than by the expansion or contraction of the\n Universe. With us, it is the people that are important, not gadgets.\"\n\n\n Maitland stared at her, his face blank. His mind had just manufactured\n a discouraging analogy. His present position was like that of an\n earnest 12th Century crusader, deposited by some freak of nature into\n the year 1950, trying to find a way of reanimating the anti-Mohammedan\n movement. What chance would he have? The unfortunate knight would argue\n in vain that the atomic bomb offered a means of finally destroying the\n infidel....\n\n\n Maitland looked up at the girl, who was regarding him silently with\n troubled eyes. \"I think I'd like to be alone for a while,\" he said.", "He thought of a fat slob of a bully who had beaten him up one day\n after school. He remembered a talk he had heard by a politician who had\n all the intelligent social responsibility of a rogue gorilla, but no\n more. He brooded over the damnable stupidity and short-sightedness of\n Swarts in standing by his silly rules and not telling him about this\n new world.\n\n\n Within a minute, he was in an ungovernable rage. His muscles tightened\n against the restraining straps. He panted, sweat came out on his\n forehead, and he began to curse. Swarts! How he hated....\n\n\n The scene was suddenly a flock of sheep spread over a green hillside.\n There was blood hammering in Maitland's temples. His face felt hot and\n swollen and he writhed against the restraint of the straps.", "The scene disappeared, the lenses of the projector retreated from his\n eyes and Swarts was standing over him, white-lipped. Maitland swore at\n him for a few seconds, then relaxed and smiled weakly. His head was\n starting to ache from the effort of blinking.\n\n\n \"What year is this?\" he asked.\n\n\n \"All right,\" Swarts said. \"A.D. 2634.\"\n\n\n Maitland's smile became a grin.\n\"I really haven't the time to waste talking irrelevancies,\" Swarts said\n a while later. \"Honestly. Maitland, I'm working against a time limit.\n If you'll cooperate, I'll tell Ching to answer your questions.\"'\n\n\n \"Ching?\"\n\n\n \"Ingrid Ching is the girl who has been bringing you your meals.\"", "His fear that she would be offended proved to be completely\n unjustified. She merely laughed and said, \"There has been much\n history since 1950. Five hundred years ago, Europe was overrun by\n Pan-Orientals. Today you could not find anywhere a 'pure' European\n or Asiatic.\" She giggled. \"Swarts' ancestors from your time must be\n cursing in their graves. His family is Afrikander all the way back, but\n one of his great-grandfathers was pure-blooded Bantu. His full name is\n Lassisi Swarts.\"\n\n\n Maitland wrinkled his brow. \"Afrikander?\"", "As he swung his legs to the floor, she started toward the door,\n carrying the tray with the dirty dishes from yesterday. He stopped her\n with the word, \"Miss!\"\n\n\n She turned, and he thought there was something eager in her face.\n\n\n \"Miss, do you speak my language?\"\n\n\n \"Yes,\" hesitantly. She lingered too long on the hiss of the last\n consonant.\n\n\n \"Miss,\" he asked, watching her face intently, \"what year is this?\"\n\n\n Startlingly, she laughed, a mellow peal of mirth that had nothing\n forced about it. She turned toward the door again and said over her\n shoulder, \"You will have to ask Swarts about that. I cannot tell you.\"\n\n\n \"Wait! You mean you don't know?\"\n\n\n She shook her head. \"I cannot tell you.\"", "Later, when he had finished the steak and corn on the cob and shredded\n carrots, and a feeling of warm well-being was diffusing from his\n stomach to his extremities, he sat down on the bed to watch the sunset\n and to think.\n\n\n There were three questions for which he required answers before he\n could formulate any plan or policy.\n\n\n Where was he?\n\n\n Who was Swarts?\n\n\n What was the purpose of the \"tests\" he was being given?\n\n\n It was possible, of course, that this was all an elaborate scheme\n for getting military secrets, despite Swarts' protestations to the\n contrary. Maitland frowned. This place certainly didn't have the\n appearance of a military establishment, and so far there had been\n nothing to suggest the kind of interrogation to be expected from\n foreign intelligence officers.", "She smiled. \"In a room downstairs there is the head of a lion. Swarts\n killed the beast when he was a young man. He used a spear. And time\n traveling is the greatest adventure there is. At least, that is the\n way I feel. Listen, Bob.\" She laid a hand on his arm. \"You grew up in\n the Age of Technology. Everybody was terribly excited about what could\n be done with machines—machines to blow up a city all at once, or fly\n around the world, or take a man to Mars. We have had our fill of—what\n is the word?—gadgets. Our machines serve us, and so long as they\n function right, we are satisfied to forget about them.", "\"I'm adaptable,\" he told himself gleefully. \"I can learn fast. There'll\n be a job for me out there....\"\nIf—\nSuddenly sobered, he rolled over and put his feet on the floor, sat\n in the darkness thinking. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would have to find a\n way of breaking down Swarts' reticence. He would have to make the man\n realize that secrecy wasn't necessary in this case. And if Swarts still\n wouldn't talk, he would have to find a way of forcing the issue. The\n fellow had said that he didn't need cooperation to get his results,\n but—\n\n\n After a while Maitland smiled to himself and went back to bed.\nHe woke in the morning with someone gently shaking his shoulder. He\n rolled over and looked up at the girl who had brought him his meal the\n evening before. There was a tray on the table and he sniffed the smell\n of bacon. The girl smiled at him. She was dressed as before, except\n that she had discarded the white cloak.", "A man and a woman were coming toward him up the hill. Evidently they\n had been swimming, for each had a towel; the man's was hung around his\n neck, and the woman was still drying her bobbed black hair.\n\n\n Maitland speculated on the possibility that this might be Sweden; he\n didn't know of any other country where public bathing at this time\n of year was customary. However, that prairie certainly didn't look\n Scandinavian....\n\n\n As they came closer, he saw that both of them had dark uniform suntans\n and showed striking muscular development, like persons who had trained\n for years with weights. They vanished below his field of view,\n presumably into the building.", "He was looking at a door in a partly darkened room, and there were\n footsteps outside, a peremptory knocking. The door flew open,\n and outlined against the light of the hall, he saw a man with a\n twelve-gauge shotgun. The man shouted, \"Now I've got you, you\n wife-stealer!\" He swung the shotgun around and pulled the trigger.\n There was a terrible blast of sound and the flash of smokeless\n powder—then blackness.\n\n\n With a deliberate effort, Maitland unclenched his fists and tried to\n slow his breathing. Some kind of emotional reaction test—what was the\n countermove? He closed his eyes, but shortly the muscles around them\n declared excruciatingly that they couldn't keep that up.\n\n\n Now he was looking at a girl. She....\n\n\n Maitland gritted his teeth and fought to use his brain; then he had it." ], [ "If Swarts was irritated, he didn't show it. \"That was the first test,\"\n he said. \"Let me put it another way. I would appreciate it a lot if\n you'd lie down on this cot. I would like to test my apparatus.\"\n\n\n Maitland shook his head stubbornly.\n\n\n \"I see,\" Swarts said. \"You want to find out what you're up against.\"", "Maitland considered a moment, then nodded. Swarts lowered the projector\n to his eyes again, and this time the engineer did not resist.\n\n\n That evening, he could hardly wait for her to come. Too excited to sit\n and watch the sunset, he paced interminably about the room, sometimes\n whistling nervously, snapping his fingers, sitting down and jittering\n one leg. After a while he noticed that he was whistling the same theme\n over and over: a minute's thought identified it as that exuberant\n mounting phrase which recurs in the finale of Beethoven's Ninth\n Symphony.\n\n\n He forgot about it and went on whistling. He was picturing himself\n aboard a ship dropping in toward Mars, making planetfall at Syrtis\n Major; he was seeing visions of Venus and the awesome beauty of Saturn.\n In his mind, he circled the Moon, and viewed the Earth as a huge bright\n globe against the constellations....", "\"Lie down,\" Swarts said. When Maitland hesitated, Swarts added,\n \"Understand one thing—the more you cooperate, the easier things will\n be for you. If necessary, I will use coercion. I can get all my results\n against your will, if I must. I would prefer not to. Please don't make\n me.\"\n\n\n \"What's the idea?\" Maitland asked. \"What is all this?\"\n\n\n Swarts hesitated, though not, Maitland astonishedly felt, to evade an\n answer, but to find the proper words. \"You can think of it as a lie\n detector. These instruments will record your reactions to the tests I\n give you. That is as much as you need to know. Now lie down.\"\n\n\n Maitland stood there for a moment, deliberately relaxing his tensed\n muscles. \"Make me.\"", "Impassively, the man said, \"My name is Swarts. You want to know where\n you are. I am not going to tell you.\" He had an accent, European, but\n otherwise unidentifiable. Possibly German. Maitland opened his mouth\n to protest, but Swarts went on, \"However, you're free to do all the\n guessing you want.\" Still there was no suggestion of a smile.\n\n\n \"Now, these are the rules. You'll be here for about a week. You'll have\n three meals a day, served in this room. You will not be allowed to\n leave it except when accompanied by myself. You will not be harmed in\n any way, provided you cooperate. And you can forget the silly idea that\n we want your childish secrets about rocket motors.\" Maitland's heart\n jumped. \"My reason for bringing you here is altogether different. I\n want to give you some psychological tests....\"", "\"I'm adaptable,\" he told himself gleefully. \"I can learn fast. There'll\n be a job for me out there....\"\nIf—\nSuddenly sobered, he rolled over and put his feet on the floor, sat\n in the darkness thinking. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would have to find a\n way of breaking down Swarts' reticence. He would have to make the man\n realize that secrecy wasn't necessary in this case. And if Swarts still\n wouldn't talk, he would have to find a way of forcing the issue. The\n fellow had said that he didn't need cooperation to get his results,\n but—\n\n\n After a while Maitland smiled to himself and went back to bed.\nHe woke in the morning with someone gently shaking his shoulder. He\n rolled over and looked up at the girl who had brought him his meal the\n evening before. There was a tray on the table and he sniffed the smell\n of bacon. The girl smiled at him. She was dressed as before, except\n that she had discarded the white cloak.", "\"Are you crazy?\" Maitland asked quietly. \"Do you realize that at this\n moment one of the greatest hunts in history must be going on? I'll\n admit I'm baffled as to where we are and how you got me here—but it\n seems to me that you could have found someone less conspicuous to give\n your tests to.\"\n\n\n Briefly, then, Swarts did smile. \"They won't find you,\" he said. \"Now,\n come with me.\"\nAfter that outlandish cell, Swarts' laboratory looked rather\n commonplace. There was something like a surgical cot in the center, and\n a bench along one wall supported several electronics cabinets. A couple\n of them had cathode ray tube screens, and they all presented a normal\n complement of meters, pilot lights, and switches. Cables from them ran\n across the ceiling and came to a focus above the high flat cot in the\n center of the room.", "He thought of a fat slob of a bully who had beaten him up one day\n after school. He remembered a talk he had heard by a politician who had\n all the intelligent social responsibility of a rogue gorilla, but no\n more. He brooded over the damnable stupidity and short-sightedness of\n Swarts in standing by his silly rules and not telling him about this\n new world.\n\n\n Within a minute, he was in an ungovernable rage. His muscles tightened\n against the restraining straps. He panted, sweat came out on his\n forehead, and he began to curse. Swarts! How he hated....\n\n\n The scene was suddenly a flock of sheep spread over a green hillside.\n There was blood hammering in Maitland's temples. His face felt hot and\n swollen and he writhed against the restraint of the straps.", "He sat down on the edge of the cot and glared helplessly at the floor.\nAbout half an hour later, the door he couldn't open slid aside into the\n wall. The man Maitland had seen outside, now clad in gray trunks and\n sandals, stood across the threshold looking in at him. Maitland stood\n up and stared back, conscious suddenly that in his rumpled pajamas he\n made an unimpressive figure.\n\n\n The fellow looked about forty-five. The first details Maitland noticed\n were the forehead, which was quite broad, and the calm, clear eyes.\n The dark hair, white at the temples, was combed back, still damp from\n swimming. Below, there was a wide mouth and a firm, rounded chin.\n\n\n This man was intelligent, Maitland decided, and extremely sure of\n himself.\n\n\n Somehow, the face didn't go with the rest of him. The man had the head\n of a thinker, the body of a trained athlete—an unusual combination.", "The scene disappeared, the lenses of the projector retreated from his\n eyes and Swarts was standing over him, white-lipped. Maitland swore at\n him for a few seconds, then relaxed and smiled weakly. His head was\n starting to ache from the effort of blinking.\n\n\n \"What year is this?\" he asked.\n\n\n \"All right,\" Swarts said. \"A.D. 2634.\"\n\n\n Maitland's smile became a grin.\n\"I really haven't the time to waste talking irrelevancies,\" Swarts said\n a while later. \"Honestly. Maitland, I'm working against a time limit.\n If you'll cooperate, I'll tell Ching to answer your questions.\"'\n\n\n \"Ching?\"\n\n\n \"Ingrid Ching is the girl who has been bringing you your meals.\"", "Wordlessly, Maitland climbed to his feet, preceded Swarts to the\n laboratory, lay down and allowed him to fasten the straps and attach\n the instruments, making no resistance at all. When Swarts started\n saying a list of words—doubtlessly some sort of semantic reaction\n test—Maitland began the job of integrating \"csc\n 3\n x dx\" in his head.\n It was a calculation which required great concentration and frequent\n tracing back of steps. After several minutes, he noticed that Swarts\n had stopped calling words. He opened his eyes to find the other man\n standing over him, looking somewhat exasperated and a little baffled.\n\n\n \"What year is this?\" Maitland asked in a conversational tone.\n\n\n \"We'll try another series of tests.\"", "Later, when he had finished the steak and corn on the cob and shredded\n carrots, and a feeling of warm well-being was diffusing from his\n stomach to his extremities, he sat down on the bed to watch the sunset\n and to think.\n\n\n There were three questions for which he required answers before he\n could formulate any plan or policy.\n\n\n Where was he?\n\n\n Who was Swarts?\n\n\n What was the purpose of the \"tests\" he was being given?\n\n\n It was possible, of course, that this was all an elaborate scheme\n for getting military secrets, despite Swarts' protestations to the\n contrary. Maitland frowned. This place certainly didn't have the\n appearance of a military establishment, and so far there had been\n nothing to suggest the kind of interrogation to be expected from\n foreign intelligence officers.", "So—Maitland thought—Swarts could record changes in his skin\n potential, heartbeat, and blood pressure: the involuntary responses of\n the body to stimuli.\n\n\n The question was, what were the stimuli to be?\n\n\n \"Your name,\" said Swarts, \"is Robert Lee Maitland. You are thirty-four\n years old. You are an engineer, specialty heat transfer, particularly\n as applied to rocket motors.... No, Mr. Maitland, I'm not going to\n question you about your work; just forget about it. Your home town is\n Madison, Wisconsin....\"\n\n\n \"You seem to know everything about me,\" Maitland said defiantly,\n looking up into the hanging forest of cabling. \"Why this recital?\"", "He moved so fast that Maitland couldn't block the blow. It was to the\n solar plexus, just hard enough to double him up, fighting for breath.\n He felt an arm under his back, another behind his knees. Then he was on\n the cot. When he was able to breathe again, there were straps across\n his chest, hips, knees, ankles, and arms, and Swarts was tightening a\n clamp that held his head immovable.\nPresently, a number of tiny electrodes were adhering to his temples and\n to other portions of his body, and a minute microphone was clinging to\n the skin over his heart. These devices terminated in cables that hung\n from the ceiling. A sphygmomanometer sleeve was wrapped tightly around\n his left upper arm, its rubber tube trailing to a small black box\n clamped to the frame of the cot. Another cable left the box and joined\n the others.", "A man and a woman were coming toward him up the hill. Evidently they\n had been swimming, for each had a towel; the man's was hung around his\n neck, and the woman was still drying her bobbed black hair.\n\n\n Maitland speculated on the possibility that this might be Sweden; he\n didn't know of any other country where public bathing at this time\n of year was customary. However, that prairie certainly didn't look\n Scandinavian....\n\n\n As they came closer, he saw that both of them had dark uniform suntans\n and showed striking muscular development, like persons who had trained\n for years with weights. They vanished below his field of view,\n presumably into the building.", "He was looking at a door in a partly darkened room, and there were\n footsteps outside, a peremptory knocking. The door flew open,\n and outlined against the light of the hall, he saw a man with a\n twelve-gauge shotgun. The man shouted, \"Now I've got you, you\n wife-stealer!\" He swung the shotgun around and pulled the trigger.\n There was a terrible blast of sound and the flash of smokeless\n powder—then blackness.\n\n\n With a deliberate effort, Maitland unclenched his fists and tried to\n slow his breathing. Some kind of emotional reaction test—what was the\n countermove? He closed his eyes, but shortly the muscles around them\n declared excruciatingly that they couldn't keep that up.\n\n\n Now he was looking at a girl. She....\n\n\n Maitland gritted his teeth and fought to use his brain; then he had it.", "His fear that she would be offended proved to be completely\n unjustified. She merely laughed and said, \"There has been much\n history since 1950. Five hundred years ago, Europe was overrun by\n Pan-Orientals. Today you could not find anywhere a 'pure' European\n or Asiatic.\" She giggled. \"Swarts' ancestors from your time must be\n cursing in their graves. His family is Afrikander all the way back, but\n one of his great-grandfathers was pure-blooded Bantu. His full name is\n Lassisi Swarts.\"\n\n\n Maitland wrinkled his brow. \"Afrikander?\"", "\"I do not know everything about you—yet. And I'm testing the\n equipment, calibrating it to your reactions.\" He went on, \"Your\n favorite recreations are chess and reading what you term science\n fiction. Maitland,\nhow would you like to go to the Moon\n?\"\n\n\n Something eager leaped in Maitland's breast at the abrupt question, and\n he tried to turn his head. Then he forced himself to relax. \"What do\n you mean?\"\n\n\n Swarts was chuckling. \"I really hit a semantic push-button there,\n didn't I? Maitland, I brought you here because you're a man who wants\n to go to the Moon. I'm interested in finding out\nwhy\n.\"\nIn the evening a girl brought Maitland his meal. As the door slid\n aside, he automatically stood up, and they stared at each other for\n several seconds.", "It took Swarts nearly twenty minutes to set up the new apparatus. He\n lowered a bulky affair with two cylindrical tubes like the twin stacks\n of a binocular microscope over Maitland's head, so that the lenses at\n the ends of the tubes were about half an inch from the engineer's\n eyes. He attached tiny clamps to Maitland's eyelashes.\n\n\n \"These will keep you from holding your eyes shut,\" he said. \"You can\n blink, but the springs are too strong for you to hold your eyelids down\n against the tension.\"\n\n\n He inserted button earphones into Maitland's ears—\n\n\n And then the show began.", "Finally the door slid aside and she appeared, carrying the usual tray\n of food. She smiled at him, making dimples in her golden skin and\n revealing a perfect set of teeth, and put the tray on the table.\n\n\n \"I think you are wonderful,\" she laughed. \"You get everything you\n want, even from Swarts, and I have not been able to get even a little\n of what I want from him. I want to travel in time, go back to your 20th\n Century. And I wanted to talk with you, and he would not let me.\" She\n laughed again, hands on her rounded hips. \"I have never seen him so\n irritated as he was this noon.\"\n\n\n Maitland urged her into the chair and sat down on the edge of the bed.\n Eagerly he asked, \"Why the devil do you want to go to the 20th Century?\n Believe me, I've been there, and what I've seen of this world looks a\n lot better.\"", "\"Because this is the Age of\nMan\n. We are terribly interested in what\n can be done with people. Our scientists, like Swarts, are studying\n human rather than nuclear reactions. We are much more fascinated by the\n life and death of cultures than by the expansion or contraction of the\n Universe. With us, it is the people that are important, not gadgets.\"\n\n\n Maitland stared at her, his face blank. His mind had just manufactured\n a discouraging analogy. His present position was like that of an\n earnest 12th Century crusader, deposited by some freak of nature into\n the year 1950, trying to find a way of reanimating the anti-Mohammedan\n movement. What chance would he have? The unfortunate knight would argue\n in vain that the atomic bomb offered a means of finally destroying the\n infidel....\n\n\n Maitland looked up at the girl, who was regarding him silently with\n troubled eyes. \"I think I'd like to be alone for a while,\" he said." ], [ "Shock contracted Maitland's diaphragm and spread through his body.\n His breathing quickened.\nNow\nhe remembered what had happened during\n the night, the sound in the darkness, the dimly seen figure, and\n then—what? Blackout....\n\n\n Where was he? Who had brought him here? For what purpose?", "Impassively, the man said, \"My name is Swarts. You want to know where\n you are. I am not going to tell you.\" He had an accent, European, but\n otherwise unidentifiable. Possibly German. Maitland opened his mouth\n to protest, but Swarts went on, \"However, you're free to do all the\n guessing you want.\" Still there was no suggestion of a smile.\n\n\n \"Now, these are the rules. You'll be here for about a week. You'll have\n three meals a day, served in this room. You will not be allowed to\n leave it except when accompanied by myself. You will not be harmed in\n any way, provided you cooperate. And you can forget the silly idea that\n we want your childish secrets about rocket motors.\" Maitland's heart\n jumped. \"My reason for bringing you here is altogether different. I\n want to give you some psychological tests....\"", "If Swarts was irritated, he didn't show it. \"That was the first test,\"\n he said. \"Let me put it another way. I would appreciate it a lot if\n you'd lie down on this cot. I would like to test my apparatus.\"\n\n\n Maitland shook his head stubbornly.\n\n\n \"I see,\" Swarts said. \"You want to find out what you're up against.\"", "He was looking at a door in a partly darkened room, and there were\n footsteps outside, a peremptory knocking. The door flew open,\n and outlined against the light of the hall, he saw a man with a\n twelve-gauge shotgun. The man shouted, \"Now I've got you, you\n wife-stealer!\" He swung the shotgun around and pulled the trigger.\n There was a terrible blast of sound and the flash of smokeless\n powder—then blackness.\n\n\n With a deliberate effort, Maitland unclenched his fists and tried to\n slow his breathing. Some kind of emotional reaction test—what was the\n countermove? He closed his eyes, but shortly the muscles around them\n declared excruciatingly that they couldn't keep that up.\n\n\n Now he was looking at a girl. She....\n\n\n Maitland gritted his teeth and fought to use his brain; then he had it.", "\"Are you crazy?\" Maitland asked quietly. \"Do you realize that at this\n moment one of the greatest hunts in history must be going on? I'll\n admit I'm baffled as to where we are and how you got me here—but it\n seems to me that you could have found someone less conspicuous to give\n your tests to.\"\n\n\n Briefly, then, Swarts did smile. \"They won't find you,\" he said. \"Now,\n come with me.\"\nAfter that outlandish cell, Swarts' laboratory looked rather\n commonplace. There was something like a surgical cot in the center, and\n a bench along one wall supported several electronics cabinets. A couple\n of them had cathode ray tube screens, and they all presented a normal\n complement of meters, pilot lights, and switches. Cables from them ran\n across the ceiling and came to a focus above the high flat cot in the\n center of the room.", "He moved so fast that Maitland couldn't block the blow. It was to the\n solar plexus, just hard enough to double him up, fighting for breath.\n He felt an arm under his back, another behind his knees. Then he was on\n the cot. When he was able to breathe again, there were straps across\n his chest, hips, knees, ankles, and arms, and Swarts was tightening a\n clamp that held his head immovable.\nPresently, a number of tiny electrodes were adhering to his temples and\n to other portions of his body, and a minute microphone was clinging to\n the skin over his heart. These devices terminated in cables that hung\n from the ceiling. A sphygmomanometer sleeve was wrapped tightly around\n his left upper arm, its rubber tube trailing to a small black box\n clamped to the frame of the cot. Another cable left the box and joined\n the others.", "Later, when he had finished the steak and corn on the cob and shredded\n carrots, and a feeling of warm well-being was diffusing from his\n stomach to his extremities, he sat down on the bed to watch the sunset\n and to think.\n\n\n There were three questions for which he required answers before he\n could formulate any plan or policy.\n\n\n Where was he?\n\n\n Who was Swarts?\n\n\n What was the purpose of the \"tests\" he was being given?\n\n\n It was possible, of course, that this was all an elaborate scheme\n for getting military secrets, despite Swarts' protestations to the\n contrary. Maitland frowned. This place certainly didn't have the\n appearance of a military establishment, and so far there had been\n nothing to suggest the kind of interrogation to be expected from\n foreign intelligence officers.", "\"Lie down,\" Swarts said. When Maitland hesitated, Swarts added,\n \"Understand one thing—the more you cooperate, the easier things will\n be for you. If necessary, I will use coercion. I can get all my results\n against your will, if I must. I would prefer not to. Please don't make\n me.\"\n\n\n \"What's the idea?\" Maitland asked. \"What is all this?\"\n\n\n Swarts hesitated, though not, Maitland astonishedly felt, to evade an\n answer, but to find the proper words. \"You can think of it as a lie\n detector. These instruments will record your reactions to the tests I\n give you. That is as much as you need to know. Now lie down.\"\n\n\n Maitland stood there for a moment, deliberately relaxing his tensed\n muscles. \"Make me.\"", "He sat down on the edge of the cot and glared helplessly at the floor.\nAbout half an hour later, the door he couldn't open slid aside into the\n wall. The man Maitland had seen outside, now clad in gray trunks and\n sandals, stood across the threshold looking in at him. Maitland stood\n up and stared back, conscious suddenly that in his rumpled pajamas he\n made an unimpressive figure.\n\n\n The fellow looked about forty-five. The first details Maitland noticed\n were the forehead, which was quite broad, and the calm, clear eyes.\n The dark hair, white at the temples, was combed back, still damp from\n swimming. Below, there was a wide mouth and a firm, rounded chin.\n\n\n This man was intelligent, Maitland decided, and extremely sure of\n himself.\n\n\n Somehow, the face didn't go with the rest of him. The man had the head\n of a thinker, the body of a trained athlete—an unusual combination.", "What had he heard? He had a definite impression that the sound had come\n from within the room. It had sounded like someone stumbling into a\n chair, or—\n\n\n Something moved in the darkness on the other side of the room. Maitland\n started to sit up and it was as though a thousand volts had shorted his\n brain....", "Maitland considered a moment, then nodded. Swarts lowered the projector\n to his eyes again, and this time the engineer did not resist.\n\n\n That evening, he could hardly wait for her to come. Too excited to sit\n and watch the sunset, he paced interminably about the room, sometimes\n whistling nervously, snapping his fingers, sitting down and jittering\n one leg. After a while he noticed that he was whistling the same theme\n over and over: a minute's thought identified it as that exuberant\n mounting phrase which recurs in the finale of Beethoven's Ninth\n Symphony.\n\n\n He forgot about it and went on whistling. He was picturing himself\n aboard a ship dropping in toward Mars, making planetfall at Syrtis\n Major; he was seeing visions of Venus and the awesome beauty of Saturn.\n In his mind, he circled the Moon, and viewed the Earth as a huge bright\n globe against the constellations....", "\"I'm adaptable,\" he told himself gleefully. \"I can learn fast. There'll\n be a job for me out there....\"\nIf—\nSuddenly sobered, he rolled over and put his feet on the floor, sat\n in the darkness thinking. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would have to find a\n way of breaking down Swarts' reticence. He would have to make the man\n realize that secrecy wasn't necessary in this case. And if Swarts still\n wouldn't talk, he would have to find a way of forcing the issue. The\n fellow had said that he didn't need cooperation to get his results,\n but—\n\n\n After a while Maitland smiled to himself and went back to bed.\nHe woke in the morning with someone gently shaking his shoulder. He\n rolled over and looked up at the girl who had brought him his meal the\n evening before. There was a tray on the table and he sniffed the smell\n of bacon. The girl smiled at him. She was dressed as before, except\n that she had discarded the white cloak.", "\"I do not know everything about you—yet. And I'm testing the\n equipment, calibrating it to your reactions.\" He went on, \"Your\n favorite recreations are chess and reading what you term science\n fiction. Maitland,\nhow would you like to go to the Moon\n?\"\n\n\n Something eager leaped in Maitland's breast at the abrupt question, and\n he tried to turn his head. Then he forced himself to relax. \"What do\n you mean?\"\n\n\n Swarts was chuckling. \"I really hit a semantic push-button there,\n didn't I? Maitland, I brought you here because you're a man who wants\n to go to the Moon. I'm interested in finding out\nwhy\n.\"\nIn the evening a girl brought Maitland his meal. As the door slid\n aside, he automatically stood up, and they stared at each other for\n several seconds.", "So—Maitland thought—Swarts could record changes in his skin\n potential, heartbeat, and blood pressure: the involuntary responses of\n the body to stimuli.\n\n\n The question was, what were the stimuli to be?\n\n\n \"Your name,\" said Swarts, \"is Robert Lee Maitland. You are thirty-four\n years old. You are an engineer, specialty heat transfer, particularly\n as applied to rocket motors.... No, Mr. Maitland, I'm not going to\n question you about your work; just forget about it. Your home town is\n Madison, Wisconsin....\"\n\n\n \"You seem to know everything about me,\" Maitland said defiantly,\n looking up into the hanging forest of cabling. \"Why this recital?\"", "Wordlessly, Maitland climbed to his feet, preceded Swarts to the\n laboratory, lay down and allowed him to fasten the straps and attach\n the instruments, making no resistance at all. When Swarts started\n saying a list of words—doubtlessly some sort of semantic reaction\n test—Maitland began the job of integrating \"csc\n 3\n x dx\" in his head.\n It was a calculation which required great concentration and frequent\n tracing back of steps. After several minutes, he noticed that Swarts\n had stopped calling words. He opened his eyes to find the other man\n standing over him, looking somewhat exasperated and a little baffled.\n\n\n \"What year is this?\" Maitland asked in a conversational tone.\n\n\n \"We'll try another series of tests.\"", "His eyes returned to the doors, and he moved over to study the nearer\n one. As he had noticed, there was no knob, but at the right of this\n one, at about waist level, a push-button projected out of the wall. He\n pressed it; the door slid aside and disappeared. Maitland glanced in at\n the disclosed bathroom, then went over to look at the other door.\n\n\n There was no button beside this one, nor any other visible means of\n causing it to open.\n\n\n Baffled, he turned again and looked at the large open window—and\n realized what it was that had made the room seem so queer.\n\n\n It did not look like a jail cell. There were no bars....", "A man and a woman were coming toward him up the hill. Evidently they\n had been swimming, for each had a towel; the man's was hung around his\n neck, and the woman was still drying her bobbed black hair.\n\n\n Maitland speculated on the possibility that this might be Sweden; he\n didn't know of any other country where public bathing at this time\n of year was customary. However, that prairie certainly didn't look\n Scandinavian....\n\n\n As they came closer, he saw that both of them had dark uniform suntans\n and showed striking muscular development, like persons who had trained\n for years with weights. They vanished below his field of view,\n presumably into the building.", "He thought of a fat slob of a bully who had beaten him up one day\n after school. He remembered a talk he had heard by a politician who had\n all the intelligent social responsibility of a rogue gorilla, but no\n more. He brooded over the damnable stupidity and short-sightedness of\n Swarts in standing by his silly rules and not telling him about this\n new world.\n\n\n Within a minute, he was in an ungovernable rage. His muscles tightened\n against the restraining straps. He panted, sweat came out on his\n forehead, and he began to curse. Swarts! How he hated....\n\n\n The scene was suddenly a flock of sheep spread over a green hillside.\n There was blood hammering in Maitland's temples. His face felt hot and\n swollen and he writhed against the restraint of the straps.", "It might be better to tackle the first question first. He looked at\n the Sun, a red spheroid already half below the horizon, and tried to\n think of a region that had this kind of terrain. That prairie out there\n was unique. Almost anywhere in the world, land like that would be\n cultivated, not allowed to go to grass.\n\n\n This might be somewhere in Africa....\n\n\n He shook his head, puzzled. The Sun disappeared and its blood-hued\n glow began to fade from the sky. Maitland sat there, trying to get\n hold of the problem from an angle where it wouldn't just slip away.\n After a while the western sky became a screen of clear luminous blue,\n a backdrop for a pure white brilliant star. As always at that sight,\n Maitland felt his worry drain away, leaving an almost mystical sense of\n peace and an undefinable longing.\n\n\n Venus, the most beautiful of the planets.", "\"All right; we'll let it go at that.\"\n\n\n She grinned at him again as the door slid shut.\nSwarts came half an hour later, and Maitland began his planned\n offensive.\n\n\n \"What year is this?\"\n\n\n Swarts' steely eyes locked with his. \"You know what the date is,\" he\n stated.\n\n\n \"No, I don't. Not since yesterday.\"\n\n\n \"Come on,\" Swarts said patiently, \"let's get going. We have a lot to\n get through this morning.\"\n\n\n \"I\nknow\nthis isn't 1950. It's probably not even the 20th Century.\n Venus was a morning star before you brought me here. Now it's an\n evening star.\"\n\n\n \"Never mind that. Come.\"" ] ]
valid	51295	[ "How many wives did Dan Merrol have?", "How is doctor Crander sure that this patient is Dan Merrol?", "Does Dan Merrol want to make it work with Erica?", "How was Dan able to explain Wysocki's theorem?", "What would have happened if Dan had stayed in the hospital until he was discharged?", "How does Dr. Crander feel about his surgery on Dan?", "If Dan and Erica had been seen together before the accident, what would people have likely thought?", "How do people react to seeing Dan?" ]	[ [ "Six", "Two", "Four", "One" ], [ "Mass-cell radiographs match pre- and post-surgery", "Blood work proves matching DNA", "The physical appearance most aligns with the pre-surgery Merrol", "Crander is not sure" ], [ "Yes, Dan knows that no one else will love him", "Yes, she seems to Dan to be an excellent wife", "No, he wants to have an open mind to other women", "No, he wants to hide his appearance from everyone" ], [ "He did not explain it", "Dr. Crander told him", "One of his previous memories told him", "He made it up" ], [ "They would have replaced the mismatched limbs", "They were never going to discharge him", "They could have proven Wysocki's theorem", "The would have helped both Dan and Erica understand the situation" ], [ "He is proud of his accomplishment", "He did well, but not as well as a previous patient", "He wishes that he could have done better", "He is embarrassed of how Dan looks" ], [ "She is taller than he is", "He might be abusive due to the bruises on her arm", "They are a good looking couple", "They are a bad looking couple" ], [ "They are uncomfortable because of his appearance", "They laugh because of his appearance", "Thy are afraid because of his appearance", "They do not have any unusual reaction" ] ]	[ 4, 1, 2, 4, 4, 1, 3, 1 ]	[ 1, 0, 0, 1, 1, 0, 1, 1 ]	[ [ "But why hadn't he told her? Shock? Perhaps—but where had those other\n identities come from—lepidopterist, musician, actor, mathematician\n and wrestler? And where had he got memories of wives, slender and\n passionate, petite and wild, casual and complaisant, nagging and\n insecure?\n\n\n Erica he didn't remember at all, save from last night, and what was\n that due to?\n\n\n \"What are you going to do?\" he asked, deliberately toying with the last\n bite of breakfast. It gave him time to think.\n\n\n \"They said they'd identified everyone, living or dead, and I supposed\n they had. After seeing you, I can believe they made any number of\n similar mistakes. Dan Merrol may be alive under another name. It will\n be hard to do, but I must try to find him. Some of the accident victims\n went to other hospitals, you know, the ones located nearest where they\n fell.\"", "Miss Jerrems came back, wheeling a large cart. Dan was surprised at the\n mass of records. Crander noticed his expression and smiled. \"You're\n our prize case, Merrol. I've never heard of anyone else surviving\n such extensive surgery. Naturally, we have a step-by-step account of\n everything we did.\"\n\n\n He turned to the woman. \"You may leave, Miss Jerrems.\" She went, but\n the adoration she had showed so openly for her employer seemed to have\n curdled in the last few moments.\n\n\n Crander dug into the files and rooted out photographs. \"Here are\n pictures of the wreckage in which you were found—notice that you were\n strapped in your seat—as you were received into the hospital—at\n various stages in surgery and finally, some taken from the files of the\n company for which you worked.\"\n\n\n Merrol winced. The photographic sequence was incontrovertible. He had\n been a handsome fellow.", "He pressed the buzzer and an angular woman in her early forties\n answered. \"Miss Jerrems, the Dan Merrol file.\"\n\n\n Miss Jerrems flashed a glance of open adoration at the doctor and\n before she could reel it in, her gaze swept past Dan, hesitated and\n returned to him. Her mouth opened and closed like that of a nervous\n goldfish and she darted from the room.\nThey see me and flee as fast as they can caper\n, thought Merrol. It\n was not wholly true—Crander didn't seem much affected. But he was a\n doctor and used to it. Furthermore, he probably had room for only one\n emotion at the moment—relief at the return of his patient.", "The Man Who Was Six\nBy F. L. WALLACE\n\n\n Illustrated by ASHMAN\n\n\n [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Galaxy Science Fiction September 1954.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nThere is nothing at all like having a sound\n \nmind in a sound body, but Dan Merrol had too\n \nmuch of one—and also too much of the other!\n\"Sorry, darling,\" said Erica. She yawned, added, \"I've tried—but I\n just can't believe you're my husband.\"\n\n\n He felt his own yawn slip off his face. \"What do you mean? What am I\n doing here then?\"", "\"Glad to see you,\" said Doctor Crander, behind the desk. He was nervous\n and harassed for so early in the morning. \"The receptionist didn't give\n me your name. For some reason she seems upset.\"\n\n\n She did at that, he thought—probably bewildered by his appearance. The\n hospital didn't seem to have a calming influence on either her or the\n doctor. \"That's why I came here. I'm not sure who I am. I thought I was\n Dan Merrol.\"\n\n\n Doctor Crander tried to fight his way through the desk. Being a little\n wider and solider, though not by much, the desk won. He contented\n himself by wiping his forehead. \"Our missing patient,\" he said, sighing\n with vast relief. \"For a while I had visions of....\" He then decided\n that visions were nothing a medical man should place much faith in.\n\n\n \"Then I\nam\nDan Merrol?\"", "Merrol turned away miserably. There were other things, but he had\n learned the essentials. He was Dan Merrol and there was nothing they\n could do for him until it was too late. How long could he expect Erica\n to wait?\n\n\n The doctor hadn't finished the medical session. \"Replacement of body\n parts is easy, after all. The big trouble came when we went into the\n brain.\"\n\n\n \"Brain?\" Dan was startled.\n\n\n \"How hard do you think your skull is?\" Crander came closer. \"Bend your\n head.\"\n\n\n Merrol obeyed and could feel the doctor's forefinger slice across his\n scalp in a mock operation. \"This sector was crushed.\" Roughly half his\n brain, it appeared. \"That's why so many memories were gone—not just\n from shock. In addition, other sectors were damaged and had to be\n replaced.\"", "\"At the moment, who knows? Anyway, I'm a well-known actor and a\n musician and a first-rate mathematician. I can't remember any equations\n offhand except C equals pi R squared. It has to do with the velocity\n of light. And the rest of the stuff will come back in time.\" It was\n easier now that he'd started and he went on rapidly. \"I'm thirty-three\n and after making a lot of money wrestling, married six girls, not\n necessarily in this order—Lucille, Louise, Carolyn, Katherine, Shirley\n and Miriam.\" That was quite a few marriages—maybe it was thoughtless\n of him to have mentioned them. No woman approves her predecessors.\n\n\n \"That's six. Where do I come in?\"\n\n\n \"Erica. You're the seventh and best.\" It was just too many, now that he\n thought of it, and it didn't seem right.", "Crander traced out five areas he could feel, but not see. \"Samuel\n Kaufman, musician—Breed Mannly, cowboy actor—George Elkins,\n lepidopterist—Duke DeCaesares, wrestler—and Ben Eisenberg,\n mathematician, went into the places I tapped.\"\n\n\n Dan raised his head. Some things were clearer. The memories were\n authentic, but they weren't his—nor did the other wives belong to him.\n It was no wonder Erica had cringed at their names.\n\n\n \"These donors were dead, but you can be thankful we had parts of their\n brains available.\" Crander delved into the file and came up with a\n sheet.", "\"Mass-cell radiographs. One was loaned by your employer. The other was\n taken just after your last operation. Both were corrected according\n to standard methods. One cell won't do it, ten yield an uncertain\n identity—but as few as a hundred cells from any part of the original\n body, excepting the blood, constitute proof more positive than\n fingerprints before the surgical exchange of limbs. Don't ask me\n why—no one knows. But it is true that cells differ from one body to\n the next, and this test detects the difference.\"\nThe mass-cell radiographs did seem identical and Dr. Crander seemed\n certain. Taken altogether, the evidence was overwhelming. There had\n been no mistake—he was Dan Merrol, though it was not difficult to\n understand why Erica couldn't believe he was her husband.", "It was then he'd grabbed her, to keep her from talking to the hospital.\n He'd been unnecessarily rough, but that could be ascribed to lack of\n coordination. She could have been terrified, might have resisted—but\n she hadn't. At that time, she must have half-believed he was Dan\n Merrol, still dangerously near the edges of post-regrowth shock.\nShe was looking at him, waiting for that explanation. He shook his\n mind frantically and the words came out. \"Self-therapy,\" he said\n briskly. \"The patient alone understands what he needs.\" She started to\n interrupt, but he shook his head and went on blithely. \"That's the\n first corollary of the theorem. The second is that there are critical\n times in the recovery of the patient. At such times, with the least\n possible supervision, he should be encouraged to make his own decisions\n and carry them through by himself, even though running a slight risk of\n physical complications.\"", "\"Parts of the two ships fell together, the rest were scattered. There\n was some interchange of passengers in the wreckage, but since you were\n found in the control compartment of the Mars liner, they assumed you\n were the pilot. They never let me see you until yesterday and then\n it was just a glimpse. I took their word when they said you were Dan\n Merrol.\"\n\n\n At least he knew who or what Dan Merrol was—the pilot of the Mars\n liner. They had assumed he was the pilot because of where he was found,\n but he might have been tossed there—impact did strange things.\n\n\n Dan Merrol was a spaceship pilot and he hadn't included it among his\n skills. It was strange that she had believed him at all. But now that\n it was out in the open, he did remember some facts about spaceships. He\n felt he could manage a takeoff at this instant.", "Without waiting for him to comply, Crander pushed him into a chair and\n began hauling out a variety of instruments with which he poked about\n his bewildered patient.\n\n\n Finally Crander seemed satisfied. \"Excellent,\" he said. \"If I didn't\n know better, I'd say you were almost fully recovered. A week ago, we\n considered removing you from the regrowth tank. Our decision to leave\n you there an extra week has paid off very, very nicely.\"\n\n\n Merrol wasn't as pleased as the doctor appeared to be. \"Granted you can\n identify me as the person who came out of regrowth—but does that mean\n I'm Dan Merrol? Could there be a mistake?\"\n\n\n Crander eyed him clinically. \"We don't ordinarily do this—but it is\n evident that with you peace of mind is more important than procedure.\n And you look well enough to stand the physical strain.\"", "\"Almost three months. But most of that time you were floating in\n gelatin in the regrowth tank, unconscious until yesterday.\" She\n leaned forward and caressed his cheek. \"Everything seems wrong, no\n matter how hard I try to believe otherwise. You don't have the same\n personality—you can't remember anything.\"\n\n\n \"And I have one brown eye and one green.\"\n\n\n \"It's not just that, darling. Go over to the mirror.\"\n\n\n He had been seriously injured and he was still weak from the shock. He\n got up and walked unsteadily to the mirror. \"Now what?\"\n\n\n \"Stand beside it. Do you see the line?\" Erica pointed to the glass.\n\n\n He did—it was a mark level with his chin. \"What does it mean?\"\n\n\n \"That should be the top of Dan Merrol's head,\" she said softly.", "\"Can't you remember?\" Her laughter tinkled as she pushed him away and\n sat up. \"They said you were Dan Merrol at the hospital, but they must\n have been wrong.\"\n\n\n \"Hospitals don't make that kind of mistake,\" he said with a certainty\n he didn't altogether feel.\n\n\n \"But\nI\nshould know, shouldn't I?\"\n\n\n \"Of course, but....\" He did some verbal backstepping. \"It was a\n bad accident. You've got to expect that I won't be quite the same\n at first.\" He sat up. \"\nLook\nat me. Can't you tell who I am?\" She\n returned his gaze, then swayed toward him. He decided that she was\n highly attractive—but surely he ought to have known that long ago.\nWith a visible effort she leaned away from him. \"Your left eye does\n look familiar,\" she said cautiously. \"The brown one, I mean.\"\n\n\n \"The\nbrown\none?\"", "Erica came close and leaned comfortingly against him, but he wasn't\n comforted. \"I waited till I was sure. I didn't want to upset you.\"\n\n\n He wasn't as sure as she seemed to be now. Somehow, maybe he was still\n Dan Merrol—but he wasn't going to insist on it—not after looking at\n himself. Not after trying to sort out those damned memories.\n\n\n She was too kind, pretending to be a little attracted to him, to the\n scrambled face, to the mismatched lumps and limbs and shapes that,\n stretching the term, currently formed his body. It was clear what he\n had to do.\nThe jacket he had worn last night didn't fit. Erica cut off the sleeve\n that hung far over his fingertips on one side and basted it to the\n sleeve that ended well above his wrist, on the other. The shoulders\n were narrow, but the material would stretch and after shrugging around\n in it, he managed to expand it so it was not too tight.", "\"Your other eye's green,\" she told him.\n\n\n \"Of course—a replacement. I told you it was a serious accident. They\n had to use whatever was handy.\"\n\n\n \"I suppose so—but shouldn't they have tried to stick to the original\n color scheme?\"\n\n\n \"It's a little thing,\" he said. \"I'm lucky to be alive.\" He took her\n hand. \"I believe I can convince you I'm\nme\n.\"\n\n\n \"I wish you could.\" Her voice was low and sad and he couldn't guess why.\n\n\n \"My name is Dan Merrol.\"\n\n\n \"They told you that at the hospital.\"\n\n\n They hadn't—he'd read it on the chart. But he had been alone in the\n room and the name had to be his, and anyway he\nfelt\nlike Dan Merrol.\n \"Your name is Erica.\"", "She sighed and drew away. \"That was a lucky guess on your age.\"\nDid that mean he wasn't right on anything else? From the expression\n on her face, it did. \"You've got to expect me to be confused in the\n beginning. Can't you really tell who I am?\"\n\n\n \"I\ncan't\n! You don't have the same personality at all.\" She glanced at\n her arm. There was a bruise on it.\n\n\n \"Did I do that?\" he asked.\n\n\n \"You did, though I'm sure you didn't mean to. I don't think you\n realized how strong you were. Dan was always too gentle—he must have\n been afraid of me. And\nyou\nweren't at all.\"\n\n\n \"Maybe I was impetuous,\" he said. \"But it was such a long time.\"", "\"That's new, isn't it?\" she said. \"I always thought they watched the\n patient carefully.\"\n\n\n It ought to be new—he'd just invented it. \"You know how rapidly\n medical practices change,\" he said quickly. \"Anyway, when they\n examined me last night, I was much stronger than they expected—so,\n when I wanted to come home, they let me. It's their latest belief that\n initiative is more important than perfect health.\"\n\n\n \"Strange,\" she muttered. \"But you are very strong.\" She looked at him\n and blushed. \"Initiative, certainly you have. Dan could use some,\n wherever he is.\"\n\n\n Dan again, whether it was himself or another person. For a brief time,\n as she listened to him, he'd had the silly idea that.... But it could\n never happen to him. He'd better leave now while she was distracted and\n bewildered and believed what he was saying. \"I've got to go. I'm due\n back,\" he told her.", "\"Here is other evidence you may not have heard of. It's a recent\n development, within the last ten years, in fact. It still isn't\n accepted by most courts—they're always lagging—but to medical men\n it's the last word.\"\nMerrol studied the patterns of waves and lines and splotches. \"What is\n it?\"", "\"They told you that too.\"\n\n\n She was wrong again, but it was probably wiser not to tell her how he\n knew. No one had said anything to him in the hospital. He hadn't given\n them a chance. He had awakened in a room and hadn't wanted to be alone.\n He'd got up and read the chart and searched dizzily through the closet.\n Clothes were hanging there and he'd put them on and muttered her name\n to himself. He'd sat down to gain strength and after a while he'd\n walked out and no one had stopped him.\n\n\n It was night when he left the hospital and the next thing he remembered\n was her face as he looked through the door. Her name hadn't been on the\n chart nor her address and yet he had found her. That proved something,\n didn't it? \"How could I forget you?\" he demanded.\n\n\n \"You may have known someone else with that name. When were we married?\"" ], [ "\"Glad to see you,\" said Doctor Crander, behind the desk. He was nervous\n and harassed for so early in the morning. \"The receptionist didn't give\n me your name. For some reason she seems upset.\"\n\n\n She did at that, he thought—probably bewildered by his appearance. The\n hospital didn't seem to have a calming influence on either her or the\n doctor. \"That's why I came here. I'm not sure who I am. I thought I was\n Dan Merrol.\"\n\n\n Doctor Crander tried to fight his way through the desk. Being a little\n wider and solider, though not by much, the desk won. He contented\n himself by wiping his forehead. \"Our missing patient,\" he said, sighing\n with vast relief. \"For a while I had visions of....\" He then decided\n that visions were nothing a medical man should place much faith in.\n\n\n \"Then I\nam\nDan Merrol?\"", "Without waiting for him to comply, Crander pushed him into a chair and\n began hauling out a variety of instruments with which he poked about\n his bewildered patient.\n\n\n Finally Crander seemed satisfied. \"Excellent,\" he said. \"If I didn't\n know better, I'd say you were almost fully recovered. A week ago, we\n considered removing you from the regrowth tank. Our decision to leave\n you there an extra week has paid off very, very nicely.\"\n\n\n Merrol wasn't as pleased as the doctor appeared to be. \"Granted you can\n identify me as the person who came out of regrowth—but does that mean\n I'm Dan Merrol? Could there be a mistake?\"\n\n\n Crander eyed him clinically. \"We don't ordinarily do this—but it is\n evident that with you peace of mind is more important than procedure.\n And you look well enough to stand the physical strain.\"", "He pressed the buzzer and an angular woman in her early forties\n answered. \"Miss Jerrems, the Dan Merrol file.\"\n\n\n Miss Jerrems flashed a glance of open adoration at the doctor and\n before she could reel it in, her gaze swept past Dan, hesitated and\n returned to him. Her mouth opened and closed like that of a nervous\n goldfish and she darted from the room.\nThey see me and flee as fast as they can caper\n, thought Merrol. It\n was not wholly true—Crander didn't seem much affected. But he was a\n doctor and used to it. Furthermore, he probably had room for only one\n emotion at the moment—relief at the return of his patient.", "\"Mass-cell radiographs. One was loaned by your employer. The other was\n taken just after your last operation. Both were corrected according\n to standard methods. One cell won't do it, ten yield an uncertain\n identity—but as few as a hundred cells from any part of the original\n body, excepting the blood, constitute proof more positive than\n fingerprints before the surgical exchange of limbs. Don't ask me\n why—no one knows. But it is true that cells differ from one body to\n the next, and this test detects the difference.\"\nThe mass-cell radiographs did seem identical and Dr. Crander seemed\n certain. Taken altogether, the evidence was overwhelming. There had\n been no mistake—he was Dan Merrol, though it was not difficult to\n understand why Erica couldn't believe he was her husband.", "Miss Jerrems came back, wheeling a large cart. Dan was surprised at the\n mass of records. Crander noticed his expression and smiled. \"You're\n our prize case, Merrol. I've never heard of anyone else surviving\n such extensive surgery. Naturally, we have a step-by-step account of\n everything we did.\"\n\n\n He turned to the woman. \"You may leave, Miss Jerrems.\" She went, but\n the adoration she had showed so openly for her employer seemed to have\n curdled in the last few moments.\n\n\n Crander dug into the files and rooted out photographs. \"Here are\n pictures of the wreckage in which you were found—notice that you were\n strapped in your seat—as you were received into the hospital—at\n various stages in surgery and finally, some taken from the files of the\n company for which you worked.\"\n\n\n Merrol winced. The photographic sequence was incontrovertible. He had\n been a handsome fellow.", "Merrol turned away miserably. There were other things, but he had\n learned the essentials. He was Dan Merrol and there was nothing they\n could do for him until it was too late. How long could he expect Erica\n to wait?\n\n\n The doctor hadn't finished the medical session. \"Replacement of body\n parts is easy, after all. The big trouble came when we went into the\n brain.\"\n\n\n \"Brain?\" Dan was startled.\n\n\n \"How hard do you think your skull is?\" Crander came closer. \"Bend your\n head.\"\n\n\n Merrol obeyed and could feel the doctor's forefinger slice across his\n scalp in a mock operation. \"This sector was crushed.\" Roughly half his\n brain, it appeared. \"That's why so many memories were gone—not just\n from shock. In addition, other sectors were damaged and had to be\n replaced.\"", "It was then he'd grabbed her, to keep her from talking to the hospital.\n He'd been unnecessarily rough, but that could be ascribed to lack of\n coordination. She could have been terrified, might have resisted—but\n she hadn't. At that time, she must have half-believed he was Dan\n Merrol, still dangerously near the edges of post-regrowth shock.\nShe was looking at him, waiting for that explanation. He shook his\n mind frantically and the words came out. \"Self-therapy,\" he said\n briskly. \"The patient alone understands what he needs.\" She started to\n interrupt, but he shook his head and went on blithely. \"That's the\n first corollary of the theorem. The second is that there are critical\n times in the recovery of the patient. At such times, with the least\n possible supervision, he should be encouraged to make his own decisions\n and carry them through by himself, even though running a slight risk of\n physical complications.\"", "\"Can't you remember?\" Her laughter tinkled as she pushed him away and\n sat up. \"They said you were Dan Merrol at the hospital, but they must\n have been wrong.\"\n\n\n \"Hospitals don't make that kind of mistake,\" he said with a certainty\n he didn't altogether feel.\n\n\n \"But\nI\nshould know, shouldn't I?\"\n\n\n \"Of course, but....\" He did some verbal backstepping. \"It was a\n bad accident. You've got to expect that I won't be quite the same\n at first.\" He sat up. \"\nLook\nat me. Can't you tell who I am?\" She\n returned his gaze, then swayed toward him. He decided that she was\n highly attractive—but surely he ought to have known that long ago.\nWith a visible effort she leaned away from him. \"Your left eye does\n look familiar,\" she said cautiously. \"The brown one, I mean.\"\n\n\n \"The\nbrown\none?\"", "\"You did a fine job,\" he said. Recalling the picture of the wreckage,\n he knew they had. \"But couldn't you have done just a little better?\"\nCrander's eyebrows bounced up. \"We're amazed at how well we have\n done. You can search case histories and find nothing comparable.\" His\n eyebrows dropped back into place. \"Of course, if you have a specific\n complaint....\"\n\n\n \"Nothing specific. But look at this hand....\"\n\n\n The doctor seized it. \"Beautiful, isn't it?\"\n\n\n \"Perhaps—taken by itself.\" Dan rolled up his sleeve. \"See how it joins\n the forearm.\"\n\n\n Crander waggled it gravely. \"It coordinates perfectly. I've observed\n you have complete control over it. The doctor's eye, my boy. The\n doctor's diagnostic eye.\"", "But why hadn't he told her? Shock? Perhaps—but where had those other\n identities come from—lepidopterist, musician, actor, mathematician\n and wrestler? And where had he got memories of wives, slender and\n passionate, petite and wild, casual and complaisant, nagging and\n insecure?\n\n\n Erica he didn't remember at all, save from last night, and what was\n that due to?\n\n\n \"What are you going to do?\" he asked, deliberately toying with the last\n bite of breakfast. It gave him time to think.\n\n\n \"They said they'd identified everyone, living or dead, and I supposed\n they had. After seeing you, I can believe they made any number of\n similar mistakes. Dan Merrol may be alive under another name. It will\n be hard to do, but I must try to find him. Some of the accident victims\n went to other hospitals, you know, the ones located nearest where they\n fell.\"", "The doctor came cautiously around the desk this time. \"Of course. I\n didn't expect that you'd come walking in my office—that's why I didn't\n recognize you immediately.\" He exhaled peevishly. \"Where did you go?\n We've been searching for you everywhere.\"\n\n\n It seemed wiser to Dan not to tell him everything. \"It was stuffy\n inside. I went out for a stroll before the nurse came in.\"\n\n\n Crander frowned, his nervousness rapidly disappearing. \"Then it was\n about an hour ago. We didn't think you could walk at all so soon, or we\n would have kept someone on duty through the night.\"\nThey had underestimated him, but he didn't mind. Of course, he didn't\n know how a patient from the regrowth tanks was supposed to act.\n The doctor took his pulse. \"Seems fine,\" he said, surprised. \"Sit\n down—please sit down.\"", "Erica came close and leaned comfortingly against him, but he wasn't\n comforted. \"I waited till I was sure. I didn't want to upset you.\"\n\n\n He wasn't as sure as she seemed to be now. Somehow, maybe he was still\n Dan Merrol—but he wasn't going to insist on it—not after looking at\n himself. Not after trying to sort out those damned memories.\n\n\n She was too kind, pretending to be a little attracted to him, to the\n scrambled face, to the mismatched lumps and limbs and shapes that,\n stretching the term, currently formed his body. It was clear what he\n had to do.\nThe jacket he had worn last night didn't fit. Erica cut off the sleeve\n that hung far over his fingertips on one side and basted it to the\n sleeve that ended well above his wrist, on the other. The shoulders\n were narrow, but the material would stretch and after shrugging around\n in it, he managed to expand it so it was not too tight.", "Crander traced out five areas he could feel, but not see. \"Samuel\n Kaufman, musician—Breed Mannly, cowboy actor—George Elkins,\n lepidopterist—Duke DeCaesares, wrestler—and Ben Eisenberg,\n mathematician, went into the places I tapped.\"\n\n\n Dan raised his head. Some things were clearer. The memories were\n authentic, but they weren't his—nor did the other wives belong to him.\n It was no wonder Erica had cringed at their names.\n\n\n \"These donors were dead, but you can be thankful we had parts of their\n brains available.\" Crander delved into the file and came up with a\n sheet.", "He slowed down—he didn't want to attract attention. It was difficult\n but he learned to walk at a pedestrian pace. However poorly they'd\n matched his legs, they'd given him good ones.\n\n\n Last night, on an impulse, he'd left the hospital and now he had to go\n back.\nHad\nto? Of course. There were too many uncertainties still to\n be settled. He glanced around. It was still very early in the morning\n and normal traffic was just beginning. Maybe they hadn't missed him\n yet, though it was unlikely.\n\n\n He seemed to know the route well enough and covered the distance in a\n brief time. He turned in at the building and, scanning the directory,\n went at once to the proper floor and stopped at the desk.\nThe receptionist was busy with the drawer of the desk. \"Can I help\n you?\" she asked, continuing to peer down.\n\n\n \"The director—Doctor Crander. I don't have an appointment.\"", "\"That's new, isn't it?\" she said. \"I always thought they watched the\n patient carefully.\"\n\n\n It ought to be new—he'd just invented it. \"You know how rapidly\n medical practices change,\" he said quickly. \"Anyway, when they\n examined me last night, I was much stronger than they expected—so,\n when I wanted to come home, they let me. It's their latest belief that\n initiative is more important than perfect health.\"\n\n\n \"Strange,\" she muttered. \"But you are very strong.\" She looked at him\n and blushed. \"Initiative, certainly you have. Dan could use some,\n wherever he is.\"\n\n\n Dan again, whether it was himself or another person. For a brief time,\n as she listened to him, he'd had the silly idea that.... But it could\n never happen to him. He'd better leave now while she was distracted and\n bewildered and believed what he was saying. \"I've got to go. I'm due\n back,\" he told her.", "\"Your other eye's green,\" she told him.\n\n\n \"Of course—a replacement. I told you it was a serious accident. They\n had to use whatever was handy.\"\n\n\n \"I suppose so—but shouldn't they have tried to stick to the original\n color scheme?\"\n\n\n \"It's a little thing,\" he said. \"I'm lucky to be alive.\" He took her\n hand. \"I believe I can convince you I'm\nme\n.\"\n\n\n \"I wish you could.\" Her voice was low and sad and he couldn't guess why.\n\n\n \"My name is Dan Merrol.\"\n\n\n \"They told you that at the hospital.\"\n\n\n They hadn't—he'd read it on the chart. But he had been alone in the\n room and the name had to be his, and anyway he\nfelt\nlike Dan Merrol.\n \"Your name is Erica.\"", "She blinked at him. \"A patient?\" She didn't need to look twice to see\n that he had been one. \"The director does occasionally see ex-patients.\"\n\n\n He watched her appreciatively as she went inside. The way she walked,\n you'd think she had a special audience. Presently the door opened and\n she came back, batting her eyes vigorously.\n\n\n \"You can go in now,\" she said huskily. Strange, her voice had dropped\n an octave in less than a minute. \"The old boy tried to pretend he was\n in the middle of a grave emergency.\"\n\n\n On his way in, he miscalculated, or she did, and he brushed against\n her. The touch was pleasant, but not thrilling. That reaction seemed\n reserved for Erica.", "\"Almost three months. But most of that time you were floating in\n gelatin in the regrowth tank, unconscious until yesterday.\" She\n leaned forward and caressed his cheek. \"Everything seems wrong, no\n matter how hard I try to believe otherwise. You don't have the same\n personality—you can't remember anything.\"\n\n\n \"And I have one brown eye and one green.\"\n\n\n \"It's not just that, darling. Go over to the mirror.\"\n\n\n He had been seriously injured and he was still weak from the shock. He\n got up and walked unsteadily to the mirror. \"Now what?\"\n\n\n \"Stand beside it. Do you see the line?\" Erica pointed to the glass.\n\n\n He did—it was a mark level with his chin. \"What does it mean?\"\n\n\n \"That should be the top of Dan Merrol's head,\" she said softly.", "The other just didn't understand. \"But the size—it doesn't match my\n arm!\"\n\n\n \"Doesn't\nmatch\n?\" cried the doctor. \"Do you have any idea of the\n biological ways in which it\ndoes\nmatch? True, it may not be\n esthetically harmonized, but here we delve into the mysteries of the\n human organism, and we can hardly be striving for Botticelli bodies and\n Michelangelo men. First, your hand moves freely at the joint, a triumph\n of surgical skill.\" He moved the hand experimentally, to show Merrol\n how it was done. He dropped the hand and hurried to a screen against\n the wall.\n\n\n Crander drew his finger across the surface and the mark remained. \"You\n know about Rh positive and negative blood. Mixed, they can be lethal.\n This was discovered long ago, by someone I've forgotten. But there are\n other factors just as potent and far more complex.\"", "The Man Who Was Six\nBy F. L. WALLACE\n\n\n Illustrated by ASHMAN\n\n\n [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Galaxy Science Fiction September 1954.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nThere is nothing at all like having a sound\n \nmind in a sound body, but Dan Merrol had too\n \nmuch of one—and also too much of the other!\n\"Sorry, darling,\" said Erica. She yawned, added, \"I've tried—but I\n just can't believe you're my husband.\"\n\n\n He felt his own yawn slip off his face. \"What do you mean? What am I\n doing here then?\"" ], [ "Erica came close and leaned comfortingly against him, but he wasn't\n comforted. \"I waited till I was sure. I didn't want to upset you.\"\n\n\n He wasn't as sure as she seemed to be now. Somehow, maybe he was still\n Dan Merrol—but he wasn't going to insist on it—not after looking at\n himself. Not after trying to sort out those damned memories.\n\n\n She was too kind, pretending to be a little attracted to him, to the\n scrambled face, to the mismatched lumps and limbs and shapes that,\n stretching the term, currently formed his body. It was clear what he\n had to do.\nThe jacket he had worn last night didn't fit. Erica cut off the sleeve\n that hung far over his fingertips on one side and basted it to the\n sleeve that ended well above his wrist, on the other. The shoulders\n were narrow, but the material would stretch and after shrugging around\n in it, he managed to expand it so it was not too tight.", "But why hadn't he told her? Shock? Perhaps—but where had those other\n identities come from—lepidopterist, musician, actor, mathematician\n and wrestler? And where had he got memories of wives, slender and\n passionate, petite and wild, casual and complaisant, nagging and\n insecure?\n\n\n Erica he didn't remember at all, save from last night, and what was\n that due to?\n\n\n \"What are you going to do?\" he asked, deliberately toying with the last\n bite of breakfast. It gave him time to think.\n\n\n \"They said they'd identified everyone, living or dead, and I supposed\n they had. After seeing you, I can believe they made any number of\n similar mistakes. Dan Merrol may be alive under another name. It will\n be hard to do, but I must try to find him. Some of the accident victims\n went to other hospitals, you know, the ones located nearest where they\n fell.\"", "Merrol turned away miserably. There were other things, but he had\n learned the essentials. He was Dan Merrol and there was nothing they\n could do for him until it was too late. How long could he expect Erica\n to wait?\n\n\n The doctor hadn't finished the medical session. \"Replacement of body\n parts is easy, after all. The big trouble came when we went into the\n brain.\"\n\n\n \"Brain?\" Dan was startled.\n\n\n \"How hard do you think your skull is?\" Crander came closer. \"Bend your\n head.\"\n\n\n Merrol obeyed and could feel the doctor's forefinger slice across his\n scalp in a mock operation. \"This sector was crushed.\" Roughly half his\n brain, it appeared. \"That's why so many memories were gone—not just\n from shock. In addition, other sectors were damaged and had to be\n replaced.\"", "It was then he'd grabbed her, to keep her from talking to the hospital.\n He'd been unnecessarily rough, but that could be ascribed to lack of\n coordination. She could have been terrified, might have resisted—but\n she hadn't. At that time, she must have half-believed he was Dan\n Merrol, still dangerously near the edges of post-regrowth shock.\nShe was looking at him, waiting for that explanation. He shook his\n mind frantically and the words came out. \"Self-therapy,\" he said\n briskly. \"The patient alone understands what he needs.\" She started to\n interrupt, but he shook his head and went on blithely. \"That's the\n first corollary of the theorem. The second is that there are critical\n times in the recovery of the patient. At such times, with the least\n possible supervision, he should be encouraged to make his own decisions\n and carry them through by himself, even though running a slight risk of\n physical complications.\"", "\"Glad to see you,\" said Doctor Crander, behind the desk. He was nervous\n and harassed for so early in the morning. \"The receptionist didn't give\n me your name. For some reason she seems upset.\"\n\n\n She did at that, he thought—probably bewildered by his appearance. The\n hospital didn't seem to have a calming influence on either her or the\n doctor. \"That's why I came here. I'm not sure who I am. I thought I was\n Dan Merrol.\"\n\n\n Doctor Crander tried to fight his way through the desk. Being a little\n wider and solider, though not by much, the desk won. He contented\n himself by wiping his forehead. \"Our missing patient,\" he said, sighing\n with vast relief. \"For a while I had visions of....\" He then decided\n that visions were nothing a medical man should place much faith in.\n\n\n \"Then I\nam\nDan Merrol?\"", "\"Almost three months. But most of that time you were floating in\n gelatin in the regrowth tank, unconscious until yesterday.\" She\n leaned forward and caressed his cheek. \"Everything seems wrong, no\n matter how hard I try to believe otherwise. You don't have the same\n personality—you can't remember anything.\"\n\n\n \"And I have one brown eye and one green.\"\n\n\n \"It's not just that, darling. Go over to the mirror.\"\n\n\n He had been seriously injured and he was still weak from the shock. He\n got up and walked unsteadily to the mirror. \"Now what?\"\n\n\n \"Stand beside it. Do you see the line?\" Erica pointed to the glass.\n\n\n He did—it was a mark level with his chin. \"What does it mean?\"\n\n\n \"That should be the top of Dan Merrol's head,\" she said softly.", "Miss Jerrems came back, wheeling a large cart. Dan was surprised at the\n mass of records. Crander noticed his expression and smiled. \"You're\n our prize case, Merrol. I've never heard of anyone else surviving\n such extensive surgery. Naturally, we have a step-by-step account of\n everything we did.\"\n\n\n He turned to the woman. \"You may leave, Miss Jerrems.\" She went, but\n the adoration she had showed so openly for her employer seemed to have\n curdled in the last few moments.\n\n\n Crander dug into the files and rooted out photographs. \"Here are\n pictures of the wreckage in which you were found—notice that you were\n strapped in your seat—as you were received into the hospital—at\n various stages in surgery and finally, some taken from the files of the\n company for which you worked.\"\n\n\n Merrol winced. The photographic sequence was incontrovertible. He had\n been a handsome fellow.", "Without waiting for him to comply, Crander pushed him into a chair and\n began hauling out a variety of instruments with which he poked about\n his bewildered patient.\n\n\n Finally Crander seemed satisfied. \"Excellent,\" he said. \"If I didn't\n know better, I'd say you were almost fully recovered. A week ago, we\n considered removing you from the regrowth tank. Our decision to leave\n you there an extra week has paid off very, very nicely.\"\n\n\n Merrol wasn't as pleased as the doctor appeared to be. \"Granted you can\n identify me as the person who came out of regrowth—but does that mean\n I'm Dan Merrol? Could there be a mistake?\"\n\n\n Crander eyed him clinically. \"We don't ordinarily do this—but it is\n evident that with you peace of mind is more important than procedure.\n And you look well enough to stand the physical strain.\"", "He pressed the buzzer and an angular woman in her early forties\n answered. \"Miss Jerrems, the Dan Merrol file.\"\n\n\n Miss Jerrems flashed a glance of open adoration at the doctor and\n before she could reel it in, her gaze swept past Dan, hesitated and\n returned to him. Her mouth opened and closed like that of a nervous\n goldfish and she darted from the room.\nThey see me and flee as fast as they can caper\n, thought Merrol. It\n was not wholly true—Crander didn't seem much affected. But he was a\n doctor and used to it. Furthermore, he probably had room for only one\n emotion at the moment—relief at the return of his patient.", "The Man Who Was Six\nBy F. L. WALLACE\n\n\n Illustrated by ASHMAN\n\n\n [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Galaxy Science Fiction September 1954.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nThere is nothing at all like having a sound\n \nmind in a sound body, but Dan Merrol had too\n \nmuch of one—and also too much of the other!\n\"Sorry, darling,\" said Erica. She yawned, added, \"I've tried—but I\n just can't believe you're my husband.\"\n\n\n He felt his own yawn slip off his face. \"What do you mean? What am I\n doing here then?\"", "\"Mass-cell radiographs. One was loaned by your employer. The other was\n taken just after your last operation. Both were corrected according\n to standard methods. One cell won't do it, ten yield an uncertain\n identity—but as few as a hundred cells from any part of the original\n body, excepting the blood, constitute proof more positive than\n fingerprints before the surgical exchange of limbs. Don't ask me\n why—no one knows. But it is true that cells differ from one body to\n the next, and this test detects the difference.\"\nThe mass-cell radiographs did seem identical and Dr. Crander seemed\n certain. Taken altogether, the evidence was overwhelming. There had\n been no mistake—he was Dan Merrol, though it was not difficult to\n understand why Erica couldn't believe he was her husband.", "\"Can't you remember?\" Her laughter tinkled as she pushed him away and\n sat up. \"They said you were Dan Merrol at the hospital, but they must\n have been wrong.\"\n\n\n \"Hospitals don't make that kind of mistake,\" he said with a certainty\n he didn't altogether feel.\n\n\n \"But\nI\nshould know, shouldn't I?\"\n\n\n \"Of course, but....\" He did some verbal backstepping. \"It was a\n bad accident. You've got to expect that I won't be quite the same\n at first.\" He sat up. \"\nLook\nat me. Can't you tell who I am?\" She\n returned his gaze, then swayed toward him. He decided that she was\n highly attractive—but surely he ought to have known that long ago.\nWith a visible effort she leaned away from him. \"Your left eye does\n look familiar,\" she said cautiously. \"The brown one, I mean.\"\n\n\n \"The\nbrown\none?\"", "\"That's new, isn't it?\" she said. \"I always thought they watched the\n patient carefully.\"\n\n\n It ought to be new—he'd just invented it. \"You know how rapidly\n medical practices change,\" he said quickly. \"Anyway, when they\n examined me last night, I was much stronger than they expected—so,\n when I wanted to come home, they let me. It's their latest belief that\n initiative is more important than perfect health.\"\n\n\n \"Strange,\" she muttered. \"But you are very strong.\" She looked at him\n and blushed. \"Initiative, certainly you have. Dan could use some,\n wherever he is.\"\n\n\n Dan again, whether it was himself or another person. For a brief time,\n as she listened to him, he'd had the silly idea that.... But it could\n never happen to him. He'd better leave now while she was distracted and\n bewildered and believed what he was saying. \"I've got to go. I'm due\n back,\" he told her.", "\"Your other eye's green,\" she told him.\n\n\n \"Of course—a replacement. I told you it was a serious accident. They\n had to use whatever was handy.\"\n\n\n \"I suppose so—but shouldn't they have tried to stick to the original\n color scheme?\"\n\n\n \"It's a little thing,\" he said. \"I'm lucky to be alive.\" He took her\n hand. \"I believe I can convince you I'm\nme\n.\"\n\n\n \"I wish you could.\" Her voice was low and sad and he couldn't guess why.\n\n\n \"My name is Dan Merrol.\"\n\n\n \"They told you that at the hospital.\"\n\n\n They hadn't—he'd read it on the chart. But he had been alone in the\n room and the name had to be his, and anyway he\nfelt\nlike Dan Merrol.\n \"Your name is Erica.\"", "She blinked at him. \"A patient?\" She didn't need to look twice to see\n that he had been one. \"The director does occasionally see ex-patients.\"\n\n\n He watched her appreciatively as she went inside. The way she walked,\n you'd think she had a special audience. Presently the door opened and\n she came back, batting her eyes vigorously.\n\n\n \"You can go in now,\" she said huskily. Strange, her voice had dropped\n an octave in less than a minute. \"The old boy tried to pretend he was\n in the middle of a grave emergency.\"\n\n\n On his way in, he miscalculated, or she did, and he brushed against\n her. The touch was pleasant, but not thrilling. That reaction seemed\n reserved for Erica.", "Even if he was sure, he didn't know whether he could tell her—and he\n wasn't sure any longer, although he had been. On the physical side of\n marriage, how could he ask her to share a body she'd have to laugh at?\n Later, he might tell her, if there was to be a 'later.' He pushed back\n his chair and looked at her uncertainly.\n\n\n \"Let me call a 'copter,\" she said. \"I hate to see you go.\"\n\n\n \"Wysocki's theorem,\" he told her. \"The patient has decided to walk.\"\n He weaved toward the door and twisted the knob. He turned in time to\n catch her in his arms.\n\n\n \"I know this is wrong,\" she said, pressing against him.", "She sighed and drew away. \"That was a lucky guess on your age.\"\nDid that mean he wasn't right on anything else? From the expression\n on her face, it did. \"You've got to expect me to be confused in the\n beginning. Can't you really tell who I am?\"\n\n\n \"I\ncan't\n! You don't have the same personality at all.\" She glanced at\n her arm. There was a bruise on it.\n\n\n \"Did I do that?\" he asked.\n\n\n \"You did, though I'm sure you didn't mean to. I don't think you\n realized how strong you were. Dan was always too gentle—he must have\n been afraid of me. And\nyou\nweren't at all.\"\n\n\n \"Maybe I was impetuous,\" he said. \"But it was such a long time.\"", "\"Parts of the two ships fell together, the rest were scattered. There\n was some interchange of passengers in the wreckage, but since you were\n found in the control compartment of the Mars liner, they assumed you\n were the pilot. They never let me see you until yesterday and then\n it was just a glimpse. I took their word when they said you were Dan\n Merrol.\"\n\n\n At least he knew who or what Dan Merrol was—the pilot of the Mars\n liner. They had assumed he was the pilot because of where he was found,\n but he might have been tossed there—impact did strange things.\n\n\n Dan Merrol was a spaceship pilot and he hadn't included it among his\n skills. It was strange that she had believed him at all. But now that\n it was out in the open, he did remember some facts about spaceships. He\n felt he could manage a takeoff at this instant.", "\"You did a fine job,\" he said. Recalling the picture of the wreckage,\n he knew they had. \"But couldn't you have done just a little better?\"\nCrander's eyebrows bounced up. \"We're amazed at how well we have\n done. You can search case histories and find nothing comparable.\" His\n eyebrows dropped back into place. \"Of course, if you have a specific\n complaint....\"\n\n\n \"Nothing specific. But look at this hand....\"\n\n\n The doctor seized it. \"Beautiful, isn't it?\"\n\n\n \"Perhaps—taken by itself.\" Dan rolled up his sleeve. \"See how it joins\n the forearm.\"\n\n\n Crander waggled it gravely. \"It coordinates perfectly. I've observed\n you have complete control over it. The doctor's eye, my boy. The\n doctor's diagnostic eye.\"", "Crander traced out five areas he could feel, but not see. \"Samuel\n Kaufman, musician—Breed Mannly, cowboy actor—George Elkins,\n lepidopterist—Duke DeCaesares, wrestler—and Ben Eisenberg,\n mathematician, went into the places I tapped.\"\n\n\n Dan raised his head. Some things were clearer. The memories were\n authentic, but they weren't his—nor did the other wives belong to him.\n It was no wonder Erica had cringed at their names.\n\n\n \"These donors were dead, but you can be thankful we had parts of their\n brains available.\" Crander delved into the file and came up with a\n sheet." ], [ "\"\nWhose\ntheorem?\"\n\n\n \"Wysocki's. I started to call the hospital and you wouldn't let me,\n because of the theorem. You said you'd explain it this morning.\" She\n glanced at the bruise on her arm.", "It was then he'd grabbed her, to keep her from talking to the hospital.\n He'd been unnecessarily rough, but that could be ascribed to lack of\n coordination. She could have been terrified, might have resisted—but\n she hadn't. At that time, she must have half-believed he was Dan\n Merrol, still dangerously near the edges of post-regrowth shock.\nShe was looking at him, waiting for that explanation. He shook his\n mind frantically and the words came out. \"Self-therapy,\" he said\n briskly. \"The patient alone understands what he needs.\" She started to\n interrupt, but he shook his head and went on blithely. \"That's the\n first corollary of the theorem. The second is that there are critical\n times in the recovery of the patient. At such times, with the least\n possible supervision, he should be encouraged to make his own decisions\n and carry them through by himself, even though running a slight risk of\n physical complications.\"", "\"When I brought the clothes yesterday, they told me I couldn't see you\n for a day or so,\" she mused aloud. \"It was the first time you'd been\n out of the regrowth tank—where no one could see you—and they didn't\n know the clothes wouldn't fit. You were covered with a sheet, sleeping,\n I think. They let me peek in and I could make out a corner of your\n face.\"\n\n\n It was the clothes, plus the brief glimpse of his face, which had made\n her think she recognized him when he came in.\n\n\n \"They told me you'd have to have psychotherapy and I'd have to have\n orientation before I could see you. That's why I was so surprised when\n you rang the bell.\"\n\n\n His head was churning with ideas, trying to sort them out. Part of last\n night was dim, part sharp and satisfying.\n\n\n \"What's Wysocki's theorem?\" she asked.", "Even if he was sure, he didn't know whether he could tell her—and he\n wasn't sure any longer, although he had been. On the physical side of\n marriage, how could he ask her to share a body she'd have to laugh at?\n Later, he might tell her, if there was to be a 'later.' He pushed back\n his chair and looked at her uncertainly.\n\n\n \"Let me call a 'copter,\" she said. \"I hate to see you go.\"\n\n\n \"Wysocki's theorem,\" he told her. \"The patient has decided to walk.\"\n He weaved toward the door and twisted the knob. He turned in time to\n catch her in his arms.\n\n\n \"I know this is wrong,\" she said, pressing against him.", "\"You did a fine job,\" he said. Recalling the picture of the wreckage,\n he knew they had. \"But couldn't you have done just a little better?\"\nCrander's eyebrows bounced up. \"We're amazed at how well we have\n done. You can search case histories and find nothing comparable.\" His\n eyebrows dropped back into place. \"Of course, if you have a specific\n complaint....\"\n\n\n \"Nothing specific. But look at this hand....\"\n\n\n The doctor seized it. \"Beautiful, isn't it?\"\n\n\n \"Perhaps—taken by itself.\" Dan rolled up his sleeve. \"See how it joins\n the forearm.\"\n\n\n Crander waggled it gravely. \"It coordinates perfectly. I've observed\n you have complete control over it. The doctor's eye, my boy. The\n doctor's diagnostic eye.\"", "\"That's new, isn't it?\" she said. \"I always thought they watched the\n patient carefully.\"\n\n\n It ought to be new—he'd just invented it. \"You know how rapidly\n medical practices change,\" he said quickly. \"Anyway, when they\n examined me last night, I was much stronger than they expected—so,\n when I wanted to come home, they let me. It's their latest belief that\n initiative is more important than perfect health.\"\n\n\n \"Strange,\" she muttered. \"But you are very strong.\" She looked at him\n and blushed. \"Initiative, certainly you have. Dan could use some,\n wherever he is.\"\n\n\n Dan again, whether it was himself or another person. For a brief time,\n as she listened to him, he'd had the silly idea that.... But it could\n never happen to him. He'd better leave now while she was distracted and\n bewildered and believed what he was saying. \"I've got to go. I'm due\n back,\" he told her.", "Miss Jerrems came back, wheeling a large cart. Dan was surprised at the\n mass of records. Crander noticed his expression and smiled. \"You're\n our prize case, Merrol. I've never heard of anyone else surviving\n such extensive surgery. Naturally, we have a step-by-step account of\n everything we did.\"\n\n\n He turned to the woman. \"You may leave, Miss Jerrems.\" She went, but\n the adoration she had showed so openly for her employer seemed to have\n curdled in the last few moments.\n\n\n Crander dug into the files and rooted out photographs. \"Here are\n pictures of the wreckage in which you were found—notice that you were\n strapped in your seat—as you were received into the hospital—at\n various stages in surgery and finally, some taken from the files of the\n company for which you worked.\"\n\n\n Merrol winced. The photographic sequence was incontrovertible. He had\n been a handsome fellow.", "He pressed the buzzer and an angular woman in her early forties\n answered. \"Miss Jerrems, the Dan Merrol file.\"\n\n\n Miss Jerrems flashed a glance of open adoration at the doctor and\n before she could reel it in, her gaze swept past Dan, hesitated and\n returned to him. Her mouth opened and closed like that of a nervous\n goldfish and she darted from the room.\nThey see me and flee as fast as they can caper\n, thought Merrol. It\n was not wholly true—Crander didn't seem much affected. But he was a\n doctor and used to it. Furthermore, he probably had room for only one\n emotion at the moment—relief at the return of his patient.", "\"Glad to see you,\" said Doctor Crander, behind the desk. He was nervous\n and harassed for so early in the morning. \"The receptionist didn't give\n me your name. For some reason she seems upset.\"\n\n\n She did at that, he thought—probably bewildered by his appearance. The\n hospital didn't seem to have a calming influence on either her or the\n doctor. \"That's why I came here. I'm not sure who I am. I thought I was\n Dan Merrol.\"\n\n\n Doctor Crander tried to fight his way through the desk. Being a little\n wider and solider, though not by much, the desk won. He contented\n himself by wiping his forehead. \"Our missing patient,\" he said, sighing\n with vast relief. \"For a while I had visions of....\" He then decided\n that visions were nothing a medical man should place much faith in.\n\n\n \"Then I\nam\nDan Merrol?\"", "\"Parts of the two ships fell together, the rest were scattered. There\n was some interchange of passengers in the wreckage, but since you were\n found in the control compartment of the Mars liner, they assumed you\n were the pilot. They never let me see you until yesterday and then\n it was just a glimpse. I took their word when they said you were Dan\n Merrol.\"\n\n\n At least he knew who or what Dan Merrol was—the pilot of the Mars\n liner. They had assumed he was the pilot because of where he was found,\n but he might have been tossed there—impact did strange things.\n\n\n Dan Merrol was a spaceship pilot and he hadn't included it among his\n skills. It was strange that she had believed him at all. But now that\n it was out in the open, he did remember some facts about spaceships. He\n felt he could manage a takeoff at this instant.", "The Man Who Was Six\nBy F. L. WALLACE\n\n\n Illustrated by ASHMAN\n\n\n [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Galaxy Science Fiction September 1954.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nThere is nothing at all like having a sound\n \nmind in a sound body, but Dan Merrol had too\n \nmuch of one—and also too much of the other!\n\"Sorry, darling,\" said Erica. She yawned, added, \"I've tried—but I\n just can't believe you're my husband.\"\n\n\n He felt his own yawn slip off his face. \"What do you mean? What am I\n doing here then?\"", "The doctor came cautiously around the desk this time. \"Of course. I\n didn't expect that you'd come walking in my office—that's why I didn't\n recognize you immediately.\" He exhaled peevishly. \"Where did you go?\n We've been searching for you everywhere.\"\n\n\n It seemed wiser to Dan not to tell him everything. \"It was stuffy\n inside. I went out for a stroll before the nurse came in.\"\n\n\n Crander frowned, his nervousness rapidly disappearing. \"Then it was\n about an hour ago. We didn't think you could walk at all so soon, or we\n would have kept someone on duty through the night.\"\nThey had underestimated him, but he didn't mind. Of course, he didn't\n know how a patient from the regrowth tanks was supposed to act.\n The doctor took his pulse. \"Seems fine,\" he said, surprised. \"Sit\n down—please sit down.\"", "Merrol turned away miserably. There were other things, but he had\n learned the essentials. He was Dan Merrol and there was nothing they\n could do for him until it was too late. How long could he expect Erica\n to wait?\n\n\n The doctor hadn't finished the medical session. \"Replacement of body\n parts is easy, after all. The big trouble came when we went into the\n brain.\"\n\n\n \"Brain?\" Dan was startled.\n\n\n \"How hard do you think your skull is?\" Crander came closer. \"Bend your\n head.\"\n\n\n Merrol obeyed and could feel the doctor's forefinger slice across his\n scalp in a mock operation. \"This sector was crushed.\" Roughly half his\n brain, it appeared. \"That's why so many memories were gone—not just\n from shock. In addition, other sectors were damaged and had to be\n replaced.\"", "The trousers were also a problem—six inches short with no material\n to add on, but here again Erica proved equal to the task and, using\n the cuffs, contrived to lengthen them. Shoes were another difficulty.\n For one foot the size was not bad, but he could almost step out of the\n other shoe. When she wasn't looking, he wadded up a spare sock and\n stuffed it in the toe.\n\n\n He looked critically at himself in the mirror. Dressed, his total\n effect was better than he had dared hope it would be. True, he did look\ndifferent\n.\n\n\n Erica gazed at him with melancholy affection. \"I can't understand why\n they let you out wearing those clothes—or for that matter, why they\n let you out at all.\"\n\n\n He must have given some explanation as he'd stumbled through the door.\n What was it?", "Without waiting for him to comply, Crander pushed him into a chair and\n began hauling out a variety of instruments with which he poked about\n his bewildered patient.\n\n\n Finally Crander seemed satisfied. \"Excellent,\" he said. \"If I didn't\n know better, I'd say you were almost fully recovered. A week ago, we\n considered removing you from the regrowth tank. Our decision to leave\n you there an extra week has paid off very, very nicely.\"\n\n\n Merrol wasn't as pleased as the doctor appeared to be. \"Granted you can\n identify me as the person who came out of regrowth—but does that mean\n I'm Dan Merrol? Could there be a mistake?\"\n\n\n Crander eyed him clinically. \"We don't ordinarily do this—but it is\n evident that with you peace of mind is more important than procedure.\n And you look well enough to stand the physical strain.\"", "\"Mass-cell radiographs. One was loaned by your employer. The other was\n taken just after your last operation. Both were corrected according\n to standard methods. One cell won't do it, ten yield an uncertain\n identity—but as few as a hundred cells from any part of the original\n body, excepting the blood, constitute proof more positive than\n fingerprints before the surgical exchange of limbs. Don't ask me\n why—no one knows. But it is true that cells differ from one body to\n the next, and this test detects the difference.\"\nThe mass-cell radiographs did seem identical and Dr. Crander seemed\n certain. Taken altogether, the evidence was overwhelming. There had\n been no mistake—he was Dan Merrol, though it was not difficult to\n understand why Erica couldn't believe he was her husband.", "Erica came close and leaned comfortingly against him, but he wasn't\n comforted. \"I waited till I was sure. I didn't want to upset you.\"\n\n\n He wasn't as sure as she seemed to be now. Somehow, maybe he was still\n Dan Merrol—but he wasn't going to insist on it—not after looking at\n himself. Not after trying to sort out those damned memories.\n\n\n She was too kind, pretending to be a little attracted to him, to the\n scrambled face, to the mismatched lumps and limbs and shapes that,\n stretching the term, currently formed his body. It was clear what he\n had to do.\nThe jacket he had worn last night didn't fit. Erica cut off the sleeve\n that hung far over his fingertips on one side and basted it to the\n sleeve that ended well above his wrist, on the other. The shoulders\n were narrow, but the material would stretch and after shrugging around\n in it, he managed to expand it so it was not too tight.", "But why hadn't he told her? Shock? Perhaps—but where had those other\n identities come from—lepidopterist, musician, actor, mathematician\n and wrestler? And where had he got memories of wives, slender and\n passionate, petite and wild, casual and complaisant, nagging and\n insecure?\n\n\n Erica he didn't remember at all, save from last night, and what was\n that due to?\n\n\n \"What are you going to do?\" he asked, deliberately toying with the last\n bite of breakfast. It gave him time to think.\n\n\n \"They said they'd identified everyone, living or dead, and I supposed\n they had. After seeing you, I can believe they made any number of\n similar mistakes. Dan Merrol may be alive under another name. It will\n be hard to do, but I must try to find him. Some of the accident victims\n went to other hospitals, you know, the ones located nearest where they\n fell.\"", "Crander traced out five areas he could feel, but not see. \"Samuel\n Kaufman, musician—Breed Mannly, cowboy actor—George Elkins,\n lepidopterist—Duke DeCaesares, wrestler—and Ben Eisenberg,\n mathematician, went into the places I tapped.\"\n\n\n Dan raised his head. Some things were clearer. The memories were\n authentic, but they weren't his—nor did the other wives belong to him.\n It was no wonder Erica had cringed at their names.\n\n\n \"These donors were dead, but you can be thankful we had parts of their\n brains available.\" Crander delved into the file and came up with a\n sheet.", "It might be wrong, but it was very pleasant, though he did guess her\n motives. She was a warmhearted girl and couldn't help pitying him.\n \"Don't be so damned considerate,\" he mumbled.\n\n\n \"You'll have to put me down,\" she said, averting her eyes.\n \"Otherwise.... You're an intolerable funny man.\"\n\n\n He knew it—he could see himself in the mirror. He was something to\n laugh at when anyone got tired of pretending sympathy. He put her down\n and stumbled out. He thought he could hear the bed creak as she threw\n herself on it.\nII\n\n\n Once he got started, walking wasn't hard. His left side swung at a\n different rate from his right, but that was due to the variation in\n the length of his thighs and lower legs, and the two rhythms could be\n reconciled. He swept along, gaining control of his muscles. He became\n aware that he was whizzing past everyone." ], [ "\"That's new, isn't it?\" she said. \"I always thought they watched the\n patient carefully.\"\n\n\n It ought to be new—he'd just invented it. \"You know how rapidly\n medical practices change,\" he said quickly. \"Anyway, when they\n examined me last night, I was much stronger than they expected—so,\n when I wanted to come home, they let me. It's their latest belief that\n initiative is more important than perfect health.\"\n\n\n \"Strange,\" she muttered. \"But you are very strong.\" She looked at him\n and blushed. \"Initiative, certainly you have. Dan could use some,\n wherever he is.\"\n\n\n Dan again, whether it was himself or another person. For a brief time,\n as she listened to him, he'd had the silly idea that.... But it could\n never happen to him. He'd better leave now while she was distracted and\n bewildered and believed what he was saying. \"I've got to go. I'm due\n back,\" he told her.", "It was then he'd grabbed her, to keep her from talking to the hospital.\n He'd been unnecessarily rough, but that could be ascribed to lack of\n coordination. She could have been terrified, might have resisted—but\n she hadn't. At that time, she must have half-believed he was Dan\n Merrol, still dangerously near the edges of post-regrowth shock.\nShe was looking at him, waiting for that explanation. He shook his\n mind frantically and the words came out. \"Self-therapy,\" he said\n briskly. \"The patient alone understands what he needs.\" She started to\n interrupt, but he shook his head and went on blithely. \"That's the\n first corollary of the theorem. The second is that there are critical\n times in the recovery of the patient. At such times, with the least\n possible supervision, he should be encouraged to make his own decisions\n and carry them through by himself, even though running a slight risk of\n physical complications.\"", "Even if he was sure, he didn't know whether he could tell her—and he\n wasn't sure any longer, although he had been. On the physical side of\n marriage, how could he ask her to share a body she'd have to laugh at?\n Later, he might tell her, if there was to be a 'later.' He pushed back\n his chair and looked at her uncertainly.\n\n\n \"Let me call a 'copter,\" she said. \"I hate to see you go.\"\n\n\n \"Wysocki's theorem,\" he told her. \"The patient has decided to walk.\"\n He weaved toward the door and twisted the knob. He turned in time to\n catch her in his arms.\n\n\n \"I know this is wrong,\" she said, pressing against him.", "Miss Jerrems came back, wheeling a large cart. Dan was surprised at the\n mass of records. Crander noticed his expression and smiled. \"You're\n our prize case, Merrol. I've never heard of anyone else surviving\n such extensive surgery. Naturally, we have a step-by-step account of\n everything we did.\"\n\n\n He turned to the woman. \"You may leave, Miss Jerrems.\" She went, but\n the adoration she had showed so openly for her employer seemed to have\n curdled in the last few moments.\n\n\n Crander dug into the files and rooted out photographs. \"Here are\n pictures of the wreckage in which you were found—notice that you were\n strapped in your seat—as you were received into the hospital—at\n various stages in surgery and finally, some taken from the files of the\n company for which you worked.\"\n\n\n Merrol winced. The photographic sequence was incontrovertible. He had\n been a handsome fellow.", "\"Glad to see you,\" said Doctor Crander, behind the desk. He was nervous\n and harassed for so early in the morning. \"The receptionist didn't give\n me your name. For some reason she seems upset.\"\n\n\n She did at that, he thought—probably bewildered by his appearance. The\n hospital didn't seem to have a calming influence on either her or the\n doctor. \"That's why I came here. I'm not sure who I am. I thought I was\n Dan Merrol.\"\n\n\n Doctor Crander tried to fight his way through the desk. Being a little\n wider and solider, though not by much, the desk won. He contented\n himself by wiping his forehead. \"Our missing patient,\" he said, sighing\n with vast relief. \"For a while I had visions of....\" He then decided\n that visions were nothing a medical man should place much faith in.\n\n\n \"Then I\nam\nDan Merrol?\"", "The doctor came cautiously around the desk this time. \"Of course. I\n didn't expect that you'd come walking in my office—that's why I didn't\n recognize you immediately.\" He exhaled peevishly. \"Where did you go?\n We've been searching for you everywhere.\"\n\n\n It seemed wiser to Dan not to tell him everything. \"It was stuffy\n inside. I went out for a stroll before the nurse came in.\"\n\n\n Crander frowned, his nervousness rapidly disappearing. \"Then it was\n about an hour ago. We didn't think you could walk at all so soon, or we\n would have kept someone on duty through the night.\"\nThey had underestimated him, but he didn't mind. Of course, he didn't\n know how a patient from the regrowth tanks was supposed to act.\n The doctor took his pulse. \"Seems fine,\" he said, surprised. \"Sit\n down—please sit down.\"", "He pressed the buzzer and an angular woman in her early forties\n answered. \"Miss Jerrems, the Dan Merrol file.\"\n\n\n Miss Jerrems flashed a glance of open adoration at the doctor and\n before she could reel it in, her gaze swept past Dan, hesitated and\n returned to him. Her mouth opened and closed like that of a nervous\n goldfish and she darted from the room.\nThey see me and flee as fast as they can caper\n, thought Merrol. It\n was not wholly true—Crander didn't seem much affected. But he was a\n doctor and used to it. Furthermore, he probably had room for only one\n emotion at the moment—relief at the return of his patient.", "Maybe he should have stayed in the hospital. It would have been easier\n to convince her there. But he'd been frantic to get home. \"It was quite\n a smashup,\" he said. \"You'll have to expect some lapses.\"\n\n\n \"I'm making allowances. But can't you tell me something about myself?\"\n\n\n He thought—and couldn't. He wasn't doing so well. \"Another lapse,\"\n he said gloomily and then brightened. \"But I can tell you lots about\n myself. For instance, I'm a specialist in lepidoptera.\"\n\n\n \"What's that?\"", "\"You did a fine job,\" he said. Recalling the picture of the wreckage,\n he knew they had. \"But couldn't you have done just a little better?\"\nCrander's eyebrows bounced up. \"We're amazed at how well we have\n done. You can search case histories and find nothing comparable.\" His\n eyebrows dropped back into place. \"Of course, if you have a specific\n complaint....\"\n\n\n \"Nothing specific. But look at this hand....\"\n\n\n The doctor seized it. \"Beautiful, isn't it?\"\n\n\n \"Perhaps—taken by itself.\" Dan rolled up his sleeve. \"See how it joins\n the forearm.\"\n\n\n Crander waggled it gravely. \"It coordinates perfectly. I've observed\n you have complete control over it. The doctor's eye, my boy. The\n doctor's diagnostic eye.\"", "\"They told you that too.\"\n\n\n She was wrong again, but it was probably wiser not to tell her how he\n knew. No one had said anything to him in the hospital. He hadn't given\n them a chance. He had awakened in a room and hadn't wanted to be alone.\n He'd got up and read the chart and searched dizzily through the closet.\n Clothes were hanging there and he'd put them on and muttered her name\n to himself. He'd sat down to gain strength and after a while he'd\n walked out and no one had stopped him.\n\n\n It was night when he left the hospital and the next thing he remembered\n was her face as he looked through the door. Her name hadn't been on the\n chart nor her address and yet he had found her. That proved something,\n didn't it? \"How could I forget you?\" he demanded.\n\n\n \"You may have known someone else with that name. When were we married?\"", "Without waiting for him to comply, Crander pushed him into a chair and\n began hauling out a variety of instruments with which he poked about\n his bewildered patient.\n\n\n Finally Crander seemed satisfied. \"Excellent,\" he said. \"If I didn't\n know better, I'd say you were almost fully recovered. A week ago, we\n considered removing you from the regrowth tank. Our decision to leave\n you there an extra week has paid off very, very nicely.\"\n\n\n Merrol wasn't as pleased as the doctor appeared to be. \"Granted you can\n identify me as the person who came out of regrowth—but does that mean\n I'm Dan Merrol? Could there be a mistake?\"\n\n\n Crander eyed him clinically. \"We don't ordinarily do this—but it is\n evident that with you peace of mind is more important than procedure.\n And you look well enough to stand the physical strain.\"", "But why hadn't he told her? Shock? Perhaps—but where had those other\n identities come from—lepidopterist, musician, actor, mathematician\n and wrestler? And where had he got memories of wives, slender and\n passionate, petite and wild, casual and complaisant, nagging and\n insecure?\n\n\n Erica he didn't remember at all, save from last night, and what was\n that due to?\n\n\n \"What are you going to do?\" he asked, deliberately toying with the last\n bite of breakfast. It gave him time to think.\n\n\n \"They said they'd identified everyone, living or dead, and I supposed\n they had. After seeing you, I can believe they made any number of\n similar mistakes. Dan Merrol may be alive under another name. It will\n be hard to do, but I must try to find him. Some of the accident victims\n went to other hospitals, you know, the ones located nearest where they\n fell.\"", "Merrol turned away miserably. There were other things, but he had\n learned the essentials. He was Dan Merrol and there was nothing they\n could do for him until it was too late. How long could he expect Erica\n to wait?\n\n\n The doctor hadn't finished the medical session. \"Replacement of body\n parts is easy, after all. The big trouble came when we went into the\n brain.\"\n\n\n \"Brain?\" Dan was startled.\n\n\n \"How hard do you think your skull is?\" Crander came closer. \"Bend your\n head.\"\n\n\n Merrol obeyed and could feel the doctor's forefinger slice across his\n scalp in a mock operation. \"This sector was crushed.\" Roughly half his\n brain, it appeared. \"That's why so many memories were gone—not just\n from shock. In addition, other sectors were damaged and had to be\n replaced.\"", "He slowed down—he didn't want to attract attention. It was difficult\n but he learned to walk at a pedestrian pace. However poorly they'd\n matched his legs, they'd given him good ones.\n\n\n Last night, on an impulse, he'd left the hospital and now he had to go\n back.\nHad\nto? Of course. There were too many uncertainties still to\n be settled. He glanced around. It was still very early in the morning\n and normal traffic was just beginning. Maybe they hadn't missed him\n yet, though it was unlikely.\n\n\n He seemed to know the route well enough and covered the distance in a\n brief time. He turned in at the building and, scanning the directory,\n went at once to the proper floor and stopped at the desk.\nThe receptionist was busy with the drawer of the desk. \"Can I help\n you?\" she asked, continuing to peer down.\n\n\n \"The director—Doctor Crander. I don't have an appointment.\"", "It might be wrong, but it was very pleasant, though he did guess her\n motives. She was a warmhearted girl and couldn't help pitying him.\n \"Don't be so damned considerate,\" he mumbled.\n\n\n \"You'll have to put me down,\" she said, averting her eyes.\n \"Otherwise.... You're an intolerable funny man.\"\n\n\n He knew it—he could see himself in the mirror. He was something to\n laugh at when anyone got tired of pretending sympathy. He put her down\n and stumbled out. He thought he could hear the bed creak as she threw\n herself on it.\nII\n\n\n Once he got started, walking wasn't hard. His left side swung at a\n different rate from his right, but that was due to the variation in\n the length of his thighs and lower legs, and the two rhythms could be\n reconciled. He swept along, gaining control of his muscles. He became\n aware that he was whizzing past everyone.", "Erica came close and leaned comfortingly against him, but he wasn't\n comforted. \"I waited till I was sure. I didn't want to upset you.\"\n\n\n He wasn't as sure as she seemed to be now. Somehow, maybe he was still\n Dan Merrol—but he wasn't going to insist on it—not after looking at\n himself. Not after trying to sort out those damned memories.\n\n\n She was too kind, pretending to be a little attracted to him, to the\n scrambled face, to the mismatched lumps and limbs and shapes that,\n stretching the term, currently formed his body. It was clear what he\n had to do.\nThe jacket he had worn last night didn't fit. Erica cut off the sleeve\n that hung far over his fingertips on one side and basted it to the\n sleeve that ended well above his wrist, on the other. The shoulders\n were narrow, but the material would stretch and after shrugging around\n in it, he managed to expand it so it was not too tight.", "\"Can't you remember?\" Her laughter tinkled as she pushed him away and\n sat up. \"They said you were Dan Merrol at the hospital, but they must\n have been wrong.\"\n\n\n \"Hospitals don't make that kind of mistake,\" he said with a certainty\n he didn't altogether feel.\n\n\n \"But\nI\nshould know, shouldn't I?\"\n\n\n \"Of course, but....\" He did some verbal backstepping. \"It was a\n bad accident. You've got to expect that I won't be quite the same\n at first.\" He sat up. \"\nLook\nat me. Can't you tell who I am?\" She\n returned his gaze, then swayed toward him. He decided that she was\n highly attractive—but surely he ought to have known that long ago.\nWith a visible effort she leaned away from him. \"Your left eye does\n look familiar,\" she said cautiously. \"The brown one, I mean.\"\n\n\n \"The\nbrown\none?\"", "She sighed and drew away. \"That was a lucky guess on your age.\"\nDid that mean he wasn't right on anything else? From the expression\n on her face, it did. \"You've got to expect me to be confused in the\n beginning. Can't you really tell who I am?\"\n\n\n \"I\ncan't\n! You don't have the same personality at all.\" She glanced at\n her arm. There was a bruise on it.\n\n\n \"Did I do that?\" he asked.\n\n\n \"You did, though I'm sure you didn't mean to. I don't think you\n realized how strong you were. Dan was always too gentle—he must have\n been afraid of me. And\nyou\nweren't at all.\"\n\n\n \"Maybe I was impetuous,\" he said. \"But it was such a long time.\"", "\"Almost three months. But most of that time you were floating in\n gelatin in the regrowth tank, unconscious until yesterday.\" She\n leaned forward and caressed his cheek. \"Everything seems wrong, no\n matter how hard I try to believe otherwise. You don't have the same\n personality—you can't remember anything.\"\n\n\n \"And I have one brown eye and one green.\"\n\n\n \"It's not just that, darling. Go over to the mirror.\"\n\n\n He had been seriously injured and he was still weak from the shock. He\n got up and walked unsteadily to the mirror. \"Now what?\"\n\n\n \"Stand beside it. Do you see the line?\" Erica pointed to the glass.\n\n\n He did—it was a mark level with his chin. \"What does it mean?\"\n\n\n \"That should be the top of Dan Merrol's head,\" she said softly.", "\"\nWhose\ntheorem?\"\n\n\n \"Wysocki's. I started to call the hospital and you wouldn't let me,\n because of the theorem. You said you'd explain it this morning.\" She\n glanced at the bruise on her arm." ], [ "\"You did a fine job,\" he said. Recalling the picture of the wreckage,\n he knew they had. \"But couldn't you have done just a little better?\"\nCrander's eyebrows bounced up. \"We're amazed at how well we have\n done. You can search case histories and find nothing comparable.\" His\n eyebrows dropped back into place. \"Of course, if you have a specific\n complaint....\"\n\n\n \"Nothing specific. But look at this hand....\"\n\n\n The doctor seized it. \"Beautiful, isn't it?\"\n\n\n \"Perhaps—taken by itself.\" Dan rolled up his sleeve. \"See how it joins\n the forearm.\"\n\n\n Crander waggled it gravely. \"It coordinates perfectly. I've observed\n you have complete control over it. The doctor's eye, my boy. The\n doctor's diagnostic eye.\"", "\"Glad to see you,\" said Doctor Crander, behind the desk. He was nervous\n and harassed for so early in the morning. \"The receptionist didn't give\n me your name. For some reason she seems upset.\"\n\n\n She did at that, he thought—probably bewildered by his appearance. The\n hospital didn't seem to have a calming influence on either her or the\n doctor. \"That's why I came here. I'm not sure who I am. I thought I was\n Dan Merrol.\"\n\n\n Doctor Crander tried to fight his way through the desk. Being a little\n wider and solider, though not by much, the desk won. He contented\n himself by wiping his forehead. \"Our missing patient,\" he said, sighing\n with vast relief. \"For a while I had visions of....\" He then decided\n that visions were nothing a medical man should place much faith in.\n\n\n \"Then I\nam\nDan Merrol?\"", "Miss Jerrems came back, wheeling a large cart. Dan was surprised at the\n mass of records. Crander noticed his expression and smiled. \"You're\n our prize case, Merrol. I've never heard of anyone else surviving\n such extensive surgery. Naturally, we have a step-by-step account of\n everything we did.\"\n\n\n He turned to the woman. \"You may leave, Miss Jerrems.\" She went, but\n the adoration she had showed so openly for her employer seemed to have\n curdled in the last few moments.\n\n\n Crander dug into the files and rooted out photographs. \"Here are\n pictures of the wreckage in which you were found—notice that you were\n strapped in your seat—as you were received into the hospital—at\n various stages in surgery and finally, some taken from the files of the\n company for which you worked.\"\n\n\n Merrol winced. The photographic sequence was incontrovertible. He had\n been a handsome fellow.", "The doctor came cautiously around the desk this time. \"Of course. I\n didn't expect that you'd come walking in my office—that's why I didn't\n recognize you immediately.\" He exhaled peevishly. \"Where did you go?\n We've been searching for you everywhere.\"\n\n\n It seemed wiser to Dan not to tell him everything. \"It was stuffy\n inside. I went out for a stroll before the nurse came in.\"\n\n\n Crander frowned, his nervousness rapidly disappearing. \"Then it was\n about an hour ago. We didn't think you could walk at all so soon, or we\n would have kept someone on duty through the night.\"\nThey had underestimated him, but he didn't mind. Of course, he didn't\n know how a patient from the regrowth tanks was supposed to act.\n The doctor took his pulse. \"Seems fine,\" he said, surprised. \"Sit\n down—please sit down.\"", "He pressed the buzzer and an angular woman in her early forties\n answered. \"Miss Jerrems, the Dan Merrol file.\"\n\n\n Miss Jerrems flashed a glance of open adoration at the doctor and\n before she could reel it in, her gaze swept past Dan, hesitated and\n returned to him. Her mouth opened and closed like that of a nervous\n goldfish and she darted from the room.\nThey see me and flee as fast as they can caper\n, thought Merrol. It\n was not wholly true—Crander didn't seem much affected. But he was a\n doctor and used to it. Furthermore, he probably had room for only one\n emotion at the moment—relief at the return of his patient.", "Without waiting for him to comply, Crander pushed him into a chair and\n began hauling out a variety of instruments with which he poked about\n his bewildered patient.\n\n\n Finally Crander seemed satisfied. \"Excellent,\" he said. \"If I didn't\n know better, I'd say you were almost fully recovered. A week ago, we\n considered removing you from the regrowth tank. Our decision to leave\n you there an extra week has paid off very, very nicely.\"\n\n\n Merrol wasn't as pleased as the doctor appeared to be. \"Granted you can\n identify me as the person who came out of regrowth—but does that mean\n I'm Dan Merrol? Could there be a mistake?\"\n\n\n Crander eyed him clinically. \"We don't ordinarily do this—but it is\n evident that with you peace of mind is more important than procedure.\n And you look well enough to stand the physical strain.\"", "It was then he'd grabbed her, to keep her from talking to the hospital.\n He'd been unnecessarily rough, but that could be ascribed to lack of\n coordination. She could have been terrified, might have resisted—but\n she hadn't. At that time, she must have half-believed he was Dan\n Merrol, still dangerously near the edges of post-regrowth shock.\nShe was looking at him, waiting for that explanation. He shook his\n mind frantically and the words came out. \"Self-therapy,\" he said\n briskly. \"The patient alone understands what he needs.\" She started to\n interrupt, but he shook his head and went on blithely. \"That's the\n first corollary of the theorem. The second is that there are critical\n times in the recovery of the patient. At such times, with the least\n possible supervision, he should be encouraged to make his own decisions\n and carry them through by himself, even though running a slight risk of\n physical complications.\"", "Merrol turned away miserably. There were other things, but he had\n learned the essentials. He was Dan Merrol and there was nothing they\n could do for him until it was too late. How long could he expect Erica\n to wait?\n\n\n The doctor hadn't finished the medical session. \"Replacement of body\n parts is easy, after all. The big trouble came when we went into the\n brain.\"\n\n\n \"Brain?\" Dan was startled.\n\n\n \"How hard do you think your skull is?\" Crander came closer. \"Bend your\n head.\"\n\n\n Merrol obeyed and could feel the doctor's forefinger slice across his\n scalp in a mock operation. \"This sector was crushed.\" Roughly half his\n brain, it appeared. \"That's why so many memories were gone—not just\n from shock. In addition, other sectors were damaged and had to be\n replaced.\"", "\"That's new, isn't it?\" she said. \"I always thought they watched the\n patient carefully.\"\n\n\n It ought to be new—he'd just invented it. \"You know how rapidly\n medical practices change,\" he said quickly. \"Anyway, when they\n examined me last night, I was much stronger than they expected—so,\n when I wanted to come home, they let me. It's their latest belief that\n initiative is more important than perfect health.\"\n\n\n \"Strange,\" she muttered. \"But you are very strong.\" She looked at him\n and blushed. \"Initiative, certainly you have. Dan could use some,\n wherever he is.\"\n\n\n Dan again, whether it was himself or another person. For a brief time,\n as she listened to him, he'd had the silly idea that.... But it could\n never happen to him. He'd better leave now while she was distracted and\n bewildered and believed what he was saying. \"I've got to go. I'm due\n back,\" he told her.", "He slowed down—he didn't want to attract attention. It was difficult\n but he learned to walk at a pedestrian pace. However poorly they'd\n matched his legs, they'd given him good ones.\n\n\n Last night, on an impulse, he'd left the hospital and now he had to go\n back.\nHad\nto? Of course. There were too many uncertainties still to\n be settled. He glanced around. It was still very early in the morning\n and normal traffic was just beginning. Maybe they hadn't missed him\n yet, though it was unlikely.\n\n\n He seemed to know the route well enough and covered the distance in a\n brief time. He turned in at the building and, scanning the directory,\n went at once to the proper floor and stopped at the desk.\nThe receptionist was busy with the drawer of the desk. \"Can I help\n you?\" she asked, continuing to peer down.\n\n\n \"The director—Doctor Crander. I don't have an appointment.\"", "The other just didn't understand. \"But the size—it doesn't match my\n arm!\"\n\n\n \"Doesn't\nmatch\n?\" cried the doctor. \"Do you have any idea of the\n biological ways in which it\ndoes\nmatch? True, it may not be\n esthetically harmonized, but here we delve into the mysteries of the\n human organism, and we can hardly be striving for Botticelli bodies and\n Michelangelo men. First, your hand moves freely at the joint, a triumph\n of surgical skill.\" He moved the hand experimentally, to show Merrol\n how it was done. He dropped the hand and hurried to a screen against\n the wall.\n\n\n Crander drew his finger across the surface and the mark remained. \"You\n know about Rh positive and negative blood. Mixed, they can be lethal.\n This was discovered long ago, by someone I've forgotten. But there are\n other factors just as potent and far more complex.\"", "Crander traced out five areas he could feel, but not see. \"Samuel\n Kaufman, musician—Breed Mannly, cowboy actor—George Elkins,\n lepidopterist—Duke DeCaesares, wrestler—and Ben Eisenberg,\n mathematician, went into the places I tapped.\"\n\n\n Dan raised his head. Some things were clearer. The memories were\n authentic, but they weren't his—nor did the other wives belong to him.\n It was no wonder Erica had cringed at their names.\n\n\n \"These donors were dead, but you can be thankful we had parts of their\n brains available.\" Crander delved into the file and came up with a\n sheet.", "\"That's the beginning, but at the sensory organs we leave the simple\n stuff behind. Take the eye, for instance.\" Merrol leaned away because\n Dr. Crander seemed about to pluck one of Dan's eyes from its socket.\n \"Surgical and growth factors involved in splicing a massive nerve\n bundle pass any layman's comprehension. There are no non-technical\n terms to describe it.\"\nIt was just as well—Merrol didn't want a lecture. He extended his\n arms. One was of normal length, the other longer. \"Do you think you can\n do something with this? I don't mind variation in thickness—some of\n that will smooth out as I exercise—but I'd like them the same length.\"", "Erica came close and leaned comfortingly against him, but he wasn't\n comforted. \"I waited till I was sure. I didn't want to upset you.\"\n\n\n He wasn't as sure as she seemed to be now. Somehow, maybe he was still\n Dan Merrol—but he wasn't going to insist on it—not after looking at\n himself. Not after trying to sort out those damned memories.\n\n\n She was too kind, pretending to be a little attracted to him, to the\n scrambled face, to the mismatched lumps and limbs and shapes that,\n stretching the term, currently formed his body. It was clear what he\n had to do.\nThe jacket he had worn last night didn't fit. Erica cut off the sleeve\n that hung far over his fingertips on one side and basted it to the\n sleeve that ended well above his wrist, on the other. The shoulders\n were narrow, but the material would stretch and after shrugging around\n in it, he managed to expand it so it was not too tight.", "\"Mass-cell radiographs. One was loaned by your employer. The other was\n taken just after your last operation. Both were corrected according\n to standard methods. One cell won't do it, ten yield an uncertain\n identity—but as few as a hundred cells from any part of the original\n body, excepting the blood, constitute proof more positive than\n fingerprints before the surgical exchange of limbs. Don't ask me\n why—no one knows. But it is true that cells differ from one body to\n the next, and this test detects the difference.\"\nThe mass-cell radiographs did seem identical and Dr. Crander seemed\n certain. Taken altogether, the evidence was overwhelming. There had\n been no mistake—he was Dan Merrol, though it was not difficult to\n understand why Erica couldn't believe he was her husband.", "\"There were many others injured at the same time, you know—and you\n were one of the last to be extricated from the ship. Normally, when\n we have to replace a whole arm, we do so at the shoulder for obvious\n reasons. But the previously treated victims had depleted our supplies.\n Some needed only a hand and we gave them just that, others a hand and\n a forearm, and so on. When we got to you, we had to use leftovers or\n permit you to die—there wasn't time to send to other hospitals. In\n fact there wasn't any time at all—we actually thought you were dead,\n but soon found we were wrong.\"\n\n\n Crander stared at a crack in the ceiling. \"Further recovery will take\n other operations and your nervous system isn't up to it.\" He shook his\n head. \"Five years from now, we can help you, not before.\"", "Quickly, he scanned himself. It was the same elsewhere. The upper right\n arm was massive, too big for the shoulder it merged with. And the\n forearm, while long, was slender. He blinked and looked again. While\n they were patching him up, did they really think he needed black, red\n and brown hair? He wondered how a beagle felt.\nWhat were they, a bunch of humorists? Did they, for comic effect, piece\n together a body out of bits and scraps left over from a chopping block?\n It was himself he was looking at, otherwise he'd say the results were\n neither hideous nor horrible, but merely—well, what? Ludicrous and\n laughable—and there were complications in that too. Who wants to be\n an involuntary clown, a physical buffoon that Mother Nature hadn't\n duplicated since Man began?", "\"Almost three months. But most of that time you were floating in\n gelatin in the regrowth tank, unconscious until yesterday.\" She\n leaned forward and caressed his cheek. \"Everything seems wrong, no\n matter how hard I try to believe otherwise. You don't have the same\n personality—you can't remember anything.\"\n\n\n \"And I have one brown eye and one green.\"\n\n\n \"It's not just that, darling. Go over to the mirror.\"\n\n\n He had been seriously injured and he was still weak from the shock. He\n got up and walked unsteadily to the mirror. \"Now what?\"\n\n\n \"Stand beside it. Do you see the line?\" Erica pointed to the glass.\n\n\n He did—it was a mark level with his chin. \"What does it mean?\"\n\n\n \"That should be the top of Dan Merrol's head,\" she said softly.", "\"Can't you remember?\" Her laughter tinkled as she pushed him away and\n sat up. \"They said you were Dan Merrol at the hospital, but they must\n have been wrong.\"\n\n\n \"Hospitals don't make that kind of mistake,\" he said with a certainty\n he didn't altogether feel.\n\n\n \"But\nI\nshould know, shouldn't I?\"\n\n\n \"Of course, but....\" He did some verbal backstepping. \"It was a\n bad accident. You've got to expect that I won't be quite the same\n at first.\" He sat up. \"\nLook\nat me. Can't you tell who I am?\" She\n returned his gaze, then swayed toward him. He decided that she was\n highly attractive—but surely he ought to have known that long ago.\nWith a visible effort she leaned away from him. \"Your left eye does\n look familiar,\" she said cautiously. \"The brown one, I mean.\"\n\n\n \"The\nbrown\none?\"", "It might be wrong, but it was very pleasant, though he did guess her\n motives. She was a warmhearted girl and couldn't help pitying him.\n \"Don't be so damned considerate,\" he mumbled.\n\n\n \"You'll have to put me down,\" she said, averting her eyes.\n \"Otherwise.... You're an intolerable funny man.\"\n\n\n He knew it—he could see himself in the mirror. He was something to\n laugh at when anyone got tired of pretending sympathy. He put her down\n and stumbled out. He thought he could hear the bed creak as she threw\n herself on it.\nII\n\n\n Once he got started, walking wasn't hard. His left side swung at a\n different rate from his right, but that was due to the variation in\n the length of his thighs and lower legs, and the two rhythms could be\n reconciled. He swept along, gaining control of his muscles. He became\n aware that he was whizzing past everyone." ], [ "But why hadn't he told her? Shock? Perhaps—but where had those other\n identities come from—lepidopterist, musician, actor, mathematician\n and wrestler? And where had he got memories of wives, slender and\n passionate, petite and wild, casual and complaisant, nagging and\n insecure?\n\n\n Erica he didn't remember at all, save from last night, and what was\n that due to?\n\n\n \"What are you going to do?\" he asked, deliberately toying with the last\n bite of breakfast. It gave him time to think.\n\n\n \"They said they'd identified everyone, living or dead, and I supposed\n they had. After seeing you, I can believe they made any number of\n similar mistakes. Dan Merrol may be alive under another name. It will\n be hard to do, but I must try to find him. Some of the accident victims\n went to other hospitals, you know, the ones located nearest where they\n fell.\"", "She blinked at him. \"A patient?\" She didn't need to look twice to see\n that he had been one. \"The director does occasionally see ex-patients.\"\n\n\n He watched her appreciatively as she went inside. The way she walked,\n you'd think she had a special audience. Presently the door opened and\n she came back, batting her eyes vigorously.\n\n\n \"You can go in now,\" she said huskily. Strange, her voice had dropped\n an octave in less than a minute. \"The old boy tried to pretend he was\n in the middle of a grave emergency.\"\n\n\n On his way in, he miscalculated, or she did, and he brushed against\n her. The touch was pleasant, but not thrilling. That reaction seemed\n reserved for Erica.", "He pressed the buzzer and an angular woman in her early forties\n answered. \"Miss Jerrems, the Dan Merrol file.\"\n\n\n Miss Jerrems flashed a glance of open adoration at the doctor and\n before she could reel it in, her gaze swept past Dan, hesitated and\n returned to him. Her mouth opened and closed like that of a nervous\n goldfish and she darted from the room.\nThey see me and flee as fast as they can caper\n, thought Merrol. It\n was not wholly true—Crander didn't seem much affected. But he was a\n doctor and used to it. Furthermore, he probably had room for only one\n emotion at the moment—relief at the return of his patient.", "Erica came close and leaned comfortingly against him, but he wasn't\n comforted. \"I waited till I was sure. I didn't want to upset you.\"\n\n\n He wasn't as sure as she seemed to be now. Somehow, maybe he was still\n Dan Merrol—but he wasn't going to insist on it—not after looking at\n himself. Not after trying to sort out those damned memories.\n\n\n She was too kind, pretending to be a little attracted to him, to the\n scrambled face, to the mismatched lumps and limbs and shapes that,\n stretching the term, currently formed his body. It was clear what he\n had to do.\nThe jacket he had worn last night didn't fit. Erica cut off the sleeve\n that hung far over his fingertips on one side and basted it to the\n sleeve that ended well above his wrist, on the other. The shoulders\n were narrow, but the material would stretch and after shrugging around\n in it, he managed to expand it so it was not too tight.", "\"Almost three months. But most of that time you were floating in\n gelatin in the regrowth tank, unconscious until yesterday.\" She\n leaned forward and caressed his cheek. \"Everything seems wrong, no\n matter how hard I try to believe otherwise. You don't have the same\n personality—you can't remember anything.\"\n\n\n \"And I have one brown eye and one green.\"\n\n\n \"It's not just that, darling. Go over to the mirror.\"\n\n\n He had been seriously injured and he was still weak from the shock. He\n got up and walked unsteadily to the mirror. \"Now what?\"\n\n\n \"Stand beside it. Do you see the line?\" Erica pointed to the glass.\n\n\n He did—it was a mark level with his chin. \"What does it mean?\"\n\n\n \"That should be the top of Dan Merrol's head,\" she said softly.", "\"That's new, isn't it?\" she said. \"I always thought they watched the\n patient carefully.\"\n\n\n It ought to be new—he'd just invented it. \"You know how rapidly\n medical practices change,\" he said quickly. \"Anyway, when they\n examined me last night, I was much stronger than they expected—so,\n when I wanted to come home, they let me. It's their latest belief that\n initiative is more important than perfect health.\"\n\n\n \"Strange,\" she muttered. \"But you are very strong.\" She looked at him\n and blushed. \"Initiative, certainly you have. Dan could use some,\n wherever he is.\"\n\n\n Dan again, whether it was himself or another person. For a brief time,\n as she listened to him, he'd had the silly idea that.... But it could\n never happen to him. He'd better leave now while she was distracted and\n bewildered and believed what he was saying. \"I've got to go. I'm due\n back,\" he told her.", "It was then he'd grabbed her, to keep her from talking to the hospital.\n He'd been unnecessarily rough, but that could be ascribed to lack of\n coordination. She could have been terrified, might have resisted—but\n she hadn't. At that time, she must have half-believed he was Dan\n Merrol, still dangerously near the edges of post-regrowth shock.\nShe was looking at him, waiting for that explanation. He shook his\n mind frantically and the words came out. \"Self-therapy,\" he said\n briskly. \"The patient alone understands what he needs.\" She started to\n interrupt, but he shook his head and went on blithely. \"That's the\n first corollary of the theorem. The second is that there are critical\n times in the recovery of the patient. At such times, with the least\n possible supervision, he should be encouraged to make his own decisions\n and carry them through by himself, even though running a slight risk of\n physical complications.\"", "Miss Jerrems came back, wheeling a large cart. Dan was surprised at the\n mass of records. Crander noticed his expression and smiled. \"You're\n our prize case, Merrol. I've never heard of anyone else surviving\n such extensive surgery. Naturally, we have a step-by-step account of\n everything we did.\"\n\n\n He turned to the woman. \"You may leave, Miss Jerrems.\" She went, but\n the adoration she had showed so openly for her employer seemed to have\n curdled in the last few moments.\n\n\n Crander dug into the files and rooted out photographs. \"Here are\n pictures of the wreckage in which you were found—notice that you were\n strapped in your seat—as you were received into the hospital—at\n various stages in surgery and finally, some taken from the files of the\n company for which you worked.\"\n\n\n Merrol winced. The photographic sequence was incontrovertible. He had\n been a handsome fellow.", "\"Your other eye's green,\" she told him.\n\n\n \"Of course—a replacement. I told you it was a serious accident. They\n had to use whatever was handy.\"\n\n\n \"I suppose so—but shouldn't they have tried to stick to the original\n color scheme?\"\n\n\n \"It's a little thing,\" he said. \"I'm lucky to be alive.\" He took her\n hand. \"I believe I can convince you I'm\nme\n.\"\n\n\n \"I wish you could.\" Her voice was low and sad and he couldn't guess why.\n\n\n \"My name is Dan Merrol.\"\n\n\n \"They told you that at the hospital.\"\n\n\n They hadn't—he'd read it on the chart. But he had been alone in the\n room and the name had to be his, and anyway he\nfelt\nlike Dan Merrol.\n \"Your name is Erica.\"", "She sighed and drew away. \"That was a lucky guess on your age.\"\nDid that mean he wasn't right on anything else? From the expression\n on her face, it did. \"You've got to expect me to be confused in the\n beginning. Can't you really tell who I am?\"\n\n\n \"I\ncan't\n! You don't have the same personality at all.\" She glanced at\n her arm. There was a bruise on it.\n\n\n \"Did I do that?\" he asked.\n\n\n \"You did, though I'm sure you didn't mean to. I don't think you\n realized how strong you were. Dan was always too gentle—he must have\n been afraid of me. And\nyou\nweren't at all.\"\n\n\n \"Maybe I was impetuous,\" he said. \"But it was such a long time.\"", "Merrol turned away miserably. There were other things, but he had\n learned the essentials. He was Dan Merrol and there was nothing they\n could do for him until it was too late. How long could he expect Erica\n to wait?\n\n\n The doctor hadn't finished the medical session. \"Replacement of body\n parts is easy, after all. The big trouble came when we went into the\n brain.\"\n\n\n \"Brain?\" Dan was startled.\n\n\n \"How hard do you think your skull is?\" Crander came closer. \"Bend your\n head.\"\n\n\n Merrol obeyed and could feel the doctor's forefinger slice across his\n scalp in a mock operation. \"This sector was crushed.\" Roughly half his\n brain, it appeared. \"That's why so many memories were gone—not just\n from shock. In addition, other sectors were damaged and had to be\n replaced.\"", "Crander traced out five areas he could feel, but not see. \"Samuel\n Kaufman, musician—Breed Mannly, cowboy actor—George Elkins,\n lepidopterist—Duke DeCaesares, wrestler—and Ben Eisenberg,\n mathematician, went into the places I tapped.\"\n\n\n Dan raised his head. Some things were clearer. The memories were\n authentic, but they weren't his—nor did the other wives belong to him.\n It was no wonder Erica had cringed at their names.\n\n\n \"These donors were dead, but you can be thankful we had parts of their\n brains available.\" Crander delved into the file and came up with a\n sheet.", "\"Glad to see you,\" said Doctor Crander, behind the desk. He was nervous\n and harassed for so early in the morning. \"The receptionist didn't give\n me your name. For some reason she seems upset.\"\n\n\n She did at that, he thought—probably bewildered by his appearance. The\n hospital didn't seem to have a calming influence on either her or the\n doctor. \"That's why I came here. I'm not sure who I am. I thought I was\n Dan Merrol.\"\n\n\n Doctor Crander tried to fight his way through the desk. Being a little\n wider and solider, though not by much, the desk won. He contented\n himself by wiping his forehead. \"Our missing patient,\" he said, sighing\n with vast relief. \"For a while I had visions of....\" He then decided\n that visions were nothing a medical man should place much faith in.\n\n\n \"Then I\nam\nDan Merrol?\"", "The trousers were also a problem—six inches short with no material\n to add on, but here again Erica proved equal to the task and, using\n the cuffs, contrived to lengthen them. Shoes were another difficulty.\n For one foot the size was not bad, but he could almost step out of the\n other shoe. When she wasn't looking, he wadded up a spare sock and\n stuffed it in the toe.\n\n\n He looked critically at himself in the mirror. Dressed, his total\n effect was better than he had dared hope it would be. True, he did look\ndifferent\n.\n\n\n Erica gazed at him with melancholy affection. \"I can't understand why\n they let you out wearing those clothes—or for that matter, why they\n let you out at all.\"\n\n\n He must have given some explanation as he'd stumbled through the door.\n What was it?", "\"They told you that too.\"\n\n\n She was wrong again, but it was probably wiser not to tell her how he\n knew. No one had said anything to him in the hospital. He hadn't given\n them a chance. He had awakened in a room and hadn't wanted to be alone.\n He'd got up and read the chart and searched dizzily through the closet.\n Clothes were hanging there and he'd put them on and muttered her name\n to himself. He'd sat down to gain strength and after a while he'd\n walked out and no one had stopped him.\n\n\n It was night when he left the hospital and the next thing he remembered\n was her face as he looked through the door. Her name hadn't been on the\n chart nor her address and yet he had found her. That proved something,\n didn't it? \"How could I forget you?\" he demanded.\n\n\n \"You may have known someone else with that name. When were we married?\"", "The Man Who Was Six\nBy F. L. WALLACE\n\n\n Illustrated by ASHMAN\n\n\n [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Galaxy Science Fiction September 1954.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nThere is nothing at all like having a sound\n \nmind in a sound body, but Dan Merrol had too\n \nmuch of one—and also too much of the other!\n\"Sorry, darling,\" said Erica. She yawned, added, \"I've tried—but I\n just can't believe you're my husband.\"\n\n\n He felt his own yawn slip off his face. \"What do you mean? What am I\n doing here then?\"", "\"Mass-cell radiographs. One was loaned by your employer. The other was\n taken just after your last operation. Both were corrected according\n to standard methods. One cell won't do it, ten yield an uncertain\n identity—but as few as a hundred cells from any part of the original\n body, excepting the blood, constitute proof more positive than\n fingerprints before the surgical exchange of limbs. Don't ask me\n why—no one knows. But it is true that cells differ from one body to\n the next, and this test detects the difference.\"\nThe mass-cell radiographs did seem identical and Dr. Crander seemed\n certain. Taken altogether, the evidence was overwhelming. There had\n been no mistake—he was Dan Merrol, though it was not difficult to\n understand why Erica couldn't believe he was her husband.", "\"Can't you remember?\" Her laughter tinkled as she pushed him away and\n sat up. \"They said you were Dan Merrol at the hospital, but they must\n have been wrong.\"\n\n\n \"Hospitals don't make that kind of mistake,\" he said with a certainty\n he didn't altogether feel.\n\n\n \"But\nI\nshould know, shouldn't I?\"\n\n\n \"Of course, but....\" He did some verbal backstepping. \"It was a\n bad accident. You've got to expect that I won't be quite the same\n at first.\" He sat up. \"\nLook\nat me. Can't you tell who I am?\" She\n returned his gaze, then swayed toward him. He decided that she was\n highly attractive—but surely he ought to have known that long ago.\nWith a visible effort she leaned away from him. \"Your left eye does\n look familiar,\" she said cautiously. \"The brown one, I mean.\"\n\n\n \"The\nbrown\none?\"", "\"Then the director can't see you.\" The girl looked up and her firmly\n polite expression became a grimace of barely suppressed laughter.\n\n\n Then laughter was swept away. What replaced it he couldn't say, but it\n didn't seem related to humor. She placed her hand near his but it went\n astray and got tangled with his fingers. \"I just thought of a joke,\"\n she murmured. \"Please don't think that I consider you at all funny.\"\n\n\n The hell she didn't—and it was the second time within the hour a woman\n had used that word on him. He wished they'd stop. He took back his\n hand, the slender one, an exquisite thing that might once have belonged\n to a musician. Was there an instrument played with one hand? The other\n one was far larger and clumsier, more suited to mayhem than music.\n \"When can I see the director?\"", "Even if he was sure, he didn't know whether he could tell her—and he\n wasn't sure any longer, although he had been. On the physical side of\n marriage, how could he ask her to share a body she'd have to laugh at?\n Later, he might tell her, if there was to be a 'later.' He pushed back\n his chair and looked at her uncertainly.\n\n\n \"Let me call a 'copter,\" she said. \"I hate to see you go.\"\n\n\n \"Wysocki's theorem,\" he told her. \"The patient has decided to walk.\"\n He weaved toward the door and twisted the knob. He turned in time to\n catch her in his arms.\n\n\n \"I know this is wrong,\" she said, pressing against him." ], [ "He pressed the buzzer and an angular woman in her early forties\n answered. \"Miss Jerrems, the Dan Merrol file.\"\n\n\n Miss Jerrems flashed a glance of open adoration at the doctor and\n before she could reel it in, her gaze swept past Dan, hesitated and\n returned to him. Her mouth opened and closed like that of a nervous\n goldfish and she darted from the room.\nThey see me and flee as fast as they can caper\n, thought Merrol. It\n was not wholly true—Crander didn't seem much affected. But he was a\n doctor and used to it. Furthermore, he probably had room for only one\n emotion at the moment—relief at the return of his patient.", "\"Glad to see you,\" said Doctor Crander, behind the desk. He was nervous\n and harassed for so early in the morning. \"The receptionist didn't give\n me your name. For some reason she seems upset.\"\n\n\n She did at that, he thought—probably bewildered by his appearance. The\n hospital didn't seem to have a calming influence on either her or the\n doctor. \"That's why I came here. I'm not sure who I am. I thought I was\n Dan Merrol.\"\n\n\n Doctor Crander tried to fight his way through the desk. Being a little\n wider and solider, though not by much, the desk won. He contented\n himself by wiping his forehead. \"Our missing patient,\" he said, sighing\n with vast relief. \"For a while I had visions of....\" He then decided\n that visions were nothing a medical man should place much faith in.\n\n\n \"Then I\nam\nDan Merrol?\"", "\"That's new, isn't it?\" she said. \"I always thought they watched the\n patient carefully.\"\n\n\n It ought to be new—he'd just invented it. \"You know how rapidly\n medical practices change,\" he said quickly. \"Anyway, when they\n examined me last night, I was much stronger than they expected—so,\n when I wanted to come home, they let me. It's their latest belief that\n initiative is more important than perfect health.\"\n\n\n \"Strange,\" she muttered. \"But you are very strong.\" She looked at him\n and blushed. \"Initiative, certainly you have. Dan could use some,\n wherever he is.\"\n\n\n Dan again, whether it was himself or another person. For a brief time,\n as she listened to him, he'd had the silly idea that.... But it could\n never happen to him. He'd better leave now while she was distracted and\n bewildered and believed what he was saying. \"I've got to go. I'm due\n back,\" he told her.", "It might be wrong, but it was very pleasant, though he did guess her\n motives. She was a warmhearted girl and couldn't help pitying him.\n \"Don't be so damned considerate,\" he mumbled.\n\n\n \"You'll have to put me down,\" she said, averting her eyes.\n \"Otherwise.... You're an intolerable funny man.\"\n\n\n He knew it—he could see himself in the mirror. He was something to\n laugh at when anyone got tired of pretending sympathy. He put her down\n and stumbled out. He thought he could hear the bed creak as she threw\n herself on it.\nII\n\n\n Once he got started, walking wasn't hard. His left side swung at a\n different rate from his right, but that was due to the variation in\n the length of his thighs and lower legs, and the two rhythms could be\n reconciled. He swept along, gaining control of his muscles. He became\n aware that he was whizzing past everyone.", "Miss Jerrems came back, wheeling a large cart. Dan was surprised at the\n mass of records. Crander noticed his expression and smiled. \"You're\n our prize case, Merrol. I've never heard of anyone else surviving\n such extensive surgery. Naturally, we have a step-by-step account of\n everything we did.\"\n\n\n He turned to the woman. \"You may leave, Miss Jerrems.\" She went, but\n the adoration she had showed so openly for her employer seemed to have\n curdled in the last few moments.\n\n\n Crander dug into the files and rooted out photographs. \"Here are\n pictures of the wreckage in which you were found—notice that you were\n strapped in your seat—as you were received into the hospital—at\n various stages in surgery and finally, some taken from the files of the\n company for which you worked.\"\n\n\n Merrol winced. The photographic sequence was incontrovertible. He had\n been a handsome fellow.", "The doctor came cautiously around the desk this time. \"Of course. I\n didn't expect that you'd come walking in my office—that's why I didn't\n recognize you immediately.\" He exhaled peevishly. \"Where did you go?\n We've been searching for you everywhere.\"\n\n\n It seemed wiser to Dan not to tell him everything. \"It was stuffy\n inside. I went out for a stroll before the nurse came in.\"\n\n\n Crander frowned, his nervousness rapidly disappearing. \"Then it was\n about an hour ago. We didn't think you could walk at all so soon, or we\n would have kept someone on duty through the night.\"\nThey had underestimated him, but he didn't mind. Of course, he didn't\n know how a patient from the regrowth tanks was supposed to act.\n The doctor took his pulse. \"Seems fine,\" he said, surprised. \"Sit\n down—please sit down.\"", "She sighed and drew away. \"That was a lucky guess on your age.\"\nDid that mean he wasn't right on anything else? From the expression\n on her face, it did. \"You've got to expect me to be confused in the\n beginning. Can't you really tell who I am?\"\n\n\n \"I\ncan't\n! You don't have the same personality at all.\" She glanced at\n her arm. There was a bruise on it.\n\n\n \"Did I do that?\" he asked.\n\n\n \"You did, though I'm sure you didn't mean to. I don't think you\n realized how strong you were. Dan was always too gentle—he must have\n been afraid of me. And\nyou\nweren't at all.\"\n\n\n \"Maybe I was impetuous,\" he said. \"But it was such a long time.\"", "\"You did a fine job,\" he said. Recalling the picture of the wreckage,\n he knew they had. \"But couldn't you have done just a little better?\"\nCrander's eyebrows bounced up. \"We're amazed at how well we have\n done. You can search case histories and find nothing comparable.\" His\n eyebrows dropped back into place. \"Of course, if you have a specific\n complaint....\"\n\n\n \"Nothing specific. But look at this hand....\"\n\n\n The doctor seized it. \"Beautiful, isn't it?\"\n\n\n \"Perhaps—taken by itself.\" Dan rolled up his sleeve. \"See how it joins\n the forearm.\"\n\n\n Crander waggled it gravely. \"It coordinates perfectly. I've observed\n you have complete control over it. The doctor's eye, my boy. The\n doctor's diagnostic eye.\"", "It was then he'd grabbed her, to keep her from talking to the hospital.\n He'd been unnecessarily rough, but that could be ascribed to lack of\n coordination. She could have been terrified, might have resisted—but\n she hadn't. At that time, she must have half-believed he was Dan\n Merrol, still dangerously near the edges of post-regrowth shock.\nShe was looking at him, waiting for that explanation. He shook his\n mind frantically and the words came out. \"Self-therapy,\" he said\n briskly. \"The patient alone understands what he needs.\" She started to\n interrupt, but he shook his head and went on blithely. \"That's the\n first corollary of the theorem. The second is that there are critical\n times in the recovery of the patient. At such times, with the least\n possible supervision, he should be encouraged to make his own decisions\n and carry them through by himself, even though running a slight risk of\n physical complications.\"", "\"Then the director can't see you.\" The girl looked up and her firmly\n polite expression became a grimace of barely suppressed laughter.\n\n\n Then laughter was swept away. What replaced it he couldn't say, but it\n didn't seem related to humor. She placed her hand near his but it went\n astray and got tangled with his fingers. \"I just thought of a joke,\"\n she murmured. \"Please don't think that I consider you at all funny.\"\n\n\n The hell she didn't—and it was the second time within the hour a woman\n had used that word on him. He wished they'd stop. He took back his\n hand, the slender one, an exquisite thing that might once have belonged\n to a musician. Was there an instrument played with one hand? The other\n one was far larger and clumsier, more suited to mayhem than music.\n \"When can I see the director?\"", "\"Can't you remember?\" Her laughter tinkled as she pushed him away and\n sat up. \"They said you were Dan Merrol at the hospital, but they must\n have been wrong.\"\n\n\n \"Hospitals don't make that kind of mistake,\" he said with a certainty\n he didn't altogether feel.\n\n\n \"But\nI\nshould know, shouldn't I?\"\n\n\n \"Of course, but....\" He did some verbal backstepping. \"It was a\n bad accident. You've got to expect that I won't be quite the same\n at first.\" He sat up. \"\nLook\nat me. Can't you tell who I am?\" She\n returned his gaze, then swayed toward him. He decided that she was\n highly attractive—but surely he ought to have known that long ago.\nWith a visible effort she leaned away from him. \"Your left eye does\n look familiar,\" she said cautiously. \"The brown one, I mean.\"\n\n\n \"The\nbrown\none?\"", "She blinked at him. \"A patient?\" She didn't need to look twice to see\n that he had been one. \"The director does occasionally see ex-patients.\"\n\n\n He watched her appreciatively as she went inside. The way she walked,\n you'd think she had a special audience. Presently the door opened and\n she came back, batting her eyes vigorously.\n\n\n \"You can go in now,\" she said huskily. Strange, her voice had dropped\n an octave in less than a minute. \"The old boy tried to pretend he was\n in the middle of a grave emergency.\"\n\n\n On his way in, he miscalculated, or she did, and he brushed against\n her. The touch was pleasant, but not thrilling. That reaction seemed\n reserved for Erica.", "Without waiting for him to comply, Crander pushed him into a chair and\n began hauling out a variety of instruments with which he poked about\n his bewildered patient.\n\n\n Finally Crander seemed satisfied. \"Excellent,\" he said. \"If I didn't\n know better, I'd say you were almost fully recovered. A week ago, we\n considered removing you from the regrowth tank. Our decision to leave\n you there an extra week has paid off very, very nicely.\"\n\n\n Merrol wasn't as pleased as the doctor appeared to be. \"Granted you can\n identify me as the person who came out of regrowth—but does that mean\n I'm Dan Merrol? Could there be a mistake?\"\n\n\n Crander eyed him clinically. \"We don't ordinarily do this—but it is\n evident that with you peace of mind is more important than procedure.\n And you look well enough to stand the physical strain.\"", "\"Almost three months. But most of that time you were floating in\n gelatin in the regrowth tank, unconscious until yesterday.\" She\n leaned forward and caressed his cheek. \"Everything seems wrong, no\n matter how hard I try to believe otherwise. You don't have the same\n personality—you can't remember anything.\"\n\n\n \"And I have one brown eye and one green.\"\n\n\n \"It's not just that, darling. Go over to the mirror.\"\n\n\n He had been seriously injured and he was still weak from the shock. He\n got up and walked unsteadily to the mirror. \"Now what?\"\n\n\n \"Stand beside it. Do you see the line?\" Erica pointed to the glass.\n\n\n He did—it was a mark level with his chin. \"What does it mean?\"\n\n\n \"That should be the top of Dan Merrol's head,\" she said softly.", "Erica came close and leaned comfortingly against him, but he wasn't\n comforted. \"I waited till I was sure. I didn't want to upset you.\"\n\n\n He wasn't as sure as she seemed to be now. Somehow, maybe he was still\n Dan Merrol—but he wasn't going to insist on it—not after looking at\n himself. Not after trying to sort out those damned memories.\n\n\n She was too kind, pretending to be a little attracted to him, to the\n scrambled face, to the mismatched lumps and limbs and shapes that,\n stretching the term, currently formed his body. It was clear what he\n had to do.\nThe jacket he had worn last night didn't fit. Erica cut off the sleeve\n that hung far over his fingertips on one side and basted it to the\n sleeve that ended well above his wrist, on the other. The shoulders\n were narrow, but the material would stretch and after shrugging around\n in it, he managed to expand it so it was not too tight.", "But why hadn't he told her? Shock? Perhaps—but where had those other\n identities come from—lepidopterist, musician, actor, mathematician\n and wrestler? And where had he got memories of wives, slender and\n passionate, petite and wild, casual and complaisant, nagging and\n insecure?\n\n\n Erica he didn't remember at all, save from last night, and what was\n that due to?\n\n\n \"What are you going to do?\" he asked, deliberately toying with the last\n bite of breakfast. It gave him time to think.\n\n\n \"They said they'd identified everyone, living or dead, and I supposed\n they had. After seeing you, I can believe they made any number of\n similar mistakes. Dan Merrol may be alive under another name. It will\n be hard to do, but I must try to find him. Some of the accident victims\n went to other hospitals, you know, the ones located nearest where they\n fell.\"", "He slowed down—he didn't want to attract attention. It was difficult\n but he learned to walk at a pedestrian pace. However poorly they'd\n matched his legs, they'd given him good ones.\n\n\n Last night, on an impulse, he'd left the hospital and now he had to go\n back.\nHad\nto? Of course. There were too many uncertainties still to\n be settled. He glanced around. It was still very early in the morning\n and normal traffic was just beginning. Maybe they hadn't missed him\n yet, though it was unlikely.\n\n\n He seemed to know the route well enough and covered the distance in a\n brief time. He turned in at the building and, scanning the directory,\n went at once to the proper floor and stopped at the desk.\nThe receptionist was busy with the drawer of the desk. \"Can I help\n you?\" she asked, continuing to peer down.\n\n\n \"The director—Doctor Crander. I don't have an appointment.\"", "Quickly, he scanned himself. It was the same elsewhere. The upper right\n arm was massive, too big for the shoulder it merged with. And the\n forearm, while long, was slender. He blinked and looked again. While\n they were patching him up, did they really think he needed black, red\n and brown hair? He wondered how a beagle felt.\nWhat were they, a bunch of humorists? Did they, for comic effect, piece\n together a body out of bits and scraps left over from a chopping block?\n It was himself he was looking at, otherwise he'd say the results were\n neither hideous nor horrible, but merely—well, what? Ludicrous and\n laughable—and there were complications in that too. Who wants to be\n an involuntary clown, a physical buffoon that Mother Nature hadn't\n duplicated since Man began?", "Merrol turned away miserably. There were other things, but he had\n learned the essentials. He was Dan Merrol and there was nothing they\n could do for him until it was too late. How long could he expect Erica\n to wait?\n\n\n The doctor hadn't finished the medical session. \"Replacement of body\n parts is easy, after all. The big trouble came when we went into the\n brain.\"\n\n\n \"Brain?\" Dan was startled.\n\n\n \"How hard do you think your skull is?\" Crander came closer. \"Bend your\n head.\"\n\n\n Merrol obeyed and could feel the doctor's forefinger slice across his\n scalp in a mock operation. \"This sector was crushed.\" Roughly half his\n brain, it appeared. \"That's why so many memories were gone—not just\n from shock. In addition, other sectors were damaged and had to be\n replaced.\"", "The Man Who Was Six\nBy F. L. WALLACE\n\n\n Illustrated by ASHMAN\n\n\n [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Galaxy Science Fiction September 1954.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nThere is nothing at all like having a sound\n \nmind in a sound body, but Dan Merrol had too\n \nmuch of one—and also too much of the other!\n\"Sorry, darling,\" said Erica. She yawned, added, \"I've tried—but I\n just can't believe you're my husband.\"\n\n\n He felt his own yawn slip off his face. \"What do you mean? What am I\n doing here then?\"" ] ]
valid	22867	[ "What is ironic about the story’s ending?", "What is the relationship between Walter and Torkleson?", "What is the relationship between Walter and Bailey?", "What is wrong with the reports?", "What is strange about how the titanium company operates?", "Why is Walter in trouble?", "Who earns the most money at the titanium plant?", "Why are the workers \"cutting their own throats\"?", "How does Walter change his situation?", "How will Walter change the company?" ]	[ [ "Torkleson becomes the production manager.", "Walter replaced Torkleson as the union leader. ", "Walter becomes rich. ", "Walter is demoted to a titanium worker. " ], [ "Walter is Torkleson’s boss at the factory. ", "Walter and Torkleson are co-workers.", "Torkleson is Walter’s boss at the factory. ", "Torkelson is Walter’s secretary. " ], [ "Bailey is Walter’s secretary. ", "Walter is Bailey’s boss at work. ", "Bailey supervises Walter at work. ", "Walter and Bailey are workers in the factory. " ], [ "Production and sales are down.", "Walter forgot to do them. ", "Walter put in false information to make it appear as though the company is thriving. ", "Walter did the reports the late. " ], [ "The workers are richer than management. ", "The company is owned and operated by the government. ", "The company is owned by the union leader. ", "The company is owned by the workers and management has little control. " ], [ "He is production manager and sales are down. ", "He spends too much company time on Koffee-Kup. ", "He was late to work by 4 minutes. ", "He comes and goes as he pleases. " ], [ "The union secretary", "Research and Development ", "The shop steward", "The production manager" ], [ "The workers agree to work for less money. ", "They decide to only make trash cans and become bored. ", "The workers own the stock of the company. They will lose money if the company doesn't make a profit. ", "They go on strike and jeopardize their jobs. " ], [ "He runs for public office. ", "He turns the workers against Torkleson. ", "He goes on strike to demand better pay and hours. ", "He quits his job in management. " ], [ "Walter will give management total control again. ", "Walter will bankrupt the company. ", "Walter will be just like Torkleson. ", "Walter will work with management and the workers to make the company profitable. " ] ]	[ 2, 3, 3, 1, 4, 1, 1, 3, 2, 4 ]	[ 0, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 1, 0, 0, 0 ]	[ [ "Walter nodded as he struggled down with a moose head.\n \"Yes, a pity, but you know the boys when they get upset.\"\n\n\n \"I suppose so.\" The lawyer stopped to rest, panting. \"Anyway,\n with the newly elected board of directors, things will be\n different for everybody. You took a long gamble.\"\n\n\n \"Not so long. Not when you knew what they wanted to hear.\n It just took a little timing.\"\n\n\n \"Still, I didn't think they'd elect you secretary of the union.\n It just doesn't figure.\"\n\n\n Walter Towne chuckled. \"Doesn't it? I don't know. Everything's\n been a little screwy since the switchover. And in a\n screwy world like this—\" He shrugged, and tossed down the\n moose head. \"\nAnything\nfigures.\"", "\"You think that since you own the company, times have\n changed. Well, have they? Are you any better off than you\n were? Of course not. Because you haven't learned yet that\n oppression by either side leads to misery for both. You haven't\n learned moderation. And you never will, until you throw out\n the ones who have fought moderation right down to the last\n ditch. You know whom I mean. You know who's grown richer\n and richer since the switchover. Throw him out, and you too\n can be rich.\" He paused for a deep breath. \"You want the code\n word to unlock the machines? All right, I'll give it to you.\"\n\n\n He swung around to point a long finger at the fat man\n sitting there. \"The code word is TORKLESON!\"\nMuch later, Walter Towne and Jeff Bates pried the trophies\n off the wall of the big office. The lawyer shook his head sadly.\n \"Pity about Dan Torkleson. Gruesome affair.\"", "He struggled doggedly across the rumbling Exit strip toward\n the plant entrance. After all, he told himself, why should he be\n so upset? He\nwas\nVice President-in-Charge-of-Production of\n the Robling Titanium Corporation. What could they do to\n him, really? He had rehearsed\nhis\npart many times, squaring\n his thin shoulders, looking the union boss straight in the eye\n and saying, \"Now, see here, Torkleson—\" But he knew, when\n the showdown came, that he wouldn't say any such thing. And\n this was the morning that the showdown would come.", "Board\nIt\n was going to be a bad day. As he pushed his way nervously\n through the crowds toward the Exit Strip, Walter Towne\n turned the dismal prospect over and over in his mind. The\n potential gloominess of this particular day had descended upon\n him the instant the morning buzzer had gone off, making it\n even more tempting than usual just to roll over and forget\n about it all. Twenty minutes later, the water-douse came to\n drag him, drenched and gurgling, back to the cruel cold world.\n He had wolfed down his morning Koffee-Kup with one eye\n on the clock and one eye on his growing sense of impending\n crisis. And now, to make things just a trifle worse, he was\n going to be late again.", "\"I want a production plan on my desk within twenty-four\n hours. A plan that will guarantee me a five per cent increase\n in dividends in the next six months. And you'd better move\n fast, because I'm not fooling.\"\nBack in his cubbyhole downstairs, Walter stared hopelessly\n at the reports. He had known it would come to this sooner or\n later. They all knew it—Hendricks of Promotion, Pendleton\n of Sales, the whole managerial staff.\n\n\n It was wrong, all the way down the line. Walter had\n fought it tooth and nail since the day Torkleson had installed\n the moose heads in Walter's old office, and moved him down\n to the cubbyhole, under Bailey's watchful eye. He had argued,\n and battled, and pleaded, and lost. He had watched the company\n deteriorate day by day. Now they blamed him, and\n threatened his job, and he was helpless to do anything about it.", "\"Get them moving,\" Torkleson howled. \"They'll start those\n machines again, or I'll have them in jail so fast—\" He turned\n back to Bailey. \"What about the production lines?\"\n\n\n The shop steward's face lighted. \"They slipped up, there.\n There was one program that hadn't been coded into the machines\n yet. Just a minor item, but it's a starter. We found it in\n Towne's desk, blueprints all ready, promotion all planned.\"\n\n\n \"Good, good,\" Torkleson breathed. \"I have a directors'\n meeting right now, have to get the workers quieted down a\n bit. You put the program through, and give those electronics\n men three more hours to unsnarl this knot, or we throw them\n out of the union.\" He started for the door. \"What were the\n blueprints for?\"\n\n\n \"Trash cans,\" said Bailey. \"Pure titanium-steel trash cans.\"", "He pulled his worn overcoat down over frayed shirt sleeves,\n and tried vainly to straighten the celluloid collar that kept\n scooting his tie up under his ear. Once off the moving strip, he\n started up the Robling corridor toward the plant gate. Perhaps\n he would be fortunate. Maybe the reports would be late.\n Maybe his secretary's two neurones would fail to synapse this\n morning, and she'd lose them altogether. And, as long as he\n was dreaming, maybe Bailey would break his neck on the way\n to work. He walked quickly past the workers' lounge, glancing\n in at the groups of men, arguing politics and checking the\n stock market reports before they changed from their neat gray\n business suits to their welding dungarees. Running up the\n stairs to the administrative wing, he paused outside the door\n to punch the time clock. 8:04. Damn. If only Bailey could be\n sick—", "Bailey was not sick. The administrative offices were humming\n with frantic activity as Walter glanced down the rows\n of cubbyholes. In the middle of it all sat Bailey, in his black-and-yellow\n checkered tattersall, smoking a large cigar. His\n feet were planted on his desk top, but he hadn't started on his\n morning Western yet. He was busy glaring, first at the clock,\n then at Walter.\n\n\n \"Late again, I see,\" the shop steward growled.\n\n\n Walter gulped. \"Yes, sir. Just four minutes, this time, sir.\n You know those crowded strips—\"", "\"This morning in my office we offered to compromise with\n these jackals,\" he cried, \"and they rejected compromise. Even\n at the cost of lowering dividends, of taking food from the\n mouths of your wives and children, we made our generous\n offers. They were rejected with scorn. These thieves have one\n desire in mind, my friends, to starve you all, and to destroy\n your company and your jobs. To every appeal they heartlessly\n refused to divulge the key to the lock-in. And now this man—the\n ringleader who keeps the key word buried in secrecy—has\n the temerity to ask an audience with you. You're angry men;\n you want to know the man to blame for our hardship.\"\n\n\n He pointed to Towne with a flourish. \"I give you your man.\n Do what you want with him.\"", "\"Yes, sir.\" Bates mopped his bald scalp. \"The defendant\n pleads guilty to all counts.\"\n\n\n The union lawyer dropped his glasses on the table with a\n crash. The judge stared. \"Mr. Bates, if you plead guilty, you\n leave me no alternative—\"\n\n\n \"—but to send me to jail,\" said Walter Towne. \"Go ahead.\n Send me to jail. In fact, I\ninsist\nupon going to jail.\"\n\n\n The union lawyer's jaw sagged. There was a hurried conference.\n A recess was pleaded. Telephones buzzed. Then:\n \"Your Honor, the plaintiff desires to withdraw all charges at\n this time.\"\n\n\n \"Objection,\" Bates exclaimed. \"We've already pleaded.\"\n\n\n \"—feel sure that a settlement can be effected out of court—\"\n\n\n The case was thrown out on its ear.", "The hall exploded in angry thunder. The first wave of men\n rushed onto the stage as Walter stood up. A tomato whizzed\n past his ear and splattered against the wall. More men clambered\n up on the stage, shouting and shaking their fists.\n\n\n Then somebody appeared with a rope.\n\n\n Walter gave a sharp nod to the side of the stage. Abruptly\n the roar of the men was drowned in another sound—a soul-rending,\n teeth-grating, bone-rattling screech. The men froze,\n jaws sagging, eyes wide, hardly believing their ears. In the\n instant of silence as the factory whistle died away, Walter\n grabbed the microphone. \"You want the code word to start\n the machines again? I'll give it to you before I sit down!\"\n\n\n The men stared at him, shuffling, a murmur rising. Torkleson\n burst to his feet. \"It's a trick!\" he howled. \"Wait 'til you\n hear their price.\"", "\"I know, but you rejected that contract. So we tore it up.\n Anyway, we've changed our minds.\"\n\n\n Torkleson sat down, his heavy cheeks quivering. \"Gentlemen,\n be reasonable! I can guarantee you your jobs, even give\n you a free hand with the management. So the dividends won't be\n so large—the men will have to get used to that. That's it, we'll\n put it through at the next executive conference, give you—\"\n\n\n \"The board meeting,\" Walter said gently. \"That'll be enough\n for us.\"", "Jeff Bates shook his head sadly. \"I'm with you. I don't know\n why, you haven't got a leg to stand on. But if you want to\n commit suicide, that's all right with me.\" He picked up his\n briefcase, and started for the door. \"I'll have your contract\n demands by tomorrow,\" he grinned. \"See you at the lynching.\"\n\n\n They got down to the details of planning.\nThe news hit the afternoon telecasts the following day.\n Headlines screamed:\nMANAGEMENT SABOTAGES ROBLING MACHINES\n\n OFFICE STRIKERS THREATEN LABOR ECONOMY\n\n ROBLING LOCK-IN CREATES PANDEMONIUM", "Production lines slowed. There were daily brawls on the\n plant floor, in the lounge and locker rooms. Workers began\n joking about the trash cans; then the humor grew more and\n more remote. Finally, late in the afternoon of the eighth day,\n Bailey was once again in Torkleson's office.\n\n\n \"Well? Speak up! What's the beef this time?\"\n\n\n \"Sir—the men—I mean, there's been some nasty talk.\n They're tired of making trash cans. No challenge in it. Anyway,\n the stock room is full, and the freight yard is full, and\n the last run of orders we sent out came back because nobody\n wants any more trash cans.\" Bailey shook his head. \"The men\n won't swallow it any more. There's—well, there's been talk\n about having a board meeting.\"", "\"That means you'll have to beat Torkleson,\" said Bates.\n \"He'll never go along.\"\n\n\n \"Then he'll be left behind.\"\n\n\n Hendricks stood up, brushing off his dungarees. \"I'm with\n you, Walter. I've taken all of Torkleson that I want to. And\n I'm sick of the junk we've been trying to sell people.\"\n\n\n The others nodded. Walter rubbed his hands together. \"All\n right. Tomorrow we work as usual, until the noon whistle.\n When we go off for lunch, we throw the machines into lock-step.\n Then we just don't come back. But the big thing is to\n keep it quiet until the noon whistle.\" He turned to the lawyer.\n \"Are you with us, Jeff?\"", "And still the machines sputtered.\nBack at the plant rumor had it that the machines were permanently\n gutted, and that the plant could never go back into\n production. Conflicting scuttlebutt suggested that persons high\n in uniondom had perpetrated the crisis deliberately, bullying\n Management into the strike for the sole purpose of cutting current\n dividends and selling stock to themselves cheaply. The\n rumors grew easier and easier to believe. The workers came\n to the plants in business suits, it was true, and lounged in the\n finest of lounges, and read the\nWall Street Journal\n, and felt like\n stockholders. But to face facts, their salaries were not the\n highest. Deduct union dues, pension fees, medical insurance\n fees, and sundry other little items which had formerly been\n paid by well-to-do managements, and very little was left but\n the semi-annual dividend checks. And now the dividends were\n tottering.", "He waited until Bailey was gone. Then, with a trembling\n hand he lifted the visiphone receiver. \"Get me Walter Towne,\"\n he said.\n\"I'm not an unreasonable man,\" Torkleson was saying\n miserably, waving his fat paws in the air as he paced back and\n forth in front of the spokesmen for the striking managers.\n \"Perhaps we were a little demanding, I concede it! Overenthusiastic\n with our ownership, and all that. But I'm sure we\n can come to some agreement. A hike in wage scale is certainly\n within reason. Perhaps we can even arrange for better company\n houses.\"\n\n\n Walter Towne stifled a yawn. \"Perhaps you didn't understand\n us. The men are agitating for a meeting of the board of\n directors. We want to be at that meeting. That's the only thing\n we're interested in right now.\"\n\n\n \"But there wasn't anything about a board meeting in the\n contract your lawyer presented.\"", "\"We have no price, and no demands,\" said Walter Towne.\n \"We will\ngive\nyou the code word, and we ask nothing in return\n but that you listen for sixty seconds.\" He glanced back at\n Torkleson, and then out to the crowd. \"You men here are an\n electing body—right? You own this great plant and company,\n top to bottom—right?\nYou should all be rich\n, because Robling\n could make you rich. But not one of you out there is rich.\n Only the fat ones on this stage are. But I'll tell you how\nyou\ncan be rich.\"\n\n\n They listened. Not a peep came from the huge hall. Suddenly,\n Walter Towne was talking their language.", "The workers grew restive. From the first day, Towne and\n Hendricks and all the others had been picketing the plant,\n until angry crowds of workers had driven them off with shotguns.\n Then they came back in an old, weatherbeaten 'copter\n which hovered over the plant entrance carrying a banner with\n a plaintive message:\n robling titanium unfair to management\n .\n Tomatoes were hurled, fists were shaken, but the 'copter\n remained.\n\n\n The third day, Jeff Bates was served with an injunction ordering\n Towne to return to work. It was duly appealed, legal\n machinery began tying itself in knots, and the strikers still\n struck. By the fifth day there was a more serious note.\n\n\n \"You're going to have to appear, Walter. We can't dodge\n this one.\"\n\n\n \"When?\"", "\"So it's\njust\nfour minutes now, eh?\" Bailey's feet came down\n with a crash. \"After last month's fine production record, you\n think four minutes doesn't matter, eh? Think just because\n you're a vice president it's all right to mosey in here whenever\n you feel like it.\" He glowered. \"Well, this is three times this\n month you've been late, Towne. That's a demerit for each\n time, and you know what that means.\"\n\n\n \"You wouldn't count four minutes as a whole demerit!\"\n\n\n Bailey grinned. \"Wouldn't I, now! You just add up your\n pay envelope on Friday. Ten cents an hour off for each\n demerit.\"\n\n\n Walter sighed and shuffled back to his desk. Oh, well. It\n could have been worse. They might have fired him like poor\n Cartwright last month. He'd just\nhave\nto listen to that morning\n buzzer." ], [ "Daniel P. Torkleson, Secretary\n\n\n The secretary flipped down the desk switch and eyed Walter\n with pity. \"Mr. Torkleson will see you.\"\n\n\n Walter pushed through the door into the long, handsome\n office. For an instant he felt a pang of nostalgia—the floor-to-ceiling\n windows looking out across the long buildings of the\n Robling plant, the pine paneling, the broad expanse of desk—\n\n\n \"Well? Don't just stand there. Shut the door and come over\n here.\" The man behind the desk hoisted his three hundred\n well-dressed pounds and glared at Walter from under flagrant\n eyebrows. Torkleson's whole body quivered as he slammed\n a sheaf of papers down on the desk. \"Just what do you think\n you're doing with this company, Towne?\"\n\n\n Walter swallowed. \"I'm production manager of the corporation.\"", "Torkleson's eyes glittered. His voice was very soft. \"I've always\n liked you, Walter. So I'm going to pretend I didn't hear\n you.\" He paused, then continued. \"But here on my desk is a\n small bit of white paper. Unless you have my signature on\n that paper on the first of next month, you are out of a job,\n on grounds of incompetence. And I will personally see that\n you go on every White list in the country.\"\n\n\n Walter felt the fight go out of him like a dying wind. He\n knew what the White list meant. No job, anywhere, ever, in\n management. No chance, ever, to join a union. No more\n house, no more weekly pay envelope. He spread his hands\n weakly. \"What do you want?\" he asked.", "Walter was there a half hour early. Torkleson's legal staff\n glowered from across the room. The judge glowered from\n the bench. Walter closed his eyes with a little smile as the\n charges were read: \"—breach of contract, malicious mischief,\n sabotage of the company's machines, conspiring to destroy the\n livelihood of ten thousand workers. Your Honor, we are preparing\n briefs to prove further that these men have formed a\n conspiracy to undermine the economy of the entire nation.\n We appeal to the spirit of orderly justice—\"\n\n\n Walter yawned as the words went on.\n\n\n \"Of course, if the defendant will waive his appeals against\n the previous injunctions, and will release the machines that\n were sabotaged, we will be happy to formally withdraw these\n charges.\"\n\n\n There was a rustle of sound through the courtroom. His\n Honor turned to Jeff Bates. \"Are you counsel for the defendant?\"", "\"You think that since you own the company, times have\n changed. Well, have they? Are you any better off than you\n were? Of course not. Because you haven't learned yet that\n oppression by either side leads to misery for both. You haven't\n learned moderation. And you never will, until you throw out\n the ones who have fought moderation right down to the last\n ditch. You know whom I mean. You know who's grown richer\n and richer since the switchover. Throw him out, and you too\n can be rich.\" He paused for a deep breath. \"You want the code\n word to unlock the machines? All right, I'll give it to you.\"\n\n\n He swung around to point a long finger at the fat man\n sitting there. \"The code word is TORKLESON!\"\nMuch later, Walter Towne and Jeff Bates pried the trophies\n off the wall of the big office. The lawyer shook his head sadly.\n \"Pity about Dan Torkleson. Gruesome affair.\"", "Oh, not because of the\nlateness\n. Of course Bailey, the shop\n steward, would take his usual delight in bringing that up. But\n this seemed hardly worthy of concern this morning. The reports\n waiting on his desk were what worried him. The sales\n reports. The promotion-draw reports. The royalty reports. The\n anticipated dividend reports. Walter shook his head wearily.\n The shop steward was a goad, annoying, perhaps even infuriating,\n but tolerable. Torkleson was a different matter.", "\"I've been doing everything I could,\" Walter snapped. \"Of\n course the reports are bad, they couldn't help but be. We\n haven't met a production schedule in over two years. No plant\n can keep up production the way the men are working.\"\n\n\n Torkleson's face darkened. He leaned forward slowly. \"So\n it's the\nmen\nnow, is it? Go ahead. Tell me what's wrong with\n the men.\"", "Torkleson had been slowly turning purple. Now he slammed\n his fist down on the desk. \"We should just turn the company\n back to Management again, eh? Just let you have a free hand\n to rob us blind again. Well, it won't work, Towne. Not while\n I'm secretary of this union. We fought long and hard for control\n of this corporation, just the way all the other unions did.\n I know. I was through it all.\" He sat back smugly, his cheeks\n quivering with emotion. \"You might say that I was a national\n leader in the movement. But I did it only for the men. The\n men want their dividends. They own the stock, stock is supposed\n to pay dividends.\"\n\n\n \"But they're cutting their own throats,\" Walter wailed.\n \"You can't build a company and make it grow the way I've\n been forced to run it.\"", "Walter rose slowly from his seat. This was it, then. Torkleson\n had already seen the reports. He started for the door, his\n knees shaking.\n\n\n It hadn't always been like this, he reflected miserably.\n Time was when things had been very different. It had\nmeant\nsomething to be vice president of a huge industrial firm like\n Robling Titanium. A man could have had a fine house of\n his own, and a 'copter-car, and belong to the Country Club;\n maybe even have a cottage on a lake somewhere.\n\n\n Walter could almost remember those days with Robling,\n before the switchover, before that black day when the exchange\n of ten little shares of stock had thrown the Robling\n Titanium Corporation into the hands of strange and unnatural\n owners.\nThe door was of heavy stained oak, with bold letters edged\n in gold:\nTITANIUM WORKERS\n\n OF AMERICA\n\n Amalgamated Locals", "\"I know, but you rejected that contract. So we tore it up.\n Anyway, we've changed our minds.\"\n\n\n Torkleson sat down, his heavy cheeks quivering. \"Gentlemen,\n be reasonable! I can guarantee you your jobs, even give\n you a free hand with the management. So the dividends won't be\n so large—the men will have to get used to that. That's it, we'll\n put it through at the next executive conference, give you—\"\n\n\n \"The board meeting,\" Walter said gently. \"That'll be enough\n for us.\"", "They were all present. They were packed in from the wall\n to the stage, and hanging from the rafters. They overflowed\n into the corridors. They jammed the lobby. Ten thousand men\n rose with a howl of anger when Walter Towne walked out on\n the stage. But they quieted down again as Dan Torkleson\n started to speak.\n\n\n It was a masterful display of rabble-rousing. Torkleson\n paced the stage, his fat body shaking with agitation, pointing\n a chubby finger again and again at Walter Towne. He pranced\n and he ranted. He paused at just the right times for thunderous\n peals of applause.", "He waited until Bailey was gone. Then, with a trembling\n hand he lifted the visiphone receiver. \"Get me Walter Towne,\"\n he said.\n\"I'm not an unreasonable man,\" Torkleson was saying\n miserably, waving his fat paws in the air as he paced back and\n forth in front of the spokesmen for the striking managers.\n \"Perhaps we were a little demanding, I concede it! Overenthusiastic\n with our ownership, and all that. But I'm sure we\n can come to some agreement. A hike in wage scale is certainly\n within reason. Perhaps we can even arrange for better company\n houses.\"\n\n\n Walter Towne stifled a yawn. \"Perhaps you didn't understand\n us. The men are agitating for a meeting of the board of\n directors. We want to be at that meeting. That's the only thing\n we're interested in right now.\"\n\n\n \"But there wasn't anything about a board meeting in the\n contract your lawyer presented.\"", "Walter nodded as he struggled down with a moose head.\n \"Yes, a pity, but you know the boys when they get upset.\"\n\n\n \"I suppose so.\" The lawyer stopped to rest, panting. \"Anyway,\n with the newly elected board of directors, things will be\n different for everybody. You took a long gamble.\"\n\n\n \"Not so long. Not when you knew what they wanted to hear.\n It just took a little timing.\"\n\n\n \"Still, I didn't think they'd elect you secretary of the union.\n It just doesn't figure.\"\n\n\n Walter Towne chuckled. \"Doesn't it? I don't know. Everything's\n been a little screwy since the switchover. And in a\n screwy world like this—\" He shrugged, and tossed down the\n moose head. \"\nAnything\nfigures.\"", "\"Tomorrow morning. And before a labor-rigged judge, too.\"\n The little lawyer paced his office nervously. \"I don't like it.\n Torkleson's getting desperate. The workers are putting pressure\n on him.\"\n\n\n Walter grinned. \"Then Pendleton is doing a good job of\n selling.\"\n\n\n \"But you haven't got\ntime\n,\" the lawyer wailed. \"They'll have\n you in jail if you don't start the machines again. They may\n have you in jail if you\ndo\nstart them, too, but that's another\n bridge. Right now they want those machines going again.\"\n\n\n \"We'll see,\" said Walter. \"What time tomorrow?\"\n\n\n \"Ten o'clock.\" Bates looked up. \"And don't try to skip.\n You be there, because\nI\ndon't know what to tell them.\"", "\"Details!\" Torkleson snorted. \"I don't care\nhow\nthe dividends\n come in. That's your job. My job is to report a dividend\n every six months to the men who own the stock, the men working\n on the production lines.\"\n\n\n Walter nodded bitterly. \"And every year the dividend has\n to be higher than the last, or you and your fat friends are\n likely to be thrown out of your jobs—right? No more steaks\n every night. No more private gold-plated Buicks for you boys.\n No more twenty-room mansions in Westchester. No more big\n game hunting in the Rockies. No, you don't have to know\n anything but how to whip a board meeting into a frenzy so\n they'll vote you into office again each year.\"", "\"That means you'll have to beat Torkleson,\" said Bates.\n \"He'll never go along.\"\n\n\n \"Then he'll be left behind.\"\n\n\n Hendricks stood up, brushing off his dungarees. \"I'm with\n you, Walter. I've taken all of Torkleson that I want to. And\n I'm sick of the junk we've been trying to sell people.\"\n\n\n The others nodded. Walter rubbed his hands together. \"All\n right. Tomorrow we work as usual, until the noon whistle.\n When we go off for lunch, we throw the machines into lock-step.\n Then we just don't come back. But the big thing is to\n keep it quiet until the noon whistle.\" He turned to the lawyer.\n \"Are you with us, Jeff?\"", "The hall exploded in angry thunder. The first wave of men\n rushed onto the stage as Walter stood up. A tomato whizzed\n past his ear and splattered against the wall. More men clambered\n up on the stage, shouting and shaking their fists.\n\n\n Then somebody appeared with a rope.\n\n\n Walter gave a sharp nod to the side of the stage. Abruptly\n the roar of the men was drowned in another sound—a soul-rending,\n teeth-grating, bone-rattling screech. The men froze,\n jaws sagging, eyes wide, hardly believing their ears. In the\n instant of silence as the factory whistle died away, Walter\n grabbed the microphone. \"You want the code word to start\n the machines again? I'll give it to you before I sit down!\"\n\n\n The men stared at him, shuffling, a murmur rising. Torkleson\n burst to his feet. \"It's a trick!\" he howled. \"Wait 'til you\n hear their price.\"", "\"We have no price, and no demands,\" said Walter Towne.\n \"We will\ngive\nyou the code word, and we ask nothing in return\n but that you listen for sixty seconds.\" He glanced back at\n Torkleson, and then out to the crowd. \"You men here are an\n electing body—right? You own this great plant and company,\n top to bottom—right?\nYou should all be rich\n, because Robling\n could make you rich. But not one of you out there is rich.\n Only the fat ones on this stage are. But I'll tell you how\nyou\ncan be rich.\"\n\n\n They listened. Not a peep came from the huge hall. Suddenly,\n Walter Towne was talking their language.", "The reports were on his desk. He picked them up warily.\n Maybe they wouldn't be so bad. He'd had more freedom this\n last month than before, maybe there'd been a policy change.\n Maybe Torkleson was gaining confidence in him. Maybe—\n\n\n The reports were worse than he had ever dreamed.\n\n\n \"\nTowne!\n\"\n\n\n Walter jumped a foot. Bailey was putting down the visiphone\n receiver. His grin spread unpleasantly from ear to ear.\n \"What have you been doing lately? Sabotaging the production\n line?\"\n\n\n \"What's the trouble now?\"\n\n\n Bailey jerked a thumb significantly at the ceiling. \"The\n boss wants to see you. And you'd better have the right answers,\n too. The boss seems to have a lot of questions.\"", "\"I want a production plan on my desk within twenty-four\n hours. A plan that will guarantee me a five per cent increase\n in dividends in the next six months. And you'd better move\n fast, because I'm not fooling.\"\nBack in his cubbyhole downstairs, Walter stared hopelessly\n at the reports. He had known it would come to this sooner or\n later. They all knew it—Hendricks of Promotion, Pendleton\n of Sales, the whole managerial staff.\n\n\n It was wrong, all the way down the line. Walter had\n fought it tooth and nail since the day Torkleson had installed\n the moose heads in Walter's old office, and moved him down\n to the cubbyhole, under Bailey's watchful eye. He had argued,\n and battled, and pleaded, and lost. He had watched the company\n deteriorate day by day. Now they blamed him, and\n threatened his job, and he was helpless to do anything about it.", "Bailey was not sick. The administrative offices were humming\n with frantic activity as Walter glanced down the rows\n of cubbyholes. In the middle of it all sat Bailey, in his black-and-yellow\n checkered tattersall, smoking a large cigar. His\n feet were planted on his desk top, but he hadn't started on his\n morning Western yet. He was busy glaring, first at the clock,\n then at Walter.\n\n\n \"Late again, I see,\" the shop steward growled.\n\n\n Walter gulped. \"Yes, sir. Just four minutes, this time, sir.\n You know those crowded strips—\"" ], [ "Bailey was not sick. The administrative offices were humming\n with frantic activity as Walter glanced down the rows\n of cubbyholes. In the middle of it all sat Bailey, in his black-and-yellow\n checkered tattersall, smoking a large cigar. His\n feet were planted on his desk top, but he hadn't started on his\n morning Western yet. He was busy glaring, first at the clock,\n then at Walter.\n\n\n \"Late again, I see,\" the shop steward growled.\n\n\n Walter gulped. \"Yes, sir. Just four minutes, this time, sir.\n You know those crowded strips—\"", "Oh, not because of the\nlateness\n. Of course Bailey, the shop\n steward, would take his usual delight in bringing that up. But\n this seemed hardly worthy of concern this morning. The reports\n waiting on his desk were what worried him. The sales\n reports. The promotion-draw reports. The royalty reports. The\n anticipated dividend reports. Walter shook his head wearily.\n The shop steward was a goad, annoying, perhaps even infuriating,\n but tolerable. Torkleson was a different matter.", "He waited until Bailey was gone. Then, with a trembling\n hand he lifted the visiphone receiver. \"Get me Walter Towne,\"\n he said.\n\"I'm not an unreasonable man,\" Torkleson was saying\n miserably, waving his fat paws in the air as he paced back and\n forth in front of the spokesmen for the striking managers.\n \"Perhaps we were a little demanding, I concede it! Overenthusiastic\n with our ownership, and all that. But I'm sure we\n can come to some agreement. A hike in wage scale is certainly\n within reason. Perhaps we can even arrange for better company\n houses.\"\n\n\n Walter Towne stifled a yawn. \"Perhaps you didn't understand\n us. The men are agitating for a meeting of the board of\n directors. We want to be at that meeting. That's the only thing\n we're interested in right now.\"\n\n\n \"But there wasn't anything about a board meeting in the\n contract your lawyer presented.\"", "Walter was there a half hour early. Torkleson's legal staff\n glowered from across the room. The judge glowered from\n the bench. Walter closed his eyes with a little smile as the\n charges were read: \"—breach of contract, malicious mischief,\n sabotage of the company's machines, conspiring to destroy the\n livelihood of ten thousand workers. Your Honor, we are preparing\n briefs to prove further that these men have formed a\n conspiracy to undermine the economy of the entire nation.\n We appeal to the spirit of orderly justice—\"\n\n\n Walter yawned as the words went on.\n\n\n \"Of course, if the defendant will waive his appeals against\n the previous injunctions, and will release the machines that\n were sabotaged, we will be happy to formally withdraw these\n charges.\"\n\n\n There was a rustle of sound through the courtroom. His\n Honor turned to Jeff Bates. \"Are you counsel for the defendant?\"", "Walter nodded as he struggled down with a moose head.\n \"Yes, a pity, but you know the boys when they get upset.\"\n\n\n \"I suppose so.\" The lawyer stopped to rest, panting. \"Anyway,\n with the newly elected board of directors, things will be\n different for everybody. You took a long gamble.\"\n\n\n \"Not so long. Not when you knew what they wanted to hear.\n It just took a little timing.\"\n\n\n \"Still, I didn't think they'd elect you secretary of the union.\n It just doesn't figure.\"\n\n\n Walter Towne chuckled. \"Doesn't it? I don't know. Everything's\n been a little screwy since the switchover. And in a\n screwy world like this—\" He shrugged, and tossed down the\n moose head. \"\nAnything\nfigures.\"", "Torkleson's eyes glittered. His voice was very soft. \"I've always\n liked you, Walter. So I'm going to pretend I didn't hear\n you.\" He paused, then continued. \"But here on my desk is a\n small bit of white paper. Unless you have my signature on\n that paper on the first of next month, you are out of a job,\n on grounds of incompetence. And I will personally see that\n you go on every White list in the country.\"\n\n\n Walter felt the fight go out of him like a dying wind. He\n knew what the White list meant. No job, anywhere, ever, in\n management. No chance, ever, to join a union. No more\n house, no more weekly pay envelope. He spread his hands\n weakly. \"What do you want?\" he asked.", "\"I want a production plan on my desk within twenty-four\n hours. A plan that will guarantee me a five per cent increase\n in dividends in the next six months. And you'd better move\n fast, because I'm not fooling.\"\nBack in his cubbyhole downstairs, Walter stared hopelessly\n at the reports. He had known it would come to this sooner or\n later. They all knew it—Hendricks of Promotion, Pendleton\n of Sales, the whole managerial staff.\n\n\n It was wrong, all the way down the line. Walter had\n fought it tooth and nail since the day Torkleson had installed\n the moose heads in Walter's old office, and moved him down\n to the cubbyhole, under Bailey's watchful eye. He had argued,\n and battled, and pleaded, and lost. He had watched the company\n deteriorate day by day. Now they blamed him, and\n threatened his job, and he was helpless to do anything about it.", "Daniel P. Torkleson, Secretary\n\n\n The secretary flipped down the desk switch and eyed Walter\n with pity. \"Mr. Torkleson will see you.\"\n\n\n Walter pushed through the door into the long, handsome\n office. For an instant he felt a pang of nostalgia—the floor-to-ceiling\n windows looking out across the long buildings of the\n Robling plant, the pine paneling, the broad expanse of desk—\n\n\n \"Well? Don't just stand there. Shut the door and come over\n here.\" The man behind the desk hoisted his three hundred\n well-dressed pounds and glared at Walter from under flagrant\n eyebrows. Torkleson's whole body quivered as he slammed\n a sheaf of papers down on the desk. \"Just what do you think\n you're doing with this company, Towne?\"\n\n\n Walter swallowed. \"I'm production manager of the corporation.\"", "\"So it's\njust\nfour minutes now, eh?\" Bailey's feet came down\n with a crash. \"After last month's fine production record, you\n think four minutes doesn't matter, eh? Think just because\n you're a vice president it's all right to mosey in here whenever\n you feel like it.\" He glowered. \"Well, this is three times this\n month you've been late, Towne. That's a demerit for each\n time, and you know what that means.\"\n\n\n \"You wouldn't count four minutes as a whole demerit!\"\n\n\n Bailey grinned. \"Wouldn't I, now! You just add up your\n pay envelope on Friday. Ten cents an hour off for each\n demerit.\"\n\n\n Walter sighed and shuffled back to his desk. Oh, well. It\n could have been worse. They might have fired him like poor\n Cartwright last month. He'd just\nhave\nto listen to that morning\n buzzer.", "Walter Towne remembered those stormy days well. The\n gradual undercutting of the managerial salaries, the tightening\n up of inter-union collusion to establish the infamous White\n list of Recalcitrant Managers. The shift from hourly wage to\n annual salary for the factory workers, and the change to the\n other pole for the managerial staff. And then, with creeping\n malignancy, the hungry howling of the union bosses for more\n and higher dividends, year after year, moving steadily toward\n the inevitable crisis.", "The reports were on his desk. He picked them up warily.\n Maybe they wouldn't be so bad. He'd had more freedom this\n last month than before, maybe there'd been a policy change.\n Maybe Torkleson was gaining confidence in him. Maybe—\n\n\n The reports were worse than he had ever dreamed.\n\n\n \"\nTowne!\n\"\n\n\n Walter jumped a foot. Bailey was putting down the visiphone\n receiver. His grin spread unpleasantly from ear to ear.\n \"What have you been doing lately? Sabotaging the production\n line?\"\n\n\n \"What's the trouble now?\"\n\n\n Bailey jerked a thumb significantly at the ceiling. \"The\n boss wants to see you. And you'd better have the right answers,\n too. The boss seems to have a lot of questions.\"", "\"Tomorrow morning. And before a labor-rigged judge, too.\"\n The little lawyer paced his office nervously. \"I don't like it.\n Torkleson's getting desperate. The workers are putting pressure\n on him.\"\n\n\n Walter grinned. \"Then Pendleton is doing a good job of\n selling.\"\n\n\n \"But you haven't got\ntime\n,\" the lawyer wailed. \"They'll have\n you in jail if you don't start the machines again. They may\n have you in jail if you\ndo\nstart them, too, but that's another\n bridge. Right now they want those machines going again.\"\n\n\n \"We'll see,\" said Walter. \"What time tomorrow?\"\n\n\n \"Ten o'clock.\" Bates looked up. \"And don't try to skip.\n You be there, because\nI\ndon't know what to tell them.\"", "The hall exploded in angry thunder. The first wave of men\n rushed onto the stage as Walter stood up. A tomato whizzed\n past his ear and splattered against the wall. More men clambered\n up on the stage, shouting and shaking their fists.\n\n\n Then somebody appeared with a rope.\n\n\n Walter gave a sharp nod to the side of the stage. Abruptly\n the roar of the men was drowned in another sound—a soul-rending,\n teeth-grating, bone-rattling screech. The men froze,\n jaws sagging, eyes wide, hardly believing their ears. In the\n instant of silence as the factory whistle died away, Walter\n grabbed the microphone. \"You want the code word to start\n the machines again? I'll give it to you before I sit down!\"\n\n\n The men stared at him, shuffling, a murmur rising. Torkleson\n burst to his feet. \"It's a trick!\" he howled. \"Wait 'til you\n hear their price.\"", "\"Yes, sir.\" Bates mopped his bald scalp. \"The defendant\n pleads guilty to all counts.\"\n\n\n The union lawyer dropped his glasses on the table with a\n crash. The judge stared. \"Mr. Bates, if you plead guilty, you\n leave me no alternative—\"\n\n\n \"—but to send me to jail,\" said Walter Towne. \"Go ahead.\n Send me to jail. In fact, I\ninsist\nupon going to jail.\"\n\n\n The union lawyer's jaw sagged. There was a hurried conference.\n A recess was pleaded. Telephones buzzed. Then:\n \"Your Honor, the plaintiff desires to withdraw all charges at\n this time.\"\n\n\n \"Objection,\" Bates exclaimed. \"We've already pleaded.\"\n\n\n \"—feel sure that a settlement can be effected out of court—\"\n\n\n The case was thrown out on its ear.", "The workers grew restive. From the first day, Towne and\n Hendricks and all the others had been picketing the plant,\n until angry crowds of workers had driven them off with shotguns.\n Then they came back in an old, weatherbeaten 'copter\n which hovered over the plant entrance carrying a banner with\n a plaintive message:\n robling titanium unfair to management\n .\n Tomatoes were hurled, fists were shaken, but the 'copter\n remained.\n\n\n The third day, Jeff Bates was served with an injunction ordering\n Towne to return to work. It was duly appealed, legal\n machinery began tying itself in knots, and the strikers still\n struck. By the fifth day there was a more serious note.\n\n\n \"You're going to have to appear, Walter. We can't dodge\n this one.\"\n\n\n \"When?\"", "Walter rose slowly from his seat. This was it, then. Torkleson\n had already seen the reports. He started for the door, his\n knees shaking.\n\n\n It hadn't always been like this, he reflected miserably.\n Time was when things had been very different. It had\nmeant\nsomething to be vice president of a huge industrial firm like\n Robling Titanium. A man could have had a fine house of\n his own, and a 'copter-car, and belong to the Country Club;\n maybe even have a cottage on a lake somewhere.\n\n\n Walter could almost remember those days with Robling,\n before the switchover, before that black day when the exchange\n of ten little shares of stock had thrown the Robling\n Titanium Corporation into the hands of strange and unnatural\n owners.\nThe door was of heavy stained oak, with bold letters edged\n in gold:\nTITANIUM WORKERS\n\n OF AMERICA\n\n Amalgamated Locals", "\"I've been doing everything I could,\" Walter snapped. \"Of\n course the reports are bad, they couldn't help but be. We\n haven't met a production schedule in over two years. No plant\n can keep up production the way the men are working.\"\n\n\n Torkleson's face darkened. He leaned forward slowly. \"So\n it's the\nmen\nnow, is it? Go ahead. Tell me what's wrong with\n the men.\"", "Torkleson's ruddy cheeks paled. \"Board meeting, huh?\"\n He licked his heavy lips. \"Now look, Bailey, we've always\n worked well together. I consider you a good friend of mine.\n You've got to get things under control. Tell the men we're\n making progress. Tell them Management is beginning to\n weaken from its original stand. Tell them we expect to have\n the strike broken in another few hours. Tell them anything.\"", "They were all present. They were packed in from the wall\n to the stage, and hanging from the rafters. They overflowed\n into the corridors. They jammed the lobby. Ten thousand men\n rose with a howl of anger when Walter Towne walked out on\n the stage. But they quieted down again as Dan Torkleson\n started to speak.\n\n\n It was a masterful display of rabble-rousing. Torkleson\n paced the stage, his fat body shaking with agitation, pointing\n a chubby finger again and again at Walter Towne. He pranced\n and he ranted. He paused at just the right times for thunderous\n peals of applause.", "\"That means you'll have to beat Torkleson,\" said Bates.\n \"He'll never go along.\"\n\n\n \"Then he'll be left behind.\"\n\n\n Hendricks stood up, brushing off his dungarees. \"I'm with\n you, Walter. I've taken all of Torkleson that I want to. And\n I'm sick of the junk we've been trying to sell people.\"\n\n\n The others nodded. Walter rubbed his hands together. \"All\n right. Tomorrow we work as usual, until the noon whistle.\n When we go off for lunch, we throw the machines into lock-step.\n Then we just don't come back. But the big thing is to\n keep it quiet until the noon whistle.\" He turned to the lawyer.\n \"Are you with us, Jeff?\"" ], [ "\"I've been doing everything I could,\" Walter snapped. \"Of\n course the reports are bad, they couldn't help but be. We\n haven't met a production schedule in over two years. No plant\n can keep up production the way the men are working.\"\n\n\n Torkleson's face darkened. He leaned forward slowly. \"So\n it's the\nmen\nnow, is it? Go ahead. Tell me what's wrong with\n the men.\"", "The reports were on his desk. He picked them up warily.\n Maybe they wouldn't be so bad. He'd had more freedom this\n last month than before, maybe there'd been a policy change.\n Maybe Torkleson was gaining confidence in him. Maybe—\n\n\n The reports were worse than he had ever dreamed.\n\n\n \"\nTowne!\n\"\n\n\n Walter jumped a foot. Bailey was putting down the visiphone\n receiver. His grin spread unpleasantly from ear to ear.\n \"What have you been doing lately? Sabotaging the production\n line?\"\n\n\n \"What's the trouble now?\"\n\n\n Bailey jerked a thumb significantly at the ceiling. \"The\n boss wants to see you. And you'd better have the right answers,\n too. The boss seems to have a lot of questions.\"", "Oh, not because of the\nlateness\n. Of course Bailey, the shop\n steward, would take his usual delight in bringing that up. But\n this seemed hardly worthy of concern this morning. The reports\n waiting on his desk were what worried him. The sales\n reports. The promotion-draw reports. The royalty reports. The\n anticipated dividend reports. Walter shook his head wearily.\n The shop steward was a goad, annoying, perhaps even infuriating,\n but tolerable. Torkleson was a different matter.", "\"Nothing's wrong with the men—if they'd only work. But\n they come in when they please, and leave when they please,\n and spend half their time changing and the other half on\n Koffee-Kup. No company could survive this. But that's only\n half of it—\" Walter searched through the reports frantically.\n \"This International Jet Transport account—they dropped us\n because we haven't had a new engine in six years. Why? Because\n Research and Development hasn't had any money for\n six years. What can two starved engineers and a second rate\n chemist drag out of an attic laboratory for competition in the\n titanium market?\" Walter took a deep breath. \"I've warned\n you time and again. Robling had built up accounts over the", "Bailey was not sick. The administrative offices were humming\n with frantic activity as Walter glanced down the rows\n of cubbyholes. In the middle of it all sat Bailey, in his black-and-yellow\n checkered tattersall, smoking a large cigar. His\n feet were planted on his desk top, but he hadn't started on his\n morning Western yet. He was busy glaring, first at the clock,\n then at Walter.\n\n\n \"Late again, I see,\" the shop steward growled.\n\n\n Walter gulped. \"Yes, sir. Just four minutes, this time, sir.\n You know those crowded strips—\"", "\"And just what does the production manager\ndo\nall day?\"\n\n\n Walter reddened. \"He organizes the work of the plant, establishes\n production lines, works with Promotion and Sales,\n integrates Research and Development, operates the planning\n machines.\"\n\n\n \"And you think you do a pretty good job of it, eh? Even\n asked for a raise last year!\" Torkleson's voice was dangerous.\n\n\n Walter spread his hands. \"I do my best. I've been doing it\n for thirty years. I should know what I'm doing.\"\n\n\n \"\nThen how do you explain these reports?\n\" Torkleson threw\n the heap of papers into Walter's arms, and paced up and down\n behind the desk. \"\nLook\nat them! Sales at rock bottom. Receipts\n impossible. Big orders canceled. The worst reports in\n seven years, and you say you know your job!\"", "\"I want a production plan on my desk within twenty-four\n hours. A plan that will guarantee me a five per cent increase\n in dividends in the next six months. And you'd better move\n fast, because I'm not fooling.\"\nBack in his cubbyhole downstairs, Walter stared hopelessly\n at the reports. He had known it would come to this sooner or\n later. They all knew it—Hendricks of Promotion, Pendleton\n of Sales, the whole managerial staff.\n\n\n It was wrong, all the way down the line. Walter had\n fought it tooth and nail since the day Torkleson had installed\n the moose heads in Walter's old office, and moved him down\n to the cubbyhole, under Bailey's watchful eye. He had argued,\n and battled, and pleaded, and lost. He had watched the company\n deteriorate day by day. Now they blamed him, and\n threatened his job, and he was helpless to do anything about it.", "Until Shop Steward Bailey suddenly found himself in charge\n of a dozen sputtering machines and an empty office.\nTorkleson was waiting to see the shop steward when he\n came in next morning. The union boss's office was crowded\n with TV cameras, newsmen, and puzzled workmen. The floor\n was littered with piles of ominous-looking paper. Torkleson\n was shouting into a telephone, and three lawyers were shouting\n into Torkleson's ear. He spotted Bailey and waved him through\n the crowd into an inner office room. \"Well? Did they get them\n fixed?\"\n\n\n Bailey spread his hands nervously. \"The electronics boys\n have been at it since yesterday afternoon. Practically had the\n machines apart on the floor.\"\n\n\n \"I know that, stupid,\" Torkleson roared. \"I ordered them\n there. Did they get the machines\nfixed\n?\"\n\n\n \"Uh—well, no, as a matter of fact—\"", "And still the machines sputtered.\nBack at the plant rumor had it that the machines were permanently\n gutted, and that the plant could never go back into\n production. Conflicting scuttlebutt suggested that persons high\n in uniondom had perpetrated the crisis deliberately, bullying\n Management into the strike for the sole purpose of cutting current\n dividends and selling stock to themselves cheaply. The\n rumors grew easier and easier to believe. The workers came\n to the plants in business suits, it was true, and lounged in the\n finest of lounges, and read the\nWall Street Journal\n, and felt like\n stockholders. But to face facts, their salaries were not the\n highest. Deduct union dues, pension fees, medical insurance\n fees, and sundry other little items which had formerly been\n paid by well-to-do managements, and very little was left but\n the semi-annual dividend checks. And now the dividends were\n tottering.", "Production lines slowed. There were daily brawls on the\n plant floor, in the lounge and locker rooms. Workers began\n joking about the trash cans; then the humor grew more and\n more remote. Finally, late in the afternoon of the eighth day,\n Bailey was once again in Torkleson's office.\n\n\n \"Well? Speak up! What's the beef this time?\"\n\n\n \"Sir—the men—I mean, there's been some nasty talk.\n They're tired of making trash cans. No challenge in it. Anyway,\n the stock room is full, and the freight yard is full, and\n the last run of orders we sent out came back because nobody\n wants any more trash cans.\" Bailey shook his head. \"The men\n won't swallow it any more. There's—well, there's been talk\n about having a board meeting.\"", "\"This morning in my office we offered to compromise with\n these jackals,\" he cried, \"and they rejected compromise. Even\n at the cost of lowering dividends, of taking food from the\n mouths of your wives and children, we made our generous\n offers. They were rejected with scorn. These thieves have one\n desire in mind, my friends, to starve you all, and to destroy\n your company and your jobs. To every appeal they heartlessly\n refused to divulge the key to the lock-in. And now this man—the\n ringleader who keeps the key word buried in secrecy—has\n the temerity to ask an audience with you. You're angry men;\n you want to know the man to blame for our hardship.\"\n\n\n He pointed to Towne with a flourish. \"I give you your man.\n Do what you want with him.\"", "\"Details!\" Torkleson snorted. \"I don't care\nhow\nthe dividends\n come in. That's your job. My job is to report a dividend\n every six months to the men who own the stock, the men working\n on the production lines.\"\n\n\n Walter nodded bitterly. \"And every year the dividend has\n to be higher than the last, or you and your fat friends are\n likely to be thrown out of your jobs—right? No more steaks\n every night. No more private gold-plated Buicks for you boys.\n No more twenty-room mansions in Westchester. No more big\n game hunting in the Rockies. No, you don't have to know\n anything but how to whip a board meeting into a frenzy so\n they'll vote you into office again each year.\"", "years with fine products and new models. But since the switchover\n seven years ago, you and your board have forced me to\n play the cheap products for the quick profit in order to give\n your men their dividends. Now the bottom's dropped out. We\n couldn't turn a quick profit on the big, important accounts, so\n we had to cancel them. If you had let me manage the company\n the way it should have been run—\"", "He pulled his worn overcoat down over frayed shirt sleeves,\n and tried vainly to straighten the celluloid collar that kept\n scooting his tie up under his ear. Once off the moving strip, he\n started up the Robling corridor toward the plant gate. Perhaps\n he would be fortunate. Maybe the reports would be late.\n Maybe his secretary's two neurones would fail to synapse this\n morning, and she'd lose them altogether. And, as long as he\n was dreaming, maybe Bailey would break his neck on the way\n to work. He walked quickly past the workers' lounge, glancing\n in at the groups of men, arguing politics and checking the\n stock market reports before they changed from their neat gray\n business suits to their welding dungarees. Running up the\n stairs to the administrative wing, he paused outside the door\n to punch the time clock. 8:04. Damn. If only Bailey could be\n sick—", "There was a long, indignant statement from Daniel P.\n Torkleson, condemning Towne and his followers for \"flagrant\n violation of management contracts and illegal fouling of managerial\n processes.\" Ben Starkey, President of the Board of\n American Steel, expressed \"shock and regret\"; the Amalgamated\n Buttonhole Makers held a mass meeting in protest, demanding\n that \"the instigators of this unprecedented crime be\n permanently barred from positions in American Industry.\"\n\n\n In Washington, the nation's economists were more cautious\n in their views. Yes, it\nwas\nan unprecedented action. Yes, there\n would undoubtedly be repercussions—many industries were\n having managerial troubles; but as for long term effects, it was\n difficult to say just at present.\n\n\n On the Robling production lines the workmen blinked at\n each other, and at their machines, and wondered vaguely what\n it was all about.", "He waited until Bailey was gone. Then, with a trembling\n hand he lifted the visiphone receiver. \"Get me Walter Towne,\"\n he said.\n\"I'm not an unreasonable man,\" Torkleson was saying\n miserably, waving his fat paws in the air as he paced back and\n forth in front of the spokesmen for the striking managers.\n \"Perhaps we were a little demanding, I concede it! Overenthusiastic\n with our ownership, and all that. But I'm sure we\n can come to some agreement. A hike in wage scale is certainly\n within reason. Perhaps we can even arrange for better company\n houses.\"\n\n\n Walter Towne stifled a yawn. \"Perhaps you didn't understand\n us. The men are agitating for a meeting of the board of\n directors. We want to be at that meeting. That's the only thing\n we're interested in right now.\"\n\n\n \"But there wasn't anything about a board meeting in the\n contract your lawyer presented.\"", "They were all present. They were packed in from the wall\n to the stage, and hanging from the rafters. They overflowed\n into the corridors. They jammed the lobby. Ten thousand men\n rose with a howl of anger when Walter Towne walked out on\n the stage. But they quieted down again as Dan Torkleson\n started to speak.\n\n\n It was a masterful display of rabble-rousing. Torkleson\n paced the stage, his fat body shaking with agitation, pointing\n a chubby finger again and again at Walter Towne. He pranced\n and he ranted. He paused at just the right times for thunderous\n peals of applause.", "The workers grew restive. From the first day, Towne and\n Hendricks and all the others had been picketing the plant,\n until angry crowds of workers had driven them off with shotguns.\n Then they came back in an old, weatherbeaten 'copter\n which hovered over the plant entrance carrying a banner with\n a plaintive message:\n robling titanium unfair to management\n .\n Tomatoes were hurled, fists were shaken, but the 'copter\n remained.\n\n\n The third day, Jeff Bates was served with an injunction ordering\n Towne to return to work. It was duly appealed, legal\n machinery began tying itself in knots, and the strikers still\n struck. By the fifth day there was a more serious note.\n\n\n \"You're going to have to appear, Walter. We can't dodge\n this one.\"\n\n\n \"When?\"", "\"Get them moving,\" Torkleson howled. \"They'll start those\n machines again, or I'll have them in jail so fast—\" He turned\n back to Bailey. \"What about the production lines?\"\n\n\n The shop steward's face lighted. \"They slipped up, there.\n There was one program that hadn't been coded into the machines\n yet. Just a minor item, but it's a starter. We found it in\n Towne's desk, blueprints all ready, promotion all planned.\"\n\n\n \"Good, good,\" Torkleson breathed. \"I have a directors'\n meeting right now, have to get the workers quieted down a\n bit. You put the program through, and give those electronics\n men three more hours to unsnarl this knot, or we throw them\n out of the union.\" He started for the door. \"What were the\n blueprints for?\"\n\n\n \"Trash cans,\" said Bailey. \"Pure titanium-steel trash cans.\"", "Walter Towne remembered those stormy days well. The\n gradual undercutting of the managerial salaries, the tightening\n up of inter-union collusion to establish the infamous White\n list of Recalcitrant Managers. The shift from hourly wage to\n annual salary for the factory workers, and the change to the\n other pole for the managerial staff. And then, with creeping\n malignancy, the hungry howling of the union bosses for more\n and higher dividends, year after year, moving steadily toward\n the inevitable crisis." ], [ "Walter rose slowly from his seat. This was it, then. Torkleson\n had already seen the reports. He started for the door, his\n knees shaking.\n\n\n It hadn't always been like this, he reflected miserably.\n Time was when things had been very different. It had\nmeant\nsomething to be vice president of a huge industrial firm like\n Robling Titanium. A man could have had a fine house of\n his own, and a 'copter-car, and belong to the Country Club;\n maybe even have a cottage on a lake somewhere.\n\n\n Walter could almost remember those days with Robling,\n before the switchover, before that black day when the exchange\n of ten little shares of stock had thrown the Robling\n Titanium Corporation into the hands of strange and unnatural\n owners.\nThe door was of heavy stained oak, with bold letters edged\n in gold:\nTITANIUM WORKERS\n\n OF AMERICA\n\n Amalgamated Locals", "It took Robling Titanium approximately two days to convert\n its entire production line to titanium-steel trash cans. With the\n total resources of the giant plant behind the effort, production\n was phenomenal. In two more days the available markets were\n glutted. Within two weeks, at a conservative estimate, there\n would be a titanium-steel trash can for every man, woman,\n child, and hound dog on the North American continent. The\n jet engines, structural steels, tubing, and other pre-strike products\n piled up in the freight yards, their routing slips and order\n requisitions tied up in the reverberating machines.\n\n\n But the machines continued to buzz and sputter.", "\"Get them moving,\" Torkleson howled. \"They'll start those\n machines again, or I'll have them in jail so fast—\" He turned\n back to Bailey. \"What about the production lines?\"\n\n\n The shop steward's face lighted. \"They slipped up, there.\n There was one program that hadn't been coded into the machines\n yet. Just a minor item, but it's a starter. We found it in\n Towne's desk, blueprints all ready, promotion all planned.\"\n\n\n \"Good, good,\" Torkleson breathed. \"I have a directors'\n meeting right now, have to get the workers quieted down a\n bit. You put the program through, and give those electronics\n men three more hours to unsnarl this knot, or we throw them\n out of the union.\" He started for the door. \"What were the\n blueprints for?\"\n\n\n \"Trash cans,\" said Bailey. \"Pure titanium-steel trash cans.\"", "\"Not quite.\" Walter was grinning. \"That's why I spoke of\n a lock-in. Before we leave, we throw the machines into feedback,\n every one of them. Lock them into reverberating circuits\n with a code sequence key. Then all they'll do is buzz and sputter\n until the feedback is broken with the key. And the key is\n our secret. It'll tie the Robling office into granny knots, and\n scabs won't be able to get any more data out of the machines\n than Torkleson could. With a lawyer to handle injunctions,\n we've got them strapped.\"\n\n\n \"For what?\" asked the lawyer.\n\n\n Walter turned on him sharply. \"For new contracts. Contracts\n to let us manage the company the way it should be managed.\n If they won't do it, they won't get another Titanium\n product off their production lines for the rest of the year, and\n their dividends will\nreally\ntake a nosedive.\"", "He struggled doggedly across the rumbling Exit strip toward\n the plant entrance. After all, he told himself, why should he be\n so upset? He\nwas\nVice President-in-Charge-of-Production of\n the Robling Titanium Corporation. What could they do to\n him, really? He had rehearsed\nhis\npart many times, squaring\n his thin shoulders, looking the union boss straight in the eye\n and saying, \"Now, see here, Torkleson—\" But he knew, when\n the showdown came, that he wouldn't say any such thing. And\n this was the morning that the showdown would come.", "The workers grew restive. From the first day, Towne and\n Hendricks and all the others had been picketing the plant,\n until angry crowds of workers had driven them off with shotguns.\n Then they came back in an old, weatherbeaten 'copter\n which hovered over the plant entrance carrying a banner with\n a plaintive message:\n robling titanium unfair to management\n .\n Tomatoes were hurled, fists were shaken, but the 'copter\n remained.\n\n\n The third day, Jeff Bates was served with an injunction ordering\n Towne to return to work. It was duly appealed, legal\n machinery began tying itself in knots, and the strikers still\n struck. By the fifth day there was a more serious note.\n\n\n \"You're going to have to appear, Walter. We can't dodge\n this one.\"\n\n\n \"When?\"", "The union boss swore and slammed his fist on the desk.\n \"Walk out in front of those men after what you've done? You're\n fools! Well, I've given you your chance. You'll get your board\n meeting. But you'd better come armed. Because I know how\n to handle this kind of board meeting, and if I have anything\n to say about it, this one will end with a massacre.\"\nThe meeting was held in a huge auditorium in the Robling\n administration building. Since every member of the union\n owned stock in the company, every member had the right to\n vote for members of the board of directors. But in the early\n days of the switchover, the idea of a board of directors smacked\n too strongly of the old system of corporate organization to suit\n the men. The solution had been simple, if a trifle ungainly.\n Everyone who owned stock in Robling Titanium was automatically\n a member of the board of directors, with Torkleson\n as chairman of the board. The stockholders numbered over\n ten thousand.", "\"Nothing's wrong with the men—if they'd only work. But\n they come in when they please, and leave when they please,\n and spend half their time changing and the other half on\n Koffee-Kup. No company could survive this. But that's only\n half of it—\" Walter searched through the reports frantically.\n \"This International Jet Transport account—they dropped us\n because we haven't had a new engine in six years. Why? Because\n Research and Development hasn't had any money for\n six years. What can two starved engineers and a second rate\n chemist drag out of an attic laboratory for competition in the\n titanium market?\" Walter took a deep breath. \"I've warned\n you time and again. Robling had built up accounts over the", "Daniel P. Torkleson, Secretary\n\n\n The secretary flipped down the desk switch and eyed Walter\n with pity. \"Mr. Torkleson will see you.\"\n\n\n Walter pushed through the door into the long, handsome\n office. For an instant he felt a pang of nostalgia—the floor-to-ceiling\n windows looking out across the long buildings of the\n Robling plant, the pine paneling, the broad expanse of desk—\n\n\n \"Well? Don't just stand there. Shut the door and come over\n here.\" The man behind the desk hoisted his three hundred\n well-dressed pounds and glared at Walter from under flagrant\n eyebrows. Torkleson's whole body quivered as he slammed\n a sheaf of papers down on the desk. \"Just what do you think\n you're doing with this company, Towne?\"\n\n\n Walter swallowed. \"I'm production manager of the corporation.\"", "\"You think that since you own the company, times have\n changed. Well, have they? Are you any better off than you\n were? Of course not. Because you haven't learned yet that\n oppression by either side leads to misery for both. You haven't\n learned moderation. And you never will, until you throw out\n the ones who have fought moderation right down to the last\n ditch. You know whom I mean. You know who's grown richer\n and richer since the switchover. Throw him out, and you too\n can be rich.\" He paused for a deep breath. \"You want the code\n word to unlock the machines? All right, I'll give it to you.\"\n\n\n He swung around to point a long finger at the fat man\n sitting there. \"The code word is TORKLESON!\"\nMuch later, Walter Towne and Jeff Bates pried the trophies\n off the wall of the big office. The lawyer shook his head sadly.\n \"Pity about Dan Torkleson. Gruesome affair.\"", "There was a long, indignant statement from Daniel P.\n Torkleson, condemning Towne and his followers for \"flagrant\n violation of management contracts and illegal fouling of managerial\n processes.\" Ben Starkey, President of the Board of\n American Steel, expressed \"shock and regret\"; the Amalgamated\n Buttonhole Makers held a mass meeting in protest, demanding\n that \"the instigators of this unprecedented crime be\n permanently barred from positions in American Industry.\"\n\n\n In Washington, the nation's economists were more cautious\n in their views. Yes, it\nwas\nan unprecedented action. Yes, there\n would undoubtedly be repercussions—many industries were\n having managerial troubles; but as for long term effects, it was\n difficult to say just at present.\n\n\n On the Robling production lines the workmen blinked at\n each other, and at their machines, and wondered vaguely what\n it was all about.", "He pulled his worn overcoat down over frayed shirt sleeves,\n and tried vainly to straighten the celluloid collar that kept\n scooting his tie up under his ear. Once off the moving strip, he\n started up the Robling corridor toward the plant gate. Perhaps\n he would be fortunate. Maybe the reports would be late.\n Maybe his secretary's two neurones would fail to synapse this\n morning, and she'd lose them altogether. And, as long as he\n was dreaming, maybe Bailey would break his neck on the way\n to work. He walked quickly past the workers' lounge, glancing\n in at the groups of men, arguing politics and checking the\n stock market reports before they changed from their neat gray\n business suits to their welding dungarees. Running up the\n stairs to the administrative wing, he paused outside the door\n to punch the time clock. 8:04. Damn. If only Bailey could be\n sick—", "\"This morning in my office we offered to compromise with\n these jackals,\" he cried, \"and they rejected compromise. Even\n at the cost of lowering dividends, of taking food from the\n mouths of your wives and children, we made our generous\n offers. They were rejected with scorn. These thieves have one\n desire in mind, my friends, to starve you all, and to destroy\n your company and your jobs. To every appeal they heartlessly\n refused to divulge the key to the lock-in. And now this man—the\n ringleader who keeps the key word buried in secrecy—has\n the temerity to ask an audience with you. You're angry men;\n you want to know the man to blame for our hardship.\"\n\n\n He pointed to Towne with a flourish. \"I give you your man.\n Do what you want with him.\"", "At first it had been a quiet movement. One by one the\n smaller firms had tottered, bled drier and drier by increasing\n production costs, increasing labor demands, and an ever-dwindling\n margin of profit. One by one they had seen their\n stocks tottering as they faced bankruptcy, only to be gobbled\n up by the one ready buyer with plenty of funds to buy with.\n At first, changes had been small and insignificant: boards of\n directors shifted; the men were paid higher wages and worked\n shorter hours; there were tighter management policies; and\n a little less money was spent on extras like Research and\n Development.\n\n\n At first—until that fateful night when Daniel P. Torkleson\n of TWA and Jake Squill of Amalgamated Buttonhole Makers\n spent a long evening with beer and cigars in a hotel room, and\n floated the loan that threw steel to the unions. Oil had followed\n with hardly a fight, and as the unions began to feel their oats,\n the changes grew more radical.", "\"We have no price, and no demands,\" said Walter Towne.\n \"We will\ngive\nyou the code word, and we ask nothing in return\n but that you listen for sixty seconds.\" He glanced back at\n Torkleson, and then out to the crowd. \"You men here are an\n electing body—right? You own this great plant and company,\n top to bottom—right?\nYou should all be rich\n, because Robling\n could make you rich. But not one of you out there is rich.\n Only the fat ones on this stage are. But I'll tell you how\nyou\ncan be rich.\"\n\n\n They listened. Not a peep came from the huge hall. Suddenly,\n Walter Towne was talking their language.", "Jeff Bates shook his head sadly. \"I'm with you. I don't know\n why, you haven't got a leg to stand on. But if you want to\n commit suicide, that's all right with me.\" He picked up his\n briefcase, and started for the door. \"I'll have your contract\n demands by tomorrow,\" he grinned. \"See you at the lynching.\"\n\n\n They got down to the details of planning.\nThe news hit the afternoon telecasts the following day.\n Headlines screamed:\nMANAGEMENT SABOTAGES ROBLING MACHINES\n\n OFFICE STRIKERS THREATEN LABOR ECONOMY\n\n ROBLING LOCK-IN CREATES PANDEMONIUM", "He waited until Bailey was gone. Then, with a trembling\n hand he lifted the visiphone receiver. \"Get me Walter Towne,\"\n he said.\n\"I'm not an unreasonable man,\" Torkleson was saying\n miserably, waving his fat paws in the air as he paced back and\n forth in front of the spokesmen for the striking managers.\n \"Perhaps we were a little demanding, I concede it! Overenthusiastic\n with our ownership, and all that. But I'm sure we\n can come to some agreement. A hike in wage scale is certainly\n within reason. Perhaps we can even arrange for better company\n houses.\"\n\n\n Walter Towne stifled a yawn. \"Perhaps you didn't understand\n us. The men are agitating for a meeting of the board of\n directors. We want to be at that meeting. That's the only thing\n we're interested in right now.\"\n\n\n \"But there wasn't anything about a board meeting in the\n contract your lawyer presented.\"", "And still the machines sputtered.\nBack at the plant rumor had it that the machines were permanently\n gutted, and that the plant could never go back into\n production. Conflicting scuttlebutt suggested that persons high\n in uniondom had perpetrated the crisis deliberately, bullying\n Management into the strike for the sole purpose of cutting current\n dividends and selling stock to themselves cheaply. The\n rumors grew easier and easier to believe. The workers came\n to the plants in business suits, it was true, and lounged in the\n finest of lounges, and read the\nWall Street Journal\n, and felt like\n stockholders. But to face facts, their salaries were not the\n highest. Deduct union dues, pension fees, medical insurance\n fees, and sundry other little items which had formerly been\n paid by well-to-do managements, and very little was left but\n the semi-annual dividend checks. And now the dividends were\n tottering.", "He stared at the machines, clicking busily against the wall.\n An idea began to form in his head. Helpless?\n\n\n Not quite. Not if the others could see it, go along with it.\n It was a repugnant idea. But there was one thing they could\n do that even Torkleson and his fat-jowled crew would understand.\n\n\n They could go on strike.\n\"It's ridiculous,\" the lawyer spluttered, staring at the circle\n of men in the room. \"How can I give you an opinion on the\n legality of the thing? There isn't any legal precedent that I\n know of.\" He mopped his bald head with a large white handkerchief.\n \"There just hasn't\nbeen\na case of a company's management\n striking against its own labor. It—it isn't done. Oh,\n there have been lockouts, but this isn't the same thing at all.\"", "Production lines slowed. There were daily brawls on the\n plant floor, in the lounge and locker rooms. Workers began\n joking about the trash cans; then the humor grew more and\n more remote. Finally, late in the afternoon of the eighth day,\n Bailey was once again in Torkleson's office.\n\n\n \"Well? Speak up! What's the beef this time?\"\n\n\n \"Sir—the men—I mean, there's been some nasty talk.\n They're tired of making trash cans. No challenge in it. Anyway,\n the stock room is full, and the freight yard is full, and\n the last run of orders we sent out came back because nobody\n wants any more trash cans.\" Bailey shook his head. \"The men\n won't swallow it any more. There's—well, there's been talk\n about having a board meeting.\"" ], [ "Walter was there a half hour early. Torkleson's legal staff\n glowered from across the room. The judge glowered from\n the bench. Walter closed his eyes with a little smile as the\n charges were read: \"—breach of contract, malicious mischief,\n sabotage of the company's machines, conspiring to destroy the\n livelihood of ten thousand workers. Your Honor, we are preparing\n briefs to prove further that these men have formed a\n conspiracy to undermine the economy of the entire nation.\n We appeal to the spirit of orderly justice—\"\n\n\n Walter yawned as the words went on.\n\n\n \"Of course, if the defendant will waive his appeals against\n the previous injunctions, and will release the machines that\n were sabotaged, we will be happy to formally withdraw these\n charges.\"\n\n\n There was a rustle of sound through the courtroom. His\n Honor turned to Jeff Bates. \"Are you counsel for the defendant?\"", "Bailey was not sick. The administrative offices were humming\n with frantic activity as Walter glanced down the rows\n of cubbyholes. In the middle of it all sat Bailey, in his black-and-yellow\n checkered tattersall, smoking a large cigar. His\n feet were planted on his desk top, but he hadn't started on his\n morning Western yet. He was busy glaring, first at the clock,\n then at Walter.\n\n\n \"Late again, I see,\" the shop steward growled.\n\n\n Walter gulped. \"Yes, sir. Just four minutes, this time, sir.\n You know those crowded strips—\"", "Oh, not because of the\nlateness\n. Of course Bailey, the shop\n steward, would take his usual delight in bringing that up. But\n this seemed hardly worthy of concern this morning. The reports\n waiting on his desk were what worried him. The sales\n reports. The promotion-draw reports. The royalty reports. The\n anticipated dividend reports. Walter shook his head wearily.\n The shop steward was a goad, annoying, perhaps even infuriating,\n but tolerable. Torkleson was a different matter.", "\"I've been doing everything I could,\" Walter snapped. \"Of\n course the reports are bad, they couldn't help but be. We\n haven't met a production schedule in over two years. No plant\n can keep up production the way the men are working.\"\n\n\n Torkleson's face darkened. He leaned forward slowly. \"So\n it's the\nmen\nnow, is it? Go ahead. Tell me what's wrong with\n the men.\"", "Torkleson's eyes glittered. His voice was very soft. \"I've always\n liked you, Walter. So I'm going to pretend I didn't hear\n you.\" He paused, then continued. \"But here on my desk is a\n small bit of white paper. Unless you have my signature on\n that paper on the first of next month, you are out of a job,\n on grounds of incompetence. And I will personally see that\n you go on every White list in the country.\"\n\n\n Walter felt the fight go out of him like a dying wind. He\n knew what the White list meant. No job, anywhere, ever, in\n management. No chance, ever, to join a union. No more\n house, no more weekly pay envelope. He spread his hands\n weakly. \"What do you want?\" he asked.", "Walter nodded as he struggled down with a moose head.\n \"Yes, a pity, but you know the boys when they get upset.\"\n\n\n \"I suppose so.\" The lawyer stopped to rest, panting. \"Anyway,\n with the newly elected board of directors, things will be\n different for everybody. You took a long gamble.\"\n\n\n \"Not so long. Not when you knew what they wanted to hear.\n It just took a little timing.\"\n\n\n \"Still, I didn't think they'd elect you secretary of the union.\n It just doesn't figure.\"\n\n\n Walter Towne chuckled. \"Doesn't it? I don't know. Everything's\n been a little screwy since the switchover. And in a\n screwy world like this—\" He shrugged, and tossed down the\n moose head. \"\nAnything\nfigures.\"", "\"Tomorrow morning. And before a labor-rigged judge, too.\"\n The little lawyer paced his office nervously. \"I don't like it.\n Torkleson's getting desperate. The workers are putting pressure\n on him.\"\n\n\n Walter grinned. \"Then Pendleton is doing a good job of\n selling.\"\n\n\n \"But you haven't got\ntime\n,\" the lawyer wailed. \"They'll have\n you in jail if you don't start the machines again. They may\n have you in jail if you\ndo\nstart them, too, but that's another\n bridge. Right now they want those machines going again.\"\n\n\n \"We'll see,\" said Walter. \"What time tomorrow?\"\n\n\n \"Ten o'clock.\" Bates looked up. \"And don't try to skip.\n You be there, because\nI\ndon't know what to tell them.\"", "Daniel P. Torkleson, Secretary\n\n\n The secretary flipped down the desk switch and eyed Walter\n with pity. \"Mr. Torkleson will see you.\"\n\n\n Walter pushed through the door into the long, handsome\n office. For an instant he felt a pang of nostalgia—the floor-to-ceiling\n windows looking out across the long buildings of the\n Robling plant, the pine paneling, the broad expanse of desk—\n\n\n \"Well? Don't just stand there. Shut the door and come over\n here.\" The man behind the desk hoisted his three hundred\n well-dressed pounds and glared at Walter from under flagrant\n eyebrows. Torkleson's whole body quivered as he slammed\n a sheaf of papers down on the desk. \"Just what do you think\n you're doing with this company, Towne?\"\n\n\n Walter swallowed. \"I'm production manager of the corporation.\"", "Board\nIt\n was going to be a bad day. As he pushed his way nervously\n through the crowds toward the Exit Strip, Walter Towne\n turned the dismal prospect over and over in his mind. The\n potential gloominess of this particular day had descended upon\n him the instant the morning buzzer had gone off, making it\n even more tempting than usual just to roll over and forget\n about it all. Twenty minutes later, the water-douse came to\n drag him, drenched and gurgling, back to the cruel cold world.\n He had wolfed down his morning Koffee-Kup with one eye\n on the clock and one eye on his growing sense of impending\n crisis. And now, to make things just a trifle worse, he was\n going to be late again.", "Walter Towne remembered those stormy days well. The\n gradual undercutting of the managerial salaries, the tightening\n up of inter-union collusion to establish the infamous White\n list of Recalcitrant Managers. The shift from hourly wage to\n annual salary for the factory workers, and the change to the\n other pole for the managerial staff. And then, with creeping\n malignancy, the hungry howling of the union bosses for more\n and higher dividends, year after year, moving steadily toward\n the inevitable crisis.", "He waited until Bailey was gone. Then, with a trembling\n hand he lifted the visiphone receiver. \"Get me Walter Towne,\"\n he said.\n\"I'm not an unreasonable man,\" Torkleson was saying\n miserably, waving his fat paws in the air as he paced back and\n forth in front of the spokesmen for the striking managers.\n \"Perhaps we were a little demanding, I concede it! Overenthusiastic\n with our ownership, and all that. But I'm sure we\n can come to some agreement. A hike in wage scale is certainly\n within reason. Perhaps we can even arrange for better company\n houses.\"\n\n\n Walter Towne stifled a yawn. \"Perhaps you didn't understand\n us. The men are agitating for a meeting of the board of\n directors. We want to be at that meeting. That's the only thing\n we're interested in right now.\"\n\n\n \"But there wasn't anything about a board meeting in the\n contract your lawyer presented.\"", "\"I want a production plan on my desk within twenty-four\n hours. A plan that will guarantee me a five per cent increase\n in dividends in the next six months. And you'd better move\n fast, because I'm not fooling.\"\nBack in his cubbyhole downstairs, Walter stared hopelessly\n at the reports. He had known it would come to this sooner or\n later. They all knew it—Hendricks of Promotion, Pendleton\n of Sales, the whole managerial staff.\n\n\n It was wrong, all the way down the line. Walter had\n fought it tooth and nail since the day Torkleson had installed\n the moose heads in Walter's old office, and moved him down\n to the cubbyhole, under Bailey's watchful eye. He had argued,\n and battled, and pleaded, and lost. He had watched the company\n deteriorate day by day. Now they blamed him, and\n threatened his job, and he was helpless to do anything about it.", "The workers grew restive. From the first day, Towne and\n Hendricks and all the others had been picketing the plant,\n until angry crowds of workers had driven them off with shotguns.\n Then they came back in an old, weatherbeaten 'copter\n which hovered over the plant entrance carrying a banner with\n a plaintive message:\n robling titanium unfair to management\n .\n Tomatoes were hurled, fists were shaken, but the 'copter\n remained.\n\n\n The third day, Jeff Bates was served with an injunction ordering\n Towne to return to work. It was duly appealed, legal\n machinery began tying itself in knots, and the strikers still\n struck. By the fifth day there was a more serious note.\n\n\n \"You're going to have to appear, Walter. We can't dodge\n this one.\"\n\n\n \"When?\"", "They were all present. They were packed in from the wall\n to the stage, and hanging from the rafters. They overflowed\n into the corridors. They jammed the lobby. Ten thousand men\n rose with a howl of anger when Walter Towne walked out on\n the stage. But they quieted down again as Dan Torkleson\n started to speak.\n\n\n It was a masterful display of rabble-rousing. Torkleson\n paced the stage, his fat body shaking with agitation, pointing\n a chubby finger again and again at Walter Towne. He pranced\n and he ranted. He paused at just the right times for thunderous\n peals of applause.", "\"You think that since you own the company, times have\n changed. Well, have they? Are you any better off than you\n were? Of course not. Because you haven't learned yet that\n oppression by either side leads to misery for both. You haven't\n learned moderation. And you never will, until you throw out\n the ones who have fought moderation right down to the last\n ditch. You know whom I mean. You know who's grown richer\n and richer since the switchover. Throw him out, and you too\n can be rich.\" He paused for a deep breath. \"You want the code\n word to unlock the machines? All right, I'll give it to you.\"\n\n\n He swung around to point a long finger at the fat man\n sitting there. \"The code word is TORKLESON!\"\nMuch later, Walter Towne and Jeff Bates pried the trophies\n off the wall of the big office. The lawyer shook his head sadly.\n \"Pity about Dan Torkleson. Gruesome affair.\"", "The hall exploded in angry thunder. The first wave of men\n rushed onto the stage as Walter stood up. A tomato whizzed\n past his ear and splattered against the wall. More men clambered\n up on the stage, shouting and shaking their fists.\n\n\n Then somebody appeared with a rope.\n\n\n Walter gave a sharp nod to the side of the stage. Abruptly\n the roar of the men was drowned in another sound—a soul-rending,\n teeth-grating, bone-rattling screech. The men froze,\n jaws sagging, eyes wide, hardly believing their ears. In the\n instant of silence as the factory whistle died away, Walter\n grabbed the microphone. \"You want the code word to start\n the machines again? I'll give it to you before I sit down!\"\n\n\n The men stared at him, shuffling, a murmur rising. Torkleson\n burst to his feet. \"It's a trick!\" he howled. \"Wait 'til you\n hear their price.\"", "Walter rose slowly from his seat. This was it, then. Torkleson\n had already seen the reports. He started for the door, his\n knees shaking.\n\n\n It hadn't always been like this, he reflected miserably.\n Time was when things had been very different. It had\nmeant\nsomething to be vice president of a huge industrial firm like\n Robling Titanium. A man could have had a fine house of\n his own, and a 'copter-car, and belong to the Country Club;\n maybe even have a cottage on a lake somewhere.\n\n\n Walter could almost remember those days with Robling,\n before the switchover, before that black day when the exchange\n of ten little shares of stock had thrown the Robling\n Titanium Corporation into the hands of strange and unnatural\n owners.\nThe door was of heavy stained oak, with bold letters edged\n in gold:\nTITANIUM WORKERS\n\n OF AMERICA\n\n Amalgamated Locals", "\"Yes, sir.\" Bates mopped his bald scalp. \"The defendant\n pleads guilty to all counts.\"\n\n\n The union lawyer dropped his glasses on the table with a\n crash. The judge stared. \"Mr. Bates, if you plead guilty, you\n leave me no alternative—\"\n\n\n \"—but to send me to jail,\" said Walter Towne. \"Go ahead.\n Send me to jail. In fact, I\ninsist\nupon going to jail.\"\n\n\n The union lawyer's jaw sagged. There was a hurried conference.\n A recess was pleaded. Telephones buzzed. Then:\n \"Your Honor, the plaintiff desires to withdraw all charges at\n this time.\"\n\n\n \"Objection,\" Bates exclaimed. \"We've already pleaded.\"\n\n\n \"—feel sure that a settlement can be effected out of court—\"\n\n\n The case was thrown out on its ear.", "The reports were on his desk. He picked them up warily.\n Maybe they wouldn't be so bad. He'd had more freedom this\n last month than before, maybe there'd been a policy change.\n Maybe Torkleson was gaining confidence in him. Maybe—\n\n\n The reports were worse than he had ever dreamed.\n\n\n \"\nTowne!\n\"\n\n\n Walter jumped a foot. Bailey was putting down the visiphone\n receiver. His grin spread unpleasantly from ear to ear.\n \"What have you been doing lately? Sabotaging the production\n line?\"\n\n\n \"What's the trouble now?\"\n\n\n Bailey jerked a thumb significantly at the ceiling. \"The\n boss wants to see you. And you'd better have the right answers,\n too. The boss seems to have a lot of questions.\"", "Torkleson had been slowly turning purple. Now he slammed\n his fist down on the desk. \"We should just turn the company\n back to Management again, eh? Just let you have a free hand\n to rob us blind again. Well, it won't work, Towne. Not while\n I'm secretary of this union. We fought long and hard for control\n of this corporation, just the way all the other unions did.\n I know. I was through it all.\" He sat back smugly, his cheeks\n quivering with emotion. \"You might say that I was a national\n leader in the movement. But I did it only for the men. The\n men want their dividends. They own the stock, stock is supposed\n to pay dividends.\"\n\n\n \"But they're cutting their own throats,\" Walter wailed.\n \"You can't build a company and make it grow the way I've\n been forced to run it.\"" ], [ "He struggled doggedly across the rumbling Exit strip toward\n the plant entrance. After all, he told himself, why should he be\n so upset? He\nwas\nVice President-in-Charge-of-Production of\n the Robling Titanium Corporation. What could they do to\n him, really? He had rehearsed\nhis\npart many times, squaring\n his thin shoulders, looking the union boss straight in the eye\n and saying, \"Now, see here, Torkleson—\" But he knew, when\n the showdown came, that he wouldn't say any such thing. And\n this was the morning that the showdown would come.", "The workers grew restive. From the first day, Towne and\n Hendricks and all the others had been picketing the plant,\n until angry crowds of workers had driven them off with shotguns.\n Then they came back in an old, weatherbeaten 'copter\n which hovered over the plant entrance carrying a banner with\n a plaintive message:\n robling titanium unfair to management\n .\n Tomatoes were hurled, fists were shaken, but the 'copter\n remained.\n\n\n The third day, Jeff Bates was served with an injunction ordering\n Towne to return to work. It was duly appealed, legal\n machinery began tying itself in knots, and the strikers still\n struck. By the fifth day there was a more serious note.\n\n\n \"You're going to have to appear, Walter. We can't dodge\n this one.\"\n\n\n \"When?\"", "\"Get them moving,\" Torkleson howled. \"They'll start those\n machines again, or I'll have them in jail so fast—\" He turned\n back to Bailey. \"What about the production lines?\"\n\n\n The shop steward's face lighted. \"They slipped up, there.\n There was one program that hadn't been coded into the machines\n yet. Just a minor item, but it's a starter. We found it in\n Towne's desk, blueprints all ready, promotion all planned.\"\n\n\n \"Good, good,\" Torkleson breathed. \"I have a directors'\n meeting right now, have to get the workers quieted down a\n bit. You put the program through, and give those electronics\n men three more hours to unsnarl this knot, or we throw them\n out of the union.\" He started for the door. \"What were the\n blueprints for?\"\n\n\n \"Trash cans,\" said Bailey. \"Pure titanium-steel trash cans.\"", "\"We have no price, and no demands,\" said Walter Towne.\n \"We will\ngive\nyou the code word, and we ask nothing in return\n but that you listen for sixty seconds.\" He glanced back at\n Torkleson, and then out to the crowd. \"You men here are an\n electing body—right? You own this great plant and company,\n top to bottom—right?\nYou should all be rich\n, because Robling\n could make you rich. But not one of you out there is rich.\n Only the fat ones on this stage are. But I'll tell you how\nyou\ncan be rich.\"\n\n\n They listened. Not a peep came from the huge hall. Suddenly,\n Walter Towne was talking their language.", "He pulled his worn overcoat down over frayed shirt sleeves,\n and tried vainly to straighten the celluloid collar that kept\n scooting his tie up under his ear. Once off the moving strip, he\n started up the Robling corridor toward the plant gate. Perhaps\n he would be fortunate. Maybe the reports would be late.\n Maybe his secretary's two neurones would fail to synapse this\n morning, and she'd lose them altogether. And, as long as he\n was dreaming, maybe Bailey would break his neck on the way\n to work. He walked quickly past the workers' lounge, glancing\n in at the groups of men, arguing politics and checking the\n stock market reports before they changed from their neat gray\n business suits to their welding dungarees. Running up the\n stairs to the administrative wing, he paused outside the door\n to punch the time clock. 8:04. Damn. If only Bailey could be\n sick—", "\"Nothing's wrong with the men—if they'd only work. But\n they come in when they please, and leave when they please,\n and spend half their time changing and the other half on\n Koffee-Kup. No company could survive this. But that's only\n half of it—\" Walter searched through the reports frantically.\n \"This International Jet Transport account—they dropped us\n because we haven't had a new engine in six years. Why? Because\n Research and Development hasn't had any money for\n six years. What can two starved engineers and a second rate\n chemist drag out of an attic laboratory for competition in the\n titanium market?\" Walter took a deep breath. \"I've warned\n you time and again. Robling had built up accounts over the", "And still the machines sputtered.\nBack at the plant rumor had it that the machines were permanently\n gutted, and that the plant could never go back into\n production. Conflicting scuttlebutt suggested that persons high\n in uniondom had perpetrated the crisis deliberately, bullying\n Management into the strike for the sole purpose of cutting current\n dividends and selling stock to themselves cheaply. The\n rumors grew easier and easier to believe. The workers came\n to the plants in business suits, it was true, and lounged in the\n finest of lounges, and read the\nWall Street Journal\n, and felt like\n stockholders. But to face facts, their salaries were not the\n highest. Deduct union dues, pension fees, medical insurance\n fees, and sundry other little items which had formerly been\n paid by well-to-do managements, and very little was left but\n the semi-annual dividend checks. And now the dividends were\n tottering.", "Walter rose slowly from his seat. This was it, then. Torkleson\n had already seen the reports. He started for the door, his\n knees shaking.\n\n\n It hadn't always been like this, he reflected miserably.\n Time was when things had been very different. It had\nmeant\nsomething to be vice president of a huge industrial firm like\n Robling Titanium. A man could have had a fine house of\n his own, and a 'copter-car, and belong to the Country Club;\n maybe even have a cottage on a lake somewhere.\n\n\n Walter could almost remember those days with Robling,\n before the switchover, before that black day when the exchange\n of ten little shares of stock had thrown the Robling\n Titanium Corporation into the hands of strange and unnatural\n owners.\nThe door was of heavy stained oak, with bold letters edged\n in gold:\nTITANIUM WORKERS\n\n OF AMERICA\n\n Amalgamated Locals", "\"You think that since you own the company, times have\n changed. Well, have they? Are you any better off than you\n were? Of course not. Because you haven't learned yet that\n oppression by either side leads to misery for both. You haven't\n learned moderation. And you never will, until you throw out\n the ones who have fought moderation right down to the last\n ditch. You know whom I mean. You know who's grown richer\n and richer since the switchover. Throw him out, and you too\n can be rich.\" He paused for a deep breath. \"You want the code\n word to unlock the machines? All right, I'll give it to you.\"\n\n\n He swung around to point a long finger at the fat man\n sitting there. \"The code word is TORKLESON!\"\nMuch later, Walter Towne and Jeff Bates pried the trophies\n off the wall of the big office. The lawyer shook his head sadly.\n \"Pity about Dan Torkleson. Gruesome affair.\"", "Daniel P. Torkleson, Secretary\n\n\n The secretary flipped down the desk switch and eyed Walter\n with pity. \"Mr. Torkleson will see you.\"\n\n\n Walter pushed through the door into the long, handsome\n office. For an instant he felt a pang of nostalgia—the floor-to-ceiling\n windows looking out across the long buildings of the\n Robling plant, the pine paneling, the broad expanse of desk—\n\n\n \"Well? Don't just stand there. Shut the door and come over\n here.\" The man behind the desk hoisted his three hundred\n well-dressed pounds and glared at Walter from under flagrant\n eyebrows. Torkleson's whole body quivered as he slammed\n a sheaf of papers down on the desk. \"Just what do you think\n you're doing with this company, Towne?\"\n\n\n Walter swallowed. \"I'm production manager of the corporation.\"", "It took Robling Titanium approximately two days to convert\n its entire production line to titanium-steel trash cans. With the\n total resources of the giant plant behind the effort, production\n was phenomenal. In two more days the available markets were\n glutted. Within two weeks, at a conservative estimate, there\n would be a titanium-steel trash can for every man, woman,\n child, and hound dog on the North American continent. The\n jet engines, structural steels, tubing, and other pre-strike products\n piled up in the freight yards, their routing slips and order\n requisitions tied up in the reverberating machines.\n\n\n But the machines continued to buzz and sputter.", "\"Not quite.\" Walter was grinning. \"That's why I spoke of\n a lock-in. Before we leave, we throw the machines into feedback,\n every one of them. Lock them into reverberating circuits\n with a code sequence key. Then all they'll do is buzz and sputter\n until the feedback is broken with the key. And the key is\n our secret. It'll tie the Robling office into granny knots, and\n scabs won't be able to get any more data out of the machines\n than Torkleson could. With a lawyer to handle injunctions,\n we've got them strapped.\"\n\n\n \"For what?\" asked the lawyer.\n\n\n Walter turned on him sharply. \"For new contracts. Contracts\n to let us manage the company the way it should be managed.\n If they won't do it, they won't get another Titanium\n product off their production lines for the rest of the year, and\n their dividends will\nreally\ntake a nosedive.\"", "\"Details!\" Torkleson snorted. \"I don't care\nhow\nthe dividends\n come in. That's your job. My job is to report a dividend\n every six months to the men who own the stock, the men working\n on the production lines.\"\n\n\n Walter nodded bitterly. \"And every year the dividend has\n to be higher than the last, or you and your fat friends are\n likely to be thrown out of your jobs—right? No more steaks\n every night. No more private gold-plated Buicks for you boys.\n No more twenty-room mansions in Westchester. No more big\n game hunting in the Rockies. No, you don't have to know\n anything but how to whip a board meeting into a frenzy so\n they'll vote you into office again each year.\"", "\"That means you'll have to beat Torkleson,\" said Bates.\n \"He'll never go along.\"\n\n\n \"Then he'll be left behind.\"\n\n\n Hendricks stood up, brushing off his dungarees. \"I'm with\n you, Walter. I've taken all of Torkleson that I want to. And\n I'm sick of the junk we've been trying to sell people.\"\n\n\n The others nodded. Walter rubbed his hands together. \"All\n right. Tomorrow we work as usual, until the noon whistle.\n When we go off for lunch, we throw the machines into lock-step.\n Then we just don't come back. But the big thing is to\n keep it quiet until the noon whistle.\" He turned to the lawyer.\n \"Are you with us, Jeff?\"", "Walter Towne remembered those stormy days well. The\n gradual undercutting of the managerial salaries, the tightening\n up of inter-union collusion to establish the infamous White\n list of Recalcitrant Managers. The shift from hourly wage to\n annual salary for the factory workers, and the change to the\n other pole for the managerial staff. And then, with creeping\n malignancy, the hungry howling of the union bosses for more\n and higher dividends, year after year, moving steadily toward\n the inevitable crisis.", "The union boss swore and slammed his fist on the desk.\n \"Walk out in front of those men after what you've done? You're\n fools! Well, I've given you your chance. You'll get your board\n meeting. But you'd better come armed. Because I know how\n to handle this kind of board meeting, and if I have anything\n to say about it, this one will end with a massacre.\"\nThe meeting was held in a huge auditorium in the Robling\n administration building. Since every member of the union\n owned stock in the company, every member had the right to\n vote for members of the board of directors. But in the early\n days of the switchover, the idea of a board of directors smacked\n too strongly of the old system of corporate organization to suit\n the men. The solution had been simple, if a trifle ungainly.\n Everyone who owned stock in Robling Titanium was automatically\n a member of the board of directors, with Torkleson\n as chairman of the board. The stockholders numbered over\n ten thousand.", "\"This morning in my office we offered to compromise with\n these jackals,\" he cried, \"and they rejected compromise. Even\n at the cost of lowering dividends, of taking food from the\n mouths of your wives and children, we made our generous\n offers. They were rejected with scorn. These thieves have one\n desire in mind, my friends, to starve you all, and to destroy\n your company and your jobs. To every appeal they heartlessly\n refused to divulge the key to the lock-in. And now this man—the\n ringleader who keeps the key word buried in secrecy—has\n the temerity to ask an audience with you. You're angry men;\n you want to know the man to blame for our hardship.\"\n\n\n He pointed to Towne with a flourish. \"I give you your man.\n Do what you want with him.\"", "Jeff Bates shook his head sadly. \"I'm with you. I don't know\n why, you haven't got a leg to stand on. But if you want to\n commit suicide, that's all right with me.\" He picked up his\n briefcase, and started for the door. \"I'll have your contract\n demands by tomorrow,\" he grinned. \"See you at the lynching.\"\n\n\n They got down to the details of planning.\nThe news hit the afternoon telecasts the following day.\n Headlines screamed:\nMANAGEMENT SABOTAGES ROBLING MACHINES\n\n OFFICE STRIKERS THREATEN LABOR ECONOMY\n\n ROBLING LOCK-IN CREATES PANDEMONIUM", "The hall exploded in angry thunder. The first wave of men\n rushed onto the stage as Walter stood up. A tomato whizzed\n past his ear and splattered against the wall. More men clambered\n up on the stage, shouting and shaking their fists.\n\n\n Then somebody appeared with a rope.\n\n\n Walter gave a sharp nod to the side of the stage. Abruptly\n the roar of the men was drowned in another sound—a soul-rending,\n teeth-grating, bone-rattling screech. The men froze,\n jaws sagging, eyes wide, hardly believing their ears. In the\n instant of silence as the factory whistle died away, Walter\n grabbed the microphone. \"You want the code word to start\n the machines again? I'll give it to you before I sit down!\"\n\n\n The men stared at him, shuffling, a murmur rising. Torkleson\n burst to his feet. \"It's a trick!\" he howled. \"Wait 'til you\n hear their price.\"", "\"I know, but you rejected that contract. So we tore it up.\n Anyway, we've changed our minds.\"\n\n\n Torkleson sat down, his heavy cheeks quivering. \"Gentlemen,\n be reasonable! I can guarantee you your jobs, even give\n you a free hand with the management. So the dividends won't be\n so large—the men will have to get used to that. That's it, we'll\n put it through at the next executive conference, give you—\"\n\n\n \"The board meeting,\" Walter said gently. \"That'll be enough\n for us.\"" ], [ "And still the machines sputtered.\nBack at the plant rumor had it that the machines were permanently\n gutted, and that the plant could never go back into\n production. Conflicting scuttlebutt suggested that persons high\n in uniondom had perpetrated the crisis deliberately, bullying\n Management into the strike for the sole purpose of cutting current\n dividends and selling stock to themselves cheaply. The\n rumors grew easier and easier to believe. The workers came\n to the plants in business suits, it was true, and lounged in the\n finest of lounges, and read the\nWall Street Journal\n, and felt like\n stockholders. But to face facts, their salaries were not the\n highest. Deduct union dues, pension fees, medical insurance\n fees, and sundry other little items which had formerly been\n paid by well-to-do managements, and very little was left but\n the semi-annual dividend checks. And now the dividends were\n tottering.", "\"This morning in my office we offered to compromise with\n these jackals,\" he cried, \"and they rejected compromise. Even\n at the cost of lowering dividends, of taking food from the\n mouths of your wives and children, we made our generous\n offers. They were rejected with scorn. These thieves have one\n desire in mind, my friends, to starve you all, and to destroy\n your company and your jobs. To every appeal they heartlessly\n refused to divulge the key to the lock-in. And now this man—the\n ringleader who keeps the key word buried in secrecy—has\n the temerity to ask an audience with you. You're angry men;\n you want to know the man to blame for our hardship.\"\n\n\n He pointed to Towne with a flourish. \"I give you your man.\n Do what you want with him.\"", "Torkleson had been slowly turning purple. Now he slammed\n his fist down on the desk. \"We should just turn the company\n back to Management again, eh? Just let you have a free hand\n to rob us blind again. Well, it won't work, Towne. Not while\n I'm secretary of this union. We fought long and hard for control\n of this corporation, just the way all the other unions did.\n I know. I was through it all.\" He sat back smugly, his cheeks\n quivering with emotion. \"You might say that I was a national\n leader in the movement. But I did it only for the men. The\n men want their dividends. They own the stock, stock is supposed\n to pay dividends.\"\n\n\n \"But they're cutting their own throats,\" Walter wailed.\n \"You can't build a company and make it grow the way I've\n been forced to run it.\"", "Production lines slowed. There were daily brawls on the\n plant floor, in the lounge and locker rooms. Workers began\n joking about the trash cans; then the humor grew more and\n more remote. Finally, late in the afternoon of the eighth day,\n Bailey was once again in Torkleson's office.\n\n\n \"Well? Speak up! What's the beef this time?\"\n\n\n \"Sir—the men—I mean, there's been some nasty talk.\n They're tired of making trash cans. No challenge in it. Anyway,\n the stock room is full, and the freight yard is full, and\n the last run of orders we sent out came back because nobody\n wants any more trash cans.\" Bailey shook his head. \"The men\n won't swallow it any more. There's—well, there's been talk\n about having a board meeting.\"", "\"We have no price, and no demands,\" said Walter Towne.\n \"We will\ngive\nyou the code word, and we ask nothing in return\n but that you listen for sixty seconds.\" He glanced back at\n Torkleson, and then out to the crowd. \"You men here are an\n electing body—right? You own this great plant and company,\n top to bottom—right?\nYou should all be rich\n, because Robling\n could make you rich. But not one of you out there is rich.\n Only the fat ones on this stage are. But I'll tell you how\nyou\ncan be rich.\"\n\n\n They listened. Not a peep came from the huge hall. Suddenly,\n Walter Towne was talking their language.", "\"That means you'll have to beat Torkleson,\" said Bates.\n \"He'll never go along.\"\n\n\n \"Then he'll be left behind.\"\n\n\n Hendricks stood up, brushing off his dungarees. \"I'm with\n you, Walter. I've taken all of Torkleson that I want to. And\n I'm sick of the junk we've been trying to sell people.\"\n\n\n The others nodded. Walter rubbed his hands together. \"All\n right. Tomorrow we work as usual, until the noon whistle.\n When we go off for lunch, we throw the machines into lock-step.\n Then we just don't come back. But the big thing is to\n keep it quiet until the noon whistle.\" He turned to the lawyer.\n \"Are you with us, Jeff?\"", "\"You think that since you own the company, times have\n changed. Well, have they? Are you any better off than you\n were? Of course not. Because you haven't learned yet that\n oppression by either side leads to misery for both. You haven't\n learned moderation. And you never will, until you throw out\n the ones who have fought moderation right down to the last\n ditch. You know whom I mean. You know who's grown richer\n and richer since the switchover. Throw him out, and you too\n can be rich.\" He paused for a deep breath. \"You want the code\n word to unlock the machines? All right, I'll give it to you.\"\n\n\n He swung around to point a long finger at the fat man\n sitting there. \"The code word is TORKLESON!\"\nMuch later, Walter Towne and Jeff Bates pried the trophies\n off the wall of the big office. The lawyer shook his head sadly.\n \"Pity about Dan Torkleson. Gruesome affair.\"", "The hall exploded in angry thunder. The first wave of men\n rushed onto the stage as Walter stood up. A tomato whizzed\n past his ear and splattered against the wall. More men clambered\n up on the stage, shouting and shaking their fists.\n\n\n Then somebody appeared with a rope.\n\n\n Walter gave a sharp nod to the side of the stage. Abruptly\n the roar of the men was drowned in another sound—a soul-rending,\n teeth-grating, bone-rattling screech. The men froze,\n jaws sagging, eyes wide, hardly believing their ears. In the\n instant of silence as the factory whistle died away, Walter\n grabbed the microphone. \"You want the code word to start\n the machines again? I'll give it to you before I sit down!\"\n\n\n The men stared at him, shuffling, a murmur rising. Torkleson\n burst to his feet. \"It's a trick!\" he howled. \"Wait 'til you\n hear their price.\"", "Jeff Bates shook his head sadly. \"I'm with you. I don't know\n why, you haven't got a leg to stand on. But if you want to\n commit suicide, that's all right with me.\" He picked up his\n briefcase, and started for the door. \"I'll have your contract\n demands by tomorrow,\" he grinned. \"See you at the lynching.\"\n\n\n They got down to the details of planning.\nThe news hit the afternoon telecasts the following day.\n Headlines screamed:\nMANAGEMENT SABOTAGES ROBLING MACHINES\n\n OFFICE STRIKERS THREATEN LABOR ECONOMY\n\n ROBLING LOCK-IN CREATES PANDEMONIUM", "There was a long, indignant statement from Daniel P.\n Torkleson, condemning Towne and his followers for \"flagrant\n violation of management contracts and illegal fouling of managerial\n processes.\" Ben Starkey, President of the Board of\n American Steel, expressed \"shock and regret\"; the Amalgamated\n Buttonhole Makers held a mass meeting in protest, demanding\n that \"the instigators of this unprecedented crime be\n permanently barred from positions in American Industry.\"\n\n\n In Washington, the nation's economists were more cautious\n in their views. Yes, it\nwas\nan unprecedented action. Yes, there\n would undoubtedly be repercussions—many industries were\n having managerial troubles; but as for long term effects, it was\n difficult to say just at present.\n\n\n On the Robling production lines the workmen blinked at\n each other, and at their machines, and wondered vaguely what\n it was all about.", "He stared at the machines, clicking busily against the wall.\n An idea began to form in his head. Helpless?\n\n\n Not quite. Not if the others could see it, go along with it.\n It was a repugnant idea. But there was one thing they could\n do that even Torkleson and his fat-jowled crew would understand.\n\n\n They could go on strike.\n\"It's ridiculous,\" the lawyer spluttered, staring at the circle\n of men in the room. \"How can I give you an opinion on the\n legality of the thing? There isn't any legal precedent that I\n know of.\" He mopped his bald head with a large white handkerchief.\n \"There just hasn't\nbeen\na case of a company's management\n striking against its own labor. It—it isn't done. Oh,\n there have been lockouts, but this isn't the same thing at all.\"", "\"Get them moving,\" Torkleson howled. \"They'll start those\n machines again, or I'll have them in jail so fast—\" He turned\n back to Bailey. \"What about the production lines?\"\n\n\n The shop steward's face lighted. \"They slipped up, there.\n There was one program that hadn't been coded into the machines\n yet. Just a minor item, but it's a starter. We found it in\n Towne's desk, blueprints all ready, promotion all planned.\"\n\n\n \"Good, good,\" Torkleson breathed. \"I have a directors'\n meeting right now, have to get the workers quieted down a\n bit. You put the program through, and give those electronics\n men three more hours to unsnarl this knot, or we throw them\n out of the union.\" He started for the door. \"What were the\n blueprints for?\"\n\n\n \"Trash cans,\" said Bailey. \"Pure titanium-steel trash cans.\"", "He struggled doggedly across the rumbling Exit strip toward\n the plant entrance. After all, he told himself, why should he be\n so upset? He\nwas\nVice President-in-Charge-of-Production of\n the Robling Titanium Corporation. What could they do to\n him, really? He had rehearsed\nhis\npart many times, squaring\n his thin shoulders, looking the union boss straight in the eye\n and saying, \"Now, see here, Torkleson—\" But he knew, when\n the showdown came, that he wouldn't say any such thing. And\n this was the morning that the showdown would come.", "\"I know, but you rejected that contract. So we tore it up.\n Anyway, we've changed our minds.\"\n\n\n Torkleson sat down, his heavy cheeks quivering. \"Gentlemen,\n be reasonable! I can guarantee you your jobs, even give\n you a free hand with the management. So the dividends won't be\n so large—the men will have to get used to that. That's it, we'll\n put it through at the next executive conference, give you—\"\n\n\n \"The board meeting,\" Walter said gently. \"That'll be enough\n for us.\"", "\"I want a production plan on my desk within twenty-four\n hours. A plan that will guarantee me a five per cent increase\n in dividends in the next six months. And you'd better move\n fast, because I'm not fooling.\"\nBack in his cubbyhole downstairs, Walter stared hopelessly\n at the reports. He had known it would come to this sooner or\n later. They all knew it—Hendricks of Promotion, Pendleton\n of Sales, the whole managerial staff.\n\n\n It was wrong, all the way down the line. Walter had\n fought it tooth and nail since the day Torkleson had installed\n the moose heads in Walter's old office, and moved him down\n to the cubbyhole, under Bailey's watchful eye. He had argued,\n and battled, and pleaded, and lost. He had watched the company\n deteriorate day by day. Now they blamed him, and\n threatened his job, and he was helpless to do anything about it.", "\"I've been doing everything I could,\" Walter snapped. \"Of\n course the reports are bad, they couldn't help but be. We\n haven't met a production schedule in over two years. No plant\n can keep up production the way the men are working.\"\n\n\n Torkleson's face darkened. He leaned forward slowly. \"So\n it's the\nmen\nnow, is it? Go ahead. Tell me what's wrong with\n the men.\"", "\"Nothing's wrong with the men—if they'd only work. But\n they come in when they please, and leave when they please,\n and spend half their time changing and the other half on\n Koffee-Kup. No company could survive this. But that's only\n half of it—\" Walter searched through the reports frantically.\n \"This International Jet Transport account—they dropped us\n because we haven't had a new engine in six years. Why? Because\n Research and Development hasn't had any money for\n six years. What can two starved engineers and a second rate\n chemist drag out of an attic laboratory for competition in the\n titanium market?\" Walter took a deep breath. \"I've warned\n you time and again. Robling had built up accounts over the", "He pulled his worn overcoat down over frayed shirt sleeves,\n and tried vainly to straighten the celluloid collar that kept\n scooting his tie up under his ear. Once off the moving strip, he\n started up the Robling corridor toward the plant gate. Perhaps\n he would be fortunate. Maybe the reports would be late.\n Maybe his secretary's two neurones would fail to synapse this\n morning, and she'd lose them altogether. And, as long as he\n was dreaming, maybe Bailey would break his neck on the way\n to work. He walked quickly past the workers' lounge, glancing\n in at the groups of men, arguing politics and checking the\n stock market reports before they changed from their neat gray\n business suits to their welding dungarees. Running up the\n stairs to the administrative wing, he paused outside the door\n to punch the time clock. 8:04. Damn. If only Bailey could be\n sick—", "Walter Towne remembered those stormy days well. The\n gradual undercutting of the managerial salaries, the tightening\n up of inter-union collusion to establish the infamous White\n list of Recalcitrant Managers. The shift from hourly wage to\n annual salary for the factory workers, and the change to the\n other pole for the managerial staff. And then, with creeping\n malignancy, the hungry howling of the union bosses for more\n and higher dividends, year after year, moving steadily toward\n the inevitable crisis.", "The union boss swore and slammed his fist on the desk.\n \"Walk out in front of those men after what you've done? You're\n fools! Well, I've given you your chance. You'll get your board\n meeting. But you'd better come armed. Because I know how\n to handle this kind of board meeting, and if I have anything\n to say about it, this one will end with a massacre.\"\nThe meeting was held in a huge auditorium in the Robling\n administration building. Since every member of the union\n owned stock in the company, every member had the right to\n vote for members of the board of directors. But in the early\n days of the switchover, the idea of a board of directors smacked\n too strongly of the old system of corporate organization to suit\n the men. The solution had been simple, if a trifle ungainly.\n Everyone who owned stock in Robling Titanium was automatically\n a member of the board of directors, with Torkleson\n as chairman of the board. The stockholders numbered over\n ten thousand." ], [ "Walter nodded as he struggled down with a moose head.\n \"Yes, a pity, but you know the boys when they get upset.\"\n\n\n \"I suppose so.\" The lawyer stopped to rest, panting. \"Anyway,\n with the newly elected board of directors, things will be\n different for everybody. You took a long gamble.\"\n\n\n \"Not so long. Not when you knew what they wanted to hear.\n It just took a little timing.\"\n\n\n \"Still, I didn't think they'd elect you secretary of the union.\n It just doesn't figure.\"\n\n\n Walter Towne chuckled. \"Doesn't it? I don't know. Everything's\n been a little screwy since the switchover. And in a\n screwy world like this—\" He shrugged, and tossed down the\n moose head. \"\nAnything\nfigures.\"", "Walter was there a half hour early. Torkleson's legal staff\n glowered from across the room. The judge glowered from\n the bench. Walter closed his eyes with a little smile as the\n charges were read: \"—breach of contract, malicious mischief,\n sabotage of the company's machines, conspiring to destroy the\n livelihood of ten thousand workers. Your Honor, we are preparing\n briefs to prove further that these men have formed a\n conspiracy to undermine the economy of the entire nation.\n We appeal to the spirit of orderly justice—\"\n\n\n Walter yawned as the words went on.\n\n\n \"Of course, if the defendant will waive his appeals against\n the previous injunctions, and will release the machines that\n were sabotaged, we will be happy to formally withdraw these\n charges.\"\n\n\n There was a rustle of sound through the courtroom. His\n Honor turned to Jeff Bates. \"Are you counsel for the defendant?\"", "Torkleson's eyes glittered. His voice was very soft. \"I've always\n liked you, Walter. So I'm going to pretend I didn't hear\n you.\" He paused, then continued. \"But here on my desk is a\n small bit of white paper. Unless you have my signature on\n that paper on the first of next month, you are out of a job,\n on grounds of incompetence. And I will personally see that\n you go on every White list in the country.\"\n\n\n Walter felt the fight go out of him like a dying wind. He\n knew what the White list meant. No job, anywhere, ever, in\n management. No chance, ever, to join a union. No more\n house, no more weekly pay envelope. He spread his hands\n weakly. \"What do you want?\" he asked.", "Bailey was not sick. The administrative offices were humming\n with frantic activity as Walter glanced down the rows\n of cubbyholes. In the middle of it all sat Bailey, in his black-and-yellow\n checkered tattersall, smoking a large cigar. His\n feet were planted on his desk top, but he hadn't started on his\n morning Western yet. He was busy glaring, first at the clock,\n then at Walter.\n\n\n \"Late again, I see,\" the shop steward growled.\n\n\n Walter gulped. \"Yes, sir. Just four minutes, this time, sir.\n You know those crowded strips—\"", "\"I want a production plan on my desk within twenty-four\n hours. A plan that will guarantee me a five per cent increase\n in dividends in the next six months. And you'd better move\n fast, because I'm not fooling.\"\nBack in his cubbyhole downstairs, Walter stared hopelessly\n at the reports. He had known it would come to this sooner or\n later. They all knew it—Hendricks of Promotion, Pendleton\n of Sales, the whole managerial staff.\n\n\n It was wrong, all the way down the line. Walter had\n fought it tooth and nail since the day Torkleson had installed\n the moose heads in Walter's old office, and moved him down\n to the cubbyhole, under Bailey's watchful eye. He had argued,\n and battled, and pleaded, and lost. He had watched the company\n deteriorate day by day. Now they blamed him, and\n threatened his job, and he was helpless to do anything about it.", "Board\nIt\n was going to be a bad day. As he pushed his way nervously\n through the crowds toward the Exit Strip, Walter Towne\n turned the dismal prospect over and over in his mind. The\n potential gloominess of this particular day had descended upon\n him the instant the morning buzzer had gone off, making it\n even more tempting than usual just to roll over and forget\n about it all. Twenty minutes later, the water-douse came to\n drag him, drenched and gurgling, back to the cruel cold world.\n He had wolfed down his morning Koffee-Kup with one eye\n on the clock and one eye on his growing sense of impending\n crisis. And now, to make things just a trifle worse, he was\n going to be late again.", "Walter rose slowly from his seat. This was it, then. Torkleson\n had already seen the reports. He started for the door, his\n knees shaking.\n\n\n It hadn't always been like this, he reflected miserably.\n Time was when things had been very different. It had\nmeant\nsomething to be vice president of a huge industrial firm like\n Robling Titanium. A man could have had a fine house of\n his own, and a 'copter-car, and belong to the Country Club;\n maybe even have a cottage on a lake somewhere.\n\n\n Walter could almost remember those days with Robling,\n before the switchover, before that black day when the exchange\n of ten little shares of stock had thrown the Robling\n Titanium Corporation into the hands of strange and unnatural\n owners.\nThe door was of heavy stained oak, with bold letters edged\n in gold:\nTITANIUM WORKERS\n\n OF AMERICA\n\n Amalgamated Locals", "\"I know, but you rejected that contract. So we tore it up.\n Anyway, we've changed our minds.\"\n\n\n Torkleson sat down, his heavy cheeks quivering. \"Gentlemen,\n be reasonable! I can guarantee you your jobs, even give\n you a free hand with the management. So the dividends won't be\n so large—the men will have to get used to that. That's it, we'll\n put it through at the next executive conference, give you—\"\n\n\n \"The board meeting,\" Walter said gently. \"That'll be enough\n for us.\"", "Walter Towne remembered those stormy days well. The\n gradual undercutting of the managerial salaries, the tightening\n up of inter-union collusion to establish the infamous White\n list of Recalcitrant Managers. The shift from hourly wage to\n annual salary for the factory workers, and the change to the\n other pole for the managerial staff. And then, with creeping\n malignancy, the hungry howling of the union bosses for more\n and higher dividends, year after year, moving steadily toward\n the inevitable crisis.", "\"Tomorrow morning. And before a labor-rigged judge, too.\"\n The little lawyer paced his office nervously. \"I don't like it.\n Torkleson's getting desperate. The workers are putting pressure\n on him.\"\n\n\n Walter grinned. \"Then Pendleton is doing a good job of\n selling.\"\n\n\n \"But you haven't got\ntime\n,\" the lawyer wailed. \"They'll have\n you in jail if you don't start the machines again. They may\n have you in jail if you\ndo\nstart them, too, but that's another\n bridge. Right now they want those machines going again.\"\n\n\n \"We'll see,\" said Walter. \"What time tomorrow?\"\n\n\n \"Ten o'clock.\" Bates looked up. \"And don't try to skip.\n You be there, because\nI\ndon't know what to tell them.\"", "\"You think that since you own the company, times have\n changed. Well, have they? Are you any better off than you\n were? Of course not. Because you haven't learned yet that\n oppression by either side leads to misery for both. You haven't\n learned moderation. And you never will, until you throw out\n the ones who have fought moderation right down to the last\n ditch. You know whom I mean. You know who's grown richer\n and richer since the switchover. Throw him out, and you too\n can be rich.\" He paused for a deep breath. \"You want the code\n word to unlock the machines? All right, I'll give it to you.\"\n\n\n He swung around to point a long finger at the fat man\n sitting there. \"The code word is TORKLESON!\"\nMuch later, Walter Towne and Jeff Bates pried the trophies\n off the wall of the big office. The lawyer shook his head sadly.\n \"Pity about Dan Torkleson. Gruesome affair.\"", "The hall exploded in angry thunder. The first wave of men\n rushed onto the stage as Walter stood up. A tomato whizzed\n past his ear and splattered against the wall. More men clambered\n up on the stage, shouting and shaking their fists.\n\n\n Then somebody appeared with a rope.\n\n\n Walter gave a sharp nod to the side of the stage. Abruptly\n the roar of the men was drowned in another sound—a soul-rending,\n teeth-grating, bone-rattling screech. The men froze,\n jaws sagging, eyes wide, hardly believing their ears. In the\n instant of silence as the factory whistle died away, Walter\n grabbed the microphone. \"You want the code word to start\n the machines again? I'll give it to you before I sit down!\"\n\n\n The men stared at him, shuffling, a murmur rising. Torkleson\n burst to his feet. \"It's a trick!\" he howled. \"Wait 'til you\n hear their price.\"", "He waited until Bailey was gone. Then, with a trembling\n hand he lifted the visiphone receiver. \"Get me Walter Towne,\"\n he said.\n\"I'm not an unreasonable man,\" Torkleson was saying\n miserably, waving his fat paws in the air as he paced back and\n forth in front of the spokesmen for the striking managers.\n \"Perhaps we were a little demanding, I concede it! Overenthusiastic\n with our ownership, and all that. But I'm sure we\n can come to some agreement. A hike in wage scale is certainly\n within reason. Perhaps we can even arrange for better company\n houses.\"\n\n\n Walter Towne stifled a yawn. \"Perhaps you didn't understand\n us. The men are agitating for a meeting of the board of\n directors. We want to be at that meeting. That's the only thing\n we're interested in right now.\"\n\n\n \"But there wasn't anything about a board meeting in the\n contract your lawyer presented.\"", "\"I've been doing everything I could,\" Walter snapped. \"Of\n course the reports are bad, they couldn't help but be. We\n haven't met a production schedule in over two years. No plant\n can keep up production the way the men are working.\"\n\n\n Torkleson's face darkened. He leaned forward slowly. \"So\n it's the\nmen\nnow, is it? Go ahead. Tell me what's wrong with\n the men.\"", "\"Yes, sir.\" Bates mopped his bald scalp. \"The defendant\n pleads guilty to all counts.\"\n\n\n The union lawyer dropped his glasses on the table with a\n crash. The judge stared. \"Mr. Bates, if you plead guilty, you\n leave me no alternative—\"\n\n\n \"—but to send me to jail,\" said Walter Towne. \"Go ahead.\n Send me to jail. In fact, I\ninsist\nupon going to jail.\"\n\n\n The union lawyer's jaw sagged. There was a hurried conference.\n A recess was pleaded. Telephones buzzed. Then:\n \"Your Honor, the plaintiff desires to withdraw all charges at\n this time.\"\n\n\n \"Objection,\" Bates exclaimed. \"We've already pleaded.\"\n\n\n \"—feel sure that a settlement can be effected out of court—\"\n\n\n The case was thrown out on its ear.", "\"Not quite.\" Walter was grinning. \"That's why I spoke of\n a lock-in. Before we leave, we throw the machines into feedback,\n every one of them. Lock them into reverberating circuits\n with a code sequence key. Then all they'll do is buzz and sputter\n until the feedback is broken with the key. And the key is\n our secret. It'll tie the Robling office into granny knots, and\n scabs won't be able to get any more data out of the machines\n than Torkleson could. With a lawyer to handle injunctions,\n we've got them strapped.\"\n\n\n \"For what?\" asked the lawyer.\n\n\n Walter turned on him sharply. \"For new contracts. Contracts\n to let us manage the company the way it should be managed.\n If they won't do it, they won't get another Titanium\n product off their production lines for the rest of the year, and\n their dividends will\nreally\ntake a nosedive.\"", "\"We have no price, and no demands,\" said Walter Towne.\n \"We will\ngive\nyou the code word, and we ask nothing in return\n but that you listen for sixty seconds.\" He glanced back at\n Torkleson, and then out to the crowd. \"You men here are an\n electing body—right? You own this great plant and company,\n top to bottom—right?\nYou should all be rich\n, because Robling\n could make you rich. But not one of you out there is rich.\n Only the fat ones on this stage are. But I'll tell you how\nyou\ncan be rich.\"\n\n\n They listened. Not a peep came from the huge hall. Suddenly,\n Walter Towne was talking their language.", "The workers grew restive. From the first day, Towne and\n Hendricks and all the others had been picketing the plant,\n until angry crowds of workers had driven them off with shotguns.\n Then they came back in an old, weatherbeaten 'copter\n which hovered over the plant entrance carrying a banner with\n a plaintive message:\n robling titanium unfair to management\n .\n Tomatoes were hurled, fists were shaken, but the 'copter\n remained.\n\n\n The third day, Jeff Bates was served with an injunction ordering\n Towne to return to work. It was duly appealed, legal\n machinery began tying itself in knots, and the strikers still\n struck. By the fifth day there was a more serious note.\n\n\n \"You're going to have to appear, Walter. We can't dodge\n this one.\"\n\n\n \"When?\"", "Daniel P. Torkleson, Secretary\n\n\n The secretary flipped down the desk switch and eyed Walter\n with pity. \"Mr. Torkleson will see you.\"\n\n\n Walter pushed through the door into the long, handsome\n office. For an instant he felt a pang of nostalgia—the floor-to-ceiling\n windows looking out across the long buildings of the\n Robling plant, the pine paneling, the broad expanse of desk—\n\n\n \"Well? Don't just stand there. Shut the door and come over\n here.\" The man behind the desk hoisted his three hundred\n well-dressed pounds and glared at Walter from under flagrant\n eyebrows. Torkleson's whole body quivered as he slammed\n a sheaf of papers down on the desk. \"Just what do you think\n you're doing with this company, Towne?\"\n\n\n Walter swallowed. \"I'm production manager of the corporation.\"", "They were all present. They were packed in from the wall\n to the stage, and hanging from the rafters. They overflowed\n into the corridors. They jammed the lobby. Ten thousand men\n rose with a howl of anger when Walter Towne walked out on\n the stage. But they quieted down again as Dan Torkleson\n started to speak.\n\n\n It was a masterful display of rabble-rousing. Torkleson\n paced the stage, his fat body shaking with agitation, pointing\n a chubby finger again and again at Walter Towne. He pranced\n and he ranted. He paused at just the right times for thunderous\n peals of applause." ], [ "\"Not quite.\" Walter was grinning. \"That's why I spoke of\n a lock-in. Before we leave, we throw the machines into feedback,\n every one of them. Lock them into reverberating circuits\n with a code sequence key. Then all they'll do is buzz and sputter\n until the feedback is broken with the key. And the key is\n our secret. It'll tie the Robling office into granny knots, and\n scabs won't be able to get any more data out of the machines\n than Torkleson could. With a lawyer to handle injunctions,\n we've got them strapped.\"\n\n\n \"For what?\" asked the lawyer.\n\n\n Walter turned on him sharply. \"For new contracts. Contracts\n to let us manage the company the way it should be managed.\n If they won't do it, they won't get another Titanium\n product off their production lines for the rest of the year, and\n their dividends will\nreally\ntake a nosedive.\"", "\"I want a production plan on my desk within twenty-four\n hours. A plan that will guarantee me a five per cent increase\n in dividends in the next six months. And you'd better move\n fast, because I'm not fooling.\"\nBack in his cubbyhole downstairs, Walter stared hopelessly\n at the reports. He had known it would come to this sooner or\n later. They all knew it—Hendricks of Promotion, Pendleton\n of Sales, the whole managerial staff.\n\n\n It was wrong, all the way down the line. Walter had\n fought it tooth and nail since the day Torkleson had installed\n the moose heads in Walter's old office, and moved him down\n to the cubbyhole, under Bailey's watchful eye. He had argued,\n and battled, and pleaded, and lost. He had watched the company\n deteriorate day by day. Now they blamed him, and\n threatened his job, and he was helpless to do anything about it.", "Walter was there a half hour early. Torkleson's legal staff\n glowered from across the room. The judge glowered from\n the bench. Walter closed his eyes with a little smile as the\n charges were read: \"—breach of contract, malicious mischief,\n sabotage of the company's machines, conspiring to destroy the\n livelihood of ten thousand workers. Your Honor, we are preparing\n briefs to prove further that these men have formed a\n conspiracy to undermine the economy of the entire nation.\n We appeal to the spirit of orderly justice—\"\n\n\n Walter yawned as the words went on.\n\n\n \"Of course, if the defendant will waive his appeals against\n the previous injunctions, and will release the machines that\n were sabotaged, we will be happy to formally withdraw these\n charges.\"\n\n\n There was a rustle of sound through the courtroom. His\n Honor turned to Jeff Bates. \"Are you counsel for the defendant?\"", "\"You think that since you own the company, times have\n changed. Well, have they? Are you any better off than you\n were? Of course not. Because you haven't learned yet that\n oppression by either side leads to misery for both. You haven't\n learned moderation. And you never will, until you throw out\n the ones who have fought moderation right down to the last\n ditch. You know whom I mean. You know who's grown richer\n and richer since the switchover. Throw him out, and you too\n can be rich.\" He paused for a deep breath. \"You want the code\n word to unlock the machines? All right, I'll give it to you.\"\n\n\n He swung around to point a long finger at the fat man\n sitting there. \"The code word is TORKLESON!\"\nMuch later, Walter Towne and Jeff Bates pried the trophies\n off the wall of the big office. The lawyer shook his head sadly.\n \"Pity about Dan Torkleson. Gruesome affair.\"", "Walter rose slowly from his seat. This was it, then. Torkleson\n had already seen the reports. He started for the door, his\n knees shaking.\n\n\n It hadn't always been like this, he reflected miserably.\n Time was when things had been very different. It had\nmeant\nsomething to be vice president of a huge industrial firm like\n Robling Titanium. A man could have had a fine house of\n his own, and a 'copter-car, and belong to the Country Club;\n maybe even have a cottage on a lake somewhere.\n\n\n Walter could almost remember those days with Robling,\n before the switchover, before that black day when the exchange\n of ten little shares of stock had thrown the Robling\n Titanium Corporation into the hands of strange and unnatural\n owners.\nThe door was of heavy stained oak, with bold letters edged\n in gold:\nTITANIUM WORKERS\n\n OF AMERICA\n\n Amalgamated Locals", "\"I know, but you rejected that contract. So we tore it up.\n Anyway, we've changed our minds.\"\n\n\n Torkleson sat down, his heavy cheeks quivering. \"Gentlemen,\n be reasonable! I can guarantee you your jobs, even give\n you a free hand with the management. So the dividends won't be\n so large—the men will have to get used to that. That's it, we'll\n put it through at the next executive conference, give you—\"\n\n\n \"The board meeting,\" Walter said gently. \"That'll be enough\n for us.\"", "Daniel P. Torkleson, Secretary\n\n\n The secretary flipped down the desk switch and eyed Walter\n with pity. \"Mr. Torkleson will see you.\"\n\n\n Walter pushed through the door into the long, handsome\n office. For an instant he felt a pang of nostalgia—the floor-to-ceiling\n windows looking out across the long buildings of the\n Robling plant, the pine paneling, the broad expanse of desk—\n\n\n \"Well? Don't just stand there. Shut the door and come over\n here.\" The man behind the desk hoisted his three hundred\n well-dressed pounds and glared at Walter from under flagrant\n eyebrows. Torkleson's whole body quivered as he slammed\n a sheaf of papers down on the desk. \"Just what do you think\n you're doing with this company, Towne?\"\n\n\n Walter swallowed. \"I'm production manager of the corporation.\"", "\"Nothing's wrong with the men—if they'd only work. But\n they come in when they please, and leave when they please,\n and spend half their time changing and the other half on\n Koffee-Kup. No company could survive this. But that's only\n half of it—\" Walter searched through the reports frantically.\n \"This International Jet Transport account—they dropped us\n because we haven't had a new engine in six years. Why? Because\n Research and Development hasn't had any money for\n six years. What can two starved engineers and a second rate\n chemist drag out of an attic laboratory for competition in the\n titanium market?\" Walter took a deep breath. \"I've warned\n you time and again. Robling had built up accounts over the", "Torkleson had been slowly turning purple. Now he slammed\n his fist down on the desk. \"We should just turn the company\n back to Management again, eh? Just let you have a free hand\n to rob us blind again. Well, it won't work, Towne. Not while\n I'm secretary of this union. We fought long and hard for control\n of this corporation, just the way all the other unions did.\n I know. I was through it all.\" He sat back smugly, his cheeks\n quivering with emotion. \"You might say that I was a national\n leader in the movement. But I did it only for the men. The\n men want their dividends. They own the stock, stock is supposed\n to pay dividends.\"\n\n\n \"But they're cutting their own throats,\" Walter wailed.\n \"You can't build a company and make it grow the way I've\n been forced to run it.\"", "Walter nodded as he struggled down with a moose head.\n \"Yes, a pity, but you know the boys when they get upset.\"\n\n\n \"I suppose so.\" The lawyer stopped to rest, panting. \"Anyway,\n with the newly elected board of directors, things will be\n different for everybody. You took a long gamble.\"\n\n\n \"Not so long. Not when you knew what they wanted to hear.\n It just took a little timing.\"\n\n\n \"Still, I didn't think they'd elect you secretary of the union.\n It just doesn't figure.\"\n\n\n Walter Towne chuckled. \"Doesn't it? I don't know. Everything's\n been a little screwy since the switchover. And in a\n screwy world like this—\" He shrugged, and tossed down the\n moose head. \"\nAnything\nfigures.\"", "\"We have no price, and no demands,\" said Walter Towne.\n \"We will\ngive\nyou the code word, and we ask nothing in return\n but that you listen for sixty seconds.\" He glanced back at\n Torkleson, and then out to the crowd. \"You men here are an\n electing body—right? You own this great plant and company,\n top to bottom—right?\nYou should all be rich\n, because Robling\n could make you rich. But not one of you out there is rich.\n Only the fat ones on this stage are. But I'll tell you how\nyou\ncan be rich.\"\n\n\n They listened. Not a peep came from the huge hall. Suddenly,\n Walter Towne was talking their language.", "Torkleson's eyes glittered. His voice was very soft. \"I've always\n liked you, Walter. So I'm going to pretend I didn't hear\n you.\" He paused, then continued. \"But here on my desk is a\n small bit of white paper. Unless you have my signature on\n that paper on the first of next month, you are out of a job,\n on grounds of incompetence. And I will personally see that\n you go on every White list in the country.\"\n\n\n Walter felt the fight go out of him like a dying wind. He\n knew what the White list meant. No job, anywhere, ever, in\n management. No chance, ever, to join a union. No more\n house, no more weekly pay envelope. He spread his hands\n weakly. \"What do you want?\" he asked.", "\"I've been doing everything I could,\" Walter snapped. \"Of\n course the reports are bad, they couldn't help but be. We\n haven't met a production schedule in over two years. No plant\n can keep up production the way the men are working.\"\n\n\n Torkleson's face darkened. He leaned forward slowly. \"So\n it's the\nmen\nnow, is it? Go ahead. Tell me what's wrong with\n the men.\"", "He waited until Bailey was gone. Then, with a trembling\n hand he lifted the visiphone receiver. \"Get me Walter Towne,\"\n he said.\n\"I'm not an unreasonable man,\" Torkleson was saying\n miserably, waving his fat paws in the air as he paced back and\n forth in front of the spokesmen for the striking managers.\n \"Perhaps we were a little demanding, I concede it! Overenthusiastic\n with our ownership, and all that. But I'm sure we\n can come to some agreement. A hike in wage scale is certainly\n within reason. Perhaps we can even arrange for better company\n houses.\"\n\n\n Walter Towne stifled a yawn. \"Perhaps you didn't understand\n us. The men are agitating for a meeting of the board of\n directors. We want to be at that meeting. That's the only thing\n we're interested in right now.\"\n\n\n \"But there wasn't anything about a board meeting in the\n contract your lawyer presented.\"", "\"That means you'll have to beat Torkleson,\" said Bates.\n \"He'll never go along.\"\n\n\n \"Then he'll be left behind.\"\n\n\n Hendricks stood up, brushing off his dungarees. \"I'm with\n you, Walter. I've taken all of Torkleson that I want to. And\n I'm sick of the junk we've been trying to sell people.\"\n\n\n The others nodded. Walter rubbed his hands together. \"All\n right. Tomorrow we work as usual, until the noon whistle.\n When we go off for lunch, we throw the machines into lock-step.\n Then we just don't come back. But the big thing is to\n keep it quiet until the noon whistle.\" He turned to the lawyer.\n \"Are you with us, Jeff?\"", "The hall exploded in angry thunder. The first wave of men\n rushed onto the stage as Walter stood up. A tomato whizzed\n past his ear and splattered against the wall. More men clambered\n up on the stage, shouting and shaking their fists.\n\n\n Then somebody appeared with a rope.\n\n\n Walter gave a sharp nod to the side of the stage. Abruptly\n the roar of the men was drowned in another sound—a soul-rending,\n teeth-grating, bone-rattling screech. The men froze,\n jaws sagging, eyes wide, hardly believing their ears. In the\n instant of silence as the factory whistle died away, Walter\n grabbed the microphone. \"You want the code word to start\n the machines again? I'll give it to you before I sit down!\"\n\n\n The men stared at him, shuffling, a murmur rising. Torkleson\n burst to his feet. \"It's a trick!\" he howled. \"Wait 'til you\n hear their price.\"", "Walter Towne remembered those stormy days well. The\n gradual undercutting of the managerial salaries, the tightening\n up of inter-union collusion to establish the infamous White\n list of Recalcitrant Managers. The shift from hourly wage to\n annual salary for the factory workers, and the change to the\n other pole for the managerial staff. And then, with creeping\n malignancy, the hungry howling of the union bosses for more\n and higher dividends, year after year, moving steadily toward\n the inevitable crisis.", "\"Tomorrow morning. And before a labor-rigged judge, too.\"\n The little lawyer paced his office nervously. \"I don't like it.\n Torkleson's getting desperate. The workers are putting pressure\n on him.\"\n\n\n Walter grinned. \"Then Pendleton is doing a good job of\n selling.\"\n\n\n \"But you haven't got\ntime\n,\" the lawyer wailed. \"They'll have\n you in jail if you don't start the machines again. They may\n have you in jail if you\ndo\nstart them, too, but that's another\n bridge. Right now they want those machines going again.\"\n\n\n \"We'll see,\" said Walter. \"What time tomorrow?\"\n\n\n \"Ten o'clock.\" Bates looked up. \"And don't try to skip.\n You be there, because\nI\ndon't know what to tell them.\"", "\"Details!\" Torkleson snorted. \"I don't care\nhow\nthe dividends\n come in. That's your job. My job is to report a dividend\n every six months to the men who own the stock, the men working\n on the production lines.\"\n\n\n Walter nodded bitterly. \"And every year the dividend has\n to be higher than the last, or you and your fat friends are\n likely to be thrown out of your jobs—right? No more steaks\n every night. No more private gold-plated Buicks for you boys.\n No more twenty-room mansions in Westchester. No more big\n game hunting in the Rockies. No, you don't have to know\n anything but how to whip a board meeting into a frenzy so\n they'll vote you into office again each year.\"", "Oh, not because of the\nlateness\n. Of course Bailey, the shop\n steward, would take his usual delight in bringing that up. But\n this seemed hardly worthy of concern this morning. The reports\n waiting on his desk were what worried him. The sales\n reports. The promotion-draw reports. The royalty reports. The\n anticipated dividend reports. Walter shook his head wearily.\n The shop steward was a goad, annoying, perhaps even infuriating,\n but tolerable. Torkleson was a different matter." ] ]
valid	99905	[ "Why did Birmingham build over the Victorian era relics?", "How did Andy Jones end up with a Maglev car?", "Why did the Maglev trains not become popular in the western hemisphere?", "Where was the leading rail research happening in the 1960's?", "What is the main necessity in mass public transit?", "What other British inventions during the post-war period used the same technologies at the maglev trains?", "What is the main factor that makes maglev trains more successful in Asia?", "What does the author think the next possible advancement in public transit could be?", "What did Andy Jones plan to do with his maglev railcar?", "What did Britain decide to build instead of a maglev track?" ]	[ [ "To create space for a Maglev train", "To erase their history", "They were running out of room ", "To make technological progress" ], [ "He stole it from the track", "He found it in a hedge", "He purchased it online", "He was gifted it by Birmingham Maglev" ], [ "People did not like traveling so fast", "The technology was unreliable", "Their cost was not justifiable", "All of the other answers are correct" ], [ "France", "Germany", "New York", "Britain" ], [ "Higher speed of travel", "Convenience of station locations", "Increased number of passengers", "Low cost of operation" ], [ "Hovercrafts", "Atomic bombs", "BOAC planes", "Comet jetliners" ], [ "More efficient organization of construction projects", "A greater importance on speed of travel", "Increased passenger volume", "More accurate train schedules" ], [ "Atmospheric Railways", "Hovertrains", "Hyperloop technology", "Supersonic Jets" ], [ "Keep it on his property", "Sell it for a profit", "Return it to Birmingham Maglev", "Restore it to working condition" ], [ "A conventional high-speed rail", "An atmospheric railway", "A Hyperloop station", "More airports and bus stations" ] ]	[ 4, 3, 3, 4, 3, 1, 3, 3, 1, 1 ]	[ 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 1 ]	[ [ "Going off track\nBirmingham's airport isn't like other airports. Right at the north-western end of runway 15 there's a country park and a row of benches. You'll see families picnicking here, enjoying the subsonic spectacle of planes from Brussels, Bucharest and Barcelona roaring just feet overhead on their final approach. Birmingham isn't like other British cities – it fetishises the technical and promotes the new. It is unstinting in its thrall to evolution and unsentimental about erasing past versions of the future in its rush to create new ones; the comprehensive 1960s vision of the city which itself swept away a century's Victoriana is currently being meticulously taken apart concrete slab by concrete slab. The city's motto is 'Forward'.", "Today, on the elevated track that gambols over windswept car parks and threads through cheap motels between Birmingham's airport terminal and the railway station, a simple, ski resort-style people-mover system ferries passengers from plane to train. Three decades ago it was so much more exciting: the world's first commercial maglev, or magnetic levitation, system ran along here.\nOpened in 1984, the Birmingham Maglev came at the very tail end of a\ntrente glorieuses\nfor British transport technology and, more broadly, European engineering; an era that promised so much yet eventually bequeathed so many relics and ruins. \n\n The modernism of the 20th century, expressed especially in architecture and engineering, seemed like nothing less than the founding of a new order. Progress was to be continual, unstoppable and good. Yet today the physical and philosophical advances are being gradually taken apart and retracted, as if we'd woken up sweating and feared we'd somehow overreached ourselves.", "But the British maglev never really took off. Tim Dunn, transport historian and co-presenter of the BBC's Trainspotting Live, explains why. \"The early 80s was still a time of great British national-funded engineering,\" he says. \"Success at Birmingham Airport would have been a great advert for British Rail Engineering Limited (BREL) to sell maglev internationally. (Remember that BREL was always trying to sell its technology overseas, which is why several Pacer trains, developed on bus bodies, were sold to Iran.) Birmingham's Maglev only lasted 11 years: replacement parts were getting hard to obtain for what was really a unique system. Buses took over, and eventually a cable-hauled SkyRail people-mover was installed atop the piers. That's not as exciting for people like me, who like the idea of being whisked in a hovertrain pushed along by magnets. But then our real transport future always has been a pretty crap approximation of our dreams.\"", "When the Birmingham Maglev was shuttered in 1995, one of the cars was dumped in a hedge near the A45. Furniture maker and transport enthusiast Andy Jones splashed out a mere £100 for it on eBay in 2011 (although, he says, \"it cost me £400 to get it out of the hedge!\"). Now it sits in a field behind Jones's house in Burton Green, a couple of miles east of the airport in the rolling Warwickshire countryside.\nI reminisce to Jones about my boyhood excitement for the Birmingham Maglev, about the silly enthusiasm I felt when I got to go on it in the late 80s. He shared the experience. \"I used it in the old days too,\" he says. \"I'd ride backwards and forwards on it, I thought it was smashing.\"", "The maglev was a development that spun out of this research at Derby, and developed in a joint project with a private consortium that included the now-defunct General Electric Company. The maglev cars were built by Metro Cammell at its factory four miles from the airport in Washwood Heath. It was the same place many tube carriages came from, and if you look down the doors on Piccadilly line carriages as you get on and off, you can see a cheery 1973 plaque reminding travellers of this fact (the cheeky Brummie assumption here being that London commuters always look at the floor).", "When you get to a certain age you realise how much more visions of the future say about the present they're concocted in than the actual future they purport to show us hurtling towards. A track in the air, sitting on top of concrete legs that couldn't look any more like rational new humans striding into a technocratic promised land if they tried, will always evoke a kind of nostalgia for the 20th century. You think of the SAFEGE monorail depicted in Truffaut's 1966 film adaptation of Fahrenheit 451; and of regional news reporters with greasy barnets delivering excited pieces to camera about big plans.", "There's an eerie reminder of the RTV31 in the big-skied, liminal lands of East Anglia. The train was tested on a track that ran up alongside the New Bedford River at Earith in Cambridgeshire: appropriate, because this 'river' is actually a supreme piece of man-made engineering from an earlier age, a dead-straight dyke dug by Dutchman Cornelius Vermuyden to drain the fens in the 1600s. The RTV31 test-track piers endure as further reminders of a past future. The vehicle itself sits not far away at Peterborough's Railworld, where its colourful exterior is strikingly visible to today's travellers on the East Coast Main Line from London to Scotland. Its neighbour is the final redundant Birmingham Maglev car.", "Bob Gwynne, associate curator of collections and research at the National Rail Museum in York, says: \"British Rail's Derby Research Centre, founded in 1964, was arguably the world's leading rail research facility when it was in full operation. An understanding of the wheel and rail interface comes from there, as does the first tilting train, a new railbus, high-speed freight wagons, computer-controlled interlocking of track and signal, the first successful maglev and many other things.\" Gwynne has got the second of the three Birmingham Maglev cars at the museum.", "Back in Burton Green, Andy Jones's maglev car lies in limbo. \"I'd like to build a platform around it,\" he says, \"turn it into a playhouse for the grandchildren perhaps? A couple of people want to take it away and turn it into a cafe.\" Perversely perhaps, its fate may be decided by another type of transport technology: more conventional high speed rail. The route for the much-disputed High Speed 2 line from London to Birmingham slices right through the field where the maglev car sits. \n\n In the 2000s the UK Ultraspeed proposal was floated to link London, Birmingham, the North and Scotland by maglev. It never materialised. HS2 was the eventual successor to the Ultraspeed plan, though a less futuristic one. Jones has another idea for his forward moving relic: \"Maybe I'll turn it into viewing platform, so you could watch HS2's outdated technology.\"\nThis article was originally published on TheLong+Short. Read the original article.", "So there are still some people dreaming big. The latest iteration of this is of course Hyperloop, whose vacuum tube technology harks back to another British engineering innovation: the atmospheric railway, which was developed by Henry Pinkus, the Samuda Brothers and eventually by Isambard Kingdom Brunel. This technology used varying air pressure to suck trains up a track in a partial vacuum. Lines popped up in London, Dublin and most notably Brunel's South Devon Railway, where the pipes were plagued by nibbling rats but the pumping stations survive as relics of Victorian visionaries. If those systems looked like something from HG Wells, with men in top hats smoking cigars, then Hyperloop, with its internet age funding from Tesla founder Elon Musk, could well end up appearing as a very 2010s caper when we look at back on it from the distance of decades. Or maybe Hyperloop will revolutionise travel like maglev was supposed to.", "You don't have to look far to find other relics of this white-hot time when post-war confidence begat all sorts of oddities. There's the test track for the French Aerotrain outside Orleans – a rocket-powered prototype that never made", "\"We have always wanted to get rid of wheels,\" says Railworld's Brian Pearce. \"One invention [to this end] was Chris Cockerell's hovercraft.\" At the same time, maglev technology was being developed by the British inventor, Eric Laithwaite, who was working on the linear induction motor at Imperial College when he found a way for it to produce lift as well as forward thrust. The two systems were combined to form a tracked hovercraft. \"So along came RTV31,\" says Pearce. \"The train rode along the track on a cushion of air created by big electric fans. Not very energy efficient! The forward motion was created by a linear motor, which moved along rather than going round and round.\"\nRTV31 could, like France's Aérotrain or the German Transrapid system, have been a viable new form of intercity travel. But funding was insufficient throughout the project and eventually Britain pulled the plug. In February 1973, a week after the first test RTV31 hovertrain reached 157km/h, the project was abandoned as part of wider budget cuts.", "\"The problem with high-speed maglev like Transrapid in Germany,\" says Tim Dunn, \"is that it doesn't really stack up against high-speed rail. It's more expensive, it's lower capacity, it's more complex. There's a gap in the market, but there's no market in the gap. What is needed generally in mass transit is more capacity, rather than super high speed.\"\nBut back in the post-war period, we thought we could have everything. Britain's tertiary science departments expanded. We built the Comet jetliner, then Concorde; and concrete buildings to house them that the world envied, like the huge Heathrow hangar that Sir Owen Williams, primarily an engineer, designed for BOAC's planes; and architect James Stirling's much-lauded engineering faculty at Leicester University. Yet a little-known footnote from this period involves the interaction of magnets in high-speed train design with that other British invention that prevailed for a while but then seemed to peter out: the hovercraft.", "In the far east, attitudes to maglev are different. Japan began maglev testing at roughly the same time as Britain in 1962 and is today building the longest, fastest maglev in the world. It will run mostly in tunnel, at 500km/h, taking a shocking 40 minutes to travel the 300km between Tokyo and Nagoya. It's been christened the Chūō Shinkansen: just another, faster type of bullet train for the central districts. Japan's system is a superconducting maglev, different to the Birmingham and German systems. It uses superconducting coils in the train, which cause repulsion to move the train forward. The Japanese also use wheels for the vehicle to 'land' on the track at low speeds.", "Erfurt is trying to save the latter from the scrapyard. Little remains of Germany's other maglev, the M-Bahn (or Magnetbahn), a short-lived shuttle service that ran in West Berlin from 1989-91 connecting stations whose service had been previously", "it to middle age. And in Emsland, the German conglomerate Transrapid built a 32km supersized test track for their maglev, which seemed to be on course for success. A variation of this train shuttles passengers from Shanghai to the airport,", "severed by the Berlin Wall. With the Wall gone, the old U-Bahn service was reinstated and the M-Bahn, which had run along its tracks, disappeared from the capital of the new Germany.", "and the plan was to copy the same model in Munich, and even build an intercity line from Berlin to Hamburg. Today the test track stands idle awaiting its fate, while the Transrapid vehicles are up for auction; a museum in", "\"The problem was, it was the end of one lot of technology. The first time it snowed, all hell broke loose! It had a ratcheting mechanism, a primitive form of winch. Beneath that was the hydraulic system. It was lifted up by the magnetic field (under the [car] are steel sheets). But you'd use the hydraulic system to pull it back up on to the system if it broke.\"", "It's understandable that most serious interest in maglev deployment is in Asia – Japan, China, India,\" says John Harding, former chief maglev scientist for the US Department of Transportation. \"This is understandable wherever passenger traffic is huge and can dilute the enormous capital cost. (Maglev is indisputably more expensive upfront than high-speed rail.) Even for California, which has huge air passenger traffic between LA and San Francisco, there is nowhere near enough demand to justify maglev; probably not enough to justify high-speed rail. But the Chūō Shinkansen will probably be the greatest success for maglev.\" The first link between Tokyo and Nagoya is scheduled to begin operation in 2027. Then the Chinese are proposing a 600km/h system between Shanghai and Beijing." ], [ "When the Birmingham Maglev was shuttered in 1995, one of the cars was dumped in a hedge near the A45. Furniture maker and transport enthusiast Andy Jones splashed out a mere £100 for it on eBay in 2011 (although, he says, \"it cost me £400 to get it out of the hedge!\"). Now it sits in a field behind Jones's house in Burton Green, a couple of miles east of the airport in the rolling Warwickshire countryside.\nI reminisce to Jones about my boyhood excitement for the Birmingham Maglev, about the silly enthusiasm I felt when I got to go on it in the late 80s. He shared the experience. \"I used it in the old days too,\" he says. \"I'd ride backwards and forwards on it, I thought it was smashing.\"", "Back in Burton Green, Andy Jones's maglev car lies in limbo. \"I'd like to build a platform around it,\" he says, \"turn it into a playhouse for the grandchildren perhaps? A couple of people want to take it away and turn it into a cafe.\" Perversely perhaps, its fate may be decided by another type of transport technology: more conventional high speed rail. The route for the much-disputed High Speed 2 line from London to Birmingham slices right through the field where the maglev car sits. \n\n In the 2000s the UK Ultraspeed proposal was floated to link London, Birmingham, the North and Scotland by maglev. It never materialised. HS2 was the eventual successor to the Ultraspeed plan, though a less futuristic one. Jones has another idea for his forward moving relic: \"Maybe I'll turn it into viewing platform, so you could watch HS2's outdated technology.\"\nThis article was originally published on TheLong+Short. Read the original article.", "The maglev was a development that spun out of this research at Derby, and developed in a joint project with a private consortium that included the now-defunct General Electric Company. The maglev cars were built by Metro Cammell at its factory four miles from the airport in Washwood Heath. It was the same place many tube carriages came from, and if you look down the doors on Piccadilly line carriages as you get on and off, you can see a cheery 1973 plaque reminding travellers of this fact (the cheeky Brummie assumption here being that London commuters always look at the floor).", "But the British maglev never really took off. Tim Dunn, transport historian and co-presenter of the BBC's Trainspotting Live, explains why. \"The early 80s was still a time of great British national-funded engineering,\" he says. \"Success at Birmingham Airport would have been a great advert for British Rail Engineering Limited (BREL) to sell maglev internationally. (Remember that BREL was always trying to sell its technology overseas, which is why several Pacer trains, developed on bus bodies, were sold to Iran.) Birmingham's Maglev only lasted 11 years: replacement parts were getting hard to obtain for what was really a unique system. Buses took over, and eventually a cable-hauled SkyRail people-mover was installed atop the piers. That's not as exciting for people like me, who like the idea of being whisked in a hovertrain pushed along by magnets. But then our real transport future always has been a pretty crap approximation of our dreams.\"", "Bob Gwynne, associate curator of collections and research at the National Rail Museum in York, says: \"British Rail's Derby Research Centre, founded in 1964, was arguably the world's leading rail research facility when it was in full operation. An understanding of the wheel and rail interface comes from there, as does the first tilting train, a new railbus, high-speed freight wagons, computer-controlled interlocking of track and signal, the first successful maglev and many other things.\" Gwynne has got the second of the three Birmingham Maglev cars at the museum.", "In the far east, attitudes to maglev are different. Japan began maglev testing at roughly the same time as Britain in 1962 and is today building the longest, fastest maglev in the world. It will run mostly in tunnel, at 500km/h, taking a shocking 40 minutes to travel the 300km between Tokyo and Nagoya. It's been christened the Chūō Shinkansen: just another, faster type of bullet train for the central districts. Japan's system is a superconducting maglev, different to the Birmingham and German systems. It uses superconducting coils in the train, which cause repulsion to move the train forward. The Japanese also use wheels for the vehicle to 'land' on the track at low speeds.", "\"The problem was, it was the end of one lot of technology. The first time it snowed, all hell broke loose! It had a ratcheting mechanism, a primitive form of winch. Beneath that was the hydraulic system. It was lifted up by the magnetic field (under the [car] are steel sheets). But you'd use the hydraulic system to pull it back up on to the system if it broke.\"", "Today, on the elevated track that gambols over windswept car parks and threads through cheap motels between Birmingham's airport terminal and the railway station, a simple, ski resort-style people-mover system ferries passengers from plane to train. Three decades ago it was so much more exciting: the world's first commercial maglev, or magnetic levitation, system ran along here.\nOpened in 1984, the Birmingham Maglev came at the very tail end of a\ntrente glorieuses\nfor British transport technology and, more broadly, European engineering; an era that promised so much yet eventually bequeathed so many relics and ruins. \n\n The modernism of the 20th century, expressed especially in architecture and engineering, seemed like nothing less than the founding of a new order. Progress was to be continual, unstoppable and good. Yet today the physical and philosophical advances are being gradually taken apart and retracted, as if we'd woken up sweating and feared we'd somehow overreached ourselves.", "There's an eerie reminder of the RTV31 in the big-skied, liminal lands of East Anglia. The train was tested on a track that ran up alongside the New Bedford River at Earith in Cambridgeshire: appropriate, because this 'river' is actually a supreme piece of man-made engineering from an earlier age, a dead-straight dyke dug by Dutchman Cornelius Vermuyden to drain the fens in the 1600s. The RTV31 test-track piers endure as further reminders of a past future. The vehicle itself sits not far away at Peterborough's Railworld, where its colourful exterior is strikingly visible to today's travellers on the East Coast Main Line from London to Scotland. Its neighbour is the final redundant Birmingham Maglev car.", "it to middle age. And in Emsland, the German conglomerate Transrapid built a 32km supersized test track for their maglev, which seemed to be on course for success. A variation of this train shuttles passengers from Shanghai to the airport,", "\"The problem with high-speed maglev like Transrapid in Germany,\" says Tim Dunn, \"is that it doesn't really stack up against high-speed rail. It's more expensive, it's lower capacity, it's more complex. There's a gap in the market, but there's no market in the gap. What is needed generally in mass transit is more capacity, rather than super high speed.\"\nBut back in the post-war period, we thought we could have everything. Britain's tertiary science departments expanded. We built the Comet jetliner, then Concorde; and concrete buildings to house them that the world envied, like the huge Heathrow hangar that Sir Owen Williams, primarily an engineer, designed for BOAC's planes; and architect James Stirling's much-lauded engineering faculty at Leicester University. Yet a little-known footnote from this period involves the interaction of magnets in high-speed train design with that other British invention that prevailed for a while but then seemed to peter out: the hovercraft.", "\"We have always wanted to get rid of wheels,\" says Railworld's Brian Pearce. \"One invention [to this end] was Chris Cockerell's hovercraft.\" At the same time, maglev technology was being developed by the British inventor, Eric Laithwaite, who was working on the linear induction motor at Imperial College when he found a way for it to produce lift as well as forward thrust. The two systems were combined to form a tracked hovercraft. \"So along came RTV31,\" says Pearce. \"The train rode along the track on a cushion of air created by big electric fans. Not very energy efficient! The forward motion was created by a linear motor, which moved along rather than going round and round.\"\nRTV31 could, like France's Aérotrain or the German Transrapid system, have been a viable new form of intercity travel. But funding was insufficient throughout the project and eventually Britain pulled the plug. In February 1973, a week after the first test RTV31 hovertrain reached 157km/h, the project was abandoned as part of wider budget cuts.", "Erfurt is trying to save the latter from the scrapyard. Little remains of Germany's other maglev, the M-Bahn (or Magnetbahn), a short-lived shuttle service that ran in West Berlin from 1989-91 connecting stations whose service had been previously", "It's understandable that most serious interest in maglev deployment is in Asia – Japan, China, India,\" says John Harding, former chief maglev scientist for the US Department of Transportation. \"This is understandable wherever passenger traffic is huge and can dilute the enormous capital cost. (Maglev is indisputably more expensive upfront than high-speed rail.) Even for California, which has huge air passenger traffic between LA and San Francisco, there is nowhere near enough demand to justify maglev; probably not enough to justify high-speed rail. But the Chūō Shinkansen will probably be the greatest success for maglev.\" The first link between Tokyo and Nagoya is scheduled to begin operation in 2027. Then the Chinese are proposing a 600km/h system between Shanghai and Beijing.", "and the plan was to copy the same model in Munich, and even build an intercity line from Berlin to Hamburg. Today the test track stands idle awaiting its fate, while the Transrapid vehicles are up for auction; a museum in", "So there are still some people dreaming big. The latest iteration of this is of course Hyperloop, whose vacuum tube technology harks back to another British engineering innovation: the atmospheric railway, which was developed by Henry Pinkus, the Samuda Brothers and eventually by Isambard Kingdom Brunel. This technology used varying air pressure to suck trains up a track in a partial vacuum. Lines popped up in London, Dublin and most notably Brunel's South Devon Railway, where the pipes were plagued by nibbling rats but the pumping stations survive as relics of Victorian visionaries. If those systems looked like something from HG Wells, with men in top hats smoking cigars, then Hyperloop, with its internet age funding from Tesla founder Elon Musk, could well end up appearing as a very 2010s caper when we look at back on it from the distance of decades. Or maybe Hyperloop will revolutionise travel like maglev was supposed to.", "You don't have to look far to find other relics of this white-hot time when post-war confidence begat all sorts of oddities. There's the test track for the French Aerotrain outside Orleans – a rocket-powered prototype that never made", "When you get to a certain age you realise how much more visions of the future say about the present they're concocted in than the actual future they purport to show us hurtling towards. A track in the air, sitting on top of concrete legs that couldn't look any more like rational new humans striding into a technocratic promised land if they tried, will always evoke a kind of nostalgia for the 20th century. You think of the SAFEGE monorail depicted in Truffaut's 1966 film adaptation of Fahrenheit 451; and of regional news reporters with greasy barnets delivering excited pieces to camera about big plans.", "Going off track\nBirmingham's airport isn't like other airports. Right at the north-western end of runway 15 there's a country park and a row of benches. You'll see families picnicking here, enjoying the subsonic spectacle of planes from Brussels, Bucharest and Barcelona roaring just feet overhead on their final approach. Birmingham isn't like other British cities – it fetishises the technical and promotes the new. It is unstinting in its thrall to evolution and unsentimental about erasing past versions of the future in its rush to create new ones; the comprehensive 1960s vision of the city which itself swept away a century's Victoriana is currently being meticulously taken apart concrete slab by concrete slab. The city's motto is 'Forward'.", "severed by the Berlin Wall. With the Wall gone, the old U-Bahn service was reinstated and the M-Bahn, which had run along its tracks, disappeared from the capital of the new Germany." ], [ "But the British maglev never really took off. Tim Dunn, transport historian and co-presenter of the BBC's Trainspotting Live, explains why. \"The early 80s was still a time of great British national-funded engineering,\" he says. \"Success at Birmingham Airport would have been a great advert for British Rail Engineering Limited (BREL) to sell maglev internationally. (Remember that BREL was always trying to sell its technology overseas, which is why several Pacer trains, developed on bus bodies, were sold to Iran.) Birmingham's Maglev only lasted 11 years: replacement parts were getting hard to obtain for what was really a unique system. Buses took over, and eventually a cable-hauled SkyRail people-mover was installed atop the piers. That's not as exciting for people like me, who like the idea of being whisked in a hovertrain pushed along by magnets. But then our real transport future always has been a pretty crap approximation of our dreams.\"", "\"The problem with high-speed maglev like Transrapid in Germany,\" says Tim Dunn, \"is that it doesn't really stack up against high-speed rail. It's more expensive, it's lower capacity, it's more complex. There's a gap in the market, but there's no market in the gap. What is needed generally in mass transit is more capacity, rather than super high speed.\"\nBut back in the post-war period, we thought we could have everything. Britain's tertiary science departments expanded. We built the Comet jetliner, then Concorde; and concrete buildings to house them that the world envied, like the huge Heathrow hangar that Sir Owen Williams, primarily an engineer, designed for BOAC's planes; and architect James Stirling's much-lauded engineering faculty at Leicester University. Yet a little-known footnote from this period involves the interaction of magnets in high-speed train design with that other British invention that prevailed for a while but then seemed to peter out: the hovercraft.", "Today, on the elevated track that gambols over windswept car parks and threads through cheap motels between Birmingham's airport terminal and the railway station, a simple, ski resort-style people-mover system ferries passengers from plane to train. Three decades ago it was so much more exciting: the world's first commercial maglev, or magnetic levitation, system ran along here.\nOpened in 1984, the Birmingham Maglev came at the very tail end of a\ntrente glorieuses\nfor British transport technology and, more broadly, European engineering; an era that promised so much yet eventually bequeathed so many relics and ruins. \n\n The modernism of the 20th century, expressed especially in architecture and engineering, seemed like nothing less than the founding of a new order. Progress was to be continual, unstoppable and good. Yet today the physical and philosophical advances are being gradually taken apart and retracted, as if we'd woken up sweating and feared we'd somehow overreached ourselves.", "It's understandable that most serious interest in maglev deployment is in Asia – Japan, China, India,\" says John Harding, former chief maglev scientist for the US Department of Transportation. \"This is understandable wherever passenger traffic is huge and can dilute the enormous capital cost. (Maglev is indisputably more expensive upfront than high-speed rail.) Even for California, which has huge air passenger traffic between LA and San Francisco, there is nowhere near enough demand to justify maglev; probably not enough to justify high-speed rail. But the Chūō Shinkansen will probably be the greatest success for maglev.\" The first link between Tokyo and Nagoya is scheduled to begin operation in 2027. Then the Chinese are proposing a 600km/h system between Shanghai and Beijing.", "In the far east, attitudes to maglev are different. Japan began maglev testing at roughly the same time as Britain in 1962 and is today building the longest, fastest maglev in the world. It will run mostly in tunnel, at 500km/h, taking a shocking 40 minutes to travel the 300km between Tokyo and Nagoya. It's been christened the Chūō Shinkansen: just another, faster type of bullet train for the central districts. Japan's system is a superconducting maglev, different to the Birmingham and German systems. It uses superconducting coils in the train, which cause repulsion to move the train forward. The Japanese also use wheels for the vehicle to 'land' on the track at low speeds.", "\"We have always wanted to get rid of wheels,\" says Railworld's Brian Pearce. \"One invention [to this end] was Chris Cockerell's hovercraft.\" At the same time, maglev technology was being developed by the British inventor, Eric Laithwaite, who was working on the linear induction motor at Imperial College when he found a way for it to produce lift as well as forward thrust. The two systems were combined to form a tracked hovercraft. \"So along came RTV31,\" says Pearce. \"The train rode along the track on a cushion of air created by big electric fans. Not very energy efficient! The forward motion was created by a linear motor, which moved along rather than going round and round.\"\nRTV31 could, like France's Aérotrain or the German Transrapid system, have been a viable new form of intercity travel. But funding was insufficient throughout the project and eventually Britain pulled the plug. In February 1973, a week after the first test RTV31 hovertrain reached 157km/h, the project was abandoned as part of wider budget cuts.", "it to middle age. And in Emsland, the German conglomerate Transrapid built a 32km supersized test track for their maglev, which seemed to be on course for success. A variation of this train shuttles passengers from Shanghai to the airport,", "When the Birmingham Maglev was shuttered in 1995, one of the cars was dumped in a hedge near the A45. Furniture maker and transport enthusiast Andy Jones splashed out a mere £100 for it on eBay in 2011 (although, he says, \"it cost me £400 to get it out of the hedge!\"). Now it sits in a field behind Jones's house in Burton Green, a couple of miles east of the airport in the rolling Warwickshire countryside.\nI reminisce to Jones about my boyhood excitement for the Birmingham Maglev, about the silly enthusiasm I felt when I got to go on it in the late 80s. He shared the experience. \"I used it in the old days too,\" he says. \"I'd ride backwards and forwards on it, I thought it was smashing.\"", "The maglev was a development that spun out of this research at Derby, and developed in a joint project with a private consortium that included the now-defunct General Electric Company. The maglev cars were built by Metro Cammell at its factory four miles from the airport in Washwood Heath. It was the same place many tube carriages came from, and if you look down the doors on Piccadilly line carriages as you get on and off, you can see a cheery 1973 plaque reminding travellers of this fact (the cheeky Brummie assumption here being that London commuters always look at the floor).", "Back in Burton Green, Andy Jones's maglev car lies in limbo. \"I'd like to build a platform around it,\" he says, \"turn it into a playhouse for the grandchildren perhaps? A couple of people want to take it away and turn it into a cafe.\" Perversely perhaps, its fate may be decided by another type of transport technology: more conventional high speed rail. The route for the much-disputed High Speed 2 line from London to Birmingham slices right through the field where the maglev car sits. \n\n In the 2000s the UK Ultraspeed proposal was floated to link London, Birmingham, the North and Scotland by maglev. It never materialised. HS2 was the eventual successor to the Ultraspeed plan, though a less futuristic one. Jones has another idea for his forward moving relic: \"Maybe I'll turn it into viewing platform, so you could watch HS2's outdated technology.\"\nThis article was originally published on TheLong+Short. Read the original article.", "Erfurt is trying to save the latter from the scrapyard. Little remains of Germany's other maglev, the M-Bahn (or Magnetbahn), a short-lived shuttle service that ran in West Berlin from 1989-91 connecting stations whose service had been previously", "Bob Gwynne, associate curator of collections and research at the National Rail Museum in York, says: \"British Rail's Derby Research Centre, founded in 1964, was arguably the world's leading rail research facility when it was in full operation. An understanding of the wheel and rail interface comes from there, as does the first tilting train, a new railbus, high-speed freight wagons, computer-controlled interlocking of track and signal, the first successful maglev and many other things.\" Gwynne has got the second of the three Birmingham Maglev cars at the museum.", "There's an eerie reminder of the RTV31 in the big-skied, liminal lands of East Anglia. The train was tested on a track that ran up alongside the New Bedford River at Earith in Cambridgeshire: appropriate, because this 'river' is actually a supreme piece of man-made engineering from an earlier age, a dead-straight dyke dug by Dutchman Cornelius Vermuyden to drain the fens in the 1600s. The RTV31 test-track piers endure as further reminders of a past future. The vehicle itself sits not far away at Peterborough's Railworld, where its colourful exterior is strikingly visible to today's travellers on the East Coast Main Line from London to Scotland. Its neighbour is the final redundant Birmingham Maglev car.", "So there are still some people dreaming big. The latest iteration of this is of course Hyperloop, whose vacuum tube technology harks back to another British engineering innovation: the atmospheric railway, which was developed by Henry Pinkus, the Samuda Brothers and eventually by Isambard Kingdom Brunel. This technology used varying air pressure to suck trains up a track in a partial vacuum. Lines popped up in London, Dublin and most notably Brunel's South Devon Railway, where the pipes were plagued by nibbling rats but the pumping stations survive as relics of Victorian visionaries. If those systems looked like something from HG Wells, with men in top hats smoking cigars, then Hyperloop, with its internet age funding from Tesla founder Elon Musk, could well end up appearing as a very 2010s caper when we look at back on it from the distance of decades. Or maybe Hyperloop will revolutionise travel like maglev was supposed to.", "and the plan was to copy the same model in Munich, and even build an intercity line from Berlin to Hamburg. Today the test track stands idle awaiting its fate, while the Transrapid vehicles are up for auction; a museum in", "You don't have to look far to find other relics of this white-hot time when post-war confidence begat all sorts of oddities. There's the test track for the French Aerotrain outside Orleans – a rocket-powered prototype that never made", "\"The problem was, it was the end of one lot of technology. The first time it snowed, all hell broke loose! It had a ratcheting mechanism, a primitive form of winch. Beneath that was the hydraulic system. It was lifted up by the magnetic field (under the [car] are steel sheets). But you'd use the hydraulic system to pull it back up on to the system if it broke.\"", "When you get to a certain age you realise how much more visions of the future say about the present they're concocted in than the actual future they purport to show us hurtling towards. A track in the air, sitting on top of concrete legs that couldn't look any more like rational new humans striding into a technocratic promised land if they tried, will always evoke a kind of nostalgia for the 20th century. You think of the SAFEGE monorail depicted in Truffaut's 1966 film adaptation of Fahrenheit 451; and of regional news reporters with greasy barnets delivering excited pieces to camera about big plans.", "Going off track\nBirmingham's airport isn't like other airports. Right at the north-western end of runway 15 there's a country park and a row of benches. You'll see families picnicking here, enjoying the subsonic spectacle of planes from Brussels, Bucharest and Barcelona roaring just feet overhead on their final approach. Birmingham isn't like other British cities – it fetishises the technical and promotes the new. It is unstinting in its thrall to evolution and unsentimental about erasing past versions of the future in its rush to create new ones; the comprehensive 1960s vision of the city which itself swept away a century's Victoriana is currently being meticulously taken apart concrete slab by concrete slab. The city's motto is 'Forward'.", "severed by the Berlin Wall. With the Wall gone, the old U-Bahn service was reinstated and the M-Bahn, which had run along its tracks, disappeared from the capital of the new Germany." ], [ "Bob Gwynne, associate curator of collections and research at the National Rail Museum in York, says: \"British Rail's Derby Research Centre, founded in 1964, was arguably the world's leading rail research facility when it was in full operation. An understanding of the wheel and rail interface comes from there, as does the first tilting train, a new railbus, high-speed freight wagons, computer-controlled interlocking of track and signal, the first successful maglev and many other things.\" Gwynne has got the second of the three Birmingham Maglev cars at the museum.", "\"We have always wanted to get rid of wheels,\" says Railworld's Brian Pearce. \"One invention [to this end] was Chris Cockerell's hovercraft.\" At the same time, maglev technology was being developed by the British inventor, Eric Laithwaite, who was working on the linear induction motor at Imperial College when he found a way for it to produce lift as well as forward thrust. The two systems were combined to form a tracked hovercraft. \"So along came RTV31,\" says Pearce. \"The train rode along the track on a cushion of air created by big electric fans. Not very energy efficient! The forward motion was created by a linear motor, which moved along rather than going round and round.\"\nRTV31 could, like France's Aérotrain or the German Transrapid system, have been a viable new form of intercity travel. But funding was insufficient throughout the project and eventually Britain pulled the plug. In February 1973, a week after the first test RTV31 hovertrain reached 157km/h, the project was abandoned as part of wider budget cuts.", "The maglev was a development that spun out of this research at Derby, and developed in a joint project with a private consortium that included the now-defunct General Electric Company. The maglev cars were built by Metro Cammell at its factory four miles from the airport in Washwood Heath. It was the same place many tube carriages came from, and if you look down the doors on Piccadilly line carriages as you get on and off, you can see a cheery 1973 plaque reminding travellers of this fact (the cheeky Brummie assumption here being that London commuters always look at the floor).", "\"The problem with high-speed maglev like Transrapid in Germany,\" says Tim Dunn, \"is that it doesn't really stack up against high-speed rail. It's more expensive, it's lower capacity, it's more complex. There's a gap in the market, but there's no market in the gap. What is needed generally in mass transit is more capacity, rather than super high speed.\"\nBut back in the post-war period, we thought we could have everything. Britain's tertiary science departments expanded. We built the Comet jetliner, then Concorde; and concrete buildings to house them that the world envied, like the huge Heathrow hangar that Sir Owen Williams, primarily an engineer, designed for BOAC's planes; and architect James Stirling's much-lauded engineering faculty at Leicester University. Yet a little-known footnote from this period involves the interaction of magnets in high-speed train design with that other British invention that prevailed for a while but then seemed to peter out: the hovercraft.", "Today, on the elevated track that gambols over windswept car parks and threads through cheap motels between Birmingham's airport terminal and the railway station, a simple, ski resort-style people-mover system ferries passengers from plane to train. Three decades ago it was so much more exciting: the world's first commercial maglev, or magnetic levitation, system ran along here.\nOpened in 1984, the Birmingham Maglev came at the very tail end of a\ntrente glorieuses\nfor British transport technology and, more broadly, European engineering; an era that promised so much yet eventually bequeathed so many relics and ruins. \n\n The modernism of the 20th century, expressed especially in architecture and engineering, seemed like nothing less than the founding of a new order. Progress was to be continual, unstoppable and good. Yet today the physical and philosophical advances are being gradually taken apart and retracted, as if we'd woken up sweating and feared we'd somehow overreached ourselves.", "There's an eerie reminder of the RTV31 in the big-skied, liminal lands of East Anglia. The train was tested on a track that ran up alongside the New Bedford River at Earith in Cambridgeshire: appropriate, because this 'river' is actually a supreme piece of man-made engineering from an earlier age, a dead-straight dyke dug by Dutchman Cornelius Vermuyden to drain the fens in the 1600s. The RTV31 test-track piers endure as further reminders of a past future. The vehicle itself sits not far away at Peterborough's Railworld, where its colourful exterior is strikingly visible to today's travellers on the East Coast Main Line from London to Scotland. Its neighbour is the final redundant Birmingham Maglev car.", "You don't have to look far to find other relics of this white-hot time when post-war confidence begat all sorts of oddities. There's the test track for the French Aerotrain outside Orleans – a rocket-powered prototype that never made", "it to middle age. And in Emsland, the German conglomerate Transrapid built a 32km supersized test track for their maglev, which seemed to be on course for success. A variation of this train shuttles passengers from Shanghai to the airport,", "When you get to a certain age you realise how much more visions of the future say about the present they're concocted in than the actual future they purport to show us hurtling towards. A track in the air, sitting on top of concrete legs that couldn't look any more like rational new humans striding into a technocratic promised land if they tried, will always evoke a kind of nostalgia for the 20th century. You think of the SAFEGE monorail depicted in Truffaut's 1966 film adaptation of Fahrenheit 451; and of regional news reporters with greasy barnets delivering excited pieces to camera about big plans.", "So there are still some people dreaming big. The latest iteration of this is of course Hyperloop, whose vacuum tube technology harks back to another British engineering innovation: the atmospheric railway, which was developed by Henry Pinkus, the Samuda Brothers and eventually by Isambard Kingdom Brunel. This technology used varying air pressure to suck trains up a track in a partial vacuum. Lines popped up in London, Dublin and most notably Brunel's South Devon Railway, where the pipes were plagued by nibbling rats but the pumping stations survive as relics of Victorian visionaries. If those systems looked like something from HG Wells, with men in top hats smoking cigars, then Hyperloop, with its internet age funding from Tesla founder Elon Musk, could well end up appearing as a very 2010s caper when we look at back on it from the distance of decades. Or maybe Hyperloop will revolutionise travel like maglev was supposed to.", "But the British maglev never really took off. Tim Dunn, transport historian and co-presenter of the BBC's Trainspotting Live, explains why. \"The early 80s was still a time of great British national-funded engineering,\" he says. \"Success at Birmingham Airport would have been a great advert for British Rail Engineering Limited (BREL) to sell maglev internationally. (Remember that BREL was always trying to sell its technology overseas, which is why several Pacer trains, developed on bus bodies, were sold to Iran.) Birmingham's Maglev only lasted 11 years: replacement parts were getting hard to obtain for what was really a unique system. Buses took over, and eventually a cable-hauled SkyRail people-mover was installed atop the piers. That's not as exciting for people like me, who like the idea of being whisked in a hovertrain pushed along by magnets. But then our real transport future always has been a pretty crap approximation of our dreams.\"", "In the far east, attitudes to maglev are different. Japan began maglev testing at roughly the same time as Britain in 1962 and is today building the longest, fastest maglev in the world. It will run mostly in tunnel, at 500km/h, taking a shocking 40 minutes to travel the 300km between Tokyo and Nagoya. It's been christened the Chūō Shinkansen: just another, faster type of bullet train for the central districts. Japan's system is a superconducting maglev, different to the Birmingham and German systems. It uses superconducting coils in the train, which cause repulsion to move the train forward. The Japanese also use wheels for the vehicle to 'land' on the track at low speeds.", "When the Birmingham Maglev was shuttered in 1995, one of the cars was dumped in a hedge near the A45. Furniture maker and transport enthusiast Andy Jones splashed out a mere £100 for it on eBay in 2011 (although, he says, \"it cost me £400 to get it out of the hedge!\"). Now it sits in a field behind Jones's house in Burton Green, a couple of miles east of the airport in the rolling Warwickshire countryside.\nI reminisce to Jones about my boyhood excitement for the Birmingham Maglev, about the silly enthusiasm I felt when I got to go on it in the late 80s. He shared the experience. \"I used it in the old days too,\" he says. \"I'd ride backwards and forwards on it, I thought it was smashing.\"", "It's understandable that most serious interest in maglev deployment is in Asia – Japan, China, India,\" says John Harding, former chief maglev scientist for the US Department of Transportation. \"This is understandable wherever passenger traffic is huge and can dilute the enormous capital cost. (Maglev is indisputably more expensive upfront than high-speed rail.) Even for California, which has huge air passenger traffic between LA and San Francisco, there is nowhere near enough demand to justify maglev; probably not enough to justify high-speed rail. But the Chūō Shinkansen will probably be the greatest success for maglev.\" The first link between Tokyo and Nagoya is scheduled to begin operation in 2027. Then the Chinese are proposing a 600km/h system between Shanghai and Beijing.", "Back in Burton Green, Andy Jones's maglev car lies in limbo. \"I'd like to build a platform around it,\" he says, \"turn it into a playhouse for the grandchildren perhaps? A couple of people want to take it away and turn it into a cafe.\" Perversely perhaps, its fate may be decided by another type of transport technology: more conventional high speed rail. The route for the much-disputed High Speed 2 line from London to Birmingham slices right through the field where the maglev car sits. \n\n In the 2000s the UK Ultraspeed proposal was floated to link London, Birmingham, the North and Scotland by maglev. It never materialised. HS2 was the eventual successor to the Ultraspeed plan, though a less futuristic one. Jones has another idea for his forward moving relic: \"Maybe I'll turn it into viewing platform, so you could watch HS2's outdated technology.\"\nThis article was originally published on TheLong+Short. Read the original article.", "Going off track\nBirmingham's airport isn't like other airports. Right at the north-western end of runway 15 there's a country park and a row of benches. You'll see families picnicking here, enjoying the subsonic spectacle of planes from Brussels, Bucharest and Barcelona roaring just feet overhead on their final approach. Birmingham isn't like other British cities – it fetishises the technical and promotes the new. It is unstinting in its thrall to evolution and unsentimental about erasing past versions of the future in its rush to create new ones; the comprehensive 1960s vision of the city which itself swept away a century's Victoriana is currently being meticulously taken apart concrete slab by concrete slab. The city's motto is 'Forward'.", "and the plan was to copy the same model in Munich, and even build an intercity line from Berlin to Hamburg. Today the test track stands idle awaiting its fate, while the Transrapid vehicles are up for auction; a museum in", "Erfurt is trying to save the latter from the scrapyard. Little remains of Germany's other maglev, the M-Bahn (or Magnetbahn), a short-lived shuttle service that ran in West Berlin from 1989-91 connecting stations whose service had been previously", "\"The problem was, it was the end of one lot of technology. The first time it snowed, all hell broke loose! It had a ratcheting mechanism, a primitive form of winch. Beneath that was the hydraulic system. It was lifted up by the magnetic field (under the [car] are steel sheets). But you'd use the hydraulic system to pull it back up on to the system if it broke.\"", "severed by the Berlin Wall. With the Wall gone, the old U-Bahn service was reinstated and the M-Bahn, which had run along its tracks, disappeared from the capital of the new Germany." ], [ "\"The problem with high-speed maglev like Transrapid in Germany,\" says Tim Dunn, \"is that it doesn't really stack up against high-speed rail. It's more expensive, it's lower capacity, it's more complex. There's a gap in the market, but there's no market in the gap. What is needed generally in mass transit is more capacity, rather than super high speed.\"\nBut back in the post-war period, we thought we could have everything. Britain's tertiary science departments expanded. We built the Comet jetliner, then Concorde; and concrete buildings to house them that the world envied, like the huge Heathrow hangar that Sir Owen Williams, primarily an engineer, designed for BOAC's planes; and architect James Stirling's much-lauded engineering faculty at Leicester University. Yet a little-known footnote from this period involves the interaction of magnets in high-speed train design with that other British invention that prevailed for a while but then seemed to peter out: the hovercraft.", "When you get to a certain age you realise how much more visions of the future say about the present they're concocted in than the actual future they purport to show us hurtling towards. A track in the air, sitting on top of concrete legs that couldn't look any more like rational new humans striding into a technocratic promised land if they tried, will always evoke a kind of nostalgia for the 20th century. You think of the SAFEGE monorail depicted in Truffaut's 1966 film adaptation of Fahrenheit 451; and of regional news reporters with greasy barnets delivering excited pieces to camera about big plans.", "Going off track\nBirmingham's airport isn't like other airports. Right at the north-western end of runway 15 there's a country park and a row of benches. You'll see families picnicking here, enjoying the subsonic spectacle of planes from Brussels, Bucharest and Barcelona roaring just feet overhead on their final approach. Birmingham isn't like other British cities – it fetishises the technical and promotes the new. It is unstinting in its thrall to evolution and unsentimental about erasing past versions of the future in its rush to create new ones; the comprehensive 1960s vision of the city which itself swept away a century's Victoriana is currently being meticulously taken apart concrete slab by concrete slab. The city's motto is 'Forward'.", "Today, on the elevated track that gambols over windswept car parks and threads through cheap motels between Birmingham's airport terminal and the railway station, a simple, ski resort-style people-mover system ferries passengers from plane to train. Three decades ago it was so much more exciting: the world's first commercial maglev, or magnetic levitation, system ran along here.\nOpened in 1984, the Birmingham Maglev came at the very tail end of a\ntrente glorieuses\nfor British transport technology and, more broadly, European engineering; an era that promised so much yet eventually bequeathed so many relics and ruins. \n\n The modernism of the 20th century, expressed especially in architecture and engineering, seemed like nothing less than the founding of a new order. Progress was to be continual, unstoppable and good. Yet today the physical and philosophical advances are being gradually taken apart and retracted, as if we'd woken up sweating and feared we'd somehow overreached ourselves.", "The maglev was a development that spun out of this research at Derby, and developed in a joint project with a private consortium that included the now-defunct General Electric Company. The maglev cars were built by Metro Cammell at its factory four miles from the airport in Washwood Heath. It was the same place many tube carriages came from, and if you look down the doors on Piccadilly line carriages as you get on and off, you can see a cheery 1973 plaque reminding travellers of this fact (the cheeky Brummie assumption here being that London commuters always look at the floor).", "But the British maglev never really took off. Tim Dunn, transport historian and co-presenter of the BBC's Trainspotting Live, explains why. \"The early 80s was still a time of great British national-funded engineering,\" he says. \"Success at Birmingham Airport would have been a great advert for British Rail Engineering Limited (BREL) to sell maglev internationally. (Remember that BREL was always trying to sell its technology overseas, which is why several Pacer trains, developed on bus bodies, were sold to Iran.) Birmingham's Maglev only lasted 11 years: replacement parts were getting hard to obtain for what was really a unique system. Buses took over, and eventually a cable-hauled SkyRail people-mover was installed atop the piers. That's not as exciting for people like me, who like the idea of being whisked in a hovertrain pushed along by magnets. But then our real transport future always has been a pretty crap approximation of our dreams.\"", "\"We have always wanted to get rid of wheels,\" says Railworld's Brian Pearce. \"One invention [to this end] was Chris Cockerell's hovercraft.\" At the same time, maglev technology was being developed by the British inventor, Eric Laithwaite, who was working on the linear induction motor at Imperial College when he found a way for it to produce lift as well as forward thrust. The two systems were combined to form a tracked hovercraft. \"So along came RTV31,\" says Pearce. \"The train rode along the track on a cushion of air created by big electric fans. Not very energy efficient! The forward motion was created by a linear motor, which moved along rather than going round and round.\"\nRTV31 could, like France's Aérotrain or the German Transrapid system, have been a viable new form of intercity travel. But funding was insufficient throughout the project and eventually Britain pulled the plug. In February 1973, a week after the first test RTV31 hovertrain reached 157km/h, the project was abandoned as part of wider budget cuts.", "it to middle age. And in Emsland, the German conglomerate Transrapid built a 32km supersized test track for their maglev, which seemed to be on course for success. A variation of this train shuttles passengers from Shanghai to the airport,", "When the Birmingham Maglev was shuttered in 1995, one of the cars was dumped in a hedge near the A45. Furniture maker and transport enthusiast Andy Jones splashed out a mere £100 for it on eBay in 2011 (although, he says, \"it cost me £400 to get it out of the hedge!\"). Now it sits in a field behind Jones's house in Burton Green, a couple of miles east of the airport in the rolling Warwickshire countryside.\nI reminisce to Jones about my boyhood excitement for the Birmingham Maglev, about the silly enthusiasm I felt when I got to go on it in the late 80s. He shared the experience. \"I used it in the old days too,\" he says. \"I'd ride backwards and forwards on it, I thought it was smashing.\"", "There's an eerie reminder of the RTV31 in the big-skied, liminal lands of East Anglia. The train was tested on a track that ran up alongside the New Bedford River at Earith in Cambridgeshire: appropriate, because this 'river' is actually a supreme piece of man-made engineering from an earlier age, a dead-straight dyke dug by Dutchman Cornelius Vermuyden to drain the fens in the 1600s. The RTV31 test-track piers endure as further reminders of a past future. The vehicle itself sits not far away at Peterborough's Railworld, where its colourful exterior is strikingly visible to today's travellers on the East Coast Main Line from London to Scotland. Its neighbour is the final redundant Birmingham Maglev car.", "So there are still some people dreaming big. The latest iteration of this is of course Hyperloop, whose vacuum tube technology harks back to another British engineering innovation: the atmospheric railway, which was developed by Henry Pinkus, the Samuda Brothers and eventually by Isambard Kingdom Brunel. This technology used varying air pressure to suck trains up a track in a partial vacuum. Lines popped up in London, Dublin and most notably Brunel's South Devon Railway, where the pipes were plagued by nibbling rats but the pumping stations survive as relics of Victorian visionaries. If those systems looked like something from HG Wells, with men in top hats smoking cigars, then Hyperloop, with its internet age funding from Tesla founder Elon Musk, could well end up appearing as a very 2010s caper when we look at back on it from the distance of decades. Or maybe Hyperloop will revolutionise travel like maglev was supposed to.", "Erfurt is trying to save the latter from the scrapyard. Little remains of Germany's other maglev, the M-Bahn (or Magnetbahn), a short-lived shuttle service that ran in West Berlin from 1989-91 connecting stations whose service had been previously", "and the plan was to copy the same model in Munich, and even build an intercity line from Berlin to Hamburg. Today the test track stands idle awaiting its fate, while the Transrapid vehicles are up for auction; a museum in", "It's understandable that most serious interest in maglev deployment is in Asia – Japan, China, India,\" says John Harding, former chief maglev scientist for the US Department of Transportation. \"This is understandable wherever passenger traffic is huge and can dilute the enormous capital cost. (Maglev is indisputably more expensive upfront than high-speed rail.) Even for California, which has huge air passenger traffic between LA and San Francisco, there is nowhere near enough demand to justify maglev; probably not enough to justify high-speed rail. But the Chūō Shinkansen will probably be the greatest success for maglev.\" The first link between Tokyo and Nagoya is scheduled to begin operation in 2027. Then the Chinese are proposing a 600km/h system between Shanghai and Beijing.", "Bob Gwynne, associate curator of collections and research at the National Rail Museum in York, says: \"British Rail's Derby Research Centre, founded in 1964, was arguably the world's leading rail research facility when it was in full operation. An understanding of the wheel and rail interface comes from there, as does the first tilting train, a new railbus, high-speed freight wagons, computer-controlled interlocking of track and signal, the first successful maglev and many other things.\" Gwynne has got the second of the three Birmingham Maglev cars at the museum.", "In the far east, attitudes to maglev are different. Japan began maglev testing at roughly the same time as Britain in 1962 and is today building the longest, fastest maglev in the world. It will run mostly in tunnel, at 500km/h, taking a shocking 40 minutes to travel the 300km between Tokyo and Nagoya. It's been christened the Chūō Shinkansen: just another, faster type of bullet train for the central districts. Japan's system is a superconducting maglev, different to the Birmingham and German systems. It uses superconducting coils in the train, which cause repulsion to move the train forward. The Japanese also use wheels for the vehicle to 'land' on the track at low speeds.", "severed by the Berlin Wall. With the Wall gone, the old U-Bahn service was reinstated and the M-Bahn, which had run along its tracks, disappeared from the capital of the new Germany.", "\"The problem was, it was the end of one lot of technology. The first time it snowed, all hell broke loose! It had a ratcheting mechanism, a primitive form of winch. Beneath that was the hydraulic system. It was lifted up by the magnetic field (under the [car] are steel sheets). But you'd use the hydraulic system to pull it back up on to the system if it broke.\"", "Back in Burton Green, Andy Jones's maglev car lies in limbo. \"I'd like to build a platform around it,\" he says, \"turn it into a playhouse for the grandchildren perhaps? A couple of people want to take it away and turn it into a cafe.\" Perversely perhaps, its fate may be decided by another type of transport technology: more conventional high speed rail. The route for the much-disputed High Speed 2 line from London to Birmingham slices right through the field where the maglev car sits. \n\n In the 2000s the UK Ultraspeed proposal was floated to link London, Birmingham, the North and Scotland by maglev. It never materialised. HS2 was the eventual successor to the Ultraspeed plan, though a less futuristic one. Jones has another idea for his forward moving relic: \"Maybe I'll turn it into viewing platform, so you could watch HS2's outdated technology.\"\nThis article was originally published on TheLong+Short. Read the original article.", "You don't have to look far to find other relics of this white-hot time when post-war confidence begat all sorts of oddities. There's the test track for the French Aerotrain outside Orleans – a rocket-powered prototype that never made" ], [ "\"The problem with high-speed maglev like Transrapid in Germany,\" says Tim Dunn, \"is that it doesn't really stack up against high-speed rail. It's more expensive, it's lower capacity, it's more complex. There's a gap in the market, but there's no market in the gap. What is needed generally in mass transit is more capacity, rather than super high speed.\"\nBut back in the post-war period, we thought we could have everything. Britain's tertiary science departments expanded. We built the Comet jetliner, then Concorde; and concrete buildings to house them that the world envied, like the huge Heathrow hangar that Sir Owen Williams, primarily an engineer, designed for BOAC's planes; and architect James Stirling's much-lauded engineering faculty at Leicester University. Yet a little-known footnote from this period involves the interaction of magnets in high-speed train design with that other British invention that prevailed for a while but then seemed to peter out: the hovercraft.", "\"We have always wanted to get rid of wheels,\" says Railworld's Brian Pearce. \"One invention [to this end] was Chris Cockerell's hovercraft.\" At the same time, maglev technology was being developed by the British inventor, Eric Laithwaite, who was working on the linear induction motor at Imperial College when he found a way for it to produce lift as well as forward thrust. The two systems were combined to form a tracked hovercraft. \"So along came RTV31,\" says Pearce. \"The train rode along the track on a cushion of air created by big electric fans. Not very energy efficient! The forward motion was created by a linear motor, which moved along rather than going round and round.\"\nRTV31 could, like France's Aérotrain or the German Transrapid system, have been a viable new form of intercity travel. But funding was insufficient throughout the project and eventually Britain pulled the plug. In February 1973, a week after the first test RTV31 hovertrain reached 157km/h, the project was abandoned as part of wider budget cuts.", "Today, on the elevated track that gambols over windswept car parks and threads through cheap motels between Birmingham's airport terminal and the railway station, a simple, ski resort-style people-mover system ferries passengers from plane to train. Three decades ago it was so much more exciting: the world's first commercial maglev, or magnetic levitation, system ran along here.\nOpened in 1984, the Birmingham Maglev came at the very tail end of a\ntrente glorieuses\nfor British transport technology and, more broadly, European engineering; an era that promised so much yet eventually bequeathed so many relics and ruins. \n\n The modernism of the 20th century, expressed especially in architecture and engineering, seemed like nothing less than the founding of a new order. Progress was to be continual, unstoppable and good. Yet today the physical and philosophical advances are being gradually taken apart and retracted, as if we'd woken up sweating and feared we'd somehow overreached ourselves.", "But the British maglev never really took off. Tim Dunn, transport historian and co-presenter of the BBC's Trainspotting Live, explains why. \"The early 80s was still a time of great British national-funded engineering,\" he says. \"Success at Birmingham Airport would have been a great advert for British Rail Engineering Limited (BREL) to sell maglev internationally. (Remember that BREL was always trying to sell its technology overseas, which is why several Pacer trains, developed on bus bodies, were sold to Iran.) Birmingham's Maglev only lasted 11 years: replacement parts were getting hard to obtain for what was really a unique system. Buses took over, and eventually a cable-hauled SkyRail people-mover was installed atop the piers. That's not as exciting for people like me, who like the idea of being whisked in a hovertrain pushed along by magnets. But then our real transport future always has been a pretty crap approximation of our dreams.\"", "The maglev was a development that spun out of this research at Derby, and developed in a joint project with a private consortium that included the now-defunct General Electric Company. The maglev cars were built by Metro Cammell at its factory four miles from the airport in Washwood Heath. It was the same place many tube carriages came from, and if you look down the doors on Piccadilly line carriages as you get on and off, you can see a cheery 1973 plaque reminding travellers of this fact (the cheeky Brummie assumption here being that London commuters always look at the floor).", "Bob Gwynne, associate curator of collections and research at the National Rail Museum in York, says: \"British Rail's Derby Research Centre, founded in 1964, was arguably the world's leading rail research facility when it was in full operation. An understanding of the wheel and rail interface comes from there, as does the first tilting train, a new railbus, high-speed freight wagons, computer-controlled interlocking of track and signal, the first successful maglev and many other things.\" Gwynne has got the second of the three Birmingham Maglev cars at the museum.", "In the far east, attitudes to maglev are different. Japan began maglev testing at roughly the same time as Britain in 1962 and is today building the longest, fastest maglev in the world. It will run mostly in tunnel, at 500km/h, taking a shocking 40 minutes to travel the 300km between Tokyo and Nagoya. It's been christened the Chūō Shinkansen: just another, faster type of bullet train for the central districts. Japan's system is a superconducting maglev, different to the Birmingham and German systems. It uses superconducting coils in the train, which cause repulsion to move the train forward. The Japanese also use wheels for the vehicle to 'land' on the track at low speeds.", "So there are still some people dreaming big. The latest iteration of this is of course Hyperloop, whose vacuum tube technology harks back to another British engineering innovation: the atmospheric railway, which was developed by Henry Pinkus, the Samuda Brothers and eventually by Isambard Kingdom Brunel. This technology used varying air pressure to suck trains up a track in a partial vacuum. Lines popped up in London, Dublin and most notably Brunel's South Devon Railway, where the pipes were plagued by nibbling rats but the pumping stations survive as relics of Victorian visionaries. If those systems looked like something from HG Wells, with men in top hats smoking cigars, then Hyperloop, with its internet age funding from Tesla founder Elon Musk, could well end up appearing as a very 2010s caper when we look at back on it from the distance of decades. Or maybe Hyperloop will revolutionise travel like maglev was supposed to.", "When the Birmingham Maglev was shuttered in 1995, one of the cars was dumped in a hedge near the A45. Furniture maker and transport enthusiast Andy Jones splashed out a mere £100 for it on eBay in 2011 (although, he says, \"it cost me £400 to get it out of the hedge!\"). Now it sits in a field behind Jones's house in Burton Green, a couple of miles east of the airport in the rolling Warwickshire countryside.\nI reminisce to Jones about my boyhood excitement for the Birmingham Maglev, about the silly enthusiasm I felt when I got to go on it in the late 80s. He shared the experience. \"I used it in the old days too,\" he says. \"I'd ride backwards and forwards on it, I thought it was smashing.\"", "There's an eerie reminder of the RTV31 in the big-skied, liminal lands of East Anglia. The train was tested on a track that ran up alongside the New Bedford River at Earith in Cambridgeshire: appropriate, because this 'river' is actually a supreme piece of man-made engineering from an earlier age, a dead-straight dyke dug by Dutchman Cornelius Vermuyden to drain the fens in the 1600s. The RTV31 test-track piers endure as further reminders of a past future. The vehicle itself sits not far away at Peterborough's Railworld, where its colourful exterior is strikingly visible to today's travellers on the East Coast Main Line from London to Scotland. Its neighbour is the final redundant Birmingham Maglev car.", "You don't have to look far to find other relics of this white-hot time when post-war confidence begat all sorts of oddities. There's the test track for the French Aerotrain outside Orleans – a rocket-powered prototype that never made", "Back in Burton Green, Andy Jones's maglev car lies in limbo. \"I'd like to build a platform around it,\" he says, \"turn it into a playhouse for the grandchildren perhaps? A couple of people want to take it away and turn it into a cafe.\" Perversely perhaps, its fate may be decided by another type of transport technology: more conventional high speed rail. The route for the much-disputed High Speed 2 line from London to Birmingham slices right through the field where the maglev car sits. \n\n In the 2000s the UK Ultraspeed proposal was floated to link London, Birmingham, the North and Scotland by maglev. It never materialised. HS2 was the eventual successor to the Ultraspeed plan, though a less futuristic one. Jones has another idea for his forward moving relic: \"Maybe I'll turn it into viewing platform, so you could watch HS2's outdated technology.\"\nThis article was originally published on TheLong+Short. Read the original article.", "it to middle age. And in Emsland, the German conglomerate Transrapid built a 32km supersized test track for their maglev, which seemed to be on course for success. A variation of this train shuttles passengers from Shanghai to the airport,", "Going off track\nBirmingham's airport isn't like other airports. Right at the north-western end of runway 15 there's a country park and a row of benches. You'll see families picnicking here, enjoying the subsonic spectacle of planes from Brussels, Bucharest and Barcelona roaring just feet overhead on their final approach. Birmingham isn't like other British cities – it fetishises the technical and promotes the new. It is unstinting in its thrall to evolution and unsentimental about erasing past versions of the future in its rush to create new ones; the comprehensive 1960s vision of the city which itself swept away a century's Victoriana is currently being meticulously taken apart concrete slab by concrete slab. The city's motto is 'Forward'.", "Erfurt is trying to save the latter from the scrapyard. Little remains of Germany's other maglev, the M-Bahn (or Magnetbahn), a short-lived shuttle service that ran in West Berlin from 1989-91 connecting stations whose service had been previously", "When you get to a certain age you realise how much more visions of the future say about the present they're concocted in than the actual future they purport to show us hurtling towards. A track in the air, sitting on top of concrete legs that couldn't look any more like rational new humans striding into a technocratic promised land if they tried, will always evoke a kind of nostalgia for the 20th century. You think of the SAFEGE monorail depicted in Truffaut's 1966 film adaptation of Fahrenheit 451; and of regional news reporters with greasy barnets delivering excited pieces to camera about big plans.", "It's understandable that most serious interest in maglev deployment is in Asia – Japan, China, India,\" says John Harding, former chief maglev scientist for the US Department of Transportation. \"This is understandable wherever passenger traffic is huge and can dilute the enormous capital cost. (Maglev is indisputably more expensive upfront than high-speed rail.) Even for California, which has huge air passenger traffic between LA and San Francisco, there is nowhere near enough demand to justify maglev; probably not enough to justify high-speed rail. But the Chūō Shinkansen will probably be the greatest success for maglev.\" The first link between Tokyo and Nagoya is scheduled to begin operation in 2027. Then the Chinese are proposing a 600km/h system between Shanghai and Beijing.", "\"The problem was, it was the end of one lot of technology. The first time it snowed, all hell broke loose! It had a ratcheting mechanism, a primitive form of winch. Beneath that was the hydraulic system. It was lifted up by the magnetic field (under the [car] are steel sheets). But you'd use the hydraulic system to pull it back up on to the system if it broke.\"", "and the plan was to copy the same model in Munich, and even build an intercity line from Berlin to Hamburg. Today the test track stands idle awaiting its fate, while the Transrapid vehicles are up for auction; a museum in", "severed by the Berlin Wall. With the Wall gone, the old U-Bahn service was reinstated and the M-Bahn, which had run along its tracks, disappeared from the capital of the new Germany." ], [ "It's understandable that most serious interest in maglev deployment is in Asia – Japan, China, India,\" says John Harding, former chief maglev scientist for the US Department of Transportation. \"This is understandable wherever passenger traffic is huge and can dilute the enormous capital cost. (Maglev is indisputably more expensive upfront than high-speed rail.) Even for California, which has huge air passenger traffic between LA and San Francisco, there is nowhere near enough demand to justify maglev; probably not enough to justify high-speed rail. But the Chūō Shinkansen will probably be the greatest success for maglev.\" The first link between Tokyo and Nagoya is scheduled to begin operation in 2027. Then the Chinese are proposing a 600km/h system between Shanghai and Beijing.", "In the far east, attitudes to maglev are different. Japan began maglev testing at roughly the same time as Britain in 1962 and is today building the longest, fastest maglev in the world. It will run mostly in tunnel, at 500km/h, taking a shocking 40 minutes to travel the 300km between Tokyo and Nagoya. It's been christened the Chūō Shinkansen: just another, faster type of bullet train for the central districts. Japan's system is a superconducting maglev, different to the Birmingham and German systems. It uses superconducting coils in the train, which cause repulsion to move the train forward. The Japanese also use wheels for the vehicle to 'land' on the track at low speeds.", "it to middle age. And in Emsland, the German conglomerate Transrapid built a 32km supersized test track for their maglev, which seemed to be on course for success. A variation of this train shuttles passengers from Shanghai to the airport,", "But the British maglev never really took off. Tim Dunn, transport historian and co-presenter of the BBC's Trainspotting Live, explains why. \"The early 80s was still a time of great British national-funded engineering,\" he says. \"Success at Birmingham Airport would have been a great advert for British Rail Engineering Limited (BREL) to sell maglev internationally. (Remember that BREL was always trying to sell its technology overseas, which is why several Pacer trains, developed on bus bodies, were sold to Iran.) Birmingham's Maglev only lasted 11 years: replacement parts were getting hard to obtain for what was really a unique system. Buses took over, and eventually a cable-hauled SkyRail people-mover was installed atop the piers. That's not as exciting for people like me, who like the idea of being whisked in a hovertrain pushed along by magnets. But then our real transport future always has been a pretty crap approximation of our dreams.\"", "\"The problem with high-speed maglev like Transrapid in Germany,\" says Tim Dunn, \"is that it doesn't really stack up against high-speed rail. It's more expensive, it's lower capacity, it's more complex. There's a gap in the market, but there's no market in the gap. What is needed generally in mass transit is more capacity, rather than super high speed.\"\nBut back in the post-war period, we thought we could have everything. Britain's tertiary science departments expanded. We built the Comet jetliner, then Concorde; and concrete buildings to house them that the world envied, like the huge Heathrow hangar that Sir Owen Williams, primarily an engineer, designed for BOAC's planes; and architect James Stirling's much-lauded engineering faculty at Leicester University. Yet a little-known footnote from this period involves the interaction of magnets in high-speed train design with that other British invention that prevailed for a while but then seemed to peter out: the hovercraft.", "Today, on the elevated track that gambols over windswept car parks and threads through cheap motels between Birmingham's airport terminal and the railway station, a simple, ski resort-style people-mover system ferries passengers from plane to train. Three decades ago it was so much more exciting: the world's first commercial maglev, or magnetic levitation, system ran along here.\nOpened in 1984, the Birmingham Maglev came at the very tail end of a\ntrente glorieuses\nfor British transport technology and, more broadly, European engineering; an era that promised so much yet eventually bequeathed so many relics and ruins. \n\n The modernism of the 20th century, expressed especially in architecture and engineering, seemed like nothing less than the founding of a new order. Progress was to be continual, unstoppable and good. Yet today the physical and philosophical advances are being gradually taken apart and retracted, as if we'd woken up sweating and feared we'd somehow overreached ourselves.", "\"We have always wanted to get rid of wheels,\" says Railworld's Brian Pearce. \"One invention [to this end] was Chris Cockerell's hovercraft.\" At the same time, maglev technology was being developed by the British inventor, Eric Laithwaite, who was working on the linear induction motor at Imperial College when he found a way for it to produce lift as well as forward thrust. The two systems were combined to form a tracked hovercraft. \"So along came RTV31,\" says Pearce. \"The train rode along the track on a cushion of air created by big electric fans. Not very energy efficient! The forward motion was created by a linear motor, which moved along rather than going round and round.\"\nRTV31 could, like France's Aérotrain or the German Transrapid system, have been a viable new form of intercity travel. But funding was insufficient throughout the project and eventually Britain pulled the plug. In February 1973, a week after the first test RTV31 hovertrain reached 157km/h, the project was abandoned as part of wider budget cuts.", "The maglev was a development that spun out of this research at Derby, and developed in a joint project with a private consortium that included the now-defunct General Electric Company. The maglev cars were built by Metro Cammell at its factory four miles from the airport in Washwood Heath. It was the same place many tube carriages came from, and if you look down the doors on Piccadilly line carriages as you get on and off, you can see a cheery 1973 plaque reminding travellers of this fact (the cheeky Brummie assumption here being that London commuters always look at the floor).", "Bob Gwynne, associate curator of collections and research at the National Rail Museum in York, says: \"British Rail's Derby Research Centre, founded in 1964, was arguably the world's leading rail research facility when it was in full operation. An understanding of the wheel and rail interface comes from there, as does the first tilting train, a new railbus, high-speed freight wagons, computer-controlled interlocking of track and signal, the first successful maglev and many other things.\" Gwynne has got the second of the three Birmingham Maglev cars at the museum.", "When the Birmingham Maglev was shuttered in 1995, one of the cars was dumped in a hedge near the A45. Furniture maker and transport enthusiast Andy Jones splashed out a mere £100 for it on eBay in 2011 (although, he says, \"it cost me £400 to get it out of the hedge!\"). Now it sits in a field behind Jones's house in Burton Green, a couple of miles east of the airport in the rolling Warwickshire countryside.\nI reminisce to Jones about my boyhood excitement for the Birmingham Maglev, about the silly enthusiasm I felt when I got to go on it in the late 80s. He shared the experience. \"I used it in the old days too,\" he says. \"I'd ride backwards and forwards on it, I thought it was smashing.\"", "Back in Burton Green, Andy Jones's maglev car lies in limbo. \"I'd like to build a platform around it,\" he says, \"turn it into a playhouse for the grandchildren perhaps? A couple of people want to take it away and turn it into a cafe.\" Perversely perhaps, its fate may be decided by another type of transport technology: more conventional high speed rail. The route for the much-disputed High Speed 2 line from London to Birmingham slices right through the field where the maglev car sits. \n\n In the 2000s the UK Ultraspeed proposal was floated to link London, Birmingham, the North and Scotland by maglev. It never materialised. HS2 was the eventual successor to the Ultraspeed plan, though a less futuristic one. Jones has another idea for his forward moving relic: \"Maybe I'll turn it into viewing platform, so you could watch HS2's outdated technology.\"\nThis article was originally published on TheLong+Short. Read the original article.", "Erfurt is trying to save the latter from the scrapyard. Little remains of Germany's other maglev, the M-Bahn (or Magnetbahn), a short-lived shuttle service that ran in West Berlin from 1989-91 connecting stations whose service had been previously", "There's an eerie reminder of the RTV31 in the big-skied, liminal lands of East Anglia. The train was tested on a track that ran up alongside the New Bedford River at Earith in Cambridgeshire: appropriate, because this 'river' is actually a supreme piece of man-made engineering from an earlier age, a dead-straight dyke dug by Dutchman Cornelius Vermuyden to drain the fens in the 1600s. The RTV31 test-track piers endure as further reminders of a past future. The vehicle itself sits not far away at Peterborough's Railworld, where its colourful exterior is strikingly visible to today's travellers on the East Coast Main Line from London to Scotland. Its neighbour is the final redundant Birmingham Maglev car.", "So there are still some people dreaming big. The latest iteration of this is of course Hyperloop, whose vacuum tube technology harks back to another British engineering innovation: the atmospheric railway, which was developed by Henry Pinkus, the Samuda Brothers and eventually by Isambard Kingdom Brunel. This technology used varying air pressure to suck trains up a track in a partial vacuum. Lines popped up in London, Dublin and most notably Brunel's South Devon Railway, where the pipes were plagued by nibbling rats but the pumping stations survive as relics of Victorian visionaries. If those systems looked like something from HG Wells, with men in top hats smoking cigars, then Hyperloop, with its internet age funding from Tesla founder Elon Musk, could well end up appearing as a very 2010s caper when we look at back on it from the distance of decades. Or maybe Hyperloop will revolutionise travel like maglev was supposed to.", "and the plan was to copy the same model in Munich, and even build an intercity line from Berlin to Hamburg. Today the test track stands idle awaiting its fate, while the Transrapid vehicles are up for auction; a museum in", "You don't have to look far to find other relics of this white-hot time when post-war confidence begat all sorts of oddities. There's the test track for the French Aerotrain outside Orleans – a rocket-powered prototype that never made", "When you get to a certain age you realise how much more visions of the future say about the present they're concocted in than the actual future they purport to show us hurtling towards. A track in the air, sitting on top of concrete legs that couldn't look any more like rational new humans striding into a technocratic promised land if they tried, will always evoke a kind of nostalgia for the 20th century. You think of the SAFEGE monorail depicted in Truffaut's 1966 film adaptation of Fahrenheit 451; and of regional news reporters with greasy barnets delivering excited pieces to camera about big plans.", "Going off track\nBirmingham's airport isn't like other airports. Right at the north-western end of runway 15 there's a country park and a row of benches. You'll see families picnicking here, enjoying the subsonic spectacle of planes from Brussels, Bucharest and Barcelona roaring just feet overhead on their final approach. Birmingham isn't like other British cities – it fetishises the technical and promotes the new. It is unstinting in its thrall to evolution and unsentimental about erasing past versions of the future in its rush to create new ones; the comprehensive 1960s vision of the city which itself swept away a century's Victoriana is currently being meticulously taken apart concrete slab by concrete slab. The city's motto is 'Forward'.", "\"The problem was, it was the end of one lot of technology. The first time it snowed, all hell broke loose! It had a ratcheting mechanism, a primitive form of winch. Beneath that was the hydraulic system. It was lifted up by the magnetic field (under the [car] are steel sheets). But you'd use the hydraulic system to pull it back up on to the system if it broke.\"", "severed by the Berlin Wall. With the Wall gone, the old U-Bahn service was reinstated and the M-Bahn, which had run along its tracks, disappeared from the capital of the new Germany." ], [ "So there are still some people dreaming big. The latest iteration of this is of course Hyperloop, whose vacuum tube technology harks back to another British engineering innovation: the atmospheric railway, which was developed by Henry Pinkus, the Samuda Brothers and eventually by Isambard Kingdom Brunel. This technology used varying air pressure to suck trains up a track in a partial vacuum. Lines popped up in London, Dublin and most notably Brunel's South Devon Railway, where the pipes were plagued by nibbling rats but the pumping stations survive as relics of Victorian visionaries. If those systems looked like something from HG Wells, with men in top hats smoking cigars, then Hyperloop, with its internet age funding from Tesla founder Elon Musk, could well end up appearing as a very 2010s caper when we look at back on it from the distance of decades. Or maybe Hyperloop will revolutionise travel like maglev was supposed to.", "When you get to a certain age you realise how much more visions of the future say about the present they're concocted in than the actual future they purport to show us hurtling towards. A track in the air, sitting on top of concrete legs that couldn't look any more like rational new humans striding into a technocratic promised land if they tried, will always evoke a kind of nostalgia for the 20th century. You think of the SAFEGE monorail depicted in Truffaut's 1966 film adaptation of Fahrenheit 451; and of regional news reporters with greasy barnets delivering excited pieces to camera about big plans.", "\"The problem with high-speed maglev like Transrapid in Germany,\" says Tim Dunn, \"is that it doesn't really stack up against high-speed rail. It's more expensive, it's lower capacity, it's more complex. There's a gap in the market, but there's no market in the gap. What is needed generally in mass transit is more capacity, rather than super high speed.\"\nBut back in the post-war period, we thought we could have everything. Britain's tertiary science departments expanded. We built the Comet jetliner, then Concorde; and concrete buildings to house them that the world envied, like the huge Heathrow hangar that Sir Owen Williams, primarily an engineer, designed for BOAC's planes; and architect James Stirling's much-lauded engineering faculty at Leicester University. Yet a little-known footnote from this period involves the interaction of magnets in high-speed train design with that other British invention that prevailed for a while but then seemed to peter out: the hovercraft.", "Today, on the elevated track that gambols over windswept car parks and threads through cheap motels between Birmingham's airport terminal and the railway station, a simple, ski resort-style people-mover system ferries passengers from plane to train. Three decades ago it was so much more exciting: the world's first commercial maglev, or magnetic levitation, system ran along here.\nOpened in 1984, the Birmingham Maglev came at the very tail end of a\ntrente glorieuses\nfor British transport technology and, more broadly, European engineering; an era that promised so much yet eventually bequeathed so many relics and ruins. \n\n The modernism of the 20th century, expressed especially in architecture and engineering, seemed like nothing less than the founding of a new order. Progress was to be continual, unstoppable and good. Yet today the physical and philosophical advances are being gradually taken apart and retracted, as if we'd woken up sweating and feared we'd somehow overreached ourselves.", "\"We have always wanted to get rid of wheels,\" says Railworld's Brian Pearce. \"One invention [to this end] was Chris Cockerell's hovercraft.\" At the same time, maglev technology was being developed by the British inventor, Eric Laithwaite, who was working on the linear induction motor at Imperial College when he found a way for it to produce lift as well as forward thrust. The two systems were combined to form a tracked hovercraft. \"So along came RTV31,\" says Pearce. \"The train rode along the track on a cushion of air created by big electric fans. Not very energy efficient! The forward motion was created by a linear motor, which moved along rather than going round and round.\"\nRTV31 could, like France's Aérotrain or the German Transrapid system, have been a viable new form of intercity travel. But funding was insufficient throughout the project and eventually Britain pulled the plug. In February 1973, a week after the first test RTV31 hovertrain reached 157km/h, the project was abandoned as part of wider budget cuts.", "But the British maglev never really took off. Tim Dunn, transport historian and co-presenter of the BBC's Trainspotting Live, explains why. \"The early 80s was still a time of great British national-funded engineering,\" he says. \"Success at Birmingham Airport would have been a great advert for British Rail Engineering Limited (BREL) to sell maglev internationally. (Remember that BREL was always trying to sell its technology overseas, which is why several Pacer trains, developed on bus bodies, were sold to Iran.) Birmingham's Maglev only lasted 11 years: replacement parts were getting hard to obtain for what was really a unique system. Buses took over, and eventually a cable-hauled SkyRail people-mover was installed atop the piers. That's not as exciting for people like me, who like the idea of being whisked in a hovertrain pushed along by magnets. But then our real transport future always has been a pretty crap approximation of our dreams.\"", "Back in Burton Green, Andy Jones's maglev car lies in limbo. \"I'd like to build a platform around it,\" he says, \"turn it into a playhouse for the grandchildren perhaps? A couple of people want to take it away and turn it into a cafe.\" Perversely perhaps, its fate may be decided by another type of transport technology: more conventional high speed rail. The route for the much-disputed High Speed 2 line from London to Birmingham slices right through the field where the maglev car sits. \n\n In the 2000s the UK Ultraspeed proposal was floated to link London, Birmingham, the North and Scotland by maglev. It never materialised. HS2 was the eventual successor to the Ultraspeed plan, though a less futuristic one. Jones has another idea for his forward moving relic: \"Maybe I'll turn it into viewing platform, so you could watch HS2's outdated technology.\"\nThis article was originally published on TheLong+Short. Read the original article.", "it to middle age. And in Emsland, the German conglomerate Transrapid built a 32km supersized test track for their maglev, which seemed to be on course for success. A variation of this train shuttles passengers from Shanghai to the airport,", "When the Birmingham Maglev was shuttered in 1995, one of the cars was dumped in a hedge near the A45. Furniture maker and transport enthusiast Andy Jones splashed out a mere £100 for it on eBay in 2011 (although, he says, \"it cost me £400 to get it out of the hedge!\"). Now it sits in a field behind Jones's house in Burton Green, a couple of miles east of the airport in the rolling Warwickshire countryside.\nI reminisce to Jones about my boyhood excitement for the Birmingham Maglev, about the silly enthusiasm I felt when I got to go on it in the late 80s. He shared the experience. \"I used it in the old days too,\" he says. \"I'd ride backwards and forwards on it, I thought it was smashing.\"", "There's an eerie reminder of the RTV31 in the big-skied, liminal lands of East Anglia. The train was tested on a track that ran up alongside the New Bedford River at Earith in Cambridgeshire: appropriate, because this 'river' is actually a supreme piece of man-made engineering from an earlier age, a dead-straight dyke dug by Dutchman Cornelius Vermuyden to drain the fens in the 1600s. The RTV31 test-track piers endure as further reminders of a past future. The vehicle itself sits not far away at Peterborough's Railworld, where its colourful exterior is strikingly visible to today's travellers on the East Coast Main Line from London to Scotland. Its neighbour is the final redundant Birmingham Maglev car.", "Going off track\nBirmingham's airport isn't like other airports. Right at the north-western end of runway 15 there's a country park and a row of benches. You'll see families picnicking here, enjoying the subsonic spectacle of planes from Brussels, Bucharest and Barcelona roaring just feet overhead on their final approach. Birmingham isn't like other British cities – it fetishises the technical and promotes the new. It is unstinting in its thrall to evolution and unsentimental about erasing past versions of the future in its rush to create new ones; the comprehensive 1960s vision of the city which itself swept away a century's Victoriana is currently being meticulously taken apart concrete slab by concrete slab. The city's motto is 'Forward'.", "The maglev was a development that spun out of this research at Derby, and developed in a joint project with a private consortium that included the now-defunct General Electric Company. The maglev cars were built by Metro Cammell at its factory four miles from the airport in Washwood Heath. It was the same place many tube carriages came from, and if you look down the doors on Piccadilly line carriages as you get on and off, you can see a cheery 1973 plaque reminding travellers of this fact (the cheeky Brummie assumption here being that London commuters always look at the floor).", "It's understandable that most serious interest in maglev deployment is in Asia – Japan, China, India,\" says John Harding, former chief maglev scientist for the US Department of Transportation. \"This is understandable wherever passenger traffic is huge and can dilute the enormous capital cost. (Maglev is indisputably more expensive upfront than high-speed rail.) Even for California, which has huge air passenger traffic between LA and San Francisco, there is nowhere near enough demand to justify maglev; probably not enough to justify high-speed rail. But the Chūō Shinkansen will probably be the greatest success for maglev.\" The first link between Tokyo and Nagoya is scheduled to begin operation in 2027. Then the Chinese are proposing a 600km/h system between Shanghai and Beijing.", "and the plan was to copy the same model in Munich, and even build an intercity line from Berlin to Hamburg. Today the test track stands idle awaiting its fate, while the Transrapid vehicles are up for auction; a museum in", "In the far east, attitudes to maglev are different. Japan began maglev testing at roughly the same time as Britain in 1962 and is today building the longest, fastest maglev in the world. It will run mostly in tunnel, at 500km/h, taking a shocking 40 minutes to travel the 300km between Tokyo and Nagoya. It's been christened the Chūō Shinkansen: just another, faster type of bullet train for the central districts. Japan's system is a superconducting maglev, different to the Birmingham and German systems. It uses superconducting coils in the train, which cause repulsion to move the train forward. The Japanese also use wheels for the vehicle to 'land' on the track at low speeds.", "Bob Gwynne, associate curator of collections and research at the National Rail Museum in York, says: \"British Rail's Derby Research Centre, founded in 1964, was arguably the world's leading rail research facility when it was in full operation. An understanding of the wheel and rail interface comes from there, as does the first tilting train, a new railbus, high-speed freight wagons, computer-controlled interlocking of track and signal, the first successful maglev and many other things.\" Gwynne has got the second of the three Birmingham Maglev cars at the museum.", "Erfurt is trying to save the latter from the scrapyard. Little remains of Germany's other maglev, the M-Bahn (or Magnetbahn), a short-lived shuttle service that ran in West Berlin from 1989-91 connecting stations whose service had been previously", "You don't have to look far to find other relics of this white-hot time when post-war confidence begat all sorts of oddities. There's the test track for the French Aerotrain outside Orleans – a rocket-powered prototype that never made", "\"The problem was, it was the end of one lot of technology. The first time it snowed, all hell broke loose! It had a ratcheting mechanism, a primitive form of winch. Beneath that was the hydraulic system. It was lifted up by the magnetic field (under the [car] are steel sheets). But you'd use the hydraulic system to pull it back up on to the system if it broke.\"", "severed by the Berlin Wall. With the Wall gone, the old U-Bahn service was reinstated and the M-Bahn, which had run along its tracks, disappeared from the capital of the new Germany." ], [ "When the Birmingham Maglev was shuttered in 1995, one of the cars was dumped in a hedge near the A45. Furniture maker and transport enthusiast Andy Jones splashed out a mere £100 for it on eBay in 2011 (although, he says, \"it cost me £400 to get it out of the hedge!\"). Now it sits in a field behind Jones's house in Burton Green, a couple of miles east of the airport in the rolling Warwickshire countryside.\nI reminisce to Jones about my boyhood excitement for the Birmingham Maglev, about the silly enthusiasm I felt when I got to go on it in the late 80s. He shared the experience. \"I used it in the old days too,\" he says. \"I'd ride backwards and forwards on it, I thought it was smashing.\"", "Back in Burton Green, Andy Jones's maglev car lies in limbo. \"I'd like to build a platform around it,\" he says, \"turn it into a playhouse for the grandchildren perhaps? A couple of people want to take it away and turn it into a cafe.\" Perversely perhaps, its fate may be decided by another type of transport technology: more conventional high speed rail. The route for the much-disputed High Speed 2 line from London to Birmingham slices right through the field where the maglev car sits. \n\n In the 2000s the UK Ultraspeed proposal was floated to link London, Birmingham, the North and Scotland by maglev. It never materialised. HS2 was the eventual successor to the Ultraspeed plan, though a less futuristic one. Jones has another idea for his forward moving relic: \"Maybe I'll turn it into viewing platform, so you could watch HS2's outdated technology.\"\nThis article was originally published on TheLong+Short. Read the original article.", "But the British maglev never really took off. Tim Dunn, transport historian and co-presenter of the BBC's Trainspotting Live, explains why. \"The early 80s was still a time of great British national-funded engineering,\" he says. \"Success at Birmingham Airport would have been a great advert for British Rail Engineering Limited (BREL) to sell maglev internationally. (Remember that BREL was always trying to sell its technology overseas, which is why several Pacer trains, developed on bus bodies, were sold to Iran.) Birmingham's Maglev only lasted 11 years: replacement parts were getting hard to obtain for what was really a unique system. Buses took over, and eventually a cable-hauled SkyRail people-mover was installed atop the piers. That's not as exciting for people like me, who like the idea of being whisked in a hovertrain pushed along by magnets. But then our real transport future always has been a pretty crap approximation of our dreams.\"", "\"We have always wanted to get rid of wheels,\" says Railworld's Brian Pearce. \"One invention [to this end] was Chris Cockerell's hovercraft.\" At the same time, maglev technology was being developed by the British inventor, Eric Laithwaite, who was working on the linear induction motor at Imperial College when he found a way for it to produce lift as well as forward thrust. The two systems were combined to form a tracked hovercraft. \"So along came RTV31,\" says Pearce. \"The train rode along the track on a cushion of air created by big electric fans. Not very energy efficient! The forward motion was created by a linear motor, which moved along rather than going round and round.\"\nRTV31 could, like France's Aérotrain or the German Transrapid system, have been a viable new form of intercity travel. But funding was insufficient throughout the project and eventually Britain pulled the plug. In February 1973, a week after the first test RTV31 hovertrain reached 157km/h, the project was abandoned as part of wider budget cuts.", "Bob Gwynne, associate curator of collections and research at the National Rail Museum in York, says: \"British Rail's Derby Research Centre, founded in 1964, was arguably the world's leading rail research facility when it was in full operation. An understanding of the wheel and rail interface comes from there, as does the first tilting train, a new railbus, high-speed freight wagons, computer-controlled interlocking of track and signal, the first successful maglev and many other things.\" Gwynne has got the second of the three Birmingham Maglev cars at the museum.", "The maglev was a development that spun out of this research at Derby, and developed in a joint project with a private consortium that included the now-defunct General Electric Company. The maglev cars were built by Metro Cammell at its factory four miles from the airport in Washwood Heath. It was the same place many tube carriages came from, and if you look down the doors on Piccadilly line carriages as you get on and off, you can see a cheery 1973 plaque reminding travellers of this fact (the cheeky Brummie assumption here being that London commuters always look at the floor).", "There's an eerie reminder of the RTV31 in the big-skied, liminal lands of East Anglia. The train was tested on a track that ran up alongside the New Bedford River at Earith in Cambridgeshire: appropriate, because this 'river' is actually a supreme piece of man-made engineering from an earlier age, a dead-straight dyke dug by Dutchman Cornelius Vermuyden to drain the fens in the 1600s. The RTV31 test-track piers endure as further reminders of a past future. The vehicle itself sits not far away at Peterborough's Railworld, where its colourful exterior is strikingly visible to today's travellers on the East Coast Main Line from London to Scotland. Its neighbour is the final redundant Birmingham Maglev car.", "Today, on the elevated track that gambols over windswept car parks and threads through cheap motels between Birmingham's airport terminal and the railway station, a simple, ski resort-style people-mover system ferries passengers from plane to train. Three decades ago it was so much more exciting: the world's first commercial maglev, or magnetic levitation, system ran along here.\nOpened in 1984, the Birmingham Maglev came at the very tail end of a\ntrente glorieuses\nfor British transport technology and, more broadly, European engineering; an era that promised so much yet eventually bequeathed so many relics and ruins. \n\n The modernism of the 20th century, expressed especially in architecture and engineering, seemed like nothing less than the founding of a new order. Progress was to be continual, unstoppable and good. Yet today the physical and philosophical advances are being gradually taken apart and retracted, as if we'd woken up sweating and feared we'd somehow overreached ourselves.", "\"The problem with high-speed maglev like Transrapid in Germany,\" says Tim Dunn, \"is that it doesn't really stack up against high-speed rail. It's more expensive, it's lower capacity, it's more complex. There's a gap in the market, but there's no market in the gap. What is needed generally in mass transit is more capacity, rather than super high speed.\"\nBut back in the post-war period, we thought we could have everything. Britain's tertiary science departments expanded. We built the Comet jetliner, then Concorde; and concrete buildings to house them that the world envied, like the huge Heathrow hangar that Sir Owen Williams, primarily an engineer, designed for BOAC's planes; and architect James Stirling's much-lauded engineering faculty at Leicester University. Yet a little-known footnote from this period involves the interaction of magnets in high-speed train design with that other British invention that prevailed for a while but then seemed to peter out: the hovercraft.", "In the far east, attitudes to maglev are different. Japan began maglev testing at roughly the same time as Britain in 1962 and is today building the longest, fastest maglev in the world. It will run mostly in tunnel, at 500km/h, taking a shocking 40 minutes to travel the 300km between Tokyo and Nagoya. It's been christened the Chūō Shinkansen: just another, faster type of bullet train for the central districts. Japan's system is a superconducting maglev, different to the Birmingham and German systems. It uses superconducting coils in the train, which cause repulsion to move the train forward. The Japanese also use wheels for the vehicle to 'land' on the track at low speeds.", "and the plan was to copy the same model in Munich, and even build an intercity line from Berlin to Hamburg. Today the test track stands idle awaiting its fate, while the Transrapid vehicles are up for auction; a museum in", "it to middle age. And in Emsland, the German conglomerate Transrapid built a 32km supersized test track for their maglev, which seemed to be on course for success. A variation of this train shuttles passengers from Shanghai to the airport,", "It's understandable that most serious interest in maglev deployment is in Asia – Japan, China, India,\" says John Harding, former chief maglev scientist for the US Department of Transportation. \"This is understandable wherever passenger traffic is huge and can dilute the enormous capital cost. (Maglev is indisputably more expensive upfront than high-speed rail.) Even for California, which has huge air passenger traffic between LA and San Francisco, there is nowhere near enough demand to justify maglev; probably not enough to justify high-speed rail. But the Chūō Shinkansen will probably be the greatest success for maglev.\" The first link between Tokyo and Nagoya is scheduled to begin operation in 2027. Then the Chinese are proposing a 600km/h system between Shanghai and Beijing.", "Erfurt is trying to save the latter from the scrapyard. Little remains of Germany's other maglev, the M-Bahn (or Magnetbahn), a short-lived shuttle service that ran in West Berlin from 1989-91 connecting stations whose service had been previously", "\"The problem was, it was the end of one lot of technology. The first time it snowed, all hell broke loose! It had a ratcheting mechanism, a primitive form of winch. Beneath that was the hydraulic system. It was lifted up by the magnetic field (under the [car] are steel sheets). But you'd use the hydraulic system to pull it back up on to the system if it broke.\"", "So there are still some people dreaming big. The latest iteration of this is of course Hyperloop, whose vacuum tube technology harks back to another British engineering innovation: the atmospheric railway, which was developed by Henry Pinkus, the Samuda Brothers and eventually by Isambard Kingdom Brunel. This technology used varying air pressure to suck trains up a track in a partial vacuum. Lines popped up in London, Dublin and most notably Brunel's South Devon Railway, where the pipes were plagued by nibbling rats but the pumping stations survive as relics of Victorian visionaries. If those systems looked like something from HG Wells, with men in top hats smoking cigars, then Hyperloop, with its internet age funding from Tesla founder Elon Musk, could well end up appearing as a very 2010s caper when we look at back on it from the distance of decades. Or maybe Hyperloop will revolutionise travel like maglev was supposed to.", "When you get to a certain age you realise how much more visions of the future say about the present they're concocted in than the actual future they purport to show us hurtling towards. A track in the air, sitting on top of concrete legs that couldn't look any more like rational new humans striding into a technocratic promised land if they tried, will always evoke a kind of nostalgia for the 20th century. You think of the SAFEGE monorail depicted in Truffaut's 1966 film adaptation of Fahrenheit 451; and of regional news reporters with greasy barnets delivering excited pieces to camera about big plans.", "You don't have to look far to find other relics of this white-hot time when post-war confidence begat all sorts of oddities. There's the test track for the French Aerotrain outside Orleans – a rocket-powered prototype that never made", "Going off track\nBirmingham's airport isn't like other airports. Right at the north-western end of runway 15 there's a country park and a row of benches. You'll see families picnicking here, enjoying the subsonic spectacle of planes from Brussels, Bucharest and Barcelona roaring just feet overhead on their final approach. Birmingham isn't like other British cities – it fetishises the technical and promotes the new. It is unstinting in its thrall to evolution and unsentimental about erasing past versions of the future in its rush to create new ones; the comprehensive 1960s vision of the city which itself swept away a century's Victoriana is currently being meticulously taken apart concrete slab by concrete slab. The city's motto is 'Forward'.", "severed by the Berlin Wall. With the Wall gone, the old U-Bahn service was reinstated and the M-Bahn, which had run along its tracks, disappeared from the capital of the new Germany." ], [ "But the British maglev never really took off. Tim Dunn, transport historian and co-presenter of the BBC's Trainspotting Live, explains why. \"The early 80s was still a time of great British national-funded engineering,\" he says. \"Success at Birmingham Airport would have been a great advert for British Rail Engineering Limited (BREL) to sell maglev internationally. (Remember that BREL was always trying to sell its technology overseas, which is why several Pacer trains, developed on bus bodies, were sold to Iran.) Birmingham's Maglev only lasted 11 years: replacement parts were getting hard to obtain for what was really a unique system. Buses took over, and eventually a cable-hauled SkyRail people-mover was installed atop the piers. That's not as exciting for people like me, who like the idea of being whisked in a hovertrain pushed along by magnets. But then our real transport future always has been a pretty crap approximation of our dreams.\"", "\"We have always wanted to get rid of wheels,\" says Railworld's Brian Pearce. \"One invention [to this end] was Chris Cockerell's hovercraft.\" At the same time, maglev technology was being developed by the British inventor, Eric Laithwaite, who was working on the linear induction motor at Imperial College when he found a way for it to produce lift as well as forward thrust. The two systems were combined to form a tracked hovercraft. \"So along came RTV31,\" says Pearce. \"The train rode along the track on a cushion of air created by big electric fans. Not very energy efficient! The forward motion was created by a linear motor, which moved along rather than going round and round.\"\nRTV31 could, like France's Aérotrain or the German Transrapid system, have been a viable new form of intercity travel. But funding was insufficient throughout the project and eventually Britain pulled the plug. In February 1973, a week after the first test RTV31 hovertrain reached 157km/h, the project was abandoned as part of wider budget cuts.", "In the far east, attitudes to maglev are different. Japan began maglev testing at roughly the same time as Britain in 1962 and is today building the longest, fastest maglev in the world. It will run mostly in tunnel, at 500km/h, taking a shocking 40 minutes to travel the 300km between Tokyo and Nagoya. It's been christened the Chūō Shinkansen: just another, faster type of bullet train for the central districts. Japan's system is a superconducting maglev, different to the Birmingham and German systems. It uses superconducting coils in the train, which cause repulsion to move the train forward. The Japanese also use wheels for the vehicle to 'land' on the track at low speeds.", "Back in Burton Green, Andy Jones's maglev car lies in limbo. \"I'd like to build a platform around it,\" he says, \"turn it into a playhouse for the grandchildren perhaps? A couple of people want to take it away and turn it into a cafe.\" Perversely perhaps, its fate may be decided by another type of transport technology: more conventional high speed rail. The route for the much-disputed High Speed 2 line from London to Birmingham slices right through the field where the maglev car sits. \n\n In the 2000s the UK Ultraspeed proposal was floated to link London, Birmingham, the North and Scotland by maglev. It never materialised. HS2 was the eventual successor to the Ultraspeed plan, though a less futuristic one. Jones has another idea for his forward moving relic: \"Maybe I'll turn it into viewing platform, so you could watch HS2's outdated technology.\"\nThis article was originally published on TheLong+Short. Read the original article.", "\"The problem with high-speed maglev like Transrapid in Germany,\" says Tim Dunn, \"is that it doesn't really stack up against high-speed rail. It's more expensive, it's lower capacity, it's more complex. There's a gap in the market, but there's no market in the gap. What is needed generally in mass transit is more capacity, rather than super high speed.\"\nBut back in the post-war period, we thought we could have everything. Britain's tertiary science departments expanded. We built the Comet jetliner, then Concorde; and concrete buildings to house them that the world envied, like the huge Heathrow hangar that Sir Owen Williams, primarily an engineer, designed for BOAC's planes; and architect James Stirling's much-lauded engineering faculty at Leicester University. Yet a little-known footnote from this period involves the interaction of magnets in high-speed train design with that other British invention that prevailed for a while but then seemed to peter out: the hovercraft.", "Today, on the elevated track that gambols over windswept car parks and threads through cheap motels between Birmingham's airport terminal and the railway station, a simple, ski resort-style people-mover system ferries passengers from plane to train. Three decades ago it was so much more exciting: the world's first commercial maglev, or magnetic levitation, system ran along here.\nOpened in 1984, the Birmingham Maglev came at the very tail end of a\ntrente glorieuses\nfor British transport technology and, more broadly, European engineering; an era that promised so much yet eventually bequeathed so many relics and ruins. \n\n The modernism of the 20th century, expressed especially in architecture and engineering, seemed like nothing less than the founding of a new order. Progress was to be continual, unstoppable and good. Yet today the physical and philosophical advances are being gradually taken apart and retracted, as if we'd woken up sweating and feared we'd somehow overreached ourselves.", "When the Birmingham Maglev was shuttered in 1995, one of the cars was dumped in a hedge near the A45. Furniture maker and transport enthusiast Andy Jones splashed out a mere £100 for it on eBay in 2011 (although, he says, \"it cost me £400 to get it out of the hedge!\"). Now it sits in a field behind Jones's house in Burton Green, a couple of miles east of the airport in the rolling Warwickshire countryside.\nI reminisce to Jones about my boyhood excitement for the Birmingham Maglev, about the silly enthusiasm I felt when I got to go on it in the late 80s. He shared the experience. \"I used it in the old days too,\" he says. \"I'd ride backwards and forwards on it, I thought it was smashing.\"", "The maglev was a development that spun out of this research at Derby, and developed in a joint project with a private consortium that included the now-defunct General Electric Company. The maglev cars were built by Metro Cammell at its factory four miles from the airport in Washwood Heath. It was the same place many tube carriages came from, and if you look down the doors on Piccadilly line carriages as you get on and off, you can see a cheery 1973 plaque reminding travellers of this fact (the cheeky Brummie assumption here being that London commuters always look at the floor).", "There's an eerie reminder of the RTV31 in the big-skied, liminal lands of East Anglia. The train was tested on a track that ran up alongside the New Bedford River at Earith in Cambridgeshire: appropriate, because this 'river' is actually a supreme piece of man-made engineering from an earlier age, a dead-straight dyke dug by Dutchman Cornelius Vermuyden to drain the fens in the 1600s. The RTV31 test-track piers endure as further reminders of a past future. The vehicle itself sits not far away at Peterborough's Railworld, where its colourful exterior is strikingly visible to today's travellers on the East Coast Main Line from London to Scotland. Its neighbour is the final redundant Birmingham Maglev car.", "Bob Gwynne, associate curator of collections and research at the National Rail Museum in York, says: \"British Rail's Derby Research Centre, founded in 1964, was arguably the world's leading rail research facility when it was in full operation. An understanding of the wheel and rail interface comes from there, as does the first tilting train, a new railbus, high-speed freight wagons, computer-controlled interlocking of track and signal, the first successful maglev and many other things.\" Gwynne has got the second of the three Birmingham Maglev cars at the museum.", "it to middle age. And in Emsland, the German conglomerate Transrapid built a 32km supersized test track for their maglev, which seemed to be on course for success. A variation of this train shuttles passengers from Shanghai to the airport,", "So there are still some people dreaming big. The latest iteration of this is of course Hyperloop, whose vacuum tube technology harks back to another British engineering innovation: the atmospheric railway, which was developed by Henry Pinkus, the Samuda Brothers and eventually by Isambard Kingdom Brunel. This technology used varying air pressure to suck trains up a track in a partial vacuum. Lines popped up in London, Dublin and most notably Brunel's South Devon Railway, where the pipes were plagued by nibbling rats but the pumping stations survive as relics of Victorian visionaries. If those systems looked like something from HG Wells, with men in top hats smoking cigars, then Hyperloop, with its internet age funding from Tesla founder Elon Musk, could well end up appearing as a very 2010s caper when we look at back on it from the distance of decades. Or maybe Hyperloop will revolutionise travel like maglev was supposed to.", "It's understandable that most serious interest in maglev deployment is in Asia – Japan, China, India,\" says John Harding, former chief maglev scientist for the US Department of Transportation. \"This is understandable wherever passenger traffic is huge and can dilute the enormous capital cost. (Maglev is indisputably more expensive upfront than high-speed rail.) Even for California, which has huge air passenger traffic between LA and San Francisco, there is nowhere near enough demand to justify maglev; probably not enough to justify high-speed rail. But the Chūō Shinkansen will probably be the greatest success for maglev.\" The first link between Tokyo and Nagoya is scheduled to begin operation in 2027. Then the Chinese are proposing a 600km/h system between Shanghai and Beijing.", "and the plan was to copy the same model in Munich, and even build an intercity line from Berlin to Hamburg. Today the test track stands idle awaiting its fate, while the Transrapid vehicles are up for auction; a museum in", "Erfurt is trying to save the latter from the scrapyard. Little remains of Germany's other maglev, the M-Bahn (or Magnetbahn), a short-lived shuttle service that ran in West Berlin from 1989-91 connecting stations whose service had been previously", "Going off track\nBirmingham's airport isn't like other airports. Right at the north-western end of runway 15 there's a country park and a row of benches. You'll see families picnicking here, enjoying the subsonic spectacle of planes from Brussels, Bucharest and Barcelona roaring just feet overhead on their final approach. Birmingham isn't like other British cities – it fetishises the technical and promotes the new. It is unstinting in its thrall to evolution and unsentimental about erasing past versions of the future in its rush to create new ones; the comprehensive 1960s vision of the city which itself swept away a century's Victoriana is currently being meticulously taken apart concrete slab by concrete slab. The city's motto is 'Forward'.", "When you get to a certain age you realise how much more visions of the future say about the present they're concocted in than the actual future they purport to show us hurtling towards. A track in the air, sitting on top of concrete legs that couldn't look any more like rational new humans striding into a technocratic promised land if they tried, will always evoke a kind of nostalgia for the 20th century. You think of the SAFEGE monorail depicted in Truffaut's 1966 film adaptation of Fahrenheit 451; and of regional news reporters with greasy barnets delivering excited pieces to camera about big plans.", "You don't have to look far to find other relics of this white-hot time when post-war confidence begat all sorts of oddities. There's the test track for the French Aerotrain outside Orleans – a rocket-powered prototype that never made", "\"The problem was, it was the end of one lot of technology. The first time it snowed, all hell broke loose! It had a ratcheting mechanism, a primitive form of winch. Beneath that was the hydraulic system. It was lifted up by the magnetic field (under the [car] are steel sheets). But you'd use the hydraulic system to pull it back up on to the system if it broke.\"", "severed by the Berlin Wall. With the Wall gone, the old U-Bahn service was reinstated and the M-Bahn, which had run along its tracks, disappeared from the capital of the new Germany." ] ]
valid	99927	[ "What seems to be the greatest challenge involved with getting authors involved in helping to create OA policies?", "The irony in authors not taking a more proactive role in decisions regarding OA policies is ", "Caution must be taken with decisions surrounding OA policies because", "When concerning green OA and gold OA,", "The verbiage used for these policies is", "The issue with using more accurate phrasing to describe OA policies is ", "Who seems to be taking advantage of the diction used in OA policies and why?", "Every time a strong OA policy is put into use, ", "One aspect of having university faculty members vote on these policies", "Why are publishers so reluctant to get on board with these OA policies?" ]	[ [ "They can't be bothered by such mundane information.", "They do not believe it is something they are responsible for.", "They do not have a stake in the process.", "Their attention is focused elsewhere." ], [ "though they are scholars, they are not competent enough to understand the processes involved.", "they leave their fate to others.", "they leave their fate to chance.", "they ultimately hold the power behind the decisions." ], [ "those seeking information are ultimately the ones who will suffer if the wrong decisions are made.", "institutions will make the policies that are best for them, not others involved.", "there is not enough information available concerning the long-term effects of OA policies.", "certain mandates will limit where authors can publish their works." ], [ "there are many areas that remain unclear, thus causing policy-making to be difficult unless a greater understanding of their distinctions is garnered.", "all OA mandates are gold, but this is often misconstrued.", "mandates for gold OA are the only ones that make sense.", "there is really no difference." ], [ "cannot be misconstrued.", "is easily misconstrued.", "considered gold-standard.", "is agreed upon universally." ], [ "the accurate phrasing doesn't seem to exist and needs to be created.", "one simple word will always trump longer, detailed phrasing.", "no one takes the time to read long pieces of text, so it will be lost on the reader anyway.", "the need for one word to replace the more accurate phrasing is often required, and that word may not be the \"right\" term, but it's the closest fit available." ], [ "Researchers because they are able to hide behind the wording of the policies in order to stay out of controversies.", "Publishers because they can use the diction as a scare tactic to those looking to publish their work.", "Institutions because they can skew the policies to their advantage.", "University faculty members because they can use the diction in the policies to continue to maintain control of how those policies are perceived." ], [ "the system is strengthened, making future policies and decisions easier to develop.", "researchers pull further away from the want to publish their work.", "the prior structure is weakened, eventually leading to the end of OA.", "universities can charge higher fees to access the information." ], [ "it is taking the power from the publishers.", "it shows the futility of the system.", "has been almost unbelievable, as many of those votes were unanimous. ", "OA policies are sure to strengthen because the greatest minds in the world are behind the decision-making process." ], [ "They prefer to leave those decisions to others.", "They are afraid that they are going to lose funding.", "They fear that they will lose their control over those seeing to have their works published.", "They do not believe that they play any role in the OA policies." ] ]	[ 4, 4, 4, 1, 2, 4, 2, 1, 3, 3 ]	[ 0, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 1, 1 ]	[ [ "Open Access: Policies\n4.1 OA Policies at Funding Agencies and Universities\nAuthors control the volume and growth of OA. They decide whether to submit their work to OA journals (gold OA), whether to deposit their work in OA repositories (green OA), and how to use their copyrights. But scholarly authors are still largely unfamiliar with their OA options. It’s pointless to appeal to them as a bloc because they don’t act as a bloc. It’s not hard to persuade or even excite them once we catch their attention, but because they are so anarchical, overworked, and preoccupied, it’s hard to catch their attention.", "Fortunately, funding agencies and universities are discovering their own interests in fostering OA. These nonprofit institutions make it their mission to advance research and to make that research as useful and widely available as possible. Their money frees researchers to do their work and avoid the need to tie their income to the popularity of their ideas. Above all, these institutions are in an unparalleled position to influence author decisions.\nToday, more than fifty funding agencies and more than one hundred universities have adopted strong OA policies. Each one depends on the primacy of author decisions.\nOne kind of policy, better than nothing, requests or encourages OA. A stronger kind of policy requires OA or makes it the default for new work. These stronger policies are usually called OA\nmandates\nand I’ll use that term for lack of a better one (but see section 4.2 on how it’s misleading).\nRequest or encouragement policies", "Many institutions adopt loophole policies because they believe a blanket exemption for dissenting publishers is the only way to avoid copyright problems. But that is not true. Deposit policies don’t make works OA until publishers allow OA, and rights-retention policies close the loophole and obtain permission directly from authors at a time when authors are the copyright holders.\nOA policies from funding agencies are very much like OA policies from universities. They can encourage green and gold OA, or they can require green OA. If they require green OA, they can do so in one of the three ways above. If there’s a difference, it’s that when funders adopt a rights-retention mandate, they typically don’t offer waiver options. On the contrary, the Wellcome Trust and NIH require their grantees to make their work OA through a certain OA repository on a certain timetable and to retain the right to authorize that OA. If a given publisher will not allow grantees to comply with their prior funding agreement, then grantees must look for another publisher.", "We could say that rights-retention policies require OA except when authors opt out, or that they simply shift the default to OA. Those are two ways of saying the same thing because, either way, faculty remain free to decide for or against OA for each of their publications. Preserving this freedom and making it conspicuous help muster faculty support, indeed, unanimous faculty votes. Because shifting the default is enough to change behavior on a large scale, waiver options don’t significantly reduce the volume of OA. At Harvard the waiver rate is less than 5 percent, and at MIT it’s less than 2 percent.\nLoophole policies and rights-retention policies both offer opt-outs. But loophole policies give the opt-out to publishers and rights-retention policies give it to authors. The difference is significant because many more authors than publishers want OA for research articles.", "The moments of opportunity will not be obvious. They will not be highlighted by objective evidence alone and will call for some self-fulfilling leadership. Institutional policy-makers will have to assess not only the climate created by existing policies, and existing levels of support, but also the likely effects of their own actions. Every strong, new policy increases the likelihood of publisher accommodation, and when enough universities and funders have policies, all publishers will have to accommodate them. In that sense, every strong new policy creates some of the conditions of its own success. Every institution adopting a new policy brings about OA for the research it controls and makes the way easier for other institutions behind it. Like many other policy issues, this is one on which it is easier to follow than to lead, and we already have a growing number of leaders. A critical mass is growing and every policy is an implicit invitation to other institutions to gain strength through common purpose and help accelerate publisher adaptation.", "policy as a condition of publication. Policies triggering rejections hurt authors, and policies driving up waiver rates don’t do much to help OA. However, publisher resistance might diminish as the ratio of OA publishers to toll-access publishers tilts toward", "Finally, the fact that faculty vote unanimously for strong OA policies is a good reason to keep looking for a better word than “mandate.” At least it’s a good reason to look past the colloquial implications of the term to the policies themselves and the players who drafted and adopted them. Since 2008, most OA “mandates” at universities have been self-imposed by faculty.\n4.3 Digression on the Historical Timing of OA Policies\nSome kinds of strong OA policy that are politically unattainable or unwise today may become attainable and wise in the future. Here are three examples.", "Fortunately, this is well understood. There are no gold OA mandates anywhere; all OA mandates are green. Unfortunately, however, many people mistakenly believe that all OA is gold OA and therefore mistake proposed green OA mandates for proposed gold OA mandates and raise objections that would only apply to gold OA mandates. But as more academics understand the green/gold distinction, and understand that well-written green OA mandates are compatible with academic freedom, more institutions are adopting green OA mandates, almost always at the initiative of faculty themselves.\nAt universities, there are roughly three approaches to green OA mandates:\nLoophole mandates\nThese require green OA except when the author’s publisher doesn’t allow it.\nDeposit mandates", "OA, as spontaneous author submissions shift toward OA journals, or as the number of institutions with libre green mandates makes resistance more costly than accommodation for publishers. When OA policies are toothless, few in number, or concentrated in small institutions,", "These merely ask faculty to make their work OA, or recommend OA for their new work. Sometimes they’re called resolutions or pledges rather than policies.\nEncouragement policies can target green and gold OA equally. By contrast, mandates only make sense for green OA, at least today when OA journals constitute only about one-quarter of peer-reviewed journals. A gold OA mandate would put most peer-reviewed journals off-limits and seriously limit faculty freedom to submit their work to the journals of their choice. This problem doesn’t arise for green OA mandates.", "then they must accommodate publishers in order to avoid triggering rejections and hurting authors. But as policies grow in number, scope, and strength, the situation could flip over, and publishers will have to accommodate OA policies in order to avoid hurting", "There are two reasons why these strong funder policies don’t infringe faculty freedom to submit work to their journals of their choice. First, researchers needn’t seek funds from these funders. When they choose to do so, then they agree to the OA provisions, just as they agree to the other terms and conditions of the grant. The OA “mandate” is a condition on a voluntary contract, not an unconditional requirement. It’s a reasonable condition as well, since public funders, like the NIH, disburse public money in the public interest, and private funders, like the Wellcome Trust, disburse charitable money for charitable purposes. To my knowledge, no researchers have refused to apply for Wellcome or NIH funds because of the OA condition, even when they plan to publish in OA-averse journals. The OA condition benefits authors and has not been a deal-breaker.", "As researchers become more familiar with OA, as more institutions adopt OA policies, as more new literature is covered by strong OA policies, as more toll-access journals convert to OA, as more toll-access journals accommodate OA mandates without converting, and even as more OA journals shift from gratis to libre, institutions will be able strengthen their OA policies without increasing publisher-controlled rejection rates or author-controlled waiver rates. They should watch the shifting balance of power and seize opportunities to strengthen their policies.", "Green OA mandates don’t assure OA to the entire research output of a university or funding agency, for the same reason that they don’t require OA without qualification. But implementing them provides OA to a much larger percentage of the research output than was already headed toward OA journals or OA repositories, and does so while leaving authors free to submit their work to the journals of their choice.\nI’ve only tried to give a rough taxonomy of OA policies and their supporting arguments. For detailed recommendations on OA policy provisions, and specific arguments for them, see my 2009 analysis of policy options for funding agencies and universities.\nI’ve also focused here on OA policies for peer-reviewed research articles. Many universities have adopted OA mandates for theses and dissertations, and many funder OA policies also cover datasets. A growing number of universities supplement OA mandates for articles with a sensible and effective policy to assure compliance: When faculty come up for promotion or tenure, the review committee will only consider journal articles on deposit in the institutional repository.", "Finally, a common misunderstanding deliberately promulgated by some publishers is that OA must be “mandated” because faculty don’t want it. This position gets understandable but regrettable mileage from the word “mandate.” It also overlooks decisive counter-evidence that we’ve had in hand since 2004. Alma Swan’s empirical studies of researcher attitudes show that an overwhelming majority of researchers would “willingly” comply with a mandatory OA policy from their funder or employer.\nThe most recent evidence of faculty willingness is the stunning series of strong OA policies adopted by unanimous faculty votes. (When is the last time you heard of a unanimous faculty vote for anything, let alone anything of importance?) As recently as 2007, speculation that we’d soon see more than two dozen unanimous faculty votes for OA policies would have been dismissed as wishful thinking. But now that the evidence lies before us, what looks like wishful thinking is the publishing lobby’s idea that OA must be mandated because faculty don’t want it.", "That’s the main reason why no university policies require OA without qualification. There are a few more. First, as Harvard’s Stuart Shieber frequently argues, even the strongest university policies can’t make tenured faculty comply.\n \n Second, as I’ve frequently argued, successful policies are implemented through expectations, education, incentives, and assistance, not coercion. Third, even the strongest policies—even the no-loophole, no-deference, no-waiver policies at the Wellcome Trust and NIH—make OA a condition on a voluntary contract. No policy anywhere pretends to impose an unconditional OA requirement, and it’s hard to imagine how any policy could even try. (“You must make your work OA even if you don’t work for us or use our funds”?)", "Many OA policies are crossbreeds rather than pure types, but all the policies I’ve seen are variations on these four themes.\nFirst note that none of the three “mandates” absolutely requires OA. Loophole mandates allow some work to escape through the loophole. Deposit mandates allow some deposited work to remain dark (non-OA), by following publisher preferences. Rights-retention mandates with waiver options allow some work to remain dark, by following author preferences.\nLoophole and deposit policies defer to publishers for permissions, while rights-retention policies obtain permission from authors before they transfer rights to publishers. For loophole and deposit policies, permission is contingent, because some publishers are willing and some are not. For rights-retention policies, permission is assured, at least initially or by default, although authors may opt out for any publication.", "4.2 Digression on the Word “Mandate”\nThe strongest OA policies use words like “must” or “shall” and require or seem to require OA. They’re commonly called OA “mandates.” But all three varieties of university “mandate” above show why the term is misleading. Loophole mandates don’t require OA without qualification: when publishers dissent, articles are either not deposited in the repository or not made OA. Deposit mandates don’t require OA without qualification: when publishers dissent, articles are deposited in a repository but are not made OA. Rights-retention mandates with waiver options don’t require OA without qualification: authors may obtain waivers and sometimes do. I haven’t seen a university OA “mandate” anywhere without at least one of these three kinds of flexibility.", "Today, faculty voting for a rights-retention OA mandate want a waiver option, and when the option is available their votes tend to be overwhelming or unanimous. But there are several circumstances that might make it attractive for faculty to abolish waiver options or make waivers harder to obtain. One is a shift in faculty perspective that makes access to research more urgent than indulging publishers who erect access barriers. Another is a significant rise in publisher acceptance of green OA, which gives virtually all authors—rather than just most—blanket permission for green OA. In the first case, faculty might “vote with their submissions” and steer clear of publishers who don’t allow author-initiated green OA. In the second case, faculty would virtually never encounter such publishers. In the first case, they’d seldom want waivers, and the second they’d seldom need waivers.", "We should never forget that most toll-access journals already allow green OA and that a growing number of high-quality, high-prestige peer-reviewed journal are gold OA. From one point of view, we don’t need OA mandates when authors already plan to publish in one of those journals. But sometimes toll-access journals change their positions on green OA. Sometimes authors don’t get around to making their work green OA even when their journals allow it. And sometimes authors don’t publish in one of those journals. The final rationale for green OA mandates, then, is for institutions to bring about OA for their entire research output, regardless of how publishers might alter their policies, regardless of author inertia, and regardless of the journals in which faculty or grantees choose to publish." ], [ "Open Access: Policies\n4.1 OA Policies at Funding Agencies and Universities\nAuthors control the volume and growth of OA. They decide whether to submit their work to OA journals (gold OA), whether to deposit their work in OA repositories (green OA), and how to use their copyrights. But scholarly authors are still largely unfamiliar with their OA options. It’s pointless to appeal to them as a bloc because they don’t act as a bloc. It’s not hard to persuade or even excite them once we catch their attention, but because they are so anarchical, overworked, and preoccupied, it’s hard to catch their attention.", "Fortunately, funding agencies and universities are discovering their own interests in fostering OA. These nonprofit institutions make it their mission to advance research and to make that research as useful and widely available as possible. Their money frees researchers to do their work and avoid the need to tie their income to the popularity of their ideas. Above all, these institutions are in an unparalleled position to influence author decisions.\nToday, more than fifty funding agencies and more than one hundred universities have adopted strong OA policies. Each one depends on the primacy of author decisions.\nOne kind of policy, better than nothing, requests or encourages OA. A stronger kind of policy requires OA or makes it the default for new work. These stronger policies are usually called OA\nmandates\nand I’ll use that term for lack of a better one (but see section 4.2 on how it’s misleading).\nRequest or encouragement policies", "We could say that rights-retention policies require OA except when authors opt out, or that they simply shift the default to OA. Those are two ways of saying the same thing because, either way, faculty remain free to decide for or against OA for each of their publications. Preserving this freedom and making it conspicuous help muster faculty support, indeed, unanimous faculty votes. Because shifting the default is enough to change behavior on a large scale, waiver options don’t significantly reduce the volume of OA. At Harvard the waiver rate is less than 5 percent, and at MIT it’s less than 2 percent.\nLoophole policies and rights-retention policies both offer opt-outs. But loophole policies give the opt-out to publishers and rights-retention policies give it to authors. The difference is significant because many more authors than publishers want OA for research articles.", "Many institutions adopt loophole policies because they believe a blanket exemption for dissenting publishers is the only way to avoid copyright problems. But that is not true. Deposit policies don’t make works OA until publishers allow OA, and rights-retention policies close the loophole and obtain permission directly from authors at a time when authors are the copyright holders.\nOA policies from funding agencies are very much like OA policies from universities. They can encourage green and gold OA, or they can require green OA. If they require green OA, they can do so in one of the three ways above. If there’s a difference, it’s that when funders adopt a rights-retention mandate, they typically don’t offer waiver options. On the contrary, the Wellcome Trust and NIH require their grantees to make their work OA through a certain OA repository on a certain timetable and to retain the right to authorize that OA. If a given publisher will not allow grantees to comply with their prior funding agreement, then grantees must look for another publisher.", "Finally, the fact that faculty vote unanimously for strong OA policies is a good reason to keep looking for a better word than “mandate.” At least it’s a good reason to look past the colloquial implications of the term to the policies themselves and the players who drafted and adopted them. Since 2008, most OA “mandates” at universities have been self-imposed by faculty.\n4.3 Digression on the Historical Timing of OA Policies\nSome kinds of strong OA policy that are politically unattainable or unwise today may become attainable and wise in the future. Here are three examples.", "The moments of opportunity will not be obvious. They will not be highlighted by objective evidence alone and will call for some self-fulfilling leadership. Institutional policy-makers will have to assess not only the climate created by existing policies, and existing levels of support, but also the likely effects of their own actions. Every strong, new policy increases the likelihood of publisher accommodation, and when enough universities and funders have policies, all publishers will have to accommodate them. In that sense, every strong new policy creates some of the conditions of its own success. Every institution adopting a new policy brings about OA for the research it controls and makes the way easier for other institutions behind it. Like many other policy issues, this is one on which it is easier to follow than to lead, and we already have a growing number of leaders. A critical mass is growing and every policy is an implicit invitation to other institutions to gain strength through common purpose and help accelerate publisher adaptation.", "Finally, a common misunderstanding deliberately promulgated by some publishers is that OA must be “mandated” because faculty don’t want it. This position gets understandable but regrettable mileage from the word “mandate.” It also overlooks decisive counter-evidence that we’ve had in hand since 2004. Alma Swan’s empirical studies of researcher attitudes show that an overwhelming majority of researchers would “willingly” comply with a mandatory OA policy from their funder or employer.\nThe most recent evidence of faculty willingness is the stunning series of strong OA policies adopted by unanimous faculty votes. (When is the last time you heard of a unanimous faculty vote for anything, let alone anything of importance?) As recently as 2007, speculation that we’d soon see more than two dozen unanimous faculty votes for OA policies would have been dismissed as wishful thinking. But now that the evidence lies before us, what looks like wishful thinking is the publishing lobby’s idea that OA must be mandated because faculty don’t want it.", "4.2 Digression on the Word “Mandate”\nThe strongest OA policies use words like “must” or “shall” and require or seem to require OA. They’re commonly called OA “mandates.” But all three varieties of university “mandate” above show why the term is misleading. Loophole mandates don’t require OA without qualification: when publishers dissent, articles are either not deposited in the repository or not made OA. Deposit mandates don’t require OA without qualification: when publishers dissent, articles are deposited in a repository but are not made OA. Rights-retention mandates with waiver options don’t require OA without qualification: authors may obtain waivers and sometimes do. I haven’t seen a university OA “mandate” anywhere without at least one of these three kinds of flexibility.", "There are two reasons why these strong funder policies don’t infringe faculty freedom to submit work to their journals of their choice. First, researchers needn’t seek funds from these funders. When they choose to do so, then they agree to the OA provisions, just as they agree to the other terms and conditions of the grant. The OA “mandate” is a condition on a voluntary contract, not an unconditional requirement. It’s a reasonable condition as well, since public funders, like the NIH, disburse public money in the public interest, and private funders, like the Wellcome Trust, disburse charitable money for charitable purposes. To my knowledge, no researchers have refused to apply for Wellcome or NIH funds because of the OA condition, even when they plan to publish in OA-averse journals. The OA condition benefits authors and has not been a deal-breaker.", "As researchers become more familiar with OA, as more institutions adopt OA policies, as more new literature is covered by strong OA policies, as more toll-access journals convert to OA, as more toll-access journals accommodate OA mandates without converting, and even as more OA journals shift from gratis to libre, institutions will be able strengthen their OA policies without increasing publisher-controlled rejection rates or author-controlled waiver rates. They should watch the shifting balance of power and seize opportunities to strengthen their policies.", "Fortunately, this is well understood. There are no gold OA mandates anywhere; all OA mandates are green. Unfortunately, however, many people mistakenly believe that all OA is gold OA and therefore mistake proposed green OA mandates for proposed gold OA mandates and raise objections that would only apply to gold OA mandates. But as more academics understand the green/gold distinction, and understand that well-written green OA mandates are compatible with academic freedom, more institutions are adopting green OA mandates, almost always at the initiative of faculty themselves.\nAt universities, there are roughly three approaches to green OA mandates:\nLoophole mandates\nThese require green OA except when the author’s publisher doesn’t allow it.\nDeposit mandates", "Today, faculty voting for a rights-retention OA mandate want a waiver option, and when the option is available their votes tend to be overwhelming or unanimous. But there are several circumstances that might make it attractive for faculty to abolish waiver options or make waivers harder to obtain. One is a shift in faculty perspective that makes access to research more urgent than indulging publishers who erect access barriers. Another is a significant rise in publisher acceptance of green OA, which gives virtually all authors—rather than just most—blanket permission for green OA. In the first case, faculty might “vote with their submissions” and steer clear of publishers who don’t allow author-initiated green OA. In the second case, faculty would virtually never encounter such publishers. In the first case, they’d seldom want waivers, and the second they’d seldom need waivers.", "OA, as spontaneous author submissions shift toward OA journals, or as the number of institutions with libre green mandates makes resistance more costly than accommodation for publishers. When OA policies are toothless, few in number, or concentrated in small institutions,", "Unfortunately, we don’t have a good vocabulary for policies that use mandatory language while deferring to third-person dissents or offering first-person opt-outs. Nor do we have a good vocabulary for policies that use mandatory language and replace enforcement with compliance-building through expectations, education, incentives, and assistance. The word “mandate” is not a very good fit for policies like this, but neither is any other English word.\nBy contrast, we do have a good word for policies that use mandatory language for those who agree to be bound. We call them “contracts.” While “contract” is short, accurate, and unfrightening, it puts the accent on the author’s consent to be bound. That’s often illuminating, but just as often we want to put the accent on the content’s destiny to become OA. For that purpose, “mandate” has become the term of art, for better or worse.", "policy as a condition of publication. Policies triggering rejections hurt authors, and policies driving up waiver rates don’t do much to help OA. However, publisher resistance might diminish as the ratio of OA publishers to toll-access publishers tilts toward", "That’s the main reason why no university policies require OA without qualification. There are a few more. First, as Harvard’s Stuart Shieber frequently argues, even the strongest university policies can’t make tenured faculty comply.\n \n Second, as I’ve frequently argued, successful policies are implemented through expectations, education, incentives, and assistance, not coercion. Third, even the strongest policies—even the no-loophole, no-deference, no-waiver policies at the Wellcome Trust and NIH—make OA a condition on a voluntary contract. No policy anywhere pretends to impose an unconditional OA requirement, and it’s hard to imagine how any policy could even try. (“You must make your work OA even if you don’t work for us or use our funds”?)", "Today, a gold OA mandate would limit faculty freedom to submit work to the journals of their choice. But that’s because today only about 25 percent of peer-reviewed journals are OA. As this percentage grows, then a gold OA mandate’s encroachment on academic freedom shrinks. At some point even the most zealous defenders of faculty freedom may decide that the encroachment is negligible. In principle the encroachment could be zero, though of course when the encroachment is zero, and gold OA mandates are harmless, then gold OA mandates would also be unnecessary.", "then they must accommodate publishers in order to avoid triggering rejections and hurting authors. But as policies grow in number, scope, and strength, the situation could flip over, and publishers will have to accommodate OA policies in order to avoid hurting", "and faculty needn’t take any special steps to retain rights or negotiate with publishers. Nor need they wait for the publisher’s embargo to run. Harvard-style policies also give faculty a waiver option, allowing them to opt out of the grant", "When loophole policies can’t provide OA, covered works needn’t make it to the repository even as dark deposits. When deposit and rights-retention policies can’t provide OA, at least they require dark deposit for the texts, and OA for the metadata (information about author, title, date, and so on). Releasing the metadata makes even a dark deposit visible to readers and search engines. Moreover, many repositories support an email-request button for works on dark deposit. The button enables a reader to submit a one-click request for a full-text email copy and enables the author to grant or deny the request with a one-click response." ], [ "Fortunately, funding agencies and universities are discovering their own interests in fostering OA. These nonprofit institutions make it their mission to advance research and to make that research as useful and widely available as possible. Their money frees researchers to do their work and avoid the need to tie their income to the popularity of their ideas. Above all, these institutions are in an unparalleled position to influence author decisions.\nToday, more than fifty funding agencies and more than one hundred universities have adopted strong OA policies. Each one depends on the primacy of author decisions.\nOne kind of policy, better than nothing, requests or encourages OA. A stronger kind of policy requires OA or makes it the default for new work. These stronger policies are usually called OA\nmandates\nand I’ll use that term for lack of a better one (but see section 4.2 on how it’s misleading).\nRequest or encouragement policies", "Open Access: Policies\n4.1 OA Policies at Funding Agencies and Universities\nAuthors control the volume and growth of OA. They decide whether to submit their work to OA journals (gold OA), whether to deposit their work in OA repositories (green OA), and how to use their copyrights. But scholarly authors are still largely unfamiliar with their OA options. It’s pointless to appeal to them as a bloc because they don’t act as a bloc. It’s not hard to persuade or even excite them once we catch their attention, but because they are so anarchical, overworked, and preoccupied, it’s hard to catch their attention.", "4.2 Digression on the Word “Mandate”\nThe strongest OA policies use words like “must” or “shall” and require or seem to require OA. They’re commonly called OA “mandates.” But all three varieties of university “mandate” above show why the term is misleading. Loophole mandates don’t require OA without qualification: when publishers dissent, articles are either not deposited in the repository or not made OA. Deposit mandates don’t require OA without qualification: when publishers dissent, articles are deposited in a repository but are not made OA. Rights-retention mandates with waiver options don’t require OA without qualification: authors may obtain waivers and sometimes do. I haven’t seen a university OA “mandate” anywhere without at least one of these three kinds of flexibility.", "As researchers become more familiar with OA, as more institutions adopt OA policies, as more new literature is covered by strong OA policies, as more toll-access journals convert to OA, as more toll-access journals accommodate OA mandates without converting, and even as more OA journals shift from gratis to libre, institutions will be able strengthen their OA policies without increasing publisher-controlled rejection rates or author-controlled waiver rates. They should watch the shifting balance of power and seize opportunities to strengthen their policies.", "Finally, the fact that faculty vote unanimously for strong OA policies is a good reason to keep looking for a better word than “mandate.” At least it’s a good reason to look past the colloquial implications of the term to the policies themselves and the players who drafted and adopted them. Since 2008, most OA “mandates” at universities have been self-imposed by faculty.\n4.3 Digression on the Historical Timing of OA Policies\nSome kinds of strong OA policy that are politically unattainable or unwise today may become attainable and wise in the future. Here are three examples.", "We could say that rights-retention policies require OA except when authors opt out, or that they simply shift the default to OA. Those are two ways of saying the same thing because, either way, faculty remain free to decide for or against OA for each of their publications. Preserving this freedom and making it conspicuous help muster faculty support, indeed, unanimous faculty votes. Because shifting the default is enough to change behavior on a large scale, waiver options don’t significantly reduce the volume of OA. At Harvard the waiver rate is less than 5 percent, and at MIT it’s less than 2 percent.\nLoophole policies and rights-retention policies both offer opt-outs. But loophole policies give the opt-out to publishers and rights-retention policies give it to authors. The difference is significant because many more authors than publishers want OA for research articles.", "then they must accommodate publishers in order to avoid triggering rejections and hurting authors. But as policies grow in number, scope, and strength, the situation could flip over, and publishers will have to accommodate OA policies in order to avoid hurting", "These merely ask faculty to make their work OA, or recommend OA for their new work. Sometimes they’re called resolutions or pledges rather than policies.\nEncouragement policies can target green and gold OA equally. By contrast, mandates only make sense for green OA, at least today when OA journals constitute only about one-quarter of peer-reviewed journals. A gold OA mandate would put most peer-reviewed journals off-limits and seriously limit faculty freedom to submit their work to the journals of their choice. This problem doesn’t arise for green OA mandates.", "Many OA policies are crossbreeds rather than pure types, but all the policies I’ve seen are variations on these four themes.\nFirst note that none of the three “mandates” absolutely requires OA. Loophole mandates allow some work to escape through the loophole. Deposit mandates allow some deposited work to remain dark (non-OA), by following publisher preferences. Rights-retention mandates with waiver options allow some work to remain dark, by following author preferences.\nLoophole and deposit policies defer to publishers for permissions, while rights-retention policies obtain permission from authors before they transfer rights to publishers. For loophole and deposit policies, permission is contingent, because some publishers are willing and some are not. For rights-retention policies, permission is assured, at least initially or by default, although authors may opt out for any publication.", "OA, as spontaneous author submissions shift toward OA journals, or as the number of institutions with libre green mandates makes resistance more costly than accommodation for publishers. When OA policies are toothless, few in number, or concentrated in small institutions,", "It’s understandable that green gratis mandates are spreading faster than green libre mandates, that green mandates in general are spreading faster than gold mandates, and that rights-retention policies with waiver options are spreading faster than rights-retention policies without waivers. However, there is modest growth on one of these fronts: green libre mandates.\nThe case against these three kinds of OA policy is time-sensitive, not permanent. It’s circumstantial, and circumstances are changing. But the strategy for institutions wanting to remove access barriers to research is unchanging: they should adopt the strongest policies they can today and watch for the moment when they could strengthen them.", "Fortunately, this is well understood. There are no gold OA mandates anywhere; all OA mandates are green. Unfortunately, however, many people mistakenly believe that all OA is gold OA and therefore mistake proposed green OA mandates for proposed gold OA mandates and raise objections that would only apply to gold OA mandates. But as more academics understand the green/gold distinction, and understand that well-written green OA mandates are compatible with academic freedom, more institutions are adopting green OA mandates, almost always at the initiative of faculty themselves.\nAt universities, there are roughly three approaches to green OA mandates:\nLoophole mandates\nThese require green OA except when the author’s publisher doesn’t allow it.\nDeposit mandates", "Many institutions adopt loophole policies because they believe a blanket exemption for dissenting publishers is the only way to avoid copyright problems. But that is not true. Deposit policies don’t make works OA until publishers allow OA, and rights-retention policies close the loophole and obtain permission directly from authors at a time when authors are the copyright holders.\nOA policies from funding agencies are very much like OA policies from universities. They can encourage green and gold OA, or they can require green OA. If they require green OA, they can do so in one of the three ways above. If there’s a difference, it’s that when funders adopt a rights-retention mandate, they typically don’t offer waiver options. On the contrary, the Wellcome Trust and NIH require their grantees to make their work OA through a certain OA repository on a certain timetable and to retain the right to authorize that OA. If a given publisher will not allow grantees to comply with their prior funding agreement, then grantees must look for another publisher.", "permission. At the Wellcome Trust and NIH, which pioneered this approach for funding agencies, when grantees publish articles based on their funded research they must retain the nonexclusive right to authorize OA through a repository. At Harvard, which pioneered this", "policy as a condition of publication. Policies triggering rejections hurt authors, and policies driving up waiver rates don’t do much to help OA. However, publisher resistance might diminish as the ratio of OA publishers to toll-access publishers tilts toward", "The moments of opportunity will not be obvious. They will not be highlighted by objective evidence alone and will call for some self-fulfilling leadership. Institutional policy-makers will have to assess not only the climate created by existing policies, and existing levels of support, but also the likely effects of their own actions. Every strong, new policy increases the likelihood of publisher accommodation, and when enough universities and funders have policies, all publishers will have to accommodate them. In that sense, every strong new policy creates some of the conditions of its own success. Every institution adopting a new policy brings about OA for the research it controls and makes the way easier for other institutions behind it. Like many other policy issues, this is one on which it is easier to follow than to lead, and we already have a growing number of leaders. A critical mass is growing and every policy is an implicit invitation to other institutions to gain strength through common purpose and help accelerate publisher adaptation.", "Green OA mandates don’t assure OA to the entire research output of a university or funding agency, for the same reason that they don’t require OA without qualification. But implementing them provides OA to a much larger percentage of the research output than was already headed toward OA journals or OA repositories, and does so while leaving authors free to submit their work to the journals of their choice.\nI’ve only tried to give a rough taxonomy of OA policies and their supporting arguments. For detailed recommendations on OA policy provisions, and specific arguments for them, see my 2009 analysis of policy options for funding agencies and universities.\nI’ve also focused here on OA policies for peer-reviewed research articles. Many universities have adopted OA mandates for theses and dissertations, and many funder OA policies also cover datasets. A growing number of universities supplement OA mandates for articles with a sensible and effective policy to assure compliance: When faculty come up for promotion or tenure, the review committee will only consider journal articles on deposit in the institutional repository.", "I use “mandate” with reluctance because it can frighten some of the people I’m trying to persuade and can give rise to misunderstandings about the policies behind the label. When we have time and space for longer phrases, we can talk about “putting an OA condition” on research grants, in the case of NIH-style policies, or “shifting the default to OA” for faculty research, in the case of Harvard-style policies. These longer expressions are more accurate and less frightening. However, sometimes we need a shorthand term, and we need a term that draws an appropriately sharp contrast with policies that merely request or encourage OA.", "Today, a gold OA mandate would limit faculty freedom to submit work to the journals of their choice. But that’s because today only about 25 percent of peer-reviewed journals are OA. As this percentage grows, then a gold OA mandate’s encroachment on academic freedom shrinks. At some point even the most zealous defenders of faculty freedom may decide that the encroachment is negligible. In principle the encroachment could be zero, though of course when the encroachment is zero, and gold OA mandates are harmless, then gold OA mandates would also be unnecessary.", "That’s the main reason why no university policies require OA without qualification. There are a few more. First, as Harvard’s Stuart Shieber frequently argues, even the strongest university policies can’t make tenured faculty comply.\n \n Second, as I’ve frequently argued, successful policies are implemented through expectations, education, incentives, and assistance, not coercion. Third, even the strongest policies—even the no-loophole, no-deference, no-waiver policies at the Wellcome Trust and NIH—make OA a condition on a voluntary contract. No policy anywhere pretends to impose an unconditional OA requirement, and it’s hard to imagine how any policy could even try. (“You must make your work OA even if you don’t work for us or use our funds”?)" ], [ "Fortunately, this is well understood. There are no gold OA mandates anywhere; all OA mandates are green. Unfortunately, however, many people mistakenly believe that all OA is gold OA and therefore mistake proposed green OA mandates for proposed gold OA mandates and raise objections that would only apply to gold OA mandates. But as more academics understand the green/gold distinction, and understand that well-written green OA mandates are compatible with academic freedom, more institutions are adopting green OA mandates, almost always at the initiative of faculty themselves.\nAt universities, there are roughly three approaches to green OA mandates:\nLoophole mandates\nThese require green OA except when the author’s publisher doesn’t allow it.\nDeposit mandates", "Open Access: Policies\n4.1 OA Policies at Funding Agencies and Universities\nAuthors control the volume and growth of OA. They decide whether to submit their work to OA journals (gold OA), whether to deposit their work in OA repositories (green OA), and how to use their copyrights. But scholarly authors are still largely unfamiliar with their OA options. It’s pointless to appeal to them as a bloc because they don’t act as a bloc. It’s not hard to persuade or even excite them once we catch their attention, but because they are so anarchical, overworked, and preoccupied, it’s hard to catch their attention.", "These merely ask faculty to make their work OA, or recommend OA for their new work. Sometimes they’re called resolutions or pledges rather than policies.\nEncouragement policies can target green and gold OA equally. By contrast, mandates only make sense for green OA, at least today when OA journals constitute only about one-quarter of peer-reviewed journals. A gold OA mandate would put most peer-reviewed journals off-limits and seriously limit faculty freedom to submit their work to the journals of their choice. This problem doesn’t arise for green OA mandates.", "We should never forget that most toll-access journals already allow green OA and that a growing number of high-quality, high-prestige peer-reviewed journal are gold OA. From one point of view, we don’t need OA mandates when authors already plan to publish in one of those journals. But sometimes toll-access journals change their positions on green OA. Sometimes authors don’t get around to making their work green OA even when their journals allow it. And sometimes authors don’t publish in one of those journals. The final rationale for green OA mandates, then, is for institutions to bring about OA for their entire research output, regardless of how publishers might alter their policies, regardless of author inertia, and regardless of the journals in which faculty or grantees choose to publish.", "OA, as spontaneous author submissions shift toward OA journals, or as the number of institutions with libre green mandates makes resistance more costly than accommodation for publishers. When OA policies are toothless, few in number, or concentrated in small institutions,", "Today, a gold OA mandate would limit faculty freedom to submit work to the journals of their choice. But that’s because today only about 25 percent of peer-reviewed journals are OA. As this percentage grows, then a gold OA mandate’s encroachment on academic freedom shrinks. At some point even the most zealous defenders of faculty freedom may decide that the encroachment is negligible. In principle the encroachment could be zero, though of course when the encroachment is zero, and gold OA mandates are harmless, then gold OA mandates would also be unnecessary.", "Green OA mandates don’t assure OA to the entire research output of a university or funding agency, for the same reason that they don’t require OA without qualification. But implementing them provides OA to a much larger percentage of the research output than was already headed toward OA journals or OA repositories, and does so while leaving authors free to submit their work to the journals of their choice.\nI’ve only tried to give a rough taxonomy of OA policies and their supporting arguments. For detailed recommendations on OA policy provisions, and specific arguments for them, see my 2009 analysis of policy options for funding agencies and universities.\nI’ve also focused here on OA policies for peer-reviewed research articles. Many universities have adopted OA mandates for theses and dissertations, and many funder OA policies also cover datasets. A growing number of universities supplement OA mandates for articles with a sensible and effective policy to assure compliance: When faculty come up for promotion or tenure, the review committee will only consider journal articles on deposit in the institutional repository.", "Fortunately, funding agencies and universities are discovering their own interests in fostering OA. These nonprofit institutions make it their mission to advance research and to make that research as useful and widely available as possible. Their money frees researchers to do their work and avoid the need to tie their income to the popularity of their ideas. Above all, these institutions are in an unparalleled position to influence author decisions.\nToday, more than fifty funding agencies and more than one hundred universities have adopted strong OA policies. Each one depends on the primacy of author decisions.\nOne kind of policy, better than nothing, requests or encourages OA. A stronger kind of policy requires OA or makes it the default for new work. These stronger policies are usually called OA\nmandates\nand I’ll use that term for lack of a better one (but see section 4.2 on how it’s misleading).\nRequest or encouragement policies", "It’s understandable that green gratis mandates are spreading faster than green libre mandates, that green mandates in general are spreading faster than gold mandates, and that rights-retention policies with waiver options are spreading faster than rights-retention policies without waivers. However, there is modest growth on one of these fronts: green libre mandates.\nThe case against these three kinds of OA policy is time-sensitive, not permanent. It’s circumstantial, and circumstances are changing. But the strategy for institutions wanting to remove access barriers to research is unchanging: they should adopt the strongest policies they can today and watch for the moment when they could strengthen them.", "Many institutions adopt loophole policies because they believe a blanket exemption for dissenting publishers is the only way to avoid copyright problems. But that is not true. Deposit policies don’t make works OA until publishers allow OA, and rights-retention policies close the loophole and obtain permission directly from authors at a time when authors are the copyright holders.\nOA policies from funding agencies are very much like OA policies from universities. They can encourage green and gold OA, or they can require green OA. If they require green OA, they can do so in one of the three ways above. If there’s a difference, it’s that when funders adopt a rights-retention mandate, they typically don’t offer waiver options. On the contrary, the Wellcome Trust and NIH require their grantees to make their work OA through a certain OA repository on a certain timetable and to retain the right to authorize that OA. If a given publisher will not allow grantees to comply with their prior funding agreement, then grantees must look for another publisher.", "As researchers become more familiar with OA, as more institutions adopt OA policies, as more new literature is covered by strong OA policies, as more toll-access journals convert to OA, as more toll-access journals accommodate OA mandates without converting, and even as more OA journals shift from gratis to libre, institutions will be able strengthen their OA policies without increasing publisher-controlled rejection rates or author-controlled waiver rates. They should watch the shifting balance of power and seize opportunities to strengthen their policies.", "permission. At the Wellcome Trust and NIH, which pioneered this approach for funding agencies, when grantees publish articles based on their funded research they must retain the nonexclusive right to authorize OA through a repository. At Harvard, which pioneered this", "Many OA policies are crossbreeds rather than pure types, but all the policies I’ve seen are variations on these four themes.\nFirst note that none of the three “mandates” absolutely requires OA. Loophole mandates allow some work to escape through the loophole. Deposit mandates allow some deposited work to remain dark (non-OA), by following publisher preferences. Rights-retention mandates with waiver options allow some work to remain dark, by following author preferences.\nLoophole and deposit policies defer to publishers for permissions, while rights-retention policies obtain permission from authors before they transfer rights to publishers. For loophole and deposit policies, permission is contingent, because some publishers are willing and some are not. For rights-retention policies, permission is assured, at least initially or by default, although authors may opt out for any publication.", "These require deposit in an OA repository as soon as the article is accepted for publication, just like deposit mandates. But they add a method to secure permission for making the deposit OA. There’s more than one way to secure that", "4.2 Digression on the Word “Mandate”\nThe strongest OA policies use words like “must” or “shall” and require or seem to require OA. They’re commonly called OA “mandates.” But all three varieties of university “mandate” above show why the term is misleading. Loophole mandates don’t require OA without qualification: when publishers dissent, articles are either not deposited in the repository or not made OA. Deposit mandates don’t require OA without qualification: when publishers dissent, articles are deposited in a repository but are not made OA. Rights-retention mandates with waiver options don’t require OA without qualification: authors may obtain waivers and sometimes do. I haven’t seen a university OA “mandate” anywhere without at least one of these three kinds of flexibility.", "Finally, the fact that faculty vote unanimously for strong OA policies is a good reason to keep looking for a better word than “mandate.” At least it’s a good reason to look past the colloquial implications of the term to the policies themselves and the players who drafted and adopted them. Since 2008, most OA “mandates” at universities have been self-imposed by faculty.\n4.3 Digression on the Historical Timing of OA Policies\nSome kinds of strong OA policy that are politically unattainable or unwise today may become attainable and wise in the future. Here are three examples.", "These require deposit in an OA repository as soon as the article is accepted for publication, but they separate the timing of deposit from the timing of OA. If the author’s publisher doesn’t allow OA, then these policies keep the deposited article dark or non-OA. If the publisher allows OA, immediately or after some embargo, then the deposit becomes OA as soon as the permission kicks in. Because most publishers allow OA on some timetable, this method will provide OA to most new work in due time.\nDeposit mandates generally depend on publisher permission for OA, just like loophole mandates. The difference is that they require deposit even when they can’t obtain permission for OA.\nRights-retention mandates", "When loophole policies can’t provide OA, covered works needn’t make it to the repository even as dark deposits. When deposit and rights-retention policies can’t provide OA, at least they require dark deposit for the texts, and OA for the metadata (information about author, title, date, and so on). Releasing the metadata makes even a dark deposit visible to readers and search engines. Moreover, many repositories support an email-request button for works on dark deposit. The button enables a reader to submit a one-click request for a full-text email copy and enables the author to grant or deny the request with a one-click response.", "policy as a condition of publication. Policies triggering rejections hurt authors, and policies driving up waiver rates don’t do much to help OA. However, publisher resistance might diminish as the ratio of OA publishers to toll-access publishers tilts toward", "Today, faculty voting for a rights-retention OA mandate want a waiver option, and when the option is available their votes tend to be overwhelming or unanimous. But there are several circumstances that might make it attractive for faculty to abolish waiver options or make waivers harder to obtain. One is a shift in faculty perspective that makes access to research more urgent than indulging publishers who erect access barriers. Another is a significant rise in publisher acceptance of green OA, which gives virtually all authors—rather than just most—blanket permission for green OA. In the first case, faculty might “vote with their submissions” and steer clear of publishers who don’t allow author-initiated green OA. In the second case, faculty would virtually never encounter such publishers. In the first case, they’d seldom want waivers, and the second they’d seldom need waivers." ], [ "Unfortunately, we don’t have a good vocabulary for policies that use mandatory language while deferring to third-person dissents or offering first-person opt-outs. Nor do we have a good vocabulary for policies that use mandatory language and replace enforcement with compliance-building through expectations, education, incentives, and assistance. The word “mandate” is not a very good fit for policies like this, but neither is any other English word.\nBy contrast, we do have a good word for policies that use mandatory language for those who agree to be bound. We call them “contracts.” While “contract” is short, accurate, and unfrightening, it puts the accent on the author’s consent to be bound. That’s often illuminating, but just as often we want to put the accent on the content’s destiny to become OA. For that purpose, “mandate” has become the term of art, for better or worse.", "If anyone objects that a policy containing mandatory language and a waiver option isn’t really a “mandate,” I won’t disagree. On the contrary, I applaud them for recognizing a nuance which too many others overlook. (It’s depressing how many PhDs can read a policy with mandatory language and a waiver option, notice the mandatory language, overlook the waiver option, and then cite the lack of flexibility as an objection.) But denying that a policy is a mandate can create its own kinds of misunderstanding. In the United States, citizens called for jury duty must appear, even if many can claim exemptions and go home again. We can say that jury duty with exemptions isn’t really a “duty,” provided we don’t conclude that it’s merely a request and encouragement.", "I use “mandate” with reluctance because it can frighten some of the people I’m trying to persuade and can give rise to misunderstandings about the policies behind the label. When we have time and space for longer phrases, we can talk about “putting an OA condition” on research grants, in the case of NIH-style policies, or “shifting the default to OA” for faculty research, in the case of Harvard-style policies. These longer expressions are more accurate and less frightening. However, sometimes we need a shorthand term, and we need a term that draws an appropriately sharp contrast with policies that merely request or encourage OA.", "4.2 Digression on the Word “Mandate”\nThe strongest OA policies use words like “must” or “shall” and require or seem to require OA. They’re commonly called OA “mandates.” But all three varieties of university “mandate” above show why the term is misleading. Loophole mandates don’t require OA without qualification: when publishers dissent, articles are either not deposited in the repository or not made OA. Deposit mandates don’t require OA without qualification: when publishers dissent, articles are deposited in a repository but are not made OA. Rights-retention mandates with waiver options don’t require OA without qualification: authors may obtain waivers and sometimes do. I haven’t seen a university OA “mandate” anywhere without at least one of these three kinds of flexibility.", "Finally, the fact that faculty vote unanimously for strong OA policies is a good reason to keep looking for a better word than “mandate.” At least it’s a good reason to look past the colloquial implications of the term to the policies themselves and the players who drafted and adopted them. Since 2008, most OA “mandates” at universities have been self-imposed by faculty.\n4.3 Digression on the Historical Timing of OA Policies\nSome kinds of strong OA policy that are politically unattainable or unwise today may become attainable and wise in the future. Here are three examples.", "We could say that rights-retention policies require OA except when authors opt out, or that they simply shift the default to OA. Those are two ways of saying the same thing because, either way, faculty remain free to decide for or against OA for each of their publications. Preserving this freedom and making it conspicuous help muster faculty support, indeed, unanimous faculty votes. Because shifting the default is enough to change behavior on a large scale, waiver options don’t significantly reduce the volume of OA. At Harvard the waiver rate is less than 5 percent, and at MIT it’s less than 2 percent.\nLoophole policies and rights-retention policies both offer opt-outs. But loophole policies give the opt-out to publishers and rights-retention policies give it to authors. The difference is significant because many more authors than publishers want OA for research articles.", "Many OA policies are crossbreeds rather than pure types, but all the policies I’ve seen are variations on these four themes.\nFirst note that none of the three “mandates” absolutely requires OA. Loophole mandates allow some work to escape through the loophole. Deposit mandates allow some deposited work to remain dark (non-OA), by following publisher preferences. Rights-retention mandates with waiver options allow some work to remain dark, by following author preferences.\nLoophole and deposit policies defer to publishers for permissions, while rights-retention policies obtain permission from authors before they transfer rights to publishers. For loophole and deposit policies, permission is contingent, because some publishers are willing and some are not. For rights-retention policies, permission is assured, at least initially or by default, although authors may opt out for any publication.", "Many institutions adopt loophole policies because they believe a blanket exemption for dissenting publishers is the only way to avoid copyright problems. But that is not true. Deposit policies don’t make works OA until publishers allow OA, and rights-retention policies close the loophole and obtain permission directly from authors at a time when authors are the copyright holders.\nOA policies from funding agencies are very much like OA policies from universities. They can encourage green and gold OA, or they can require green OA. If they require green OA, they can do so in one of the three ways above. If there’s a difference, it’s that when funders adopt a rights-retention mandate, they typically don’t offer waiver options. On the contrary, the Wellcome Trust and NIH require their grantees to make their work OA through a certain OA repository on a certain timetable and to retain the right to authorize that OA. If a given publisher will not allow grantees to comply with their prior funding agreement, then grantees must look for another publisher.", "It’s understandable that green gratis mandates are spreading faster than green libre mandates, that green mandates in general are spreading faster than gold mandates, and that rights-retention policies with waiver options are spreading faster than rights-retention policies without waivers. However, there is modest growth on one of these fronts: green libre mandates.\nThe case against these three kinds of OA policy is time-sensitive, not permanent. It’s circumstantial, and circumstances are changing. But the strategy for institutions wanting to remove access barriers to research is unchanging: they should adopt the strongest policies they can today and watch for the moment when they could strengthen them.", "That’s the main reason why no university policies require OA without qualification. There are a few more. First, as Harvard’s Stuart Shieber frequently argues, even the strongest university policies can’t make tenured faculty comply.\n \n Second, as I’ve frequently argued, successful policies are implemented through expectations, education, incentives, and assistance, not coercion. Third, even the strongest policies—even the no-loophole, no-deference, no-waiver policies at the Wellcome Trust and NIH—make OA a condition on a voluntary contract. No policy anywhere pretends to impose an unconditional OA requirement, and it’s hard to imagine how any policy could even try. (“You must make your work OA even if you don’t work for us or use our funds”?)", "Fortunately, funding agencies and universities are discovering their own interests in fostering OA. These nonprofit institutions make it their mission to advance research and to make that research as useful and widely available as possible. Their money frees researchers to do their work and avoid the need to tie their income to the popularity of their ideas. Above all, these institutions are in an unparalleled position to influence author decisions.\nToday, more than fifty funding agencies and more than one hundred universities have adopted strong OA policies. Each one depends on the primacy of author decisions.\nOne kind of policy, better than nothing, requests or encourages OA. A stronger kind of policy requires OA or makes it the default for new work. These stronger policies are usually called OA\nmandates\nand I’ll use that term for lack of a better one (but see section 4.2 on how it’s misleading).\nRequest or encouragement policies", "There are two reasons why these strong funder policies don’t infringe faculty freedom to submit work to their journals of their choice. First, researchers needn’t seek funds from these funders. When they choose to do so, then they agree to the OA provisions, just as they agree to the other terms and conditions of the grant. The OA “mandate” is a condition on a voluntary contract, not an unconditional requirement. It’s a reasonable condition as well, since public funders, like the NIH, disburse public money in the public interest, and private funders, like the Wellcome Trust, disburse charitable money for charitable purposes. To my knowledge, no researchers have refused to apply for Wellcome or NIH funds because of the OA condition, even when they plan to publish in OA-averse journals. The OA condition benefits authors and has not been a deal-breaker.", "These merely ask faculty to make their work OA, or recommend OA for their new work. Sometimes they’re called resolutions or pledges rather than policies.\nEncouragement policies can target green and gold OA equally. By contrast, mandates only make sense for green OA, at least today when OA journals constitute only about one-quarter of peer-reviewed journals. A gold OA mandate would put most peer-reviewed journals off-limits and seriously limit faculty freedom to submit their work to the journals of their choice. This problem doesn’t arise for green OA mandates.", "The moments of opportunity will not be obvious. They will not be highlighted by objective evidence alone and will call for some self-fulfilling leadership. Institutional policy-makers will have to assess not only the climate created by existing policies, and existing levels of support, but also the likely effects of their own actions. Every strong, new policy increases the likelihood of publisher accommodation, and when enough universities and funders have policies, all publishers will have to accommodate them. In that sense, every strong new policy creates some of the conditions of its own success. Every institution adopting a new policy brings about OA for the research it controls and makes the way easier for other institutions behind it. Like many other policy issues, this is one on which it is easier to follow than to lead, and we already have a growing number of leaders. A critical mass is growing and every policy is an implicit invitation to other institutions to gain strength through common purpose and help accelerate publisher adaptation.", "and faculty needn’t take any special steps to retain rights or negotiate with publishers. Nor need they wait for the publisher’s embargo to run. Harvard-style policies also give faculty a waiver option, allowing them to opt out of the grant", "As researchers become more familiar with OA, as more institutions adopt OA policies, as more new literature is covered by strong OA policies, as more toll-access journals convert to OA, as more toll-access journals accommodate OA mandates without converting, and even as more OA journals shift from gratis to libre, institutions will be able strengthen their OA policies without increasing publisher-controlled rejection rates or author-controlled waiver rates. They should watch the shifting balance of power and seize opportunities to strengthen their policies.", "When loophole policies can’t provide OA, covered works needn’t make it to the repository even as dark deposits. When deposit and rights-retention policies can’t provide OA, at least they require dark deposit for the texts, and OA for the metadata (information about author, title, date, and so on). Releasing the metadata makes even a dark deposit visible to readers and search engines. Moreover, many repositories support an email-request button for works on dark deposit. The button enables a reader to submit a one-click request for a full-text email copy and enables the author to grant or deny the request with a one-click response.", "These require deposit in an OA repository as soon as the article is accepted for publication, but they separate the timing of deposit from the timing of OA. If the author’s publisher doesn’t allow OA, then these policies keep the deposited article dark or non-OA. If the publisher allows OA, immediately or after some embargo, then the deposit becomes OA as soon as the permission kicks in. Because most publishers allow OA on some timetable, this method will provide OA to most new work in due time.\nDeposit mandates generally depend on publisher permission for OA, just like loophole mandates. The difference is that they require deposit even when they can’t obtain permission for OA.\nRights-retention mandates", "Green OA mandates don’t assure OA to the entire research output of a university or funding agency, for the same reason that they don’t require OA without qualification. But implementing them provides OA to a much larger percentage of the research output than was already headed toward OA journals or OA repositories, and does so while leaving authors free to submit their work to the journals of their choice.\nI’ve only tried to give a rough taxonomy of OA policies and their supporting arguments. For detailed recommendations on OA policy provisions, and specific arguments for them, see my 2009 analysis of policy options for funding agencies and universities.\nI’ve also focused here on OA policies for peer-reviewed research articles. Many universities have adopted OA mandates for theses and dissertations, and many funder OA policies also cover datasets. A growing number of universities supplement OA mandates for articles with a sensible and effective policy to assure compliance: When faculty come up for promotion or tenure, the review committee will only consider journal articles on deposit in the institutional repository.", "Second, virtually all publishers accommodate these policies. For example, no surveyed publishers anywhere refuse to publish work by NIH-funded authors on account of the agency’s OA mandate. Hence, in practice grantees may still submit work to the journals of their choice, even without a waiver option to accommodate holdout publishers." ], [ "Unfortunately, we don’t have a good vocabulary for policies that use mandatory language while deferring to third-person dissents or offering first-person opt-outs. Nor do we have a good vocabulary for policies that use mandatory language and replace enforcement with compliance-building through expectations, education, incentives, and assistance. The word “mandate” is not a very good fit for policies like this, but neither is any other English word.\nBy contrast, we do have a good word for policies that use mandatory language for those who agree to be bound. We call them “contracts.” While “contract” is short, accurate, and unfrightening, it puts the accent on the author’s consent to be bound. That’s often illuminating, but just as often we want to put the accent on the content’s destiny to become OA. For that purpose, “mandate” has become the term of art, for better or worse.", "I use “mandate” with reluctance because it can frighten some of the people I’m trying to persuade and can give rise to misunderstandings about the policies behind the label. When we have time and space for longer phrases, we can talk about “putting an OA condition” on research grants, in the case of NIH-style policies, or “shifting the default to OA” for faculty research, in the case of Harvard-style policies. These longer expressions are more accurate and less frightening. However, sometimes we need a shorthand term, and we need a term that draws an appropriately sharp contrast with policies that merely request or encourage OA.", "4.2 Digression on the Word “Mandate”\nThe strongest OA policies use words like “must” or “shall” and require or seem to require OA. They’re commonly called OA “mandates.” But all three varieties of university “mandate” above show why the term is misleading. Loophole mandates don’t require OA without qualification: when publishers dissent, articles are either not deposited in the repository or not made OA. Deposit mandates don’t require OA without qualification: when publishers dissent, articles are deposited in a repository but are not made OA. Rights-retention mandates with waiver options don’t require OA without qualification: authors may obtain waivers and sometimes do. I haven’t seen a university OA “mandate” anywhere without at least one of these three kinds of flexibility.", "Finally, the fact that faculty vote unanimously for strong OA policies is a good reason to keep looking for a better word than “mandate.” At least it’s a good reason to look past the colloquial implications of the term to the policies themselves and the players who drafted and adopted them. Since 2008, most OA “mandates” at universities have been self-imposed by faculty.\n4.3 Digression on the Historical Timing of OA Policies\nSome kinds of strong OA policy that are politically unattainable or unwise today may become attainable and wise in the future. Here are three examples.", "As researchers become more familiar with OA, as more institutions adopt OA policies, as more new literature is covered by strong OA policies, as more toll-access journals convert to OA, as more toll-access journals accommodate OA mandates without converting, and even as more OA journals shift from gratis to libre, institutions will be able strengthen their OA policies without increasing publisher-controlled rejection rates or author-controlled waiver rates. They should watch the shifting balance of power and seize opportunities to strengthen their policies.", "Fortunately, funding agencies and universities are discovering their own interests in fostering OA. These nonprofit institutions make it their mission to advance research and to make that research as useful and widely available as possible. Their money frees researchers to do their work and avoid the need to tie their income to the popularity of their ideas. Above all, these institutions are in an unparalleled position to influence author decisions.\nToday, more than fifty funding agencies and more than one hundred universities have adopted strong OA policies. Each one depends on the primacy of author decisions.\nOne kind of policy, better than nothing, requests or encourages OA. A stronger kind of policy requires OA or makes it the default for new work. These stronger policies are usually called OA\nmandates\nand I’ll use that term for lack of a better one (but see section 4.2 on how it’s misleading).\nRequest or encouragement policies", "Many institutions adopt loophole policies because they believe a blanket exemption for dissenting publishers is the only way to avoid copyright problems. But that is not true. Deposit policies don’t make works OA until publishers allow OA, and rights-retention policies close the loophole and obtain permission directly from authors at a time when authors are the copyright holders.\nOA policies from funding agencies are very much like OA policies from universities. They can encourage green and gold OA, or they can require green OA. If they require green OA, they can do so in one of the three ways above. If there’s a difference, it’s that when funders adopt a rights-retention mandate, they typically don’t offer waiver options. On the contrary, the Wellcome Trust and NIH require their grantees to make their work OA through a certain OA repository on a certain timetable and to retain the right to authorize that OA. If a given publisher will not allow grantees to comply with their prior funding agreement, then grantees must look for another publisher.", "Open Access: Policies\n4.1 OA Policies at Funding Agencies and Universities\nAuthors control the volume and growth of OA. They decide whether to submit their work to OA journals (gold OA), whether to deposit their work in OA repositories (green OA), and how to use their copyrights. But scholarly authors are still largely unfamiliar with their OA options. It’s pointless to appeal to them as a bloc because they don’t act as a bloc. It’s not hard to persuade or even excite them once we catch their attention, but because they are so anarchical, overworked, and preoccupied, it’s hard to catch their attention.", "We could say that rights-retention policies require OA except when authors opt out, or that they simply shift the default to OA. Those are two ways of saying the same thing because, either way, faculty remain free to decide for or against OA for each of their publications. Preserving this freedom and making it conspicuous help muster faculty support, indeed, unanimous faculty votes. Because shifting the default is enough to change behavior on a large scale, waiver options don’t significantly reduce the volume of OA. At Harvard the waiver rate is less than 5 percent, and at MIT it’s less than 2 percent.\nLoophole policies and rights-retention policies both offer opt-outs. But loophole policies give the opt-out to publishers and rights-retention policies give it to authors. The difference is significant because many more authors than publishers want OA for research articles.", "These merely ask faculty to make their work OA, or recommend OA for their new work. Sometimes they’re called resolutions or pledges rather than policies.\nEncouragement policies can target green and gold OA equally. By contrast, mandates only make sense for green OA, at least today when OA journals constitute only about one-quarter of peer-reviewed journals. A gold OA mandate would put most peer-reviewed journals off-limits and seriously limit faculty freedom to submit their work to the journals of their choice. This problem doesn’t arise for green OA mandates.", "Fortunately, this is well understood. There are no gold OA mandates anywhere; all OA mandates are green. Unfortunately, however, many people mistakenly believe that all OA is gold OA and therefore mistake proposed green OA mandates for proposed gold OA mandates and raise objections that would only apply to gold OA mandates. But as more academics understand the green/gold distinction, and understand that well-written green OA mandates are compatible with academic freedom, more institutions are adopting green OA mandates, almost always at the initiative of faculty themselves.\nAt universities, there are roughly three approaches to green OA mandates:\nLoophole mandates\nThese require green OA except when the author’s publisher doesn’t allow it.\nDeposit mandates", "It’s understandable that green gratis mandates are spreading faster than green libre mandates, that green mandates in general are spreading faster than gold mandates, and that rights-retention policies with waiver options are spreading faster than rights-retention policies without waivers. However, there is modest growth on one of these fronts: green libre mandates.\nThe case against these three kinds of OA policy is time-sensitive, not permanent. It’s circumstantial, and circumstances are changing. But the strategy for institutions wanting to remove access barriers to research is unchanging: they should adopt the strongest policies they can today and watch for the moment when they could strengthen them.", "then they must accommodate publishers in order to avoid triggering rejections and hurting authors. But as policies grow in number, scope, and strength, the situation could flip over, and publishers will have to accommodate OA policies in order to avoid hurting", "Finally, a common misunderstanding deliberately promulgated by some publishers is that OA must be “mandated” because faculty don’t want it. This position gets understandable but regrettable mileage from the word “mandate.” It also overlooks decisive counter-evidence that we’ve had in hand since 2004. Alma Swan’s empirical studies of researcher attitudes show that an overwhelming majority of researchers would “willingly” comply with a mandatory OA policy from their funder or employer.\nThe most recent evidence of faculty willingness is the stunning series of strong OA policies adopted by unanimous faculty votes. (When is the last time you heard of a unanimous faculty vote for anything, let alone anything of importance?) As recently as 2007, speculation that we’d soon see more than two dozen unanimous faculty votes for OA policies would have been dismissed as wishful thinking. But now that the evidence lies before us, what looks like wishful thinking is the publishing lobby’s idea that OA must be mandated because faculty don’t want it.", "Many OA policies are crossbreeds rather than pure types, but all the policies I’ve seen are variations on these four themes.\nFirst note that none of the three “mandates” absolutely requires OA. Loophole mandates allow some work to escape through the loophole. Deposit mandates allow some deposited work to remain dark (non-OA), by following publisher preferences. Rights-retention mandates with waiver options allow some work to remain dark, by following author preferences.\nLoophole and deposit policies defer to publishers for permissions, while rights-retention policies obtain permission from authors before they transfer rights to publishers. For loophole and deposit policies, permission is contingent, because some publishers are willing and some are not. For rights-retention policies, permission is assured, at least initially or by default, although authors may opt out for any publication.", "policy as a condition of publication. Policies triggering rejections hurt authors, and policies driving up waiver rates don’t do much to help OA. However, publisher resistance might diminish as the ratio of OA publishers to toll-access publishers tilts toward", "OA, as spontaneous author submissions shift toward OA journals, or as the number of institutions with libre green mandates makes resistance more costly than accommodation for publishers. When OA policies are toothless, few in number, or concentrated in small institutions,", "These require deposit in an OA repository as soon as the article is accepted for publication, but they separate the timing of deposit from the timing of OA. If the author’s publisher doesn’t allow OA, then these policies keep the deposited article dark or non-OA. If the publisher allows OA, immediately or after some embargo, then the deposit becomes OA as soon as the permission kicks in. Because most publishers allow OA on some timetable, this method will provide OA to most new work in due time.\nDeposit mandates generally depend on publisher permission for OA, just like loophole mandates. The difference is that they require deposit even when they can’t obtain permission for OA.\nRights-retention mandates", "The moments of opportunity will not be obvious. They will not be highlighted by objective evidence alone and will call for some self-fulfilling leadership. Institutional policy-makers will have to assess not only the climate created by existing policies, and existing levels of support, but also the likely effects of their own actions. Every strong, new policy increases the likelihood of publisher accommodation, and when enough universities and funders have policies, all publishers will have to accommodate them. In that sense, every strong new policy creates some of the conditions of its own success. Every institution adopting a new policy brings about OA for the research it controls and makes the way easier for other institutions behind it. Like many other policy issues, this is one on which it is easier to follow than to lead, and we already have a growing number of leaders. A critical mass is growing and every policy is an implicit invitation to other institutions to gain strength through common purpose and help accelerate publisher adaptation.", "Green OA mandates don’t assure OA to the entire research output of a university or funding agency, for the same reason that they don’t require OA without qualification. But implementing them provides OA to a much larger percentage of the research output than was already headed toward OA journals or OA repositories, and does so while leaving authors free to submit their work to the journals of their choice.\nI’ve only tried to give a rough taxonomy of OA policies and their supporting arguments. For detailed recommendations on OA policy provisions, and specific arguments for them, see my 2009 analysis of policy options for funding agencies and universities.\nI’ve also focused here on OA policies for peer-reviewed research articles. Many universities have adopted OA mandates for theses and dissertations, and many funder OA policies also cover datasets. A growing number of universities supplement OA mandates for articles with a sensible and effective policy to assure compliance: When faculty come up for promotion or tenure, the review committee will only consider journal articles on deposit in the institutional repository." ], [ "Unfortunately, we don’t have a good vocabulary for policies that use mandatory language while deferring to third-person dissents or offering first-person opt-outs. Nor do we have a good vocabulary for policies that use mandatory language and replace enforcement with compliance-building through expectations, education, incentives, and assistance. The word “mandate” is not a very good fit for policies like this, but neither is any other English word.\nBy contrast, we do have a good word for policies that use mandatory language for those who agree to be bound. We call them “contracts.” While “contract” is short, accurate, and unfrightening, it puts the accent on the author’s consent to be bound. That’s often illuminating, but just as often we want to put the accent on the content’s destiny to become OA. For that purpose, “mandate” has become the term of art, for better or worse.", "I use “mandate” with reluctance because it can frighten some of the people I’m trying to persuade and can give rise to misunderstandings about the policies behind the label. When we have time and space for longer phrases, we can talk about “putting an OA condition” on research grants, in the case of NIH-style policies, or “shifting the default to OA” for faculty research, in the case of Harvard-style policies. These longer expressions are more accurate and less frightening. However, sometimes we need a shorthand term, and we need a term that draws an appropriately sharp contrast with policies that merely request or encourage OA.", "4.2 Digression on the Word “Mandate”\nThe strongest OA policies use words like “must” or “shall” and require or seem to require OA. They’re commonly called OA “mandates.” But all three varieties of university “mandate” above show why the term is misleading. Loophole mandates don’t require OA without qualification: when publishers dissent, articles are either not deposited in the repository or not made OA. Deposit mandates don’t require OA without qualification: when publishers dissent, articles are deposited in a repository but are not made OA. Rights-retention mandates with waiver options don’t require OA without qualification: authors may obtain waivers and sometimes do. I haven’t seen a university OA “mandate” anywhere without at least one of these three kinds of flexibility.", "Finally, the fact that faculty vote unanimously for strong OA policies is a good reason to keep looking for a better word than “mandate.” At least it’s a good reason to look past the colloquial implications of the term to the policies themselves and the players who drafted and adopted them. Since 2008, most OA “mandates” at universities have been self-imposed by faculty.\n4.3 Digression on the Historical Timing of OA Policies\nSome kinds of strong OA policy that are politically unattainable or unwise today may become attainable and wise in the future. Here are three examples.", "The moments of opportunity will not be obvious. They will not be highlighted by objective evidence alone and will call for some self-fulfilling leadership. Institutional policy-makers will have to assess not only the climate created by existing policies, and existing levels of support, but also the likely effects of their own actions. Every strong, new policy increases the likelihood of publisher accommodation, and when enough universities and funders have policies, all publishers will have to accommodate them. In that sense, every strong new policy creates some of the conditions of its own success. Every institution adopting a new policy brings about OA for the research it controls and makes the way easier for other institutions behind it. Like many other policy issues, this is one on which it is easier to follow than to lead, and we already have a growing number of leaders. A critical mass is growing and every policy is an implicit invitation to other institutions to gain strength through common purpose and help accelerate publisher adaptation.", "As researchers become more familiar with OA, as more institutions adopt OA policies, as more new literature is covered by strong OA policies, as more toll-access journals convert to OA, as more toll-access journals accommodate OA mandates without converting, and even as more OA journals shift from gratis to libre, institutions will be able strengthen their OA policies without increasing publisher-controlled rejection rates or author-controlled waiver rates. They should watch the shifting balance of power and seize opportunities to strengthen their policies.", "We could say that rights-retention policies require OA except when authors opt out, or that they simply shift the default to OA. Those are two ways of saying the same thing because, either way, faculty remain free to decide for or against OA for each of their publications. Preserving this freedom and making it conspicuous help muster faculty support, indeed, unanimous faculty votes. Because shifting the default is enough to change behavior on a large scale, waiver options don’t significantly reduce the volume of OA. At Harvard the waiver rate is less than 5 percent, and at MIT it’s less than 2 percent.\nLoophole policies and rights-retention policies both offer opt-outs. But loophole policies give the opt-out to publishers and rights-retention policies give it to authors. The difference is significant because many more authors than publishers want OA for research articles.", "Fortunately, funding agencies and universities are discovering their own interests in fostering OA. These nonprofit institutions make it their mission to advance research and to make that research as useful and widely available as possible. Their money frees researchers to do their work and avoid the need to tie their income to the popularity of their ideas. Above all, these institutions are in an unparalleled position to influence author decisions.\nToday, more than fifty funding agencies and more than one hundred universities have adopted strong OA policies. Each one depends on the primacy of author decisions.\nOne kind of policy, better than nothing, requests or encourages OA. A stronger kind of policy requires OA or makes it the default for new work. These stronger policies are usually called OA\nmandates\nand I’ll use that term for lack of a better one (but see section 4.2 on how it’s misleading).\nRequest or encouragement policies", "Many institutions adopt loophole policies because they believe a blanket exemption for dissenting publishers is the only way to avoid copyright problems. But that is not true. Deposit policies don’t make works OA until publishers allow OA, and rights-retention policies close the loophole and obtain permission directly from authors at a time when authors are the copyright holders.\nOA policies from funding agencies are very much like OA policies from universities. They can encourage green and gold OA, or they can require green OA. If they require green OA, they can do so in one of the three ways above. If there’s a difference, it’s that when funders adopt a rights-retention mandate, they typically don’t offer waiver options. On the contrary, the Wellcome Trust and NIH require their grantees to make their work OA through a certain OA repository on a certain timetable and to retain the right to authorize that OA. If a given publisher will not allow grantees to comply with their prior funding agreement, then grantees must look for another publisher.", "Open Access: Policies\n4.1 OA Policies at Funding Agencies and Universities\nAuthors control the volume and growth of OA. They decide whether to submit their work to OA journals (gold OA), whether to deposit their work in OA repositories (green OA), and how to use their copyrights. But scholarly authors are still largely unfamiliar with their OA options. It’s pointless to appeal to them as a bloc because they don’t act as a bloc. It’s not hard to persuade or even excite them once we catch their attention, but because they are so anarchical, overworked, and preoccupied, it’s hard to catch their attention.", "There are two reasons why these strong funder policies don’t infringe faculty freedom to submit work to their journals of their choice. First, researchers needn’t seek funds from these funders. When they choose to do so, then they agree to the OA provisions, just as they agree to the other terms and conditions of the grant. The OA “mandate” is a condition on a voluntary contract, not an unconditional requirement. It’s a reasonable condition as well, since public funders, like the NIH, disburse public money in the public interest, and private funders, like the Wellcome Trust, disburse charitable money for charitable purposes. To my knowledge, no researchers have refused to apply for Wellcome or NIH funds because of the OA condition, even when they plan to publish in OA-averse journals. The OA condition benefits authors and has not been a deal-breaker.", "If anyone objects that a policy containing mandatory language and a waiver option isn’t really a “mandate,” I won’t disagree. On the contrary, I applaud them for recognizing a nuance which too many others overlook. (It’s depressing how many PhDs can read a policy with mandatory language and a waiver option, notice the mandatory language, overlook the waiver option, and then cite the lack of flexibility as an objection.) But denying that a policy is a mandate can create its own kinds of misunderstanding. In the United States, citizens called for jury duty must appear, even if many can claim exemptions and go home again. We can say that jury duty with exemptions isn’t really a “duty,” provided we don’t conclude that it’s merely a request and encouragement.", "That’s the main reason why no university policies require OA without qualification. There are a few more. First, as Harvard’s Stuart Shieber frequently argues, even the strongest university policies can’t make tenured faculty comply.\n \n Second, as I’ve frequently argued, successful policies are implemented through expectations, education, incentives, and assistance, not coercion. Third, even the strongest policies—even the no-loophole, no-deference, no-waiver policies at the Wellcome Trust and NIH—make OA a condition on a voluntary contract. No policy anywhere pretends to impose an unconditional OA requirement, and it’s hard to imagine how any policy could even try. (“You must make your work OA even if you don’t work for us or use our funds”?)", "Many OA policies are crossbreeds rather than pure types, but all the policies I’ve seen are variations on these four themes.\nFirst note that none of the three “mandates” absolutely requires OA. Loophole mandates allow some work to escape through the loophole. Deposit mandates allow some deposited work to remain dark (non-OA), by following publisher preferences. Rights-retention mandates with waiver options allow some work to remain dark, by following author preferences.\nLoophole and deposit policies defer to publishers for permissions, while rights-retention policies obtain permission from authors before they transfer rights to publishers. For loophole and deposit policies, permission is contingent, because some publishers are willing and some are not. For rights-retention policies, permission is assured, at least initially or by default, although authors may opt out for any publication.", "Finally, a common misunderstanding deliberately promulgated by some publishers is that OA must be “mandated” because faculty don’t want it. This position gets understandable but regrettable mileage from the word “mandate.” It also overlooks decisive counter-evidence that we’ve had in hand since 2004. Alma Swan’s empirical studies of researcher attitudes show that an overwhelming majority of researchers would “willingly” comply with a mandatory OA policy from their funder or employer.\nThe most recent evidence of faculty willingness is the stunning series of strong OA policies adopted by unanimous faculty votes. (When is the last time you heard of a unanimous faculty vote for anything, let alone anything of importance?) As recently as 2007, speculation that we’d soon see more than two dozen unanimous faculty votes for OA policies would have been dismissed as wishful thinking. But now that the evidence lies before us, what looks like wishful thinking is the publishing lobby’s idea that OA must be mandated because faculty don’t want it.", "then they must accommodate publishers in order to avoid triggering rejections and hurting authors. But as policies grow in number, scope, and strength, the situation could flip over, and publishers will have to accommodate OA policies in order to avoid hurting", "These merely ask faculty to make their work OA, or recommend OA for their new work. Sometimes they’re called resolutions or pledges rather than policies.\nEncouragement policies can target green and gold OA equally. By contrast, mandates only make sense for green OA, at least today when OA journals constitute only about one-quarter of peer-reviewed journals. A gold OA mandate would put most peer-reviewed journals off-limits and seriously limit faculty freedom to submit their work to the journals of their choice. This problem doesn’t arise for green OA mandates.", "policy as a condition of publication. Policies triggering rejections hurt authors, and policies driving up waiver rates don’t do much to help OA. However, publisher resistance might diminish as the ratio of OA publishers to toll-access publishers tilts toward", "It’s understandable that green gratis mandates are spreading faster than green libre mandates, that green mandates in general are spreading faster than gold mandates, and that rights-retention policies with waiver options are spreading faster than rights-retention policies without waivers. However, there is modest growth on one of these fronts: green libre mandates.\nThe case against these three kinds of OA policy is time-sensitive, not permanent. It’s circumstantial, and circumstances are changing. But the strategy for institutions wanting to remove access barriers to research is unchanging: they should adopt the strongest policies they can today and watch for the moment when they could strengthen them.", "Green OA mandates don’t assure OA to the entire research output of a university or funding agency, for the same reason that they don’t require OA without qualification. But implementing them provides OA to a much larger percentage of the research output than was already headed toward OA journals or OA repositories, and does so while leaving authors free to submit their work to the journals of their choice.\nI’ve only tried to give a rough taxonomy of OA policies and their supporting arguments. For detailed recommendations on OA policy provisions, and specific arguments for them, see my 2009 analysis of policy options for funding agencies and universities.\nI’ve also focused here on OA policies for peer-reviewed research articles. Many universities have adopted OA mandates for theses and dissertations, and many funder OA policies also cover datasets. A growing number of universities supplement OA mandates for articles with a sensible and effective policy to assure compliance: When faculty come up for promotion or tenure, the review committee will only consider journal articles on deposit in the institutional repository." ], [ "Finally, the fact that faculty vote unanimously for strong OA policies is a good reason to keep looking for a better word than “mandate.” At least it’s a good reason to look past the colloquial implications of the term to the policies themselves and the players who drafted and adopted them. Since 2008, most OA “mandates” at universities have been self-imposed by faculty.\n4.3 Digression on the Historical Timing of OA Policies\nSome kinds of strong OA policy that are politically unattainable or unwise today may become attainable and wise in the future. Here are three examples.", "As researchers become more familiar with OA, as more institutions adopt OA policies, as more new literature is covered by strong OA policies, as more toll-access journals convert to OA, as more toll-access journals accommodate OA mandates without converting, and even as more OA journals shift from gratis to libre, institutions will be able strengthen their OA policies without increasing publisher-controlled rejection rates or author-controlled waiver rates. They should watch the shifting balance of power and seize opportunities to strengthen their policies.", "Fortunately, funding agencies and universities are discovering their own interests in fostering OA. These nonprofit institutions make it their mission to advance research and to make that research as useful and widely available as possible. Their money frees researchers to do their work and avoid the need to tie their income to the popularity of their ideas. Above all, these institutions are in an unparalleled position to influence author decisions.\nToday, more than fifty funding agencies and more than one hundred universities have adopted strong OA policies. Each one depends on the primacy of author decisions.\nOne kind of policy, better than nothing, requests or encourages OA. A stronger kind of policy requires OA or makes it the default for new work. These stronger policies are usually called OA\nmandates\nand I’ll use that term for lack of a better one (but see section 4.2 on how it’s misleading).\nRequest or encouragement policies", "It’s understandable that green gratis mandates are spreading faster than green libre mandates, that green mandates in general are spreading faster than gold mandates, and that rights-retention policies with waiver options are spreading faster than rights-retention policies without waivers. However, there is modest growth on one of these fronts: green libre mandates.\nThe case against these three kinds of OA policy is time-sensitive, not permanent. It’s circumstantial, and circumstances are changing. But the strategy for institutions wanting to remove access barriers to research is unchanging: they should adopt the strongest policies they can today and watch for the moment when they could strengthen them.", "4.2 Digression on the Word “Mandate”\nThe strongest OA policies use words like “must” or “shall” and require or seem to require OA. They’re commonly called OA “mandates.” But all three varieties of university “mandate” above show why the term is misleading. Loophole mandates don’t require OA without qualification: when publishers dissent, articles are either not deposited in the repository or not made OA. Deposit mandates don’t require OA without qualification: when publishers dissent, articles are deposited in a repository but are not made OA. Rights-retention mandates with waiver options don’t require OA without qualification: authors may obtain waivers and sometimes do. I haven’t seen a university OA “mandate” anywhere without at least one of these three kinds of flexibility.", "The moments of opportunity will not be obvious. They will not be highlighted by objective evidence alone and will call for some self-fulfilling leadership. Institutional policy-makers will have to assess not only the climate created by existing policies, and existing levels of support, but also the likely effects of their own actions. Every strong, new policy increases the likelihood of publisher accommodation, and when enough universities and funders have policies, all publishers will have to accommodate them. In that sense, every strong new policy creates some of the conditions of its own success. Every institution adopting a new policy brings about OA for the research it controls and makes the way easier for other institutions behind it. Like many other policy issues, this is one on which it is easier to follow than to lead, and we already have a growing number of leaders. A critical mass is growing and every policy is an implicit invitation to other institutions to gain strength through common purpose and help accelerate publisher adaptation.", "Unfortunately, we don’t have a good vocabulary for policies that use mandatory language while deferring to third-person dissents or offering first-person opt-outs. Nor do we have a good vocabulary for policies that use mandatory language and replace enforcement with compliance-building through expectations, education, incentives, and assistance. The word “mandate” is not a very good fit for policies like this, but neither is any other English word.\nBy contrast, we do have a good word for policies that use mandatory language for those who agree to be bound. We call them “contracts.” While “contract” is short, accurate, and unfrightening, it puts the accent on the author’s consent to be bound. That’s often illuminating, but just as often we want to put the accent on the content’s destiny to become OA. For that purpose, “mandate” has become the term of art, for better or worse.", "I use “mandate” with reluctance because it can frighten some of the people I’m trying to persuade and can give rise to misunderstandings about the policies behind the label. When we have time and space for longer phrases, we can talk about “putting an OA condition” on research grants, in the case of NIH-style policies, or “shifting the default to OA” for faculty research, in the case of Harvard-style policies. These longer expressions are more accurate and less frightening. However, sometimes we need a shorthand term, and we need a term that draws an appropriately sharp contrast with policies that merely request or encourage OA.", "That’s the main reason why no university policies require OA without qualification. There are a few more. First, as Harvard’s Stuart Shieber frequently argues, even the strongest university policies can’t make tenured faculty comply.\n \n Second, as I’ve frequently argued, successful policies are implemented through expectations, education, incentives, and assistance, not coercion. Third, even the strongest policies—even the no-loophole, no-deference, no-waiver policies at the Wellcome Trust and NIH—make OA a condition on a voluntary contract. No policy anywhere pretends to impose an unconditional OA requirement, and it’s hard to imagine how any policy could even try. (“You must make your work OA even if you don’t work for us or use our funds”?)", "then they must accommodate publishers in order to avoid triggering rejections and hurting authors. But as policies grow in number, scope, and strength, the situation could flip over, and publishers will have to accommodate OA policies in order to avoid hurting", "We could say that rights-retention policies require OA except when authors opt out, or that they simply shift the default to OA. Those are two ways of saying the same thing because, either way, faculty remain free to decide for or against OA for each of their publications. Preserving this freedom and making it conspicuous help muster faculty support, indeed, unanimous faculty votes. Because shifting the default is enough to change behavior on a large scale, waiver options don’t significantly reduce the volume of OA. At Harvard the waiver rate is less than 5 percent, and at MIT it’s less than 2 percent.\nLoophole policies and rights-retention policies both offer opt-outs. But loophole policies give the opt-out to publishers and rights-retention policies give it to authors. The difference is significant because many more authors than publishers want OA for research articles.", "Many institutions adopt loophole policies because they believe a blanket exemption for dissenting publishers is the only way to avoid copyright problems. But that is not true. Deposit policies don’t make works OA until publishers allow OA, and rights-retention policies close the loophole and obtain permission directly from authors at a time when authors are the copyright holders.\nOA policies from funding agencies are very much like OA policies from universities. They can encourage green and gold OA, or they can require green OA. If they require green OA, they can do so in one of the three ways above. If there’s a difference, it’s that when funders adopt a rights-retention mandate, they typically don’t offer waiver options. On the contrary, the Wellcome Trust and NIH require their grantees to make their work OA through a certain OA repository on a certain timetable and to retain the right to authorize that OA. If a given publisher will not allow grantees to comply with their prior funding agreement, then grantees must look for another publisher.", "There are two reasons why these strong funder policies don’t infringe faculty freedom to submit work to their journals of their choice. First, researchers needn’t seek funds from these funders. When they choose to do so, then they agree to the OA provisions, just as they agree to the other terms and conditions of the grant. The OA “mandate” is a condition on a voluntary contract, not an unconditional requirement. It’s a reasonable condition as well, since public funders, like the NIH, disburse public money in the public interest, and private funders, like the Wellcome Trust, disburse charitable money for charitable purposes. To my knowledge, no researchers have refused to apply for Wellcome or NIH funds because of the OA condition, even when they plan to publish in OA-averse journals. The OA condition benefits authors and has not been a deal-breaker.", "OA, as spontaneous author submissions shift toward OA journals, or as the number of institutions with libre green mandates makes resistance more costly than accommodation for publishers. When OA policies are toothless, few in number, or concentrated in small institutions,", "Open Access: Policies\n4.1 OA Policies at Funding Agencies and Universities\nAuthors control the volume and growth of OA. They decide whether to submit their work to OA journals (gold OA), whether to deposit their work in OA repositories (green OA), and how to use their copyrights. But scholarly authors are still largely unfamiliar with their OA options. It’s pointless to appeal to them as a bloc because they don’t act as a bloc. It’s not hard to persuade or even excite them once we catch their attention, but because they are so anarchical, overworked, and preoccupied, it’s hard to catch their attention.", "Green OA mandates don’t assure OA to the entire research output of a university or funding agency, for the same reason that they don’t require OA without qualification. But implementing them provides OA to a much larger percentage of the research output than was already headed toward OA journals or OA repositories, and does so while leaving authors free to submit their work to the journals of their choice.\nI’ve only tried to give a rough taxonomy of OA policies and their supporting arguments. For detailed recommendations on OA policy provisions, and specific arguments for them, see my 2009 analysis of policy options for funding agencies and universities.\nI’ve also focused here on OA policies for peer-reviewed research articles. Many universities have adopted OA mandates for theses and dissertations, and many funder OA policies also cover datasets. A growing number of universities supplement OA mandates for articles with a sensible and effective policy to assure compliance: When faculty come up for promotion or tenure, the review committee will only consider journal articles on deposit in the institutional repository.", "Many OA policies are crossbreeds rather than pure types, but all the policies I’ve seen are variations on these four themes.\nFirst note that none of the three “mandates” absolutely requires OA. Loophole mandates allow some work to escape through the loophole. Deposit mandates allow some deposited work to remain dark (non-OA), by following publisher preferences. Rights-retention mandates with waiver options allow some work to remain dark, by following author preferences.\nLoophole and deposit policies defer to publishers for permissions, while rights-retention policies obtain permission from authors before they transfer rights to publishers. For loophole and deposit policies, permission is contingent, because some publishers are willing and some are not. For rights-retention policies, permission is assured, at least initially or by default, although authors may opt out for any publication.", "Fortunately, this is well understood. There are no gold OA mandates anywhere; all OA mandates are green. Unfortunately, however, many people mistakenly believe that all OA is gold OA and therefore mistake proposed green OA mandates for proposed gold OA mandates and raise objections that would only apply to gold OA mandates. But as more academics understand the green/gold distinction, and understand that well-written green OA mandates are compatible with academic freedom, more institutions are adopting green OA mandates, almost always at the initiative of faculty themselves.\nAt universities, there are roughly three approaches to green OA mandates:\nLoophole mandates\nThese require green OA except when the author’s publisher doesn’t allow it.\nDeposit mandates", "These require deposit in an OA repository as soon as the article is accepted for publication, but they separate the timing of deposit from the timing of OA. If the author’s publisher doesn’t allow OA, then these policies keep the deposited article dark or non-OA. If the publisher allows OA, immediately or after some embargo, then the deposit becomes OA as soon as the permission kicks in. Because most publishers allow OA on some timetable, this method will provide OA to most new work in due time.\nDeposit mandates generally depend on publisher permission for OA, just like loophole mandates. The difference is that they require deposit even when they can’t obtain permission for OA.\nRights-retention mandates", "policy as a condition of publication. Policies triggering rejections hurt authors, and policies driving up waiver rates don’t do much to help OA. However, publisher resistance might diminish as the ratio of OA publishers to toll-access publishers tilts toward" ], [ "Finally, the fact that faculty vote unanimously for strong OA policies is a good reason to keep looking for a better word than “mandate.” At least it’s a good reason to look past the colloquial implications of the term to the policies themselves and the players who drafted and adopted them. Since 2008, most OA “mandates” at universities have been self-imposed by faculty.\n4.3 Digression on the Historical Timing of OA Policies\nSome kinds of strong OA policy that are politically unattainable or unwise today may become attainable and wise in the future. Here are three examples.", "approach for universities, faculty members vote to give the university a standing nonexclusive right (among other nonexclusive rights) to make their future work OA through the institutional repository. When faculty publish articles after that, the university already has the needed permission,", "and faculty needn’t take any special steps to retain rights or negotiate with publishers. Nor need they wait for the publisher’s embargo to run. Harvard-style policies also give faculty a waiver option, allowing them to opt out of the grant", "That’s the main reason why no university policies require OA without qualification. There are a few more. First, as Harvard’s Stuart Shieber frequently argues, even the strongest university policies can’t make tenured faculty comply.\n \n Second, as I’ve frequently argued, successful policies are implemented through expectations, education, incentives, and assistance, not coercion. Third, even the strongest policies—even the no-loophole, no-deference, no-waiver policies at the Wellcome Trust and NIH—make OA a condition on a voluntary contract. No policy anywhere pretends to impose an unconditional OA requirement, and it’s hard to imagine how any policy could even try. (“You must make your work OA even if you don’t work for us or use our funds”?)", "We could say that rights-retention policies require OA except when authors opt out, or that they simply shift the default to OA. Those are two ways of saying the same thing because, either way, faculty remain free to decide for or against OA for each of their publications. Preserving this freedom and making it conspicuous help muster faculty support, indeed, unanimous faculty votes. Because shifting the default is enough to change behavior on a large scale, waiver options don’t significantly reduce the volume of OA. At Harvard the waiver rate is less than 5 percent, and at MIT it’s less than 2 percent.\nLoophole policies and rights-retention policies both offer opt-outs. But loophole policies give the opt-out to publishers and rights-retention policies give it to authors. The difference is significant because many more authors than publishers want OA for research articles.", "Finally, a common misunderstanding deliberately promulgated by some publishers is that OA must be “mandated” because faculty don’t want it. This position gets understandable but regrettable mileage from the word “mandate.” It also overlooks decisive counter-evidence that we’ve had in hand since 2004. Alma Swan’s empirical studies of researcher attitudes show that an overwhelming majority of researchers would “willingly” comply with a mandatory OA policy from their funder or employer.\nThe most recent evidence of faculty willingness is the stunning series of strong OA policies adopted by unanimous faculty votes. (When is the last time you heard of a unanimous faculty vote for anything, let alone anything of importance?) As recently as 2007, speculation that we’d soon see more than two dozen unanimous faculty votes for OA policies would have been dismissed as wishful thinking. But now that the evidence lies before us, what looks like wishful thinking is the publishing lobby’s idea that OA must be mandated because faculty don’t want it.", "Today, faculty voting for a rights-retention OA mandate want a waiver option, and when the option is available their votes tend to be overwhelming or unanimous. But there are several circumstances that might make it attractive for faculty to abolish waiver options or make waivers harder to obtain. One is a shift in faculty perspective that makes access to research more urgent than indulging publishers who erect access barriers. Another is a significant rise in publisher acceptance of green OA, which gives virtually all authors—rather than just most—blanket permission for green OA. In the first case, faculty might “vote with their submissions” and steer clear of publishers who don’t allow author-initiated green OA. In the second case, faculty would virtually never encounter such publishers. In the first case, they’d seldom want waivers, and the second they’d seldom need waivers.", "These merely ask faculty to make their work OA, or recommend OA for their new work. Sometimes they’re called resolutions or pledges rather than policies.\nEncouragement policies can target green and gold OA equally. By contrast, mandates only make sense for green OA, at least today when OA journals constitute only about one-quarter of peer-reviewed journals. A gold OA mandate would put most peer-reviewed journals off-limits and seriously limit faculty freedom to submit their work to the journals of their choice. This problem doesn’t arise for green OA mandates.", "of permission to the university, though not out of the deposit requirement. When faculty members obtain waivers for given works, then Harvard-style mandates operate like deposit mandates and the works remain dark deposits until the institution has permission to make them", "Fortunately, funding agencies and universities are discovering their own interests in fostering OA. These nonprofit institutions make it their mission to advance research and to make that research as useful and widely available as possible. Their money frees researchers to do their work and avoid the need to tie their income to the popularity of their ideas. Above all, these institutions are in an unparalleled position to influence author decisions.\nToday, more than fifty funding agencies and more than one hundred universities have adopted strong OA policies. Each one depends on the primacy of author decisions.\nOne kind of policy, better than nothing, requests or encourages OA. A stronger kind of policy requires OA or makes it the default for new work. These stronger policies are usually called OA\nmandates\nand I’ll use that term for lack of a better one (but see section 4.2 on how it’s misleading).\nRequest or encouragement policies", "4.2 Digression on the Word “Mandate”\nThe strongest OA policies use words like “must” or “shall” and require or seem to require OA. They’re commonly called OA “mandates.” But all three varieties of university “mandate” above show why the term is misleading. Loophole mandates don’t require OA without qualification: when publishers dissent, articles are either not deposited in the repository or not made OA. Deposit mandates don’t require OA without qualification: when publishers dissent, articles are deposited in a repository but are not made OA. Rights-retention mandates with waiver options don’t require OA without qualification: authors may obtain waivers and sometimes do. I haven’t seen a university OA “mandate” anywhere without at least one of these three kinds of flexibility.", "Unfortunately, we don’t have a good vocabulary for policies that use mandatory language while deferring to third-person dissents or offering first-person opt-outs. Nor do we have a good vocabulary for policies that use mandatory language and replace enforcement with compliance-building through expectations, education, incentives, and assistance. The word “mandate” is not a very good fit for policies like this, but neither is any other English word.\nBy contrast, we do have a good word for policies that use mandatory language for those who agree to be bound. We call them “contracts.” While “contract” is short, accurate, and unfrightening, it puts the accent on the author’s consent to be bound. That’s often illuminating, but just as often we want to put the accent on the content’s destiny to become OA. For that purpose, “mandate” has become the term of art, for better or worse.", "I use “mandate” with reluctance because it can frighten some of the people I’m trying to persuade and can give rise to misunderstandings about the policies behind the label. When we have time and space for longer phrases, we can talk about “putting an OA condition” on research grants, in the case of NIH-style policies, or “shifting the default to OA” for faculty research, in the case of Harvard-style policies. These longer expressions are more accurate and less frightening. However, sometimes we need a shorthand term, and we need a term that draws an appropriately sharp contrast with policies that merely request or encourage OA.", "Green OA mandates don’t assure OA to the entire research output of a university or funding agency, for the same reason that they don’t require OA without qualification. But implementing them provides OA to a much larger percentage of the research output than was already headed toward OA journals or OA repositories, and does so while leaving authors free to submit their work to the journals of their choice.\nI’ve only tried to give a rough taxonomy of OA policies and their supporting arguments. For detailed recommendations on OA policy provisions, and specific arguments for them, see my 2009 analysis of policy options for funding agencies and universities.\nI’ve also focused here on OA policies for peer-reviewed research articles. Many universities have adopted OA mandates for theses and dissertations, and many funder OA policies also cover datasets. A growing number of universities supplement OA mandates for articles with a sensible and effective policy to assure compliance: When faculty come up for promotion or tenure, the review committee will only consider journal articles on deposit in the institutional repository.", "Fortunately, this is well understood. There are no gold OA mandates anywhere; all OA mandates are green. Unfortunately, however, many people mistakenly believe that all OA is gold OA and therefore mistake proposed green OA mandates for proposed gold OA mandates and raise objections that would only apply to gold OA mandates. But as more academics understand the green/gold distinction, and understand that well-written green OA mandates are compatible with academic freedom, more institutions are adopting green OA mandates, almost always at the initiative of faculty themselves.\nAt universities, there are roughly three approaches to green OA mandates:\nLoophole mandates\nThese require green OA except when the author’s publisher doesn’t allow it.\nDeposit mandates", "There are two reasons why these strong funder policies don’t infringe faculty freedom to submit work to their journals of their choice. First, researchers needn’t seek funds from these funders. When they choose to do so, then they agree to the OA provisions, just as they agree to the other terms and conditions of the grant. The OA “mandate” is a condition on a voluntary contract, not an unconditional requirement. It’s a reasonable condition as well, since public funders, like the NIH, disburse public money in the public interest, and private funders, like the Wellcome Trust, disburse charitable money for charitable purposes. To my knowledge, no researchers have refused to apply for Wellcome or NIH funds because of the OA condition, even when they plan to publish in OA-averse journals. The OA condition benefits authors and has not been a deal-breaker.", "Open Access: Policies\n4.1 OA Policies at Funding Agencies and Universities\nAuthors control the volume and growth of OA. They decide whether to submit their work to OA journals (gold OA), whether to deposit their work in OA repositories (green OA), and how to use their copyrights. But scholarly authors are still largely unfamiliar with their OA options. It’s pointless to appeal to them as a bloc because they don’t act as a bloc. It’s not hard to persuade or even excite them once we catch their attention, but because they are so anarchical, overworked, and preoccupied, it’s hard to catch their attention.", "If anyone objects that a policy containing mandatory language and a waiver option isn’t really a “mandate,” I won’t disagree. On the contrary, I applaud them for recognizing a nuance which too many others overlook. (It’s depressing how many PhDs can read a policy with mandatory language and a waiver option, notice the mandatory language, overlook the waiver option, and then cite the lack of flexibility as an objection.) But denying that a policy is a mandate can create its own kinds of misunderstanding. In the United States, citizens called for jury duty must appear, even if many can claim exemptions and go home again. We can say that jury duty with exemptions isn’t really a “duty,” provided we don’t conclude that it’s merely a request and encouragement.", "Many institutions adopt loophole policies because they believe a blanket exemption for dissenting publishers is the only way to avoid copyright problems. But that is not true. Deposit policies don’t make works OA until publishers allow OA, and rights-retention policies close the loophole and obtain permission directly from authors at a time when authors are the copyright holders.\nOA policies from funding agencies are very much like OA policies from universities. They can encourage green and gold OA, or they can require green OA. If they require green OA, they can do so in one of the three ways above. If there’s a difference, it’s that when funders adopt a rights-retention mandate, they typically don’t offer waiver options. On the contrary, the Wellcome Trust and NIH require their grantees to make their work OA through a certain OA repository on a certain timetable and to retain the right to authorize that OA. If a given publisher will not allow grantees to comply with their prior funding agreement, then grantees must look for another publisher.", "The moments of opportunity will not be obvious. They will not be highlighted by objective evidence alone and will call for some self-fulfilling leadership. Institutional policy-makers will have to assess not only the climate created by existing policies, and existing levels of support, but also the likely effects of their own actions. Every strong, new policy increases the likelihood of publisher accommodation, and when enough universities and funders have policies, all publishers will have to accommodate them. In that sense, every strong new policy creates some of the conditions of its own success. Every institution adopting a new policy brings about OA for the research it controls and makes the way easier for other institutions behind it. Like many other policy issues, this is one on which it is easier to follow than to lead, and we already have a growing number of leaders. A critical mass is growing and every policy is an implicit invitation to other institutions to gain strength through common purpose and help accelerate publisher adaptation." ], [ "There are two reasons why these strong funder policies don’t infringe faculty freedom to submit work to their journals of their choice. First, researchers needn’t seek funds from these funders. When they choose to do so, then they agree to the OA provisions, just as they agree to the other terms and conditions of the grant. The OA “mandate” is a condition on a voluntary contract, not an unconditional requirement. It’s a reasonable condition as well, since public funders, like the NIH, disburse public money in the public interest, and private funders, like the Wellcome Trust, disburse charitable money for charitable purposes. To my knowledge, no researchers have refused to apply for Wellcome or NIH funds because of the OA condition, even when they plan to publish in OA-averse journals. The OA condition benefits authors and has not been a deal-breaker.", "OA, as spontaneous author submissions shift toward OA journals, or as the number of institutions with libre green mandates makes resistance more costly than accommodation for publishers. When OA policies are toothless, few in number, or concentrated in small institutions,", "policy as a condition of publication. Policies triggering rejections hurt authors, and policies driving up waiver rates don’t do much to help OA. However, publisher resistance might diminish as the ratio of OA publishers to toll-access publishers tilts toward", "Finally, a common misunderstanding deliberately promulgated by some publishers is that OA must be “mandated” because faculty don’t want it. This position gets understandable but regrettable mileage from the word “mandate.” It also overlooks decisive counter-evidence that we’ve had in hand since 2004. Alma Swan’s empirical studies of researcher attitudes show that an overwhelming majority of researchers would “willingly” comply with a mandatory OA policy from their funder or employer.\nThe most recent evidence of faculty willingness is the stunning series of strong OA policies adopted by unanimous faculty votes. (When is the last time you heard of a unanimous faculty vote for anything, let alone anything of importance?) As recently as 2007, speculation that we’d soon see more than two dozen unanimous faculty votes for OA policies would have been dismissed as wishful thinking. But now that the evidence lies before us, what looks like wishful thinking is the publishing lobby’s idea that OA must be mandated because faculty don’t want it.", "Many institutions adopt loophole policies because they believe a blanket exemption for dissenting publishers is the only way to avoid copyright problems. But that is not true. Deposit policies don’t make works OA until publishers allow OA, and rights-retention policies close the loophole and obtain permission directly from authors at a time when authors are the copyright holders.\nOA policies from funding agencies are very much like OA policies from universities. They can encourage green and gold OA, or they can require green OA. If they require green OA, they can do so in one of the three ways above. If there’s a difference, it’s that when funders adopt a rights-retention mandate, they typically don’t offer waiver options. On the contrary, the Wellcome Trust and NIH require their grantees to make their work OA through a certain OA repository on a certain timetable and to retain the right to authorize that OA. If a given publisher will not allow grantees to comply with their prior funding agreement, then grantees must look for another publisher.", "Second, virtually all publishers accommodate these policies. For example, no surveyed publishers anywhere refuse to publish work by NIH-funded authors on account of the agency’s OA mandate. Hence, in practice grantees may still submit work to the journals of their choice, even without a waiver option to accommodate holdout publishers.", "Open Access: Policies\n4.1 OA Policies at Funding Agencies and Universities\nAuthors control the volume and growth of OA. They decide whether to submit their work to OA journals (gold OA), whether to deposit their work in OA repositories (green OA), and how to use their copyrights. But scholarly authors are still largely unfamiliar with their OA options. It’s pointless to appeal to them as a bloc because they don’t act as a bloc. It’s not hard to persuade or even excite them once we catch their attention, but because they are so anarchical, overworked, and preoccupied, it’s hard to catch their attention.", "Fortunately, funding agencies and universities are discovering their own interests in fostering OA. These nonprofit institutions make it their mission to advance research and to make that research as useful and widely available as possible. Their money frees researchers to do their work and avoid the need to tie their income to the popularity of their ideas. Above all, these institutions are in an unparalleled position to influence author decisions.\nToday, more than fifty funding agencies and more than one hundred universities have adopted strong OA policies. Each one depends on the primacy of author decisions.\nOne kind of policy, better than nothing, requests or encourages OA. A stronger kind of policy requires OA or makes it the default for new work. These stronger policies are usually called OA\nmandates\nand I’ll use that term for lack of a better one (but see section 4.2 on how it’s misleading).\nRequest or encouragement policies", "then they must accommodate publishers in order to avoid triggering rejections and hurting authors. But as policies grow in number, scope, and strength, the situation could flip over, and publishers will have to accommodate OA policies in order to avoid hurting", "We could say that rights-retention policies require OA except when authors opt out, or that they simply shift the default to OA. Those are two ways of saying the same thing because, either way, faculty remain free to decide for or against OA for each of their publications. Preserving this freedom and making it conspicuous help muster faculty support, indeed, unanimous faculty votes. Because shifting the default is enough to change behavior on a large scale, waiver options don’t significantly reduce the volume of OA. At Harvard the waiver rate is less than 5 percent, and at MIT it’s less than 2 percent.\nLoophole policies and rights-retention policies both offer opt-outs. But loophole policies give the opt-out to publishers and rights-retention policies give it to authors. The difference is significant because many more authors than publishers want OA for research articles.", "Fortunately, this is well understood. There are no gold OA mandates anywhere; all OA mandates are green. Unfortunately, however, many people mistakenly believe that all OA is gold OA and therefore mistake proposed green OA mandates for proposed gold OA mandates and raise objections that would only apply to gold OA mandates. But as more academics understand the green/gold distinction, and understand that well-written green OA mandates are compatible with academic freedom, more institutions are adopting green OA mandates, almost always at the initiative of faculty themselves.\nAt universities, there are roughly three approaches to green OA mandates:\nLoophole mandates\nThese require green OA except when the author’s publisher doesn’t allow it.\nDeposit mandates", "Today, faculty voting for a rights-retention OA mandate want a waiver option, and when the option is available their votes tend to be overwhelming or unanimous. But there are several circumstances that might make it attractive for faculty to abolish waiver options or make waivers harder to obtain. One is a shift in faculty perspective that makes access to research more urgent than indulging publishers who erect access barriers. Another is a significant rise in publisher acceptance of green OA, which gives virtually all authors—rather than just most—blanket permission for green OA. In the first case, faculty might “vote with their submissions” and steer clear of publishers who don’t allow author-initiated green OA. In the second case, faculty would virtually never encounter such publishers. In the first case, they’d seldom want waivers, and the second they’d seldom need waivers.", "Today, a libre green mandate (say, one giving users the right to copy and redistribute, not just access for reading) would face serious publisher resistance. Even if the policy included rights retention and didn’t depend on publishers for permissions, publisher", "Finally, the fact that faculty vote unanimously for strong OA policies is a good reason to keep looking for a better word than “mandate.” At least it’s a good reason to look past the colloquial implications of the term to the policies themselves and the players who drafted and adopted them. Since 2008, most OA “mandates” at universities have been self-imposed by faculty.\n4.3 Digression on the Historical Timing of OA Policies\nSome kinds of strong OA policy that are politically unattainable or unwise today may become attainable and wise in the future. Here are three examples.", "That’s the main reason why no university policies require OA without qualification. There are a few more. First, as Harvard’s Stuart Shieber frequently argues, even the strongest university policies can’t make tenured faculty comply.\n \n Second, as I’ve frequently argued, successful policies are implemented through expectations, education, incentives, and assistance, not coercion. Third, even the strongest policies—even the no-loophole, no-deference, no-waiver policies at the Wellcome Trust and NIH—make OA a condition on a voluntary contract. No policy anywhere pretends to impose an unconditional OA requirement, and it’s hard to imagine how any policy could even try. (“You must make your work OA even if you don’t work for us or use our funds”?)", "As researchers become more familiar with OA, as more institutions adopt OA policies, as more new literature is covered by strong OA policies, as more toll-access journals convert to OA, as more toll-access journals accommodate OA mandates without converting, and even as more OA journals shift from gratis to libre, institutions will be able strengthen their OA policies without increasing publisher-controlled rejection rates or author-controlled waiver rates. They should watch the shifting balance of power and seize opportunities to strengthen their policies.", "We should never forget that most toll-access journals already allow green OA and that a growing number of high-quality, high-prestige peer-reviewed journal are gold OA. From one point of view, we don’t need OA mandates when authors already plan to publish in one of those journals. But sometimes toll-access journals change their positions on green OA. Sometimes authors don’t get around to making their work green OA even when their journals allow it. And sometimes authors don’t publish in one of those journals. The final rationale for green OA mandates, then, is for institutions to bring about OA for their entire research output, regardless of how publishers might alter their policies, regardless of author inertia, and regardless of the journals in which faculty or grantees choose to publish.", "These merely ask faculty to make their work OA, or recommend OA for their new work. Sometimes they’re called resolutions or pledges rather than policies.\nEncouragement policies can target green and gold OA equally. By contrast, mandates only make sense for green OA, at least today when OA journals constitute only about one-quarter of peer-reviewed journals. A gold OA mandate would put most peer-reviewed journals off-limits and seriously limit faculty freedom to submit their work to the journals of their choice. This problem doesn’t arise for green OA mandates.", "permission. At the Wellcome Trust and NIH, which pioneered this approach for funding agencies, when grantees publish articles based on their funded research they must retain the nonexclusive right to authorize OA through a repository. At Harvard, which pioneered this", "resistance would still matter because publishers possess—and ought to possess—the right to refuse to publish any work for any reason. They could refuse to publish authors bound by a libre green policy, or they could insist on a waiver from the" ] ]
test	61048	[ "To what end does Herbert employ Operation Spill-the-sugar?", "Why didn't Herbert go to the library the night after meeting Kay?", "When did Herbert first begin to suspect the secret society was perhaps extraterrestrial?", "Why did Herbert leave the typewriter uncovered just before Kay's visit?", "What is Fieu Dayol?", "What was the ultimate effect of Herbert's night spent with Kay?", "Why did Kay and the other women place their requisitions in the \"History of English Literature\" book?", "Why was Kay so easily lured by Herbert?", "What is a snoll doper?" ]	[ [ "To distract Kay while he stole the note.", "To introduce himself to Kay Smith.", "So that he could touch Kay's leg.", "He wanted to order some coffee." ], [ "He drank too much of his vintage wine the night before.", "He wanted to work on his \"Self Profile\" for Better Magazine.", "She had revealed she wouldn't be there that night.", "He needed to ready his apartment for Kay's visit." ], [ "As he mused on the meaning of the phrase \"snoll doper.\"", "As he pondered the choice to communicate via encrypted notes in the \"History of English Literature.\"", "When he spilled sugar on Kay and was entranced by her blue eyes.", "When he was amazed to see a third woman with similarly impressive physical features show up at the library." ], [ "He wanted to present the image of a successful \"profiliste.\"", "He had cleaned the apartment in a hurry and forgot to cover it.", "He had been practicing his typing exercises.", "He planned to use it to write a profile of Kay." ], [ "A star.", "The name of Kay's spaceship.", "A distant planet.", "One of the aliens with whom Kay communicates in secret code." ], [ "He became the \"wotnid\" for all of the women on Fieu Dayol.", "He realized she was an alien.", "It legally bound him to marry Kay.", "Kay became pregnant." ], [ "They were prosecuted for working on the black market and could only communicate this way.", "They did not know how to use phones.", "They were not allowed to use phones and other earthly means of communication.", "To prevent raising any kind of suspicion. " ], [ "She wasn't. She just wanted to try out her new snoll doper.", "She wasn't. She was taking him to fulfill her duties as stock girl.", "She wasn't. She was seeking a new mate for Jilka.", "She was fooled by Operation Spill-the-sugar." ], [ "An electrical prod used to control prisoners.", "A substance used to sedate victims.", "A tube used for communication.", "An extraterrestrial weapon." ] ]	[ -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1 ]	[ 1, 0, 1, 0, 0, 0, 1, 1, 1 ]	[ [ "He decided on Operation Spill-the-sugar. It had stood him in good stead\n before, and he was rather fond of it. The procedure was quite simple.\n First you took note of the position of the sugar dispensers, then you\n situated yourself so that your intended victim was between you and the\n nearest one, then you ordered coffee without sugar in a low voice, and\n after the counterman or countergirl had served you, you waited till\n he/she was out of earshot and asked your i.v. to please pass the sugar.\n When she did so you let the dispenser slip from your fingers in such a\n way that some of its contents spilled on her lap—\n\n\n \"I'm terribly sorry,\" he said, righting it. \"Here, let me brush it off.\"\n\"It's all right, it's only sugar,\" she said, laughing.", "\"Since the night before I met you.\"\n\n\n \"Was that the reason you spilled the sugar?\"\n\n\n \"Part of the reason,\" he said. \"What's a\nsnoll doper\n?\"\n\n\n She laughed. \"I don't think I'd better tell you just yet.\"\n\n\n He sighed again. \"But if Jilka wanted a\nsnoll doper\n,\" he said after a\n while, \"why in the world didn't she call you up and say so?\"\n\n\n \"Regulations.\" She pulled over to the curb in front of a brick\n apartment building. \"This is where Jilka lives. I'll explain when I get\n back.\"", "Quidley winced. He was allergic to the term. Not that he ever let the\n presence of a boy friend deter him when he set out to conquer, but\n because the term itself brought to mind the word \"fiance,\" and the word\n \"fiance\" brought to mind still another word, one which repelled him\n violently. I.e., \"marriage\". Just the same, he decided to keep Taine's\nHistory\nunder observation for a while.\nHer boy friend turned out to be her girl friend, and her girl friend\n turned out to be a tall and lissome, lovely with a Helenesque air of\n her own. From the vantage point of a strategically located reading\n table, where he was keeping company with his favorite little magazine,\nThe Zeitgeist\n, Quidley watched her take a seemingly haphazard route\n to the shelf where Taine's\nHistory\nreposed, take the volume down,\n surreptitiously slip a folded sheet of yellow paper between its pages\n and return it to the shelf.", "He decided to spend the evening plotting the epic novel which he\n intended to write someday. He set to work immediately. He plotted\n mentally, of course—notes were for the hacks and the other commercial\n non-geniuses who infested the modern literary world. Closing his eyes,\n he saw the whole vivid panorama of epic action and grand adventure\n flowing like a mighty and majestic river before his literary vision:\n the authentic and awe-inspiring background; the hordes of colorful\n characters; the handsome virile hero, the compelling Helenesque\n heroine.... God, it was going to be great! The best thing he'd ever\n done! See, already there was a crowd of book lovers in front of the\n bookstore, staring into the window where the new Herbert Quidley was", "They touched glasses: \"Your liquor is as exquisite as your living room,\n Herbert. I shall have to come here more often.\" \"I hope you will, Kay.\"\n \"Though such conduct, I'm told, is morally reprehensible on the planet\n Earth.\" \"Not in this particular circle. Your hair is lovely.\" \"Thank\n you.... You haven't mentioned my perfume yet. Perhaps I'm standing too\n far away.... There!\" \"It's—it's as lovely as your hair, Kay.\" \"Um,\n kiss me again.\" \"I—I never figured—I mean, I engaged a caterer to\n serve us dinner at 9:30.\" \"Call him up. Make it 10:30.\"\nThe following evening found Quidley on tenter-hooks. The\nsnoll-doper\nmystery had acquired a new tang. He could hardly wait till the next\n message transfer took place.", "\"I didn't know you had a taste for Taine.\"\nHer voice seemed to come from far away, but she was standing right\n beside him, tall and bewitching; Helenesque as ever. Her blue eyes\n became great wells into which he found himself falling. With an effort,\n he pulled himself back. \"You're early tonight,\" he said lamely.\n\n\n She appropriated the message, read it. \"Put the book back,\" she said\n presently. Then, when he complied: \"Come on.\"\n\n\n \"Where are we going?\"\n\n\n \"I'm going to deliver a\nsnoll doper\nto Jilka. After that I'm going to\n take you home to meet my folks.\"\n\n\n The relieved sigh he heard was his own.\n\n\n They climbed into her convertible and she nosed it into the moving line\n of cars. \"How long have you been reading my mail?\" she asked.", "Presently she returned the book to the shelf, selected\n another—seemingly at random—and took it over to the librarian's desk.\n She waited statuesquely while the librarian processed it, then tucked\n it under her arm and whisked out the door into the misty April night.\n As soon as she disappeared, Quidley stepped over to the T's and took\n Taine down once more. Just as he had suspected. The makeshift bookmark\n was gone.\n\n\n He remembered how the asdf-;lkj exercise had given way to several lines\n of gibberish and then reappeared again. A camouflaged message? Or was\n it merely what it appeared to be on the surface—the efforts of an\n impatient typing student to type before his time?", "He refolded the paper, replaced it between the pages, returned the book\n to the shelf and went back to the reading table and\nThe Zeitgeist\n.\n\n\n Kay didn't show up till almost closing time, and he was beginning\n to think that perhaps she wouldn't come around for the pickup till\n tomorrow when she finally walked in the door. She employed the same\n tactics she had employed the previous night, arriving, as though by\n chance, at the T-section and transferring the message with the same\n undetectable legerdemain to her purse. This time, when she walked out\n the door, he was not far behind her.\n\n\n She climbed into a sleek convertible and pulled into the street. It\n took him but a moment to gain his hardtop and start out after her.\n When, several blocks later, she pulled to the curb in front of an\n all-night coffee bar, he followed suit. After that, it was merely a\n matter of following her inside.", "He wondered what her reaction would be if he asked her point-blank what\n a\nsnoll doper\nwas; whether she would reveal the nature of the amateur\n secret society to which she and Klio and Yoolna and Gorka belonged.\n It virtually had to be an amateur secret society. Unless, of course,\n they were foreigners. But what on earth foreign organization would be\n quixotic enough to employ Taine's\nHistory of English Literature\nas a\n communications medium when there was a telephone in every drugstore and\n a mailbox on every corner?\n\n\n Somehow the words \"what on earth foreign organization\" got turned\n around in his mind and became \"what foreign organization on earth\" and\n before he could summon his common sense to succor him, he experienced\n a rather bad moment. By the time the door chimes sounded he was his\n normal self again.", "After she left he wasted no time in acquainting himself with the second\n message. It was as unintelligible as the first:\nasdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Cai: Habe\n wotnid ig ist ending ifedererer te. T'lide sid Fieu Dayol po jestig\n toseo knwo, bijk weil en snoll doper entling—Yoolna. asdf ;lkj asdf\n ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj\nWell, perhaps not quite as unintelligible. He knew, at least, who Cai\n was, and he knew—from the reappearance of the words\nwotnid\n,", "\"I'm hopelessly clumsy,\" he continued smoothly, brushing the gleaming\n crystals from her pleated skirt, noting the clean sweep of her thighs.\n \"I beseech you to forgive me.\"\n\n\n \"You're forgiven,\" she said, and he noticed then that she spoke with a\n slight accent.\n\n\n \"If you like, you can send it to the cleaners and have them send the\n bill to me. My address is 61 Park Place.\" He pulled out his wallet,\n chose an appropriate card, and handed it to her—\nHerbert Quidley:\nProfiliste\nHer forehead crinkled. \"\nProfiliste?\n\"\n\n\n \"I paint profiles with words,\" he said. \"You may have run across some\n of my pieces in the Better Magazines. I employ a variety of pseudonyms,\n of course.\"\n\n\n \"How interesting.\" She pronounced it \"anteresting.\"", "After coming in the door, the girl deposited a book on the librarian's\n desk and headed for the literature section. Quickly Quidley lowered\n his eyes to the\nAnabasis\nand henceforth followed her progress out of\n their corners. When she came to the O's she paused, took down a book\n and glanced through it. Then she replaced it and moved on to the\n P's ... the Q's ... the R's. Barely three feet from him she paused\n again and took down Taine's\nHistory of English Literature\n.\n\n\n He simply could not believe it. The odds against two persons taking an\n interest in so esoteric a volume on a single night in a single library\n were ten thousand to one. And yet there was no gainsaying that the\n volume was in the girl's hands, and that she was riffling through it\n with the air of a seasoned browser.", "He watched her get out, walk up the walk to the entrance and let\n herself in. He leaned his head back on the seat, lit a cigarette and\n exhaled a mixture of smoke and relief. On the way to meet her folks.\n So it was just an ordinary secret society after all. And here he'd\n been thinking that she was the key figure in a Martian plot to blow up\n Earth—\n\n\n Her\nfolks\n!\n\n\n Abruptly the full implication of the words got through to him, and he\n sat bolt-up-right on the seat. He was starting to climb out of the car\n when he saw Kay coming down the walk. Anyway, running away wouldn't\n solve his problem. A complete disappearing act was in order, and a\n complete disappearing act would take time. Meanwhile he would play\n along with her.\nA station wagon came up behind them, slowed, and matched its speed\n with theirs. \"Someone's following us,\" Quidley said.\n\n\n \"Probably Jilka.\"", "Apparently she had. At least there was a man with her—a rather\n woebegone, wilted creature who didn't even look up as they passed.\n Quidley watched them ascend the gangplank, the man in the lead, and\n disappear into the ship.\n\n\n \"Next,\" Kay said.\n\n\n Quidley shook his head. \"You're not taking\nme\nto another planet!\"\n\n\n She opened her purse and pulled out a small metallic object \"A\n little while ago you asked me what a\nsnoll doper\nwas,\" she said.\n \"Unfortunately interstellar law severely limits us in our choice of\n marriageable males, and we can take only those who refuse to conform\n to the sexual mores of their own societies.\" She did something to the\n object that caused it to extend itself into a long, tubular affair.\n \"\nThis\nis a\nsnoll doper\n.\"\n\n\n She prodded his ribs. \"March,\" she said.", "You could hardly call Kay a girl scout, though.\n\n\n Nevertheless, she was the key figure in the\nsnoll-doper\nenigma. The\n fact annoyed him, especially when he considered that a\nsnoll doper\n,\n for all he knew, could be anything from a Chinese fortune cooky to an\n H-bomb.\n\n\n He remembered Kay's odd accent. Was that the way a person would speak\n English if her own language ran something like \"\nist ifedereret, hid\n jestig snoll doper adwo\n?\"\n\n\n He remembered the way she had looked at him in the coffee bar.\n\n\n He remembered the material of her dress.\n\n\n He remembered how she had come to his room.", "On page 21 of the Taine tome he happened upon a sheet of yellow copy\n paper folded in four. Unfolding it, he read:\nasdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj\n Cai: Sities towms copeis wotnid. Gind snoll doper nckli! Wilbe Fieu\n Dayol fot ig habe mot toseo knwo—te bijk weil en snoll doper—Klio,\n asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj\nSince when, Quidley wondered, refolding the paper and putting it back\n in the book, had high-school typing students taken to reading Taine?\n Thoughtfully he replaced the book on the shelf and moved deeper into\n the literature section.\n\n\n He had just taken down Xenophon's\nAnabasis\nwhen he saw the girl walk\n in the door.", "on display, trying to force its way into the jammed interior....\nCut\n to interior.\nFIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Tell me quickly, are there any\n more copies of the new Herbert Quidley left? BOOK CLERK: A few. You\n don't know how lucky you are to get here before the first printing ran\n out. FIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Give me a dozen. I want to make sure that\n my children and my children's children have a plentiful supply. BOOK\n CLERK: Sorry. Only one to a customer. Next? SECOND EAGER CUSTOMER: Tell\n me quickly, are ... there ... any ... more ... copies ... of—", "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ....\n\n\n Message no. 4, except for a slight variation in camouflage, ran true to\n form:\na;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj Cai: Habe te snoll dopers ensing?\n Wotnid ne Fieu Dayol ist ifederereret, hid jestig snoll doper. Gind\n ed, olro—Jilka. a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj\nQuidley sighed. What, he asked himself, standing in the library aisle\n and staring at the indecipherable words, was a normal girl like Kay\n doing in such a childish secret society? From the way she and her\n correspondents carried on you'd almost think they were Martian girl\n scouts on an interplanetary camping trip, trying for their merit badges\n in communications!", "The camouflage had varied, but the message was typical enough:\nfdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; Cai: Gind\n en snoll doper nckli! Wotnid antwaterer Fieu Dayol hid jestig snoll\n doper ifedererer te. Dep gogensplo snoll dopers ensing!—Gorka. fdsa\n jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl;\nJudging from the repeated use of the words,\nsnoll dopers\nwere the\n topic of the day. Annoyed, Quidley replaced the message and put the\n book back on the shelf. Then he returned to his apartment to await Kay.", "He was so elated that when he arrived at his apartment he actually\n did try to write a profile. His own, of course. He sat down at his\n custom-built chrome-trimmed desk, inserted a blank sheet of paper in\n his custom-built typewriter and tried to arrange his thoughts. But as\n usual his mind raced ahead of the moment, and he saw the title,\nSelf\n Profile\n, nestling noticeably on the contents page of one of the Better\n Magazines, and presently he saw the piece itself in all its splendid\n array of colorful rhetoric, sparkling imagery and scintillating wit,\n occupying a two-page spread." ], [ "It was some time before he returned to reality, and when he did the\n first thing that met his eyes was the uncompromisingly blank sheet of\n paper. Hurriedly he typed out a letter to his father, requesting an\n advance on his allowance, then, after a tall glass of vintage wine, he\n went to bed.\nIn telling him that she would be in town two nights hence, Kay had\n unwittingly apprised him that there would be no exchange of messages\n until that time, so the next evening he skipped his vigil at the\n library. The following evening, however, after readying his apartment\n for the forthcoming assignation, he hied himself to his reading-table\n post and took up\nThe Zeitgeist\nonce again.\n\n\n He had not thought it possible that there could be a third such woman.", "He refolded the paper, replaced it between the pages, returned the book\n to the shelf and went back to the reading table and\nThe Zeitgeist\n.\n\n\n Kay didn't show up till almost closing time, and he was beginning\n to think that perhaps she wouldn't come around for the pickup till\n tomorrow when she finally walked in the door. She employed the same\n tactics she had employed the previous night, arriving, as though by\n chance, at the T-section and transferring the message with the same\n undetectable legerdemain to her purse. This time, when she walked out\n the door, he was not far behind her.\n\n\n She climbed into a sleek convertible and pulled into the street. It\n took him but a moment to gain his hardtop and start out after her.\n When, several blocks later, she pulled to the curb in front of an\n all-night coffee bar, he followed suit. After that, it was merely a\n matter of following her inside.", "After coming in the door, the girl deposited a book on the librarian's\n desk and headed for the literature section. Quickly Quidley lowered\n his eyes to the\nAnabasis\nand henceforth followed her progress out of\n their corners. When she came to the O's she paused, took down a book\n and glanced through it. Then she replaced it and moved on to the\n P's ... the Q's ... the R's. Barely three feet from him she paused\n again and took down Taine's\nHistory of English Literature\n.\n\n\n He simply could not believe it. The odds against two persons taking an\n interest in so esoteric a volume on a single night in a single library\n were ten thousand to one. And yet there was no gainsaying that the\n volume was in the girl's hands, and that she was riffling through it\n with the air of a seasoned browser.", "They touched glasses: \"Your liquor is as exquisite as your living room,\n Herbert. I shall have to come here more often.\" \"I hope you will, Kay.\"\n \"Though such conduct, I'm told, is morally reprehensible on the planet\n Earth.\" \"Not in this particular circle. Your hair is lovely.\" \"Thank\n you.... You haven't mentioned my perfume yet. Perhaps I'm standing too\n far away.... There!\" \"It's—it's as lovely as your hair, Kay.\" \"Um,\n kiss me again.\" \"I—I never figured—I mean, I engaged a caterer to\n serve us dinner at 9:30.\" \"Call him up. Make it 10:30.\"\nThe following evening found Quidley on tenter-hooks. The\nsnoll-doper\nmystery had acquired a new tang. He could hardly wait till the next\n message transfer took place.", "Presently she returned the book to the shelf, selected\n another—seemingly at random—and took it over to the librarian's desk.\n She waited statuesquely while the librarian processed it, then tucked\n it under her arm and whisked out the door into the misty April night.\n As soon as she disappeared, Quidley stepped over to the T's and took\n Taine down once more. Just as he had suspected. The makeshift bookmark\n was gone.\n\n\n He remembered how the asdf-;lkj exercise had given way to several lines\n of gibberish and then reappeared again. A camouflaged message? Or was\n it merely what it appeared to be on the surface—the efforts of an\n impatient typing student to type before his time?", "He returned Taine to the shelf. After learning from the librarian that\n the girl's name was Kay Smith, he went out and got in his hardtop. The\n name rang a bell. Halfway home he realized why. The typing exercise had\n contained the word \"Cai\", and if you pronounced it with hard c, you got\n \"Kai\"—or \"Kay\". Obviously, then, the exercise had been a message, and\n had been deliberately inserted in a book no average person would dream\n of borrowing.\n\n\n By whom—her boy friend?", "Quidley winced. He was allergic to the term. Not that he ever let the\n presence of a boy friend deter him when he set out to conquer, but\n because the term itself brought to mind the word \"fiance,\" and the word\n \"fiance\" brought to mind still another word, one which repelled him\n violently. I.e., \"marriage\". Just the same, he decided to keep Taine's\nHistory\nunder observation for a while.\nHer boy friend turned out to be her girl friend, and her girl friend\n turned out to be a tall and lissome, lovely with a Helenesque air of\n her own. From the vantage point of a strategically located reading\n table, where he was keeping company with his favorite little magazine,\nThe Zeitgeist\n, Quidley watched her take a seemingly haphazard route\n to the shelf where Taine's\nHistory\nreposed, take the volume down,\n surreptitiously slip a folded sheet of yellow paper between its pages\n and return it to the shelf.", "You could hardly call Kay a girl scout, though.\n\n\n Nevertheless, she was the key figure in the\nsnoll-doper\nenigma. The\n fact annoyed him, especially when he considered that a\nsnoll doper\n,\n for all he knew, could be anything from a Chinese fortune cooky to an\n H-bomb.\n\n\n He remembered Kay's odd accent. Was that the way a person would speak\n English if her own language ran something like \"\nist ifedereret, hid\n jestig snoll doper adwo\n?\"\n\n\n He remembered the way she had looked at him in the coffee bar.\n\n\n He remembered the material of her dress.\n\n\n He remembered how she had come to his room.", "\"I didn't know you had a taste for Taine.\"\nHer voice seemed to come from far away, but she was standing right\n beside him, tall and bewitching; Helenesque as ever. Her blue eyes\n became great wells into which he found himself falling. With an effort,\n he pulled himself back. \"You're early tonight,\" he said lamely.\n\n\n She appropriated the message, read it. \"Put the book back,\" she said\n presently. Then, when he complied: \"Come on.\"\n\n\n \"Where are we going?\"\n\n\n \"I'm going to deliver a\nsnoll doper\nto Jilka. After that I'm going to\n take you home to meet my folks.\"\n\n\n The relieved sigh he heard was his own.\n\n\n They climbed into her convertible and she nosed it into the moving line\n of cars. \"How long have you been reading my mail?\" she asked.", "Quidley glowed. Usually it required two or three days, and sometimes a\n week, to reach the apartment phase. \"Fine,\" he said. \"When can I expect\n you?\"\n\n\n She stood up and he got to his feet beside her. She was even taller\n than he had thought. In fact, if he hadn't been wearing Cuban heels,\n she'd have been taller than he was. \"I'll be in town night after next,\"\n she said. \"Will nine o'clock be convenient for you?\"\n\n\n \"Perfectly.\"\n\n\n \"Good-by for now then, Mr. Quidley.\"", "\"Since the night before I met you.\"\n\n\n \"Was that the reason you spilled the sugar?\"\n\n\n \"Part of the reason,\" he said. \"What's a\nsnoll doper\n?\"\n\n\n She laughed. \"I don't think I'd better tell you just yet.\"\n\n\n He sighed again. \"But if Jilka wanted a\nsnoll doper\n,\" he said after a\n while, \"why in the world didn't she call you up and say so?\"\n\n\n \"Regulations.\" She pulled over to the curb in front of a brick\n apartment building. \"This is where Jilka lives. I'll explain when I get\n back.\"", "He decided to spend the evening plotting the epic novel which he\n intended to write someday. He set to work immediately. He plotted\n mentally, of course—notes were for the hacks and the other commercial\n non-geniuses who infested the modern literary world. Closing his eyes,\n he saw the whole vivid panorama of epic action and grand adventure\n flowing like a mighty and majestic river before his literary vision:\n the authentic and awe-inspiring background; the hordes of colorful\n characters; the handsome virile hero, the compelling Helenesque\n heroine.... God, it was going to be great! The best thing he'd ever\n done! See, already there was a crowd of book lovers in front of the\n bookstore, staring into the window where the new Herbert Quidley was", "He went over to the sideboard, picked up the bottle of bourbon. She\n followed. He set the two snifter glasses side by side and tilted the\n bottle. \"Say when.\" \"When!\" \"I admire your dress—never saw anything\n quite like it.\" \"Thank you. The material is something new. Feel it.\"\n \"It's—it's almost like foam rubber. Cigarette?\" \"Thanks.... Is\n something wrong, Mr. Quidley?\" \"No, of course not. Why?\" \"Your hands\n are trembling.\" \"Oh. I'm—I'm afraid it's the present company, Miss\n Smith.\" \"Call me Kay.\"", "The camouflage had varied, but the message was typical enough:\nfdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; Cai: Gind\n en snoll doper nckli! Wotnid antwaterer Fieu Dayol hid jestig snoll\n doper ifedererer te. Dep gogensplo snoll dopers ensing!—Gorka. fdsa\n jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl;\nJudging from the repeated use of the words,\nsnoll dopers\nwere the\n topic of the day. Annoyed, Quidley replaced the message and put the\n book back on the shelf. Then he returned to his apartment to await Kay.", "Let it be said forthwith that old books were not the only item on\n Herbert Quidley's penchant-list. He liked old wood, too, and old\n paintings, not to mention old wine and old whiskey. But most of all he\n liked young girls. He especially liked them when they looked the way\n Helen of Troy must have looked when Paris took one gander at her and\n started building his ladder. This one was tall, with hyacinth hair and\n liquid blue eyes, and she had a Grecian symmetry of shape that would\n have made Paris' eyes pop had he been around to take notice. Paris\n wasn't, but Quidley's eyes, did the job.", "He wondered what her reaction would be if he asked her point-blank what\n a\nsnoll doper\nwas; whether she would reveal the nature of the amateur\n secret society to which she and Klio and Yoolna and Gorka belonged.\n It virtually had to be an amateur secret society. Unless, of course,\n they were foreigners. But what on earth foreign organization would be\n quixotic enough to employ Taine's\nHistory of English Literature\nas a\n communications medium when there was a telephone in every drugstore and\n a mailbox on every corner?\n\n\n Somehow the words \"what on earth foreign organization\" got turned\n around in his mind and became \"what foreign organization on earth\" and\n before he could summon his common sense to succor him, he experienced\n a rather bad moment. By the time the door chimes sounded he was his\n normal self again.", "He watched her get out, walk up the walk to the entrance and let\n herself in. He leaned his head back on the seat, lit a cigarette and\n exhaled a mixture of smoke and relief. On the way to meet her folks.\n So it was just an ordinary secret society after all. And here he'd\n been thinking that she was the key figure in a Martian plot to blow up\n Earth—\n\n\n Her\nfolks\n!\n\n\n Abruptly the full implication of the words got through to him, and he\n sat bolt-up-right on the seat. He was starting to climb out of the car\n when he saw Kay coming down the walk. Anyway, running away wouldn't\n solve his problem. A complete disappearing act was in order, and a\n complete disappearing act would take time. Meanwhile he would play\n along with her.\nA station wagon came up behind them, slowed, and matched its speed\n with theirs. \"Someone's following us,\" Quidley said.\n\n\n \"Probably Jilka.\"", "\"Not famous profiles, you understand. Just profiles that strike my\n fancy.\" He paused. She had raised her cup to her lips and was taking a\n dainty sip. \"You have a rather striking profile yourself, Miss—\"\n\n\n \"Smith. Kay Smith.\" She set the cup back on the counter and turned and\n faced him. For a second her eyes seemed to expand till they preoccupied\n his entire vision, till he could see nothing but their disturbingly\n clear—and suddenly cold—blueness. Panic touched him, then vanished\n when she said, \"Would you really consider word-painting\nmy\nprofile,\n Mr. Quidley?\"\nWould\nhe! \"When can I call?\"\n\n\n She hesitated for a moment. Then: \"I think it will be better if I call\n on you. There are quite a number of people living in our—our house.\n I'm afraid the quarters would be much too cramped for an artist like\n yourself to concentrate.\"", "On page 21 of the Taine tome he happened upon a sheet of yellow copy\n paper folded in four. Unfolding it, he read:\nasdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj\n Cai: Sities towms copeis wotnid. Gind snoll doper nckli! Wilbe Fieu\n Dayol fot ig habe mot toseo knwo—te bijk weil en snoll doper—Klio,\n asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj\nSince when, Quidley wondered, refolding the paper and putting it back\n in the book, had high-school typing students taken to reading Taine?\n Thoughtfully he replaced the book on the shelf and moved deeper into\n the literature section.\n\n\n He had just taken down Xenophon's\nAnabasis\nwhen he saw the girl walk\n in the door.", "He was so elated that when he arrived at his apartment he actually\n did try to write a profile. His own, of course. He sat down at his\n custom-built chrome-trimmed desk, inserted a blank sheet of paper in\n his custom-built typewriter and tried to arrange his thoughts. But as\n usual his mind raced ahead of the moment, and he saw the title,\nSelf\n Profile\n, nestling noticeably on the contents page of one of the Better\n Magazines, and presently he saw the piece itself in all its splendid\n array of colorful rhetoric, sparkling imagery and scintillating wit,\n occupying a two-page spread." ], [ "He watched her get out, walk up the walk to the entrance and let\n herself in. He leaned his head back on the seat, lit a cigarette and\n exhaled a mixture of smoke and relief. On the way to meet her folks.\n So it was just an ordinary secret society after all. And here he'd\n been thinking that she was the key figure in a Martian plot to blow up\n Earth—\n\n\n Her\nfolks\n!\n\n\n Abruptly the full implication of the words got through to him, and he\n sat bolt-up-right on the seat. He was starting to climb out of the car\n when he saw Kay coming down the walk. Anyway, running away wouldn't\n solve his problem. A complete disappearing act was in order, and a\n complete disappearing act would take time. Meanwhile he would play\n along with her.\nA station wagon came up behind them, slowed, and matched its speed\n with theirs. \"Someone's following us,\" Quidley said.\n\n\n \"Probably Jilka.\"", "He wondered what her reaction would be if he asked her point-blank what\n a\nsnoll doper\nwas; whether she would reveal the nature of the amateur\n secret society to which she and Klio and Yoolna and Gorka belonged.\n It virtually had to be an amateur secret society. Unless, of course,\n they were foreigners. But what on earth foreign organization would be\n quixotic enough to employ Taine's\nHistory of English Literature\nas a\n communications medium when there was a telephone in every drugstore and\n a mailbox on every corner?\n\n\n Somehow the words \"what on earth foreign organization\" got turned\n around in his mind and became \"what foreign organization on earth\" and\n before he could summon his common sense to succor him, he experienced\n a rather bad moment. By the time the door chimes sounded he was his\n normal self again.", "They touched glasses: \"Your liquor is as exquisite as your living room,\n Herbert. I shall have to come here more often.\" \"I hope you will, Kay.\"\n \"Though such conduct, I'm told, is morally reprehensible on the planet\n Earth.\" \"Not in this particular circle. Your hair is lovely.\" \"Thank\n you.... You haven't mentioned my perfume yet. Perhaps I'm standing too\n far away.... There!\" \"It's—it's as lovely as your hair, Kay.\" \"Um,\n kiss me again.\" \"I—I never figured—I mean, I engaged a caterer to\n serve us dinner at 9:30.\" \"Call him up. Make it 10:30.\"\nThe following evening found Quidley on tenter-hooks. The\nsnoll-doper\nmystery had acquired a new tang. He could hardly wait till the next\n message transfer took place.", "Five minutes later the station wagon turned down a side street and\n disappeared. \"She's no longer with us,\" Quidley said.\n\n\n \"She's got to pick someone up. She'll meet us later.\"\n\n\n \"At your folks'?\"\n\n\n \"At the ship.\"\n\n\n The city was thinning out around them now, and a few stars were visible\n in the night sky. Quidley watched them thoughtfully for a while. Then:\n \"What ship?\" he said.\n\n\n \"The one we're going to\nFieu Dayol\non.\"\n\n\n \"\nFieu Dayol?\n\"\n\n\n \"Persei 17 to you. I said I was going to take you home to meet my\n folks, didn't I?\"\n\n\n \"In other words, you're kidnapping me.\"", "Presently she returned the book to the shelf, selected\n another—seemingly at random—and took it over to the librarian's desk.\n She waited statuesquely while the librarian processed it, then tucked\n it under her arm and whisked out the door into the misty April night.\n As soon as she disappeared, Quidley stepped over to the T's and took\n Taine down once more. Just as he had suspected. The makeshift bookmark\n was gone.\n\n\n He remembered how the asdf-;lkj exercise had given way to several lines\n of gibberish and then reappeared again. A camouflaged message? Or was\n it merely what it appeared to be on the surface—the efforts of an\n impatient typing student to type before his time?", "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ....\n\n\n Message no. 4, except for a slight variation in camouflage, ran true to\n form:\na;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj Cai: Habe te snoll dopers ensing?\n Wotnid ne Fieu Dayol ist ifederereret, hid jestig snoll doper. Gind\n ed, olro—Jilka. a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj\nQuidley sighed. What, he asked himself, standing in the library aisle\n and staring at the indecipherable words, was a normal girl like Kay\n doing in such a childish secret society? From the way she and her\n correspondents carried on you'd almost think they were Martian girl\n scouts on an interplanetary camping trip, trying for their merit badges\n in communications!", "\"I didn't know you had a taste for Taine.\"\nHer voice seemed to come from far away, but she was standing right\n beside him, tall and bewitching; Helenesque as ever. Her blue eyes\n became great wells into which he found himself falling. With an effort,\n he pulled himself back. \"You're early tonight,\" he said lamely.\n\n\n She appropriated the message, read it. \"Put the book back,\" she said\n presently. Then, when he complied: \"Come on.\"\n\n\n \"Where are we going?\"\n\n\n \"I'm going to deliver a\nsnoll doper\nto Jilka. After that I'm going to\n take you home to meet my folks.\"\n\n\n The relieved sigh he heard was his own.\n\n\n They climbed into her convertible and she nosed it into the moving line\n of cars. \"How long have you been reading my mail?\" she asked.", "He refolded the paper, replaced it between the pages, returned the book\n to the shelf and went back to the reading table and\nThe Zeitgeist\n.\n\n\n Kay didn't show up till almost closing time, and he was beginning\n to think that perhaps she wouldn't come around for the pickup till\n tomorrow when she finally walked in the door. She employed the same\n tactics she had employed the previous night, arriving, as though by\n chance, at the T-section and transferring the message with the same\n undetectable legerdemain to her purse. This time, when she walked out\n the door, he was not far behind her.\n\n\n She climbed into a sleek convertible and pulled into the street. It\n took him but a moment to gain his hardtop and start out after her.\n When, several blocks later, she pulled to the curb in front of an\n all-night coffee bar, he followed suit. After that, it was merely a\n matter of following her inside.", "\"They weren't messages. They were requisitions. I'm the ship's stock\n girl.\"\nApril fields stretched darkly away on either side of the highway.\n Presently she turned down a rutted road between two of them and they\n bounced and swayed back to a black blur of trees. \"Here we are,\" she\n said.\n\n\n Gradually he made out the sphere. It blended so flawlessly with its\n background that he wouldn't have been able to see it at all if he\n hadn't been informed of its existence. A gangplank sloped down from an\n open lock and came to rest just within the fringe of the trees.\n\n\n Lights danced in the darkness behind them as another car jounced down\n the rutted road. \"Jilka,\" Kay said. \"I wonder if she got him.\"", "Quidley winced. He was allergic to the term. Not that he ever let the\n presence of a boy friend deter him when he set out to conquer, but\n because the term itself brought to mind the word \"fiance,\" and the word\n \"fiance\" brought to mind still another word, one which repelled him\n violently. I.e., \"marriage\". Just the same, he decided to keep Taine's\nHistory\nunder observation for a while.\nHer boy friend turned out to be her girl friend, and her girl friend\n turned out to be a tall and lissome, lovely with a Helenesque air of\n her own. From the vantage point of a strategically located reading\n table, where he was keeping company with his favorite little magazine,\nThe Zeitgeist\n, Quidley watched her take a seemingly haphazard route\n to the shelf where Taine's\nHistory\nreposed, take the volume down,\n surreptitiously slip a folded sheet of yellow paper between its pages\n and return it to the shelf.", "The Girls From Fieu Dayol\nBy ROBERT F. YOUNG\nThey were lovely and quick\n\n to learn—and their only\n\n faults were little ones!\n\n\n [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nUp until the moment when he first looked into Hippolyte Adolphe Taine's\nHistory of English Literature\n, Herbert Quidley's penchant for old\n books had netted him nothing in the way of romance and intrigue.\n Not that he was a stranger to either. Far from it. But hitherto the\n background for both had been bedrooms and bars, not libraries.", "After she left he wasted no time in acquainting himself with the second\n message. It was as unintelligible as the first:\nasdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Cai: Habe\n wotnid ig ist ending ifedererer te. T'lide sid Fieu Dayol po jestig\n toseo knwo, bijk weil en snoll doper entling—Yoolna. asdf ;lkj asdf\n ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj\nWell, perhaps not quite as unintelligible. He knew, at least, who Cai\n was, and he knew—from the reappearance of the words\nwotnid\n,", "You could hardly call Kay a girl scout, though.\n\n\n Nevertheless, she was the key figure in the\nsnoll-doper\nenigma. The\n fact annoyed him, especially when he considered that a\nsnoll doper\n,\n for all he knew, could be anything from a Chinese fortune cooky to an\n H-bomb.\n\n\n He remembered Kay's odd accent. Was that the way a person would speak\n English if her own language ran something like \"\nist ifedereret, hid\n jestig snoll doper adwo\n?\"\n\n\n He remembered the way she had looked at him in the coffee bar.\n\n\n He remembered the material of her dress.\n\n\n He remembered how she had come to his room.", "It was some time before he returned to reality, and when he did the\n first thing that met his eyes was the uncompromisingly blank sheet of\n paper. Hurriedly he typed out a letter to his father, requesting an\n advance on his allowance, then, after a tall glass of vintage wine, he\n went to bed.\nIn telling him that she would be in town two nights hence, Kay had\n unwittingly apprised him that there would be no exchange of messages\n until that time, so the next evening he skipped his vigil at the\n library. The following evening, however, after readying his apartment\n for the forthcoming assignation, he hied himself to his reading-table\n post and took up\nThe Zeitgeist\nonce again.\n\n\n He had not thought it possible that there could be a third such woman.", "He returned Taine to the shelf. After learning from the librarian that\n the girl's name was Kay Smith, he went out and got in his hardtop. The\n name rang a bell. Halfway home he realized why. The typing exercise had\n contained the word \"Cai\", and if you pronounced it with hard c, you got\n \"Kai\"—or \"Kay\". Obviously, then, the exercise had been a message, and\n had been deliberately inserted in a book no average person would dream\n of borrowing.\n\n\n By whom—her boy friend?", "After coming in the door, the girl deposited a book on the librarian's\n desk and headed for the literature section. Quickly Quidley lowered\n his eyes to the\nAnabasis\nand henceforth followed her progress out of\n their corners. When she came to the O's she paused, took down a book\n and glanced through it. Then she replaced it and moved on to the\n P's ... the Q's ... the R's. Barely three feet from him she paused\n again and took down Taine's\nHistory of English Literature\n.\n\n\n He simply could not believe it. The odds against two persons taking an\n interest in so esoteric a volume on a single night in a single library\n were ten thousand to one. And yet there was no gainsaying that the\n volume was in the girl's hands, and that she was riffling through it\n with the air of a seasoned browser.", "\"Since the night before I met you.\"\n\n\n \"Was that the reason you spilled the sugar?\"\n\n\n \"Part of the reason,\" he said. \"What's a\nsnoll doper\n?\"\n\n\n She laughed. \"I don't think I'd better tell you just yet.\"\n\n\n He sighed again. \"But if Jilka wanted a\nsnoll doper\n,\" he said after a\n while, \"why in the world didn't she call you up and say so?\"\n\n\n \"Regulations.\" She pulled over to the curb in front of a brick\n apartment building. \"This is where Jilka lives. I'll explain when I get\n back.\"", "On page 21 of the Taine tome he happened upon a sheet of yellow copy\n paper folded in four. Unfolding it, he read:\nasdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj\n Cai: Sities towms copeis wotnid. Gind snoll doper nckli! Wilbe Fieu\n Dayol fot ig habe mot toseo knwo—te bijk weil en snoll doper—Klio,\n asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj\nSince when, Quidley wondered, refolding the paper and putting it back\n in the book, had high-school typing students taken to reading Taine?\n Thoughtfully he replaced the book on the shelf and moved deeper into\n the literature section.\n\n\n He had just taken down Xenophon's\nAnabasis\nwhen he saw the girl walk\n in the door.", "Fieu\n Dayol\nand\nsnoll doper\n—that the two communications were in the\n same code. And certainly it was reasonable to assume that the last\n word—\nYoolna\n—was the name of the girl he had just seen, and that\n she was a different person from the\nKlio\nwhose name had appended the\n first message.", "\"For two reasons: one, you're the particular man who compromised\n me. Two, there are\nnot\nplenty of men on\nFieu Dayol\n. Our race is\n identical to yours in everything except population-balance between the\n sexes. At periodic intervals the women on\nFieu Dayol\nso greatly\n outnumber the men that those of us who are temperamentally and\n emotionally unfitted to become spinsters have to look for\nwotnids\n—or\n mates—on other worlds. It's quite legal and quite respectable. As a\n matter of fact, we even have schools specializing in alien cultures\n to expedite our activities. Our biggest problem is the Interstellar\n statute forbidding us the use of local communications services and\n forbidding us to appear in public places. It was devised to facilitate\n the prosecution of interstellar black marketeers, but we're subject to\n it, too, and have to contrive communications systems of our own.\"\n\n\n \"But why were all the messages addressed to you?\"" ], [ "It was some time before he returned to reality, and when he did the\n first thing that met his eyes was the uncompromisingly blank sheet of\n paper. Hurriedly he typed out a letter to his father, requesting an\n advance on his allowance, then, after a tall glass of vintage wine, he\n went to bed.\nIn telling him that she would be in town two nights hence, Kay had\n unwittingly apprised him that there would be no exchange of messages\n until that time, so the next evening he skipped his vigil at the\n library. The following evening, however, after readying his apartment\n for the forthcoming assignation, he hied himself to his reading-table\n post and took up\nThe Zeitgeist\nonce again.\n\n\n He had not thought it possible that there could be a third such woman.", "Presently she returned the book to the shelf, selected\n another—seemingly at random—and took it over to the librarian's desk.\n She waited statuesquely while the librarian processed it, then tucked\n it under her arm and whisked out the door into the misty April night.\n As soon as she disappeared, Quidley stepped over to the T's and took\n Taine down once more. Just as he had suspected. The makeshift bookmark\n was gone.\n\n\n He remembered how the asdf-;lkj exercise had given way to several lines\n of gibberish and then reappeared again. A camouflaged message? Or was\n it merely what it appeared to be on the surface—the efforts of an\n impatient typing student to type before his time?", "He refolded the paper, replaced it between the pages, returned the book\n to the shelf and went back to the reading table and\nThe Zeitgeist\n.\n\n\n Kay didn't show up till almost closing time, and he was beginning\n to think that perhaps she wouldn't come around for the pickup till\n tomorrow when she finally walked in the door. She employed the same\n tactics she had employed the previous night, arriving, as though by\n chance, at the T-section and transferring the message with the same\n undetectable legerdemain to her purse. This time, when she walked out\n the door, he was not far behind her.\n\n\n She climbed into a sleek convertible and pulled into the street. It\n took him but a moment to gain his hardtop and start out after her.\n When, several blocks later, she pulled to the curb in front of an\n all-night coffee bar, he followed suit. After that, it was merely a\n matter of following her inside.", "They touched glasses: \"Your liquor is as exquisite as your living room,\n Herbert. I shall have to come here more often.\" \"I hope you will, Kay.\"\n \"Though such conduct, I'm told, is morally reprehensible on the planet\n Earth.\" \"Not in this particular circle. Your hair is lovely.\" \"Thank\n you.... You haven't mentioned my perfume yet. Perhaps I'm standing too\n far away.... There!\" \"It's—it's as lovely as your hair, Kay.\" \"Um,\n kiss me again.\" \"I—I never figured—I mean, I engaged a caterer to\n serve us dinner at 9:30.\" \"Call him up. Make it 10:30.\"\nThe following evening found Quidley on tenter-hooks. The\nsnoll-doper\nmystery had acquired a new tang. He could hardly wait till the next\n message transfer took place.", "He straightened his tie with nervous fingers, checked to see if his\n shirt cuffs protruded the proper length from his coat sleeves, and\n looked around the room to see if everything was in place. Everything\n was—the typewriter uncovered and centered on the chrome-trimmed desk,\n with the sheaf of crinkly first-sheets beside it; the reference books\n stacked imposingly nearby;\nHarper's\n,\nThe Atlantic\nand\nThe Saturday\n Review\nshowing conspicuously in the magazine rack; the newly opened\n bottle of bourbon and the two snifter glasses on the sideboard; the\n small table set cozily for two—\nThe chimes sounded again. He opened the door.\n\n\n She walked in with a demure, \"Hello.\" He took her wrap. When he saw\n what she was wearing he had to tilt his head back so that his eyes\n wouldn't fall out of their sockets.", "You could hardly call Kay a girl scout, though.\n\n\n Nevertheless, she was the key figure in the\nsnoll-doper\nenigma. The\n fact annoyed him, especially when he considered that a\nsnoll doper\n,\n for all he knew, could be anything from a Chinese fortune cooky to an\n H-bomb.\n\n\n He remembered Kay's odd accent. Was that the way a person would speak\n English if her own language ran something like \"\nist ifedereret, hid\n jestig snoll doper adwo\n?\"\n\n\n He remembered the way she had looked at him in the coffee bar.\n\n\n He remembered the material of her dress.\n\n\n He remembered how she had come to his room.", "He returned Taine to the shelf. After learning from the librarian that\n the girl's name was Kay Smith, he went out and got in his hardtop. The\n name rang a bell. Halfway home he realized why. The typing exercise had\n contained the word \"Cai\", and if you pronounced it with hard c, you got\n \"Kai\"—or \"Kay\". Obviously, then, the exercise had been a message, and\n had been deliberately inserted in a book no average person would dream\n of borrowing.\n\n\n By whom—her boy friend?", "Quidley winced. He was allergic to the term. Not that he ever let the\n presence of a boy friend deter him when he set out to conquer, but\n because the term itself brought to mind the word \"fiance,\" and the word\n \"fiance\" brought to mind still another word, one which repelled him\n violently. I.e., \"marriage\". Just the same, he decided to keep Taine's\nHistory\nunder observation for a while.\nHer boy friend turned out to be her girl friend, and her girl friend\n turned out to be a tall and lissome, lovely with a Helenesque air of\n her own. From the vantage point of a strategically located reading\n table, where he was keeping company with his favorite little magazine,\nThe Zeitgeist\n, Quidley watched her take a seemingly haphazard route\n to the shelf where Taine's\nHistory\nreposed, take the volume down,\n surreptitiously slip a folded sheet of yellow paper between its pages\n and return it to the shelf.", "The camouflage had varied, but the message was typical enough:\nfdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; Cai: Gind\n en snoll doper nckli! Wotnid antwaterer Fieu Dayol hid jestig snoll\n doper ifedererer te. Dep gogensplo snoll dopers ensing!—Gorka. fdsa\n jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl;\nJudging from the repeated use of the words,\nsnoll dopers\nwere the\n topic of the day. Annoyed, Quidley replaced the message and put the\n book back on the shelf. Then he returned to his apartment to await Kay.", "He was so elated that when he arrived at his apartment he actually\n did try to write a profile. His own, of course. He sat down at his\n custom-built chrome-trimmed desk, inserted a blank sheet of paper in\n his custom-built typewriter and tried to arrange his thoughts. But as\n usual his mind raced ahead of the moment, and he saw the title,\nSelf\n Profile\n, nestling noticeably on the contents page of one of the Better\n Magazines, and presently he saw the piece itself in all its splendid\n array of colorful rhetoric, sparkling imagery and scintillating wit,\n occupying a two-page spread.", "He watched her get out, walk up the walk to the entrance and let\n herself in. He leaned his head back on the seat, lit a cigarette and\n exhaled a mixture of smoke and relief. On the way to meet her folks.\n So it was just an ordinary secret society after all. And here he'd\n been thinking that she was the key figure in a Martian plot to blow up\n Earth—\n\n\n Her\nfolks\n!\n\n\n Abruptly the full implication of the words got through to him, and he\n sat bolt-up-right on the seat. He was starting to climb out of the car\n when he saw Kay coming down the walk. Anyway, running away wouldn't\n solve his problem. A complete disappearing act was in order, and a\n complete disappearing act would take time. Meanwhile he would play\n along with her.\nA station wagon came up behind them, slowed, and matched its speed\n with theirs. \"Someone's following us,\" Quidley said.\n\n\n \"Probably Jilka.\"", "\"I didn't know you had a taste for Taine.\"\nHer voice seemed to come from far away, but she was standing right\n beside him, tall and bewitching; Helenesque as ever. Her blue eyes\n became great wells into which he found himself falling. With an effort,\n he pulled himself back. \"You're early tonight,\" he said lamely.\n\n\n She appropriated the message, read it. \"Put the book back,\" she said\n presently. Then, when he complied: \"Come on.\"\n\n\n \"Where are we going?\"\n\n\n \"I'm going to deliver a\nsnoll doper\nto Jilka. After that I'm going to\n take you home to meet my folks.\"\n\n\n The relieved sigh he heard was his own.\n\n\n They climbed into her convertible and she nosed it into the moving line\n of cars. \"How long have you been reading my mail?\" she asked.", "He went over to the sideboard, picked up the bottle of bourbon. She\n followed. He set the two snifter glasses side by side and tilted the\n bottle. \"Say when.\" \"When!\" \"I admire your dress—never saw anything\n quite like it.\" \"Thank you. The material is something new. Feel it.\"\n \"It's—it's almost like foam rubber. Cigarette?\" \"Thanks.... Is\n something wrong, Mr. Quidley?\" \"No, of course not. Why?\" \"Your hands\n are trembling.\" \"Oh. I'm—I'm afraid it's the present company, Miss\n Smith.\" \"Call me Kay.\"", "After she left he wasted no time in acquainting himself with the second\n message. It was as unintelligible as the first:\nasdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Cai: Habe\n wotnid ig ist ending ifedererer te. T'lide sid Fieu Dayol po jestig\n toseo knwo, bijk weil en snoll doper entling—Yoolna. asdf ;lkj asdf\n ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj\nWell, perhaps not quite as unintelligible. He knew, at least, who Cai\n was, and he knew—from the reappearance of the words\nwotnid\n,", "On page 21 of the Taine tome he happened upon a sheet of yellow copy\n paper folded in four. Unfolding it, he read:\nasdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj\n Cai: Sities towms copeis wotnid. Gind snoll doper nckli! Wilbe Fieu\n Dayol fot ig habe mot toseo knwo—te bijk weil en snoll doper—Klio,\n asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj\nSince when, Quidley wondered, refolding the paper and putting it back\n in the book, had high-school typing students taken to reading Taine?\n Thoughtfully he replaced the book on the shelf and moved deeper into\n the literature section.\n\n\n He had just taken down Xenophon's\nAnabasis\nwhen he saw the girl walk\n in the door.", "After coming in the door, the girl deposited a book on the librarian's\n desk and headed for the literature section. Quickly Quidley lowered\n his eyes to the\nAnabasis\nand henceforth followed her progress out of\n their corners. When she came to the O's she paused, took down a book\n and glanced through it. Then she replaced it and moved on to the\n P's ... the Q's ... the R's. Barely three feet from him she paused\n again and took down Taine's\nHistory of English Literature\n.\n\n\n He simply could not believe it. The odds against two persons taking an\n interest in so esoteric a volume on a single night in a single library\n were ten thousand to one. And yet there was no gainsaying that the\n volume was in the girl's hands, and that she was riffling through it\n with the air of a seasoned browser.", "He wondered what her reaction would be if he asked her point-blank what\n a\nsnoll doper\nwas; whether she would reveal the nature of the amateur\n secret society to which she and Klio and Yoolna and Gorka belonged.\n It virtually had to be an amateur secret society. Unless, of course,\n they were foreigners. But what on earth foreign organization would be\n quixotic enough to employ Taine's\nHistory of English Literature\nas a\n communications medium when there was a telephone in every drugstore and\n a mailbox on every corner?\n\n\n Somehow the words \"what on earth foreign organization\" got turned\n around in his mind and became \"what foreign organization on earth\" and\n before he could summon his common sense to succor him, he experienced\n a rather bad moment. By the time the door chimes sounded he was his\n normal self again.", "He decided on Operation Spill-the-sugar. It had stood him in good stead\n before, and he was rather fond of it. The procedure was quite simple.\n First you took note of the position of the sugar dispensers, then you\n situated yourself so that your intended victim was between you and the\n nearest one, then you ordered coffee without sugar in a low voice, and\n after the counterman or countergirl had served you, you waited till\n he/she was out of earshot and asked your i.v. to please pass the sugar.\n When she did so you let the dispenser slip from your fingers in such a\n way that some of its contents spilled on her lap—\n\n\n \"I'm terribly sorry,\" he said, righting it. \"Here, let me brush it off.\"\n\"It's all right, it's only sugar,\" she said, laughing.", "\"Since the night before I met you.\"\n\n\n \"Was that the reason you spilled the sugar?\"\n\n\n \"Part of the reason,\" he said. \"What's a\nsnoll doper\n?\"\n\n\n She laughed. \"I don't think I'd better tell you just yet.\"\n\n\n He sighed again. \"But if Jilka wanted a\nsnoll doper\n,\" he said after a\n while, \"why in the world didn't she call you up and say so?\"\n\n\n \"Regulations.\" She pulled over to the curb in front of a brick\n apartment building. \"This is where Jilka lives. I'll explain when I get\n back.\"", "Quidley glowed. Usually it required two or three days, and sometimes a\n week, to reach the apartment phase. \"Fine,\" he said. \"When can I expect\n you?\"\n\n\n She stood up and he got to his feet beside her. She was even taller\n than he had thought. In fact, if he hadn't been wearing Cuban heels,\n she'd have been taller than he was. \"I'll be in town night after next,\"\n she said. \"Will nine o'clock be convenient for you?\"\n\n\n \"Perfectly.\"\n\n\n \"Good-by for now then, Mr. Quidley.\"" ], [ "Fieu\n Dayol\nand\nsnoll doper\n—that the two communications were in the\n same code. And certainly it was reasonable to assume that the last\n word—\nYoolna\n—was the name of the girl he had just seen, and that\n she was a different person from the\nKlio\nwhose name had appended the\n first message.", "The Girls From Fieu Dayol\nBy ROBERT F. YOUNG\nThey were lovely and quick\n\n to learn—and their only\n\n faults were little ones!\n\n\n [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nUp until the moment when he first looked into Hippolyte Adolphe Taine's\nHistory of English Literature\n, Herbert Quidley's penchant for old\n books had netted him nothing in the way of romance and intrigue.\n Not that he was a stranger to either. Far from it. But hitherto the\n background for both had been bedrooms and bars, not libraries.", "\"For two reasons: one, you're the particular man who compromised\n me. Two, there are\nnot\nplenty of men on\nFieu Dayol\n. Our race is\n identical to yours in everything except population-balance between the\n sexes. At periodic intervals the women on\nFieu Dayol\nso greatly\n outnumber the men that those of us who are temperamentally and\n emotionally unfitted to become spinsters have to look for\nwotnids\n—or\n mates—on other worlds. It's quite legal and quite respectable. As a\n matter of fact, we even have schools specializing in alien cultures\n to expedite our activities. Our biggest problem is the Interstellar\n statute forbidding us the use of local communications services and\n forbidding us to appear in public places. It was devised to facilitate\n the prosecution of interstellar black marketeers, but we're subject to\n it, too, and have to contrive communications systems of our own.\"\n\n\n \"But why were all the messages addressed to you?\"", "Five minutes later the station wagon turned down a side street and\n disappeared. \"She's no longer with us,\" Quidley said.\n\n\n \"She's got to pick someone up. She'll meet us later.\"\n\n\n \"At your folks'?\"\n\n\n \"At the ship.\"\n\n\n The city was thinning out around them now, and a few stars were visible\n in the night sky. Quidley watched them thoughtfully for a while. Then:\n \"What ship?\" he said.\n\n\n \"The one we're going to\nFieu Dayol\non.\"\n\n\n \"\nFieu Dayol?\n\"\n\n\n \"Persei 17 to you. I said I was going to take you home to meet my\n folks, didn't I?\"\n\n\n \"In other words, you're kidnapping me.\"", "After she left he wasted no time in acquainting himself with the second\n message. It was as unintelligible as the first:\nasdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Cai: Habe\n wotnid ig ist ending ifedererer te. T'lide sid Fieu Dayol po jestig\n toseo knwo, bijk weil en snoll doper entling—Yoolna. asdf ;lkj asdf\n ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj\nWell, perhaps not quite as unintelligible. He knew, at least, who Cai\n was, and he knew—from the reappearance of the words\nwotnid\n,", "She shook her head vehemently. \"I most certainly am not! Neither\n according to interstellar law or your own. When you compromised me, you\n made yourself liable in the eyes of both.\"\n\n\n \"But why pick on me? There must be plenty of men on\nFieu Dayol\n. Why\n don't you marry one of them?\"", "The camouflage had varied, but the message was typical enough:\nfdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; Cai: Gind\n en snoll doper nckli! Wotnid antwaterer Fieu Dayol hid jestig snoll\n doper ifedererer te. Dep gogensplo snoll dopers ensing!—Gorka. fdsa\n jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl;\nJudging from the repeated use of the words,\nsnoll dopers\nwere the\n topic of the day. Annoyed, Quidley replaced the message and put the\n book back on the shelf. Then he returned to his apartment to await Kay.", "Quidley winced. He was allergic to the term. Not that he ever let the\n presence of a boy friend deter him when he set out to conquer, but\n because the term itself brought to mind the word \"fiance,\" and the word\n \"fiance\" brought to mind still another word, one which repelled him\n violently. I.e., \"marriage\". Just the same, he decided to keep Taine's\nHistory\nunder observation for a while.\nHer boy friend turned out to be her girl friend, and her girl friend\n turned out to be a tall and lissome, lovely with a Helenesque air of\n her own. From the vantage point of a strategically located reading\n table, where he was keeping company with his favorite little magazine,\nThe Zeitgeist\n, Quidley watched her take a seemingly haphazard route\n to the shelf where Taine's\nHistory\nreposed, take the volume down,\n surreptitiously slip a folded sheet of yellow paper between its pages\n and return it to the shelf.", "He wondered what her reaction would be if he asked her point-blank what\n a\nsnoll doper\nwas; whether she would reveal the nature of the amateur\n secret society to which she and Klio and Yoolna and Gorka belonged.\n It virtually had to be an amateur secret society. Unless, of course,\n they were foreigners. But what on earth foreign organization would be\n quixotic enough to employ Taine's\nHistory of English Literature\nas a\n communications medium when there was a telephone in every drugstore and\n a mailbox on every corner?\n\n\n Somehow the words \"what on earth foreign organization\" got turned\n around in his mind and became \"what foreign organization on earth\" and\n before he could summon his common sense to succor him, he experienced\n a rather bad moment. By the time the door chimes sounded he was his\n normal self again.", "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ....\n\n\n Message no. 4, except for a slight variation in camouflage, ran true to\n form:\na;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj Cai: Habe te snoll dopers ensing?\n Wotnid ne Fieu Dayol ist ifederereret, hid jestig snoll doper. Gind\n ed, olro—Jilka. a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj\nQuidley sighed. What, he asked himself, standing in the library aisle\n and staring at the indecipherable words, was a normal girl like Kay\n doing in such a childish secret society? From the way she and her\n correspondents carried on you'd almost think they were Martian girl\n scouts on an interplanetary camping trip, trying for their merit badges\n in communications!", "On page 21 of the Taine tome he happened upon a sheet of yellow copy\n paper folded in four. Unfolding it, he read:\nasdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj\n Cai: Sities towms copeis wotnid. Gind snoll doper nckli! Wilbe Fieu\n Dayol fot ig habe mot toseo knwo—te bijk weil en snoll doper—Klio,\n asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj\nSince when, Quidley wondered, refolding the paper and putting it back\n in the book, had high-school typing students taken to reading Taine?\n Thoughtfully he replaced the book on the shelf and moved deeper into\n the literature section.\n\n\n He had just taken down Xenophon's\nAnabasis\nwhen he saw the girl walk\n in the door.", "You could hardly call Kay a girl scout, though.\n\n\n Nevertheless, she was the key figure in the\nsnoll-doper\nenigma. The\n fact annoyed him, especially when he considered that a\nsnoll doper\n,\n for all he knew, could be anything from a Chinese fortune cooky to an\n H-bomb.\n\n\n He remembered Kay's odd accent. Was that the way a person would speak\n English if her own language ran something like \"\nist ifedereret, hid\n jestig snoll doper adwo\n?\"\n\n\n He remembered the way she had looked at him in the coffee bar.\n\n\n He remembered the material of her dress.\n\n\n He remembered how she had come to his room.", "After coming in the door, the girl deposited a book on the librarian's\n desk and headed for the literature section. Quickly Quidley lowered\n his eyes to the\nAnabasis\nand henceforth followed her progress out of\n their corners. When she came to the O's she paused, took down a book\n and glanced through it. Then she replaced it and moved on to the\n P's ... the Q's ... the R's. Barely three feet from him she paused\n again and took down Taine's\nHistory of English Literature\n.\n\n\n He simply could not believe it. The odds against two persons taking an\n interest in so esoteric a volume on a single night in a single library\n were ten thousand to one. And yet there was no gainsaying that the\n volume was in the girl's hands, and that she was riffling through it\n with the air of a seasoned browser.", "He went over to the sideboard, picked up the bottle of bourbon. She\n followed. He set the two snifter glasses side by side and tilted the\n bottle. \"Say when.\" \"When!\" \"I admire your dress—never saw anything\n quite like it.\" \"Thank you. The material is something new. Feel it.\"\n \"It's—it's almost like foam rubber. Cigarette?\" \"Thanks.... Is\n something wrong, Mr. Quidley?\" \"No, of course not. Why?\" \"Your hands\n are trembling.\" \"Oh. I'm—I'm afraid it's the present company, Miss\n Smith.\" \"Call me Kay.\"", "\"Since the night before I met you.\"\n\n\n \"Was that the reason you spilled the sugar?\"\n\n\n \"Part of the reason,\" he said. \"What's a\nsnoll doper\n?\"\n\n\n She laughed. \"I don't think I'd better tell you just yet.\"\n\n\n He sighed again. \"But if Jilka wanted a\nsnoll doper\n,\" he said after a\n while, \"why in the world didn't she call you up and say so?\"\n\n\n \"Regulations.\" She pulled over to the curb in front of a brick\n apartment building. \"This is where Jilka lives. I'll explain when I get\n back.\"", "Let it be said forthwith that old books were not the only item on\n Herbert Quidley's penchant-list. He liked old wood, too, and old\n paintings, not to mention old wine and old whiskey. But most of all he\n liked young girls. He especially liked them when they looked the way\n Helen of Troy must have looked when Paris took one gander at her and\n started building his ladder. This one was tall, with hyacinth hair and\n liquid blue eyes, and she had a Grecian symmetry of shape that would\n have made Paris' eyes pop had he been around to take notice. Paris\n wasn't, but Quidley's eyes, did the job.", "\"I didn't know you had a taste for Taine.\"\nHer voice seemed to come from far away, but she was standing right\n beside him, tall and bewitching; Helenesque as ever. Her blue eyes\n became great wells into which he found himself falling. With an effort,\n he pulled himself back. \"You're early tonight,\" he said lamely.\n\n\n She appropriated the message, read it. \"Put the book back,\" she said\n presently. Then, when he complied: \"Come on.\"\n\n\n \"Where are we going?\"\n\n\n \"I'm going to deliver a\nsnoll doper\nto Jilka. After that I'm going to\n take you home to meet my folks.\"\n\n\n The relieved sigh he heard was his own.\n\n\n They climbed into her convertible and she nosed it into the moving line\n of cars. \"How long have you been reading my mail?\" she asked.", "Quidley glowed. Usually it required two or three days, and sometimes a\n week, to reach the apartment phase. \"Fine,\" he said. \"When can I expect\n you?\"\n\n\n She stood up and he got to his feet beside her. She was even taller\n than he had thought. In fact, if he hadn't been wearing Cuban heels,\n she'd have been taller than he was. \"I'll be in town night after next,\"\n she said. \"Will nine o'clock be convenient for you?\"\n\n\n \"Perfectly.\"\n\n\n \"Good-by for now then, Mr. Quidley.\"", "Presently she returned the book to the shelf, selected\n another—seemingly at random—and took it over to the librarian's desk.\n She waited statuesquely while the librarian processed it, then tucked\n it under her arm and whisked out the door into the misty April night.\n As soon as she disappeared, Quidley stepped over to the T's and took\n Taine down once more. Just as he had suspected. The makeshift bookmark\n was gone.\n\n\n He remembered how the asdf-;lkj exercise had given way to several lines\n of gibberish and then reappeared again. A camouflaged message? Or was\n it merely what it appeared to be on the surface—the efforts of an\n impatient typing student to type before his time?", "It was some time before he returned to reality, and when he did the\n first thing that met his eyes was the uncompromisingly blank sheet of\n paper. Hurriedly he typed out a letter to his father, requesting an\n advance on his allowance, then, after a tall glass of vintage wine, he\n went to bed.\nIn telling him that she would be in town two nights hence, Kay had\n unwittingly apprised him that there would be no exchange of messages\n until that time, so the next evening he skipped his vigil at the\n library. The following evening, however, after readying his apartment\n for the forthcoming assignation, he hied himself to his reading-table\n post and took up\nThe Zeitgeist\nonce again.\n\n\n He had not thought it possible that there could be a third such woman." ], [ "They touched glasses: \"Your liquor is as exquisite as your living room,\n Herbert. I shall have to come here more often.\" \"I hope you will, Kay.\"\n \"Though such conduct, I'm told, is morally reprehensible on the planet\n Earth.\" \"Not in this particular circle. Your hair is lovely.\" \"Thank\n you.... You haven't mentioned my perfume yet. Perhaps I'm standing too\n far away.... There!\" \"It's—it's as lovely as your hair, Kay.\" \"Um,\n kiss me again.\" \"I—I never figured—I mean, I engaged a caterer to\n serve us dinner at 9:30.\" \"Call him up. Make it 10:30.\"\nThe following evening found Quidley on tenter-hooks. The\nsnoll-doper\nmystery had acquired a new tang. He could hardly wait till the next\n message transfer took place.", "It was some time before he returned to reality, and when he did the\n first thing that met his eyes was the uncompromisingly blank sheet of\n paper. Hurriedly he typed out a letter to his father, requesting an\n advance on his allowance, then, after a tall glass of vintage wine, he\n went to bed.\nIn telling him that she would be in town two nights hence, Kay had\n unwittingly apprised him that there would be no exchange of messages\n until that time, so the next evening he skipped his vigil at the\n library. The following evening, however, after readying his apartment\n for the forthcoming assignation, he hied himself to his reading-table\n post and took up\nThe Zeitgeist\nonce again.\n\n\n He had not thought it possible that there could be a third such woman.", "You could hardly call Kay a girl scout, though.\n\n\n Nevertheless, she was the key figure in the\nsnoll-doper\nenigma. The\n fact annoyed him, especially when he considered that a\nsnoll doper\n,\n for all he knew, could be anything from a Chinese fortune cooky to an\n H-bomb.\n\n\n He remembered Kay's odd accent. Was that the way a person would speak\n English if her own language ran something like \"\nist ifedereret, hid\n jestig snoll doper adwo\n?\"\n\n\n He remembered the way she had looked at him in the coffee bar.\n\n\n He remembered the material of her dress.\n\n\n He remembered how she had come to his room.", "He refolded the paper, replaced it between the pages, returned the book\n to the shelf and went back to the reading table and\nThe Zeitgeist\n.\n\n\n Kay didn't show up till almost closing time, and he was beginning\n to think that perhaps she wouldn't come around for the pickup till\n tomorrow when she finally walked in the door. She employed the same\n tactics she had employed the previous night, arriving, as though by\n chance, at the T-section and transferring the message with the same\n undetectable legerdemain to her purse. This time, when she walked out\n the door, he was not far behind her.\n\n\n She climbed into a sleek convertible and pulled into the street. It\n took him but a moment to gain his hardtop and start out after her.\n When, several blocks later, she pulled to the curb in front of an\n all-night coffee bar, he followed suit. After that, it was merely a\n matter of following her inside.", "He went over to the sideboard, picked up the bottle of bourbon. She\n followed. He set the two snifter glasses side by side and tilted the\n bottle. \"Say when.\" \"When!\" \"I admire your dress—never saw anything\n quite like it.\" \"Thank you. The material is something new. Feel it.\"\n \"It's—it's almost like foam rubber. Cigarette?\" \"Thanks.... Is\n something wrong, Mr. Quidley?\" \"No, of course not. Why?\" \"Your hands\n are trembling.\" \"Oh. I'm—I'm afraid it's the present company, Miss\n Smith.\" \"Call me Kay.\"", "Quidley winced. He was allergic to the term. Not that he ever let the\n presence of a boy friend deter him when he set out to conquer, but\n because the term itself brought to mind the word \"fiance,\" and the word\n \"fiance\" brought to mind still another word, one which repelled him\n violently. I.e., \"marriage\". Just the same, he decided to keep Taine's\nHistory\nunder observation for a while.\nHer boy friend turned out to be her girl friend, and her girl friend\n turned out to be a tall and lissome, lovely with a Helenesque air of\n her own. From the vantage point of a strategically located reading\n table, where he was keeping company with his favorite little magazine,\nThe Zeitgeist\n, Quidley watched her take a seemingly haphazard route\n to the shelf where Taine's\nHistory\nreposed, take the volume down,\n surreptitiously slip a folded sheet of yellow paper between its pages\n and return it to the shelf.", "\"I didn't know you had a taste for Taine.\"\nHer voice seemed to come from far away, but she was standing right\n beside him, tall and bewitching; Helenesque as ever. Her blue eyes\n became great wells into which he found himself falling. With an effort,\n he pulled himself back. \"You're early tonight,\" he said lamely.\n\n\n She appropriated the message, read it. \"Put the book back,\" she said\n presently. Then, when he complied: \"Come on.\"\n\n\n \"Where are we going?\"\n\n\n \"I'm going to deliver a\nsnoll doper\nto Jilka. After that I'm going to\n take you home to meet my folks.\"\n\n\n The relieved sigh he heard was his own.\n\n\n They climbed into her convertible and she nosed it into the moving line\n of cars. \"How long have you been reading my mail?\" she asked.", "Quidley glowed. Usually it required two or three days, and sometimes a\n week, to reach the apartment phase. \"Fine,\" he said. \"When can I expect\n you?\"\n\n\n She stood up and he got to his feet beside her. She was even taller\n than he had thought. In fact, if he hadn't been wearing Cuban heels,\n she'd have been taller than he was. \"I'll be in town night after next,\"\n she said. \"Will nine o'clock be convenient for you?\"\n\n\n \"Perfectly.\"\n\n\n \"Good-by for now then, Mr. Quidley.\"", "He returned Taine to the shelf. After learning from the librarian that\n the girl's name was Kay Smith, he went out and got in his hardtop. The\n name rang a bell. Halfway home he realized why. The typing exercise had\n contained the word \"Cai\", and if you pronounced it with hard c, you got\n \"Kai\"—or \"Kay\". Obviously, then, the exercise had been a message, and\n had been deliberately inserted in a book no average person would dream\n of borrowing.\n\n\n By whom—her boy friend?", "He decided to spend the evening plotting the epic novel which he\n intended to write someday. He set to work immediately. He plotted\n mentally, of course—notes were for the hacks and the other commercial\n non-geniuses who infested the modern literary world. Closing his eyes,\n he saw the whole vivid panorama of epic action and grand adventure\n flowing like a mighty and majestic river before his literary vision:\n the authentic and awe-inspiring background; the hordes of colorful\n characters; the handsome virile hero, the compelling Helenesque\n heroine.... God, it was going to be great! The best thing he'd ever\n done! See, already there was a crowd of book lovers in front of the\n bookstore, staring into the window where the new Herbert Quidley was", "\"Since the night before I met you.\"\n\n\n \"Was that the reason you spilled the sugar?\"\n\n\n \"Part of the reason,\" he said. \"What's a\nsnoll doper\n?\"\n\n\n She laughed. \"I don't think I'd better tell you just yet.\"\n\n\n He sighed again. \"But if Jilka wanted a\nsnoll doper\n,\" he said after a\n while, \"why in the world didn't she call you up and say so?\"\n\n\n \"Regulations.\" She pulled over to the curb in front of a brick\n apartment building. \"This is where Jilka lives. I'll explain when I get\n back.\"", "After coming in the door, the girl deposited a book on the librarian's\n desk and headed for the literature section. Quickly Quidley lowered\n his eyes to the\nAnabasis\nand henceforth followed her progress out of\n their corners. When she came to the O's she paused, took down a book\n and glanced through it. Then she replaced it and moved on to the\n P's ... the Q's ... the R's. Barely three feet from him she paused\n again and took down Taine's\nHistory of English Literature\n.\n\n\n He simply could not believe it. The odds against two persons taking an\n interest in so esoteric a volume on a single night in a single library\n were ten thousand to one. And yet there was no gainsaying that the\n volume was in the girl's hands, and that she was riffling through it\n with the air of a seasoned browser.", "Presently she returned the book to the shelf, selected\n another—seemingly at random—and took it over to the librarian's desk.\n She waited statuesquely while the librarian processed it, then tucked\n it under her arm and whisked out the door into the misty April night.\n As soon as she disappeared, Quidley stepped over to the T's and took\n Taine down once more. Just as he had suspected. The makeshift bookmark\n was gone.\n\n\n He remembered how the asdf-;lkj exercise had given way to several lines\n of gibberish and then reappeared again. A camouflaged message? Or was\n it merely what it appeared to be on the surface—the efforts of an\n impatient typing student to type before his time?", "Let it be said forthwith that old books were not the only item on\n Herbert Quidley's penchant-list. He liked old wood, too, and old\n paintings, not to mention old wine and old whiskey. But most of all he\n liked young girls. He especially liked them when they looked the way\n Helen of Troy must have looked when Paris took one gander at her and\n started building his ladder. This one was tall, with hyacinth hair and\n liquid blue eyes, and she had a Grecian symmetry of shape that would\n have made Paris' eyes pop had he been around to take notice. Paris\n wasn't, but Quidley's eyes, did the job.", "He watched her get out, walk up the walk to the entrance and let\n herself in. He leaned his head back on the seat, lit a cigarette and\n exhaled a mixture of smoke and relief. On the way to meet her folks.\n So it was just an ordinary secret society after all. And here he'd\n been thinking that she was the key figure in a Martian plot to blow up\n Earth—\n\n\n Her\nfolks\n!\n\n\n Abruptly the full implication of the words got through to him, and he\n sat bolt-up-right on the seat. He was starting to climb out of the car\n when he saw Kay coming down the walk. Anyway, running away wouldn't\n solve his problem. A complete disappearing act was in order, and a\n complete disappearing act would take time. Meanwhile he would play\n along with her.\nA station wagon came up behind them, slowed, and matched its speed\n with theirs. \"Someone's following us,\" Quidley said.\n\n\n \"Probably Jilka.\"", "The Girls From Fieu Dayol\nBy ROBERT F. YOUNG\nThey were lovely and quick\n\n to learn—and their only\n\n faults were little ones!\n\n\n [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nUp until the moment when he first looked into Hippolyte Adolphe Taine's\nHistory of English Literature\n, Herbert Quidley's penchant for old\n books had netted him nothing in the way of romance and intrigue.\n Not that he was a stranger to either. Far from it. But hitherto the\n background for both had been bedrooms and bars, not libraries.", "\"They weren't messages. They were requisitions. I'm the ship's stock\n girl.\"\nApril fields stretched darkly away on either side of the highway.\n Presently she turned down a rutted road between two of them and they\n bounced and swayed back to a black blur of trees. \"Here we are,\" she\n said.\n\n\n Gradually he made out the sphere. It blended so flawlessly with its\n background that he wouldn't have been able to see it at all if he\n hadn't been informed of its existence. A gangplank sloped down from an\n open lock and came to rest just within the fringe of the trees.\n\n\n Lights danced in the darkness behind them as another car jounced down\n the rutted road. \"Jilka,\" Kay said. \"I wonder if she got him.\"", "He wondered what her reaction would be if he asked her point-blank what\n a\nsnoll doper\nwas; whether she would reveal the nature of the amateur\n secret society to which she and Klio and Yoolna and Gorka belonged.\n It virtually had to be an amateur secret society. Unless, of course,\n they were foreigners. But what on earth foreign organization would be\n quixotic enough to employ Taine's\nHistory of English Literature\nas a\n communications medium when there was a telephone in every drugstore and\n a mailbox on every corner?\n\n\n Somehow the words \"what on earth foreign organization\" got turned\n around in his mind and became \"what foreign organization on earth\" and\n before he could summon his common sense to succor him, he experienced\n a rather bad moment. By the time the door chimes sounded he was his\n normal self again.", "He straightened his tie with nervous fingers, checked to see if his\n shirt cuffs protruded the proper length from his coat sleeves, and\n looked around the room to see if everything was in place. Everything\n was—the typewriter uncovered and centered on the chrome-trimmed desk,\n with the sheaf of crinkly first-sheets beside it; the reference books\n stacked imposingly nearby;\nHarper's\n,\nThe Atlantic\nand\nThe Saturday\n Review\nshowing conspicuously in the magazine rack; the newly opened\n bottle of bourbon and the two snifter glasses on the sideboard; the\n small table set cozily for two—\nThe chimes sounded again. He opened the door.\n\n\n She walked in with a demure, \"Hello.\" He took her wrap. When he saw\n what she was wearing he had to tilt his head back so that his eyes\n wouldn't fall out of their sockets.", "The camouflage had varied, but the message was typical enough:\nfdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; Cai: Gind\n en snoll doper nckli! Wotnid antwaterer Fieu Dayol hid jestig snoll\n doper ifedererer te. Dep gogensplo snoll dopers ensing!—Gorka. fdsa\n jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl;\nJudging from the repeated use of the words,\nsnoll dopers\nwere the\n topic of the day. Annoyed, Quidley replaced the message and put the\n book back on the shelf. Then he returned to his apartment to await Kay." ], [ "Quidley winced. He was allergic to the term. Not that he ever let the\n presence of a boy friend deter him when he set out to conquer, but\n because the term itself brought to mind the word \"fiance,\" and the word\n \"fiance\" brought to mind still another word, one which repelled him\n violently. I.e., \"marriage\". Just the same, he decided to keep Taine's\nHistory\nunder observation for a while.\nHer boy friend turned out to be her girl friend, and her girl friend\n turned out to be a tall and lissome, lovely with a Helenesque air of\n her own. From the vantage point of a strategically located reading\n table, where he was keeping company with his favorite little magazine,\nThe Zeitgeist\n, Quidley watched her take a seemingly haphazard route\n to the shelf where Taine's\nHistory\nreposed, take the volume down,\n surreptitiously slip a folded sheet of yellow paper between its pages\n and return it to the shelf.", "After coming in the door, the girl deposited a book on the librarian's\n desk and headed for the literature section. Quickly Quidley lowered\n his eyes to the\nAnabasis\nand henceforth followed her progress out of\n their corners. When she came to the O's she paused, took down a book\n and glanced through it. Then she replaced it and moved on to the\n P's ... the Q's ... the R's. Barely three feet from him she paused\n again and took down Taine's\nHistory of English Literature\n.\n\n\n He simply could not believe it. The odds against two persons taking an\n interest in so esoteric a volume on a single night in a single library\n were ten thousand to one. And yet there was no gainsaying that the\n volume was in the girl's hands, and that she was riffling through it\n with the air of a seasoned browser.", "Presently she returned the book to the shelf, selected\n another—seemingly at random—and took it over to the librarian's desk.\n She waited statuesquely while the librarian processed it, then tucked\n it under her arm and whisked out the door into the misty April night.\n As soon as she disappeared, Quidley stepped over to the T's and took\n Taine down once more. Just as he had suspected. The makeshift bookmark\n was gone.\n\n\n He remembered how the asdf-;lkj exercise had given way to several lines\n of gibberish and then reappeared again. A camouflaged message? Or was\n it merely what it appeared to be on the surface—the efforts of an\n impatient typing student to type before his time?", "\"They weren't messages. They were requisitions. I'm the ship's stock\n girl.\"\nApril fields stretched darkly away on either side of the highway.\n Presently she turned down a rutted road between two of them and they\n bounced and swayed back to a black blur of trees. \"Here we are,\" she\n said.\n\n\n Gradually he made out the sphere. It blended so flawlessly with its\n background that he wouldn't have been able to see it at all if he\n hadn't been informed of its existence. A gangplank sloped down from an\n open lock and came to rest just within the fringe of the trees.\n\n\n Lights danced in the darkness behind them as another car jounced down\n the rutted road. \"Jilka,\" Kay said. \"I wonder if she got him.\"", "It was some time before he returned to reality, and when he did the\n first thing that met his eyes was the uncompromisingly blank sheet of\n paper. Hurriedly he typed out a letter to his father, requesting an\n advance on his allowance, then, after a tall glass of vintage wine, he\n went to bed.\nIn telling him that she would be in town two nights hence, Kay had\n unwittingly apprised him that there would be no exchange of messages\n until that time, so the next evening he skipped his vigil at the\n library. The following evening, however, after readying his apartment\n for the forthcoming assignation, he hied himself to his reading-table\n post and took up\nThe Zeitgeist\nonce again.\n\n\n He had not thought it possible that there could be a third such woman.", "On page 21 of the Taine tome he happened upon a sheet of yellow copy\n paper folded in four. Unfolding it, he read:\nasdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj\n Cai: Sities towms copeis wotnid. Gind snoll doper nckli! Wilbe Fieu\n Dayol fot ig habe mot toseo knwo—te bijk weil en snoll doper—Klio,\n asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj\nSince when, Quidley wondered, refolding the paper and putting it back\n in the book, had high-school typing students taken to reading Taine?\n Thoughtfully he replaced the book on the shelf and moved deeper into\n the literature section.\n\n\n He had just taken down Xenophon's\nAnabasis\nwhen he saw the girl walk\n in the door.", "He wondered what her reaction would be if he asked her point-blank what\n a\nsnoll doper\nwas; whether she would reveal the nature of the amateur\n secret society to which she and Klio and Yoolna and Gorka belonged.\n It virtually had to be an amateur secret society. Unless, of course,\n they were foreigners. But what on earth foreign organization would be\n quixotic enough to employ Taine's\nHistory of English Literature\nas a\n communications medium when there was a telephone in every drugstore and\n a mailbox on every corner?\n\n\n Somehow the words \"what on earth foreign organization\" got turned\n around in his mind and became \"what foreign organization on earth\" and\n before he could summon his common sense to succor him, he experienced\n a rather bad moment. By the time the door chimes sounded he was his\n normal self again.", "The camouflage had varied, but the message was typical enough:\nfdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; Cai: Gind\n en snoll doper nckli! Wotnid antwaterer Fieu Dayol hid jestig snoll\n doper ifedererer te. Dep gogensplo snoll dopers ensing!—Gorka. fdsa\n jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl;\nJudging from the repeated use of the words,\nsnoll dopers\nwere the\n topic of the day. Annoyed, Quidley replaced the message and put the\n book back on the shelf. Then he returned to his apartment to await Kay.", "He refolded the paper, replaced it between the pages, returned the book\n to the shelf and went back to the reading table and\nThe Zeitgeist\n.\n\n\n Kay didn't show up till almost closing time, and he was beginning\n to think that perhaps she wouldn't come around for the pickup till\n tomorrow when she finally walked in the door. She employed the same\n tactics she had employed the previous night, arriving, as though by\n chance, at the T-section and transferring the message with the same\n undetectable legerdemain to her purse. This time, when she walked out\n the door, he was not far behind her.\n\n\n She climbed into a sleek convertible and pulled into the street. It\n took him but a moment to gain his hardtop and start out after her.\n When, several blocks later, she pulled to the curb in front of an\n all-night coffee bar, he followed suit. After that, it was merely a\n matter of following her inside.", "You could hardly call Kay a girl scout, though.\n\n\n Nevertheless, she was the key figure in the\nsnoll-doper\nenigma. The\n fact annoyed him, especially when he considered that a\nsnoll doper\n,\n for all he knew, could be anything from a Chinese fortune cooky to an\n H-bomb.\n\n\n He remembered Kay's odd accent. Was that the way a person would speak\n English if her own language ran something like \"\nist ifedereret, hid\n jestig snoll doper adwo\n?\"\n\n\n He remembered the way she had looked at him in the coffee bar.\n\n\n He remembered the material of her dress.\n\n\n He remembered how she had come to his room.", "He returned Taine to the shelf. After learning from the librarian that\n the girl's name was Kay Smith, he went out and got in his hardtop. The\n name rang a bell. Halfway home he realized why. The typing exercise had\n contained the word \"Cai\", and if you pronounced it with hard c, you got\n \"Kai\"—or \"Kay\". Obviously, then, the exercise had been a message, and\n had been deliberately inserted in a book no average person would dream\n of borrowing.\n\n\n By whom—her boy friend?", "The Girls From Fieu Dayol\nBy ROBERT F. YOUNG\nThey were lovely and quick\n\n to learn—and their only\n\n faults were little ones!\n\n\n [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nUp until the moment when he first looked into Hippolyte Adolphe Taine's\nHistory of English Literature\n, Herbert Quidley's penchant for old\n books had netted him nothing in the way of romance and intrigue.\n Not that he was a stranger to either. Far from it. But hitherto the\n background for both had been bedrooms and bars, not libraries.", "Let it be said forthwith that old books were not the only item on\n Herbert Quidley's penchant-list. He liked old wood, too, and old\n paintings, not to mention old wine and old whiskey. But most of all he\n liked young girls. He especially liked them when they looked the way\n Helen of Troy must have looked when Paris took one gander at her and\n started building his ladder. This one was tall, with hyacinth hair and\n liquid blue eyes, and she had a Grecian symmetry of shape that would\n have made Paris' eyes pop had he been around to take notice. Paris\n wasn't, but Quidley's eyes, did the job.", "They touched glasses: \"Your liquor is as exquisite as your living room,\n Herbert. I shall have to come here more often.\" \"I hope you will, Kay.\"\n \"Though such conduct, I'm told, is morally reprehensible on the planet\n Earth.\" \"Not in this particular circle. Your hair is lovely.\" \"Thank\n you.... You haven't mentioned my perfume yet. Perhaps I'm standing too\n far away.... There!\" \"It's—it's as lovely as your hair, Kay.\" \"Um,\n kiss me again.\" \"I—I never figured—I mean, I engaged a caterer to\n serve us dinner at 9:30.\" \"Call him up. Make it 10:30.\"\nThe following evening found Quidley on tenter-hooks. The\nsnoll-doper\nmystery had acquired a new tang. He could hardly wait till the next\n message transfer took place.", "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ....\n\n\n Message no. 4, except for a slight variation in camouflage, ran true to\n form:\na;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj Cai: Habe te snoll dopers ensing?\n Wotnid ne Fieu Dayol ist ifederereret, hid jestig snoll doper. Gind\n ed, olro—Jilka. a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj\nQuidley sighed. What, he asked himself, standing in the library aisle\n and staring at the indecipherable words, was a normal girl like Kay\n doing in such a childish secret society? From the way she and her\n correspondents carried on you'd almost think they were Martian girl\n scouts on an interplanetary camping trip, trying for their merit badges\n in communications!", "He went over to the sideboard, picked up the bottle of bourbon. She\n followed. He set the two snifter glasses side by side and tilted the\n bottle. \"Say when.\" \"When!\" \"I admire your dress—never saw anything\n quite like it.\" \"Thank you. The material is something new. Feel it.\"\n \"It's—it's almost like foam rubber. Cigarette?\" \"Thanks.... Is\n something wrong, Mr. Quidley?\" \"No, of course not. Why?\" \"Your hands\n are trembling.\" \"Oh. I'm—I'm afraid it's the present company, Miss\n Smith.\" \"Call me Kay.\"", "\"I didn't know you had a taste for Taine.\"\nHer voice seemed to come from far away, but she was standing right\n beside him, tall and bewitching; Helenesque as ever. Her blue eyes\n became great wells into which he found himself falling. With an effort,\n he pulled himself back. \"You're early tonight,\" he said lamely.\n\n\n She appropriated the message, read it. \"Put the book back,\" she said\n presently. Then, when he complied: \"Come on.\"\n\n\n \"Where are we going?\"\n\n\n \"I'm going to deliver a\nsnoll doper\nto Jilka. After that I'm going to\n take you home to meet my folks.\"\n\n\n The relieved sigh he heard was his own.\n\n\n They climbed into her convertible and she nosed it into the moving line\n of cars. \"How long have you been reading my mail?\" she asked.", "And yet there she was, walking in the door, tall and blue-eyed and\n graceful; dark of hair and noble of mien; browsing in the philosophy\n section now, now the fiction section, now moving leisurely into the\n literature aisle and toward the T's....", "\"Not famous profiles, you understand. Just profiles that strike my\n fancy.\" He paused. She had raised her cup to her lips and was taking a\n dainty sip. \"You have a rather striking profile yourself, Miss—\"\n\n\n \"Smith. Kay Smith.\" She set the cup back on the counter and turned and\n faced him. For a second her eyes seemed to expand till they preoccupied\n his entire vision, till he could see nothing but their disturbingly\n clear—and suddenly cold—blueness. Panic touched him, then vanished\n when she said, \"Would you really consider word-painting\nmy\nprofile,\n Mr. Quidley?\"\nWould\nhe! \"When can I call?\"\n\n\n She hesitated for a moment. Then: \"I think it will be better if I call\n on you. There are quite a number of people living in our—our house.\n I'm afraid the quarters would be much too cramped for an artist like\n yourself to concentrate.\"", "on display, trying to force its way into the jammed interior....\nCut\n to interior.\nFIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Tell me quickly, are there any\n more copies of the new Herbert Quidley left? BOOK CLERK: A few. You\n don't know how lucky you are to get here before the first printing ran\n out. FIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Give me a dozen. I want to make sure that\n my children and my children's children have a plentiful supply. BOOK\n CLERK: Sorry. Only one to a customer. Next? SECOND EAGER CUSTOMER: Tell\n me quickly, are ... there ... any ... more ... copies ... of—" ], [ "They touched glasses: \"Your liquor is as exquisite as your living room,\n Herbert. I shall have to come here more often.\" \"I hope you will, Kay.\"\n \"Though such conduct, I'm told, is morally reprehensible on the planet\n Earth.\" \"Not in this particular circle. Your hair is lovely.\" \"Thank\n you.... You haven't mentioned my perfume yet. Perhaps I'm standing too\n far away.... There!\" \"It's—it's as lovely as your hair, Kay.\" \"Um,\n kiss me again.\" \"I—I never figured—I mean, I engaged a caterer to\n serve us dinner at 9:30.\" \"Call him up. Make it 10:30.\"\nThe following evening found Quidley on tenter-hooks. The\nsnoll-doper\nmystery had acquired a new tang. He could hardly wait till the next\n message transfer took place.", "You could hardly call Kay a girl scout, though.\n\n\n Nevertheless, she was the key figure in the\nsnoll-doper\nenigma. The\n fact annoyed him, especially when he considered that a\nsnoll doper\n,\n for all he knew, could be anything from a Chinese fortune cooky to an\n H-bomb.\n\n\n He remembered Kay's odd accent. Was that the way a person would speak\n English if her own language ran something like \"\nist ifedereret, hid\n jestig snoll doper adwo\n?\"\n\n\n He remembered the way she had looked at him in the coffee bar.\n\n\n He remembered the material of her dress.\n\n\n He remembered how she had come to his room.", "He refolded the paper, replaced it between the pages, returned the book\n to the shelf and went back to the reading table and\nThe Zeitgeist\n.\n\n\n Kay didn't show up till almost closing time, and he was beginning\n to think that perhaps she wouldn't come around for the pickup till\n tomorrow when she finally walked in the door. She employed the same\n tactics she had employed the previous night, arriving, as though by\n chance, at the T-section and transferring the message with the same\n undetectable legerdemain to her purse. This time, when she walked out\n the door, he was not far behind her.\n\n\n She climbed into a sleek convertible and pulled into the street. It\n took him but a moment to gain his hardtop and start out after her.\n When, several blocks later, she pulled to the curb in front of an\n all-night coffee bar, he followed suit. After that, it was merely a\n matter of following her inside.", "It was some time before he returned to reality, and when he did the\n first thing that met his eyes was the uncompromisingly blank sheet of\n paper. Hurriedly he typed out a letter to his father, requesting an\n advance on his allowance, then, after a tall glass of vintage wine, he\n went to bed.\nIn telling him that she would be in town two nights hence, Kay had\n unwittingly apprised him that there would be no exchange of messages\n until that time, so the next evening he skipped his vigil at the\n library. The following evening, however, after readying his apartment\n for the forthcoming assignation, he hied himself to his reading-table\n post and took up\nThe Zeitgeist\nonce again.\n\n\n He had not thought it possible that there could be a third such woman.", "He returned Taine to the shelf. After learning from the librarian that\n the girl's name was Kay Smith, he went out and got in his hardtop. The\n name rang a bell. Halfway home he realized why. The typing exercise had\n contained the word \"Cai\", and if you pronounced it with hard c, you got\n \"Kai\"—or \"Kay\". Obviously, then, the exercise had been a message, and\n had been deliberately inserted in a book no average person would dream\n of borrowing.\n\n\n By whom—her boy friend?", "He watched her get out, walk up the walk to the entrance and let\n herself in. He leaned his head back on the seat, lit a cigarette and\n exhaled a mixture of smoke and relief. On the way to meet her folks.\n So it was just an ordinary secret society after all. And here he'd\n been thinking that she was the key figure in a Martian plot to blow up\n Earth—\n\n\n Her\nfolks\n!\n\n\n Abruptly the full implication of the words got through to him, and he\n sat bolt-up-right on the seat. He was starting to climb out of the car\n when he saw Kay coming down the walk. Anyway, running away wouldn't\n solve his problem. A complete disappearing act was in order, and a\n complete disappearing act would take time. Meanwhile he would play\n along with her.\nA station wagon came up behind them, slowed, and matched its speed\n with theirs. \"Someone's following us,\" Quidley said.\n\n\n \"Probably Jilka.\"", "Quidley winced. He was allergic to the term. Not that he ever let the\n presence of a boy friend deter him when he set out to conquer, but\n because the term itself brought to mind the word \"fiance,\" and the word\n \"fiance\" brought to mind still another word, one which repelled him\n violently. I.e., \"marriage\". Just the same, he decided to keep Taine's\nHistory\nunder observation for a while.\nHer boy friend turned out to be her girl friend, and her girl friend\n turned out to be a tall and lissome, lovely with a Helenesque air of\n her own. From the vantage point of a strategically located reading\n table, where he was keeping company with his favorite little magazine,\nThe Zeitgeist\n, Quidley watched her take a seemingly haphazard route\n to the shelf where Taine's\nHistory\nreposed, take the volume down,\n surreptitiously slip a folded sheet of yellow paper between its pages\n and return it to the shelf.", "He went over to the sideboard, picked up the bottle of bourbon. She\n followed. He set the two snifter glasses side by side and tilted the\n bottle. \"Say when.\" \"When!\" \"I admire your dress—never saw anything\n quite like it.\" \"Thank you. The material is something new. Feel it.\"\n \"It's—it's almost like foam rubber. Cigarette?\" \"Thanks.... Is\n something wrong, Mr. Quidley?\" \"No, of course not. Why?\" \"Your hands\n are trembling.\" \"Oh. I'm—I'm afraid it's the present company, Miss\n Smith.\" \"Call me Kay.\"", "Let it be said forthwith that old books were not the only item on\n Herbert Quidley's penchant-list. He liked old wood, too, and old\n paintings, not to mention old wine and old whiskey. But most of all he\n liked young girls. He especially liked them when they looked the way\n Helen of Troy must have looked when Paris took one gander at her and\n started building his ladder. This one was tall, with hyacinth hair and\n liquid blue eyes, and she had a Grecian symmetry of shape that would\n have made Paris' eyes pop had he been around to take notice. Paris\n wasn't, but Quidley's eyes, did the job.", "\"I didn't know you had a taste for Taine.\"\nHer voice seemed to come from far away, but she was standing right\n beside him, tall and bewitching; Helenesque as ever. Her blue eyes\n became great wells into which he found himself falling. With an effort,\n he pulled himself back. \"You're early tonight,\" he said lamely.\n\n\n She appropriated the message, read it. \"Put the book back,\" she said\n presently. Then, when he complied: \"Come on.\"\n\n\n \"Where are we going?\"\n\n\n \"I'm going to deliver a\nsnoll doper\nto Jilka. After that I'm going to\n take you home to meet my folks.\"\n\n\n The relieved sigh he heard was his own.\n\n\n They climbed into her convertible and she nosed it into the moving line\n of cars. \"How long have you been reading my mail?\" she asked.", "After coming in the door, the girl deposited a book on the librarian's\n desk and headed for the literature section. Quickly Quidley lowered\n his eyes to the\nAnabasis\nand henceforth followed her progress out of\n their corners. When she came to the O's she paused, took down a book\n and glanced through it. Then she replaced it and moved on to the\n P's ... the Q's ... the R's. Barely three feet from him she paused\n again and took down Taine's\nHistory of English Literature\n.\n\n\n He simply could not believe it. The odds against two persons taking an\n interest in so esoteric a volume on a single night in a single library\n were ten thousand to one. And yet there was no gainsaying that the\n volume was in the girl's hands, and that she was riffling through it\n with the air of a seasoned browser.", "He decided on Operation Spill-the-sugar. It had stood him in good stead\n before, and he was rather fond of it. The procedure was quite simple.\n First you took note of the position of the sugar dispensers, then you\n situated yourself so that your intended victim was between you and the\n nearest one, then you ordered coffee without sugar in a low voice, and\n after the counterman or countergirl had served you, you waited till\n he/she was out of earshot and asked your i.v. to please pass the sugar.\n When she did so you let the dispenser slip from your fingers in such a\n way that some of its contents spilled on her lap—\n\n\n \"I'm terribly sorry,\" he said, righting it. \"Here, let me brush it off.\"\n\"It's all right, it's only sugar,\" she said, laughing.", "Apparently she had. At least there was a man with her—a rather\n woebegone, wilted creature who didn't even look up as they passed.\n Quidley watched them ascend the gangplank, the man in the lead, and\n disappear into the ship.\n\n\n \"Next,\" Kay said.\n\n\n Quidley shook his head. \"You're not taking\nme\nto another planet!\"\n\n\n She opened her purse and pulled out a small metallic object \"A\n little while ago you asked me what a\nsnoll doper\nwas,\" she said.\n \"Unfortunately interstellar law severely limits us in our choice of\n marriageable males, and we can take only those who refuse to conform\n to the sexual mores of their own societies.\" She did something to the\n object that caused it to extend itself into a long, tubular affair.\n \"\nThis\nis a\nsnoll doper\n.\"\n\n\n She prodded his ribs. \"March,\" she said.", "He wondered what her reaction would be if he asked her point-blank what\n a\nsnoll doper\nwas; whether she would reveal the nature of the amateur\n secret society to which she and Klio and Yoolna and Gorka belonged.\n It virtually had to be an amateur secret society. Unless, of course,\n they were foreigners. But what on earth foreign organization would be\n quixotic enough to employ Taine's\nHistory of English Literature\nas a\n communications medium when there was a telephone in every drugstore and\n a mailbox on every corner?\n\n\n Somehow the words \"what on earth foreign organization\" got turned\n around in his mind and became \"what foreign organization on earth\" and\n before he could summon his common sense to succor him, he experienced\n a rather bad moment. By the time the door chimes sounded he was his\n normal self again.", "Presently she returned the book to the shelf, selected\n another—seemingly at random—and took it over to the librarian's desk.\n She waited statuesquely while the librarian processed it, then tucked\n it under her arm and whisked out the door into the misty April night.\n As soon as she disappeared, Quidley stepped over to the T's and took\n Taine down once more. Just as he had suspected. The makeshift bookmark\n was gone.\n\n\n He remembered how the asdf-;lkj exercise had given way to several lines\n of gibberish and then reappeared again. A camouflaged message? Or was\n it merely what it appeared to be on the surface—the efforts of an\n impatient typing student to type before his time?", "The Girls From Fieu Dayol\nBy ROBERT F. YOUNG\nThey were lovely and quick\n\n to learn—and their only\n\n faults were little ones!\n\n\n [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nUp until the moment when he first looked into Hippolyte Adolphe Taine's\nHistory of English Literature\n, Herbert Quidley's penchant for old\n books had netted him nothing in the way of romance and intrigue.\n Not that he was a stranger to either. Far from it. But hitherto the\n background for both had been bedrooms and bars, not libraries.", "The camouflage had varied, but the message was typical enough:\nfdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; Cai: Gind\n en snoll doper nckli! Wotnid antwaterer Fieu Dayol hid jestig snoll\n doper ifedererer te. Dep gogensplo snoll dopers ensing!—Gorka. fdsa\n jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl;\nJudging from the repeated use of the words,\nsnoll dopers\nwere the\n topic of the day. Annoyed, Quidley replaced the message and put the\n book back on the shelf. Then he returned to his apartment to await Kay.", "Quidley glowed. Usually it required two or three days, and sometimes a\n week, to reach the apartment phase. \"Fine,\" he said. \"When can I expect\n you?\"\n\n\n She stood up and he got to his feet beside her. She was even taller\n than he had thought. In fact, if he hadn't been wearing Cuban heels,\n she'd have been taller than he was. \"I'll be in town night after next,\"\n she said. \"Will nine o'clock be convenient for you?\"\n\n\n \"Perfectly.\"\n\n\n \"Good-by for now then, Mr. Quidley.\"", "\"Not famous profiles, you understand. Just profiles that strike my\n fancy.\" He paused. She had raised her cup to her lips and was taking a\n dainty sip. \"You have a rather striking profile yourself, Miss—\"\n\n\n \"Smith. Kay Smith.\" She set the cup back on the counter and turned and\n faced him. For a second her eyes seemed to expand till they preoccupied\n his entire vision, till he could see nothing but their disturbingly\n clear—and suddenly cold—blueness. Panic touched him, then vanished\n when she said, \"Would you really consider word-painting\nmy\nprofile,\n Mr. Quidley?\"\nWould\nhe! \"When can I call?\"\n\n\n She hesitated for a moment. Then: \"I think it will be better if I call\n on you. There are quite a number of people living in our—our house.\n I'm afraid the quarters would be much too cramped for an artist like\n yourself to concentrate.\"", "After she left he wasted no time in acquainting himself with the second\n message. It was as unintelligible as the first:\nasdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Cai: Habe\n wotnid ig ist ending ifedererer te. T'lide sid Fieu Dayol po jestig\n toseo knwo, bijk weil en snoll doper entling—Yoolna. asdf ;lkj asdf\n ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj\nWell, perhaps not quite as unintelligible. He knew, at least, who Cai\n was, and he knew—from the reappearance of the words\nwotnid\n," ], [ "He wondered what her reaction would be if he asked her point-blank what\n a\nsnoll doper\nwas; whether she would reveal the nature of the amateur\n secret society to which she and Klio and Yoolna and Gorka belonged.\n It virtually had to be an amateur secret society. Unless, of course,\n they were foreigners. But what on earth foreign organization would be\n quixotic enough to employ Taine's\nHistory of English Literature\nas a\n communications medium when there was a telephone in every drugstore and\n a mailbox on every corner?\n\n\n Somehow the words \"what on earth foreign organization\" got turned\n around in his mind and became \"what foreign organization on earth\" and\n before he could summon his common sense to succor him, he experienced\n a rather bad moment. By the time the door chimes sounded he was his\n normal self again.", "\"Since the night before I met you.\"\n\n\n \"Was that the reason you spilled the sugar?\"\n\n\n \"Part of the reason,\" he said. \"What's a\nsnoll doper\n?\"\n\n\n She laughed. \"I don't think I'd better tell you just yet.\"\n\n\n He sighed again. \"But if Jilka wanted a\nsnoll doper\n,\" he said after a\n while, \"why in the world didn't she call you up and say so?\"\n\n\n \"Regulations.\" She pulled over to the curb in front of a brick\n apartment building. \"This is where Jilka lives. I'll explain when I get\n back.\"", "Apparently she had. At least there was a man with her—a rather\n woebegone, wilted creature who didn't even look up as they passed.\n Quidley watched them ascend the gangplank, the man in the lead, and\n disappear into the ship.\n\n\n \"Next,\" Kay said.\n\n\n Quidley shook his head. \"You're not taking\nme\nto another planet!\"\n\n\n She opened her purse and pulled out a small metallic object \"A\n little while ago you asked me what a\nsnoll doper\nwas,\" she said.\n \"Unfortunately interstellar law severely limits us in our choice of\n marriageable males, and we can take only those who refuse to conform\n to the sexual mores of their own societies.\" She did something to the\n object that caused it to extend itself into a long, tubular affair.\n \"\nThis\nis a\nsnoll doper\n.\"\n\n\n She prodded his ribs. \"March,\" she said.", "You could hardly call Kay a girl scout, though.\n\n\n Nevertheless, she was the key figure in the\nsnoll-doper\nenigma. The\n fact annoyed him, especially when he considered that a\nsnoll doper\n,\n for all he knew, could be anything from a Chinese fortune cooky to an\n H-bomb.\n\n\n He remembered Kay's odd accent. Was that the way a person would speak\n English if her own language ran something like \"\nist ifedereret, hid\n jestig snoll doper adwo\n?\"\n\n\n He remembered the way she had looked at him in the coffee bar.\n\n\n He remembered the material of her dress.\n\n\n He remembered how she had come to his room.", "\"I didn't know you had a taste for Taine.\"\nHer voice seemed to come from far away, but she was standing right\n beside him, tall and bewitching; Helenesque as ever. Her blue eyes\n became great wells into which he found himself falling. With an effort,\n he pulled himself back. \"You're early tonight,\" he said lamely.\n\n\n She appropriated the message, read it. \"Put the book back,\" she said\n presently. Then, when he complied: \"Come on.\"\n\n\n \"Where are we going?\"\n\n\n \"I'm going to deliver a\nsnoll doper\nto Jilka. After that I'm going to\n take you home to meet my folks.\"\n\n\n The relieved sigh he heard was his own.\n\n\n They climbed into her convertible and she nosed it into the moving line\n of cars. \"How long have you been reading my mail?\" she asked.", "Fieu\n Dayol\nand\nsnoll doper\n—that the two communications were in the\n same code. And certainly it was reasonable to assume that the last\n word—\nYoolna\n—was the name of the girl he had just seen, and that\n she was a different person from the\nKlio\nwhose name had appended the\n first message.", "The camouflage had varied, but the message was typical enough:\nfdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; Cai: Gind\n en snoll doper nckli! Wotnid antwaterer Fieu Dayol hid jestig snoll\n doper ifedererer te. Dep gogensplo snoll dopers ensing!—Gorka. fdsa\n jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl;\nJudging from the repeated use of the words,\nsnoll dopers\nwere the\n topic of the day. Annoyed, Quidley replaced the message and put the\n book back on the shelf. Then he returned to his apartment to await Kay.", "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ....\n\n\n Message no. 4, except for a slight variation in camouflage, ran true to\n form:\na;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj Cai: Habe te snoll dopers ensing?\n Wotnid ne Fieu Dayol ist ifederereret, hid jestig snoll doper. Gind\n ed, olro—Jilka. a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj\nQuidley sighed. What, he asked himself, standing in the library aisle\n and staring at the indecipherable words, was a normal girl like Kay\n doing in such a childish secret society? From the way she and her\n correspondents carried on you'd almost think they were Martian girl\n scouts on an interplanetary camping trip, trying for their merit badges\n in communications!", "They touched glasses: \"Your liquor is as exquisite as your living room,\n Herbert. I shall have to come here more often.\" \"I hope you will, Kay.\"\n \"Though such conduct, I'm told, is morally reprehensible on the planet\n Earth.\" \"Not in this particular circle. Your hair is lovely.\" \"Thank\n you.... You haven't mentioned my perfume yet. Perhaps I'm standing too\n far away.... There!\" \"It's—it's as lovely as your hair, Kay.\" \"Um,\n kiss me again.\" \"I—I never figured—I mean, I engaged a caterer to\n serve us dinner at 9:30.\" \"Call him up. Make it 10:30.\"\nThe following evening found Quidley on tenter-hooks. The\nsnoll-doper\nmystery had acquired a new tang. He could hardly wait till the next\n message transfer took place.", "He decided on Operation Spill-the-sugar. It had stood him in good stead\n before, and he was rather fond of it. The procedure was quite simple.\n First you took note of the position of the sugar dispensers, then you\n situated yourself so that your intended victim was between you and the\n nearest one, then you ordered coffee without sugar in a low voice, and\n after the counterman or countergirl had served you, you waited till\n he/she was out of earshot and asked your i.v. to please pass the sugar.\n When she did so you let the dispenser slip from your fingers in such a\n way that some of its contents spilled on her lap—\n\n\n \"I'm terribly sorry,\" he said, righting it. \"Here, let me brush it off.\"\n\"It's all right, it's only sugar,\" she said, laughing.", "After she left he wasted no time in acquainting himself with the second\n message. It was as unintelligible as the first:\nasdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Cai: Habe\n wotnid ig ist ending ifedererer te. T'lide sid Fieu Dayol po jestig\n toseo knwo, bijk weil en snoll doper entling—Yoolna. asdf ;lkj asdf\n ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj\nWell, perhaps not quite as unintelligible. He knew, at least, who Cai\n was, and he knew—from the reappearance of the words\nwotnid\n,", "Quidley winced. He was allergic to the term. Not that he ever let the\n presence of a boy friend deter him when he set out to conquer, but\n because the term itself brought to mind the word \"fiance,\" and the word\n \"fiance\" brought to mind still another word, one which repelled him\n violently. I.e., \"marriage\". Just the same, he decided to keep Taine's\nHistory\nunder observation for a while.\nHer boy friend turned out to be her girl friend, and her girl friend\n turned out to be a tall and lissome, lovely with a Helenesque air of\n her own. From the vantage point of a strategically located reading\n table, where he was keeping company with his favorite little magazine,\nThe Zeitgeist\n, Quidley watched her take a seemingly haphazard route\n to the shelf where Taine's\nHistory\nreposed, take the volume down,\n surreptitiously slip a folded sheet of yellow paper between its pages\n and return it to the shelf.", "On page 21 of the Taine tome he happened upon a sheet of yellow copy\n paper folded in four. Unfolding it, he read:\nasdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj\n Cai: Sities towms copeis wotnid. Gind snoll doper nckli! Wilbe Fieu\n Dayol fot ig habe mot toseo knwo—te bijk weil en snoll doper—Klio,\n asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj\nSince when, Quidley wondered, refolding the paper and putting it back\n in the book, had high-school typing students taken to reading Taine?\n Thoughtfully he replaced the book on the shelf and moved deeper into\n the literature section.\n\n\n He had just taken down Xenophon's\nAnabasis\nwhen he saw the girl walk\n in the door.", "\"I'm hopelessly clumsy,\" he continued smoothly, brushing the gleaming\n crystals from her pleated skirt, noting the clean sweep of her thighs.\n \"I beseech you to forgive me.\"\n\n\n \"You're forgiven,\" she said, and he noticed then that she spoke with a\n slight accent.\n\n\n \"If you like, you can send it to the cleaners and have them send the\n bill to me. My address is 61 Park Place.\" He pulled out his wallet,\n chose an appropriate card, and handed it to her—\nHerbert Quidley:\nProfiliste\nHer forehead crinkled. \"\nProfiliste?\n\"\n\n\n \"I paint profiles with words,\" he said. \"You may have run across some\n of my pieces in the Better Magazines. I employ a variety of pseudonyms,\n of course.\"\n\n\n \"How interesting.\" She pronounced it \"anteresting.\"", "After coming in the door, the girl deposited a book on the librarian's\n desk and headed for the literature section. Quickly Quidley lowered\n his eyes to the\nAnabasis\nand henceforth followed her progress out of\n their corners. When she came to the O's she paused, took down a book\n and glanced through it. Then she replaced it and moved on to the\n P's ... the Q's ... the R's. Barely three feet from him she paused\n again and took down Taine's\nHistory of English Literature\n.\n\n\n He simply could not believe it. The odds against two persons taking an\n interest in so esoteric a volume on a single night in a single library\n were ten thousand to one. And yet there was no gainsaying that the\n volume was in the girl's hands, and that she was riffling through it\n with the air of a seasoned browser.", "He decided to spend the evening plotting the epic novel which he\n intended to write someday. He set to work immediately. He plotted\n mentally, of course—notes were for the hacks and the other commercial\n non-geniuses who infested the modern literary world. Closing his eyes,\n he saw the whole vivid panorama of epic action and grand adventure\n flowing like a mighty and majestic river before his literary vision:\n the authentic and awe-inspiring background; the hordes of colorful\n characters; the handsome virile hero, the compelling Helenesque\n heroine.... God, it was going to be great! The best thing he'd ever\n done! See, already there was a crowd of book lovers in front of the\n bookstore, staring into the window where the new Herbert Quidley was", "He went over to the sideboard, picked up the bottle of bourbon. She\n followed. He set the two snifter glasses side by side and tilted the\n bottle. \"Say when.\" \"When!\" \"I admire your dress—never saw anything\n quite like it.\" \"Thank you. The material is something new. Feel it.\"\n \"It's—it's almost like foam rubber. Cigarette?\" \"Thanks.... Is\n something wrong, Mr. Quidley?\" \"No, of course not. Why?\" \"Your hands\n are trembling.\" \"Oh. I'm—I'm afraid it's the present company, Miss\n Smith.\" \"Call me Kay.\"", "He straightened his tie with nervous fingers, checked to see if his\n shirt cuffs protruded the proper length from his coat sleeves, and\n looked around the room to see if everything was in place. Everything\n was—the typewriter uncovered and centered on the chrome-trimmed desk,\n with the sheaf of crinkly first-sheets beside it; the reference books\n stacked imposingly nearby;\nHarper's\n,\nThe Atlantic\nand\nThe Saturday\n Review\nshowing conspicuously in the magazine rack; the newly opened\n bottle of bourbon and the two snifter glasses on the sideboard; the\n small table set cozily for two—\nThe chimes sounded again. He opened the door.\n\n\n She walked in with a demure, \"Hello.\" He took her wrap. When he saw\n what she was wearing he had to tilt his head back so that his eyes\n wouldn't fall out of their sockets.", "Presently she returned the book to the shelf, selected\n another—seemingly at random—and took it over to the librarian's desk.\n She waited statuesquely while the librarian processed it, then tucked\n it under her arm and whisked out the door into the misty April night.\n As soon as she disappeared, Quidley stepped over to the T's and took\n Taine down once more. Just as he had suspected. The makeshift bookmark\n was gone.\n\n\n He remembered how the asdf-;lkj exercise had given way to several lines\n of gibberish and then reappeared again. A camouflaged message? Or was\n it merely what it appeared to be on the surface—the efforts of an\n impatient typing student to type before his time?", "Let it be said forthwith that old books were not the only item on\n Herbert Quidley's penchant-list. He liked old wood, too, and old\n paintings, not to mention old wine and old whiskey. But most of all he\n liked young girls. He especially liked them when they looked the way\n Helen of Troy must have looked when Paris took one gander at her and\n started building his ladder. This one was tall, with hyacinth hair and\n liquid blue eyes, and she had a Grecian symmetry of shape that would\n have made Paris' eyes pop had he been around to take notice. Paris\n wasn't, but Quidley's eyes, did the job." ] ]
test	63605	[ "What is Eric's main internal conflict as the story opens?", "The illusions that Eric sees are not real, and a part of him knows that. What finally makes him realize that the illusions are not part of reality?", "Why do the people of the city try to harm Eric even after enticing him to enter the gates?", "Once escaping the city and regaining his senses, Eric decides that he will", "Once he returns to his ship, why does Eric not leave immediately?", "Once making the return to the city after visiting his ship, Eric", "When he initially sees his brother upon returning to the city, Eric", "Who does Garve tell Eric is waiting for him?", "Even though it would be an effective way to escape the situation, why does Eric not use his gun?", "Why do the elders believe it is time for the machine to be destroyed?" ]	[ [ "He longs to become a part of the city, but his instincts warn him against it.", "He wants to go home, but he feels an obligation to the people of Mars and feels he must help them.", "He is conflicted as to how to deal with telling his brother about his discovery.", "He is in love with the city's leader, but he knows their relationship is doomed." ], [ "He comes to his senses after falling and hitting his head.", "When he is threatened by the people of the city, the illusions fade into reality.", "His helmet began to shield him from the illusion", "The spell placed on him by the city's people is canceled out by a potion given to him by his brother." ], [ "They realize that Eric is the man from their city's legend who will destroy them, so they feel they must destroy him first.", "The city's people feel that Eric is only there to kill their leader, so they attack first.", "The people initially believed Eric was his brother, and once they realize their mistake, killing Eric is the only way they see that they can remedy the error.", "The people of the city are known for sacrificing strangers to their gods." ], [ "Tell his brother about what happened and get his opinion as to how to proceed.", "Leave and never return.", "Try to reason with the people of the city because he knows that he belongs there.", "Destroy the city." ], [ "He is lured back to the city again.", "He has no intention of leaving. He wants to stay permanently. ", "He realizes his brother has left for the city, and he cannot go without his brother.", "He cannot leave the woman he has fallen in love with." ], [ "Has a hard time going back because he is repulsed by the city's appearance.", "Must find the will to resist the city's call to his death.", "Decides that he must save the city from the impending attack.", "Is very excited to reenter the gates." ], [ "is shocked by how repulsive his brother appears.", "is so relieved to see Garve that he lets his guard down and allows the city to get a hold of him again.", "tries to harm his brother because he does not believe that who he is seeing is truly Garve.", "immediately gets his brother and leaves for their ship." ], [ "The elders.", "The president.", "Their parents.", "Their ship's commander" ], [ "His brother warns him not to.", "He is afraid the gun could malfunction due to the oddities that have occurred in the city.", "He does not really want to harm the people of the city.", "He left the bullets back at the ship." ], [ "The people of the city need to once again learn how to struggle to gain power, and the machine prevents that.", "They can no longer maintain the machine, and destroying it is the only way to ensure that it will not harm others.", "The machine is becoming a danger to the atmosphere.", "The machine is Eric's only means to destroy the city." ] ]	[ -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1 ]	[ 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 1, 1, 0, 0, 1 ]	[ [ "He heard a familiar voice as he dropped. \"Eric,\" the voice said. \"Eric,\n you did come back.\" The voice was his brother's, and he whirled,\n seeking the voice. A figure stood before him, a twisted caricature of\n his brother. The figure cried, \"The hat! You fool, get rid of that\n hat!\" The caricature that was his brother seized the hat, and jerked\n so hard that the chin strap broke under Eric's chin. The hat was flung\n away and sailed high and far over the fence and outside the city.\n\n\n The phantasm flickered, the illusion moved. Garve was now more handsome\n than ever, and the city was a dream of delight. Garve said, \"Come,\" and\n Eric followed down a street of blue fur. He had no will to resist.\n\n\n Garve said, \"Keep your head down and your face hidden. If we meet\n someone you may not be recognized. They won't be expecting you from\n this side of the city.\"", "Eric was seen an instant later, and the people of the city began to\n converge upon him. He could have destroyed them all with his charges in\n the gun, but his brother's warning shrieked in his ears, \"If you value\n my life don't use the gun.\"\n\n\n There was nothing he could do. Eric stood quietly until he was taken\n prisoner. They moved him to the center of the wide fur street. Two men\n held his arms, and twisted painfully. The crowd looked at him, coldly,\n calculatingly. One of them said, \"Get the whips. If we whip him he will\n not come back.\" The city twinkled, and the music was so faint he could\n hardly hear it.\n\n\n There was only one weapon Eric could use. He had gathered from Garve's\n words that these people were superstitious.", "Eric clung tightly to the girl's waist. He could feel the young\n suppleness of her body, and the fine strands of her hair kept swirling\n back into his face. It had a faint perfume, a clean and heady scent\n that made him more aware of the touch of her waist. He breathed deeply,\n oddly happy as they rode.\n\n\n After five minutes ride they came to a building in the center of the\n city. The building was cubical, severe in line and architecture, and it\n contrasted oddly with the exquisite ornament of the rest of the city.\n It was as if it were a monolith from another time, a stranger crouched\n among enemies.\n\n\n The girl halted before the structure and said, \"Dismount here, Eric.\"\n\n\n Eric swung down, his arms still tingling with pleasure where he had\n held her. She said, \"Knock three times on the door. I will see you\n again inside. And thank your brother for sending me to bring you here.\"", "The man drew back the stick and struck again, and Eric's back took\n fire with the blow. The crowd chanted, \"Whips, bring the whips,\" and\n fear forced Eric to his feet. He fled then, running on the heedless\n feet of panic, outstripping those who were behind him until he passed\n through the great gates into the red dust floor of the canal. The gates\n closed behind him, and the dust beat upon him, and he paused, his heart\n hammering inside his chest like a great bell clapper. He turned and\n looked behind to be sure he was safe.\n\n\n The towers twinkled at him, and the music whispered to him, \"Come back,\n Eric North. Come back to the city.\"\n\n\n He turned and stumbled back to the great gate and hammered on it until\n his fists were raw, pleading for it to open and let him back.", "\"He loves the city. He will also stay, though he will be outside this\n building.\" Kroon clasped his hands. \"Nolette, will you show Eric his\n quarters?\"", "There was one vacant seat beside the head of the T, and as Eric\n watched, the young woman who had rescued him entered and took her place\n there. She smiled at Eric, and the room took on a warmth that it had\n lacked with only the older men present. The man at her right, obviously\n presiding here looked at Eric and spoke. \"I am Kroon, the eldest of\n the elders. We have brought you here to satisfy ourselves of your\n identity. In view of your danger in the City you are entitled to some\n sort of explanation.\" He glanced around the room and asked, \"What is\n the judgment of the elders?\"\nEric caught a faint nod here, a gesture there. Kroon nodded as if\n in satisfaction. He turned to the girl, \"And what is your opinion,\n Daughter of the City?\"\n\n\n Nolette's expression held sorrow, as if she looked into the far future.\n She said, \"He is Eric the Bronze. I have no doubt.\"", "The sword point jerked, and the sentinel straightened. His face was\n white. He cried aloud, \"It is Eric the Bronze. It is Eric of the\n Legend.\" He whirled the sword aloft, and smashed it upon Eric's metal\n hat, and the hatred was a blue flame in his eyes.\nWhen Eric regained consciousness the people of the city were all about\n him. They were very fair, and the women were more beautiful than music.\n Yet now they stared at him with red hate in their eyes. An older man\n came forward and struck at the copper hat with a stick. The clang\n deafened Eric and the man cried, \"You are right. It is Eric the Bronze.\n Bring the ships and let him be scourged from the city.\"", "Eric turned his gaze to the side and saw the woman who had spoken. She\n was mounted upon a black horse with a jeweled bridle. She was young and\n her hair was long and free in the wind. She had ridden so softly across\n the fur street that no one had been aware of her presence.\nShe said, \"Let me touch this man. Let me feel the pulse of his heart so\n that I may know if he is truly the Bronze one of the Legend. Give me\n your hand, stranger.\" She leaned down and grasped his hand. Eric shook\n his arms free, and reached up and clung to the offered hand, thinking,\n \"If I pull her down perhaps I can use her as a shield.\" He tensed his\n muscles and began to pull.\n\n\n She cried, \"No! You fool. Come up on the horse,\" and pulled back with\n an energy as fierce as his own. Then he had swung up on the horse, and\n the animal leaped forward, its muffled gallop beating out a tattoo of\n freedom.", "They ran. But as they ran figures began to converge upon them. Farther\n up the street others appeared, cutting off their flight.\n\n\n Garve cried, \"In here,\" and pulled Eric into a crevice between two\n buildings. Eric drew his gun, and savagery began to dance in his eyes.\n The soft fur muffled sounds of pursuit closed in upon them.\n\n\n Garve put one hand on Eric's gun hand and said, \"Wait here. And if you\n value my life, don't use that gun.\" Then he was gone, running deerlike\n down the street.\n\n\n For an instant Eric thought the ruse had succeeded. He heard cries and\n two men passed him running in pursuit. But then the cry came back. \"Let\n him go. Get the other one. The other one.\"", "He slid over the edge, sliding down the sloping sides of the canal.\n The rough sandstone tore at his dungarees, tore at his elbow where it\n touched but he did not feel the pain. His face was turned toward the\n towers, and the sound of his breathing was less than human.\n\n\n His feet caught a projecting bit of stone and were slowed for an\n instant, so that he turned sideways and rolled on, down into the red\n dust bottom of the canal, to lie face down in the dust, with the chin\n strap of the odd metallic hat cutting cruelly into his chin.\n\n\n He lay there an instant, knowing that now he had a chance. With his\n face down like this, and the dust smarting his eyes the image was gone\n for an instant. He had to get away, he knew that. He had to mount the\n sides of the canal and never look back.\n\n\n He told himself, \"I am Eric North, from Earth, the Third Planet of Sol,\n and this is not real.\"", "Eric asked, \"You knew I'd come after you?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. The Legend said you'd be back.\"\n\n\n Eric stopped and whirled to face his brother. \"The Legend? Eric the\n Bronze? What is this wild fantasy?\"\n\n\n \"Not so loud!\" Garve's voice cautioned him. \"Of course the crowd called\n you that because of the copper hat and your heavy tan. But the Elders\n believe so too. I don't know what it is, Eric, reincarnation, prophesy,\n superstition, I only know that when I was with the Elders I believed\n them. You are a part of a Legend. You are Eric the Bronze.\"", "Eric knocked on the door. The door was as plain as the building, made\n of a luminous plastic. It had all the beauty of the great gate door,\n but a more timeless, more functional beauty.\n\n\n The door opened and an old man greeted Eric. \"Come in. The Council\n awaits you. Follow me, please.\"\n\n\n Eric followed down a hallway and into a large room. The room was\n obviously designed for a conference room. A great table stood in the\n room, made of the same luminous plastic as the door of the building.\n Six men sat at this conference table. Eric's guide placed him in a\n chair at the base of the T-shaped table.", "Eric asked, \"And what is this Legend of Eric the Bronze? Why am I so\n despised in the city?\"\n\n\n Kroon answered, \"According to the Ancient Legend you will destroy the\n city. This, and other things.\"\n\n\n Eric gaped. No wonder the crowd had shown such hatred. But why were\n the elders so friendly? They were obviously the governing body, and if\n there was strife between them and the people it had not shown in the\n respect the crowd had accorded Nolette.", "When he came to the city there was a high wall around it, and a heavy\n gate carved with lotus blossoms. He beat against the gate and cried,\n \"Oh! Let me in. Let me in to the city!\" The music was richer now, as if\n it were everywhere, and the gate swung open without the faintest sound.\n\n\n A sentinel stood before the opened gate at the end of a long blue\n street. He was dressed in red silk with his sleeves edged in blue\n leopard skin, and he wore a belt with a jeweled short sword. He drew\n the sword from its scabbard, and bowed forward until the point of the\n sword touched the street of blue fur. He said, \"I give you the welcome\n of my sword, and the welcome of the city. Speak your name so that it\n may be set in the records of the dreamers.\"\n\n\n The music sang, and the spires twinkled, and Eric said, \"I am Eric\n North!\"", "Kroon sighed. \"The people have lost the will to learn. Many do not even\n know of the machine. Our science is almost gone, and only a few of us,\n the dreamers, the elders, have kept alive the old knowledge of the\n machine and its history. By the collected powers of our imagination we\n build and control the outward appearance of the city.\n\n\n \"We have passed this down from father to son. A part of the ancient\n Legend is that the builders made provisions for the machine to be\n destroyed when contact with outsiders had been made once again, so that\n our people would again have to struggle forward to knowledge and power.\n The instrument of destruction was to be a man termed Eric the Bronze.\n It is not that you are reborn. It is just that sometime such a man\n would come.\"", "Eric looked down at his sun tanned hands and flexed them. He loosened\n the explosive pistol in its holster. At least he was going to be a well\n armed, well prepared Legend. And while one part of his mind marveled\n at the city and relaxed into a pleasure as deep as a dream, another\n struggled with the almost forgotten desire to rescue his brother and\n escape. He asked, \"Who are the Elders?\"\n\n\n \"We are going to them, to the center of the city.\" Garve's voice\n sharpened, \"Keep your head down. I think the last two men we passed are\n looking after us. Don't look back.\"\n\n\n After a moment Garve said, \"I think they are following us. Get ready\n to run. If we are separated, keep going until you reach City Center.\n The Elders will be expecting you.\" Garve glanced back, and his voice\n sharpened, \"Now! Run!\"", "Eric asked, \"And I am to destroy the City?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. The time has come.\"\n\n\n \"But why?\" Eric demanded. For an instant he could see the twinkling\n beauty as clearly as if he had stood outside the walls of this building.\n\n\n Kroon said, \"There are difficulties. The machine builds according to\n the mass will of the people, though it is sensitive to the individual\n in areas where it does not conflict with the imagination of the mass.\n We have had strangers, visitors, and even our own people, who grew\n drunk with the power of the machine, who dreamed more and more lust and\n greed into existence. These were banished from the city, and so strong\n is the call of the city that many of them became victims of their own\n evilness, and now walk mindlessly, with no thought but to seek for the\n beauty they have lost here.\"", "Yet the danger was too great. He would go back to his ship and make the\n arrangements to destroy the city. The ship was armed, and to deliver\n indirect fire over the edge of the canal would be simple enough. Garve\n North, his brother, waited back at the ship. If he knew of the city he\n would have to go there. Eric must not take a chance on that. After they\n had blasted whatever it was that lay in the canal floor, then it would\n be time enough to tell Garve, and go down to see what was left.\n\n\n The ship rested easily on the flat sandstone area where he had\n established base camp. Its familiar lines brought a smile to Eric's\n face, a feeling of confidence now that tools and weapons were his again.\n\n\n He opened the door and entered. The lock doors were left open so that\n he could enter directly into the body of the ship. He came in in a\n swift leap, calling, \"Garve! Hey, Garve, where are you?\"", "Garve had gone down to the city, and Garve had no shielded hat. Eric\n selected two high explosive grenades from the ship's arsenal. They\n were small but they packed a lot of power. He had a pistol packed\n with smaller pellets of the same explosive, and he had the hat. That\n should be adequate. He thrust the bronze hat back on his head and began\n walking back to the canal.\nThe return back to the city would always live in his mind as a\n phantasmagora, a montage of twisted hate and unseemly beauty. When he\n came again to the gate he did not attempt to enter, but circled the\n wall, hat on, hat off, stiff limbed like a puppet dancing to the same\n tune over and over again. He found a place where he could scale the\n wall, and thrust the helmet on his head, and clawed up the misshapen\n wall. It was all he could do to make himself drop into the ugly city.", "He laughed, a great chest-shattering laugh that gusted out into the\n thin Martian air. He laughed and cried in a great voice, \"And can you\n so easily dispose of a Legend? If I am Eric of the Legend, can whips\n defeat the prophesy?\"\n\n\n There was an instant when he could have twisted loose. They stood,\n fear-bound at his words. But there was no place to hide, and without\n the use of his weapons Eric could not have gone far. He had to bluff it\n out.\nThen one of the men cried, \"Fools! It is true. We must take no chance\n with the whips. He would come back. But if he dies here before us now,\n then we may forget the prophesy.\"\n\n\n The crowd murmured and a second voice cried, \"Get the sword, get the\n guards, and kill him at once!\"" ], [ "He heard a familiar voice as he dropped. \"Eric,\" the voice said. \"Eric,\n you did come back.\" The voice was his brother's, and he whirled,\n seeking the voice. A figure stood before him, a twisted caricature of\n his brother. The figure cried, \"The hat! You fool, get rid of that\n hat!\" The caricature that was his brother seized the hat, and jerked\n so hard that the chin strap broke under Eric's chin. The hat was flung\n away and sailed high and far over the fence and outside the city.\n\n\n The phantasm flickered, the illusion moved. Garve was now more handsome\n than ever, and the city was a dream of delight. Garve said, \"Come,\" and\n Eric followed down a street of blue fur. He had no will to resist.\n\n\n Garve said, \"Keep your head down and your face hidden. If we meet\n someone you may not be recognized. They won't be expecting you from\n this side of the city.\"", "Eric was seen an instant later, and the people of the city began to\n converge upon him. He could have destroyed them all with his charges in\n the gun, but his brother's warning shrieked in his ears, \"If you value\n my life don't use the gun.\"\n\n\n There was nothing he could do. Eric stood quietly until he was taken\n prisoner. They moved him to the center of the wide fur street. Two men\n held his arms, and twisted painfully. The crowd looked at him, coldly,\n calculatingly. One of them said, \"Get the whips. If we whip him he will\n not come back.\" The city twinkled, and the music was so faint he could\n hardly hear it.\n\n\n There was only one weapon Eric could use. He had gathered from Garve's\n words that these people were superstitious.", "Kroon sighed. \"The people have lost the will to learn. Many do not even\n know of the machine. Our science is almost gone, and only a few of us,\n the dreamers, the elders, have kept alive the old knowledge of the\n machine and its history. By the collected powers of our imagination we\n build and control the outward appearance of the city.\n\n\n \"We have passed this down from father to son. A part of the ancient\n Legend is that the builders made provisions for the machine to be\n destroyed when contact with outsiders had been made once again, so that\n our people would again have to struggle forward to knowledge and power.\n The instrument of destruction was to be a man termed Eric the Bronze.\n It is not that you are reborn. It is just that sometime such a man\n would come.\"", "He stood, amazed, and put the metal hat back on his head. With the\n motion the shift took place again, and beauty was ugliness. Amazed, he\n stared at the illusion, and the thought came to him that the metal hat\n had not entirely failed him after all.\n\n\n He turned and began to walk away from the city, and when it began to\n call he took the hat off his head and found peace for a time. Then when\n it began again he replaced the hat, and revulsion sped his footsteps.\n And so, hat on, hat off, he made his way down the dusty floor of the\n canal, and up the rocky sides until he stood on the Martian desert, and\n the canal was a thin line behind him. He breathed easily then, for he\n was beyond the range of the illusions.\n\n\n And now that his mind was his own again he began to study the problem,\n and to understand something of the nature of the forces against which\n he had been pitted.", "He slid over the edge, sliding down the sloping sides of the canal.\n The rough sandstone tore at his dungarees, tore at his elbow where it\n touched but he did not feel the pain. His face was turned toward the\n towers, and the sound of his breathing was less than human.\n\n\n His feet caught a projecting bit of stone and were slowed for an\n instant, so that he turned sideways and rolled on, down into the red\n dust bottom of the canal, to lie face down in the dust, with the chin\n strap of the odd metallic hat cutting cruelly into his chin.\n\n\n He lay there an instant, knowing that now he had a chance. With his\n face down like this, and the dust smarting his eyes the image was gone\n for an instant. He had to get away, he knew that. He had to mount the\n sides of the canal and never look back.\n\n\n He told himself, \"I am Eric North, from Earth, the Third Planet of Sol,\n and this is not real.\"", "Eric turned his gaze to the side and saw the woman who had spoken. She\n was mounted upon a black horse with a jeweled bridle. She was young and\n her hair was long and free in the wind. She had ridden so softly across\n the fur street that no one had been aware of her presence.\nShe said, \"Let me touch this man. Let me feel the pulse of his heart so\n that I may know if he is truly the Bronze one of the Legend. Give me\n your hand, stranger.\" She leaned down and grasped his hand. Eric shook\n his arms free, and reached up and clung to the offered hand, thinking,\n \"If I pull her down perhaps I can use her as a shield.\" He tensed his\n muscles and began to pull.\n\n\n She cried, \"No! You fool. Come up on the horse,\" and pulled back with\n an energy as fierce as his own. Then he had swung up on the horse, and\n the animal leaped forward, its muffled gallop beating out a tattoo of\n freedom.", "Eric clung tightly to the girl's waist. He could feel the young\n suppleness of her body, and the fine strands of her hair kept swirling\n back into his face. It had a faint perfume, a clean and heady scent\n that made him more aware of the touch of her waist. He breathed deeply,\n oddly happy as they rode.\n\n\n After five minutes ride they came to a building in the center of the\n city. The building was cubical, severe in line and architecture, and it\n contrasted oddly with the exquisite ornament of the rest of the city.\n It was as if it were a monolith from another time, a stranger crouched\n among enemies.\n\n\n The girl halted before the structure and said, \"Dismount here, Eric.\"\n\n\n Eric swung down, his arms still tingling with pleasure where he had\n held her. She said, \"Knock three times on the door. I will see you\n again inside. And thank your brother for sending me to bring you here.\"", "He laughed, a great chest-shattering laugh that gusted out into the\n thin Martian air. He laughed and cried in a great voice, \"And can you\n so easily dispose of a Legend? If I am Eric of the Legend, can whips\n defeat the prophesy?\"\n\n\n There was an instant when he could have twisted loose. They stood,\n fear-bound at his words. But there was no place to hide, and without\n the use of his weapons Eric could not have gone far. He had to bluff it\n out.\nThen one of the men cried, \"Fools! It is true. We must take no chance\n with the whips. He would come back. But if he dies here before us now,\n then we may forget the prophesy.\"\n\n\n The crowd murmured and a second voice cried, \"Get the sword, get the\n guards, and kill him at once!\"", "Eric asked, \"You knew I'd come after you?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. The Legend said you'd be back.\"\n\n\n Eric stopped and whirled to face his brother. \"The Legend? Eric the\n Bronze? What is this wild fantasy?\"\n\n\n \"Not so loud!\" Garve's voice cautioned him. \"Of course the crowd called\n you that because of the copper hat and your heavy tan. But the Elders\n believe so too. I don't know what it is, Eric, reincarnation, prophesy,\n superstition, I only know that when I was with the Elders I believed\n them. You are a part of a Legend. You are Eric the Bronze.\"", "The man drew back the stick and struck again, and Eric's back took\n fire with the blow. The crowd chanted, \"Whips, bring the whips,\" and\n fear forced Eric to his feet. He fled then, running on the heedless\n feet of panic, outstripping those who were behind him until he passed\n through the great gates into the red dust floor of the canal. The gates\n closed behind him, and the dust beat upon him, and he paused, his heart\n hammering inside his chest like a great bell clapper. He turned and\n looked behind to be sure he was safe.\n\n\n The towers twinkled at him, and the music whispered to him, \"Come back,\n Eric North. Come back to the city.\"\n\n\n He turned and stumbled back to the great gate and hammered on it until\n his fists were raw, pleading for it to open and let him back.", "The helmet contained an electrical circuit, designed as a shield\n against electrical waves tuned to affect his brain. But the hat had\n failed because the city, whatever it was, had adjusted to this revised\n pattern as he had approached it. Hence, the helmet had been no defense\n against illusion. However, when he had jerked the helmet off suddenly\n to beat on the door, his mental pattern had changed, too suddenly, and\n the machine caught up only after he had glimpsed another image. Then as\n the illusion adjusted replacing the helmet threw it off again.\n\n\n He grinned wryly. He would have liked to know more about the city,\n whatever it was. He would have liked to know more about the people he\n had seen, whether they were real or part of the illusion, and if they\n were as ugly as the second city had been.", "They ran. But as they ran figures began to converge upon them. Farther\n up the street others appeared, cutting off their flight.\n\n\n Garve cried, \"In here,\" and pulled Eric into a crevice between two\n buildings. Eric drew his gun, and savagery began to dance in his eyes.\n The soft fur muffled sounds of pursuit closed in upon them.\n\n\n Garve put one hand on Eric's gun hand and said, \"Wait here. And if you\n value my life, don't use that gun.\" Then he was gone, running deerlike\n down the street.\n\n\n For an instant Eric thought the ruse had succeeded. He heard cries and\n two men passed him running in pursuit. But then the cry came back. \"Let\n him go. Get the other one. The other one.\"", "The ship remained mute. He prowled through it, calling, \"Garve,\"\n wondering where the young hothead had gone, and then he saw a note\n clipped to the control board of the ship. He tore it loose impatiently\n and began to read. Garve had scrawled:\n\n\n \"Funny thing, Eric. A while ago I thought I heard music. I walked down\n to the canal, and it seemed like there were lights, and a town of some\n sort far down the canal. I wanted to investigate, but thought I'd\n better come back. But the thing has been in my mind for hours now, and\n I'm going down to see what it is. If you want to follow, come straight\n down the canal.\"\n\n\n Eric stared at the note, and the line of his jaw was white. Apparently\n Garve had seen the city from farther away, and its effect had not been\n so strong. Even so, Garve's natural curiosity had done the rest.", "There was one vacant seat beside the head of the T, and as Eric\n watched, the young woman who had rescued him entered and took her place\n there. She smiled at Eric, and the room took on a warmth that it had\n lacked with only the older men present. The man at her right, obviously\n presiding here looked at Eric and spoke. \"I am Kroon, the eldest of\n the elders. We have brought you here to satisfy ourselves of your\n identity. In view of your danger in the City you are entitled to some\n sort of explanation.\" He glanced around the room and asked, \"What is\n the judgment of the elders?\"\nEric caught a faint nod here, a gesture there. Kroon nodded as if\n in satisfaction. He turned to the girl, \"And what is your opinion,\n Daughter of the City?\"\n\n\n Nolette's expression held sorrow, as if she looked into the far future.\n She said, \"He is Eric the Bronze. I have no doubt.\"", "And deep inside him some part of his mind said, \"This is a madness you\n cannot escape. The city is evil, an evil like you have never known,\"\n and a fear as old as time coursed through his frame.\n\n\n He seized the copper hat from his head, and beat on the lotus carvings\n of the great door, crying, \"Let me in! Please, take me back into the\n city.\"\n\n\n And as he beat the city changed. It became dull and sordid and evil, a\n city of disgust, with every part offensive to the eye. The spires and\n minarets were gargoyles of hatred, twisted and misshapen, and the sound\n of the city was a macabre song of hate.\n\n\n He stared, and his back was chill with superstitions as old as the\n beginning of man. The city flickered, changing before his eyes until it\n was beautiful again.", "The sword point jerked, and the sentinel straightened. His face was\n white. He cried aloud, \"It is Eric the Bronze. It is Eric of the\n Legend.\" He whirled the sword aloft, and smashed it upon Eric's metal\n hat, and the hatred was a blue flame in his eyes.\nWhen Eric regained consciousness the people of the city were all about\n him. They were very fair, and the women were more beautiful than music.\n Yet now they stared at him with red hate in their eyes. An older man\n came forward and struck at the copper hat with a stick. The clang\n deafened Eric and the man cried, \"You are right. It is Eric the Bronze.\n Bring the ships and let him be scourged from the city.\"", "Eric asked, \"And I am to destroy the City?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. The time has come.\"\n\n\n \"But why?\" Eric demanded. For an instant he could see the twinkling\n beauty as clearly as if he had stood outside the walls of this building.\n\n\n Kroon said, \"There are difficulties. The machine builds according to\n the mass will of the people, though it is sensitive to the individual\n in areas where it does not conflict with the imagination of the mass.\n We have had strangers, visitors, and even our own people, who grew\n drunk with the power of the machine, who dreamed more and more lust and\n greed into existence. These were banished from the city, and so strong\n is the call of the city that many of them became victims of their own\n evilness, and now walk mindlessly, with no thought but to seek for the\n beauty they have lost here.\"", "\"He loves the city. He will also stay, though he will be outside this\n building.\" Kroon clasped his hands. \"Nolette, will you show Eric his\n quarters?\"", "\"Yes, or the product of one. The heart of it lies underneath our feet,\n in caverns beneath this building. The nature of the machine is this,\n that it translates thought into reality.\"\n\n\n Eric stared. The idea was staggering.\n\n\n \"This is essentially simple, although the technology is complex. It is\n necessary to have a recording device, to capture thought, a transmuting\n device capable of transmuting the red dust of the desert into any\n sort of material desired, and a construction device, to assemble this\n material into the pattern already recorded from thought.\" Kroon paused.\n \"You still doubt, my friend. Perhaps you are thirsty after your escape.\n Think strongly of a tall glass of cold water, visualize it in your\n mind, the sight and the fluidity and the touch of it.\"\n\n\n Eric did so. Without warning a glass of water stood on the table before\n him. He touched the water to his lips. It was cool and satisfying. He\n drank it, convinced completely.", "When he came to the city there was a high wall around it, and a heavy\n gate carved with lotus blossoms. He beat against the gate and cried,\n \"Oh! Let me in. Let me in to the city!\" The music was richer now, as if\n it were everywhere, and the gate swung open without the faintest sound.\n\n\n A sentinel stood before the opened gate at the end of a long blue\n street. He was dressed in red silk with his sleeves edged in blue\n leopard skin, and he wore a belt with a jeweled short sword. He drew\n the sword from its scabbard, and bowed forward until the point of the\n sword touched the street of blue fur. He said, \"I give you the welcome\n of my sword, and the welcome of the city. Speak your name so that it\n may be set in the records of the dreamers.\"\n\n\n The music sang, and the spires twinkled, and Eric said, \"I am Eric\n North!\"" ], [ "Eric was seen an instant later, and the people of the city began to\n converge upon him. He could have destroyed them all with his charges in\n the gun, but his brother's warning shrieked in his ears, \"If you value\n my life don't use the gun.\"\n\n\n There was nothing he could do. Eric stood quietly until he was taken\n prisoner. They moved him to the center of the wide fur street. Two men\n held his arms, and twisted painfully. The crowd looked at him, coldly,\n calculatingly. One of them said, \"Get the whips. If we whip him he will\n not come back.\" The city twinkled, and the music was so faint he could\n hardly hear it.\n\n\n There was only one weapon Eric could use. He had gathered from Garve's\n words that these people were superstitious.", "The man drew back the stick and struck again, and Eric's back took\n fire with the blow. The crowd chanted, \"Whips, bring the whips,\" and\n fear forced Eric to his feet. He fled then, running on the heedless\n feet of panic, outstripping those who were behind him until he passed\n through the great gates into the red dust floor of the canal. The gates\n closed behind him, and the dust beat upon him, and he paused, his heart\n hammering inside his chest like a great bell clapper. He turned and\n looked behind to be sure he was safe.\n\n\n The towers twinkled at him, and the music whispered to him, \"Come back,\n Eric North. Come back to the city.\"\n\n\n He turned and stumbled back to the great gate and hammered on it until\n his fists were raw, pleading for it to open and let him back.", "Eric asked, \"And I am to destroy the City?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. The time has come.\"\n\n\n \"But why?\" Eric demanded. For an instant he could see the twinkling\n beauty as clearly as if he had stood outside the walls of this building.\n\n\n Kroon said, \"There are difficulties. The machine builds according to\n the mass will of the people, though it is sensitive to the individual\n in areas where it does not conflict with the imagination of the mass.\n We have had strangers, visitors, and even our own people, who grew\n drunk with the power of the machine, who dreamed more and more lust and\n greed into existence. These were banished from the city, and so strong\n is the call of the city that many of them became victims of their own\n evilness, and now walk mindlessly, with no thought but to seek for the\n beauty they have lost here.\"", "When he came to the city there was a high wall around it, and a heavy\n gate carved with lotus blossoms. He beat against the gate and cried,\n \"Oh! Let me in. Let me in to the city!\" The music was richer now, as if\n it were everywhere, and the gate swung open without the faintest sound.\n\n\n A sentinel stood before the opened gate at the end of a long blue\n street. He was dressed in red silk with his sleeves edged in blue\n leopard skin, and he wore a belt with a jeweled short sword. He drew\n the sword from its scabbard, and bowed forward until the point of the\n sword touched the street of blue fur. He said, \"I give you the welcome\n of my sword, and the welcome of the city. Speak your name so that it\n may be set in the records of the dreamers.\"\n\n\n The music sang, and the spires twinkled, and Eric said, \"I am Eric\n North!\"", "Eric asked, \"And what is this Legend of Eric the Bronze? Why am I so\n despised in the city?\"\n\n\n Kroon answered, \"According to the Ancient Legend you will destroy the\n city. This, and other things.\"\n\n\n Eric gaped. No wonder the crowd had shown such hatred. But why were\n the elders so friendly? They were obviously the governing body, and if\n there was strife between them and the people it had not shown in the\n respect the crowd had accorded Nolette.", "The sword point jerked, and the sentinel straightened. His face was\n white. He cried aloud, \"It is Eric the Bronze. It is Eric of the\n Legend.\" He whirled the sword aloft, and smashed it upon Eric's metal\n hat, and the hatred was a blue flame in his eyes.\nWhen Eric regained consciousness the people of the city were all about\n him. They were very fair, and the women were more beautiful than music.\n Yet now they stared at him with red hate in their eyes. An older man\n came forward and struck at the copper hat with a stick. The clang\n deafened Eric and the man cried, \"You are right. It is Eric the Bronze.\n Bring the ships and let him be scourged from the city.\"", "Eric clung tightly to the girl's waist. He could feel the young\n suppleness of her body, and the fine strands of her hair kept swirling\n back into his face. It had a faint perfume, a clean and heady scent\n that made him more aware of the touch of her waist. He breathed deeply,\n oddly happy as they rode.\n\n\n After five minutes ride they came to a building in the center of the\n city. The building was cubical, severe in line and architecture, and it\n contrasted oddly with the exquisite ornament of the rest of the city.\n It was as if it were a monolith from another time, a stranger crouched\n among enemies.\n\n\n The girl halted before the structure and said, \"Dismount here, Eric.\"\n\n\n Eric swung down, his arms still tingling with pleasure where he had\n held her. She said, \"Knock three times on the door. I will see you\n again inside. And thank your brother for sending me to bring you here.\"", "Garve had gone down to the city, and Garve had no shielded hat. Eric\n selected two high explosive grenades from the ship's arsenal. They\n were small but they packed a lot of power. He had a pistol packed\n with smaller pellets of the same explosive, and he had the hat. That\n should be adequate. He thrust the bronze hat back on his head and began\n walking back to the canal.\nThe return back to the city would always live in his mind as a\n phantasmagora, a montage of twisted hate and unseemly beauty. When he\n came again to the gate he did not attempt to enter, but circled the\n wall, hat on, hat off, stiff limbed like a puppet dancing to the same\n tune over and over again. He found a place where he could scale the\n wall, and thrust the helmet on his head, and clawed up the misshapen\n wall. It was all he could do to make himself drop into the ugly city.", "He heard a familiar voice as he dropped. \"Eric,\" the voice said. \"Eric,\n you did come back.\" The voice was his brother's, and he whirled,\n seeking the voice. A figure stood before him, a twisted caricature of\n his brother. The figure cried, \"The hat! You fool, get rid of that\n hat!\" The caricature that was his brother seized the hat, and jerked\n so hard that the chin strap broke under Eric's chin. The hat was flung\n away and sailed high and far over the fence and outside the city.\n\n\n The phantasm flickered, the illusion moved. Garve was now more handsome\n than ever, and the city was a dream of delight. Garve said, \"Come,\" and\n Eric followed down a street of blue fur. He had no will to resist.\n\n\n Garve said, \"Keep your head down and your face hidden. If we meet\n someone you may not be recognized. They won't be expecting you from\n this side of the city.\"", "\"He loves the city. He will also stay, though he will be outside this\n building.\" Kroon clasped his hands. \"Nolette, will you show Eric his\n quarters?\"", "There was one vacant seat beside the head of the T, and as Eric\n watched, the young woman who had rescued him entered and took her place\n there. She smiled at Eric, and the room took on a warmth that it had\n lacked with only the older men present. The man at her right, obviously\n presiding here looked at Eric and spoke. \"I am Kroon, the eldest of\n the elders. We have brought you here to satisfy ourselves of your\n identity. In view of your danger in the City you are entitled to some\n sort of explanation.\" He glanced around the room and asked, \"What is\n the judgment of the elders?\"\nEric caught a faint nod here, a gesture there. Kroon nodded as if\n in satisfaction. He turned to the girl, \"And what is your opinion,\n Daughter of the City?\"\n\n\n Nolette's expression held sorrow, as if she looked into the far future.\n She said, \"He is Eric the Bronze. I have no doubt.\"", "Kroon sighed. \"The people have lost the will to learn. Many do not even\n know of the machine. Our science is almost gone, and only a few of us,\n the dreamers, the elders, have kept alive the old knowledge of the\n machine and its history. By the collected powers of our imagination we\n build and control the outward appearance of the city.\n\n\n \"We have passed this down from father to son. A part of the ancient\n Legend is that the builders made provisions for the machine to be\n destroyed when contact with outsiders had been made once again, so that\n our people would again have to struggle forward to knowledge and power.\n The instrument of destruction was to be a man termed Eric the Bronze.\n It is not that you are reborn. It is just that sometime such a man\n would come.\"", "And deep inside him some part of his mind said, \"This is a madness you\n cannot escape. The city is evil, an evil like you have never known,\"\n and a fear as old as time coursed through his frame.\n\n\n He seized the copper hat from his head, and beat on the lotus carvings\n of the great door, crying, \"Let me in! Please, take me back into the\n city.\"\n\n\n And as he beat the city changed. It became dull and sordid and evil, a\n city of disgust, with every part offensive to the eye. The spires and\n minarets were gargoyles of hatred, twisted and misshapen, and the sound\n of the city was a macabre song of hate.\n\n\n He stared, and his back was chill with superstitions as old as the\n beginning of man. The city flickered, changing before his eyes until it\n was beautiful again.", "They ran. But as they ran figures began to converge upon them. Farther\n up the street others appeared, cutting off their flight.\n\n\n Garve cried, \"In here,\" and pulled Eric into a crevice between two\n buildings. Eric drew his gun, and savagery began to dance in his eyes.\n The soft fur muffled sounds of pursuit closed in upon them.\n\n\n Garve put one hand on Eric's gun hand and said, \"Wait here. And if you\n value my life, don't use that gun.\" Then he was gone, running deerlike\n down the street.\n\n\n For an instant Eric thought the ruse had succeeded. He heard cries and\n two men passed him running in pursuit. But then the cry came back. \"Let\n him go. Get the other one. The other one.\"", "Eric tensed to break away but now it was too late. His captors were\n alert. They increased the twist on his arms until he almost screamed\n with the pain.\n\n\n The crowd parted, and the guard came through, his red silk clothing\n gleaming in the sun, his sword bright and deadly. He stopped before\n Eric, and the sword swirled up like a saber, ready for a slashing cut\n downward across Eric's neck.\n\n\n A woman's voice, soft and yet authoritative, called, \"Hold!\" And a\n murmur of respect rippled through the crowd.\n\n\n \"Nolette! The Daughter of the City comes.\"", "The ship remained mute. He prowled through it, calling, \"Garve,\"\n wondering where the young hothead had gone, and then he saw a note\n clipped to the control board of the ship. He tore it loose impatiently\n and began to read. Garve had scrawled:\n\n\n \"Funny thing, Eric. A while ago I thought I heard music. I walked down\n to the canal, and it seemed like there were lights, and a town of some\n sort far down the canal. I wanted to investigate, but thought I'd\n better come back. But the thing has been in my mind for hours now, and\n I'm going down to see what it is. If you want to follow, come straight\n down the canal.\"\n\n\n Eric stared at the note, and the line of his jaw was white. Apparently\n Garve had seen the city from farther away, and its effect had not been\n so strong. Even so, Garve's natural curiosity had done the rest.", "Eric turned his gaze to the side and saw the woman who had spoken. She\n was mounted upon a black horse with a jeweled bridle. She was young and\n her hair was long and free in the wind. She had ridden so softly across\n the fur street that no one had been aware of her presence.\nShe said, \"Let me touch this man. Let me feel the pulse of his heart so\n that I may know if he is truly the Bronze one of the Legend. Give me\n your hand, stranger.\" She leaned down and grasped his hand. Eric shook\n his arms free, and reached up and clung to the offered hand, thinking,\n \"If I pull her down perhaps I can use her as a shield.\" He tensed his\n muscles and began to pull.\n\n\n She cried, \"No! You fool. Come up on the horse,\" and pulled back with\n an energy as fierce as his own. Then he had swung up on the horse, and\n the animal leaped forward, its muffled gallop beating out a tattoo of\n freedom.", "Eric looked down at his sun tanned hands and flexed them. He loosened\n the explosive pistol in its holster. At least he was going to be a well\n armed, well prepared Legend. And while one part of his mind marveled\n at the city and relaxed into a pleasure as deep as a dream, another\n struggled with the almost forgotten desire to rescue his brother and\n escape. He asked, \"Who are the Elders?\"\n\n\n \"We are going to them, to the center of the city.\" Garve's voice\n sharpened, \"Keep your head down. I think the last two men we passed are\n looking after us. Don't look back.\"\n\n\n After a moment Garve said, \"I think they are following us. Get ready\n to run. If we are separated, keep going until you reach City Center.\n The Elders will be expecting you.\" Garve glanced back, and his voice\n sharpened, \"Now! Run!\"", "Eric knocked on the door. The door was as plain as the building, made\n of a luminous plastic. It had all the beauty of the great gate door,\n but a more timeless, more functional beauty.\n\n\n The door opened and an old man greeted Eric. \"Come in. The Council\n awaits you. Follow me, please.\"\n\n\n Eric followed down a hallway and into a large room. The room was\n obviously designed for a conference room. A great table stood in the\n room, made of the same luminous plastic as the door of the building.\n Six men sat at this conference table. Eric's guide placed him in a\n chair at the base of the T-shaped table.", "Yet the danger was too great. He would go back to his ship and make the\n arrangements to destroy the city. The ship was armed, and to deliver\n indirect fire over the edge of the canal would be simple enough. Garve\n North, his brother, waited back at the ship. If he knew of the city he\n would have to go there. Eric must not take a chance on that. After they\n had blasted whatever it was that lay in the canal floor, then it would\n be time enough to tell Garve, and go down to see what was left.\n\n\n The ship rested easily on the flat sandstone area where he had\n established base camp. Its familiar lines brought a smile to Eric's\n face, a feeling of confidence now that tools and weapons were his again.\n\n\n He opened the door and entered. The lock doors were left open so that\n he could enter directly into the body of the ship. He came in in a\n swift leap, calling, \"Garve! Hey, Garve, where are you?\"" ], [ "Eric was seen an instant later, and the people of the city began to\n converge upon him. He could have destroyed them all with his charges in\n the gun, but his brother's warning shrieked in his ears, \"If you value\n my life don't use the gun.\"\n\n\n There was nothing he could do. Eric stood quietly until he was taken\n prisoner. They moved him to the center of the wide fur street. Two men\n held his arms, and twisted painfully. The crowd looked at him, coldly,\n calculatingly. One of them said, \"Get the whips. If we whip him he will\n not come back.\" The city twinkled, and the music was so faint he could\n hardly hear it.\n\n\n There was only one weapon Eric could use. He had gathered from Garve's\n words that these people were superstitious.", "\"He loves the city. He will also stay, though he will be outside this\n building.\" Kroon clasped his hands. \"Nolette, will you show Eric his\n quarters?\"", "He heard a familiar voice as he dropped. \"Eric,\" the voice said. \"Eric,\n you did come back.\" The voice was his brother's, and he whirled,\n seeking the voice. A figure stood before him, a twisted caricature of\n his brother. The figure cried, \"The hat! You fool, get rid of that\n hat!\" The caricature that was his brother seized the hat, and jerked\n so hard that the chin strap broke under Eric's chin. The hat was flung\n away and sailed high and far over the fence and outside the city.\n\n\n The phantasm flickered, the illusion moved. Garve was now more handsome\n than ever, and the city was a dream of delight. Garve said, \"Come,\" and\n Eric followed down a street of blue fur. He had no will to resist.\n\n\n Garve said, \"Keep your head down and your face hidden. If we meet\n someone you may not be recognized. They won't be expecting you from\n this side of the city.\"", "The man drew back the stick and struck again, and Eric's back took\n fire with the blow. The crowd chanted, \"Whips, bring the whips,\" and\n fear forced Eric to his feet. He fled then, running on the heedless\n feet of panic, outstripping those who were behind him until he passed\n through the great gates into the red dust floor of the canal. The gates\n closed behind him, and the dust beat upon him, and he paused, his heart\n hammering inside his chest like a great bell clapper. He turned and\n looked behind to be sure he was safe.\n\n\n The towers twinkled at him, and the music whispered to him, \"Come back,\n Eric North. Come back to the city.\"\n\n\n He turned and stumbled back to the great gate and hammered on it until\n his fists were raw, pleading for it to open and let him back.", "Garve had gone down to the city, and Garve had no shielded hat. Eric\n selected two high explosive grenades from the ship's arsenal. They\n were small but they packed a lot of power. He had a pistol packed\n with smaller pellets of the same explosive, and he had the hat. That\n should be adequate. He thrust the bronze hat back on his head and began\n walking back to the canal.\nThe return back to the city would always live in his mind as a\n phantasmagora, a montage of twisted hate and unseemly beauty. When he\n came again to the gate he did not attempt to enter, but circled the\n wall, hat on, hat off, stiff limbed like a puppet dancing to the same\n tune over and over again. He found a place where he could scale the\n wall, and thrust the helmet on his head, and clawed up the misshapen\n wall. It was all he could do to make himself drop into the ugly city.", "Eric clung tightly to the girl's waist. He could feel the young\n suppleness of her body, and the fine strands of her hair kept swirling\n back into his face. It had a faint perfume, a clean and heady scent\n that made him more aware of the touch of her waist. He breathed deeply,\n oddly happy as they rode.\n\n\n After five minutes ride they came to a building in the center of the\n city. The building was cubical, severe in line and architecture, and it\n contrasted oddly with the exquisite ornament of the rest of the city.\n It was as if it were a monolith from another time, a stranger crouched\n among enemies.\n\n\n The girl halted before the structure and said, \"Dismount here, Eric.\"\n\n\n Eric swung down, his arms still tingling with pleasure where he had\n held her. She said, \"Knock three times on the door. I will see you\n again inside. And thank your brother for sending me to bring you here.\"", "And deep inside him some part of his mind said, \"This is a madness you\n cannot escape. The city is evil, an evil like you have never known,\"\n and a fear as old as time coursed through his frame.\n\n\n He seized the copper hat from his head, and beat on the lotus carvings\n of the great door, crying, \"Let me in! Please, take me back into the\n city.\"\n\n\n And as he beat the city changed. It became dull and sordid and evil, a\n city of disgust, with every part offensive to the eye. The spires and\n minarets were gargoyles of hatred, twisted and misshapen, and the sound\n of the city was a macabre song of hate.\n\n\n He stared, and his back was chill with superstitions as old as the\n beginning of man. The city flickered, changing before his eyes until it\n was beautiful again.", "They ran. But as they ran figures began to converge upon them. Farther\n up the street others appeared, cutting off their flight.\n\n\n Garve cried, \"In here,\" and pulled Eric into a crevice between two\n buildings. Eric drew his gun, and savagery began to dance in his eyes.\n The soft fur muffled sounds of pursuit closed in upon them.\n\n\n Garve put one hand on Eric's gun hand and said, \"Wait here. And if you\n value my life, don't use that gun.\" Then he was gone, running deerlike\n down the street.\n\n\n For an instant Eric thought the ruse had succeeded. He heard cries and\n two men passed him running in pursuit. But then the cry came back. \"Let\n him go. Get the other one. The other one.\"", "He slid over the edge, sliding down the sloping sides of the canal.\n The rough sandstone tore at his dungarees, tore at his elbow where it\n touched but he did not feel the pain. His face was turned toward the\n towers, and the sound of his breathing was less than human.\n\n\n His feet caught a projecting bit of stone and were slowed for an\n instant, so that he turned sideways and rolled on, down into the red\n dust bottom of the canal, to lie face down in the dust, with the chin\n strap of the odd metallic hat cutting cruelly into his chin.\n\n\n He lay there an instant, knowing that now he had a chance. With his\n face down like this, and the dust smarting his eyes the image was gone\n for an instant. He had to get away, he knew that. He had to mount the\n sides of the canal and never look back.\n\n\n He told himself, \"I am Eric North, from Earth, the Third Planet of Sol,\n and this is not real.\"", "The ship remained mute. He prowled through it, calling, \"Garve,\"\n wondering where the young hothead had gone, and then he saw a note\n clipped to the control board of the ship. He tore it loose impatiently\n and began to read. Garve had scrawled:\n\n\n \"Funny thing, Eric. A while ago I thought I heard music. I walked down\n to the canal, and it seemed like there were lights, and a town of some\n sort far down the canal. I wanted to investigate, but thought I'd\n better come back. But the thing has been in my mind for hours now, and\n I'm going down to see what it is. If you want to follow, come straight\n down the canal.\"\n\n\n Eric stared at the note, and the line of his jaw was white. Apparently\n Garve had seen the city from farther away, and its effect had not been\n so strong. Even so, Garve's natural curiosity had done the rest.", "Yet the danger was too great. He would go back to his ship and make the\n arrangements to destroy the city. The ship was armed, and to deliver\n indirect fire over the edge of the canal would be simple enough. Garve\n North, his brother, waited back at the ship. If he knew of the city he\n would have to go there. Eric must not take a chance on that. After they\n had blasted whatever it was that lay in the canal floor, then it would\n be time enough to tell Garve, and go down to see what was left.\n\n\n The ship rested easily on the flat sandstone area where he had\n established base camp. Its familiar lines brought a smile to Eric's\n face, a feeling of confidence now that tools and weapons were his again.\n\n\n He opened the door and entered. The lock doors were left open so that\n he could enter directly into the body of the ship. He came in in a\n swift leap, calling, \"Garve! Hey, Garve, where are you?\"", "Eric turned his gaze to the side and saw the woman who had spoken. She\n was mounted upon a black horse with a jeweled bridle. She was young and\n her hair was long and free in the wind. She had ridden so softly across\n the fur street that no one had been aware of her presence.\nShe said, \"Let me touch this man. Let me feel the pulse of his heart so\n that I may know if he is truly the Bronze one of the Legend. Give me\n your hand, stranger.\" She leaned down and grasped his hand. Eric shook\n his arms free, and reached up and clung to the offered hand, thinking,\n \"If I pull her down perhaps I can use her as a shield.\" He tensed his\n muscles and began to pull.\n\n\n She cried, \"No! You fool. Come up on the horse,\" and pulled back with\n an energy as fierce as his own. Then he had swung up on the horse, and\n the animal leaped forward, its muffled gallop beating out a tattoo of\n freedom.", "Eric asked, \"And I am to destroy the City?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. The time has come.\"\n\n\n \"But why?\" Eric demanded. For an instant he could see the twinkling\n beauty as clearly as if he had stood outside the walls of this building.\n\n\n Kroon said, \"There are difficulties. The machine builds according to\n the mass will of the people, though it is sensitive to the individual\n in areas where it does not conflict with the imagination of the mass.\n We have had strangers, visitors, and even our own people, who grew\n drunk with the power of the machine, who dreamed more and more lust and\n greed into existence. These were banished from the city, and so strong\n is the call of the city that many of them became victims of their own\n evilness, and now walk mindlessly, with no thought but to seek for the\n beauty they have lost here.\"", "The sword point jerked, and the sentinel straightened. His face was\n white. He cried aloud, \"It is Eric the Bronze. It is Eric of the\n Legend.\" He whirled the sword aloft, and smashed it upon Eric's metal\n hat, and the hatred was a blue flame in his eyes.\nWhen Eric regained consciousness the people of the city were all about\n him. They were very fair, and the women were more beautiful than music.\n Yet now they stared at him with red hate in their eyes. An older man\n came forward and struck at the copper hat with a stick. The clang\n deafened Eric and the man cried, \"You are right. It is Eric the Bronze.\n Bring the ships and let him be scourged from the city.\"", "When he came to the city there was a high wall around it, and a heavy\n gate carved with lotus blossoms. He beat against the gate and cried,\n \"Oh! Let me in. Let me in to the city!\" The music was richer now, as if\n it were everywhere, and the gate swung open without the faintest sound.\n\n\n A sentinel stood before the opened gate at the end of a long blue\n street. He was dressed in red silk with his sleeves edged in blue\n leopard skin, and he wore a belt with a jeweled short sword. He drew\n the sword from its scabbard, and bowed forward until the point of the\n sword touched the street of blue fur. He said, \"I give you the welcome\n of my sword, and the welcome of the city. Speak your name so that it\n may be set in the records of the dreamers.\"\n\n\n The music sang, and the spires twinkled, and Eric said, \"I am Eric\n North!\"", "Eric looked down at his sun tanned hands and flexed them. He loosened\n the explosive pistol in its holster. At least he was going to be a well\n armed, well prepared Legend. And while one part of his mind marveled\n at the city and relaxed into a pleasure as deep as a dream, another\n struggled with the almost forgotten desire to rescue his brother and\n escape. He asked, \"Who are the Elders?\"\n\n\n \"We are going to them, to the center of the city.\" Garve's voice\n sharpened, \"Keep your head down. I think the last two men we passed are\n looking after us. Don't look back.\"\n\n\n After a moment Garve said, \"I think they are following us. Get ready\n to run. If we are separated, keep going until you reach City Center.\n The Elders will be expecting you.\" Garve glanced back, and his voice\n sharpened, \"Now! Run!\"", "There was one vacant seat beside the head of the T, and as Eric\n watched, the young woman who had rescued him entered and took her place\n there. She smiled at Eric, and the room took on a warmth that it had\n lacked with only the older men present. The man at her right, obviously\n presiding here looked at Eric and spoke. \"I am Kroon, the eldest of\n the elders. We have brought you here to satisfy ourselves of your\n identity. In view of your danger in the City you are entitled to some\n sort of explanation.\" He glanced around the room and asked, \"What is\n the judgment of the elders?\"\nEric caught a faint nod here, a gesture there. Kroon nodded as if\n in satisfaction. He turned to the girl, \"And what is your opinion,\n Daughter of the City?\"\n\n\n Nolette's expression held sorrow, as if she looked into the far future.\n She said, \"He is Eric the Bronze. I have no doubt.\"", "Kroon sighed. \"The people have lost the will to learn. Many do not even\n know of the machine. Our science is almost gone, and only a few of us,\n the dreamers, the elders, have kept alive the old knowledge of the\n machine and its history. By the collected powers of our imagination we\n build and control the outward appearance of the city.\n\n\n \"We have passed this down from father to son. A part of the ancient\n Legend is that the builders made provisions for the machine to be\n destroyed when contact with outsiders had been made once again, so that\n our people would again have to struggle forward to knowledge and power.\n The instrument of destruction was to be a man termed Eric the Bronze.\n It is not that you are reborn. It is just that sometime such a man\n would come.\"", "He squirmed in the dust, feeling it bite his cheeks; he squirmed until\n he could get up and see nothing but the red sand stone walls of the\n canal. He ran at the walls and clawed his way up like an animal in his\n haste. He wouldn't look again.\n\n\n The wind freshened and the tune of the music began to talk to him. It\n told of going barefoot over long streets of fur. It told of jewels, and\n wine, and women as fair as springtime. These and more were in the city,\n waiting for him to claim them.\n\n\n He sobbed, and clawed forward. He stopped to rest, and slowly his head\n began to turn. He turned, and the spires and minarets twinkled at him,\n beautiful, soothing, stopping the tears that had welled down his cheeks.\n\n\n When he reached the bottom of the canal he began to run toward the city.", "He stood, amazed, and put the metal hat back on his head. With the\n motion the shift took place again, and beauty was ugliness. Amazed, he\n stared at the illusion, and the thought came to him that the metal hat\n had not entirely failed him after all.\n\n\n He turned and began to walk away from the city, and when it began to\n call he took the hat off his head and found peace for a time. Then when\n it began again he replaced the hat, and revulsion sped his footsteps.\n And so, hat on, hat off, he made his way down the dusty floor of the\n canal, and up the rocky sides until he stood on the Martian desert, and\n the canal was a thin line behind him. He breathed easily then, for he\n was beyond the range of the illusions.\n\n\n And now that his mind was his own again he began to study the problem,\n and to understand something of the nature of the forces against which\n he had been pitted." ], [ "Yet the danger was too great. He would go back to his ship and make the\n arrangements to destroy the city. The ship was armed, and to deliver\n indirect fire over the edge of the canal would be simple enough. Garve\n North, his brother, waited back at the ship. If he knew of the city he\n would have to go there. Eric must not take a chance on that. After they\n had blasted whatever it was that lay in the canal floor, then it would\n be time enough to tell Garve, and go down to see what was left.\n\n\n The ship rested easily on the flat sandstone area where he had\n established base camp. Its familiar lines brought a smile to Eric's\n face, a feeling of confidence now that tools and weapons were his again.\n\n\n He opened the door and entered. The lock doors were left open so that\n he could enter directly into the body of the ship. He came in in a\n swift leap, calling, \"Garve! Hey, Garve, where are you?\"", "\"He loves the city. He will also stay, though he will be outside this\n building.\" Kroon clasped his hands. \"Nolette, will you show Eric his\n quarters?\"", "Eric was seen an instant later, and the people of the city began to\n converge upon him. He could have destroyed them all with his charges in\n the gun, but his brother's warning shrieked in his ears, \"If you value\n my life don't use the gun.\"\n\n\n There was nothing he could do. Eric stood quietly until he was taken\n prisoner. They moved him to the center of the wide fur street. Two men\n held his arms, and twisted painfully. The crowd looked at him, coldly,\n calculatingly. One of them said, \"Get the whips. If we whip him he will\n not come back.\" The city twinkled, and the music was so faint he could\n hardly hear it.\n\n\n There was only one weapon Eric could use. He had gathered from Garve's\n words that these people were superstitious.", "The ship remained mute. He prowled through it, calling, \"Garve,\"\n wondering where the young hothead had gone, and then he saw a note\n clipped to the control board of the ship. He tore it loose impatiently\n and began to read. Garve had scrawled:\n\n\n \"Funny thing, Eric. A while ago I thought I heard music. I walked down\n to the canal, and it seemed like there were lights, and a town of some\n sort far down the canal. I wanted to investigate, but thought I'd\n better come back. But the thing has been in my mind for hours now, and\n I'm going down to see what it is. If you want to follow, come straight\n down the canal.\"\n\n\n Eric stared at the note, and the line of his jaw was white. Apparently\n Garve had seen the city from farther away, and its effect had not been\n so strong. Even so, Garve's natural curiosity had done the rest.", "He laughed, a great chest-shattering laugh that gusted out into the\n thin Martian air. He laughed and cried in a great voice, \"And can you\n so easily dispose of a Legend? If I am Eric of the Legend, can whips\n defeat the prophesy?\"\n\n\n There was an instant when he could have twisted loose. They stood,\n fear-bound at his words. But there was no place to hide, and without\n the use of his weapons Eric could not have gone far. He had to bluff it\n out.\nThen one of the men cried, \"Fools! It is true. We must take no chance\n with the whips. He would come back. But if he dies here before us now,\n then we may forget the prophesy.\"\n\n\n The crowd murmured and a second voice cried, \"Get the sword, get the\n guards, and kill him at once!\"", "Eric turned his gaze to the side and saw the woman who had spoken. She\n was mounted upon a black horse with a jeweled bridle. She was young and\n her hair was long and free in the wind. She had ridden so softly across\n the fur street that no one had been aware of her presence.\nShe said, \"Let me touch this man. Let me feel the pulse of his heart so\n that I may know if he is truly the Bronze one of the Legend. Give me\n your hand, stranger.\" She leaned down and grasped his hand. Eric shook\n his arms free, and reached up and clung to the offered hand, thinking,\n \"If I pull her down perhaps I can use her as a shield.\" He tensed his\n muscles and began to pull.\n\n\n She cried, \"No! You fool. Come up on the horse,\" and pulled back with\n an energy as fierce as his own. Then he had swung up on the horse, and\n the animal leaped forward, its muffled gallop beating out a tattoo of\n freedom.", "Eric said, \"I can understand the Bronze part. They had thought that a\n space man might well be sun tanned. They had thought that a science to\n protect against this beautiful illusion would provide a metal shield\n of some sort, probably copper in nature. That such a man should come\n is inevitable. But why Eric. Why the name Eric?\"\n\n\n For the first time Nolette spoke. She said quietly, \"The name Eric\n was an honorable name of the ancient fathers. It must have been their\n thought that the new beginning should wait for some of their own far\n flung kind to return.\"\n\n\n Eric nodded. He asked, \"What happens now?\"\n\n\n \"Nothing. Dwell here with us and you will be safe from our people. If\n the prediction is not soon fulfilled and you are not the Eric of the\n Legend, you may stay or go as you desire.\"\n\n\n \"My brother, Garve. What about him?\"", "The man drew back the stick and struck again, and Eric's back took\n fire with the blow. The crowd chanted, \"Whips, bring the whips,\" and\n fear forced Eric to his feet. He fled then, running on the heedless\n feet of panic, outstripping those who were behind him until he passed\n through the great gates into the red dust floor of the canal. The gates\n closed behind him, and the dust beat upon him, and he paused, his heart\n hammering inside his chest like a great bell clapper. He turned and\n looked behind to be sure he was safe.\n\n\n The towers twinkled at him, and the music whispered to him, \"Come back,\n Eric North. Come back to the city.\"\n\n\n He turned and stumbled back to the great gate and hammered on it until\n his fists were raw, pleading for it to open and let him back.", "He heard a familiar voice as he dropped. \"Eric,\" the voice said. \"Eric,\n you did come back.\" The voice was his brother's, and he whirled,\n seeking the voice. A figure stood before him, a twisted caricature of\n his brother. The figure cried, \"The hat! You fool, get rid of that\n hat!\" The caricature that was his brother seized the hat, and jerked\n so hard that the chin strap broke under Eric's chin. The hat was flung\n away and sailed high and far over the fence and outside the city.\n\n\n The phantasm flickered, the illusion moved. Garve was now more handsome\n than ever, and the city was a dream of delight. Garve said, \"Come,\" and\n Eric followed down a street of blue fur. He had no will to resist.\n\n\n Garve said, \"Keep your head down and your face hidden. If we meet\n someone you may not be recognized. They won't be expecting you from\n this side of the city.\"", "They ran. But as they ran figures began to converge upon them. Farther\n up the street others appeared, cutting off their flight.\n\n\n Garve cried, \"In here,\" and pulled Eric into a crevice between two\n buildings. Eric drew his gun, and savagery began to dance in his eyes.\n The soft fur muffled sounds of pursuit closed in upon them.\n\n\n Garve put one hand on Eric's gun hand and said, \"Wait here. And if you\n value my life, don't use that gun.\" Then he was gone, running deerlike\n down the street.\n\n\n For an instant Eric thought the ruse had succeeded. He heard cries and\n two men passed him running in pursuit. But then the cry came back. \"Let\n him go. Get the other one. The other one.\"", "Eric clung tightly to the girl's waist. He could feel the young\n suppleness of her body, and the fine strands of her hair kept swirling\n back into his face. It had a faint perfume, a clean and heady scent\n that made him more aware of the touch of her waist. He breathed deeply,\n oddly happy as they rode.\n\n\n After five minutes ride they came to a building in the center of the\n city. The building was cubical, severe in line and architecture, and it\n contrasted oddly with the exquisite ornament of the rest of the city.\n It was as if it were a monolith from another time, a stranger crouched\n among enemies.\n\n\n The girl halted before the structure and said, \"Dismount here, Eric.\"\n\n\n Eric swung down, his arms still tingling with pleasure where he had\n held her. She said, \"Knock three times on the door. I will see you\n again inside. And thank your brother for sending me to bring you here.\"", "Garve had gone down to the city, and Garve had no shielded hat. Eric\n selected two high explosive grenades from the ship's arsenal. They\n were small but they packed a lot of power. He had a pistol packed\n with smaller pellets of the same explosive, and he had the hat. That\n should be adequate. He thrust the bronze hat back on his head and began\n walking back to the canal.\nThe return back to the city would always live in his mind as a\n phantasmagora, a montage of twisted hate and unseemly beauty. When he\n came again to the gate he did not attempt to enter, but circled the\n wall, hat on, hat off, stiff limbed like a puppet dancing to the same\n tune over and over again. He found a place where he could scale the\n wall, and thrust the helmet on his head, and clawed up the misshapen\n wall. It was all he could do to make himself drop into the ugly city.", "The sword point jerked, and the sentinel straightened. His face was\n white. He cried aloud, \"It is Eric the Bronze. It is Eric of the\n Legend.\" He whirled the sword aloft, and smashed it upon Eric's metal\n hat, and the hatred was a blue flame in his eyes.\nWhen Eric regained consciousness the people of the city were all about\n him. They were very fair, and the women were more beautiful than music.\n Yet now they stared at him with red hate in their eyes. An older man\n came forward and struck at the copper hat with a stick. The clang\n deafened Eric and the man cried, \"You are right. It is Eric the Bronze.\n Bring the ships and let him be scourged from the city.\"", "He slid over the edge, sliding down the sloping sides of the canal.\n The rough sandstone tore at his dungarees, tore at his elbow where it\n touched but he did not feel the pain. His face was turned toward the\n towers, and the sound of his breathing was less than human.\n\n\n His feet caught a projecting bit of stone and were slowed for an\n instant, so that he turned sideways and rolled on, down into the red\n dust bottom of the canal, to lie face down in the dust, with the chin\n strap of the odd metallic hat cutting cruelly into his chin.\n\n\n He lay there an instant, knowing that now he had a chance. With his\n face down like this, and the dust smarting his eyes the image was gone\n for an instant. He had to get away, he knew that. He had to mount the\n sides of the canal and never look back.\n\n\n He told himself, \"I am Eric North, from Earth, the Third Planet of Sol,\n and this is not real.\"", "Kroon sighed. \"The people have lost the will to learn. Many do not even\n know of the machine. Our science is almost gone, and only a few of us,\n the dreamers, the elders, have kept alive the old knowledge of the\n machine and its history. By the collected powers of our imagination we\n build and control the outward appearance of the city.\n\n\n \"We have passed this down from father to son. A part of the ancient\n Legend is that the builders made provisions for the machine to be\n destroyed when contact with outsiders had been made once again, so that\n our people would again have to struggle forward to knowledge and power.\n The instrument of destruction was to be a man termed Eric the Bronze.\n It is not that you are reborn. It is just that sometime such a man\n would come.\"", "Eric asked, \"You knew I'd come after you?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. The Legend said you'd be back.\"\n\n\n Eric stopped and whirled to face his brother. \"The Legend? Eric the\n Bronze? What is this wild fantasy?\"\n\n\n \"Not so loud!\" Garve's voice cautioned him. \"Of course the crowd called\n you that because of the copper hat and your heavy tan. But the Elders\n believe so too. I don't know what it is, Eric, reincarnation, prophesy,\n superstition, I only know that when I was with the Elders I believed\n them. You are a part of a Legend. You are Eric the Bronze.\"", "There was one vacant seat beside the head of the T, and as Eric\n watched, the young woman who had rescued him entered and took her place\n there. She smiled at Eric, and the room took on a warmth that it had\n lacked with only the older men present. The man at her right, obviously\n presiding here looked at Eric and spoke. \"I am Kroon, the eldest of\n the elders. We have brought you here to satisfy ourselves of your\n identity. In view of your danger in the City you are entitled to some\n sort of explanation.\" He glanced around the room and asked, \"What is\n the judgment of the elders?\"\nEric caught a faint nod here, a gesture there. Kroon nodded as if\n in satisfaction. He turned to the girl, \"And what is your opinion,\n Daughter of the City?\"\n\n\n Nolette's expression held sorrow, as if she looked into the far future.\n She said, \"He is Eric the Bronze. I have no doubt.\"", "Eric asked, \"And I am to destroy the City?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. The time has come.\"\n\n\n \"But why?\" Eric demanded. For an instant he could see the twinkling\n beauty as clearly as if he had stood outside the walls of this building.\n\n\n Kroon said, \"There are difficulties. The machine builds according to\n the mass will of the people, though it is sensitive to the individual\n in areas where it does not conflict with the imagination of the mass.\n We have had strangers, visitors, and even our own people, who grew\n drunk with the power of the machine, who dreamed more and more lust and\n greed into existence. These were banished from the city, and so strong\n is the call of the city that many of them became victims of their own\n evilness, and now walk mindlessly, with no thought but to seek for the\n beauty they have lost here.\"", "Eric asked, \"And what is this Legend of Eric the Bronze? Why am I so\n despised in the city?\"\n\n\n Kroon answered, \"According to the Ancient Legend you will destroy the\n city. This, and other things.\"\n\n\n Eric gaped. No wonder the crowd had shown such hatred. But why were\n the elders so friendly? They were obviously the governing body, and if\n there was strife between them and the people it had not shown in the\n respect the crowd had accorded Nolette.", "Eric tensed to break away but now it was too late. His captors were\n alert. They increased the twist on his arms until he almost screamed\n with the pain.\n\n\n The crowd parted, and the guard came through, his red silk clothing\n gleaming in the sun, his sword bright and deadly. He stopped before\n Eric, and the sword swirled up like a saber, ready for a slashing cut\n downward across Eric's neck.\n\n\n A woman's voice, soft and yet authoritative, called, \"Hold!\" And a\n murmur of respect rippled through the crowd.\n\n\n \"Nolette! The Daughter of the City comes.\"" ], [ "Garve had gone down to the city, and Garve had no shielded hat. Eric\n selected two high explosive grenades from the ship's arsenal. They\n were small but they packed a lot of power. He had a pistol packed\n with smaller pellets of the same explosive, and he had the hat. That\n should be adequate. He thrust the bronze hat back on his head and began\n walking back to the canal.\nThe return back to the city would always live in his mind as a\n phantasmagora, a montage of twisted hate and unseemly beauty. When he\n came again to the gate he did not attempt to enter, but circled the\n wall, hat on, hat off, stiff limbed like a puppet dancing to the same\n tune over and over again. He found a place where he could scale the\n wall, and thrust the helmet on his head, and clawed up the misshapen\n wall. It was all he could do to make himself drop into the ugly city.", "Yet the danger was too great. He would go back to his ship and make the\n arrangements to destroy the city. The ship was armed, and to deliver\n indirect fire over the edge of the canal would be simple enough. Garve\n North, his brother, waited back at the ship. If he knew of the city he\n would have to go there. Eric must not take a chance on that. After they\n had blasted whatever it was that lay in the canal floor, then it would\n be time enough to tell Garve, and go down to see what was left.\n\n\n The ship rested easily on the flat sandstone area where he had\n established base camp. Its familiar lines brought a smile to Eric's\n face, a feeling of confidence now that tools and weapons were his again.\n\n\n He opened the door and entered. The lock doors were left open so that\n he could enter directly into the body of the ship. He came in in a\n swift leap, calling, \"Garve! Hey, Garve, where are you?\"", "\"He loves the city. He will also stay, though he will be outside this\n building.\" Kroon clasped his hands. \"Nolette, will you show Eric his\n quarters?\"", "The ship remained mute. He prowled through it, calling, \"Garve,\"\n wondering where the young hothead had gone, and then he saw a note\n clipped to the control board of the ship. He tore it loose impatiently\n and began to read. Garve had scrawled:\n\n\n \"Funny thing, Eric. A while ago I thought I heard music. I walked down\n to the canal, and it seemed like there were lights, and a town of some\n sort far down the canal. I wanted to investigate, but thought I'd\n better come back. But the thing has been in my mind for hours now, and\n I'm going down to see what it is. If you want to follow, come straight\n down the canal.\"\n\n\n Eric stared at the note, and the line of his jaw was white. Apparently\n Garve had seen the city from farther away, and its effect had not been\n so strong. Even so, Garve's natural curiosity had done the rest.", "Eric was seen an instant later, and the people of the city began to\n converge upon him. He could have destroyed them all with his charges in\n the gun, but his brother's warning shrieked in his ears, \"If you value\n my life don't use the gun.\"\n\n\n There was nothing he could do. Eric stood quietly until he was taken\n prisoner. They moved him to the center of the wide fur street. Two men\n held his arms, and twisted painfully. The crowd looked at him, coldly,\n calculatingly. One of them said, \"Get the whips. If we whip him he will\n not come back.\" The city twinkled, and the music was so faint he could\n hardly hear it.\n\n\n There was only one weapon Eric could use. He had gathered from Garve's\n words that these people were superstitious.", "He heard a familiar voice as he dropped. \"Eric,\" the voice said. \"Eric,\n you did come back.\" The voice was his brother's, and he whirled,\n seeking the voice. A figure stood before him, a twisted caricature of\n his brother. The figure cried, \"The hat! You fool, get rid of that\n hat!\" The caricature that was his brother seized the hat, and jerked\n so hard that the chin strap broke under Eric's chin. The hat was flung\n away and sailed high and far over the fence and outside the city.\n\n\n The phantasm flickered, the illusion moved. Garve was now more handsome\n than ever, and the city was a dream of delight. Garve said, \"Come,\" and\n Eric followed down a street of blue fur. He had no will to resist.\n\n\n Garve said, \"Keep your head down and your face hidden. If we meet\n someone you may not be recognized. They won't be expecting you from\n this side of the city.\"", "The sword point jerked, and the sentinel straightened. His face was\n white. He cried aloud, \"It is Eric the Bronze. It is Eric of the\n Legend.\" He whirled the sword aloft, and smashed it upon Eric's metal\n hat, and the hatred was a blue flame in his eyes.\nWhen Eric regained consciousness the people of the city were all about\n him. They were very fair, and the women were more beautiful than music.\n Yet now they stared at him with red hate in their eyes. An older man\n came forward and struck at the copper hat with a stick. The clang\n deafened Eric and the man cried, \"You are right. It is Eric the Bronze.\n Bring the ships and let him be scourged from the city.\"", "The man drew back the stick and struck again, and Eric's back took\n fire with the blow. The crowd chanted, \"Whips, bring the whips,\" and\n fear forced Eric to his feet. He fled then, running on the heedless\n feet of panic, outstripping those who were behind him until he passed\n through the great gates into the red dust floor of the canal. The gates\n closed behind him, and the dust beat upon him, and he paused, his heart\n hammering inside his chest like a great bell clapper. He turned and\n looked behind to be sure he was safe.\n\n\n The towers twinkled at him, and the music whispered to him, \"Come back,\n Eric North. Come back to the city.\"\n\n\n He turned and stumbled back to the great gate and hammered on it until\n his fists were raw, pleading for it to open and let him back.", "Eric clung tightly to the girl's waist. He could feel the young\n suppleness of her body, and the fine strands of her hair kept swirling\n back into his face. It had a faint perfume, a clean and heady scent\n that made him more aware of the touch of her waist. He breathed deeply,\n oddly happy as they rode.\n\n\n After five minutes ride they came to a building in the center of the\n city. The building was cubical, severe in line and architecture, and it\n contrasted oddly with the exquisite ornament of the rest of the city.\n It was as if it were a monolith from another time, a stranger crouched\n among enemies.\n\n\n The girl halted before the structure and said, \"Dismount here, Eric.\"\n\n\n Eric swung down, his arms still tingling with pleasure where he had\n held her. She said, \"Knock three times on the door. I will see you\n again inside. And thank your brother for sending me to bring you here.\"", "When he came to the city there was a high wall around it, and a heavy\n gate carved with lotus blossoms. He beat against the gate and cried,\n \"Oh! Let me in. Let me in to the city!\" The music was richer now, as if\n it were everywhere, and the gate swung open without the faintest sound.\n\n\n A sentinel stood before the opened gate at the end of a long blue\n street. He was dressed in red silk with his sleeves edged in blue\n leopard skin, and he wore a belt with a jeweled short sword. He drew\n the sword from its scabbard, and bowed forward until the point of the\n sword touched the street of blue fur. He said, \"I give you the welcome\n of my sword, and the welcome of the city. Speak your name so that it\n may be set in the records of the dreamers.\"\n\n\n The music sang, and the spires twinkled, and Eric said, \"I am Eric\n North!\"", "Kroon sighed. \"The people have lost the will to learn. Many do not even\n know of the machine. Our science is almost gone, and only a few of us,\n the dreamers, the elders, have kept alive the old knowledge of the\n machine and its history. By the collected powers of our imagination we\n build and control the outward appearance of the city.\n\n\n \"We have passed this down from father to son. A part of the ancient\n Legend is that the builders made provisions for the machine to be\n destroyed when contact with outsiders had been made once again, so that\n our people would again have to struggle forward to knowledge and power.\n The instrument of destruction was to be a man termed Eric the Bronze.\n It is not that you are reborn. It is just that sometime such a man\n would come.\"", "There was one vacant seat beside the head of the T, and as Eric\n watched, the young woman who had rescued him entered and took her place\n there. She smiled at Eric, and the room took on a warmth that it had\n lacked with only the older men present. The man at her right, obviously\n presiding here looked at Eric and spoke. \"I am Kroon, the eldest of\n the elders. We have brought you here to satisfy ourselves of your\n identity. In view of your danger in the City you are entitled to some\n sort of explanation.\" He glanced around the room and asked, \"What is\n the judgment of the elders?\"\nEric caught a faint nod here, a gesture there. Kroon nodded as if\n in satisfaction. He turned to the girl, \"And what is your opinion,\n Daughter of the City?\"\n\n\n Nolette's expression held sorrow, as if she looked into the far future.\n She said, \"He is Eric the Bronze. I have no doubt.\"", "Eric turned his gaze to the side and saw the woman who had spoken. She\n was mounted upon a black horse with a jeweled bridle. She was young and\n her hair was long and free in the wind. She had ridden so softly across\n the fur street that no one had been aware of her presence.\nShe said, \"Let me touch this man. Let me feel the pulse of his heart so\n that I may know if he is truly the Bronze one of the Legend. Give me\n your hand, stranger.\" She leaned down and grasped his hand. Eric shook\n his arms free, and reached up and clung to the offered hand, thinking,\n \"If I pull her down perhaps I can use her as a shield.\" He tensed his\n muscles and began to pull.\n\n\n She cried, \"No! You fool. Come up on the horse,\" and pulled back with\n an energy as fierce as his own. Then he had swung up on the horse, and\n the animal leaped forward, its muffled gallop beating out a tattoo of\n freedom.", "And deep inside him some part of his mind said, \"This is a madness you\n cannot escape. The city is evil, an evil like you have never known,\"\n and a fear as old as time coursed through his frame.\n\n\n He seized the copper hat from his head, and beat on the lotus carvings\n of the great door, crying, \"Let me in! Please, take me back into the\n city.\"\n\n\n And as he beat the city changed. It became dull and sordid and evil, a\n city of disgust, with every part offensive to the eye. The spires and\n minarets were gargoyles of hatred, twisted and misshapen, and the sound\n of the city was a macabre song of hate.\n\n\n He stared, and his back was chill with superstitions as old as the\n beginning of man. The city flickered, changing before his eyes until it\n was beautiful again.", "He slid over the edge, sliding down the sloping sides of the canal.\n The rough sandstone tore at his dungarees, tore at his elbow where it\n touched but he did not feel the pain. His face was turned toward the\n towers, and the sound of his breathing was less than human.\n\n\n His feet caught a projecting bit of stone and were slowed for an\n instant, so that he turned sideways and rolled on, down into the red\n dust bottom of the canal, to lie face down in the dust, with the chin\n strap of the odd metallic hat cutting cruelly into his chin.\n\n\n He lay there an instant, knowing that now he had a chance. With his\n face down like this, and the dust smarting his eyes the image was gone\n for an instant. He had to get away, he knew that. He had to mount the\n sides of the canal and never look back.\n\n\n He told himself, \"I am Eric North, from Earth, the Third Planet of Sol,\n and this is not real.\"", "They ran. But as they ran figures began to converge upon them. Farther\n up the street others appeared, cutting off their flight.\n\n\n Garve cried, \"In here,\" and pulled Eric into a crevice between two\n buildings. Eric drew his gun, and savagery began to dance in his eyes.\n The soft fur muffled sounds of pursuit closed in upon them.\n\n\n Garve put one hand on Eric's gun hand and said, \"Wait here. And if you\n value my life, don't use that gun.\" Then he was gone, running deerlike\n down the street.\n\n\n For an instant Eric thought the ruse had succeeded. He heard cries and\n two men passed him running in pursuit. But then the cry came back. \"Let\n him go. Get the other one. The other one.\"", "Eric asked, \"And I am to destroy the City?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. The time has come.\"\n\n\n \"But why?\" Eric demanded. For an instant he could see the twinkling\n beauty as clearly as if he had stood outside the walls of this building.\n\n\n Kroon said, \"There are difficulties. The machine builds according to\n the mass will of the people, though it is sensitive to the individual\n in areas where it does not conflict with the imagination of the mass.\n We have had strangers, visitors, and even our own people, who grew\n drunk with the power of the machine, who dreamed more and more lust and\n greed into existence. These were banished from the city, and so strong\n is the call of the city that many of them became victims of their own\n evilness, and now walk mindlessly, with no thought but to seek for the\n beauty they have lost here.\"", "Kroon said, \"I see you are puzzled. Let me tell you the story of the\n City. The City is old. It dates from long ago when the canals of Mars\n ran clear and green with water, and the deserts were vineyards and\n gardens. The drouth came, and the changes in climate, and soon it\n became plain that the people of Mars were doomed. They had ships, and\n could build more, and gradually they left to colonize other planets.\n Yet they could take little of their science. And fear and riots\n destroyed much. Also there were those who were filled with love for\n this homeland, and who thought that one day it might be habitable\n again. All the skill of the ancient Martian fathers went into the\n building of a giant machine, the machine that is the City, to protect a\n small colony of those who were chosen to remain on Mars.\"\n\n\n \"This whole city is a machine!\" Eric asked.", "Eric asked, \"You knew I'd come after you?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. The Legend said you'd be back.\"\n\n\n Eric stopped and whirled to face his brother. \"The Legend? Eric the\n Bronze? What is this wild fantasy?\"\n\n\n \"Not so loud!\" Garve's voice cautioned him. \"Of course the crowd called\n you that because of the copper hat and your heavy tan. But the Elders\n believe so too. I don't know what it is, Eric, reincarnation, prophesy,\n superstition, I only know that when I was with the Elders I believed\n them. You are a part of a Legend. You are Eric the Bronze.\"", "Eric said, \"I can understand the Bronze part. They had thought that a\n space man might well be sun tanned. They had thought that a science to\n protect against this beautiful illusion would provide a metal shield\n of some sort, probably copper in nature. That such a man should come\n is inevitable. But why Eric. Why the name Eric?\"\n\n\n For the first time Nolette spoke. She said quietly, \"The name Eric\n was an honorable name of the ancient fathers. It must have been their\n thought that the new beginning should wait for some of their own far\n flung kind to return.\"\n\n\n Eric nodded. He asked, \"What happens now?\"\n\n\n \"Nothing. Dwell here with us and you will be safe from our people. If\n the prediction is not soon fulfilled and you are not the Eric of the\n Legend, you may stay or go as you desire.\"\n\n\n \"My brother, Garve. What about him?\"" ], [ "He heard a familiar voice as he dropped. \"Eric,\" the voice said. \"Eric,\n you did come back.\" The voice was his brother's, and he whirled,\n seeking the voice. A figure stood before him, a twisted caricature of\n his brother. The figure cried, \"The hat! You fool, get rid of that\n hat!\" The caricature that was his brother seized the hat, and jerked\n so hard that the chin strap broke under Eric's chin. The hat was flung\n away and sailed high and far over the fence and outside the city.\n\n\n The phantasm flickered, the illusion moved. Garve was now more handsome\n than ever, and the city was a dream of delight. Garve said, \"Come,\" and\n Eric followed down a street of blue fur. He had no will to resist.\n\n\n Garve said, \"Keep your head down and your face hidden. If we meet\n someone you may not be recognized. They won't be expecting you from\n this side of the city.\"", "Eric was seen an instant later, and the people of the city began to\n converge upon him. He could have destroyed them all with his charges in\n the gun, but his brother's warning shrieked in his ears, \"If you value\n my life don't use the gun.\"\n\n\n There was nothing he could do. Eric stood quietly until he was taken\n prisoner. They moved him to the center of the wide fur street. Two men\n held his arms, and twisted painfully. The crowd looked at him, coldly,\n calculatingly. One of them said, \"Get the whips. If we whip him he will\n not come back.\" The city twinkled, and the music was so faint he could\n hardly hear it.\n\n\n There was only one weapon Eric could use. He had gathered from Garve's\n words that these people were superstitious.", "Eric clung tightly to the girl's waist. He could feel the young\n suppleness of her body, and the fine strands of her hair kept swirling\n back into his face. It had a faint perfume, a clean and heady scent\n that made him more aware of the touch of her waist. He breathed deeply,\n oddly happy as they rode.\n\n\n After five minutes ride they came to a building in the center of the\n city. The building was cubical, severe in line and architecture, and it\n contrasted oddly with the exquisite ornament of the rest of the city.\n It was as if it were a monolith from another time, a stranger crouched\n among enemies.\n\n\n The girl halted before the structure and said, \"Dismount here, Eric.\"\n\n\n Eric swung down, his arms still tingling with pleasure where he had\n held her. She said, \"Knock three times on the door. I will see you\n again inside. And thank your brother for sending me to bring you here.\"", "\"He loves the city. He will also stay, though he will be outside this\n building.\" Kroon clasped his hands. \"Nolette, will you show Eric his\n quarters?\"", "Yet the danger was too great. He would go back to his ship and make the\n arrangements to destroy the city. The ship was armed, and to deliver\n indirect fire over the edge of the canal would be simple enough. Garve\n North, his brother, waited back at the ship. If he knew of the city he\n would have to go there. Eric must not take a chance on that. After they\n had blasted whatever it was that lay in the canal floor, then it would\n be time enough to tell Garve, and go down to see what was left.\n\n\n The ship rested easily on the flat sandstone area where he had\n established base camp. Its familiar lines brought a smile to Eric's\n face, a feeling of confidence now that tools and weapons were his again.\n\n\n He opened the door and entered. The lock doors were left open so that\n he could enter directly into the body of the ship. He came in in a\n swift leap, calling, \"Garve! Hey, Garve, where are you?\"", "The sword point jerked, and the sentinel straightened. His face was\n white. He cried aloud, \"It is Eric the Bronze. It is Eric of the\n Legend.\" He whirled the sword aloft, and smashed it upon Eric's metal\n hat, and the hatred was a blue flame in his eyes.\nWhen Eric regained consciousness the people of the city were all about\n him. They were very fair, and the women were more beautiful than music.\n Yet now they stared at him with red hate in their eyes. An older man\n came forward and struck at the copper hat with a stick. The clang\n deafened Eric and the man cried, \"You are right. It is Eric the Bronze.\n Bring the ships and let him be scourged from the city.\"", "Eric asked, \"You knew I'd come after you?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. The Legend said you'd be back.\"\n\n\n Eric stopped and whirled to face his brother. \"The Legend? Eric the\n Bronze? What is this wild fantasy?\"\n\n\n \"Not so loud!\" Garve's voice cautioned him. \"Of course the crowd called\n you that because of the copper hat and your heavy tan. But the Elders\n believe so too. I don't know what it is, Eric, reincarnation, prophesy,\n superstition, I only know that when I was with the Elders I believed\n them. You are a part of a Legend. You are Eric the Bronze.\"", "Garve had gone down to the city, and Garve had no shielded hat. Eric\n selected two high explosive grenades from the ship's arsenal. They\n were small but they packed a lot of power. He had a pistol packed\n with smaller pellets of the same explosive, and he had the hat. That\n should be adequate. He thrust the bronze hat back on his head and began\n walking back to the canal.\nThe return back to the city would always live in his mind as a\n phantasmagora, a montage of twisted hate and unseemly beauty. When he\n came again to the gate he did not attempt to enter, but circled the\n wall, hat on, hat off, stiff limbed like a puppet dancing to the same\n tune over and over again. He found a place where he could scale the\n wall, and thrust the helmet on his head, and clawed up the misshapen\n wall. It was all he could do to make himself drop into the ugly city.", "There was one vacant seat beside the head of the T, and as Eric\n watched, the young woman who had rescued him entered and took her place\n there. She smiled at Eric, and the room took on a warmth that it had\n lacked with only the older men present. The man at her right, obviously\n presiding here looked at Eric and spoke. \"I am Kroon, the eldest of\n the elders. We have brought you here to satisfy ourselves of your\n identity. In view of your danger in the City you are entitled to some\n sort of explanation.\" He glanced around the room and asked, \"What is\n the judgment of the elders?\"\nEric caught a faint nod here, a gesture there. Kroon nodded as if\n in satisfaction. He turned to the girl, \"And what is your opinion,\n Daughter of the City?\"\n\n\n Nolette's expression held sorrow, as if she looked into the far future.\n She said, \"He is Eric the Bronze. I have no doubt.\"", "The man drew back the stick and struck again, and Eric's back took\n fire with the blow. The crowd chanted, \"Whips, bring the whips,\" and\n fear forced Eric to his feet. He fled then, running on the heedless\n feet of panic, outstripping those who were behind him until he passed\n through the great gates into the red dust floor of the canal. The gates\n closed behind him, and the dust beat upon him, and he paused, his heart\n hammering inside his chest like a great bell clapper. He turned and\n looked behind to be sure he was safe.\n\n\n The towers twinkled at him, and the music whispered to him, \"Come back,\n Eric North. Come back to the city.\"\n\n\n He turned and stumbled back to the great gate and hammered on it until\n his fists were raw, pleading for it to open and let him back.", "They ran. But as they ran figures began to converge upon them. Farther\n up the street others appeared, cutting off their flight.\n\n\n Garve cried, \"In here,\" and pulled Eric into a crevice between two\n buildings. Eric drew his gun, and savagery began to dance in his eyes.\n The soft fur muffled sounds of pursuit closed in upon them.\n\n\n Garve put one hand on Eric's gun hand and said, \"Wait here. And if you\n value my life, don't use that gun.\" Then he was gone, running deerlike\n down the street.\n\n\n For an instant Eric thought the ruse had succeeded. He heard cries and\n two men passed him running in pursuit. But then the cry came back. \"Let\n him go. Get the other one. The other one.\"", "Eric turned his gaze to the side and saw the woman who had spoken. She\n was mounted upon a black horse with a jeweled bridle. She was young and\n her hair was long and free in the wind. She had ridden so softly across\n the fur street that no one had been aware of her presence.\nShe said, \"Let me touch this man. Let me feel the pulse of his heart so\n that I may know if he is truly the Bronze one of the Legend. Give me\n your hand, stranger.\" She leaned down and grasped his hand. Eric shook\n his arms free, and reached up and clung to the offered hand, thinking,\n \"If I pull her down perhaps I can use her as a shield.\" He tensed his\n muscles and began to pull.\n\n\n She cried, \"No! You fool. Come up on the horse,\" and pulled back with\n an energy as fierce as his own. Then he had swung up on the horse, and\n the animal leaped forward, its muffled gallop beating out a tattoo of\n freedom.", "Eric looked down at his sun tanned hands and flexed them. He loosened\n the explosive pistol in its holster. At least he was going to be a well\n armed, well prepared Legend. And while one part of his mind marveled\n at the city and relaxed into a pleasure as deep as a dream, another\n struggled with the almost forgotten desire to rescue his brother and\n escape. He asked, \"Who are the Elders?\"\n\n\n \"We are going to them, to the center of the city.\" Garve's voice\n sharpened, \"Keep your head down. I think the last two men we passed are\n looking after us. Don't look back.\"\n\n\n After a moment Garve said, \"I think they are following us. Get ready\n to run. If we are separated, keep going until you reach City Center.\n The Elders will be expecting you.\" Garve glanced back, and his voice\n sharpened, \"Now! Run!\"", "When he came to the city there was a high wall around it, and a heavy\n gate carved with lotus blossoms. He beat against the gate and cried,\n \"Oh! Let me in. Let me in to the city!\" The music was richer now, as if\n it were everywhere, and the gate swung open without the faintest sound.\n\n\n A sentinel stood before the opened gate at the end of a long blue\n street. He was dressed in red silk with his sleeves edged in blue\n leopard skin, and he wore a belt with a jeweled short sword. He drew\n the sword from its scabbard, and bowed forward until the point of the\n sword touched the street of blue fur. He said, \"I give you the welcome\n of my sword, and the welcome of the city. Speak your name so that it\n may be set in the records of the dreamers.\"\n\n\n The music sang, and the spires twinkled, and Eric said, \"I am Eric\n North!\"", "And deep inside him some part of his mind said, \"This is a madness you\n cannot escape. The city is evil, an evil like you have never known,\"\n and a fear as old as time coursed through his frame.\n\n\n He seized the copper hat from his head, and beat on the lotus carvings\n of the great door, crying, \"Let me in! Please, take me back into the\n city.\"\n\n\n And as he beat the city changed. It became dull and sordid and evil, a\n city of disgust, with every part offensive to the eye. The spires and\n minarets were gargoyles of hatred, twisted and misshapen, and the sound\n of the city was a macabre song of hate.\n\n\n He stared, and his back was chill with superstitions as old as the\n beginning of man. The city flickered, changing before his eyes until it\n was beautiful again.", "He slid over the edge, sliding down the sloping sides of the canal.\n The rough sandstone tore at his dungarees, tore at his elbow where it\n touched but he did not feel the pain. His face was turned toward the\n towers, and the sound of his breathing was less than human.\n\n\n His feet caught a projecting bit of stone and were slowed for an\n instant, so that he turned sideways and rolled on, down into the red\n dust bottom of the canal, to lie face down in the dust, with the chin\n strap of the odd metallic hat cutting cruelly into his chin.\n\n\n He lay there an instant, knowing that now he had a chance. With his\n face down like this, and the dust smarting his eyes the image was gone\n for an instant. He had to get away, he knew that. He had to mount the\n sides of the canal and never look back.\n\n\n He told himself, \"I am Eric North, from Earth, the Third Planet of Sol,\n and this is not real.\"", "The ship remained mute. He prowled through it, calling, \"Garve,\"\n wondering where the young hothead had gone, and then he saw a note\n clipped to the control board of the ship. He tore it loose impatiently\n and began to read. Garve had scrawled:\n\n\n \"Funny thing, Eric. A while ago I thought I heard music. I walked down\n to the canal, and it seemed like there were lights, and a town of some\n sort far down the canal. I wanted to investigate, but thought I'd\n better come back. But the thing has been in my mind for hours now, and\n I'm going down to see what it is. If you want to follow, come straight\n down the canal.\"\n\n\n Eric stared at the note, and the line of his jaw was white. Apparently\n Garve had seen the city from farther away, and its effect had not been\n so strong. Even so, Garve's natural curiosity had done the rest.", "Kroon sighed. \"The people have lost the will to learn. Many do not even\n know of the machine. Our science is almost gone, and only a few of us,\n the dreamers, the elders, have kept alive the old knowledge of the\n machine and its history. By the collected powers of our imagination we\n build and control the outward appearance of the city.\n\n\n \"We have passed this down from father to son. A part of the ancient\n Legend is that the builders made provisions for the machine to be\n destroyed when contact with outsiders had been made once again, so that\n our people would again have to struggle forward to knowledge and power.\n The instrument of destruction was to be a man termed Eric the Bronze.\n It is not that you are reborn. It is just that sometime such a man\n would come.\"", "Eric said, \"I can understand the Bronze part. They had thought that a\n space man might well be sun tanned. They had thought that a science to\n protect against this beautiful illusion would provide a metal shield\n of some sort, probably copper in nature. That such a man should come\n is inevitable. But why Eric. Why the name Eric?\"\n\n\n For the first time Nolette spoke. She said quietly, \"The name Eric\n was an honorable name of the ancient fathers. It must have been their\n thought that the new beginning should wait for some of their own far\n flung kind to return.\"\n\n\n Eric nodded. He asked, \"What happens now?\"\n\n\n \"Nothing. Dwell here with us and you will be safe from our people. If\n the prediction is not soon fulfilled and you are not the Eric of the\n Legend, you may stay or go as you desire.\"\n\n\n \"My brother, Garve. What about him?\"", "Eric asked, \"And what is this Legend of Eric the Bronze? Why am I so\n despised in the city?\"\n\n\n Kroon answered, \"According to the Ancient Legend you will destroy the\n city. This, and other things.\"\n\n\n Eric gaped. No wonder the crowd had shown such hatred. But why were\n the elders so friendly? They were obviously the governing body, and if\n there was strife between them and the people it had not shown in the\n respect the crowd had accorded Nolette." ], [ "\"He loves the city. He will also stay, though he will be outside this\n building.\" Kroon clasped his hands. \"Nolette, will you show Eric his\n quarters?\"", "They ran. But as they ran figures began to converge upon them. Farther\n up the street others appeared, cutting off their flight.\n\n\n Garve cried, \"In here,\" and pulled Eric into a crevice between two\n buildings. Eric drew his gun, and savagery began to dance in his eyes.\n The soft fur muffled sounds of pursuit closed in upon them.\n\n\n Garve put one hand on Eric's gun hand and said, \"Wait here. And if you\n value my life, don't use that gun.\" Then he was gone, running deerlike\n down the street.\n\n\n For an instant Eric thought the ruse had succeeded. He heard cries and\n two men passed him running in pursuit. But then the cry came back. \"Let\n him go. Get the other one. The other one.\"", "Eric was seen an instant later, and the people of the city began to\n converge upon him. He could have destroyed them all with his charges in\n the gun, but his brother's warning shrieked in his ears, \"If you value\n my life don't use the gun.\"\n\n\n There was nothing he could do. Eric stood quietly until he was taken\n prisoner. They moved him to the center of the wide fur street. Two men\n held his arms, and twisted painfully. The crowd looked at him, coldly,\n calculatingly. One of them said, \"Get the whips. If we whip him he will\n not come back.\" The city twinkled, and the music was so faint he could\n hardly hear it.\n\n\n There was only one weapon Eric could use. He had gathered from Garve's\n words that these people were superstitious.", "He heard a familiar voice as he dropped. \"Eric,\" the voice said. \"Eric,\n you did come back.\" The voice was his brother's, and he whirled,\n seeking the voice. A figure stood before him, a twisted caricature of\n his brother. The figure cried, \"The hat! You fool, get rid of that\n hat!\" The caricature that was his brother seized the hat, and jerked\n so hard that the chin strap broke under Eric's chin. The hat was flung\n away and sailed high and far over the fence and outside the city.\n\n\n The phantasm flickered, the illusion moved. Garve was now more handsome\n than ever, and the city was a dream of delight. Garve said, \"Come,\" and\n Eric followed down a street of blue fur. He had no will to resist.\n\n\n Garve said, \"Keep your head down and your face hidden. If we meet\n someone you may not be recognized. They won't be expecting you from\n this side of the city.\"", "Eric clung tightly to the girl's waist. He could feel the young\n suppleness of her body, and the fine strands of her hair kept swirling\n back into his face. It had a faint perfume, a clean and heady scent\n that made him more aware of the touch of her waist. He breathed deeply,\n oddly happy as they rode.\n\n\n After five minutes ride they came to a building in the center of the\n city. The building was cubical, severe in line and architecture, and it\n contrasted oddly with the exquisite ornament of the rest of the city.\n It was as if it were a monolith from another time, a stranger crouched\n among enemies.\n\n\n The girl halted before the structure and said, \"Dismount here, Eric.\"\n\n\n Eric swung down, his arms still tingling with pleasure where he had\n held her. She said, \"Knock three times on the door. I will see you\n again inside. And thank your brother for sending me to bring you here.\"", "Garve had gone down to the city, and Garve had no shielded hat. Eric\n selected two high explosive grenades from the ship's arsenal. They\n were small but they packed a lot of power. He had a pistol packed\n with smaller pellets of the same explosive, and he had the hat. That\n should be adequate. He thrust the bronze hat back on his head and began\n walking back to the canal.\nThe return back to the city would always live in his mind as a\n phantasmagora, a montage of twisted hate and unseemly beauty. When he\n came again to the gate he did not attempt to enter, but circled the\n wall, hat on, hat off, stiff limbed like a puppet dancing to the same\n tune over and over again. He found a place where he could scale the\n wall, and thrust the helmet on his head, and clawed up the misshapen\n wall. It was all he could do to make himself drop into the ugly city.", "Eric said, \"I can understand the Bronze part. They had thought that a\n space man might well be sun tanned. They had thought that a science to\n protect against this beautiful illusion would provide a metal shield\n of some sort, probably copper in nature. That such a man should come\n is inevitable. But why Eric. Why the name Eric?\"\n\n\n For the first time Nolette spoke. She said quietly, \"The name Eric\n was an honorable name of the ancient fathers. It must have been their\n thought that the new beginning should wait for some of their own far\n flung kind to return.\"\n\n\n Eric nodded. He asked, \"What happens now?\"\n\n\n \"Nothing. Dwell here with us and you will be safe from our people. If\n the prediction is not soon fulfilled and you are not the Eric of the\n Legend, you may stay or go as you desire.\"\n\n\n \"My brother, Garve. What about him?\"", "Yet the danger was too great. He would go back to his ship and make the\n arrangements to destroy the city. The ship was armed, and to deliver\n indirect fire over the edge of the canal would be simple enough. Garve\n North, his brother, waited back at the ship. If he knew of the city he\n would have to go there. Eric must not take a chance on that. After they\n had blasted whatever it was that lay in the canal floor, then it would\n be time enough to tell Garve, and go down to see what was left.\n\n\n The ship rested easily on the flat sandstone area where he had\n established base camp. Its familiar lines brought a smile to Eric's\n face, a feeling of confidence now that tools and weapons were his again.\n\n\n He opened the door and entered. The lock doors were left open so that\n he could enter directly into the body of the ship. He came in in a\n swift leap, calling, \"Garve! Hey, Garve, where are you?\"", "The ship remained mute. He prowled through it, calling, \"Garve,\"\n wondering where the young hothead had gone, and then he saw a note\n clipped to the control board of the ship. He tore it loose impatiently\n and began to read. Garve had scrawled:\n\n\n \"Funny thing, Eric. A while ago I thought I heard music. I walked down\n to the canal, and it seemed like there were lights, and a town of some\n sort far down the canal. I wanted to investigate, but thought I'd\n better come back. But the thing has been in my mind for hours now, and\n I'm going down to see what it is. If you want to follow, come straight\n down the canal.\"\n\n\n Eric stared at the note, and the line of his jaw was white. Apparently\n Garve had seen the city from farther away, and its effect had not been\n so strong. Even so, Garve's natural curiosity had done the rest.", "Eric asked, \"You knew I'd come after you?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. The Legend said you'd be back.\"\n\n\n Eric stopped and whirled to face his brother. \"The Legend? Eric the\n Bronze? What is this wild fantasy?\"\n\n\n \"Not so loud!\" Garve's voice cautioned him. \"Of course the crowd called\n you that because of the copper hat and your heavy tan. But the Elders\n believe so too. I don't know what it is, Eric, reincarnation, prophesy,\n superstition, I only know that when I was with the Elders I believed\n them. You are a part of a Legend. You are Eric the Bronze.\"", "There was one vacant seat beside the head of the T, and as Eric\n watched, the young woman who had rescued him entered and took her place\n there. She smiled at Eric, and the room took on a warmth that it had\n lacked with only the older men present. The man at her right, obviously\n presiding here looked at Eric and spoke. \"I am Kroon, the eldest of\n the elders. We have brought you here to satisfy ourselves of your\n identity. In view of your danger in the City you are entitled to some\n sort of explanation.\" He glanced around the room and asked, \"What is\n the judgment of the elders?\"\nEric caught a faint nod here, a gesture there. Kroon nodded as if\n in satisfaction. He turned to the girl, \"And what is your opinion,\n Daughter of the City?\"\n\n\n Nolette's expression held sorrow, as if she looked into the far future.\n She said, \"He is Eric the Bronze. I have no doubt.\"", "Eric knocked on the door. The door was as plain as the building, made\n of a luminous plastic. It had all the beauty of the great gate door,\n but a more timeless, more functional beauty.\n\n\n The door opened and an old man greeted Eric. \"Come in. The Council\n awaits you. Follow me, please.\"\n\n\n Eric followed down a hallway and into a large room. The room was\n obviously designed for a conference room. A great table stood in the\n room, made of the same luminous plastic as the door of the building.\n Six men sat at this conference table. Eric's guide placed him in a\n chair at the base of the T-shaped table.", "Eric turned his gaze to the side and saw the woman who had spoken. She\n was mounted upon a black horse with a jeweled bridle. She was young and\n her hair was long and free in the wind. She had ridden so softly across\n the fur street that no one had been aware of her presence.\nShe said, \"Let me touch this man. Let me feel the pulse of his heart so\n that I may know if he is truly the Bronze one of the Legend. Give me\n your hand, stranger.\" She leaned down and grasped his hand. Eric shook\n his arms free, and reached up and clung to the offered hand, thinking,\n \"If I pull her down perhaps I can use her as a shield.\" He tensed his\n muscles and began to pull.\n\n\n She cried, \"No! You fool. Come up on the horse,\" and pulled back with\n an energy as fierce as his own. Then he had swung up on the horse, and\n the animal leaped forward, its muffled gallop beating out a tattoo of\n freedom.", "Eric looked down at his sun tanned hands and flexed them. He loosened\n the explosive pistol in its holster. At least he was going to be a well\n armed, well prepared Legend. And while one part of his mind marveled\n at the city and relaxed into a pleasure as deep as a dream, another\n struggled with the almost forgotten desire to rescue his brother and\n escape. He asked, \"Who are the Elders?\"\n\n\n \"We are going to them, to the center of the city.\" Garve's voice\n sharpened, \"Keep your head down. I think the last two men we passed are\n looking after us. Don't look back.\"\n\n\n After a moment Garve said, \"I think they are following us. Get ready\n to run. If we are separated, keep going until you reach City Center.\n The Elders will be expecting you.\" Garve glanced back, and his voice\n sharpened, \"Now! Run!\"", "When he came to the city there was a high wall around it, and a heavy\n gate carved with lotus blossoms. He beat against the gate and cried,\n \"Oh! Let me in. Let me in to the city!\" The music was richer now, as if\n it were everywhere, and the gate swung open without the faintest sound.\n\n\n A sentinel stood before the opened gate at the end of a long blue\n street. He was dressed in red silk with his sleeves edged in blue\n leopard skin, and he wore a belt with a jeweled short sword. He drew\n the sword from its scabbard, and bowed forward until the point of the\n sword touched the street of blue fur. He said, \"I give you the welcome\n of my sword, and the welcome of the city. Speak your name so that it\n may be set in the records of the dreamers.\"\n\n\n The music sang, and the spires twinkled, and Eric said, \"I am Eric\n North!\"", "Eric tensed to break away but now it was too late. His captors were\n alert. They increased the twist on his arms until he almost screamed\n with the pain.\n\n\n The crowd parted, and the guard came through, his red silk clothing\n gleaming in the sun, his sword bright and deadly. He stopped before\n Eric, and the sword swirled up like a saber, ready for a slashing cut\n downward across Eric's neck.\n\n\n A woman's voice, soft and yet authoritative, called, \"Hold!\" And a\n murmur of respect rippled through the crowd.\n\n\n \"Nolette! The Daughter of the City comes.\"", "He laughed, a great chest-shattering laugh that gusted out into the\n thin Martian air. He laughed and cried in a great voice, \"And can you\n so easily dispose of a Legend? If I am Eric of the Legend, can whips\n defeat the prophesy?\"\n\n\n There was an instant when he could have twisted loose. They stood,\n fear-bound at his words. But there was no place to hide, and without\n the use of his weapons Eric could not have gone far. He had to bluff it\n out.\nThen one of the men cried, \"Fools! It is true. We must take no chance\n with the whips. He would come back. But if he dies here before us now,\n then we may forget the prophesy.\"\n\n\n The crowd murmured and a second voice cried, \"Get the sword, get the\n guards, and kill him at once!\"", "The sword point jerked, and the sentinel straightened. His face was\n white. He cried aloud, \"It is Eric the Bronze. It is Eric of the\n Legend.\" He whirled the sword aloft, and smashed it upon Eric's metal\n hat, and the hatred was a blue flame in his eyes.\nWhen Eric regained consciousness the people of the city were all about\n him. They were very fair, and the women were more beautiful than music.\n Yet now they stared at him with red hate in their eyes. An older man\n came forward and struck at the copper hat with a stick. The clang\n deafened Eric and the man cried, \"You are right. It is Eric the Bronze.\n Bring the ships and let him be scourged from the city.\"", "Kroon sighed. \"The people have lost the will to learn. Many do not even\n know of the machine. Our science is almost gone, and only a few of us,\n the dreamers, the elders, have kept alive the old knowledge of the\n machine and its history. By the collected powers of our imagination we\n build and control the outward appearance of the city.\n\n\n \"We have passed this down from father to son. A part of the ancient\n Legend is that the builders made provisions for the machine to be\n destroyed when contact with outsiders had been made once again, so that\n our people would again have to struggle forward to knowledge and power.\n The instrument of destruction was to be a man termed Eric the Bronze.\n It is not that you are reborn. It is just that sometime such a man\n would come.\"", "Eric asked, \"And what is this Legend of Eric the Bronze? Why am I so\n despised in the city?\"\n\n\n Kroon answered, \"According to the Ancient Legend you will destroy the\n city. This, and other things.\"\n\n\n Eric gaped. No wonder the crowd had shown such hatred. But why were\n the elders so friendly? They were obviously the governing body, and if\n there was strife between them and the people it had not shown in the\n respect the crowd had accorded Nolette." ], [ "Eric was seen an instant later, and the people of the city began to\n converge upon him. He could have destroyed them all with his charges in\n the gun, but his brother's warning shrieked in his ears, \"If you value\n my life don't use the gun.\"\n\n\n There was nothing he could do. Eric stood quietly until he was taken\n prisoner. They moved him to the center of the wide fur street. Two men\n held his arms, and twisted painfully. The crowd looked at him, coldly,\n calculatingly. One of them said, \"Get the whips. If we whip him he will\n not come back.\" The city twinkled, and the music was so faint he could\n hardly hear it.\n\n\n There was only one weapon Eric could use. He had gathered from Garve's\n words that these people were superstitious.", "They ran. But as they ran figures began to converge upon them. Farther\n up the street others appeared, cutting off their flight.\n\n\n Garve cried, \"In here,\" and pulled Eric into a crevice between two\n buildings. Eric drew his gun, and savagery began to dance in his eyes.\n The soft fur muffled sounds of pursuit closed in upon them.\n\n\n Garve put one hand on Eric's gun hand and said, \"Wait here. And if you\n value my life, don't use that gun.\" Then he was gone, running deerlike\n down the street.\n\n\n For an instant Eric thought the ruse had succeeded. He heard cries and\n two men passed him running in pursuit. But then the cry came back. \"Let\n him go. Get the other one. The other one.\"", "He laughed, a great chest-shattering laugh that gusted out into the\n thin Martian air. He laughed and cried in a great voice, \"And can you\n so easily dispose of a Legend? If I am Eric of the Legend, can whips\n defeat the prophesy?\"\n\n\n There was an instant when he could have twisted loose. They stood,\n fear-bound at his words. But there was no place to hide, and without\n the use of his weapons Eric could not have gone far. He had to bluff it\n out.\nThen one of the men cried, \"Fools! It is true. We must take no chance\n with the whips. He would come back. But if he dies here before us now,\n then we may forget the prophesy.\"\n\n\n The crowd murmured and a second voice cried, \"Get the sword, get the\n guards, and kill him at once!\"", "He slid over the edge, sliding down the sloping sides of the canal.\n The rough sandstone tore at his dungarees, tore at his elbow where it\n touched but he did not feel the pain. His face was turned toward the\n towers, and the sound of his breathing was less than human.\n\n\n His feet caught a projecting bit of stone and were slowed for an\n instant, so that he turned sideways and rolled on, down into the red\n dust bottom of the canal, to lie face down in the dust, with the chin\n strap of the odd metallic hat cutting cruelly into his chin.\n\n\n He lay there an instant, knowing that now he had a chance. With his\n face down like this, and the dust smarting his eyes the image was gone\n for an instant. He had to get away, he knew that. He had to mount the\n sides of the canal and never look back.\n\n\n He told himself, \"I am Eric North, from Earth, the Third Planet of Sol,\n and this is not real.\"", "Eric turned his gaze to the side and saw the woman who had spoken. She\n was mounted upon a black horse with a jeweled bridle. She was young and\n her hair was long and free in the wind. She had ridden so softly across\n the fur street that no one had been aware of her presence.\nShe said, \"Let me touch this man. Let me feel the pulse of his heart so\n that I may know if he is truly the Bronze one of the Legend. Give me\n your hand, stranger.\" She leaned down and grasped his hand. Eric shook\n his arms free, and reached up and clung to the offered hand, thinking,\n \"If I pull her down perhaps I can use her as a shield.\" He tensed his\n muscles and began to pull.\n\n\n She cried, \"No! You fool. Come up on the horse,\" and pulled back with\n an energy as fierce as his own. Then he had swung up on the horse, and\n the animal leaped forward, its muffled gallop beating out a tattoo of\n freedom.", "Yet the danger was too great. He would go back to his ship and make the\n arrangements to destroy the city. The ship was armed, and to deliver\n indirect fire over the edge of the canal would be simple enough. Garve\n North, his brother, waited back at the ship. If he knew of the city he\n would have to go there. Eric must not take a chance on that. After they\n had blasted whatever it was that lay in the canal floor, then it would\n be time enough to tell Garve, and go down to see what was left.\n\n\n The ship rested easily on the flat sandstone area where he had\n established base camp. Its familiar lines brought a smile to Eric's\n face, a feeling of confidence now that tools and weapons were his again.\n\n\n He opened the door and entered. The lock doors were left open so that\n he could enter directly into the body of the ship. He came in in a\n swift leap, calling, \"Garve! Hey, Garve, where are you?\"", "Garve had gone down to the city, and Garve had no shielded hat. Eric\n selected two high explosive grenades from the ship's arsenal. They\n were small but they packed a lot of power. He had a pistol packed\n with smaller pellets of the same explosive, and he had the hat. That\n should be adequate. He thrust the bronze hat back on his head and began\n walking back to the canal.\nThe return back to the city would always live in his mind as a\n phantasmagora, a montage of twisted hate and unseemly beauty. When he\n came again to the gate he did not attempt to enter, but circled the\n wall, hat on, hat off, stiff limbed like a puppet dancing to the same\n tune over and over again. He found a place where he could scale the\n wall, and thrust the helmet on his head, and clawed up the misshapen\n wall. It was all he could do to make himself drop into the ugly city.", "Eric looked down at his sun tanned hands and flexed them. He loosened\n the explosive pistol in its holster. At least he was going to be a well\n armed, well prepared Legend. And while one part of his mind marveled\n at the city and relaxed into a pleasure as deep as a dream, another\n struggled with the almost forgotten desire to rescue his brother and\n escape. He asked, \"Who are the Elders?\"\n\n\n \"We are going to them, to the center of the city.\" Garve's voice\n sharpened, \"Keep your head down. I think the last two men we passed are\n looking after us. Don't look back.\"\n\n\n After a moment Garve said, \"I think they are following us. Get ready\n to run. If we are separated, keep going until you reach City Center.\n The Elders will be expecting you.\" Garve glanced back, and his voice\n sharpened, \"Now! Run!\"", "\"He loves the city. He will also stay, though he will be outside this\n building.\" Kroon clasped his hands. \"Nolette, will you show Eric his\n quarters?\"", "The man drew back the stick and struck again, and Eric's back took\n fire with the blow. The crowd chanted, \"Whips, bring the whips,\" and\n fear forced Eric to his feet. He fled then, running on the heedless\n feet of panic, outstripping those who were behind him until he passed\n through the great gates into the red dust floor of the canal. The gates\n closed behind him, and the dust beat upon him, and he paused, his heart\n hammering inside his chest like a great bell clapper. He turned and\n looked behind to be sure he was safe.\n\n\n The towers twinkled at him, and the music whispered to him, \"Come back,\n Eric North. Come back to the city.\"\n\n\n He turned and stumbled back to the great gate and hammered on it until\n his fists were raw, pleading for it to open and let him back.", "He heard a familiar voice as he dropped. \"Eric,\" the voice said. \"Eric,\n you did come back.\" The voice was his brother's, and he whirled,\n seeking the voice. A figure stood before him, a twisted caricature of\n his brother. The figure cried, \"The hat! You fool, get rid of that\n hat!\" The caricature that was his brother seized the hat, and jerked\n so hard that the chin strap broke under Eric's chin. The hat was flung\n away and sailed high and far over the fence and outside the city.\n\n\n The phantasm flickered, the illusion moved. Garve was now more handsome\n than ever, and the city was a dream of delight. Garve said, \"Come,\" and\n Eric followed down a street of blue fur. He had no will to resist.\n\n\n Garve said, \"Keep your head down and your face hidden. If we meet\n someone you may not be recognized. They won't be expecting you from\n this side of the city.\"", "Eric clung tightly to the girl's waist. He could feel the young\n suppleness of her body, and the fine strands of her hair kept swirling\n back into his face. It had a faint perfume, a clean and heady scent\n that made him more aware of the touch of her waist. He breathed deeply,\n oddly happy as they rode.\n\n\n After five minutes ride they came to a building in the center of the\n city. The building was cubical, severe in line and architecture, and it\n contrasted oddly with the exquisite ornament of the rest of the city.\n It was as if it were a monolith from another time, a stranger crouched\n among enemies.\n\n\n The girl halted before the structure and said, \"Dismount here, Eric.\"\n\n\n Eric swung down, his arms still tingling with pleasure where he had\n held her. She said, \"Knock three times on the door. I will see you\n again inside. And thank your brother for sending me to bring you here.\"", "The ship remained mute. He prowled through it, calling, \"Garve,\"\n wondering where the young hothead had gone, and then he saw a note\n clipped to the control board of the ship. He tore it loose impatiently\n and began to read. Garve had scrawled:\n\n\n \"Funny thing, Eric. A while ago I thought I heard music. I walked down\n to the canal, and it seemed like there were lights, and a town of some\n sort far down the canal. I wanted to investigate, but thought I'd\n better come back. But the thing has been in my mind for hours now, and\n I'm going down to see what it is. If you want to follow, come straight\n down the canal.\"\n\n\n Eric stared at the note, and the line of his jaw was white. Apparently\n Garve had seen the city from farther away, and its effect had not been\n so strong. Even so, Garve's natural curiosity had done the rest.", "There was one vacant seat beside the head of the T, and as Eric\n watched, the young woman who had rescued him entered and took her place\n there. She smiled at Eric, and the room took on a warmth that it had\n lacked with only the older men present. The man at her right, obviously\n presiding here looked at Eric and spoke. \"I am Kroon, the eldest of\n the elders. We have brought you here to satisfy ourselves of your\n identity. In view of your danger in the City you are entitled to some\n sort of explanation.\" He glanced around the room and asked, \"What is\n the judgment of the elders?\"\nEric caught a faint nod here, a gesture there. Kroon nodded as if\n in satisfaction. He turned to the girl, \"And what is your opinion,\n Daughter of the City?\"\n\n\n Nolette's expression held sorrow, as if she looked into the far future.\n She said, \"He is Eric the Bronze. I have no doubt.\"", "Eric said, \"I can understand the Bronze part. They had thought that a\n space man might well be sun tanned. They had thought that a science to\n protect against this beautiful illusion would provide a metal shield\n of some sort, probably copper in nature. That such a man should come\n is inevitable. But why Eric. Why the name Eric?\"\n\n\n For the first time Nolette spoke. She said quietly, \"The name Eric\n was an honorable name of the ancient fathers. It must have been their\n thought that the new beginning should wait for some of their own far\n flung kind to return.\"\n\n\n Eric nodded. He asked, \"What happens now?\"\n\n\n \"Nothing. Dwell here with us and you will be safe from our people. If\n the prediction is not soon fulfilled and you are not the Eric of the\n Legend, you may stay or go as you desire.\"\n\n\n \"My brother, Garve. What about him?\"", "Eric tensed to break away but now it was too late. His captors were\n alert. They increased the twist on his arms until he almost screamed\n with the pain.\n\n\n The crowd parted, and the guard came through, his red silk clothing\n gleaming in the sun, his sword bright and deadly. He stopped before\n Eric, and the sword swirled up like a saber, ready for a slashing cut\n downward across Eric's neck.\n\n\n A woman's voice, soft and yet authoritative, called, \"Hold!\" And a\n murmur of respect rippled through the crowd.\n\n\n \"Nolette! The Daughter of the City comes.\"", "Eric asked, \"And I am to destroy the City?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. The time has come.\"\n\n\n \"But why?\" Eric demanded. For an instant he could see the twinkling\n beauty as clearly as if he had stood outside the walls of this building.\n\n\n Kroon said, \"There are difficulties. The machine builds according to\n the mass will of the people, though it is sensitive to the individual\n in areas where it does not conflict with the imagination of the mass.\n We have had strangers, visitors, and even our own people, who grew\n drunk with the power of the machine, who dreamed more and more lust and\n greed into existence. These were banished from the city, and so strong\n is the call of the city that many of them became victims of their own\n evilness, and now walk mindlessly, with no thought but to seek for the\n beauty they have lost here.\"", "Kroon sighed. \"The people have lost the will to learn. Many do not even\n know of the machine. Our science is almost gone, and only a few of us,\n the dreamers, the elders, have kept alive the old knowledge of the\n machine and its history. By the collected powers of our imagination we\n build and control the outward appearance of the city.\n\n\n \"We have passed this down from father to son. A part of the ancient\n Legend is that the builders made provisions for the machine to be\n destroyed when contact with outsiders had been made once again, so that\n our people would again have to struggle forward to knowledge and power.\n The instrument of destruction was to be a man termed Eric the Bronze.\n It is not that you are reborn. It is just that sometime such a man\n would come.\"", "The sword point jerked, and the sentinel straightened. His face was\n white. He cried aloud, \"It is Eric the Bronze. It is Eric of the\n Legend.\" He whirled the sword aloft, and smashed it upon Eric's metal\n hat, and the hatred was a blue flame in his eyes.\nWhen Eric regained consciousness the people of the city were all about\n him. They were very fair, and the women were more beautiful than music.\n Yet now they stared at him with red hate in their eyes. An older man\n came forward and struck at the copper hat with a stick. The clang\n deafened Eric and the man cried, \"You are right. It is Eric the Bronze.\n Bring the ships and let him be scourged from the city.\"", "\"Yes, or the product of one. The heart of it lies underneath our feet,\n in caverns beneath this building. The nature of the machine is this,\n that it translates thought into reality.\"\n\n\n Eric stared. The idea was staggering.\n\n\n \"This is essentially simple, although the technology is complex. It is\n necessary to have a recording device, to capture thought, a transmuting\n device capable of transmuting the red dust of the desert into any\n sort of material desired, and a construction device, to assemble this\n material into the pattern already recorded from thought.\" Kroon paused.\n \"You still doubt, my friend. Perhaps you are thirsty after your escape.\n Think strongly of a tall glass of cold water, visualize it in your\n mind, the sight and the fluidity and the touch of it.\"\n\n\n Eric did so. Without warning a glass of water stood on the table before\n him. He touched the water to his lips. It was cool and satisfying. He\n drank it, convinced completely." ], [ "Kroon sighed. \"The people have lost the will to learn. Many do not even\n know of the machine. Our science is almost gone, and only a few of us,\n the dreamers, the elders, have kept alive the old knowledge of the\n machine and its history. By the collected powers of our imagination we\n build and control the outward appearance of the city.\n\n\n \"We have passed this down from father to son. A part of the ancient\n Legend is that the builders made provisions for the machine to be\n destroyed when contact with outsiders had been made once again, so that\n our people would again have to struggle forward to knowledge and power.\n The instrument of destruction was to be a man termed Eric the Bronze.\n It is not that you are reborn. It is just that sometime such a man\n would come.\"", "Eric asked, \"And I am to destroy the City?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. The time has come.\"\n\n\n \"But why?\" Eric demanded. For an instant he could see the twinkling\n beauty as clearly as if he had stood outside the walls of this building.\n\n\n Kroon said, \"There are difficulties. The machine builds according to\n the mass will of the people, though it is sensitive to the individual\n in areas where it does not conflict with the imagination of the mass.\n We have had strangers, visitors, and even our own people, who grew\n drunk with the power of the machine, who dreamed more and more lust and\n greed into existence. These were banished from the city, and so strong\n is the call of the city that many of them became victims of their own\n evilness, and now walk mindlessly, with no thought but to seek for the\n beauty they have lost here.\"", "Eric asked, \"And what is this Legend of Eric the Bronze? Why am I so\n despised in the city?\"\n\n\n Kroon answered, \"According to the Ancient Legend you will destroy the\n city. This, and other things.\"\n\n\n Eric gaped. No wonder the crowd had shown such hatred. But why were\n the elders so friendly? They were obviously the governing body, and if\n there was strife between them and the people it had not shown in the\n respect the crowd had accorded Nolette.", "Kroon said, \"I see you are puzzled. Let me tell you the story of the\n City. The City is old. It dates from long ago when the canals of Mars\n ran clear and green with water, and the deserts were vineyards and\n gardens. The drouth came, and the changes in climate, and soon it\n became plain that the people of Mars were doomed. They had ships, and\n could build more, and gradually they left to colonize other planets.\n Yet they could take little of their science. And fear and riots\n destroyed much. Also there were those who were filled with love for\n this homeland, and who thought that one day it might be habitable\n again. All the skill of the ancient Martian fathers went into the\n building of a giant machine, the machine that is the City, to protect a\n small colony of those who were chosen to remain on Mars.\"\n\n\n \"This whole city is a machine!\" Eric asked.", "Eric looked down at his sun tanned hands and flexed them. He loosened\n the explosive pistol in its holster. At least he was going to be a well\n armed, well prepared Legend. And while one part of his mind marveled\n at the city and relaxed into a pleasure as deep as a dream, another\n struggled with the almost forgotten desire to rescue his brother and\n escape. He asked, \"Who are the Elders?\"\n\n\n \"We are going to them, to the center of the city.\" Garve's voice\n sharpened, \"Keep your head down. I think the last two men we passed are\n looking after us. Don't look back.\"\n\n\n After a moment Garve said, \"I think they are following us. Get ready\n to run. If we are separated, keep going until you reach City Center.\n The Elders will be expecting you.\" Garve glanced back, and his voice\n sharpened, \"Now! Run!\"", "Eric was seen an instant later, and the people of the city began to\n converge upon him. He could have destroyed them all with his charges in\n the gun, but his brother's warning shrieked in his ears, \"If you value\n my life don't use the gun.\"\n\n\n There was nothing he could do. Eric stood quietly until he was taken\n prisoner. They moved him to the center of the wide fur street. Two men\n held his arms, and twisted painfully. The crowd looked at him, coldly,\n calculatingly. One of them said, \"Get the whips. If we whip him he will\n not come back.\" The city twinkled, and the music was so faint he could\n hardly hear it.\n\n\n There was only one weapon Eric could use. He had gathered from Garve's\n words that these people were superstitious.", "There was one vacant seat beside the head of the T, and as Eric\n watched, the young woman who had rescued him entered and took her place\n there. She smiled at Eric, and the room took on a warmth that it had\n lacked with only the older men present. The man at her right, obviously\n presiding here looked at Eric and spoke. \"I am Kroon, the eldest of\n the elders. We have brought you here to satisfy ourselves of your\n identity. In view of your danger in the City you are entitled to some\n sort of explanation.\" He glanced around the room and asked, \"What is\n the judgment of the elders?\"\nEric caught a faint nod here, a gesture there. Kroon nodded as if\n in satisfaction. He turned to the girl, \"And what is your opinion,\n Daughter of the City?\"\n\n\n Nolette's expression held sorrow, as if she looked into the far future.\n She said, \"He is Eric the Bronze. I have no doubt.\"", "\"Yes, or the product of one. The heart of it lies underneath our feet,\n in caverns beneath this building. The nature of the machine is this,\n that it translates thought into reality.\"\n\n\n Eric stared. The idea was staggering.\n\n\n \"This is essentially simple, although the technology is complex. It is\n necessary to have a recording device, to capture thought, a transmuting\n device capable of transmuting the red dust of the desert into any\n sort of material desired, and a construction device, to assemble this\n material into the pattern already recorded from thought.\" Kroon paused.\n \"You still doubt, my friend. Perhaps you are thirsty after your escape.\n Think strongly of a tall glass of cold water, visualize it in your\n mind, the sight and the fluidity and the touch of it.\"\n\n\n Eric did so. Without warning a glass of water stood on the table before\n him. He touched the water to his lips. It was cool and satisfying. He\n drank it, convinced completely.", "He laughed, a great chest-shattering laugh that gusted out into the\n thin Martian air. He laughed and cried in a great voice, \"And can you\n so easily dispose of a Legend? If I am Eric of the Legend, can whips\n defeat the prophesy?\"\n\n\n There was an instant when he could have twisted loose. They stood,\n fear-bound at his words. But there was no place to hide, and without\n the use of his weapons Eric could not have gone far. He had to bluff it\n out.\nThen one of the men cried, \"Fools! It is true. We must take no chance\n with the whips. He would come back. But if he dies here before us now,\n then we may forget the prophesy.\"\n\n\n The crowd murmured and a second voice cried, \"Get the sword, get the\n guards, and kill him at once!\"", "Eric knocked on the door. The door was as plain as the building, made\n of a luminous plastic. It had all the beauty of the great gate door,\n but a more timeless, more functional beauty.\n\n\n The door opened and an old man greeted Eric. \"Come in. The Council\n awaits you. Follow me, please.\"\n\n\n Eric followed down a hallway and into a large room. The room was\n obviously designed for a conference room. A great table stood in the\n room, made of the same luminous plastic as the door of the building.\n Six men sat at this conference table. Eric's guide placed him in a\n chair at the base of the T-shaped table.", "The ship remained mute. He prowled through it, calling, \"Garve,\"\n wondering where the young hothead had gone, and then he saw a note\n clipped to the control board of the ship. He tore it loose impatiently\n and began to read. Garve had scrawled:\n\n\n \"Funny thing, Eric. A while ago I thought I heard music. I walked down\n to the canal, and it seemed like there were lights, and a town of some\n sort far down the canal. I wanted to investigate, but thought I'd\n better come back. But the thing has been in my mind for hours now, and\n I'm going down to see what it is. If you want to follow, come straight\n down the canal.\"\n\n\n Eric stared at the note, and the line of his jaw was white. Apparently\n Garve had seen the city from farther away, and its effect had not been\n so strong. Even so, Garve's natural curiosity had done the rest.", "Yet the danger was too great. He would go back to his ship and make the\n arrangements to destroy the city. The ship was armed, and to deliver\n indirect fire over the edge of the canal would be simple enough. Garve\n North, his brother, waited back at the ship. If he knew of the city he\n would have to go there. Eric must not take a chance on that. After they\n had blasted whatever it was that lay in the canal floor, then it would\n be time enough to tell Garve, and go down to see what was left.\n\n\n The ship rested easily on the flat sandstone area where he had\n established base camp. Its familiar lines brought a smile to Eric's\n face, a feeling of confidence now that tools and weapons were his again.\n\n\n He opened the door and entered. The lock doors were left open so that\n he could enter directly into the body of the ship. He came in in a\n swift leap, calling, \"Garve! Hey, Garve, where are you?\"", "Eric asked, \"You knew I'd come after you?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. The Legend said you'd be back.\"\n\n\n Eric stopped and whirled to face his brother. \"The Legend? Eric the\n Bronze? What is this wild fantasy?\"\n\n\n \"Not so loud!\" Garve's voice cautioned him. \"Of course the crowd called\n you that because of the copper hat and your heavy tan. But the Elders\n believe so too. I don't know what it is, Eric, reincarnation, prophesy,\n superstition, I only know that when I was with the Elders I believed\n them. You are a part of a Legend. You are Eric the Bronze.\"", "The helmet contained an electrical circuit, designed as a shield\n against electrical waves tuned to affect his brain. But the hat had\n failed because the city, whatever it was, had adjusted to this revised\n pattern as he had approached it. Hence, the helmet had been no defense\n against illusion. However, when he had jerked the helmet off suddenly\n to beat on the door, his mental pattern had changed, too suddenly, and\n the machine caught up only after he had glimpsed another image. Then as\n the illusion adjusted replacing the helmet threw it off again.\n\n\n He grinned wryly. He would have liked to know more about the city,\n whatever it was. He would have liked to know more about the people he\n had seen, whether they were real or part of the illusion, and if they\n were as ugly as the second city had been.", "Eric said, \"I can understand the Bronze part. They had thought that a\n space man might well be sun tanned. They had thought that a science to\n protect against this beautiful illusion would provide a metal shield\n of some sort, probably copper in nature. That such a man should come\n is inevitable. But why Eric. Why the name Eric?\"\n\n\n For the first time Nolette spoke. She said quietly, \"The name Eric\n was an honorable name of the ancient fathers. It must have been their\n thought that the new beginning should wait for some of their own far\n flung kind to return.\"\n\n\n Eric nodded. He asked, \"What happens now?\"\n\n\n \"Nothing. Dwell here with us and you will be safe from our people. If\n the prediction is not soon fulfilled and you are not the Eric of the\n Legend, you may stay or go as you desire.\"\n\n\n \"My brother, Garve. What about him?\"", "He slid over the edge, sliding down the sloping sides of the canal.\n The rough sandstone tore at his dungarees, tore at his elbow where it\n touched but he did not feel the pain. His face was turned toward the\n towers, and the sound of his breathing was less than human.\n\n\n His feet caught a projecting bit of stone and were slowed for an\n instant, so that he turned sideways and rolled on, down into the red\n dust bottom of the canal, to lie face down in the dust, with the chin\n strap of the odd metallic hat cutting cruelly into his chin.\n\n\n He lay there an instant, knowing that now he had a chance. With his\n face down like this, and the dust smarting his eyes the image was gone\n for an instant. He had to get away, he knew that. He had to mount the\n sides of the canal and never look back.\n\n\n He told himself, \"I am Eric North, from Earth, the Third Planet of Sol,\n and this is not real.\"", "They ran. But as they ran figures began to converge upon them. Farther\n up the street others appeared, cutting off their flight.\n\n\n Garve cried, \"In here,\" and pulled Eric into a crevice between two\n buildings. Eric drew his gun, and savagery began to dance in his eyes.\n The soft fur muffled sounds of pursuit closed in upon them.\n\n\n Garve put one hand on Eric's gun hand and said, \"Wait here. And if you\n value my life, don't use that gun.\" Then he was gone, running deerlike\n down the street.\n\n\n For an instant Eric thought the ruse had succeeded. He heard cries and\n two men passed him running in pursuit. But then the cry came back. \"Let\n him go. Get the other one. The other one.\"", "Eric clung tightly to the girl's waist. He could feel the young\n suppleness of her body, and the fine strands of her hair kept swirling\n back into his face. It had a faint perfume, a clean and heady scent\n that made him more aware of the touch of her waist. He breathed deeply,\n oddly happy as they rode.\n\n\n After five minutes ride they came to a building in the center of the\n city. The building was cubical, severe in line and architecture, and it\n contrasted oddly with the exquisite ornament of the rest of the city.\n It was as if it were a monolith from another time, a stranger crouched\n among enemies.\n\n\n The girl halted before the structure and said, \"Dismount here, Eric.\"\n\n\n Eric swung down, his arms still tingling with pleasure where he had\n held her. She said, \"Knock three times on the door. I will see you\n again inside. And thank your brother for sending me to bring you here.\"", "He stood, amazed, and put the metal hat back on his head. With the\n motion the shift took place again, and beauty was ugliness. Amazed, he\n stared at the illusion, and the thought came to him that the metal hat\n had not entirely failed him after all.\n\n\n He turned and began to walk away from the city, and when it began to\n call he took the hat off his head and found peace for a time. Then when\n it began again he replaced the hat, and revulsion sped his footsteps.\n And so, hat on, hat off, he made his way down the dusty floor of the\n canal, and up the rocky sides until he stood on the Martian desert, and\n the canal was a thin line behind him. He breathed easily then, for he\n was beyond the range of the illusions.\n\n\n And now that his mind was his own again he began to study the problem,\n and to understand something of the nature of the forces against which\n he had been pitted.", "And deep inside him some part of his mind said, \"This is a madness you\n cannot escape. The city is evil, an evil like you have never known,\"\n and a fear as old as time coursed through his frame.\n\n\n He seized the copper hat from his head, and beat on the lotus carvings\n of the great door, crying, \"Let me in! Please, take me back into the\n city.\"\n\n\n And as he beat the city changed. It became dull and sordid and evil, a\n city of disgust, with every part offensive to the eye. The spires and\n minarets were gargoyles of hatred, twisted and misshapen, and the sound\n of the city was a macabre song of hate.\n\n\n He stared, and his back was chill with superstitions as old as the\n beginning of man. The city flickered, changing before his eyes until it\n was beautiful again." ] ]
test	50868	[ "How would the people around Bruce describe him?", "What is NOT a strange thing about the mountain?", "What was the purpose of climbing the mountain?", "Why is Bruce different from the others in his group?", "What is Bruce responsible during the mountain climbing?", "What happened to all the other previous expeditions to Mars?", "What is the relationship between Marsha and Bruce?", "What traits best describe Terrence?", "What does the mountain symbolize?" ]	[ [ "Humorous", "Blunt", "Unstable", "Likeable" ], [ "It's a different color than the rest of the landscape", "It's incredibly tall", "It's taller than they expected it to be", "It's around nothing else that's tall" ], [ "To find the old ships", "To gather geological data", "To conquer it and understand why it's there", "To find the others who climbed the mountain before" ], [ "He's the one who wants to climb the mountain the most", "He doesn't have an interest in climbing the mountain", "He wants to murder all of the group members before they can climb the mountain", "He wants to go back to Earth to see his family while the others don't have families back on Earth" ], [ "He needs to record observations", "He needs to act as the healter", "He needs to watch rations", "He needs to watch the rope" ], [ "They all killed each other from madness", "They all died climbing the mountain", "They all crashed into the mountain before they could explore", "They all contracted a disease the Martians spread" ], [ "They're lovers", "They're just coworkers", "They're old friends", "They used to be lovers" ], [ "Confident and handsome", "Fair and strong", "Empathetic and leader-like", "Crazed and determined" ], [ "Capitalism", "Discovery", "Pure Knowledge", "Greed" ] ]	[ -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1 ]	[ 1, 0, 1, 1, 0, 0, 1, 0, 1 ]	[ [ "Bruce listened to the wind. It seemed to rise higher and higher.\n Terrence, who had climbed still higher, was calling. \"Think of it! What\n a conquest! No man's ever done a thing like this. Like Stromberg says,\n it's symbolic! We can build spaceships and reach other planets, but\n that's not actual physical conquest. We feel like gods up here. We can\n see what we are now. We can see how it's going to be—\"\n\n\n Once in a while Terrence demanded that Bruce say something to prove he\n was still there taking down what Terrence said. Bruce obliged. A long\n time passed, the way time does when no one cares. Bruce stopped taking\n the sedatives finally. The dreams came back and became, somehow, more\n real each time. He needed the companionship of the dreams.", "He put her down. She looked peaceful enough, more peaceful than that\n other time, years ago, when the two of them seemed to have shared so\n much, when the future had not yet destroyed her. He saw the shadow of\n Helene bend across Marsha's face against the background of the silently\n flowing water of the cool, green canal.\n\n\n \"You loved her?\"\n\n\n \"Once,\" Bruce said. \"She might have been sane. They got her when she\n was young. Too young to fight. But she would have, I think, if she'd\n been older when they got her.\"\n\n\n He sat looking down at Marsha's face, and then at the water with the\n leaves floating down it.\n\n\n \"'... And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley will never\n seem fresh or clear for thinking of the glitter of the mountain water\n in the feathery green of the year....'\"", "Jacobs and Anhauser stood outside. The icy wind cut through and into\n Bruce, but he didn't seem to notice. Anhauser's bulk loomed even larger\n in the special cold-resisting suiting. Jacobs' thin face frowned slyly\n at Bruce.\n\n\n \"Come on in, boys, and get warm,\" Bruce invited.\n\n\n \"Hey, poet, you're still here!\" Anhauser said, looking astonished.\n\n\n \"We thought you'd be running off somewhere,\" Jacobs said.\n\n\n Bruce reached for the suit on its hook, started climbing into it.\n \"Where?\" he asked. \"Mars looks alike wherever you go. Where did you\n think I'd be running to?\"\n\n\n \"Any place just so it was away from here and us,\" Anhauser said.\n\n\n \"I don't have to do that. You are going away from me. That takes care\n of that, doesn't it?\"", "He remembered her as she had been years ago, but at the moment he\n wasn't looking very hard to see anything on her face. It was too late.\n They had gotten her young and it was too late.\n\n\n Terrence's big, square face frowned a little. Bruce was aware suddenly\n of the sound of the bleak, never-ending wind against the plastilene\n shelter. He remembered the strange misty shapes that had come to him in\n his dreams, the voices that had called to him, and how disappointed he\n had been when he woke from them.\n\n\n \"This is a mere formality,\" Terrence finally said, \"since we all know\n you killed Lieutenant Doran a few hours ago. Marsha saw you kill him.\n Whatever you say goes on the record, of course.\"\n\n\n \"For whom?\" Bruce asked.\n\n\n \"What kind of question is that? For the authorities on Earth when we\n get back.\"", "Later, Terrence's voice broke off in the middle of something or\n other—Bruce couldn't make any sense out of it at all—and turned into\n crazy yells that faded out and never came back.\n\n\n Bruce figured the others might still be climbing somewhere, or maybe\n they were dead. Either way it wouldn't make any difference to him. He\n knew they would never come back down.\n\n\n He was switching off the radio for good when he saw the coloration\n break over the window. It was the same as the dream, but for an\n instant, dream and reality seemed fused like two superimposed film\n negatives.\n\n\n He went to the window and looked out. The comfortable little city was\n out there, and the canal flowing past through a pleasantly cool yet\n sunny afternoon. Purple mist blanketed the knees of low hills and there\n was a valley, green and rich with the trees high and full beside the\n softly flowing canal water.", "\"I'll do that,\" Bruce said. \"It should be interesting.\"\nBruce watched them go, away and up and around the immediate face of\n the mountain in the bleak cold of the Martian morning. He watched them\n disappear behind a high ledge, tied together with plastic rope like\n convicts.\n\n\n He stayed by the radio. He lost track of time and didn't care much\n if he did. Sometimes he took a heavy sedative and slept. The sedative\n prevented the dreams. He had an idea that the dreams might be so\n pleasant that he wouldn't wake up. He wanted to listen to Terrence as\n long as the captain had anything to say. It was nothing but curiosity.\n\n\n At fifteen thousand feet, Terrence reported only that they were\n climbing.\n\n\n At twenty thousand feet, Terrence said, \"We're still climbing, and\n that's all I can report, Bruce. It's worth coming to Mars for—to\n accept a challenge like this!\"", "He stood up, walked back with Helene along the canal toward the calm\n city. He didn't look back.\n\n\n \"They've all been dead quite a while,\" Bruce said wonderingly. \"Yet\n I seemed to be hearing from Terrence until only a short time ago.\n Are—are the climbers still climbing—somewhere, Helene?\"\n\n\n \"Who knows?\" Helene answered softly. \"Maybe. I doubt if even the\n Martians have the answer to that.\"\n\n\n They entered the city.", "Terrence nodded. \"You're psycho. It's as simple as that. They pick the\n most capable for these conquests. Even the flights are processes of\n elimination. Eventually we get the very best, the most resilient, the\n real conquering blood. You just don't pass, Bruce. Listen, what do you\n think gives you the right to stand here in judgment against the laws\n of the whole Solar System?\"\n\n\n \"There are plenty on Earth who agree with me,\" Bruce said. \"I can say\n what I think now because you can't do more than kill me and you'll do\n that regardless....\"", "And then from fifty-three thousand feet, Terrence said with a voice\n that seemed slightly strained: \"No sign of any of the crew of the other\n four ships yet. Ten in each crew, that makes fifty. Not a sign of any\n of them so far, but then we seem to have a long way left to climb—\"\n\n\n Bruce listened and noted and took sedatives and opened cans of food\n concentrates. He smoked and ate and slept. He had plenty of time. He\n had only time and the dreams which he knew he could utilize later to\n take care of the time.", "\"That's the philosophy of conquest—don't take any chances with\n aliens. They might hinder our advance across the Universe. So we kill\n everything. Doran acted without thinking at all. Conditioned to kill\n everything that doesn't look like us. So I hit Doran and took the gun\n away from him and killed him. I felt sick, crazy with rage. Maybe\n that's part of it. All I know is that I thought he deserved to die and\n that I had to kill him, so I did.\"\n\n\n \"Is that all, Bruce?\"\n\n\n \"That's about all. Except that I'd like to kill all of you. And I would\n if I had the chance.\"", "From sixty thousand feet, Terrence reported, \"I had to shoot Anhauser\n a few minutes ago! He was dissenting. Hear that, Bruce? One of my most\n dependable men. We took a vote. A mere formality, of course, whether\n we should continue climbing or not. We knew we'd all vote to keep on\n climbing. And then Anhauser dissented. He was hysterical. He refused\n to accept the majority decision. 'I'm going back down!' he yelled.\n So I had to shoot him. Imagine a man of his apparent caliber turning\n anti-democratic like that! This mountain will be a great tester for\n us in the future. We'll test everybody, find out quickly who the\n weaklings are.\"", "\"Bruce—Bruce, you still there? Listen, we're up here at what we figure\n to be five hundred thousand feet! It\nis\nimpossible. We keep climbing\n and now we look up and we can see up and up and there the mountain is\n going up and up—\"\n\n\n And some time later: \"Bruce, Marsha's dying! We don't know what's the\n matter. We can't find any reason for it. She's lying here and she keeps\n laughing and calling your name. She's a woman, so that's probably it.\n Women don't have real guts.\"\n\n\n Bruce bent toward the radio. Outside the shelter, the wind whistled\n softly at the door.\n\n\n \"Marsha,\" he said.\n\n\n \"Bruce—\"\n\n\n She hadn't said his name that way for a long time.", "\"Yes,\" Bruce said. \"There's a lot of people like us on Earth, but\n they'll never get the chance—the chance we seem to have here, to live\n decently....\"\n\n\n \"You're beginning to see now which was the dream,\" she said and\n smiled. \"But don't be pessimistic. Those people on Earth will get their\n chance, too, one of these fine days. The Conquerors aren't getting far.\n Venus, and then Mars, and Mars is where they stop. They'll keep coming\n here and climbing the mountain and finally there won't be any more. It\n won't take so long.\"\n\n\n She rose to her toes and waved and yelled. Bruce saw Pietro and Marlene\n walking hand in hand up the other side of the canal. They waved back\n and called and then pushed off into the water in a small boat, and\n drifted away and out of sight around a gentle turn.", "\"I know,\" Bruce agreed indifferently. \"I was drafted for this trip. I\n told them I shouldn't be brought along. I said I didn't want any part\n of it.\"\n\n\n \"Because you're afraid. You're not Conqueror material. That's why you\n backed down when we all voted to climb the mountain. And what the devil\n does Venus—?\"\n\n\n Max Drexel's freckles slipped into the creases across his high\n forehead. \"Haven't you heard him expounding on the injustice done to\n the Venusian aborigines, Captain? If you haven't, you aren't thoroughly\n educated to the crackpot idealism still infecting certain people.\"\n\n\n \"I haven't heard it,\" Terrence admitted. \"What injustice?\"", "It was very lonely sitting there without the dreams, with nothing but\n Terrence's voice ranting excitedly on and on. Terrence didn't seem real\n any more; certainly not as real as the dreams.\nThe problem of where to put the line between dream and reality began to\n worry Bruce. He would wake up and listen and take down what Terrence\n was saying, and then go to sleep again with increasing expectancy. His\n dream took on continuity. He could return to the point where he had\n left it, and it was the same—allowing even for the time difference\n necessitated by his periods of sleep.\n\n\n He met people in the dreams, two girls and a man. They had names:\n Pietro, Marlene, Helene.\n\n\n Helene he had seen from the beginning, but she became more real to\n him all the time, until he could talk with her. After that, he could\n also talk with Marlene and Pietro, and the conversations made sense.\n Consistently, they made sense.", "He was hardly listening as he walked away from Helene toward the eroded\n hills. The crew members of the first four ships were skeletons tied\n together with imperishably strong rope about their waists. Far beyond\n them were those from\nMars V\n, too freshly dead to have decayed\n much ... Anhauser with his rope cut, a bullet in his head; Jacobs and\n Marsha and the others ... Terrence much past them all. He had managed\n to climb higher than anyone else and he lay with his arms stretched\n out, his fingers still clutching at rock outcroppings.\n\n\n The trail they left wound over the ground, chipped in places for holds,\n red elsewhere with blood from torn hands. Terrence was more than twelve\n miles from the ship—horizontally.\n\n\n Bruce lifted Marsha and carried her back over the rocky dust, into the\n fresh fragrance of the high grass, and across it to the shade and peace\n beside the canal.", "He turned quickly. The shelter was still there, and behind it the row\n of spaceships—not like chalk marks on a tallyboard now, but like odd\n relics that didn't belong there in the thick green grass. Five ships\n instead of four.\n\n\n There was his own individual shelter beyond the headquarters building,\n and the other buildings. He looked up.\n\n\n There was no mountain.\nFor one shivery moment he knew fear. And then the fear went away, and\n he was ashamed of what he had felt. What he had feared was gone now,\n and he knew it was gone for good and he would never have to fear it\n again.\n\n\n \"Look here, Bruce. I wondered how long it would take to get it through\n that thick poetic head of yours!\"\n\n\n \"Get what?\" He began to suspect what it was all about now, but he\n wasn't quite sure yet.\n\n\n \"Smoke?\" she said.", "\"When you get back? Like the crews of those other four ships out\n there?\" Bruce laughed without much humor.\n\n\n Terrence rubbed a palm across his lips, dropped the hand quickly again\n to his belly. \"You want to make a statement or not? You shot Doran in\n the head with a rifle. No provocation for the attack. You've wasted\n enough of my time with your damn arguments and anti-social behavior.\n This is a democratic group. Everyone has his say. But you've said too\n much, and done too much. Freedom doesn't allow you to go around killing\n fellow crew-members!\"\n\n\n \"Any idea that there was any democracy or freedom left died on Venus,\"\n Bruce said.\n\n\n \"Now we get another lecture!\" Terrence exploded. He leaned forward.\n \"You're sick, Bruce. They did a bad psych job on you. They should never\n have sent you on this trip. We need strength, all the strength we can\n find. You don't belong here.\"", "The wind stormed over the shelter in a burst of power, buried the sound\n of his own voice.\n\n\n \"Marsha, are you still there?\"\n\n\n \"What the devil's the idea, poetry at a time like this, or any time?\"\n Terrence demanded. \"Listen, you taking this down? We haven't run into\n any signs of the others. Six hundred thousand feet, Bruce! We feel our\n destiny. We conquer the Solar System. And we'll go out and out, and\n we'll climb the highest mountain, the highest mountain anywhere. We're\n going up and up. We've voted on it. Unanimous. We go on. On to the\n top, Bruce! Nothing can stop us. If it takes ten years, a hundred, a\n thousand years, we'll find it. We'll find the top! Not the top of this\n world—the top of\neverything\n. The top of the\n UNIVERSE\n !\"", "He listened to her voice, first the crazy laughter, and then a whisper.\n \"Bruce, hello down there.\" Her voice was all mixed up with fear and\n hysteria and mockery. \"Bruce darling, are you lonely down there? I wish\n I were with you, safe ... free ... warm. I love you. Do you hear that?\n I really love you, after all. After all....\"\nHer voice drifted away, came back to him. \"We're climbing the highest\n mountain. What are you doing there, relaxing where it's peaceful and\n warm and sane? You always were such a calm guy. I remember now. What\n are you doing—reading poetry while we climb the mountain? What was\n that, Bruce—that one about the mountain you tried to quote to me last\n night before you ... I can't remember it now. Darling, what...?\"\nHe stared at the radio. He hesitated, reached out and switched on the\n mike. He got through to her." ], [ "At twenty-five thousand feet, Terrence reported, \"We've put on oxygen\n masks. Jacobs and Drexel have developed some kind of altitude sickness\n and we're taking a little time out. It's a magnificent sight up here. I\n can imagine plenty of tourists coming to Mars one of these days, just\n to climb this mountain! Mt. Everest is a pimple compared with this!\n What a feeling of power, Bruce!\"\n\n\n From forty thousand feet, Terrence said, \"We gauged this mountain\n at forty-five thousand. But here we are at forty and there doesn't\n seem to be any top. We can see up and up and the mountain keeps on\n going. I don't understand how we could have made such an error in our\n computations. I talked with Burton. He doesn't see how a mountain this\n high could still be here when the rest of the planet has been worn so\n smooth.\"", "\"Not afraid,\" Bruce objected. \"I don't see any need to climb it. Coming\n to Mars, conquering space, isn't that enough? It happens that the crew\n of the first ship here decided to climb the mountain, and that set a\n precedent. Every ship that has come here has had to climb it. Why?\n Because they had to accept the challenge. And what's happened to them?\n Like you, they all had the necessary equipment to make a successful\n climb, but no one's ever come back down. No contact with anything up\n there.\n\n\n \"Captain, I'm not accepting a ridiculous challenge like that. Why\n should I? I didn't come here to conquer anything, even a mountain. The\n challenge of coming to Mars, of going on to where ever you guys intend\n going before something bigger than you are stops you—it doesn't\n interest me.\"\n\n\n \"Nothing's bigger than the destiny of Earth!\" Terrence said, sitting up\n straight and rigid.", "\"Maybe. This planet may not be a dead ball of clay. I've had a feeling\n there's something real in the dreams, but I can't figure it out.\n You're still interested?\"\n\n\n Terrence nodded and glanced to either side.\n\n\n \"We've seen no indication of any kind of life whatsoever,\" Bruce\n pointed out. \"Not even an insect, or any kind of plant life except some\n fungi and lichen down in the crevices. That never seemed logical to me\n from the start. We've covered the planet everywhere except one place—\"\n\n\n \"The mountain,\" Terrence said. \"You've been afraid even to talk about\n scaling it.\"", "She took his arm and they walked along the canal toward where the\n mountain had been, or still was—he didn't know.\n\n\n A quarter of a mile beyond the canal, he saw the high mound of red,\n naked hill, corroded and ugly, rising up like a scar of the surrounding\n green.\n\n\n She wasn't smiling now. There were shadows on her face as the pressure\n on his arm stopped him.\n\n\n \"I was on the first ship and Marlene on the second. None like us on the\n third, and on the fourth ship was Pietro. All the others had to climb\n the mountain—\" She stopped talking for a moment, and then he felt the\n pressure of her fingers on his arm. \"I'm very glad you came on the\n fifth,\" she whispered. \"Are you glad now?\"\n\n\n \"I'm very glad,\" he said.", "\"Bruce—Bruce, you still there? Listen, we're up here at what we figure\n to be five hundred thousand feet! It\nis\nimpossible. We keep climbing\n and now we look up and we can see up and up and there the mountain is\n going up and up—\"\n\n\n And some time later: \"Bruce, Marsha's dying! We don't know what's the\n matter. We can't find any reason for it. She's lying here and she keeps\n laughing and calling your name. She's a woman, so that's probably it.\n Women don't have real guts.\"\n\n\n Bruce bent toward the radio. Outside the shelter, the wind whistled\n softly at the door.\n\n\n \"Marsha,\" he said.\n\n\n \"Bruce—\"\n\n\n She hadn't said his name that way for a long time.", "She waved her arm slowly to describe a peak. \"The Martians made the\n mountain real. So real that it could be seen from space, measured by\n instruments ... even photographed and chipped for rock samples. But\n you'll see how that was done, Bruce, and realize that this and not the\n mountain of the Conquerors is the reality of Mars. This is the Mars no\n Conqueror will ever see.\"\nThey walked toward the ugly red mound that jutted above the green. When\n they came close enough, he saw the bodies lying there ... the remains,\n actually, of what had once been bodies. He felt too sickened to go on\n walking.\n\n\n \"It may seem cruel now,\" she said, \"but the Martians realized that\n there is no cure for the will to conquer. There is no safety from it,\n either, as the people of Earth and Venus discovered, unless it is\n given an impossible obstacle to overcome. So the Martians provided the\n Conquerors with a mountain. They themselves wanted to climb. They had\n to.\"", "\"Ah, come on, get the hell out of there,\" Jacobs said. He pulled the\n revolver from its holster and pointed it at Bruce. \"We got to get some\n sleep. We're starting up that mountain at five in the morning.\"\n\n\n \"I know,\" Bruce said. \"I'll be glad to see you climb the mountain.\"\n\n\n Outside, in the weird light of the double moons, Bruce looked up at the\n gigantic overhang of the mountain. It was unbelievable. The mountain\n didn't seem to belong here. He'd thought so when they'd first hit Mars\n eight months back and discovered the other four rockets that had never\n got back to Earth—all lying side by side under the mountain's shadow,\n like little white chalk marks on a tallyboard.", "\"'\nIs all that we see or seem\n,'\" he whispered, half to himself, \"'\nbut\n a dream within a dream?\n'\"\n\n\n She laughed softly. \"Poe was ahead of his time,\" she said. \"You still\n don't get it, do you? You don't know what's been happening?\"\n\n\n \"Maybe I don't.\"\n\n\n She shrugged, and looked in the direction of the ships. \"Poor guys. I\n can't feel much hatred toward them now. The Martians give you a lot of\n understanding of the human mind—after they've accepted you, and after\n you've lived with them awhile. But the mountain climbers—we can see\n now—it's just luck, chance, we weren't like them. A deviant is a child\n of chance.\"", "He turned quickly. The shelter was still there, and behind it the row\n of spaceships—not like chalk marks on a tallyboard now, but like odd\n relics that didn't belong there in the thick green grass. Five ships\n instead of four.\n\n\n There was his own individual shelter beyond the headquarters building,\n and the other buildings. He looked up.\n\n\n There was no mountain.\nFor one shivery moment he knew fear. And then the fear went away, and\n he was ashamed of what he had felt. What he had feared was gone now,\n and he knew it was gone for good and he would never have to fear it\n again.\n\n\n \"Look here, Bruce. I wondered how long it would take to get it through\n that thick poetic head of yours!\"\n\n\n \"Get what?\" He began to suspect what it was all about now, but he\n wasn't quite sure yet.\n\n\n \"Smoke?\" she said.", "From sixty thousand feet, Terrence reported, \"I had to shoot Anhauser\n a few minutes ago! He was dissenting. Hear that, Bruce? One of my most\n dependable men. We took a vote. A mere formality, of course, whether\n we should continue climbing or not. We knew we'd all vote to keep on\n climbing. And then Anhauser dissented. He was hysterical. He refused\n to accept the majority decision. 'I'm going back down!' he yelled.\n So I had to shoot him. Imagine a man of his apparent caliber turning\n anti-democratic like that! This mountain will be a great tester for\n us in the future. We'll test everybody, find out quickly who the\n weaklings are.\"", "\"The Martians tested us,\" she explained. \"They're masters of the mind.\n I guess they've been grinding along through the evolutionary mill\n a darn long time, longer than we could estimate now. They learned\n the horror we're capable of from the first ship—the Conquerors,\n the climbers. The Martians knew more like them would come and go on\n into space, killing, destroying for no other reason than their own\n sickness. Being masters of the mind, the Martians are also capable\n of hypnosis—no, that's not really the word, only the closest our\n language comes to naming it. Suggestion so deep and strong that it\n seems real to one human or a million or a billion; there's no limit to\n the number that can be influenced. What the people who came off those\n ships saw wasn't real. It was partly what the Martians wanted them to\n see and feel—but most of it, like the desire to climb the mountain,\n was as much a part of the Conquerors' own psychic drive as it was the\n suggestion of the Martians.\"", "His throat was getting tight. He had difficulty talking. \"Doran asked\n me what I was looking at, and I told him. He laughed. But he looked.\n Then I realized that maybe I wasn't still dreaming. Doran saw it, too,\n or thought he did. He kept looking and finally he jumped and grabbed up\n his rifle and ran outside. I yelled at him. I kept on yelling and ran\n after him. 'It's intelligent, whatever it is!' I kept saying. 'How do\n you know it means any harm?' But I heard Doran's rifle go off before I\n could get to him. And whatever it was we saw, I didn't see it any more.\n Neither did Doran. Maybe he killed it. I don't know. He had to kill it.\n That's the way you think.\"\n\n\n \"What? Explain that remark.\"", "They'd estimated its height at over 45,000 feet, which was a lot higher\n than any mountain on Earth. Yet Mars was much older, geologically. The\n entire face of the planet was smoothed into soft, undulating red hills\n by erosion. And there in the middle of barren nothingness rose that one\n incredible mountain. On certain nights when the stars were right, it\n had seemed to Bruce as though it were pointing an accusing finger at\n Earth—or a warning one.\nWith Jacobs and Anhauser and the remainder of the crew of the ship,\nMars V\n, seven judges sat in a semi-circle and Bruce stood there in\n front of them for the inquest.\n\n\n In the middle of the half-moon of inquisition, with his long legs\n stretched out and his hands folded on his belly, sat Captain Terrence.\n His uniform was black. On his arm was the silver fist insignia of the\n Conqueror Corps. Marsha Rennels sat on the extreme right and now there\n was no emotion at all on her trim, neat face.", "\"Hello, hello, darling,\" he whispered. \"Marsha, can you hear me?\"\n\n\n \"Yes, yes. You down there, all warm and cozy, reading poetry, darling.\n Where you can see both ways instead of just up and down, up and down.\"\n\n\n He tried to imagine where she was now as he spoke to her, how she\n looked. He thought of Earth and how it had been there, years ago, with\n Marsha. Things had seemed so different then. There was something of\n that hope in his voice now as he spoke to her, yet not directly to her,\n as he looked out the window at the naked frigid sky and the barren\n rocks.\n\n\"'... and there is nowhere to go from the top of a mountain,\nBut down, my dear;\nAnd the springs that flow on the floor of the valley\nWill never seem fresh or clear\nFor thinking of the glitter of the mountain water\nIn the feathery green of the year....'\"", "He took one of the cigarettes and she lighted it for him and put the\n lighter back into her pocket.\n\n\n \"It's real nice here,\" she said. \"Isn't it?\"\n\n\n \"I guess it's about perfect.\"\n\n\n \"It'll be easy. Staying here, I mean. We won't be going to Earth ever\n again, you know.\"\n\n\n \"I didn't\nknow\nthat, but I didn't\nthink\nwe ever would again.\"\n\n\n \"We wouldn't want to anyway, would we, Bruce?\"\n\n\n \"No.\"\n\n\n He kept on looking at the place where the mountain had been. Or maybe\n it still was; he couldn't make up his mind yet. Which was and which was\n not? That barren icy world without life, or this?", "The wind stormed over the shelter in a burst of power, buried the sound\n of his own voice.\n\n\n \"Marsha, are you still there?\"\n\n\n \"What the devil's the idea, poetry at a time like this, or any time?\"\n Terrence demanded. \"Listen, you taking this down? We haven't run into\n any signs of the others. Six hundred thousand feet, Bruce! We feel our\n destiny. We conquer the Solar System. And we'll go out and out, and\n we'll climb the highest mountain, the highest mountain anywhere. We're\n going up and up. We've voted on it. Unanimous. We go on. On to the\n top, Bruce! Nothing can stop us. If it takes ten years, a hundred, a\n thousand years, we'll find it. We'll find the top! Not the top of this\n world—the top of\neverything\n. The top of the\n UNIVERSE\n !\"", "\"I'll do that,\" Bruce said. \"It should be interesting.\"\nBruce watched them go, away and up and around the immediate face of\n the mountain in the bleak cold of the Martian morning. He watched them\n disappear behind a high ledge, tied together with plastic rope like\n convicts.\n\n\n He stayed by the radio. He lost track of time and didn't care much\n if he did. Sometimes he took a heavy sedative and slept. The sedative\n prevented the dreams. He had an idea that the dreams might be so\n pleasant that he wouldn't wake up. He wanted to listen to Terrence as\n long as the captain had anything to say. It was nothing but curiosity.\n\n\n At fifteen thousand feet, Terrence reported only that they were\n climbing.\n\n\n At twenty thousand feet, Terrence said, \"We're still climbing, and\n that's all I can report, Bruce. It's worth coming to Mars for—to\n accept a challenge like this!\"", "Bruce listened to the wind. It seemed to rise higher and higher.\n Terrence, who had climbed still higher, was calling. \"Think of it! What\n a conquest! No man's ever done a thing like this. Like Stromberg says,\n it's symbolic! We can build spaceships and reach other planets, but\n that's not actual physical conquest. We feel like gods up here. We can\n see what we are now. We can see how it's going to be—\"\n\n\n Once in a while Terrence demanded that Bruce say something to prove he\n was still there taking down what Terrence said. Bruce obliged. A long\n time passed, the way time does when no one cares. Bruce stopped taking\n the sedatives finally. The dreams came back and became, somehow, more\n real each time. He needed the companionship of the dreams.", "Later, Terrence's voice broke off in the middle of something or\n other—Bruce couldn't make any sense out of it at all—and turned into\n crazy yells that faded out and never came back.\n\n\n Bruce figured the others might still be climbing somewhere, or maybe\n they were dead. Either way it wouldn't make any difference to him. He\n knew they would never come back down.\n\n\n He was switching off the radio for good when he saw the coloration\n break over the window. It was the same as the dream, but for an\n instant, dream and reality seemed fused like two superimposed film\n negatives.\n\n\n He went to the window and looked out. The comfortable little city was\n out there, and the canal flowing past through a pleasantly cool yet\n sunny afternoon. Purple mist blanketed the knees of low hills and there\n was a valley, green and rich with the trees high and full beside the\n softly flowing canal water.", "THE HIGHEST MOUNTAIN\nBy BRYCE WALTON\n\n\n Illustrated by BOB HAYES\n\n\n [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that" ], [ "\"Not afraid,\" Bruce objected. \"I don't see any need to climb it. Coming\n to Mars, conquering space, isn't that enough? It happens that the crew\n of the first ship here decided to climb the mountain, and that set a\n precedent. Every ship that has come here has had to climb it. Why?\n Because they had to accept the challenge. And what's happened to them?\n Like you, they all had the necessary equipment to make a successful\n climb, but no one's ever come back down. No contact with anything up\n there.\n\n\n \"Captain, I'm not accepting a ridiculous challenge like that. Why\n should I? I didn't come here to conquer anything, even a mountain. The\n challenge of coming to Mars, of going on to where ever you guys intend\n going before something bigger than you are stops you—it doesn't\n interest me.\"\n\n\n \"Nothing's bigger than the destiny of Earth!\" Terrence said, sitting up\n straight and rigid.", "She took his arm and they walked along the canal toward where the\n mountain had been, or still was—he didn't know.\n\n\n A quarter of a mile beyond the canal, he saw the high mound of red,\n naked hill, corroded and ugly, rising up like a scar of the surrounding\n green.\n\n\n She wasn't smiling now. There were shadows on her face as the pressure\n on his arm stopped him.\n\n\n \"I was on the first ship and Marlene on the second. None like us on the\n third, and on the fourth ship was Pietro. All the others had to climb\n the mountain—\" She stopped talking for a moment, and then he felt the\n pressure of her fingers on his arm. \"I'm very glad you came on the\n fifth,\" she whispered. \"Are you glad now?\"\n\n\n \"I'm very glad,\" he said.", "From sixty thousand feet, Terrence reported, \"I had to shoot Anhauser\n a few minutes ago! He was dissenting. Hear that, Bruce? One of my most\n dependable men. We took a vote. A mere formality, of course, whether\n we should continue climbing or not. We knew we'd all vote to keep on\n climbing. And then Anhauser dissented. He was hysterical. He refused\n to accept the majority decision. 'I'm going back down!' he yelled.\n So I had to shoot him. Imagine a man of his apparent caliber turning\n anti-democratic like that! This mountain will be a great tester for\n us in the future. We'll test everybody, find out quickly who the\n weaklings are.\"", "She waved her arm slowly to describe a peak. \"The Martians made the\n mountain real. So real that it could be seen from space, measured by\n instruments ... even photographed and chipped for rock samples. But\n you'll see how that was done, Bruce, and realize that this and not the\n mountain of the Conquerors is the reality of Mars. This is the Mars no\n Conqueror will ever see.\"\nThey walked toward the ugly red mound that jutted above the green. When\n they came close enough, he saw the bodies lying there ... the remains,\n actually, of what had once been bodies. He felt too sickened to go on\n walking.\n\n\n \"It may seem cruel now,\" she said, \"but the Martians realized that\n there is no cure for the will to conquer. There is no safety from it,\n either, as the people of Earth and Venus discovered, unless it is\n given an impossible obstacle to overcome. So the Martians provided the\n Conquerors with a mountain. They themselves wanted to climb. They had\n to.\"", "\"The Martians tested us,\" she explained. \"They're masters of the mind.\n I guess they've been grinding along through the evolutionary mill\n a darn long time, longer than we could estimate now. They learned\n the horror we're capable of from the first ship—the Conquerors,\n the climbers. The Martians knew more like them would come and go on\n into space, killing, destroying for no other reason than their own\n sickness. Being masters of the mind, the Martians are also capable\n of hypnosis—no, that's not really the word, only the closest our\n language comes to naming it. Suggestion so deep and strong that it\n seems real to one human or a million or a billion; there's no limit to\n the number that can be influenced. What the people who came off those\n ships saw wasn't real. It was partly what the Martians wanted them to\n see and feel—but most of it, like the desire to climb the mountain,\n was as much a part of the Conquerors' own psychic drive as it was the\n suggestion of the Martians.\"", "\"Bruce—Bruce, you still there? Listen, we're up here at what we figure\n to be five hundred thousand feet! It\nis\nimpossible. We keep climbing\n and now we look up and we can see up and up and there the mountain is\n going up and up—\"\n\n\n And some time later: \"Bruce, Marsha's dying! We don't know what's the\n matter. We can't find any reason for it. She's lying here and she keeps\n laughing and calling your name. She's a woman, so that's probably it.\n Women don't have real guts.\"\n\n\n Bruce bent toward the radio. Outside the shelter, the wind whistled\n softly at the door.\n\n\n \"Marsha,\" he said.\n\n\n \"Bruce—\"\n\n\n She hadn't said his name that way for a long time.", "\"I'll do that,\" Bruce said. \"It should be interesting.\"\nBruce watched them go, away and up and around the immediate face of\n the mountain in the bleak cold of the Martian morning. He watched them\n disappear behind a high ledge, tied together with plastic rope like\n convicts.\n\n\n He stayed by the radio. He lost track of time and didn't care much\n if he did. Sometimes he took a heavy sedative and slept. The sedative\n prevented the dreams. He had an idea that the dreams might be so\n pleasant that he wouldn't wake up. He wanted to listen to Terrence as\n long as the captain had anything to say. It was nothing but curiosity.\n\n\n At fifteen thousand feet, Terrence reported only that they were\n climbing.\n\n\n At twenty thousand feet, Terrence said, \"We're still climbing, and\n that's all I can report, Bruce. It's worth coming to Mars for—to\n accept a challenge like this!\"", "\"Maybe. This planet may not be a dead ball of clay. I've had a feeling\n there's something real in the dreams, but I can't figure it out.\n You're still interested?\"\n\n\n Terrence nodded and glanced to either side.\n\n\n \"We've seen no indication of any kind of life whatsoever,\" Bruce\n pointed out. \"Not even an insect, or any kind of plant life except some\n fungi and lichen down in the crevices. That never seemed logical to me\n from the start. We've covered the planet everywhere except one place—\"\n\n\n \"The mountain,\" Terrence said. \"You've been afraid even to talk about\n scaling it.\"", "At twenty-five thousand feet, Terrence reported, \"We've put on oxygen\n masks. Jacobs and Drexel have developed some kind of altitude sickness\n and we're taking a little time out. It's a magnificent sight up here. I\n can imagine plenty of tourists coming to Mars one of these days, just\n to climb this mountain! Mt. Everest is a pimple compared with this!\n What a feeling of power, Bruce!\"\n\n\n From forty thousand feet, Terrence said, \"We gauged this mountain\n at forty-five thousand. But here we are at forty and there doesn't\n seem to be any top. We can see up and up and the mountain keeps on\n going. I don't understand how we could have made such an error in our\n computations. I talked with Burton. He doesn't see how a mountain this\n high could still be here when the rest of the planet has been worn so\n smooth.\"", "\"Ah, come on, get the hell out of there,\" Jacobs said. He pulled the\n revolver from its holster and pointed it at Bruce. \"We got to get some\n sleep. We're starting up that mountain at five in the morning.\"\n\n\n \"I know,\" Bruce said. \"I'll be glad to see you climb the mountain.\"\n\n\n Outside, in the weird light of the double moons, Bruce looked up at the\n gigantic overhang of the mountain. It was unbelievable. The mountain\n didn't seem to belong here. He'd thought so when they'd first hit Mars\n eight months back and discovered the other four rockets that had never\n got back to Earth—all lying side by side under the mountain's shadow,\n like little white chalk marks on a tallyboard.", "He listened to her voice, first the crazy laughter, and then a whisper.\n \"Bruce, hello down there.\" Her voice was all mixed up with fear and\n hysteria and mockery. \"Bruce darling, are you lonely down there? I wish\n I were with you, safe ... free ... warm. I love you. Do you hear that?\n I really love you, after all. After all....\"\nHer voice drifted away, came back to him. \"We're climbing the highest\n mountain. What are you doing there, relaxing where it's peaceful and\n warm and sane? You always were such a calm guy. I remember now. What\n are you doing—reading poetry while we climb the mountain? What was\n that, Bruce—that one about the mountain you tried to quote to me last\n night before you ... I can't remember it now. Darling, what...?\"\nHe stared at the radio. He hesitated, reached out and switched on the\n mike. He got through to her.", "Bruce listened to the wind. It seemed to rise higher and higher.\n Terrence, who had climbed still higher, was calling. \"Think of it! What\n a conquest! No man's ever done a thing like this. Like Stromberg says,\n it's symbolic! We can build spaceships and reach other planets, but\n that's not actual physical conquest. We feel like gods up here. We can\n see what we are now. We can see how it's going to be—\"\n\n\n Once in a while Terrence demanded that Bruce say something to prove he\n was still there taking down what Terrence said. Bruce obliged. A long\n time passed, the way time does when no one cares. Bruce stopped taking\n the sedatives finally. The dreams came back and became, somehow, more\n real each time. He needed the companionship of the dreams.", "Later, Terrence's voice broke off in the middle of something or\n other—Bruce couldn't make any sense out of it at all—and turned into\n crazy yells that faded out and never came back.\n\n\n Bruce figured the others might still be climbing somewhere, or maybe\n they were dead. Either way it wouldn't make any difference to him. He\n knew they would never come back down.\n\n\n He was switching off the radio for good when he saw the coloration\n break over the window. It was the same as the dream, but for an\n instant, dream and reality seemed fused like two superimposed film\n negatives.\n\n\n He went to the window and looked out. The comfortable little city was\n out there, and the canal flowing past through a pleasantly cool yet\n sunny afternoon. Purple mist blanketed the knees of low hills and there\n was a valley, green and rich with the trees high and full beside the\n softly flowing canal water.", "The wind stormed over the shelter in a burst of power, buried the sound\n of his own voice.\n\n\n \"Marsha, are you still there?\"\n\n\n \"What the devil's the idea, poetry at a time like this, or any time?\"\n Terrence demanded. \"Listen, you taking this down? We haven't run into\n any signs of the others. Six hundred thousand feet, Bruce! We feel our\n destiny. We conquer the Solar System. And we'll go out and out, and\n we'll climb the highest mountain, the highest mountain anywhere. We're\n going up and up. We've voted on it. Unanimous. We go on. On to the\n top, Bruce! Nothing can stop us. If it takes ten years, a hundred, a\n thousand years, we'll find it. We'll find the top! Not the top of this\n world—the top of\neverything\n. The top of the\n UNIVERSE\n !\"", "He turned quickly. The shelter was still there, and behind it the row\n of spaceships—not like chalk marks on a tallyboard now, but like odd\n relics that didn't belong there in the thick green grass. Five ships\n instead of four.\n\n\n There was his own individual shelter beyond the headquarters building,\n and the other buildings. He looked up.\n\n\n There was no mountain.\nFor one shivery moment he knew fear. And then the fear went away, and\n he was ashamed of what he had felt. What he had feared was gone now,\n and he knew it was gone for good and he would never have to fear it\n again.\n\n\n \"Look here, Bruce. I wondered how long it would take to get it through\n that thick poetic head of yours!\"\n\n\n \"Get what?\" He began to suspect what it was all about now, but he\n wasn't quite sure yet.\n\n\n \"Smoke?\" she said.", "\"'\nIs all that we see or seem\n,'\" he whispered, half to himself, \"'\nbut\n a dream within a dream?\n'\"\n\n\n She laughed softly. \"Poe was ahead of his time,\" she said. \"You still\n don't get it, do you? You don't know what's been happening?\"\n\n\n \"Maybe I don't.\"\n\n\n She shrugged, and looked in the direction of the ships. \"Poor guys. I\n can't feel much hatred toward them now. The Martians give you a lot of\n understanding of the human mind—after they've accepted you, and after\n you've lived with them awhile. But the mountain climbers—we can see\n now—it's just luck, chance, we weren't like them. A deviant is a child\n of chance.\"", "\"Hello, hello, darling,\" he whispered. \"Marsha, can you hear me?\"\n\n\n \"Yes, yes. You down there, all warm and cozy, reading poetry, darling.\n Where you can see both ways instead of just up and down, up and down.\"\n\n\n He tried to imagine where she was now as he spoke to her, how she\n looked. He thought of Earth and how it had been there, years ago, with\n Marsha. Things had seemed so different then. There was something of\n that hope in his voice now as he spoke to her, yet not directly to her,\n as he looked out the window at the naked frigid sky and the barren\n rocks.\n\n\"'... and there is nowhere to go from the top of a mountain,\nBut down, my dear;\nAnd the springs that flow on the floor of the valley\nWill never seem fresh or clear\nFor thinking of the glitter of the mountain water\nIn the feathery green of the year....'\"", "He was hardly listening as he walked away from Helene toward the eroded\n hills. The crew members of the first four ships were skeletons tied\n together with imperishably strong rope about their waists. Far beyond\n them were those from\nMars V\n, too freshly dead to have decayed\n much ... Anhauser with his rope cut, a bullet in his head; Jacobs and\n Marsha and the others ... Terrence much past them all. He had managed\n to climb higher than anyone else and he lay with his arms stretched\n out, his fingers still clutching at rock outcroppings.\n\n\n The trail they left wound over the ground, chipped in places for holds,\n red elsewhere with blood from torn hands. Terrence was more than twelve\n miles from the ship—horizontally.\n\n\n Bruce lifted Marsha and carried her back over the rocky dust, into the\n fresh fragrance of the high grass, and across it to the shade and peace\n beside the canal.", "\"I know,\" Bruce agreed indifferently. \"I was drafted for this trip. I\n told them I shouldn't be brought along. I said I didn't want any part\n of it.\"\n\n\n \"Because you're afraid. You're not Conqueror material. That's why you\n backed down when we all voted to climb the mountain. And what the devil\n does Venus—?\"\n\n\n Max Drexel's freckles slipped into the creases across his high\n forehead. \"Haven't you heard him expounding on the injustice done to\n the Venusian aborigines, Captain? If you haven't, you aren't thoroughly\n educated to the crackpot idealism still infecting certain people.\"\n\n\n \"I haven't heard it,\" Terrence admitted. \"What injustice?\"", "They'd estimated its height at over 45,000 feet, which was a lot higher\n than any mountain on Earth. Yet Mars was much older, geologically. The\n entire face of the planet was smoothed into soft, undulating red hills\n by erosion. And there in the middle of barren nothingness rose that one\n incredible mountain. On certain nights when the stars were right, it\n had seemed to Bruce as though it were pointing an accusing finger at\n Earth—or a warning one.\nWith Jacobs and Anhauser and the remainder of the crew of the ship,\nMars V\n, seven judges sat in a semi-circle and Bruce stood there in\n front of them for the inquest.\n\n\n In the middle of the half-moon of inquisition, with his long legs\n stretched out and his hands folded on his belly, sat Captain Terrence.\n His uniform was black. On his arm was the silver fist insignia of the\n Conqueror Corps. Marsha Rennels sat on the extreme right and now there\n was no emotion at all on her trim, neat face." ], [ "\"When you get back? Like the crews of those other four ships out\n there?\" Bruce laughed without much humor.\n\n\n Terrence rubbed a palm across his lips, dropped the hand quickly again\n to his belly. \"You want to make a statement or not? You shot Doran in\n the head with a rifle. No provocation for the attack. You've wasted\n enough of my time with your damn arguments and anti-social behavior.\n This is a democratic group. Everyone has his say. But you've said too\n much, and done too much. Freedom doesn't allow you to go around killing\n fellow crew-members!\"\n\n\n \"Any idea that there was any democracy or freedom left died on Venus,\"\n Bruce said.\n\n\n \"Now we get another lecture!\" Terrence exploded. He leaned forward.\n \"You're sick, Bruce. They did a bad psych job on you. They should never\n have sent you on this trip. We need strength, all the strength we can\n find. You don't belong here.\"", "Bruce listened to the wind. It seemed to rise higher and higher.\n Terrence, who had climbed still higher, was calling. \"Think of it! What\n a conquest! No man's ever done a thing like this. Like Stromberg says,\n it's symbolic! We can build spaceships and reach other planets, but\n that's not actual physical conquest. We feel like gods up here. We can\n see what we are now. We can see how it's going to be—\"\n\n\n Once in a while Terrence demanded that Bruce say something to prove he\n was still there taking down what Terrence said. Bruce obliged. A long\n time passed, the way time does when no one cares. Bruce stopped taking\n the sedatives finally. The dreams came back and became, somehow, more\n real each time. He needed the companionship of the dreams.", "From sixty thousand feet, Terrence reported, \"I had to shoot Anhauser\n a few minutes ago! He was dissenting. Hear that, Bruce? One of my most\n dependable men. We took a vote. A mere formality, of course, whether\n we should continue climbing or not. We knew we'd all vote to keep on\n climbing. And then Anhauser dissented. He was hysterical. He refused\n to accept the majority decision. 'I'm going back down!' he yelled.\n So I had to shoot him. Imagine a man of his apparent caliber turning\n anti-democratic like that! This mountain will be a great tester for\n us in the future. We'll test everybody, find out quickly who the\n weaklings are.\"", "And then from fifty-three thousand feet, Terrence said with a voice\n that seemed slightly strained: \"No sign of any of the crew of the other\n four ships yet. Ten in each crew, that makes fifty. Not a sign of any\n of them so far, but then we seem to have a long way left to climb—\"\n\n\n Bruce listened and noted and took sedatives and opened cans of food\n concentrates. He smoked and ate and slept. He had plenty of time. He\n had only time and the dreams which he knew he could utilize later to\n take care of the time.", "\"I know,\" Bruce agreed indifferently. \"I was drafted for this trip. I\n told them I shouldn't be brought along. I said I didn't want any part\n of it.\"\n\n\n \"Because you're afraid. You're not Conqueror material. That's why you\n backed down when we all voted to climb the mountain. And what the devil\n does Venus—?\"\n\n\n Max Drexel's freckles slipped into the creases across his high\n forehead. \"Haven't you heard him expounding on the injustice done to\n the Venusian aborigines, Captain? If you haven't, you aren't thoroughly\n educated to the crackpot idealism still infecting certain people.\"\n\n\n \"I haven't heard it,\" Terrence admitted. \"What injustice?\"", "Jacobs and Anhauser stood outside. The icy wind cut through and into\n Bruce, but he didn't seem to notice. Anhauser's bulk loomed even larger\n in the special cold-resisting suiting. Jacobs' thin face frowned slyly\n at Bruce.\n\n\n \"Come on in, boys, and get warm,\" Bruce invited.\n\n\n \"Hey, poet, you're still here!\" Anhauser said, looking astonished.\n\n\n \"We thought you'd be running off somewhere,\" Jacobs said.\n\n\n Bruce reached for the suit on its hook, started climbing into it.\n \"Where?\" he asked. \"Mars looks alike wherever you go. Where did you\n think I'd be running to?\"\n\n\n \"Any place just so it was away from here and us,\" Anhauser said.\n\n\n \"I don't have to do that. You are going away from me. That takes care\n of that, doesn't it?\"", "Terrence nodded. \"You're psycho. It's as simple as that. They pick the\n most capable for these conquests. Even the flights are processes of\n elimination. Eventually we get the very best, the most resilient, the\n real conquering blood. You just don't pass, Bruce. Listen, what do you\n think gives you the right to stand here in judgment against the laws\n of the whole Solar System?\"\n\n\n \"There are plenty on Earth who agree with me,\" Bruce said. \"I can say\n what I think now because you can't do more than kill me and you'll do\n that regardless....\"", "Later, Terrence's voice broke off in the middle of something or\n other—Bruce couldn't make any sense out of it at all—and turned into\n crazy yells that faded out and never came back.\n\n\n Bruce figured the others might still be climbing somewhere, or maybe\n they were dead. Either way it wouldn't make any difference to him. He\n knew they would never come back down.\n\n\n He was switching off the radio for good when he saw the coloration\n break over the window. It was the same as the dream, but for an\n instant, dream and reality seemed fused like two superimposed film\n negatives.\n\n\n He went to the window and looked out. The comfortable little city was\n out there, and the canal flowing past through a pleasantly cool yet\n sunny afternoon. Purple mist blanketed the knees of low hills and there\n was a valley, green and rich with the trees high and full beside the\n softly flowing canal water.", "\"That's the philosophy of conquest—don't take any chances with\n aliens. They might hinder our advance across the Universe. So we kill\n everything. Doran acted without thinking at all. Conditioned to kill\n everything that doesn't look like us. So I hit Doran and took the gun\n away from him and killed him. I felt sick, crazy with rage. Maybe\n that's part of it. All I know is that I thought he deserved to die and\n that I had to kill him, so I did.\"\n\n\n \"Is that all, Bruce?\"\n\n\n \"That's about all. Except that I'd like to kill all of you. And I would\n if I had the chance.\"", "He remembered her as she had been years ago, but at the moment he\n wasn't looking very hard to see anything on her face. It was too late.\n They had gotten her young and it was too late.\n\n\n Terrence's big, square face frowned a little. Bruce was aware suddenly\n of the sound of the bleak, never-ending wind against the plastilene\n shelter. He remembered the strange misty shapes that had come to him in\n his dreams, the voices that had called to him, and how disappointed he\n had been when he woke from them.\n\n\n \"This is a mere formality,\" Terrence finally said, \"since we all know\n you killed Lieutenant Doran a few hours ago. Marsha saw you kill him.\n Whatever you say goes on the record, of course.\"\n\n\n \"For whom?\" Bruce asked.\n\n\n \"What kind of question is that? For the authorities on Earth when we\n get back.\"", "The wind stormed over the shelter in a burst of power, buried the sound\n of his own voice.\n\n\n \"Marsha, are you still there?\"\n\n\n \"What the devil's the idea, poetry at a time like this, or any time?\"\n Terrence demanded. \"Listen, you taking this down? We haven't run into\n any signs of the others. Six hundred thousand feet, Bruce! We feel our\n destiny. We conquer the Solar System. And we'll go out and out, and\n we'll climb the highest mountain, the highest mountain anywhere. We're\n going up and up. We've voted on it. Unanimous. We go on. On to the\n top, Bruce! Nothing can stop us. If it takes ten years, a hundred, a\n thousand years, we'll find it. We'll find the top! Not the top of this\n world—the top of\neverything\n. The top of the\n UNIVERSE\n !\"", "\"I'll do that,\" Bruce said. \"It should be interesting.\"\nBruce watched them go, away and up and around the immediate face of\n the mountain in the bleak cold of the Martian morning. He watched them\n disappear behind a high ledge, tied together with plastic rope like\n convicts.\n\n\n He stayed by the radio. He lost track of time and didn't care much\n if he did. Sometimes he took a heavy sedative and slept. The sedative\n prevented the dreams. He had an idea that the dreams might be so\n pleasant that he wouldn't wake up. He wanted to listen to Terrence as\n long as the captain had anything to say. It was nothing but curiosity.\n\n\n At fifteen thousand feet, Terrence reported only that they were\n climbing.\n\n\n At twenty thousand feet, Terrence said, \"We're still climbing, and\n that's all I can report, Bruce. It's worth coming to Mars for—to\n accept a challenge like this!\"", "\"Not afraid,\" Bruce objected. \"I don't see any need to climb it. Coming\n to Mars, conquering space, isn't that enough? It happens that the crew\n of the first ship here decided to climb the mountain, and that set a\n precedent. Every ship that has come here has had to climb it. Why?\n Because they had to accept the challenge. And what's happened to them?\n Like you, they all had the necessary equipment to make a successful\n climb, but no one's ever come back down. No contact with anything up\n there.\n\n\n \"Captain, I'm not accepting a ridiculous challenge like that. Why\n should I? I didn't come here to conquer anything, even a mountain. The\n challenge of coming to Mars, of going on to where ever you guys intend\n going before something bigger than you are stops you—it doesn't\n interest me.\"\n\n\n \"Nothing's bigger than the destiny of Earth!\" Terrence said, sitting up\n straight and rigid.", "He was hardly listening as he walked away from Helene toward the eroded\n hills. The crew members of the first four ships were skeletons tied\n together with imperishably strong rope about their waists. Far beyond\n them were those from\nMars V\n, too freshly dead to have decayed\n much ... Anhauser with his rope cut, a bullet in his head; Jacobs and\n Marsha and the others ... Terrence much past them all. He had managed\n to climb higher than anyone else and he lay with his arms stretched\n out, his fingers still clutching at rock outcroppings.\n\n\n The trail they left wound over the ground, chipped in places for holds,\n red elsewhere with blood from torn hands. Terrence was more than twelve\n miles from the ship—horizontally.\n\n\n Bruce lifted Marsha and carried her back over the rocky dust, into the\n fresh fragrance of the high grass, and across it to the shade and peace\n beside the canal.", "\"Bruce—Bruce, you still there? Listen, we're up here at what we figure\n to be five hundred thousand feet! It\nis\nimpossible. We keep climbing\n and now we look up and we can see up and up and there the mountain is\n going up and up—\"\n\n\n And some time later: \"Bruce, Marsha's dying! We don't know what's the\n matter. We can't find any reason for it. She's lying here and she keeps\n laughing and calling your name. She's a woman, so that's probably it.\n Women don't have real guts.\"\n\n\n Bruce bent toward the radio. Outside the shelter, the wind whistled\n softly at the door.\n\n\n \"Marsha,\" he said.\n\n\n \"Bruce—\"\n\n\n She hadn't said his name that way for a long time.", "He turned quickly. The shelter was still there, and behind it the row\n of spaceships—not like chalk marks on a tallyboard now, but like odd\n relics that didn't belong there in the thick green grass. Five ships\n instead of four.\n\n\n There was his own individual shelter beyond the headquarters building,\n and the other buildings. He looked up.\n\n\n There was no mountain.\nFor one shivery moment he knew fear. And then the fear went away, and\n he was ashamed of what he had felt. What he had feared was gone now,\n and he knew it was gone for good and he would never have to fear it\n again.\n\n\n \"Look here, Bruce. I wondered how long it would take to get it through\n that thick poetic head of yours!\"\n\n\n \"Get what?\" He began to suspect what it was all about now, but he\n wasn't quite sure yet.\n\n\n \"Smoke?\" she said.", "\"Ah, come on, get the hell out of there,\" Jacobs said. He pulled the\n revolver from its holster and pointed it at Bruce. \"We got to get some\n sleep. We're starting up that mountain at five in the morning.\"\n\n\n \"I know,\" Bruce said. \"I'll be glad to see you climb the mountain.\"\n\n\n Outside, in the weird light of the double moons, Bruce looked up at the\n gigantic overhang of the mountain. It was unbelievable. The mountain\n didn't seem to belong here. He'd thought so when they'd first hit Mars\n eight months back and discovered the other four rockets that had never\n got back to Earth—all lying side by side under the mountain's shadow,\n like little white chalk marks on a tallyboard.", "He stood up, walked back with Helene along the canal toward the calm\n city. He didn't look back.\n\n\n \"They've all been dead quite a while,\" Bruce said wonderingly. \"Yet\n I seemed to be hearing from Terrence until only a short time ago.\n Are—are the climbers still climbing—somewhere, Helene?\"\n\n\n \"Who knows?\" Helene answered softly. \"Maybe. I doubt if even the\n Martians have the answer to that.\"\n\n\n They entered the city.", "Bruce said, \"I guess it couldn't really be considered an injustice\n any longer. Values have changed too much. Doran and I were part of the\n crew of that first ship to hit Venus, five years ago. Remember? One\n of the New Era's more infamous dates. Drexel says the Venusians were\n aborigines. No one ever got a chance to find out. We ran into this\n village. No one knows how old it was. There were intelligent beings\n there. One community left on the whole planet, maybe a few thousand\n inhabitants. They made their last mistake when they came out to greet\n us. Without even an attempt at communication, they were wiped out. The\n village was burned and everything alive in it was destroyed.\"\n\n\n Bruce felt the old weakness coming into his knees, the sweat beginning\n to run down his face. He took a deep breath and stood there before the\n cold nihilistic stares of fourteen eyes.\n\n\n \"No,\" Bruce said. \"I apologize. None of you know what I'm talking\n about.\"", "It was very lonely sitting there without the dreams, with nothing but\n Terrence's voice ranting excitedly on and on. Terrence didn't seem real\n any more; certainly not as real as the dreams.\nThe problem of where to put the line between dream and reality began to\n worry Bruce. He would wake up and listen and take down what Terrence\n was saying, and then go to sleep again with increasing expectancy. His\n dream took on continuity. He could return to the point where he had\n left it, and it was the same—allowing even for the time difference\n necessitated by his periods of sleep.\n\n\n He met people in the dreams, two girls and a man. They had names:\n Pietro, Marlene, Helene.\n\n\n Helene he had seen from the beginning, but she became more real to\n him all the time, until he could talk with her. After that, he could\n also talk with Marlene and Pietro, and the conversations made sense.\n Consistently, they made sense." ], [ "\"Not afraid,\" Bruce objected. \"I don't see any need to climb it. Coming\n to Mars, conquering space, isn't that enough? It happens that the crew\n of the first ship here decided to climb the mountain, and that set a\n precedent. Every ship that has come here has had to climb it. Why?\n Because they had to accept the challenge. And what's happened to them?\n Like you, they all had the necessary equipment to make a successful\n climb, but no one's ever come back down. No contact with anything up\n there.\n\n\n \"Captain, I'm not accepting a ridiculous challenge like that. Why\n should I? I didn't come here to conquer anything, even a mountain. The\n challenge of coming to Mars, of going on to where ever you guys intend\n going before something bigger than you are stops you—it doesn't\n interest me.\"\n\n\n \"Nothing's bigger than the destiny of Earth!\" Terrence said, sitting up\n straight and rigid.", "\"I'll do that,\" Bruce said. \"It should be interesting.\"\nBruce watched them go, away and up and around the immediate face of\n the mountain in the bleak cold of the Martian morning. He watched them\n disappear behind a high ledge, tied together with plastic rope like\n convicts.\n\n\n He stayed by the radio. He lost track of time and didn't care much\n if he did. Sometimes he took a heavy sedative and slept. The sedative\n prevented the dreams. He had an idea that the dreams might be so\n pleasant that he wouldn't wake up. He wanted to listen to Terrence as\n long as the captain had anything to say. It was nothing but curiosity.\n\n\n At fifteen thousand feet, Terrence reported only that they were\n climbing.\n\n\n At twenty thousand feet, Terrence said, \"We're still climbing, and\n that's all I can report, Bruce. It's worth coming to Mars for—to\n accept a challenge like this!\"", "\"Bruce—Bruce, you still there? Listen, we're up here at what we figure\n to be five hundred thousand feet! It\nis\nimpossible. We keep climbing\n and now we look up and we can see up and up and there the mountain is\n going up and up—\"\n\n\n And some time later: \"Bruce, Marsha's dying! We don't know what's the\n matter. We can't find any reason for it. She's lying here and she keeps\n laughing and calling your name. She's a woman, so that's probably it.\n Women don't have real guts.\"\n\n\n Bruce bent toward the radio. Outside the shelter, the wind whistled\n softly at the door.\n\n\n \"Marsha,\" he said.\n\n\n \"Bruce—\"\n\n\n She hadn't said his name that way for a long time.", "From sixty thousand feet, Terrence reported, \"I had to shoot Anhauser\n a few minutes ago! He was dissenting. Hear that, Bruce? One of my most\n dependable men. We took a vote. A mere formality, of course, whether\n we should continue climbing or not. We knew we'd all vote to keep on\n climbing. And then Anhauser dissented. He was hysterical. He refused\n to accept the majority decision. 'I'm going back down!' he yelled.\n So I had to shoot him. Imagine a man of his apparent caliber turning\n anti-democratic like that! This mountain will be a great tester for\n us in the future. We'll test everybody, find out quickly who the\n weaklings are.\"", "Bruce listened to the wind. It seemed to rise higher and higher.\n Terrence, who had climbed still higher, was calling. \"Think of it! What\n a conquest! No man's ever done a thing like this. Like Stromberg says,\n it's symbolic! We can build spaceships and reach other planets, but\n that's not actual physical conquest. We feel like gods up here. We can\n see what we are now. We can see how it's going to be—\"\n\n\n Once in a while Terrence demanded that Bruce say something to prove he\n was still there taking down what Terrence said. Bruce obliged. A long\n time passed, the way time does when no one cares. Bruce stopped taking\n the sedatives finally. The dreams came back and became, somehow, more\n real each time. He needed the companionship of the dreams.", "He listened to her voice, first the crazy laughter, and then a whisper.\n \"Bruce, hello down there.\" Her voice was all mixed up with fear and\n hysteria and mockery. \"Bruce darling, are you lonely down there? I wish\n I were with you, safe ... free ... warm. I love you. Do you hear that?\n I really love you, after all. After all....\"\nHer voice drifted away, came back to him. \"We're climbing the highest\n mountain. What are you doing there, relaxing where it's peaceful and\n warm and sane? You always were such a calm guy. I remember now. What\n are you doing—reading poetry while we climb the mountain? What was\n that, Bruce—that one about the mountain you tried to quote to me last\n night before you ... I can't remember it now. Darling, what...?\"\nHe stared at the radio. He hesitated, reached out and switched on the\n mike. He got through to her.", "\"Ah, come on, get the hell out of there,\" Jacobs said. He pulled the\n revolver from its holster and pointed it at Bruce. \"We got to get some\n sleep. We're starting up that mountain at five in the morning.\"\n\n\n \"I know,\" Bruce said. \"I'll be glad to see you climb the mountain.\"\n\n\n Outside, in the weird light of the double moons, Bruce looked up at the\n gigantic overhang of the mountain. It was unbelievable. The mountain\n didn't seem to belong here. He'd thought so when they'd first hit Mars\n eight months back and discovered the other four rockets that had never\n got back to Earth—all lying side by side under the mountain's shadow,\n like little white chalk marks on a tallyboard.", "\"I know,\" Bruce agreed indifferently. \"I was drafted for this trip. I\n told them I shouldn't be brought along. I said I didn't want any part\n of it.\"\n\n\n \"Because you're afraid. You're not Conqueror material. That's why you\n backed down when we all voted to climb the mountain. And what the devil\n does Venus—?\"\n\n\n Max Drexel's freckles slipped into the creases across his high\n forehead. \"Haven't you heard him expounding on the injustice done to\n the Venusian aborigines, Captain? If you haven't, you aren't thoroughly\n educated to the crackpot idealism still infecting certain people.\"\n\n\n \"I haven't heard it,\" Terrence admitted. \"What injustice?\"", "Later, Terrence's voice broke off in the middle of something or\n other—Bruce couldn't make any sense out of it at all—and turned into\n crazy yells that faded out and never came back.\n\n\n Bruce figured the others might still be climbing somewhere, or maybe\n they were dead. Either way it wouldn't make any difference to him. He\n knew they would never come back down.\n\n\n He was switching off the radio for good when he saw the coloration\n break over the window. It was the same as the dream, but for an\n instant, dream and reality seemed fused like two superimposed film\n negatives.\n\n\n He went to the window and looked out. The comfortable little city was\n out there, and the canal flowing past through a pleasantly cool yet\n sunny afternoon. Purple mist blanketed the knees of low hills and there\n was a valley, green and rich with the trees high and full beside the\n softly flowing canal water.", "At twenty-five thousand feet, Terrence reported, \"We've put on oxygen\n masks. Jacobs and Drexel have developed some kind of altitude sickness\n and we're taking a little time out. It's a magnificent sight up here. I\n can imagine plenty of tourists coming to Mars one of these days, just\n to climb this mountain! Mt. Everest is a pimple compared with this!\n What a feeling of power, Bruce!\"\n\n\n From forty thousand feet, Terrence said, \"We gauged this mountain\n at forty-five thousand. But here we are at forty and there doesn't\n seem to be any top. We can see up and up and the mountain keeps on\n going. I don't understand how we could have made such an error in our\n computations. I talked with Burton. He doesn't see how a mountain this\n high could still be here when the rest of the planet has been worn so\n smooth.\"", "She waved her arm slowly to describe a peak. \"The Martians made the\n mountain real. So real that it could be seen from space, measured by\n instruments ... even photographed and chipped for rock samples. But\n you'll see how that was done, Bruce, and realize that this and not the\n mountain of the Conquerors is the reality of Mars. This is the Mars no\n Conqueror will ever see.\"\nThey walked toward the ugly red mound that jutted above the green. When\n they came close enough, he saw the bodies lying there ... the remains,\n actually, of what had once been bodies. He felt too sickened to go on\n walking.\n\n\n \"It may seem cruel now,\" she said, \"but the Martians realized that\n there is no cure for the will to conquer. There is no safety from it,\n either, as the people of Earth and Venus discovered, unless it is\n given an impossible obstacle to overcome. So the Martians provided the\n Conquerors with a mountain. They themselves wanted to climb. They had\n to.\"", "And then from fifty-three thousand feet, Terrence said with a voice\n that seemed slightly strained: \"No sign of any of the crew of the other\n four ships yet. Ten in each crew, that makes fifty. Not a sign of any\n of them so far, but then we seem to have a long way left to climb—\"\n\n\n Bruce listened and noted and took sedatives and opened cans of food\n concentrates. He smoked and ate and slept. He had plenty of time. He\n had only time and the dreams which he knew he could utilize later to\n take care of the time.", "They'd estimated its height at over 45,000 feet, which was a lot higher\n than any mountain on Earth. Yet Mars was much older, geologically. The\n entire face of the planet was smoothed into soft, undulating red hills\n by erosion. And there in the middle of barren nothingness rose that one\n incredible mountain. On certain nights when the stars were right, it\n had seemed to Bruce as though it were pointing an accusing finger at\n Earth—or a warning one.\nWith Jacobs and Anhauser and the remainder of the crew of the ship,\nMars V\n, seven judges sat in a semi-circle and Bruce stood there in\n front of them for the inquest.\n\n\n In the middle of the half-moon of inquisition, with his long legs\n stretched out and his hands folded on his belly, sat Captain Terrence.\n His uniform was black. On his arm was the silver fist insignia of the\n Conqueror Corps. Marsha Rennels sat on the extreme right and now there\n was no emotion at all on her trim, neat face.", "\"Maybe. This planet may not be a dead ball of clay. I've had a feeling\n there's something real in the dreams, but I can't figure it out.\n You're still interested?\"\n\n\n Terrence nodded and glanced to either side.\n\n\n \"We've seen no indication of any kind of life whatsoever,\" Bruce\n pointed out. \"Not even an insect, or any kind of plant life except some\n fungi and lichen down in the crevices. That never seemed logical to me\n from the start. We've covered the planet everywhere except one place—\"\n\n\n \"The mountain,\" Terrence said. \"You've been afraid even to talk about\n scaling it.\"", "The wind stormed over the shelter in a burst of power, buried the sound\n of his own voice.\n\n\n \"Marsha, are you still there?\"\n\n\n \"What the devil's the idea, poetry at a time like this, or any time?\"\n Terrence demanded. \"Listen, you taking this down? We haven't run into\n any signs of the others. Six hundred thousand feet, Bruce! We feel our\n destiny. We conquer the Solar System. And we'll go out and out, and\n we'll climb the highest mountain, the highest mountain anywhere. We're\n going up and up. We've voted on it. Unanimous. We go on. On to the\n top, Bruce! Nothing can stop us. If it takes ten years, a hundred, a\n thousand years, we'll find it. We'll find the top! Not the top of this\n world—the top of\neverything\n. The top of the\n UNIVERSE\n !\"", "He turned quickly. The shelter was still there, and behind it the row\n of spaceships—not like chalk marks on a tallyboard now, but like odd\n relics that didn't belong there in the thick green grass. Five ships\n instead of four.\n\n\n There was his own individual shelter beyond the headquarters building,\n and the other buildings. He looked up.\n\n\n There was no mountain.\nFor one shivery moment he knew fear. And then the fear went away, and\n he was ashamed of what he had felt. What he had feared was gone now,\n and he knew it was gone for good and he would never have to fear it\n again.\n\n\n \"Look here, Bruce. I wondered how long it would take to get it through\n that thick poetic head of yours!\"\n\n\n \"Get what?\" He began to suspect what it was all about now, but he\n wasn't quite sure yet.\n\n\n \"Smoke?\" she said.", "He was hardly listening as he walked away from Helene toward the eroded\n hills. The crew members of the first four ships were skeletons tied\n together with imperishably strong rope about their waists. Far beyond\n them were those from\nMars V\n, too freshly dead to have decayed\n much ... Anhauser with his rope cut, a bullet in his head; Jacobs and\n Marsha and the others ... Terrence much past them all. He had managed\n to climb higher than anyone else and he lay with his arms stretched\n out, his fingers still clutching at rock outcroppings.\n\n\n The trail they left wound over the ground, chipped in places for holds,\n red elsewhere with blood from torn hands. Terrence was more than twelve\n miles from the ship—horizontally.\n\n\n Bruce lifted Marsha and carried her back over the rocky dust, into the\n fresh fragrance of the high grass, and across it to the shade and peace\n beside the canal.", "He stood up, walked back with Helene along the canal toward the calm\n city. He didn't look back.\n\n\n \"They've all been dead quite a while,\" Bruce said wonderingly. \"Yet\n I seemed to be hearing from Terrence until only a short time ago.\n Are—are the climbers still climbing—somewhere, Helene?\"\n\n\n \"Who knows?\" Helene answered softly. \"Maybe. I doubt if even the\n Martians have the answer to that.\"\n\n\n They entered the city.", "Terrence shifted his position. \"However, we've voted to grant you\n a kind of leniency. In exchange for a little further service from\n you, you can remain here on Mars after we leave. You'll be left\n food-concentrates to last a long time.\"\n\n\n \"What kind of service?\"\n\n\n \"Stay by the radio and take down what we report as we go up the\n mountain.\"\n\n\n \"Why not?\" Bruce said. \"You aren't certain you're coming back, then?\"\n\n\n \"We might not,\" Terrence admitted calmly. \"Something's happened to the\n others. We're going to find out what and we want it recorded. None of\n us want to back down and stay here. You can take our reports as they\n come in.\"", "He put her down. She looked peaceful enough, more peaceful than that\n other time, years ago, when the two of them seemed to have shared so\n much, when the future had not yet destroyed her. He saw the shadow of\n Helene bend across Marsha's face against the background of the silently\n flowing water of the cool, green canal.\n\n\n \"You loved her?\"\n\n\n \"Once,\" Bruce said. \"She might have been sane. They got her when she\n was young. Too young to fight. But she would have, I think, if she'd\n been older when they got her.\"\n\n\n He sat looking down at Marsha's face, and then at the water with the\n leaves floating down it.\n\n\n \"'... And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley will never\n seem fresh or clear for thinking of the glitter of the mountain water\n in the feathery green of the year....'\"" ], [ "\"I'll do that,\" Bruce said. \"It should be interesting.\"\nBruce watched them go, away and up and around the immediate face of\n the mountain in the bleak cold of the Martian morning. He watched them\n disappear behind a high ledge, tied together with plastic rope like\n convicts.\n\n\n He stayed by the radio. He lost track of time and didn't care much\n if he did. Sometimes he took a heavy sedative and slept. The sedative\n prevented the dreams. He had an idea that the dreams might be so\n pleasant that he wouldn't wake up. He wanted to listen to Terrence as\n long as the captain had anything to say. It was nothing but curiosity.\n\n\n At fifteen thousand feet, Terrence reported only that they were\n climbing.\n\n\n At twenty thousand feet, Terrence said, \"We're still climbing, and\n that's all I can report, Bruce. It's worth coming to Mars for—to\n accept a challenge like this!\"", "\"Not afraid,\" Bruce objected. \"I don't see any need to climb it. Coming\n to Mars, conquering space, isn't that enough? It happens that the crew\n of the first ship here decided to climb the mountain, and that set a\n precedent. Every ship that has come here has had to climb it. Why?\n Because they had to accept the challenge. And what's happened to them?\n Like you, they all had the necessary equipment to make a successful\n climb, but no one's ever come back down. No contact with anything up\n there.\n\n\n \"Captain, I'm not accepting a ridiculous challenge like that. Why\n should I? I didn't come here to conquer anything, even a mountain. The\n challenge of coming to Mars, of going on to where ever you guys intend\n going before something bigger than you are stops you—it doesn't\n interest me.\"\n\n\n \"Nothing's bigger than the destiny of Earth!\" Terrence said, sitting up\n straight and rigid.", "Terrence shifted his position. \"However, we've voted to grant you\n a kind of leniency. In exchange for a little further service from\n you, you can remain here on Mars after we leave. You'll be left\n food-concentrates to last a long time.\"\n\n\n \"What kind of service?\"\n\n\n \"Stay by the radio and take down what we report as we go up the\n mountain.\"\n\n\n \"Why not?\" Bruce said. \"You aren't certain you're coming back, then?\"\n\n\n \"We might not,\" Terrence admitted calmly. \"Something's happened to the\n others. We're going to find out what and we want it recorded. None of\n us want to back down and stay here. You can take our reports as they\n come in.\"", "\"The Martians tested us,\" she explained. \"They're masters of the mind.\n I guess they've been grinding along through the evolutionary mill\n a darn long time, longer than we could estimate now. They learned\n the horror we're capable of from the first ship—the Conquerors,\n the climbers. The Martians knew more like them would come and go on\n into space, killing, destroying for no other reason than their own\n sickness. Being masters of the mind, the Martians are also capable\n of hypnosis—no, that's not really the word, only the closest our\n language comes to naming it. Suggestion so deep and strong that it\n seems real to one human or a million or a billion; there's no limit to\n the number that can be influenced. What the people who came off those\n ships saw wasn't real. It was partly what the Martians wanted them to\n see and feel—but most of it, like the desire to climb the mountain,\n was as much a part of the Conquerors' own psychic drive as it was the\n suggestion of the Martians.\"", "\"Ah, come on, get the hell out of there,\" Jacobs said. He pulled the\n revolver from its holster and pointed it at Bruce. \"We got to get some\n sleep. We're starting up that mountain at five in the morning.\"\n\n\n \"I know,\" Bruce said. \"I'll be glad to see you climb the mountain.\"\n\n\n Outside, in the weird light of the double moons, Bruce looked up at the\n gigantic overhang of the mountain. It was unbelievable. The mountain\n didn't seem to belong here. He'd thought so when they'd first hit Mars\n eight months back and discovered the other four rockets that had never\n got back to Earth—all lying side by side under the mountain's shadow,\n like little white chalk marks on a tallyboard.", "He was hardly listening as he walked away from Helene toward the eroded\n hills. The crew members of the first four ships were skeletons tied\n together with imperishably strong rope about their waists. Far beyond\n them were those from\nMars V\n, too freshly dead to have decayed\n much ... Anhauser with his rope cut, a bullet in his head; Jacobs and\n Marsha and the others ... Terrence much past them all. He had managed\n to climb higher than anyone else and he lay with his arms stretched\n out, his fingers still clutching at rock outcroppings.\n\n\n The trail they left wound over the ground, chipped in places for holds,\n red elsewhere with blood from torn hands. Terrence was more than twelve\n miles from the ship—horizontally.\n\n\n Bruce lifted Marsha and carried her back over the rocky dust, into the\n fresh fragrance of the high grass, and across it to the shade and peace\n beside the canal.", "The Martian landscape was entirely different in the dreams. Green\n valleys and rivers, or actually wide canals, with odd trees trailing\n their branches on the slow, peacefully gliding currents. Here and there\n were pastel-colored cities and there were things drifting through them\n that were alive and intelligent and soft and warm and wonderful to know.\n\n\n '\n... dreams, in their vivid coloring of life, as in that fleeting,\n shadowy, misty strife of semblance with reality which brings to the\n delirious eye more lovely things of paradise and love—and all our\n own!—than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known....\n'\n\n\n So sometimes he read poetry, but even that was hardly equal to the\n dreams.\n\n\n And then he would wake up and listen to Terrence's voice. He would\n look out the window over the barren frigid land where there was nothing\n but seams of worn land, like scabs under the brazen sky.", "At twenty-five thousand feet, Terrence reported, \"We've put on oxygen\n masks. Jacobs and Drexel have developed some kind of altitude sickness\n and we're taking a little time out. It's a magnificent sight up here. I\n can imagine plenty of tourists coming to Mars one of these days, just\n to climb this mountain! Mt. Everest is a pimple compared with this!\n What a feeling of power, Bruce!\"\n\n\n From forty thousand feet, Terrence said, \"We gauged this mountain\n at forty-five thousand. But here we are at forty and there doesn't\n seem to be any top. We can see up and up and the mountain keeps on\n going. I don't understand how we could have made such an error in our\n computations. I talked with Burton. He doesn't see how a mountain this\n high could still be here when the rest of the planet has been worn so\n smooth.\"", "They'd estimated its height at over 45,000 feet, which was a lot higher\n than any mountain on Earth. Yet Mars was much older, geologically. The\n entire face of the planet was smoothed into soft, undulating red hills\n by erosion. And there in the middle of barren nothingness rose that one\n incredible mountain. On certain nights when the stars were right, it\n had seemed to Bruce as though it were pointing an accusing finger at\n Earth—or a warning one.\nWith Jacobs and Anhauser and the remainder of the crew of the ship,\nMars V\n, seven judges sat in a semi-circle and Bruce stood there in\n front of them for the inquest.\n\n\n In the middle of the half-moon of inquisition, with his long legs\n stretched out and his hands folded on his belly, sat Captain Terrence.\n His uniform was black. On his arm was the silver fist insignia of the\n Conqueror Corps. Marsha Rennels sat on the extreme right and now there\n was no emotion at all on her trim, neat face.", "A minority in both segments of a world split into two factions.\n Both had been warring diplomatically and sometimes physically, for\n centuries, clung to old ideas of freedom, democracy, self-determinism,\n individualism. To most, the words had no meaning now. It was a question\n of which set of conquering heroes could conquer the most space first.\n So far, only Venus had fallen. They had done a good, thorough job\n there. Four ships had come to Mars and their crews had disappeared.\n This was the fifth attempt—\nTerrence said, \"why did you shoot Doran?\"\n\n\n \"I didn't like him enough to take the nonsense he was handing me, and\n when he shot the—\" Bruce hesitated.\n\n\n \"What? When he shot what?\"\n\n\n Bruce felt an odd tingling in his stomach. The wind's voice seemed to\n sharpen and rise to a kind of wail.", "Jacobs and Anhauser stood outside. The icy wind cut through and into\n Bruce, but he didn't seem to notice. Anhauser's bulk loomed even larger\n in the special cold-resisting suiting. Jacobs' thin face frowned slyly\n at Bruce.\n\n\n \"Come on in, boys, and get warm,\" Bruce invited.\n\n\n \"Hey, poet, you're still here!\" Anhauser said, looking astonished.\n\n\n \"We thought you'd be running off somewhere,\" Jacobs said.\n\n\n Bruce reached for the suit on its hook, started climbing into it.\n \"Where?\" he asked. \"Mars looks alike wherever you go. Where did you\n think I'd be running to?\"\n\n\n \"Any place just so it was away from here and us,\" Anhauser said.\n\n\n \"I don't have to do that. You are going away from me. That takes care\n of that, doesn't it?\"", "She waved her arm slowly to describe a peak. \"The Martians made the\n mountain real. So real that it could be seen from space, measured by\n instruments ... even photographed and chipped for rock samples. But\n you'll see how that was done, Bruce, and realize that this and not the\n mountain of the Conquerors is the reality of Mars. This is the Mars no\n Conqueror will ever see.\"\nThey walked toward the ugly red mound that jutted above the green. When\n they came close enough, he saw the bodies lying there ... the remains,\n actually, of what had once been bodies. He felt too sickened to go on\n walking.\n\n\n \"It may seem cruel now,\" she said, \"but the Martians realized that\n there is no cure for the will to conquer. There is no safety from it,\n either, as the people of Earth and Venus discovered, unless it is\n given an impossible obstacle to overcome. So the Martians provided the\n Conquerors with a mountain. They themselves wanted to climb. They had\n to.\"", "The wind stormed over the shelter in a burst of power, buried the sound\n of his own voice.\n\n\n \"Marsha, are you still there?\"\n\n\n \"What the devil's the idea, poetry at a time like this, or any time?\"\n Terrence demanded. \"Listen, you taking this down? We haven't run into\n any signs of the others. Six hundred thousand feet, Bruce! We feel our\n destiny. We conquer the Solar System. And we'll go out and out, and\n we'll climb the highest mountain, the highest mountain anywhere. We're\n going up and up. We've voted on it. Unanimous. We go on. On to the\n top, Bruce! Nothing can stop us. If it takes ten years, a hundred, a\n thousand years, we'll find it. We'll find the top! Not the top of this\n world—the top of\neverything\n. The top of the\n UNIVERSE\n !\"", "Bruce said, \"I guess it couldn't really be considered an injustice\n any longer. Values have changed too much. Doran and I were part of the\n crew of that first ship to hit Venus, five years ago. Remember? One\n of the New Era's more infamous dates. Drexel says the Venusians were\n aborigines. No one ever got a chance to find out. We ran into this\n village. No one knows how old it was. There were intelligent beings\n there. One community left on the whole planet, maybe a few thousand\n inhabitants. They made their last mistake when they came out to greet\n us. Without even an attempt at communication, they were wiped out. The\n village was burned and everything alive in it was destroyed.\"\n\n\n Bruce felt the old weakness coming into his knees, the sweat beginning\n to run down his face. He took a deep breath and stood there before the\n cold nihilistic stares of fourteen eyes.\n\n\n \"No,\" Bruce said. \"I apologize. None of you know what I'm talking\n about.\"", "\"I know,\" Bruce agreed indifferently. \"I was drafted for this trip. I\n told them I shouldn't be brought along. I said I didn't want any part\n of it.\"\n\n\n \"Because you're afraid. You're not Conqueror material. That's why you\n backed down when we all voted to climb the mountain. And what the devil\n does Venus—?\"\n\n\n Max Drexel's freckles slipped into the creases across his high\n forehead. \"Haven't you heard him expounding on the injustice done to\n the Venusian aborigines, Captain? If you haven't, you aren't thoroughly\n educated to the crackpot idealism still infecting certain people.\"\n\n\n \"I haven't heard it,\" Terrence admitted. \"What injustice?\"", "\"When you get back? Like the crews of those other four ships out\n there?\" Bruce laughed without much humor.\n\n\n Terrence rubbed a palm across his lips, dropped the hand quickly again\n to his belly. \"You want to make a statement or not? You shot Doran in\n the head with a rifle. No provocation for the attack. You've wasted\n enough of my time with your damn arguments and anti-social behavior.\n This is a democratic group. Everyone has his say. But you've said too\n much, and done too much. Freedom doesn't allow you to go around killing\n fellow crew-members!\"\n\n\n \"Any idea that there was any democracy or freedom left died on Venus,\"\n Bruce said.\n\n\n \"Now we get another lecture!\" Terrence exploded. He leaned forward.\n \"You're sick, Bruce. They did a bad psych job on you. They should never\n have sent you on this trip. We need strength, all the strength we can\n find. You don't belong here.\"", "\"All right, I'll tell you. I was sleeping, having a dream. Doran woke\n me up. Marsha was with him. I'd forgotten about that geological job we\n were supposed to be working on. I've had these dreams ever since we got\n here.\"\n\n\n \"What kind of dreams?\"\n\n\n Someone laughed.\n\n\n \"Just fantastic stuff. Ask your Pavlovian there,\" Bruce said. \"People\n talk to me, and there are other things in the dreams. Voices and some\n kind of shapes that aren't what you would call human at all.\"\n\n\n Someone coughed. There was obvious embarrassment in the room.\n\n\n \"It's peculiar, but many faces and voices are those of crew members of\n some of the ships out there, the ones that never got back to Earth.\"\n\n\n Terrence grinned. \"Ghosts, Bruce?\"", "\"'\nIs all that we see or seem\n,'\" he whispered, half to himself, \"'\nbut\n a dream within a dream?\n'\"\n\n\n She laughed softly. \"Poe was ahead of his time,\" she said. \"You still\n don't get it, do you? You don't know what's been happening?\"\n\n\n \"Maybe I don't.\"\n\n\n She shrugged, and looked in the direction of the ships. \"Poor guys. I\n can't feel much hatred toward them now. The Martians give you a lot of\n understanding of the human mind—after they've accepted you, and after\n you've lived with them awhile. But the mountain climbers—we can see\n now—it's just luck, chance, we weren't like them. A deviant is a child\n of chance.\"", "He remembered her as she had been years ago, but at the moment he\n wasn't looking very hard to see anything on her face. It was too late.\n They had gotten her young and it was too late.\n\n\n Terrence's big, square face frowned a little. Bruce was aware suddenly\n of the sound of the bleak, never-ending wind against the plastilene\n shelter. He remembered the strange misty shapes that had come to him in\n his dreams, the voices that had called to him, and how disappointed he\n had been when he woke from them.\n\n\n \"This is a mere formality,\" Terrence finally said, \"since we all know\n you killed Lieutenant Doran a few hours ago. Marsha saw you kill him.\n Whatever you say goes on the record, of course.\"\n\n\n \"For whom?\" Bruce asked.\n\n\n \"What kind of question is that? For the authorities on Earth when we\n get back.\"", "He stood up, walked back with Helene along the canal toward the calm\n city. He didn't look back.\n\n\n \"They've all been dead quite a while,\" Bruce said wonderingly. \"Yet\n I seemed to be hearing from Terrence until only a short time ago.\n Are—are the climbers still climbing—somewhere, Helene?\"\n\n\n \"Who knows?\" Helene answered softly. \"Maybe. I doubt if even the\n Martians have the answer to that.\"\n\n\n They entered the city." ], [ "He put her down. She looked peaceful enough, more peaceful than that\n other time, years ago, when the two of them seemed to have shared so\n much, when the future had not yet destroyed her. He saw the shadow of\n Helene bend across Marsha's face against the background of the silently\n flowing water of the cool, green canal.\n\n\n \"You loved her?\"\n\n\n \"Once,\" Bruce said. \"She might have been sane. They got her when she\n was young. Too young to fight. But she would have, I think, if she'd\n been older when they got her.\"\n\n\n He sat looking down at Marsha's face, and then at the water with the\n leaves floating down it.\n\n\n \"'... And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley will never\n seem fresh or clear for thinking of the glitter of the mountain water\n in the feathery green of the year....'\"", "\"Marsha, remember how we used to talk about human values? I remember\n how you seemed to have something maybe different from the others. I\n never thought you'd really buy this will to conquer, and now it doesn't\n matter....\"", "\"Bruce—Bruce, you still there? Listen, we're up here at what we figure\n to be five hundred thousand feet! It\nis\nimpossible. We keep climbing\n and now we look up and we can see up and up and there the mountain is\n going up and up—\"\n\n\n And some time later: \"Bruce, Marsha's dying! We don't know what's the\n matter. We can't find any reason for it. She's lying here and she keeps\n laughing and calling your name. She's a woman, so that's probably it.\n Women don't have real guts.\"\n\n\n Bruce bent toward the radio. Outside the shelter, the wind whistled\n softly at the door.\n\n\n \"Marsha,\" he said.\n\n\n \"Bruce—\"\n\n\n She hadn't said his name that way for a long time.", "The wind stormed over the shelter in a burst of power, buried the sound\n of his own voice.\n\n\n \"Marsha, are you still there?\"\n\n\n \"What the devil's the idea, poetry at a time like this, or any time?\"\n Terrence demanded. \"Listen, you taking this down? We haven't run into\n any signs of the others. Six hundred thousand feet, Bruce! We feel our\n destiny. We conquer the Solar System. And we'll go out and out, and\n we'll climb the highest mountain, the highest mountain anywhere. We're\n going up and up. We've voted on it. Unanimous. We go on. On to the\n top, Bruce! Nothing can stop us. If it takes ten years, a hundred, a\n thousand years, we'll find it. We'll find the top! Not the top of this\n world—the top of\neverything\n. The top of the\n UNIVERSE\n !\"", "\"I know,\" Bruce said. \"Anyway, I got off the track. As I was saying,\n I woke up from this dream and Marsha and Doran were there. Doran was\n shaking me. But I didn't seem to have gotten entirely awake; either\n that or some part of the dream was real, because I looked out the\n window—something was out there, looking at me. It was late, and at\n first I thought it might be a shadow. But it wasn't. It was misty,\n almost translucent, but I think it was something alive. I had a feeling\n it was intelligent, maybe very intelligent. I could feel something in\n my mind. A kind of beauty and softness and warmth. I kept looking—\"", "He remembered her as she had been years ago, but at the moment he\n wasn't looking very hard to see anything on her face. It was too late.\n They had gotten her young and it was too late.\n\n\n Terrence's big, square face frowned a little. Bruce was aware suddenly\n of the sound of the bleak, never-ending wind against the plastilene\n shelter. He remembered the strange misty shapes that had come to him in\n his dreams, the voices that had called to him, and how disappointed he\n had been when he woke from them.\n\n\n \"This is a mere formality,\" Terrence finally said, \"since we all know\n you killed Lieutenant Doran a few hours ago. Marsha saw you kill him.\n Whatever you say goes on the record, of course.\"\n\n\n \"For whom?\" Bruce asked.\n\n\n \"What kind of question is that? For the authorities on Earth when we\n get back.\"", "Jacobs and Anhauser stood outside. The icy wind cut through and into\n Bruce, but he didn't seem to notice. Anhauser's bulk loomed even larger\n in the special cold-resisting suiting. Jacobs' thin face frowned slyly\n at Bruce.\n\n\n \"Come on in, boys, and get warm,\" Bruce invited.\n\n\n \"Hey, poet, you're still here!\" Anhauser said, looking astonished.\n\n\n \"We thought you'd be running off somewhere,\" Jacobs said.\n\n\n Bruce reached for the suit on its hook, started climbing into it.\n \"Where?\" he asked. \"Mars looks alike wherever you go. Where did you\n think I'd be running to?\"\n\n\n \"Any place just so it was away from here and us,\" Anhauser said.\n\n\n \"I don't have to do that. You are going away from me. That takes care\n of that, doesn't it?\"", "They'd estimated its height at over 45,000 feet, which was a lot higher\n than any mountain on Earth. Yet Mars was much older, geologically. The\n entire face of the planet was smoothed into soft, undulating red hills\n by erosion. And there in the middle of barren nothingness rose that one\n incredible mountain. On certain nights when the stars were right, it\n had seemed to Bruce as though it were pointing an accusing finger at\n Earth—or a warning one.\nWith Jacobs and Anhauser and the remainder of the crew of the ship,\nMars V\n, seven judges sat in a semi-circle and Bruce stood there in\n front of them for the inquest.\n\n\n In the middle of the half-moon of inquisition, with his long legs\n stretched out and his hands folded on his belly, sat Captain Terrence.\n His uniform was black. On his arm was the silver fist insignia of the\n Conqueror Corps. Marsha Rennels sat on the extreme right and now there\n was no emotion at all on her trim, neat face.", "He was hardly listening as he walked away from Helene toward the eroded\n hills. The crew members of the first four ships were skeletons tied\n together with imperishably strong rope about their waists. Far beyond\n them were those from\nMars V\n, too freshly dead to have decayed\n much ... Anhauser with his rope cut, a bullet in his head; Jacobs and\n Marsha and the others ... Terrence much past them all. He had managed\n to climb higher than anyone else and he lay with his arms stretched\n out, his fingers still clutching at rock outcroppings.\n\n\n The trail they left wound over the ground, chipped in places for holds,\n red elsewhere with blood from torn hands. Terrence was more than twelve\n miles from the ship—horizontally.\n\n\n Bruce lifted Marsha and carried her back over the rocky dust, into the\n fresh fragrance of the high grass, and across it to the shade and peace\n beside the canal.", "\"I'll do that,\" Bruce said. \"It should be interesting.\"\nBruce watched them go, away and up and around the immediate face of\n the mountain in the bleak cold of the Martian morning. He watched them\n disappear behind a high ledge, tied together with plastic rope like\n convicts.\n\n\n He stayed by the radio. He lost track of time and didn't care much\n if he did. Sometimes he took a heavy sedative and slept. The sedative\n prevented the dreams. He had an idea that the dreams might be so\n pleasant that he wouldn't wake up. He wanted to listen to Terrence as\n long as the captain had anything to say. It was nothing but curiosity.\n\n\n At fifteen thousand feet, Terrence reported only that they were\n climbing.\n\n\n At twenty thousand feet, Terrence said, \"We're still climbing, and\n that's all I can report, Bruce. It's worth coming to Mars for—to\n accept a challenge like this!\"", "\"Yes,\" Bruce said. \"There's a lot of people like us on Earth, but\n they'll never get the chance—the chance we seem to have here, to live\n decently....\"\n\n\n \"You're beginning to see now which was the dream,\" she said and\n smiled. \"But don't be pessimistic. Those people on Earth will get their\n chance, too, one of these fine days. The Conquerors aren't getting far.\n Venus, and then Mars, and Mars is where they stop. They'll keep coming\n here and climbing the mountain and finally there won't be any more. It\n won't take so long.\"\n\n\n She rose to her toes and waved and yelled. Bruce saw Pietro and Marlene\n walking hand in hand up the other side of the canal. They waved back\n and called and then pushed off into the water in a small boat, and\n drifted away and out of sight around a gentle turn.", "He turned quickly. The shelter was still there, and behind it the row\n of spaceships—not like chalk marks on a tallyboard now, but like odd\n relics that didn't belong there in the thick green grass. Five ships\n instead of four.\n\n\n There was his own individual shelter beyond the headquarters building,\n and the other buildings. He looked up.\n\n\n There was no mountain.\nFor one shivery moment he knew fear. And then the fear went away, and\n he was ashamed of what he had felt. What he had feared was gone now,\n and he knew it was gone for good and he would never have to fear it\n again.\n\n\n \"Look here, Bruce. I wondered how long it would take to get it through\n that thick poetic head of yours!\"\n\n\n \"Get what?\" He began to suspect what it was all about now, but he\n wasn't quite sure yet.\n\n\n \"Smoke?\" she said.", "\"All right, I'll tell you. I was sleeping, having a dream. Doran woke\n me up. Marsha was with him. I'd forgotten about that geological job we\n were supposed to be working on. I've had these dreams ever since we got\n here.\"\n\n\n \"What kind of dreams?\"\n\n\n Someone laughed.\n\n\n \"Just fantastic stuff. Ask your Pavlovian there,\" Bruce said. \"People\n talk to me, and there are other things in the dreams. Voices and some\n kind of shapes that aren't what you would call human at all.\"\n\n\n Someone coughed. There was obvious embarrassment in the room.\n\n\n \"It's peculiar, but many faces and voices are those of crew members of\n some of the ships out there, the ones that never got back to Earth.\"\n\n\n Terrence grinned. \"Ghosts, Bruce?\"", "He stood up, walked back with Helene along the canal toward the calm\n city. He didn't look back.\n\n\n \"They've all been dead quite a while,\" Bruce said wonderingly. \"Yet\n I seemed to be hearing from Terrence until only a short time ago.\n Are—are the climbers still climbing—somewhere, Helene?\"\n\n\n \"Who knows?\" Helene answered softly. \"Maybe. I doubt if even the\n Martians have the answer to that.\"\n\n\n They entered the city.", "Terrence nodded. \"You're psycho. It's as simple as that. They pick the\n most capable for these conquests. Even the flights are processes of\n elimination. Eventually we get the very best, the most resilient, the\n real conquering blood. You just don't pass, Bruce. Listen, what do you\n think gives you the right to stand here in judgment against the laws\n of the whole Solar System?\"\n\n\n \"There are plenty on Earth who agree with me,\" Bruce said. \"I can say\n what I think now because you can't do more than kill me and you'll do\n that regardless....\"", "Bruce listened to the wind. It seemed to rise higher and higher.\n Terrence, who had climbed still higher, was calling. \"Think of it! What\n a conquest! No man's ever done a thing like this. Like Stromberg says,\n it's symbolic! We can build spaceships and reach other planets, but\n that's not actual physical conquest. We feel like gods up here. We can\n see what we are now. We can see how it's going to be—\"\n\n\n Once in a while Terrence demanded that Bruce say something to prove he\n was still there taking down what Terrence said. Bruce obliged. A long\n time passed, the way time does when no one cares. Bruce stopped taking\n the sedatives finally. The dreams came back and became, somehow, more\n real each time. He needed the companionship of the dreams.", "\"Ah, come on, get the hell out of there,\" Jacobs said. He pulled the\n revolver from its holster and pointed it at Bruce. \"We got to get some\n sleep. We're starting up that mountain at five in the morning.\"\n\n\n \"I know,\" Bruce said. \"I'll be glad to see you climb the mountain.\"\n\n\n Outside, in the weird light of the double moons, Bruce looked up at the\n gigantic overhang of the mountain. It was unbelievable. The mountain\n didn't seem to belong here. He'd thought so when they'd first hit Mars\n eight months back and discovered the other four rockets that had never\n got back to Earth—all lying side by side under the mountain's shadow,\n like little white chalk marks on a tallyboard.", "\"I know,\" Bruce agreed indifferently. \"I was drafted for this trip. I\n told them I shouldn't be brought along. I said I didn't want any part\n of it.\"\n\n\n \"Because you're afraid. You're not Conqueror material. That's why you\n backed down when we all voted to climb the mountain. And what the devil\n does Venus—?\"\n\n\n Max Drexel's freckles slipped into the creases across his high\n forehead. \"Haven't you heard him expounding on the injustice done to\n the Venusian aborigines, Captain? If you haven't, you aren't thoroughly\n educated to the crackpot idealism still infecting certain people.\"\n\n\n \"I haven't heard it,\" Terrence admitted. \"What injustice?\"", "He took one of the cigarettes and she lighted it for him and put the\n lighter back into her pocket.\n\n\n \"It's real nice here,\" she said. \"Isn't it?\"\n\n\n \"I guess it's about perfect.\"\n\n\n \"It'll be easy. Staying here, I mean. We won't be going to Earth ever\n again, you know.\"\n\n\n \"I didn't\nknow\nthat, but I didn't\nthink\nwe ever would again.\"\n\n\n \"We wouldn't want to anyway, would we, Bruce?\"\n\n\n \"No.\"\n\n\n He kept on looking at the place where the mountain had been. Or maybe\n it still was; he couldn't make up his mind yet. Which was and which was\n not? That barren icy world without life, or this?", "A minority in both segments of a world split into two factions.\n Both had been warring diplomatically and sometimes physically, for\n centuries, clung to old ideas of freedom, democracy, self-determinism,\n individualism. To most, the words had no meaning now. It was a question\n of which set of conquering heroes could conquer the most space first.\n So far, only Venus had fallen. They had done a good, thorough job\n there. Four ships had come to Mars and their crews had disappeared.\n This was the fifth attempt—\nTerrence said, \"why did you shoot Doran?\"\n\n\n \"I didn't like him enough to take the nonsense he was handing me, and\n when he shot the—\" Bruce hesitated.\n\n\n \"What? When he shot what?\"\n\n\n Bruce felt an odd tingling in his stomach. The wind's voice seemed to\n sharpen and rise to a kind of wail." ], [ "Terrence nodded. \"You're psycho. It's as simple as that. They pick the\n most capable for these conquests. Even the flights are processes of\n elimination. Eventually we get the very best, the most resilient, the\n real conquering blood. You just don't pass, Bruce. Listen, what do you\n think gives you the right to stand here in judgment against the laws\n of the whole Solar System?\"\n\n\n \"There are plenty on Earth who agree with me,\" Bruce said. \"I can say\n what I think now because you can't do more than kill me and you'll do\n that regardless....\"", "From sixty thousand feet, Terrence reported, \"I had to shoot Anhauser\n a few minutes ago! He was dissenting. Hear that, Bruce? One of my most\n dependable men. We took a vote. A mere formality, of course, whether\n we should continue climbing or not. We knew we'd all vote to keep on\n climbing. And then Anhauser dissented. He was hysterical. He refused\n to accept the majority decision. 'I'm going back down!' he yelled.\n So I had to shoot him. Imagine a man of his apparent caliber turning\n anti-democratic like that! This mountain will be a great tester for\n us in the future. We'll test everybody, find out quickly who the\n weaklings are.\"", "\"That's what I figured.\" Terrence turned to the psychologist, a small\n wiry man who sat there constantly fingering his ear. \"Stromberg, what\n do you think of this gobbledegook? We know he's crazy. But what hit\n him? You said his record was good up until a year ago.\"", "Stromberg's voice was monotonous, like a voice off of a tape.\n \"Schizophrenia with mingled delusions of persecution. The schizophrenia\n is caused by inner conflict—indecision between the older values and\n our present ones which he hasn't been able to accept. A complete case\n history would tell why he can't accept our present attitudes. I would\n say that he has an incipient fear of personal inadequacy, which is why\n he fears our desire for conquest. He's rationalized, built up a defense\n which he's structured with his idealism, foundationed with Old Era\n values. Retreat into the past, an escape from his own present feelings\n of inadequacy. Also, he escapes into these dream fantasies.\"\n\n\n \"Yes,\" Terrence said. \"But how does that account for Doran's action?\n Doran must have seen something—\"", "He was hardly listening as he walked away from Helene toward the eroded\n hills. The crew members of the first four ships were skeletons tied\n together with imperishably strong rope about their waists. Far beyond\n them were those from\nMars V\n, too freshly dead to have decayed\n much ... Anhauser with his rope cut, a bullet in his head; Jacobs and\n Marsha and the others ... Terrence much past them all. He had managed\n to climb higher than anyone else and he lay with his arms stretched\n out, his fingers still clutching at rock outcroppings.\n\n\n The trail they left wound over the ground, chipped in places for holds,\n red elsewhere with blood from torn hands. Terrence was more than twelve\n miles from the ship—horizontally.\n\n\n Bruce lifted Marsha and carried her back over the rocky dust, into the\n fresh fragrance of the high grass, and across it to the shade and peace\n beside the canal.", "Later, Terrence's voice broke off in the middle of something or\n other—Bruce couldn't make any sense out of it at all—and turned into\n crazy yells that faded out and never came back.\n\n\n Bruce figured the others might still be climbing somewhere, or maybe\n they were dead. Either way it wouldn't make any difference to him. He\n knew they would never come back down.\n\n\n He was switching off the radio for good when he saw the coloration\n break over the window. It was the same as the dream, but for an\n instant, dream and reality seemed fused like two superimposed film\n negatives.\n\n\n He went to the window and looked out. The comfortable little city was\n out there, and the canal flowing past through a pleasantly cool yet\n sunny afternoon. Purple mist blanketed the knees of low hills and there\n was a valley, green and rich with the trees high and full beside the\n softly flowing canal water.", "He remembered her as she had been years ago, but at the moment he\n wasn't looking very hard to see anything on her face. It was too late.\n They had gotten her young and it was too late.\n\n\n Terrence's big, square face frowned a little. Bruce was aware suddenly\n of the sound of the bleak, never-ending wind against the plastilene\n shelter. He remembered the strange misty shapes that had come to him in\n his dreams, the voices that had called to him, and how disappointed he\n had been when he woke from them.\n\n\n \"This is a mere formality,\" Terrence finally said, \"since we all know\n you killed Lieutenant Doran a few hours ago. Marsha saw you kill him.\n Whatever you say goes on the record, of course.\"\n\n\n \"For whom?\" Bruce asked.\n\n\n \"What kind of question is that? For the authorities on Earth when we\n get back.\"", "It was very lonely sitting there without the dreams, with nothing but\n Terrence's voice ranting excitedly on and on. Terrence didn't seem real\n any more; certainly not as real as the dreams.\nThe problem of where to put the line between dream and reality began to\n worry Bruce. He would wake up and listen and take down what Terrence\n was saying, and then go to sleep again with increasing expectancy. His\n dream took on continuity. He could return to the point where he had\n left it, and it was the same—allowing even for the time difference\n necessitated by his periods of sleep.\n\n\n He met people in the dreams, two girls and a man. They had names:\n Pietro, Marlene, Helene.\n\n\n Helene he had seen from the beginning, but she became more real to\n him all the time, until he could talk with her. After that, he could\n also talk with Marlene and Pietro, and the conversations made sense.\n Consistently, they made sense.", "Bruce listened to the wind. It seemed to rise higher and higher.\n Terrence, who had climbed still higher, was calling. \"Think of it! What\n a conquest! No man's ever done a thing like this. Like Stromberg says,\n it's symbolic! We can build spaceships and reach other planets, but\n that's not actual physical conquest. We feel like gods up here. We can\n see what we are now. We can see how it's going to be—\"\n\n\n Once in a while Terrence demanded that Bruce say something to prove he\n was still there taking down what Terrence said. Bruce obliged. A long\n time passed, the way time does when no one cares. Bruce stopped taking\n the sedatives finally. The dreams came back and became, somehow, more\n real each time. He needed the companionship of the dreams.", "Terrence shifted his position. \"However, we've voted to grant you\n a kind of leniency. In exchange for a little further service from\n you, you can remain here on Mars after we leave. You'll be left\n food-concentrates to last a long time.\"\n\n\n \"What kind of service?\"\n\n\n \"Stay by the radio and take down what we report as we go up the\n mountain.\"\n\n\n \"Why not?\" Bruce said. \"You aren't certain you're coming back, then?\"\n\n\n \"We might not,\" Terrence admitted calmly. \"Something's happened to the\n others. We're going to find out what and we want it recorded. None of\n us want to back down and stay here. You can take our reports as they\n come in.\"", "And then from fifty-three thousand feet, Terrence said with a voice\n that seemed slightly strained: \"No sign of any of the crew of the other\n four ships yet. Ten in each crew, that makes fifty. Not a sign of any\n of them so far, but then we seem to have a long way left to climb—\"\n\n\n Bruce listened and noted and took sedatives and opened cans of food\n concentrates. He smoked and ate and slept. He had plenty of time. He\n had only time and the dreams which he knew he could utilize later to\n take care of the time.", "\"If I had a choice,\" he thought, \"I wouldn't ever wake up at all again.\n The dreams may not be more real, but they're preferable.\"\n\n\n Dreams were supposed to be wishful thinking, primarily, but he\n couldn't live in them very long. His body would dry up and he would\n die. He had to stay awake enough to put a little energy back into\n himself. Of course, if he died and lost the dreams, there would be one\n compensation—he would also be free of Terrence and the rest of them\n who had learned that the only value in life lay in killing one's way\n across the Cosmos.\n\n\n But then he had a feeling Terrence's voice wouldn't be annoying him\n much more anyway. The voice was unreal, coming out of some void. He\n could switch off Terrence any time now, but he was still curious.", "The wind stormed over the shelter in a burst of power, buried the sound\n of his own voice.\n\n\n \"Marsha, are you still there?\"\n\n\n \"What the devil's the idea, poetry at a time like this, or any time?\"\n Terrence demanded. \"Listen, you taking this down? We haven't run into\n any signs of the others. Six hundred thousand feet, Bruce! We feel our\n destiny. We conquer the Solar System. And we'll go out and out, and\n we'll climb the highest mountain, the highest mountain anywhere. We're\n going up and up. We've voted on it. Unanimous. We go on. On to the\n top, Bruce! Nothing can stop us. If it takes ten years, a hundred, a\n thousand years, we'll find it. We'll find the top! Not the top of this\n world—the top of\neverything\n. The top of the\n UNIVERSE\n !\"", "The Martian landscape was entirely different in the dreams. Green\n valleys and rivers, or actually wide canals, with odd trees trailing\n their branches on the slow, peacefully gliding currents. Here and there\n were pastel-colored cities and there were things drifting through them\n that were alive and intelligent and soft and warm and wonderful to know.\n\n\n '\n... dreams, in their vivid coloring of life, as in that fleeting,\n shadowy, misty strife of semblance with reality which brings to the\n delirious eye more lovely things of paradise and love—and all our\n own!—than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known....\n'\n\n\n So sometimes he read poetry, but even that was hardly equal to the\n dreams.\n\n\n And then he would wake up and listen to Terrence's voice. He would\n look out the window over the barren frigid land where there was nothing\n but seams of worn land, like scabs under the brazen sky.", "\"I'll do that,\" Bruce said. \"It should be interesting.\"\nBruce watched them go, away and up and around the immediate face of\n the mountain in the bleak cold of the Martian morning. He watched them\n disappear behind a high ledge, tied together with plastic rope like\n convicts.\n\n\n He stayed by the radio. He lost track of time and didn't care much\n if he did. Sometimes he took a heavy sedative and slept. The sedative\n prevented the dreams. He had an idea that the dreams might be so\n pleasant that he wouldn't wake up. He wanted to listen to Terrence as\n long as the captain had anything to say. It was nothing but curiosity.\n\n\n At fifteen thousand feet, Terrence reported only that they were\n climbing.\n\n\n At twenty thousand feet, Terrence said, \"We're still climbing, and\n that's all I can report, Bruce. It's worth coming to Mars for—to\n accept a challenge like this!\"", "A minority in both segments of a world split into two factions.\n Both had been warring diplomatically and sometimes physically, for\n centuries, clung to old ideas of freedom, democracy, self-determinism,\n individualism. To most, the words had no meaning now. It was a question\n of which set of conquering heroes could conquer the most space first.\n So far, only Venus had fallen. They had done a good, thorough job\n there. Four ships had come to Mars and their crews had disappeared.\n This was the fifth attempt—\nTerrence said, \"why did you shoot Doran?\"\n\n\n \"I didn't like him enough to take the nonsense he was handing me, and\n when he shot the—\" Bruce hesitated.\n\n\n \"What? When he shot what?\"\n\n\n Bruce felt an odd tingling in his stomach. The wind's voice seemed to\n sharpen and rise to a kind of wail.", "\"When you get back? Like the crews of those other four ships out\n there?\" Bruce laughed without much humor.\n\n\n Terrence rubbed a palm across his lips, dropped the hand quickly again\n to his belly. \"You want to make a statement or not? You shot Doran in\n the head with a rifle. No provocation for the attack. You've wasted\n enough of my time with your damn arguments and anti-social behavior.\n This is a democratic group. Everyone has his say. But you've said too\n much, and done too much. Freedom doesn't allow you to go around killing\n fellow crew-members!\"\n\n\n \"Any idea that there was any democracy or freedom left died on Venus,\"\n Bruce said.\n\n\n \"Now we get another lecture!\" Terrence exploded. He leaned forward.\n \"You're sick, Bruce. They did a bad psych job on you. They should never\n have sent you on this trip. We need strength, all the strength we can\n find. You don't belong here.\"", "\"Doran's charts show high suggestibility under stress. Another weak\n personality eliminated. Let's regard it that way. He\nimagined\nhe saw\n something.\" He glanced at Marsha. \"Did\nyou\nsee anything?\"\n\n\n She hesitated, avoiding Bruce's eyes. \"Nothing at all. There wasn't\n anything out there to see, except the dust and rocks. That's all there\n is to see here. We could stay a million years and never see anything\n else. A shadow maybe—\"\n\n\n \"All right,\" Terrence interrupted. \"Now, Bruce, you know the law\n regulating the treatment of serious psycho cases in space?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. Execution.\"\n\n\n \"No facilities for handling such cases en route back to Earth.\"\n\n\n \"I understand. No apologies necessary, Captain.\"", "He put her down. She looked peaceful enough, more peaceful than that\n other time, years ago, when the two of them seemed to have shared so\n much, when the future had not yet destroyed her. He saw the shadow of\n Helene bend across Marsha's face against the background of the silently\n flowing water of the cool, green canal.\n\n\n \"You loved her?\"\n\n\n \"Once,\" Bruce said. \"She might have been sane. They got her when she\n was young. Too young to fight. But she would have, I think, if she'd\n been older when they got her.\"\n\n\n He sat looking down at Marsha's face, and then at the water with the\n leaves floating down it.\n\n\n \"'... And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley will never\n seem fresh or clear for thinking of the glitter of the mountain water\n in the feathery green of the year....'\"", "\"Marsha, remember how we used to talk about human values? I remember\n how you seemed to have something maybe different from the others. I\n never thought you'd really buy this will to conquer, and now it doesn't\n matter....\"" ], [ "She took his arm and they walked along the canal toward where the\n mountain had been, or still was—he didn't know.\n\n\n A quarter of a mile beyond the canal, he saw the high mound of red,\n naked hill, corroded and ugly, rising up like a scar of the surrounding\n green.\n\n\n She wasn't smiling now. There were shadows on her face as the pressure\n on his arm stopped him.\n\n\n \"I was on the first ship and Marlene on the second. None like us on the\n third, and on the fourth ship was Pietro. All the others had to climb\n the mountain—\" She stopped talking for a moment, and then he felt the\n pressure of her fingers on his arm. \"I'm very glad you came on the\n fifth,\" she whispered. \"Are you glad now?\"\n\n\n \"I'm very glad,\" he said.", "She waved her arm slowly to describe a peak. \"The Martians made the\n mountain real. So real that it could be seen from space, measured by\n instruments ... even photographed and chipped for rock samples. But\n you'll see how that was done, Bruce, and realize that this and not the\n mountain of the Conquerors is the reality of Mars. This is the Mars no\n Conqueror will ever see.\"\nThey walked toward the ugly red mound that jutted above the green. When\n they came close enough, he saw the bodies lying there ... the remains,\n actually, of what had once been bodies. He felt too sickened to go on\n walking.\n\n\n \"It may seem cruel now,\" she said, \"but the Martians realized that\n there is no cure for the will to conquer. There is no safety from it,\n either, as the people of Earth and Venus discovered, unless it is\n given an impossible obstacle to overcome. So the Martians provided the\n Conquerors with a mountain. They themselves wanted to climb. They had\n to.\"", "\"Not afraid,\" Bruce objected. \"I don't see any need to climb it. Coming\n to Mars, conquering space, isn't that enough? It happens that the crew\n of the first ship here decided to climb the mountain, and that set a\n precedent. Every ship that has come here has had to climb it. Why?\n Because they had to accept the challenge. And what's happened to them?\n Like you, they all had the necessary equipment to make a successful\n climb, but no one's ever come back down. No contact with anything up\n there.\n\n\n \"Captain, I'm not accepting a ridiculous challenge like that. Why\n should I? I didn't come here to conquer anything, even a mountain. The\n challenge of coming to Mars, of going on to where ever you guys intend\n going before something bigger than you are stops you—it doesn't\n interest me.\"\n\n\n \"Nothing's bigger than the destiny of Earth!\" Terrence said, sitting up\n straight and rigid.", "\"Bruce—Bruce, you still there? Listen, we're up here at what we figure\n to be five hundred thousand feet! It\nis\nimpossible. We keep climbing\n and now we look up and we can see up and up and there the mountain is\n going up and up—\"\n\n\n And some time later: \"Bruce, Marsha's dying! We don't know what's the\n matter. We can't find any reason for it. She's lying here and she keeps\n laughing and calling your name. She's a woman, so that's probably it.\n Women don't have real guts.\"\n\n\n Bruce bent toward the radio. Outside the shelter, the wind whistled\n softly at the door.\n\n\n \"Marsha,\" he said.\n\n\n \"Bruce—\"\n\n\n She hadn't said his name that way for a long time.", "From sixty thousand feet, Terrence reported, \"I had to shoot Anhauser\n a few minutes ago! He was dissenting. Hear that, Bruce? One of my most\n dependable men. We took a vote. A mere formality, of course, whether\n we should continue climbing or not. We knew we'd all vote to keep on\n climbing. And then Anhauser dissented. He was hysterical. He refused\n to accept the majority decision. 'I'm going back down!' he yelled.\n So I had to shoot him. Imagine a man of his apparent caliber turning\n anti-democratic like that! This mountain will be a great tester for\n us in the future. We'll test everybody, find out quickly who the\n weaklings are.\"", "\"Hello, hello, darling,\" he whispered. \"Marsha, can you hear me?\"\n\n\n \"Yes, yes. You down there, all warm and cozy, reading poetry, darling.\n Where you can see both ways instead of just up and down, up and down.\"\n\n\n He tried to imagine where she was now as he spoke to her, how she\n looked. He thought of Earth and how it had been there, years ago, with\n Marsha. Things had seemed so different then. There was something of\n that hope in his voice now as he spoke to her, yet not directly to her,\n as he looked out the window at the naked frigid sky and the barren\n rocks.\n\n\"'... and there is nowhere to go from the top of a mountain,\nBut down, my dear;\nAnd the springs that flow on the floor of the valley\nWill never seem fresh or clear\nFor thinking of the glitter of the mountain water\nIn the feathery green of the year....'\"", "Bruce listened to the wind. It seemed to rise higher and higher.\n Terrence, who had climbed still higher, was calling. \"Think of it! What\n a conquest! No man's ever done a thing like this. Like Stromberg says,\n it's symbolic! We can build spaceships and reach other planets, but\n that's not actual physical conquest. We feel like gods up here. We can\n see what we are now. We can see how it's going to be—\"\n\n\n Once in a while Terrence demanded that Bruce say something to prove he\n was still there taking down what Terrence said. Bruce obliged. A long\n time passed, the way time does when no one cares. Bruce stopped taking\n the sedatives finally. The dreams came back and became, somehow, more\n real each time. He needed the companionship of the dreams.", "\"Maybe. This planet may not be a dead ball of clay. I've had a feeling\n there's something real in the dreams, but I can't figure it out.\n You're still interested?\"\n\n\n Terrence nodded and glanced to either side.\n\n\n \"We've seen no indication of any kind of life whatsoever,\" Bruce\n pointed out. \"Not even an insect, or any kind of plant life except some\n fungi and lichen down in the crevices. That never seemed logical to me\n from the start. We've covered the planet everywhere except one place—\"\n\n\n \"The mountain,\" Terrence said. \"You've been afraid even to talk about\n scaling it.\"", "He turned quickly. The shelter was still there, and behind it the row\n of spaceships—not like chalk marks on a tallyboard now, but like odd\n relics that didn't belong there in the thick green grass. Five ships\n instead of four.\n\n\n There was his own individual shelter beyond the headquarters building,\n and the other buildings. He looked up.\n\n\n There was no mountain.\nFor one shivery moment he knew fear. And then the fear went away, and\n he was ashamed of what he had felt. What he had feared was gone now,\n and he knew it was gone for good and he would never have to fear it\n again.\n\n\n \"Look here, Bruce. I wondered how long it would take to get it through\n that thick poetic head of yours!\"\n\n\n \"Get what?\" He began to suspect what it was all about now, but he\n wasn't quite sure yet.\n\n\n \"Smoke?\" she said.", "\"'\nIs all that we see or seem\n,'\" he whispered, half to himself, \"'\nbut\n a dream within a dream?\n'\"\n\n\n She laughed softly. \"Poe was ahead of his time,\" she said. \"You still\n don't get it, do you? You don't know what's been happening?\"\n\n\n \"Maybe I don't.\"\n\n\n She shrugged, and looked in the direction of the ships. \"Poor guys. I\n can't feel much hatred toward them now. The Martians give you a lot of\n understanding of the human mind—after they've accepted you, and after\n you've lived with them awhile. But the mountain climbers—we can see\n now—it's just luck, chance, we weren't like them. A deviant is a child\n of chance.\"", "At twenty-five thousand feet, Terrence reported, \"We've put on oxygen\n masks. Jacobs and Drexel have developed some kind of altitude sickness\n and we're taking a little time out. It's a magnificent sight up here. I\n can imagine plenty of tourists coming to Mars one of these days, just\n to climb this mountain! Mt. Everest is a pimple compared with this!\n What a feeling of power, Bruce!\"\n\n\n From forty thousand feet, Terrence said, \"We gauged this mountain\n at forty-five thousand. But here we are at forty and there doesn't\n seem to be any top. We can see up and up and the mountain keeps on\n going. I don't understand how we could have made such an error in our\n computations. I talked with Burton. He doesn't see how a mountain this\n high could still be here when the rest of the planet has been worn so\n smooth.\"", "\"Ah, come on, get the hell out of there,\" Jacobs said. He pulled the\n revolver from its holster and pointed it at Bruce. \"We got to get some\n sleep. We're starting up that mountain at five in the morning.\"\n\n\n \"I know,\" Bruce said. \"I'll be glad to see you climb the mountain.\"\n\n\n Outside, in the weird light of the double moons, Bruce looked up at the\n gigantic overhang of the mountain. It was unbelievable. The mountain\n didn't seem to belong here. He'd thought so when they'd first hit Mars\n eight months back and discovered the other four rockets that had never\n got back to Earth—all lying side by side under the mountain's shadow,\n like little white chalk marks on a tallyboard.", "The wind stormed over the shelter in a burst of power, buried the sound\n of his own voice.\n\n\n \"Marsha, are you still there?\"\n\n\n \"What the devil's the idea, poetry at a time like this, or any time?\"\n Terrence demanded. \"Listen, you taking this down? We haven't run into\n any signs of the others. Six hundred thousand feet, Bruce! We feel our\n destiny. We conquer the Solar System. And we'll go out and out, and\n we'll climb the highest mountain, the highest mountain anywhere. We're\n going up and up. We've voted on it. Unanimous. We go on. On to the\n top, Bruce! Nothing can stop us. If it takes ten years, a hundred, a\n thousand years, we'll find it. We'll find the top! Not the top of this\n world—the top of\neverything\n. The top of the\n UNIVERSE\n !\"", "\"The Martians tested us,\" she explained. \"They're masters of the mind.\n I guess they've been grinding along through the evolutionary mill\n a darn long time, longer than we could estimate now. They learned\n the horror we're capable of from the first ship—the Conquerors,\n the climbers. The Martians knew more like them would come and go on\n into space, killing, destroying for no other reason than their own\n sickness. Being masters of the mind, the Martians are also capable\n of hypnosis—no, that's not really the word, only the closest our\n language comes to naming it. Suggestion so deep and strong that it\n seems real to one human or a million or a billion; there's no limit to\n the number that can be influenced. What the people who came off those\n ships saw wasn't real. It was partly what the Martians wanted them to\n see and feel—but most of it, like the desire to climb the mountain,\n was as much a part of the Conquerors' own psychic drive as it was the\n suggestion of the Martians.\"", "He listened to her voice, first the crazy laughter, and then a whisper.\n \"Bruce, hello down there.\" Her voice was all mixed up with fear and\n hysteria and mockery. \"Bruce darling, are you lonely down there? I wish\n I were with you, safe ... free ... warm. I love you. Do you hear that?\n I really love you, after all. After all....\"\nHer voice drifted away, came back to him. \"We're climbing the highest\n mountain. What are you doing there, relaxing where it's peaceful and\n warm and sane? You always were such a calm guy. I remember now. What\n are you doing—reading poetry while we climb the mountain? What was\n that, Bruce—that one about the mountain you tried to quote to me last\n night before you ... I can't remember it now. Darling, what...?\"\nHe stared at the radio. He hesitated, reached out and switched on the\n mike. He got through to her.", "THE HIGHEST MOUNTAIN\nBy BRYCE WALTON\n\n\n Illustrated by BOB HAYES\n\n\n [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that", "\"I'll do that,\" Bruce said. \"It should be interesting.\"\nBruce watched them go, away and up and around the immediate face of\n the mountain in the bleak cold of the Martian morning. He watched them\n disappear behind a high ledge, tied together with plastic rope like\n convicts.\n\n\n He stayed by the radio. He lost track of time and didn't care much\n if he did. Sometimes he took a heavy sedative and slept. The sedative\n prevented the dreams. He had an idea that the dreams might be so\n pleasant that he wouldn't wake up. He wanted to listen to Terrence as\n long as the captain had anything to say. It was nothing but curiosity.\n\n\n At fifteen thousand feet, Terrence reported only that they were\n climbing.\n\n\n At twenty thousand feet, Terrence said, \"We're still climbing, and\n that's all I can report, Bruce. It's worth coming to Mars for—to\n accept a challenge like this!\"", "They'd estimated its height at over 45,000 feet, which was a lot higher\n than any mountain on Earth. Yet Mars was much older, geologically. The\n entire face of the planet was smoothed into soft, undulating red hills\n by erosion. And there in the middle of barren nothingness rose that one\n incredible mountain. On certain nights when the stars were right, it\n had seemed to Bruce as though it were pointing an accusing finger at\n Earth—or a warning one.\nWith Jacobs and Anhauser and the remainder of the crew of the ship,\nMars V\n, seven judges sat in a semi-circle and Bruce stood there in\n front of them for the inquest.\n\n\n In the middle of the half-moon of inquisition, with his long legs\n stretched out and his hands folded on his belly, sat Captain Terrence.\n His uniform was black. On his arm was the silver fist insignia of the\n Conqueror Corps. Marsha Rennels sat on the extreme right and now there\n was no emotion at all on her trim, neat face.", "\"Yes,\" Bruce said. \"There's a lot of people like us on Earth, but\n they'll never get the chance—the chance we seem to have here, to live\n decently....\"\n\n\n \"You're beginning to see now which was the dream,\" she said and\n smiled. \"But don't be pessimistic. Those people on Earth will get their\n chance, too, one of these fine days. The Conquerors aren't getting far.\n Venus, and then Mars, and Mars is where they stop. They'll keep coming\n here and climbing the mountain and finally there won't be any more. It\n won't take so long.\"\n\n\n She rose to her toes and waved and yelled. Bruce saw Pietro and Marlene\n walking hand in hand up the other side of the canal. They waved back\n and called and then pushed off into the water in a small boat, and\n drifted away and out of sight around a gentle turn.", "He put her down. She looked peaceful enough, more peaceful than that\n other time, years ago, when the two of them seemed to have shared so\n much, when the future had not yet destroyed her. He saw the shadow of\n Helene bend across Marsha's face against the background of the silently\n flowing water of the cool, green canal.\n\n\n \"You loved her?\"\n\n\n \"Once,\" Bruce said. \"She might have been sane. They got her when she\n was young. Too young to fight. But she would have, I think, if she'd\n been older when they got her.\"\n\n\n He sat looking down at Marsha's face, and then at the water with the\n leaves floating down it.\n\n\n \"'... And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley will never\n seem fresh or clear for thinking of the glitter of the mountain water\n in the feathery green of the year....'\"" ] ]
test	20050	[ "Of the following options, which statement does the article claim to be true regarding health claims on packages?", "What is the tone of the passage?", "Of the following choices, who might be the most interested in reading the passage?", "Why is the passage called \"Temperance Kills\"?", "What types of references/citations does this article include?", "Why might someone show this article to a loved one?", "What is the structure of the article?", "This article makes some kind of claim about consumption. In their claim, do they suggest a correlation between two things or a causation?", "How much research is used as supporting evidence in this article?" ]	[ [ "Alcoholic beverage labels thus far have not been permitted to describe effects of moderation", "Some junk foods and wines are required to describe their link to negative health effects", "Some junk foods and wines are banned from describing their ability to lower cholesterol", "Some alcoholic beverages have labels that describe the effects of moderation" ], [ "Humorous", "Argumentative", "Conversational", "Academic" ], [ "An adult in their 50s", "An adult in their 20s", "A health professional", "A college student at a \"Party School\"" ], [ "In highly specified situations consumption of alcohol might provide some health benefits", "Those who drink decent amounts are only actually marginally at a greater risk of some health problems than their sober peers", "Those who don't drink are often on average sadder than their peers who do drink", "Abstaining from alcohol during formative years will decrease the amount of social connections individuals form, especially if they attend college" ], [ "Labels and quotes from packaging", "Wartime alcohol advertisements", "Statistics on amounts of wine and liquor consumed in the country", "Packaging marketing techniques" ], [ "To explain that they don't have to cut out junk food and wine entirely from their diet", "To explain that they don't have to cut alcohol out of their diet", "To explain that there are few benefits of eating excessive amounts of junk food and wine", "To explain that there are few benefits of drinking excessive amounts of alcohol" ], [ "From general background info to specifics on health and labels", "From background information to specifics on junk food and wine", "From specific information to a general/broad argument", "From background information to specifics on wine consumption, health, and labels" ], [ "They say there is a correlation between two things but there is not causation", "They say there is a correlation between two things", "They say there is not a correlation but there is causation", "They say there is causation between two things" ], [ "Anecdotal quotes and a few statistics", "Primarily anecdotal quotes", "Rules/Regulation quotes and a few statistics", "Only quotes regarding rules and regulations" ] ]	[ -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1 ]	[ 0, 0, 1, 0, 0, 0, 1, 1, 0 ]	[ [ "But there are a lot of people like my father out there: uninformed or vaguely informed or not thinking about it. In 1995, a free market advocacy group called the Competitive Enterprise Institute commissioned a survey asking people whether they believed \"that scientific evidence exists showing that moderate consumption of alcohol, approximately one or two drinks per day, may reduce the risk of heart disease for many people.\" Only 42 percent of those who responded said they did, and a majority of those believed, wrongly, that the potential benefits come only from wine. \n\n The evidence on alcohol and health is now more than 20 years old--so why the confusion? Two groups have a stake in getting the word out, but one of them, the alcohol industry, is effectively forbidden to do so. Every bottle of alcohol carries a government warning label, and the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms has never permitted ads or labels to carry any health claims, even mild ones. (For more on rejected health claims, click here.)", "According to documents obtained by the Competitive Enterprise Institute in its lawsuit to have the current policy overturned, the statements that the bureau has barred include the following: \"Several medical authorities say that a glass or two of wine enjoyed daily is not only a pleasant experience but can be beneficial to an adult's health.\" \"Having reviewed modern research on the benefits of modest wine consumption, we believe that our wine, when enjoyed with wholesome food, will promote health and enhance the pleasure of life.\" \n\n Currently the wine industry is pushing--so far without success--for approval of wine labels that read \"To learn the health effects of moderate wine consumption, send for the federal government's Dietary Guidelines for Americans\"--followed by the Agriculture Department's address and Web site. \n\n Back \n\n \n\n Note 3 \n\n Excerpts from the U.S. government's current (1995) dietary guidelines (click here for the full text) include the following:", "GOVERNMENT WARNING: (1) According to the Surgeon General, women should not drink alcoholic beverages during pregnancy because of the risk of birth defects. (2) Consumption of alcoholic beverages impairs your ability to drive a car or operate machinery, and may cause health problems. \n\n Back \n\n \n\n Note 2 \n\n The law forbids \"curative and therapeutic claims\" in alcohol marketing \"if such statement is untrue in any particular or tends to create a misleading impression.\" In practice, the BATF interprets this to mean that any health claim must be fully balanced and says it \"considers it extremely unlikely that such a balanced claim would fit on a normal alcoholic beverage label.\" The only health statement the bureau has said it will accept is a four page government report, complete with 34 footnotes. (You can read that report by clicking here.)", "One of those lives might, just as an example, belong to my father. He is 69, has mild hypertension (controlled with medication) and, but for the rare social occasion, doesn't drink. He has read some news reports suggesting moderate alcohol use may yield benefits, but his doctor has never mentioned such benefits, and my father has never given a thought to changing his drinking habits. And, in the standard view of public health officialdom, that is as it should be: People should not be encouraged to drink, even in moderation, and alcohol should not be linked with better health. \n\n The trouble is that moderate drinking is linked with better health. We don't know exactly why; some evidence suggests alcohol--of whatever sort, by the way, not just red wine--stimulates \"good\" (HDL, for high density lipoprotein) cholesterol and may help prevent blood clotting. But we do know the effects: On average, if you're over about 40, a drink a day will reduce your chances of heart trouble.", "Given that the government restricts health claims even for innocuous foods such as orange juice and eggs, it's reasonable to decide that booze merchants are the wrong people to entrust with public education about drinking. That leaves only one other constituency for getting the word out: the public health community. Its approach, however, might charitably be called cautious--or, less charitably, embarrassed mumbling. \n\n For example, the authors of the aforementioned New England Journal study characterized their finding of a 20 percent mortality reduction as \"slight.\" The accompanying editorial called it \"small.\" I phoned Michael J. Thun, one of the study's authors and an epidemiologist with the American Cancer Society, and asked him whether a 20 percent mortality reduction is indeed small in the world of epidemiology. \"It's a sizable benefit in terms of prolonged survival,\" he said. Why not say so? \"Messages about alcohol don't come out the way you say them when they're broadcast,\" he replied. \"There's been a very long history in society of problems with alcohol.\"", "\"People have a very hard time with complicated messages,\" says Thun. No doubt some people do. But is it really so hard to understand that a glass a day may help save your life if you're of middle age or beyond, but that more than that is dangerous? Presumably an avoidable heart attack is equally tragic whether the cause is too much alcohol or too little. To continue today's policy of muttering and changing the subject verges perilously on saying not just that too much alcohol is bad for you but that ignorance is good for you. \n\n \n\n ENDNOTES \n\n \n\n Note 1 \n\n By law, the label on alcoholic beverages reads:", "The British health authorities, in their 1995 guidelines (\"Sensible Drinking\"), say that people who drink very little or not at all and are in an age group at high risk for heart disease should \"consider the possibility that light drinking might benefit their health.\" But American authorities balk even at such a modest suggestion. \n\n And so the U.S. official nutritional guidelines say just this about potential benefits: \"Current evidence suggests that moderate drinking is associated with a lower risk for coronary heart disease in some individuals.\" They then go on to recite a litany of risks (for the text, click here). Similarly, the American Heart Association's official recommendation advises, \"If you drink, do so in moderation.\" It goes on to say heart disease is lower in moderate drinkers but then warns of other dangers and cautions against \"guidelines to the general public\" that encourage drinking (for the full text, click here). See for yourself, but I think the message most people would get from both sources is \"Drinking isn't all bad, but eschew it anyway.\"", "Back \n\n If you missed your government warning, click here. And here, again, is additional information on the BATF's onerous restrictions on health claims, the U.S. government's current dietary guidelines dealing with alcohol, and the American Heart Association's recommendation on alcohol.", "Areal worry. But there are lives, again, on both sides of the equation. The question, then, is what would happen if the public health folks ran a campaign saying, for example, \"Just One Drink\" or \"Drink a Little--Not a Lot.\" Would people's drinking habits improve, or would we create a nation of drunks--or what? The answer is: Nobody knows. What is surprising, given the public health community's usual eagerness to save lives, is that no one is trying to find out. It is simply assumed that too many people will do the wrong thing.", "\"Besides the association between smoking and lung cancer, I think this is the most consistent association I've seen in the literature,\" says Eric Rimm, a Harvard epidemiologist. Research has shown heart benefits consistently since the 1970s with, Rimm guesses, 70 or 80 studies of 30 to 35 countries by now. Not surprisingly, he has a drink on most days. \n\n Alcohol also causes harm, of course. It can increase chances of breast cancer, cirrhosis, accidents, and so on. Heart disease, however, is an enormous cause of death; improve those odds, and the net effect is significantly to the good. Last December, the New England Journal of Medicine reported the results of the biggest and probably best mortality study yet conducted, one that followed almost half a million people over nine years. It found that, after netting out all causes of death, moderate drinkers over 30 were 20 percent less likely than nondrinkers to die prematurely.", "Iasked Ronald Krauss--a doctor who, as the immediate past chairman of the American Heart Association's nutrition committee, helped write that statement--whether it was aggressive enough. \"We don't have much leeway around that 'one or two drinks a day,' \" he said, and what isn't known is whether encouraging moderate drinking will also encourage excessive drinking. \n\n The public health people understandably dread creating more drunks, more broken marriages, more crime, more car wrecks. \"When somebody calls you up saying, 'You're putting out a message to people to drink, and my daughter just got killed last night because of some drunk,' that's the other side of the equation,\" Thun says. \"There are substantial numbers of people out there who are looking for justification to drink more than they should.\"", "Current evidence suggests that moderate drinking is associated with a lower risk for coronary heart disease in some individuals. However, higher levels of alcohol intake raise the risk for high blood pressure, stroke, heart disease, certain cancers, accidents, violence, suicides, birth defects, and overall mortality (deaths). Too much alcohol may cause cirrhosis of the liver, inflammation of the pancreas, and damage to the brain and heart. Heavy drinkers also are at risk of malnutrition because alcohol contains calories that may substitute for those in more nutritious foods. \n\n If you drink alcoholic beverages, do so in moderation, with meals, and when consumption does not put you or others at risk. \n\n Moderation is defined as no more than one drink per day for women and no more than two drinks per day for men. Count as a drink-- \n\n --12 ounces of regular beer (150 calories) \n\n --5 ounces of wine (100 calories)", "Temperance Kills \n\n First, to prevent any misunderstanding, the warning: Alcohol, when abused, is vicious, dangerous stuff. Each year about 100,000 Americans die alcohol-related deaths. No one should drink and drive or drink to excess. Some people--teen-agers, people on contraindicated medications, pregnant women, and those who have trouble controlling their consumption--should avoid alcohol, period. And all that you know already. \n\n Here is what you may not know--or may know only fuzzily. For most people of middle age and beyond, one drink a day helps prevent heart disease and makes you less likely to die prematurely. After one or (for men) two drinks, bad effects swamp the good--dosage is everything! But on average the positive cardiovascular effect of moderate drinking is not small, and it is not in dispute. Epidemiologists figure that if all Americans became teetotalers tomorrow, about 80,000 more people might die each year of heart disease. So there are lives on both sides of the equation.", "--1.5 ounces of 80-proof distilled spirits (100 calories) \n\n Back \n\n \n\n Note 4 \n\n Here is the American Heart Association's recommendation on alcohol: \n\n If you drink, do so in moderation. The incidence of heart disease in those who consume moderate amounts of alcohol (an average of one to two drinks per day for men and one drink per day for women) is lower than in nondrinkers. However, with increased intake of alcohol, there are increased public health dangers, such as alcoholism, high blood pressure, obesity, stroke, suicide, and accidents. In light of these and other risks, the AHA believes it is not advisable to issue guidelines to the general public that may lead some to increase their intake of alcohol or start drinking if they do not already do so. It is best to consult with your doctor for advice on consuming alcohol in moderation (no more than 2 drinks per day)." ], [ "Given that the government restricts health claims even for innocuous foods such as orange juice and eggs, it's reasonable to decide that booze merchants are the wrong people to entrust with public education about drinking. That leaves only one other constituency for getting the word out: the public health community. Its approach, however, might charitably be called cautious--or, less charitably, embarrassed mumbling. \n\n For example, the authors of the aforementioned New England Journal study characterized their finding of a 20 percent mortality reduction as \"slight.\" The accompanying editorial called it \"small.\" I phoned Michael J. Thun, one of the study's authors and an epidemiologist with the American Cancer Society, and asked him whether a 20 percent mortality reduction is indeed small in the world of epidemiology. \"It's a sizable benefit in terms of prolonged survival,\" he said. Why not say so? \"Messages about alcohol don't come out the way you say them when they're broadcast,\" he replied. \"There's been a very long history in society of problems with alcohol.\"", "One of those lives might, just as an example, belong to my father. He is 69, has mild hypertension (controlled with medication) and, but for the rare social occasion, doesn't drink. He has read some news reports suggesting moderate alcohol use may yield benefits, but his doctor has never mentioned such benefits, and my father has never given a thought to changing his drinking habits. And, in the standard view of public health officialdom, that is as it should be: People should not be encouraged to drink, even in moderation, and alcohol should not be linked with better health. \n\n The trouble is that moderate drinking is linked with better health. We don't know exactly why; some evidence suggests alcohol--of whatever sort, by the way, not just red wine--stimulates \"good\" (HDL, for high density lipoprotein) cholesterol and may help prevent blood clotting. But we do know the effects: On average, if you're over about 40, a drink a day will reduce your chances of heart trouble.", "Iasked Ronald Krauss--a doctor who, as the immediate past chairman of the American Heart Association's nutrition committee, helped write that statement--whether it was aggressive enough. \"We don't have much leeway around that 'one or two drinks a day,' \" he said, and what isn't known is whether encouraging moderate drinking will also encourage excessive drinking. \n\n The public health people understandably dread creating more drunks, more broken marriages, more crime, more car wrecks. \"When somebody calls you up saying, 'You're putting out a message to people to drink, and my daughter just got killed last night because of some drunk,' that's the other side of the equation,\" Thun says. \"There are substantial numbers of people out there who are looking for justification to drink more than they should.\"", "Areal worry. But there are lives, again, on both sides of the equation. The question, then, is what would happen if the public health folks ran a campaign saying, for example, \"Just One Drink\" or \"Drink a Little--Not a Lot.\" Would people's drinking habits improve, or would we create a nation of drunks--or what? The answer is: Nobody knows. What is surprising, given the public health community's usual eagerness to save lives, is that no one is trying to find out. It is simply assumed that too many people will do the wrong thing.", "\"People have a very hard time with complicated messages,\" says Thun. No doubt some people do. But is it really so hard to understand that a glass a day may help save your life if you're of middle age or beyond, but that more than that is dangerous? Presumably an avoidable heart attack is equally tragic whether the cause is too much alcohol or too little. To continue today's policy of muttering and changing the subject verges perilously on saying not just that too much alcohol is bad for you but that ignorance is good for you. \n\n \n\n ENDNOTES \n\n \n\n Note 1 \n\n By law, the label on alcoholic beverages reads:", "Temperance Kills \n\n First, to prevent any misunderstanding, the warning: Alcohol, when abused, is vicious, dangerous stuff. Each year about 100,000 Americans die alcohol-related deaths. No one should drink and drive or drink to excess. Some people--teen-agers, people on contraindicated medications, pregnant women, and those who have trouble controlling their consumption--should avoid alcohol, period. And all that you know already. \n\n Here is what you may not know--or may know only fuzzily. For most people of middle age and beyond, one drink a day helps prevent heart disease and makes you less likely to die prematurely. After one or (for men) two drinks, bad effects swamp the good--dosage is everything! But on average the positive cardiovascular effect of moderate drinking is not small, and it is not in dispute. Epidemiologists figure that if all Americans became teetotalers tomorrow, about 80,000 more people might die each year of heart disease. So there are lives on both sides of the equation.", "The British health authorities, in their 1995 guidelines (\"Sensible Drinking\"), say that people who drink very little or not at all and are in an age group at high risk for heart disease should \"consider the possibility that light drinking might benefit their health.\" But American authorities balk even at such a modest suggestion. \n\n And so the U.S. official nutritional guidelines say just this about potential benefits: \"Current evidence suggests that moderate drinking is associated with a lower risk for coronary heart disease in some individuals.\" They then go on to recite a litany of risks (for the text, click here). Similarly, the American Heart Association's official recommendation advises, \"If you drink, do so in moderation.\" It goes on to say heart disease is lower in moderate drinkers but then warns of other dangers and cautions against \"guidelines to the general public\" that encourage drinking (for the full text, click here). See for yourself, but I think the message most people would get from both sources is \"Drinking isn't all bad, but eschew it anyway.\"", "But there are a lot of people like my father out there: uninformed or vaguely informed or not thinking about it. In 1995, a free market advocacy group called the Competitive Enterprise Institute commissioned a survey asking people whether they believed \"that scientific evidence exists showing that moderate consumption of alcohol, approximately one or two drinks per day, may reduce the risk of heart disease for many people.\" Only 42 percent of those who responded said they did, and a majority of those believed, wrongly, that the potential benefits come only from wine. \n\n The evidence on alcohol and health is now more than 20 years old--so why the confusion? Two groups have a stake in getting the word out, but one of them, the alcohol industry, is effectively forbidden to do so. Every bottle of alcohol carries a government warning label, and the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms has never permitted ads or labels to carry any health claims, even mild ones. (For more on rejected health claims, click here.)", "According to documents obtained by the Competitive Enterprise Institute in its lawsuit to have the current policy overturned, the statements that the bureau has barred include the following: \"Several medical authorities say that a glass or two of wine enjoyed daily is not only a pleasant experience but can be beneficial to an adult's health.\" \"Having reviewed modern research on the benefits of modest wine consumption, we believe that our wine, when enjoyed with wholesome food, will promote health and enhance the pleasure of life.\" \n\n Currently the wine industry is pushing--so far without success--for approval of wine labels that read \"To learn the health effects of moderate wine consumption, send for the federal government's Dietary Guidelines for Americans\"--followed by the Agriculture Department's address and Web site. \n\n Back \n\n \n\n Note 3 \n\n Excerpts from the U.S. government's current (1995) dietary guidelines (click here for the full text) include the following:", "\"Besides the association between smoking and lung cancer, I think this is the most consistent association I've seen in the literature,\" says Eric Rimm, a Harvard epidemiologist. Research has shown heart benefits consistently since the 1970s with, Rimm guesses, 70 or 80 studies of 30 to 35 countries by now. Not surprisingly, he has a drink on most days. \n\n Alcohol also causes harm, of course. It can increase chances of breast cancer, cirrhosis, accidents, and so on. Heart disease, however, is an enormous cause of death; improve those odds, and the net effect is significantly to the good. Last December, the New England Journal of Medicine reported the results of the biggest and probably best mortality study yet conducted, one that followed almost half a million people over nine years. It found that, after netting out all causes of death, moderate drinkers over 30 were 20 percent less likely than nondrinkers to die prematurely.", "GOVERNMENT WARNING: (1) According to the Surgeon General, women should not drink alcoholic beverages during pregnancy because of the risk of birth defects. (2) Consumption of alcoholic beverages impairs your ability to drive a car or operate machinery, and may cause health problems. \n\n Back \n\n \n\n Note 2 \n\n The law forbids \"curative and therapeutic claims\" in alcohol marketing \"if such statement is untrue in any particular or tends to create a misleading impression.\" In practice, the BATF interprets this to mean that any health claim must be fully balanced and says it \"considers it extremely unlikely that such a balanced claim would fit on a normal alcoholic beverage label.\" The only health statement the bureau has said it will accept is a four page government report, complete with 34 footnotes. (You can read that report by clicking here.)", "Back \n\n If you missed your government warning, click here. And here, again, is additional information on the BATF's onerous restrictions on health claims, the U.S. government's current dietary guidelines dealing with alcohol, and the American Heart Association's recommendation on alcohol.", "Current evidence suggests that moderate drinking is associated with a lower risk for coronary heart disease in some individuals. However, higher levels of alcohol intake raise the risk for high blood pressure, stroke, heart disease, certain cancers, accidents, violence, suicides, birth defects, and overall mortality (deaths). Too much alcohol may cause cirrhosis of the liver, inflammation of the pancreas, and damage to the brain and heart. Heavy drinkers also are at risk of malnutrition because alcohol contains calories that may substitute for those in more nutritious foods. \n\n If you drink alcoholic beverages, do so in moderation, with meals, and when consumption does not put you or others at risk. \n\n Moderation is defined as no more than one drink per day for women and no more than two drinks per day for men. Count as a drink-- \n\n --12 ounces of regular beer (150 calories) \n\n --5 ounces of wine (100 calories)", "--1.5 ounces of 80-proof distilled spirits (100 calories) \n\n Back \n\n \n\n Note 4 \n\n Here is the American Heart Association's recommendation on alcohol: \n\n If you drink, do so in moderation. The incidence of heart disease in those who consume moderate amounts of alcohol (an average of one to two drinks per day for men and one drink per day for women) is lower than in nondrinkers. However, with increased intake of alcohol, there are increased public health dangers, such as alcoholism, high blood pressure, obesity, stroke, suicide, and accidents. In light of these and other risks, the AHA believes it is not advisable to issue guidelines to the general public that may lead some to increase their intake of alcohol or start drinking if they do not already do so. It is best to consult with your doctor for advice on consuming alcohol in moderation (no more than 2 drinks per day)." ], [ "One of those lives might, just as an example, belong to my father. He is 69, has mild hypertension (controlled with medication) and, but for the rare social occasion, doesn't drink. He has read some news reports suggesting moderate alcohol use may yield benefits, but his doctor has never mentioned such benefits, and my father has never given a thought to changing his drinking habits. And, in the standard view of public health officialdom, that is as it should be: People should not be encouraged to drink, even in moderation, and alcohol should not be linked with better health. \n\n The trouble is that moderate drinking is linked with better health. We don't know exactly why; some evidence suggests alcohol--of whatever sort, by the way, not just red wine--stimulates \"good\" (HDL, for high density lipoprotein) cholesterol and may help prevent blood clotting. But we do know the effects: On average, if you're over about 40, a drink a day will reduce your chances of heart trouble.", "Given that the government restricts health claims even for innocuous foods such as orange juice and eggs, it's reasonable to decide that booze merchants are the wrong people to entrust with public education about drinking. That leaves only one other constituency for getting the word out: the public health community. Its approach, however, might charitably be called cautious--or, less charitably, embarrassed mumbling. \n\n For example, the authors of the aforementioned New England Journal study characterized their finding of a 20 percent mortality reduction as \"slight.\" The accompanying editorial called it \"small.\" I phoned Michael J. Thun, one of the study's authors and an epidemiologist with the American Cancer Society, and asked him whether a 20 percent mortality reduction is indeed small in the world of epidemiology. \"It's a sizable benefit in terms of prolonged survival,\" he said. Why not say so? \"Messages about alcohol don't come out the way you say them when they're broadcast,\" he replied. \"There's been a very long history in society of problems with alcohol.\"", "But there are a lot of people like my father out there: uninformed or vaguely informed or not thinking about it. In 1995, a free market advocacy group called the Competitive Enterprise Institute commissioned a survey asking people whether they believed \"that scientific evidence exists showing that moderate consumption of alcohol, approximately one or two drinks per day, may reduce the risk of heart disease for many people.\" Only 42 percent of those who responded said they did, and a majority of those believed, wrongly, that the potential benefits come only from wine. \n\n The evidence on alcohol and health is now more than 20 years old--so why the confusion? Two groups have a stake in getting the word out, but one of them, the alcohol industry, is effectively forbidden to do so. Every bottle of alcohol carries a government warning label, and the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms has never permitted ads or labels to carry any health claims, even mild ones. (For more on rejected health claims, click here.)", "Areal worry. But there are lives, again, on both sides of the equation. The question, then, is what would happen if the public health folks ran a campaign saying, for example, \"Just One Drink\" or \"Drink a Little--Not a Lot.\" Would people's drinking habits improve, or would we create a nation of drunks--or what? The answer is: Nobody knows. What is surprising, given the public health community's usual eagerness to save lives, is that no one is trying to find out. It is simply assumed that too many people will do the wrong thing.", "Iasked Ronald Krauss--a doctor who, as the immediate past chairman of the American Heart Association's nutrition committee, helped write that statement--whether it was aggressive enough. \"We don't have much leeway around that 'one or two drinks a day,' \" he said, and what isn't known is whether encouraging moderate drinking will also encourage excessive drinking. \n\n The public health people understandably dread creating more drunks, more broken marriages, more crime, more car wrecks. \"When somebody calls you up saying, 'You're putting out a message to people to drink, and my daughter just got killed last night because of some drunk,' that's the other side of the equation,\" Thun says. \"There are substantial numbers of people out there who are looking for justification to drink more than they should.\"", "According to documents obtained by the Competitive Enterprise Institute in its lawsuit to have the current policy overturned, the statements that the bureau has barred include the following: \"Several medical authorities say that a glass or two of wine enjoyed daily is not only a pleasant experience but can be beneficial to an adult's health.\" \"Having reviewed modern research on the benefits of modest wine consumption, we believe that our wine, when enjoyed with wholesome food, will promote health and enhance the pleasure of life.\" \n\n Currently the wine industry is pushing--so far without success--for approval of wine labels that read \"To learn the health effects of moderate wine consumption, send for the federal government's Dietary Guidelines for Americans\"--followed by the Agriculture Department's address and Web site. \n\n Back \n\n \n\n Note 3 \n\n Excerpts from the U.S. government's current (1995) dietary guidelines (click here for the full text) include the following:", "Temperance Kills \n\n First, to prevent any misunderstanding, the warning: Alcohol, when abused, is vicious, dangerous stuff. Each year about 100,000 Americans die alcohol-related deaths. No one should drink and drive or drink to excess. Some people--teen-agers, people on contraindicated medications, pregnant women, and those who have trouble controlling their consumption--should avoid alcohol, period. And all that you know already. \n\n Here is what you may not know--or may know only fuzzily. For most people of middle age and beyond, one drink a day helps prevent heart disease and makes you less likely to die prematurely. After one or (for men) two drinks, bad effects swamp the good--dosage is everything! But on average the positive cardiovascular effect of moderate drinking is not small, and it is not in dispute. Epidemiologists figure that if all Americans became teetotalers tomorrow, about 80,000 more people might die each year of heart disease. So there are lives on both sides of the equation.", "\"People have a very hard time with complicated messages,\" says Thun. No doubt some people do. But is it really so hard to understand that a glass a day may help save your life if you're of middle age or beyond, but that more than that is dangerous? Presumably an avoidable heart attack is equally tragic whether the cause is too much alcohol or too little. To continue today's policy of muttering and changing the subject verges perilously on saying not just that too much alcohol is bad for you but that ignorance is good for you. \n\n \n\n ENDNOTES \n\n \n\n Note 1 \n\n By law, the label on alcoholic beverages reads:", "The British health authorities, in their 1995 guidelines (\"Sensible Drinking\"), say that people who drink very little or not at all and are in an age group at high risk for heart disease should \"consider the possibility that light drinking might benefit their health.\" But American authorities balk even at such a modest suggestion. \n\n And so the U.S. official nutritional guidelines say just this about potential benefits: \"Current evidence suggests that moderate drinking is associated with a lower risk for coronary heart disease in some individuals.\" They then go on to recite a litany of risks (for the text, click here). Similarly, the American Heart Association's official recommendation advises, \"If you drink, do so in moderation.\" It goes on to say heart disease is lower in moderate drinkers but then warns of other dangers and cautions against \"guidelines to the general public\" that encourage drinking (for the full text, click here). See for yourself, but I think the message most people would get from both sources is \"Drinking isn't all bad, but eschew it anyway.\"", "\"Besides the association between smoking and lung cancer, I think this is the most consistent association I've seen in the literature,\" says Eric Rimm, a Harvard epidemiologist. Research has shown heart benefits consistently since the 1970s with, Rimm guesses, 70 or 80 studies of 30 to 35 countries by now. Not surprisingly, he has a drink on most days. \n\n Alcohol also causes harm, of course. It can increase chances of breast cancer, cirrhosis, accidents, and so on. Heart disease, however, is an enormous cause of death; improve those odds, and the net effect is significantly to the good. Last December, the New England Journal of Medicine reported the results of the biggest and probably best mortality study yet conducted, one that followed almost half a million people over nine years. It found that, after netting out all causes of death, moderate drinkers over 30 were 20 percent less likely than nondrinkers to die prematurely.", "Back \n\n If you missed your government warning, click here. And here, again, is additional information on the BATF's onerous restrictions on health claims, the U.S. government's current dietary guidelines dealing with alcohol, and the American Heart Association's recommendation on alcohol.", "GOVERNMENT WARNING: (1) According to the Surgeon General, women should not drink alcoholic beverages during pregnancy because of the risk of birth defects. (2) Consumption of alcoholic beverages impairs your ability to drive a car or operate machinery, and may cause health problems. \n\n Back \n\n \n\n Note 2 \n\n The law forbids \"curative and therapeutic claims\" in alcohol marketing \"if such statement is untrue in any particular or tends to create a misleading impression.\" In practice, the BATF interprets this to mean that any health claim must be fully balanced and says it \"considers it extremely unlikely that such a balanced claim would fit on a normal alcoholic beverage label.\" The only health statement the bureau has said it will accept is a four page government report, complete with 34 footnotes. (You can read that report by clicking here.)", "Current evidence suggests that moderate drinking is associated with a lower risk for coronary heart disease in some individuals. However, higher levels of alcohol intake raise the risk for high blood pressure, stroke, heart disease, certain cancers, accidents, violence, suicides, birth defects, and overall mortality (deaths). Too much alcohol may cause cirrhosis of the liver, inflammation of the pancreas, and damage to the brain and heart. Heavy drinkers also are at risk of malnutrition because alcohol contains calories that may substitute for those in more nutritious foods. \n\n If you drink alcoholic beverages, do so in moderation, with meals, and when consumption does not put you or others at risk. \n\n Moderation is defined as no more than one drink per day for women and no more than two drinks per day for men. Count as a drink-- \n\n --12 ounces of regular beer (150 calories) \n\n --5 ounces of wine (100 calories)", "--1.5 ounces of 80-proof distilled spirits (100 calories) \n\n Back \n\n \n\n Note 4 \n\n Here is the American Heart Association's recommendation on alcohol: \n\n If you drink, do so in moderation. The incidence of heart disease in those who consume moderate amounts of alcohol (an average of one to two drinks per day for men and one drink per day for women) is lower than in nondrinkers. However, with increased intake of alcohol, there are increased public health dangers, such as alcoholism, high blood pressure, obesity, stroke, suicide, and accidents. In light of these and other risks, the AHA believes it is not advisable to issue guidelines to the general public that may lead some to increase their intake of alcohol or start drinking if they do not already do so. It is best to consult with your doctor for advice on consuming alcohol in moderation (no more than 2 drinks per day)." ], [ "Temperance Kills \n\n First, to prevent any misunderstanding, the warning: Alcohol, when abused, is vicious, dangerous stuff. Each year about 100,000 Americans die alcohol-related deaths. No one should drink and drive or drink to excess. Some people--teen-agers, people on contraindicated medications, pregnant women, and those who have trouble controlling their consumption--should avoid alcohol, period. And all that you know already. \n\n Here is what you may not know--or may know only fuzzily. For most people of middle age and beyond, one drink a day helps prevent heart disease and makes you less likely to die prematurely. After one or (for men) two drinks, bad effects swamp the good--dosage is everything! But on average the positive cardiovascular effect of moderate drinking is not small, and it is not in dispute. Epidemiologists figure that if all Americans became teetotalers tomorrow, about 80,000 more people might die each year of heart disease. So there are lives on both sides of the equation.", "Iasked Ronald Krauss--a doctor who, as the immediate past chairman of the American Heart Association's nutrition committee, helped write that statement--whether it was aggressive enough. \"We don't have much leeway around that 'one or two drinks a day,' \" he said, and what isn't known is whether encouraging moderate drinking will also encourage excessive drinking. \n\n The public health people understandably dread creating more drunks, more broken marriages, more crime, more car wrecks. \"When somebody calls you up saying, 'You're putting out a message to people to drink, and my daughter just got killed last night because of some drunk,' that's the other side of the equation,\" Thun says. \"There are substantial numbers of people out there who are looking for justification to drink more than they should.\"", "Given that the government restricts health claims even for innocuous foods such as orange juice and eggs, it's reasonable to decide that booze merchants are the wrong people to entrust with public education about drinking. That leaves only one other constituency for getting the word out: the public health community. Its approach, however, might charitably be called cautious--or, less charitably, embarrassed mumbling. \n\n For example, the authors of the aforementioned New England Journal study characterized their finding of a 20 percent mortality reduction as \"slight.\" The accompanying editorial called it \"small.\" I phoned Michael J. Thun, one of the study's authors and an epidemiologist with the American Cancer Society, and asked him whether a 20 percent mortality reduction is indeed small in the world of epidemiology. \"It's a sizable benefit in terms of prolonged survival,\" he said. Why not say so? \"Messages about alcohol don't come out the way you say them when they're broadcast,\" he replied. \"There's been a very long history in society of problems with alcohol.\"", "One of those lives might, just as an example, belong to my father. He is 69, has mild hypertension (controlled with medication) and, but for the rare social occasion, doesn't drink. He has read some news reports suggesting moderate alcohol use may yield benefits, but his doctor has never mentioned such benefits, and my father has never given a thought to changing his drinking habits. And, in the standard view of public health officialdom, that is as it should be: People should not be encouraged to drink, even in moderation, and alcohol should not be linked with better health. \n\n The trouble is that moderate drinking is linked with better health. We don't know exactly why; some evidence suggests alcohol--of whatever sort, by the way, not just red wine--stimulates \"good\" (HDL, for high density lipoprotein) cholesterol and may help prevent blood clotting. But we do know the effects: On average, if you're over about 40, a drink a day will reduce your chances of heart trouble.", "\"People have a very hard time with complicated messages,\" says Thun. No doubt some people do. But is it really so hard to understand that a glass a day may help save your life if you're of middle age or beyond, but that more than that is dangerous? Presumably an avoidable heart attack is equally tragic whether the cause is too much alcohol or too little. To continue today's policy of muttering and changing the subject verges perilously on saying not just that too much alcohol is bad for you but that ignorance is good for you. \n\n \n\n ENDNOTES \n\n \n\n Note 1 \n\n By law, the label on alcoholic beverages reads:", "But there are a lot of people like my father out there: uninformed or vaguely informed or not thinking about it. In 1995, a free market advocacy group called the Competitive Enterprise Institute commissioned a survey asking people whether they believed \"that scientific evidence exists showing that moderate consumption of alcohol, approximately one or two drinks per day, may reduce the risk of heart disease for many people.\" Only 42 percent of those who responded said they did, and a majority of those believed, wrongly, that the potential benefits come only from wine. \n\n The evidence on alcohol and health is now more than 20 years old--so why the confusion? Two groups have a stake in getting the word out, but one of them, the alcohol industry, is effectively forbidden to do so. Every bottle of alcohol carries a government warning label, and the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms has never permitted ads or labels to carry any health claims, even mild ones. (For more on rejected health claims, click here.)", "Areal worry. But there are lives, again, on both sides of the equation. The question, then, is what would happen if the public health folks ran a campaign saying, for example, \"Just One Drink\" or \"Drink a Little--Not a Lot.\" Would people's drinking habits improve, or would we create a nation of drunks--or what? The answer is: Nobody knows. What is surprising, given the public health community's usual eagerness to save lives, is that no one is trying to find out. It is simply assumed that too many people will do the wrong thing.", "\"Besides the association between smoking and lung cancer, I think this is the most consistent association I've seen in the literature,\" says Eric Rimm, a Harvard epidemiologist. Research has shown heart benefits consistently since the 1970s with, Rimm guesses, 70 or 80 studies of 30 to 35 countries by now. Not surprisingly, he has a drink on most days. \n\n Alcohol also causes harm, of course. It can increase chances of breast cancer, cirrhosis, accidents, and so on. Heart disease, however, is an enormous cause of death; improve those odds, and the net effect is significantly to the good. Last December, the New England Journal of Medicine reported the results of the biggest and probably best mortality study yet conducted, one that followed almost half a million people over nine years. It found that, after netting out all causes of death, moderate drinkers over 30 were 20 percent less likely than nondrinkers to die prematurely.", "According to documents obtained by the Competitive Enterprise Institute in its lawsuit to have the current policy overturned, the statements that the bureau has barred include the following: \"Several medical authorities say that a glass or two of wine enjoyed daily is not only a pleasant experience but can be beneficial to an adult's health.\" \"Having reviewed modern research on the benefits of modest wine consumption, we believe that our wine, when enjoyed with wholesome food, will promote health and enhance the pleasure of life.\" \n\n Currently the wine industry is pushing--so far without success--for approval of wine labels that read \"To learn the health effects of moderate wine consumption, send for the federal government's Dietary Guidelines for Americans\"--followed by the Agriculture Department's address and Web site. \n\n Back \n\n \n\n Note 3 \n\n Excerpts from the U.S. government's current (1995) dietary guidelines (click here for the full text) include the following:", "The British health authorities, in their 1995 guidelines (\"Sensible Drinking\"), say that people who drink very little or not at all and are in an age group at high risk for heart disease should \"consider the possibility that light drinking might benefit their health.\" But American authorities balk even at such a modest suggestion. \n\n And so the U.S. official nutritional guidelines say just this about potential benefits: \"Current evidence suggests that moderate drinking is associated with a lower risk for coronary heart disease in some individuals.\" They then go on to recite a litany of risks (for the text, click here). Similarly, the American Heart Association's official recommendation advises, \"If you drink, do so in moderation.\" It goes on to say heart disease is lower in moderate drinkers but then warns of other dangers and cautions against \"guidelines to the general public\" that encourage drinking (for the full text, click here). See for yourself, but I think the message most people would get from both sources is \"Drinking isn't all bad, but eschew it anyway.\"", "GOVERNMENT WARNING: (1) According to the Surgeon General, women should not drink alcoholic beverages during pregnancy because of the risk of birth defects. (2) Consumption of alcoholic beverages impairs your ability to drive a car or operate machinery, and may cause health problems. \n\n Back \n\n \n\n Note 2 \n\n The law forbids \"curative and therapeutic claims\" in alcohol marketing \"if such statement is untrue in any particular or tends to create a misleading impression.\" In practice, the BATF interprets this to mean that any health claim must be fully balanced and says it \"considers it extremely unlikely that such a balanced claim would fit on a normal alcoholic beverage label.\" The only health statement the bureau has said it will accept is a four page government report, complete with 34 footnotes. (You can read that report by clicking here.)", "Current evidence suggests that moderate drinking is associated with a lower risk for coronary heart disease in some individuals. However, higher levels of alcohol intake raise the risk for high blood pressure, stroke, heart disease, certain cancers, accidents, violence, suicides, birth defects, and overall mortality (deaths). Too much alcohol may cause cirrhosis of the liver, inflammation of the pancreas, and damage to the brain and heart. Heavy drinkers also are at risk of malnutrition because alcohol contains calories that may substitute for those in more nutritious foods. \n\n If you drink alcoholic beverages, do so in moderation, with meals, and when consumption does not put you or others at risk. \n\n Moderation is defined as no more than one drink per day for women and no more than two drinks per day for men. Count as a drink-- \n\n --12 ounces of regular beer (150 calories) \n\n --5 ounces of wine (100 calories)", "Back \n\n If you missed your government warning, click here. And here, again, is additional information on the BATF's onerous restrictions on health claims, the U.S. government's current dietary guidelines dealing with alcohol, and the American Heart Association's recommendation on alcohol.", "--1.5 ounces of 80-proof distilled spirits (100 calories) \n\n Back \n\n \n\n Note 4 \n\n Here is the American Heart Association's recommendation on alcohol: \n\n If you drink, do so in moderation. The incidence of heart disease in those who consume moderate amounts of alcohol (an average of one to two drinks per day for men and one drink per day for women) is lower than in nondrinkers. However, with increased intake of alcohol, there are increased public health dangers, such as alcoholism, high blood pressure, obesity, stroke, suicide, and accidents. In light of these and other risks, the AHA believes it is not advisable to issue guidelines to the general public that may lead some to increase their intake of alcohol or start drinking if they do not already do so. It is best to consult with your doctor for advice on consuming alcohol in moderation (no more than 2 drinks per day)." ], [ "According to documents obtained by the Competitive Enterprise Institute in its lawsuit to have the current policy overturned, the statements that the bureau has barred include the following: \"Several medical authorities say that a glass or two of wine enjoyed daily is not only a pleasant experience but can be beneficial to an adult's health.\" \"Having reviewed modern research on the benefits of modest wine consumption, we believe that our wine, when enjoyed with wholesome food, will promote health and enhance the pleasure of life.\" \n\n Currently the wine industry is pushing--so far without success--for approval of wine labels that read \"To learn the health effects of moderate wine consumption, send for the federal government's Dietary Guidelines for Americans\"--followed by the Agriculture Department's address and Web site. \n\n Back \n\n \n\n Note 3 \n\n Excerpts from the U.S. government's current (1995) dietary guidelines (click here for the full text) include the following:", "\"Besides the association between smoking and lung cancer, I think this is the most consistent association I've seen in the literature,\" says Eric Rimm, a Harvard epidemiologist. Research has shown heart benefits consistently since the 1970s with, Rimm guesses, 70 or 80 studies of 30 to 35 countries by now. Not surprisingly, he has a drink on most days. \n\n Alcohol also causes harm, of course. It can increase chances of breast cancer, cirrhosis, accidents, and so on. Heart disease, however, is an enormous cause of death; improve those odds, and the net effect is significantly to the good. Last December, the New England Journal of Medicine reported the results of the biggest and probably best mortality study yet conducted, one that followed almost half a million people over nine years. It found that, after netting out all causes of death, moderate drinkers over 30 were 20 percent less likely than nondrinkers to die prematurely.", "One of those lives might, just as an example, belong to my father. He is 69, has mild hypertension (controlled with medication) and, but for the rare social occasion, doesn't drink. He has read some news reports suggesting moderate alcohol use may yield benefits, but his doctor has never mentioned such benefits, and my father has never given a thought to changing his drinking habits. And, in the standard view of public health officialdom, that is as it should be: People should not be encouraged to drink, even in moderation, and alcohol should not be linked with better health. \n\n The trouble is that moderate drinking is linked with better health. We don't know exactly why; some evidence suggests alcohol--of whatever sort, by the way, not just red wine--stimulates \"good\" (HDL, for high density lipoprotein) cholesterol and may help prevent blood clotting. But we do know the effects: On average, if you're over about 40, a drink a day will reduce your chances of heart trouble.", "But there are a lot of people like my father out there: uninformed or vaguely informed or not thinking about it. In 1995, a free market advocacy group called the Competitive Enterprise Institute commissioned a survey asking people whether they believed \"that scientific evidence exists showing that moderate consumption of alcohol, approximately one or two drinks per day, may reduce the risk of heart disease for many people.\" Only 42 percent of those who responded said they did, and a majority of those believed, wrongly, that the potential benefits come only from wine. \n\n The evidence on alcohol and health is now more than 20 years old--so why the confusion? Two groups have a stake in getting the word out, but one of them, the alcohol industry, is effectively forbidden to do so. Every bottle of alcohol carries a government warning label, and the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms has never permitted ads or labels to carry any health claims, even mild ones. (For more on rejected health claims, click here.)", "Iasked Ronald Krauss--a doctor who, as the immediate past chairman of the American Heart Association's nutrition committee, helped write that statement--whether it was aggressive enough. \"We don't have much leeway around that 'one or two drinks a day,' \" he said, and what isn't known is whether encouraging moderate drinking will also encourage excessive drinking. \n\n The public health people understandably dread creating more drunks, more broken marriages, more crime, more car wrecks. \"When somebody calls you up saying, 'You're putting out a message to people to drink, and my daughter just got killed last night because of some drunk,' that's the other side of the equation,\" Thun says. \"There are substantial numbers of people out there who are looking for justification to drink more than they should.\"", "GOVERNMENT WARNING: (1) According to the Surgeon General, women should not drink alcoholic beverages during pregnancy because of the risk of birth defects. (2) Consumption of alcoholic beverages impairs your ability to drive a car or operate machinery, and may cause health problems. \n\n Back \n\n \n\n Note 2 \n\n The law forbids \"curative and therapeutic claims\" in alcohol marketing \"if such statement is untrue in any particular or tends to create a misleading impression.\" In practice, the BATF interprets this to mean that any health claim must be fully balanced and says it \"considers it extremely unlikely that such a balanced claim would fit on a normal alcoholic beverage label.\" The only health statement the bureau has said it will accept is a four page government report, complete with 34 footnotes. (You can read that report by clicking here.)", "Given that the government restricts health claims even for innocuous foods such as orange juice and eggs, it's reasonable to decide that booze merchants are the wrong people to entrust with public education about drinking. That leaves only one other constituency for getting the word out: the public health community. Its approach, however, might charitably be called cautious--or, less charitably, embarrassed mumbling. \n\n For example, the authors of the aforementioned New England Journal study characterized their finding of a 20 percent mortality reduction as \"slight.\" The accompanying editorial called it \"small.\" I phoned Michael J. Thun, one of the study's authors and an epidemiologist with the American Cancer Society, and asked him whether a 20 percent mortality reduction is indeed small in the world of epidemiology. \"It's a sizable benefit in terms of prolonged survival,\" he said. Why not say so? \"Messages about alcohol don't come out the way you say them when they're broadcast,\" he replied. \"There's been a very long history in society of problems with alcohol.\"", "Back \n\n If you missed your government warning, click here. And here, again, is additional information on the BATF's onerous restrictions on health claims, the U.S. government's current dietary guidelines dealing with alcohol, and the American Heart Association's recommendation on alcohol.", "The British health authorities, in their 1995 guidelines (\"Sensible Drinking\"), say that people who drink very little or not at all and are in an age group at high risk for heart disease should \"consider the possibility that light drinking might benefit their health.\" But American authorities balk even at such a modest suggestion. \n\n And so the U.S. official nutritional guidelines say just this about potential benefits: \"Current evidence suggests that moderate drinking is associated with a lower risk for coronary heart disease in some individuals.\" They then go on to recite a litany of risks (for the text, click here). Similarly, the American Heart Association's official recommendation advises, \"If you drink, do so in moderation.\" It goes on to say heart disease is lower in moderate drinkers but then warns of other dangers and cautions against \"guidelines to the general public\" that encourage drinking (for the full text, click here). See for yourself, but I think the message most people would get from both sources is \"Drinking isn't all bad, but eschew it anyway.\"", "\"People have a very hard time with complicated messages,\" says Thun. No doubt some people do. But is it really so hard to understand that a glass a day may help save your life if you're of middle age or beyond, but that more than that is dangerous? Presumably an avoidable heart attack is equally tragic whether the cause is too much alcohol or too little. To continue today's policy of muttering and changing the subject verges perilously on saying not just that too much alcohol is bad for you but that ignorance is good for you. \n\n \n\n ENDNOTES \n\n \n\n Note 1 \n\n By law, the label on alcoholic beverages reads:", "Temperance Kills \n\n First, to prevent any misunderstanding, the warning: Alcohol, when abused, is vicious, dangerous stuff. Each year about 100,000 Americans die alcohol-related deaths. No one should drink and drive or drink to excess. Some people--teen-agers, people on contraindicated medications, pregnant women, and those who have trouble controlling their consumption--should avoid alcohol, period. And all that you know already. \n\n Here is what you may not know--or may know only fuzzily. For most people of middle age and beyond, one drink a day helps prevent heart disease and makes you less likely to die prematurely. After one or (for men) two drinks, bad effects swamp the good--dosage is everything! But on average the positive cardiovascular effect of moderate drinking is not small, and it is not in dispute. Epidemiologists figure that if all Americans became teetotalers tomorrow, about 80,000 more people might die each year of heart disease. So there are lives on both sides of the equation.", "Current evidence suggests that moderate drinking is associated with a lower risk for coronary heart disease in some individuals. However, higher levels of alcohol intake raise the risk for high blood pressure, stroke, heart disease, certain cancers, accidents, violence, suicides, birth defects, and overall mortality (deaths). Too much alcohol may cause cirrhosis of the liver, inflammation of the pancreas, and damage to the brain and heart. Heavy drinkers also are at risk of malnutrition because alcohol contains calories that may substitute for those in more nutritious foods. \n\n If you drink alcoholic beverages, do so in moderation, with meals, and when consumption does not put you or others at risk. \n\n Moderation is defined as no more than one drink per day for women and no more than two drinks per day for men. Count as a drink-- \n\n --12 ounces of regular beer (150 calories) \n\n --5 ounces of wine (100 calories)", "Areal worry. But there are lives, again, on both sides of the equation. The question, then, is what would happen if the public health folks ran a campaign saying, for example, \"Just One Drink\" or \"Drink a Little--Not a Lot.\" Would people's drinking habits improve, or would we create a nation of drunks--or what? The answer is: Nobody knows. What is surprising, given the public health community's usual eagerness to save lives, is that no one is trying to find out. It is simply assumed that too many people will do the wrong thing.", "--1.5 ounces of 80-proof distilled spirits (100 calories) \n\n Back \n\n \n\n Note 4 \n\n Here is the American Heart Association's recommendation on alcohol: \n\n If you drink, do so in moderation. The incidence of heart disease in those who consume moderate amounts of alcohol (an average of one to two drinks per day for men and one drink per day for women) is lower than in nondrinkers. However, with increased intake of alcohol, there are increased public health dangers, such as alcoholism, high blood pressure, obesity, stroke, suicide, and accidents. In light of these and other risks, the AHA believes it is not advisable to issue guidelines to the general public that may lead some to increase their intake of alcohol or start drinking if they do not already do so. It is best to consult with your doctor for advice on consuming alcohol in moderation (no more than 2 drinks per day)." ], [ "One of those lives might, just as an example, belong to my father. He is 69, has mild hypertension (controlled with medication) and, but for the rare social occasion, doesn't drink. He has read some news reports suggesting moderate alcohol use may yield benefits, but his doctor has never mentioned such benefits, and my father has never given a thought to changing his drinking habits. And, in the standard view of public health officialdom, that is as it should be: People should not be encouraged to drink, even in moderation, and alcohol should not be linked with better health. \n\n The trouble is that moderate drinking is linked with better health. We don't know exactly why; some evidence suggests alcohol--of whatever sort, by the way, not just red wine--stimulates \"good\" (HDL, for high density lipoprotein) cholesterol and may help prevent blood clotting. But we do know the effects: On average, if you're over about 40, a drink a day will reduce your chances of heart trouble.", "But there are a lot of people like my father out there: uninformed or vaguely informed or not thinking about it. In 1995, a free market advocacy group called the Competitive Enterprise Institute commissioned a survey asking people whether they believed \"that scientific evidence exists showing that moderate consumption of alcohol, approximately one or two drinks per day, may reduce the risk of heart disease for many people.\" Only 42 percent of those who responded said they did, and a majority of those believed, wrongly, that the potential benefits come only from wine. \n\n The evidence on alcohol and health is now more than 20 years old--so why the confusion? Two groups have a stake in getting the word out, but one of them, the alcohol industry, is effectively forbidden to do so. Every bottle of alcohol carries a government warning label, and the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms has never permitted ads or labels to carry any health claims, even mild ones. (For more on rejected health claims, click here.)", "Given that the government restricts health claims even for innocuous foods such as orange juice and eggs, it's reasonable to decide that booze merchants are the wrong people to entrust with public education about drinking. That leaves only one other constituency for getting the word out: the public health community. Its approach, however, might charitably be called cautious--or, less charitably, embarrassed mumbling. \n\n For example, the authors of the aforementioned New England Journal study characterized their finding of a 20 percent mortality reduction as \"slight.\" The accompanying editorial called it \"small.\" I phoned Michael J. Thun, one of the study's authors and an epidemiologist with the American Cancer Society, and asked him whether a 20 percent mortality reduction is indeed small in the world of epidemiology. \"It's a sizable benefit in terms of prolonged survival,\" he said. Why not say so? \"Messages about alcohol don't come out the way you say them when they're broadcast,\" he replied. \"There's been a very long history in society of problems with alcohol.\"", "Iasked Ronald Krauss--a doctor who, as the immediate past chairman of the American Heart Association's nutrition committee, helped write that statement--whether it was aggressive enough. \"We don't have much leeway around that 'one or two drinks a day,' \" he said, and what isn't known is whether encouraging moderate drinking will also encourage excessive drinking. \n\n The public health people understandably dread creating more drunks, more broken marriages, more crime, more car wrecks. \"When somebody calls you up saying, 'You're putting out a message to people to drink, and my daughter just got killed last night because of some drunk,' that's the other side of the equation,\" Thun says. \"There are substantial numbers of people out there who are looking for justification to drink more than they should.\"", "\"People have a very hard time with complicated messages,\" says Thun. No doubt some people do. But is it really so hard to understand that a glass a day may help save your life if you're of middle age or beyond, but that more than that is dangerous? Presumably an avoidable heart attack is equally tragic whether the cause is too much alcohol or too little. To continue today's policy of muttering and changing the subject verges perilously on saying not just that too much alcohol is bad for you but that ignorance is good for you. \n\n \n\n ENDNOTES \n\n \n\n Note 1 \n\n By law, the label on alcoholic beverages reads:", "\"Besides the association between smoking and lung cancer, I think this is the most consistent association I've seen in the literature,\" says Eric Rimm, a Harvard epidemiologist. Research has shown heart benefits consistently since the 1970s with, Rimm guesses, 70 or 80 studies of 30 to 35 countries by now. Not surprisingly, he has a drink on most days. \n\n Alcohol also causes harm, of course. It can increase chances of breast cancer, cirrhosis, accidents, and so on. Heart disease, however, is an enormous cause of death; improve those odds, and the net effect is significantly to the good. Last December, the New England Journal of Medicine reported the results of the biggest and probably best mortality study yet conducted, one that followed almost half a million people over nine years. It found that, after netting out all causes of death, moderate drinkers over 30 were 20 percent less likely than nondrinkers to die prematurely.", "Areal worry. But there are lives, again, on both sides of the equation. The question, then, is what would happen if the public health folks ran a campaign saying, for example, \"Just One Drink\" or \"Drink a Little--Not a Lot.\" Would people's drinking habits improve, or would we create a nation of drunks--or what? The answer is: Nobody knows. What is surprising, given the public health community's usual eagerness to save lives, is that no one is trying to find out. It is simply assumed that too many people will do the wrong thing.", "Temperance Kills \n\n First, to prevent any misunderstanding, the warning: Alcohol, when abused, is vicious, dangerous stuff. Each year about 100,000 Americans die alcohol-related deaths. No one should drink and drive or drink to excess. Some people--teen-agers, people on contraindicated medications, pregnant women, and those who have trouble controlling their consumption--should avoid alcohol, period. And all that you know already. \n\n Here is what you may not know--or may know only fuzzily. For most people of middle age and beyond, one drink a day helps prevent heart disease and makes you less likely to die prematurely. After one or (for men) two drinks, bad effects swamp the good--dosage is everything! But on average the positive cardiovascular effect of moderate drinking is not small, and it is not in dispute. Epidemiologists figure that if all Americans became teetotalers tomorrow, about 80,000 more people might die each year of heart disease. So there are lives on both sides of the equation.", "Back \n\n If you missed your government warning, click here. And here, again, is additional information on the BATF's onerous restrictions on health claims, the U.S. government's current dietary guidelines dealing with alcohol, and the American Heart Association's recommendation on alcohol.", "According to documents obtained by the Competitive Enterprise Institute in its lawsuit to have the current policy overturned, the statements that the bureau has barred include the following: \"Several medical authorities say that a glass or two of wine enjoyed daily is not only a pleasant experience but can be beneficial to an adult's health.\" \"Having reviewed modern research on the benefits of modest wine consumption, we believe that our wine, when enjoyed with wholesome food, will promote health and enhance the pleasure of life.\" \n\n Currently the wine industry is pushing--so far without success--for approval of wine labels that read \"To learn the health effects of moderate wine consumption, send for the federal government's Dietary Guidelines for Americans\"--followed by the Agriculture Department's address and Web site. \n\n Back \n\n \n\n Note 3 \n\n Excerpts from the U.S. government's current (1995) dietary guidelines (click here for the full text) include the following:", "The British health authorities, in their 1995 guidelines (\"Sensible Drinking\"), say that people who drink very little or not at all and are in an age group at high risk for heart disease should \"consider the possibility that light drinking might benefit their health.\" But American authorities balk even at such a modest suggestion. \n\n And so the U.S. official nutritional guidelines say just this about potential benefits: \"Current evidence suggests that moderate drinking is associated with a lower risk for coronary heart disease in some individuals.\" They then go on to recite a litany of risks (for the text, click here). Similarly, the American Heart Association's official recommendation advises, \"If you drink, do so in moderation.\" It goes on to say heart disease is lower in moderate drinkers but then warns of other dangers and cautions against \"guidelines to the general public\" that encourage drinking (for the full text, click here). See for yourself, but I think the message most people would get from both sources is \"Drinking isn't all bad, but eschew it anyway.\"", "GOVERNMENT WARNING: (1) According to the Surgeon General, women should not drink alcoholic beverages during pregnancy because of the risk of birth defects. (2) Consumption of alcoholic beverages impairs your ability to drive a car or operate machinery, and may cause health problems. \n\n Back \n\n \n\n Note 2 \n\n The law forbids \"curative and therapeutic claims\" in alcohol marketing \"if such statement is untrue in any particular or tends to create a misleading impression.\" In practice, the BATF interprets this to mean that any health claim must be fully balanced and says it \"considers it extremely unlikely that such a balanced claim would fit on a normal alcoholic beverage label.\" The only health statement the bureau has said it will accept is a four page government report, complete with 34 footnotes. (You can read that report by clicking here.)", "Current evidence suggests that moderate drinking is associated with a lower risk for coronary heart disease in some individuals. However, higher levels of alcohol intake raise the risk for high blood pressure, stroke, heart disease, certain cancers, accidents, violence, suicides, birth defects, and overall mortality (deaths). Too much alcohol may cause cirrhosis of the liver, inflammation of the pancreas, and damage to the brain and heart. Heavy drinkers also are at risk of malnutrition because alcohol contains calories that may substitute for those in more nutritious foods. \n\n If you drink alcoholic beverages, do so in moderation, with meals, and when consumption does not put you or others at risk. \n\n Moderation is defined as no more than one drink per day for women and no more than two drinks per day for men. Count as a drink-- \n\n --12 ounces of regular beer (150 calories) \n\n --5 ounces of wine (100 calories)", "--1.5 ounces of 80-proof distilled spirits (100 calories) \n\n Back \n\n \n\n Note 4 \n\n Here is the American Heart Association's recommendation on alcohol: \n\n If you drink, do so in moderation. The incidence of heart disease in those who consume moderate amounts of alcohol (an average of one to two drinks per day for men and one drink per day for women) is lower than in nondrinkers. However, with increased intake of alcohol, there are increased public health dangers, such as alcoholism, high blood pressure, obesity, stroke, suicide, and accidents. In light of these and other risks, the AHA believes it is not advisable to issue guidelines to the general public that may lead some to increase their intake of alcohol or start drinking if they do not already do so. It is best to consult with your doctor for advice on consuming alcohol in moderation (no more than 2 drinks per day)." ], [ "One of those lives might, just as an example, belong to my father. He is 69, has mild hypertension (controlled with medication) and, but for the rare social occasion, doesn't drink. He has read some news reports suggesting moderate alcohol use may yield benefits, but his doctor has never mentioned such benefits, and my father has never given a thought to changing his drinking habits. And, in the standard view of public health officialdom, that is as it should be: People should not be encouraged to drink, even in moderation, and alcohol should not be linked with better health. \n\n The trouble is that moderate drinking is linked with better health. We don't know exactly why; some evidence suggests alcohol--of whatever sort, by the way, not just red wine--stimulates \"good\" (HDL, for high density lipoprotein) cholesterol and may help prevent blood clotting. But we do know the effects: On average, if you're over about 40, a drink a day will reduce your chances of heart trouble.", "\"Besides the association between smoking and lung cancer, I think this is the most consistent association I've seen in the literature,\" says Eric Rimm, a Harvard epidemiologist. Research has shown heart benefits consistently since the 1970s with, Rimm guesses, 70 or 80 studies of 30 to 35 countries by now. Not surprisingly, he has a drink on most days. \n\n Alcohol also causes harm, of course. It can increase chances of breast cancer, cirrhosis, accidents, and so on. Heart disease, however, is an enormous cause of death; improve those odds, and the net effect is significantly to the good. Last December, the New England Journal of Medicine reported the results of the biggest and probably best mortality study yet conducted, one that followed almost half a million people over nine years. It found that, after netting out all causes of death, moderate drinkers over 30 were 20 percent less likely than nondrinkers to die prematurely.", "\"People have a very hard time with complicated messages,\" says Thun. No doubt some people do. But is it really so hard to understand that a glass a day may help save your life if you're of middle age or beyond, but that more than that is dangerous? Presumably an avoidable heart attack is equally tragic whether the cause is too much alcohol or too little. To continue today's policy of muttering and changing the subject verges perilously on saying not just that too much alcohol is bad for you but that ignorance is good for you. \n\n \n\n ENDNOTES \n\n \n\n Note 1 \n\n By law, the label on alcoholic beverages reads:", "Iasked Ronald Krauss--a doctor who, as the immediate past chairman of the American Heart Association's nutrition committee, helped write that statement--whether it was aggressive enough. \"We don't have much leeway around that 'one or two drinks a day,' \" he said, and what isn't known is whether encouraging moderate drinking will also encourage excessive drinking. \n\n The public health people understandably dread creating more drunks, more broken marriages, more crime, more car wrecks. \"When somebody calls you up saying, 'You're putting out a message to people to drink, and my daughter just got killed last night because of some drunk,' that's the other side of the equation,\" Thun says. \"There are substantial numbers of people out there who are looking for justification to drink more than they should.\"", "But there are a lot of people like my father out there: uninformed or vaguely informed or not thinking about it. In 1995, a free market advocacy group called the Competitive Enterprise Institute commissioned a survey asking people whether they believed \"that scientific evidence exists showing that moderate consumption of alcohol, approximately one or two drinks per day, may reduce the risk of heart disease for many people.\" Only 42 percent of those who responded said they did, and a majority of those believed, wrongly, that the potential benefits come only from wine. \n\n The evidence on alcohol and health is now more than 20 years old--so why the confusion? Two groups have a stake in getting the word out, but one of them, the alcohol industry, is effectively forbidden to do so. Every bottle of alcohol carries a government warning label, and the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms has never permitted ads or labels to carry any health claims, even mild ones. (For more on rejected health claims, click here.)", "Given that the government restricts health claims even for innocuous foods such as orange juice and eggs, it's reasonable to decide that booze merchants are the wrong people to entrust with public education about drinking. That leaves only one other constituency for getting the word out: the public health community. Its approach, however, might charitably be called cautious--or, less charitably, embarrassed mumbling. \n\n For example, the authors of the aforementioned New England Journal study characterized their finding of a 20 percent mortality reduction as \"slight.\" The accompanying editorial called it \"small.\" I phoned Michael J. Thun, one of the study's authors and an epidemiologist with the American Cancer Society, and asked him whether a 20 percent mortality reduction is indeed small in the world of epidemiology. \"It's a sizable benefit in terms of prolonged survival,\" he said. Why not say so? \"Messages about alcohol don't come out the way you say them when they're broadcast,\" he replied. \"There's been a very long history in society of problems with alcohol.\"", "According to documents obtained by the Competitive Enterprise Institute in its lawsuit to have the current policy overturned, the statements that the bureau has barred include the following: \"Several medical authorities say that a glass or two of wine enjoyed daily is not only a pleasant experience but can be beneficial to an adult's health.\" \"Having reviewed modern research on the benefits of modest wine consumption, we believe that our wine, when enjoyed with wholesome food, will promote health and enhance the pleasure of life.\" \n\n Currently the wine industry is pushing--so far without success--for approval of wine labels that read \"To learn the health effects of moderate wine consumption, send for the federal government's Dietary Guidelines for Americans\"--followed by the Agriculture Department's address and Web site. \n\n Back \n\n \n\n Note 3 \n\n Excerpts from the U.S. government's current (1995) dietary guidelines (click here for the full text) include the following:", "Temperance Kills \n\n First, to prevent any misunderstanding, the warning: Alcohol, when abused, is vicious, dangerous stuff. Each year about 100,000 Americans die alcohol-related deaths. No one should drink and drive or drink to excess. Some people--teen-agers, people on contraindicated medications, pregnant women, and those who have trouble controlling their consumption--should avoid alcohol, period. And all that you know already. \n\n Here is what you may not know--or may know only fuzzily. For most people of middle age and beyond, one drink a day helps prevent heart disease and makes you less likely to die prematurely. After one or (for men) two drinks, bad effects swamp the good--dosage is everything! But on average the positive cardiovascular effect of moderate drinking is not small, and it is not in dispute. Epidemiologists figure that if all Americans became teetotalers tomorrow, about 80,000 more people might die each year of heart disease. So there are lives on both sides of the equation.", "Areal worry. But there are lives, again, on both sides of the equation. The question, then, is what would happen if the public health folks ran a campaign saying, for example, \"Just One Drink\" or \"Drink a Little--Not a Lot.\" Would people's drinking habits improve, or would we create a nation of drunks--or what? The answer is: Nobody knows. What is surprising, given the public health community's usual eagerness to save lives, is that no one is trying to find out. It is simply assumed that too many people will do the wrong thing.", "The British health authorities, in their 1995 guidelines (\"Sensible Drinking\"), say that people who drink very little or not at all and are in an age group at high risk for heart disease should \"consider the possibility that light drinking might benefit their health.\" But American authorities balk even at such a modest suggestion. \n\n And so the U.S. official nutritional guidelines say just this about potential benefits: \"Current evidence suggests that moderate drinking is associated with a lower risk for coronary heart disease in some individuals.\" They then go on to recite a litany of risks (for the text, click here). Similarly, the American Heart Association's official recommendation advises, \"If you drink, do so in moderation.\" It goes on to say heart disease is lower in moderate drinkers but then warns of other dangers and cautions against \"guidelines to the general public\" that encourage drinking (for the full text, click here). See for yourself, but I think the message most people would get from both sources is \"Drinking isn't all bad, but eschew it anyway.\"", "GOVERNMENT WARNING: (1) According to the Surgeon General, women should not drink alcoholic beverages during pregnancy because of the risk of birth defects. (2) Consumption of alcoholic beverages impairs your ability to drive a car or operate machinery, and may cause health problems. \n\n Back \n\n \n\n Note 2 \n\n The law forbids \"curative and therapeutic claims\" in alcohol marketing \"if such statement is untrue in any particular or tends to create a misleading impression.\" In practice, the BATF interprets this to mean that any health claim must be fully balanced and says it \"considers it extremely unlikely that such a balanced claim would fit on a normal alcoholic beverage label.\" The only health statement the bureau has said it will accept is a four page government report, complete with 34 footnotes. (You can read that report by clicking here.)", "Back \n\n If you missed your government warning, click here. And here, again, is additional information on the BATF's onerous restrictions on health claims, the U.S. government's current dietary guidelines dealing with alcohol, and the American Heart Association's recommendation on alcohol.", "Current evidence suggests that moderate drinking is associated with a lower risk for coronary heart disease in some individuals. However, higher levels of alcohol intake raise the risk for high blood pressure, stroke, heart disease, certain cancers, accidents, violence, suicides, birth defects, and overall mortality (deaths). Too much alcohol may cause cirrhosis of the liver, inflammation of the pancreas, and damage to the brain and heart. Heavy drinkers also are at risk of malnutrition because alcohol contains calories that may substitute for those in more nutritious foods. \n\n If you drink alcoholic beverages, do so in moderation, with meals, and when consumption does not put you or others at risk. \n\n Moderation is defined as no more than one drink per day for women and no more than two drinks per day for men. Count as a drink-- \n\n --12 ounces of regular beer (150 calories) \n\n --5 ounces of wine (100 calories)", "--1.5 ounces of 80-proof distilled spirits (100 calories) \n\n Back \n\n \n\n Note 4 \n\n Here is the American Heart Association's recommendation on alcohol: \n\n If you drink, do so in moderation. The incidence of heart disease in those who consume moderate amounts of alcohol (an average of one to two drinks per day for men and one drink per day for women) is lower than in nondrinkers. However, with increased intake of alcohol, there are increased public health dangers, such as alcoholism, high blood pressure, obesity, stroke, suicide, and accidents. In light of these and other risks, the AHA believes it is not advisable to issue guidelines to the general public that may lead some to increase their intake of alcohol or start drinking if they do not already do so. It is best to consult with your doctor for advice on consuming alcohol in moderation (no more than 2 drinks per day)." ], [ "\"Besides the association between smoking and lung cancer, I think this is the most consistent association I've seen in the literature,\" says Eric Rimm, a Harvard epidemiologist. Research has shown heart benefits consistently since the 1970s with, Rimm guesses, 70 or 80 studies of 30 to 35 countries by now. Not surprisingly, he has a drink on most days. \n\n Alcohol also causes harm, of course. It can increase chances of breast cancer, cirrhosis, accidents, and so on. Heart disease, however, is an enormous cause of death; improve those odds, and the net effect is significantly to the good. Last December, the New England Journal of Medicine reported the results of the biggest and probably best mortality study yet conducted, one that followed almost half a million people over nine years. It found that, after netting out all causes of death, moderate drinkers over 30 were 20 percent less likely than nondrinkers to die prematurely.", "One of those lives might, just as an example, belong to my father. He is 69, has mild hypertension (controlled with medication) and, but for the rare social occasion, doesn't drink. He has read some news reports suggesting moderate alcohol use may yield benefits, but his doctor has never mentioned such benefits, and my father has never given a thought to changing his drinking habits. And, in the standard view of public health officialdom, that is as it should be: People should not be encouraged to drink, even in moderation, and alcohol should not be linked with better health. \n\n The trouble is that moderate drinking is linked with better health. We don't know exactly why; some evidence suggests alcohol--of whatever sort, by the way, not just red wine--stimulates \"good\" (HDL, for high density lipoprotein) cholesterol and may help prevent blood clotting. But we do know the effects: On average, if you're over about 40, a drink a day will reduce your chances of heart trouble.", "But there are a lot of people like my father out there: uninformed or vaguely informed or not thinking about it. In 1995, a free market advocacy group called the Competitive Enterprise Institute commissioned a survey asking people whether they believed \"that scientific evidence exists showing that moderate consumption of alcohol, approximately one or two drinks per day, may reduce the risk of heart disease for many people.\" Only 42 percent of those who responded said they did, and a majority of those believed, wrongly, that the potential benefits come only from wine. \n\n The evidence on alcohol and health is now more than 20 years old--so why the confusion? Two groups have a stake in getting the word out, but one of them, the alcohol industry, is effectively forbidden to do so. Every bottle of alcohol carries a government warning label, and the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms has never permitted ads or labels to carry any health claims, even mild ones. (For more on rejected health claims, click here.)", "Iasked Ronald Krauss--a doctor who, as the immediate past chairman of the American Heart Association's nutrition committee, helped write that statement--whether it was aggressive enough. \"We don't have much leeway around that 'one or two drinks a day,' \" he said, and what isn't known is whether encouraging moderate drinking will also encourage excessive drinking. \n\n The public health people understandably dread creating more drunks, more broken marriages, more crime, more car wrecks. \"When somebody calls you up saying, 'You're putting out a message to people to drink, and my daughter just got killed last night because of some drunk,' that's the other side of the equation,\" Thun says. \"There are substantial numbers of people out there who are looking for justification to drink more than they should.\"", "Given that the government restricts health claims even for innocuous foods such as orange juice and eggs, it's reasonable to decide that booze merchants are the wrong people to entrust with public education about drinking. That leaves only one other constituency for getting the word out: the public health community. Its approach, however, might charitably be called cautious--or, less charitably, embarrassed mumbling. \n\n For example, the authors of the aforementioned New England Journal study characterized their finding of a 20 percent mortality reduction as \"slight.\" The accompanying editorial called it \"small.\" I phoned Michael J. Thun, one of the study's authors and an epidemiologist with the American Cancer Society, and asked him whether a 20 percent mortality reduction is indeed small in the world of epidemiology. \"It's a sizable benefit in terms of prolonged survival,\" he said. Why not say so? \"Messages about alcohol don't come out the way you say them when they're broadcast,\" he replied. \"There's been a very long history in society of problems with alcohol.\"", "Areal worry. But there are lives, again, on both sides of the equation. The question, then, is what would happen if the public health folks ran a campaign saying, for example, \"Just One Drink\" or \"Drink a Little--Not a Lot.\" Would people's drinking habits improve, or would we create a nation of drunks--or what? The answer is: Nobody knows. What is surprising, given the public health community's usual eagerness to save lives, is that no one is trying to find out. It is simply assumed that too many people will do the wrong thing.", "The British health authorities, in their 1995 guidelines (\"Sensible Drinking\"), say that people who drink very little or not at all and are in an age group at high risk for heart disease should \"consider the possibility that light drinking might benefit their health.\" But American authorities balk even at such a modest suggestion. \n\n And so the U.S. official nutritional guidelines say just this about potential benefits: \"Current evidence suggests that moderate drinking is associated with a lower risk for coronary heart disease in some individuals.\" They then go on to recite a litany of risks (for the text, click here). Similarly, the American Heart Association's official recommendation advises, \"If you drink, do so in moderation.\" It goes on to say heart disease is lower in moderate drinkers but then warns of other dangers and cautions against \"guidelines to the general public\" that encourage drinking (for the full text, click here). See for yourself, but I think the message most people would get from both sources is \"Drinking isn't all bad, but eschew it anyway.\"", "\"People have a very hard time with complicated messages,\" says Thun. No doubt some people do. But is it really so hard to understand that a glass a day may help save your life if you're of middle age or beyond, but that more than that is dangerous? Presumably an avoidable heart attack is equally tragic whether the cause is too much alcohol or too little. To continue today's policy of muttering and changing the subject verges perilously on saying not just that too much alcohol is bad for you but that ignorance is good for you. \n\n \n\n ENDNOTES \n\n \n\n Note 1 \n\n By law, the label on alcoholic beverages reads:", "Current evidence suggests that moderate drinking is associated with a lower risk for coronary heart disease in some individuals. However, higher levels of alcohol intake raise the risk for high blood pressure, stroke, heart disease, certain cancers, accidents, violence, suicides, birth defects, and overall mortality (deaths). Too much alcohol may cause cirrhosis of the liver, inflammation of the pancreas, and damage to the brain and heart. Heavy drinkers also are at risk of malnutrition because alcohol contains calories that may substitute for those in more nutritious foods. \n\n If you drink alcoholic beverages, do so in moderation, with meals, and when consumption does not put you or others at risk. \n\n Moderation is defined as no more than one drink per day for women and no more than two drinks per day for men. Count as a drink-- \n\n --12 ounces of regular beer (150 calories) \n\n --5 ounces of wine (100 calories)", "Temperance Kills \n\n First, to prevent any misunderstanding, the warning: Alcohol, when abused, is vicious, dangerous stuff. Each year about 100,000 Americans die alcohol-related deaths. No one should drink and drive or drink to excess. Some people--teen-agers, people on contraindicated medications, pregnant women, and those who have trouble controlling their consumption--should avoid alcohol, period. And all that you know already. \n\n Here is what you may not know--or may know only fuzzily. For most people of middle age and beyond, one drink a day helps prevent heart disease and makes you less likely to die prematurely. After one or (for men) two drinks, bad effects swamp the good--dosage is everything! But on average the positive cardiovascular effect of moderate drinking is not small, and it is not in dispute. Epidemiologists figure that if all Americans became teetotalers tomorrow, about 80,000 more people might die each year of heart disease. So there are lives on both sides of the equation.", "According to documents obtained by the Competitive Enterprise Institute in its lawsuit to have the current policy overturned, the statements that the bureau has barred include the following: \"Several medical authorities say that a glass or two of wine enjoyed daily is not only a pleasant experience but can be beneficial to an adult's health.\" \"Having reviewed modern research on the benefits of modest wine consumption, we believe that our wine, when enjoyed with wholesome food, will promote health and enhance the pleasure of life.\" \n\n Currently the wine industry is pushing--so far without success--for approval of wine labels that read \"To learn the health effects of moderate wine consumption, send for the federal government's Dietary Guidelines for Americans\"--followed by the Agriculture Department's address and Web site. \n\n Back \n\n \n\n Note 3 \n\n Excerpts from the U.S. government's current (1995) dietary guidelines (click here for the full text) include the following:", "GOVERNMENT WARNING: (1) According to the Surgeon General, women should not drink alcoholic beverages during pregnancy because of the risk of birth defects. (2) Consumption of alcoholic beverages impairs your ability to drive a car or operate machinery, and may cause health problems. \n\n Back \n\n \n\n Note 2 \n\n The law forbids \"curative and therapeutic claims\" in alcohol marketing \"if such statement is untrue in any particular or tends to create a misleading impression.\" In practice, the BATF interprets this to mean that any health claim must be fully balanced and says it \"considers it extremely unlikely that such a balanced claim would fit on a normal alcoholic beverage label.\" The only health statement the bureau has said it will accept is a four page government report, complete with 34 footnotes. (You can read that report by clicking here.)", "Back \n\n If you missed your government warning, click here. And here, again, is additional information on the BATF's onerous restrictions on health claims, the U.S. government's current dietary guidelines dealing with alcohol, and the American Heart Association's recommendation on alcohol.", "--1.5 ounces of 80-proof distilled spirits (100 calories) \n\n Back \n\n \n\n Note 4 \n\n Here is the American Heart Association's recommendation on alcohol: \n\n If you drink, do so in moderation. The incidence of heart disease in those who consume moderate amounts of alcohol (an average of one to two drinks per day for men and one drink per day for women) is lower than in nondrinkers. However, with increased intake of alcohol, there are increased public health dangers, such as alcoholism, high blood pressure, obesity, stroke, suicide, and accidents. In light of these and other risks, the AHA believes it is not advisable to issue guidelines to the general public that may lead some to increase their intake of alcohol or start drinking if they do not already do so. It is best to consult with your doctor for advice on consuming alcohol in moderation (no more than 2 drinks per day)." ], [ "Iasked Ronald Krauss--a doctor who, as the immediate past chairman of the American Heart Association's nutrition committee, helped write that statement--whether it was aggressive enough. \"We don't have much leeway around that 'one or two drinks a day,' \" he said, and what isn't known is whether encouraging moderate drinking will also encourage excessive drinking. \n\n The public health people understandably dread creating more drunks, more broken marriages, more crime, more car wrecks. \"When somebody calls you up saying, 'You're putting out a message to people to drink, and my daughter just got killed last night because of some drunk,' that's the other side of the equation,\" Thun says. \"There are substantial numbers of people out there who are looking for justification to drink more than they should.\"", "One of those lives might, just as an example, belong to my father. He is 69, has mild hypertension (controlled with medication) and, but for the rare social occasion, doesn't drink. He has read some news reports suggesting moderate alcohol use may yield benefits, but his doctor has never mentioned such benefits, and my father has never given a thought to changing his drinking habits. And, in the standard view of public health officialdom, that is as it should be: People should not be encouraged to drink, even in moderation, and alcohol should not be linked with better health. \n\n The trouble is that moderate drinking is linked with better health. We don't know exactly why; some evidence suggests alcohol--of whatever sort, by the way, not just red wine--stimulates \"good\" (HDL, for high density lipoprotein) cholesterol and may help prevent blood clotting. But we do know the effects: On average, if you're over about 40, a drink a day will reduce your chances of heart trouble.", "\"Besides the association between smoking and lung cancer, I think this is the most consistent association I've seen in the literature,\" says Eric Rimm, a Harvard epidemiologist. Research has shown heart benefits consistently since the 1970s with, Rimm guesses, 70 or 80 studies of 30 to 35 countries by now. Not surprisingly, he has a drink on most days. \n\n Alcohol also causes harm, of course. It can increase chances of breast cancer, cirrhosis, accidents, and so on. Heart disease, however, is an enormous cause of death; improve those odds, and the net effect is significantly to the good. Last December, the New England Journal of Medicine reported the results of the biggest and probably best mortality study yet conducted, one that followed almost half a million people over nine years. It found that, after netting out all causes of death, moderate drinkers over 30 were 20 percent less likely than nondrinkers to die prematurely.", "But there are a lot of people like my father out there: uninformed or vaguely informed or not thinking about it. In 1995, a free market advocacy group called the Competitive Enterprise Institute commissioned a survey asking people whether they believed \"that scientific evidence exists showing that moderate consumption of alcohol, approximately one or two drinks per day, may reduce the risk of heart disease for many people.\" Only 42 percent of those who responded said they did, and a majority of those believed, wrongly, that the potential benefits come only from wine. \n\n The evidence on alcohol and health is now more than 20 years old--so why the confusion? Two groups have a stake in getting the word out, but one of them, the alcohol industry, is effectively forbidden to do so. Every bottle of alcohol carries a government warning label, and the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms has never permitted ads or labels to carry any health claims, even mild ones. (For more on rejected health claims, click here.)", "Given that the government restricts health claims even for innocuous foods such as orange juice and eggs, it's reasonable to decide that booze merchants are the wrong people to entrust with public education about drinking. That leaves only one other constituency for getting the word out: the public health community. Its approach, however, might charitably be called cautious--or, less charitably, embarrassed mumbling. \n\n For example, the authors of the aforementioned New England Journal study characterized their finding of a 20 percent mortality reduction as \"slight.\" The accompanying editorial called it \"small.\" I phoned Michael J. Thun, one of the study's authors and an epidemiologist with the American Cancer Society, and asked him whether a 20 percent mortality reduction is indeed small in the world of epidemiology. \"It's a sizable benefit in terms of prolonged survival,\" he said. Why not say so? \"Messages about alcohol don't come out the way you say them when they're broadcast,\" he replied. \"There's been a very long history in society of problems with alcohol.\"", "According to documents obtained by the Competitive Enterprise Institute in its lawsuit to have the current policy overturned, the statements that the bureau has barred include the following: \"Several medical authorities say that a glass or two of wine enjoyed daily is not only a pleasant experience but can be beneficial to an adult's health.\" \"Having reviewed modern research on the benefits of modest wine consumption, we believe that our wine, when enjoyed with wholesome food, will promote health and enhance the pleasure of life.\" \n\n Currently the wine industry is pushing--so far without success--for approval of wine labels that read \"To learn the health effects of moderate wine consumption, send for the federal government's Dietary Guidelines for Americans\"--followed by the Agriculture Department's address and Web site. \n\n Back \n\n \n\n Note 3 \n\n Excerpts from the U.S. government's current (1995) dietary guidelines (click here for the full text) include the following:", "\"People have a very hard time with complicated messages,\" says Thun. No doubt some people do. But is it really so hard to understand that a glass a day may help save your life if you're of middle age or beyond, but that more than that is dangerous? Presumably an avoidable heart attack is equally tragic whether the cause is too much alcohol or too little. To continue today's policy of muttering and changing the subject verges perilously on saying not just that too much alcohol is bad for you but that ignorance is good for you. \n\n \n\n ENDNOTES \n\n \n\n Note 1 \n\n By law, the label on alcoholic beverages reads:", "Back \n\n If you missed your government warning, click here. And here, again, is additional information on the BATF's onerous restrictions on health claims, the U.S. government's current dietary guidelines dealing with alcohol, and the American Heart Association's recommendation on alcohol.", "GOVERNMENT WARNING: (1) According to the Surgeon General, women should not drink alcoholic beverages during pregnancy because of the risk of birth defects. (2) Consumption of alcoholic beverages impairs your ability to drive a car or operate machinery, and may cause health problems. \n\n Back \n\n \n\n Note 2 \n\n The law forbids \"curative and therapeutic claims\" in alcohol marketing \"if such statement is untrue in any particular or tends to create a misleading impression.\" In practice, the BATF interprets this to mean that any health claim must be fully balanced and says it \"considers it extremely unlikely that such a balanced claim would fit on a normal alcoholic beverage label.\" The only health statement the bureau has said it will accept is a four page government report, complete with 34 footnotes. (You can read that report by clicking here.)", "The British health authorities, in their 1995 guidelines (\"Sensible Drinking\"), say that people who drink very little or not at all and are in an age group at high risk for heart disease should \"consider the possibility that light drinking might benefit their health.\" But American authorities balk even at such a modest suggestion. \n\n And so the U.S. official nutritional guidelines say just this about potential benefits: \"Current evidence suggests that moderate drinking is associated with a lower risk for coronary heart disease in some individuals.\" They then go on to recite a litany of risks (for the text, click here). Similarly, the American Heart Association's official recommendation advises, \"If you drink, do so in moderation.\" It goes on to say heart disease is lower in moderate drinkers but then warns of other dangers and cautions against \"guidelines to the general public\" that encourage drinking (for the full text, click here). See for yourself, but I think the message most people would get from both sources is \"Drinking isn't all bad, but eschew it anyway.\"", "Temperance Kills \n\n First, to prevent any misunderstanding, the warning: Alcohol, when abused, is vicious, dangerous stuff. Each year about 100,000 Americans die alcohol-related deaths. No one should drink and drive or drink to excess. Some people--teen-agers, people on contraindicated medications, pregnant women, and those who have trouble controlling their consumption--should avoid alcohol, period. And all that you know already. \n\n Here is what you may not know--or may know only fuzzily. For most people of middle age and beyond, one drink a day helps prevent heart disease and makes you less likely to die prematurely. After one or (for men) two drinks, bad effects swamp the good--dosage is everything! But on average the positive cardiovascular effect of moderate drinking is not small, and it is not in dispute. Epidemiologists figure that if all Americans became teetotalers tomorrow, about 80,000 more people might die each year of heart disease. So there are lives on both sides of the equation.", "Current evidence suggests that moderate drinking is associated with a lower risk for coronary heart disease in some individuals. However, higher levels of alcohol intake raise the risk for high blood pressure, stroke, heart disease, certain cancers, accidents, violence, suicides, birth defects, and overall mortality (deaths). Too much alcohol may cause cirrhosis of the liver, inflammation of the pancreas, and damage to the brain and heart. Heavy drinkers also are at risk of malnutrition because alcohol contains calories that may substitute for those in more nutritious foods. \n\n If you drink alcoholic beverages, do so in moderation, with meals, and when consumption does not put you or others at risk. \n\n Moderation is defined as no more than one drink per day for women and no more than two drinks per day for men. Count as a drink-- \n\n --12 ounces of regular beer (150 calories) \n\n --5 ounces of wine (100 calories)", "Areal worry. But there are lives, again, on both sides of the equation. The question, then, is what would happen if the public health folks ran a campaign saying, for example, \"Just One Drink\" or \"Drink a Little--Not a Lot.\" Would people's drinking habits improve, or would we create a nation of drunks--or what? The answer is: Nobody knows. What is surprising, given the public health community's usual eagerness to save lives, is that no one is trying to find out. It is simply assumed that too many people will do the wrong thing.", "--1.5 ounces of 80-proof distilled spirits (100 calories) \n\n Back \n\n \n\n Note 4 \n\n Here is the American Heart Association's recommendation on alcohol: \n\n If you drink, do so in moderation. The incidence of heart disease in those who consume moderate amounts of alcohol (an average of one to two drinks per day for men and one drink per day for women) is lower than in nondrinkers. However, with increased intake of alcohol, there are increased public health dangers, such as alcoholism, high blood pressure, obesity, stroke, suicide, and accidents. In light of these and other risks, the AHA believes it is not advisable to issue guidelines to the general public that may lead some to increase their intake of alcohol or start drinking if they do not already do so. It is best to consult with your doctor for advice on consuming alcohol in moderation (no more than 2 drinks per day)." ] ]
test	20034	[ "Why does the author describe The Bone Collector as \"yummy\"?", "Why does the third act of Being John Malkovich fail according to the author?", "Why was John Malkovich a brilliant choice for the subject of Kaufman's movie?", "Why does the author think people will be angry about The Insider?", "What is The Bone Collector's saving grace?", "Why does the reviewer think Mann had his hands tied legally?", "What is the central anxiety of Being John Malkovich?", "Why is it strange that The Insider doesn't bring up Lawrence Tisch?", "How is the reviewer's discussion of Cameron Diaz and Angelina Jolie in their separate roles similar?" ]	[ [ "The narrative twists and turns are so thrilling and captivating they could only be described as \"yummy.\"", "The adjective refers to Denzel Washington's gripping performance.", "It is an ironic assessment reflecting the film's graphic violence.", "Because it features Angelina Jolie, an actress about whose physical appearance he frequently gushes over." ], [ "Cusack's portrayal of Craig Schwartz is too bombastic and twisted and starts to become unbelievable.", "Spike Jonze invokes Invasion of the Body Snatchers, which feels a bit too on-the-nose for the reviewer.", "The reviewer thinks Kaufman goes too far when John Malkovich descends into his own mind.", "He tries to bring closure to an insane narrative that does not require one." ], [ "He typically plays emotionally restrained characters, so his vulnerability in this film is refreshing.", "Because of his tendency to be sexually ambiguous, despite the actor's own homosexuality.", "He is a brilliant actor with long eyelashes reminiscent of Bugs Bunny.", "He is not an actor moviegoers typically envy or dream about, and he tends to stay out of the spotlight." ], [ "Because of its revelation that those in the corporate media can be bought for a few simple stock options.", "Because of its scandalous narrative involving corruption in the corporate world and the mainstream media.", "Because of the portrayal of respected journalist Mike Wallace as a prima donna and a man susceptible to the powers of corruption.", "Because of the sloppy storytelling techniques employed by director Michael Mann." ], [ "Phillip Noyce carefully oversaw the editing of the film to powerful effect.", "Angelina Jolie's turn as a former model turned cop with a \"gift\" for forensics.", "The cinematography by Dean Semler creates the proper eerie tone for a mystery film with its brackish tunnels, abandoned warehouses, and spooky images.", "Denzel Washington's performance as a quadriplegic forensic expert." ], [ "Michael Mann focuses heavily on Wigand's disclosure and portrays him as a sympathetic character, but Russel Crowe's portrayal is monotone and ignores the multiple layers of Wigand's personality.", "He was not allowed to explore the entirety of Mike Wallace's involvement, and therefore Christopher Plummer's character was left with little to do in the film.", "There are many missed opportunities to tidy up the narrative including answering questions about when Pacino's character decided Crowe's Wigand was essential to a conversation about the tobacco industry.", "He omitted key details regarding the FBI's involvement in the handling of information received by Wigand related to Brown & Williamson." ], [ "An examination of the desire to be someone else.", "The loneliness of a life lived in impotence, self-loathing, and envy.", "The stress of working in an office with literal \"low overhead\" (as in the ceiling is so low people have to bend when they walk around).", "The horror of plunging into the mind of famed actor John Malkovich." ], [ "During his company's own whistleblower trial, Tisch had testified before Congress that tobacco executives regard cigarettes as \"a nicotine delivery system.\"", "Tisch was the owner of a tobacco company, Lorilland, which was also the subject of a separate film highlighting corporate and mainstream media corruption.", "Tisch was the owner of CBS who also owned a tobacco company that conducted business with the tobacco company featured in the film.", "Tisch owned CBS, so the film's portrayal of CBS' involvement in the whistleblower case should be taken with a grain of salt." ], [ "He only analyzes their characters' actions specifically in relation to the male lead's actions.", "He discusses sex scenes from both films involving the two actresses.", "He objectifies their bodies before praising their acting skills.", "He believes both actresses do incredible work making their characters believable." ] ]	[ -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1 ]	[ 0, 0, 0, 1, 0, 0, 1, 1, 0 ]	[ [ "Is there a less savory subgenre than the hardcore forensics thriller? A corpse is discovered in a grotesque state of mutilation, then the scene shifts to an autopsy room where skulls are popped off and innards held up for inspection. A short time later, detectives pore over glossies of fatal wounds. Yummy. In The Bone Collector , the wily serial killer leaves clues for the brainy forensics expert, played by Denzel Washington--clues that amount to a forensics jigsaw puzzle. If Washington solves the puzzle fast enough, he has a shot at saving the latest manacled and tortured victim; if not, he has to scour the gore-drenched death scene for clues to the next murder. Yummy yummy. One fact quickly becomes apparent: \"The perp knows forensics,\" murmurs Washington. Yummy yummy yummy.", "The Bone Collector is less rancid than the last big serial-killer-fetishist picture, Copycat (1995), and it's expertly shot", "you?\") The only aspect of The Bone Collector that can't be derided is Washington. The option of walking through the part clearly not available to him, he doesn't sleep through it either: Every muscle in this man's ruined body seems", "dispatches his new protégé to grisly crime scenes, purring into her headphones and demanding to know what she sees. Better than phone sex! He says, \"I want to know what you feel in the deepest recesses of your senses,\" and", "of exploitive schlock. A mediocre mystery, too: It never approaches the ingenuity of Thomas Harris, still the maestro of forensic porn. For some reason, Noyce telegraphs the identity of the killer halfway through (does he mean to? Or does", "have it, they're attached to a very good pair of legs and a great pair of breasts. Angelina Jolie plays the cop who discovers a body and snaps some photos that convince Washington she has a \"gift\" for forensics. He", "play a beat cop. Those tire-tread lips are model lips; those exquisitely chiseled cheekbones, model cheekbones. Washington scans her file on his fancy bedside computer: Guess what? She was a teen-age model! Clever save!", "the hammy framing give it away by accident?), but it's left to the laughably garish climax for the wacko to spell out his/her arbitrary motive. (The killer's lines are on the level of: \"You think I'm m-m-mad, don't", "insolently feminine lashes this side of Bugs Bunny. Weird or not, though, he's a celebrity: He exists. And Malkovich makes a wonderful Malkovich. The actor sends up his own preening aloofness, and he has never been more emotionally", "\"Follow the instincts you were born with. ... Process the body.\" I was thinking that she could process my body anytime, but Jolie rises above such adolescent spasms. Well, almost. She's a thoughtful actress, but she wasn't born to", "and edited. Phillip Noyce, the director, and Dean Semler, the cinematographer, cook up some eerily muzzy images inside the brackish tunnels and abandoned warehouses where the fiend does his/her demented surgery. But the film is still a piece", "has been stunted--is the first sign of the movie's comic astuteness, of its knack for devising sight gags with a sting. When a sleek and derisive colleague named Maxine (Catherine Keener) rebuffs his advances and mocks his art,", "to be Craig's nerdily frazzled wife, Lotte (Cameron Diaz), who sums up the thrill for the rest of the characters. \"Being inside did something to me,\" she says. \"I knew who I was.\"", "disgorges him, after 20 minutes, into a ditch beside the New Jersey Turnpike. The poor sap can't keep his secret. He tells the girl, who is soon selling tickets to the Malkovich experience. The biggest Malkovich addict turns out", "exposed than when it dawns on him that his smug façade has been literally penetrated. When he attempts to fathom what's happening to him, Jonze and Kaufman deliver a coup de cinema --a vision of hell that isn't, à la", "B eing John Malkovich should have ended right there, since the filmmakers never top that hysterical sequence. Kaufman seems to have written himself into a corner. In the last half-hour he ties things up too neatly and the craziness--and some of the helium--goes out of the movie. Why do crazy comedies need closure? As Cusack's character becomes more twisted, he loses his stature (and the audience's good will), and the climax has too many dissonances. Kaufman and Jonze end up sentimentalizing the longing for a collective consciousness in a way I found creepy: Do they mean to be retelling Invasion of the Body Snatchers from the body-snatchers' point of view? (If so, the film is even darker than I think it is.)", "about being Bruce Willis or being Tom Hanks, but being John Malkovich? What's lodged under that thick brow is anybody's guess. Evidently quite the heterosexual, he still courts sexual ambiguity: He speaks in querulous tones and bats the most", "overlong, and rather unwieldy piece of storytelling, but the story it has to tell is so vital that it cuts through all the dramaturgical muddiness. It's a terrific muckraking melodrama--it will get people fuming. It's about big-business", "which responds to a death threat, carries off Wigand's computer while he sputters that it contains all his important data. The implication is that the local FBI office is in cahoots with Brown & Williamson, but we hear no more", "to strain against his fate while the wheels in his brain grind fiercely. He deserves a smarter psycho--a smarter movie, too." ], [ "B eing John Malkovich should have ended right there, since the filmmakers never top that hysterical sequence. Kaufman seems to have written himself into a corner. In the last half-hour he ties things up too neatly and the craziness--and some of the helium--goes out of the movie. Why do crazy comedies need closure? As Cusack's character becomes more twisted, he loses his stature (and the audience's good will), and the climax has too many dissonances. Kaufman and Jonze end up sentimentalizing the longing for a collective consciousness in a way I found creepy: Do they mean to be retelling Invasion of the Body Snatchers from the body-snatchers' point of view? (If so, the film is even darker than I think it is.)", "The last part diminishes the movie, but not enough to wreck it: It's still an amazing piece of work. What other madcap farce would dare to have a score--it's by the superb Carter Burwell--so plangent and melancholy? Or to cast that sunny goddess Cameron Diaz as a nerd? The actress retains her essential sweetness, but the transformation is otherwise remarkable: Her Lotte is such a mouth breather that she nearly drools, and Diaz manages to look estranged from that lovely body. Even more dazzling is Keener, an actress who has lately been stuck playing nice, sensible women but who here is all silken curves and withering putdowns--she greets Craig's declaration of love with a pitying sigh that brings the house down. Keener's Maxine is so glamorously, tantalizingly self-contained that you can almost believe she never dreams of being John Malkovich.", "Craig argues passionately on behalf of his puppets: He says that everyone longs to be inside someone else's head. On cue, he discovers a passageway behind a file cabinet that whooshes him into the head of Malkovich and then", "The director, Spike Jonze (he played the skinny redneck in Three Kings ), comes to Being John Malkovich from music videos, but the movie isn't a digitized bag of tricks like Fight", "disgorges him, after 20 minutes, into a ditch beside the New Jersey Turnpike. The poor sap can't keep his secret. He tells the girl, who is soon selling tickets to the Malkovich experience. The biggest Malkovich addict turns out", "Insiders and Way Insiders \n\n Being John Malkovich is everything I've ever dreamed of in a crazy comedy. It's close to pure farce, yet its laughs are grounded in loneliness, impotence, self-loathing, and that most discomfiting of vices to dramatize: envy. The action is surreal, the emotions are violently real. The screenwriter, Charlie Kaufman, is a genius at finding slapstick correlatives for people's nebulous sense--or non-sense--of themselves. It's possible that no one has ever come up with a more absurdly perfect metaphor for our longing to be someone--anyone--other than who we are than a portal into the head of John Malkovich.", "That the vessel is Malkovich might be the movie's most brilliantly unsettling touch, since the actor--although undeniably great--is one of our most distant and weirdly insular. You can understand the masses fantasizing", "Club . Jonze is never in your face: His instincts must have told him that hyping gags this outlandish would turn the picture into camp. He keeps the action slightly remote and the jokes deadpan, and the upshot is that the audience almost never stops giggling. The first hour and change has a magical fluidity. The scenes between Cusack and Keener boast the best emasculating banter since Christopher Durang's Beyond Therapy , and when Lotte and Maxine begin to communicate erotically through Malkovich's body, the film becomes a transsexual (and transcendental) screwball comedy. The script has a free-association quality that turns audiences on--they love not knowing where they're going. I wonder if Kaufman, when he started writing, even knew that the protagonist would stumble on that portal, or what he'd find when he went through. (The head of John Malkovich??!!??)", "Kaufman's protagonist, Craig Schwartz (John Cusack), is a soulfully unkempt puppeteer whose wildly ambitious work is ignored while his gimmicky rivals thrive. When he reports for a drudge job as a", "exposed than when it dawns on him that his smug façade has been literally penetrated. When he attempts to fathom what's happening to him, Jonze and Kaufman deliver a coup de cinema --a vision of hell that isn't, à la", "about being Bruce Willis or being Tom Hanks, but being John Malkovich? What's lodged under that thick brow is anybody's guess. Evidently quite the heterosexual, he still courts sexual ambiguity: He speaks in querulous tones and bats the most", "insolently feminine lashes this side of Bugs Bunny. Weird or not, though, he's a celebrity: He exists. And Malkovich makes a wonderful Malkovich. The actor sends up his own preening aloofness, and he has never been more emotionally", "the hammy framing give it away by accident?), but it's left to the laughably garish climax for the wacko to spell out his/her arbitrary motive. (The killer's lines are on the level of: \"You think I'm m-m-mad, don't", "The director, Michael Mann, has never tried to tell a story as complex (or nonviolent) as The Insider , and he and his co-screenwriter, Eric Roth, don't shape their narrative very satisfyingly. Wigand and Bergman are both \"insiders,\" and both, ultimately, whistle-blowers. (It was Bergman's spilling his guts to the New York Times that finally shamed CBS into running the Wigand interview.) But although the 60 Minutes producer is played by the star (Pacino grandstands, but not to the point of distraction), Bergman's story doesn't have the same primal force. Wigand's dark night of the soul is in a hotel, indicted, financially ruined, threatened with death, minus his wife and daughters; Bergman's is in an expensive-looking beach house with his warmly supportive spouse (Lindsay Crouse).", "to be Craig's nerdily frazzled wife, Lotte (Cameron Diaz), who sums up the thrill for the rest of the characters. \"Being inside did something to me,\" she says. \"I knew who I was.\"", "overlong, and rather unwieldy piece of storytelling, but the story it has to tell is so vital that it cuts through all the dramaturgical muddiness. It's a terrific muckraking melodrama--it will get people fuming. It's about big-business", "Should Mike Wallace be pissed off? Depends what really happened. In a delicious turn, Christopher Plummer makes the co-anchor less a journalist than a pompous prima donna, but he also gives him a bullying force and real charisma. It's not Wallace's initial caving-in to the network--\"I'm with Don on this,\" he tells Bergman--that does him the most damage. It's the scene in a posh restaurant in which Wallace regards the Wigands' paroxysms of fear over the coming 60 Minutes interview with aristocratic contempt. He says, \"Who are these people?\"--which opens the door for Bergman's too-pat rebuke: \"Ordinary people under extraordinary circumstances, Mike. What do you expect? Grace and consistency?\" It's Wallace's lack of interest in Wigand's story--the movie's most powerful--that damns him in the audience's eyes.", "about it; we never even know if Wigand got his computer back. And there's no dramatic payoff with the chillingly satanic tobacco company president (Michael Gambon) whose threats first make Wigand think about going public. Given how many lawyers must", "of exploitive schlock. A mediocre mystery, too: It never approaches the ingenuity of Thomas Harris, still the maestro of forensic porn. For some reason, Noyce telegraphs the identity of the killer halfway through (does he mean to? Or does", "has been stunted--is the first sign of the movie's comic astuteness, of its knack for devising sight gags with a sting. When a sleek and derisive colleague named Maxine (Catherine Keener) rebuffs his advances and mocks his art," ], [ "That the vessel is Malkovich might be the movie's most brilliantly unsettling touch, since the actor--although undeniably great--is one of our most distant and weirdly insular. You can understand the masses fantasizing", "Insiders and Way Insiders \n\n Being John Malkovich is everything I've ever dreamed of in a crazy comedy. It's close to pure farce, yet its laughs are grounded in loneliness, impotence, self-loathing, and that most discomfiting of vices to dramatize: envy. The action is surreal, the emotions are violently real. The screenwriter, Charlie Kaufman, is a genius at finding slapstick correlatives for people's nebulous sense--or non-sense--of themselves. It's possible that no one has ever come up with a more absurdly perfect metaphor for our longing to be someone--anyone--other than who we are than a portal into the head of John Malkovich.", "B eing John Malkovich should have ended right there, since the filmmakers never top that hysterical sequence. Kaufman seems to have written himself into a corner. In the last half-hour he ties things up too neatly and the craziness--and some of the helium--goes out of the movie. Why do crazy comedies need closure? As Cusack's character becomes more twisted, he loses his stature (and the audience's good will), and the climax has too many dissonances. Kaufman and Jonze end up sentimentalizing the longing for a collective consciousness in a way I found creepy: Do they mean to be retelling Invasion of the Body Snatchers from the body-snatchers' point of view? (If so, the film is even darker than I think it is.)", "Craig argues passionately on behalf of his puppets: He says that everyone longs to be inside someone else's head. On cue, he discovers a passageway behind a file cabinet that whooshes him into the head of Malkovich and then", "about being Bruce Willis or being Tom Hanks, but being John Malkovich? What's lodged under that thick brow is anybody's guess. Evidently quite the heterosexual, he still courts sexual ambiguity: He speaks in querulous tones and bats the most", "Club . Jonze is never in your face: His instincts must have told him that hyping gags this outlandish would turn the picture into camp. He keeps the action slightly remote and the jokes deadpan, and the upshot is that the audience almost never stops giggling. The first hour and change has a magical fluidity. The scenes between Cusack and Keener boast the best emasculating banter since Christopher Durang's Beyond Therapy , and when Lotte and Maxine begin to communicate erotically through Malkovich's body, the film becomes a transsexual (and transcendental) screwball comedy. The script has a free-association quality that turns audiences on--they love not knowing where they're going. I wonder if Kaufman, when he started writing, even knew that the protagonist would stumble on that portal, or what he'd find when he went through. (The head of John Malkovich??!!??)", "Kaufman's protagonist, Craig Schwartz (John Cusack), is a soulfully unkempt puppeteer whose wildly ambitious work is ignored while his gimmicky rivals thrive. When he reports for a drudge job as a", "insolently feminine lashes this side of Bugs Bunny. Weird or not, though, he's a celebrity: He exists. And Malkovich makes a wonderful Malkovich. The actor sends up his own preening aloofness, and he has never been more emotionally", "The director, Spike Jonze (he played the skinny redneck in Three Kings ), comes to Being John Malkovich from music videos, but the movie isn't a digitized bag of tricks like Fight", "The last part diminishes the movie, but not enough to wreck it: It's still an amazing piece of work. What other madcap farce would dare to have a score--it's by the superb Carter Burwell--so plangent and melancholy? Or to cast that sunny goddess Cameron Diaz as a nerd? The actress retains her essential sweetness, but the transformation is otherwise remarkable: Her Lotte is such a mouth breather that she nearly drools, and Diaz manages to look estranged from that lovely body. Even more dazzling is Keener, an actress who has lately been stuck playing nice, sensible women but who here is all silken curves and withering putdowns--she greets Craig's declaration of love with a pitying sigh that brings the house down. Keener's Maxine is so glamorously, tantalizingly self-contained that you can almost believe she never dreams of being John Malkovich.", "disgorges him, after 20 minutes, into a ditch beside the New Jersey Turnpike. The poor sap can't keep his secret. He tells the girl, who is soon selling tickets to the Malkovich experience. The biggest Malkovich addict turns out", "exposed than when it dawns on him that his smug façade has been literally penetrated. When he attempts to fathom what's happening to him, Jonze and Kaufman deliver a coup de cinema --a vision of hell that isn't, à la", "But the movie's emotional hook isn't the CBS infighting or Bergman's quest to get the story. It's the fate of Wigand, played by Crowe as a prickly, blockish fellow with no social skills--an edgy wonk. Already isolated by temperament, he seems more vulnerable than a conventionally nice martyr. Wigand appears to have no friends, and his wife (a nearly unrecognizable Diane Venora), a Southern debutante type who clearly didn't bargain for a life of social and financial ostracization, is on the verge of bailing out on him even before the bullets start appearing in the family's mailbox and the death threats on Wigand's computer. You can't always tell what Crowe is doing--his opacity is sometimes a little too opaque. What's plain, though, is that Wigand doesn't want to have this role, didn't ask for it, and has no support system to get him through it. He's entirely dependent on Bergman, with whom he mostly communicates by cell phone and fax.", "to be Craig's nerdily frazzled wife, Lotte (Cameron Diaz), who sums up the thrill for the rest of the characters. \"Being inside did something to me,\" she says. \"I knew who I was.\"", "has been stunted--is the first sign of the movie's comic astuteness, of its knack for devising sight gags with a sting. When a sleek and derisive colleague named Maxine (Catherine Keener) rebuffs his advances and mocks his art,", "The Insider doesn't note a couple of key, maybe hopeful ironies. The first is that CBS's \"spiking\" of the interview turned Wigand into an even bigger story than he would have been otherwise. And in the \"Where are they now?\" titles at the end, the filmmakers omit the most important detail of Bergman's and Wigand's current lives: that they're being played by Al Pacino and Russell Crowe in a major Hollywood movie, and that they're big news again.", "The director, Michael Mann, has never tried to tell a story as complex (or nonviolent) as The Insider , and he and his co-screenwriter, Eric Roth, don't shape their narrative very satisfyingly. Wigand and Bergman are both \"insiders,\" and both, ultimately, whistle-blowers. (It was Bergman's spilling his guts to the New York Times that finally shamed CBS into running the Wigand interview.) But although the 60 Minutes producer is played by the star (Pacino grandstands, but not to the point of distraction), Bergman's story doesn't have the same primal force. Wigand's dark night of the soul is in a hotel, indicted, financially ruined, threatened with death, minus his wife and daughters; Bergman's is in an expensive-looking beach house with his warmly supportive spouse (Lindsay Crouse).", "Should Mike Wallace be pissed off? Depends what really happened. In a delicious turn, Christopher Plummer makes the co-anchor less a journalist than a pompous prima donna, but he also gives him a bullying force and real charisma. It's not Wallace's initial caving-in to the network--\"I'm with Don on this,\" he tells Bergman--that does him the most damage. It's the scene in a posh restaurant in which Wallace regards the Wigands' paroxysms of fear over the coming 60 Minutes interview with aristocratic contempt. He says, \"Who are these people?\"--which opens the door for Bergman's too-pat rebuke: \"Ordinary people under extraordinary circumstances, Mike. What do you expect? Grace and consistency?\" It's Wallace's lack of interest in Wigand's story--the movie's most powerful--that damns him in the audience's eyes.", "their testimonies in Congress, Wigand says, tobacco executives regard cigarettes as \"a nicotine delivery system.\") The second story concerns the 60 Minutes producer Lowell Bergman (Al Pacino), the man who persuaded Wigand to come forward. Bergman watches in horror", "The filmmakers seem to be bending over backward--even now--to protect Wigand from appearing to have disclosed what he disclosed too early. I admire their consideration for their subject, but in its wake come" ], [ "The director, Michael Mann, has never tried to tell a story as complex (or nonviolent) as The Insider , and he and his co-screenwriter, Eric Roth, don't shape their narrative very satisfyingly. Wigand and Bergman are both \"insiders,\" and both, ultimately, whistle-blowers. (It was Bergman's spilling his guts to the New York Times that finally shamed CBS into running the Wigand interview.) But although the 60 Minutes producer is played by the star (Pacino grandstands, but not to the point of distraction), Bergman's story doesn't have the same primal force. Wigand's dark night of the soul is in a hotel, indicted, financially ruined, threatened with death, minus his wife and daughters; Bergman's is in an expensive-looking beach house with his warmly supportive spouse (Lindsay Crouse).", "The Insider doesn't note a couple of key, maybe hopeful ironies. The first is that CBS's \"spiking\" of the interview turned Wigand into an even bigger story than he would have been otherwise. And in the \"Where are they now?\" titles at the end, the filmmakers omit the most important detail of Bergman's and Wigand's current lives: that they're being played by Al Pacino and Russell Crowe in a major Hollywood movie, and that they're big news again.", "We're used to hearing tales of witnesses, informants, or whistle-blowers who are urged to come forward and then, after they do, are \"hung out to dry\"--i.e., left unprotected by the agents who approached and exploited them. What gives this version its kick--and what has made it fodder for columnists for almost six months--is that the people who betray the whistle-blower are among the most famous and powerful journalists in America: Mike Wallace and Don Hewitt, the co-anchor and the executive producer of 60 Minutes . If they could be pressured to \"spike\" a segment that they knew to be true, the film implicitly asks, how much chance do others have of breaking stories about corporate wrongdoing? And what about news personnel with a financial stake in their companies? Even journalists and editors known for their integrity tend to look the other way at their own companies' malfeasances when they hear words like \"stock options\" and \"IPO.\"", "Should Mike Wallace be pissed off? Depends what really happened. In a delicious turn, Christopher Plummer makes the co-anchor less a journalist than a pompous prima donna, but he also gives him a bullying force and real charisma. It's not Wallace's initial caving-in to the network--\"I'm with Don on this,\" he tells Bergman--that does him the most damage. It's the scene in a posh restaurant in which Wallace regards the Wigands' paroxysms of fear over the coming 60 Minutes interview with aristocratic contempt. He says, \"Who are these people?\"--which opens the door for Bergman's too-pat rebuke: \"Ordinary people under extraordinary circumstances, Mike. What do you expect? Grace and consistency?\" It's Wallace's lack of interest in Wigand's story--the movie's most powerful--that damns him in the audience's eyes.", "their testimonies in Congress, Wigand says, tobacco executives regard cigarettes as \"a nicotine delivery system.\") The second story concerns the 60 Minutes producer Lowell Bergman (Al Pacino), the man who persuaded Wigand to come forward. Bergman watches in horror", "The filmmakers seem to be bending over backward--even now--to protect Wigand from appearing to have disclosed what he disclosed too early. I admire their consideration for their subject, but in its wake come", "overlong, and rather unwieldy piece of storytelling, but the story it has to tell is so vital that it cuts through all the dramaturgical muddiness. It's a terrific muckraking melodrama--it will get people fuming. It's about big-business", "left vague just when Bergman decided that Wigand was important not for what he might say about that report but about the industry as a whole. Mann must have had legal constraints that rivaled those at 60 Minutes . The FBI,", "Wigand (Russell Crowe), former vice president for research and development at the Brown & Williamson tobacco company, who is persuaded to go public with revelations about how cigarette manufacturers manipulate the chemicals in their product for maximum addictiveness. (Despite", "But the movie's emotional hook isn't the CBS infighting or Bergman's quest to get the story. It's the fate of Wigand, played by Crowe as a prickly, blockish fellow with no social skills--an edgy wonk. Already isolated by temperament, he seems more vulnerable than a conventionally nice martyr. Wigand appears to have no friends, and his wife (a nearly unrecognizable Diane Venora), a Southern debutante type who clearly didn't bargain for a life of social and financial ostracization, is on the verge of bailing out on him even before the bullets start appearing in the family's mailbox and the death threats on Wigand's computer. You can't always tell what Crowe is doing--his opacity is sometimes a little too opaque. What's plain, though, is that Wigand doesn't want to have this role, didn't ask for it, and has no support system to get him through it. He's entirely dependent on Bergman, with whom he mostly communicates by cell phone and fax.", "about it; we never even know if Wigand got his computer back. And there's no dramatic payoff with the chillingly satanic tobacco company president (Michael Gambon) whose threats first make Wigand think about going public. Given how many lawyers must", "mendacity and the lawyers who do its bidding, and about what happens to corporate whistle-blowers in a society where the mainstream media are also in the hands of corporations. The movie tells two interlocking stories: The first is about Jeffrey", "T he Insider is a big,", "which responds to a death threat, carries off Wigand's computer while he sputters that it contains all his important data. The implication is that the local FBI office is in cahoots with Brown & Williamson, but we hear no more", "as his network, CBS, backs away from the story under pressure from the corporate wing--which fears, at a time when CBS is on the block, the impact of a major lawsuit on its value. (Oddly unmentioned in the film is that", "all kinds of narrative fuzziness. The movie isn't clear on where the secret report that kicked off Bergman's interest in tobacco came from, or who in the FDA thought it was a good idea to turn him onto Wigand. It's", "Insiders and Way Insiders \n\n Being John Malkovich is everything I've ever dreamed of in a crazy comedy. It's close to pure farce, yet its laughs are grounded in loneliness, impotence, self-loathing, and that most discomfiting of vices to dramatize: envy. The action is surreal, the emotions are violently real. The screenwriter, Charlie Kaufman, is a genius at finding slapstick correlatives for people's nebulous sense--or non-sense--of themselves. It's possible that no one has ever come up with a more absurdly perfect metaphor for our longing to be someone--anyone--other than who we are than a portal into the head of John Malkovich.", "Craig argues passionately on behalf of his puppets: He says that everyone longs to be inside someone else's head. On cue, he discovers a passageway behind a file cabinet that whooshes him into the head of Malkovich and then", "exposed than when it dawns on him that his smug façade has been literally penetrated. When he attempts to fathom what's happening to him, Jonze and Kaufman deliver a coup de cinema --a vision of hell that isn't, à la", "to strain against his fate while the wheels in his brain grind fiercely. He deserves a smarter psycho--a smarter movie, too." ], [ "The Bone Collector is less rancid than the last big serial-killer-fetishist picture, Copycat (1995), and it's expertly shot", "Is there a less savory subgenre than the hardcore forensics thriller? A corpse is discovered in a grotesque state of mutilation, then the scene shifts to an autopsy room where skulls are popped off and innards held up for inspection. A short time later, detectives pore over glossies of fatal wounds. Yummy. In The Bone Collector , the wily serial killer leaves clues for the brainy forensics expert, played by Denzel Washington--clues that amount to a forensics jigsaw puzzle. If Washington solves the puzzle fast enough, he has a shot at saving the latest manacled and tortured victim; if not, he has to scour the gore-drenched death scene for clues to the next murder. Yummy yummy. One fact quickly becomes apparent: \"The perp knows forensics,\" murmurs Washington. Yummy yummy yummy.", "you?\") The only aspect of The Bone Collector that can't be derided is Washington. The option of walking through the part clearly not available to him, he doesn't sleep through it either: Every muscle in this man's ruined body seems", "of exploitive schlock. A mediocre mystery, too: It never approaches the ingenuity of Thomas Harris, still the maestro of forensic porn. For some reason, Noyce telegraphs the identity of the killer halfway through (does he mean to? Or does", "have it, they're attached to a very good pair of legs and a great pair of breasts. Angelina Jolie plays the cop who discovers a body and snaps some photos that convince Washington she has a \"gift\" for forensics. He", "dispatches his new protégé to grisly crime scenes, purring into her headphones and demanding to know what she sees. Better than phone sex! He says, \"I want to know what you feel in the deepest recesses of your senses,\" and", "play a beat cop. Those tire-tread lips are model lips; those exquisitely chiseled cheekbones, model cheekbones. Washington scans her file on his fancy bedside computer: Guess what? She was a teen-age model! Clever save!", "The rub is that Washington is a quadriplegic. He can't \"walk the grid\"--he needs a pair of eyes as sensitive as his but attached to a good pair of legs. As luck would", "the hammy framing give it away by accident?), but it's left to the laughably garish climax for the wacko to spell out his/her arbitrary motive. (The killer's lines are on the level of: \"You think I'm m-m-mad, don't", "The last part diminishes the movie, but not enough to wreck it: It's still an amazing piece of work. What other madcap farce would dare to have a score--it's by the superb Carter Burwell--so plangent and melancholy? Or to cast that sunny goddess Cameron Diaz as a nerd? The actress retains her essential sweetness, but the transformation is otherwise remarkable: Her Lotte is such a mouth breather that she nearly drools, and Diaz manages to look estranged from that lovely body. Even more dazzling is Keener, an actress who has lately been stuck playing nice, sensible women but who here is all silken curves and withering putdowns--she greets Craig's declaration of love with a pitying sigh that brings the house down. Keener's Maxine is so glamorously, tantalizingly self-contained that you can almost believe she never dreams of being John Malkovich.", "to strain against his fate while the wheels in his brain grind fiercely. He deserves a smarter psycho--a smarter movie, too.", "The director, Michael Mann, has never tried to tell a story as complex (or nonviolent) as The Insider , and he and his co-screenwriter, Eric Roth, don't shape their narrative very satisfyingly. Wigand and Bergman are both \"insiders,\" and both, ultimately, whistle-blowers. (It was Bergman's spilling his guts to the New York Times that finally shamed CBS into running the Wigand interview.) But although the 60 Minutes producer is played by the star (Pacino grandstands, but not to the point of distraction), Bergman's story doesn't have the same primal force. Wigand's dark night of the soul is in a hotel, indicted, financially ruined, threatened with death, minus his wife and daughters; Bergman's is in an expensive-looking beach house with his warmly supportive spouse (Lindsay Crouse).", "and edited. Phillip Noyce, the director, and Dean Semler, the cinematographer, cook up some eerily muzzy images inside the brackish tunnels and abandoned warehouses where the fiend does his/her demented surgery. But the film is still a piece", "overlong, and rather unwieldy piece of storytelling, but the story it has to tell is so vital that it cuts through all the dramaturgical muddiness. It's a terrific muckraking melodrama--it will get people fuming. It's about big-business", "B eing John Malkovich should have ended right there, since the filmmakers never top that hysterical sequence. Kaufman seems to have written himself into a corner. In the last half-hour he ties things up too neatly and the craziness--and some of the helium--goes out of the movie. Why do crazy comedies need closure? As Cusack's character becomes more twisted, he loses his stature (and the audience's good will), and the climax has too many dissonances. Kaufman and Jonze end up sentimentalizing the longing for a collective consciousness in a way I found creepy: Do they mean to be retelling Invasion of the Body Snatchers from the body-snatchers' point of view? (If so, the film is even darker than I think it is.)", "exposed than when it dawns on him that his smug façade has been literally penetrated. When he attempts to fathom what's happening to him, Jonze and Kaufman deliver a coup de cinema --a vision of hell that isn't, à la", "But the movie's emotional hook isn't the CBS infighting or Bergman's quest to get the story. It's the fate of Wigand, played by Crowe as a prickly, blockish fellow with no social skills--an edgy wonk. Already isolated by temperament, he seems more vulnerable than a conventionally nice martyr. Wigand appears to have no friends, and his wife (a nearly unrecognizable Diane Venora), a Southern debutante type who clearly didn't bargain for a life of social and financial ostracization, is on the verge of bailing out on him even before the bullets start appearing in the family's mailbox and the death threats on Wigand's computer. You can't always tell what Crowe is doing--his opacity is sometimes a little too opaque. What's plain, though, is that Wigand doesn't want to have this role, didn't ask for it, and has no support system to get him through it. He's entirely dependent on Bergman, with whom he mostly communicates by cell phone and fax.", "which responds to a death threat, carries off Wigand's computer while he sputters that it contains all his important data. The implication is that the local FBI office is in cahoots with Brown & Williamson, but we hear no more", "The filmmakers seem to be bending over backward--even now--to protect Wigand from appearing to have disclosed what he disclosed too early. I admire their consideration for their subject, but in its wake come", "has been stunted--is the first sign of the movie's comic astuteness, of its knack for devising sight gags with a sting. When a sleek and derisive colleague named Maxine (Catherine Keener) rebuffs his advances and mocks his art," ], [ "left vague just when Bergman decided that Wigand was important not for what he might say about that report but about the industry as a whole. Mann must have had legal constraints that rivaled those at 60 Minutes . The FBI,", "have vetted this thing, it's probably an achievement that Mann got as much as he did on the screen.", "The filmmakers seem to be bending over backward--even now--to protect Wigand from appearing to have disclosed what he disclosed too early. I admire their consideration for their subject, but in its wake come", "as his network, CBS, backs away from the story under pressure from the corporate wing--which fears, at a time when CBS is on the block, the impact of a major lawsuit on its value. (Oddly unmentioned in the film is that", "overlong, and rather unwieldy piece of storytelling, but the story it has to tell is so vital that it cuts through all the dramaturgical muddiness. It's a terrific muckraking melodrama--it will get people fuming. It's about big-business", "about it; we never even know if Wigand got his computer back. And there's no dramatic payoff with the chillingly satanic tobacco company president (Michael Gambon) whose threats first make Wigand think about going public. Given how many lawyers must", "The director, Michael Mann, has never tried to tell a story as complex (or nonviolent) as The Insider , and he and his co-screenwriter, Eric Roth, don't shape their narrative very satisfyingly. Wigand and Bergman are both \"insiders,\" and both, ultimately, whistle-blowers. (It was Bergman's spilling his guts to the New York Times that finally shamed CBS into running the Wigand interview.) But although the 60 Minutes producer is played by the star (Pacino grandstands, but not to the point of distraction), Bergman's story doesn't have the same primal force. Wigand's dark night of the soul is in a hotel, indicted, financially ruined, threatened with death, minus his wife and daughters; Bergman's is in an expensive-looking beach house with his warmly supportive spouse (Lindsay Crouse).", "to strain against his fate while the wheels in his brain grind fiercely. He deserves a smarter psycho--a smarter movie, too.", "We're used to hearing tales of witnesses, informants, or whistle-blowers who are urged to come forward and then, after they do, are \"hung out to dry\"--i.e., left unprotected by the agents who approached and exploited them. What gives this version its kick--and what has made it fodder for columnists for almost six months--is that the people who betray the whistle-blower are among the most famous and powerful journalists in America: Mike Wallace and Don Hewitt, the co-anchor and the executive producer of 60 Minutes . If they could be pressured to \"spike\" a segment that they knew to be true, the film implicitly asks, how much chance do others have of breaking stories about corporate wrongdoing? And what about news personnel with a financial stake in their companies? Even journalists and editors known for their integrity tend to look the other way at their own companies' malfeasances when they hear words like \"stock options\" and \"IPO.\"", "mendacity and the lawyers who do its bidding, and about what happens to corporate whistle-blowers in a society where the mainstream media are also in the hands of corporations. The movie tells two interlocking stories: The first is about Jeffrey", "all kinds of narrative fuzziness. The movie isn't clear on where the secret report that kicked off Bergman's interest in tobacco came from, or who in the FDA thought it was a good idea to turn him onto Wigand. It's", "of exploitive schlock. A mediocre mystery, too: It never approaches the ingenuity of Thomas Harris, still the maestro of forensic porn. For some reason, Noyce telegraphs the identity of the killer halfway through (does he mean to? Or does", "B eing John Malkovich should have ended right there, since the filmmakers never top that hysterical sequence. Kaufman seems to have written himself into a corner. In the last half-hour he ties things up too neatly and the craziness--and some of the helium--goes out of the movie. Why do crazy comedies need closure? As Cusack's character becomes more twisted, he loses his stature (and the audience's good will), and the climax has too many dissonances. Kaufman and Jonze end up sentimentalizing the longing for a collective consciousness in a way I found creepy: Do they mean to be retelling Invasion of the Body Snatchers from the body-snatchers' point of view? (If so, the film is even darker than I think it is.)", "Should Mike Wallace be pissed off? Depends what really happened. In a delicious turn, Christopher Plummer makes the co-anchor less a journalist than a pompous prima donna, but he also gives him a bullying force and real charisma. It's not Wallace's initial caving-in to the network--\"I'm with Don on this,\" he tells Bergman--that does him the most damage. It's the scene in a posh restaurant in which Wallace regards the Wigands' paroxysms of fear over the coming 60 Minutes interview with aristocratic contempt. He says, \"Who are these people?\"--which opens the door for Bergman's too-pat rebuke: \"Ordinary people under extraordinary circumstances, Mike. What do you expect? Grace and consistency?\" It's Wallace's lack of interest in Wigand's story--the movie's most powerful--that damns him in the audience's eyes.", "which responds to a death threat, carries off Wigand's computer while he sputters that it contains all his important data. The implication is that the local FBI office is in cahoots with Brown & Williamson, but we hear no more", "the hammy framing give it away by accident?), but it's left to the laughably garish climax for the wacko to spell out his/her arbitrary motive. (The killer's lines are on the level of: \"You think I'm m-m-mad, don't", "The Insider doesn't note a couple of key, maybe hopeful ironies. The first is that CBS's \"spiking\" of the interview turned Wigand into an even bigger story than he would have been otherwise. And in the \"Where are they now?\" titles at the end, the filmmakers omit the most important detail of Bergman's and Wigand's current lives: that they're being played by Al Pacino and Russell Crowe in a major Hollywood movie, and that they're big news again.", "then-owner Lawrence Tisch had his own tobacco company, Lorillard, and had separate dealings with Brown & Williamson.)", "exposed than when it dawns on him that his smug façade has been literally penetrated. When he attempts to fathom what's happening to him, Jonze and Kaufman deliver a coup de cinema --a vision of hell that isn't, à la", "you?\") The only aspect of The Bone Collector that can't be derided is Washington. The option of walking through the part clearly not available to him, he doesn't sleep through it either: Every muscle in this man's ruined body seems" ], [ "Craig argues passionately on behalf of his puppets: He says that everyone longs to be inside someone else's head. On cue, he discovers a passageway behind a file cabinet that whooshes him into the head of Malkovich and then", "B eing John Malkovich should have ended right there, since the filmmakers never top that hysterical sequence. Kaufman seems to have written himself into a corner. In the last half-hour he ties things up too neatly and the craziness--and some of the helium--goes out of the movie. Why do crazy comedies need closure? As Cusack's character becomes more twisted, he loses his stature (and the audience's good will), and the climax has too many dissonances. Kaufman and Jonze end up sentimentalizing the longing for a collective consciousness in a way I found creepy: Do they mean to be retelling Invasion of the Body Snatchers from the body-snatchers' point of view? (If so, the film is even darker than I think it is.)", "Insiders and Way Insiders \n\n Being John Malkovich is everything I've ever dreamed of in a crazy comedy. It's close to pure farce, yet its laughs are grounded in loneliness, impotence, self-loathing, and that most discomfiting of vices to dramatize: envy. The action is surreal, the emotions are violently real. The screenwriter, Charlie Kaufman, is a genius at finding slapstick correlatives for people's nebulous sense--or non-sense--of themselves. It's possible that no one has ever come up with a more absurdly perfect metaphor for our longing to be someone--anyone--other than who we are than a portal into the head of John Malkovich.", "That the vessel is Malkovich might be the movie's most brilliantly unsettling touch, since the actor--although undeniably great--is one of our most distant and weirdly insular. You can understand the masses fantasizing", "The director, Spike Jonze (he played the skinny redneck in Three Kings ), comes to Being John Malkovich from music videos, but the movie isn't a digitized bag of tricks like Fight", "Kaufman's protagonist, Craig Schwartz (John Cusack), is a soulfully unkempt puppeteer whose wildly ambitious work is ignored while his gimmicky rivals thrive. When he reports for a drudge job as a", "about being Bruce Willis or being Tom Hanks, but being John Malkovich? What's lodged under that thick brow is anybody's guess. Evidently quite the heterosexual, he still courts sexual ambiguity: He speaks in querulous tones and bats the most", "exposed than when it dawns on him that his smug façade has been literally penetrated. When he attempts to fathom what's happening to him, Jonze and Kaufman deliver a coup de cinema --a vision of hell that isn't, à la", "disgorges him, after 20 minutes, into a ditch beside the New Jersey Turnpike. The poor sap can't keep his secret. He tells the girl, who is soon selling tickets to the Malkovich experience. The biggest Malkovich addict turns out", "Club . Jonze is never in your face: His instincts must have told him that hyping gags this outlandish would turn the picture into camp. He keeps the action slightly remote and the jokes deadpan, and the upshot is that the audience almost never stops giggling. The first hour and change has a magical fluidity. The scenes between Cusack and Keener boast the best emasculating banter since Christopher Durang's Beyond Therapy , and when Lotte and Maxine begin to communicate erotically through Malkovich's body, the film becomes a transsexual (and transcendental) screwball comedy. The script has a free-association quality that turns audiences on--they love not knowing where they're going. I wonder if Kaufman, when he started writing, even knew that the protagonist would stumble on that portal, or what he'd find when he went through. (The head of John Malkovich??!!??)", "The last part diminishes the movie, but not enough to wreck it: It's still an amazing piece of work. What other madcap farce would dare to have a score--it's by the superb Carter Burwell--so plangent and melancholy? Or to cast that sunny goddess Cameron Diaz as a nerd? The actress retains her essential sweetness, but the transformation is otherwise remarkable: Her Lotte is such a mouth breather that she nearly drools, and Diaz manages to look estranged from that lovely body. Even more dazzling is Keener, an actress who has lately been stuck playing nice, sensible women but who here is all silken curves and withering putdowns--she greets Craig's declaration of love with a pitying sigh that brings the house down. Keener's Maxine is so glamorously, tantalizingly self-contained that you can almost believe she never dreams of being John Malkovich.", "insolently feminine lashes this side of Bugs Bunny. Weird or not, though, he's a celebrity: He exists. And Malkovich makes a wonderful Malkovich. The actor sends up his own preening aloofness, and he has never been more emotionally", "to be Craig's nerdily frazzled wife, Lotte (Cameron Diaz), who sums up the thrill for the rest of the characters. \"Being inside did something to me,\" she says. \"I knew who I was.\"", "But the movie's emotional hook isn't the CBS infighting or Bergman's quest to get the story. It's the fate of Wigand, played by Crowe as a prickly, blockish fellow with no social skills--an edgy wonk. Already isolated by temperament, he seems more vulnerable than a conventionally nice martyr. Wigand appears to have no friends, and his wife (a nearly unrecognizable Diane Venora), a Southern debutante type who clearly didn't bargain for a life of social and financial ostracization, is on the verge of bailing out on him even before the bullets start appearing in the family's mailbox and the death threats on Wigand's computer. You can't always tell what Crowe is doing--his opacity is sometimes a little too opaque. What's plain, though, is that Wigand doesn't want to have this role, didn't ask for it, and has no support system to get him through it. He's entirely dependent on Bergman, with whom he mostly communicates by cell phone and fax.", "The director, Michael Mann, has never tried to tell a story as complex (or nonviolent) as The Insider , and he and his co-screenwriter, Eric Roth, don't shape their narrative very satisfyingly. Wigand and Bergman are both \"insiders,\" and both, ultimately, whistle-blowers. (It was Bergman's spilling his guts to the New York Times that finally shamed CBS into running the Wigand interview.) But although the 60 Minutes producer is played by the star (Pacino grandstands, but not to the point of distraction), Bergman's story doesn't have the same primal force. Wigand's dark night of the soul is in a hotel, indicted, financially ruined, threatened with death, minus his wife and daughters; Bergman's is in an expensive-looking beach house with his warmly supportive spouse (Lindsay Crouse).", "their testimonies in Congress, Wigand says, tobacco executives regard cigarettes as \"a nicotine delivery system.\") The second story concerns the 60 Minutes producer Lowell Bergman (Al Pacino), the man who persuaded Wigand to come forward. Bergman watches in horror", "has been stunted--is the first sign of the movie's comic astuteness, of its knack for devising sight gags with a sting. When a sleek and derisive colleague named Maxine (Catherine Keener) rebuffs his advances and mocks his art,", "Should Mike Wallace be pissed off? Depends what really happened. In a delicious turn, Christopher Plummer makes the co-anchor less a journalist than a pompous prima donna, but he also gives him a bullying force and real charisma. It's not Wallace's initial caving-in to the network--\"I'm with Don on this,\" he tells Bergman--that does him the most damage. It's the scene in a posh restaurant in which Wallace regards the Wigands' paroxysms of fear over the coming 60 Minutes interview with aristocratic contempt. He says, \"Who are these people?\"--which opens the door for Bergman's too-pat rebuke: \"Ordinary people under extraordinary circumstances, Mike. What do you expect? Grace and consistency?\" It's Wallace's lack of interest in Wigand's story--the movie's most powerful--that damns him in the audience's eyes.", "file clerk, the office is between the seventh and eighth floors of a Manhattan skyscraper--it's the seven-and-a-halfth floor, where people walk stooped and make feeble jokes about the \"low overhead.\" That low ceiling--a constant reminder of how Craig", "mendacity and the lawyers who do its bidding, and about what happens to corporate whistle-blowers in a society where the mainstream media are also in the hands of corporations. The movie tells two interlocking stories: The first is about Jeffrey" ], [ "The Insider doesn't note a couple of key, maybe hopeful ironies. The first is that CBS's \"spiking\" of the interview turned Wigand into an even bigger story than he would have been otherwise. And in the \"Where are they now?\" titles at the end, the filmmakers omit the most important detail of Bergman's and Wigand's current lives: that they're being played by Al Pacino and Russell Crowe in a major Hollywood movie, and that they're big news again.", "then-owner Lawrence Tisch had his own tobacco company, Lorillard, and had separate dealings with Brown & Williamson.)", "The director, Michael Mann, has never tried to tell a story as complex (or nonviolent) as The Insider , and he and his co-screenwriter, Eric Roth, don't shape their narrative very satisfyingly. Wigand and Bergman are both \"insiders,\" and both, ultimately, whistle-blowers. (It was Bergman's spilling his guts to the New York Times that finally shamed CBS into running the Wigand interview.) But although the 60 Minutes producer is played by the star (Pacino grandstands, but not to the point of distraction), Bergman's story doesn't have the same primal force. Wigand's dark night of the soul is in a hotel, indicted, financially ruined, threatened with death, minus his wife and daughters; Bergman's is in an expensive-looking beach house with his warmly supportive spouse (Lindsay Crouse).", "as his network, CBS, backs away from the story under pressure from the corporate wing--which fears, at a time when CBS is on the block, the impact of a major lawsuit on its value. (Oddly unmentioned in the film is that", "We're used to hearing tales of witnesses, informants, or whistle-blowers who are urged to come forward and then, after they do, are \"hung out to dry\"--i.e., left unprotected by the agents who approached and exploited them. What gives this version its kick--and what has made it fodder for columnists for almost six months--is that the people who betray the whistle-blower are among the most famous and powerful journalists in America: Mike Wallace and Don Hewitt, the co-anchor and the executive producer of 60 Minutes . If they could be pressured to \"spike\" a segment that they knew to be true, the film implicitly asks, how much chance do others have of breaking stories about corporate wrongdoing? And what about news personnel with a financial stake in their companies? Even journalists and editors known for their integrity tend to look the other way at their own companies' malfeasances when they hear words like \"stock options\" and \"IPO.\"", "left vague just when Bergman decided that Wigand was important not for what he might say about that report but about the industry as a whole. Mann must have had legal constraints that rivaled those at 60 Minutes . The FBI,", "The filmmakers seem to be bending over backward--even now--to protect Wigand from appearing to have disclosed what he disclosed too early. I admire their consideration for their subject, but in its wake come", "about it; we never even know if Wigand got his computer back. And there's no dramatic payoff with the chillingly satanic tobacco company president (Michael Gambon) whose threats first make Wigand think about going public. Given how many lawyers must", "their testimonies in Congress, Wigand says, tobacco executives regard cigarettes as \"a nicotine delivery system.\") The second story concerns the 60 Minutes producer Lowell Bergman (Al Pacino), the man who persuaded Wigand to come forward. Bergman watches in horror", "all kinds of narrative fuzziness. The movie isn't clear on where the secret report that kicked off Bergman's interest in tobacco came from, or who in the FDA thought it was a good idea to turn him onto Wigand. It's", "Should Mike Wallace be pissed off? Depends what really happened. In a delicious turn, Christopher Plummer makes the co-anchor less a journalist than a pompous prima donna, but he also gives him a bullying force and real charisma. It's not Wallace's initial caving-in to the network--\"I'm with Don on this,\" he tells Bergman--that does him the most damage. It's the scene in a posh restaurant in which Wallace regards the Wigands' paroxysms of fear over the coming 60 Minutes interview with aristocratic contempt. He says, \"Who are these people?\"--which opens the door for Bergman's too-pat rebuke: \"Ordinary people under extraordinary circumstances, Mike. What do you expect? Grace and consistency?\" It's Wallace's lack of interest in Wigand's story--the movie's most powerful--that damns him in the audience's eyes.", "But the movie's emotional hook isn't the CBS infighting or Bergman's quest to get the story. It's the fate of Wigand, played by Crowe as a prickly, blockish fellow with no social skills--an edgy wonk. Already isolated by temperament, he seems more vulnerable than a conventionally nice martyr. Wigand appears to have no friends, and his wife (a nearly unrecognizable Diane Venora), a Southern debutante type who clearly didn't bargain for a life of social and financial ostracization, is on the verge of bailing out on him even before the bullets start appearing in the family's mailbox and the death threats on Wigand's computer. You can't always tell what Crowe is doing--his opacity is sometimes a little too opaque. What's plain, though, is that Wigand doesn't want to have this role, didn't ask for it, and has no support system to get him through it. He's entirely dependent on Bergman, with whom he mostly communicates by cell phone and fax.", "which responds to a death threat, carries off Wigand's computer while he sputters that it contains all his important data. The implication is that the local FBI office is in cahoots with Brown & Williamson, but we hear no more", "T he Insider is a big,", "Wigand (Russell Crowe), former vice president for research and development at the Brown & Williamson tobacco company, who is persuaded to go public with revelations about how cigarette manufacturers manipulate the chemicals in their product for maximum addictiveness. (Despite", "mendacity and the lawyers who do its bidding, and about what happens to corporate whistle-blowers in a society where the mainstream media are also in the hands of corporations. The movie tells two interlocking stories: The first is about Jeffrey", "That the vessel is Malkovich might be the movie's most brilliantly unsettling touch, since the actor--although undeniably great--is one of our most distant and weirdly insular. You can understand the masses fantasizing", "overlong, and rather unwieldy piece of storytelling, but the story it has to tell is so vital that it cuts through all the dramaturgical muddiness. It's a terrific muckraking melodrama--it will get people fuming. It's about big-business", "Insiders and Way Insiders \n\n Being John Malkovich is everything I've ever dreamed of in a crazy comedy. It's close to pure farce, yet its laughs are grounded in loneliness, impotence, self-loathing, and that most discomfiting of vices to dramatize: envy. The action is surreal, the emotions are violently real. The screenwriter, Charlie Kaufman, is a genius at finding slapstick correlatives for people's nebulous sense--or non-sense--of themselves. It's possible that no one has ever come up with a more absurdly perfect metaphor for our longing to be someone--anyone--other than who we are than a portal into the head of John Malkovich.", "disgorges him, after 20 minutes, into a ditch beside the New Jersey Turnpike. The poor sap can't keep his secret. He tells the girl, who is soon selling tickets to the Malkovich experience. The biggest Malkovich addict turns out" ], [ "The last part diminishes the movie, but not enough to wreck it: It's still an amazing piece of work. What other madcap farce would dare to have a score--it's by the superb Carter Burwell--so plangent and melancholy? Or to cast that sunny goddess Cameron Diaz as a nerd? The actress retains her essential sweetness, but the transformation is otherwise remarkable: Her Lotte is such a mouth breather that she nearly drools, and Diaz manages to look estranged from that lovely body. Even more dazzling is Keener, an actress who has lately been stuck playing nice, sensible women but who here is all silken curves and withering putdowns--she greets Craig's declaration of love with a pitying sigh that brings the house down. Keener's Maxine is so glamorously, tantalizingly self-contained that you can almost believe she never dreams of being John Malkovich.", "to be Craig's nerdily frazzled wife, Lotte (Cameron Diaz), who sums up the thrill for the rest of the characters. \"Being inside did something to me,\" she says. \"I knew who I was.\"", "have it, they're attached to a very good pair of legs and a great pair of breasts. Angelina Jolie plays the cop who discovers a body and snaps some photos that convince Washington she has a \"gift\" for forensics. He", "\"Follow the instincts you were born with. ... Process the body.\" I was thinking that she could process my body anytime, but Jolie rises above such adolescent spasms. Well, almost. She's a thoughtful actress, but she wasn't born to", "But the movie's emotional hook isn't the CBS infighting or Bergman's quest to get the story. It's the fate of Wigand, played by Crowe as a prickly, blockish fellow with no social skills--an edgy wonk. Already isolated by temperament, he seems more vulnerable than a conventionally nice martyr. Wigand appears to have no friends, and his wife (a nearly unrecognizable Diane Venora), a Southern debutante type who clearly didn't bargain for a life of social and financial ostracization, is on the verge of bailing out on him even before the bullets start appearing in the family's mailbox and the death threats on Wigand's computer. You can't always tell what Crowe is doing--his opacity is sometimes a little too opaque. What's plain, though, is that Wigand doesn't want to have this role, didn't ask for it, and has no support system to get him through it. He's entirely dependent on Bergman, with whom he mostly communicates by cell phone and fax.", "play a beat cop. Those tire-tread lips are model lips; those exquisitely chiseled cheekbones, model cheekbones. Washington scans her file on his fancy bedside computer: Guess what? She was a teen-age model! Clever save!", "about being Bruce Willis or being Tom Hanks, but being John Malkovich? What's lodged under that thick brow is anybody's guess. Evidently quite the heterosexual, he still courts sexual ambiguity: He speaks in querulous tones and bats the most", "insolently feminine lashes this side of Bugs Bunny. Weird or not, though, he's a celebrity: He exists. And Malkovich makes a wonderful Malkovich. The actor sends up his own preening aloofness, and he has never been more emotionally", "has been stunted--is the first sign of the movie's comic astuteness, of its knack for devising sight gags with a sting. When a sleek and derisive colleague named Maxine (Catherine Keener) rebuffs his advances and mocks his art,", "Club . Jonze is never in your face: His instincts must have told him that hyping gags this outlandish would turn the picture into camp. He keeps the action slightly remote and the jokes deadpan, and the upshot is that the audience almost never stops giggling. The first hour and change has a magical fluidity. The scenes between Cusack and Keener boast the best emasculating banter since Christopher Durang's Beyond Therapy , and when Lotte and Maxine begin to communicate erotically through Malkovich's body, the film becomes a transsexual (and transcendental) screwball comedy. The script has a free-association quality that turns audiences on--they love not knowing where they're going. I wonder if Kaufman, when he started writing, even knew that the protagonist would stumble on that portal, or what he'd find when he went through. (The head of John Malkovich??!!??)", "That the vessel is Malkovich might be the movie's most brilliantly unsettling touch, since the actor--although undeniably great--is one of our most distant and weirdly insular. You can understand the masses fantasizing", "The director, Michael Mann, has never tried to tell a story as complex (or nonviolent) as The Insider , and he and his co-screenwriter, Eric Roth, don't shape their narrative very satisfyingly. Wigand and Bergman are both \"insiders,\" and both, ultimately, whistle-blowers. (It was Bergman's spilling his guts to the New York Times that finally shamed CBS into running the Wigand interview.) But although the 60 Minutes producer is played by the star (Pacino grandstands, but not to the point of distraction), Bergman's story doesn't have the same primal force. Wigand's dark night of the soul is in a hotel, indicted, financially ruined, threatened with death, minus his wife and daughters; Bergman's is in an expensive-looking beach house with his warmly supportive spouse (Lindsay Crouse).", "exposed than when it dawns on him that his smug façade has been literally penetrated. When he attempts to fathom what's happening to him, Jonze and Kaufman deliver a coup de cinema --a vision of hell that isn't, à la", "The Insider doesn't note a couple of key, maybe hopeful ironies. The first is that CBS's \"spiking\" of the interview turned Wigand into an even bigger story than he would have been otherwise. And in the \"Where are they now?\" titles at the end, the filmmakers omit the most important detail of Bergman's and Wigand's current lives: that they're being played by Al Pacino and Russell Crowe in a major Hollywood movie, and that they're big news again.", "Insiders and Way Insiders \n\n Being John Malkovich is everything I've ever dreamed of in a crazy comedy. It's close to pure farce, yet its laughs are grounded in loneliness, impotence, self-loathing, and that most discomfiting of vices to dramatize: envy. The action is surreal, the emotions are violently real. The screenwriter, Charlie Kaufman, is a genius at finding slapstick correlatives for people's nebulous sense--or non-sense--of themselves. It's possible that no one has ever come up with a more absurdly perfect metaphor for our longing to be someone--anyone--other than who we are than a portal into the head of John Malkovich.", "Craig argues passionately on behalf of his puppets: He says that everyone longs to be inside someone else's head. On cue, he discovers a passageway behind a file cabinet that whooshes him into the head of Malkovich and then", "you?\") The only aspect of The Bone Collector that can't be derided is Washington. The option of walking through the part clearly not available to him, he doesn't sleep through it either: Every muscle in this man's ruined body seems", "B eing John Malkovich should have ended right there, since the filmmakers never top that hysterical sequence. Kaufman seems to have written himself into a corner. In the last half-hour he ties things up too neatly and the craziness--and some of the helium--goes out of the movie. Why do crazy comedies need closure? As Cusack's character becomes more twisted, he loses his stature (and the audience's good will), and the climax has too many dissonances. Kaufman and Jonze end up sentimentalizing the longing for a collective consciousness in a way I found creepy: Do they mean to be retelling Invasion of the Body Snatchers from the body-snatchers' point of view? (If so, the film is even darker than I think it is.)", "their testimonies in Congress, Wigand says, tobacco executives regard cigarettes as \"a nicotine delivery system.\") The second story concerns the 60 Minutes producer Lowell Bergman (Al Pacino), the man who persuaded Wigand to come forward. Bergman watches in horror", "The director, Spike Jonze (he played the skinny redneck in Three Kings ), comes to Being John Malkovich from music videos, but the movie isn't a digitized bag of tricks like Fight" ] ]
test	51534	[ "How does the main character think that people who work for MS can be differentiated from the average Princeton intellectual?", "How does the main character's view of his chosen work differ from that of his assistant's?", "Which part of the body does the main character think is easiest to re-create mechanically and why?", "Why did the main character decide that Kujack should have permanent metal and plastic sockets affixed to his leg stumps?", "Why is the boss's response to the main character's problems with creating a functioning artificial leg particularly tasteless?", "Where did Ellsom and the main character go to college for their Bachelors degrees?", "What does Ellsom say caused him to become an alcoholic?", "How does Ellsom summarize the way an artificial intelligence machine could be used to conduct military operations?" ]	[ [ "He has not been able to find a way to differentiate MS men from the others.", "He makes the connection that all the MS men wear sloppy dungarees, while the rest at least wear chinos.", "He notices that the MS men all have a gold edge on their Princeton lapel pins, while the rest have a silver edge.", "He thinks that the ones who dress most like Albert Einstein are the ones who work for MS." ], [ "The main character thinks that a man of science should see the principles of work in everything he does, including sawing up logs, while his assistant seems to think that scientists need a mental escape from the precise and intricate details of their work.", "The main character believes that scientists should simply do science and let the psychologists and politicians figure out the ethics, while the assistant believes that scientists should choose their projects so as not to tempt society with inventions that have a potentially evil side.", "The assistant tends to view scientific problems from the view of the whole tree first, working down to individual tree rings and wood grains, while the main character immerses himself in the intricate details and only occasionally steps back to consider the whole picture.", "The main character wishes he had chosen a different profession, one that would totally occupy his mind, like neurosurgery, while the assistant, who also wishes he had chosen a different career, would have liked to be a cabinetmaker, with the satisfaction of seeing his work in finished, concrete objects." ], [ "The legs are easiest because their neuro-motor systems are simpler to build than trying to imitate the many synapses in a brain.", "His boss thinks that legs are easiest, but the main character things that arms are easier because they don't have to provide \"structural pillars\" for the body, or provide equilibrium and balance.", "The brain is easiest because the functions it has to reproduce are narrower than the requirements that must be met by other body parts.", "An artificial ear is easiest because the physics underlying the detection of sound waves, the conversion of those waves to electrical impulses is already well understood, just building off the gramophone." ], [ "His boss made this decision because it looked like the main character was ignoring the discomfort of the test subject, and that could have been reported as an ethics violation.", "He made this decision so that each new experimental limb could be snapped into place whenever it was ready to try out, resulting in gains of efficiency for the workers, and more comfort for the patient.", "The neuro team made this decision before the main character took over the Pro lab to make it faster for the scientists and less painful for the patient to try out new revisions of prostheses.", "He made this decision because he feared that Kujack, who appeared malicious and somewhat sneering, though he said little, would walk away from the project otherwise." ], [ "What he should have said was that the Pro team should try going out on a limb.", "The boss implies that the main character is just dumb and can't figure out the problem.", "The boss displays no compassion for how hard the main character and his team have been working to solve the problems.", "The boss makes a pun with the double meaning of \"can't figure something out\" and \"the end of an amputated limb.\"" ], [ "Massachusetts Institute of Technology", "Princeton", "Cal Tech", "New York State University" ], [ "Ellsom confessed that he had always been a little wild, and with drinking, one thing led to another and he just could not stop.", "Watching an artificial intelligence machine of his own creation best the human brain by beating a world champion at chess.", "His inability to create an artificial intelligence machine that could meet the longstanding goal of beating a competent human chess player.", "Marilyn, the woman he had stolen from the main character some years ago, had left him for another man." ], [ "The computers would eliminate war by having each side's machines calculate the most equitable resolution to the conflict. The humans would agree beforehand to accept the computers' decisions as final and implement them.", "It would be like a game of chess between countries, and the machines would predict every military move, including when the war should start. The countries engaged in the conflict would agree on the date, and then each blow the other's computers up with nuclear bombs simultaneously.", "Each side's computers would predict every move in the military campaign, and as with a game of chess, each side in the war would move their pieces on a map of the world in response to the predictions. The side predicted to win would be declared the winner, eliminating actual, physical war.", "The computers would be used to direct remote operations, like bombs dropped on high-value targets from pilotless airplanes." ] ]	[ -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1 ]	[ 1, 1, 1, 0, 1, 1, 1, 1 ]	[ [ "in the labs they're likely to be lolling on the grass, lounging in\n front of the fire in commons, or slouching around in conference rooms\n chalking up equations on a blackboard. No way of telling, of course,\n but a lot of these collegiate-looking chaps must be in the MS end,\n whatever that is. You'd think fellows in something secret like that\n would dress and behave with a little more dignity.", "Damn! Everybody knows MS is the thing to get into. It gives you real\n standing in the field if it gets around that you're an MS man. I had my\n heart set on getting into MS.\nOctober 6, 1959\nIt never rains, etc.: now it turns out that Len Ellsom's here, and\nhe's\nin MS! Found out about it in a funny way. Two mornings a week,\n it seems, the staff members get into their skiing and hunting clothes\n and tramp into the woods to cut logs for their fireplaces. Well, this\n morning I went with them, and as we were walking along the trail\n Goldweiser, my assistant, told me the idea behind these expeditions.", "I'm no Eniac, but I can occasionally put two and two together myself.\n If the boss's remarks mean anything, they mean that an electronic brain\n capable of playing games has been developed, and that it's led to\n something important militarily. Of course! I could kick myself for not\n having guessed it before.\n\n\n Brains-and-games—that's what MS is all about, obviously. It had to\n happen: out of the mathematical analysis of chess came a robot chess\n player, and out of the chess player came some kind of mechanical brain\n that's useful in military strategy.\nThat's\nwhat Len Ellsom's in the\n middle of.\n\n\n \"Really brilliant mind,\" the boss said after we'd sawed for a while.\n \"Keen. But he's a little erratic—quirky, queer sense of humor. Isn't\n that your impression?\"", "\"Oh?\" I said. \"Does that mean you're in MS?\" It wasn't an easy idea to\n accept, but I think I was pretty successful in keeping my tone casual.\n\n\n \"Ollie, my boy,\" he said in an exaggerated stage whisper, putting his\n finger to his lips, \"in the beginning was the word and the word was\n mum. Leave us avoid the subject of brains in this\nkeen\nplace. We\n all have a job to do on the team.\" I suppose that was meant to be a\n humorous imitation of the boss; Len always did fancy himself quite a\n clown.\n\n\n We were separated during the sawing, but he caught up with me on the\n way back and said, \"Let's get together soon and have a talk, Ollie.\n It's been a long time.\"", "After M. I. T. I\nhad\nspent some time out in California doing\n neuro-cyber research, I explained—but what was\nhe\ndoing here? I'd\n lost track of him after he'd left Boston; the last I'd heard, he'd been\n working on the giant robot brain Remington-Rand was developing for the\n Air Force. I remembered seeing his picture in the paper two or three\n times while he was working on the brain.\n\n\n \"I was with Remington a couple of years,\" he told me. \"If I do say\n so myself, we built the Air Force a real humdinger of a brain—in\n addition to solving the most complex problems in ballistics, it could\n whistle\nDixie\nand, in moments of stress, produce a sound not unlike\n a Bronx cheer. Naturally, for my prowess in the electronic simulation\n of I.Q., I was tapped for the brain department of these hallowed\n precincts.\"", "Guess I was a little previous in packing my soup-and-fish. Soon as I\n was shown to my room in the bachelor dorms, I dug it out and hung it\n way back in the closet, out of sight. When in Rome, etc. Later that day\n I discovered they carry dungarees in the Co-op; luckily, they had the\n pre-faded kind.\nOctober 6, 1959\nMet the boss this morning—hardly out of his thirties, crew-cut,\n wearing a flannel hunting shirt and dirty saddleshoes. I was glad I'd\n thought to change into my dungarees before the interview.\n\n\n \"Parks,\" he said, \"you can count yourself a very fortunate young man.\n You've come to the most important address in America, not excluding the\n Pentagon. In the world, probably. To get you oriented, suppose I sketch\n in some of the background of the place.\"", "\"Nonsense,\" the boss insisted. \"You're first and foremost a talented\n neuro man, and that's exactly what we need in the Pro department.\n There, you see, the problem is primarily one of duplicating a nervous\n mechanism in the metal, of bridging the gap between the neuronic and\n electronic. So buckle down, and if you hear any more gossip about MS,\n forget it fast—it's not a proper subject of conversation for you. The\n loyalty oath you signed is very specific about the trouble you can get\n into with loose talk. Remember that.\"\n\n\n I said I certainly would, and thanks a whole lot for the advice.", "\"Maybe you know,\" he went on, \"that in the days of Oppenheimer and\n Einstein, this place was called the Institute for Advanced Studies.\n It was run pretty loosely then—in addition to the mathematicians and\n physicists, they had all sorts of queer ducks hanging around—poets,\n egyptologists, numismatists, medievalists, herbalists, God alone knows\n what all. By 1955, however, so many cybernetics labs had sprung up\n around the country that we needed some central coordinating agency,\n so Washington arranged for us to take over here. Naturally, as soon\n as we arrived, we eased out the poets and egyptologists, brought in\n our own people, and changed the name to the Institute for Advanced\nCybernetics\nStudies. We've got some pretty keen projects going now,\npret\n-ty keen.\"\n\n\n I said I'd bet, and did he have any idea which project I would fit into?", "That would be most helpful, I said. I wondered, though, if he was as\n naive as he sounded. Did he think I'd been working in cybernetics labs\n for going on six years without hearing enough rumors about IFACS to\n make me dizzy? Especially about the MS end of IFACS?", "the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nIn the credo of this inspiringly selfless\n \ncyberneticist, nothing was too good for his colleagues\n \nin science.\nMuch\ntoo good for them\n!\nOctober 5, 1959\nWell, here I am at Princeton. IFACS is quite a place,\nquite\na place,\n but the atmosphere's darned informal. My colleagues seem to be mostly\n youngish fellows dressed in sloppy dungarees, sweatshirts (the kind\n Einstein made so famous) and moccasins, and when they're not puttering", "\"Sure thing,\" he said. \"You're going to take charge of a very important\n lab. The Pro lab.\" I guess he saw my puzzled look. \"Pro—that's short\n for prosthetics, artificial limbs. You know, it's really a scandal.\n With our present level of technology, we should have artificial limbs\n which in many ways are even better than the originals, but actually\n we're still making do with modifications of the same primitive, clumsy\n pegs and hooks they were using a thousand years ago. I'm counting on\n you to get things hopping in that department. It's a real challenge.\"\n\n\n I said it sure was a challenge, and of course I'd do my level best to\n meet it. Still, I couldn't help feeling a bit disappointed. Around\n cybernetics circles, I hinted, you heard a lot of talk about the\n hush-hush MS work that was going on at IFACS and it sounded so exciting\n that, well, a fellow sort of hoped he might get into\nthat\nend of\n things.", "\"We're aiming at a military strategy machine which can digest reports\n from all the units on all the fronts and from moment to moment, on\n the basis of that steady stream of information, grind out an elastic\n overall strategy and dictate concrete tactical directives to all the\n units. Wiener warned this might happen, and he was right. A very nifty\n tool. Never mind how far we've gotten with the thing, but I will tell\n you this: I'm a lot more scared today than I was three years ago.\"\n\n\n So\nthat\nwas the secret of MS! The most extraordinary machine ever\n devised by the human mind! It was hard to conceal the thrill of\n excitement I felt, even as a relative outsider.\n\n\n \"Why all the jitters?\" I said. \"This could be the most wonderful tool\n ever invented. It might eliminate war altogether.\"\n\n\n Len was quiet for a while, gulping his beer and looking off into space.\n Then he turned to me.", "Now, I've heard talk like that before, and I don't like it. I don't\n like it at all. It so happens that I feel very strongly on the subject.\n I think a scientist should like what he's doing and not want to take\n refuge in Nature from the Laws of Nature (which is downright illogical,\n anyhow). I, for one, enjoy cutting logs precisely\nbecause\n, when my\n saw rasps across a knot, I know that the innermost secret of that\n knot, as of all matter in the Universe, is E=MC\n 2\n . It's my job to\nknow\nit, and it's very satisfying to\nknow\nthat I know it and that\n the general run of people don't. I was about to put this thought into\n words, but before I could open my mouth, somebody behind us spoke up.", "He wants to talk about Marilyn, I suppose. Naturally. He has a guilty\n conscience. I'll have to make it quite clear to him that the whole\n episode is a matter of complete indifference to me. Marilyn is a closed\n book in my life; he must understand that. But can you beat that? He's\n right in the middle of MS! That lad certainly gets around. It's the\n usual Ellsom charm, I suppose.\n\n\n The usual Ellsom technique for irritating people, too. He's still\n trying to get my goat; he knows how much I've always hated to be called\n Ollie. Must watch Goldweiser. Thought he laughed pretty heartily at\n Len's wisecracks.\nOctober 18, 1959\nThings are shaping up in the Pro lab. Here's how I get the picture.", "\"Look here, Parks,\" the boss said. He seemed a little peeved.\n \"Cybernetics is teamwork, and the first rule of any team is that not\n everybody can be quarterback. Each man has a specific job on our team,\n one thing he's best suited for, and what\nyou're\nbest suited for,\n obviously, is the Pro lab. We've followed your work closely these last\n few years, and we were quite impressed by the way you handled those\n photo-electric-cell insects. You pulled off a brilliant engineering\n stunt, you know, when you induced nervous breakdown in your robot\n moths and bedbugs, and proved that the oscillations they developed\n corresponded to those which the human animal develops in intention\n tremor and Parkinson's disease. A keen bit of cybernetic thinking,\n that.\nVery\nkeen.\"\n\n\n It was just luck, I told him modestly.", "I was relieved to see him taking it so well because I know how anxious\n he is to get results from the Pro lab. Since Pro is one of the few\n things going on at IFACS that can be talked about, he's impatient for\n us to come up with something he can release to the press. As the public\n relations officer explained it to me at dinner the other night, people\n get worried when they know there's something like IFACS going, but\n don't get any real information about it, so the boss, naturally, wants\n to relieve the public's curiosity with a good, reassuring story about\n our work.\n\n\n I knew I was taking an awful chance spilling the whole K-N thing to him\n the way I did, but I had to lay the groundwork for a little plan I've\n just begun to work on.\n\n\n \"By the way, sir,\" I said, \"I ran into Len Ellsom the other day. I\n didn't know he was here.\"", "\"Do you know him?\" the boss said. \"Good man. One of the best\n brains-and-games men you'll find anywhere.\"\n\n\n I explained that Len had gotten his degree at M.I.T. the year before I\n did. From what I'd heard, I added, he'd done some important work on the\n Remington-Rand ballistics computer.\n\n\n \"He did indeed,\" the boss said, \"but that's not the half of it. After\n that he made some major contributions to the robot chess player. As a\n matter of fact, that's why he's here.\"\n\n\n I said I hadn't heard about the chess player.\n\n\n \"As soon as it began to play a really good game of chess, Washington\n put the whole thing under wraps for security reasons. Which is why you\n won't hear any more about it from me.\"", "\"You can't get away from it,\" he said. \"E=MC\n 2\n is in a tree trunk\n as well as in a uranium atom or a solar system. When you're hacking\n away at a particular tree, though, you don't think much about such\n intangibles—like any good, untheoretical lumberjack, you're a lot\n more concerned with superficialities, such as which way the grain\n runs, how to avoid the knots, and so on. It's very restful. So long\n as a cyberneticist is sawing and chopping, he's not a sliver of\n uncontaminated cerebrum contemplating the eternal slippery verities of\n gravity and electromagnetism; he's just one more guy trying to slice\n up one more log. Makes him feel he belongs to the human race again.\n Einstein, you know, used to get the same results with a violin.\"", "\"Stop wearing your loyalty oath on your sleeve,\" he said belligerently.\n \"Sure I want to talk about it. Greatest subject I know. Begin at\n the beginning. Whole thing started back in the Thirties with those\n two refugee mathematicians who used to be here at the Institute for\n Advanced Studies when Einstein was around. Von Morgan and Neumanstern,\n no, Von\nNeu\nmann and\nMor\nganstern. You remember, they did a\n mathematical analysis of all the possible kinds of games, poker,\n tossing pennies, chess, bridge, everything, and they wrote up their\n findings in a volume you certainly know,\nThe Theory of Games\n.", "\"He thinks Emsiac might eliminate war, too, but not in the way a\n Boy Scout might think. What he says is that all the industrialized\n nations must be working away like mad on Emsiac, just as they did on\n the atom bomb, so let's assume that before long all the big countries\n will have more or less equal MS machines. All right. A cold war gets\n under way between countries A and B, and pretty soon it reaches the\n showdown stage. Then both countries plug in their Emsiacs and let them\n calculate the date on which hostilities should begin. If the machines\n are equally efficient, they'll hit on the same date. If there's a\n slight discrepancy, the two countries can work out a compromise date by\n negotiation." ], [ "Now, I've heard talk like that before, and I don't like it. I don't\n like it at all. It so happens that I feel very strongly on the subject.\n I think a scientist should like what he's doing and not want to take\n refuge in Nature from the Laws of Nature (which is downright illogical,\n anyhow). I, for one, enjoy cutting logs precisely\nbecause\n, when my\n saw rasps across a knot, I know that the innermost secret of that\n knot, as of all matter in the Universe, is E=MC\n 2\n . It's my job to\nknow\nit, and it's very satisfying to\nknow\nthat I know it and that\n the general run of people don't. I was about to put this thought into\n words, but before I could open my mouth, somebody behind us spoke up.", "\"Definitely,\" I said. \"I'd be the last one in the world to say a word\n against Len, but he was always a little peculiar. Very gay one moment\n and very sour the next, and inclined to poke fun at things other people\n take seriously. He used to write poetry.\"\n\n\n \"I'm very glad to know that,\" the boss said. \"Confirms my own feeling\n about him.\"\n\n\n So the boss has some doubts about Len.\nOctober 27, 1959\nUnpleasant evening with Len. It all started after dinner when he showed\n up in my room, wagged his finger at me and said, \"Ollie, you've been\n avoiding me. That hurts. Thought we were pals, thick and thin and till\n debt and death do us part.\"\n\n\n I saw immediately that he was drunk—he always gets his words mixed\n up when he's drunk—and I tried to placate him by explaining that it\n wasn't anything like that; I'd been busy.", "\"Look here, Parks,\" the boss said. He seemed a little peeved.\n \"Cybernetics is teamwork, and the first rule of any team is that not\n everybody can be quarterback. Each man has a specific job on our team,\n one thing he's best suited for, and what\nyou're\nbest suited for,\n obviously, is the Pro lab. We've followed your work closely these last\n few years, and we were quite impressed by the way you handled those\n photo-electric-cell insects. You pulled off a brilliant engineering\n stunt, you know, when you induced nervous breakdown in your robot\n moths and bedbugs, and proved that the oscillations they developed\n corresponded to those which the human animal develops in intention\n tremor and Parkinson's disease. A keen bit of cybernetic thinking,\n that.\nVery\nkeen.\"\n\n\n It was just luck, I told him modestly.", "\"Don't get me wrong, Doc,\" he said, much too innocently. \"It's just\n that I've been thinking. Maybe you'd have more luck if you thought of\n me as a bedbug.\"\n\n\n \"Where did you get that idea?\"\n\n\n \"From Doc Ellsom. I was having some beers with him the other night.\n He's got a very high opinion of you, says you build the best bedbugs in\n the business.\"\n\n\n I find it hard to believe that Len Ellsom would say anything really\n nice about me. Must be his guilt about Marilyn that makes him talk that\n way. I don't like his hanging around Kujack.\nOctober 25, 1959\nThe boss came along on our woodcutting expedition this morning and\n volunteered to work the other end of my two-handled saw. He asked how\n things were coming in the Pro lab.", "I didn't care for his cynical attitude at all, but he had a point. Len\n Ellsom just has to build a fancy adding machine to get his picture in\n the papers.\nI\nhave to be God!\nOctober 22, 1959\nDon't know what to make of Kujack. His attitude is peculiar. Of course,\n he's very co-operative, lies back on the fitting table and doesn't\n even wince when we snap on the pros, and he does his best to carry out\n instructions. Still, there's something funny about the way he looks at\n me. There's a kind of malicious expression in his eyes. At times, come\n to think of it, he reminds me of Len.", "What had he been so scared about? It seemed to me he should have felt\n happy.\n\n\n \"Listen, Ollie,\" he said, \"for Christ's sake, stop talking like a Boy\n Scout for once in your life.\"\n\n\n If he was going to insult me—\n\n\n \"No insult intended. Just listen. I'm a terrible chess player. Any\n five-year-old could chatemeck—checkmate—me with his brains tied\n behind his back. But this machine which I built, helped build, is the\n champion chess player of the world. In other words, my brain has given\n birth to a brain which can do things my brain could never do. Don't you\n find that terrifying?\"\n\n\n \"Not at all,\" I said. \"\nYou\nmade the machine, didn't you? Therefore,\n no matter what it does, it's only an extension of you. You should feel\n proud to have devised a powerful new tool.\"", "\"Sure thing,\" he said. \"You're going to take charge of a very important\n lab. The Pro lab.\" I guess he saw my puzzled look. \"Pro—that's short\n for prosthetics, artificial limbs. You know, it's really a scandal.\n With our present level of technology, we should have artificial limbs\n which in many ways are even better than the originals, but actually\n we're still making do with modifications of the same primitive, clumsy\n pegs and hooks they were using a thousand years ago. I'm counting on\n you to get things hopping in that department. It's a real challenge.\"\n\n\n I said it sure was a challenge, and of course I'd do my level best to\n meet it. Still, I couldn't help feeling a bit disappointed. Around\n cybernetics circles, I hinted, you heard a lot of talk about the\n hush-hush MS work that was going on at IFACS and it sounded so exciting\n that, well, a fellow sort of hoped he might get into\nthat\nend of\n things.", "But our job calls for even more. The pro mustn't only\nequal\nthe\n real thing, it must be\nsuperior\n! That means creating a synthetic\n neuro-muscular system that actually\nimproves\non the nerves and\n muscles Nature created in the original!\n\n\n When our twenty-fourth experimental model turned out to be a dud last\n week—it just hung from Kujack's stump, quivering like one of my robot\n bedbugs, as though it had a bad case of intention tremor—Goldweiser\n said something that made an impression on me.\n\"They don't want much from us,\" he said sarcastically. \"They just want\n us to be God.\"", "Damn! Everybody knows MS is the thing to get into. It gives you real\n standing in the field if it gets around that you're an MS man. I had my\n heart set on getting into MS.\nOctober 6, 1959\nIt never rains, etc.: now it turns out that Len Ellsom's here, and\nhe's\nin MS! Found out about it in a funny way. Two mornings a week,\n it seems, the staff members get into their skiing and hunting clothes\n and tramp into the woods to cut logs for their fireplaces. Well, this\n morning I went with them, and as we were walking along the trail\n Goldweiser, my assistant, told me the idea behind these expeditions.", "He wants to talk about Marilyn, I suppose. Naturally. He has a guilty\n conscience. I'll have to make it quite clear to him that the whole\n episode is a matter of complete indifference to me. Marilyn is a closed\n book in my life; he must understand that. But can you beat that? He's\n right in the middle of MS! That lad certainly gets around. It's the\n usual Ellsom charm, I suppose.\n\n\n The usual Ellsom technique for irritating people, too. He's still\n trying to get my goat; he knows how much I've always hated to be called\n Ollie. Must watch Goldweiser. Thought he laughed pretty heartily at\n Len's wisecracks.\nOctober 18, 1959\nThings are shaping up in the Pro lab. Here's how I get the picture.", "I'm no Eniac, but I can occasionally put two and two together myself.\n If the boss's remarks mean anything, they mean that an electronic brain\n capable of playing games has been developed, and that it's led to\n something important militarily. Of course! I could kick myself for not\n having guessed it before.\n\n\n Brains-and-games—that's what MS is all about, obviously. It had to\n happen: out of the mathematical analysis of chess came a robot chess\n player, and out of the chess player came some kind of mechanical brain\n that's useful in military strategy.\nThat's\nwhat Len Ellsom's in the\n middle of.\n\n\n \"Really brilliant mind,\" the boss said after we'd sawed for a while.\n \"Keen. But he's a little erratic—quirky, queer sense of humor. Isn't\n that your impression?\"", "Take this afternoon, for instance. I've just worked out an entirely\n different kind of leg based on a whole new arrangement of solenoids to\n duplicate the muscle systems, and I decided to give it a try. When I\n was slipping the model into place, I looked up and caught Kujack's eye\n for a moment. He seemed to be laughing at something, although his face\n was expressionless.\n\n\n \"All right,\" I said. \"Let's make a test. I understand you used to be\n quite a football player. Well, just think of how you used to kick a\n football and try to do it now.\"\n\n\n He really seemed to be trying; the effort made him sweat. All that\n happened, though, was that the big toe wriggled a little and the knee\n buckled. Dud Number Twenty-five. I was sore, of course, especially when\n I noticed that Kujack was more amused than ever.\n\n\n \"You seem to think something's pretty funny,\" I said.", "\"Nonsense,\" the boss insisted. \"You're first and foremost a talented\n neuro man, and that's exactly what we need in the Pro department.\n There, you see, the problem is primarily one of duplicating a nervous\n mechanism in the metal, of bridging the gap between the neuronic and\n electronic. So buckle down, and if you hear any more gossip about MS,\n forget it fast—it's not a proper subject of conversation for you. The\n loyalty oath you signed is very specific about the trouble you can get\n into with loose talk. Remember that.\"\n\n\n I said I certainly would, and thanks a whole lot for the advice.", "\"Oh?\" I said. \"Does that mean you're in MS?\" It wasn't an easy idea to\n accept, but I think I was pretty successful in keeping my tone casual.\n\n\n \"Ollie, my boy,\" he said in an exaggerated stage whisper, putting his\n finger to his lips, \"in the beginning was the word and the word was\n mum. Leave us avoid the subject of brains in this\nkeen\nplace. We\n all have a job to do on the team.\" I suppose that was meant to be a\n humorous imitation of the boss; Len always did fancy himself quite a\n clown.\n\n\n We were separated during the sawing, but he caught up with me on the\n way back and said, \"Let's get together soon and have a talk, Ollie.\n It's been a long time.\"", "Guess I was a little previous in packing my soup-and-fish. Soon as I\n was shown to my room in the bachelor dorms, I dug it out and hung it\n way back in the closet, out of sight. When in Rome, etc. Later that day\n I discovered they carry dungarees in the Co-op; luckily, they had the\n pre-faded kind.\nOctober 6, 1959\nMet the boss this morning—hardly out of his thirties, crew-cut,\n wearing a flannel hunting shirt and dirty saddleshoes. I was glad I'd\n thought to change into my dungarees before the interview.\n\n\n \"Parks,\" he said, \"you can count yourself a very fortunate young man.\n You've come to the most important address in America, not excluding the\n Pentagon. In the world, probably. To get you oriented, suppose I sketch\n in some of the background of the place.\"", "I was relieved to see him taking it so well because I know how anxious\n he is to get results from the Pro lab. Since Pro is one of the few\n things going on at IFACS that can be talked about, he's impatient for\n us to come up with something he can release to the press. As the public\n relations officer explained it to me at dinner the other night, people\n get worried when they know there's something like IFACS going, but\n don't get any real information about it, so the boss, naturally, wants\n to relieve the public's curiosity with a good, reassuring story about\n our work.\n\n\n I knew I was taking an awful chance spilling the whole K-N thing to him\n the way I did, but I had to lay the groundwork for a little plan I've\n just begun to work on.\n\n\n \"By the way, sir,\" I said, \"I ran into Len Ellsom the other day. I\n didn't know he was here.\"", "\"As I see it,\" I said, \"there are two sides to the problem, the\n kinesthetic and the neural. We're making definite progress on the K\n side—I've worked out a new solenoid system, with some miniature motors\n tied in, and I think it'll give us a leg that\nmoves\ndamned well. I\n don't know about the N side, though. It's pretty tough figuring out\n how to hook the thing up electrically with the central nervous system\n so that the brain can control it. Some sort of compromise system of\n operation, along mechanical rather than neural lines, would be a lot\n simpler.\"\n\n\n \"You mean,\" the boss said with a smile, \"that it's stumping you.\"", "\"Some tool,\" he sneered. He was so drunk by now that I could hardly\n understand what he was saying. \"The General Staff boys in Washington\n were all hopped up about that little old tool, and for a plenty good\n reason—they understood that mechanized warfare is only the most\n complicated game the human race has invented so far, an elaborate form\n of chess which uses the population of the world for pawns and the\n globe for a chessboard. They saw, too, that when the game of war gets\n this complex, the job of controlling and guiding it becomes too damned\n involved for any number of human brains, no matter how nimble.\n\n\n \"In other words, my beamish Boy Scout, modern war needs just this kind\n of strategy tool; the General Staff has to be mechanized along with\n everything else. So the Pentagon boys set up IFACS and handed us a\n top-priority cybernetics project: to build a superduper chess player\n that could oversee a complicated military maneuver, maybe later a whole\n campaign, maybe ultimately a whole global war.", "A year ago, the boss laid down a policy for the lab: begin with legs\n because, while the neuro-motor systems in legs and arms are a lot\n alike, those in legs are much simpler. If we build satisfactory legs,\n the boss figures, we can then tackle arms; the main difficulties will\n have been licked.\n\n\n Well, last summer, in line with this approach, the Army picked out\n a double amputee from the outpatient department of Walter Reed\n Hospital—fellow by the name of Kujack, who lost both his legs in a\n land mine explosion outside Pyongyang—and shipped him up here to be a\n subject in our experiments.", "\"Stop wearing your loyalty oath on your sleeve,\" he said belligerently.\n \"Sure I want to talk about it. Greatest subject I know. Begin at\n the beginning. Whole thing started back in the Thirties with those\n two refugee mathematicians who used to be here at the Institute for\n Advanced Studies when Einstein was around. Von Morgan and Neumanstern,\n no, Von\nNeu\nmann and\nMor\nganstern. You remember, they did a\n mathematical analysis of all the possible kinds of games, poker,\n tossing pennies, chess, bridge, everything, and they wrote up their\n findings in a volume you certainly know,\nThe Theory of Games\n." ], [ "Take this afternoon, for instance. I've just worked out an entirely\n different kind of leg based on a whole new arrangement of solenoids to\n duplicate the muscle systems, and I decided to give it a try. When I\n was slipping the model into place, I looked up and caught Kujack's eye\n for a moment. He seemed to be laughing at something, although his face\n was expressionless.\n\n\n \"All right,\" I said. \"Let's make a test. I understand you used to be\n quite a football player. Well, just think of how you used to kick a\n football and try to do it now.\"\n\n\n He really seemed to be trying; the effort made him sweat. All that\n happened, though, was that the big toe wriggled a little and the knee\n buckled. Dud Number Twenty-five. I was sore, of course, especially when\n I noticed that Kujack was more amused than ever.\n\n\n \"You seem to think something's pretty funny,\" I said.", "But our job calls for even more. The pro mustn't only\nequal\nthe\n real thing, it must be\nsuperior\n! That means creating a synthetic\n neuro-muscular system that actually\nimproves\non the nerves and\n muscles Nature created in the original!\n\n\n When our twenty-fourth experimental model turned out to be a dud last\n week—it just hung from Kujack's stump, quivering like one of my robot\n bedbugs, as though it had a bad case of intention tremor—Goldweiser\n said something that made an impression on me.\n\"They don't want much from us,\" he said sarcastically. \"They just want\n us to be God.\"", "When you're told to build an artificial leg that'll take the place\n of a real one, the headaches begin. Your machine must not only\nlook\nlike its living model, it must\nalso\nbalance and support, walk, run,\n hop, skip, jump, etc., etc.\nAlso\n, it must fit into the same space.\nAlso\n, it must feel everything a real leg feels—touch, heat, cold,\n pain, moisture, kinesthetic sensations—\nas well as\nexecute all the\n brain-directed movements that a real leg can.\n\n\n So you're not duplicating this or that function; you're reconstructing\n the organ in its totality, or trying to. Your pro must have a full set\n of sensory-motor communication systems, plus machines to carry out\n orders, which is impossible enough to begin with.", "\"As I see it,\" I said, \"there are two sides to the problem, the\n kinesthetic and the neural. We're making definite progress on the K\n side—I've worked out a new solenoid system, with some miniature motors\n tied in, and I think it'll give us a leg that\nmoves\ndamned well. I\n don't know about the N side, though. It's pretty tough figuring out\n how to hook the thing up electrically with the central nervous system\n so that the brain can control it. Some sort of compromise system of\n operation, along mechanical rather than neural lines, would be a lot\n simpler.\"\n\n\n \"You mean,\" the boss said with a smile, \"that it's stumping you.\"", "A year ago, the boss laid down a policy for the lab: begin with legs\n because, while the neuro-motor systems in legs and arms are a lot\n alike, those in legs are much simpler. If we build satisfactory legs,\n the boss figures, we can then tackle arms; the main difficulties will\n have been licked.\n\n\n Well, last summer, in line with this approach, the Army picked out\n a double amputee from the outpatient department of Walter Reed\n Hospital—fellow by the name of Kujack, who lost both his legs in a\n land mine explosion outside Pyongyang—and shipped him up here to be a\n subject in our experiments.", "What had he been so scared about? It seemed to me he should have felt\n happy.\n\n\n \"Listen, Ollie,\" he said, \"for Christ's sake, stop talking like a Boy\n Scout for once in your life.\"\n\n\n If he was going to insult me—\n\n\n \"No insult intended. Just listen. I'm a terrible chess player. Any\n five-year-old could chatemeck—checkmate—me with his brains tied\n behind his back. But this machine which I built, helped build, is the\n champion chess player of the world. In other words, my brain has given\n birth to a brain which can do things my brain could never do. Don't you\n find that terrifying?\"\n\n\n \"Not at all,\" I said. \"\nYou\nmade the machine, didn't you? Therefore,\n no matter what it does, it's only an extension of you. You should feel\n proud to have devised a powerful new tool.\"", "When Kujack arrived, the neuro boys made a major decision. It didn't\n make sense, they agreed, to keep building experimental legs directly\n into the muscles and nerves of Kujack's stumps; the surgical procedure\n in these cine-plastic jobs is complicated as all getout, involves a\n lot of pain for the subject and, what's more to the point, means long\n delays each time while the tissues heal.\n\n\n Instead, they hit on the idea of integrating permanent metal and\n plastic sockets into the stumps, so constructed that each new\n experimental limb can be snapped into place whenever it's ready for a\n trial.\nBy the time I took over, two weeks ago, Goldweiser had the sockets\n worked out and fitted to Kujack's stumps, and the muscular and\n neural tissues had knitted satisfactorily. There was only one hitch:\n twenty-three limbs had been designed, and all twenty-three had been\n dismal flops. That's when the boss called me in.", "There's no mystery about the failures. Not to me, anyhow. Cybernetics\n is simply the science of building machines that will duplicate and\n improve on the organs and functions of the animal, based on what we\n know about the systems of communication and control in the animal. All\n right. But in any particular cybernetics project, everything depends\n on just how\nmany\nof the functions you want to duplicate, just how\nmuch\nof the total organ you want to replace.\n\n\n That's why the robot-brain boys can get such quick and spectacular\n results, have their pictures in the papers all the time, and become\n the real glamor boys of the profession. They're not asked to duplicate\n the human brain in its\nentirety\n—all they have to do is isolate and\n imitate one particular function of the brain, whether it's a simple\n operation in mathematics or a certain type of elementary logic.", "\"Sure thing,\" he said. \"You're going to take charge of a very important\n lab. The Pro lab.\" I guess he saw my puzzled look. \"Pro—that's short\n for prosthetics, artificial limbs. You know, it's really a scandal.\n With our present level of technology, we should have artificial limbs\n which in many ways are even better than the originals, but actually\n we're still making do with modifications of the same primitive, clumsy\n pegs and hooks they were using a thousand years ago. I'm counting on\n you to get things hopping in that department. It's a real challenge.\"\n\n\n I said it sure was a challenge, and of course I'd do my level best to\n meet it. Still, I couldn't help feeling a bit disappointed. Around\n cybernetics circles, I hinted, you heard a lot of talk about the\n hush-hush MS work that was going on at IFACS and it sounded so exciting\n that, well, a fellow sort of hoped he might get into\nthat\nend of\n things.", "\"Look here, Parks,\" the boss said. He seemed a little peeved.\n \"Cybernetics is teamwork, and the first rule of any team is that not\n everybody can be quarterback. Each man has a specific job on our team,\n one thing he's best suited for, and what\nyou're\nbest suited for,\n obviously, is the Pro lab. We've followed your work closely these last\n few years, and we were quite impressed by the way you handled those\n photo-electric-cell insects. You pulled off a brilliant engineering\n stunt, you know, when you induced nervous breakdown in your robot\n moths and bedbugs, and proved that the oscillations they developed\n corresponded to those which the human animal develops in intention\n tremor and Parkinson's disease. A keen bit of cybernetic thinking,\n that.\nVery\nkeen.\"\n\n\n It was just luck, I told him modestly.", "The robot brain called the Eniac, for example, is exactly what its\n name implies—an Electronic Numerical Integrator and Computer, and\n it just has to be able to integrate and compute figures faster and\n more accurately than the human brain can. It doesn't have to have\n daydreams and nightmares, make wisecracks, suffer from anxiety, and\n all that. What's more, it doesn't even have to\nlook\nlike a brain or\n fit into the tiny space occupied by a real brain. It can be housed\n in a six-story building and look like an overgrown typewriter or an\n automobile dashboard or even a pogo stick. All it has to do is tell you\n that two times two equals four, and tell you fast.", "\"Some tool,\" he sneered. He was so drunk by now that I could hardly\n understand what he was saying. \"The General Staff boys in Washington\n were all hopped up about that little old tool, and for a plenty good\n reason—they understood that mechanized warfare is only the most\n complicated game the human race has invented so far, an elaborate form\n of chess which uses the population of the world for pawns and the\n globe for a chessboard. They saw, too, that when the game of war gets\n this complex, the job of controlling and guiding it becomes too damned\n involved for any number of human brains, no matter how nimble.\n\n\n \"In other words, my beamish Boy Scout, modern war needs just this kind\n of strategy tool; the General Staff has to be mechanized along with\n everything else. So the Pentagon boys set up IFACS and handed us a\n top-priority cybernetics project: to build a superduper chess player\n that could oversee a complicated military maneuver, maybe later a whole\n campaign, maybe ultimately a whole global war.", "I didn't care for his cynical attitude at all, but he had a point. Len\n Ellsom just has to build a fancy adding machine to get his picture in\n the papers.\nI\nhave to be God!\nOctober 22, 1959\nDon't know what to make of Kujack. His attitude is peculiar. Of course,\n he's very co-operative, lies back on the fitting table and doesn't\n even wince when we snap on the pros, and he does his best to carry out\n instructions. Still, there's something funny about the way he looks at\n me. There's a kind of malicious expression in his eyes. At times, come\n to think of it, he reminds me of Len.", "\"Nonsense,\" the boss insisted. \"You're first and foremost a talented\n neuro man, and that's exactly what we need in the Pro department.\n There, you see, the problem is primarily one of duplicating a nervous\n mechanism in the metal, of bridging the gap between the neuronic and\n electronic. So buckle down, and if you hear any more gossip about MS,\n forget it fast—it's not a proper subject of conversation for you. The\n loyalty oath you signed is very specific about the trouble you can get\n into with loose talk. Remember that.\"\n\n\n I said I certainly would, and thanks a whole lot for the advice.", "\"You can't get away from it,\" he said. \"E=MC\n 2\n is in a tree trunk\n as well as in a uranium atom or a solar system. When you're hacking\n away at a particular tree, though, you don't think much about such\n intangibles—like any good, untheoretical lumberjack, you're a lot\n more concerned with superficialities, such as which way the grain\n runs, how to avoid the knots, and so on. It's very restful. So long\n as a cyberneticist is sawing and chopping, he's not a sliver of\n uncontaminated cerebrum contemplating the eternal slippery verities of\n gravity and electromagnetism; he's just one more guy trying to slice\n up one more log. Makes him feel he belongs to the human race again.\n Einstein, you know, used to get the same results with a violin.\"", "I'm no Eniac, but I can occasionally put two and two together myself.\n If the boss's remarks mean anything, they mean that an electronic brain\n capable of playing games has been developed, and that it's led to\n something important militarily. Of course! I could kick myself for not\n having guessed it before.\n\n\n Brains-and-games—that's what MS is all about, obviously. It had to\n happen: out of the mathematical analysis of chess came a robot chess\n player, and out of the chess player came some kind of mechanical brain\n that's useful in military strategy.\nThat's\nwhat Len Ellsom's in the\n middle of.\n\n\n \"Really brilliant mind,\" the boss said after we'd sawed for a while.\n \"Keen. But he's a little erratic—quirky, queer sense of humor. Isn't\n that your impression?\"", "Now, I've heard talk like that before, and I don't like it. I don't\n like it at all. It so happens that I feel very strongly on the subject.\n I think a scientist should like what he's doing and not want to take\n refuge in Nature from the Laws of Nature (which is downright illogical,\n anyhow). I, for one, enjoy cutting logs precisely\nbecause\n, when my\n saw rasps across a knot, I know that the innermost secret of that\n knot, as of all matter in the Universe, is E=MC\n 2\n . It's my job to\nknow\nit, and it's very satisfying to\nknow\nthat I know it and that\n the general run of people don't. I was about to put this thought into\n words, but before I could open my mouth, somebody behind us spoke up.", "\"The night is young,\" he said, \"and you're so dutiful. Where was I? Oh\n yes, Bell. At first our electronic pawn-pusher wasn't so hot—it could\n beat the pants off a lousy player, but an expert just made it look\n silly. But we kept improving it, see, building more and more electronic\n anticipation and gambit-plotting powers into it, and finally, one great\n day in '55, we thought we had all the kinks ironed out and were ready\n for the big test. By this time, of course, Washington had stepped in\n and taken over the whole project.\n\n\n \"Well, we got hold of Fortunescu, the world's champion chess player,\n sat him down and turned the robot loose on him. For four hours straight\n we followed the match, with a delegation of big brass from Washington,\n and for four hours straight the machine trounced Fortunescu every game.\n That was when I began to get scared. I went out that night and got\n really loaded.\"", "\"We're aiming at a military strategy machine which can digest reports\n from all the units on all the fronts and from moment to moment, on\n the basis of that steady stream of information, grind out an elastic\n overall strategy and dictate concrete tactical directives to all the\n units. Wiener warned this might happen, and he was right. A very nifty\n tool. Never mind how far we've gotten with the thing, but I will tell\n you this: I'm a lot more scared today than I was three years ago.\"\n\n\n So\nthat\nwas the secret of MS! The most extraordinary machine ever\n devised by the human mind! It was hard to conceal the thrill of\n excitement I felt, even as a relative outsider.\n\n\n \"Why all the jitters?\" I said. \"This could be the most wonderful tool\n ever invented. It might eliminate war altogether.\"\n\n\n Len was quiet for a while, gulping his beer and looking off into space.\n Then he turned to me.", "After M. I. T. I\nhad\nspent some time out in California doing\n neuro-cyber research, I explained—but what was\nhe\ndoing here? I'd\n lost track of him after he'd left Boston; the last I'd heard, he'd been\n working on the giant robot brain Remington-Rand was developing for the\n Air Force. I remembered seeing his picture in the paper two or three\n times while he was working on the brain.\n\n\n \"I was with Remington a couple of years,\" he told me. \"If I do say\n so myself, we built the Air Force a real humdinger of a brain—in\n addition to solving the most complex problems in ballistics, it could\n whistle\nDixie\nand, in moments of stress, produce a sound not unlike\n a Bronx cheer. Naturally, for my prowess in the electronic simulation\n of I.Q., I was tapped for the brain department of these hallowed\n precincts.\"" ], [ "When Kujack arrived, the neuro boys made a major decision. It didn't\n make sense, they agreed, to keep building experimental legs directly\n into the muscles and nerves of Kujack's stumps; the surgical procedure\n in these cine-plastic jobs is complicated as all getout, involves a\n lot of pain for the subject and, what's more to the point, means long\n delays each time while the tissues heal.\n\n\n Instead, they hit on the idea of integrating permanent metal and\n plastic sockets into the stumps, so constructed that each new\n experimental limb can be snapped into place whenever it's ready for a\n trial.\nBy the time I took over, two weeks ago, Goldweiser had the sockets\n worked out and fitted to Kujack's stumps, and the muscular and\n neural tissues had knitted satisfactorily. There was only one hitch:\n twenty-three limbs had been designed, and all twenty-three had been\n dismal flops. That's when the boss called me in.", "A year ago, the boss laid down a policy for the lab: begin with legs\n because, while the neuro-motor systems in legs and arms are a lot\n alike, those in legs are much simpler. If we build satisfactory legs,\n the boss figures, we can then tackle arms; the main difficulties will\n have been licked.\n\n\n Well, last summer, in line with this approach, the Army picked out\n a double amputee from the outpatient department of Walter Reed\n Hospital—fellow by the name of Kujack, who lost both his legs in a\n land mine explosion outside Pyongyang—and shipped him up here to be a\n subject in our experiments.", "Take this afternoon, for instance. I've just worked out an entirely\n different kind of leg based on a whole new arrangement of solenoids to\n duplicate the muscle systems, and I decided to give it a try. When I\n was slipping the model into place, I looked up and caught Kujack's eye\n for a moment. He seemed to be laughing at something, although his face\n was expressionless.\n\n\n \"All right,\" I said. \"Let's make a test. I understand you used to be\n quite a football player. Well, just think of how you used to kick a\n football and try to do it now.\"\n\n\n He really seemed to be trying; the effort made him sweat. All that\n happened, though, was that the big toe wriggled a little and the knee\n buckled. Dud Number Twenty-five. I was sore, of course, especially when\n I noticed that Kujack was more amused than ever.\n\n\n \"You seem to think something's pretty funny,\" I said.", "But our job calls for even more. The pro mustn't only\nequal\nthe\n real thing, it must be\nsuperior\n! That means creating a synthetic\n neuro-muscular system that actually\nimproves\non the nerves and\n muscles Nature created in the original!\n\n\n When our twenty-fourth experimental model turned out to be a dud last\n week—it just hung from Kujack's stump, quivering like one of my robot\n bedbugs, as though it had a bad case of intention tremor—Goldweiser\n said something that made an impression on me.\n\"They don't want much from us,\" he said sarcastically. \"They just want\n us to be God.\"", "\"As I see it,\" I said, \"there are two sides to the problem, the\n kinesthetic and the neural. We're making definite progress on the K\n side—I've worked out a new solenoid system, with some miniature motors\n tied in, and I think it'll give us a leg that\nmoves\ndamned well. I\n don't know about the N side, though. It's pretty tough figuring out\n how to hook the thing up electrically with the central nervous system\n so that the brain can control it. Some sort of compromise system of\n operation, along mechanical rather than neural lines, would be a lot\n simpler.\"\n\n\n \"You mean,\" the boss said with a smile, \"that it's stumping you.\"", "\"Sure thing,\" he said. \"You're going to take charge of a very important\n lab. The Pro lab.\" I guess he saw my puzzled look. \"Pro—that's short\n for prosthetics, artificial limbs. You know, it's really a scandal.\n With our present level of technology, we should have artificial limbs\n which in many ways are even better than the originals, but actually\n we're still making do with modifications of the same primitive, clumsy\n pegs and hooks they were using a thousand years ago. I'm counting on\n you to get things hopping in that department. It's a real challenge.\"\n\n\n I said it sure was a challenge, and of course I'd do my level best to\n meet it. Still, I couldn't help feeling a bit disappointed. Around\n cybernetics circles, I hinted, you heard a lot of talk about the\n hush-hush MS work that was going on at IFACS and it sounded so exciting\n that, well, a fellow sort of hoped he might get into\nthat\nend of\n things.", "I didn't care for his cynical attitude at all, but he had a point. Len\n Ellsom just has to build a fancy adding machine to get his picture in\n the papers.\nI\nhave to be God!\nOctober 22, 1959\nDon't know what to make of Kujack. His attitude is peculiar. Of course,\n he's very co-operative, lies back on the fitting table and doesn't\n even wince when we snap on the pros, and he does his best to carry out\n instructions. Still, there's something funny about the way he looks at\n me. There's a kind of malicious expression in his eyes. At times, come\n to think of it, he reminds me of Len.", "When you're told to build an artificial leg that'll take the place\n of a real one, the headaches begin. Your machine must not only\nlook\nlike its living model, it must\nalso\nbalance and support, walk, run,\n hop, skip, jump, etc., etc.\nAlso\n, it must fit into the same space.\nAlso\n, it must feel everything a real leg feels—touch, heat, cold,\n pain, moisture, kinesthetic sensations—\nas well as\nexecute all the\n brain-directed movements that a real leg can.\n\n\n So you're not duplicating this or that function; you're reconstructing\n the organ in its totality, or trying to. Your pro must have a full set\n of sensory-motor communication systems, plus machines to carry out\n orders, which is impossible enough to begin with.", "\"Look here, Parks,\" the boss said. He seemed a little peeved.\n \"Cybernetics is teamwork, and the first rule of any team is that not\n everybody can be quarterback. Each man has a specific job on our team,\n one thing he's best suited for, and what\nyou're\nbest suited for,\n obviously, is the Pro lab. We've followed your work closely these last\n few years, and we were quite impressed by the way you handled those\n photo-electric-cell insects. You pulled off a brilliant engineering\n stunt, you know, when you induced nervous breakdown in your robot\n moths and bedbugs, and proved that the oscillations they developed\n corresponded to those which the human animal develops in intention\n tremor and Parkinson's disease. A keen bit of cybernetic thinking,\n that.\nVery\nkeen.\"\n\n\n It was just luck, I told him modestly.", "What had he been so scared about? It seemed to me he should have felt\n happy.\n\n\n \"Listen, Ollie,\" he said, \"for Christ's sake, stop talking like a Boy\n Scout for once in your life.\"\n\n\n If he was going to insult me—\n\n\n \"No insult intended. Just listen. I'm a terrible chess player. Any\n five-year-old could chatemeck—checkmate—me with his brains tied\n behind his back. But this machine which I built, helped build, is the\n champion chess player of the world. In other words, my brain has given\n birth to a brain which can do things my brain could never do. Don't you\n find that terrifying?\"\n\n\n \"Not at all,\" I said. \"\nYou\nmade the machine, didn't you? Therefore,\n no matter what it does, it's only an extension of you. You should feel\n proud to have devised a powerful new tool.\"", "\"Some tool,\" he sneered. He was so drunk by now that I could hardly\n understand what he was saying. \"The General Staff boys in Washington\n were all hopped up about that little old tool, and for a plenty good\n reason—they understood that mechanized warfare is only the most\n complicated game the human race has invented so far, an elaborate form\n of chess which uses the population of the world for pawns and the\n globe for a chessboard. They saw, too, that when the game of war gets\n this complex, the job of controlling and guiding it becomes too damned\n involved for any number of human brains, no matter how nimble.\n\n\n \"In other words, my beamish Boy Scout, modern war needs just this kind\n of strategy tool; the General Staff has to be mechanized along with\n everything else. So the Pentagon boys set up IFACS and handed us a\n top-priority cybernetics project: to build a superduper chess player\n that could oversee a complicated military maneuver, maybe later a whole\n campaign, maybe ultimately a whole global war.", "\"Bravo, Goldie,\" he said. \"Let us by all means pretend that we belong\n to the human race. Make way for the new cyberneticists with their old\n saws. Cyberneticist, spare that tree!\"\n\n\n I turned around to see who could be making jokes in such bad taste\n and—as I might have guessed—it was Len Ellsom. He was just as\n surprised as I was.\n\n\n \"Well,\" he said, \"if it isn't Ollie Parks! I thought you were out in\n Cal Tech, building schizophrenic bedbugs.\"", "I'm no Eniac, but I can occasionally put two and two together myself.\n If the boss's remarks mean anything, they mean that an electronic brain\n capable of playing games has been developed, and that it's led to\n something important militarily. Of course! I could kick myself for not\n having guessed it before.\n\n\n Brains-and-games—that's what MS is all about, obviously. It had to\n happen: out of the mathematical analysis of chess came a robot chess\n player, and out of the chess player came some kind of mechanical brain\n that's useful in military strategy.\nThat's\nwhat Len Ellsom's in the\n middle of.\n\n\n \"Really brilliant mind,\" the boss said after we'd sawed for a while.\n \"Keen. But he's a little erratic—quirky, queer sense of humor. Isn't\n that your impression?\"", "\"It is\nnot\nsomething personal,\" he said, mimicking me. \"Guess I can\n tell an old cyberneticist pal about it. Been a lush for three years\n because I've been scared for three years. Been scared for three years\n because three years ago I saw a machine beat a man at a game of chess.\"\n\n\n A machine that plays chess? That was interesting, I said.\n\n\n \"Didn't tell you the whole truth the other day,\" Len mumbled. \"I\ndid\nwork on the Remington-Rand computer, sure, but I didn't come to IFACS\n directly from that. In between I spent a couple years at the Bell\n Telephone Labs. Claude Shannon—or, rather, to begin with there was\n Norbert Wiener back at M.I.T.—it's complicated....\"\n\n\n \"Look,\" I said, \"are you sure you want to talk about it?\"", "\"Nonsense,\" the boss insisted. \"You're first and foremost a talented\n neuro man, and that's exactly what we need in the Pro department.\n There, you see, the problem is primarily one of duplicating a nervous\n mechanism in the metal, of bridging the gap between the neuronic and\n electronic. So buckle down, and if you hear any more gossip about MS,\n forget it fast—it's not a proper subject of conversation for you. The\n loyalty oath you signed is very specific about the trouble you can get\n into with loose talk. Remember that.\"\n\n\n I said I certainly would, and thanks a whole lot for the advice.", "There's no mystery about the failures. Not to me, anyhow. Cybernetics\n is simply the science of building machines that will duplicate and\n improve on the organs and functions of the animal, based on what we\n know about the systems of communication and control in the animal. All\n right. But in any particular cybernetics project, everything depends\n on just how\nmany\nof the functions you want to duplicate, just how\nmuch\nof the total organ you want to replace.\n\n\n That's why the robot-brain boys can get such quick and spectacular\n results, have their pictures in the papers all the time, and become\n the real glamor boys of the profession. They're not asked to duplicate\n the human brain in its\nentirety\n—all they have to do is isolate and\n imitate one particular function of the brain, whether it's a simple\n operation in mathematics or a certain type of elementary logic.", "\"We're aiming at a military strategy machine which can digest reports\n from all the units on all the fronts and from moment to moment, on\n the basis of that steady stream of information, grind out an elastic\n overall strategy and dictate concrete tactical directives to all the\n units. Wiener warned this might happen, and he was right. A very nifty\n tool. Never mind how far we've gotten with the thing, but I will tell\n you this: I'm a lot more scared today than I was three years ago.\"\n\n\n So\nthat\nwas the secret of MS! The most extraordinary machine ever\n devised by the human mind! It was hard to conceal the thrill of\n excitement I felt, even as a relative outsider.\n\n\n \"Why all the jitters?\" I said. \"This could be the most wonderful tool\n ever invented. It might eliminate war altogether.\"\n\n\n Len was quiet for a while, gulping his beer and looking off into space.\n Then he turned to me.", "\"The night is young,\" he said, \"and you're so dutiful. Where was I? Oh\n yes, Bell. At first our electronic pawn-pusher wasn't so hot—it could\n beat the pants off a lousy player, but an expert just made it look\n silly. But we kept improving it, see, building more and more electronic\n anticipation and gambit-plotting powers into it, and finally, one great\n day in '55, we thought we had all the kinks ironed out and were ready\n for the big test. By this time, of course, Washington had stepped in\n and taken over the whole project.\n\n\n \"Well, we got hold of Fortunescu, the world's champion chess player,\n sat him down and turned the robot loose on him. For four hours straight\n we followed the match, with a delegation of big brass from Washington,\n and for four hours straight the machine trounced Fortunescu every game.\n That was when I began to get scared. I went out that night and got\n really loaded.\"", "\"You can't get away from it,\" he said. \"E=MC\n 2\n is in a tree trunk\n as well as in a uranium atom or a solar system. When you're hacking\n away at a particular tree, though, you don't think much about such\n intangibles—like any good, untheoretical lumberjack, you're a lot\n more concerned with superficialities, such as which way the grain\n runs, how to avoid the knots, and so on. It's very restful. So long\n as a cyberneticist is sawing and chopping, he's not a sliver of\n uncontaminated cerebrum contemplating the eternal slippery verities of\n gravity and electromagnetism; he's just one more guy trying to slice\n up one more log. Makes him feel he belongs to the human race again.\n Einstein, you know, used to get the same results with a violin.\"", "Now, I've heard talk like that before, and I don't like it. I don't\n like it at all. It so happens that I feel very strongly on the subject.\n I think a scientist should like what he's doing and not want to take\n refuge in Nature from the Laws of Nature (which is downright illogical,\n anyhow). I, for one, enjoy cutting logs precisely\nbecause\n, when my\n saw rasps across a knot, I know that the innermost secret of that\n knot, as of all matter in the Universe, is E=MC\n 2\n . It's my job to\nknow\nit, and it's very satisfying to\nknow\nthat I know it and that\n the general run of people don't. I was about to put this thought into\n words, but before I could open my mouth, somebody behind us spoke up." ], [ "\"As I see it,\" I said, \"there are two sides to the problem, the\n kinesthetic and the neural. We're making definite progress on the K\n side—I've worked out a new solenoid system, with some miniature motors\n tied in, and I think it'll give us a leg that\nmoves\ndamned well. I\n don't know about the N side, though. It's pretty tough figuring out\n how to hook the thing up electrically with the central nervous system\n so that the brain can control it. Some sort of compromise system of\n operation, along mechanical rather than neural lines, would be a lot\n simpler.\"\n\n\n \"You mean,\" the boss said with a smile, \"that it's stumping you.\"", "Take this afternoon, for instance. I've just worked out an entirely\n different kind of leg based on a whole new arrangement of solenoids to\n duplicate the muscle systems, and I decided to give it a try. When I\n was slipping the model into place, I looked up and caught Kujack's eye\n for a moment. He seemed to be laughing at something, although his face\n was expressionless.\n\n\n \"All right,\" I said. \"Let's make a test. I understand you used to be\n quite a football player. Well, just think of how you used to kick a\n football and try to do it now.\"\n\n\n He really seemed to be trying; the effort made him sweat. All that\n happened, though, was that the big toe wriggled a little and the knee\n buckled. Dud Number Twenty-five. I was sore, of course, especially when\n I noticed that Kujack was more amused than ever.\n\n\n \"You seem to think something's pretty funny,\" I said.", "A year ago, the boss laid down a policy for the lab: begin with legs\n because, while the neuro-motor systems in legs and arms are a lot\n alike, those in legs are much simpler. If we build satisfactory legs,\n the boss figures, we can then tackle arms; the main difficulties will\n have been licked.\n\n\n Well, last summer, in line with this approach, the Army picked out\n a double amputee from the outpatient department of Walter Reed\n Hospital—fellow by the name of Kujack, who lost both his legs in a\n land mine explosion outside Pyongyang—and shipped him up here to be a\n subject in our experiments.", "When Kujack arrived, the neuro boys made a major decision. It didn't\n make sense, they agreed, to keep building experimental legs directly\n into the muscles and nerves of Kujack's stumps; the surgical procedure\n in these cine-plastic jobs is complicated as all getout, involves a\n lot of pain for the subject and, what's more to the point, means long\n delays each time while the tissues heal.\n\n\n Instead, they hit on the idea of integrating permanent metal and\n plastic sockets into the stumps, so constructed that each new\n experimental limb can be snapped into place whenever it's ready for a\n trial.\nBy the time I took over, two weeks ago, Goldweiser had the sockets\n worked out and fitted to Kujack's stumps, and the muscular and\n neural tissues had knitted satisfactorily. There was only one hitch:\n twenty-three limbs had been designed, and all twenty-three had been\n dismal flops. That's when the boss called me in.", "When you're told to build an artificial leg that'll take the place\n of a real one, the headaches begin. Your machine must not only\nlook\nlike its living model, it must\nalso\nbalance and support, walk, run,\n hop, skip, jump, etc., etc.\nAlso\n, it must fit into the same space.\nAlso\n, it must feel everything a real leg feels—touch, heat, cold,\n pain, moisture, kinesthetic sensations—\nas well as\nexecute all the\n brain-directed movements that a real leg can.\n\n\n So you're not duplicating this or that function; you're reconstructing\n the organ in its totality, or trying to. Your pro must have a full set\n of sensory-motor communication systems, plus machines to carry out\n orders, which is impossible enough to begin with.", "But our job calls for even more. The pro mustn't only\nequal\nthe\n real thing, it must be\nsuperior\n! That means creating a synthetic\n neuro-muscular system that actually\nimproves\non the nerves and\n muscles Nature created in the original!\n\n\n When our twenty-fourth experimental model turned out to be a dud last\n week—it just hung from Kujack's stump, quivering like one of my robot\n bedbugs, as though it had a bad case of intention tremor—Goldweiser\n said something that made an impression on me.\n\"They don't want much from us,\" he said sarcastically. \"They just want\n us to be God.\"", "\"Definitely,\" I said. \"I'd be the last one in the world to say a word\n against Len, but he was always a little peculiar. Very gay one moment\n and very sour the next, and inclined to poke fun at things other people\n take seriously. He used to write poetry.\"\n\n\n \"I'm very glad to know that,\" the boss said. \"Confirms my own feeling\n about him.\"\n\n\n So the boss has some doubts about Len.\nOctober 27, 1959\nUnpleasant evening with Len. It all started after dinner when he showed\n up in my room, wagged his finger at me and said, \"Ollie, you've been\n avoiding me. That hurts. Thought we were pals, thick and thin and till\n debt and death do us part.\"\n\n\n I saw immediately that he was drunk—he always gets his words mixed\n up when he's drunk—and I tried to placate him by explaining that it\n wasn't anything like that; I'd been busy.", "\"Look here, Parks,\" the boss said. He seemed a little peeved.\n \"Cybernetics is teamwork, and the first rule of any team is that not\n everybody can be quarterback. Each man has a specific job on our team,\n one thing he's best suited for, and what\nyou're\nbest suited for,\n obviously, is the Pro lab. We've followed your work closely these last\n few years, and we were quite impressed by the way you handled those\n photo-electric-cell insects. You pulled off a brilliant engineering\n stunt, you know, when you induced nervous breakdown in your robot\n moths and bedbugs, and proved that the oscillations they developed\n corresponded to those which the human animal develops in intention\n tremor and Parkinson's disease. A keen bit of cybernetic thinking,\n that.\nVery\nkeen.\"\n\n\n It was just luck, I told him modestly.", "\"Sure thing,\" he said. \"You're going to take charge of a very important\n lab. The Pro lab.\" I guess he saw my puzzled look. \"Pro—that's short\n for prosthetics, artificial limbs. You know, it's really a scandal.\n With our present level of technology, we should have artificial limbs\n which in many ways are even better than the originals, but actually\n we're still making do with modifications of the same primitive, clumsy\n pegs and hooks they were using a thousand years ago. I'm counting on\n you to get things hopping in that department. It's a real challenge.\"\n\n\n I said it sure was a challenge, and of course I'd do my level best to\n meet it. Still, I couldn't help feeling a bit disappointed. Around\n cybernetics circles, I hinted, you heard a lot of talk about the\n hush-hush MS work that was going on at IFACS and it sounded so exciting\n that, well, a fellow sort of hoped he might get into\nthat\nend of\n things.", "\"Nonsense,\" the boss insisted. \"You're first and foremost a talented\n neuro man, and that's exactly what we need in the Pro department.\n There, you see, the problem is primarily one of duplicating a nervous\n mechanism in the metal, of bridging the gap between the neuronic and\n electronic. So buckle down, and if you hear any more gossip about MS,\n forget it fast—it's not a proper subject of conversation for you. The\n loyalty oath you signed is very specific about the trouble you can get\n into with loose talk. Remember that.\"\n\n\n I said I certainly would, and thanks a whole lot for the advice.", "I didn't care for his cynical attitude at all, but he had a point. Len\n Ellsom just has to build a fancy adding machine to get his picture in\n the papers.\nI\nhave to be God!\nOctober 22, 1959\nDon't know what to make of Kujack. His attitude is peculiar. Of course,\n he's very co-operative, lies back on the fitting table and doesn't\n even wince when we snap on the pros, and he does his best to carry out\n instructions. Still, there's something funny about the way he looks at\n me. There's a kind of malicious expression in his eyes. At times, come\n to think of it, he reminds me of Len.", "I'm no Eniac, but I can occasionally put two and two together myself.\n If the boss's remarks mean anything, they mean that an electronic brain\n capable of playing games has been developed, and that it's led to\n something important militarily. Of course! I could kick myself for not\n having guessed it before.\n\n\n Brains-and-games—that's what MS is all about, obviously. It had to\n happen: out of the mathematical analysis of chess came a robot chess\n player, and out of the chess player came some kind of mechanical brain\n that's useful in military strategy.\nThat's\nwhat Len Ellsom's in the\n middle of.\n\n\n \"Really brilliant mind,\" the boss said after we'd sawed for a while.\n \"Keen. But he's a little erratic—quirky, queer sense of humor. Isn't\n that your impression?\"", "\"Don't get me wrong, Doc,\" he said, much too innocently. \"It's just\n that I've been thinking. Maybe you'd have more luck if you thought of\n me as a bedbug.\"\n\n\n \"Where did you get that idea?\"\n\n\n \"From Doc Ellsom. I was having some beers with him the other night.\n He's got a very high opinion of you, says you build the best bedbugs in\n the business.\"\n\n\n I find it hard to believe that Len Ellsom would say anything really\n nice about me. Must be his guilt about Marilyn that makes him talk that\n way. I don't like his hanging around Kujack.\nOctober 25, 1959\nThe boss came along on our woodcutting expedition this morning and\n volunteered to work the other end of my two-handled saw. He asked how\n things were coming in the Pro lab.", "Now, I've heard talk like that before, and I don't like it. I don't\n like it at all. It so happens that I feel very strongly on the subject.\n I think a scientist should like what he's doing and not want to take\n refuge in Nature from the Laws of Nature (which is downright illogical,\n anyhow). I, for one, enjoy cutting logs precisely\nbecause\n, when my\n saw rasps across a knot, I know that the innermost secret of that\n knot, as of all matter in the Universe, is E=MC\n 2\n . It's my job to\nknow\nit, and it's very satisfying to\nknow\nthat I know it and that\n the general run of people don't. I was about to put this thought into\n words, but before I could open my mouth, somebody behind us spoke up.", "\"Some tool,\" he sneered. He was so drunk by now that I could hardly\n understand what he was saying. \"The General Staff boys in Washington\n were all hopped up about that little old tool, and for a plenty good\n reason—they understood that mechanized warfare is only the most\n complicated game the human race has invented so far, an elaborate form\n of chess which uses the population of the world for pawns and the\n globe for a chessboard. They saw, too, that when the game of war gets\n this complex, the job of controlling and guiding it becomes too damned\n involved for any number of human brains, no matter how nimble.\n\n\n \"In other words, my beamish Boy Scout, modern war needs just this kind\n of strategy tool; the General Staff has to be mechanized along with\n everything else. So the Pentagon boys set up IFACS and handed us a\n top-priority cybernetics project: to build a superduper chess player\n that could oversee a complicated military maneuver, maybe later a whole\n campaign, maybe ultimately a whole global war.", "\"Oh?\" I said. \"Does that mean you're in MS?\" It wasn't an easy idea to\n accept, but I think I was pretty successful in keeping my tone casual.\n\n\n \"Ollie, my boy,\" he said in an exaggerated stage whisper, putting his\n finger to his lips, \"in the beginning was the word and the word was\n mum. Leave us avoid the subject of brains in this\nkeen\nplace. We\n all have a job to do on the team.\" I suppose that was meant to be a\n humorous imitation of the boss; Len always did fancy himself quite a\n clown.\n\n\n We were separated during the sawing, but he caught up with me on the\n way back and said, \"Let's get together soon and have a talk, Ollie.\n It's been a long time.\"", "What had he been so scared about? It seemed to me he should have felt\n happy.\n\n\n \"Listen, Ollie,\" he said, \"for Christ's sake, stop talking like a Boy\n Scout for once in your life.\"\n\n\n If he was going to insult me—\n\n\n \"No insult intended. Just listen. I'm a terrible chess player. Any\n five-year-old could chatemeck—checkmate—me with his brains tied\n behind his back. But this machine which I built, helped build, is the\n champion chess player of the world. In other words, my brain has given\n birth to a brain which can do things my brain could never do. Don't you\n find that terrifying?\"\n\n\n \"Not at all,\" I said. \"\nYou\nmade the machine, didn't you? Therefore,\n no matter what it does, it's only an extension of you. You should feel\n proud to have devised a powerful new tool.\"", "After M. I. T. I\nhad\nspent some time out in California doing\n neuro-cyber research, I explained—but what was\nhe\ndoing here? I'd\n lost track of him after he'd left Boston; the last I'd heard, he'd been\n working on the giant robot brain Remington-Rand was developing for the\n Air Force. I remembered seeing his picture in the paper two or three\n times while he was working on the brain.\n\n\n \"I was with Remington a couple of years,\" he told me. \"If I do say\n so myself, we built the Air Force a real humdinger of a brain—in\n addition to solving the most complex problems in ballistics, it could\n whistle\nDixie\nand, in moments of stress, produce a sound not unlike\n a Bronx cheer. Naturally, for my prowess in the electronic simulation\n of I.Q., I was tapped for the brain department of these hallowed\n precincts.\"", "I was relieved to see him taking it so well because I know how anxious\n he is to get results from the Pro lab. Since Pro is one of the few\n things going on at IFACS that can be talked about, he's impatient for\n us to come up with something he can release to the press. As the public\n relations officer explained it to me at dinner the other night, people\n get worried when they know there's something like IFACS going, but\n don't get any real information about it, so the boss, naturally, wants\n to relieve the public's curiosity with a good, reassuring story about\n our work.\n\n\n I knew I was taking an awful chance spilling the whole K-N thing to him\n the way I did, but I had to lay the groundwork for a little plan I've\n just begun to work on.\n\n\n \"By the way, sir,\" I said, \"I ran into Len Ellsom the other day. I\n didn't know he was here.\"", "\"Do you know him?\" the boss said. \"Good man. One of the best\n brains-and-games men you'll find anywhere.\"\n\n\n I explained that Len had gotten his degree at M.I.T. the year before I\n did. From what I'd heard, I added, he'd done some important work on the\n Remington-Rand ballistics computer.\n\n\n \"He did indeed,\" the boss said, \"but that's not the half of it. After\n that he made some major contributions to the robot chess player. As a\n matter of fact, that's why he's here.\"\n\n\n I said I hadn't heard about the chess player.\n\n\n \"As soon as it began to play a really good game of chess, Washington\n put the whole thing under wraps for security reasons. Which is why you\n won't hear any more about it from me.\"" ], [ "Damn! Everybody knows MS is the thing to get into. It gives you real\n standing in the field if it gets around that you're an MS man. I had my\n heart set on getting into MS.\nOctober 6, 1959\nIt never rains, etc.: now it turns out that Len Ellsom's here, and\nhe's\nin MS! Found out about it in a funny way. Two mornings a week,\n it seems, the staff members get into their skiing and hunting clothes\n and tramp into the woods to cut logs for their fireplaces. Well, this\n morning I went with them, and as we were walking along the trail\n Goldweiser, my assistant, told me the idea behind these expeditions.", "I was relieved to see him taking it so well because I know how anxious\n he is to get results from the Pro lab. Since Pro is one of the few\n things going on at IFACS that can be talked about, he's impatient for\n us to come up with something he can release to the press. As the public\n relations officer explained it to me at dinner the other night, people\n get worried when they know there's something like IFACS going, but\n don't get any real information about it, so the boss, naturally, wants\n to relieve the public's curiosity with a good, reassuring story about\n our work.\n\n\n I knew I was taking an awful chance spilling the whole K-N thing to him\n the way I did, but I had to lay the groundwork for a little plan I've\n just begun to work on.\n\n\n \"By the way, sir,\" I said, \"I ran into Len Ellsom the other day. I\n didn't know he was here.\"", "I'm no Eniac, but I can occasionally put two and two together myself.\n If the boss's remarks mean anything, they mean that an electronic brain\n capable of playing games has been developed, and that it's led to\n something important militarily. Of course! I could kick myself for not\n having guessed it before.\n\n\n Brains-and-games—that's what MS is all about, obviously. It had to\n happen: out of the mathematical analysis of chess came a robot chess\n player, and out of the chess player came some kind of mechanical brain\n that's useful in military strategy.\nThat's\nwhat Len Ellsom's in the\n middle of.\n\n\n \"Really brilliant mind,\" the boss said after we'd sawed for a while.\n \"Keen. But he's a little erratic—quirky, queer sense of humor. Isn't\n that your impression?\"", "Guess I was a little previous in packing my soup-and-fish. Soon as I\n was shown to my room in the bachelor dorms, I dug it out and hung it\n way back in the closet, out of sight. When in Rome, etc. Later that day\n I discovered they carry dungarees in the Co-op; luckily, they had the\n pre-faded kind.\nOctober 6, 1959\nMet the boss this morning—hardly out of his thirties, crew-cut,\n wearing a flannel hunting shirt and dirty saddleshoes. I was glad I'd\n thought to change into my dungarees before the interview.\n\n\n \"Parks,\" he said, \"you can count yourself a very fortunate young man.\n You've come to the most important address in America, not excluding the\n Pentagon. In the world, probably. To get you oriented, suppose I sketch\n in some of the background of the place.\"", "\"Bravo, Goldie,\" he said. \"Let us by all means pretend that we belong\n to the human race. Make way for the new cyberneticists with their old\n saws. Cyberneticist, spare that tree!\"\n\n\n I turned around to see who could be making jokes in such bad taste\n and—as I might have guessed—it was Len Ellsom. He was just as\n surprised as I was.\n\n\n \"Well,\" he said, \"if it isn't Ollie Parks! I thought you were out in\n Cal Tech, building schizophrenic bedbugs.\"", "He wants to talk about Marilyn, I suppose. Naturally. He has a guilty\n conscience. I'll have to make it quite clear to him that the whole\n episode is a matter of complete indifference to me. Marilyn is a closed\n book in my life; he must understand that. But can you beat that? He's\n right in the middle of MS! That lad certainly gets around. It's the\n usual Ellsom charm, I suppose.\n\n\n The usual Ellsom technique for irritating people, too. He's still\n trying to get my goat; he knows how much I've always hated to be called\n Ollie. Must watch Goldweiser. Thought he laughed pretty heartily at\n Len's wisecracks.\nOctober 18, 1959\nThings are shaping up in the Pro lab. Here's how I get the picture.", "\"Don't get me wrong, Doc,\" he said, much too innocently. \"It's just\n that I've been thinking. Maybe you'd have more luck if you thought of\n me as a bedbug.\"\n\n\n \"Where did you get that idea?\"\n\n\n \"From Doc Ellsom. I was having some beers with him the other night.\n He's got a very high opinion of you, says you build the best bedbugs in\n the business.\"\n\n\n I find it hard to believe that Len Ellsom would say anything really\n nice about me. Must be his guilt about Marilyn that makes him talk that\n way. I don't like his hanging around Kujack.\nOctober 25, 1959\nThe boss came along on our woodcutting expedition this morning and\n volunteered to work the other end of my two-handled saw. He asked how\n things were coming in the Pro lab.", "in the labs they're likely to be lolling on the grass, lounging in\n front of the fire in commons, or slouching around in conference rooms\n chalking up equations on a blackboard. No way of telling, of course,\n but a lot of these collegiate-looking chaps must be in the MS end,\n whatever that is. You'd think fellows in something secret like that\n would dress and behave with a little more dignity.", "After M. I. T. I\nhad\nspent some time out in California doing\n neuro-cyber research, I explained—but what was\nhe\ndoing here? I'd\n lost track of him after he'd left Boston; the last I'd heard, he'd been\n working on the giant robot brain Remington-Rand was developing for the\n Air Force. I remembered seeing his picture in the paper two or three\n times while he was working on the brain.\n\n\n \"I was with Remington a couple of years,\" he told me. \"If I do say\n so myself, we built the Air Force a real humdinger of a brain—in\n addition to solving the most complex problems in ballistics, it could\n whistle\nDixie\nand, in moments of stress, produce a sound not unlike\n a Bronx cheer. Naturally, for my prowess in the electronic simulation\n of I.Q., I was tapped for the brain department of these hallowed\n precincts.\"", "\"Oh?\" I said. \"Does that mean you're in MS?\" It wasn't an easy idea to\n accept, but I think I was pretty successful in keeping my tone casual.\n\n\n \"Ollie, my boy,\" he said in an exaggerated stage whisper, putting his\n finger to his lips, \"in the beginning was the word and the word was\n mum. Leave us avoid the subject of brains in this\nkeen\nplace. We\n all have a job to do on the team.\" I suppose that was meant to be a\n humorous imitation of the boss; Len always did fancy himself quite a\n clown.\n\n\n We were separated during the sawing, but he caught up with me on the\n way back and said, \"Let's get together soon and have a talk, Ollie.\n It's been a long time.\"", "\"Lushing it up,\" he said. \"Getting stinking from drinking.\" He still\n likes to use the most flamboyant slang; I consider it an infantile form\n of protest against what he regards as the \"genteel\" manner of academic\n people. \"I got sort of restless this morning, so I ducked out and beat\n it into New York and looked up my friend Steve Lundy in the Village.\n Spent the afternoon liquidating our joint assets. Liquidating our\n assets in the joints.\"\n\n\n What, I wanted to know, was he feeling restless about?\n\n\n \"Restless for going on three years now.\" His face grew solemn, as\n though he were thinking it over very carefully. \"I'll amend that\n statement. Hell with the Aesopian language. I've been a plain lush for\n going on three years. Ever since—\"\n\n\n If it was something personal—I suggested.", "\"Definitely,\" I said. \"I'd be the last one in the world to say a word\n against Len, but he was always a little peculiar. Very gay one moment\n and very sour the next, and inclined to poke fun at things other people\n take seriously. He used to write poetry.\"\n\n\n \"I'm very glad to know that,\" the boss said. \"Confirms my own feeling\n about him.\"\n\n\n So the boss has some doubts about Len.\nOctober 27, 1959\nUnpleasant evening with Len. It all started after dinner when he showed\n up in my room, wagged his finger at me and said, \"Ollie, you've been\n avoiding me. That hurts. Thought we were pals, thick and thin and till\n debt and death do us part.\"\n\n\n I saw immediately that he was drunk—he always gets his words mixed\n up when he's drunk—and I tried to placate him by explaining that it\n wasn't anything like that; I'd been busy.", "\"Stop wearing your loyalty oath on your sleeve,\" he said belligerently.\n \"Sure I want to talk about it. Greatest subject I know. Begin at\n the beginning. Whole thing started back in the Thirties with those\n two refugee mathematicians who used to be here at the Institute for\n Advanced Studies when Einstein was around. Von Morgan and Neumanstern,\n no, Von\nNeu\nmann and\nMor\nganstern. You remember, they did a\n mathematical analysis of all the possible kinds of games, poker,\n tossing pennies, chess, bridge, everything, and they wrote up their\n findings in a volume you certainly know,\nThe Theory of Games\n.", "I didn't care for his cynical attitude at all, but he had a point. Len\n Ellsom just has to build a fancy adding machine to get his picture in\n the papers.\nI\nhave to be God!\nOctober 22, 1959\nDon't know what to make of Kujack. His attitude is peculiar. Of course,\n he's very co-operative, lies back on the fitting table and doesn't\n even wince when we snap on the pros, and he does his best to carry out\n instructions. Still, there's something funny about the way he looks at\n me. There's a kind of malicious expression in his eyes. At times, come\n to think of it, he reminds me of Len.", "\"If we're pals,\" he said, \"come on and have a beer with me.\"\n\n\n There was no shaking him off, so I followed him down to his car and we\n drove to this sleazy little bar in the Negro part of town. As soon as\n we sat down in a booth, Len borrowed all the nickels I had, put them\n in the jukebox and pressed the levers for a lot of old Louie Armstrong\n records.\n\n\n \"Sorry, kid,\" he said. \"I know how you hate this real jazzy stuff, but\n can't have a reunion without music, and there isn't a polka or cowboy\n ballad or hillbilly stomp in the box. They lack the folksy touch on\n this side of the tracks.\" Len has always been very snobbish about my\n interest in folk music.\n\n\n I asked him what he'd been doing during the day.", "\"Maybe you know,\" he went on, \"that in the days of Oppenheimer and\n Einstein, this place was called the Institute for Advanced Studies.\n It was run pretty loosely then—in addition to the mathematicians and\n physicists, they had all sorts of queer ducks hanging around—poets,\n egyptologists, numismatists, medievalists, herbalists, God alone knows\n what all. By 1955, however, so many cybernetics labs had sprung up\n around the country that we needed some central coordinating agency,\n so Washington arranged for us to take over here. Naturally, as soon\n as we arrived, we eased out the poets and egyptologists, brought in\n our own people, and changed the name to the Institute for Advanced\nCybernetics\nStudies. We've got some pretty keen projects going now,\npret\n-ty keen.\"\n\n\n I said I'd bet, and did he have any idea which project I would fit into?", "\"Do you know him?\" the boss said. \"Good man. One of the best\n brains-and-games men you'll find anywhere.\"\n\n\n I explained that Len had gotten his degree at M.I.T. the year before I\n did. From what I'd heard, I added, he'd done some important work on the\n Remington-Rand ballistics computer.\n\n\n \"He did indeed,\" the boss said, \"but that's not the half of it. After\n that he made some major contributions to the robot chess player. As a\n matter of fact, that's why he's here.\"\n\n\n I said I hadn't heard about the chess player.\n\n\n \"As soon as it began to play a really good game of chess, Washington\n put the whole thing under wraps for security reasons. Which is why you\n won't hear any more about it from me.\"", "Now, I've heard talk like that before, and I don't like it. I don't\n like it at all. It so happens that I feel very strongly on the subject.\n I think a scientist should like what he's doing and not want to take\n refuge in Nature from the Laws of Nature (which is downright illogical,\n anyhow). I, for one, enjoy cutting logs precisely\nbecause\n, when my\n saw rasps across a knot, I know that the innermost secret of that\n knot, as of all matter in the Universe, is E=MC\n 2\n . It's my job to\nknow\nit, and it's very satisfying to\nknow\nthat I know it and that\n the general run of people don't. I was about to put this thought into\n words, but before I could open my mouth, somebody behind us spoke up.", "\"The night is young,\" he said, \"and you're so dutiful. Where was I? Oh\n yes, Bell. At first our electronic pawn-pusher wasn't so hot—it could\n beat the pants off a lousy player, but an expert just made it look\n silly. But we kept improving it, see, building more and more electronic\n anticipation and gambit-plotting powers into it, and finally, one great\n day in '55, we thought we had all the kinks ironed out and were ready\n for the big test. By this time, of course, Washington had stepped in\n and taken over the whole project.\n\n\n \"Well, we got hold of Fortunescu, the world's champion chess player,\n sat him down and turned the robot loose on him. For four hours straight\n we followed the match, with a delegation of big brass from Washington,\n and for four hours straight the machine trounced Fortunescu every game.\n That was when I began to get scared. I went out that night and got\n really loaded.\"", "the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nIn the credo of this inspiringly selfless\n \ncyberneticist, nothing was too good for his colleagues\n \nin science.\nMuch\ntoo good for them\n!\nOctober 5, 1959\nWell, here I am at Princeton. IFACS is quite a place,\nquite\na place,\n but the atmosphere's darned informal. My colleagues seem to be mostly\n youngish fellows dressed in sloppy dungarees, sweatshirts (the kind\n Einstein made so famous) and moccasins, and when they're not puttering" ], [ "\"Lushing it up,\" he said. \"Getting stinking from drinking.\" He still\n likes to use the most flamboyant slang; I consider it an infantile form\n of protest against what he regards as the \"genteel\" manner of academic\n people. \"I got sort of restless this morning, so I ducked out and beat\n it into New York and looked up my friend Steve Lundy in the Village.\n Spent the afternoon liquidating our joint assets. Liquidating our\n assets in the joints.\"\n\n\n What, I wanted to know, was he feeling restless about?\n\n\n \"Restless for going on three years now.\" His face grew solemn, as\n though he were thinking it over very carefully. \"I'll amend that\n statement. Hell with the Aesopian language. I've been a plain lush for\n going on three years. Ever since—\"\n\n\n If it was something personal—I suggested.", "\"Definitely,\" I said. \"I'd be the last one in the world to say a word\n against Len, but he was always a little peculiar. Very gay one moment\n and very sour the next, and inclined to poke fun at things other people\n take seriously. He used to write poetry.\"\n\n\n \"I'm very glad to know that,\" the boss said. \"Confirms my own feeling\n about him.\"\n\n\n So the boss has some doubts about Len.\nOctober 27, 1959\nUnpleasant evening with Len. It all started after dinner when he showed\n up in my room, wagged his finger at me and said, \"Ollie, you've been\n avoiding me. That hurts. Thought we were pals, thick and thin and till\n debt and death do us part.\"\n\n\n I saw immediately that he was drunk—he always gets his words mixed\n up when he's drunk—and I tried to placate him by explaining that it\n wasn't anything like that; I'd been busy.", "I was relieved to see him taking it so well because I know how anxious\n he is to get results from the Pro lab. Since Pro is one of the few\n things going on at IFACS that can be talked about, he's impatient for\n us to come up with something he can release to the press. As the public\n relations officer explained it to me at dinner the other night, people\n get worried when they know there's something like IFACS going, but\n don't get any real information about it, so the boss, naturally, wants\n to relieve the public's curiosity with a good, reassuring story about\n our work.\n\n\n I knew I was taking an awful chance spilling the whole K-N thing to him\n the way I did, but I had to lay the groundwork for a little plan I've\n just begun to work on.\n\n\n \"By the way, sir,\" I said, \"I ran into Len Ellsom the other day. I\n didn't know he was here.\"", "Damn! Everybody knows MS is the thing to get into. It gives you real\n standing in the field if it gets around that you're an MS man. I had my\n heart set on getting into MS.\nOctober 6, 1959\nIt never rains, etc.: now it turns out that Len Ellsom's here, and\nhe's\nin MS! Found out about it in a funny way. Two mornings a week,\n it seems, the staff members get into their skiing and hunting clothes\n and tramp into the woods to cut logs for their fireplaces. Well, this\n morning I went with them, and as we were walking along the trail\n Goldweiser, my assistant, told me the idea behind these expeditions.", "I'm no Eniac, but I can occasionally put two and two together myself.\n If the boss's remarks mean anything, they mean that an electronic brain\n capable of playing games has been developed, and that it's led to\n something important militarily. Of course! I could kick myself for not\n having guessed it before.\n\n\n Brains-and-games—that's what MS is all about, obviously. It had to\n happen: out of the mathematical analysis of chess came a robot chess\n player, and out of the chess player came some kind of mechanical brain\n that's useful in military strategy.\nThat's\nwhat Len Ellsom's in the\n middle of.\n\n\n \"Really brilliant mind,\" the boss said after we'd sawed for a while.\n \"Keen. But he's a little erratic—quirky, queer sense of humor. Isn't\n that your impression?\"", "I didn't care for his cynical attitude at all, but he had a point. Len\n Ellsom just has to build a fancy adding machine to get his picture in\n the papers.\nI\nhave to be God!\nOctober 22, 1959\nDon't know what to make of Kujack. His attitude is peculiar. Of course,\n he's very co-operative, lies back on the fitting table and doesn't\n even wince when we snap on the pros, and he does his best to carry out\n instructions. Still, there's something funny about the way he looks at\n me. There's a kind of malicious expression in his eyes. At times, come\n to think of it, he reminds me of Len.", "\"It is\nnot\nsomething personal,\" he said, mimicking me. \"Guess I can\n tell an old cyberneticist pal about it. Been a lush for three years\n because I've been scared for three years. Been scared for three years\n because three years ago I saw a machine beat a man at a game of chess.\"\n\n\n A machine that plays chess? That was interesting, I said.\n\n\n \"Didn't tell you the whole truth the other day,\" Len mumbled. \"I\ndid\nwork on the Remington-Rand computer, sure, but I didn't come to IFACS\n directly from that. In between I spent a couple years at the Bell\n Telephone Labs. Claude Shannon—or, rather, to begin with there was\n Norbert Wiener back at M.I.T.—it's complicated....\"\n\n\n \"Look,\" I said, \"are you sure you want to talk about it?\"", "\"Oh?\" I said. \"Does that mean you're in MS?\" It wasn't an easy idea to\n accept, but I think I was pretty successful in keeping my tone casual.\n\n\n \"Ollie, my boy,\" he said in an exaggerated stage whisper, putting his\n finger to his lips, \"in the beginning was the word and the word was\n mum. Leave us avoid the subject of brains in this\nkeen\nplace. We\n all have a job to do on the team.\" I suppose that was meant to be a\n humorous imitation of the boss; Len always did fancy himself quite a\n clown.\n\n\n We were separated during the sawing, but he caught up with me on the\n way back and said, \"Let's get together soon and have a talk, Ollie.\n It's been a long time.\"", "\"Don't get me wrong, Doc,\" he said, much too innocently. \"It's just\n that I've been thinking. Maybe you'd have more luck if you thought of\n me as a bedbug.\"\n\n\n \"Where did you get that idea?\"\n\n\n \"From Doc Ellsom. I was having some beers with him the other night.\n He's got a very high opinion of you, says you build the best bedbugs in\n the business.\"\n\n\n I find it hard to believe that Len Ellsom would say anything really\n nice about me. Must be his guilt about Marilyn that makes him talk that\n way. I don't like his hanging around Kujack.\nOctober 25, 1959\nThe boss came along on our woodcutting expedition this morning and\n volunteered to work the other end of my two-handled saw. He asked how\n things were coming in the Pro lab.", "He wants to talk about Marilyn, I suppose. Naturally. He has a guilty\n conscience. I'll have to make it quite clear to him that the whole\n episode is a matter of complete indifference to me. Marilyn is a closed\n book in my life; he must understand that. But can you beat that? He's\n right in the middle of MS! That lad certainly gets around. It's the\n usual Ellsom charm, I suppose.\n\n\n The usual Ellsom technique for irritating people, too. He's still\n trying to get my goat; he knows how much I've always hated to be called\n Ollie. Must watch Goldweiser. Thought he laughed pretty heartily at\n Len's wisecracks.\nOctober 18, 1959\nThings are shaping up in the Pro lab. Here's how I get the picture.", "\"The night is young,\" he said, \"and you're so dutiful. Where was I? Oh\n yes, Bell. At first our electronic pawn-pusher wasn't so hot—it could\n beat the pants off a lousy player, but an expert just made it look\n silly. But we kept improving it, see, building more and more electronic\n anticipation and gambit-plotting powers into it, and finally, one great\n day in '55, we thought we had all the kinks ironed out and were ready\n for the big test. By this time, of course, Washington had stepped in\n and taken over the whole project.\n\n\n \"Well, we got hold of Fortunescu, the world's champion chess player,\n sat him down and turned the robot loose on him. For four hours straight\n we followed the match, with a delegation of big brass from Washington,\n and for four hours straight the machine trounced Fortunescu every game.\n That was when I began to get scared. I went out that night and got\n really loaded.\"", "\"If we're pals,\" he said, \"come on and have a beer with me.\"\n\n\n There was no shaking him off, so I followed him down to his car and we\n drove to this sleazy little bar in the Negro part of town. As soon as\n we sat down in a booth, Len borrowed all the nickels I had, put them\n in the jukebox and pressed the levers for a lot of old Louie Armstrong\n records.\n\n\n \"Sorry, kid,\" he said. \"I know how you hate this real jazzy stuff, but\n can't have a reunion without music, and there isn't a polka or cowboy\n ballad or hillbilly stomp in the box. They lack the folksy touch on\n this side of the tracks.\" Len has always been very snobbish about my\n interest in folk music.\n\n\n I asked him what he'd been doing during the day.", "Now, I've heard talk like that before, and I don't like it. I don't\n like it at all. It so happens that I feel very strongly on the subject.\n I think a scientist should like what he's doing and not want to take\n refuge in Nature from the Laws of Nature (which is downright illogical,\n anyhow). I, for one, enjoy cutting logs precisely\nbecause\n, when my\n saw rasps across a knot, I know that the innermost secret of that\n knot, as of all matter in the Universe, is E=MC\n 2\n . It's my job to\nknow\nit, and it's very satisfying to\nknow\nthat I know it and that\n the general run of people don't. I was about to put this thought into\n words, but before I could open my mouth, somebody behind us spoke up.", "\"Bravo, Goldie,\" he said. \"Let us by all means pretend that we belong\n to the human race. Make way for the new cyberneticists with their old\n saws. Cyberneticist, spare that tree!\"\n\n\n I turned around to see who could be making jokes in such bad taste\n and—as I might have guessed—it was Len Ellsom. He was just as\n surprised as I was.\n\n\n \"Well,\" he said, \"if it isn't Ollie Parks! I thought you were out in\n Cal Tech, building schizophrenic bedbugs.\"", "\"Some tool,\" he sneered. He was so drunk by now that I could hardly\n understand what he was saying. \"The General Staff boys in Washington\n were all hopped up about that little old tool, and for a plenty good\n reason—they understood that mechanized warfare is only the most\n complicated game the human race has invented so far, an elaborate form\n of chess which uses the population of the world for pawns and the\n globe for a chessboard. They saw, too, that when the game of war gets\n this complex, the job of controlling and guiding it becomes too damned\n involved for any number of human brains, no matter how nimble.\n\n\n \"In other words, my beamish Boy Scout, modern war needs just this kind\n of strategy tool; the General Staff has to be mechanized along with\n everything else. So the Pentagon boys set up IFACS and handed us a\n top-priority cybernetics project: to build a superduper chess player\n that could oversee a complicated military maneuver, maybe later a whole\n campaign, maybe ultimately a whole global war.", "\"We're aiming at a military strategy machine which can digest reports\n from all the units on all the fronts and from moment to moment, on\n the basis of that steady stream of information, grind out an elastic\n overall strategy and dictate concrete tactical directives to all the\n units. Wiener warned this might happen, and he was right. A very nifty\n tool. Never mind how far we've gotten with the thing, but I will tell\n you this: I'm a lot more scared today than I was three years ago.\"\n\n\n So\nthat\nwas the secret of MS! The most extraordinary machine ever\n devised by the human mind! It was hard to conceal the thrill of\n excitement I felt, even as a relative outsider.\n\n\n \"Why all the jitters?\" I said. \"This could be the most wonderful tool\n ever invented. It might eliminate war altogether.\"\n\n\n Len was quiet for a while, gulping his beer and looking off into space.\n Then he turned to me.", "\"Look here, Parks,\" the boss said. He seemed a little peeved.\n \"Cybernetics is teamwork, and the first rule of any team is that not\n everybody can be quarterback. Each man has a specific job on our team,\n one thing he's best suited for, and what\nyou're\nbest suited for,\n obviously, is the Pro lab. We've followed your work closely these last\n few years, and we were quite impressed by the way you handled those\n photo-electric-cell insects. You pulled off a brilliant engineering\n stunt, you know, when you induced nervous breakdown in your robot\n moths and bedbugs, and proved that the oscillations they developed\n corresponded to those which the human animal develops in intention\n tremor and Parkinson's disease. A keen bit of cybernetic thinking,\n that.\nVery\nkeen.\"\n\n\n It was just luck, I told him modestly.", "\"Stop wearing your loyalty oath on your sleeve,\" he said belligerently.\n \"Sure I want to talk about it. Greatest subject I know. Begin at\n the beginning. Whole thing started back in the Thirties with those\n two refugee mathematicians who used to be here at the Institute for\n Advanced Studies when Einstein was around. Von Morgan and Neumanstern,\n no, Von\nNeu\nmann and\nMor\nganstern. You remember, they did a\n mathematical analysis of all the possible kinds of games, poker,\n tossing pennies, chess, bridge, everything, and they wrote up their\n findings in a volume you certainly know,\nThe Theory of Games\n.", "Take this afternoon, for instance. I've just worked out an entirely\n different kind of leg based on a whole new arrangement of solenoids to\n duplicate the muscle systems, and I decided to give it a try. When I\n was slipping the model into place, I looked up and caught Kujack's eye\n for a moment. He seemed to be laughing at something, although his face\n was expressionless.\n\n\n \"All right,\" I said. \"Let's make a test. I understand you used to be\n quite a football player. Well, just think of how you used to kick a\n football and try to do it now.\"\n\n\n He really seemed to be trying; the effort made him sweat. All that\n happened, though, was that the big toe wriggled a little and the knee\n buckled. Dud Number Twenty-five. I was sore, of course, especially when\n I noticed that Kujack was more amused than ever.\n\n\n \"You seem to think something's pretty funny,\" I said.", "What had he been so scared about? It seemed to me he should have felt\n happy.\n\n\n \"Listen, Ollie,\" he said, \"for Christ's sake, stop talking like a Boy\n Scout for once in your life.\"\n\n\n If he was going to insult me—\n\n\n \"No insult intended. Just listen. I'm a terrible chess player. Any\n five-year-old could chatemeck—checkmate—me with his brains tied\n behind his back. But this machine which I built, helped build, is the\n champion chess player of the world. In other words, my brain has given\n birth to a brain which can do things my brain could never do. Don't you\n find that terrifying?\"\n\n\n \"Not at all,\" I said. \"\nYou\nmade the machine, didn't you? Therefore,\n no matter what it does, it's only an extension of you. You should feel\n proud to have devised a powerful new tool.\"" ], [ "I'm no Eniac, but I can occasionally put two and two together myself.\n If the boss's remarks mean anything, they mean that an electronic brain\n capable of playing games has been developed, and that it's led to\n something important militarily. Of course! I could kick myself for not\n having guessed it before.\n\n\n Brains-and-games—that's what MS is all about, obviously. It had to\n happen: out of the mathematical analysis of chess came a robot chess\n player, and out of the chess player came some kind of mechanical brain\n that's useful in military strategy.\nThat's\nwhat Len Ellsom's in the\n middle of.\n\n\n \"Really brilliant mind,\" the boss said after we'd sawed for a while.\n \"Keen. But he's a little erratic—quirky, queer sense of humor. Isn't\n that your impression?\"", "\"We're aiming at a military strategy machine which can digest reports\n from all the units on all the fronts and from moment to moment, on\n the basis of that steady stream of information, grind out an elastic\n overall strategy and dictate concrete tactical directives to all the\n units. Wiener warned this might happen, and he was right. A very nifty\n tool. Never mind how far we've gotten with the thing, but I will tell\n you this: I'm a lot more scared today than I was three years ago.\"\n\n\n So\nthat\nwas the secret of MS! The most extraordinary machine ever\n devised by the human mind! It was hard to conceal the thrill of\n excitement I felt, even as a relative outsider.\n\n\n \"Why all the jitters?\" I said. \"This could be the most wonderful tool\n ever invented. It might eliminate war altogether.\"\n\n\n Len was quiet for a while, gulping his beer and looking off into space.\n Then he turned to me.", "\"Some tool,\" he sneered. He was so drunk by now that I could hardly\n understand what he was saying. \"The General Staff boys in Washington\n were all hopped up about that little old tool, and for a plenty good\n reason—they understood that mechanized warfare is only the most\n complicated game the human race has invented so far, an elaborate form\n of chess which uses the population of the world for pawns and the\n globe for a chessboard. They saw, too, that when the game of war gets\n this complex, the job of controlling and guiding it becomes too damned\n involved for any number of human brains, no matter how nimble.\n\n\n \"In other words, my beamish Boy Scout, modern war needs just this kind\n of strategy tool; the General Staff has to be mechanized along with\n everything else. So the Pentagon boys set up IFACS and handed us a\n top-priority cybernetics project: to build a superduper chess player\n that could oversee a complicated military maneuver, maybe later a whole\n campaign, maybe ultimately a whole global war.", "\"He thinks Emsiac might eliminate war, too, but not in the way a\n Boy Scout might think. What he says is that all the industrialized\n nations must be working away like mad on Emsiac, just as they did on\n the atom bomb, so let's assume that before long all the big countries\n will have more or less equal MS machines. All right. A cold war gets\n under way between countries A and B, and pretty soon it reaches the\n showdown stage. Then both countries plug in their Emsiacs and let them\n calculate the date on which hostilities should begin. If the machines\n are equally efficient, they'll hit on the same date. If there's a\n slight discrepancy, the two countries can work out a compromise date by\n negotiation.", "\"The day arrives. A's Emsiac is set up in its capital, B's is set up\n in\nits\ncapital. In each capital the citizens gather around their\n strategy machine, the officials turn out in high hats and cut-aways,\n there are speeches, pageants, choral singing, mass dancing—the ritual\n can be worked out in advance. Then, at an agreed time, the crowds\n retreat to a safe distance and a committee of the top cyberneticists\n appears. They climb into planes, take off and—this is beautiful—drop\n all their atom bombs and H-bombs on the machines. It happens\n simultaneously in both countries, you see. That's the neat part of it.\n The occasion is called International Mushroom Day.", "\"Then the cyberneticists in both countries go back to their vacuum\n tubes to work on another Emsiac, and the nuclear physicists go back to\n their piles to build more atom bombs, and when they're ready they have\n another Mushroom Day. One Mushroom Day every few years, whenever the\n diplomatic-strategic situation calls for it, and nobody even fires a\n B-B gun. Scientific war. Isn't it wonderful?\"", "I was relieved to see him taking it so well because I know how anxious\n he is to get results from the Pro lab. Since Pro is one of the few\n things going on at IFACS that can be talked about, he's impatient for\n us to come up with something he can release to the press. As the public\n relations officer explained it to me at dinner the other night, people\n get worried when they know there's something like IFACS going, but\n don't get any real information about it, so the boss, naturally, wants\n to relieve the public's curiosity with a good, reassuring story about\n our work.\n\n\n I knew I was taking an awful chance spilling the whole K-N thing to him\n the way I did, but I had to lay the groundwork for a little plan I've\n just begun to work on.\n\n\n \"By the way, sir,\" I said, \"I ran into Len Ellsom the other day. I\n didn't know he was here.\"", "The robot brain called the Eniac, for example, is exactly what its\n name implies—an Electronic Numerical Integrator and Computer, and\n it just has to be able to integrate and compute figures faster and\n more accurately than the human brain can. It doesn't have to have\n daydreams and nightmares, make wisecracks, suffer from anxiety, and\n all that. What's more, it doesn't even have to\nlook\nlike a brain or\n fit into the tiny space occupied by a real brain. It can be housed\n in a six-story building and look like an overgrown typewriter or an\n automobile dashboard or even a pogo stick. All it has to do is tell you\n that two times two equals four, and tell you fast.", "\"Steve Lundy has a cute idea,\" he said. \"He was telling me about it\n this afternoon. He's a bum, you see, but he's got a damned good mind\n and he's done a lot of reading. Among other things, he's smart enough\n to see that once you've got your theory of games worked out, there's\n at least the logical possibility of converting your Eniac into what\n he calls a Strategy Integrator and Computer. And he's guessed, simply\n from the Pentagon's hush-hush policy about it, that that's what we're\n working on here at IFACS. So he holds forth on the subject of Emsiac,\n and I listen.\"\n\n\n \"What's his idea?\" I asked.", "\"Bravo, Goldie,\" he said. \"Let us by all means pretend that we belong\n to the human race. Make way for the new cyberneticists with their old\n saws. Cyberneticist, spare that tree!\"\n\n\n I turned around to see who could be making jokes in such bad taste\n and—as I might have guessed—it was Len Ellsom. He was just as\n surprised as I was.\n\n\n \"Well,\" he said, \"if it isn't Ollie Parks! I thought you were out in\n Cal Tech, building schizophrenic bedbugs.\"", "What had he been so scared about? It seemed to me he should have felt\n happy.\n\n\n \"Listen, Ollie,\" he said, \"for Christ's sake, stop talking like a Boy\n Scout for once in your life.\"\n\n\n If he was going to insult me—\n\n\n \"No insult intended. Just listen. I'm a terrible chess player. Any\n five-year-old could chatemeck—checkmate—me with his brains tied\n behind his back. But this machine which I built, helped build, is the\n champion chess player of the world. In other words, my brain has given\n birth to a brain which can do things my brain could never do. Don't you\n find that terrifying?\"\n\n\n \"Not at all,\" I said. \"\nYou\nmade the machine, didn't you? Therefore,\n no matter what it does, it's only an extension of you. You should feel\n proud to have devised a powerful new tool.\"", "\"The night is young,\" he said, \"and you're so dutiful. Where was I? Oh\n yes, Bell. At first our electronic pawn-pusher wasn't so hot—it could\n beat the pants off a lousy player, but an expert just made it look\n silly. But we kept improving it, see, building more and more electronic\n anticipation and gambit-plotting powers into it, and finally, one great\n day in '55, we thought we had all the kinks ironed out and were ready\n for the big test. By this time, of course, Washington had stepped in\n and taken over the whole project.\n\n\n \"Well, we got hold of Fortunescu, the world's champion chess player,\n sat him down and turned the robot loose on him. For four hours straight\n we followed the match, with a delegation of big brass from Washington,\n and for four hours straight the machine trounced Fortunescu every game.\n That was when I began to get scared. I went out that night and got\n really loaded.\"", "\"As I see it,\" I said, \"there are two sides to the problem, the\n kinesthetic and the neural. We're making definite progress on the K\n side—I've worked out a new solenoid system, with some miniature motors\n tied in, and I think it'll give us a leg that\nmoves\ndamned well. I\n don't know about the N side, though. It's pretty tough figuring out\n how to hook the thing up electrically with the central nervous system\n so that the brain can control it. Some sort of compromise system of\n operation, along mechanical rather than neural lines, would be a lot\n simpler.\"\n\n\n \"You mean,\" the boss said with a smile, \"that it's stumping you.\"", "Damn! Everybody knows MS is the thing to get into. It gives you real\n standing in the field if it gets around that you're an MS man. I had my\n heart set on getting into MS.\nOctober 6, 1959\nIt never rains, etc.: now it turns out that Len Ellsom's here, and\nhe's\nin MS! Found out about it in a funny way. Two mornings a week,\n it seems, the staff members get into their skiing and hunting clothes\n and tramp into the woods to cut logs for their fireplaces. Well, this\n morning I went with them, and as we were walking along the trail\n Goldweiser, my assistant, told me the idea behind these expeditions.", "\"It is\nnot\nsomething personal,\" he said, mimicking me. \"Guess I can\n tell an old cyberneticist pal about it. Been a lush for three years\n because I've been scared for three years. Been scared for three years\n because three years ago I saw a machine beat a man at a game of chess.\"\n\n\n A machine that plays chess? That was interesting, I said.\n\n\n \"Didn't tell you the whole truth the other day,\" Len mumbled. \"I\ndid\nwork on the Remington-Rand computer, sure, but I didn't come to IFACS\n directly from that. In between I spent a couple years at the Bell\n Telephone Labs. Claude Shannon—or, rather, to begin with there was\n Norbert Wiener back at M.I.T.—it's complicated....\"\n\n\n \"Look,\" I said, \"are you sure you want to talk about it?\"", "There's no mystery about the failures. Not to me, anyhow. Cybernetics\n is simply the science of building machines that will duplicate and\n improve on the organs and functions of the animal, based on what we\n know about the systems of communication and control in the animal. All\n right. But in any particular cybernetics project, everything depends\n on just how\nmany\nof the functions you want to duplicate, just how\nmuch\nof the total organ you want to replace.\n\n\n That's why the robot-brain boys can get such quick and spectacular\n results, have their pictures in the papers all the time, and become\n the real glamor boys of the profession. They're not asked to duplicate\n the human brain in its\nentirety\n—all they have to do is isolate and\n imitate one particular function of the brain, whether it's a simple\n operation in mathematics or a certain type of elementary logic.", "But our job calls for even more. The pro mustn't only\nequal\nthe\n real thing, it must be\nsuperior\n! That means creating a synthetic\n neuro-muscular system that actually\nimproves\non the nerves and\n muscles Nature created in the original!\n\n\n When our twenty-fourth experimental model turned out to be a dud last\n week—it just hung from Kujack's stump, quivering like one of my robot\n bedbugs, as though it had a bad case of intention tremor—Goldweiser\n said something that made an impression on me.\n\"They don't want much from us,\" he said sarcastically. \"They just want\n us to be God.\"", "I didn't care for his cynical attitude at all, but he had a point. Len\n Ellsom just has to build a fancy adding machine to get his picture in\n the papers.\nI\nhave to be God!\nOctober 22, 1959\nDon't know what to make of Kujack. His attitude is peculiar. Of course,\n he's very co-operative, lies back on the fitting table and doesn't\n even wince when we snap on the pros, and he does his best to carry out\n instructions. Still, there's something funny about the way he looks at\n me. There's a kind of malicious expression in his eyes. At times, come\n to think of it, he reminds me of Len.", "\"Look here, Parks,\" the boss said. He seemed a little peeved.\n \"Cybernetics is teamwork, and the first rule of any team is that not\n everybody can be quarterback. Each man has a specific job on our team,\n one thing he's best suited for, and what\nyou're\nbest suited for,\n obviously, is the Pro lab. We've followed your work closely these last\n few years, and we were quite impressed by the way you handled those\n photo-electric-cell insects. You pulled off a brilliant engineering\n stunt, you know, when you induced nervous breakdown in your robot\n moths and bedbugs, and proved that the oscillations they developed\n corresponded to those which the human animal develops in intention\n tremor and Parkinson's disease. A keen bit of cybernetic thinking,\n that.\nVery\nkeen.\"\n\n\n It was just luck, I told him modestly.", "\"Well, that got Wiener started. You may remember that when he founded\n the science of cybernetics, he announced that on the basis of the\n theory of games, it was feasible to design a robot computing machine\n that would play a better than average game of chess. Right after that,\n back in '49 or maybe it was '50, Claude Shannon of the Bell Labs said\n Wiener wasn't just talking, and to prove it he was going to\nbuild\nthe robot chess player. Which he proceeded withforth—forthwith—to\n do. Sometime in '53, I was taken off the Remington-Rand project and\n assigned to Bell to work with him.\"\n\n\n \"Maybe we ought to start back,\" I cut in. \"I've got a lot of work to\n do.\"" ] ]
test	51210	[ "What is the unspeakable thing that the title refers to?", "What finally motivates the speaker to go to the government about his issue?", "Now that he possesses this four-letter name, how has his life changed?", "If he actually goes through with trying to get a name change, what is he afraid could happen?", "What is one major drawback he feels his name causes?", "The woman who waits on the main character", "Why does the main character get so embarrassed in front of the woman at the counter?", "What type of unauthorized behavior does the main character engage in with the clerk?", "What almost distracts the main character enough to forget why he came to the government office in the first place?", "In the end, what does the couple the main character observes make him realize?" ]	[ [ "The dreams that the main character has.", "The narrator's name.", "The acts that the narrator commits.", "The planet's name." ], [ "He is curious as to what they will do when he presents his dilemma.", "He is tired of being mistaken for someone else.", "It was his mother's dying wish.", "The woman in his dream persuades him." ], [ "He meets many more women than before.", "He has virtually lost his entire life, and he is virtually shunned by society.", "He is allowed to go to the front of every line.", "People with his name are considered special, and he never has to wait in line for anything." ], [ "He could be arrested and sent to an institution", "He will be dishonoring his parents.", "He will never dream of the woman again.", "He will lose his job." ], [ "He cannot find a woman willing to have sex with him, and he is dying to attempt to procreate.", "He is unable to qualify for the position that would put him in close proximity to the woman he dreams of.. ", "His name is always called last, so he spends the majority of his time waiting in line.", "His name is always called last, so he spends the majority of his time waiting in line." ], [ "reminds him of the woman he dreams about", "is rude and refuses to assist him.", "reminds him of his mother who he just lost because she was so kind to him,", "ultimately turns him in to the authorities because what he is trying to do is illegal." ], [ "He tells her he reminds her of his mother who just died.", "He tells her he dreams about her.", "He has to tell her his name.", "He belches in her face when she asks him a question." ], [ "He tries to have sex with her.", "He discusses his dead mother, which is prohibited.", "He asks her out on a date.", "He asks her personal questions." ], [ "His fear of retaliation from the authorities.", "All he can think about is the woman who will be in his dreams that night.", "He cannot take his eyes off of the clerk.", "All he can think about is his mother." ], [ "No matter where you go, as long as you have the one you love with you, nothing else matters.", "He is glad he is not tied down to someone else.", "He is going to the institution and he is scared.", "He is going to ask out the clerk the next time he sees her." ] ]	[ -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1 ]	[ 0, 0, 0, 1, 1, 0, 0, 1, 1, 0 ]	[ [ "I, the Unspeakable\nBy WALT SHELDON\n\n\n Illustrated by LOUIS MARCHETTI\n\n\n [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Galaxy Science Fiction April 1951.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\n\"What's in a name?\" might be very dangerous\n\n to ask in certain societies, in which sticks\n\n and stones are also a big problem!\nI fought to be awake. I was dreaming, but I think I must have blushed.\n I must have blushed in my sleep.\n\n\n \"\nDo it!\n\" she said. \"\nPlease do it! For me!\n\"", "Yes, you suspect already. You know what a four letter word can be.\n\n\n Mine was.\n\n\n It was unspeakable.\n\n\n The slight weight on my forehead reminded me that I still wore my\n sleep-learner. I'd been studying administrative cybernetics, hoping to\n qualify in that field, although it was a poor substitute for a space\n drive expert. I removed the band and stepped across the room and\n turned off the oscillator. I went back to my egg and my bitter memories.\n\n\n I will never forget the first day I received my new four letter\n combination and reported it to my chief, as required. I was unthinkably\n embarrassed. He didn't say anything. He just swallowed and choked\n and became crimson when he saw it. He didn't dare pass it to his\n secretarial engineer; he went to the administrative circuits and\n registered it himself.", "We were renumbered, then, in Northem. You know the system: everybody\n now has six digits and an additional prefix or suffix of four letters.\n Stateleader, for instance, has the designation AAAA-111/111. Now, to\n address somebody by calling off four letters is a little clumsy. We try\n to pronounce them when they are pronounceable. That is, no one says to\n Stateleader, \"Good morning, A-A-A-A.\" They say, \"Good morning, Aaaa.\"\n\n\n Reading the last quote, I notice a curious effect. It says what I feel.\n Of course I didn't feel that way on that particular morning. I was\n still conformal; the last thing in my mind was that I would infract and\n be psycho-scanned.\n\n\n Four letters then, and in many cases a pronounceable four letter word.\n\n\n A four letter word.", "They had curious faces. Their eyes were indescribably sad, and yet\n their lips seemed to be ready to smile at any moment.\n\n\n They were holding hands, not seeming to care about this vulgar\n emotional display.\n\n\n I had the sudden crazy idea that Lara and I were sitting there, holding\n hands like that, nonconforming in the highest, and that we were\n wonderfully happy. Our eyes were sad too, but we were really happy,\n quietly happy, and that was why our lips stayed upon the brink of a\n smile.", "It was the voice that always came, low, intense, seductive, the sound\n of your hand on silk ... and to a citizen of Northem, a conformist, it\n was shocking. I was a conformist then; I was still one that morning.\n\n\n I awoke. The glowlight was on, slowly increasing. I was in my living\n machine in Center Four, where I belonged, and all the familiar things\n were about me, reality was back, but I was breathing very hard.\n\n\n I lay on the pneumo a while before getting up. I looked at the\n chroner: 0703 hours, Day 17, Month IX, New Century Three. My morning\n nuro-tablets had already popped from the tube, and the timer had begun\n to boil an egg. The egg was there because the realfood allotment had\n been increased last month. The balance of trade with Southem had just\n swung a decimal or two our way.", "Well, I couldn't get myself off N/P status until I got a post, and\n with my name I\ncouldn't\nget a post.\n\n\n Nor could I change my name. You know what happens when you try to\n change something already on the records. The very idea of wanting\n change implies criticism of the State. Unthinkable behavior.\n\n\n That was why this curious dream voice shocked me so. The thing that it\n suggested was quite as embarrassing as its non-standard, emotional,\n provocative tone.\n\n\n Bear with me; I'm getting to the voice—to\nher\n—in a moment.", "There was a girl at the information desk. An exceptionally attractive\n girl. She was well within the limits of acceptable standard, and her\n features were even enough, and her hair a middle blonde—but she had\n something else. Hard to describe. It was a warmth, a buoyancy, a sense\n of life and intense animation. It didn't exactly show; it radiated. It\n seemed to sing out from her clear complexion, from her figure, which\n even a tunic could not hide, from everything about her.\n\n\n And if I were to state my business, I would have to tell her my name.\n\n\n I almost backed out right then. I stopped momentarily. And then common\n sense took hold and I realized that if I were to go through with this\n thing, here would be only the first of a long series of embarrassments\n and discomforts. It had to be done.", "\"The Office of Psychological Adjustment. They can change you if you go\n from a lower to higher E.A.C.\"\n\n\n \"I don't get it, exactly.\"\n\n\n As she spoke I had the idea that there was sympathy in her voice. Just\n an overtone. \"Well,\" she said, \"as you know, the post a person is\n qualified to hold often depends largely on his Emotional Adjustment\n Category. Now if he improves and passes from, let us say, Grade 3 to\n Grade 4, he will probably change his place of work. In order to protect\n him from any associative maladjustments developed under the old E.A.C,\n he is permitted a new number.\"\n\n\n I groaned. \"But I'm already in the highest E.A.C.!\"\n\n\n \"It looks very uncertain then.\"", "Then, when I did sleep, when I had been sleeping, I heard the voice\n again. The low, seductive woman's voice—the startling, shocking voice\n out of my unconscious.", "I can't blame him for easing me out. He was trying to run an efficient\n organization, after all, and no doubt I upset its efficiency. My work\n was important—magnetic mechanics was the only way to handle quanta\n reaction, or the so-called non-energy drive, and was therefore the\n answer to feasible space travel beyond our present limit of Mars—and\n there were frequent inspection tours by Big Wheels and Very Important\n Persons.\n\n\n Whenever anyone, especially a woman, asked my name, the embarrassment\n would become a crackling electric field all about us. The best tactic\n was just not to answer.\nThe chief called me in one day. He looked haggard.\n\n\n \"Er—old man,\" he said, not quite able to bring himself to utter my\n name, \"I'm going to have to switch you to another department. How would\n you like to work on nutrition kits? Very interesting work.\"\n\n\n \"Nutrition kits?\nMe?\nOn nutrition kits?\"", "I had a sudden impulse to ask her to meet me after hours at one\n of the rec centers. If it had been my danger alone, I might have,\n but I couldn't very well ask her to risk discovery of a haphazard,\n unauthorized arrangement like that and the possibility of going to the\n psycho-scan.\n\n\n We came to a turn in the corridor and something happened; I'm not sure\n just how it happened. I keep telling myself that my movements were not\n actually deliberate. I was to the right of her. The turn was to the\n left. She turned quickly, and I didn't, so that I bumped into her,\n knocking her off balance. I grabbed her to keep her from falling.\n\n\n For a moment we stood there, face to face, touching each other lightly.\n I held her by the arms. I felt the primitive warmth of her breath. Our\n eyes held together ... proton ... electron ... I felt her tremble.\n\n\n She broke from my grip suddenly and started off again.", "I want to tell you first about the loneliness, the terrible loneliness.\n I could hardly join group games at any of the rec centers. I could join\n no special interest clubs or even State Loyalty chapters. Although I\n dabbled with theoretical research in my own quarters, I could scarcely\n submit any findings for publication—not with my name attached. A\n pseudonym would have been non-regulation and illegal.\n\n\n But there was the worst thing of all. I could not mate.\nFunny, I hadn't thought about mating until it became impossible. I\n remember the first time, out of sheer idleness, I wandered into a\n Eugenic Center. I filled out my form very carefully and submitted it\n for analysis and assignment. The clerk saw my name, and did the usual\n double-take. He coughed and swallowed and fidgeted.\n\n\n He said, \"Of course you understand that we must submit your\n application to the woman authorized to spend time in the mating booths\n with you, and that she has the right to refuse.\"", "I didn't want to look into her eyes. I wanted to look away, but I\n couldn't find a decent excuse to. I saw her eyes become wide and\n noticed for the first time that they were a warm gray, almost a mouse\n color. I felt like laughing at that irrelevant observation, but more\n than that I felt like turning and running. I felt like climbing and\n dashing all over the walls like a frustrated cat and yelling at the\n top of my lungs. I felt like anything but standing there and looking\n stupid, meeting her stare—\nShe looked down quickly and recorded my name. It took her a little\n longer than necessary. In that time she recovered. Somewhat.\n\n\n \"All right,\" she said finally, \"I'll make a search.\"\n\n\n She turned to a row of buttons on a console in the center of the desk\n and began to press them in various combinations. A typer clicked away.\n She tore off a slip of paper, consulted it, and said, \"Information\n desired is in Bank 29. Please follow me.\"", "I walked up to the desk and the girl turned to face me, and I could\n have sworn that a faint smile crossed her lips. It was swift, like the\n shadow of a bird across one of the lawns in one of the great parks\n topside. Very non-standard. Yet I wasn't offended; if anything, I felt\n suddenly and disturbingly pleased.\n\n\n \"What information is desired?\" she asked. Her voice was standard—or\n was it?\n\n\n Again I had the feeling of restrained warmth.\n\n\n I used colloquial. \"I want to get the dope on State Serial\n designations, how they're assigned and so forth. Especially how they\n might be changed.\"\n\n\n She put a handsteno on the desk top and said, \"Name? Address? Post?\"\n\n\n I froze. I stood there and stared at her.\n\n\n She looked up and said, \"Well?\"", "And the drama seemed to point out that there was no more security for\n the nonconformists out there than for us here on Earth. Maybe somewhere\n in the universe, I thought, there would be peace for men. Somewhere\n beyond the solar system, perhaps, someday when we had the means to go\n there....\n\n\n Yet instinct told me that wasn't the answer, either. I thought of a\n verse by an ancient pre-atomic poet named Hoffenstein. (People had\n unwieldy, random combinations of letters for names in those days.) The\n poem went:\n\nWherever I go,\nI\ngo too,\nAnd spoil everything.\n\n That was it. The story of mankind.\n\n\n I turned the glowlight down and lay on the pneumo after a while, but I\n didn't sleep for a long, long time.", "\"\nYou have taken the first step\n,\" she said. \"\nYou are on your way\n to freedom. Don't stop now. Don't sink back into the lifelessness of\n conformity. Go on ... on and on. Keep struggling, for that is the only\n answer....\n\"\nI didn't exactly talk back, but in the queer way of the dream, I\nthought\nobjections. I was in my thirties, at the mid-point of my\n life, and the whole of that life had been spent under the State. I knew\n no other way to act. Suppressing what little individuality I might\n have was, for me, a way of survival. I was chockful of prescribed,\n stereotyped reactions, and I held onto them even when something within\n me told me what they were. This wasn't easy, this breaking away, not\n even this slight departure from the secure, camouflaged norm....\n\n\n \"\nThe woman, Lara, attracts you\n,\" said the voice.", "\"I—er—no post at present. N/P status.\"\n\n\n Her fingers moved on the steno.\n\n\n I gave her my address and she recorded that.\n\n\n Then I paused again.\n\n\n She said, \"And your name?\"\n\n\n I took a deep breath and told her.", "Then the cyb said, \"Proceed to Numbering and Identity section. Consult\n alphabetical list and diagram on your left for location of same.\"\n\n\n \"Thanks,\" I said absent-mindedly.\n\n\n I started to turn away and the cyb said, \"Information on tanks is\n military information and classified. State authorization for—\"\n\n\n I switched it off.\nNumbering and Identity wasn't hard to find. I took the shaft to the\n proper level and then it was only a walk of a few hundred yards through\n the glowlit corridors.\n\n\n N. & I. turned out to be a big room, somewhat circular, very\n high-ceilinged, with banks of cyb controls covering the upper walls.\n Narrow passageways, like spokes, led off in several directions. There\n was an information desk in the center of the room.\n\n\n I looked that way and my heart went into free fall.", "About then I began to have these dreams. As I've told you, in the dream\n there was only this woman's seductive voice. The first time I heard it\n I awoke in a warm sweat and swore something had gone wrong with the\n sleep-learner. You never hear the actual words with this machine, of\n course; you simply absorb the concepts unconsciously. Still, it seemed\n an explanation. I checked thoroughly. Nothing wrong.\n\n\n The next night I heard the woman's voice again.\n\n\n \"\nTry it\n,\" she said. \"\nDo it. Start tomorrow to get your name changed.\n There will be a way. There must be a way. The rules are so mixed up\n that a clever man can do almost anything. Do it, please—for me.\n\"\nShe was not only trying to get me to commit nonconformity, but making\n heretical remarks besides. I awoke that time and half-expected a Deacon\n to pop out of the tube and turn his electric club upon me.", "And I heard the voice nearly every night.\n\n\n It hammered away.\n\n\n \"\nWhat if you do fail? Almost anything would be better than the\n miserable existence you're leading now!\n\"\n\n\n One morning I even caught myself wondering just how I'd go about this\n idea of hers. Wondering what the first step might be.\n\n\n She seemed to read my thoughts. That night she said, \"\nConsult the cybs\n in the Govpub office. If you look hard enough and long enough, you'll\n find a way.\n\"" ], [ "Now, on this morning of the seventeenth day in the ninth month,\n I ate my boiled egg slowly and actually toyed with the idea. I\n thought of being on productive status again. I had almost lost my\n fanatical craving to be useful to the State, but I did want to be\n busy—desperately. I didn't want to be despised any more. I didn't\n want to be lonely. I wanted to reproduce myself.\n\n\n I made my decision suddenly. Waves of emotion carried me along. I got\n up, crossed the room to the directory, and pushbuttoned to find the\n location of the nearest Govpub office.\n\n\n I didn't know what would happen and almost didn't care.\nII\n\n\n Like most important places, the Govpub Office in Center Four was\n underground. I could have taken a tunnelcar more quickly, but it seemed\n pleasanter to travel topside. Or maybe I just wanted to put this off a\n bit. Think about it. Compose myself.", "And the drama seemed to point out that there was no more security for\n the nonconformists out there than for us here on Earth. Maybe somewhere\n in the universe, I thought, there would be peace for men. Somewhere\n beyond the solar system, perhaps, someday when we had the means to go\n there....\n\n\n Yet instinct told me that wasn't the answer, either. I thought of a\n verse by an ancient pre-atomic poet named Hoffenstein. (People had\n unwieldy, random combinations of letters for names in those days.) The\n poem went:\n\nWherever I go,\nI\ngo too,\nAnd spoil everything.\n\n That was it. The story of mankind.\n\n\n I turned the glowlight down and lay on the pneumo after a while, but I\n didn't sleep for a long, long time.", "\"Well, I—er—know it sounds unusual, but it justifies. I just had\n the cybs work it over in the light of present regulations, and it\n justifies.\"\n\n\n Everything had to justify, of course. Every act in the monthly report\n had to be covered by regulations and cross-regulations. Of course there\n were so many regulations that if you just took the time to work it out,\n you could justify damn near anything. I knew what the chief was up to.\n Just to remove me from my post would have taken a year of applications\n and hearings and innumerable visits to the capital in Center One. But\n if I should infract—deliberately infract—it would enable the chief to\n let me go. The equivalent of resigning.\n\n\n \"I'll infract,\" I said. \"Rather than go on nutrition kits, I'll\n infract.\"\n\n\n He looked vastly relieved. \"Uh—fine,\" he said. \"I rather hoped you\n would.\"", "And I heard the voice nearly every night.\n\n\n It hammered away.\n\n\n \"\nWhat if you do fail? Almost anything would be better than the\n miserable existence you're leading now!\n\"\n\n\n One morning I even caught myself wondering just how I'd go about this\n idea of hers. Wondering what the first step might be.\n\n\n She seemed to read my thoughts. That night she said, \"\nConsult the cybs\n in the Govpub office. If you look hard enough and long enough, you'll\n find a way.\n\"", "Well, I couldn't get myself off N/P status until I got a post, and\n with my name I\ncouldn't\nget a post.\n\n\n Nor could I change my name. You know what happens when you try to\n change something already on the records. The very idea of wanting\n change implies criticism of the State. Unthinkable behavior.\n\n\n That was why this curious dream voice shocked me so. The thing that it\n suggested was quite as embarrassing as its non-standard, emotional,\n provocative tone.\n\n\n Bear with me; I'm getting to the voice—to\nher\n—in a moment.", "\"I—er—no post at present. N/P status.\"\n\n\n Her fingers moved on the steno.\n\n\n I gave her my address and she recorded that.\n\n\n Then I paused again.\n\n\n She said, \"And your name?\"\n\n\n I took a deep breath and told her.", "\"\nYou have taken the first step\n,\" she said. \"\nYou are on your way\n to freedom. Don't stop now. Don't sink back into the lifelessness of\n conformity. Go on ... on and on. Keep struggling, for that is the only\n answer....\n\"\nI didn't exactly talk back, but in the queer way of the dream, I\nthought\nobjections. I was in my thirties, at the mid-point of my\n life, and the whole of that life had been spent under the State. I knew\n no other way to act. Suppressing what little individuality I might\n have was, for me, a way of survival. I was chockful of prescribed,\n stereotyped reactions, and I held onto them even when something within\n me told me what they were. This wasn't easy, this breaking away, not\n even this slight departure from the secure, camouflaged norm....\n\n\n \"\nThe woman, Lara, attracts you\n,\" said the voice.", "It took a week or so. Then I was on Non-Productive status and issued an\n N/P book for my necessities. Very few luxury coupons in the N/P book.\n I didn't really mind at first. My new living machine was smaller, but\n basically comfortable, and since I was still a loyal member of the\n state and a verified conformist, I wouldn't starve.\n\n\n But I didn't know what I was in for.\n\n\n I went from bureau to bureau, office to office, department to\n department—any place where they might use a space drive expert. A\n pattern began to emerge; the same story everywhere. When I mentioned my\n specialty they would look delighted. When I handed them my tag and they\n saw my name, they would go into immediate polite confusion. As soon as\n they recovered they would say they'd call me if anything turned up....\nA few weeks of this and I became a bit dazed.", "We were renumbered, then, in Northem. You know the system: everybody\n now has six digits and an additional prefix or suffix of four letters.\n Stateleader, for instance, has the designation AAAA-111/111. Now, to\n address somebody by calling off four letters is a little clumsy. We try\n to pronounce them when they are pronounceable. That is, no one says to\n Stateleader, \"Good morning, A-A-A-A.\" They say, \"Good morning, Aaaa.\"\n\n\n Reading the last quote, I notice a curious effect. It says what I feel.\n Of course I didn't feel that way on that particular morning. I was\n still conformal; the last thing in my mind was that I would infract and\n be psycho-scanned.\n\n\n Four letters then, and in many cases a pronounceable four letter word.\n\n\n A four letter word.", "\"The Office of Psychological Adjustment. They can change you if you go\n from a lower to higher E.A.C.\"\n\n\n \"I don't get it, exactly.\"\n\n\n As she spoke I had the idea that there was sympathy in her voice. Just\n an overtone. \"Well,\" she said, \"as you know, the post a person is\n qualified to hold often depends largely on his Emotional Adjustment\n Category. Now if he improves and passes from, let us say, Grade 3 to\n Grade 4, he will probably change his place of work. In order to protect\n him from any associative maladjustments developed under the old E.A.C,\n he is permitted a new number.\"\n\n\n I groaned. \"But I'm already in the highest E.A.C.!\"\n\n\n \"It looks very uncertain then.\"", "I can't blame him for easing me out. He was trying to run an efficient\n organization, after all, and no doubt I upset its efficiency. My work\n was important—magnetic mechanics was the only way to handle quanta\n reaction, or the so-called non-energy drive, and was therefore the\n answer to feasible space travel beyond our present limit of Mars—and\n there were frequent inspection tours by Big Wheels and Very Important\n Persons.\n\n\n Whenever anyone, especially a woman, asked my name, the embarrassment\n would become a crackling electric field all about us. The best tactic\n was just not to answer.\nThe chief called me in one day. He looked haggard.\n\n\n \"Er—old man,\" he said, not quite able to bring himself to utter my\n name, \"I'm going to have to switch you to another department. How would\n you like to work on nutrition kits? Very interesting work.\"\n\n\n \"Nutrition kits?\nMe?\nOn nutrition kits?\"", "In my living machine that evening, I was much too excited to work at\n theoretical research as I usually did after a hard day of tramping\n around. I bathed, I paced a while, I sat and hummed nervously and\n got up and paced again. I turned on the telepuppets. There was a\n drama about the space pilots who fly the nonconformist prisoners to\n the forests and pulp-acetate plants on Mars. Seemed that the Southem\n political prisoners who are confined to the southern hemisphere of\n Mars, wanted to attack and conquer the north. The nonconformists, led\n by our pilot, came through for the State in the end. Corn is thicker\n than water. Standard.\n\n\n There were, however, some good stereofilm shots of the limitless\n forests of Mars, and I wondered what it would be like to live there, in\n a green, fresh-smelling land. Pleasant, I supposed, if you could put up\n with the no doubt revolting morality of a prison planet.", "Lara and I crossed the room silently, she back to her desk, I to the\n exit door. The Deacons' remote, disapproving eyes swung in azimuth,\n tracking us.\n\n\n I walked out and wanted to turn and smile at Lara, and get into my\n smile something of the hope that someday, somewhere, I'd see her\n again—but of course I didn't dare.\nIII\n\n\n I had the usual difficulties at Travbur the next day. I won't go into\n them, except to say that I was batted from office to office like a ping\n pong ball, and that, when I finally got my travel permit, I was made to\n feel that I had stolen an original Picasso from the State Museum.\n\n\n I made it in a day. Just. I got my permit thirty seconds before closing\n time. I was to take the jetcopter to Center One at 0700 hours the\n following morning.", "There was a girl at the information desk. An exceptionally attractive\n girl. She was well within the limits of acceptable standard, and her\n features were even enough, and her hair a middle blonde—but she had\n something else. Hard to describe. It was a warmth, a buoyancy, a sense\n of life and intense animation. It didn't exactly show; it radiated. It\n seemed to sing out from her clear complexion, from her figure, which\n even a tunic could not hide, from everything about her.\n\n\n And if I were to state my business, I would have to tell her my name.\n\n\n I almost backed out right then. I stopped momentarily. And then common\n sense took hold and I realized that if I were to go through with this\n thing, here would be only the first of a long series of embarrassments\n and discomforts. It had to be done.", "It was the voice that always came, low, intense, seductive, the sound\n of your hand on silk ... and to a citizen of Northem, a conformist, it\n was shocking. I was a conformist then; I was still one that morning.\n\n\n I awoke. The glowlight was on, slowly increasing. I was in my living\n machine in Center Four, where I belonged, and all the familiar things\n were about me, reality was back, but I was breathing very hard.\n\n\n I lay on the pneumo a while before getting up. I looked at the\n chroner: 0703 hours, Day 17, Month IX, New Century Three. My morning\n nuro-tablets had already popped from the tube, and the timer had begun\n to boil an egg. The egg was there because the realfood allotment had\n been increased last month. The balance of trade with Southem had just\n swung a decimal or two our way.", "I didn't want to look into her eyes. I wanted to look away, but I\n couldn't find a decent excuse to. I saw her eyes become wide and\n noticed for the first time that they were a warm gray, almost a mouse\n color. I felt like laughing at that irrelevant observation, but more\n than that I felt like turning and running. I felt like climbing and\n dashing all over the walls like a frustrated cat and yelling at the\n top of my lungs. I felt like anything but standing there and looking\n stupid, meeting her stare—\nShe looked down quickly and recorded my name. It took her a little\n longer than necessary. In that time she recovered. Somewhat.\n\n\n \"All right,\" she said finally, \"I'll make a search.\"\n\n\n She turned to a row of buttons on a console in the center of the desk\n and began to press them in various combinations. A typer clicked away.\n She tore off a slip of paper, consulted it, and said, \"Information\n desired is in Bank 29. Please follow me.\"", "I rose finally, stepped to the mirror, switched it to positive and\n looked at myself. New wrinkles—or maybe just a deepening of the old\n ones. It was beginning to show; the past two years were leaving traces.\n\n\n I hadn't worried about my appearance when I'd been with the Office of\n Weapons. There, I'd been able to keep pretty much to myself, doing\n research on magnetic mechanics as applied to space drive. But other\n jobs, where you had to be among people, might be different. I needed\n every possible thing in my favor.\n\n\n Yes, I still hoped for a job, even after two years. I still meant to\n keep on plugging, making the rounds.\n\n\n I'd go out again today.\n\n\n The timer clicked and my egg was ready. I swallowed the tablets and\n then took the egg to the table to savor it and make it last.", "As I leaned forward to sit, the metal tag dangled from my neck,\n catching the glowlight. My identity tag.\n\n\n Everything came back in a rush—\n\n\n My name. The dream and\nher\nvoice. And her suggestion.\nWould I dare? Would I start out this very morning and take the risk,\n the terrible risk?\nYou remember renumbering. Two years ago. You remember how it was then;\n how everybody looked forward to his new designation, and how everybody\n made jokes about the way the letters came out, and how all the records\n were for a while fouled up beyond recognition.\n\n\n The telecomics kidded renumbering. One went a little too far and\n they psycho-scanned him and then sent him to Marscol as a dangerous\n nonconform.\n\n\n If you were disappointed with your new designation, you didn't\n complain. You didn't want a sudden visit from the Deacons during the\n night.", "About then I began to have these dreams. As I've told you, in the dream\n there was only this woman's seductive voice. The first time I heard it\n I awoke in a warm sweat and swore something had gone wrong with the\n sleep-learner. You never hear the actual words with this machine, of\n course; you simply absorb the concepts unconsciously. Still, it seemed\n an explanation. I checked thoroughly. Nothing wrong.\n\n\n The next night I heard the woman's voice again.\n\n\n \"\nTry it\n,\" she said. \"\nDo it. Start tomorrow to get your name changed.\n There will be a way. There must be a way. The rules are so mixed up\n that a clever man can do almost anything. Do it, please—for me.\n\"\nShe was not only trying to get me to commit nonconformity, but making\n heretical remarks besides. I awoke that time and half-expected a Deacon\n to pop out of the tube and turn his electric club upon me.", "I walked up to the desk and the girl turned to face me, and I could\n have sworn that a faint smile crossed her lips. It was swift, like the\n shadow of a bird across one of the lawns in one of the great parks\n topside. Very non-standard. Yet I wasn't offended; if anything, I felt\n suddenly and disturbingly pleased.\n\n\n \"What information is desired?\" she asked. Her voice was standard—or\n was it?\n\n\n Again I had the feeling of restrained warmth.\n\n\n I used colloquial. \"I want to get the dope on State Serial\n designations, how they're assigned and so forth. Especially how they\n might be changed.\"\n\n\n She put a handsteno on the desk top and said, \"Name? Address? Post?\"\n\n\n I froze. I stood there and stared at her.\n\n\n She looked up and said, \"Well?\"" ], [ "We were renumbered, then, in Northem. You know the system: everybody\n now has six digits and an additional prefix or suffix of four letters.\n Stateleader, for instance, has the designation AAAA-111/111. Now, to\n address somebody by calling off four letters is a little clumsy. We try\n to pronounce them when they are pronounceable. That is, no one says to\n Stateleader, \"Good morning, A-A-A-A.\" They say, \"Good morning, Aaaa.\"\n\n\n Reading the last quote, I notice a curious effect. It says what I feel.\n Of course I didn't feel that way on that particular morning. I was\n still conformal; the last thing in my mind was that I would infract and\n be psycho-scanned.\n\n\n Four letters then, and in many cases a pronounceable four letter word.\n\n\n A four letter word.", "Yes, you suspect already. You know what a four letter word can be.\n\n\n Mine was.\n\n\n It was unspeakable.\n\n\n The slight weight on my forehead reminded me that I still wore my\n sleep-learner. I'd been studying administrative cybernetics, hoping to\n qualify in that field, although it was a poor substitute for a space\n drive expert. I removed the band and stepped across the room and\n turned off the oscillator. I went back to my egg and my bitter memories.\n\n\n I will never forget the first day I received my new four letter\n combination and reported it to my chief, as required. I was unthinkably\n embarrassed. He didn't say anything. He just swallowed and choked\n and became crimson when he saw it. He didn't dare pass it to his\n secretarial engineer; he went to the administrative circuits and\n registered it himself.", "\"I—er—no post at present. N/P status.\"\n\n\n Her fingers moved on the steno.\n\n\n I gave her my address and she recorded that.\n\n\n Then I paused again.\n\n\n She said, \"And your name?\"\n\n\n I took a deep breath and told her.", "I suppose at that point I twitched or rolled in my sleep. Yes, the\n voice was right, the woman Lara attracted me. So much that I ached with\n it.\n\n\n \"\nTake her. Find a way. When you succeed in changing your name, and\n know that you can do things, then find a way. There will be a way.\n\"\n\n\n The idea at once thrilled and frightened me.\n\n\n I woke writhing and in a sweat again.\n\n\n It was morning.\n\n\n I dressed and headed for the jetcopter stage and the ship for Center\n One.", "Well, I couldn't get myself off N/P status until I got a post, and\n with my name I\ncouldn't\nget a post.\n\n\n Nor could I change my name. You know what happens when you try to\n change something already on the records. The very idea of wanting\n change implies criticism of the State. Unthinkable behavior.\n\n\n That was why this curious dream voice shocked me so. The thing that it\n suggested was quite as embarrassing as its non-standard, emotional,\n provocative tone.\n\n\n Bear with me; I'm getting to the voice—to\nher\n—in a moment.", "There was a girl at the information desk. An exceptionally attractive\n girl. She was well within the limits of acceptable standard, and her\n features were even enough, and her hair a middle blonde—but she had\n something else. Hard to describe. It was a warmth, a buoyancy, a sense\n of life and intense animation. It didn't exactly show; it radiated. It\n seemed to sing out from her clear complexion, from her figure, which\n even a tunic could not hide, from everything about her.\n\n\n And if I were to state my business, I would have to tell her my name.\n\n\n I almost backed out right then. I stopped momentarily. And then common\n sense took hold and I realized that if I were to go through with this\n thing, here would be only the first of a long series of embarrassments\n and discomforts. It had to be done.", "About then I began to have these dreams. As I've told you, in the dream\n there was only this woman's seductive voice. The first time I heard it\n I awoke in a warm sweat and swore something had gone wrong with the\n sleep-learner. You never hear the actual words with this machine, of\n course; you simply absorb the concepts unconsciously. Still, it seemed\n an explanation. I checked thoroughly. Nothing wrong.\n\n\n The next night I heard the woman's voice again.\n\n\n \"\nTry it\n,\" she said. \"\nDo it. Start tomorrow to get your name changed.\n There will be a way. There must be a way. The rules are so mixed up\n that a clever man can do almost anything. Do it, please—for me.\n\"\nShe was not only trying to get me to commit nonconformity, but making\n heretical remarks besides. I awoke that time and half-expected a Deacon\n to pop out of the tube and turn his electric club upon me.", "\"The Office of Psychological Adjustment. They can change you if you go\n from a lower to higher E.A.C.\"\n\n\n \"I don't get it, exactly.\"\n\n\n As she spoke I had the idea that there was sympathy in her voice. Just\n an overtone. \"Well,\" she said, \"as you know, the post a person is\n qualified to hold often depends largely on his Emotional Adjustment\n Category. Now if he improves and passes from, let us say, Grade 3 to\n Grade 4, he will probably change his place of work. In order to protect\n him from any associative maladjustments developed under the old E.A.C,\n he is permitted a new number.\"\n\n\n I groaned. \"But I'm already in the highest E.A.C.!\"\n\n\n \"It looks very uncertain then.\"", "As I leaned forward to sit, the metal tag dangled from my neck,\n catching the glowlight. My identity tag.\n\n\n Everything came back in a rush—\n\n\n My name. The dream and\nher\nvoice. And her suggestion.\nWould I dare? Would I start out this very morning and take the risk,\n the terrible risk?\nYou remember renumbering. Two years ago. You remember how it was then;\n how everybody looked forward to his new designation, and how everybody\n made jokes about the way the letters came out, and how all the records\n were for a while fouled up beyond recognition.\n\n\n The telecomics kidded renumbering. One went a little too far and\n they psycho-scanned him and then sent him to Marscol as a dangerous\n nonconform.\n\n\n If you were disappointed with your new designation, you didn't\n complain. You didn't want a sudden visit from the Deacons during the\n night.", "I can't blame him for easing me out. He was trying to run an efficient\n organization, after all, and no doubt I upset its efficiency. My work\n was important—magnetic mechanics was the only way to handle quanta\n reaction, or the so-called non-energy drive, and was therefore the\n answer to feasible space travel beyond our present limit of Mars—and\n there were frequent inspection tours by Big Wheels and Very Important\n Persons.\n\n\n Whenever anyone, especially a woman, asked my name, the embarrassment\n would become a crackling electric field all about us. The best tactic\n was just not to answer.\nThe chief called me in one day. He looked haggard.\n\n\n \"Er—old man,\" he said, not quite able to bring himself to utter my\n name, \"I'm going to have to switch you to another department. How would\n you like to work on nutrition kits? Very interesting work.\"\n\n\n \"Nutrition kits?\nMe?\nOn nutrition kits?\"", "I, the Unspeakable\nBy WALT SHELDON\n\n\n Illustrated by LOUIS MARCHETTI\n\n\n [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Galaxy Science Fiction April 1951.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\n\"What's in a name?\" might be very dangerous\n\n to ask in certain societies, in which sticks\n\n and stones are also a big problem!\nI fought to be awake. I was dreaming, but I think I must have blushed.\n I must have blushed in my sleep.\n\n\n \"\nDo it!\n\" she said. \"\nPlease do it! For me!\n\"", "They had curious faces. Their eyes were indescribably sad, and yet\n their lips seemed to be ready to smile at any moment.\n\n\n They were holding hands, not seeming to care about this vulgar\n emotional display.\n\n\n I had the sudden crazy idea that Lara and I were sitting there, holding\n hands like that, nonconforming in the highest, and that we were\n wonderfully happy. Our eyes were sad too, but we were really happy,\n quietly happy, and that was why our lips stayed upon the brink of a\n smile.", "I walked up to the desk and the girl turned to face me, and I could\n have sworn that a faint smile crossed her lips. It was swift, like the\n shadow of a bird across one of the lawns in one of the great parks\n topside. Very non-standard. Yet I wasn't offended; if anything, I felt\n suddenly and disturbingly pleased.\n\n\n \"What information is desired?\" she asked. Her voice was standard—or\n was it?\n\n\n Again I had the feeling of restrained warmth.\n\n\n I used colloquial. \"I want to get the dope on State Serial\n designations, how they're assigned and so forth. Especially how they\n might be changed.\"\n\n\n She put a handsteno on the desk top and said, \"Name? Address? Post?\"\n\n\n I froze. I stood there and stared at her.\n\n\n She looked up and said, \"Well?\"", "\"Sometimes I think I'd be better off in the mines, or on\n Marscol—or—in the hell of the pre-atomics!\"\n\n\n She looked amused. \"What did you say your E.A.C. was?\"\n\n\n \"Oh, all right. Sorry.\" I controlled myself and grinned. \"I guess this\n whole thing has been just a little too much for me. Maybe my E.A.C.'s\n even gone down.\"\n\n\n \"That might be your chance then.\"\n\n\n \"How do you mean?\"\n\n\n \"If you could get to the top man in Opsych and demonstrate that your\n number has inadvertently changed your E.A.C., he might be able to\n justify a change.\"\n\n\n \"By the State, he might!\" I punched my palm. \"Only how do I get to him?\"", "\"\nYou have taken the first step\n,\" she said. \"\nYou are on your way\n to freedom. Don't stop now. Don't sink back into the lifelessness of\n conformity. Go on ... on and on. Keep struggling, for that is the only\n answer....\n\"\nI didn't exactly talk back, but in the queer way of the dream, I\nthought\nobjections. I was in my thirties, at the mid-point of my\n life, and the whole of that life had been spent under the State. I knew\n no other way to act. Suppressing what little individuality I might\n have was, for me, a way of survival. I was chockful of prescribed,\n stereotyped reactions, and I held onto them even when something within\n me told me what they were. This wasn't easy, this breaking away, not\n even this slight departure from the secure, camouflaged norm....\n\n\n \"\nThe woman, Lara, attracts you\n,\" said the voice.", "\"Yes, I understand that.\"\n\n\n \"M'm,\" he said, and dismissed me with a nod.\n\n\n I waited for a call in the next few weeks, still hoping, but I knew\n no woman would consent to meet a man with my name, let alone enter a\n mating booth with him.\n\n\n The urge to reproduce myself became unbearable. I concocted all sorts\n of wild schemes.\n\n\n I might infract socially and be classified a nonconform and sent to\n Marscol. I'd heard rumors that in that desolate land, on that desolate\n planet, both mingling and mating were rather disgustingly unrestricted.\n Casual mating would be terribly dangerous, of course, with all the wild\n irradiated genes from the atomic decade still around, but I felt I'd be\n willing to risk that. Well, almost....", "\"You don't get many visitors, then.\"\n\n\n \"Not right here. N. & I. isn't a very popular section. Most people who\n come to Govpub spend their time researching in the ancient manuscript\n room. The—er—social habits of the pre-atomic civilization.\"\n\n\n I laughed. I knew what she meant, all right. Pre-atomics and their\n ideas about free mating always fascinated people. I moved up beside\n her. \"What's your name, by the way?\"\n\n\n \"L-A-R-A 339/827.\"\n\n\n I pronounced it. \"Lara. Lah-rah. That's beautiful. Fits you, too.\"\nShe didn't answer; she kept her eyes straight ahead and I saw the faint\n spot of color on her cheek.", "After that she was very business-like.\n\n\n We came finally to the controls of Bank 29 and she stood before them\n and began to press button combinations. I watched her work; I watched\n her move. I had almost forgotten why I'd come here. The lights blinked\n on and off and the typers clacked softly as the machine sorted out\n information.\n\n\n She had a long printed sheet from the roll presently. She frowned at\n it and turned to me. \"You can take this along and study it,\" she said,\n \"but I'm afraid what you have in mind may be—a little difficult.\"\n\n\n She must have guessed what I had in mind. I said, \"I didn't think it\n would be easy.\"\n\n\n \"It seems that the only agency authorized to change a State Serial\n under any circumstances is Opsych.\"\n\n\n \"Opsych?\" You can't keep up with all these departments.", "I want to tell you first about the loneliness, the terrible loneliness.\n I could hardly join group games at any of the rec centers. I could join\n no special interest clubs or even State Loyalty chapters. Although I\n dabbled with theoretical research in my own quarters, I could scarcely\n submit any findings for publication—not with my name attached. A\n pseudonym would have been non-regulation and illegal.\n\n\n But there was the worst thing of all. I could not mate.\nFunny, I hadn't thought about mating until it became impossible. I\n remember the first time, out of sheer idleness, I wandered into a\n Eugenic Center. I filled out my form very carefully and submitted it\n for analysis and assignment. The clerk saw my name, and did the usual\n double-take. He coughed and swallowed and fidgeted.\n\n\n He said, \"Of course you understand that we must submit your\n application to the woman authorized to spend time in the mating booths\n with you, and that she has the right to refuse.\"", "And the drama seemed to point out that there was no more security for\n the nonconformists out there than for us here on Earth. Maybe somewhere\n in the universe, I thought, there would be peace for men. Somewhere\n beyond the solar system, perhaps, someday when we had the means to go\n there....\n\n\n Yet instinct told me that wasn't the answer, either. I thought of a\n verse by an ancient pre-atomic poet named Hoffenstein. (People had\n unwieldy, random combinations of letters for names in those days.) The\n poem went:\n\nWherever I go,\nI\ngo too,\nAnd spoil everything.\n\n That was it. The story of mankind.\n\n\n I turned the glowlight down and lay on the pneumo after a while, but I\n didn't sleep for a long, long time." ], [ "There was a girl at the information desk. An exceptionally attractive\n girl. She was well within the limits of acceptable standard, and her\n features were even enough, and her hair a middle blonde—but she had\n something else. Hard to describe. It was a warmth, a buoyancy, a sense\n of life and intense animation. It didn't exactly show; it radiated. It\n seemed to sing out from her clear complexion, from her figure, which\n even a tunic could not hide, from everything about her.\n\n\n And if I were to state my business, I would have to tell her my name.\n\n\n I almost backed out right then. I stopped momentarily. And then common\n sense took hold and I realized that if I were to go through with this\n thing, here would be only the first of a long series of embarrassments\n and discomforts. It had to be done.", "About then I began to have these dreams. As I've told you, in the dream\n there was only this woman's seductive voice. The first time I heard it\n I awoke in a warm sweat and swore something had gone wrong with the\n sleep-learner. You never hear the actual words with this machine, of\n course; you simply absorb the concepts unconsciously. Still, it seemed\n an explanation. I checked thoroughly. Nothing wrong.\n\n\n The next night I heard the woman's voice again.\n\n\n \"\nTry it\n,\" she said. \"\nDo it. Start tomorrow to get your name changed.\n There will be a way. There must be a way. The rules are so mixed up\n that a clever man can do almost anything. Do it, please—for me.\n\"\nShe was not only trying to get me to commit nonconformity, but making\n heretical remarks besides. I awoke that time and half-expected a Deacon\n to pop out of the tube and turn his electric club upon me.", "Well, I couldn't get myself off N/P status until I got a post, and\n with my name I\ncouldn't\nget a post.\n\n\n Nor could I change my name. You know what happens when you try to\n change something already on the records. The very idea of wanting\n change implies criticism of the State. Unthinkable behavior.\n\n\n That was why this curious dream voice shocked me so. The thing that it\n suggested was quite as embarrassing as its non-standard, emotional,\n provocative tone.\n\n\n Bear with me; I'm getting to the voice—to\nher\n—in a moment.", "I suppose at that point I twitched or rolled in my sleep. Yes, the\n voice was right, the woman Lara attracted me. So much that I ached with\n it.\n\n\n \"\nTake her. Find a way. When you succeed in changing your name, and\n know that you can do things, then find a way. There will be a way.\n\"\n\n\n The idea at once thrilled and frightened me.\n\n\n I woke writhing and in a sweat again.\n\n\n It was morning.\n\n\n I dressed and headed for the jetcopter stage and the ship for Center\n One.", "\"The Office of Psychological Adjustment. They can change you if you go\n from a lower to higher E.A.C.\"\n\n\n \"I don't get it, exactly.\"\n\n\n As she spoke I had the idea that there was sympathy in her voice. Just\n an overtone. \"Well,\" she said, \"as you know, the post a person is\n qualified to hold often depends largely on his Emotional Adjustment\n Category. Now if he improves and passes from, let us say, Grade 3 to\n Grade 4, he will probably change his place of work. In order to protect\n him from any associative maladjustments developed under the old E.A.C,\n he is permitted a new number.\"\n\n\n I groaned. \"But I'm already in the highest E.A.C.!\"\n\n\n \"It looks very uncertain then.\"", "\"I—er—no post at present. N/P status.\"\n\n\n Her fingers moved on the steno.\n\n\n I gave her my address and she recorded that.\n\n\n Then I paused again.\n\n\n She said, \"And your name?\"\n\n\n I took a deep breath and told her.", "After that she was very business-like.\n\n\n We came finally to the controls of Bank 29 and she stood before them\n and began to press button combinations. I watched her work; I watched\n her move. I had almost forgotten why I'd come here. The lights blinked\n on and off and the typers clacked softly as the machine sorted out\n information.\n\n\n She had a long printed sheet from the roll presently. She frowned at\n it and turned to me. \"You can take this along and study it,\" she said,\n \"but I'm afraid what you have in mind may be—a little difficult.\"\n\n\n She must have guessed what I had in mind. I said, \"I didn't think it\n would be easy.\"\n\n\n \"It seems that the only agency authorized to change a State Serial\n under any circumstances is Opsych.\"\n\n\n \"Opsych?\" You can't keep up with all these departments.", "As I leaned forward to sit, the metal tag dangled from my neck,\n catching the glowlight. My identity tag.\n\n\n Everything came back in a rush—\n\n\n My name. The dream and\nher\nvoice. And her suggestion.\nWould I dare? Would I start out this very morning and take the risk,\n the terrible risk?\nYou remember renumbering. Two years ago. You remember how it was then;\n how everybody looked forward to his new designation, and how everybody\n made jokes about the way the letters came out, and how all the records\n were for a while fouled up beyond recognition.\n\n\n The telecomics kidded renumbering. One went a little too far and\n they psycho-scanned him and then sent him to Marscol as a dangerous\n nonconform.\n\n\n If you were disappointed with your new designation, you didn't\n complain. You didn't want a sudden visit from the Deacons during the\n night.", "\"Yes, I understand that.\"\n\n\n \"M'm,\" he said, and dismissed me with a nod.\n\n\n I waited for a call in the next few weeks, still hoping, but I knew\n no woman would consent to meet a man with my name, let alone enter a\n mating booth with him.\n\n\n The urge to reproduce myself became unbearable. I concocted all sorts\n of wild schemes.\n\n\n I might infract socially and be classified a nonconform and sent to\n Marscol. I'd heard rumors that in that desolate land, on that desolate\n planet, both mingling and mating were rather disgustingly unrestricted.\n Casual mating would be terribly dangerous, of course, with all the wild\n irradiated genes from the atomic decade still around, but I felt I'd be\n willing to risk that. Well, almost....", "We were renumbered, then, in Northem. You know the system: everybody\n now has six digits and an additional prefix or suffix of four letters.\n Stateleader, for instance, has the designation AAAA-111/111. Now, to\n address somebody by calling off four letters is a little clumsy. We try\n to pronounce them when they are pronounceable. That is, no one says to\n Stateleader, \"Good morning, A-A-A-A.\" They say, \"Good morning, Aaaa.\"\n\n\n Reading the last quote, I notice a curious effect. It says what I feel.\n Of course I didn't feel that way on that particular morning. I was\n still conformal; the last thing in my mind was that I would infract and\n be psycho-scanned.\n\n\n Four letters then, and in many cases a pronounceable four letter word.\n\n\n A four letter word.", "I can't blame him for easing me out. He was trying to run an efficient\n organization, after all, and no doubt I upset its efficiency. My work\n was important—magnetic mechanics was the only way to handle quanta\n reaction, or the so-called non-energy drive, and was therefore the\n answer to feasible space travel beyond our present limit of Mars—and\n there were frequent inspection tours by Big Wheels and Very Important\n Persons.\n\n\n Whenever anyone, especially a woman, asked my name, the embarrassment\n would become a crackling electric field all about us. The best tactic\n was just not to answer.\nThe chief called me in one day. He looked haggard.\n\n\n \"Er—old man,\" he said, not quite able to bring himself to utter my\n name, \"I'm going to have to switch you to another department. How would\n you like to work on nutrition kits? Very interesting work.\"\n\n\n \"Nutrition kits?\nMe?\nOn nutrition kits?\"", "I walked up to the desk and the girl turned to face me, and I could\n have sworn that a faint smile crossed her lips. It was swift, like the\n shadow of a bird across one of the lawns in one of the great parks\n topside. Very non-standard. Yet I wasn't offended; if anything, I felt\n suddenly and disturbingly pleased.\n\n\n \"What information is desired?\" she asked. Her voice was standard—or\n was it?\n\n\n Again I had the feeling of restrained warmth.\n\n\n I used colloquial. \"I want to get the dope on State Serial\n designations, how they're assigned and so forth. Especially how they\n might be changed.\"\n\n\n She put a handsteno on the desk top and said, \"Name? Address? Post?\"\n\n\n I froze. I stood there and stared at her.\n\n\n She looked up and said, \"Well?\"", "I, the Unspeakable\nBy WALT SHELDON\n\n\n Illustrated by LOUIS MARCHETTI\n\n\n [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Galaxy Science Fiction April 1951.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\n\"What's in a name?\" might be very dangerous\n\n to ask in certain societies, in which sticks\n\n and stones are also a big problem!\nI fought to be awake. I was dreaming, but I think I must have blushed.\n I must have blushed in my sleep.\n\n\n \"\nDo it!\n\" she said. \"\nPlease do it! For me!\n\"", "Yes, you suspect already. You know what a four letter word can be.\n\n\n Mine was.\n\n\n It was unspeakable.\n\n\n The slight weight on my forehead reminded me that I still wore my\n sleep-learner. I'd been studying administrative cybernetics, hoping to\n qualify in that field, although it was a poor substitute for a space\n drive expert. I removed the band and stepped across the room and\n turned off the oscillator. I went back to my egg and my bitter memories.\n\n\n I will never forget the first day I received my new four letter\n combination and reported it to my chief, as required. I was unthinkably\n embarrassed. He didn't say anything. He just swallowed and choked\n and became crimson when he saw it. He didn't dare pass it to his\n secretarial engineer; he went to the administrative circuits and\n registered it himself.", "I want to tell you first about the loneliness, the terrible loneliness.\n I could hardly join group games at any of the rec centers. I could join\n no special interest clubs or even State Loyalty chapters. Although I\n dabbled with theoretical research in my own quarters, I could scarcely\n submit any findings for publication—not with my name attached. A\n pseudonym would have been non-regulation and illegal.\n\n\n But there was the worst thing of all. I could not mate.\nFunny, I hadn't thought about mating until it became impossible. I\n remember the first time, out of sheer idleness, I wandered into a\n Eugenic Center. I filled out my form very carefully and submitted it\n for analysis and assignment. The clerk saw my name, and did the usual\n double-take. He coughed and swallowed and fidgeted.\n\n\n He said, \"Of course you understand that we must submit your\n application to the woman authorized to spend time in the mating booths\n with you, and that she has the right to refuse.\"", "\"Sometimes I think I'd be better off in the mines, or on\n Marscol—or—in the hell of the pre-atomics!\"\n\n\n She looked amused. \"What did you say your E.A.C. was?\"\n\n\n \"Oh, all right. Sorry.\" I controlled myself and grinned. \"I guess this\n whole thing has been just a little too much for me. Maybe my E.A.C.'s\n even gone down.\"\n\n\n \"That might be your chance then.\"\n\n\n \"How do you mean?\"\n\n\n \"If you could get to the top man in Opsych and demonstrate that your\n number has inadvertently changed your E.A.C., he might be able to\n justify a change.\"\n\n\n \"By the State, he might!\" I punched my palm. \"Only how do I get to him?\"", "And I heard the voice nearly every night.\n\n\n It hammered away.\n\n\n \"\nWhat if you do fail? Almost anything would be better than the\n miserable existence you're leading now!\n\"\n\n\n One morning I even caught myself wondering just how I'd go about this\n idea of hers. Wondering what the first step might be.\n\n\n She seemed to read my thoughts. That night she said, \"\nConsult the cybs\n in the Govpub office. If you look hard enough and long enough, you'll\n find a way.\n\"", "And the drama seemed to point out that there was no more security for\n the nonconformists out there than for us here on Earth. Maybe somewhere\n in the universe, I thought, there would be peace for men. Somewhere\n beyond the solar system, perhaps, someday when we had the means to go\n there....\n\n\n Yet instinct told me that wasn't the answer, either. I thought of a\n verse by an ancient pre-atomic poet named Hoffenstein. (People had\n unwieldy, random combinations of letters for names in those days.) The\n poem went:\n\nWherever I go,\nI\ngo too,\nAnd spoil everything.\n\n That was it. The story of mankind.\n\n\n I turned the glowlight down and lay on the pneumo after a while, but I\n didn't sleep for a long, long time.", "Then the cyb said, \"Proceed to Numbering and Identity section. Consult\n alphabetical list and diagram on your left for location of same.\"\n\n\n \"Thanks,\" I said absent-mindedly.\n\n\n I started to turn away and the cyb said, \"Information on tanks is\n military information and classified. State authorization for—\"\n\n\n I switched it off.\nNumbering and Identity wasn't hard to find. I took the shaft to the\n proper level and then it was only a walk of a few hundred yards through\n the glowlit corridors.\n\n\n N. & I. turned out to be a big room, somewhat circular, very\n high-ceilinged, with banks of cyb controls covering the upper walls.\n Narrow passageways, like spokes, led off in several directions. There\n was an information desk in the center of the room.\n\n\n I looked that way and my heart went into free fall.", "Now, on this morning of the seventeenth day in the ninth month,\n I ate my boiled egg slowly and actually toyed with the idea. I\n thought of being on productive status again. I had almost lost my\n fanatical craving to be useful to the State, but I did want to be\n busy—desperately. I didn't want to be despised any more. I didn't\n want to be lonely. I wanted to reproduce myself.\n\n\n I made my decision suddenly. Waves of emotion carried me along. I got\n up, crossed the room to the directory, and pushbuttoned to find the\n location of the nearest Govpub office.\n\n\n I didn't know what would happen and almost didn't care.\nII\n\n\n Like most important places, the Govpub Office in Center Four was\n underground. I could have taken a tunnelcar more quickly, but it seemed\n pleasanter to travel topside. Or maybe I just wanted to put this off a\n bit. Think about it. Compose myself." ], [ "There was a girl at the information desk. An exceptionally attractive\n girl. She was well within the limits of acceptable standard, and her\n features were even enough, and her hair a middle blonde—but she had\n something else. Hard to describe. It was a warmth, a buoyancy, a sense\n of life and intense animation. It didn't exactly show; it radiated. It\n seemed to sing out from her clear complexion, from her figure, which\n even a tunic could not hide, from everything about her.\n\n\n And if I were to state my business, I would have to tell her my name.\n\n\n I almost backed out right then. I stopped momentarily. And then common\n sense took hold and I realized that if I were to go through with this\n thing, here would be only the first of a long series of embarrassments\n and discomforts. It had to be done.", "\"I—er—no post at present. N/P status.\"\n\n\n Her fingers moved on the steno.\n\n\n I gave her my address and she recorded that.\n\n\n Then I paused again.\n\n\n She said, \"And your name?\"\n\n\n I took a deep breath and told her.", "I can't blame him for easing me out. He was trying to run an efficient\n organization, after all, and no doubt I upset its efficiency. My work\n was important—magnetic mechanics was the only way to handle quanta\n reaction, or the so-called non-energy drive, and was therefore the\n answer to feasible space travel beyond our present limit of Mars—and\n there were frequent inspection tours by Big Wheels and Very Important\n Persons.\n\n\n Whenever anyone, especially a woman, asked my name, the embarrassment\n would become a crackling electric field all about us. The best tactic\n was just not to answer.\nThe chief called me in one day. He looked haggard.\n\n\n \"Er—old man,\" he said, not quite able to bring himself to utter my\n name, \"I'm going to have to switch you to another department. How would\n you like to work on nutrition kits? Very interesting work.\"\n\n\n \"Nutrition kits?\nMe?\nOn nutrition kits?\"", "We were renumbered, then, in Northem. You know the system: everybody\n now has six digits and an additional prefix or suffix of four letters.\n Stateleader, for instance, has the designation AAAA-111/111. Now, to\n address somebody by calling off four letters is a little clumsy. We try\n to pronounce them when they are pronounceable. That is, no one says to\n Stateleader, \"Good morning, A-A-A-A.\" They say, \"Good morning, Aaaa.\"\n\n\n Reading the last quote, I notice a curious effect. It says what I feel.\n Of course I didn't feel that way on that particular morning. I was\n still conformal; the last thing in my mind was that I would infract and\n be psycho-scanned.\n\n\n Four letters then, and in many cases a pronounceable four letter word.\n\n\n A four letter word.", "I, the Unspeakable\nBy WALT SHELDON\n\n\n Illustrated by LOUIS MARCHETTI\n\n\n [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Galaxy Science Fiction April 1951.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\n\"What's in a name?\" might be very dangerous\n\n to ask in certain societies, in which sticks\n\n and stones are also a big problem!\nI fought to be awake. I was dreaming, but I think I must have blushed.\n I must have blushed in my sleep.\n\n\n \"\nDo it!\n\" she said. \"\nPlease do it! For me!\n\"", "Well, I couldn't get myself off N/P status until I got a post, and\n with my name I\ncouldn't\nget a post.\n\n\n Nor could I change my name. You know what happens when you try to\n change something already on the records. The very idea of wanting\n change implies criticism of the State. Unthinkable behavior.\n\n\n That was why this curious dream voice shocked me so. The thing that it\n suggested was quite as embarrassing as its non-standard, emotional,\n provocative tone.\n\n\n Bear with me; I'm getting to the voice—to\nher\n—in a moment.", "I suppose at that point I twitched or rolled in my sleep. Yes, the\n voice was right, the woman Lara attracted me. So much that I ached with\n it.\n\n\n \"\nTake her. Find a way. When you succeed in changing your name, and\n know that you can do things, then find a way. There will be a way.\n\"\n\n\n The idea at once thrilled and frightened me.\n\n\n I woke writhing and in a sweat again.\n\n\n It was morning.\n\n\n I dressed and headed for the jetcopter stage and the ship for Center\n One.", "\"Yes, I understand that.\"\n\n\n \"M'm,\" he said, and dismissed me with a nod.\n\n\n I waited for a call in the next few weeks, still hoping, but I knew\n no woman would consent to meet a man with my name, let alone enter a\n mating booth with him.\n\n\n The urge to reproduce myself became unbearable. I concocted all sorts\n of wild schemes.\n\n\n I might infract socially and be classified a nonconform and sent to\n Marscol. I'd heard rumors that in that desolate land, on that desolate\n planet, both mingling and mating were rather disgustingly unrestricted.\n Casual mating would be terribly dangerous, of course, with all the wild\n irradiated genes from the atomic decade still around, but I felt I'd be\n willing to risk that. Well, almost....", "And the drama seemed to point out that there was no more security for\n the nonconformists out there than for us here on Earth. Maybe somewhere\n in the universe, I thought, there would be peace for men. Somewhere\n beyond the solar system, perhaps, someday when we had the means to go\n there....\n\n\n Yet instinct told me that wasn't the answer, either. I thought of a\n verse by an ancient pre-atomic poet named Hoffenstein. (People had\n unwieldy, random combinations of letters for names in those days.) The\n poem went:\n\nWherever I go,\nI\ngo too,\nAnd spoil everything.\n\n That was it. The story of mankind.\n\n\n I turned the glowlight down and lay on the pneumo after a while, but I\n didn't sleep for a long, long time.", "I want to tell you first about the loneliness, the terrible loneliness.\n I could hardly join group games at any of the rec centers. I could join\n no special interest clubs or even State Loyalty chapters. Although I\n dabbled with theoretical research in my own quarters, I could scarcely\n submit any findings for publication—not with my name attached. A\n pseudonym would have been non-regulation and illegal.\n\n\n But there was the worst thing of all. I could not mate.\nFunny, I hadn't thought about mating until it became impossible. I\n remember the first time, out of sheer idleness, I wandered into a\n Eugenic Center. I filled out my form very carefully and submitted it\n for analysis and assignment. The clerk saw my name, and did the usual\n double-take. He coughed and swallowed and fidgeted.\n\n\n He said, \"Of course you understand that we must submit your\n application to the woman authorized to spend time in the mating booths\n with you, and that she has the right to refuse.\"", "About then I began to have these dreams. As I've told you, in the dream\n there was only this woman's seductive voice. The first time I heard it\n I awoke in a warm sweat and swore something had gone wrong with the\n sleep-learner. You never hear the actual words with this machine, of\n course; you simply absorb the concepts unconsciously. Still, it seemed\n an explanation. I checked thoroughly. Nothing wrong.\n\n\n The next night I heard the woman's voice again.\n\n\n \"\nTry it\n,\" she said. \"\nDo it. Start tomorrow to get your name changed.\n There will be a way. There must be a way. The rules are so mixed up\n that a clever man can do almost anything. Do it, please—for me.\n\"\nShe was not only trying to get me to commit nonconformity, but making\n heretical remarks besides. I awoke that time and half-expected a Deacon\n to pop out of the tube and turn his electric club upon me.", "Yes, you suspect already. You know what a four letter word can be.\n\n\n Mine was.\n\n\n It was unspeakable.\n\n\n The slight weight on my forehead reminded me that I still wore my\n sleep-learner. I'd been studying administrative cybernetics, hoping to\n qualify in that field, although it was a poor substitute for a space\n drive expert. I removed the band and stepped across the room and\n turned off the oscillator. I went back to my egg and my bitter memories.\n\n\n I will never forget the first day I received my new four letter\n combination and reported it to my chief, as required. I was unthinkably\n embarrassed. He didn't say anything. He just swallowed and choked\n and became crimson when he saw it. He didn't dare pass it to his\n secretarial engineer; he went to the administrative circuits and\n registered it himself.", "As I leaned forward to sit, the metal tag dangled from my neck,\n catching the glowlight. My identity tag.\n\n\n Everything came back in a rush—\n\n\n My name. The dream and\nher\nvoice. And her suggestion.\nWould I dare? Would I start out this very morning and take the risk,\n the terrible risk?\nYou remember renumbering. Two years ago. You remember how it was then;\n how everybody looked forward to his new designation, and how everybody\n made jokes about the way the letters came out, and how all the records\n were for a while fouled up beyond recognition.\n\n\n The telecomics kidded renumbering. One went a little too far and\n they psycho-scanned him and then sent him to Marscol as a dangerous\n nonconform.\n\n\n If you were disappointed with your new designation, you didn't\n complain. You didn't want a sudden visit from the Deacons during the\n night.", "\"You don't get many visitors, then.\"\n\n\n \"Not right here. N. & I. isn't a very popular section. Most people who\n come to Govpub spend their time researching in the ancient manuscript\n room. The—er—social habits of the pre-atomic civilization.\"\n\n\n I laughed. I knew what she meant, all right. Pre-atomics and their\n ideas about free mating always fascinated people. I moved up beside\n her. \"What's your name, by the way?\"\n\n\n \"L-A-R-A 339/827.\"\n\n\n I pronounced it. \"Lara. Lah-rah. That's beautiful. Fits you, too.\"\nShe didn't answer; she kept her eyes straight ahead and I saw the faint\n spot of color on her cheek.", "I didn't want to look into her eyes. I wanted to look away, but I\n couldn't find a decent excuse to. I saw her eyes become wide and\n noticed for the first time that they were a warm gray, almost a mouse\n color. I felt like laughing at that irrelevant observation, but more\n than that I felt like turning and running. I felt like climbing and\n dashing all over the walls like a frustrated cat and yelling at the\n top of my lungs. I felt like anything but standing there and looking\n stupid, meeting her stare—\nShe looked down quickly and recorded my name. It took her a little\n longer than necessary. In that time she recovered. Somewhat.\n\n\n \"All right,\" she said finally, \"I'll make a search.\"\n\n\n She turned to a row of buttons on a console in the center of the desk\n and began to press them in various combinations. A typer clicked away.\n She tore off a slip of paper, consulted it, and said, \"Information\n desired is in Bank 29. Please follow me.\"", "And then there was the problem of everyday existence. You might say\n it's lucky to be an N/P for a while. I've heard people say that. Basic\n needs provided, worlds of leisure time; on the surface it sounds\n attractive.\n\n\n But let me give you an example. Say it is monthly realfood day. You go\n to the store, your mouth already watering in anticipation. You take\n your place in line and wait for your package. The distributor takes\n your coupon book and is all ready to reach for your package—and then\n he sees the fatal letters N/P. Non-Producer. A drone, a drain upon the\n State. You can see his stare curdle. He scowls at the book again.\n\n\n \"Not sure this is in order. Better go to the end of the line. We'll\n check it later.\"\n\n\n You know what happens before the end of the line reaches the counter.\n No more packages.", "\"The Office of Psychological Adjustment. They can change you if you go\n from a lower to higher E.A.C.\"\n\n\n \"I don't get it, exactly.\"\n\n\n As she spoke I had the idea that there was sympathy in her voice. Just\n an overtone. \"Well,\" she said, \"as you know, the post a person is\n qualified to hold often depends largely on his Emotional Adjustment\n Category. Now if he improves and passes from, let us say, Grade 3 to\n Grade 4, he will probably change his place of work. In order to protect\n him from any associative maladjustments developed under the old E.A.C,\n he is permitted a new number.\"\n\n\n I groaned. \"But I'm already in the highest E.A.C.!\"\n\n\n \"It looks very uncertain then.\"", "I walked up to the desk and the girl turned to face me, and I could\n have sworn that a faint smile crossed her lips. It was swift, like the\n shadow of a bird across one of the lawns in one of the great parks\n topside. Very non-standard. Yet I wasn't offended; if anything, I felt\n suddenly and disturbingly pleased.\n\n\n \"What information is desired?\" she asked. Her voice was standard—or\n was it?\n\n\n Again I had the feeling of restrained warmth.\n\n\n I used colloquial. \"I want to get the dope on State Serial\n designations, how they're assigned and so forth. Especially how they\n might be changed.\"\n\n\n She put a handsteno on the desk top and said, \"Name? Address? Post?\"\n\n\n I froze. I stood there and stared at her.\n\n\n She looked up and said, \"Well?\"", "They had curious faces. Their eyes were indescribably sad, and yet\n their lips seemed to be ready to smile at any moment.\n\n\n They were holding hands, not seeming to care about this vulgar\n emotional display.\n\n\n I had the sudden crazy idea that Lara and I were sitting there, holding\n hands like that, nonconforming in the highest, and that we were\n wonderfully happy. Our eyes were sad too, but we were really happy,\n quietly happy, and that was why our lips stayed upon the brink of a\n smile.", "Then the cyb said, \"Proceed to Numbering and Identity section. Consult\n alphabetical list and diagram on your left for location of same.\"\n\n\n \"Thanks,\" I said absent-mindedly.\n\n\n I started to turn away and the cyb said, \"Information on tanks is\n military information and classified. State authorization for—\"\n\n\n I switched it off.\nNumbering and Identity wasn't hard to find. I took the shaft to the\n proper level and then it was only a walk of a few hundred yards through\n the glowlit corridors.\n\n\n N. & I. turned out to be a big room, somewhat circular, very\n high-ceilinged, with banks of cyb controls covering the upper walls.\n Narrow passageways, like spokes, led off in several directions. There\n was an information desk in the center of the room.\n\n\n I looked that way and my heart went into free fall." ], [ "Well, following her was a pleasure, anyway. I could watch the movement\n of her hips and torso as she walked. She was not tall, but long-legged\n and extremely lithe. Graceful and rhythmic. Very, very feminine, almost\n beyond standard in that respect. I felt blood throb in my temples and\n was heartily ashamed of myself.\n\n\n I would like to be in a mating booth with her, I thought, the full\n authorized twenty minutes. And I knew I was unconformist and the\n realization hardly scared me at all.\n\n\n She led me down one of the long passageways.\n\n\n A few moments later I said, \"Don't you sometimes get—well, pretty\n lonely working here?\" Personal talk at a time like this wasn't approved\n behavior, but I couldn't help it.\n\n\n She answered hesitantly, but at least she answered. She said, \"Not\n terribly. The cybs are company enough most of the time.\"", "I didn't want to look into her eyes. I wanted to look away, but I\n couldn't find a decent excuse to. I saw her eyes become wide and\n noticed for the first time that they were a warm gray, almost a mouse\n color. I felt like laughing at that irrelevant observation, but more\n than that I felt like turning and running. I felt like climbing and\n dashing all over the walls like a frustrated cat and yelling at the\n top of my lungs. I felt like anything but standing there and looking\n stupid, meeting her stare—\nShe looked down quickly and recorded my name. It took her a little\n longer than necessary. In that time she recovered. Somewhat.\n\n\n \"All right,\" she said finally, \"I'll make a search.\"\n\n\n She turned to a row of buttons on a console in the center of the desk\n and began to press them in various combinations. A typer clicked away.\n She tore off a slip of paper, consulted it, and said, \"Information\n desired is in Bank 29. Please follow me.\"", "\"\nYou have taken the first step\n,\" she said. \"\nYou are on your way\n to freedom. Don't stop now. Don't sink back into the lifelessness of\n conformity. Go on ... on and on. Keep struggling, for that is the only\n answer....\n\"\nI didn't exactly talk back, but in the queer way of the dream, I\nthought\nobjections. I was in my thirties, at the mid-point of my\n life, and the whole of that life had been spent under the State. I knew\n no other way to act. Suppressing what little individuality I might\n have was, for me, a way of survival. I was chockful of prescribed,\n stereotyped reactions, and I held onto them even when something within\n me told me what they were. This wasn't easy, this breaking away, not\n even this slight departure from the secure, camouflaged norm....\n\n\n \"\nThe woman, Lara, attracts you\n,\" said the voice.", "\"I—er—no post at present. N/P status.\"\n\n\n Her fingers moved on the steno.\n\n\n I gave her my address and she recorded that.\n\n\n Then I paused again.\n\n\n She said, \"And your name?\"\n\n\n I took a deep breath and told her.", "\"You don't get many visitors, then.\"\n\n\n \"Not right here. N. & I. isn't a very popular section. Most people who\n come to Govpub spend their time researching in the ancient manuscript\n room. The—er—social habits of the pre-atomic civilization.\"\n\n\n I laughed. I knew what she meant, all right. Pre-atomics and their\n ideas about free mating always fascinated people. I moved up beside\n her. \"What's your name, by the way?\"\n\n\n \"L-A-R-A 339/827.\"\n\n\n I pronounced it. \"Lara. Lah-rah. That's beautiful. Fits you, too.\"\nShe didn't answer; she kept her eyes straight ahead and I saw the faint\n spot of color on her cheek.", "I had a sudden impulse to ask her to meet me after hours at one\n of the rec centers. If it had been my danger alone, I might have,\n but I couldn't very well ask her to risk discovery of a haphazard,\n unauthorized arrangement like that and the possibility of going to the\n psycho-scan.\n\n\n We came to a turn in the corridor and something happened; I'm not sure\n just how it happened. I keep telling myself that my movements were not\n actually deliberate. I was to the right of her. The turn was to the\n left. She turned quickly, and I didn't, so that I bumped into her,\n knocking her off balance. I grabbed her to keep her from falling.\n\n\n For a moment we stood there, face to face, touching each other lightly.\n I held her by the arms. I felt the primitive warmth of her breath. Our\n eyes held together ... proton ... electron ... I felt her tremble.\n\n\n She broke from my grip suddenly and started off again.", "I walked up to the desk and the girl turned to face me, and I could\n have sworn that a faint smile crossed her lips. It was swift, like the\n shadow of a bird across one of the lawns in one of the great parks\n topside. Very non-standard. Yet I wasn't offended; if anything, I felt\n suddenly and disturbingly pleased.\n\n\n \"What information is desired?\" she asked. Her voice was standard—or\n was it?\n\n\n Again I had the feeling of restrained warmth.\n\n\n I used colloquial. \"I want to get the dope on State Serial\n designations, how they're assigned and so forth. Especially how they\n might be changed.\"\n\n\n She put a handsteno on the desk top and said, \"Name? Address? Post?\"\n\n\n I froze. I stood there and stared at her.\n\n\n She looked up and said, \"Well?\"", "There was a girl at the information desk. An exceptionally attractive\n girl. She was well within the limits of acceptable standard, and her\n features were even enough, and her hair a middle blonde—but she had\n something else. Hard to describe. It was a warmth, a buoyancy, a sense\n of life and intense animation. It didn't exactly show; it radiated. It\n seemed to sing out from her clear complexion, from her figure, which\n even a tunic could not hide, from everything about her.\n\n\n And if I were to state my business, I would have to tell her my name.\n\n\n I almost backed out right then. I stopped momentarily. And then common\n sense took hold and I realized that if I were to go through with this\n thing, here would be only the first of a long series of embarrassments\n and discomforts. It had to be done.", "Well, I couldn't get myself off N/P status until I got a post, and\n with my name I\ncouldn't\nget a post.\n\n\n Nor could I change my name. You know what happens when you try to\n change something already on the records. The very idea of wanting\n change implies criticism of the State. Unthinkable behavior.\n\n\n That was why this curious dream voice shocked me so. The thing that it\n suggested was quite as embarrassing as its non-standard, emotional,\n provocative tone.\n\n\n Bear with me; I'm getting to the voice—to\nher\n—in a moment.", "They had curious faces. Their eyes were indescribably sad, and yet\n their lips seemed to be ready to smile at any moment.\n\n\n They were holding hands, not seeming to care about this vulgar\n emotional display.\n\n\n I had the sudden crazy idea that Lara and I were sitting there, holding\n hands like that, nonconforming in the highest, and that we were\n wonderfully happy. Our eyes were sad too, but we were really happy,\n quietly happy, and that was why our lips stayed upon the brink of a\n smile.", "Now, on this morning of the seventeenth day in the ninth month,\n I ate my boiled egg slowly and actually toyed with the idea. I\n thought of being on productive status again. I had almost lost my\n fanatical craving to be useful to the State, but I did want to be\n busy—desperately. I didn't want to be despised any more. I didn't\n want to be lonely. I wanted to reproduce myself.\n\n\n I made my decision suddenly. Waves of emotion carried me along. I got\n up, crossed the room to the directory, and pushbuttoned to find the\n location of the nearest Govpub office.\n\n\n I didn't know what would happen and almost didn't care.\nII\n\n\n Like most important places, the Govpub Office in Center Four was\n underground. I could have taken a tunnelcar more quickly, but it seemed\n pleasanter to travel topside. Or maybe I just wanted to put this off a\n bit. Think about it. Compose myself.", "It was the voice that always came, low, intense, seductive, the sound\n of your hand on silk ... and to a citizen of Northem, a conformist, it\n was shocking. I was a conformist then; I was still one that morning.\n\n\n I awoke. The glowlight was on, slowly increasing. I was in my living\n machine in Center Four, where I belonged, and all the familiar things\n were about me, reality was back, but I was breathing very hard.\n\n\n I lay on the pneumo a while before getting up. I looked at the\n chroner: 0703 hours, Day 17, Month IX, New Century Three. My morning\n nuro-tablets had already popped from the tube, and the timer had begun\n to boil an egg. The egg was there because the realfood allotment had\n been increased last month. The balance of trade with Southem had just\n swung a decimal or two our way.", "Then, when I did sleep, when I had been sleeping, I heard the voice\n again. The low, seductive woman's voice—the startling, shocking voice\n out of my unconscious.", "I rose finally, stepped to the mirror, switched it to positive and\n looked at myself. New wrinkles—or maybe just a deepening of the old\n ones. It was beginning to show; the past two years were leaving traces.\n\n\n I hadn't worried about my appearance when I'd been with the Office of\n Weapons. There, I'd been able to keep pretty much to myself, doing\n research on magnetic mechanics as applied to space drive. But other\n jobs, where you had to be among people, might be different. I needed\n every possible thing in my favor.\n\n\n Yes, I still hoped for a job, even after two years. I still meant to\n keep on plugging, making the rounds.\n\n\n I'd go out again today.\n\n\n The timer clicked and my egg was ready. I swallowed the tablets and\n then took the egg to the table to savor it and make it last.", "I suppose at that point I twitched or rolled in my sleep. Yes, the\n voice was right, the woman Lara attracted me. So much that I ached with\n it.\n\n\n \"\nTake her. Find a way. When you succeed in changing your name, and\n know that you can do things, then find a way. There will be a way.\n\"\n\n\n The idea at once thrilled and frightened me.\n\n\n I woke writhing and in a sweat again.\n\n\n It was morning.\n\n\n I dressed and headed for the jetcopter stage and the ship for Center\n One.", "\"The Office of Psychological Adjustment. They can change you if you go\n from a lower to higher E.A.C.\"\n\n\n \"I don't get it, exactly.\"\n\n\n As she spoke I had the idea that there was sympathy in her voice. Just\n an overtone. \"Well,\" she said, \"as you know, the post a person is\n qualified to hold often depends largely on his Emotional Adjustment\n Category. Now if he improves and passes from, let us say, Grade 3 to\n Grade 4, he will probably change his place of work. In order to protect\n him from any associative maladjustments developed under the old E.A.C,\n he is permitted a new number.\"\n\n\n I groaned. \"But I'm already in the highest E.A.C.!\"\n\n\n \"It looks very uncertain then.\"", "\"I can find his location on the cyb here. Center One, the capital, for\n a guess. You'll have to get a travel permit to go there, of course.\n Just a moment.\"\n\n\n She worked at the machine again, trying it on general data. The printed\n slip came out a moment later and she read it to me. Chief, Opsych, was\n in the capital all right. It didn't give the exact location of his\n office, but it did tell how to find the underground bay in Center One\n containing the Opsych offices.\n\n\n We headed back through the passageway then and she kept well ahead of\n me. I couldn't keep my eyes from her walk, from the way she walked with\n everything below her shoulders. My blood was pounding at my temples\n again.\n\n\n I tried to keep the conversation going. \"Do you think it'll be hard to\n get a travel permit?\"", "About then I began to have these dreams. As I've told you, in the dream\n there was only this woman's seductive voice. The first time I heard it\n I awoke in a warm sweat and swore something had gone wrong with the\n sleep-learner. You never hear the actual words with this machine, of\n course; you simply absorb the concepts unconsciously. Still, it seemed\n an explanation. I checked thoroughly. Nothing wrong.\n\n\n The next night I heard the woman's voice again.\n\n\n \"\nTry it\n,\" she said. \"\nDo it. Start tomorrow to get your name changed.\n There will be a way. There must be a way. The rules are so mixed up\n that a clever man can do almost anything. Do it, please—for me.\n\"\nShe was not only trying to get me to commit nonconformity, but making\n heretical remarks besides. I awoke that time and half-expected a Deacon\n to pop out of the tube and turn his electric club upon me.", "\"Not impossible. My guess is that you'll be at Travbur all day\n tomorrow, maybe even the next day. But you ought to be able to swing it\n if you hold out long enough.\"\n\n\n I sighed. \"I know. It's that way everywhere in Northem. Our motto ought\n to be, 'Why make it difficult when with just a little more effort you\n can make it impossible?'\"\nShe started to laugh, and then, as she emerged from the passageway into\n the big circular room, she cut her laugh short.\n\n\n A second later, as I came along, I saw why.\n\n\n There were two Deacons by the central desk. They were burly and had\n that hard, pinched-face look and wore the usual black belts. Electric\n clubs hung from the belts. Spidery looking pistols were at their sides.\n\n\n I didn't know whether these two had heard my crack or not. I know they\n kept looking at me.", "And I heard the voice nearly every night.\n\n\n It hammered away.\n\n\n \"\nWhat if you do fail? Almost anything would be better than the\n miserable existence you're leading now!\n\"\n\n\n One morning I even caught myself wondering just how I'd go about this\n idea of hers. Wondering what the first step might be.\n\n\n She seemed to read my thoughts. That night she said, \"\nConsult the cybs\n in the Govpub office. If you look hard enough and long enough, you'll\n find a way.\n\"" ], [ "There was a girl at the information desk. An exceptionally attractive\n girl. She was well within the limits of acceptable standard, and her\n features were even enough, and her hair a middle blonde—but she had\n something else. Hard to describe. It was a warmth, a buoyancy, a sense\n of life and intense animation. It didn't exactly show; it radiated. It\n seemed to sing out from her clear complexion, from her figure, which\n even a tunic could not hide, from everything about her.\n\n\n And if I were to state my business, I would have to tell her my name.\n\n\n I almost backed out right then. I stopped momentarily. And then common\n sense took hold and I realized that if I were to go through with this\n thing, here would be only the first of a long series of embarrassments\n and discomforts. It had to be done.", "I didn't want to look into her eyes. I wanted to look away, but I\n couldn't find a decent excuse to. I saw her eyes become wide and\n noticed for the first time that they were a warm gray, almost a mouse\n color. I felt like laughing at that irrelevant observation, but more\n than that I felt like turning and running. I felt like climbing and\n dashing all over the walls like a frustrated cat and yelling at the\n top of my lungs. I felt like anything but standing there and looking\n stupid, meeting her stare—\nShe looked down quickly and recorded my name. It took her a little\n longer than necessary. In that time she recovered. Somewhat.\n\n\n \"All right,\" she said finally, \"I'll make a search.\"\n\n\n She turned to a row of buttons on a console in the center of the desk\n and began to press them in various combinations. A typer clicked away.\n She tore off a slip of paper, consulted it, and said, \"Information\n desired is in Bank 29. Please follow me.\"", "I had a sudden impulse to ask her to meet me after hours at one\n of the rec centers. If it had been my danger alone, I might have,\n but I couldn't very well ask her to risk discovery of a haphazard,\n unauthorized arrangement like that and the possibility of going to the\n psycho-scan.\n\n\n We came to a turn in the corridor and something happened; I'm not sure\n just how it happened. I keep telling myself that my movements were not\n actually deliberate. I was to the right of her. The turn was to the\n left. She turned quickly, and I didn't, so that I bumped into her,\n knocking her off balance. I grabbed her to keep her from falling.\n\n\n For a moment we stood there, face to face, touching each other lightly.\n I held her by the arms. I felt the primitive warmth of her breath. Our\n eyes held together ... proton ... electron ... I felt her tremble.\n\n\n She broke from my grip suddenly and started off again.", "\"I—er—no post at present. N/P status.\"\n\n\n Her fingers moved on the steno.\n\n\n I gave her my address and she recorded that.\n\n\n Then I paused again.\n\n\n She said, \"And your name?\"\n\n\n I took a deep breath and told her.", "Well, I couldn't get myself off N/P status until I got a post, and\n with my name I\ncouldn't\nget a post.\n\n\n Nor could I change my name. You know what happens when you try to\n change something already on the records. The very idea of wanting\n change implies criticism of the State. Unthinkable behavior.\n\n\n That was why this curious dream voice shocked me so. The thing that it\n suggested was quite as embarrassing as its non-standard, emotional,\n provocative tone.\n\n\n Bear with me; I'm getting to the voice—to\nher\n—in a moment.", "I walked up to the desk and the girl turned to face me, and I could\n have sworn that a faint smile crossed her lips. It was swift, like the\n shadow of a bird across one of the lawns in one of the great parks\n topside. Very non-standard. Yet I wasn't offended; if anything, I felt\n suddenly and disturbingly pleased.\n\n\n \"What information is desired?\" she asked. Her voice was standard—or\n was it?\n\n\n Again I had the feeling of restrained warmth.\n\n\n I used colloquial. \"I want to get the dope on State Serial\n designations, how they're assigned and so forth. Especially how they\n might be changed.\"\n\n\n She put a handsteno on the desk top and said, \"Name? Address? Post?\"\n\n\n I froze. I stood there and stared at her.\n\n\n She looked up and said, \"Well?\"", "I can't blame him for easing me out. He was trying to run an efficient\n organization, after all, and no doubt I upset its efficiency. My work\n was important—magnetic mechanics was the only way to handle quanta\n reaction, or the so-called non-energy drive, and was therefore the\n answer to feasible space travel beyond our present limit of Mars—and\n there were frequent inspection tours by Big Wheels and Very Important\n Persons.\n\n\n Whenever anyone, especially a woman, asked my name, the embarrassment\n would become a crackling electric field all about us. The best tactic\n was just not to answer.\nThe chief called me in one day. He looked haggard.\n\n\n \"Er—old man,\" he said, not quite able to bring himself to utter my\n name, \"I'm going to have to switch you to another department. How would\n you like to work on nutrition kits? Very interesting work.\"\n\n\n \"Nutrition kits?\nMe?\nOn nutrition kits?\"", "They had curious faces. Their eyes were indescribably sad, and yet\n their lips seemed to be ready to smile at any moment.\n\n\n They were holding hands, not seeming to care about this vulgar\n emotional display.\n\n\n I had the sudden crazy idea that Lara and I were sitting there, holding\n hands like that, nonconforming in the highest, and that we were\n wonderfully happy. Our eyes were sad too, but we were really happy,\n quietly happy, and that was why our lips stayed upon the brink of a\n smile.", "Well, following her was a pleasure, anyway. I could watch the movement\n of her hips and torso as she walked. She was not tall, but long-legged\n and extremely lithe. Graceful and rhythmic. Very, very feminine, almost\n beyond standard in that respect. I felt blood throb in my temples and\n was heartily ashamed of myself.\n\n\n I would like to be in a mating booth with her, I thought, the full\n authorized twenty minutes. And I knew I was unconformist and the\n realization hardly scared me at all.\n\n\n She led me down one of the long passageways.\n\n\n A few moments later I said, \"Don't you sometimes get—well, pretty\n lonely working here?\" Personal talk at a time like this wasn't approved\n behavior, but I couldn't help it.\n\n\n She answered hesitantly, but at least she answered. She said, \"Not\n terribly. The cybs are company enough most of the time.\"", "Now, on this morning of the seventeenth day in the ninth month,\n I ate my boiled egg slowly and actually toyed with the idea. I\n thought of being on productive status again. I had almost lost my\n fanatical craving to be useful to the State, but I did want to be\n busy—desperately. I didn't want to be despised any more. I didn't\n want to be lonely. I wanted to reproduce myself.\n\n\n I made my decision suddenly. Waves of emotion carried me along. I got\n up, crossed the room to the directory, and pushbuttoned to find the\n location of the nearest Govpub office.\n\n\n I didn't know what would happen and almost didn't care.\nII\n\n\n Like most important places, the Govpub Office in Center Four was\n underground. I could have taken a tunnelcar more quickly, but it seemed\n pleasanter to travel topside. Or maybe I just wanted to put this off a\n bit. Think about it. Compose myself.", "\"You don't get many visitors, then.\"\n\n\n \"Not right here. N. & I. isn't a very popular section. Most people who\n come to Govpub spend their time researching in the ancient manuscript\n room. The—er—social habits of the pre-atomic civilization.\"\n\n\n I laughed. I knew what she meant, all right. Pre-atomics and their\n ideas about free mating always fascinated people. I moved up beside\n her. \"What's your name, by the way?\"\n\n\n \"L-A-R-A 339/827.\"\n\n\n I pronounced it. \"Lara. Lah-rah. That's beautiful. Fits you, too.\"\nShe didn't answer; she kept her eyes straight ahead and I saw the faint\n spot of color on her cheek.", "\"\nYou have taken the first step\n,\" she said. \"\nYou are on your way\n to freedom. Don't stop now. Don't sink back into the lifelessness of\n conformity. Go on ... on and on. Keep struggling, for that is the only\n answer....\n\"\nI didn't exactly talk back, but in the queer way of the dream, I\nthought\nobjections. I was in my thirties, at the mid-point of my\n life, and the whole of that life had been spent under the State. I knew\n no other way to act. Suppressing what little individuality I might\n have was, for me, a way of survival. I was chockful of prescribed,\n stereotyped reactions, and I held onto them even when something within\n me told me what they were. This wasn't easy, this breaking away, not\n even this slight departure from the secure, camouflaged norm....\n\n\n \"\nThe woman, Lara, attracts you\n,\" said the voice.", "It was the voice that always came, low, intense, seductive, the sound\n of your hand on silk ... and to a citizen of Northem, a conformist, it\n was shocking. I was a conformist then; I was still one that morning.\n\n\n I awoke. The glowlight was on, slowly increasing. I was in my living\n machine in Center Four, where I belonged, and all the familiar things\n were about me, reality was back, but I was breathing very hard.\n\n\n I lay on the pneumo a while before getting up. I looked at the\n chroner: 0703 hours, Day 17, Month IX, New Century Three. My morning\n nuro-tablets had already popped from the tube, and the timer had begun\n to boil an egg. The egg was there because the realfood allotment had\n been increased last month. The balance of trade with Southem had just\n swung a decimal or two our way.", "Lara and I crossed the room silently, she back to her desk, I to the\n exit door. The Deacons' remote, disapproving eyes swung in azimuth,\n tracking us.\n\n\n I walked out and wanted to turn and smile at Lara, and get into my\n smile something of the hope that someday, somewhere, I'd see her\n again—but of course I didn't dare.\nIII\n\n\n I had the usual difficulties at Travbur the next day. I won't go into\n them, except to say that I was batted from office to office like a ping\n pong ball, and that, when I finally got my travel permit, I was made to\n feel that I had stolen an original Picasso from the State Museum.\n\n\n I made it in a day. Just. I got my permit thirty seconds before closing\n time. I was to take the jetcopter to Center One at 0700 hours the\n following morning.", "Then the cyb said, \"Proceed to Numbering and Identity section. Consult\n alphabetical list and diagram on your left for location of same.\"\n\n\n \"Thanks,\" I said absent-mindedly.\n\n\n I started to turn away and the cyb said, \"Information on tanks is\n military information and classified. State authorization for—\"\n\n\n I switched it off.\nNumbering and Identity wasn't hard to find. I took the shaft to the\n proper level and then it was only a walk of a few hundred yards through\n the glowlit corridors.\n\n\n N. & I. turned out to be a big room, somewhat circular, very\n high-ceilinged, with banks of cyb controls covering the upper walls.\n Narrow passageways, like spokes, led off in several directions. There\n was an information desk in the center of the room.\n\n\n I looked that way and my heart went into free fall.", "\"Yes, I understand that.\"\n\n\n \"M'm,\" he said, and dismissed me with a nod.\n\n\n I waited for a call in the next few weeks, still hoping, but I knew\n no woman would consent to meet a man with my name, let alone enter a\n mating booth with him.\n\n\n The urge to reproduce myself became unbearable. I concocted all sorts\n of wild schemes.\n\n\n I might infract socially and be classified a nonconform and sent to\n Marscol. I'd heard rumors that in that desolate land, on that desolate\n planet, both mingling and mating were rather disgustingly unrestricted.\n Casual mating would be terribly dangerous, of course, with all the wild\n irradiated genes from the atomic decade still around, but I felt I'd be\n willing to risk that. Well, almost....", "Yes, you suspect already. You know what a four letter word can be.\n\n\n Mine was.\n\n\n It was unspeakable.\n\n\n The slight weight on my forehead reminded me that I still wore my\n sleep-learner. I'd been studying administrative cybernetics, hoping to\n qualify in that field, although it was a poor substitute for a space\n drive expert. I removed the band and stepped across the room and\n turned off the oscillator. I went back to my egg and my bitter memories.\n\n\n I will never forget the first day I received my new four letter\n combination and reported it to my chief, as required. I was unthinkably\n embarrassed. He didn't say anything. He just swallowed and choked\n and became crimson when he saw it. He didn't dare pass it to his\n secretarial engineer; he went to the administrative circuits and\n registered it himself.", "\"The Office of Psychological Adjustment. They can change you if you go\n from a lower to higher E.A.C.\"\n\n\n \"I don't get it, exactly.\"\n\n\n As she spoke I had the idea that there was sympathy in her voice. Just\n an overtone. \"Well,\" she said, \"as you know, the post a person is\n qualified to hold often depends largely on his Emotional Adjustment\n Category. Now if he improves and passes from, let us say, Grade 3 to\n Grade 4, he will probably change his place of work. In order to protect\n him from any associative maladjustments developed under the old E.A.C,\n he is permitted a new number.\"\n\n\n I groaned. \"But I'm already in the highest E.A.C.!\"\n\n\n \"It looks very uncertain then.\"", "I want to tell you first about the loneliness, the terrible loneliness.\n I could hardly join group games at any of the rec centers. I could join\n no special interest clubs or even State Loyalty chapters. Although I\n dabbled with theoretical research in my own quarters, I could scarcely\n submit any findings for publication—not with my name attached. A\n pseudonym would have been non-regulation and illegal.\n\n\n But there was the worst thing of all. I could not mate.\nFunny, I hadn't thought about mating until it became impossible. I\n remember the first time, out of sheer idleness, I wandered into a\n Eugenic Center. I filled out my form very carefully and submitted it\n for analysis and assignment. The clerk saw my name, and did the usual\n double-take. He coughed and swallowed and fidgeted.\n\n\n He said, \"Of course you understand that we must submit your\n application to the woman authorized to spend time in the mating booths\n with you, and that she has the right to refuse.\"", "I, the Unspeakable\nBy WALT SHELDON\n\n\n Illustrated by LOUIS MARCHETTI\n\n\n [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Galaxy Science Fiction April 1951.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\n\"What's in a name?\" might be very dangerous\n\n to ask in certain societies, in which sticks\n\n and stones are also a big problem!\nI fought to be awake. I was dreaming, but I think I must have blushed.\n I must have blushed in my sleep.\n\n\n \"\nDo it!\n\" she said. \"\nPlease do it! For me!\n\"" ], [ "I didn't want to look into her eyes. I wanted to look away, but I\n couldn't find a decent excuse to. I saw her eyes become wide and\n noticed for the first time that they were a warm gray, almost a mouse\n color. I felt like laughing at that irrelevant observation, but more\n than that I felt like turning and running. I felt like climbing and\n dashing all over the walls like a frustrated cat and yelling at the\n top of my lungs. I felt like anything but standing there and looking\n stupid, meeting her stare—\nShe looked down quickly and recorded my name. It took her a little\n longer than necessary. In that time she recovered. Somewhat.\n\n\n \"All right,\" she said finally, \"I'll make a search.\"\n\n\n She turned to a row of buttons on a console in the center of the desk\n and began to press them in various combinations. A typer clicked away.\n She tore off a slip of paper, consulted it, and said, \"Information\n desired is in Bank 29. Please follow me.\"", "Well, following her was a pleasure, anyway. I could watch the movement\n of her hips and torso as she walked. She was not tall, but long-legged\n and extremely lithe. Graceful and rhythmic. Very, very feminine, almost\n beyond standard in that respect. I felt blood throb in my temples and\n was heartily ashamed of myself.\n\n\n I would like to be in a mating booth with her, I thought, the full\n authorized twenty minutes. And I knew I was unconformist and the\n realization hardly scared me at all.\n\n\n She led me down one of the long passageways.\n\n\n A few moments later I said, \"Don't you sometimes get—well, pretty\n lonely working here?\" Personal talk at a time like this wasn't approved\n behavior, but I couldn't help it.\n\n\n She answered hesitantly, but at least she answered. She said, \"Not\n terribly. The cybs are company enough most of the time.\"", "I had a sudden impulse to ask her to meet me after hours at one\n of the rec centers. If it had been my danger alone, I might have,\n but I couldn't very well ask her to risk discovery of a haphazard,\n unauthorized arrangement like that and the possibility of going to the\n psycho-scan.\n\n\n We came to a turn in the corridor and something happened; I'm not sure\n just how it happened. I keep telling myself that my movements were not\n actually deliberate. I was to the right of her. The turn was to the\n left. She turned quickly, and I didn't, so that I bumped into her,\n knocking her off balance. I grabbed her to keep her from falling.\n\n\n For a moment we stood there, face to face, touching each other lightly.\n I held her by the arms. I felt the primitive warmth of her breath. Our\n eyes held together ... proton ... electron ... I felt her tremble.\n\n\n She broke from my grip suddenly and started off again.", "I walked up to the desk and the girl turned to face me, and I could\n have sworn that a faint smile crossed her lips. It was swift, like the\n shadow of a bird across one of the lawns in one of the great parks\n topside. Very non-standard. Yet I wasn't offended; if anything, I felt\n suddenly and disturbingly pleased.\n\n\n \"What information is desired?\" she asked. Her voice was standard—or\n was it?\n\n\n Again I had the feeling of restrained warmth.\n\n\n I used colloquial. \"I want to get the dope on State Serial\n designations, how they're assigned and so forth. Especially how they\n might be changed.\"\n\n\n She put a handsteno on the desk top and said, \"Name? Address? Post?\"\n\n\n I froze. I stood there and stared at her.\n\n\n She looked up and said, \"Well?\"", "There was a girl at the information desk. An exceptionally attractive\n girl. She was well within the limits of acceptable standard, and her\n features were even enough, and her hair a middle blonde—but she had\n something else. Hard to describe. It was a warmth, a buoyancy, a sense\n of life and intense animation. It didn't exactly show; it radiated. It\n seemed to sing out from her clear complexion, from her figure, which\n even a tunic could not hide, from everything about her.\n\n\n And if I were to state my business, I would have to tell her my name.\n\n\n I almost backed out right then. I stopped momentarily. And then common\n sense took hold and I realized that if I were to go through with this\n thing, here would be only the first of a long series of embarrassments\n and discomforts. It had to be done.", "\"Well, I—er—know it sounds unusual, but it justifies. I just had\n the cybs work it over in the light of present regulations, and it\n justifies.\"\n\n\n Everything had to justify, of course. Every act in the monthly report\n had to be covered by regulations and cross-regulations. Of course there\n were so many regulations that if you just took the time to work it out,\n you could justify damn near anything. I knew what the chief was up to.\n Just to remove me from my post would have taken a year of applications\n and hearings and innumerable visits to the capital in Center One. But\n if I should infract—deliberately infract—it would enable the chief to\n let me go. The equivalent of resigning.\n\n\n \"I'll infract,\" I said. \"Rather than go on nutrition kits, I'll\n infract.\"\n\n\n He looked vastly relieved. \"Uh—fine,\" he said. \"I rather hoped you\n would.\"", "About then I began to have these dreams. As I've told you, in the dream\n there was only this woman's seductive voice. The first time I heard it\n I awoke in a warm sweat and swore something had gone wrong with the\n sleep-learner. You never hear the actual words with this machine, of\n course; you simply absorb the concepts unconsciously. Still, it seemed\n an explanation. I checked thoroughly. Nothing wrong.\n\n\n The next night I heard the woman's voice again.\n\n\n \"\nTry it\n,\" she said. \"\nDo it. Start tomorrow to get your name changed.\n There will be a way. There must be a way. The rules are so mixed up\n that a clever man can do almost anything. Do it, please—for me.\n\"\nShe was not only trying to get me to commit nonconformity, but making\n heretical remarks besides. I awoke that time and half-expected a Deacon\n to pop out of the tube and turn his electric club upon me.", "After that she was very business-like.\n\n\n We came finally to the controls of Bank 29 and she stood before them\n and began to press button combinations. I watched her work; I watched\n her move. I had almost forgotten why I'd come here. The lights blinked\n on and off and the typers clacked softly as the machine sorted out\n information.\n\n\n She had a long printed sheet from the roll presently. She frowned at\n it and turned to me. \"You can take this along and study it,\" she said,\n \"but I'm afraid what you have in mind may be—a little difficult.\"\n\n\n She must have guessed what I had in mind. I said, \"I didn't think it\n would be easy.\"\n\n\n \"It seems that the only agency authorized to change a State Serial\n under any circumstances is Opsych.\"\n\n\n \"Opsych?\" You can't keep up with all these departments.", "\"I—er—no post at present. N/P status.\"\n\n\n Her fingers moved on the steno.\n\n\n I gave her my address and she recorded that.\n\n\n Then I paused again.\n\n\n She said, \"And your name?\"\n\n\n I took a deep breath and told her.", "\"\nYou have taken the first step\n,\" she said. \"\nYou are on your way\n to freedom. Don't stop now. Don't sink back into the lifelessness of\n conformity. Go on ... on and on. Keep struggling, for that is the only\n answer....\n\"\nI didn't exactly talk back, but in the queer way of the dream, I\nthought\nobjections. I was in my thirties, at the mid-point of my\n life, and the whole of that life had been spent under the State. I knew\n no other way to act. Suppressing what little individuality I might\n have was, for me, a way of survival. I was chockful of prescribed,\n stereotyped reactions, and I held onto them even when something within\n me told me what they were. This wasn't easy, this breaking away, not\n even this slight departure from the secure, camouflaged norm....\n\n\n \"\nThe woman, Lara, attracts you\n,\" said the voice.", "They had curious faces. Their eyes were indescribably sad, and yet\n their lips seemed to be ready to smile at any moment.\n\n\n They were holding hands, not seeming to care about this vulgar\n emotional display.\n\n\n I had the sudden crazy idea that Lara and I were sitting there, holding\n hands like that, nonconforming in the highest, and that we were\n wonderfully happy. Our eyes were sad too, but we were really happy,\n quietly happy, and that was why our lips stayed upon the brink of a\n smile.", "Lara and I crossed the room silently, she back to her desk, I to the\n exit door. The Deacons' remote, disapproving eyes swung in azimuth,\n tracking us.\n\n\n I walked out and wanted to turn and smile at Lara, and get into my\n smile something of the hope that someday, somewhere, I'd see her\n again—but of course I didn't dare.\nIII\n\n\n I had the usual difficulties at Travbur the next day. I won't go into\n them, except to say that I was batted from office to office like a ping\n pong ball, and that, when I finally got my travel permit, I was made to\n feel that I had stolen an original Picasso from the State Museum.\n\n\n I made it in a day. Just. I got my permit thirty seconds before closing\n time. I was to take the jetcopter to Center One at 0700 hours the\n following morning.", "Yes, you suspect already. You know what a four letter word can be.\n\n\n Mine was.\n\n\n It was unspeakable.\n\n\n The slight weight on my forehead reminded me that I still wore my\n sleep-learner. I'd been studying administrative cybernetics, hoping to\n qualify in that field, although it was a poor substitute for a space\n drive expert. I removed the band and stepped across the room and\n turned off the oscillator. I went back to my egg and my bitter memories.\n\n\n I will never forget the first day I received my new four letter\n combination and reported it to my chief, as required. I was unthinkably\n embarrassed. He didn't say anything. He just swallowed and choked\n and became crimson when he saw it. He didn't dare pass it to his\n secretarial engineer; he went to the administrative circuits and\n registered it himself.", "\"Not impossible. My guess is that you'll be at Travbur all day\n tomorrow, maybe even the next day. But you ought to be able to swing it\n if you hold out long enough.\"\n\n\n I sighed. \"I know. It's that way everywhere in Northem. Our motto ought\n to be, 'Why make it difficult when with just a little more effort you\n can make it impossible?'\"\nShe started to laugh, and then, as she emerged from the passageway into\n the big circular room, she cut her laugh short.\n\n\n A second later, as I came along, I saw why.\n\n\n There were two Deacons by the central desk. They were burly and had\n that hard, pinched-face look and wore the usual black belts. Electric\n clubs hung from the belts. Spidery looking pistols were at their sides.\n\n\n I didn't know whether these two had heard my crack or not. I know they\n kept looking at me.", "\"You don't get many visitors, then.\"\n\n\n \"Not right here. N. & I. isn't a very popular section. Most people who\n come to Govpub spend their time researching in the ancient manuscript\n room. The—er—social habits of the pre-atomic civilization.\"\n\n\n I laughed. I knew what she meant, all right. Pre-atomics and their\n ideas about free mating always fascinated people. I moved up beside\n her. \"What's your name, by the way?\"\n\n\n \"L-A-R-A 339/827.\"\n\n\n I pronounced it. \"Lara. Lah-rah. That's beautiful. Fits you, too.\"\nShe didn't answer; she kept her eyes straight ahead and I saw the faint\n spot of color on her cheek.", "Now, on this morning of the seventeenth day in the ninth month,\n I ate my boiled egg slowly and actually toyed with the idea. I\n thought of being on productive status again. I had almost lost my\n fanatical craving to be useful to the State, but I did want to be\n busy—desperately. I didn't want to be despised any more. I didn't\n want to be lonely. I wanted to reproduce myself.\n\n\n I made my decision suddenly. Waves of emotion carried me along. I got\n up, crossed the room to the directory, and pushbuttoned to find the\n location of the nearest Govpub office.\n\n\n I didn't know what would happen and almost didn't care.\nII\n\n\n Like most important places, the Govpub Office in Center Four was\n underground. I could have taken a tunnelcar more quickly, but it seemed\n pleasanter to travel topside. Or maybe I just wanted to put this off a\n bit. Think about it. Compose myself.", "We were renumbered, then, in Northem. You know the system: everybody\n now has six digits and an additional prefix or suffix of four letters.\n Stateleader, for instance, has the designation AAAA-111/111. Now, to\n address somebody by calling off four letters is a little clumsy. We try\n to pronounce them when they are pronounceable. That is, no one says to\n Stateleader, \"Good morning, A-A-A-A.\" They say, \"Good morning, Aaaa.\"\n\n\n Reading the last quote, I notice a curious effect. It says what I feel.\n Of course I didn't feel that way on that particular morning. I was\n still conformal; the last thing in my mind was that I would infract and\n be psycho-scanned.\n\n\n Four letters then, and in many cases a pronounceable four letter word.\n\n\n A four letter word.", "It was the voice that always came, low, intense, seductive, the sound\n of your hand on silk ... and to a citizen of Northem, a conformist, it\n was shocking. I was a conformist then; I was still one that morning.\n\n\n I awoke. The glowlight was on, slowly increasing. I was in my living\n machine in Center Four, where I belonged, and all the familiar things\n were about me, reality was back, but I was breathing very hard.\n\n\n I lay on the pneumo a while before getting up. I looked at the\n chroner: 0703 hours, Day 17, Month IX, New Century Three. My morning\n nuro-tablets had already popped from the tube, and the timer had begun\n to boil an egg. The egg was there because the realfood allotment had\n been increased last month. The balance of trade with Southem had just\n swung a decimal or two our way.", "\"I can find his location on the cyb here. Center One, the capital, for\n a guess. You'll have to get a travel permit to go there, of course.\n Just a moment.\"\n\n\n She worked at the machine again, trying it on general data. The printed\n slip came out a moment later and she read it to me. Chief, Opsych, was\n in the capital all right. It didn't give the exact location of his\n office, but it did tell how to find the underground bay in Center One\n containing the Opsych offices.\n\n\n We headed back through the passageway then and she kept well ahead of\n me. I couldn't keep my eyes from her walk, from the way she walked with\n everything below her shoulders. My blood was pounding at my temples\n again.\n\n\n I tried to keep the conversation going. \"Do you think it'll be hard to\n get a travel permit?\"", "Then the cyb said, \"Proceed to Numbering and Identity section. Consult\n alphabetical list and diagram on your left for location of same.\"\n\n\n \"Thanks,\" I said absent-mindedly.\n\n\n I started to turn away and the cyb said, \"Information on tanks is\n military information and classified. State authorization for—\"\n\n\n I switched it off.\nNumbering and Identity wasn't hard to find. I took the shaft to the\n proper level and then it was only a walk of a few hundred yards through\n the glowlit corridors.\n\n\n N. & I. turned out to be a big room, somewhat circular, very\n high-ceilinged, with banks of cyb controls covering the upper walls.\n Narrow passageways, like spokes, led off in several directions. There\n was an information desk in the center of the room.\n\n\n I looked that way and my heart went into free fall." ], [ "Now, on this morning of the seventeenth day in the ninth month,\n I ate my boiled egg slowly and actually toyed with the idea. I\n thought of being on productive status again. I had almost lost my\n fanatical craving to be useful to the State, but I did want to be\n busy—desperately. I didn't want to be despised any more. I didn't\n want to be lonely. I wanted to reproduce myself.\n\n\n I made my decision suddenly. Waves of emotion carried me along. I got\n up, crossed the room to the directory, and pushbuttoned to find the\n location of the nearest Govpub office.\n\n\n I didn't know what would happen and almost didn't care.\nII\n\n\n Like most important places, the Govpub Office in Center Four was\n underground. I could have taken a tunnelcar more quickly, but it seemed\n pleasanter to travel topside. Or maybe I just wanted to put this off a\n bit. Think about it. Compose myself.", "There was a girl at the information desk. An exceptionally attractive\n girl. She was well within the limits of acceptable standard, and her\n features were even enough, and her hair a middle blonde—but she had\n something else. Hard to describe. It was a warmth, a buoyancy, a sense\n of life and intense animation. It didn't exactly show; it radiated. It\n seemed to sing out from her clear complexion, from her figure, which\n even a tunic could not hide, from everything about her.\n\n\n And if I were to state my business, I would have to tell her my name.\n\n\n I almost backed out right then. I stopped momentarily. And then common\n sense took hold and I realized that if I were to go through with this\n thing, here would be only the first of a long series of embarrassments\n and discomforts. It had to be done.", "I walked up to the desk and the girl turned to face me, and I could\n have sworn that a faint smile crossed her lips. It was swift, like the\n shadow of a bird across one of the lawns in one of the great parks\n topside. Very non-standard. Yet I wasn't offended; if anything, I felt\n suddenly and disturbingly pleased.\n\n\n \"What information is desired?\" she asked. Her voice was standard—or\n was it?\n\n\n Again I had the feeling of restrained warmth.\n\n\n I used colloquial. \"I want to get the dope on State Serial\n designations, how they're assigned and so forth. Especially how they\n might be changed.\"\n\n\n She put a handsteno on the desk top and said, \"Name? Address? Post?\"\n\n\n I froze. I stood there and stared at her.\n\n\n She looked up and said, \"Well?\"", "I didn't want to look into her eyes. I wanted to look away, but I\n couldn't find a decent excuse to. I saw her eyes become wide and\n noticed for the first time that they were a warm gray, almost a mouse\n color. I felt like laughing at that irrelevant observation, but more\n than that I felt like turning and running. I felt like climbing and\n dashing all over the walls like a frustrated cat and yelling at the\n top of my lungs. I felt like anything but standing there and looking\n stupid, meeting her stare—\nShe looked down quickly and recorded my name. It took her a little\n longer than necessary. In that time she recovered. Somewhat.\n\n\n \"All right,\" she said finally, \"I'll make a search.\"\n\n\n She turned to a row of buttons on a console in the center of the desk\n and began to press them in various combinations. A typer clicked away.\n She tore off a slip of paper, consulted it, and said, \"Information\n desired is in Bank 29. Please follow me.\"", "\"I—er—no post at present. N/P status.\"\n\n\n Her fingers moved on the steno.\n\n\n I gave her my address and she recorded that.\n\n\n Then I paused again.\n\n\n She said, \"And your name?\"\n\n\n I took a deep breath and told her.", "At the entrance to the Govpub warren there was a big director cyb, a\n plate with a speaker and switch. The sign on it said to switch it on\n and get close to the speaker and I did.\n\n\n The cyb's mechanical voice—they never seem to get the \"th\" sounds\n right—said, \"This is Branch Four of the Office of Government\n Publications. Say, 'Publications,' and/or, 'Information desired,' as\n thoroughly and concisely as possible. Use approved voice and standard\n phraseology.\"\n\n\n Well, simple enough so far. I had always rather prided myself on my\n knack for approved voice, those flat, emotionless tones that indicate\n efficiency. And I would never forget how to speak Statese. I said,\n \"Applicant desires all pertinent information relative assignment,\n change or amendment of State Serial designations, otherwise generally\n referred to as nomenclature.\"\n\n\n There was a second's delay while the audio patterns tripped relays and\n brought the memory tubes in.", "And I heard the voice nearly every night.\n\n\n It hammered away.\n\n\n \"\nWhat if you do fail? Almost anything would be better than the\n miserable existence you're leading now!\n\"\n\n\n One morning I even caught myself wondering just how I'd go about this\n idea of hers. Wondering what the first step might be.\n\n\n She seemed to read my thoughts. That night she said, \"\nConsult the cybs\n in the Govpub office. If you look hard enough and long enough, you'll\n find a way.\n\"", "\"The Office of Psychological Adjustment. They can change you if you go\n from a lower to higher E.A.C.\"\n\n\n \"I don't get it, exactly.\"\n\n\n As she spoke I had the idea that there was sympathy in her voice. Just\n an overtone. \"Well,\" she said, \"as you know, the post a person is\n qualified to hold often depends largely on his Emotional Adjustment\n Category. Now if he improves and passes from, let us say, Grade 3 to\n Grade 4, he will probably change his place of work. In order to protect\n him from any associative maladjustments developed under the old E.A.C,\n he is permitted a new number.\"\n\n\n I groaned. \"But I'm already in the highest E.A.C.!\"\n\n\n \"It looks very uncertain then.\"", "Then the cyb said, \"Proceed to Numbering and Identity section. Consult\n alphabetical list and diagram on your left for location of same.\"\n\n\n \"Thanks,\" I said absent-mindedly.\n\n\n I started to turn away and the cyb said, \"Information on tanks is\n military information and classified. State authorization for—\"\n\n\n I switched it off.\nNumbering and Identity wasn't hard to find. I took the shaft to the\n proper level and then it was only a walk of a few hundred yards through\n the glowlit corridors.\n\n\n N. & I. turned out to be a big room, somewhat circular, very\n high-ceilinged, with banks of cyb controls covering the upper walls.\n Narrow passageways, like spokes, led off in several directions. There\n was an information desk in the center of the room.\n\n\n I looked that way and my heart went into free fall.", "Well, I couldn't get myself off N/P status until I got a post, and\n with my name I\ncouldn't\nget a post.\n\n\n Nor could I change my name. You know what happens when you try to\n change something already on the records. The very idea of wanting\n change implies criticism of the State. Unthinkable behavior.\n\n\n That was why this curious dream voice shocked me so. The thing that it\n suggested was quite as embarrassing as its non-standard, emotional,\n provocative tone.\n\n\n Bear with me; I'm getting to the voice—to\nher\n—in a moment.", "After that she was very business-like.\n\n\n We came finally to the controls of Bank 29 and she stood before them\n and began to press button combinations. I watched her work; I watched\n her move. I had almost forgotten why I'd come here. The lights blinked\n on and off and the typers clacked softly as the machine sorted out\n information.\n\n\n She had a long printed sheet from the roll presently. She frowned at\n it and turned to me. \"You can take this along and study it,\" she said,\n \"but I'm afraid what you have in mind may be—a little difficult.\"\n\n\n She must have guessed what I had in mind. I said, \"I didn't think it\n would be easy.\"\n\n\n \"It seems that the only agency authorized to change a State Serial\n under any circumstances is Opsych.\"\n\n\n \"Opsych?\" You can't keep up with all these departments.", "\"Well, I—er—know it sounds unusual, but it justifies. I just had\n the cybs work it over in the light of present regulations, and it\n justifies.\"\n\n\n Everything had to justify, of course. Every act in the monthly report\n had to be covered by regulations and cross-regulations. Of course there\n were so many regulations that if you just took the time to work it out,\n you could justify damn near anything. I knew what the chief was up to.\n Just to remove me from my post would have taken a year of applications\n and hearings and innumerable visits to the capital in Center One. But\n if I should infract—deliberately infract—it would enable the chief to\n let me go. The equivalent of resigning.\n\n\n \"I'll infract,\" I said. \"Rather than go on nutrition kits, I'll\n infract.\"\n\n\n He looked vastly relieved. \"Uh—fine,\" he said. \"I rather hoped you\n would.\"", "\"I can find his location on the cyb here. Center One, the capital, for\n a guess. You'll have to get a travel permit to go there, of course.\n Just a moment.\"\n\n\n She worked at the machine again, trying it on general data. The printed\n slip came out a moment later and she read it to me. Chief, Opsych, was\n in the capital all right. It didn't give the exact location of his\n office, but it did tell how to find the underground bay in Center One\n containing the Opsych offices.\n\n\n We headed back through the passageway then and she kept well ahead of\n me. I couldn't keep my eyes from her walk, from the way she walked with\n everything below her shoulders. My blood was pounding at my temples\n again.\n\n\n I tried to keep the conversation going. \"Do you think it'll be hard to\n get a travel permit?\"", "I had a sudden impulse to ask her to meet me after hours at one\n of the rec centers. If it had been my danger alone, I might have,\n but I couldn't very well ask her to risk discovery of a haphazard,\n unauthorized arrangement like that and the possibility of going to the\n psycho-scan.\n\n\n We came to a turn in the corridor and something happened; I'm not sure\n just how it happened. I keep telling myself that my movements were not\n actually deliberate. I was to the right of her. The turn was to the\n left. She turned quickly, and I didn't, so that I bumped into her,\n knocking her off balance. I grabbed her to keep her from falling.\n\n\n For a moment we stood there, face to face, touching each other lightly.\n I held her by the arms. I felt the primitive warmth of her breath. Our\n eyes held together ... proton ... electron ... I felt her tremble.\n\n\n She broke from my grip suddenly and started off again.", "Lara and I crossed the room silently, she back to her desk, I to the\n exit door. The Deacons' remote, disapproving eyes swung in azimuth,\n tracking us.\n\n\n I walked out and wanted to turn and smile at Lara, and get into my\n smile something of the hope that someday, somewhere, I'd see her\n again—but of course I didn't dare.\nIII\n\n\n I had the usual difficulties at Travbur the next day. I won't go into\n them, except to say that I was batted from office to office like a ping\n pong ball, and that, when I finally got my travel permit, I was made to\n feel that I had stolen an original Picasso from the State Museum.\n\n\n I made it in a day. Just. I got my permit thirty seconds before closing\n time. I was to take the jetcopter to Center One at 0700 hours the\n following morning.", "It was the voice that always came, low, intense, seductive, the sound\n of your hand on silk ... and to a citizen of Northem, a conformist, it\n was shocking. I was a conformist then; I was still one that morning.\n\n\n I awoke. The glowlight was on, slowly increasing. I was in my living\n machine in Center Four, where I belonged, and all the familiar things\n were about me, reality was back, but I was breathing very hard.\n\n\n I lay on the pneumo a while before getting up. I looked at the\n chroner: 0703 hours, Day 17, Month IX, New Century Three. My morning\n nuro-tablets had already popped from the tube, and the timer had begun\n to boil an egg. The egg was there because the realfood allotment had\n been increased last month. The balance of trade with Southem had just\n swung a decimal or two our way.", "As I leaned forward to sit, the metal tag dangled from my neck,\n catching the glowlight. My identity tag.\n\n\n Everything came back in a rush—\n\n\n My name. The dream and\nher\nvoice. And her suggestion.\nWould I dare? Would I start out this very morning and take the risk,\n the terrible risk?\nYou remember renumbering. Two years ago. You remember how it was then;\n how everybody looked forward to his new designation, and how everybody\n made jokes about the way the letters came out, and how all the records\n were for a while fouled up beyond recognition.\n\n\n The telecomics kidded renumbering. One went a little too far and\n they psycho-scanned him and then sent him to Marscol as a dangerous\n nonconform.\n\n\n If you were disappointed with your new designation, you didn't\n complain. You didn't want a sudden visit from the Deacons during the\n night.", "Well, following her was a pleasure, anyway. I could watch the movement\n of her hips and torso as she walked. She was not tall, but long-legged\n and extremely lithe. Graceful and rhythmic. Very, very feminine, almost\n beyond standard in that respect. I felt blood throb in my temples and\n was heartily ashamed of myself.\n\n\n I would like to be in a mating booth with her, I thought, the full\n authorized twenty minutes. And I knew I was unconformist and the\n realization hardly scared me at all.\n\n\n She led me down one of the long passageways.\n\n\n A few moments later I said, \"Don't you sometimes get—well, pretty\n lonely working here?\" Personal talk at a time like this wasn't approved\n behavior, but I couldn't help it.\n\n\n She answered hesitantly, but at least she answered. She said, \"Not\n terribly. The cybs are company enough most of the time.\"", "\"You don't get many visitors, then.\"\n\n\n \"Not right here. N. & I. isn't a very popular section. Most people who\n come to Govpub spend their time researching in the ancient manuscript\n room. The—er—social habits of the pre-atomic civilization.\"\n\n\n I laughed. I knew what she meant, all right. Pre-atomics and their\n ideas about free mating always fascinated people. I moved up beside\n her. \"What's your name, by the way?\"\n\n\n \"L-A-R-A 339/827.\"\n\n\n I pronounced it. \"Lara. Lah-rah. That's beautiful. Fits you, too.\"\nShe didn't answer; she kept her eyes straight ahead and I saw the faint\n spot of color on her cheek.", "They had curious faces. Their eyes were indescribably sad, and yet\n their lips seemed to be ready to smile at any moment.\n\n\n They were holding hands, not seeming to care about this vulgar\n emotional display.\n\n\n I had the sudden crazy idea that Lara and I were sitting there, holding\n hands like that, nonconforming in the highest, and that we were\n wonderfully happy. Our eyes were sad too, but we were really happy,\n quietly happy, and that was why our lips stayed upon the brink of a\n smile." ], [ "They had curious faces. Their eyes were indescribably sad, and yet\n their lips seemed to be ready to smile at any moment.\n\n\n They were holding hands, not seeming to care about this vulgar\n emotional display.\n\n\n I had the sudden crazy idea that Lara and I were sitting there, holding\n hands like that, nonconforming in the highest, and that we were\n wonderfully happy. Our eyes were sad too, but we were really happy,\n quietly happy, and that was why our lips stayed upon the brink of a\n smile.", "And the drama seemed to point out that there was no more security for\n the nonconformists out there than for us here on Earth. Maybe somewhere\n in the universe, I thought, there would be peace for men. Somewhere\n beyond the solar system, perhaps, someday when we had the means to go\n there....\n\n\n Yet instinct told me that wasn't the answer, either. I thought of a\n verse by an ancient pre-atomic poet named Hoffenstein. (People had\n unwieldy, random combinations of letters for names in those days.) The\n poem went:\n\nWherever I go,\nI\ngo too,\nAnd spoil everything.\n\n That was it. The story of mankind.\n\n\n I turned the glowlight down and lay on the pneumo after a while, but I\n didn't sleep for a long, long time.", "Well, following her was a pleasure, anyway. I could watch the movement\n of her hips and torso as she walked. She was not tall, but long-legged\n and extremely lithe. Graceful and rhythmic. Very, very feminine, almost\n beyond standard in that respect. I felt blood throb in my temples and\n was heartily ashamed of myself.\n\n\n I would like to be in a mating booth with her, I thought, the full\n authorized twenty minutes. And I knew I was unconformist and the\n realization hardly scared me at all.\n\n\n She led me down one of the long passageways.\n\n\n A few moments later I said, \"Don't you sometimes get—well, pretty\n lonely working here?\" Personal talk at a time like this wasn't approved\n behavior, but I couldn't help it.\n\n\n She answered hesitantly, but at least she answered. She said, \"Not\n terribly. The cybs are company enough most of the time.\"", "\"\nYou have taken the first step\n,\" she said. \"\nYou are on your way\n to freedom. Don't stop now. Don't sink back into the lifelessness of\n conformity. Go on ... on and on. Keep struggling, for that is the only\n answer....\n\"\nI didn't exactly talk back, but in the queer way of the dream, I\nthought\nobjections. I was in my thirties, at the mid-point of my\n life, and the whole of that life had been spent under the State. I knew\n no other way to act. Suppressing what little individuality I might\n have was, for me, a way of survival. I was chockful of prescribed,\n stereotyped reactions, and I held onto them even when something within\n me told me what they were. This wasn't easy, this breaking away, not\n even this slight departure from the secure, camouflaged norm....\n\n\n \"\nThe woman, Lara, attracts you\n,\" said the voice.", "I had a sudden impulse to ask her to meet me after hours at one\n of the rec centers. If it had been my danger alone, I might have,\n but I couldn't very well ask her to risk discovery of a haphazard,\n unauthorized arrangement like that and the possibility of going to the\n psycho-scan.\n\n\n We came to a turn in the corridor and something happened; I'm not sure\n just how it happened. I keep telling myself that my movements were not\n actually deliberate. I was to the right of her. The turn was to the\n left. She turned quickly, and I didn't, so that I bumped into her,\n knocking her off balance. I grabbed her to keep her from falling.\n\n\n For a moment we stood there, face to face, touching each other lightly.\n I held her by the arms. I felt the primitive warmth of her breath. Our\n eyes held together ... proton ... electron ... I felt her tremble.\n\n\n She broke from my grip suddenly and started off again.", "Lara and I crossed the room silently, she back to her desk, I to the\n exit door. The Deacons' remote, disapproving eyes swung in azimuth,\n tracking us.\n\n\n I walked out and wanted to turn and smile at Lara, and get into my\n smile something of the hope that someday, somewhere, I'd see her\n again—but of course I didn't dare.\nIII\n\n\n I had the usual difficulties at Travbur the next day. I won't go into\n them, except to say that I was batted from office to office like a ping\n pong ball, and that, when I finally got my travel permit, I was made to\n feel that I had stolen an original Picasso from the State Museum.\n\n\n I made it in a day. Just. I got my permit thirty seconds before closing\n time. I was to take the jetcopter to Center One at 0700 hours the\n following morning.", "\"The Office of Psychological Adjustment. They can change you if you go\n from a lower to higher E.A.C.\"\n\n\n \"I don't get it, exactly.\"\n\n\n As she spoke I had the idea that there was sympathy in her voice. Just\n an overtone. \"Well,\" she said, \"as you know, the post a person is\n qualified to hold often depends largely on his Emotional Adjustment\n Category. Now if he improves and passes from, let us say, Grade 3 to\n Grade 4, he will probably change his place of work. In order to protect\n him from any associative maladjustments developed under the old E.A.C,\n he is permitted a new number.\"\n\n\n I groaned. \"But I'm already in the highest E.A.C.!\"\n\n\n \"It looks very uncertain then.\"", "In my living machine that evening, I was much too excited to work at\n theoretical research as I usually did after a hard day of tramping\n around. I bathed, I paced a while, I sat and hummed nervously and\n got up and paced again. I turned on the telepuppets. There was a\n drama about the space pilots who fly the nonconformist prisoners to\n the forests and pulp-acetate plants on Mars. Seemed that the Southem\n political prisoners who are confined to the southern hemisphere of\n Mars, wanted to attack and conquer the north. The nonconformists, led\n by our pilot, came through for the State in the end. Corn is thicker\n than water. Standard.\n\n\n There were, however, some good stereofilm shots of the limitless\n forests of Mars, and I wondered what it would be like to live there, in\n a green, fresh-smelling land. Pleasant, I supposed, if you could put up\n with the no doubt revolting morality of a prison planet.", "The ship was comfortable and departed on time, a transport with seats\n for about twenty passengers. I sat near the tail and moodily busied\n myself watching the gaunt brown earth far below. Between Centers there\n was mostly desert, only occasional patches of green. Before the atomic\n decade, I had heard, nearly all the earth was green and teemed with\n life ... birds, insects, animals, people, too. It was hard rock and\n sand now, with a few scrubs hanging on for life. The pre-atomics, who\n hadn't mastered synthesization, would have a hard time scratching\n existence from the earth today.\n\n\n I tried to break the sad mood, and started to look around at some of\n the other passengers. That was when I first noticed the prisoners\n in the forward seats. Man and woman, they were, a youngish, rather\n non-descript couple, thin, very quiet. They were manacled and two\n Deacons sat across from them. The Deacons' backs were turned to me and\n I could see the prisoners' faces.", "\"You don't get many visitors, then.\"\n\n\n \"Not right here. N. & I. isn't a very popular section. Most people who\n come to Govpub spend their time researching in the ancient manuscript\n room. The—er—social habits of the pre-atomic civilization.\"\n\n\n I laughed. I knew what she meant, all right. Pre-atomics and their\n ideas about free mating always fascinated people. I moved up beside\n her. \"What's your name, by the way?\"\n\n\n \"L-A-R-A 339/827.\"\n\n\n I pronounced it. \"Lara. Lah-rah. That's beautiful. Fits you, too.\"\nShe didn't answer; she kept her eyes straight ahead and I saw the faint\n spot of color on her cheek.", "I didn't want to look into her eyes. I wanted to look away, but I\n couldn't find a decent excuse to. I saw her eyes become wide and\n noticed for the first time that they were a warm gray, almost a mouse\n color. I felt like laughing at that irrelevant observation, but more\n than that I felt like turning and running. I felt like climbing and\n dashing all over the walls like a frustrated cat and yelling at the\n top of my lungs. I felt like anything but standing there and looking\n stupid, meeting her stare—\nShe looked down quickly and recorded my name. It took her a little\n longer than necessary. In that time she recovered. Somewhat.\n\n\n \"All right,\" she said finally, \"I'll make a search.\"\n\n\n She turned to a row of buttons on a console in the center of the desk\n and began to press them in various combinations. A typer clicked away.\n She tore off a slip of paper, consulted it, and said, \"Information\n desired is in Bank 29. Please follow me.\"", "Now, on this morning of the seventeenth day in the ninth month,\n I ate my boiled egg slowly and actually toyed with the idea. I\n thought of being on productive status again. I had almost lost my\n fanatical craving to be useful to the State, but I did want to be\n busy—desperately. I didn't want to be despised any more. I didn't\n want to be lonely. I wanted to reproduce myself.\n\n\n I made my decision suddenly. Waves of emotion carried me along. I got\n up, crossed the room to the directory, and pushbuttoned to find the\n location of the nearest Govpub office.\n\n\n I didn't know what would happen and almost didn't care.\nII\n\n\n Like most important places, the Govpub Office in Center Four was\n underground. I could have taken a tunnelcar more quickly, but it seemed\n pleasanter to travel topside. Or maybe I just wanted to put this off a\n bit. Think about it. Compose myself.", "It was the voice that always came, low, intense, seductive, the sound\n of your hand on silk ... and to a citizen of Northem, a conformist, it\n was shocking. I was a conformist then; I was still one that morning.\n\n\n I awoke. The glowlight was on, slowly increasing. I was in my living\n machine in Center Four, where I belonged, and all the familiar things\n were about me, reality was back, but I was breathing very hard.\n\n\n I lay on the pneumo a while before getting up. I looked at the\n chroner: 0703 hours, Day 17, Month IX, New Century Three. My morning\n nuro-tablets had already popped from the tube, and the timer had begun\n to boil an egg. The egg was there because the realfood allotment had\n been increased last month. The balance of trade with Southem had just\n swung a decimal or two our way.", "I want to tell you first about the loneliness, the terrible loneliness.\n I could hardly join group games at any of the rec centers. I could join\n no special interest clubs or even State Loyalty chapters. Although I\n dabbled with theoretical research in my own quarters, I could scarcely\n submit any findings for publication—not with my name attached. A\n pseudonym would have been non-regulation and illegal.\n\n\n But there was the worst thing of all. I could not mate.\nFunny, I hadn't thought about mating until it became impossible. I\n remember the first time, out of sheer idleness, I wandered into a\n Eugenic Center. I filled out my form very carefully and submitted it\n for analysis and assignment. The clerk saw my name, and did the usual\n double-take. He coughed and swallowed and fidgeted.\n\n\n He said, \"Of course you understand that we must submit your\n application to the woman authorized to spend time in the mating booths\n with you, and that she has the right to refuse.\"", "Well, I couldn't get myself off N/P status until I got a post, and\n with my name I\ncouldn't\nget a post.\n\n\n Nor could I change my name. You know what happens when you try to\n change something already on the records. The very idea of wanting\n change implies criticism of the State. Unthinkable behavior.\n\n\n That was why this curious dream voice shocked me so. The thing that it\n suggested was quite as embarrassing as its non-standard, emotional,\n provocative tone.\n\n\n Bear with me; I'm getting to the voice—to\nher\n—in a moment.", "And I heard the voice nearly every night.\n\n\n It hammered away.\n\n\n \"\nWhat if you do fail? Almost anything would be better than the\n miserable existence you're leading now!\n\"\n\n\n One morning I even caught myself wondering just how I'd go about this\n idea of hers. Wondering what the first step might be.\n\n\n She seemed to read my thoughts. That night she said, \"\nConsult the cybs\n in the Govpub office. If you look hard enough and long enough, you'll\n find a way.\n\"", "I rose finally, stepped to the mirror, switched it to positive and\n looked at myself. New wrinkles—or maybe just a deepening of the old\n ones. It was beginning to show; the past two years were leaving traces.\n\n\n I hadn't worried about my appearance when I'd been with the Office of\n Weapons. There, I'd been able to keep pretty much to myself, doing\n research on magnetic mechanics as applied to space drive. But other\n jobs, where you had to be among people, might be different. I needed\n every possible thing in my favor.\n\n\n Yes, I still hoped for a job, even after two years. I still meant to\n keep on plugging, making the rounds.\n\n\n I'd go out again today.\n\n\n The timer clicked and my egg was ready. I swallowed the tablets and\n then took the egg to the table to savor it and make it last.", "\"Well, I—er—know it sounds unusual, but it justifies. I just had\n the cybs work it over in the light of present regulations, and it\n justifies.\"\n\n\n Everything had to justify, of course. Every act in the monthly report\n had to be covered by regulations and cross-regulations. Of course there\n were so many regulations that if you just took the time to work it out,\n you could justify damn near anything. I knew what the chief was up to.\n Just to remove me from my post would have taken a year of applications\n and hearings and innumerable visits to the capital in Center One. But\n if I should infract—deliberately infract—it would enable the chief to\n let me go. The equivalent of resigning.\n\n\n \"I'll infract,\" I said. \"Rather than go on nutrition kits, I'll\n infract.\"\n\n\n He looked vastly relieved. \"Uh—fine,\" he said. \"I rather hoped you\n would.\"", "I suppose at that point I twitched or rolled in my sleep. Yes, the\n voice was right, the woman Lara attracted me. So much that I ached with\n it.\n\n\n \"\nTake her. Find a way. When you succeed in changing your name, and\n know that you can do things, then find a way. There will be a way.\n\"\n\n\n The idea at once thrilled and frightened me.\n\n\n I woke writhing and in a sweat again.\n\n\n It was morning.\n\n\n I dressed and headed for the jetcopter stage and the ship for Center\n One.", "\"Yes, I understand that.\"\n\n\n \"M'm,\" he said, and dismissed me with a nod.\n\n\n I waited for a call in the next few weeks, still hoping, but I knew\n no woman would consent to meet a man with my name, let alone enter a\n mating booth with him.\n\n\n The urge to reproduce myself became unbearable. I concocted all sorts\n of wild schemes.\n\n\n I might infract socially and be classified a nonconform and sent to\n Marscol. I'd heard rumors that in that desolate land, on that desolate\n planet, both mingling and mating were rather disgustingly unrestricted.\n Casual mating would be terribly dangerous, of course, with all the wild\n irradiated genes from the atomic decade still around, but I felt I'd be\n willing to risk that. Well, almost...." ] ]
test	20033	[ "What is different about Martin Scorsese, according to Roger Ebert?", "Why does the narrator use Bringing out the Dead, one of Scorsese's lesser films, as the basis for this article?", "One theme or element that you can guarantee will appear in a Sc0rsese film is", "Why does Sorcsese choose to become a director?", "What movie got him into the Director's Guild, thus getting his food into the door, so to speak, as a serious Hollywood director?", "Why is Raging Bull considered to be a hard film to watch?", "After having a few movies that were not blockbuster hits, he came back with", "What might be considered a flaw in Scorcese's movies?", "What does the narrator say of the movie \"The King of Comedy.\"" ]	[ [ "He is always on point with everything he produces.", "He has never made a bad movie.", "He very rarely \"phones it in.\"", "He takes risks in every movie he makes." ], [ "More than likely it had just been released at the time this article was written.", "It is his worst film, which goes to show that he doesn't really make BAD films even when they aren't GREAT.", "It is, without a doubt, his best and well-known film,", "The all-star cast is one that everyone can relate to, so it is an easy film to use to discuss his career." ], [ "A classical music soundtrack.", "Viscous death", "The main character will have a parallel to Scorsese's life.", "Religion" ], [ "He had an arrogance about him that made him want to expose the world to his genius. ", "He became a director to share his art and creativity with the world, whether he became liked and famous or not.", "He felt it would help him to take over the world, metaphorically, of course.", "He was just in it for the money." ], [ "Taxi Driver", "Mean St", "The Pope of Greenwich Village", "Boxcar Bertha" ], [ "It tends to come at the viewer with a force that tells the viewer that it is a great movie, and it smothers the view with its intention.", "It is almost too perfect and it draws out emotion you are not accustomed to finding in a movie.", "No one can understand the real message of the movie.", "DeNiro is not a great actor at this time in his career, in fact, he can be \"cringe-worthy.\"" ], [ "The King of Comedy", "The Last Temptation of Christ", "Goodfellas", "Happy Endings" ], [ "They are too full of passion and emotion.", "They have more emotion than intensity.", "They have more intensity than emotion", "They are too full of intensity and nothing else." ], [ "It was a copout because it was simply a comedic version of Taxi Driver", "It was too dark to be considered a comedy.", "He was a movie that could have come out 20 years later and the world might have been ready for me.", "It was when Scorsese seemed to take a turn for the worst as a director." ] ]	[ -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1 ]	[ 0, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 1 ]	[ [ "Martin Scorsese \n\n The first reviews of Martin Scorsese's Bringing Out the Dead are the latest evidence of the director's status as a critical favorite. This is not because the notices have been uniformly glowing--it's been some time since a Scorsese picture won unanimous praise from reviewers--but because Scorsese remains, almost uniquely among American directors, an embodiment of the beleaguered idea that filmmaking, and therefore film criticism, can be a serious, important, life-and-death matter. Here, for instance, is Roger Ebert, all thumbs: \n\n To look at Bringing Out the Dead --to look, indeed, at almost any Scorsese film--is to be reminded that film can touch us urgently and deeply. Scorsese is never on autopilot, never panders, never sells out, always goes for broke; to watch his films is to see a man risking his talent, not simply exercising it. He makes movies as well as they can be made.", "Never? Always? This is pure ideology--which is not to say that it isn't, to some extent, true. Even Scorsese's weaker films bristle with energy and intelligence. But look closely at what Ebert says: To be reminded of the power of film as a medium is not quite the same as being moved by a particular film, and Bringing Out the Dead is, for all its hectic pacing and breakneck intensity, an oddly unmoving experience. Yes, you think, movies can touch us urgently and deeply. Why doesn't this one? If Scorsese makes movies as well as they can be made, why does one so often feel that his movies--especially over the last decade or so--could have been better?", "(as Biskind calls him) did not see directing as a route to world domination but as a priestly avocation, a set of spiritual exercises embedded in technical problems. Scorsese's technical proficiency won him some early breaks. While making Who's That", "Of these three, Raging Bull has been singled out for vindication. It's the highest-ranking of the three Scorsese films on the American Film Institute's Top 100 list, and it's widely considered to be his masterpiece. But it remains exceedingly hard to watch, not so much because of the repulsiveness of De Niro's Jake La Motta as because of its overall sense of aesthetic claustrophobia. It's a movie lacquered by its own self-importance, so bloated with the ambition to achieve greatness that it can barely move. If it convinces you it's a masterpiece, it does so by sheer brute force.", "Well, that may be a coincidence. But it's hard to think of an active director who has produced such an emphatically cross-referenced body of work who seems not so much to repeat himself (though he does some of that) as to make movies by recombining a recognizable and fairly stable set of narrative, thematic, and stylistic elements. In other words, Scorsese is the last living incarnation of la politique des auteurs.", "Scorsese keeps working too--upcoming projects include Gangs of New York , with Leonardo DiCaprio, and a Dean Martin biopic starring Tom Hanks. His extracurricular good works--overseeing the re-release of classics such as El Cid and Belle de Jour , campaigning for film preservation, narrating a BBC documentary on his favorite movies--are testament to his abiding faith. But his movies more often than not feel cold and mechanical. They substitute intensity for emotion and give us bombast when we want passion. Why do we go to the movies? Pauline Kael used to say it was to be caught up, swept away, surfeited by sensation, and confronted by reality. Some of us keep going to Scorsese's movies because we still want to believe in that, and we leave wondering whether he still does.", "Kael called Mean Streets \"a triumph of personal film-making,\" and even though it may be the single most imitated movie of the past 30 years--cf The Pope of Greenwich Village, State of Grace, Federal Hill, Boyz N the Hood , etc.--it has lost remarkably little of its freshness and power. Watching it, you feel that you are seeing real life on the screen, but real life heightened and shaped by absolute artistic self-assurance. Or, to quote Kael again, \"Mean Streets never loses touch with the ordinary look of things or with common experience. Rather, it puts us in closer touch with the ordinary, the common, by turning a different light on them.\"", "The avatars of the New Hollywood were mostly \"movie brats\"--socially maladroit, nerdy young men (and they were, to a man, men) who shared a fervid, almost religious devotion to cinema. Scorsese,", "In Biskind's account of the tragedy of the New Hollywood, Spielberg is the villain, Hal Ashby the martyr, and Scorsese the scarred survivor. After the failures of the early '80s, he picked", "'n' roll score and a directorial cameo--this time Scorsese provides the disembodied voice of an ambulance dispatcher. There are jarring, anti-realist effects embedded in an overall mise en scène of harsh verisimilitude. And, of course, there is the", "Aside from these parallels and variations, there's plenty in Bringing Out the Dead to remind you that you're watching a Scorsese picture. There's voice-over narration. There's an eclectic, relentless rock", "This kind of realism marks Scorsese's next two films, Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore --his best piece of directing-for-hire, and one of the half-forgotten gems of the period--and Taxi Driver ,", "a runty, asthmatic altar boy from New York City's Little Italy who traded Catholic seminary for New York University film school, was arguably the purest in his faith. Unlike Francis Ford Coppola, George Lucas, or Steven Spielberg, \"St. Martin\"", "York, New York is virtually the only Scorsese movie (aside from \"Life Lessons,\" his crackerjack contribution to the Coppola-produced anthology film New York Stories ) to have at its center the relationship between a man and a woman. For another,", "abundance. Look at Boxcar Bertha , a throwaway piece of apprentice-work he made for schlock impresario Roger Corman in the early '70s (if you've never seen it, imagine Bonnie and Clyde remade as an episode of Kung Fu", "concludes with a litany of spectacular flameouts: Coppola's Apocalypse Now and One From the Heart, Spielberg's 1941 , William Friedkin's Sorcerer, and, of course, Michael Cimino's Heaven's Gate . According to Mardik Martin, Scorsese's erstwhile writing", "partner (as quoted by Biskind): \"The auteur theory killed all these people. One or two films, the magazines told them they were geniuses, that they could do anything. They went completely bananas. They thought they were God.\" Scorsese's own", "as Mean Streets is an unparalleled demonstration of the power of film to convey reality, \"Happy Endings\" is a celebration of film's magical ability to create it. A moviegoer's dream, but good luck seeing it on the big screen.", "Above all, to look at Bringing Out the Dead is to be reminded of a lot of other Scorsese films. Critics have noted its similarities with Taxi Driver , Scorsese's first collaboration with", "That old politique --the auteur theory, in plain English--was first articulated in the 1950s by a group of French critics, many of whom went on to become, as directors, fixtures of the Nouvelle Vague . In a nutshell, the theory--brought to these shores in 1962 by Village Voice film critic Andrew Sarris--held that, like any work of art, a film represents the vision of an individual artist, almost always the director. The artists who populated the auterist canon--Howard Hawks and John Ford, pre-eminently--had labored within the constraints of the studio system. But even their lesser films, according to auterist critics, could be distinguished from mere studio hackwork by the reiteration of a unique cinematic vocabulary and by an implicit but unmistakable sense of solitary genius in conflict with bureaucratic philistinism." ], [ "Above all, to look at Bringing Out the Dead is to be reminded of a lot of other Scorsese films. Critics have noted its similarities with Taxi Driver , Scorsese's first collaboration with", "Aside from these parallels and variations, there's plenty in Bringing Out the Dead to remind you that you're watching a Scorsese picture. There's voice-over narration. There's an eclectic, relentless rock", "Martin Scorsese \n\n The first reviews of Martin Scorsese's Bringing Out the Dead are the latest evidence of the director's status as a critical favorite. This is not because the notices have been uniformly glowing--it's been some time since a Scorsese picture won unanimous praise from reviewers--but because Scorsese remains, almost uniquely among American directors, an embodiment of the beleaguered idea that filmmaking, and therefore film criticism, can be a serious, important, life-and-death matter. Here, for instance, is Roger Ebert, all thumbs: \n\n To look at Bringing Out the Dead --to look, indeed, at almost any Scorsese film--is to be reminded that film can touch us urgently and deeply. Scorsese is never on autopilot, never panders, never sells out, always goes for broke; to watch his films is to see a man risking his talent, not simply exercising it. He makes movies as well as they can be made.", "Never? Always? This is pure ideology--which is not to say that it isn't, to some extent, true. Even Scorsese's weaker films bristle with energy and intelligence. But look closely at what Ebert says: To be reminded of the power of film as a medium is not quite the same as being moved by a particular film, and Bringing Out the Dead is, for all its hectic pacing and breakneck intensity, an oddly unmoving experience. Yes, you think, movies can touch us urgently and deeply. Why doesn't this one? If Scorsese makes movies as well as they can be made, why does one so often feel that his movies--especially over the last decade or so--could have been better?", "Of these three, Raging Bull has been singled out for vindication. It's the highest-ranking of the three Scorsese films on the American Film Institute's Top 100 list, and it's widely considered to be his masterpiece. But it remains exceedingly hard to watch, not so much because of the repulsiveness of De Niro's Jake La Motta as because of its overall sense of aesthetic claustrophobia. It's a movie lacquered by its own self-importance, so bloated with the ambition to achieve greatness that it can barely move. If it convinces you it's a masterpiece, it does so by sheer brute force.", "This kind of realism marks Scorsese's next two films, Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore --his best piece of directing-for-hire, and one of the half-forgotten gems of the period--and Taxi Driver ,", "Scorsese keeps working too--upcoming projects include Gangs of New York , with Leonardo DiCaprio, and a Dean Martin biopic starring Tom Hanks. His extracurricular good works--overseeing the re-release of classics such as El Cid and Belle de Jour , campaigning for film preservation, narrating a BBC documentary on his favorite movies--are testament to his abiding faith. But his movies more often than not feel cold and mechanical. They substitute intensity for emotion and give us bombast when we want passion. Why do we go to the movies? Pauline Kael used to say it was to be caught up, swept away, surfeited by sensation, and confronted by reality. Some of us keep going to Scorsese's movies because we still want to believe in that, and we leave wondering whether he still does.", "Sport, Harvey Keitel's suave, vicious pimp in the earlier film, Bringing Out the Dead features Cy, a suave, vicious drug dealer played by Cliff Curtis. The mood here is a good deal softer: The scabrous nihilism of Taxi", "'n' roll score and a directorial cameo--this time Scorsese provides the disembodied voice of an ambulance dispatcher. There are jarring, anti-realist effects embedded in an overall mise en scène of harsh verisimilitude. And, of course, there is the", "Well, that may be a coincidence. But it's hard to think of an active director who has produced such an emphatically cross-referenced body of work who seems not so much to repeat himself (though he does some of that) as to make movies by recombining a recognizable and fairly stable set of narrative, thematic, and stylistic elements. In other words, Scorsese is the last living incarnation of la politique des auteurs.", "(as Biskind calls him) did not see directing as a route to world domination but as a priestly avocation, a set of spiritual exercises embedded in technical problems. Scorsese's technical proficiency won him some early breaks. While making Who's That", "Kael called Mean Streets \"a triumph of personal film-making,\" and even though it may be the single most imitated movie of the past 30 years--cf The Pope of Greenwich Village, State of Grace, Federal Hill, Boyz N the Hood , etc.--it has lost remarkably little of its freshness and power. Watching it, you feel that you are seeing real life on the screen, but real life heightened and shaped by absolute artistic self-assurance. Or, to quote Kael again, \"Mean Streets never loses touch with the ordinary look of things or with common experience. Rather, it puts us in closer touch with the ordinary, the common, by turning a different light on them.\"", "concludes with a litany of spectacular flameouts: Coppola's Apocalypse Now and One From the Heart, Spielberg's 1941 , William Friedkin's Sorcerer, and, of course, Michael Cimino's Heaven's Gate . According to Mardik Martin, Scorsese's erstwhile writing", "as Mean Streets is an unparalleled demonstration of the power of film to convey reality, \"Happy Endings\" is a celebration of film's magical ability to create it. A moviegoer's dream, but good luck seeing it on the big screen.", "York, New York is virtually the only Scorsese movie (aside from \"Life Lessons,\" his crackerjack contribution to the Coppola-produced anthology film New York Stories ) to have at its center the relationship between a man and a woman. For another,", "For its part, The King of Comedy , a creepy reprise of Taxi Driver --played, this time, for laughs--is a movie made before its time, back when celebrity-stalking was a piquant metaphor for our cultural ills, rather than the focus of our cultural life. De Niro and Sandra Bernhard kidnap Jerry Lewis (playing, brilliantly, a famous late-night talk show host), Bernhard steals the movie, and the ending is guaranteed to provoke long, excruciating arguments about the difference between fantasy and reality.", "allegory of Hollywood in the '70s--a time when \"guys like us\" (i.e., the free-lancing gangsters played by De Niro and Joe Pesci) were allowed to run things without interference. Of course, they got too greedy, screwed everything up,", "Knocking at My Door , his earnest, autobiographical first feature, independently, Scorsese was hired to edit Woodstock into a coherent film. His success (more or less) led to more rock 'n' roll editing assignments--a traveling sub-Woodstock \"festival\" called", "In Biskind's account of the tragedy of the New Hollywood, Spielberg is the villain, Hal Ashby the martyr, and Scorsese the scarred survivor. After the failures of the early '80s, he picked", "with GoodFellas , which was hailed as a return to form, and floundered again with The Age of Innocence , one of his periodic attempts--like The Last Waltz , Temptation and, most recently, Kundun --to defy expectation. Next came" ], [ "Well, that may be a coincidence. But it's hard to think of an active director who has produced such an emphatically cross-referenced body of work who seems not so much to repeat himself (though he does some of that) as to make movies by recombining a recognizable and fairly stable set of narrative, thematic, and stylistic elements. In other words, Scorsese is the last living incarnation of la politique des auteurs.", "'n' roll score and a directorial cameo--this time Scorsese provides the disembodied voice of an ambulance dispatcher. There are jarring, anti-realist effects embedded in an overall mise en scène of harsh verisimilitude. And, of course, there is the", "Aside from these parallels and variations, there's plenty in Bringing Out the Dead to remind you that you're watching a Scorsese picture. There's voice-over narration. There's an eclectic, relentless rock", "York, New York is virtually the only Scorsese movie (aside from \"Life Lessons,\" his crackerjack contribution to the Coppola-produced anthology film New York Stories ) to have at its center the relationship between a man and a woman. For another,", "allegory of Hollywood in the '70s--a time when \"guys like us\" (i.e., the free-lancing gangsters played by De Niro and Joe Pesci) were allowed to run things without interference. Of course, they got too greedy, screwed everything up,", "Never? Always? This is pure ideology--which is not to say that it isn't, to some extent, true. Even Scorsese's weaker films bristle with energy and intelligence. But look closely at what Ebert says: To be reminded of the power of film as a medium is not quite the same as being moved by a particular film, and Bringing Out the Dead is, for all its hectic pacing and breakneck intensity, an oddly unmoving experience. Yes, you think, movies can touch us urgently and deeply. Why doesn't this one? If Scorsese makes movies as well as they can be made, why does one so often feel that his movies--especially over the last decade or so--could have been better?", "Kael called Mean Streets \"a triumph of personal film-making,\" and even though it may be the single most imitated movie of the past 30 years--cf The Pope of Greenwich Village, State of Grace, Federal Hill, Boyz N the Hood , etc.--it has lost remarkably little of its freshness and power. Watching it, you feel that you are seeing real life on the screen, but real life heightened and shaped by absolute artistic self-assurance. Or, to quote Kael again, \"Mean Streets never loses touch with the ordinary look of things or with common experience. Rather, it puts us in closer touch with the ordinary, the common, by turning a different light on them.\"", "obligatory religious imagery--the final frames present a classic Pietà, with Patricia Arquette (whose character is named Mary) cradling Cage, the man of sorrows, in her arms. To survey Scorsese's oeuvre is to find such echoings and prefigurations in", "Of these three, Raging Bull has been singled out for vindication. It's the highest-ranking of the three Scorsese films on the American Film Institute's Top 100 list, and it's widely considered to be his masterpiece. But it remains exceedingly hard to watch, not so much because of the repulsiveness of De Niro's Jake La Motta as because of its overall sense of aesthetic claustrophobia. It's a movie lacquered by its own self-importance, so bloated with the ambition to achieve greatness that it can barely move. If it convinces you it's a masterpiece, it does so by sheer brute force.", "and the big corporations turned their playground into Disneyland. At the end, De Niro's character, the scarred survivor, picks himself up and goes back to work.", "abundance. Look at Boxcar Bertha , a throwaway piece of apprentice-work he made for schlock impresario Roger Corman in the early '70s (if you've never seen it, imagine Bonnie and Clyde remade as an episode of Kung Fu", "Martin Scorsese \n\n The first reviews of Martin Scorsese's Bringing Out the Dead are the latest evidence of the director's status as a critical favorite. This is not because the notices have been uniformly glowing--it's been some time since a Scorsese picture won unanimous praise from reviewers--but because Scorsese remains, almost uniquely among American directors, an embodiment of the beleaguered idea that filmmaking, and therefore film criticism, can be a serious, important, life-and-death matter. Here, for instance, is Roger Ebert, all thumbs: \n\n To look at Bringing Out the Dead --to look, indeed, at almost any Scorsese film--is to be reminded that film can touch us urgently and deeply. Scorsese is never on autopilot, never panders, never sells out, always goes for broke; to watch his films is to see a man risking his talent, not simply exercising it. He makes movies as well as they can be made.", "(as Biskind calls him) did not see directing as a route to world domination but as a priestly avocation, a set of spiritual exercises embedded in technical problems. Scorsese's technical proficiency won him some early breaks. While making Who's That", "Scorsese keeps working too--upcoming projects include Gangs of New York , with Leonardo DiCaprio, and a Dean Martin biopic starring Tom Hanks. His extracurricular good works--overseeing the re-release of classics such as El Cid and Belle de Jour , campaigning for film preservation, narrating a BBC documentary on his favorite movies--are testament to his abiding faith. But his movies more often than not feel cold and mechanical. They substitute intensity for emotion and give us bombast when we want passion. Why do we go to the movies? Pauline Kael used to say it was to be caught up, swept away, surfeited by sensation, and confronted by reality. Some of us keep going to Scorsese's movies because we still want to believe in that, and we leave wondering whether he still does.", "the one De Niro's Travis Bickle visited on Sport, and when Frank does take a life (in the movie's best, most understated scene), it's an act of mercy.", "Above all, to look at Bringing Out the Dead is to be reminded of a lot of other Scorsese films. Critics have noted its similarities with Taxi Driver , Scorsese's first collaboration with", "This kind of realism marks Scorsese's next two films, Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore --his best piece of directing-for-hire, and one of the half-forgotten gems of the period--and Taxi Driver ,", "as Mean Streets is an unparalleled demonstration of the power of film to convey reality, \"Happy Endings\" is a celebration of film's magical ability to create it. A moviegoer's dream, but good luck seeing it on the big screen.", "Casino, one of his periodic attempts to defy the expectation that he would defy expectations. Casino blends Raging Bull with GoodFellas and can be interpreted as a wry", "Knocking at My Door , his earnest, autobiographical first feature, independently, Scorsese was hired to edit Woodstock into a coherent film. His success (more or less) led to more rock 'n' roll editing assignments--a traveling sub-Woodstock \"festival\" called" ], [ "(as Biskind calls him) did not see directing as a route to world domination but as a priestly avocation, a set of spiritual exercises embedded in technical problems. Scorsese's technical proficiency won him some early breaks. While making Who's That", "Well, that may be a coincidence. But it's hard to think of an active director who has produced such an emphatically cross-referenced body of work who seems not so much to repeat himself (though he does some of that) as to make movies by recombining a recognizable and fairly stable set of narrative, thematic, and stylistic elements. In other words, Scorsese is the last living incarnation of la politique des auteurs.", "a runty, asthmatic altar boy from New York City's Little Italy who traded Catholic seminary for New York University film school, was arguably the purest in his faith. Unlike Francis Ford Coppola, George Lucas, or Steven Spielberg, \"St. Martin\"", "Martin Scorsese \n\n The first reviews of Martin Scorsese's Bringing Out the Dead are the latest evidence of the director's status as a critical favorite. This is not because the notices have been uniformly glowing--it's been some time since a Scorsese picture won unanimous praise from reviewers--but because Scorsese remains, almost uniquely among American directors, an embodiment of the beleaguered idea that filmmaking, and therefore film criticism, can be a serious, important, life-and-death matter. Here, for instance, is Roger Ebert, all thumbs: \n\n To look at Bringing Out the Dead --to look, indeed, at almost any Scorsese film--is to be reminded that film can touch us urgently and deeply. Scorsese is never on autopilot, never panders, never sells out, always goes for broke; to watch his films is to see a man risking his talent, not simply exercising it. He makes movies as well as they can be made.", "That old politique --the auteur theory, in plain English--was first articulated in the 1950s by a group of French critics, many of whom went on to become, as directors, fixtures of the Nouvelle Vague . In a nutshell, the theory--brought to these shores in 1962 by Village Voice film critic Andrew Sarris--held that, like any work of art, a film represents the vision of an individual artist, almost always the director. The artists who populated the auterist canon--Howard Hawks and John Ford, pre-eminently--had labored within the constraints of the studio system. But even their lesser films, according to auterist critics, could be distinguished from mere studio hackwork by the reiteration of a unique cinematic vocabulary and by an implicit but unmistakable sense of solitary genius in conflict with bureaucratic philistinism.", "The avatars of the New Hollywood were mostly \"movie brats\"--socially maladroit, nerdy young men (and they were, to a man, men) who shared a fervid, almost religious devotion to cinema. Scorsese,", "Scorsese keeps working too--upcoming projects include Gangs of New York , with Leonardo DiCaprio, and a Dean Martin biopic starring Tom Hanks. His extracurricular good works--overseeing the re-release of classics such as El Cid and Belle de Jour , campaigning for film preservation, narrating a BBC documentary on his favorite movies--are testament to his abiding faith. But his movies more often than not feel cold and mechanical. They substitute intensity for emotion and give us bombast when we want passion. Why do we go to the movies? Pauline Kael used to say it was to be caught up, swept away, surfeited by sensation, and confronted by reality. Some of us keep going to Scorsese's movies because we still want to believe in that, and we leave wondering whether he still does.", "partner (as quoted by Biskind): \"The auteur theory killed all these people. One or two films, the magazines told them they were geniuses, that they could do anything. They went completely bananas. They thought they were God.\" Scorsese's own", "In Biskind's account of the tragedy of the New Hollywood, Spielberg is the villain, Hal Ashby the martyr, and Scorsese the scarred survivor. After the failures of the early '80s, he picked", "Never? Always? This is pure ideology--which is not to say that it isn't, to some extent, true. Even Scorsese's weaker films bristle with energy and intelligence. But look closely at what Ebert says: To be reminded of the power of film as a medium is not quite the same as being moved by a particular film, and Bringing Out the Dead is, for all its hectic pacing and breakneck intensity, an oddly unmoving experience. Yes, you think, movies can touch us urgently and deeply. Why doesn't this one? If Scorsese makes movies as well as they can be made, why does one so often feel that his movies--especially over the last decade or so--could have been better?", "Knocking at My Door , his earnest, autobiographical first feature, independently, Scorsese was hired to edit Woodstock into a coherent film. His success (more or less) led to more rock 'n' roll editing assignments--a traveling sub-Woodstock \"festival\" called", "'n' roll score and a directorial cameo--this time Scorsese provides the disembodied voice of an ambulance dispatcher. There are jarring, anti-realist effects embedded in an overall mise en scène of harsh verisimilitude. And, of course, there is the", "concludes with a litany of spectacular flameouts: Coppola's Apocalypse Now and One From the Heart, Spielberg's 1941 , William Friedkin's Sorcerer, and, of course, Michael Cimino's Heaven's Gate . According to Mardik Martin, Scorsese's erstwhile writing", "This kind of realism marks Scorsese's next two films, Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore --his best piece of directing-for-hire, and one of the half-forgotten gems of the period--and Taxi Driver ,", "abundance. Look at Boxcar Bertha , a throwaway piece of apprentice-work he made for schlock impresario Roger Corman in the early '70s (if you've never seen it, imagine Bonnie and Clyde remade as an episode of Kung Fu", "Kael called Mean Streets \"a triumph of personal film-making,\" and even though it may be the single most imitated movie of the past 30 years--cf The Pope of Greenwich Village, State of Grace, Federal Hill, Boyz N the Hood , etc.--it has lost remarkably little of its freshness and power. Watching it, you feel that you are seeing real life on the screen, but real life heightened and shaped by absolute artistic self-assurance. Or, to quote Kael again, \"Mean Streets never loses touch with the ordinary look of things or with common experience. Rather, it puts us in closer touch with the ordinary, the common, by turning a different light on them.\"", "and the big corporations turned their playground into Disneyland. At the end, De Niro's character, the scarred survivor, picks himself up and goes back to work.", "The auteur theory was quickly challenged, most notably by Pauline Kael, who shredded Sarris in the pages of Film Quarterly . But the \"new Hollywood\" of the '70s--with Kael as its champion, scold, and Cassandra--was dominated by young directors who attained, thanks to the collapse of the old studios, an unprecedented degree of creative autonomy, and who thought of themselves as artists. What resulted, as Peter Biskind shows in his New Hollywood dish bible Easy Riders, Raging Bulls , was an epidemic of megalomania, sexual libertinism, money-wasting, and drug abuse--as well as a few dozen classics of American cinema.", "both of which were critically and commercially successful. But the medium-budget, artisanal, personal filmmaking of the early '70s soon gave way to grander visions. To be a New Hollywood director was to flirt with hubris. Biskind's book, accordingly,", "Of these three, Raging Bull has been singled out for vindication. It's the highest-ranking of the three Scorsese films on the American Film Institute's Top 100 list, and it's widely considered to be his masterpiece. But it remains exceedingly hard to watch, not so much because of the repulsiveness of De Niro's Jake La Motta as because of its overall sense of aesthetic claustrophobia. It's a movie lacquered by its own self-importance, so bloated with the ambition to achieve greatness that it can barely move. If it convinces you it's a masterpiece, it does so by sheer brute force." ], [ "(as Biskind calls him) did not see directing as a route to world domination but as a priestly avocation, a set of spiritual exercises embedded in technical problems. Scorsese's technical proficiency won him some early breaks. While making Who's That", "Knocking at My Door , his earnest, autobiographical first feature, independently, Scorsese was hired to edit Woodstock into a coherent film. His success (more or less) led to more rock 'n' roll editing assignments--a traveling sub-Woodstock \"festival\" called", "himself up and made some more movies: the quirky, proto-Indie downtown comedy After Hours , The Color of Money (a respectable sequel to The Hustler ), and his long dreamed of The Last Temptation of Christ . His fortunes revived", "The avatars of the New Hollywood were mostly \"movie brats\"--socially maladroit, nerdy young men (and they were, to a man, men) who shared a fervid, almost religious devotion to cinema. Scorsese,", "allegory of Hollywood in the '70s--a time when \"guys like us\" (i.e., the free-lancing gangsters played by De Niro and Joe Pesci) were allowed to run things without interference. Of course, they got too greedy, screwed everything up,", "both of which were critically and commercially successful. But the medium-budget, artisanal, personal filmmaking of the early '70s soon gave way to grander visions. To be a New Hollywood director was to flirt with hubris. Biskind's book, accordingly,", "The auteur theory was quickly challenged, most notably by Pauline Kael, who shredded Sarris in the pages of Film Quarterly . But the \"new Hollywood\" of the '70s--with Kael as its champion, scold, and Cassandra--was dominated by young directors who attained, thanks to the collapse of the old studios, an unprecedented degree of creative autonomy, and who thought of themselves as artists. What resulted, as Peter Biskind shows in his New Hollywood dish bible Easy Riders, Raging Bulls , was an epidemic of megalomania, sexual libertinism, money-wasting, and drug abuse--as well as a few dozen classics of American cinema.", "Martin Scorsese \n\n The first reviews of Martin Scorsese's Bringing Out the Dead are the latest evidence of the director's status as a critical favorite. This is not because the notices have been uniformly glowing--it's been some time since a Scorsese picture won unanimous praise from reviewers--but because Scorsese remains, almost uniquely among American directors, an embodiment of the beleaguered idea that filmmaking, and therefore film criticism, can be a serious, important, life-and-death matter. Here, for instance, is Roger Ebert, all thumbs: \n\n To look at Bringing Out the Dead --to look, indeed, at almost any Scorsese film--is to be reminded that film can touch us urgently and deeply. Scorsese is never on autopilot, never panders, never sells out, always goes for broke; to watch his films is to see a man risking his talent, not simply exercising it. He makes movies as well as they can be made.", "Well, that may be a coincidence. But it's hard to think of an active director who has produced such an emphatically cross-referenced body of work who seems not so much to repeat himself (though he does some of that) as to make movies by recombining a recognizable and fairly stable set of narrative, thematic, and stylistic elements. In other words, Scorsese is the last living incarnation of la politique des auteurs.", "Kael called Mean Streets \"a triumph of personal film-making,\" and even though it may be the single most imitated movie of the past 30 years--cf The Pope of Greenwich Village, State of Grace, Federal Hill, Boyz N the Hood , etc.--it has lost remarkably little of its freshness and power. Watching it, you feel that you are seeing real life on the screen, but real life heightened and shaped by absolute artistic self-assurance. Or, to quote Kael again, \"Mean Streets never loses touch with the ordinary look of things or with common experience. Rather, it puts us in closer touch with the ordinary, the common, by turning a different light on them.\"", "abundance. Look at Boxcar Bertha , a throwaway piece of apprentice-work he made for schlock impresario Roger Corman in the early '70s (if you've never seen it, imagine Bonnie and Clyde remade as an episode of Kung Fu", "Medicine Ball Caravan ; Elvis on Tour --and then to Boxcar Bertha , which allowed him to join the Directors Guild and gave him the chance to make Mean Streets . That movie helped launch the careers of Harvey Keitel and", "That old politique --the auteur theory, in plain English--was first articulated in the 1950s by a group of French critics, many of whom went on to become, as directors, fixtures of the Nouvelle Vague . In a nutshell, the theory--brought to these shores in 1962 by Village Voice film critic Andrew Sarris--held that, like any work of art, a film represents the vision of an individual artist, almost always the director. The artists who populated the auterist canon--Howard Hawks and John Ford, pre-eminently--had labored within the constraints of the studio system. But even their lesser films, according to auterist critics, could be distinguished from mere studio hackwork by the reiteration of a unique cinematic vocabulary and by an implicit but unmistakable sense of solitary genius in conflict with bureaucratic philistinism.", "Of these three, Raging Bull has been singled out for vindication. It's the highest-ranking of the three Scorsese films on the American Film Institute's Top 100 list, and it's widely considered to be his masterpiece. But it remains exceedingly hard to watch, not so much because of the repulsiveness of De Niro's Jake La Motta as because of its overall sense of aesthetic claustrophobia. It's a movie lacquered by its own self-importance, so bloated with the ambition to achieve greatness that it can barely move. If it convinces you it's a masterpiece, it does so by sheer brute force.", "'n' roll score and a directorial cameo--this time Scorsese provides the disembodied voice of an ambulance dispatcher. There are jarring, anti-realist effects embedded in an overall mise en scène of harsh verisimilitude. And, of course, there is the", "concludes with a litany of spectacular flameouts: Coppola's Apocalypse Now and One From the Heart, Spielberg's 1941 , William Friedkin's Sorcerer, and, of course, Michael Cimino's Heaven's Gate . According to Mardik Martin, Scorsese's erstwhile writing", "Scorsese keeps working too--upcoming projects include Gangs of New York , with Leonardo DiCaprio, and a Dean Martin biopic starring Tom Hanks. His extracurricular good works--overseeing the re-release of classics such as El Cid and Belle de Jour , campaigning for film preservation, narrating a BBC documentary on his favorite movies--are testament to his abiding faith. But his movies more often than not feel cold and mechanical. They substitute intensity for emotion and give us bombast when we want passion. Why do we go to the movies? Pauline Kael used to say it was to be caught up, swept away, surfeited by sensation, and confronted by reality. Some of us keep going to Scorsese's movies because we still want to believe in that, and we leave wondering whether he still does.", "This kind of realism marks Scorsese's next two films, Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore --his best piece of directing-for-hire, and one of the half-forgotten gems of the period--and Taxi Driver ,", "In Biskind's account of the tragedy of the New Hollywood, Spielberg is the villain, Hal Ashby the martyr, and Scorsese the scarred survivor. After the failures of the early '80s, he picked", "and the big corporations turned their playground into Disneyland. At the end, De Niro's character, the scarred survivor, picks himself up and goes back to work." ], [ "Of these three, Raging Bull has been singled out for vindication. It's the highest-ranking of the three Scorsese films on the American Film Institute's Top 100 list, and it's widely considered to be his masterpiece. But it remains exceedingly hard to watch, not so much because of the repulsiveness of De Niro's Jake La Motta as because of its overall sense of aesthetic claustrophobia. It's a movie lacquered by its own self-importance, so bloated with the ambition to achieve greatness that it can barely move. If it convinces you it's a masterpiece, it does so by sheer brute force.", "Raging Bull is undone by its own perfectionism. New York, New York and The King of Comedy stand up rather", "screenwriter Paul Schrader (who also wrote The Last Temptation of Christ and the later drafts of Raging Bull ). Both movies feature a disturbed outsider cruising the nightmarish, as-yet-ungentrified streets of Manhattan in search of redemption. In place of", "Kael called Mean Streets \"a triumph of personal film-making,\" and even though it may be the single most imitated movie of the past 30 years--cf The Pope of Greenwich Village, State of Grace, Federal Hill, Boyz N the Hood , etc.--it has lost remarkably little of its freshness and power. Watching it, you feel that you are seeing real life on the screen, but real life heightened and shaped by absolute artistic self-assurance. Or, to quote Kael again, \"Mean Streets never loses touch with the ordinary look of things or with common experience. Rather, it puts us in closer touch with the ordinary, the common, by turning a different light on them.\"", "Casino, one of his periodic attempts to defy the expectation that he would defy expectations. Casino blends Raging Bull with GoodFellas and can be interpreted as a wry", "'n' roll score and a directorial cameo--this time Scorsese provides the disembodied voice of an ambulance dispatcher. There are jarring, anti-realist effects embedded in an overall mise en scène of harsh verisimilitude. And, of course, there is the", "Scorsese keeps working too--upcoming projects include Gangs of New York , with Leonardo DiCaprio, and a Dean Martin biopic starring Tom Hanks. His extracurricular good works--overseeing the re-release of classics such as El Cid and Belle de Jour , campaigning for film preservation, narrating a BBC documentary on his favorite movies--are testament to his abiding faith. But his movies more often than not feel cold and mechanical. They substitute intensity for emotion and give us bombast when we want passion. Why do we go to the movies? Pauline Kael used to say it was to be caught up, swept away, surfeited by sensation, and confronted by reality. Some of us keep going to Scorsese's movies because we still want to believe in that, and we leave wondering whether he still does.", "Never? Always? This is pure ideology--which is not to say that it isn't, to some extent, true. Even Scorsese's weaker films bristle with energy and intelligence. But look closely at what Ebert says: To be reminded of the power of film as a medium is not quite the same as being moved by a particular film, and Bringing Out the Dead is, for all its hectic pacing and breakneck intensity, an oddly unmoving experience. Yes, you think, movies can touch us urgently and deeply. Why doesn't this one? If Scorsese makes movies as well as they can be made, why does one so often feel that his movies--especially over the last decade or so--could have been better?", "York, New York is virtually the only Scorsese movie (aside from \"Life Lessons,\" his crackerjack contribution to the Coppola-produced anthology film New York Stories ) to have at its center the relationship between a man and a woman. For another,", "(as Biskind calls him) did not see directing as a route to world domination but as a priestly avocation, a set of spiritual exercises embedded in technical problems. Scorsese's technical proficiency won him some early breaks. While making Who's That", "Martin Scorsese \n\n The first reviews of Martin Scorsese's Bringing Out the Dead are the latest evidence of the director's status as a critical favorite. This is not because the notices have been uniformly glowing--it's been some time since a Scorsese picture won unanimous praise from reviewers--but because Scorsese remains, almost uniquely among American directors, an embodiment of the beleaguered idea that filmmaking, and therefore film criticism, can be a serious, important, life-and-death matter. Here, for instance, is Roger Ebert, all thumbs: \n\n To look at Bringing Out the Dead --to look, indeed, at almost any Scorsese film--is to be reminded that film can touch us urgently and deeply. Scorsese is never on autopilot, never panders, never sells out, always goes for broke; to watch his films is to see a man risking his talent, not simply exercising it. He makes movies as well as they can be made.", "allegory of Hollywood in the '70s--a time when \"guys like us\" (i.e., the free-lancing gangsters played by De Niro and Joe Pesci) were allowed to run things without interference. Of course, they got too greedy, screwed everything up,", "Robert De Niro, and taught generations of would-be tough guys the meaning of the word \"mook.\"", "Above all, to look at Bringing Out the Dead is to be reminded of a lot of other Scorsese films. Critics have noted its similarities with Taxi Driver , Scorsese's first collaboration with", "and the big corporations turned their playground into Disneyland. At the end, De Niro's character, the scarred survivor, picks himself up and goes back to work.", "Aside from these parallels and variations, there's plenty in Bringing Out the Dead to remind you that you're watching a Scorsese picture. There's voice-over narration. There's an eclectic, relentless rock", "as Mean Streets is an unparalleled demonstration of the power of film to convey reality, \"Happy Endings\" is a celebration of film's magical ability to create it. A moviegoer's dream, but good luck seeing it on the big screen.", "abundance. Look at Boxcar Bertha , a throwaway piece of apprentice-work he made for schlock impresario Roger Corman in the early '70s (if you've never seen it, imagine Bonnie and Clyde remade as an episode of Kung Fu", "), and then look at The Last Temptation of Christ , the controversial, deeply personal rendering of Nikos Kazantzakis' novel which infuriated some Christians a decade and a half later. Different as they are, both films prominently feature 1) a", "Knocking at My Door , his earnest, autobiographical first feature, independently, Scorsese was hired to edit Woodstock into a coherent film. His success (more or less) led to more rock 'n' roll editing assignments--a traveling sub-Woodstock \"festival\" called" ], [ "himself up and made some more movies: the quirky, proto-Indie downtown comedy After Hours , The Color of Money (a respectable sequel to The Hustler ), and his long dreamed of The Last Temptation of Christ . His fortunes revived", "both of which were critically and commercially successful. But the medium-budget, artisanal, personal filmmaking of the early '70s soon gave way to grander visions. To be a New Hollywood director was to flirt with hubris. Biskind's book, accordingly,", "(as Biskind calls him) did not see directing as a route to world domination but as a priestly avocation, a set of spiritual exercises embedded in technical problems. Scorsese's technical proficiency won him some early breaks. While making Who's That", "abundance. Look at Boxcar Bertha , a throwaway piece of apprentice-work he made for schlock impresario Roger Corman in the early '70s (if you've never seen it, imagine Bonnie and Clyde remade as an episode of Kung Fu", "and the big corporations turned their playground into Disneyland. At the end, De Niro's character, the scarred survivor, picks himself up and goes back to work.", "Never? Always? This is pure ideology--which is not to say that it isn't, to some extent, true. Even Scorsese's weaker films bristle with energy and intelligence. But look closely at what Ebert says: To be reminded of the power of film as a medium is not quite the same as being moved by a particular film, and Bringing Out the Dead is, for all its hectic pacing and breakneck intensity, an oddly unmoving experience. Yes, you think, movies can touch us urgently and deeply. Why doesn't this one? If Scorsese makes movies as well as they can be made, why does one so often feel that his movies--especially over the last decade or so--could have been better?", "Scorsese keeps working too--upcoming projects include Gangs of New York , with Leonardo DiCaprio, and a Dean Martin biopic starring Tom Hanks. His extracurricular good works--overseeing the re-release of classics such as El Cid and Belle de Jour , campaigning for film preservation, narrating a BBC documentary on his favorite movies--are testament to his abiding faith. But his movies more often than not feel cold and mechanical. They substitute intensity for emotion and give us bombast when we want passion. Why do we go to the movies? Pauline Kael used to say it was to be caught up, swept away, surfeited by sensation, and confronted by reality. Some of us keep going to Scorsese's movies because we still want to believe in that, and we leave wondering whether he still does.", "Well, that may be a coincidence. But it's hard to think of an active director who has produced such an emphatically cross-referenced body of work who seems not so much to repeat himself (though he does some of that) as to make movies by recombining a recognizable and fairly stable set of narrative, thematic, and stylistic elements. In other words, Scorsese is the last living incarnation of la politique des auteurs.", "Martin Scorsese \n\n The first reviews of Martin Scorsese's Bringing Out the Dead are the latest evidence of the director's status as a critical favorite. This is not because the notices have been uniformly glowing--it's been some time since a Scorsese picture won unanimous praise from reviewers--but because Scorsese remains, almost uniquely among American directors, an embodiment of the beleaguered idea that filmmaking, and therefore film criticism, can be a serious, important, life-and-death matter. Here, for instance, is Roger Ebert, all thumbs: \n\n To look at Bringing Out the Dead --to look, indeed, at almost any Scorsese film--is to be reminded that film can touch us urgently and deeply. Scorsese is never on autopilot, never panders, never sells out, always goes for broke; to watch his films is to see a man risking his talent, not simply exercising it. He makes movies as well as they can be made.", "Of these three, Raging Bull has been singled out for vindication. It's the highest-ranking of the three Scorsese films on the American Film Institute's Top 100 list, and it's widely considered to be his masterpiece. But it remains exceedingly hard to watch, not so much because of the repulsiveness of De Niro's Jake La Motta as because of its overall sense of aesthetic claustrophobia. It's a movie lacquered by its own self-importance, so bloated with the ambition to achieve greatness that it can barely move. If it convinces you it's a masterpiece, it does so by sheer brute force.", "concludes with a litany of spectacular flameouts: Coppola's Apocalypse Now and One From the Heart, Spielberg's 1941 , William Friedkin's Sorcerer, and, of course, Michael Cimino's Heaven's Gate . According to Mardik Martin, Scorsese's erstwhile writing", "In Biskind's account of the tragedy of the New Hollywood, Spielberg is the villain, Hal Ashby the martyr, and Scorsese the scarred survivor. After the failures of the early '80s, he picked", "The auteur theory was quickly challenged, most notably by Pauline Kael, who shredded Sarris in the pages of Film Quarterly . But the \"new Hollywood\" of the '70s--with Kael as its champion, scold, and Cassandra--was dominated by young directors who attained, thanks to the collapse of the old studios, an unprecedented degree of creative autonomy, and who thought of themselves as artists. What resulted, as Peter Biskind shows in his New Hollywood dish bible Easy Riders, Raging Bulls , was an epidemic of megalomania, sexual libertinism, money-wasting, and drug abuse--as well as a few dozen classics of American cinema.", "For its part, The King of Comedy , a creepy reprise of Taxi Driver --played, this time, for laughs--is a movie made before its time, back when celebrity-stalking was a piquant metaphor for our cultural ills, rather than the focus of our cultural life. De Niro and Sandra Bernhard kidnap Jerry Lewis (playing, brilliantly, a famous late-night talk show host), Bernhard steals the movie, and the ending is guaranteed to provoke long, excruciating arguments about the difference between fantasy and reality.", "with GoodFellas , which was hailed as a return to form, and floundered again with The Age of Innocence , one of his periodic attempts--like The Last Waltz , Temptation and, most recently, Kundun --to defy expectation. Next came", "The avatars of the New Hollywood were mostly \"movie brats\"--socially maladroit, nerdy young men (and they were, to a man, men) who shared a fervid, almost religious devotion to cinema. Scorsese,", "Kael called Mean Streets \"a triumph of personal film-making,\" and even though it may be the single most imitated movie of the past 30 years--cf The Pope of Greenwich Village, State of Grace, Federal Hill, Boyz N the Hood , etc.--it has lost remarkably little of its freshness and power. Watching it, you feel that you are seeing real life on the screen, but real life heightened and shaped by absolute artistic self-assurance. Or, to quote Kael again, \"Mean Streets never loses touch with the ordinary look of things or with common experience. Rather, it puts us in closer touch with the ordinary, the common, by turning a different light on them.\"", "That old politique --the auteur theory, in plain English--was first articulated in the 1950s by a group of French critics, many of whom went on to become, as directors, fixtures of the Nouvelle Vague . In a nutshell, the theory--brought to these shores in 1962 by Village Voice film critic Andrew Sarris--held that, like any work of art, a film represents the vision of an individual artist, almost always the director. The artists who populated the auterist canon--Howard Hawks and John Ford, pre-eminently--had labored within the constraints of the studio system. But even their lesser films, according to auterist critics, could be distinguished from mere studio hackwork by the reiteration of a unique cinematic vocabulary and by an implicit but unmistakable sense of solitary genius in conflict with bureaucratic philistinism.", "Knocking at My Door , his earnest, autobiographical first feature, independently, Scorsese was hired to edit Woodstock into a coherent film. His success (more or less) led to more rock 'n' roll editing assignments--a traveling sub-Woodstock \"festival\" called", "partner (as quoted by Biskind): \"The auteur theory killed all these people. One or two films, the magazines told them they were geniuses, that they could do anything. They went completely bananas. They thought they were God.\" Scorsese's own" ], [ "Of these three, Raging Bull has been singled out for vindication. It's the highest-ranking of the three Scorsese films on the American Film Institute's Top 100 list, and it's widely considered to be his masterpiece. But it remains exceedingly hard to watch, not so much because of the repulsiveness of De Niro's Jake La Motta as because of its overall sense of aesthetic claustrophobia. It's a movie lacquered by its own self-importance, so bloated with the ambition to achieve greatness that it can barely move. If it convinces you it's a masterpiece, it does so by sheer brute force.", "Never? Always? This is pure ideology--which is not to say that it isn't, to some extent, true. Even Scorsese's weaker films bristle with energy and intelligence. But look closely at what Ebert says: To be reminded of the power of film as a medium is not quite the same as being moved by a particular film, and Bringing Out the Dead is, for all its hectic pacing and breakneck intensity, an oddly unmoving experience. Yes, you think, movies can touch us urgently and deeply. Why doesn't this one? If Scorsese makes movies as well as they can be made, why does one so often feel that his movies--especially over the last decade or so--could have been better?", "Well, that may be a coincidence. But it's hard to think of an active director who has produced such an emphatically cross-referenced body of work who seems not so much to repeat himself (though he does some of that) as to make movies by recombining a recognizable and fairly stable set of narrative, thematic, and stylistic elements. In other words, Scorsese is the last living incarnation of la politique des auteurs.", "Scorsese keeps working too--upcoming projects include Gangs of New York , with Leonardo DiCaprio, and a Dean Martin biopic starring Tom Hanks. His extracurricular good works--overseeing the re-release of classics such as El Cid and Belle de Jour , campaigning for film preservation, narrating a BBC documentary on his favorite movies--are testament to his abiding faith. But his movies more often than not feel cold and mechanical. They substitute intensity for emotion and give us bombast when we want passion. Why do we go to the movies? Pauline Kael used to say it was to be caught up, swept away, surfeited by sensation, and confronted by reality. Some of us keep going to Scorsese's movies because we still want to believe in that, and we leave wondering whether he still does.", "York, New York is virtually the only Scorsese movie (aside from \"Life Lessons,\" his crackerjack contribution to the Coppola-produced anthology film New York Stories ) to have at its center the relationship between a man and a woman. For another,", "(as Biskind calls him) did not see directing as a route to world domination but as a priestly avocation, a set of spiritual exercises embedded in technical problems. Scorsese's technical proficiency won him some early breaks. While making Who's That", "Martin Scorsese \n\n The first reviews of Martin Scorsese's Bringing Out the Dead are the latest evidence of the director's status as a critical favorite. This is not because the notices have been uniformly glowing--it's been some time since a Scorsese picture won unanimous praise from reviewers--but because Scorsese remains, almost uniquely among American directors, an embodiment of the beleaguered idea that filmmaking, and therefore film criticism, can be a serious, important, life-and-death matter. Here, for instance, is Roger Ebert, all thumbs: \n\n To look at Bringing Out the Dead --to look, indeed, at almost any Scorsese film--is to be reminded that film can touch us urgently and deeply. Scorsese is never on autopilot, never panders, never sells out, always goes for broke; to watch his films is to see a man risking his talent, not simply exercising it. He makes movies as well as they can be made.", "'n' roll score and a directorial cameo--this time Scorsese provides the disembodied voice of an ambulance dispatcher. There are jarring, anti-realist effects embedded in an overall mise en scène of harsh verisimilitude. And, of course, there is the", "Raging Bull is undone by its own perfectionism. New York, New York and The King of Comedy stand up rather", "Aside from these parallels and variations, there's plenty in Bringing Out the Dead to remind you that you're watching a Scorsese picture. There's voice-over narration. There's an eclectic, relentless rock", "concludes with a litany of spectacular flameouts: Coppola's Apocalypse Now and One From the Heart, Spielberg's 1941 , William Friedkin's Sorcerer, and, of course, Michael Cimino's Heaven's Gate . According to Mardik Martin, Scorsese's erstwhile writing", "Kael called Mean Streets \"a triumph of personal film-making,\" and even though it may be the single most imitated movie of the past 30 years--cf The Pope of Greenwich Village, State of Grace, Federal Hill, Boyz N the Hood , etc.--it has lost remarkably little of its freshness and power. Watching it, you feel that you are seeing real life on the screen, but real life heightened and shaped by absolute artistic self-assurance. Or, to quote Kael again, \"Mean Streets never loses touch with the ordinary look of things or with common experience. Rather, it puts us in closer touch with the ordinary, the common, by turning a different light on them.\"", "better, in my opinion, in spite of their obvious flaws. (So does The Last Waltz , a documentary of the Band's last concert done simultaneously with New York, New York , thanks to the magic of cocaine.) For one thing, New", "This kind of realism marks Scorsese's next two films, Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore --his best piece of directing-for-hire, and one of the half-forgotten gems of the period--and Taxi Driver ,", "abundance. Look at Boxcar Bertha , a throwaway piece of apprentice-work he made for schlock impresario Roger Corman in the early '70s (if you've never seen it, imagine Bonnie and Clyde remade as an episode of Kung Fu", "The avatars of the New Hollywood were mostly \"movie brats\"--socially maladroit, nerdy young men (and they were, to a man, men) who shared a fervid, almost religious devotion to cinema. Scorsese,", "with GoodFellas , which was hailed as a return to form, and floundered again with The Age of Innocence , one of his periodic attempts--like The Last Waltz , Temptation and, most recently, Kundun --to defy expectation. Next came", "In Biskind's account of the tragedy of the New Hollywood, Spielberg is the villain, Hal Ashby the martyr, and Scorsese the scarred survivor. After the failures of the early '80s, he picked", "allegory of Hollywood in the '70s--a time when \"guys like us\" (i.e., the free-lancing gangsters played by De Niro and Joe Pesci) were allowed to run things without interference. Of course, they got too greedy, screwed everything up,", "Above all, to look at Bringing Out the Dead is to be reminded of a lot of other Scorsese films. Critics have noted its similarities with Taxi Driver , Scorsese's first collaboration with" ], [ "For its part, The King of Comedy , a creepy reprise of Taxi Driver --played, this time, for laughs--is a movie made before its time, back when celebrity-stalking was a piquant metaphor for our cultural ills, rather than the focus of our cultural life. De Niro and Sandra Bernhard kidnap Jerry Lewis (playing, brilliantly, a famous late-night talk show host), Bernhard steals the movie, and the ending is guaranteed to provoke long, excruciating arguments about the difference between fantasy and reality.", "King of Comedy .", "Raging Bull is undone by its own perfectionism. New York, New York and The King of Comedy stand up rather", "Of these three, Raging Bull has been singled out for vindication. It's the highest-ranking of the three Scorsese films on the American Film Institute's Top 100 list, and it's widely considered to be his masterpiece. But it remains exceedingly hard to watch, not so much because of the repulsiveness of De Niro's Jake La Motta as because of its overall sense of aesthetic claustrophobia. It's a movie lacquered by its own self-importance, so bloated with the ambition to achieve greatness that it can barely move. If it convinces you it's a masterpiece, it does so by sheer brute force.", "Kael called Mean Streets \"a triumph of personal film-making,\" and even though it may be the single most imitated movie of the past 30 years--cf The Pope of Greenwich Village, State of Grace, Federal Hill, Boyz N the Hood , etc.--it has lost remarkably little of its freshness and power. Watching it, you feel that you are seeing real life on the screen, but real life heightened and shaped by absolute artistic self-assurance. Or, to quote Kael again, \"Mean Streets never loses touch with the ordinary look of things or with common experience. Rather, it puts us in closer touch with the ordinary, the common, by turning a different light on them.\"", "and the big corporations turned their playground into Disneyland. At the end, De Niro's character, the scarred survivor, picks himself up and goes back to work.", "'n' roll score and a directorial cameo--this time Scorsese provides the disembodied voice of an ambulance dispatcher. There are jarring, anti-realist effects embedded in an overall mise en scène of harsh verisimilitude. And, of course, there is the", "Scorsese keeps working too--upcoming projects include Gangs of New York , with Leonardo DiCaprio, and a Dean Martin biopic starring Tom Hanks. His extracurricular good works--overseeing the re-release of classics such as El Cid and Belle de Jour , campaigning for film preservation, narrating a BBC documentary on his favorite movies--are testament to his abiding faith. But his movies more often than not feel cold and mechanical. They substitute intensity for emotion and give us bombast when we want passion. Why do we go to the movies? Pauline Kael used to say it was to be caught up, swept away, surfeited by sensation, and confronted by reality. Some of us keep going to Scorsese's movies because we still want to believe in that, and we leave wondering whether he still does.", "as Mean Streets is an unparalleled demonstration of the power of film to convey reality, \"Happy Endings\" is a celebration of film's magical ability to create it. A moviegoer's dream, but good luck seeing it on the big screen.", "Well, that may be a coincidence. But it's hard to think of an active director who has produced such an emphatically cross-referenced body of work who seems not so much to repeat himself (though he does some of that) as to make movies by recombining a recognizable and fairly stable set of narrative, thematic, and stylistic elements. In other words, Scorsese is the last living incarnation of la politique des auteurs.", "Aside from these parallels and variations, there's plenty in Bringing Out the Dead to remind you that you're watching a Scorsese picture. There's voice-over narration. There's an eclectic, relentless rock", "himself up and made some more movies: the quirky, proto-Indie downtown comedy After Hours , The Color of Money (a respectable sequel to The Hustler ), and his long dreamed of The Last Temptation of Christ . His fortunes revived", "The avatars of the New Hollywood were mostly \"movie brats\"--socially maladroit, nerdy young men (and they were, to a man, men) who shared a fervid, almost religious devotion to cinema. Scorsese,", "allegory of Hollywood in the '70s--a time when \"guys like us\" (i.e., the free-lancing gangsters played by De Niro and Joe Pesci) were allowed to run things without interference. Of course, they got too greedy, screwed everything up,", "screenwriter Paul Schrader (who also wrote The Last Temptation of Christ and the later drafts of Raging Bull ). Both movies feature a disturbed outsider cruising the nightmarish, as-yet-ungentrified streets of Manhattan in search of redemption. In place of", "Martin Scorsese \n\n The first reviews of Martin Scorsese's Bringing Out the Dead are the latest evidence of the director's status as a critical favorite. This is not because the notices have been uniformly glowing--it's been some time since a Scorsese picture won unanimous praise from reviewers--but because Scorsese remains, almost uniquely among American directors, an embodiment of the beleaguered idea that filmmaking, and therefore film criticism, can be a serious, important, life-and-death matter. Here, for instance, is Roger Ebert, all thumbs: \n\n To look at Bringing Out the Dead --to look, indeed, at almost any Scorsese film--is to be reminded that film can touch us urgently and deeply. Scorsese is never on autopilot, never panders, never sells out, always goes for broke; to watch his films is to see a man risking his talent, not simply exercising it. He makes movies as well as they can be made.", "the one De Niro's Travis Bickle visited on Sport, and when Frank does take a life (in the movie's best, most understated scene), it's an act of mercy.", "better, in my opinion, in spite of their obvious flaws. (So does The Last Waltz , a documentary of the Band's last concert done simultaneously with New York, New York , thanks to the magic of cocaine.) For one thing, New", "Never? Always? This is pure ideology--which is not to say that it isn't, to some extent, true. Even Scorsese's weaker films bristle with energy and intelligence. But look closely at what Ebert says: To be reminded of the power of film as a medium is not quite the same as being moved by a particular film, and Bringing Out the Dead is, for all its hectic pacing and breakneck intensity, an oddly unmoving experience. Yes, you think, movies can touch us urgently and deeply. Why doesn't this one? If Scorsese makes movies as well as they can be made, why does one so often feel that his movies--especially over the last decade or so--could have been better?", "(as Biskind calls him) did not see directing as a route to world domination but as a priestly avocation, a set of spiritual exercises embedded in technical problems. Scorsese's technical proficiency won him some early breaks. While making Who's That" ] ]
test	60624	[ "What is the relationship between Bertha and Mr. Devoe?", "What is ironic about the story?", "What are the characters wanting to escape from?", "What kind of life do the characters live when they are not on vacation?", "According to the Captain, why is Mr. Devoe “fortunate”?", "What do the characters do on vacation?", "Which is NOT an option of work on the farm?", "What is the tone in the beginning of the story?", "What is a theme of the story?" ]	[ [ "They are married.", "They are brother and sister.", "They are friends. ", "Mr. Devoe is Bertha’s father." ], [ "The characters want to leave their vacation. ", "The characters are disappointed in their vacation. ", "The characters go on a family vacation, but end up separated. ", "The characters do difficult manual labor for vacation." ], [ "Daily stress and busyness ", "Idleness and boredom ", "Their jobs ", "Farm life " ], [ "They are both philanthropists.", "They are both workaholics. ", "They live carefree, luxurious lives. ", "They live average, middle class lives. " ], [ "He awakens his brain by problem solving. ", "He is wealthy. ", "He gets to leave the farm early. ", "He got assigned an easier job." ], [ "They are treated like prisoners and forced to do repetitive tasks. ", "They relax by the beach. ", "They are served alcohol and desserts by robots.", "They go to a historical museum and pretend to live in a different era. " ], [ "clean the barn", "the rock quarry", "steam laundry", "the manure pile" ], [ "The tone is romantic because the characters are on a date.", "The tone is oddly cheerful in a bleak setting.", "The tone is optimistic as the characters begin their glorious vacation. ", "The tone is ominous to foreshadow the depressing tone later. " ], [ "Hardship can make people appreciate what they have.", "An easy life is a happy life. ", "Advesity can bring people closer together. ", "There is value in experiencing adversity. " ] ]	[ -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1 ]	[ 0, 0, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 1, 1 ]	[ [ "It was that night—or perhaps the following night—that Bertha and I\n had our first fifteen-minute visit with each other. She was changed:\n her face glowed with feverish vitality, her hair was stringy and moist,\n and her eyes were serenely glassy. She had not been more provocative\n in twenty-five years. An old dormant excitement stirred within\n me—microscopically but unmistakably.", "\"You and Mrs. Devoe may leave tonight or in the morning, just as you\n prefer,\" said the Captain.\nBertha and I have had little to say to one another as we wait in\n the office for the car that will take us to the heliport. For the\n moment—this moment—it suffices that we stand here in our own clothes,\n that we have tasted coffee again, brought to us on a tray by a matron\n whose manner towards us bordered on the obsequious, and that the aroma\n of a cigarette is just as gratifying as ever.\n\n\n We will go back to our ten-room apartment on the ninety-first floor\n of the New Empire State Hotel; back to our swimming pool, our\n three-dimensional color television, our anti-gravity sleeping chambers,\n our impeccably efficient, relentlessly cheerful robot servants, and our\n library of thrills, entertainment, solace, diversion and escape—all\n impressed on magnetic tape and awaiting our pleasure.", "\"You are more fortunate than most,\" he went on, still standing between\n me and the mess hall. \"Some people come here year after year, or they\n go to other places like this, or permit themselves to be confined\n in the hulls of old submarines, and some even apprentice themselves\n to medical missionaries in Equatorial Africa; they expose themselves\n to every conceivable combination of external conditions, but nothing\n really happens to them. They feel nothing except a fleeting sensation\n of contrast—soon lost in a torrent of other sensations. No 'moment';\n only a brief cessation of the continuing pleasure process. You have\n been one of the fortunate few, Mr. Devoe.\"\n\n\n Then the film dissolved—finally and completely—from the surface of\n my brain, and my sense of time returned to me in a flood of ordered\n recollections. Hours and days began to arrange themselves into\n meaningful sequence. Was it possible that two whole glorious weeks\n could have passed so swiftly?", "\"So he wants a nice inside job in the steam laundry?\" said the man\n behind the desk—\"the captain,\" we were instructed to call him. Another\n gust of wet wind joined his comments. \"Put him on 'The Big Rock Candy\n Mountain.'\" He fixed me then with those deep-set, glow-worm eyes,\n coldly appraising. The two Sisters of Gorgonia, meanwhile, seized\n Bertha's arms and dragged her from the room. I did not try to follow. I\n knew the rules: there were to be three husband-and-wife visiting hours\n per week. Fifteen minutes each.\n\n\n The Captain was still scrutinizing me from under the dark cliff of his\n brow. A thin smile now took shape on his lipless mouth. One of the\n guards was beating a slow, measured, somewhat squudgy tattoo on the\n edge of the desk with his kidney-sock.\n\n\n \"You wouldn't be entertaining angry thoughts, would you shnook?\" asked\n the Captain, after what seemed like half an hour of sickly pause.", "the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nBertha and I were like a couple of city kids on their first country\n outing when we arrived at Morton's place. The weather was perfect—the\n first chill of autumn had arrived in the form of a fine, needle-shower\n rain of the type that doesn't look very bad through a window, but when\n you get out in it, it seeks out every tiny opening between the warp\n and weft of your clothing and runs through your hair and eyebrows,\n under your collar and over the surfaces of your body until, as though\n directed by some knowing, invisible entity, it finds its way to your\n belly-button.\n\n\n It was beautifully timed: the ancient motor-bus had two blowouts on the\n way up the last half-mile of corduroy road that led to the place, and\n of course we were obliged to change the tires ourselves. This was a new\n experience for both of us, and on the very first day! Everything was as\n advertised, and we hadn't even arrived at the admission gate yet.", "We didn't dare talk. On the way from the heliport we had seen some of\n the other folks at work in the swamp that surrounded the camp proper.\n They were digging out stumps with mattocks, crowbars and axes, and some\n of them stood waist-deep in the dark water. Bertha had said \"Looky\n there!\" and had made some remark about the baggy gray coveralls they\n wore—\"Just like convicts,\" she said. The driver, a huge, swinelike\n creature with very small, close-set eyes, had yanked the emergency\n brake and wheeled around at us then.\n\n\n \"You shnooks might just as well get outa the habit o' talkin' right\n here an' now. One more peep outa ya, 'n ya git clobbered!\"\n\n\n All we could do was look at each other and giggle like a couple of kids\n in the back pew of Sunday School, after that. Bertha looked ten years\n younger already.", "\"Mark 'em and put 'em to work,\" he barked at the guards. Two uniformed\n men, who must have sneaked in while I was fascinated by the man behind\n the desk, seized me and started painting my forehead with an acrid\n fluid that stung like strong disinfectant in an open wound. I squinted\n my eyes and tried to look blank.\n\n\n \"This is indelible,\" one of them explained. \"We have the chemical to\n take it off, but it doesn't come off till we say so.\"\n\n\n When I had been marked, one of the guards took his ink and brush and\n advanced upon Bertha. The other addressed himself to me. \"There is a\n choice of activities. There is the jute mill, the rock quarry, the\n stump-removal detail, the manure pile....\"", "The gate was exactly as the brochure had pictured it: solid and\n massive, it was let into a board fence about ten feet high which\n extended as far as you could see in either direction and lost itself on\n either side in a tangle of briers, elder bushes and dark trees. There\n were two strands of barbed wire running along the top. A sign over the\n gate—stark, black lettering on a light gray background—read:\nSilence!—No admission without\n \nauthority—No smoking!\n*\nMORTON'S MISERY FARM\n\n30 acres of swamp—Our own rock\n \nquarry—Jute Mill—Steam laundry\nHarshest dietary laws in the\n \nCatskills\nA small door opened at one side of the gate and a short, stocky,\n well-muscled woman in a black visored cap and a shapeless black uniform\n came out and boarded the bus. She had our releases with her, fastened\n to a clipboard. She thrust this under my nose.", "I had nothing to say. My toes, I noted, looked much the same. Then,\n behind my back, I heard a sharp squeal from Bertha. \"Stop that! Oh\n stop! Stop! The brochure said nothing about—\"\n\n\n \"Take it easy lady,\" said the other guard in an oily-nasty voice. \"I\n won't touch you none. Just wanted to see if you was amenable.\"\n\n\n I would like more than anything else in the world to be able to say\n honestly that I felt a surge of anger then. I didn't. I can remember\n with terrible clarity that I felt nothing.", "She told me that she had been put to work in the jute mill, but had\n passed out and had been transferred to the steam laundry. Her job in\n the laundry was to sort out the socks and underwear that were too bad\n to go in with the rest of the wash. We speculated on where the socks\n and underwear could have come from, as such fripperies were denied to\n us at the Farm. We also wondered about the manure, considering that\n no animals were in evidence here. Both, we concluded, must have been\n shipped in specially from the Outside. We found it in us to giggle,\n when the end of the visit was announced, over our own choice of\n conversational material for that precious quarter hour. Thereafter,\n when we could catch glimpses of each other during the day, we would\n exchange furtive signals, then go about our work exhilarated by the\n fiction that we shared some priceless Cabalistic knowledge.", "I will go back to my five kinds of cigars and my sixteen kinds of\n brandy; Bertha will return to her endless fantasy of pastries and\n desserts—an endless, joyous parade of goodies, never farther away than\n the nearest dumb-waiter door. And we will both become softer, heavier,\n a little less responsive.\n\n\n When, as sometimes happens, the sweet lethargy threatens to choke off\n our breath, we will step into our flying platform and set its automatic\n controls for Miami, Palm Beach, or the Cote d'Azur. There are conducted\n tours to the Himalayas now, or to the \"lost\" cities of the South\n American jungles, or to the bottom of any one of the seven seas. We\n will bide our time, much as others do.", "and finally. Picture the archetype of every chain-gang captain who\n has been relieved for inhumanity to prisoners; imagine the naked\n attribute Meanness, stripped of all accidental, incongruous, mitigating\n integument; picture all kindness, all mercy, all warmth, all humanity\n excised or cauterized, or turned back upon itself and let ferment into\n some kind of noxious mash; visualize the creature from which all the\n gentle qualities had been expunged, thus, and then try to forget the\n image.", "that it was burning just as brightly when the raucous signal sounded\n again, and the unoiled voice from the loudspeaker announced that it was\n time for the morning Cheer-Up Entertainment.\nThese orgies, it turned out, were held in the building housing\n the admission office. There was a speech choir made up of elderly\n women, all of whom wore the black uniform of the Farm matrons. The\n realization that a speech choir still existed may have startled me into\n a somewhat higher state of awareness; I had assumed that the speech\n choir had gone out with hair-receivers and humoristic medicine. The\n things they recited were in a childishly simple verse form:\nOne and\n two and three and four; One and two and THREE.\nThese verses had to do", "Impressions of this character have a way of entrenching themselves,\n perhaps at the cost of more meaningful ones. Conversation at the Farm\n was monosyllabic and infrequent, so it may merely be that I recall\n most lucidly those incidents with which some sort of communication was\n associated. A small man sitting opposite me in the mess hall gloomily\n indicated the dumpling at which I was picking dubiously.\n\n\n \"They'll bind ya,\" he said with the finality of special and personal\n knowledge. \"Ya don't wanta let yaself get bound here. They've got a—\"\n\n\n I don't now recall whether I said something or whether I merely held up\n my hand. I do know that I had no wish to dwell on the subject.", "But we will survive these things: I still have my four hours per month\n at Central Computing and Control; Bertha has her endless and endlessly\n varying work on committees (the last one was dedicated to the abolition\n of gambling at Las Vegas in favor of such wholesome games as Scrabble\n and checkers).\n\n\n We cannot soften and slough away altogether, for when all else fails,\n when the last stronghold of the spirit is in peril, there is always the\n vision of year's end and another glorious vacation.", "We were led into a small office at one end of a long, wooden, one-story\n building. A sign on the door said, simply, \"\nAdmissions. Knock and\n Remove Hat.\n\" The lady guard knocked and we entered. We had no hats to\n remove; indeed, this was emphasized for us by the fact that the rain\n had by now penetrated our hair and brows and was running down over our\n faces annoyingly.\nAs soon as I'd blinked the rain from my eyes, I was able to see the\n form of the person behind the desk with more clarity than I might\n have wished. He was large, but terribly emaciated, with the kind of\n gauntness that should be covered by a sheet—tenderly, reverently", "Inside the yard, about twenty other guests shuffled around and around\n in a circle. Their gray coveralls were dark and heavy with the rain and\n clung to their bodies in clammy-looking patches. All moved sluggishly\n through the mud with their arms hanging slack at their sides, their\n shoulders hunched forward against the wet chill, and their eyes turned\n downward, as though they were fascinated with the halting progress of\n their own feet. I had never seen people look so completely dispirited\n and tired. Only one man raised his head to look at us as we stood\n there. I noticed that his forehead had bright purple marks on it. These\n proved to be \"\nNo. 94, Property of MMF\n,\" in inch-high letters which\n ran from temple to temple just above his eyebrows. Incredibly enough\n the man grinned at us.", "The eyes were perhaps the worst feature. They burned like tiny\n phosphorescent creatures, dimly visible deep inside a cave under dark,\n overhanging cliffs—the brows. The skin of the face was drawn over the\n bones so tautly that you felt a sharp rap with a hard object would\n cause the sharp cheekbones to break through. There was a darkness about\n the skin that should have been, yet somehow did not seem to be the\n healthy tan of outdoor living. It was a coloring that came from the\n inside and radiated outwards; perhaps pellagra—a wasting, darkening\n malnutritional disease which no man had suffered for three hundred\n years. I wondered where, where on the living earth, they had discovered\n such a specimen.", "\"I am in full charge here. You will speak only when spoken to,\" he\n said. His voice came as a surprise and, to me at least, as a profound\n relief. I had expected an inarticulate drawl—something not yet\n language, not quite human. Instead his voice was clipped, precise,\n clear as new type on white paper. This gave me hope at a time when hope\n was at a dangerously low mark on my personal thermometer. My mounting\n misgivings had come to focus on this grim figure behind the desk, and\n the most feared quality that I had seen in the face, a hard, sharp,\n immovable and imponderable stupidity, was strangely mitigated and even\n contradicted by the flawless, mechanical speech of the man.\n\n\n \"What did you do on the Outside, shnook?\" he snapped at me.\n\n\n \"Central Computing and Control. I punched tapes. Only got four hours of\n work a month,\" I said, hoping to cover myself with a protective film of\n humility.", "I have absolutely no way of knowing how long we labored at this Augean\n enterprise; my watch had been taken from me, of course, and of the\n strange dislocation of my normal time-sense I have already spoken. I\n do remember that floodlights had been turned on long before a raucous\n alarm sounded, indicating that it was time for supper.\n\n\n My weariness from the unaccustomed toil had carried me past the\n point of hunger, but I do remember my first meal at the Farm. We had\n dumplings. You usually think fondly of dumplings as being\nin\nor\nwith\nsomething. We had just dumplings—cold and not quite cooked\n through." ], [ "\"So he wants a nice inside job in the steam laundry?\" said the man\n behind the desk—\"the captain,\" we were instructed to call him. Another\n gust of wet wind joined his comments. \"Put him on 'The Big Rock Candy\n Mountain.'\" He fixed me then with those deep-set, glow-worm eyes,\n coldly appraising. The two Sisters of Gorgonia, meanwhile, seized\n Bertha's arms and dragged her from the room. I did not try to follow. I\n knew the rules: there were to be three husband-and-wife visiting hours\n per week. Fifteen minutes each.\n\n\n The Captain was still scrutinizing me from under the dark cliff of his\n brow. A thin smile now took shape on his lipless mouth. One of the\n guards was beating a slow, measured, somewhat squudgy tattoo on the\n edge of the desk with his kidney-sock.\n\n\n \"You wouldn't be entertaining angry thoughts, would you shnook?\" asked\n the Captain, after what seemed like half an hour of sickly pause.", "I had nothing to say. My toes, I noted, looked much the same. Then,\n behind my back, I heard a sharp squeal from Bertha. \"Stop that! Oh\n stop! Stop! The brochure said nothing about—\"\n\n\n \"Take it easy lady,\" said the other guard in an oily-nasty voice. \"I\n won't touch you none. Just wanted to see if you was amenable.\"\n\n\n I would like more than anything else in the world to be able to say\n honestly that I felt a surge of anger then. I didn't. I can remember\n with terrible clarity that I felt nothing.", "The grim Captain made an appearance in the rock quarry one morning\n just as we were beginning work. He stood on top of a pile of stones,\n swinging his kidney-sap from his wrist and letting his eyes sweep over\n us as though selecting one for slaughter.\n\n\n When the silence had soaked in thoroughly, he announced in his cold,\n incisive tone that \"there will be no rest periods, no chow, no\n 'Beddy-by,' until this entire rock face is reduced to ballast rock.\"\n He indicated a towering slab of stone. We raised our heads only long\n enough to reassure ourselves of the utter hopelessness of the task\n before us. Not daring to look at each other closely, fearing to see our\n own despair reflected in the faces of others, we picked up our hammers\n and crowbars and crawled to the top of the monolithic mass. The film\n must have cleared from my eyes then, momentarily.", "\"Strip and pack your clothes here, shnooks,\" said the woman with the\n empty suitcase. We did, though it was pretty awkward ... standing there\n in the aisle of the bus with those two gorgons staring at us. I started\n to save out a pack of cigarettes, but was soon disabused of this idea.\n The older of the two women knocked the pack from my hand, ground it\n under her heel on the floor and let me have one across the face with\n what I am almost certain must have been an old sock full of rancid hog\n kidneys.\n\n\n \"What the hell was that?\" I protested.\n\n\n \"Sock fulla hog kidneys, shnook. Soft but heavy, know what I mean? Just\n let us do the thinkin' around here. Git outa line just once an' you'll\n see what we can do with a sock fulla hog kidneys.\"", "If I had hoped for respite after \"supper,\" it was at that time that I\n learned not to hope. Back to \"The Big Rock Candy Mountain\" we went, and\n under the bleak, iridescent glare of the lights we resumed our labor\n of no reward. One by one I felt my synapses parting, and one by one,\n slowly and certainly, the fragile membranes separating the minute from\n the hour, the Now from the Then, and the epoch out of unmeasured time\n softened and sloughed away. I was, at last, Number 109 at work on a\n monstrous manure pile, and I labored with the muscles and nerves of an\n undifferentiated man. I experienced change.", "I didn't press the matter further. All I could think of was how I\n wanted a smoke just then. When I thought of the fresh, new pack of\n cigarettes with its unbroken cellophane and its twenty, pure white\n cylinders of fragrant Turkish and Virginia, I came as close to weeping\n as I had in forty years.\nThe ground was slimy and cold under our bare feet when we got down from\n the bus, but the two viragos behind us gave us no time to pick our way\n delicately over the uneven ground. We were propelled through the small\n door at the side of the gate, and at last we found ourselves within the\n ten-foot barriers of the Misery Camp. We just looked at each other and\n giggled.", "\"Mark 'em and put 'em to work,\" he barked at the guards. Two uniformed\n men, who must have sneaked in while I was fascinated by the man behind\n the desk, seized me and started painting my forehead with an acrid\n fluid that stung like strong disinfectant in an open wound. I squinted\n my eyes and tried to look blank.\n\n\n \"This is indelible,\" one of them explained. \"We have the chemical to\n take it off, but it doesn't come off till we say so.\"\n\n\n When I had been marked, one of the guards took his ink and brush and\n advanced upon Bertha. The other addressed himself to me. \"There is a\n choice of activities. There is the jute mill, the rock quarry, the\n stump-removal detail, the manure pile....\"", "The huge slab finally leaned out, wavered for a queasy moment, then\n fell with a splintering crash onto the boulders below. After the dust\n settled, we could see that much of the work of breaking up the mass was\n already accomplished. We descended and set to work with an enthusiasm\n that was new.\n\n\n Long before sundown, of course, we were marched back to the latrine\n and then to the mess hall. Later I had expected that some further work\n would be thrust upon us, but it didn't happen. The grim Captain stopped\n me as I entered the mess hall. I froze. There was a queer smile on his\n face, and I had grown to fear novelty.\n\n\n \"You had a moment,\" he said, simply and declaratively. \"You didn't miss\n it, did you?\"\n\n\n \"No,\" I replied, not fully understanding. \"No, I didn't miss it.\"", "We were led into a small office at one end of a long, wooden, one-story\n building. A sign on the door said, simply, \"\nAdmissions. Knock and\n Remove Hat.\n\" The lady guard knocked and we entered. We had no hats to\n remove; indeed, this was emphasized for us by the fact that the rain\n had by now penetrated our hair and brows and was running down over our\n faces annoyingly.\nAs soon as I'd blinked the rain from my eyes, I was able to see the\n form of the person behind the desk with more clarity than I might\n have wished. He was large, but terribly emaciated, with the kind of\n gauntness that should be covered by a sheet—tenderly, reverently", "and finally. Picture the archetype of every chain-gang captain who\n has been relieved for inhumanity to prisoners; imagine the naked\n attribute Meanness, stripped of all accidental, incongruous, mitigating\n integument; picture all kindness, all mercy, all warmth, all humanity\n excised or cauterized, or turned back upon itself and let ferment into\n some kind of noxious mash; visualize the creature from which all the\n gentle qualities had been expunged, thus, and then try to forget the\n image.", "The work at the rock quarry was organized according to the same\n futilitarian pattern that governed the manure-pile operation. Rock\n had to be hacked, pried and blasted from one end of the quarry, then\n reduced to coarse gravel with sledge-hammers and carted to the other\n end of the excavation in wheelbarrows. Most of the men commenced\n working at some task in the quarry with the automatic unconcern of\n trained beasts who have paused for rest and water, perhaps, but have\n never fully stopped. A guard indicated a wheelbarrow to me and uttered\n a sharp sound ... something like HUP! I picked up the smooth handles of\n the barrow, and time turned its back upon us again.", "\"I am in full charge here. You will speak only when spoken to,\" he\n said. His voice came as a surprise and, to me at least, as a profound\n relief. I had expected an inarticulate drawl—something not yet\n language, not quite human. Instead his voice was clipped, precise,\n clear as new type on white paper. This gave me hope at a time when hope\n was at a dangerously low mark on my personal thermometer. My mounting\n misgivings had come to focus on this grim figure behind the desk, and\n the most feared quality that I had seen in the face, a hard, sharp,\n immovable and imponderable stupidity, was strangely mitigated and even\n contradicted by the flawless, mechanical speech of the man.\n\n\n \"What did you do on the Outside, shnook?\" he snapped at me.\n\n\n \"Central Computing and Control. I punched tapes. Only got four hours of\n work a month,\" I said, hoping to cover myself with a protective film of\n humility.", "We didn't dare talk. On the way from the heliport we had seen some of\n the other folks at work in the swamp that surrounded the camp proper.\n They were digging out stumps with mattocks, crowbars and axes, and some\n of them stood waist-deep in the dark water. Bertha had said \"Looky\n there!\" and had made some remark about the baggy gray coveralls they\n wore—\"Just like convicts,\" she said. The driver, a huge, swinelike\n creature with very small, close-set eyes, had yanked the emergency\n brake and wheeled around at us then.\n\n\n \"You shnooks might just as well get outa the habit o' talkin' right\n here an' now. One more peep outa ya, 'n ya git clobbered!\"\n\n\n All we could do was look at each other and giggle like a couple of kids\n in the back pew of Sunday School, after that. Bertha looked ten years\n younger already.", "\"Why—this thing is nothing but a huge writing slate,\" I said to a\n small, bald inmate beside me. He made a feeble noise in reply. The\n Captain left, and the only other guard now relaxed in the shade of a\n boulder nearly fifty yards away. He was smoking a forbidden cigar.\n Suddenly and unaccountably, I felt a little taller than the others,\n and everything looked unnaturally clear. The slab was less than six\n inches wide at the top!\n\n\n \"If we work this thing right, this job will practically do itself.\n We'll be through here before sundown,\" I heard myself snap out. The\n others, accustomed now to obeying any imperative voice, fell to with\n crowbars and peaveys as I directed them. \"Use them as levers,\" I said.\n \"Don't just flail and hack—pry!\" No one questioned me. When all of the\n tools were in position I gave the count:\n\n\n \"\nOne—two—HEAVE!\n\"", "She told me that she had been put to work in the jute mill, but had\n passed out and had been transferred to the steam laundry. Her job in\n the laundry was to sort out the socks and underwear that were too bad\n to go in with the rest of the wash. We speculated on where the socks\n and underwear could have come from, as such fripperies were denied to\n us at the Farm. We also wondered about the manure, considering that\n no animals were in evidence here. Both, we concluded, must have been\n shipped in specially from the Outside. We found it in us to giggle,\n when the end of the visit was announced, over our own choice of\n conversational material for that precious quarter hour. Thereafter,\n when we could catch glimpses of each other during the day, we would\n exchange furtive signals, then go about our work exhilarated by the\n fiction that we shared some priceless Cabalistic knowledge.", "Inside the yard, about twenty other guests shuffled around and around\n in a circle. Their gray coveralls were dark and heavy with the rain and\n clung to their bodies in clammy-looking patches. All moved sluggishly\n through the mud with their arms hanging slack at their sides, their\n shoulders hunched forward against the wet chill, and their eyes turned\n downward, as though they were fascinated with the halting progress of\n their own feet. I had never seen people look so completely dispirited\n and tired. Only one man raised his head to look at us as we stood\n there. I noticed that his forehead had bright purple marks on it. These\n proved to be \"\nNo. 94, Property of MMF\n,\" in inch-high letters which\n ran from temple to temple just above his eyebrows. Incredibly enough\n the man grinned at us.", "My toes hadn't changed in the slightest respect.\nIt must have been then, or soon after that, that my sense of time went\n gently haywire. I was conducted to \"The Big Rock Candy Mountain,\" which\n turned out to be a Brobdingnagian manure heap. Its forbidding bulk\n overshadowed all other features of the landscape except some of the\n larger trees.\n\n\n A guard stood in the shadow of a large umbrella, at a respectable and\n tolerable distance from the nitrogenous colossus, but not so distant\n that his voice did not command the entire scene. \"\nHut-ho! hut-ho!\n Hut-ho HAW!\n\" he roared, and the wretched, gray-clad figures, whose\n number I joined without ceremony or introduction, moved steadily at\n their endless work in apparent unawareness of his cadenced chant.", "The gate was exactly as the brochure had pictured it: solid and\n massive, it was let into a board fence about ten feet high which\n extended as far as you could see in either direction and lost itself on\n either side in a tangle of briers, elder bushes and dark trees. There\n were two strands of barbed wire running along the top. A sign over the\n gate—stark, black lettering on a light gray background—read:\nSilence!—No admission without\n \nauthority—No smoking!\n\nMORTON'S MISERY FARM\n\n30 acres of swamp—Our own rock\n \nquarry—Jute Mill—Steam laundry\nHarshest dietary laws in the\n \nCatskills\nA small door opened at one side of the gate and a short, stocky,\n well-muscled woman in a black visored cap and a shapeless black uniform\n came out and boarded the bus. She had our releases with her, fastened\n to a clipboard. She thrust this under my nose.", "the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nBertha and I were like a couple of city kids on their first country\n outing when we arrived at Morton's place. The weather was perfect—the\n first chill of autumn had arrived in the form of a fine, needle-shower\n rain of the type that doesn't look very bad through a window, but when\n you get out in it, it seeks out every tiny opening between the warp\n and weft of your clothing and runs through your hair and eyebrows,\n under your collar and over the surfaces of your body until, as though\n directed by some knowing, invisible entity, it finds its way to your\n belly-button.\n\n\n It was beautifully timed: the ancient motor-bus had two blowouts on the\n way up the last half-mile of corduroy road that led to the place, and\n of course we were obliged to change the tires ourselves. This was a new\n experience for both of us, and on the very first day! Everything was as\n advertised, and we hadn't even arrived at the admission gate yet.", "I have absolutely no way of knowing how long we labored at this Augean\n enterprise; my watch had been taken from me, of course, and of the\n strange dislocation of my normal time-sense I have already spoken. I\n do remember that floodlights had been turned on long before a raucous\n alarm sounded, indicating that it was time for supper.\n\n\n My weariness from the unaccustomed toil had carried me past the\n point of hunger, but I do remember my first meal at the Farm. We had\n dumplings. You usually think fondly of dumplings as being\nin\nor\nwith\nsomething. We had just dumplings—cold and not quite cooked\n through." ], [ "\"So he wants a nice inside job in the steam laundry?\" said the man\n behind the desk—\"the captain,\" we were instructed to call him. Another\n gust of wet wind joined his comments. \"Put him on 'The Big Rock Candy\n Mountain.'\" He fixed me then with those deep-set, glow-worm eyes,\n coldly appraising. The two Sisters of Gorgonia, meanwhile, seized\n Bertha's arms and dragged her from the room. I did not try to follow. I\n knew the rules: there were to be three husband-and-wife visiting hours\n per week. Fifteen minutes each.\n\n\n The Captain was still scrutinizing me from under the dark cliff of his\n brow. A thin smile now took shape on his lipless mouth. One of the\n guards was beating a slow, measured, somewhat squudgy tattoo on the\n edge of the desk with his kidney-sock.\n\n\n \"You wouldn't be entertaining angry thoughts, would you shnook?\" asked\n the Captain, after what seemed like half an hour of sickly pause.", "I will go back to my five kinds of cigars and my sixteen kinds of\n brandy; Bertha will return to her endless fantasy of pastries and\n desserts—an endless, joyous parade of goodies, never farther away than\n the nearest dumb-waiter door. And we will both become softer, heavier,\n a little less responsive.\n\n\n When, as sometimes happens, the sweet lethargy threatens to choke off\n our breath, we will step into our flying platform and set its automatic\n controls for Miami, Palm Beach, or the Cote d'Azur. There are conducted\n tours to the Himalayas now, or to the \"lost\" cities of the South\n American jungles, or to the bottom of any one of the seven seas. We\n will bide our time, much as others do.", "\"Mark 'em and put 'em to work,\" he barked at the guards. Two uniformed\n men, who must have sneaked in while I was fascinated by the man behind\n the desk, seized me and started painting my forehead with an acrid\n fluid that stung like strong disinfectant in an open wound. I squinted\n my eyes and tried to look blank.\n\n\n \"This is indelible,\" one of them explained. \"We have the chemical to\n take it off, but it doesn't come off till we say so.\"\n\n\n When I had been marked, one of the guards took his ink and brush and\n advanced upon Bertha. The other addressed himself to me. \"There is a\n choice of activities. There is the jute mill, the rock quarry, the\n stump-removal detail, the manure pile....\"", "\"Why—this thing is nothing but a huge writing slate,\" I said to a\n small, bald inmate beside me. He made a feeble noise in reply. The\n Captain left, and the only other guard now relaxed in the shade of a\n boulder nearly fifty yards away. He was smoking a forbidden cigar.\n Suddenly and unaccountably, I felt a little taller than the others,\n and everything looked unnaturally clear. The slab was less than six\n inches wide at the top!\n\n\n \"If we work this thing right, this job will practically do itself.\n We'll be through here before sundown,\" I heard myself snap out. The\n others, accustomed now to obeying any imperative voice, fell to with\n crowbars and peaveys as I directed them. \"Use them as levers,\" I said.\n \"Don't just flail and hack—pry!\" No one questioned me. When all of the\n tools were in position I gave the count:\n\n\n \"\nOne—two—HEAVE!\n\"", "Inside the yard, about twenty other guests shuffled around and around\n in a circle. Their gray coveralls were dark and heavy with the rain and\n clung to their bodies in clammy-looking patches. All moved sluggishly\n through the mud with their arms hanging slack at their sides, their\n shoulders hunched forward against the wet chill, and their eyes turned\n downward, as though they were fascinated with the halting progress of\n their own feet. I had never seen people look so completely dispirited\n and tired. Only one man raised his head to look at us as we stood\n there. I noticed that his forehead had bright purple marks on it. These\n proved to be \"\nNo. 94, Property of MMF\n,\" in inch-high letters which\n ran from temple to temple just above his eyebrows. Incredibly enough\n the man grinned at us.", "We didn't dare talk. On the way from the heliport we had seen some of\n the other folks at work in the swamp that surrounded the camp proper.\n They were digging out stumps with mattocks, crowbars and axes, and some\n of them stood waist-deep in the dark water. Bertha had said \"Looky\n there!\" and had made some remark about the baggy gray coveralls they\n wore—\"Just like convicts,\" she said. The driver, a huge, swinelike\n creature with very small, close-set eyes, had yanked the emergency\n brake and wheeled around at us then.\n\n\n \"You shnooks might just as well get outa the habit o' talkin' right\n here an' now. One more peep outa ya, 'n ya git clobbered!\"\n\n\n All we could do was look at each other and giggle like a couple of kids\n in the back pew of Sunday School, after that. Bertha looked ten years\n younger already.", "and finally. Picture the archetype of every chain-gang captain who\n has been relieved for inhumanity to prisoners; imagine the naked\n attribute Meanness, stripped of all accidental, incongruous, mitigating\n integument; picture all kindness, all mercy, all warmth, all humanity\n excised or cauterized, or turned back upon itself and let ferment into\n some kind of noxious mash; visualize the creature from which all the\n gentle qualities had been expunged, thus, and then try to forget the\n image.", "Impressions of this character have a way of entrenching themselves,\n perhaps at the cost of more meaningful ones. Conversation at the Farm\n was monosyllabic and infrequent, so it may merely be that I recall\n most lucidly those incidents with which some sort of communication was\n associated. A small man sitting opposite me in the mess hall gloomily\n indicated the dumpling at which I was picking dubiously.\n\n\n \"They'll bind ya,\" he said with the finality of special and personal\n knowledge. \"Ya don't wanta let yaself get bound here. They've got a—\"\n\n\n I don't now recall whether I said something or whether I merely held up\n my hand. I do know that I had no wish to dwell on the subject.", "\"You and Mrs. Devoe may leave tonight or in the morning, just as you\n prefer,\" said the Captain.\nBertha and I have had little to say to one another as we wait in\n the office for the car that will take us to the heliport. For the\n moment—this moment—it suffices that we stand here in our own clothes,\n that we have tasted coffee again, brought to us on a tray by a matron\n whose manner towards us bordered on the obsequious, and that the aroma\n of a cigarette is just as gratifying as ever.\n\n\n We will go back to our ten-room apartment on the ninety-first floor\n of the New Empire State Hotel; back to our swimming pool, our\n three-dimensional color television, our anti-gravity sleeping chambers,\n our impeccably efficient, relentlessly cheerful robot servants, and our\n library of thrills, entertainment, solace, diversion and escape—all\n impressed on magnetic tape and awaiting our pleasure.", "The grim Captain made an appearance in the rock quarry one morning\n just as we were beginning work. He stood on top of a pile of stones,\n swinging his kidney-sap from his wrist and letting his eyes sweep over\n us as though selecting one for slaughter.\n\n\n When the silence had soaked in thoroughly, he announced in his cold,\n incisive tone that \"there will be no rest periods, no chow, no\n 'Beddy-by,' until this entire rock face is reduced to ballast rock.\"\n He indicated a towering slab of stone. We raised our heads only long\n enough to reassure ourselves of the utter hopelessness of the task\n before us. Not daring to look at each other closely, fearing to see our\n own despair reflected in the faces of others, we picked up our hammers\n and crowbars and crawled to the top of the monolithic mass. The film\n must have cleared from my eyes then, momentarily.", "If I had hoped for respite after \"supper,\" it was at that time that I\n learned not to hope. Back to \"The Big Rock Candy Mountain\" we went, and\n under the bleak, iridescent glare of the lights we resumed our labor\n of no reward. One by one I felt my synapses parting, and one by one,\n slowly and certainly, the fragile membranes separating the minute from\n the hour, the Now from the Then, and the epoch out of unmeasured time\n softened and sloughed away. I was, at last, Number 109 at work on a\n monstrous manure pile, and I labored with the muscles and nerves of an\n undifferentiated man. I experienced change.", "The gate was exactly as the brochure had pictured it: solid and\n massive, it was let into a board fence about ten feet high which\n extended as far as you could see in either direction and lost itself on\n either side in a tangle of briers, elder bushes and dark trees. There\n were two strands of barbed wire running along the top. A sign over the\n gate—stark, black lettering on a light gray background—read:\nSilence!—No admission without\n \nauthority—No smoking!\n\nMORTON'S MISERY FARM\n\n30 acres of swamp—Our own rock\n \nquarry—Jute Mill—Steam laundry\nHarshest dietary laws in the\n \nCatskills\nA small door opened at one side of the gate and a short, stocky,\n well-muscled woman in a black visored cap and a shapeless black uniform\n came out and boarded the bus. She had our releases with her, fastened\n to a clipboard. She thrust this under my nose.", "I had nothing to say. My toes, I noted, looked much the same. Then,\n behind my back, I heard a sharp squeal from Bertha. \"Stop that! Oh\n stop! Stop! The brochure said nothing about—\"\n\n\n \"Take it easy lady,\" said the other guard in an oily-nasty voice. \"I\n won't touch you none. Just wanted to see if you was amenable.\"\n\n\n I would like more than anything else in the world to be able to say\n honestly that I felt a surge of anger then. I didn't. I can remember\n with terrible clarity that I felt nothing.", "The work at the rock quarry was organized according to the same\n futilitarian pattern that governed the manure-pile operation. Rock\n had to be hacked, pried and blasted from one end of the quarry, then\n reduced to coarse gravel with sledge-hammers and carted to the other\n end of the excavation in wheelbarrows. Most of the men commenced\n working at some task in the quarry with the automatic unconcern of\n trained beasts who have paused for rest and water, perhaps, but have\n never fully stopped. A guard indicated a wheelbarrow to me and uttered\n a sharp sound ... something like HUP! I picked up the smooth handles of\n the barrow, and time turned its back upon us again.", "I didn't press the matter further. All I could think of was how I\n wanted a smoke just then. When I thought of the fresh, new pack of\n cigarettes with its unbroken cellophane and its twenty, pure white\n cylinders of fragrant Turkish and Virginia, I came as close to weeping\n as I had in forty years.\nThe ground was slimy and cold under our bare feet when we got down from\n the bus, but the two viragos behind us gave us no time to pick our way\n delicately over the uneven ground. We were propelled through the small\n door at the side of the gate, and at last we found ourselves within the\n ten-foot barriers of the Misery Camp. We just looked at each other and\n giggled.", "I have absolutely no way of knowing how long we labored at this Augean\n enterprise; my watch had been taken from me, of course, and of the\n strange dislocation of my normal time-sense I have already spoken. I\n do remember that floodlights had been turned on long before a raucous\n alarm sounded, indicating that it was time for supper.\n\n\n My weariness from the unaccustomed toil had carried me past the\n point of hunger, but I do remember my first meal at the Farm. We had\n dumplings. You usually think fondly of dumplings as being\nin\nor\nwith\nsomething. We had just dumplings—cold and not quite cooked\n through.", "that it was burning just as brightly when the raucous signal sounded\n again, and the unoiled voice from the loudspeaker announced that it was\n time for the morning Cheer-Up Entertainment.\nThese orgies, it turned out, were held in the building housing\n the admission office. There was a speech choir made up of elderly\n women, all of whom wore the black uniform of the Farm matrons. The\n realization that a speech choir still existed may have startled me into\n a somewhat higher state of awareness; I had assumed that the speech\n choir had gone out with hair-receivers and humoristic medicine. The\n things they recited were in a childishly simple verse form:\nOne and\n two and three and four; One and two and THREE.\nThese verses had to do", "\"You'll be sah-reeeee,\" he yelped. I saw him go down into the mud under\n a blow with a kidney-sock from a burly male guard who had been standing\n in the center of the cheerless little circle.\n\n\n \"Leave the welcoming ceremonies to us, knoedelhead!\" barked the guard.\n The improvident guest rose painfully and resumed his plodding with the\n rest. I noticed that he made no rejoinder. He cringed.", "\"Strip and pack your clothes here, shnooks,\" said the woman with the\n empty suitcase. We did, though it was pretty awkward ... standing there\n in the aisle of the bus with those two gorgons staring at us. I started\n to save out a pack of cigarettes, but was soon disabused of this idea.\n The older of the two women knocked the pack from my hand, ground it\n under her heel on the floor and let me have one across the face with\n what I am almost certain must have been an old sock full of rancid hog\n kidneys.\n\n\n \"What the hell was that?\" I protested.\n\n\n \"Sock fulla hog kidneys, shnook. Soft but heavy, know what I mean? Just\n let us do the thinkin' around here. Git outa line just once an' you'll\n see what we can do with a sock fulla hog kidneys.\"", "My toes hadn't changed in the slightest respect.\nIt must have been then, or soon after that, that my sense of time went\n gently haywire. I was conducted to \"The Big Rock Candy Mountain,\" which\n turned out to be a Brobdingnagian manure heap. Its forbidding bulk\n overshadowed all other features of the landscape except some of the\n larger trees.\n\n\n A guard stood in the shadow of a large umbrella, at a respectable and\n tolerable distance from the nitrogenous colossus, but not so distant\n that his voice did not command the entire scene. \"\nHut-ho! hut-ho!\n Hut-ho HAW!\n\" he roared, and the wretched, gray-clad figures, whose\n number I joined without ceremony or introduction, moved steadily at\n their endless work in apparent unawareness of his cadenced chant." ], [ "But we will survive these things: I still have my four hours per month\n at Central Computing and Control; Bertha has her endless and endlessly\n varying work on committees (the last one was dedicated to the abolition\n of gambling at Las Vegas in favor of such wholesome games as Scrabble\n and checkers).\n\n\n We cannot soften and slough away altogether, for when all else fails,\n when the last stronghold of the spirit is in peril, there is always the\n vision of year's end and another glorious vacation.", "I will go back to my five kinds of cigars and my sixteen kinds of\n brandy; Bertha will return to her endless fantasy of pastries and\n desserts—an endless, joyous parade of goodies, never farther away than\n the nearest dumb-waiter door. And we will both become softer, heavier,\n a little less responsive.\n\n\n When, as sometimes happens, the sweet lethargy threatens to choke off\n our breath, we will step into our flying platform and set its automatic\n controls for Miami, Palm Beach, or the Cote d'Azur. There are conducted\n tours to the Himalayas now, or to the \"lost\" cities of the South\n American jungles, or to the bottom of any one of the seven seas. We\n will bide our time, much as others do.", "\"You and Mrs. Devoe may leave tonight or in the morning, just as you\n prefer,\" said the Captain.\nBertha and I have had little to say to one another as we wait in\n the office for the car that will take us to the heliport. For the\n moment—this moment—it suffices that we stand here in our own clothes,\n that we have tasted coffee again, brought to us on a tray by a matron\n whose manner towards us bordered on the obsequious, and that the aroma\n of a cigarette is just as gratifying as ever.\n\n\n We will go back to our ten-room apartment on the ninety-first floor\n of the New Empire State Hotel; back to our swimming pool, our\n three-dimensional color television, our anti-gravity sleeping chambers,\n our impeccably efficient, relentlessly cheerful robot servants, and our\n library of thrills, entertainment, solace, diversion and escape—all\n impressed on magnetic tape and awaiting our pleasure.", "The work at the rock quarry was organized according to the same\n futilitarian pattern that governed the manure-pile operation. Rock\n had to be hacked, pried and blasted from one end of the quarry, then\n reduced to coarse gravel with sledge-hammers and carted to the other\n end of the excavation in wheelbarrows. Most of the men commenced\n working at some task in the quarry with the automatic unconcern of\n trained beasts who have paused for rest and water, perhaps, but have\n never fully stopped. A guard indicated a wheelbarrow to me and uttered\n a sharp sound ... something like HUP! I picked up the smooth handles of\n the barrow, and time turned its back upon us again.", "\"Hah! Another low-hour man. I don't see how the hell you could afford\n to come here. Well, anyway—we've got work for climbers like you. Real\n work, shnook. I know climbers like you hope you'll meet aristocracy\n in a place like this—ten hour men or even weekly workers, but I\n can promise you, shnook, that you'll be too damned tired to disport\n yourself socially, and too damned busy looking at your toes. Don't\n forget that!\"\n\n\n Remembering, I looked down quickly, but not before one of the matrons\n behind me had fetched me a solid clout on the side of the head with her\n sap.", "\"You are more fortunate than most,\" he went on, still standing between\n me and the mess hall. \"Some people come here year after year, or they\n go to other places like this, or permit themselves to be confined\n in the hulls of old submarines, and some even apprentice themselves\n to medical missionaries in Equatorial Africa; they expose themselves\n to every conceivable combination of external conditions, but nothing\n really happens to them. They feel nothing except a fleeting sensation\n of contrast—soon lost in a torrent of other sensations. No 'moment';\n only a brief cessation of the continuing pleasure process. You have\n been one of the fortunate few, Mr. Devoe.\"\n\n\n Then the film dissolved—finally and completely—from the surface of\n my brain, and my sense of time returned to me in a flood of ordered\n recollections. Hours and days began to arrange themselves into\n meaningful sequence. Was it possible that two whole glorious weeks\n could have passed so swiftly?", "\"So he wants a nice inside job in the steam laundry?\" said the man\n behind the desk—\"the captain,\" we were instructed to call him. Another\n gust of wet wind joined his comments. \"Put him on 'The Big Rock Candy\n Mountain.'\" He fixed me then with those deep-set, glow-worm eyes,\n coldly appraising. The two Sisters of Gorgonia, meanwhile, seized\n Bertha's arms and dragged her from the room. I did not try to follow. I\n knew the rules: there were to be three husband-and-wife visiting hours\n per week. Fifteen minutes each.\n\n\n The Captain was still scrutinizing me from under the dark cliff of his\n brow. A thin smile now took shape on his lipless mouth. One of the\n guards was beating a slow, measured, somewhat squudgy tattoo on the\n edge of the desk with his kidney-sock.\n\n\n \"You wouldn't be entertaining angry thoughts, would you shnook?\" asked\n the Captain, after what seemed like half an hour of sickly pause.", "If I had hoped for respite after \"supper,\" it was at that time that I\n learned not to hope. Back to \"The Big Rock Candy Mountain\" we went, and\n under the bleak, iridescent glare of the lights we resumed our labor\n of no reward. One by one I felt my synapses parting, and one by one,\n slowly and certainly, the fragile membranes separating the minute from\n the hour, the Now from the Then, and the epoch out of unmeasured time\n softened and sloughed away. I was, at last, Number 109 at work on a\n monstrous manure pile, and I labored with the muscles and nerves of an\n undifferentiated man. I experienced change.", "We didn't dare talk. On the way from the heliport we had seen some of\n the other folks at work in the swamp that surrounded the camp proper.\n They were digging out stumps with mattocks, crowbars and axes, and some\n of them stood waist-deep in the dark water. Bertha had said \"Looky\n there!\" and had made some remark about the baggy gray coveralls they\n wore—\"Just like convicts,\" she said. The driver, a huge, swinelike\n creature with very small, close-set eyes, had yanked the emergency\n brake and wheeled around at us then.\n\n\n \"You shnooks might just as well get outa the habit o' talkin' right\n here an' now. One more peep outa ya, 'n ya git clobbered!\"\n\n\n All we could do was look at each other and giggle like a couple of kids\n in the back pew of Sunday School, after that. Bertha looked ten years\n younger already.", "\"Strip and pack your clothes here, shnooks,\" said the woman with the\n empty suitcase. We did, though it was pretty awkward ... standing there\n in the aisle of the bus with those two gorgons staring at us. I started\n to save out a pack of cigarettes, but was soon disabused of this idea.\n The older of the two women knocked the pack from my hand, ground it\n under her heel on the floor and let me have one across the face with\n what I am almost certain must have been an old sock full of rancid hog\n kidneys.\n\n\n \"What the hell was that?\" I protested.\n\n\n \"Sock fulla hog kidneys, shnook. Soft but heavy, know what I mean? Just\n let us do the thinkin' around here. Git outa line just once an' you'll\n see what we can do with a sock fulla hog kidneys.\"", "Inside the yard, about twenty other guests shuffled around and around\n in a circle. Their gray coveralls were dark and heavy with the rain and\n clung to their bodies in clammy-looking patches. All moved sluggishly\n through the mud with their arms hanging slack at their sides, their\n shoulders hunched forward against the wet chill, and their eyes turned\n downward, as though they were fascinated with the halting progress of\n their own feet. I had never seen people look so completely dispirited\n and tired. Only one man raised his head to look at us as we stood\n there. I noticed that his forehead had bright purple marks on it. These\n proved to be \"\nNo. 94, Property of MMF\n,\" in inch-high letters which\n ran from temple to temple just above his eyebrows. Incredibly enough\n the man grinned at us.", "the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nBertha and I were like a couple of city kids on their first country\n outing when we arrived at Morton's place. The weather was perfect—the\n first chill of autumn had arrived in the form of a fine, needle-shower\n rain of the type that doesn't look very bad through a window, but when\n you get out in it, it seeks out every tiny opening between the warp\n and weft of your clothing and runs through your hair and eyebrows,\n under your collar and over the surfaces of your body until, as though\n directed by some knowing, invisible entity, it finds its way to your\n belly-button.\n\n\n It was beautifully timed: the ancient motor-bus had two blowouts on the\n way up the last half-mile of corduroy road that led to the place, and\n of course we were obliged to change the tires ourselves. This was a new\n experience for both of us, and on the very first day! Everything was as\n advertised, and we hadn't even arrived at the admission gate yet.", "She told me that she had been put to work in the jute mill, but had\n passed out and had been transferred to the steam laundry. Her job in\n the laundry was to sort out the socks and underwear that were too bad\n to go in with the rest of the wash. We speculated on where the socks\n and underwear could have come from, as such fripperies were denied to\n us at the Farm. We also wondered about the manure, considering that\n no animals were in evidence here. Both, we concluded, must have been\n shipped in specially from the Outside. We found it in us to giggle,\n when the end of the visit was announced, over our own choice of\n conversational material for that precious quarter hour. Thereafter,\n when we could catch glimpses of each other during the day, we would\n exchange furtive signals, then go about our work exhilarated by the\n fiction that we shared some priceless Cabalistic knowledge.", "The grim Captain made an appearance in the rock quarry one morning\n just as we were beginning work. He stood on top of a pile of stones,\n swinging his kidney-sap from his wrist and letting his eyes sweep over\n us as though selecting one for slaughter.\n\n\n When the silence had soaked in thoroughly, he announced in his cold,\n incisive tone that \"there will be no rest periods, no chow, no\n 'Beddy-by,' until this entire rock face is reduced to ballast rock.\"\n He indicated a towering slab of stone. We raised our heads only long\n enough to reassure ourselves of the utter hopelessness of the task\n before us. Not daring to look at each other closely, fearing to see our\n own despair reflected in the faces of others, we picked up our hammers\n and crowbars and crawled to the top of the monolithic mass. The film\n must have cleared from my eyes then, momentarily.", "I have absolutely no way of knowing how long we labored at this Augean\n enterprise; my watch had been taken from me, of course, and of the\n strange dislocation of my normal time-sense I have already spoken. I\n do remember that floodlights had been turned on long before a raucous\n alarm sounded, indicating that it was time for supper.\n\n\n My weariness from the unaccustomed toil had carried me past the\n point of hunger, but I do remember my first meal at the Farm. We had\n dumplings. You usually think fondly of dumplings as being\nin\nor\nwith\nsomething. We had just dumplings—cold and not quite cooked\n through.", "I am happy to report that I do not remember them more specifically\n than this, but I was probably more impressed by the delivery than the\n message delivered. I could not imagine where they had discovered these\n women. During their performance, some sense of duration was restored to\n me; while I could be certain of nothing pertaining to the passage of\n time, it is not possible that the Cheer-Up period lasted less than two\n hours. Then they let us go to the latrine.\n\n\n After a breakfast of boiled cabbage and dry pumpernickel crusts—more\n savory than you might imagine—we were assigned to our work for the\n day. I had expected to return to the manure pile, but got instead the\n rock quarry. I remember observing then, with no surprise at all, that\n the sun was out and the day promised to be a hot one.", "I didn't press the matter further. All I could think of was how I\n wanted a smoke just then. When I thought of the fresh, new pack of\n cigarettes with its unbroken cellophane and its twenty, pure white\n cylinders of fragrant Turkish and Virginia, I came as close to weeping\n as I had in forty years.\nThe ground was slimy and cold under our bare feet when we got down from\n the bus, but the two viragos behind us gave us no time to pick our way\n delicately over the uneven ground. We were propelled through the small\n door at the side of the gate, and at last we found ourselves within the\n ten-foot barriers of the Misery Camp. We just looked at each other and\n giggled.", "I do not remember that anyone spoke to me directly or, at least,\n coherently enough so that words lodged in my memory, but someone must\n have explained the general pattern of activity. The object, it seemed,\n was to move all this soggy fertilizer from its present imposing site\n to another small but growing pile located about three hundred yards\n distant. This we were to accomplish by filling paper cement bags with\n the manure and carrying it, a bag at a time, to the more distant pile.\n Needless to say, the bags frequently dissolved or burst at the lower\n seams. This meant scraping up the stuff with the hands and refilling\n another paper bag. Needless to say, also, pitchforks and shovels\n were forbidden at the Farm, as was any potentially dangerous object\n which could be lifted, swung or hurled. It would have been altogether\n redundant to explain this rule.", "\"Mark 'em and put 'em to work,\" he barked at the guards. Two uniformed\n men, who must have sneaked in while I was fascinated by the man behind\n the desk, seized me and started painting my forehead with an acrid\n fluid that stung like strong disinfectant in an open wound. I squinted\n my eyes and tried to look blank.\n\n\n \"This is indelible,\" one of them explained. \"We have the chemical to\n take it off, but it doesn't come off till we say so.\"\n\n\n When I had been marked, one of the guards took his ink and brush and\n advanced upon Bertha. The other addressed himself to me. \"There is a\n choice of activities. There is the jute mill, the rock quarry, the\n stump-removal detail, the manure pile....\"", "Impressions of this character have a way of entrenching themselves,\n perhaps at the cost of more meaningful ones. Conversation at the Farm\n was monosyllabic and infrequent, so it may merely be that I recall\n most lucidly those incidents with which some sort of communication was\n associated. A small man sitting opposite me in the mess hall gloomily\n indicated the dumpling at which I was picking dubiously.\n\n\n \"They'll bind ya,\" he said with the finality of special and personal\n knowledge. \"Ya don't wanta let yaself get bound here. They've got a—\"\n\n\n I don't now recall whether I said something or whether I merely held up\n my hand. I do know that I had no wish to dwell on the subject." ], [ "\"You are more fortunate than most,\" he went on, still standing between\n me and the mess hall. \"Some people come here year after year, or they\n go to other places like this, or permit themselves to be confined\n in the hulls of old submarines, and some even apprentice themselves\n to medical missionaries in Equatorial Africa; they expose themselves\n to every conceivable combination of external conditions, but nothing\n really happens to them. They feel nothing except a fleeting sensation\n of contrast—soon lost in a torrent of other sensations. No 'moment';\n only a brief cessation of the continuing pleasure process. You have\n been one of the fortunate few, Mr. Devoe.\"\n\n\n Then the film dissolved—finally and completely—from the surface of\n my brain, and my sense of time returned to me in a flood of ordered\n recollections. Hours and days began to arrange themselves into\n meaningful sequence. Was it possible that two whole glorious weeks\n could have passed so swiftly?", "\"You and Mrs. Devoe may leave tonight or in the morning, just as you\n prefer,\" said the Captain.\nBertha and I have had little to say to one another as we wait in\n the office for the car that will take us to the heliport. For the\n moment—this moment—it suffices that we stand here in our own clothes,\n that we have tasted coffee again, brought to us on a tray by a matron\n whose manner towards us bordered on the obsequious, and that the aroma\n of a cigarette is just as gratifying as ever.\n\n\n We will go back to our ten-room apartment on the ninety-first floor\n of the New Empire State Hotel; back to our swimming pool, our\n three-dimensional color television, our anti-gravity sleeping chambers,\n our impeccably efficient, relentlessly cheerful robot servants, and our\n library of thrills, entertainment, solace, diversion and escape—all\n impressed on magnetic tape and awaiting our pleasure.", "and finally. Picture the archetype of every chain-gang captain who\n has been relieved for inhumanity to prisoners; imagine the naked\n attribute Meanness, stripped of all accidental, incongruous, mitigating\n integument; picture all kindness, all mercy, all warmth, all humanity\n excised or cauterized, or turned back upon itself and let ferment into\n some kind of noxious mash; visualize the creature from which all the\n gentle qualities had been expunged, thus, and then try to forget the\n image.", "The grim Captain made an appearance in the rock quarry one morning\n just as we were beginning work. He stood on top of a pile of stones,\n swinging his kidney-sap from his wrist and letting his eyes sweep over\n us as though selecting one for slaughter.\n\n\n When the silence had soaked in thoroughly, he announced in his cold,\n incisive tone that \"there will be no rest periods, no chow, no\n 'Beddy-by,' until this entire rock face is reduced to ballast rock.\"\n He indicated a towering slab of stone. We raised our heads only long\n enough to reassure ourselves of the utter hopelessness of the task\n before us. Not daring to look at each other closely, fearing to see our\n own despair reflected in the faces of others, we picked up our hammers\n and crowbars and crawled to the top of the monolithic mass. The film\n must have cleared from my eyes then, momentarily.", "The huge slab finally leaned out, wavered for a queasy moment, then\n fell with a splintering crash onto the boulders below. After the dust\n settled, we could see that much of the work of breaking up the mass was\n already accomplished. We descended and set to work with an enthusiasm\n that was new.\n\n\n Long before sundown, of course, we were marched back to the latrine\n and then to the mess hall. Later I had expected that some further work\n would be thrust upon us, but it didn't happen. The grim Captain stopped\n me as I entered the mess hall. I froze. There was a queer smile on his\n face, and I had grown to fear novelty.\n\n\n \"You had a moment,\" he said, simply and declaratively. \"You didn't miss\n it, did you?\"\n\n\n \"No,\" I replied, not fully understanding. \"No, I didn't miss it.\"", "\"So he wants a nice inside job in the steam laundry?\" said the man\n behind the desk—\"the captain,\" we were instructed to call him. Another\n gust of wet wind joined his comments. \"Put him on 'The Big Rock Candy\n Mountain.'\" He fixed me then with those deep-set, glow-worm eyes,\n coldly appraising. The two Sisters of Gorgonia, meanwhile, seized\n Bertha's arms and dragged her from the room. I did not try to follow. I\n knew the rules: there were to be three husband-and-wife visiting hours\n per week. Fifteen minutes each.\n\n\n The Captain was still scrutinizing me from under the dark cliff of his\n brow. A thin smile now took shape on his lipless mouth. One of the\n guards was beating a slow, measured, somewhat squudgy tattoo on the\n edge of the desk with his kidney-sock.\n\n\n \"You wouldn't be entertaining angry thoughts, would you shnook?\" asked\n the Captain, after what seemed like half an hour of sickly pause.", "\"I am in full charge here. You will speak only when spoken to,\" he\n said. His voice came as a surprise and, to me at least, as a profound\n relief. I had expected an inarticulate drawl—something not yet\n language, not quite human. Instead his voice was clipped, precise,\n clear as new type on white paper. This gave me hope at a time when hope\n was at a dangerously low mark on my personal thermometer. My mounting\n misgivings had come to focus on this grim figure behind the desk, and\n the most feared quality that I had seen in the face, a hard, sharp,\n immovable and imponderable stupidity, was strangely mitigated and even\n contradicted by the flawless, mechanical speech of the man.\n\n\n \"What did you do on the Outside, shnook?\" he snapped at me.\n\n\n \"Central Computing and Control. I punched tapes. Only got four hours of\n work a month,\" I said, hoping to cover myself with a protective film of\n humility.", "\"Why—this thing is nothing but a huge writing slate,\" I said to a\n small, bald inmate beside me. He made a feeble noise in reply. The\n Captain left, and the only other guard now relaxed in the shade of a\n boulder nearly fifty yards away. He was smoking a forbidden cigar.\n Suddenly and unaccountably, I felt a little taller than the others,\n and everything looked unnaturally clear. The slab was less than six\n inches wide at the top!\n\n\n \"If we work this thing right, this job will practically do itself.\n We'll be through here before sundown,\" I heard myself snap out. The\n others, accustomed now to obeying any imperative voice, fell to with\n crowbars and peaveys as I directed them. \"Use them as levers,\" I said.\n \"Don't just flail and hack—pry!\" No one questioned me. When all of the\n tools were in position I gave the count:\n\n\n \"\nOne—two—HEAVE!\n\"", "But we will survive these things: I still have my four hours per month\n at Central Computing and Control; Bertha has her endless and endlessly\n varying work on committees (the last one was dedicated to the abolition\n of gambling at Las Vegas in favor of such wholesome games as Scrabble\n and checkers).\n\n\n We cannot soften and slough away altogether, for when all else fails,\n when the last stronghold of the spirit is in peril, there is always the\n vision of year's end and another glorious vacation.", "\"Hah! Another low-hour man. I don't see how the hell you could afford\n to come here. Well, anyway—we've got work for climbers like you. Real\n work, shnook. I know climbers like you hope you'll meet aristocracy\n in a place like this—ten hour men or even weekly workers, but I\n can promise you, shnook, that you'll be too damned tired to disport\n yourself socially, and too damned busy looking at your toes. Don't\n forget that!\"\n\n\n Remembering, I looked down quickly, but not before one of the matrons\n behind me had fetched me a solid clout on the side of the head with her\n sap.", "We were led into a small office at one end of a long, wooden, one-story\n building. A sign on the door said, simply, \"\nAdmissions. Knock and\n Remove Hat.\n\" The lady guard knocked and we entered. We had no hats to\n remove; indeed, this was emphasized for us by the fact that the rain\n had by now penetrated our hair and brows and was running down over our\n faces annoyingly.\nAs soon as I'd blinked the rain from my eyes, I was able to see the\n form of the person behind the desk with more clarity than I might\n have wished. He was large, but terribly emaciated, with the kind of\n gauntness that should be covered by a sheet—tenderly, reverently", "Impressions of this character have a way of entrenching themselves,\n perhaps at the cost of more meaningful ones. Conversation at the Farm\n was monosyllabic and infrequent, so it may merely be that I recall\n most lucidly those incidents with which some sort of communication was\n associated. A small man sitting opposite me in the mess hall gloomily\n indicated the dumpling at which I was picking dubiously.\n\n\n \"They'll bind ya,\" he said with the finality of special and personal\n knowledge. \"Ya don't wanta let yaself get bound here. They've got a—\"\n\n\n I don't now recall whether I said something or whether I merely held up\n my hand. I do know that I had no wish to dwell on the subject.", "The eyes were perhaps the worst feature. They burned like tiny\n phosphorescent creatures, dimly visible deep inside a cave under dark,\n overhanging cliffs—the brows. The skin of the face was drawn over the\n bones so tautly that you felt a sharp rap with a hard object would\n cause the sharp cheekbones to break through. There was a darkness about\n the skin that should have been, yet somehow did not seem to be the\n healthy tan of outdoor living. It was a coloring that came from the\n inside and radiated outwards; perhaps pellagra—a wasting, darkening\n malnutritional disease which no man had suffered for three hundred\n years. I wondered where, where on the living earth, they had discovered\n such a specimen.", "I will go back to my five kinds of cigars and my sixteen kinds of\n brandy; Bertha will return to her endless fantasy of pastries and\n desserts—an endless, joyous parade of goodies, never farther away than\n the nearest dumb-waiter door. And we will both become softer, heavier,\n a little less responsive.\n\n\n When, as sometimes happens, the sweet lethargy threatens to choke off\n our breath, we will step into our flying platform and set its automatic\n controls for Miami, Palm Beach, or the Cote d'Azur. There are conducted\n tours to the Himalayas now, or to the \"lost\" cities of the South\n American jungles, or to the bottom of any one of the seven seas. We\n will bide our time, much as others do.", "We didn't dare talk. On the way from the heliport we had seen some of\n the other folks at work in the swamp that surrounded the camp proper.\n They were digging out stumps with mattocks, crowbars and axes, and some\n of them stood waist-deep in the dark water. Bertha had said \"Looky\n there!\" and had made some remark about the baggy gray coveralls they\n wore—\"Just like convicts,\" she said. The driver, a huge, swinelike\n creature with very small, close-set eyes, had yanked the emergency\n brake and wheeled around at us then.\n\n\n \"You shnooks might just as well get outa the habit o' talkin' right\n here an' now. One more peep outa ya, 'n ya git clobbered!\"\n\n\n All we could do was look at each other and giggle like a couple of kids\n in the back pew of Sunday School, after that. Bertha looked ten years\n younger already.", "\"You'll be sah-reeeee,\" he yelped. I saw him go down into the mud under\n a blow with a kidney-sock from a burly male guard who had been standing\n in the center of the cheerless little circle.\n\n\n \"Leave the welcoming ceremonies to us, knoedelhead!\" barked the guard.\n The improvident guest rose painfully and resumed his plodding with the\n rest. I noticed that he made no rejoinder. He cringed.", "\"How about the steam laundry?\" I asked, prompted now by the cold sound\n of a sudden gust of rain against the wooden side of the building.\nSplukk!\nwent the guard's kidney-sock as it landed on the right hinge\n of my jaw. Soft or not, it nearly dropped me.\n\n\n \"I said there\nis\na choice—not\nyou have\na choice, shnook. Besides,\n the steam laundry is for the ladies. Don't forget who's in charge here.\"\n\n\n \"Who\nis\nin charge here, then?\" I asked, strangely emboldened by the\n clout on the side of the jaw.\nSplukk!\n\"That's somethin' you don't need to know, shnook. You ain't\n gonna sue nobody. You signed a\nrelease\n—remember?\"", "\"Mark 'em and put 'em to work,\" he barked at the guards. Two uniformed\n men, who must have sneaked in while I was fascinated by the man behind\n the desk, seized me and started painting my forehead with an acrid\n fluid that stung like strong disinfectant in an open wound. I squinted\n my eyes and tried to look blank.\n\n\n \"This is indelible,\" one of them explained. \"We have the chemical to\n take it off, but it doesn't come off till we say so.\"\n\n\n When I had been marked, one of the guards took his ink and brush and\n advanced upon Bertha. The other addressed himself to me. \"There is a\n choice of activities. There is the jute mill, the rock quarry, the\n stump-removal detail, the manure pile....\"", "the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nBertha and I were like a couple of city kids on their first country\n outing when we arrived at Morton's place. The weather was perfect—the\n first chill of autumn had arrived in the form of a fine, needle-shower\n rain of the type that doesn't look very bad through a window, but when\n you get out in it, it seeks out every tiny opening between the warp\n and weft of your clothing and runs through your hair and eyebrows,\n under your collar and over the surfaces of your body until, as though\n directed by some knowing, invisible entity, it finds its way to your\n belly-button.\n\n\n It was beautifully timed: the ancient motor-bus had two blowouts on the\n way up the last half-mile of corduroy road that led to the place, and\n of course we were obliged to change the tires ourselves. This was a new\n experience for both of us, and on the very first day! Everything was as\n advertised, and we hadn't even arrived at the admission gate yet.", "It was that night—or perhaps the following night—that Bertha and I\n had our first fifteen-minute visit with each other. She was changed:\n her face glowed with feverish vitality, her hair was stringy and moist,\n and her eyes were serenely glassy. She had not been more provocative\n in twenty-five years. An old dormant excitement stirred within\n me—microscopically but unmistakably." ], [ "But we will survive these things: I still have my four hours per month\n at Central Computing and Control; Bertha has her endless and endlessly\n varying work on committees (the last one was dedicated to the abolition\n of gambling at Las Vegas in favor of such wholesome games as Scrabble\n and checkers).\n\n\n We cannot soften and slough away altogether, for when all else fails,\n when the last stronghold of the spirit is in peril, there is always the\n vision of year's end and another glorious vacation.", "I will go back to my five kinds of cigars and my sixteen kinds of\n brandy; Bertha will return to her endless fantasy of pastries and\n desserts—an endless, joyous parade of goodies, never farther away than\n the nearest dumb-waiter door. And we will both become softer, heavier,\n a little less responsive.\n\n\n When, as sometimes happens, the sweet lethargy threatens to choke off\n our breath, we will step into our flying platform and set its automatic\n controls for Miami, Palm Beach, or the Cote d'Azur. There are conducted\n tours to the Himalayas now, or to the \"lost\" cities of the South\n American jungles, or to the bottom of any one of the seven seas. We\n will bide our time, much as others do.", "The work at the rock quarry was organized according to the same\n futilitarian pattern that governed the manure-pile operation. Rock\n had to be hacked, pried and blasted from one end of the quarry, then\n reduced to coarse gravel with sledge-hammers and carted to the other\n end of the excavation in wheelbarrows. Most of the men commenced\n working at some task in the quarry with the automatic unconcern of\n trained beasts who have paused for rest and water, perhaps, but have\n never fully stopped. A guard indicated a wheelbarrow to me and uttered\n a sharp sound ... something like HUP! I picked up the smooth handles of\n the barrow, and time turned its back upon us again.", "\"Strip and pack your clothes here, shnooks,\" said the woman with the\n empty suitcase. We did, though it was pretty awkward ... standing there\n in the aisle of the bus with those two gorgons staring at us. I started\n to save out a pack of cigarettes, but was soon disabused of this idea.\n The older of the two women knocked the pack from my hand, ground it\n under her heel on the floor and let me have one across the face with\n what I am almost certain must have been an old sock full of rancid hog\n kidneys.\n\n\n \"What the hell was that?\" I protested.\n\n\n \"Sock fulla hog kidneys, shnook. Soft but heavy, know what I mean? Just\n let us do the thinkin' around here. Git outa line just once an' you'll\n see what we can do with a sock fulla hog kidneys.\"", "\"You are more fortunate than most,\" he went on, still standing between\n me and the mess hall. \"Some people come here year after year, or they\n go to other places like this, or permit themselves to be confined\n in the hulls of old submarines, and some even apprentice themselves\n to medical missionaries in Equatorial Africa; they expose themselves\n to every conceivable combination of external conditions, but nothing\n really happens to them. They feel nothing except a fleeting sensation\n of contrast—soon lost in a torrent of other sensations. No 'moment';\n only a brief cessation of the continuing pleasure process. You have\n been one of the fortunate few, Mr. Devoe.\"\n\n\n Then the film dissolved—finally and completely—from the surface of\n my brain, and my sense of time returned to me in a flood of ordered\n recollections. Hours and days began to arrange themselves into\n meaningful sequence. Was it possible that two whole glorious weeks\n could have passed so swiftly?", "\"So he wants a nice inside job in the steam laundry?\" said the man\n behind the desk—\"the captain,\" we were instructed to call him. Another\n gust of wet wind joined his comments. \"Put him on 'The Big Rock Candy\n Mountain.'\" He fixed me then with those deep-set, glow-worm eyes,\n coldly appraising. The two Sisters of Gorgonia, meanwhile, seized\n Bertha's arms and dragged her from the room. I did not try to follow. I\n knew the rules: there were to be three husband-and-wife visiting hours\n per week. Fifteen minutes each.\n\n\n The Captain was still scrutinizing me from under the dark cliff of his\n brow. A thin smile now took shape on his lipless mouth. One of the\n guards was beating a slow, measured, somewhat squudgy tattoo on the\n edge of the desk with his kidney-sock.\n\n\n \"You wouldn't be entertaining angry thoughts, would you shnook?\" asked\n the Captain, after what seemed like half an hour of sickly pause.", "Inside the yard, about twenty other guests shuffled around and around\n in a circle. Their gray coveralls were dark and heavy with the rain and\n clung to their bodies in clammy-looking patches. All moved sluggishly\n through the mud with their arms hanging slack at their sides, their\n shoulders hunched forward against the wet chill, and their eyes turned\n downward, as though they were fascinated with the halting progress of\n their own feet. I had never seen people look so completely dispirited\n and tired. Only one man raised his head to look at us as we stood\n there. I noticed that his forehead had bright purple marks on it. These\n proved to be \"\nNo. 94, Property of MMF\n,\" in inch-high letters which\n ran from temple to temple just above his eyebrows. Incredibly enough\n the man grinned at us.", "\"Hah! Another low-hour man. I don't see how the hell you could afford\n to come here. Well, anyway—we've got work for climbers like you. Real\n work, shnook. I know climbers like you hope you'll meet aristocracy\n in a place like this—ten hour men or even weekly workers, but I\n can promise you, shnook, that you'll be too damned tired to disport\n yourself socially, and too damned busy looking at your toes. Don't\n forget that!\"\n\n\n Remembering, I looked down quickly, but not before one of the matrons\n behind me had fetched me a solid clout on the side of the head with her\n sap.", "I do not remember that anyone spoke to me directly or, at least,\n coherently enough so that words lodged in my memory, but someone must\n have explained the general pattern of activity. The object, it seemed,\n was to move all this soggy fertilizer from its present imposing site\n to another small but growing pile located about three hundred yards\n distant. This we were to accomplish by filling paper cement bags with\n the manure and carrying it, a bag at a time, to the more distant pile.\n Needless to say, the bags frequently dissolved or burst at the lower\n seams. This meant scraping up the stuff with the hands and refilling\n another paper bag. Needless to say, also, pitchforks and shovels\n were forbidden at the Farm, as was any potentially dangerous object\n which could be lifted, swung or hurled. It would have been altogether\n redundant to explain this rule.", "She told me that she had been put to work in the jute mill, but had\n passed out and had been transferred to the steam laundry. Her job in\n the laundry was to sort out the socks and underwear that were too bad\n to go in with the rest of the wash. We speculated on where the socks\n and underwear could have come from, as such fripperies were denied to\n us at the Farm. We also wondered about the manure, considering that\n no animals were in evidence here. Both, we concluded, must have been\n shipped in specially from the Outside. We found it in us to giggle,\n when the end of the visit was announced, over our own choice of\n conversational material for that precious quarter hour. Thereafter,\n when we could catch glimpses of each other during the day, we would\n exchange furtive signals, then go about our work exhilarated by the\n fiction that we shared some priceless Cabalistic knowledge.", "\"You and Mrs. Devoe may leave tonight or in the morning, just as you\n prefer,\" said the Captain.\nBertha and I have had little to say to one another as we wait in\n the office for the car that will take us to the heliport. For the\n moment—this moment—it suffices that we stand here in our own clothes,\n that we have tasted coffee again, brought to us on a tray by a matron\n whose manner towards us bordered on the obsequious, and that the aroma\n of a cigarette is just as gratifying as ever.\n\n\n We will go back to our ten-room apartment on the ninety-first floor\n of the New Empire State Hotel; back to our swimming pool, our\n three-dimensional color television, our anti-gravity sleeping chambers,\n our impeccably efficient, relentlessly cheerful robot servants, and our\n library of thrills, entertainment, solace, diversion and escape—all\n impressed on magnetic tape and awaiting our pleasure.", "I am happy to report that I do not remember them more specifically\n than this, but I was probably more impressed by the delivery than the\n message delivered. I could not imagine where they had discovered these\n women. During their performance, some sense of duration was restored to\n me; while I could be certain of nothing pertaining to the passage of\n time, it is not possible that the Cheer-Up period lasted less than two\n hours. Then they let us go to the latrine.\n\n\n After a breakfast of boiled cabbage and dry pumpernickel crusts—more\n savory than you might imagine—we were assigned to our work for the\n day. I had expected to return to the manure pile, but got instead the\n rock quarry. I remember observing then, with no surprise at all, that\n the sun was out and the day promised to be a hot one.", "the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nBertha and I were like a couple of city kids on their first country\n outing when we arrived at Morton's place. The weather was perfect—the\n first chill of autumn had arrived in the form of a fine, needle-shower\n rain of the type that doesn't look very bad through a window, but when\n you get out in it, it seeks out every tiny opening between the warp\n and weft of your clothing and runs through your hair and eyebrows,\n under your collar and over the surfaces of your body until, as though\n directed by some knowing, invisible entity, it finds its way to your\n belly-button.\n\n\n It was beautifully timed: the ancient motor-bus had two blowouts on the\n way up the last half-mile of corduroy road that led to the place, and\n of course we were obliged to change the tires ourselves. This was a new\n experience for both of us, and on the very first day! Everything was as\n advertised, and we hadn't even arrived at the admission gate yet.", "If I had hoped for respite after \"supper,\" it was at that time that I\n learned not to hope. Back to \"The Big Rock Candy Mountain\" we went, and\n under the bleak, iridescent glare of the lights we resumed our labor\n of no reward. One by one I felt my synapses parting, and one by one,\n slowly and certainly, the fragile membranes separating the minute from\n the hour, the Now from the Then, and the epoch out of unmeasured time\n softened and sloughed away. I was, at last, Number 109 at work on a\n monstrous manure pile, and I labored with the muscles and nerves of an\n undifferentiated man. I experienced change.", "I didn't press the matter further. All I could think of was how I\n wanted a smoke just then. When I thought of the fresh, new pack of\n cigarettes with its unbroken cellophane and its twenty, pure white\n cylinders of fragrant Turkish and Virginia, I came as close to weeping\n as I had in forty years.\nThe ground was slimy and cold under our bare feet when we got down from\n the bus, but the two viragos behind us gave us no time to pick our way\n delicately over the uneven ground. We were propelled through the small\n door at the side of the gate, and at last we found ourselves within the\n ten-foot barriers of the Misery Camp. We just looked at each other and\n giggled.", "We didn't dare talk. On the way from the heliport we had seen some of\n the other folks at work in the swamp that surrounded the camp proper.\n They were digging out stumps with mattocks, crowbars and axes, and some\n of them stood waist-deep in the dark water. Bertha had said \"Looky\n there!\" and had made some remark about the baggy gray coveralls they\n wore—\"Just like convicts,\" she said. The driver, a huge, swinelike\n creature with very small, close-set eyes, had yanked the emergency\n brake and wheeled around at us then.\n\n\n \"You shnooks might just as well get outa the habit o' talkin' right\n here an' now. One more peep outa ya, 'n ya git clobbered!\"\n\n\n All we could do was look at each other and giggle like a couple of kids\n in the back pew of Sunday School, after that. Bertha looked ten years\n younger already.", "Impressions of this character have a way of entrenching themselves,\n perhaps at the cost of more meaningful ones. Conversation at the Farm\n was monosyllabic and infrequent, so it may merely be that I recall\n most lucidly those incidents with which some sort of communication was\n associated. A small man sitting opposite me in the mess hall gloomily\n indicated the dumpling at which I was picking dubiously.\n\n\n \"They'll bind ya,\" he said with the finality of special and personal\n knowledge. \"Ya don't wanta let yaself get bound here. They've got a—\"\n\n\n I don't now recall whether I said something or whether I merely held up\n my hand. I do know that I had no wish to dwell on the subject.", "\"Mark 'em and put 'em to work,\" he barked at the guards. Two uniformed\n men, who must have sneaked in while I was fascinated by the man behind\n the desk, seized me and started painting my forehead with an acrid\n fluid that stung like strong disinfectant in an open wound. I squinted\n my eyes and tried to look blank.\n\n\n \"This is indelible,\" one of them explained. \"We have the chemical to\n take it off, but it doesn't come off till we say so.\"\n\n\n When I had been marked, one of the guards took his ink and brush and\n advanced upon Bertha. The other addressed himself to me. \"There is a\n choice of activities. There is the jute mill, the rock quarry, the\n stump-removal detail, the manure pile....\"", "The huge slab finally leaned out, wavered for a queasy moment, then\n fell with a splintering crash onto the boulders below. After the dust\n settled, we could see that much of the work of breaking up the mass was\n already accomplished. We descended and set to work with an enthusiasm\n that was new.\n\n\n Long before sundown, of course, we were marched back to the latrine\n and then to the mess hall. Later I had expected that some further work\n would be thrust upon us, but it didn't happen. The grim Captain stopped\n me as I entered the mess hall. I froze. There was a queer smile on his\n face, and I had grown to fear novelty.\n\n\n \"You had a moment,\" he said, simply and declaratively. \"You didn't miss\n it, did you?\"\n\n\n \"No,\" I replied, not fully understanding. \"No, I didn't miss it.\"", "The grim Captain made an appearance in the rock quarry one morning\n just as we were beginning work. He stood on top of a pile of stones,\n swinging his kidney-sap from his wrist and letting his eyes sweep over\n us as though selecting one for slaughter.\n\n\n When the silence had soaked in thoroughly, he announced in his cold,\n incisive tone that \"there will be no rest periods, no chow, no\n 'Beddy-by,' until this entire rock face is reduced to ballast rock.\"\n He indicated a towering slab of stone. We raised our heads only long\n enough to reassure ourselves of the utter hopelessness of the task\n before us. Not daring to look at each other closely, fearing to see our\n own despair reflected in the faces of others, we picked up our hammers\n and crowbars and crawled to the top of the monolithic mass. The film\n must have cleared from my eyes then, momentarily." ], [ "I do not remember that anyone spoke to me directly or, at least,\n coherently enough so that words lodged in my memory, but someone must\n have explained the general pattern of activity. The object, it seemed,\n was to move all this soggy fertilizer from its present imposing site\n to another small but growing pile located about three hundred yards\n distant. This we were to accomplish by filling paper cement bags with\n the manure and carrying it, a bag at a time, to the more distant pile.\n Needless to say, the bags frequently dissolved or burst at the lower\n seams. This meant scraping up the stuff with the hands and refilling\n another paper bag. Needless to say, also, pitchforks and shovels\n were forbidden at the Farm, as was any potentially dangerous object\n which could be lifted, swung or hurled. It would have been altogether\n redundant to explain this rule.", "\"Mark 'em and put 'em to work,\" he barked at the guards. Two uniformed\n men, who must have sneaked in while I was fascinated by the man behind\n the desk, seized me and started painting my forehead with an acrid\n fluid that stung like strong disinfectant in an open wound. I squinted\n my eyes and tried to look blank.\n\n\n \"This is indelible,\" one of them explained. \"We have the chemical to\n take it off, but it doesn't come off till we say so.\"\n\n\n When I had been marked, one of the guards took his ink and brush and\n advanced upon Bertha. The other addressed himself to me. \"There is a\n choice of activities. There is the jute mill, the rock quarry, the\n stump-removal detail, the manure pile....\"", "The work at the rock quarry was organized according to the same\n futilitarian pattern that governed the manure-pile operation. Rock\n had to be hacked, pried and blasted from one end of the quarry, then\n reduced to coarse gravel with sledge-hammers and carted to the other\n end of the excavation in wheelbarrows. Most of the men commenced\n working at some task in the quarry with the automatic unconcern of\n trained beasts who have paused for rest and water, perhaps, but have\n never fully stopped. A guard indicated a wheelbarrow to me and uttered\n a sharp sound ... something like HUP! I picked up the smooth handles of\n the barrow, and time turned its back upon us again.", "Impressions of this character have a way of entrenching themselves,\n perhaps at the cost of more meaningful ones. Conversation at the Farm\n was monosyllabic and infrequent, so it may merely be that I recall\n most lucidly those incidents with which some sort of communication was\n associated. A small man sitting opposite me in the mess hall gloomily\n indicated the dumpling at which I was picking dubiously.\n\n\n \"They'll bind ya,\" he said with the finality of special and personal\n knowledge. \"Ya don't wanta let yaself get bound here. They've got a—\"\n\n\n I don't now recall whether I said something or whether I merely held up\n my hand. I do know that I had no wish to dwell on the subject.", "I have absolutely no way of knowing how long we labored at this Augean\n enterprise; my watch had been taken from me, of course, and of the\n strange dislocation of my normal time-sense I have already spoken. I\n do remember that floodlights had been turned on long before a raucous\n alarm sounded, indicating that it was time for supper.\n\n\n My weariness from the unaccustomed toil had carried me past the\n point of hunger, but I do remember my first meal at the Farm. We had\n dumplings. You usually think fondly of dumplings as being\nin\nor\nwith\nsomething. We had just dumplings—cold and not quite cooked\n through.", "She told me that she had been put to work in the jute mill, but had\n passed out and had been transferred to the steam laundry. Her job in\n the laundry was to sort out the socks and underwear that were too bad\n to go in with the rest of the wash. We speculated on where the socks\n and underwear could have come from, as such fripperies were denied to\n us at the Farm. We also wondered about the manure, considering that\n no animals were in evidence here. Both, we concluded, must have been\n shipped in specially from the Outside. We found it in us to giggle,\n when the end of the visit was announced, over our own choice of\n conversational material for that precious quarter hour. Thereafter,\n when we could catch glimpses of each other during the day, we would\n exchange furtive signals, then go about our work exhilarated by the\n fiction that we shared some priceless Cabalistic knowledge.", "If I had hoped for respite after \"supper,\" it was at that time that I\n learned not to hope. Back to \"The Big Rock Candy Mountain\" we went, and\n under the bleak, iridescent glare of the lights we resumed our labor\n of no reward. One by one I felt my synapses parting, and one by one,\n slowly and certainly, the fragile membranes separating the minute from\n the hour, the Now from the Then, and the epoch out of unmeasured time\n softened and sloughed away. I was, at last, Number 109 at work on a\n monstrous manure pile, and I labored with the muscles and nerves of an\n undifferentiated man. I experienced change.", "that it was burning just as brightly when the raucous signal sounded\n again, and the unoiled voice from the loudspeaker announced that it was\n time for the morning Cheer-Up Entertainment.\nThese orgies, it turned out, were held in the building housing\n the admission office. There was a speech choir made up of elderly\n women, all of whom wore the black uniform of the Farm matrons. The\n realization that a speech choir still existed may have startled me into\n a somewhat higher state of awareness; I had assumed that the speech\n choir had gone out with hair-receivers and humoristic medicine. The\n things they recited were in a childishly simple verse form:\nOne and\n two and three and four; One and two and THREE.\nThese verses had to do", "My toes hadn't changed in the slightest respect.\nIt must have been then, or soon after that, that my sense of time went\n gently haywire. I was conducted to \"The Big Rock Candy Mountain,\" which\n turned out to be a Brobdingnagian manure heap. Its forbidding bulk\n overshadowed all other features of the landscape except some of the\n larger trees.\n\n\n A guard stood in the shadow of a large umbrella, at a respectable and\n tolerable distance from the nitrogenous colossus, but not so distant\n that his voice did not command the entire scene. \"\nHut-ho! hut-ho!\n Hut-ho HAW!\n\" he roared, and the wretched, gray-clad figures, whose\n number I joined without ceremony or introduction, moved steadily at\n their endless work in apparent unawareness of his cadenced chant.", "I knew now that my identity, my ego, was an infinitesimal thing which\n rode along embedded in a mountain of more or less integrated organisms,\n more or less purposeful tissues, fluids and loosely articulated bones,\n as a tiny child rides in the cab of a locomotive. And the rain came\n down and the manure bags broke and we scrabbled with our hands to\n refill new ones.", "The grim Captain made an appearance in the rock quarry one morning\n just as we were beginning work. He stood on top of a pile of stones,\n swinging his kidney-sap from his wrist and letting his eyes sweep over\n us as though selecting one for slaughter.\n\n\n When the silence had soaked in thoroughly, he announced in his cold,\n incisive tone that \"there will be no rest periods, no chow, no\n 'Beddy-by,' until this entire rock face is reduced to ballast rock.\"\n He indicated a towering slab of stone. We raised our heads only long\n enough to reassure ourselves of the utter hopelessness of the task\n before us. Not daring to look at each other closely, fearing to see our\n own despair reflected in the faces of others, we picked up our hammers\n and crowbars and crawled to the top of the monolithic mass. The film\n must have cleared from my eyes then, momentarily.", "the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nBertha and I were like a couple of city kids on their first country\n outing when we arrived at Morton's place. The weather was perfect—the\n first chill of autumn had arrived in the form of a fine, needle-shower\n rain of the type that doesn't look very bad through a window, but when\n you get out in it, it seeks out every tiny opening between the warp\n and weft of your clothing and runs through your hair and eyebrows,\n under your collar and over the surfaces of your body until, as though\n directed by some knowing, invisible entity, it finds its way to your\n belly-button.\n\n\n It was beautifully timed: the ancient motor-bus had two blowouts on the\n way up the last half-mile of corduroy road that led to the place, and\n of course we were obliged to change the tires ourselves. This was a new\n experience for both of us, and on the very first day! Everything was as\n advertised, and we hadn't even arrived at the admission gate yet.", "But we will survive these things: I still have my four hours per month\n at Central Computing and Control; Bertha has her endless and endlessly\n varying work on committees (the last one was dedicated to the abolition\n of gambling at Las Vegas in favor of such wholesome games as Scrabble\n and checkers).\n\n\n We cannot soften and slough away altogether, for when all else fails,\n when the last stronghold of the spirit is in peril, there is always the\n vision of year's end and another glorious vacation.", "Inside the yard, about twenty other guests shuffled around and around\n in a circle. Their gray coveralls were dark and heavy with the rain and\n clung to their bodies in clammy-looking patches. All moved sluggishly\n through the mud with their arms hanging slack at their sides, their\n shoulders hunched forward against the wet chill, and their eyes turned\n downward, as though they were fascinated with the halting progress of\n their own feet. I had never seen people look so completely dispirited\n and tired. Only one man raised his head to look at us as we stood\n there. I noticed that his forehead had bright purple marks on it. These\n proved to be \"\nNo. 94, Property of MMF\n,\" in inch-high letters which\n ran from temple to temple just above his eyebrows. Incredibly enough\n the man grinned at us.", "The gate was exactly as the brochure had pictured it: solid and\n massive, it was let into a board fence about ten feet high which\n extended as far as you could see in either direction and lost itself on\n either side in a tangle of briers, elder bushes and dark trees. There\n were two strands of barbed wire running along the top. A sign over the\n gate—stark, black lettering on a light gray background—read:\nSilence!—No admission without\n \nauthority—No smoking!\n\nMORTON'S MISERY FARM\n\n30 acres of swamp—Our own rock\n \nquarry—Jute Mill—Steam laundry\nHarshest dietary laws in the\n \nCatskills\nA small door opened at one side of the gate and a short, stocky,\n well-muscled woman in a black visored cap and a shapeless black uniform\n came out and boarded the bus. She had our releases with her, fastened\n to a clipboard. She thrust this under my nose.", "\"So he wants a nice inside job in the steam laundry?\" said the man\n behind the desk—\"the captain,\" we were instructed to call him. Another\n gust of wet wind joined his comments. \"Put him on 'The Big Rock Candy\n Mountain.'\" He fixed me then with those deep-set, glow-worm eyes,\n coldly appraising. The two Sisters of Gorgonia, meanwhile, seized\n Bertha's arms and dragged her from the room. I did not try to follow. I\n knew the rules: there were to be three husband-and-wife visiting hours\n per week. Fifteen minutes each.\n\n\n The Captain was still scrutinizing me from under the dark cliff of his\n brow. A thin smile now took shape on his lipless mouth. One of the\n guards was beating a slow, measured, somewhat squudgy tattoo on the\n edge of the desk with his kidney-sock.\n\n\n \"You wouldn't be entertaining angry thoughts, would you shnook?\" asked\n the Captain, after what seemed like half an hour of sickly pause.", "I am happy to report that I do not remember them more specifically\n than this, but I was probably more impressed by the delivery than the\n message delivered. I could not imagine where they had discovered these\n women. During their performance, some sense of duration was restored to\n me; while I could be certain of nothing pertaining to the passage of\n time, it is not possible that the Cheer-Up period lasted less than two\n hours. Then they let us go to the latrine.\n\n\n After a breakfast of boiled cabbage and dry pumpernickel crusts—more\n savory than you might imagine—we were assigned to our work for the\n day. I had expected to return to the manure pile, but got instead the\n rock quarry. I remember observing then, with no surprise at all, that\n the sun was out and the day promised to be a hot one.", "\"Hah! Another low-hour man. I don't see how the hell you could afford\n to come here. Well, anyway—we've got work for climbers like you. Real\n work, shnook. I know climbers like you hope you'll meet aristocracy\n in a place like this—ten hour men or even weekly workers, but I\n can promise you, shnook, that you'll be too damned tired to disport\n yourself socially, and too damned busy looking at your toes. Don't\n forget that!\"\n\n\n Remembering, I looked down quickly, but not before one of the matrons\n behind me had fetched me a solid clout on the side of the head with her\n sap.", "The huge slab finally leaned out, wavered for a queasy moment, then\n fell with a splintering crash onto the boulders below. After the dust\n settled, we could see that much of the work of breaking up the mass was\n already accomplished. We descended and set to work with an enthusiasm\n that was new.\n\n\n Long before sundown, of course, we were marched back to the latrine\n and then to the mess hall. Later I had expected that some further work\n would be thrust upon us, but it didn't happen. The grim Captain stopped\n me as I entered the mess hall. I froze. There was a queer smile on his\n face, and I had grown to fear novelty.\n\n\n \"You had a moment,\" he said, simply and declaratively. \"You didn't miss\n it, did you?\"\n\n\n \"No,\" I replied, not fully understanding. \"No, I didn't miss it.\"", "I will go back to my five kinds of cigars and my sixteen kinds of\n brandy; Bertha will return to her endless fantasy of pastries and\n desserts—an endless, joyous parade of goodies, never farther away than\n the nearest dumb-waiter door. And we will both become softer, heavier,\n a little less responsive.\n\n\n When, as sometimes happens, the sweet lethargy threatens to choke off\n our breath, we will step into our flying platform and set its automatic\n controls for Miami, Palm Beach, or the Cote d'Azur. There are conducted\n tours to the Himalayas now, or to the \"lost\" cities of the South\n American jungles, or to the bottom of any one of the seven seas. We\n will bide our time, much as others do." ], [ "\"I am in full charge here. You will speak only when spoken to,\" he\n said. His voice came as a surprise and, to me at least, as a profound\n relief. I had expected an inarticulate drawl—something not yet\n language, not quite human. Instead his voice was clipped, precise,\n clear as new type on white paper. This gave me hope at a time when hope\n was at a dangerously low mark on my personal thermometer. My mounting\n misgivings had come to focus on this grim figure behind the desk, and\n the most feared quality that I had seen in the face, a hard, sharp,\n immovable and imponderable stupidity, was strangely mitigated and even\n contradicted by the flawless, mechanical speech of the man.\n\n\n \"What did you do on the Outside, shnook?\" he snapped at me.\n\n\n \"Central Computing and Control. I punched tapes. Only got four hours of\n work a month,\" I said, hoping to cover myself with a protective film of\n humility.", "I had nothing to say. My toes, I noted, looked much the same. Then,\n behind my back, I heard a sharp squeal from Bertha. \"Stop that! Oh\n stop! Stop! The brochure said nothing about—\"\n\n\n \"Take it easy lady,\" said the other guard in an oily-nasty voice. \"I\n won't touch you none. Just wanted to see if you was amenable.\"\n\n\n I would like more than anything else in the world to be able to say\n honestly that I felt a surge of anger then. I didn't. I can remember\n with terrible clarity that I felt nothing.", "\"So he wants a nice inside job in the steam laundry?\" said the man\n behind the desk—\"the captain,\" we were instructed to call him. Another\n gust of wet wind joined his comments. \"Put him on 'The Big Rock Candy\n Mountain.'\" He fixed me then with those deep-set, glow-worm eyes,\n coldly appraising. The two Sisters of Gorgonia, meanwhile, seized\n Bertha's arms and dragged her from the room. I did not try to follow. I\n knew the rules: there were to be three husband-and-wife visiting hours\n per week. Fifteen minutes each.\n\n\n The Captain was still scrutinizing me from under the dark cliff of his\n brow. A thin smile now took shape on his lipless mouth. One of the\n guards was beating a slow, measured, somewhat squudgy tattoo on the\n edge of the desk with his kidney-sock.\n\n\n \"You wouldn't be entertaining angry thoughts, would you shnook?\" asked\n the Captain, after what seemed like half an hour of sickly pause.", "We were led into a small office at one end of a long, wooden, one-story\n building. A sign on the door said, simply, \"\nAdmissions. Knock and\n Remove Hat.\n\" The lady guard knocked and we entered. We had no hats to\n remove; indeed, this was emphasized for us by the fact that the rain\n had by now penetrated our hair and brows and was running down over our\n faces annoyingly.\nAs soon as I'd blinked the rain from my eyes, I was able to see the\n form of the person behind the desk with more clarity than I might\n have wished. He was large, but terribly emaciated, with the kind of\n gauntness that should be covered by a sheet—tenderly, reverently", "the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nBertha and I were like a couple of city kids on their first country\n outing when we arrived at Morton's place. The weather was perfect—the\n first chill of autumn had arrived in the form of a fine, needle-shower\n rain of the type that doesn't look very bad through a window, but when\n you get out in it, it seeks out every tiny opening between the warp\n and weft of your clothing and runs through your hair and eyebrows,\n under your collar and over the surfaces of your body until, as though\n directed by some knowing, invisible entity, it finds its way to your\n belly-button.\n\n\n It was beautifully timed: the ancient motor-bus had two blowouts on the\n way up the last half-mile of corduroy road that led to the place, and\n of course we were obliged to change the tires ourselves. This was a new\n experience for both of us, and on the very first day! Everything was as\n advertised, and we hadn't even arrived at the admission gate yet.", "It was that night—or perhaps the following night—that Bertha and I\n had our first fifteen-minute visit with each other. She was changed:\n her face glowed with feverish vitality, her hair was stringy and moist,\n and her eyes were serenely glassy. She had not been more provocative\n in twenty-five years. An old dormant excitement stirred within\n me—microscopically but unmistakably.", "The grim Captain made an appearance in the rock quarry one morning\n just as we were beginning work. He stood on top of a pile of stones,\n swinging his kidney-sap from his wrist and letting his eyes sweep over\n us as though selecting one for slaughter.\n\n\n When the silence had soaked in thoroughly, he announced in his cold,\n incisive tone that \"there will be no rest periods, no chow, no\n 'Beddy-by,' until this entire rock face is reduced to ballast rock.\"\n He indicated a towering slab of stone. We raised our heads only long\n enough to reassure ourselves of the utter hopelessness of the task\n before us. Not daring to look at each other closely, fearing to see our\n own despair reflected in the faces of others, we picked up our hammers\n and crowbars and crawled to the top of the monolithic mass. The film\n must have cleared from my eyes then, momentarily.", "I have absolutely no way of knowing how long we labored at this Augean\n enterprise; my watch had been taken from me, of course, and of the\n strange dislocation of my normal time-sense I have already spoken. I\n do remember that floodlights had been turned on long before a raucous\n alarm sounded, indicating that it was time for supper.\n\n\n My weariness from the unaccustomed toil had carried me past the\n point of hunger, but I do remember my first meal at the Farm. We had\n dumplings. You usually think fondly of dumplings as being\nin\nor\nwith\nsomething. We had just dumplings—cold and not quite cooked\n through.", "I didn't press the matter further. All I could think of was how I\n wanted a smoke just then. When I thought of the fresh, new pack of\n cigarettes with its unbroken cellophane and its twenty, pure white\n cylinders of fragrant Turkish and Virginia, I came as close to weeping\n as I had in forty years.\nThe ground was slimy and cold under our bare feet when we got down from\n the bus, but the two viragos behind us gave us no time to pick our way\n delicately over the uneven ground. We were propelled through the small\n door at the side of the gate, and at last we found ourselves within the\n ten-foot barriers of the Misery Camp. We just looked at each other and\n giggled.", "My toes hadn't changed in the slightest respect.\nIt must have been then, or soon after that, that my sense of time went\n gently haywire. I was conducted to \"The Big Rock Candy Mountain,\" which\n turned out to be a Brobdingnagian manure heap. Its forbidding bulk\n overshadowed all other features of the landscape except some of the\n larger trees.\n\n\n A guard stood in the shadow of a large umbrella, at a respectable and\n tolerable distance from the nitrogenous colossus, but not so distant\n that his voice did not command the entire scene. \"\nHut-ho! hut-ho!\n Hut-ho HAW!\n\" he roared, and the wretched, gray-clad figures, whose\n number I joined without ceremony or introduction, moved steadily at\n their endless work in apparent unawareness of his cadenced chant.", "The gate was exactly as the brochure had pictured it: solid and\n massive, it was let into a board fence about ten feet high which\n extended as far as you could see in either direction and lost itself on\n either side in a tangle of briers, elder bushes and dark trees. There\n were two strands of barbed wire running along the top. A sign over the\n gate—stark, black lettering on a light gray background—read:\nSilence!—No admission without\n \nauthority—No smoking!\n\nMORTON'S MISERY FARM\n\n30 acres of swamp—Our own rock\n \nquarry—Jute Mill—Steam laundry\nHarshest dietary laws in the\n \nCatskills\nA small door opened at one side of the gate and a short, stocky,\n well-muscled woman in a black visored cap and a shapeless black uniform\n came out and boarded the bus. She had our releases with her, fastened\n to a clipboard. She thrust this under my nose.", "\"You and Mrs. Devoe may leave tonight or in the morning, just as you\n prefer,\" said the Captain.\nBertha and I have had little to say to one another as we wait in\n the office for the car that will take us to the heliport. For the\n moment—this moment—it suffices that we stand here in our own clothes,\n that we have tasted coffee again, brought to us on a tray by a matron\n whose manner towards us bordered on the obsequious, and that the aroma\n of a cigarette is just as gratifying as ever.\n\n\n We will go back to our ten-room apartment on the ninety-first floor\n of the New Empire State Hotel; back to our swimming pool, our\n three-dimensional color television, our anti-gravity sleeping chambers,\n our impeccably efficient, relentlessly cheerful robot servants, and our\n library of thrills, entertainment, solace, diversion and escape—all\n impressed on magnetic tape and awaiting our pleasure.", "We didn't dare talk. On the way from the heliport we had seen some of\n the other folks at work in the swamp that surrounded the camp proper.\n They were digging out stumps with mattocks, crowbars and axes, and some\n of them stood waist-deep in the dark water. Bertha had said \"Looky\n there!\" and had made some remark about the baggy gray coveralls they\n wore—\"Just like convicts,\" she said. The driver, a huge, swinelike\n creature with very small, close-set eyes, had yanked the emergency\n brake and wheeled around at us then.\n\n\n \"You shnooks might just as well get outa the habit o' talkin' right\n here an' now. One more peep outa ya, 'n ya git clobbered!\"\n\n\n All we could do was look at each other and giggle like a couple of kids\n in the back pew of Sunday School, after that. Bertha looked ten years\n younger already.", "If I had hoped for respite after \"supper,\" it was at that time that I\n learned not to hope. Back to \"The Big Rock Candy Mountain\" we went, and\n under the bleak, iridescent glare of the lights we resumed our labor\n of no reward. One by one I felt my synapses parting, and one by one,\n slowly and certainly, the fragile membranes separating the minute from\n the hour, the Now from the Then, and the epoch out of unmeasured time\n softened and sloughed away. I was, at last, Number 109 at work on a\n monstrous manure pile, and I labored with the muscles and nerves of an\n undifferentiated man. I experienced change.", "and finally. Picture the archetype of every chain-gang captain who\n has been relieved for inhumanity to prisoners; imagine the naked\n attribute Meanness, stripped of all accidental, incongruous, mitigating\n integument; picture all kindness, all mercy, all warmth, all humanity\n excised or cauterized, or turned back upon itself and let ferment into\n some kind of noxious mash; visualize the creature from which all the\n gentle qualities had been expunged, thus, and then try to forget the\n image.", "\"Strip and pack your clothes here, shnooks,\" said the woman with the\n empty suitcase. We did, though it was pretty awkward ... standing there\n in the aisle of the bus with those two gorgons staring at us. I started\n to save out a pack of cigarettes, but was soon disabused of this idea.\n The older of the two women knocked the pack from my hand, ground it\n under her heel on the floor and let me have one across the face with\n what I am almost certain must have been an old sock full of rancid hog\n kidneys.\n\n\n \"What the hell was that?\" I protested.\n\n\n \"Sock fulla hog kidneys, shnook. Soft but heavy, know what I mean? Just\n let us do the thinkin' around here. Git outa line just once an' you'll\n see what we can do with a sock fulla hog kidneys.\"", "that it was burning just as brightly when the raucous signal sounded\n again, and the unoiled voice from the loudspeaker announced that it was\n time for the morning Cheer-Up Entertainment.\nThese orgies, it turned out, were held in the building housing\n the admission office. There was a speech choir made up of elderly\n women, all of whom wore the black uniform of the Farm matrons. The\n realization that a speech choir still existed may have startled me into\n a somewhat higher state of awareness; I had assumed that the speech\n choir had gone out with hair-receivers and humoristic medicine. The\n things they recited were in a childishly simple verse form:\nOne and\n two and three and four; One and two and THREE.\nThese verses had to do", "Inside the yard, about twenty other guests shuffled around and around\n in a circle. Their gray coveralls were dark and heavy with the rain and\n clung to their bodies in clammy-looking patches. All moved sluggishly\n through the mud with their arms hanging slack at their sides, their\n shoulders hunched forward against the wet chill, and their eyes turned\n downward, as though they were fascinated with the halting progress of\n their own feet. I had never seen people look so completely dispirited\n and tired. Only one man raised his head to look at us as we stood\n there. I noticed that his forehead had bright purple marks on it. These\n proved to be \"\nNo. 94, Property of MMF\n,\" in inch-high letters which\n ran from temple to temple just above his eyebrows. Incredibly enough\n the man grinned at us.", "\"Hah! Another low-hour man. I don't see how the hell you could afford\n to come here. Well, anyway—we've got work for climbers like you. Real\n work, shnook. I know climbers like you hope you'll meet aristocracy\n in a place like this—ten hour men or even weekly workers, but I\n can promise you, shnook, that you'll be too damned tired to disport\n yourself socially, and too damned busy looking at your toes. Don't\n forget that!\"\n\n\n Remembering, I looked down quickly, but not before one of the matrons\n behind me had fetched me a solid clout on the side of the head with her\n sap.", "The huge slab finally leaned out, wavered for a queasy moment, then\n fell with a splintering crash onto the boulders below. After the dust\n settled, we could see that much of the work of breaking up the mass was\n already accomplished. We descended and set to work with an enthusiasm\n that was new.\n\n\n Long before sundown, of course, we were marched back to the latrine\n and then to the mess hall. Later I had expected that some further work\n would be thrust upon us, but it didn't happen. The grim Captain stopped\n me as I entered the mess hall. I froze. There was a queer smile on his\n face, and I had grown to fear novelty.\n\n\n \"You had a moment,\" he said, simply and declaratively. \"You didn't miss\n it, did you?\"\n\n\n \"No,\" I replied, not fully understanding. \"No, I didn't miss it.\"" ], [ "\"Mark 'em and put 'em to work,\" he barked at the guards. Two uniformed\n men, who must have sneaked in while I was fascinated by the man behind\n the desk, seized me and started painting my forehead with an acrid\n fluid that stung like strong disinfectant in an open wound. I squinted\n my eyes and tried to look blank.\n\n\n \"This is indelible,\" one of them explained. \"We have the chemical to\n take it off, but it doesn't come off till we say so.\"\n\n\n When I had been marked, one of the guards took his ink and brush and\n advanced upon Bertha. The other addressed himself to me. \"There is a\n choice of activities. There is the jute mill, the rock quarry, the\n stump-removal detail, the manure pile....\"", "\"So he wants a nice inside job in the steam laundry?\" said the man\n behind the desk—\"the captain,\" we were instructed to call him. Another\n gust of wet wind joined his comments. \"Put him on 'The Big Rock Candy\n Mountain.'\" He fixed me then with those deep-set, glow-worm eyes,\n coldly appraising. The two Sisters of Gorgonia, meanwhile, seized\n Bertha's arms and dragged her from the room. I did not try to follow. I\n knew the rules: there were to be three husband-and-wife visiting hours\n per week. Fifteen minutes each.\n\n\n The Captain was still scrutinizing me from under the dark cliff of his\n brow. A thin smile now took shape on his lipless mouth. One of the\n guards was beating a slow, measured, somewhat squudgy tattoo on the\n edge of the desk with his kidney-sock.\n\n\n \"You wouldn't be entertaining angry thoughts, would you shnook?\" asked\n the Captain, after what seemed like half an hour of sickly pause.", "I had nothing to say. My toes, I noted, looked much the same. Then,\n behind my back, I heard a sharp squeal from Bertha. \"Stop that! Oh\n stop! Stop! The brochure said nothing about—\"\n\n\n \"Take it easy lady,\" said the other guard in an oily-nasty voice. \"I\n won't touch you none. Just wanted to see if you was amenable.\"\n\n\n I would like more than anything else in the world to be able to say\n honestly that I felt a surge of anger then. I didn't. I can remember\n with terrible clarity that I felt nothing.", "If I had hoped for respite after \"supper,\" it was at that time that I\n learned not to hope. Back to \"The Big Rock Candy Mountain\" we went, and\n under the bleak, iridescent glare of the lights we resumed our labor\n of no reward. One by one I felt my synapses parting, and one by one,\n slowly and certainly, the fragile membranes separating the minute from\n the hour, the Now from the Then, and the epoch out of unmeasured time\n softened and sloughed away. I was, at last, Number 109 at work on a\n monstrous manure pile, and I labored with the muscles and nerves of an\n undifferentiated man. I experienced change.", "The grim Captain made an appearance in the rock quarry one morning\n just as we were beginning work. He stood on top of a pile of stones,\n swinging his kidney-sap from his wrist and letting his eyes sweep over\n us as though selecting one for slaughter.\n\n\n When the silence had soaked in thoroughly, he announced in his cold,\n incisive tone that \"there will be no rest periods, no chow, no\n 'Beddy-by,' until this entire rock face is reduced to ballast rock.\"\n He indicated a towering slab of stone. We raised our heads only long\n enough to reassure ourselves of the utter hopelessness of the task\n before us. Not daring to look at each other closely, fearing to see our\n own despair reflected in the faces of others, we picked up our hammers\n and crowbars and crawled to the top of the monolithic mass. The film\n must have cleared from my eyes then, momentarily.", "\"Strip and pack your clothes here, shnooks,\" said the woman with the\n empty suitcase. We did, though it was pretty awkward ... standing there\n in the aisle of the bus with those two gorgons staring at us. I started\n to save out a pack of cigarettes, but was soon disabused of this idea.\n The older of the two women knocked the pack from my hand, ground it\n under her heel on the floor and let me have one across the face with\n what I am almost certain must have been an old sock full of rancid hog\n kidneys.\n\n\n \"What the hell was that?\" I protested.\n\n\n \"Sock fulla hog kidneys, shnook. Soft but heavy, know what I mean? Just\n let us do the thinkin' around here. Git outa line just once an' you'll\n see what we can do with a sock fulla hog kidneys.\"", "Impressions of this character have a way of entrenching themselves,\n perhaps at the cost of more meaningful ones. Conversation at the Farm\n was monosyllabic and infrequent, so it may merely be that I recall\n most lucidly those incidents with which some sort of communication was\n associated. A small man sitting opposite me in the mess hall gloomily\n indicated the dumpling at which I was picking dubiously.\n\n\n \"They'll bind ya,\" he said with the finality of special and personal\n knowledge. \"Ya don't wanta let yaself get bound here. They've got a—\"\n\n\n I don't now recall whether I said something or whether I merely held up\n my hand. I do know that I had no wish to dwell on the subject.", "We didn't dare talk. On the way from the heliport we had seen some of\n the other folks at work in the swamp that surrounded the camp proper.\n They were digging out stumps with mattocks, crowbars and axes, and some\n of them stood waist-deep in the dark water. Bertha had said \"Looky\n there!\" and had made some remark about the baggy gray coveralls they\n wore—\"Just like convicts,\" she said. The driver, a huge, swinelike\n creature with very small, close-set eyes, had yanked the emergency\n brake and wheeled around at us then.\n\n\n \"You shnooks might just as well get outa the habit o' talkin' right\n here an' now. One more peep outa ya, 'n ya git clobbered!\"\n\n\n All we could do was look at each other and giggle like a couple of kids\n in the back pew of Sunday School, after that. Bertha looked ten years\n younger already.", "The gate was exactly as the brochure had pictured it: solid and\n massive, it was let into a board fence about ten feet high which\n extended as far as you could see in either direction and lost itself on\n either side in a tangle of briers, elder bushes and dark trees. There\n were two strands of barbed wire running along the top. A sign over the\n gate—stark, black lettering on a light gray background—read:\nSilence!—No admission without\n \nauthority—No smoking!\n\nMORTON'S MISERY FARM\n*\n30 acres of swamp—Our own rock\n \nquarry—Jute Mill—Steam laundry\nHarshest dietary laws in the\n \nCatskills\nA small door opened at one side of the gate and a short, stocky,\n well-muscled woman in a black visored cap and a shapeless black uniform\n came out and boarded the bus. She had our releases with her, fastened\n to a clipboard. She thrust this under my nose.", "I do not remember that anyone spoke to me directly or, at least,\n coherently enough so that words lodged in my memory, but someone must\n have explained the general pattern of activity. The object, it seemed,\n was to move all this soggy fertilizer from its present imposing site\n to another small but growing pile located about three hundred yards\n distant. This we were to accomplish by filling paper cement bags with\n the manure and carrying it, a bag at a time, to the more distant pile.\n Needless to say, the bags frequently dissolved or burst at the lower\n seams. This meant scraping up the stuff with the hands and refilling\n another paper bag. Needless to say, also, pitchforks and shovels\n were forbidden at the Farm, as was any potentially dangerous object\n which could be lifted, swung or hurled. It would have been altogether\n redundant to explain this rule.", "I knew now that my identity, my ego, was an infinitesimal thing which\n rode along embedded in a mountain of more or less integrated organisms,\n more or less purposeful tissues, fluids and loosely articulated bones,\n as a tiny child rides in the cab of a locomotive. And the rain came\n down and the manure bags broke and we scrabbled with our hands to\n refill new ones.", "We were led into a small office at one end of a long, wooden, one-story\n building. A sign on the door said, simply, \"\nAdmissions. Knock and\n Remove Hat.\n\" The lady guard knocked and we entered. We had no hats to\n remove; indeed, this was emphasized for us by the fact that the rain\n had by now penetrated our hair and brows and was running down over our\n faces annoyingly.\nAs soon as I'd blinked the rain from my eyes, I was able to see the\n form of the person behind the desk with more clarity than I might\n have wished. He was large, but terribly emaciated, with the kind of\n gauntness that should be covered by a sheet—tenderly, reverently", "and finally. Picture the archetype of every chain-gang captain who\n has been relieved for inhumanity to prisoners; imagine the naked\n attribute Meanness, stripped of all accidental, incongruous, mitigating\n integument; picture all kindness, all mercy, all warmth, all humanity\n excised or cauterized, or turned back upon itself and let ferment into\n some kind of noxious mash; visualize the creature from which all the\n gentle qualities had been expunged, thus, and then try to forget the\n image.", "The huge slab finally leaned out, wavered for a queasy moment, then\n fell with a splintering crash onto the boulders below. After the dust\n settled, we could see that much of the work of breaking up the mass was\n already accomplished. We descended and set to work with an enthusiasm\n that was new.\n\n\n Long before sundown, of course, we were marched back to the latrine\n and then to the mess hall. Later I had expected that some further work\n would be thrust upon us, but it didn't happen. The grim Captain stopped\n me as I entered the mess hall. I froze. There was a queer smile on his\n face, and I had grown to fear novelty.\n\n\n \"You had a moment,\" he said, simply and declaratively. \"You didn't miss\n it, did you?\"\n\n\n \"No,\" I replied, not fully understanding. \"No, I didn't miss it.\"", "I have absolutely no way of knowing how long we labored at this Augean\n enterprise; my watch had been taken from me, of course, and of the\n strange dislocation of my normal time-sense I have already spoken. I\n do remember that floodlights had been turned on long before a raucous\n alarm sounded, indicating that it was time for supper.\n\n\n My weariness from the unaccustomed toil had carried me past the\n point of hunger, but I do remember my first meal at the Farm. We had\n dumplings. You usually think fondly of dumplings as being\nin\nor\nwith\nsomething. We had just dumplings—cold and not quite cooked\n through.", "Inside the yard, about twenty other guests shuffled around and around\n in a circle. Their gray coveralls were dark and heavy with the rain and\n clung to their bodies in clammy-looking patches. All moved sluggishly\n through the mud with their arms hanging slack at their sides, their\n shoulders hunched forward against the wet chill, and their eyes turned\n downward, as though they were fascinated with the halting progress of\n their own feet. I had never seen people look so completely dispirited\n and tired. Only one man raised his head to look at us as we stood\n there. I noticed that his forehead had bright purple marks on it. These\n proved to be \"\nNo. 94, Property of MMF\n,\" in inch-high letters which\n ran from temple to temple just above his eyebrows. Incredibly enough\n the man grinned at us.", "The work at the rock quarry was organized according to the same\n futilitarian pattern that governed the manure-pile operation. Rock\n had to be hacked, pried and blasted from one end of the quarry, then\n reduced to coarse gravel with sledge-hammers and carted to the other\n end of the excavation in wheelbarrows. Most of the men commenced\n working at some task in the quarry with the automatic unconcern of\n trained beasts who have paused for rest and water, perhaps, but have\n never fully stopped. A guard indicated a wheelbarrow to me and uttered\n a sharp sound ... something like HUP! I picked up the smooth handles of\n the barrow, and time turned its back upon us again.", "the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nBertha and I were like a couple of city kids on their first country\n outing when we arrived at Morton's place. The weather was perfect—the\n first chill of autumn had arrived in the form of a fine, needle-shower\n rain of the type that doesn't look very bad through a window, but when\n you get out in it, it seeks out every tiny opening between the warp\n and weft of your clothing and runs through your hair and eyebrows,\n under your collar and over the surfaces of your body until, as though\n directed by some knowing, invisible entity, it finds its way to your\n belly-button.\n\n\n It was beautifully timed: the ancient motor-bus had two blowouts on the\n way up the last half-mile of corduroy road that led to the place, and\n of course we were obliged to change the tires ourselves. This was a new\n experience for both of us, and on the very first day! Everything was as\n advertised, and we hadn't even arrived at the admission gate yet.", "\"I am in full charge here. You will speak only when spoken to,\" he\n said. His voice came as a surprise and, to me at least, as a profound\n relief. I had expected an inarticulate drawl—something not yet\n language, not quite human. Instead his voice was clipped, precise,\n clear as new type on white paper. This gave me hope at a time when hope\n was at a dangerously low mark on my personal thermometer. My mounting\n misgivings had come to focus on this grim figure behind the desk, and\n the most feared quality that I had seen in the face, a hard, sharp,\n immovable and imponderable stupidity, was strangely mitigated and even\n contradicted by the flawless, mechanical speech of the man.\n\n\n \"What did you do on the Outside, shnook?\" he snapped at me.\n\n\n \"Central Computing and Control. I punched tapes. Only got four hours of\n work a month,\" I said, hoping to cover myself with a protective film of\n humility.", "She told me that she had been put to work in the jute mill, but had\n passed out and had been transferred to the steam laundry. Her job in\n the laundry was to sort out the socks and underwear that were too bad\n to go in with the rest of the wash. We speculated on where the socks\n and underwear could have come from, as such fripperies were denied to\n us at the Farm. We also wondered about the manure, considering that\n no animals were in evidence here. Both, we concluded, must have been\n shipped in specially from the Outside. We found it in us to giggle,\n when the end of the visit was announced, over our own choice of\n conversational material for that precious quarter hour. Thereafter,\n when we could catch glimpses of each other during the day, we would\n exchange furtive signals, then go about our work exhilarated by the\n fiction that we shared some priceless Cabalistic knowledge." ] ]
train	52844	[ "Why did Jimmy Tremaine visit his hometown?", "What kind of area is Elsby?", "What is the significance of May 19th, 1901?", "Who was in the black sedan that rushed off past Tremaine a block from the hotel?", "Who is Soup Gaskin?", "Why is Tremaine considered the best person to conduct this investigation?" ]	[ [ "To catch a criminal.", "To have a tour and visit the sites.", "To locate a device.", "To visit family and old friends." ], [ "Rural and old-fashioned", "Urban and busy", "Flashy and rich", "Run-down and dirty" ], [ "There was a thunderstorm in the area.", "Bram bought a damaged farm from Mr. Spivey.", "Bram’s house burned down.", "The Pan-American Exposition was in Buffalo." ], [ "Jess", "Mr. Bram", "The men who stole the transmitter", "Grammond’s men" ], [ "Local librarian", "Local politician", "Local police officer", "Local troublemaker" ], [ "He knows the people and the area.", "He has special training.", "He has extra time.", "He has money to pay people bribes." ] ]	[ 3, 1, 2, 4, 4, 1 ]	[ 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 1 ]	[ [ "\"Hold it, Jimmy. You're over my head.\" Jess got to his feet. \"Let me\n know if you want anything. And by the way—\" he winked broadly—\"I\n always did know who busted Soup Gaskin's nose and took out his front\n teeth.\"\nII\n\n\n Back in the street, Tremaine headed south toward the Elsby Town\n Hall, a squat structure of brownish-red brick, crouched under yellow\n autumn trees at the end of Sheridan Street. Tremaine went up the\n steps and past heavy double doors. Ten yards along the dim corridor,\n a hand-lettered cardboard sign over a black-varnished door said\n \"MUNICIPAL OFFICE OF RECORD.\" Tremaine opened the door and went in.\n\n\n A thin man with garters above the elbow looked over his shoulder at\n Tremaine.\n\n\n \"We're closed,\" he said.", "Tremaine shook his head. \"I'm getting nowhere fast. The Bram idea's a\n dud, I'm afraid.\"\n\n\n \"Funny thing about Bram. You know, he hasn't showed up yet. I'm getting\n a little worried. Want to run out there with me and take a look around?\"\n\n\n \"Sure. Just so I'm back by full dark.\"\n\n\n As they pulled away from the curb Jess said, \"Jimmy, what's this about\n State Police nosing around here? I thought you were playing a lone hand\n from what you were saying to me.\"\n\n\n \"I thought so too, Jess. But it looks like Grammond's a jump ahead of\n me. He smells headlines in this; he doesn't want to be left out.\"", "\"Beats me, Jimmy. You remember old Aunt Tress, used to know all about\n ancestors and such as that? She couldn't remember about Mr. Bram. She\n was kind of senile, I guess. She used to say he'd lived in that same\n old place out on the Concord road when she was a girl. Well, she died\n five years ago ... in her seventies. He still walks in town every\n Wednesday ... or he did up till yesterday anyway.\"\n\n\n \"Oh?\" Tremaine stubbed out his cigarette, lit another. \"What happened\n then?\"\n\n\n \"You remember Soup Gaskin? He's got a boy, name of Hull. He's Soup all\n over again.\"", "The policeman got to his feet. \"Jimmy,\" he said, \"Jimmy Tremaine.\" He\n came to the counter and put out his hand. \"How are you, Jimmy? What\n brings you back to the boondocks?\"\n\n\n \"Let's go somewhere and sit down, Jess.\"\n\n\n In a back room Tremaine said, \"To everybody but you this is just a\n visit to the old home town. Between us, there's more.\"\n\n\n Jess nodded. \"I heard you were with the guv'ment.\"\n\n\n \"It won't take long to tell; we don't know much yet.\" Tremaine covered\n the discovery of the powerful unidentified interference on the\n high-security hyperwave band, the discovery that each transmission\n produced not one but a pattern of \"fixes\" on the point of origin. He\n passed a sheet of paper across the table. It showed a set of concentric\n circles, overlapped by a similar group of rings.", "Miss Carroll hesitated, then put her hand to her throat, lifted a\n silver disc on a fine golden chain. \"You see what a foolish old woman I\n am, James.\"\n\n\n \"May I see it?\"\n\n\n She handed the locket to him. It was heavy, smooth. \"I'd like to\n examine this more closely,\" he said. \"May I take it with me?\"\n\n\n Miss Carroll nodded.\n\n\n \"There is one other thing,\" she said, \"perhaps quite meaningless....\"\n\n\n \"I'd be grateful for any lead.\"\n\n\n \"Bram fears the thunder.\"\nIII\n\n\n As Tremaine walked slowly toward the lighted main street of Elsby a car\n pulled to a stop beside him. Jess leaned out, peered at Tremaine and\n asked:\n\n\n \"Any luck, Jimmy?\"", "\"Dunno. Just meanness, I reckon. Not much damage done. A car was\n passing by and called it in. I had the whole caboodle locked up here\n for six hours. Then the sob sisters went to work: poor little tyke\n routine, high spirits, you know the line. All of 'em but Hull are back\n in the streets playin' with matches by now. I'm waiting for the day\n they'll make jail age.\"\n\n\n \"Why Bram?\" Tremaine persisted. \"As far as I know, he never had any\n dealings to speak of with anybody here in town.\"\n\n\n \"Oh hoh, you're a little young, Jimmy,\" Jess chuckled. \"You never knew\n about Mr. Bram—the young Mr. Bram—and Linda Carroll.\"\n\n\n Tremaine shook his head.", "\"Course,\" said Jess, \"there's always Mr. Bram ...\"\n\n\n \"Mr. Bram,\" repeated Tremaine. \"Is he still around? I remember him as a\n hundred years old when I was kid.\"\n\n\n \"Still just the same, Jimmy. Comes in town maybe once a week, buys his\n groceries and hikes back out to his place by the river.\"\n\n\n \"Well, what about him?\"\n\n\n \"Nothing. But he's the town's mystery man. You know that. A little\n touched in the head.\"", "\"There were a lot of funny stories about him, I remember,\" Tremaine\n said. \"I always liked him. One time he tried to teach me something\n I've forgotten. Wanted me to come out to his place and he'd teach me.\n I never did go. We kids used to play in the caves near his place, and\n sometimes he gave us apples.\"\n\"I've never seen any harm in Bram,\" said Jess. \"But you know how this\n town is about foreigners, especially when they're a mite addled. Bram\n has blue eyes and blond hair—or did before it turned white—and he\n talks just like everybody else. From a distance he seems just like an\n ordinary American. But up close, you feel it. He's foreign, all right.\n But we never did know where he came from.\"\n\n\n \"How long's he lived here in Elsby?\"", "\"I remember Soup,\" Tremaine said. \"He and his bunch used to come in\n the drug store where I worked and perch on the stools and kid around\n with me, and Mr. Hempleman would watch them from over back of the\n prescription counter and look nervous. They used to raise cain in the\n other drug store....\"\n\n\n \"Soup's been in the pen since then. His boy Hull's the same kind. Him\n and a bunch of his pals went out to Bram's place one night and set it\n on fire.\"\n\n\n \"What was the idea of that?\"", "The boy darted another look at Tremaine. \"They said they figured the\n spies was out north of town. Well, Bram's a foreigner, and he's out\n that way, ain't he?\"\n\n\n \"Anything else?\"\n\n\n The boy looked at his feet.", "\"I always liked Mr. Bram,\" said Tremaine. \"I'm not out to hurt him.\"\n\n\n \"Mr. Bram came here when I was a young woman. I'm not certain of the\n year.\"\n\n\n \"What does he do for a living?\"\n\n\n \"I have no idea.\"\n\n\n \"Why did a healthy young fellow like Bram settle out in that isolated\n piece of country? What's his story?\"\n\n\n \"I'm ... not sure that anyone truly knows Bram's story.\"\n\n\n \"You called him 'Bram', Miss Carroll. Is that his first name ... or his\n last?\"\n\n\n \"That is his only name. Just ... Bram.\"\n\n\n \"You knew him well once, Miss Carroll. Is there anything—\"\n\n\n A tear rolled down Miss Carroll's faded cheek. She wiped it away\n impatiently.", "\"I often wondered why you didn't leave, Miss Carroll. I thought, even\n as a boy, that you were a woman of great ability.\"\n\n\n \"Why did you come today, James?\" asked Miss Carroll.\n\n\n \"I....\" Tremaine started. He looked at the old lady. \"I want some\n information. This is an important matter. May I rely on your\n discretion?\"\n\n\n \"Of course.\"\n\n\n \"How long has Mr. Bram lived in Elsby?\"\nMiss Carroll looked at him for a long moment. \"Will what I tell you be\n used against him?\"\n\n\n \"There'll be nothing done against him, Miss Carroll ... unless it needs\n to be in the national interest.\"\n\n\n \"I'm not at all sure I know what the term 'national interest' means,\n James. I distrust these glib phrases.\"", "\"That's blood, Jess....\" Tremaine scanned the floor. It was of broad\n slabs, closely laid, scrubbed clean but for the dark stains.\n\n\n \"Maybe he cleaned a chicken. This is the kitchen.\"\n\n\n \"It's a trail.\" Tremaine followed the line of drops across the floor.\n It ended suddenly near the wall.\n\n\n \"What do you make of it. Jimmy?\"\n\n\n A wail sounded, a thin forlorn cry, trailing off into silence. Jess\n stared at Tremaine. \"I'm too damned old to start believing in spooks,\"\n he said. \"You suppose those damn-fool boys are hiding here, playing\n tricks?\"", "Tremaine went to the car, dropped the pistol in his coat pocket,\n rejoined Jess inside the house. It was silent, deserted. In the kitchen\n Jess flicked the beam of his flashlight around the room. An empty plate\n lay on the oilcloth-covered table.\n\n\n \"This place is empty,\" he said. \"Anybody'd think he'd been gone a week.\"\n\n\n \"Not a very cozy—\" Tremaine broke off. A thin yelp sounded in the\n distance.\n\n\n \"I'm getting jumpy,\" said Jess. \"Dern hounddog, I guess.\"\n\n\n A low growl seemed to rumble distantly. \"What the devil's that?\"\n Tremaine said.\n\n\n Jess shone the light on the floor. \"Look here,\" he said. The ring of\n light showed a spatter of dark droplets all across the plank floor.", "\"You've seen all the files! Now I want answers, not questions! I'm\n warning you, Tremaine. Get that transmitter. I need someone to hang!\"\nTremaine left the hotel, walked two blocks west along Commerce Street\n and turned in at a yellow brick building with the words ELSBY\n MUNICIPAL POLICE cut in the stone lintel above the door. Inside, a\n heavy man with a creased face and thick gray hair looked up from behind\n an ancient Underwood. He studied Tremaine, shifted a toothpick to the\n opposite corner of his mouth.\n\n\n \"Don't I know you, mister?\" he said. His soft voice carried a note of\n authority.\n\n\n Tremaine took off his hat. \"Sure you do, Jess. It's been a while,\n though.\"", "The clerk looked sideways at Tremaine. \"Lots of funny stories about\n old Bram. Useta say his place was haunted. You know; funny noises and\n lights. And they used to say there was money buried out at his place.\"\n\n\n \"I've heard those stories. Just superstition, wouldn't you say?\"\n\n\n \"Maybe so.\" The clerk leaned on the counter, assumed a knowing look.\n \"There's one story that's not superstition....\"\n\n\n Tremaine waited.\n\n\n \"You—uh—paying anything for information?\"\n\n\n \"Now why would I do that?\" Tremaine reached for the door knob.", "\"I'm an unfulfilled old maid, James,\" she said. \"You must forgive me.\"\n\n\n Tremaine stood up. \"I'm sorry. Really sorry. I didn't mean to grill\n you. Miss Carroll. You've been very kind. I had no right....\"\n\n\n Miss Carroll shook her head. \"I knew you as a boy, James. I have\n complete confidence in you. If anything I can tell you about Bram will\n be helpful to you, it is my duty to oblige you; and it may help him.\"\n She paused. Tremaine waited.\n\n\n \"Many years ago I was courted by Bram. One day he asked me to go with\n him to his house. On the way he told me a terrible and pathetic tale.\n He said that each night he fought a battle with evil beings, alone, in\n a cave beneath his house.\"", "The last pink light of sunset was fading from the clouds to the west as\n Jess swung the car through the open gate, pulled up under the old trees\n before the square-built house. The windows were dark. The two men got\n out, circled the house once, then mounted the steps and rapped on the\n door. There was a black patch of charred flooring under the window, and\n the paint on the wall above it was bubbled. Somewhere a cricket set up\n a strident chirrup, suddenly cut off. Jess leaned down, picked up an\n empty shotgun shell. He looked at Tremaine. \"This don't look good,\" he\n said. \"You suppose those fool boys...?\"\n\n\n He tried the door. It opened. A broken hasp dangled. He turned to\n Tremaine. \"Maybe this is more than kid stuff,\" he said. \"You carry a\n gun?\"\n\n\n \"In the car.\"\n\n\n \"Better get it.\"", "\"I won't be a minute,\" Tremaine said. \"Just want to check on when the\n Bram property changed hands last.\"\n\n\n The man turned to Tremaine, pushing a drawer shut with his hip. \"Bram?\n He dead?\"\n\n\n \"Nothing like that. I just want to know when he bought the place.\"\n\n\n The man came over to the counter, eyeing Tremaine. \"He ain't going to\n sell, mister, if that's what you want to know.\"\n\n\n \"I want to know when he bought.\"\n\n\n The man hesitated, closed his jaw hard. \"Come back tomorrow,\" he said.", "\"What did you hear?\"\n\n\n \"They're lookin for the spies.\"\n\n\n \"Who's looking for spies?\"\n\n\n \"Cops.\"\n\n\n \"Who says so?\"\n\n\n The boy looked directly at Tremaine for an instant, flicked his eyes to\n the corner of the cell. \"Cops was talkin about 'em,\" he said.\n\n\n \"Spill it, Hull,\" the policeman said. \"Mr. Tremaine hasn't got all\n night.\"\n\n\n \"They parked out east of town, on 302, back of the woodlot. They called\n me over and asked me a bunch of questions. Said I could help 'em get\n them spies. Wanted to know all about any funny-actin people around\n hers.\"\n\n\n \"And you mentioned Bram?\"" ], [ "\"There were a lot of funny stories about him, I remember,\" Tremaine\n said. \"I always liked him. One time he tried to teach me something\n I've forgotten. Wanted me to come out to his place and he'd teach me.\n I never did go. We kids used to play in the caves near his place, and\n sometimes he gave us apples.\"\n\"I've never seen any harm in Bram,\" said Jess. \"But you know how this\n town is about foreigners, especially when they're a mite addled. Bram\n has blue eyes and blond hair—or did before it turned white—and he\n talks just like everybody else. From a distance he seems just like an\n ordinary American. But up close, you feel it. He's foreign, all right.\n But we never did know where he came from.\"\n\n\n \"How long's he lived here in Elsby?\"", "this was a Sunday afternoon and someways or other they got Bram down\n there; and Miss Linda made her play, right there in front of the town,\n practically. Just before sundown they went off together in that fancy\n shay. And the next day, she was home again—alone. That finished off\n her reputation, as far as the biddies in Elsby was concerned. It was\n ten years 'fore she even landed the teaching job. By that time, she was\n already old. And nobody was ever fool enough to mention the name Bram\n in front of her.\"", "\"I often wondered why you didn't leave, Miss Carroll. I thought, even\n as a boy, that you were a woman of great ability.\"\n\n\n \"Why did you come today, James?\" asked Miss Carroll.\n\n\n \"I....\" Tremaine started. He looked at the old lady. \"I want some\n information. This is an important matter. May I rely on your\n discretion?\"\n\n\n \"Of course.\"\n\n\n \"How long has Mr. Bram lived in Elsby?\"\nMiss Carroll looked at him for a long moment. \"Will what I tell you be\n used against him?\"\n\n\n \"There'll be nothing done against him, Miss Carroll ... unless it needs\n to be in the national interest.\"\n\n\n \"I'm not at all sure I know what the term 'national interest' means,\n James. I distrust these glib phrases.\"", "Mr. Bram has purchased a quarter section of fine grazing land,\n north of town, together with a sturdy house, from J. P. Spivey of\n Elsby. Mr. Bram will occupy the home and will continue to graze a\n few head of stock. Mr. Bram, who is a newcomer to the county, has\n been a resident of Mrs. Stoate's Guest Home in Elsby for the past\n months.\n\n\n \"May I see some earlier issues; from about the first of the year?\"\n\n\n The librarian produced the papers. Tremaine turned the pages, read the\n heads, skimmed an article here and there. The librarian went back to\n her desk. An hour later, in the issue for July 7, 1900, an item caught\n his eye:", "Miss Carroll hesitated, then put her hand to her throat, lifted a\n silver disc on a fine golden chain. \"You see what a foolish old woman I\n am, James.\"\n\n\n \"May I see it?\"\n\n\n She handed the locket to him. It was heavy, smooth. \"I'd like to\n examine this more closely,\" he said. \"May I take it with me?\"\n\n\n Miss Carroll nodded.\n\n\n \"There is one other thing,\" she said, \"perhaps quite meaningless....\"\n\n\n \"I'd be grateful for any lead.\"\n\n\n \"Bram fears the thunder.\"\nIII\n\n\n As Tremaine walked slowly toward the lighted main street of Elsby a car\n pulled to a stop beside him. Jess leaned out, peered at Tremaine and\n asked:\n\n\n \"Any luck, Jimmy?\"", "\"Okay, can you read me all right? I'm set up in Elsby. Grammond's boys\n are supposed to keep me informed. Meantime, I'm not sitting in this\n damned room crouched over a dial. I'll be out and around for the rest\n of the afternoon.\"\n\n\n \"I want to see results,\" the thin voice came back over the filtered\n hum of the jamming device. \"You spent a week with Grammond—I can't\n wait another. I don't mind telling you certain quarters are pressing\n me.\"\n\n\n \"Fred, when will you learn to sit on your news breaks until you've got\n some answers to go with the questions?\"", "A Severe Thunderstorm. Citizens of Elsby and the country were much\n alarmed by a violent cloudburst, accompanied by lightning and\n thunder, during the night of the fifth. A fire set in the pine\n woods north of Spivey's farm destroyed a considerable amount of\n timber and threatened the house before burning itself out along\n the river.\n\n\n The librarian was at Tremaine's side. \"I have to close the library now.\n You'll have to come back tomorrow.\"\n\n\n Outside, the sky was sallow in the west: lights were coming on in\n windows along the side streets. Tremaine turned up his collar against a\n cold wind that had risen, started along the street toward the hotel.\n\n\n A block away a black late-model sedan rounded a corner with a faint\n squeal of tires and gunned past him, a heavy antenna mounted forward\n of the left rear tail fin whipping in the slipstream. Tremaine stopped\n short, stared after the car.", "\"Damn!\" he said aloud. An elderly man veered, eyeing him sharply.\n Tremaine set off at a run, covered the two blocks to the hotel, yanked\n open the door to his car, slid into the seat, made a U-turn, and headed\n north after the police car.\nTwo miles into the dark hills north of the Elsby city limits, Tremaine\n rounded a curve. The police car was parked on the shoulder beside the\n highway just ahead. He pulled off the road ahead of it and walked back.\n The door opened. A tall figure stepped out.\n\n\n \"What's your problem, mister?\" a harsh voice drawled.\n\n\n \"What's the matter? Run out of signal?\"\n\n\n \"What's it to you, mister?\"\n\n\n \"Are you boys in touch with Grammond on the car set?\"\n\n\n \"We could be.\"", "\"You've seen all the files! Now I want answers, not questions! I'm\n warning you, Tremaine. Get that transmitter. I need someone to hang!\"\nTremaine left the hotel, walked two blocks west along Commerce Street\n and turned in at a yellow brick building with the words ELSBY\n MUNICIPAL POLICE cut in the stone lintel above the door. Inside, a\n heavy man with a creased face and thick gray hair looked up from behind\n an ancient Underwood. He studied Tremaine, shifted a toothpick to the\n opposite corner of his mouth.\n\n\n \"Don't I know you, mister?\" he said. His soft voice carried a note of\n authority.\n\n\n Tremaine took off his hat. \"Sure you do, Jess. It's been a while,\n though.\"", "\"There is nothing whatever wrong with my faculties, James,\" Miss\n Carroll said calmly. Her voice was still resonant, a deep contralto.\n Only a faint quaver reflected her age—close to eighty, Tremaine\n thought, startled.\n\n\n \"I'm flattered you remember me, Miss Carroll,\" he said.\n\n\n \"Come in.\" She led the way to a pleasant parlor set out with the\n furnishings of another era. She motioned Tremaine to a seat and took a\n straight chair across the room from him.\n\n\n \"You look very well, James,\" she said, nodding. \"I'm pleased to see\n that you've amounted to something.\"\n\n\n \"Just another bureaucrat, I'm afraid.\"\n\n\n \"You were wise to leave Elsby. There is no future here for a young man.\"", "\"Mind if I have a word with him? My name's Tremaine.\"\n\n\n \"Oh,\" said the cop, \"you're the big shot from Washington.\" He shifted\n chewing tobacco to the other side of his jaw. \"Sure, you can talk to\n him.\" He turned and spoke to the other cop, who muttered into the mike\n before handing it to Tremaine.\n\n\n The heavy voice of the State Police chief crackled. \"What's your beef,\n Tremaine?\"\n\n\n \"I thought you were going to keep your men away from Elsby until I gave\n the word, Grammond.\"\n\n\n \"That was before I knew your Washington stuffed shirts were holding out\n on me.\"\n\n\n \"It's nothing we can go to court with, Grammond. And the job you were\n doing might have been influenced if I'd told you about the Elsby angle.\"", "The clerk shrugged. \"Thought I'd ask. Anyway—I can swear to this.\n Nobody in this town's ever seen Bram between sundown and sunup.\"\nUntrimmed sumacs threw late-afternoon shadows on the discolored stucco\n facade of the Elsby Public Library. Inside, Tremaine followed a\n paper-dry woman of indeterminate age to a rack of yellowed newsprint.\n\n\n \"You'll find back to nineteen-forty here,\" the librarian said. \"The\n older are there in the shelves.\"\n\n\n \"I want nineteen-oh-one, if they go back that far.\"\n\n\n The woman darted a suspicious look at Tremaine. \"You have to handle\n these old papers carefully.\"\n\n\n \"I'll be extremely careful.\" The woman sniffed, opened a drawer, leafed\n through it, muttering.\n\n\n \"What date was it you wanted?\"", "\"Hold it, Jimmy. You're over my head.\" Jess got to his feet. \"Let me\n know if you want anything. And by the way—\" he winked broadly—\"I\n always did know who busted Soup Gaskin's nose and took out his front\n teeth.\"\nII\n\n\n Back in the street, Tremaine headed south toward the Elsby Town\n Hall, a squat structure of brownish-red brick, crouched under yellow\n autumn trees at the end of Sheridan Street. Tremaine went up the\n steps and past heavy double doors. Ten yards along the dim corridor,\n a hand-lettered cardboard sign over a black-varnished door said\n \"MUNICIPAL OFFICE OF RECORD.\" Tremaine opened the door and went in.\n\n\n A thin man with garters above the elbow looked over his shoulder at\n Tremaine.\n\n\n \"We're closed,\" he said.", "Tremaine put a hand on the counter, looked thoughtful. \"I was hoping\n to save a trip.\" He lifted his hand and scratched the side of his jaw.\n A folded bill opened on the counter. The thin man's eyes darted toward\n it. His hand eased out, covered the bill. He grinned quickly.\n\n\n \"See what I can do,\" he said.\n\n\n It was ten minutes before he beckoned Tremaine over to the table where\n a two-foot-square book lay open. An untrimmed fingernail indicated a\n line written in faded ink:\n\n\n \"May 19. Acreage sold, One Dollar and other G&V consid. NW Quarter\n Section 24, Township Elsby. Bram. (see Vol. 9 & cet.)\"\n\n\n \"Translated, what does that mean?\" said Tremaine.", "\"Course,\" said Jess, \"there's always Mr. Bram ...\"\n\n\n \"Mr. Bram,\" repeated Tremaine. \"Is he still around? I remember him as a\n hundred years old when I was kid.\"\n\n\n \"Still just the same, Jimmy. Comes in town maybe once a week, buys his\n groceries and hikes back out to his place by the river.\"\n\n\n \"Well, what about him?\"\n\n\n \"Nothing. But he's the town's mystery man. You know that. A little\n touched in the head.\"", "\"I always liked Mr. Bram,\" said Tremaine. \"I'm not out to hurt him.\"\n\n\n \"Mr. Bram came here when I was a young woman. I'm not certain of the\n year.\"\n\n\n \"What does he do for a living?\"\n\n\n \"I have no idea.\"\n\n\n \"Why did a healthy young fellow like Bram settle out in that isolated\n piece of country? What's his story?\"\n\n\n \"I'm ... not sure that anyone truly knows Bram's story.\"\n\n\n \"You called him 'Bram', Miss Carroll. Is that his first name ... or his\n last?\"\n\n\n \"That is his only name. Just ... Bram.\"\n\n\n \"You knew him well once, Miss Carroll. Is there anything—\"\n\n\n A tear rolled down Miss Carroll's faded cheek. She wiped it away\n impatiently.", "\"Beats me, Jimmy. You remember old Aunt Tress, used to know all about\n ancestors and such as that? She couldn't remember about Mr. Bram. She\n was kind of senile, I guess. She used to say he'd lived in that same\n old place out on the Concord road when she was a girl. Well, she died\n five years ago ... in her seventies. He still walks in town every\n Wednesday ... or he did up till yesterday anyway.\"\n\n\n \"Oh?\" Tremaine stubbed out his cigarette, lit another. \"What happened\n then?\"\n\n\n \"You remember Soup Gaskin? He's got a boy, name of Hull. He's Soup all\n over again.\"", "\"Old Miss Carroll. School teacher here for years; guess she was retired\n by the time you were playing hookey. But her dad had money, and in\n her day she was a beauty. Too good for the fellers in these parts. I\n remember her ridin by in a high-wheeled shay, when I was just a nipper.\n Sitting up proud and tall, with that red hair piled up high. I used to\n think she was some kind of princess....\"", "\"What did you hear?\"\n\n\n \"They're lookin for the spies.\"\n\n\n \"Who's looking for spies?\"\n\n\n \"Cops.\"\n\n\n \"Who says so?\"\n\n\n The boy looked directly at Tremaine for an instant, flicked his eyes to\n the corner of the cell. \"Cops was talkin about 'em,\" he said.\n\n\n \"Spill it, Hull,\" the policeman said. \"Mr. Tremaine hasn't got all\n night.\"\n\n\n \"They parked out east of town, on 302, back of the woodlot. They called\n me over and asked me a bunch of questions. Said I could help 'em get\n them spies. Wanted to know all about any funny-actin people around\n hers.\"\n\n\n \"And you mentioned Bram?\"", "\"Dunno. Just meanness, I reckon. Not much damage done. A car was\n passing by and called it in. I had the whole caboodle locked up here\n for six hours. Then the sob sisters went to work: poor little tyke\n routine, high spirits, you know the line. All of 'em but Hull are back\n in the streets playin' with matches by now. I'm waiting for the day\n they'll make jail age.\"\n\n\n \"Why Bram?\" Tremaine persisted. \"As far as I know, he never had any\n dealings to speak of with anybody here in town.\"\n\n\n \"Oh hoh, you're a little young, Jimmy,\" Jess chuckled. \"You never knew\n about Mr. Bram—the young Mr. Bram—and Linda Carroll.\"\n\n\n Tremaine shook his head." ], [ "\"Nineteen-oh-one; the week of May nineteenth.\"\n\n\n The librarian pulled out a folded paper, placed it on the table,\n adjusted her glasses, squinted at the front page. \"That's it,\" she\n said. \"These papers keep pretty well, provided they're stored in the\n dark. But they're still flimsy, mind you.\"\n\n\n \"I'll remember.\" The woman stood by as Tremaine looked over the front\n page. The lead article concerned the opening of the Pan-American\n Exposition at Buffalo. Vice-President Roosevelt had made a speech.\n Tremaine leafed over, reading slowly.\n\n\n On page four, under a column headed\nCounty Notes\nhe saw the name Bram:", "\"That's the ledger for 1901; means Bram bought a quarter section on the\n nineteenth of May. You want me to look up the deed?\"\n\n\n \"No, thanks,\" Tremaine said. \"That's all I needed.\" He turned back to\n the door.\n\n\n \"What's up, mister?\" the clerk called after him. \"Bram in some kind of\n trouble?\"\n\n\n \"No. No trouble.\"\n\n\n The man was looking at the book with pursed lips. \"Nineteen-oh-one,\"\n he said. \"I never thought of it before, but you know, old Bram must be\n dern near to ninety years old. Spry for that age.\"\n\n\n \"I guess you're right.\"", "Mr. Bram has purchased a quarter section of fine grazing land,\n north of town, together with a sturdy house, from J. P. Spivey of\n Elsby. Mr. Bram will occupy the home and will continue to graze a\n few head of stock. Mr. Bram, who is a newcomer to the county, has\n been a resident of Mrs. Stoate's Guest Home in Elsby for the past\n months.\n\n\n \"May I see some earlier issues; from about the first of the year?\"\n\n\n The librarian produced the papers. Tremaine turned the pages, read the\n heads, skimmed an article here and there. The librarian went back to\n her desk. An hour later, in the issue for July 7, 1900, an item caught\n his eye:", "\"I'm an unfulfilled old maid, James,\" she said. \"You must forgive me.\"\n\n\n Tremaine stood up. \"I'm sorry. Really sorry. I didn't mean to grill\n you. Miss Carroll. You've been very kind. I had no right....\"\n\n\n Miss Carroll shook her head. \"I knew you as a boy, James. I have\n complete confidence in you. If anything I can tell you about Bram will\n be helpful to you, it is my duty to oblige you; and it may help him.\"\n She paused. Tremaine waited.\n\n\n \"Many years ago I was courted by Bram. One day he asked me to go with\n him to his house. On the way he told me a terrible and pathetic tale.\n He said that each night he fought a battle with evil beings, alone, in\n a cave beneath his house.\"", "\"What about her and Bram? A romance?\"\nJess rocked his chair back on two legs, looked at the ceiling,\n frowning. \"This would ha' been about nineteen-oh-one. I was no more'n\n eight years old. Miss Linda was maybe in her twenties—and that made\n her an old maid, in those times. The word got out she was setting\n her cap for Bram. He was a good-looking young feller then, over six\n foot, of course, broad backed, curly yellow hair—and a stranger to\n boot. Like I said, Linda Carroll wanted nothin to do with the local\n bucks. There was a big shindy planned. Now, you know Bram was funny\n about any kind of socializing; never would go any place at night. But", "Miss Carroll drew a deep breath and went on. \"I was torn between pity\n and horror. I begged him to take me back. He refused.\" Miss Carroll\n twisted her fingers together, her eyes fixed on the long past. \"When\n we reached the house, he ran to the kitchen. He lit a lamp and threw\n open a concealed panel. There were stairs. He went down ... and left me\n there alone.\n\n\n \"I waited all that night in the carriage. At dawn he emerged. He tried\n to speak to me but I would not listen.\n\n\n \"He took a locket from his neck and put it into my hand. He told me to\n keep it and, if ever I should need him, to press it between my fingers\n in a secret way ... and he would come. I told him that until he would\n consent to see a doctor, I did not wish him to call. He drove me home.\n He never called again.\"\n\n\n \"This locket,\" said Tremaine, \"do you still have it?\"", "The clerk shrugged. \"Thought I'd ask. Anyway—I can swear to this.\n Nobody in this town's ever seen Bram between sundown and sunup.\"\nUntrimmed sumacs threw late-afternoon shadows on the discolored stucco\n facade of the Elsby Public Library. Inside, Tremaine followed a\n paper-dry woman of indeterminate age to a rack of yellowed newsprint.\n\n\n \"You'll find back to nineteen-forty here,\" the librarian said. \"The\n older are there in the shelves.\"\n\n\n \"I want nineteen-oh-one, if they go back that far.\"\n\n\n The woman darted a suspicious look at Tremaine. \"You have to handle\n these old papers carefully.\"\n\n\n \"I'll be extremely careful.\" The woman sniffed, opened a drawer, leafed\n through it, muttering.\n\n\n \"What date was it you wanted?\"", "Tremaine put a hand on the counter, looked thoughtful. \"I was hoping\n to save a trip.\" He lifted his hand and scratched the side of his jaw.\n A folded bill opened on the counter. The thin man's eyes darted toward\n it. His hand eased out, covered the bill. He grinned quickly.\n\n\n \"See what I can do,\" he said.\n\n\n It was ten minutes before he beckoned Tremaine over to the table where\n a two-foot-square book lay open. An untrimmed fingernail indicated a\n line written in faded ink:\n\n\n \"May 19. Acreage sold, One Dollar and other G&V consid. NW Quarter\n Section 24, Township Elsby. Bram. (see Vol. 9 & cet.)\"\n\n\n \"Translated, what does that mean?\" said Tremaine.", "this was a Sunday afternoon and someways or other they got Bram down\n there; and Miss Linda made her play, right there in front of the town,\n practically. Just before sundown they went off together in that fancy\n shay. And the next day, she was home again—alone. That finished off\n her reputation, as far as the biddies in Elsby was concerned. It was\n ten years 'fore she even landed the teaching job. By that time, she was\n already old. And nobody was ever fool enough to mention the name Bram\n in front of her.\"", "\"Dunno. Just meanness, I reckon. Not much damage done. A car was\n passing by and called it in. I had the whole caboodle locked up here\n for six hours. Then the sob sisters went to work: poor little tyke\n routine, high spirits, you know the line. All of 'em but Hull are back\n in the streets playin' with matches by now. I'm waiting for the day\n they'll make jail age.\"\n\n\n \"Why Bram?\" Tremaine persisted. \"As far as I know, he never had any\n dealings to speak of with anybody here in town.\"\n\n\n \"Oh hoh, you're a little young, Jimmy,\" Jess chuckled. \"You never knew\n about Mr. Bram—the young Mr. Bram—and Linda Carroll.\"\n\n\n Tremaine shook his head.", "Miss Carroll hesitated, then put her hand to her throat, lifted a\n silver disc on a fine golden chain. \"You see what a foolish old woman I\n am, James.\"\n\n\n \"May I see it?\"\n\n\n She handed the locket to him. It was heavy, smooth. \"I'd like to\n examine this more closely,\" he said. \"May I take it with me?\"\n\n\n Miss Carroll nodded.\n\n\n \"There is one other thing,\" she said, \"perhaps quite meaningless....\"\n\n\n \"I'd be grateful for any lead.\"\n\n\n \"Bram fears the thunder.\"\nIII\n\n\n As Tremaine walked slowly toward the lighted main street of Elsby a car\n pulled to a stop beside him. Jess leaned out, peered at Tremaine and\n asked:\n\n\n \"Any luck, Jimmy?\"", "\"I often wondered why you didn't leave, Miss Carroll. I thought, even\n as a boy, that you were a woman of great ability.\"\n\n\n \"Why did you come today, James?\" asked Miss Carroll.\n\n\n \"I....\" Tremaine started. He looked at the old lady. \"I want some\n information. This is an important matter. May I rely on your\n discretion?\"\n\n\n \"Of course.\"\n\n\n \"How long has Mr. Bram lived in Elsby?\"\nMiss Carroll looked at him for a long moment. \"Will what I tell you be\n used against him?\"\n\n\n \"There'll be nothing done against him, Miss Carroll ... unless it needs\n to be in the national interest.\"\n\n\n \"I'm not at all sure I know what the term 'national interest' means,\n James. I distrust these glib phrases.\"", "\"Beats me, Jimmy. You remember old Aunt Tress, used to know all about\n ancestors and such as that? She couldn't remember about Mr. Bram. She\n was kind of senile, I guess. She used to say he'd lived in that same\n old place out on the Concord road when she was a girl. Well, she died\n five years ago ... in her seventies. He still walks in town every\n Wednesday ... or he did up till yesterday anyway.\"\n\n\n \"Oh?\" Tremaine stubbed out his cigarette, lit another. \"What happened\n then?\"\n\n\n \"You remember Soup Gaskin? He's got a boy, name of Hull. He's Soup all\n over again.\"", "\"I remember Soup,\" Tremaine said. \"He and his bunch used to come in\n the drug store where I worked and perch on the stools and kid around\n with me, and Mr. Hempleman would watch them from over back of the\n prescription counter and look nervous. They used to raise cain in the\n other drug store....\"\n\n\n \"Soup's been in the pen since then. His boy Hull's the same kind. Him\n and a bunch of his pals went out to Bram's place one night and set it\n on fire.\"\n\n\n \"What was the idea of that?\"", "\"I always liked Mr. Bram,\" said Tremaine. \"I'm not out to hurt him.\"\n\n\n \"Mr. Bram came here when I was a young woman. I'm not certain of the\n year.\"\n\n\n \"What does he do for a living?\"\n\n\n \"I have no idea.\"\n\n\n \"Why did a healthy young fellow like Bram settle out in that isolated\n piece of country? What's his story?\"\n\n\n \"I'm ... not sure that anyone truly knows Bram's story.\"\n\n\n \"You called him 'Bram', Miss Carroll. Is that his first name ... or his\n last?\"\n\n\n \"That is his only name. Just ... Bram.\"\n\n\n \"You knew him well once, Miss Carroll. Is there anything—\"\n\n\n A tear rolled down Miss Carroll's faded cheek. She wiped it away\n impatiently.", "\"Old Miss Carroll. School teacher here for years; guess she was retired\n by the time you were playing hookey. But her dad had money, and in\n her day she was a beauty. Too good for the fellers in these parts. I\n remember her ridin by in a high-wheeled shay, when I was just a nipper.\n Sitting up proud and tall, with that red hair piled up high. I used to\n think she was some kind of princess....\"", "\"That's blood, Jess....\" Tremaine scanned the floor. It was of broad\n slabs, closely laid, scrubbed clean but for the dark stains.\n\n\n \"Maybe he cleaned a chicken. This is the kitchen.\"\n\n\n \"It's a trail.\" Tremaine followed the line of drops across the floor.\n It ended suddenly near the wall.\n\n\n \"What do you make of it. Jimmy?\"\n\n\n A wail sounded, a thin forlorn cry, trailing off into silence. Jess\n stared at Tremaine. \"I'm too damned old to start believing in spooks,\"\n he said. \"You suppose those damn-fool boys are hiding here, playing\n tricks?\"", "A Severe Thunderstorm. Citizens of Elsby and the country were much\n alarmed by a violent cloudburst, accompanied by lightning and\n thunder, during the night of the fifth. A fire set in the pine\n woods north of Spivey's farm destroyed a considerable amount of\n timber and threatened the house before burning itself out along\n the river.\n\n\n The librarian was at Tremaine's side. \"I have to close the library now.\n You'll have to come back tomorrow.\"\n\n\n Outside, the sky was sallow in the west: lights were coming on in\n windows along the side streets. Tremaine turned up his collar against a\n cold wind that had risen, started along the street toward the hotel.\n\n\n A block away a black late-model sedan rounded a corner with a faint\n squeal of tires and gunned past him, a heavy antenna mounted forward\n of the left rear tail fin whipping in the slipstream. Tremaine stopped\n short, stared after the car.", "\"There is nothing whatever wrong with my faculties, James,\" Miss\n Carroll said calmly. Her voice was still resonant, a deep contralto.\n Only a faint quaver reflected her age—close to eighty, Tremaine\n thought, startled.\n\n\n \"I'm flattered you remember me, Miss Carroll,\" he said.\n\n\n \"Come in.\" She led the way to a pleasant parlor set out with the\n furnishings of another era. She motioned Tremaine to a seat and took a\n straight chair across the room from him.\n\n\n \"You look very well, James,\" she said, nodding. \"I'm pleased to see\n that you've amounted to something.\"\n\n\n \"Just another bureaucrat, I'm afraid.\"\n\n\n \"You were wise to leave Elsby. There is no future here for a young man.\"", "\"Hold it, Jimmy. You're over my head.\" Jess got to his feet. \"Let me\n know if you want anything. And by the way—\" he winked broadly—\"I\n always did know who busted Soup Gaskin's nose and took out his front\n teeth.\"\nII\n\n\n Back in the street, Tremaine headed south toward the Elsby Town\n Hall, a squat structure of brownish-red brick, crouched under yellow\n autumn trees at the end of Sheridan Street. Tremaine went up the\n steps and past heavy double doors. Ten yards along the dim corridor,\n a hand-lettered cardboard sign over a black-varnished door said\n \"MUNICIPAL OFFICE OF RECORD.\" Tremaine opened the door and went in.\n\n\n A thin man with garters above the elbow looked over his shoulder at\n Tremaine.\n\n\n \"We're closed,\" he said." ], [ "A Severe Thunderstorm. Citizens of Elsby and the country were much\n alarmed by a violent cloudburst, accompanied by lightning and\n thunder, during the night of the fifth. A fire set in the pine\n woods north of Spivey's farm destroyed a considerable amount of\n timber and threatened the house before burning itself out along\n the river.\n\n\n The librarian was at Tremaine's side. \"I have to close the library now.\n You'll have to come back tomorrow.\"\n\n\n Outside, the sky was sallow in the west: lights were coming on in\n windows along the side streets. Tremaine turned up his collar against a\n cold wind that had risen, started along the street toward the hotel.\n\n\n A block away a black late-model sedan rounded a corner with a faint\n squeal of tires and gunned past him, a heavy antenna mounted forward\n of the left rear tail fin whipping in the slipstream. Tremaine stopped\n short, stared after the car.", "\"Damn!\" he said aloud. An elderly man veered, eyeing him sharply.\n Tremaine set off at a run, covered the two blocks to the hotel, yanked\n open the door to his car, slid into the seat, made a U-turn, and headed\n north after the police car.\nTwo miles into the dark hills north of the Elsby city limits, Tremaine\n rounded a curve. The police car was parked on the shoulder beside the\n highway just ahead. He pulled off the road ahead of it and walked back.\n The door opened. A tall figure stepped out.\n\n\n \"What's your problem, mister?\" a harsh voice drawled.\n\n\n \"What's the matter? Run out of signal?\"\n\n\n \"What's it to you, mister?\"\n\n\n \"Are you boys in touch with Grammond on the car set?\"\n\n\n \"We could be.\"", "\"Sure. Just don't get stuck in some senator's hip pocket.\" Tremaine\n hung up the telephone, went to the dresser and poured two fingers of\n Scotch into a water glass. He tossed it down, then pulled on his coat\n and left the hotel.\n\n\n He walked south two blocks, turned left down a twilit side street. He\n walked slowly, looking at the weathered frame houses. Number 89 was a\n once-stately three-storied mansion overgrown with untrimmed vines, its\n windows squares of sad yellow light. He pushed through the gate in the\n ancient picket fence, mounted the porch steps and pushed the button\n beside the door, a dark panel of cracked varnish. It was a long minute\n before the door opened. A tall woman with white hair and a fine-boned\n face looked at him coolly.\n\n\n \"Miss Carroll,\" Tremaine said. \"You won't remember me, but I—\"", "Tremaine got to his feet. \"I'd appreciate it if you'd keep your ears\n and eyes open for anything that might build into a lead on this, Jess.\n Meantime, I'm just a tourist, seeing the sights.\"\n\n\n \"What about that gear of yours? Didn't you say you had some kind of\n detector you were going to set up?\"\n\n\n \"I've got an oversized suitcase,\" Tremaine said. \"I'll be setting it up\n in my room over at the hotel.\"\n\n\n \"When's this bootleg station supposed to broadcast again?\"\n\n\n \"After dark. I'm working on a few ideas. It might be an infinitely\n repeating logarithmic sequence, based on—\"", "\"You've seen all the files! Now I want answers, not questions! I'm\n warning you, Tremaine. Get that transmitter. I need someone to hang!\"\nTremaine left the hotel, walked two blocks west along Commerce Street\n and turned in at a yellow brick building with the words ELSBY\n MUNICIPAL POLICE cut in the stone lintel above the door. Inside, a\n heavy man with a creased face and thick gray hair looked up from behind\n an ancient Underwood. He studied Tremaine, shifted a toothpick to the\n opposite corner of his mouth.\n\n\n \"Don't I know you, mister?\" he said. His soft voice carried a note of\n authority.\n\n\n Tremaine took off his hat. \"Sure you do, Jess. It's been a while,\n though.\"", "Tremaine shook his head. \"I'm getting nowhere fast. The Bram idea's a\n dud, I'm afraid.\"\n\n\n \"Funny thing about Bram. You know, he hasn't showed up yet. I'm getting\n a little worried. Want to run out there with me and take a look around?\"\n\n\n \"Sure. Just so I'm back by full dark.\"\n\n\n As they pulled away from the curb Jess said, \"Jimmy, what's this about\n State Police nosing around here? I thought you were playing a lone hand\n from what you were saying to me.\"\n\n\n \"I thought so too, Jess. But it looks like Grammond's a jump ahead of\n me. He smells headlines in this; he doesn't want to be left out.\"", "Grammond snorted. \"Okay, Tremaine,\" he said. \"You're the boy with all\n the answers. But if you get in trouble, don't call me; call Washington.\"\nBack in his room, Tremaine put through a call.\n\n\n \"It looks like Grammond's not willing to be left out in the cold, Fred.\n Tell him if he queers this—\"\n\n\n \"I don't know but what he might have something,\" the voice came back\n over the filtered hum. \"Suppose he smokes them out—\"\n\n\n \"Don't go dumb on me, Fred. We're not dealing with West Virginia\n moonshiners.\"\n\n\n \"Don't tell me my job, Tremaine!\" the voice snapped. \"And don't try out\n your famous temper on me. I'm still in charge of this investigation.\"", "The boy darted another look at Tremaine. \"They said they figured the\n spies was out north of town. Well, Bram's a foreigner, and he's out\n that way, ain't he?\"\n\n\n \"Anything else?\"\n\n\n The boy looked at his feet.", "Miss Carroll drew a deep breath and went on. \"I was torn between pity\n and horror. I begged him to take me back. He refused.\" Miss Carroll\n twisted her fingers together, her eyes fixed on the long past. \"When\n we reached the house, he ran to the kitchen. He lit a lamp and threw\n open a concealed panel. There were stairs. He went down ... and left me\n there alone.\n\n\n \"I waited all that night in the carriage. At dawn he emerged. He tried\n to speak to me but I would not listen.\n\n\n \"He took a locket from his neck and put it into my hand. He told me to\n keep it and, if ever I should need him, to press it between my fingers\n in a secret way ... and he would come. I told him that until he would\n consent to see a doctor, I did not wish him to call. He drove me home.\n He never called again.\"\n\n\n \"This locket,\" said Tremaine, \"do you still have it?\"", "Miss Carroll hesitated, then put her hand to her throat, lifted a\n silver disc on a fine golden chain. \"You see what a foolish old woman I\n am, James.\"\n\n\n \"May I see it?\"\n\n\n She handed the locket to him. It was heavy, smooth. \"I'd like to\n examine this more closely,\" he said. \"May I take it with me?\"\n\n\n Miss Carroll nodded.\n\n\n \"There is one other thing,\" she said, \"perhaps quite meaningless....\"\n\n\n \"I'd be grateful for any lead.\"\n\n\n \"Bram fears the thunder.\"\nIII\n\n\n As Tremaine walked slowly toward the lighted main street of Elsby a car\n pulled to a stop beside him. Jess leaned out, peered at Tremaine and\n asked:\n\n\n \"Any luck, Jimmy?\"", "Tremaine went to the car, dropped the pistol in his coat pocket,\n rejoined Jess inside the house. It was silent, deserted. In the kitchen\n Jess flicked the beam of his flashlight around the room. An empty plate\n lay on the oilcloth-covered table.\n\n\n \"This place is empty,\" he said. \"Anybody'd think he'd been gone a week.\"\n\n\n \"Not a very cozy—\" Tremaine broke off. A thin yelp sounded in the\n distance.\n\n\n \"I'm getting jumpy,\" said Jess. \"Dern hounddog, I guess.\"\n\n\n A low growl seemed to rumble distantly. \"What the devil's that?\"\n Tremaine said.\n\n\n Jess shone the light on the floor. \"Look here,\" he said. The ring of\n light showed a spatter of dark droplets all across the plank floor.", "\"Mind if I have a word with him? My name's Tremaine.\"\n\n\n \"Oh,\" said the cop, \"you're the big shot from Washington.\" He shifted\n chewing tobacco to the other side of his jaw. \"Sure, you can talk to\n him.\" He turned and spoke to the other cop, who muttered into the mike\n before handing it to Tremaine.\n\n\n The heavy voice of the State Police chief crackled. \"What's your beef,\n Tremaine?\"\n\n\n \"I thought you were going to keep your men away from Elsby until I gave\n the word, Grammond.\"\n\n\n \"That was before I knew your Washington stuffed shirts were holding out\n on me.\"\n\n\n \"It's nothing we can go to court with, Grammond. And the job you were\n doing might have been influenced if I'd told you about the Elsby angle.\"", "\"What did you hear?\"\n\n\n \"They're lookin for the spies.\"\n\n\n \"Who's looking for spies?\"\n\n\n \"Cops.\"\n\n\n \"Who says so?\"\n\n\n The boy looked directly at Tremaine for an instant, flicked his eyes to\n the corner of the cell. \"Cops was talkin about 'em,\" he said.\n\n\n \"Spill it, Hull,\" the policeman said. \"Mr. Tremaine hasn't got all\n night.\"\n\n\n \"They parked out east of town, on 302, back of the woodlot. They called\n me over and asked me a bunch of questions. Said I could help 'em get\n them spies. Wanted to know all about any funny-actin people around\n hers.\"\n\n\n \"And you mentioned Bram?\"", "\"Hold it, Jimmy. You're over my head.\" Jess got to his feet. \"Let me\n know if you want anything. And by the way—\" he winked broadly—\"I\n always did know who busted Soup Gaskin's nose and took out his front\n teeth.\"\nII\n\n\n Back in the street, Tremaine headed south toward the Elsby Town\n Hall, a squat structure of brownish-red brick, crouched under yellow\n autumn trees at the end of Sheridan Street. Tremaine went up the\n steps and past heavy double doors. Ten yards along the dim corridor,\n a hand-lettered cardboard sign over a black-varnished door said\n \"MUNICIPAL OFFICE OF RECORD.\" Tremaine opened the door and went in.\n\n\n A thin man with garters above the elbow looked over his shoulder at\n Tremaine.\n\n\n \"We're closed,\" he said.", "\"There is nothing whatever wrong with my faculties, James,\" Miss\n Carroll said calmly. Her voice was still resonant, a deep contralto.\n Only a faint quaver reflected her age—close to eighty, Tremaine\n thought, startled.\n\n\n \"I'm flattered you remember me, Miss Carroll,\" he said.\n\n\n \"Come in.\" She led the way to a pleasant parlor set out with the\n furnishings of another era. She motioned Tremaine to a seat and took a\n straight chair across the room from him.\n\n\n \"You look very well, James,\" she said, nodding. \"I'm pleased to see\n that you've amounted to something.\"\n\n\n \"Just another bureaucrat, I'm afraid.\"\n\n\n \"You were wise to leave Elsby. There is no future here for a young man.\"", "Grammond cursed. \"I could have put my men in the town and taken it\n apart brick by brick in the time—\"\n\n\n \"That's just what I don't want. If our bird sees cops cruising, he'll\n go underground.\"\n\n\n \"You've got it all figured, I see. I'm just the dumb hick you boys use\n for the spade work, that it?\"\n\n\n \"Pull your lip back in. You've given me the confirmation I needed.\"\n\n\n \"Confirmation, hell! All I know is that somebody somewhere is punching\n out a signal. For all I know, it's forty midgets on bicycles, pedalling\n all over the damned state. I've got fixes in every county—\"\n\n\n \"The smallest hyperwave transmitter Uncle Sam knows how to build weighs\n three tons,\" said Tremaine. \"Bicycles are out.\"", "\"Dunno. Just meanness, I reckon. Not much damage done. A car was\n passing by and called it in. I had the whole caboodle locked up here\n for six hours. Then the sob sisters went to work: poor little tyke\n routine, high spirits, you know the line. All of 'em but Hull are back\n in the streets playin' with matches by now. I'm waiting for the day\n they'll make jail age.\"\n\n\n \"Why Bram?\" Tremaine persisted. \"As far as I know, he never had any\n dealings to speak of with anybody here in town.\"\n\n\n \"Oh hoh, you're a little young, Jimmy,\" Jess chuckled. \"You never knew\n about Mr. Bram—the young Mr. Bram—and Linda Carroll.\"\n\n\n Tremaine shook his head.", "THE LONG REMEMBERED THUNDER\nBY KEITH LAUMER\n\n\n [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Worlds of Tomorrow April 1963\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nHe was as ancient as time—and as strange as\n\n his own frightful battle against incredible odds!\nI\n\n\n In his room at the Elsby Commercial Hotel, Tremaine opened his luggage\n and took out a small tool kit, used a screwdriver to remove the bottom\n cover plate from the telephone. He inserted a tiny aluminum cylinder,\n crimped wires and replaced the cover. Then he dialed a long-distance\n Washington number and waited half a minute for the connection.\n\n\n \"Fred, Tremaine here. Put the buzzer on.\" A thin hum sounded on the\n wire as the scrambler went into operation.", "\"I always liked Mr. Bram,\" said Tremaine. \"I'm not out to hurt him.\"\n\n\n \"Mr. Bram came here when I was a young woman. I'm not certain of the\n year.\"\n\n\n \"What does he do for a living?\"\n\n\n \"I have no idea.\"\n\n\n \"Why did a healthy young fellow like Bram settle out in that isolated\n piece of country? What's his story?\"\n\n\n \"I'm ... not sure that anyone truly knows Bram's story.\"\n\n\n \"You called him 'Bram', Miss Carroll. Is that his first name ... or his\n last?\"\n\n\n \"That is his only name. Just ... Bram.\"\n\n\n \"You knew him well once, Miss Carroll. Is there anything—\"\n\n\n A tear rolled down Miss Carroll's faded cheek. She wiped it away\n impatiently.", "\"I think.\" Tremaine said, \"that we'd better go ask Hull Gaskin a few\n questions.\"\nAt the station Jess led Tremaine to a cell where a lanky teen-age boy\n lounged on a steel-framed cot, blinking up at the visitor under a mop\n of greased hair.\n\n\n \"Hull, this is Mr. Tremaine,\" said Jess. He took out a heavy key, swung\n the cell door open. \"He wants to talk to you.\"\n\n\n \"I ain't done nothin,\" Hull said sullenly. \"There ain't nothin wrong\n with burnin out a Commie, is there?\"\n\n\n \"Bram's a Commie, is he?\" Tremaine said softly. \"How'd you find that\n out, Hull?\"\n\n\n \"He's a foreigner, ain't he?\" the youth shot back. \"Besides, we\n heard....\"" ], [ "\"I remember Soup,\" Tremaine said. \"He and his bunch used to come in\n the drug store where I worked and perch on the stools and kid around\n with me, and Mr. Hempleman would watch them from over back of the\n prescription counter and look nervous. They used to raise cain in the\n other drug store....\"\n\n\n \"Soup's been in the pen since then. His boy Hull's the same kind. Him\n and a bunch of his pals went out to Bram's place one night and set it\n on fire.\"\n\n\n \"What was the idea of that?\"", "\"Beats me, Jimmy. You remember old Aunt Tress, used to know all about\n ancestors and such as that? She couldn't remember about Mr. Bram. She\n was kind of senile, I guess. She used to say he'd lived in that same\n old place out on the Concord road when she was a girl. Well, she died\n five years ago ... in her seventies. He still walks in town every\n Wednesday ... or he did up till yesterday anyway.\"\n\n\n \"Oh?\" Tremaine stubbed out his cigarette, lit another. \"What happened\n then?\"\n\n\n \"You remember Soup Gaskin? He's got a boy, name of Hull. He's Soup all\n over again.\"", "\"Hold it, Jimmy. You're over my head.\" Jess got to his feet. \"Let me\n know if you want anything. And by the way—\" he winked broadly—\"I\n always did know who busted Soup Gaskin's nose and took out his front\n teeth.\"\nII\n\n\n Back in the street, Tremaine headed south toward the Elsby Town\n Hall, a squat structure of brownish-red brick, crouched under yellow\n autumn trees at the end of Sheridan Street. Tremaine went up the\n steps and past heavy double doors. Ten yards along the dim corridor,\n a hand-lettered cardboard sign over a black-varnished door said\n \"MUNICIPAL OFFICE OF RECORD.\" Tremaine opened the door and went in.\n\n\n A thin man with garters above the elbow looked over his shoulder at\n Tremaine.\n\n\n \"We're closed,\" he said.", "\"I think.\" Tremaine said, \"that we'd better go ask Hull Gaskin a few\n questions.\"\nAt the station Jess led Tremaine to a cell where a lanky teen-age boy\n lounged on a steel-framed cot, blinking up at the visitor under a mop\n of greased hair.\n\n\n \"Hull, this is Mr. Tremaine,\" said Jess. He took out a heavy key, swung\n the cell door open. \"He wants to talk to you.\"\n\n\n \"I ain't done nothin,\" Hull said sullenly. \"There ain't nothin wrong\n with burnin out a Commie, is there?\"\n\n\n \"Bram's a Commie, is he?\" Tremaine said softly. \"How'd you find that\n out, Hull?\"\n\n\n \"He's a foreigner, ain't he?\" the youth shot back. \"Besides, we\n heard....\"", "\"Course,\" said Jess, \"there's always Mr. Bram ...\"\n\n\n \"Mr. Bram,\" repeated Tremaine. \"Is he still around? I remember him as a\n hundred years old when I was kid.\"\n\n\n \"Still just the same, Jimmy. Comes in town maybe once a week, buys his\n groceries and hikes back out to his place by the river.\"\n\n\n \"Well, what about him?\"\n\n\n \"Nothing. But he's the town's mystery man. You know that. A little\n touched in the head.\"", "\"I always liked Mr. Bram,\" said Tremaine. \"I'm not out to hurt him.\"\n\n\n \"Mr. Bram came here when I was a young woman. I'm not certain of the\n year.\"\n\n\n \"What does he do for a living?\"\n\n\n \"I have no idea.\"\n\n\n \"Why did a healthy young fellow like Bram settle out in that isolated\n piece of country? What's his story?\"\n\n\n \"I'm ... not sure that anyone truly knows Bram's story.\"\n\n\n \"You called him 'Bram', Miss Carroll. Is that his first name ... or his\n last?\"\n\n\n \"That is his only name. Just ... Bram.\"\n\n\n \"You knew him well once, Miss Carroll. Is there anything—\"\n\n\n A tear rolled down Miss Carroll's faded cheek. She wiped it away\n impatiently.", "\"There were a lot of funny stories about him, I remember,\" Tremaine\n said. \"I always liked him. One time he tried to teach me something\n I've forgotten. Wanted me to come out to his place and he'd teach me.\n I never did go. We kids used to play in the caves near his place, and\n sometimes he gave us apples.\"\n\"I've never seen any harm in Bram,\" said Jess. \"But you know how this\n town is about foreigners, especially when they're a mite addled. Bram\n has blue eyes and blond hair—or did before it turned white—and he\n talks just like everybody else. From a distance he seems just like an\n ordinary American. But up close, you feel it. He's foreign, all right.\n But we never did know where he came from.\"\n\n\n \"How long's he lived here in Elsby?\"", "\"Dunno. Just meanness, I reckon. Not much damage done. A car was\n passing by and called it in. I had the whole caboodle locked up here\n for six hours. Then the sob sisters went to work: poor little tyke\n routine, high spirits, you know the line. All of 'em but Hull are back\n in the streets playin' with matches by now. I'm waiting for the day\n they'll make jail age.\"\n\n\n \"Why Bram?\" Tremaine persisted. \"As far as I know, he never had any\n dealings to speak of with anybody here in town.\"\n\n\n \"Oh hoh, you're a little young, Jimmy,\" Jess chuckled. \"You never knew\n about Mr. Bram—the young Mr. Bram—and Linda Carroll.\"\n\n\n Tremaine shook his head.", "\"That's blood, Jess....\" Tremaine scanned the floor. It was of broad\n slabs, closely laid, scrubbed clean but for the dark stains.\n\n\n \"Maybe he cleaned a chicken. This is the kitchen.\"\n\n\n \"It's a trail.\" Tremaine followed the line of drops across the floor.\n It ended suddenly near the wall.\n\n\n \"What do you make of it. Jimmy?\"\n\n\n A wail sounded, a thin forlorn cry, trailing off into silence. Jess\n stared at Tremaine. \"I'm too damned old to start believing in spooks,\"\n he said. \"You suppose those damn-fool boys are hiding here, playing\n tricks?\"", "The boy darted another look at Tremaine. \"They said they figured the\n spies was out north of town. Well, Bram's a foreigner, and he's out\n that way, ain't he?\"\n\n\n \"Anything else?\"\n\n\n The boy looked at his feet.", "\"Old Miss Carroll. School teacher here for years; guess she was retired\n by the time you were playing hookey. But her dad had money, and in\n her day she was a beauty. Too good for the fellers in these parts. I\n remember her ridin by in a high-wheeled shay, when I was just a nipper.\n Sitting up proud and tall, with that red hair piled up high. I used to\n think she was some kind of princess....\"", "\"What did you hear?\"\n\n\n \"They're lookin for the spies.\"\n\n\n \"Who's looking for spies?\"\n\n\n \"Cops.\"\n\n\n \"Who says so?\"\n\n\n The boy looked directly at Tremaine for an instant, flicked his eyes to\n the corner of the cell. \"Cops was talkin about 'em,\" he said.\n\n\n \"Spill it, Hull,\" the policeman said. \"Mr. Tremaine hasn't got all\n night.\"\n\n\n \"They parked out east of town, on 302, back of the woodlot. They called\n me over and asked me a bunch of questions. Said I could help 'em get\n them spies. Wanted to know all about any funny-actin people around\n hers.\"\n\n\n \"And you mentioned Bram?\"", "this was a Sunday afternoon and someways or other they got Bram down\n there; and Miss Linda made her play, right there in front of the town,\n practically. Just before sundown they went off together in that fancy\n shay. And the next day, she was home again—alone. That finished off\n her reputation, as far as the biddies in Elsby was concerned. It was\n ten years 'fore she even landed the teaching job. By that time, she was\n already old. And nobody was ever fool enough to mention the name Bram\n in front of her.\"", "Tremaine went to the car, dropped the pistol in his coat pocket,\n rejoined Jess inside the house. It was silent, deserted. In the kitchen\n Jess flicked the beam of his flashlight around the room. An empty plate\n lay on the oilcloth-covered table.\n\n\n \"This place is empty,\" he said. \"Anybody'd think he'd been gone a week.\"\n\n\n \"Not a very cozy—\" Tremaine broke off. A thin yelp sounded in the\n distance.\n\n\n \"I'm getting jumpy,\" said Jess. \"Dern hounddog, I guess.\"\n\n\n A low growl seemed to rumble distantly. \"What the devil's that?\"\n Tremaine said.\n\n\n Jess shone the light on the floor. \"Look here,\" he said. The ring of\n light showed a spatter of dark droplets all across the plank floor.", "\"Okay, can you read me all right? I'm set up in Elsby. Grammond's boys\n are supposed to keep me informed. Meantime, I'm not sitting in this\n damned room crouched over a dial. I'll be out and around for the rest\n of the afternoon.\"\n\n\n \"I want to see results,\" the thin voice came back over the filtered\n hum of the jamming device. \"You spent a week with Grammond—I can't\n wait another. I don't mind telling you certain quarters are pressing\n me.\"\n\n\n \"Fred, when will you learn to sit on your news breaks until you've got\n some answers to go with the questions?\"", "The last pink light of sunset was fading from the clouds to the west as\n Jess swung the car through the open gate, pulled up under the old trees\n before the square-built house. The windows were dark. The two men got\n out, circled the house once, then mounted the steps and rapped on the\n door. There was a black patch of charred flooring under the window, and\n the paint on the wall above it was bubbled. Somewhere a cricket set up\n a strident chirrup, suddenly cut off. Jess leaned down, picked up an\n empty shotgun shell. He looked at Tremaine. \"This don't look good,\" he\n said. \"You suppose those fool boys...?\"\n\n\n He tried the door. It opened. A broken hasp dangled. He turned to\n Tremaine. \"Maybe this is more than kid stuff,\" he said. \"You carry a\n gun?\"\n\n\n \"In the car.\"\n\n\n \"Better get it.\"", "Miss Carroll hesitated, then put her hand to her throat, lifted a\n silver disc on a fine golden chain. \"You see what a foolish old woman I\n am, James.\"\n\n\n \"May I see it?\"\n\n\n She handed the locket to him. It was heavy, smooth. \"I'd like to\n examine this more closely,\" he said. \"May I take it with me?\"\n\n\n Miss Carroll nodded.\n\n\n \"There is one other thing,\" she said, \"perhaps quite meaningless....\"\n\n\n \"I'd be grateful for any lead.\"\n\n\n \"Bram fears the thunder.\"\nIII\n\n\n As Tremaine walked slowly toward the lighted main street of Elsby a car\n pulled to a stop beside him. Jess leaned out, peered at Tremaine and\n asked:\n\n\n \"Any luck, Jimmy?\"", "\"Mind if I have a word with him? My name's Tremaine.\"\n\n\n \"Oh,\" said the cop, \"you're the big shot from Washington.\" He shifted\n chewing tobacco to the other side of his jaw. \"Sure, you can talk to\n him.\" He turned and spoke to the other cop, who muttered into the mike\n before handing it to Tremaine.\n\n\n The heavy voice of the State Police chief crackled. \"What's your beef,\n Tremaine?\"\n\n\n \"I thought you were going to keep your men away from Elsby until I gave\n the word, Grammond.\"\n\n\n \"That was before I knew your Washington stuffed shirts were holding out\n on me.\"\n\n\n \"It's nothing we can go to court with, Grammond. And the job you were\n doing might have been influenced if I'd told you about the Elsby angle.\"", "\"Damn!\" he said aloud. An elderly man veered, eyeing him sharply.\n Tremaine set off at a run, covered the two blocks to the hotel, yanked\n open the door to his car, slid into the seat, made a U-turn, and headed\n north after the police car.\nTwo miles into the dark hills north of the Elsby city limits, Tremaine\n rounded a curve. The police car was parked on the shoulder beside the\n highway just ahead. He pulled off the road ahead of it and walked back.\n The door opened. A tall figure stepped out.\n\n\n \"What's your problem, mister?\" a harsh voice drawled.\n\n\n \"What's the matter? Run out of signal?\"\n\n\n \"What's it to you, mister?\"\n\n\n \"Are you boys in touch with Grammond on the car set?\"\n\n\n \"We could be.\"", "\"You've seen all the files! Now I want answers, not questions! I'm\n warning you, Tremaine. Get that transmitter. I need someone to hang!\"\nTremaine left the hotel, walked two blocks west along Commerce Street\n and turned in at a yellow brick building with the words ELSBY\n MUNICIPAL POLICE cut in the stone lintel above the door. Inside, a\n heavy man with a creased face and thick gray hair looked up from behind\n an ancient Underwood. He studied Tremaine, shifted a toothpick to the\n opposite corner of his mouth.\n\n\n \"Don't I know you, mister?\" he said. His soft voice carried a note of\n authority.\n\n\n Tremaine took off his hat. \"Sure you do, Jess. It's been a while,\n though.\"" ], [ "\"Mind if I have a word with him? My name's Tremaine.\"\n\n\n \"Oh,\" said the cop, \"you're the big shot from Washington.\" He shifted\n chewing tobacco to the other side of his jaw. \"Sure, you can talk to\n him.\" He turned and spoke to the other cop, who muttered into the mike\n before handing it to Tremaine.\n\n\n The heavy voice of the State Police chief crackled. \"What's your beef,\n Tremaine?\"\n\n\n \"I thought you were going to keep your men away from Elsby until I gave\n the word, Grammond.\"\n\n\n \"That was before I knew your Washington stuffed shirts were holding out\n on me.\"\n\n\n \"It's nothing we can go to court with, Grammond. And the job you were\n doing might have been influenced if I'd told you about the Elsby angle.\"", "Grammond snorted. \"Okay, Tremaine,\" he said. \"You're the boy with all\n the answers. But if you get in trouble, don't call me; call Washington.\"\nBack in his room, Tremaine put through a call.\n\n\n \"It looks like Grammond's not willing to be left out in the cold, Fred.\n Tell him if he queers this—\"\n\n\n \"I don't know but what he might have something,\" the voice came back\n over the filtered hum. \"Suppose he smokes them out—\"\n\n\n \"Don't go dumb on me, Fred. We're not dealing with West Virginia\n moonshiners.\"\n\n\n \"Don't tell me my job, Tremaine!\" the voice snapped. \"And don't try out\n your famous temper on me. I'm still in charge of this investigation.\"", "Tremaine shook his head. \"I'm getting nowhere fast. The Bram idea's a\n dud, I'm afraid.\"\n\n\n \"Funny thing about Bram. You know, he hasn't showed up yet. I'm getting\n a little worried. Want to run out there with me and take a look around?\"\n\n\n \"Sure. Just so I'm back by full dark.\"\n\n\n As they pulled away from the curb Jess said, \"Jimmy, what's this about\n State Police nosing around here? I thought you were playing a lone hand\n from what you were saying to me.\"\n\n\n \"I thought so too, Jess. But it looks like Grammond's a jump ahead of\n me. He smells headlines in this; he doesn't want to be left out.\"", "\"You've seen all the files! Now I want answers, not questions! I'm\n warning you, Tremaine. Get that transmitter. I need someone to hang!\"\nTremaine left the hotel, walked two blocks west along Commerce Street\n and turned in at a yellow brick building with the words ELSBY\n MUNICIPAL POLICE cut in the stone lintel above the door. Inside, a\n heavy man with a creased face and thick gray hair looked up from behind\n an ancient Underwood. He studied Tremaine, shifted a toothpick to the\n opposite corner of his mouth.\n\n\n \"Don't I know you, mister?\" he said. His soft voice carried a note of\n authority.\n\n\n Tremaine took off his hat. \"Sure you do, Jess. It's been a while,\n though.\"", "\"There is nothing whatever wrong with my faculties, James,\" Miss\n Carroll said calmly. Her voice was still resonant, a deep contralto.\n Only a faint quaver reflected her age—close to eighty, Tremaine\n thought, startled.\n\n\n \"I'm flattered you remember me, Miss Carroll,\" he said.\n\n\n \"Come in.\" She led the way to a pleasant parlor set out with the\n furnishings of another era. She motioned Tremaine to a seat and took a\n straight chair across the room from him.\n\n\n \"You look very well, James,\" she said, nodding. \"I'm pleased to see\n that you've amounted to something.\"\n\n\n \"Just another bureaucrat, I'm afraid.\"\n\n\n \"You were wise to leave Elsby. There is no future here for a young man.\"", "Tremaine got to his feet. \"I'd appreciate it if you'd keep your ears\n and eyes open for anything that might build into a lead on this, Jess.\n Meantime, I'm just a tourist, seeing the sights.\"\n\n\n \"What about that gear of yours? Didn't you say you had some kind of\n detector you were going to set up?\"\n\n\n \"I've got an oversized suitcase,\" Tremaine said. \"I'll be setting it up\n in my room over at the hotel.\"\n\n\n \"When's this bootleg station supposed to broadcast again?\"\n\n\n \"After dark. I'm working on a few ideas. It might be an infinitely\n repeating logarithmic sequence, based on—\"", "\"I'm an unfulfilled old maid, James,\" she said. \"You must forgive me.\"\n\n\n Tremaine stood up. \"I'm sorry. Really sorry. I didn't mean to grill\n you. Miss Carroll. You've been very kind. I had no right....\"\n\n\n Miss Carroll shook her head. \"I knew you as a boy, James. I have\n complete confidence in you. If anything I can tell you about Bram will\n be helpful to you, it is my duty to oblige you; and it may help him.\"\n She paused. Tremaine waited.\n\n\n \"Many years ago I was courted by Bram. One day he asked me to go with\n him to his house. On the way he told me a terrible and pathetic tale.\n He said that each night he fought a battle with evil beings, alone, in\n a cave beneath his house.\"", "\"I always liked Mr. Bram,\" said Tremaine. \"I'm not out to hurt him.\"\n\n\n \"Mr. Bram came here when I was a young woman. I'm not certain of the\n year.\"\n\n\n \"What does he do for a living?\"\n\n\n \"I have no idea.\"\n\n\n \"Why did a healthy young fellow like Bram settle out in that isolated\n piece of country? What's his story?\"\n\n\n \"I'm ... not sure that anyone truly knows Bram's story.\"\n\n\n \"You called him 'Bram', Miss Carroll. Is that his first name ... or his\n last?\"\n\n\n \"That is his only name. Just ... Bram.\"\n\n\n \"You knew him well once, Miss Carroll. Is there anything—\"\n\n\n A tear rolled down Miss Carroll's faded cheek. She wiped it away\n impatiently.", "The boy darted another look at Tremaine. \"They said they figured the\n spies was out north of town. Well, Bram's a foreigner, and he's out\n that way, ain't he?\"\n\n\n \"Anything else?\"\n\n\n The boy looked at his feet.", "Miss Carroll hesitated, then put her hand to her throat, lifted a\n silver disc on a fine golden chain. \"You see what a foolish old woman I\n am, James.\"\n\n\n \"May I see it?\"\n\n\n She handed the locket to him. It was heavy, smooth. \"I'd like to\n examine this more closely,\" he said. \"May I take it with me?\"\n\n\n Miss Carroll nodded.\n\n\n \"There is one other thing,\" she said, \"perhaps quite meaningless....\"\n\n\n \"I'd be grateful for any lead.\"\n\n\n \"Bram fears the thunder.\"\nIII\n\n\n As Tremaine walked slowly toward the lighted main street of Elsby a car\n pulled to a stop beside him. Jess leaned out, peered at Tremaine and\n asked:\n\n\n \"Any luck, Jimmy?\"", "\"Damn!\" he said aloud. An elderly man veered, eyeing him sharply.\n Tremaine set off at a run, covered the two blocks to the hotel, yanked\n open the door to his car, slid into the seat, made a U-turn, and headed\n north after the police car.\nTwo miles into the dark hills north of the Elsby city limits, Tremaine\n rounded a curve. The police car was parked on the shoulder beside the\n highway just ahead. He pulled off the road ahead of it and walked back.\n The door opened. A tall figure stepped out.\n\n\n \"What's your problem, mister?\" a harsh voice drawled.\n\n\n \"What's the matter? Run out of signal?\"\n\n\n \"What's it to you, mister?\"\n\n\n \"Are you boys in touch with Grammond on the car set?\"\n\n\n \"We could be.\"", "\"That's the ledger for 1901; means Bram bought a quarter section on the\n nineteenth of May. You want me to look up the deed?\"\n\n\n \"No, thanks,\" Tremaine said. \"That's all I needed.\" He turned back to\n the door.\n\n\n \"What's up, mister?\" the clerk called after him. \"Bram in some kind of\n trouble?\"\n\n\n \"No. No trouble.\"\n\n\n The man was looking at the book with pursed lips. \"Nineteen-oh-one,\"\n he said. \"I never thought of it before, but you know, old Bram must be\n dern near to ninety years old. Spry for that age.\"\n\n\n \"I guess you're right.\"", "\"I often wondered why you didn't leave, Miss Carroll. I thought, even\n as a boy, that you were a woman of great ability.\"\n\n\n \"Why did you come today, James?\" asked Miss Carroll.\n\n\n \"I....\" Tremaine started. He looked at the old lady. \"I want some\n information. This is an important matter. May I rely on your\n discretion?\"\n\n\n \"Of course.\"\n\n\n \"How long has Mr. Bram lived in Elsby?\"\nMiss Carroll looked at him for a long moment. \"Will what I tell you be\n used against him?\"\n\n\n \"There'll be nothing done against him, Miss Carroll ... unless it needs\n to be in the national interest.\"\n\n\n \"I'm not at all sure I know what the term 'national interest' means,\n James. I distrust these glib phrases.\"", "\"What did you hear?\"\n\n\n \"They're lookin for the spies.\"\n\n\n \"Who's looking for spies?\"\n\n\n \"Cops.\"\n\n\n \"Who says so?\"\n\n\n The boy looked directly at Tremaine for an instant, flicked his eyes to\n the corner of the cell. \"Cops was talkin about 'em,\" he said.\n\n\n \"Spill it, Hull,\" the policeman said. \"Mr. Tremaine hasn't got all\n night.\"\n\n\n \"They parked out east of town, on 302, back of the woodlot. They called\n me over and asked me a bunch of questions. Said I could help 'em get\n them spies. Wanted to know all about any funny-actin people around\n hers.\"\n\n\n \"And you mentioned Bram?\"", "\"That's blood, Jess....\" Tremaine scanned the floor. It was of broad\n slabs, closely laid, scrubbed clean but for the dark stains.\n\n\n \"Maybe he cleaned a chicken. This is the kitchen.\"\n\n\n \"It's a trail.\" Tremaine followed the line of drops across the floor.\n It ended suddenly near the wall.\n\n\n \"What do you make of it. Jimmy?\"\n\n\n A wail sounded, a thin forlorn cry, trailing off into silence. Jess\n stared at Tremaine. \"I'm too damned old to start believing in spooks,\"\n he said. \"You suppose those damn-fool boys are hiding here, playing\n tricks?\"", "\"Sure. Just don't get stuck in some senator's hip pocket.\" Tremaine\n hung up the telephone, went to the dresser and poured two fingers of\n Scotch into a water glass. He tossed it down, then pulled on his coat\n and left the hotel.\n\n\n He walked south two blocks, turned left down a twilit side street. He\n walked slowly, looking at the weathered frame houses. Number 89 was a\n once-stately three-storied mansion overgrown with untrimmed vines, its\n windows squares of sad yellow light. He pushed through the gate in the\n ancient picket fence, mounted the porch steps and pushed the button\n beside the door, a dark panel of cracked varnish. It was a long minute\n before the door opened. A tall woman with white hair and a fine-boned\n face looked at him coolly.\n\n\n \"Miss Carroll,\" Tremaine said. \"You won't remember me, but I—\"", "\"I think.\" Tremaine said, \"that we'd better go ask Hull Gaskin a few\n questions.\"\nAt the station Jess led Tremaine to a cell where a lanky teen-age boy\n lounged on a steel-framed cot, blinking up at the visitor under a mop\n of greased hair.\n\n\n \"Hull, this is Mr. Tremaine,\" said Jess. He took out a heavy key, swung\n the cell door open. \"He wants to talk to you.\"\n\n\n \"I ain't done nothin,\" Hull said sullenly. \"There ain't nothin wrong\n with burnin out a Commie, is there?\"\n\n\n \"Bram's a Commie, is he?\" Tremaine said softly. \"How'd you find that\n out, Hull?\"\n\n\n \"He's a foreigner, ain't he?\" the youth shot back. \"Besides, we\n heard....\"", "The policeman got to his feet. \"Jimmy,\" he said, \"Jimmy Tremaine.\" He\n came to the counter and put out his hand. \"How are you, Jimmy? What\n brings you back to the boondocks?\"\n\n\n \"Let's go somewhere and sit down, Jess.\"\n\n\n In a back room Tremaine said, \"To everybody but you this is just a\n visit to the old home town. Between us, there's more.\"\n\n\n Jess nodded. \"I heard you were with the guv'ment.\"\n\n\n \"It won't take long to tell; we don't know much yet.\" Tremaine covered\n the discovery of the powerful unidentified interference on the\n high-security hyperwave band, the discovery that each transmission\n produced not one but a pattern of \"fixes\" on the point of origin. He\n passed a sheet of paper across the table. It showed a set of concentric\n circles, overlapped by a similar group of rings.", "The clerk looked sideways at Tremaine. \"Lots of funny stories about\n old Bram. Useta say his place was haunted. You know; funny noises and\n lights. And they used to say there was money buried out at his place.\"\n\n\n \"I've heard those stories. Just superstition, wouldn't you say?\"\n\n\n \"Maybe so.\" The clerk leaned on the counter, assumed a knowing look.\n \"There's one story that's not superstition....\"\n\n\n Tremaine waited.\n\n\n \"You—uh—paying anything for information?\"\n\n\n \"Now why would I do that?\" Tremaine reached for the door knob.", "Tremaine put a hand on the counter, looked thoughtful. \"I was hoping\n to save a trip.\" He lifted his hand and scratched the side of his jaw.\n A folded bill opened on the counter. The thin man's eyes darted toward\n it. His hand eased out, covered the bill. He grinned quickly.\n\n\n \"See what I can do,\" he said.\n\n\n It was ten minutes before he beckoned Tremaine over to the table where\n a two-foot-square book lay open. An untrimmed fingernail indicated a\n line written in faded ink:\n\n\n \"May 19. Acreage sold, One Dollar and other G&V consid. NW Quarter\n Section 24, Township Elsby. Bram. (see Vol. 9 & cet.)\"\n\n\n \"Translated, what does that mean?\" said Tremaine." ] ]
train	20001	[ "Why was human cloning banned? ", "What is the main reason the writer takes issue with the Pope's stance on cloning?", "Why does the writer use other medical procedures as evidence to support cloning?", "How does the writer use twins in their argument?", "How do plants factor into the cloning argument?", "How would jealously possibly factor into the issue of cloning?", "Why, according to the writer, is the main underlying reason that people are opposed to cloning?", "What is the underlying defence that the writer has in defence of cloning?" ]	[ [ "It was a preemptive measure. It's too complex to allow it to be explored unregulated. ", "It is objectively immoral and \"evil.\"", "It was an easy political stance for Bill Clinton to take. ", "There was no real research behind it, so there was no pushback on a bad." ], [ "His opinion on it carries too much weight on how the ban is handled. ", "When he supports the ban, he goes beyond his position as a religious leader for a specific group of people.", "The writer feels that humans have the right to choose how they reproduce, and the Pope is disallowing that. ", "The Bible says nothing about cloning in it. " ], [ "To show that there is a demand for more reproductive aids like cloning. ", "To show that the fear of cloning is not based on science. ", "To show that reproduction has always been assisted to the benefit of people one way or another, with good results. ", "To prove the science behind cloning and to show it is based in commonly used practices. " ], [ "They show that clones already exist, and are proven to grow as individuals and have their own individual rights. ", "They show that like twins, clones use the same DNA to make people with shared characteristics. ", "They use twins to show that if clones did exist, they would grow up the same way that twins do. ", "They show that twins are a common occurrence, meaning cloning would not be such a new concept to introduce. " ], [ "They show that the idea of cloning is a possible one because some plants undergo a similar process. ", "Plant cloning is unnatural and a human-made process. ", "They are another example of how humans have influenced reproduction before. ", "They are another example of it happening in nature, and being normal in our day-to-day lives. " ], [ "Clones would be genetically superior, as they'd be able to choose what traits to pass down. ", "People may envy the social recognition that clones would receive. They'd be missing out on the same popularity. ", "Clones get in between people and their spouses. They're too separate and impersonal. ", "People would be \"losing\" a sexual advantage in not being able to reproduce a clone directly themselves. " ], [ "They don't understand the scientific reasoning enough. If they had the knowledge, they would more readily support it. ", "People are afraid of rich people and dictators being cloned and thus continued to be in power. ", "People like Bill Clinton have instilled a fear of it with his policies. ", "They are too scared of the unknown and blinded by their prejudices. They believe that cloning would usurp them in one way or another. " ], [ "There is nothing to fear about it. It can't be used for evil, and there is no evidence suggesting it will affect us negatively.", "There is nothing intrinsically unnatural or immoral about it. Science supports it, and we already owe ourselves to previous new methodologies. ", "It will be a great way to continue the populace. It will give people different options in terms of raising children, and even continuing their own lives vicariously through their clones. ", "It is going to happen anyway, so people may as well accept it for what it is and move on. " ] ]	[ 1, 2, 3, 1, 4, 4, 4, 2 ]	[ 1, 0, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0 ]	[ [ "Human Clones: Why Not? \n\n If you can clone a sheep, you can almost certainly clone a human being. Some of the most powerful people in the world have felt compelled to act against this threat. President Clinton swiftly imposed a ban on federal funding for human-cloning research. Bills are in the works in both houses of Congress to outlaw human cloning--a step urged on all governments by the pope himself. Cloning humans is taken to be either 1) a fundamentally evil thing that must be stopped or, at the very least, 2) a complex ethical issue that needs legislation and regulation. But what, exactly, is so bad about it?", "Start by asking whether human beings have a right to reproduce. I say \"yes.\" I have no moral right to tell other people they shouldn't be able to have children, and I don't see that Bill Clinton has that right either. When Clinton says, \"Let us resist the temptation to copy ourselves,\" it comes from a man not known for resisting other temptations of the flesh. And for a politician, making noise about cloning is pretty close to a fleshly temptation itself. It's an easy way to show sound-bite leadership on an issue that everybody is talking about, without much risk of bitter consequences. After all, how much federally funded research was stopped by this ban? Probably almost none, because Clinton has maintained Ronald Reagan's policy of minimizing federal grants for research in human reproduction. Besides, most researchers thought cloning humans was impossible--so, for the moment, there's unlikely to be a grant-request backlog. There is nothing like banning the nonexistent to show true leadership.", "The \"deep ethical issues\" about cloning mainly boil down to jealousy. Economic jealousy is bad enough, and it is a factor here, but the thing that truly drives people crazy is sexual jealousy. Eons of evolution through sexual selection have made the average man or woman insanely jealous of any interloper who gains a reproductive advantage--say by diddling your spouse. Cloning is less personal than cuckoldry, but it strikes a similar chord: Someone has got the reproductive edge on you.", "Fear of clones is just another form of racism. We all agree it is wrong to discriminate against people based on a set of genetic characteristics known as \"race.\" Calls for a ban on cloning amount to discrimination against people based on another genetic trait--the fact that somebody already has an identical DNA sequence. The most extreme form of discrimination is genocide--seeking to eliminate that which is different. In this case, the genocide is pre-emptive--clones are so scary that we must eliminate them before they exist with a ban on their creation. \n\n What is so special about natural reproduction anyway? Cloning is the only predictable way to reproduce, because it creates the identical twin of a known adult. Sexual reproduction is a crap shoot by comparison--some random mix of mom and dad. In evolutionary theory, this combination is thought to help stir the gene pool, so to speak. However, evolution for humans is essentially over, because we use medical science to control the death rate.", "The pope, unlike the president, is known for resisting temptation. He also openly claims the authority to decide how people reproduce. I respect the pope's freedom to lead his religion, and his followers' freedom to follow his dictate. But calling for secular governments to implement a ban, thus extending his power beyond those he can persuade, shows rather explicitly that the pope does not respect the freedom of others. The basic religious doctrine he follows was set down some two millennia ago. Sheep feature prominently in the Bible, but cloning does not. So the pope's views on cloning are 1 st century rules applied using 15 th century religious thinking to a 21 st century issue. \n\n If humans have a right to reproduce, what right does society have to limit the means? Essentially all reproduction is done these days with medical help--at delivery, and often before. Truly natural human reproduction would mean 50 percent infant mortality and make pregnancy-related death the No. 1 killer of adult women.", "Once the fuss has died down and further animal research has paved the way, direct human cloning will be one more option among many specialized medical interventions in human reproduction, affecting only a tiny fraction of the population. Research into this area could bring far wider benefits. Clinton's knee-jerk policy changes nothing in the short run, but it is ultimately a giant step backward. In using an adult cell to create a clone, the \"cellular clock\" that determines the difference between an embryo and adult was somehow reset. Work in this area might help elucidate the process by which aging occurs and yield a way to reset the clocks in some of our own cells, allowing us to regenerate. Selfishly speaking, that would be more exciting to me than cloning, because it would help me . That's a lot more directly useful than letting me sire an identical twin 40 years my junior.", "Clones already exist. About one in every 1,000 births results in a pair of babies with the same DNA. We know them as identical twins. Scientific studies on such twins--reared together or apart--show that they share many characteristics. Just how many they share is a contentious topic in human biology. But genetic determinism is largely irrelevant to the cloning issue. Despite how many or how few individual characteristics twins--or other clones--have in common, they are different people in the most fundamental sense . They have their own identities, their own thoughts, and their own rights. Should you be confused on this point, just ask a twin.", "True, some forms of medical help are more invasive than others. With in vitro fertilization, the sperm and egg are combined in the lab and surgically implanted in the womb. Less than two decades ago, a similar concern was raised over the ethical issues involved in \"test-tube babies.\" To date, nearly 30,000 such babies have been born in the United States alone. Many would-be parents have been made happy. Who has been harmed? \n\n The cloning procedure is similar to IVF. The only difference is that the DNA of sperm and egg would be replaced by DNA from an adult cell. What law or principle--secular, humanist, or religious--says that one combination of genetic material in a flask is OK, but another is not? No matter how closely you study the 1 st century texts, I don't think you'll find the answer.", "Suppose that Unsolved Mysteries called you with news of a long-lost identical twin. Would that suddenly make you less of a person, less of an individual? It is hard to see how. So, why would a clone be different? Your clone would be raised in a different era by different people--like the lost identical twin, only younger than you. A person's basic humanity is not governed by how he or she came into this world, or whether somebody else happens to have the same DNA.", "What if Saddam Hussein clones were to rule Iraq for another thousand years? Sounds bad, but Saddam's natural son Uday is reputed to make his father seem saintly by comparison. We have no more to fear from a clone of Saddam, or of Hitler, than we do from their natural-born kin--which is to say, we don't have much to fear: Dictators' kids rarely pose a problem. Stalin's daughter retired to Arizona, and Kim Jong Il of North Korea is laughable as Great Leader, Version 2.0. \n\n The notion of an 80-year-old man cloning himself to cheat death is quaint, but it is unrealistic. First, the baby wouldn't really be him. Second, is the old duffer really up to changing diapers? A persistent octogenarian might convince a younger couple to have his clone and raise it, but that is not much different from fathering a child via a surrogate mother.", "Even if people have the right to do it, is cloning a good idea? Suppose that every prospective parent in the world stopped having children naturally, and instead produced clones of themselves. What would the world be like in another 20 or 30 years? The answer is: much like today. Cloning would only copy the genetic aspects of people who are already here. Hating a world of clones is hating the current populace. Never before was Pogo so right: We have met the enemy, and he is us !", "Whatever the temptations of cloning, the process of natural reproduction will always remain a lot more fun. An expensive and uncomfortable lab procedure will never offer any real competition for sex. The people most likely to clone will be those in special circumstances--infertile couples who must endure IVF anyway, for example. Even there, many will mix genetics to mimic nature. Another special case is where one member of a couple has a severe genetic disease. They might choose a clone of the healthy parent, rather than burden their child with a joint heritage that could be fatal. \n\n The most upsetting possibility in human cloning isn't superwarriors or dictators. It's that rich people with big egos will clone themselves. The common practice of giving a boy the same name as his father or choosing a family name for a child of either sex reflects our hunger for vicarious immortality. Clones may resonate with this instinct and cause some people to reproduce this way. So what? Rich and egotistic folks do all sorts of annoying things, and the law is hardly the means with which to try and stop them.", "One recurring image in anti-cloning propaganda is of some evil dictator raising an army of cloned warriors. Excuse me, but who is going to raise such an army (\"raise\" in the sense used by parents)? Clones start out life as babies . Armies are far easier to raise the old fashioned way--by recruiting or drafting naive young adults. Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori has worked well enough to send countless young men to their deaths through the ages. Why mess with success?", "Remember that cloning is not the same as genetic engineering. We don't get to make superman--we have to find him first. Maybe we could clone the superwarrior from Congressional Medal of Honor winners. Their bravery might--or might not--be genetically determined. But, suppose that it is. You might end up with such a brave battalion of heroes that when a grenade lands in their midst, there is a competition to see who gets to jump on it to save the others. Admirable perhaps, but not necessarily the way to win a war. And what about the supply sergeants? The army has a lot more of them than heroes. You could try to breed an expert for every job, including the petty bureaucrats, but what's the point? There's not exactly a shortage of them.", "To some, the scientist laboring away to unlock the mysteries of life is a source of evil, never to be trusted. To others, including me, the scientist is the ray of light, illuminating the processes that make the universe work and making us better through that knowledge. Various arguments can be advanced toward either view, but one key statistic is squarely on my side. The vast majority of people, including those who rail against science, owe their very lives to previous medical discoveries. They embody the fruits of science. Don't let the forces of darkness, ignorance, and fear turn us back from research. Instead, let us raise--and yes, even clone--new generations of hapless ingrates, who can whine and rail against the discoveries of the next age.", "Twins aren't the only clones in everyday life. Think about seedless grapes or navel oranges--if there are no seeds, where did they come from? It's the plant equivalent of virgin birth--which is to say that they are all clones, propagated by cutting a shoot and planting it. Wine is almost entirely a cloned product. The grapes used for wine have seeds, but they've been cloned from shoots for more than a hundred years in the case of many vineyards. The same is true for many flowers. Go to a garden store, and you'll find products with delightful names like \"Olivia's Cloning Compound,\" a mix of hormones to dunk on the cut end of a shoot to help it take root.", "Adifferent scare scenario is a world filled with copies of famous people only. We'll treat celebrity DNA like designer clothes, hankering for Michael Jordan's genes the way we covet his Nike sneakers today. But even celebrity infatuation has its limits. People are not more taken with celebrities than they are with themselves. Besides, such a trend would correct itself in a generation or two, because celebrity is closely linked to rarity. The world seems amused by one Howard Stern, but give us a hundred or a million of them, and they'll seem a lot less endearing." ], [ "The pope, unlike the president, is known for resisting temptation. He also openly claims the authority to decide how people reproduce. I respect the pope's freedom to lead his religion, and his followers' freedom to follow his dictate. But calling for secular governments to implement a ban, thus extending his power beyond those he can persuade, shows rather explicitly that the pope does not respect the freedom of others. The basic religious doctrine he follows was set down some two millennia ago. Sheep feature prominently in the Bible, but cloning does not. So the pope's views on cloning are 1 st century rules applied using 15 th century religious thinking to a 21 st century issue. \n\n If humans have a right to reproduce, what right does society have to limit the means? Essentially all reproduction is done these days with medical help--at delivery, and often before. Truly natural human reproduction would mean 50 percent infant mortality and make pregnancy-related death the No. 1 killer of adult women.", "Human Clones: Why Not? \n\n If you can clone a sheep, you can almost certainly clone a human being. Some of the most powerful people in the world have felt compelled to act against this threat. President Clinton swiftly imposed a ban on federal funding for human-cloning research. Bills are in the works in both houses of Congress to outlaw human cloning--a step urged on all governments by the pope himself. Cloning humans is taken to be either 1) a fundamentally evil thing that must be stopped or, at the very least, 2) a complex ethical issue that needs legislation and regulation. But what, exactly, is so bad about it?", "The \"deep ethical issues\" about cloning mainly boil down to jealousy. Economic jealousy is bad enough, and it is a factor here, but the thing that truly drives people crazy is sexual jealousy. Eons of evolution through sexual selection have made the average man or woman insanely jealous of any interloper who gains a reproductive advantage--say by diddling your spouse. Cloning is less personal than cuckoldry, but it strikes a similar chord: Someone has got the reproductive edge on you.", "True, some forms of medical help are more invasive than others. With in vitro fertilization, the sperm and egg are combined in the lab and surgically implanted in the womb. Less than two decades ago, a similar concern was raised over the ethical issues involved in \"test-tube babies.\" To date, nearly 30,000 such babies have been born in the United States alone. Many would-be parents have been made happy. Who has been harmed? \n\n The cloning procedure is similar to IVF. The only difference is that the DNA of sperm and egg would be replaced by DNA from an adult cell. What law or principle--secular, humanist, or religious--says that one combination of genetic material in a flask is OK, but another is not? No matter how closely you study the 1 st century texts, I don't think you'll find the answer.", "Start by asking whether human beings have a right to reproduce. I say \"yes.\" I have no moral right to tell other people they shouldn't be able to have children, and I don't see that Bill Clinton has that right either. When Clinton says, \"Let us resist the temptation to copy ourselves,\" it comes from a man not known for resisting other temptations of the flesh. And for a politician, making noise about cloning is pretty close to a fleshly temptation itself. It's an easy way to show sound-bite leadership on an issue that everybody is talking about, without much risk of bitter consequences. After all, how much federally funded research was stopped by this ban? Probably almost none, because Clinton has maintained Ronald Reagan's policy of minimizing federal grants for research in human reproduction. Besides, most researchers thought cloning humans was impossible--so, for the moment, there's unlikely to be a grant-request backlog. There is nothing like banning the nonexistent to show true leadership.", "To some, the scientist laboring away to unlock the mysteries of life is a source of evil, never to be trusted. To others, including me, the scientist is the ray of light, illuminating the processes that make the universe work and making us better through that knowledge. Various arguments can be advanced toward either view, but one key statistic is squarely on my side. The vast majority of people, including those who rail against science, owe their very lives to previous medical discoveries. They embody the fruits of science. Don't let the forces of darkness, ignorance, and fear turn us back from research. Instead, let us raise--and yes, even clone--new generations of hapless ingrates, who can whine and rail against the discoveries of the next age.", "Clones already exist. About one in every 1,000 births results in a pair of babies with the same DNA. We know them as identical twins. Scientific studies on such twins--reared together or apart--show that they share many characteristics. Just how many they share is a contentious topic in human biology. But genetic determinism is largely irrelevant to the cloning issue. Despite how many or how few individual characteristics twins--or other clones--have in common, they are different people in the most fundamental sense . They have their own identities, their own thoughts, and their own rights. Should you be confused on this point, just ask a twin.", "Fear of clones is just another form of racism. We all agree it is wrong to discriminate against people based on a set of genetic characteristics known as \"race.\" Calls for a ban on cloning amount to discrimination against people based on another genetic trait--the fact that somebody already has an identical DNA sequence. The most extreme form of discrimination is genocide--seeking to eliminate that which is different. In this case, the genocide is pre-emptive--clones are so scary that we must eliminate them before they exist with a ban on their creation. \n\n What is so special about natural reproduction anyway? Cloning is the only predictable way to reproduce, because it creates the identical twin of a known adult. Sexual reproduction is a crap shoot by comparison--some random mix of mom and dad. In evolutionary theory, this combination is thought to help stir the gene pool, so to speak. However, evolution for humans is essentially over, because we use medical science to control the death rate.", "Suppose that Unsolved Mysteries called you with news of a long-lost identical twin. Would that suddenly make you less of a person, less of an individual? It is hard to see how. So, why would a clone be different? Your clone would be raised in a different era by different people--like the lost identical twin, only younger than you. A person's basic humanity is not governed by how he or she came into this world, or whether somebody else happens to have the same DNA.", "Even if people have the right to do it, is cloning a good idea? Suppose that every prospective parent in the world stopped having children naturally, and instead produced clones of themselves. What would the world be like in another 20 or 30 years? The answer is: much like today. Cloning would only copy the genetic aspects of people who are already here. Hating a world of clones is hating the current populace. Never before was Pogo so right: We have met the enemy, and he is us !", "What if Saddam Hussein clones were to rule Iraq for another thousand years? Sounds bad, but Saddam's natural son Uday is reputed to make his father seem saintly by comparison. We have no more to fear from a clone of Saddam, or of Hitler, than we do from their natural-born kin--which is to say, we don't have much to fear: Dictators' kids rarely pose a problem. Stalin's daughter retired to Arizona, and Kim Jong Il of North Korea is laughable as Great Leader, Version 2.0. \n\n The notion of an 80-year-old man cloning himself to cheat death is quaint, but it is unrealistic. First, the baby wouldn't really be him. Second, is the old duffer really up to changing diapers? A persistent octogenarian might convince a younger couple to have his clone and raise it, but that is not much different from fathering a child via a surrogate mother.", "Once the fuss has died down and further animal research has paved the way, direct human cloning will be one more option among many specialized medical interventions in human reproduction, affecting only a tiny fraction of the population. Research into this area could bring far wider benefits. Clinton's knee-jerk policy changes nothing in the short run, but it is ultimately a giant step backward. In using an adult cell to create a clone, the \"cellular clock\" that determines the difference between an embryo and adult was somehow reset. Work in this area might help elucidate the process by which aging occurs and yield a way to reset the clocks in some of our own cells, allowing us to regenerate. Selfishly speaking, that would be more exciting to me than cloning, because it would help me . That's a lot more directly useful than letting me sire an identical twin 40 years my junior.", "One recurring image in anti-cloning propaganda is of some evil dictator raising an army of cloned warriors. Excuse me, but who is going to raise such an army (\"raise\" in the sense used by parents)? Clones start out life as babies . Armies are far easier to raise the old fashioned way--by recruiting or drafting naive young adults. Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori has worked well enough to send countless young men to their deaths through the ages. Why mess with success?", "Whatever the temptations of cloning, the process of natural reproduction will always remain a lot more fun. An expensive and uncomfortable lab procedure will never offer any real competition for sex. The people most likely to clone will be those in special circumstances--infertile couples who must endure IVF anyway, for example. Even there, many will mix genetics to mimic nature. Another special case is where one member of a couple has a severe genetic disease. They might choose a clone of the healthy parent, rather than burden their child with a joint heritage that could be fatal. \n\n The most upsetting possibility in human cloning isn't superwarriors or dictators. It's that rich people with big egos will clone themselves. The common practice of giving a boy the same name as his father or choosing a family name for a child of either sex reflects our hunger for vicarious immortality. Clones may resonate with this instinct and cause some people to reproduce this way. So what? Rich and egotistic folks do all sorts of annoying things, and the law is hardly the means with which to try and stop them.", "Adifferent scare scenario is a world filled with copies of famous people only. We'll treat celebrity DNA like designer clothes, hankering for Michael Jordan's genes the way we covet his Nike sneakers today. But even celebrity infatuation has its limits. People are not more taken with celebrities than they are with themselves. Besides, such a trend would correct itself in a generation or two, because celebrity is closely linked to rarity. The world seems amused by one Howard Stern, but give us a hundred or a million of them, and they'll seem a lot less endearing.", "Remember that cloning is not the same as genetic engineering. We don't get to make superman--we have to find him first. Maybe we could clone the superwarrior from Congressional Medal of Honor winners. Their bravery might--or might not--be genetically determined. But, suppose that it is. You might end up with such a brave battalion of heroes that when a grenade lands in their midst, there is a competition to see who gets to jump on it to save the others. Admirable perhaps, but not necessarily the way to win a war. And what about the supply sergeants? The army has a lot more of them than heroes. You could try to breed an expert for every job, including the petty bureaucrats, but what's the point? There's not exactly a shortage of them.", "Twins aren't the only clones in everyday life. Think about seedless grapes or navel oranges--if there are no seeds, where did they come from? It's the plant equivalent of virgin birth--which is to say that they are all clones, propagated by cutting a shoot and planting it. Wine is almost entirely a cloned product. The grapes used for wine have seeds, but they've been cloned from shoots for more than a hundred years in the case of many vineyards. The same is true for many flowers. Go to a garden store, and you'll find products with delightful names like \"Olivia's Cloning Compound,\" a mix of hormones to dunk on the cut end of a shoot to help it take root." ], [ "True, some forms of medical help are more invasive than others. With in vitro fertilization, the sperm and egg are combined in the lab and surgically implanted in the womb. Less than two decades ago, a similar concern was raised over the ethical issues involved in \"test-tube babies.\" To date, nearly 30,000 such babies have been born in the United States alone. Many would-be parents have been made happy. Who has been harmed? \n\n The cloning procedure is similar to IVF. The only difference is that the DNA of sperm and egg would be replaced by DNA from an adult cell. What law or principle--secular, humanist, or religious--says that one combination of genetic material in a flask is OK, but another is not? No matter how closely you study the 1 st century texts, I don't think you'll find the answer.", "Clones already exist. About one in every 1,000 births results in a pair of babies with the same DNA. We know them as identical twins. Scientific studies on such twins--reared together or apart--show that they share many characteristics. Just how many they share is a contentious topic in human biology. But genetic determinism is largely irrelevant to the cloning issue. Despite how many or how few individual characteristics twins--or other clones--have in common, they are different people in the most fundamental sense . They have their own identities, their own thoughts, and their own rights. Should you be confused on this point, just ask a twin.", "Once the fuss has died down and further animal research has paved the way, direct human cloning will be one more option among many specialized medical interventions in human reproduction, affecting only a tiny fraction of the population. Research into this area could bring far wider benefits. Clinton's knee-jerk policy changes nothing in the short run, but it is ultimately a giant step backward. In using an adult cell to create a clone, the \"cellular clock\" that determines the difference between an embryo and adult was somehow reset. Work in this area might help elucidate the process by which aging occurs and yield a way to reset the clocks in some of our own cells, allowing us to regenerate. Selfishly speaking, that would be more exciting to me than cloning, because it would help me . That's a lot more directly useful than letting me sire an identical twin 40 years my junior.", "Fear of clones is just another form of racism. We all agree it is wrong to discriminate against people based on a set of genetic characteristics known as \"race.\" Calls for a ban on cloning amount to discrimination against people based on another genetic trait--the fact that somebody already has an identical DNA sequence. The most extreme form of discrimination is genocide--seeking to eliminate that which is different. In this case, the genocide is pre-emptive--clones are so scary that we must eliminate them before they exist with a ban on their creation. \n\n What is so special about natural reproduction anyway? Cloning is the only predictable way to reproduce, because it creates the identical twin of a known adult. Sexual reproduction is a crap shoot by comparison--some random mix of mom and dad. In evolutionary theory, this combination is thought to help stir the gene pool, so to speak. However, evolution for humans is essentially over, because we use medical science to control the death rate.", "To some, the scientist laboring away to unlock the mysteries of life is a source of evil, never to be trusted. To others, including me, the scientist is the ray of light, illuminating the processes that make the universe work and making us better through that knowledge. Various arguments can be advanced toward either view, but one key statistic is squarely on my side. The vast majority of people, including those who rail against science, owe their very lives to previous medical discoveries. They embody the fruits of science. Don't let the forces of darkness, ignorance, and fear turn us back from research. Instead, let us raise--and yes, even clone--new generations of hapless ingrates, who can whine and rail against the discoveries of the next age.", "Human Clones: Why Not? \n\n If you can clone a sheep, you can almost certainly clone a human being. Some of the most powerful people in the world have felt compelled to act against this threat. President Clinton swiftly imposed a ban on federal funding for human-cloning research. Bills are in the works in both houses of Congress to outlaw human cloning--a step urged on all governments by the pope himself. Cloning humans is taken to be either 1) a fundamentally evil thing that must be stopped or, at the very least, 2) a complex ethical issue that needs legislation and regulation. But what, exactly, is so bad about it?", "Twins aren't the only clones in everyday life. Think about seedless grapes or navel oranges--if there are no seeds, where did they come from? It's the plant equivalent of virgin birth--which is to say that they are all clones, propagated by cutting a shoot and planting it. Wine is almost entirely a cloned product. The grapes used for wine have seeds, but they've been cloned from shoots for more than a hundred years in the case of many vineyards. The same is true for many flowers. Go to a garden store, and you'll find products with delightful names like \"Olivia's Cloning Compound,\" a mix of hormones to dunk on the cut end of a shoot to help it take root.", "The \"deep ethical issues\" about cloning mainly boil down to jealousy. Economic jealousy is bad enough, and it is a factor here, but the thing that truly drives people crazy is sexual jealousy. Eons of evolution through sexual selection have made the average man or woman insanely jealous of any interloper who gains a reproductive advantage--say by diddling your spouse. Cloning is less personal than cuckoldry, but it strikes a similar chord: Someone has got the reproductive edge on you.", "What if Saddam Hussein clones were to rule Iraq for another thousand years? Sounds bad, but Saddam's natural son Uday is reputed to make his father seem saintly by comparison. We have no more to fear from a clone of Saddam, or of Hitler, than we do from their natural-born kin--which is to say, we don't have much to fear: Dictators' kids rarely pose a problem. Stalin's daughter retired to Arizona, and Kim Jong Il of North Korea is laughable as Great Leader, Version 2.0. \n\n The notion of an 80-year-old man cloning himself to cheat death is quaint, but it is unrealistic. First, the baby wouldn't really be him. Second, is the old duffer really up to changing diapers? A persistent octogenarian might convince a younger couple to have his clone and raise it, but that is not much different from fathering a child via a surrogate mother.", "The pope, unlike the president, is known for resisting temptation. He also openly claims the authority to decide how people reproduce. I respect the pope's freedom to lead his religion, and his followers' freedom to follow his dictate. But calling for secular governments to implement a ban, thus extending his power beyond those he can persuade, shows rather explicitly that the pope does not respect the freedom of others. The basic religious doctrine he follows was set down some two millennia ago. Sheep feature prominently in the Bible, but cloning does not. So the pope's views on cloning are 1 st century rules applied using 15 th century religious thinking to a 21 st century issue. \n\n If humans have a right to reproduce, what right does society have to limit the means? Essentially all reproduction is done these days with medical help--at delivery, and often before. Truly natural human reproduction would mean 50 percent infant mortality and make pregnancy-related death the No. 1 killer of adult women.", "Suppose that Unsolved Mysteries called you with news of a long-lost identical twin. Would that suddenly make you less of a person, less of an individual? It is hard to see how. So, why would a clone be different? Your clone would be raised in a different era by different people--like the lost identical twin, only younger than you. A person's basic humanity is not governed by how he or she came into this world, or whether somebody else happens to have the same DNA.", "Even if people have the right to do it, is cloning a good idea? Suppose that every prospective parent in the world stopped having children naturally, and instead produced clones of themselves. What would the world be like in another 20 or 30 years? The answer is: much like today. Cloning would only copy the genetic aspects of people who are already here. Hating a world of clones is hating the current populace. Never before was Pogo so right: We have met the enemy, and he is us !", "Whatever the temptations of cloning, the process of natural reproduction will always remain a lot more fun. An expensive and uncomfortable lab procedure will never offer any real competition for sex. The people most likely to clone will be those in special circumstances--infertile couples who must endure IVF anyway, for example. Even there, many will mix genetics to mimic nature. Another special case is where one member of a couple has a severe genetic disease. They might choose a clone of the healthy parent, rather than burden their child with a joint heritage that could be fatal. \n\n The most upsetting possibility in human cloning isn't superwarriors or dictators. It's that rich people with big egos will clone themselves. The common practice of giving a boy the same name as his father or choosing a family name for a child of either sex reflects our hunger for vicarious immortality. Clones may resonate with this instinct and cause some people to reproduce this way. So what? Rich and egotistic folks do all sorts of annoying things, and the law is hardly the means with which to try and stop them.", "Start by asking whether human beings have a right to reproduce. I say \"yes.\" I have no moral right to tell other people they shouldn't be able to have children, and I don't see that Bill Clinton has that right either. When Clinton says, \"Let us resist the temptation to copy ourselves,\" it comes from a man not known for resisting other temptations of the flesh. And for a politician, making noise about cloning is pretty close to a fleshly temptation itself. It's an easy way to show sound-bite leadership on an issue that everybody is talking about, without much risk of bitter consequences. After all, how much federally funded research was stopped by this ban? Probably almost none, because Clinton has maintained Ronald Reagan's policy of minimizing federal grants for research in human reproduction. Besides, most researchers thought cloning humans was impossible--so, for the moment, there's unlikely to be a grant-request backlog. There is nothing like banning the nonexistent to show true leadership.", "One recurring image in anti-cloning propaganda is of some evil dictator raising an army of cloned warriors. Excuse me, but who is going to raise such an army (\"raise\" in the sense used by parents)? Clones start out life as babies . Armies are far easier to raise the old fashioned way--by recruiting or drafting naive young adults. Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori has worked well enough to send countless young men to their deaths through the ages. Why mess with success?", "Adifferent scare scenario is a world filled with copies of famous people only. We'll treat celebrity DNA like designer clothes, hankering for Michael Jordan's genes the way we covet his Nike sneakers today. But even celebrity infatuation has its limits. People are not more taken with celebrities than they are with themselves. Besides, such a trend would correct itself in a generation or two, because celebrity is closely linked to rarity. The world seems amused by one Howard Stern, but give us a hundred or a million of them, and they'll seem a lot less endearing.", "Remember that cloning is not the same as genetic engineering. We don't get to make superman--we have to find him first. Maybe we could clone the superwarrior from Congressional Medal of Honor winners. Their bravery might--or might not--be genetically determined. But, suppose that it is. You might end up with such a brave battalion of heroes that when a grenade lands in their midst, there is a competition to see who gets to jump on it to save the others. Admirable perhaps, but not necessarily the way to win a war. And what about the supply sergeants? The army has a lot more of them than heroes. You could try to breed an expert for every job, including the petty bureaucrats, but what's the point? There's not exactly a shortage of them." ], [ "Clones already exist. About one in every 1,000 births results in a pair of babies with the same DNA. We know them as identical twins. Scientific studies on such twins--reared together or apart--show that they share many characteristics. Just how many they share is a contentious topic in human biology. But genetic determinism is largely irrelevant to the cloning issue. Despite how many or how few individual characteristics twins--or other clones--have in common, they are different people in the most fundamental sense . They have their own identities, their own thoughts, and their own rights. Should you be confused on this point, just ask a twin.", "Twins aren't the only clones in everyday life. Think about seedless grapes or navel oranges--if there are no seeds, where did they come from? It's the plant equivalent of virgin birth--which is to say that they are all clones, propagated by cutting a shoot and planting it. Wine is almost entirely a cloned product. The grapes used for wine have seeds, but they've been cloned from shoots for more than a hundred years in the case of many vineyards. The same is true for many flowers. Go to a garden store, and you'll find products with delightful names like \"Olivia's Cloning Compound,\" a mix of hormones to dunk on the cut end of a shoot to help it take root.", "Suppose that Unsolved Mysteries called you with news of a long-lost identical twin. Would that suddenly make you less of a person, less of an individual? It is hard to see how. So, why would a clone be different? Your clone would be raised in a different era by different people--like the lost identical twin, only younger than you. A person's basic humanity is not governed by how he or she came into this world, or whether somebody else happens to have the same DNA.", "Fear of clones is just another form of racism. We all agree it is wrong to discriminate against people based on a set of genetic characteristics known as \"race.\" Calls for a ban on cloning amount to discrimination against people based on another genetic trait--the fact that somebody already has an identical DNA sequence. The most extreme form of discrimination is genocide--seeking to eliminate that which is different. In this case, the genocide is pre-emptive--clones are so scary that we must eliminate them before they exist with a ban on their creation. \n\n What is so special about natural reproduction anyway? Cloning is the only predictable way to reproduce, because it creates the identical twin of a known adult. Sexual reproduction is a crap shoot by comparison--some random mix of mom and dad. In evolutionary theory, this combination is thought to help stir the gene pool, so to speak. However, evolution for humans is essentially over, because we use medical science to control the death rate.", "To some, the scientist laboring away to unlock the mysteries of life is a source of evil, never to be trusted. To others, including me, the scientist is the ray of light, illuminating the processes that make the universe work and making us better through that knowledge. Various arguments can be advanced toward either view, but one key statistic is squarely on my side. The vast majority of people, including those who rail against science, owe their very lives to previous medical discoveries. They embody the fruits of science. Don't let the forces of darkness, ignorance, and fear turn us back from research. Instead, let us raise--and yes, even clone--new generations of hapless ingrates, who can whine and rail against the discoveries of the next age.", "Even if people have the right to do it, is cloning a good idea? Suppose that every prospective parent in the world stopped having children naturally, and instead produced clones of themselves. What would the world be like in another 20 or 30 years? The answer is: much like today. Cloning would only copy the genetic aspects of people who are already here. Hating a world of clones is hating the current populace. Never before was Pogo so right: We have met the enemy, and he is us !", "One recurring image in anti-cloning propaganda is of some evil dictator raising an army of cloned warriors. Excuse me, but who is going to raise such an army (\"raise\" in the sense used by parents)? Clones start out life as babies . Armies are far easier to raise the old fashioned way--by recruiting or drafting naive young adults. Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori has worked well enough to send countless young men to their deaths through the ages. Why mess with success?", "The pope, unlike the president, is known for resisting temptation. He also openly claims the authority to decide how people reproduce. I respect the pope's freedom to lead his religion, and his followers' freedom to follow his dictate. But calling for secular governments to implement a ban, thus extending his power beyond those he can persuade, shows rather explicitly that the pope does not respect the freedom of others. The basic religious doctrine he follows was set down some two millennia ago. Sheep feature prominently in the Bible, but cloning does not. So the pope's views on cloning are 1 st century rules applied using 15 th century religious thinking to a 21 st century issue. \n\n If humans have a right to reproduce, what right does society have to limit the means? Essentially all reproduction is done these days with medical help--at delivery, and often before. Truly natural human reproduction would mean 50 percent infant mortality and make pregnancy-related death the No. 1 killer of adult women.", "Adifferent scare scenario is a world filled with copies of famous people only. We'll treat celebrity DNA like designer clothes, hankering for Michael Jordan's genes the way we covet his Nike sneakers today. But even celebrity infatuation has its limits. People are not more taken with celebrities than they are with themselves. Besides, such a trend would correct itself in a generation or two, because celebrity is closely linked to rarity. The world seems amused by one Howard Stern, but give us a hundred or a million of them, and they'll seem a lot less endearing.", "The \"deep ethical issues\" about cloning mainly boil down to jealousy. Economic jealousy is bad enough, and it is a factor here, but the thing that truly drives people crazy is sexual jealousy. Eons of evolution through sexual selection have made the average man or woman insanely jealous of any interloper who gains a reproductive advantage--say by diddling your spouse. Cloning is less personal than cuckoldry, but it strikes a similar chord: Someone has got the reproductive edge on you.", "Human Clones: Why Not? \n\n If you can clone a sheep, you can almost certainly clone a human being. Some of the most powerful people in the world have felt compelled to act against this threat. President Clinton swiftly imposed a ban on federal funding for human-cloning research. Bills are in the works in both houses of Congress to outlaw human cloning--a step urged on all governments by the pope himself. Cloning humans is taken to be either 1) a fundamentally evil thing that must be stopped or, at the very least, 2) a complex ethical issue that needs legislation and regulation. But what, exactly, is so bad about it?", "Start by asking whether human beings have a right to reproduce. I say \"yes.\" I have no moral right to tell other people they shouldn't be able to have children, and I don't see that Bill Clinton has that right either. When Clinton says, \"Let us resist the temptation to copy ourselves,\" it comes from a man not known for resisting other temptations of the flesh. And for a politician, making noise about cloning is pretty close to a fleshly temptation itself. It's an easy way to show sound-bite leadership on an issue that everybody is talking about, without much risk of bitter consequences. After all, how much federally funded research was stopped by this ban? Probably almost none, because Clinton has maintained Ronald Reagan's policy of minimizing federal grants for research in human reproduction. Besides, most researchers thought cloning humans was impossible--so, for the moment, there's unlikely to be a grant-request backlog. There is nothing like banning the nonexistent to show true leadership.", "What if Saddam Hussein clones were to rule Iraq for another thousand years? Sounds bad, but Saddam's natural son Uday is reputed to make his father seem saintly by comparison. We have no more to fear from a clone of Saddam, or of Hitler, than we do from their natural-born kin--which is to say, we don't have much to fear: Dictators' kids rarely pose a problem. Stalin's daughter retired to Arizona, and Kim Jong Il of North Korea is laughable as Great Leader, Version 2.0. \n\n The notion of an 80-year-old man cloning himself to cheat death is quaint, but it is unrealistic. First, the baby wouldn't really be him. Second, is the old duffer really up to changing diapers? A persistent octogenarian might convince a younger couple to have his clone and raise it, but that is not much different from fathering a child via a surrogate mother.", "True, some forms of medical help are more invasive than others. With in vitro fertilization, the sperm and egg are combined in the lab and surgically implanted in the womb. Less than two decades ago, a similar concern was raised over the ethical issues involved in \"test-tube babies.\" To date, nearly 30,000 such babies have been born in the United States alone. Many would-be parents have been made happy. Who has been harmed? \n\n The cloning procedure is similar to IVF. The only difference is that the DNA of sperm and egg would be replaced by DNA from an adult cell. What law or principle--secular, humanist, or religious--says that one combination of genetic material in a flask is OK, but another is not? No matter how closely you study the 1 st century texts, I don't think you'll find the answer.", "Once the fuss has died down and further animal research has paved the way, direct human cloning will be one more option among many specialized medical interventions in human reproduction, affecting only a tiny fraction of the population. Research into this area could bring far wider benefits. Clinton's knee-jerk policy changes nothing in the short run, but it is ultimately a giant step backward. In using an adult cell to create a clone, the \"cellular clock\" that determines the difference between an embryo and adult was somehow reset. Work in this area might help elucidate the process by which aging occurs and yield a way to reset the clocks in some of our own cells, allowing us to regenerate. Selfishly speaking, that would be more exciting to me than cloning, because it would help me . That's a lot more directly useful than letting me sire an identical twin 40 years my junior.", "Remember that cloning is not the same as genetic engineering. We don't get to make superman--we have to find him first. Maybe we could clone the superwarrior from Congressional Medal of Honor winners. Their bravery might--or might not--be genetically determined. But, suppose that it is. You might end up with such a brave battalion of heroes that when a grenade lands in their midst, there is a competition to see who gets to jump on it to save the others. Admirable perhaps, but not necessarily the way to win a war. And what about the supply sergeants? The army has a lot more of them than heroes. You could try to breed an expert for every job, including the petty bureaucrats, but what's the point? There's not exactly a shortage of them.", "Whatever the temptations of cloning, the process of natural reproduction will always remain a lot more fun. An expensive and uncomfortable lab procedure will never offer any real competition for sex. The people most likely to clone will be those in special circumstances--infertile couples who must endure IVF anyway, for example. Even there, many will mix genetics to mimic nature. Another special case is where one member of a couple has a severe genetic disease. They might choose a clone of the healthy parent, rather than burden their child with a joint heritage that could be fatal. \n\n The most upsetting possibility in human cloning isn't superwarriors or dictators. It's that rich people with big egos will clone themselves. The common practice of giving a boy the same name as his father or choosing a family name for a child of either sex reflects our hunger for vicarious immortality. Clones may resonate with this instinct and cause some people to reproduce this way. So what? Rich and egotistic folks do all sorts of annoying things, and the law is hardly the means with which to try and stop them." ], [ "Clones already exist. About one in every 1,000 births results in a pair of babies with the same DNA. We know them as identical twins. Scientific studies on such twins--reared together or apart--show that they share many characteristics. Just how many they share is a contentious topic in human biology. But genetic determinism is largely irrelevant to the cloning issue. Despite how many or how few individual characteristics twins--or other clones--have in common, they are different people in the most fundamental sense . They have their own identities, their own thoughts, and their own rights. Should you be confused on this point, just ask a twin.", "Twins aren't the only clones in everyday life. Think about seedless grapes or navel oranges--if there are no seeds, where did they come from? It's the plant equivalent of virgin birth--which is to say that they are all clones, propagated by cutting a shoot and planting it. Wine is almost entirely a cloned product. The grapes used for wine have seeds, but they've been cloned from shoots for more than a hundred years in the case of many vineyards. The same is true for many flowers. Go to a garden store, and you'll find products with delightful names like \"Olivia's Cloning Compound,\" a mix of hormones to dunk on the cut end of a shoot to help it take root.", "Suppose that Unsolved Mysteries called you with news of a long-lost identical twin. Would that suddenly make you less of a person, less of an individual? It is hard to see how. So, why would a clone be different? Your clone would be raised in a different era by different people--like the lost identical twin, only younger than you. A person's basic humanity is not governed by how he or she came into this world, or whether somebody else happens to have the same DNA.", "True, some forms of medical help are more invasive than others. With in vitro fertilization, the sperm and egg are combined in the lab and surgically implanted in the womb. Less than two decades ago, a similar concern was raised over the ethical issues involved in \"test-tube babies.\" To date, nearly 30,000 such babies have been born in the United States alone. Many would-be parents have been made happy. Who has been harmed? \n\n The cloning procedure is similar to IVF. The only difference is that the DNA of sperm and egg would be replaced by DNA from an adult cell. What law or principle--secular, humanist, or religious--says that one combination of genetic material in a flask is OK, but another is not? No matter how closely you study the 1 st century texts, I don't think you'll find the answer.", "The \"deep ethical issues\" about cloning mainly boil down to jealousy. Economic jealousy is bad enough, and it is a factor here, but the thing that truly drives people crazy is sexual jealousy. Eons of evolution through sexual selection have made the average man or woman insanely jealous of any interloper who gains a reproductive advantage--say by diddling your spouse. Cloning is less personal than cuckoldry, but it strikes a similar chord: Someone has got the reproductive edge on you.", "One recurring image in anti-cloning propaganda is of some evil dictator raising an army of cloned warriors. Excuse me, but who is going to raise such an army (\"raise\" in the sense used by parents)? Clones start out life as babies . Armies are far easier to raise the old fashioned way--by recruiting or drafting naive young adults. Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori has worked well enough to send countless young men to their deaths through the ages. Why mess with success?", "Fear of clones is just another form of racism. We all agree it is wrong to discriminate against people based on a set of genetic characteristics known as \"race.\" Calls for a ban on cloning amount to discrimination against people based on another genetic trait--the fact that somebody already has an identical DNA sequence. The most extreme form of discrimination is genocide--seeking to eliminate that which is different. In this case, the genocide is pre-emptive--clones are so scary that we must eliminate them before they exist with a ban on their creation. \n\n What is so special about natural reproduction anyway? Cloning is the only predictable way to reproduce, because it creates the identical twin of a known adult. Sexual reproduction is a crap shoot by comparison--some random mix of mom and dad. In evolutionary theory, this combination is thought to help stir the gene pool, so to speak. However, evolution for humans is essentially over, because we use medical science to control the death rate.", "Human Clones: Why Not? \n\n If you can clone a sheep, you can almost certainly clone a human being. Some of the most powerful people in the world have felt compelled to act against this threat. President Clinton swiftly imposed a ban on federal funding for human-cloning research. Bills are in the works in both houses of Congress to outlaw human cloning--a step urged on all governments by the pope himself. Cloning humans is taken to be either 1) a fundamentally evil thing that must be stopped or, at the very least, 2) a complex ethical issue that needs legislation and regulation. But what, exactly, is so bad about it?", "Start by asking whether human beings have a right to reproduce. I say \"yes.\" I have no moral right to tell other people they shouldn't be able to have children, and I don't see that Bill Clinton has that right either. When Clinton says, \"Let us resist the temptation to copy ourselves,\" it comes from a man not known for resisting other temptations of the flesh. And for a politician, making noise about cloning is pretty close to a fleshly temptation itself. It's an easy way to show sound-bite leadership on an issue that everybody is talking about, without much risk of bitter consequences. After all, how much federally funded research was stopped by this ban? Probably almost none, because Clinton has maintained Ronald Reagan's policy of minimizing federal grants for research in human reproduction. Besides, most researchers thought cloning humans was impossible--so, for the moment, there's unlikely to be a grant-request backlog. There is nothing like banning the nonexistent to show true leadership.", "Even if people have the right to do it, is cloning a good idea? Suppose that every prospective parent in the world stopped having children naturally, and instead produced clones of themselves. What would the world be like in another 20 or 30 years? The answer is: much like today. Cloning would only copy the genetic aspects of people who are already here. Hating a world of clones is hating the current populace. Never before was Pogo so right: We have met the enemy, and he is us !", "The pope, unlike the president, is known for resisting temptation. He also openly claims the authority to decide how people reproduce. I respect the pope's freedom to lead his religion, and his followers' freedom to follow his dictate. But calling for secular governments to implement a ban, thus extending his power beyond those he can persuade, shows rather explicitly that the pope does not respect the freedom of others. The basic religious doctrine he follows was set down some two millennia ago. Sheep feature prominently in the Bible, but cloning does not. So the pope's views on cloning are 1 st century rules applied using 15 th century religious thinking to a 21 st century issue. \n\n If humans have a right to reproduce, what right does society have to limit the means? Essentially all reproduction is done these days with medical help--at delivery, and often before. Truly natural human reproduction would mean 50 percent infant mortality and make pregnancy-related death the No. 1 killer of adult women.", "To some, the scientist laboring away to unlock the mysteries of life is a source of evil, never to be trusted. To others, including me, the scientist is the ray of light, illuminating the processes that make the universe work and making us better through that knowledge. Various arguments can be advanced toward either view, but one key statistic is squarely on my side. The vast majority of people, including those who rail against science, owe their very lives to previous medical discoveries. They embody the fruits of science. Don't let the forces of darkness, ignorance, and fear turn us back from research. Instead, let us raise--and yes, even clone--new generations of hapless ingrates, who can whine and rail against the discoveries of the next age.", "Once the fuss has died down and further animal research has paved the way, direct human cloning will be one more option among many specialized medical interventions in human reproduction, affecting only a tiny fraction of the population. Research into this area could bring far wider benefits. Clinton's knee-jerk policy changes nothing in the short run, but it is ultimately a giant step backward. In using an adult cell to create a clone, the \"cellular clock\" that determines the difference between an embryo and adult was somehow reset. Work in this area might help elucidate the process by which aging occurs and yield a way to reset the clocks in some of our own cells, allowing us to regenerate. Selfishly speaking, that would be more exciting to me than cloning, because it would help me . That's a lot more directly useful than letting me sire an identical twin 40 years my junior.", "What if Saddam Hussein clones were to rule Iraq for another thousand years? Sounds bad, but Saddam's natural son Uday is reputed to make his father seem saintly by comparison. We have no more to fear from a clone of Saddam, or of Hitler, than we do from their natural-born kin--which is to say, we don't have much to fear: Dictators' kids rarely pose a problem. Stalin's daughter retired to Arizona, and Kim Jong Il of North Korea is laughable as Great Leader, Version 2.0. \n\n The notion of an 80-year-old man cloning himself to cheat death is quaint, but it is unrealistic. First, the baby wouldn't really be him. Second, is the old duffer really up to changing diapers? A persistent octogenarian might convince a younger couple to have his clone and raise it, but that is not much different from fathering a child via a surrogate mother.", "Remember that cloning is not the same as genetic engineering. We don't get to make superman--we have to find him first. Maybe we could clone the superwarrior from Congressional Medal of Honor winners. Their bravery might--or might not--be genetically determined. But, suppose that it is. You might end up with such a brave battalion of heroes that when a grenade lands in their midst, there is a competition to see who gets to jump on it to save the others. Admirable perhaps, but not necessarily the way to win a war. And what about the supply sergeants? The army has a lot more of them than heroes. You could try to breed an expert for every job, including the petty bureaucrats, but what's the point? There's not exactly a shortage of them.", "Whatever the temptations of cloning, the process of natural reproduction will always remain a lot more fun. An expensive and uncomfortable lab procedure will never offer any real competition for sex. The people most likely to clone will be those in special circumstances--infertile couples who must endure IVF anyway, for example. Even there, many will mix genetics to mimic nature. Another special case is where one member of a couple has a severe genetic disease. They might choose a clone of the healthy parent, rather than burden their child with a joint heritage that could be fatal. \n\n The most upsetting possibility in human cloning isn't superwarriors or dictators. It's that rich people with big egos will clone themselves. The common practice of giving a boy the same name as his father or choosing a family name for a child of either sex reflects our hunger for vicarious immortality. Clones may resonate with this instinct and cause some people to reproduce this way. So what? Rich and egotistic folks do all sorts of annoying things, and the law is hardly the means with which to try and stop them.", "Adifferent scare scenario is a world filled with copies of famous people only. We'll treat celebrity DNA like designer clothes, hankering for Michael Jordan's genes the way we covet his Nike sneakers today. But even celebrity infatuation has its limits. People are not more taken with celebrities than they are with themselves. Besides, such a trend would correct itself in a generation or two, because celebrity is closely linked to rarity. The world seems amused by one Howard Stern, but give us a hundred or a million of them, and they'll seem a lot less endearing." ], [ "The \"deep ethical issues\" about cloning mainly boil down to jealousy. Economic jealousy is bad enough, and it is a factor here, but the thing that truly drives people crazy is sexual jealousy. Eons of evolution through sexual selection have made the average man or woman insanely jealous of any interloper who gains a reproductive advantage--say by diddling your spouse. Cloning is less personal than cuckoldry, but it strikes a similar chord: Someone has got the reproductive edge on you.", "Clones already exist. About one in every 1,000 births results in a pair of babies with the same DNA. We know them as identical twins. Scientific studies on such twins--reared together or apart--show that they share many characteristics. Just how many they share is a contentious topic in human biology. But genetic determinism is largely irrelevant to the cloning issue. Despite how many or how few individual characteristics twins--or other clones--have in common, they are different people in the most fundamental sense . They have their own identities, their own thoughts, and their own rights. Should you be confused on this point, just ask a twin.", "What if Saddam Hussein clones were to rule Iraq for another thousand years? Sounds bad, but Saddam's natural son Uday is reputed to make his father seem saintly by comparison. We have no more to fear from a clone of Saddam, or of Hitler, than we do from their natural-born kin--which is to say, we don't have much to fear: Dictators' kids rarely pose a problem. Stalin's daughter retired to Arizona, and Kim Jong Il of North Korea is laughable as Great Leader, Version 2.0. \n\n The notion of an 80-year-old man cloning himself to cheat death is quaint, but it is unrealistic. First, the baby wouldn't really be him. Second, is the old duffer really up to changing diapers? A persistent octogenarian might convince a younger couple to have his clone and raise it, but that is not much different from fathering a child via a surrogate mother.", "Suppose that Unsolved Mysteries called you with news of a long-lost identical twin. Would that suddenly make you less of a person, less of an individual? It is hard to see how. So, why would a clone be different? Your clone would be raised in a different era by different people--like the lost identical twin, only younger than you. A person's basic humanity is not governed by how he or she came into this world, or whether somebody else happens to have the same DNA.", "Fear of clones is just another form of racism. We all agree it is wrong to discriminate against people based on a set of genetic characteristics known as \"race.\" Calls for a ban on cloning amount to discrimination against people based on another genetic trait--the fact that somebody already has an identical DNA sequence. The most extreme form of discrimination is genocide--seeking to eliminate that which is different. In this case, the genocide is pre-emptive--clones are so scary that we must eliminate them before they exist with a ban on their creation. \n\n What is so special about natural reproduction anyway? Cloning is the only predictable way to reproduce, because it creates the identical twin of a known adult. Sexual reproduction is a crap shoot by comparison--some random mix of mom and dad. In evolutionary theory, this combination is thought to help stir the gene pool, so to speak. However, evolution for humans is essentially over, because we use medical science to control the death rate.", "Even if people have the right to do it, is cloning a good idea? Suppose that every prospective parent in the world stopped having children naturally, and instead produced clones of themselves. What would the world be like in another 20 or 30 years? The answer is: much like today. Cloning would only copy the genetic aspects of people who are already here. Hating a world of clones is hating the current populace. Never before was Pogo so right: We have met the enemy, and he is us !", "Whatever the temptations of cloning, the process of natural reproduction will always remain a lot more fun. An expensive and uncomfortable lab procedure will never offer any real competition for sex. The people most likely to clone will be those in special circumstances--infertile couples who must endure IVF anyway, for example. Even there, many will mix genetics to mimic nature. Another special case is where one member of a couple has a severe genetic disease. They might choose a clone of the healthy parent, rather than burden their child with a joint heritage that could be fatal. \n\n The most upsetting possibility in human cloning isn't superwarriors or dictators. It's that rich people with big egos will clone themselves. The common practice of giving a boy the same name as his father or choosing a family name for a child of either sex reflects our hunger for vicarious immortality. Clones may resonate with this instinct and cause some people to reproduce this way. So what? Rich and egotistic folks do all sorts of annoying things, and the law is hardly the means with which to try and stop them.", "Human Clones: Why Not? \n\n If you can clone a sheep, you can almost certainly clone a human being. Some of the most powerful people in the world have felt compelled to act against this threat. President Clinton swiftly imposed a ban on federal funding for human-cloning research. Bills are in the works in both houses of Congress to outlaw human cloning--a step urged on all governments by the pope himself. Cloning humans is taken to be either 1) a fundamentally evil thing that must be stopped or, at the very least, 2) a complex ethical issue that needs legislation and regulation. But what, exactly, is so bad about it?", "Adifferent scare scenario is a world filled with copies of famous people only. We'll treat celebrity DNA like designer clothes, hankering for Michael Jordan's genes the way we covet his Nike sneakers today. But even celebrity infatuation has its limits. People are not more taken with celebrities than they are with themselves. Besides, such a trend would correct itself in a generation or two, because celebrity is closely linked to rarity. The world seems amused by one Howard Stern, but give us a hundred or a million of them, and they'll seem a lot less endearing.", "True, some forms of medical help are more invasive than others. With in vitro fertilization, the sperm and egg are combined in the lab and surgically implanted in the womb. Less than two decades ago, a similar concern was raised over the ethical issues involved in \"test-tube babies.\" To date, nearly 30,000 such babies have been born in the United States alone. Many would-be parents have been made happy. Who has been harmed? \n\n The cloning procedure is similar to IVF. The only difference is that the DNA of sperm and egg would be replaced by DNA from an adult cell. What law or principle--secular, humanist, or religious--says that one combination of genetic material in a flask is OK, but another is not? No matter how closely you study the 1 st century texts, I don't think you'll find the answer.", "Once the fuss has died down and further animal research has paved the way, direct human cloning will be one more option among many specialized medical interventions in human reproduction, affecting only a tiny fraction of the population. Research into this area could bring far wider benefits. Clinton's knee-jerk policy changes nothing in the short run, but it is ultimately a giant step backward. In using an adult cell to create a clone, the \"cellular clock\" that determines the difference between an embryo and adult was somehow reset. Work in this area might help elucidate the process by which aging occurs and yield a way to reset the clocks in some of our own cells, allowing us to regenerate. Selfishly speaking, that would be more exciting to me than cloning, because it would help me . That's a lot more directly useful than letting me sire an identical twin 40 years my junior.", "Start by asking whether human beings have a right to reproduce. I say \"yes.\" I have no moral right to tell other people they shouldn't be able to have children, and I don't see that Bill Clinton has that right either. When Clinton says, \"Let us resist the temptation to copy ourselves,\" it comes from a man not known for resisting other temptations of the flesh. And for a politician, making noise about cloning is pretty close to a fleshly temptation itself. It's an easy way to show sound-bite leadership on an issue that everybody is talking about, without much risk of bitter consequences. After all, how much federally funded research was stopped by this ban? Probably almost none, because Clinton has maintained Ronald Reagan's policy of minimizing federal grants for research in human reproduction. Besides, most researchers thought cloning humans was impossible--so, for the moment, there's unlikely to be a grant-request backlog. There is nothing like banning the nonexistent to show true leadership.", "One recurring image in anti-cloning propaganda is of some evil dictator raising an army of cloned warriors. Excuse me, but who is going to raise such an army (\"raise\" in the sense used by parents)? Clones start out life as babies . Armies are far easier to raise the old fashioned way--by recruiting or drafting naive young adults. Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori has worked well enough to send countless young men to their deaths through the ages. Why mess with success?", "Remember that cloning is not the same as genetic engineering. We don't get to make superman--we have to find him first. Maybe we could clone the superwarrior from Congressional Medal of Honor winners. Their bravery might--or might not--be genetically determined. But, suppose that it is. You might end up with such a brave battalion of heroes that when a grenade lands in their midst, there is a competition to see who gets to jump on it to save the others. Admirable perhaps, but not necessarily the way to win a war. And what about the supply sergeants? The army has a lot more of them than heroes. You could try to breed an expert for every job, including the petty bureaucrats, but what's the point? There's not exactly a shortage of them.", "The pope, unlike the president, is known for resisting temptation. He also openly claims the authority to decide how people reproduce. I respect the pope's freedom to lead his religion, and his followers' freedom to follow his dictate. But calling for secular governments to implement a ban, thus extending his power beyond those he can persuade, shows rather explicitly that the pope does not respect the freedom of others. The basic religious doctrine he follows was set down some two millennia ago. Sheep feature prominently in the Bible, but cloning does not. So the pope's views on cloning are 1 st century rules applied using 15 th century religious thinking to a 21 st century issue. \n\n If humans have a right to reproduce, what right does society have to limit the means? Essentially all reproduction is done these days with medical help--at delivery, and often before. Truly natural human reproduction would mean 50 percent infant mortality and make pregnancy-related death the No. 1 killer of adult women.", "To some, the scientist laboring away to unlock the mysteries of life is a source of evil, never to be trusted. To others, including me, the scientist is the ray of light, illuminating the processes that make the universe work and making us better through that knowledge. Various arguments can be advanced toward either view, but one key statistic is squarely on my side. The vast majority of people, including those who rail against science, owe their very lives to previous medical discoveries. They embody the fruits of science. Don't let the forces of darkness, ignorance, and fear turn us back from research. Instead, let us raise--and yes, even clone--new generations of hapless ingrates, who can whine and rail against the discoveries of the next age.", "Twins aren't the only clones in everyday life. Think about seedless grapes or navel oranges--if there are no seeds, where did they come from? It's the plant equivalent of virgin birth--which is to say that they are all clones, propagated by cutting a shoot and planting it. Wine is almost entirely a cloned product. The grapes used for wine have seeds, but they've been cloned from shoots for more than a hundred years in the case of many vineyards. The same is true for many flowers. Go to a garden store, and you'll find products with delightful names like \"Olivia's Cloning Compound,\" a mix of hormones to dunk on the cut end of a shoot to help it take root." ], [ "The \"deep ethical issues\" about cloning mainly boil down to jealousy. Economic jealousy is bad enough, and it is a factor here, but the thing that truly drives people crazy is sexual jealousy. Eons of evolution through sexual selection have made the average man or woman insanely jealous of any interloper who gains a reproductive advantage--say by diddling your spouse. Cloning is less personal than cuckoldry, but it strikes a similar chord: Someone has got the reproductive edge on you.", "Fear of clones is just another form of racism. We all agree it is wrong to discriminate against people based on a set of genetic characteristics known as \"race.\" Calls for a ban on cloning amount to discrimination against people based on another genetic trait--the fact that somebody already has an identical DNA sequence. The most extreme form of discrimination is genocide--seeking to eliminate that which is different. In this case, the genocide is pre-emptive--clones are so scary that we must eliminate them before they exist with a ban on their creation. \n\n What is so special about natural reproduction anyway? Cloning is the only predictable way to reproduce, because it creates the identical twin of a known adult. Sexual reproduction is a crap shoot by comparison--some random mix of mom and dad. In evolutionary theory, this combination is thought to help stir the gene pool, so to speak. However, evolution for humans is essentially over, because we use medical science to control the death rate.", "Human Clones: Why Not? \n\n If you can clone a sheep, you can almost certainly clone a human being. Some of the most powerful people in the world have felt compelled to act against this threat. President Clinton swiftly imposed a ban on federal funding for human-cloning research. Bills are in the works in both houses of Congress to outlaw human cloning--a step urged on all governments by the pope himself. Cloning humans is taken to be either 1) a fundamentally evil thing that must be stopped or, at the very least, 2) a complex ethical issue that needs legislation and regulation. But what, exactly, is so bad about it?", "Clones already exist. About one in every 1,000 births results in a pair of babies with the same DNA. We know them as identical twins. Scientific studies on such twins--reared together or apart--show that they share many characteristics. Just how many they share is a contentious topic in human biology. But genetic determinism is largely irrelevant to the cloning issue. Despite how many or how few individual characteristics twins--or other clones--have in common, they are different people in the most fundamental sense . They have their own identities, their own thoughts, and their own rights. Should you be confused on this point, just ask a twin.", "Even if people have the right to do it, is cloning a good idea? Suppose that every prospective parent in the world stopped having children naturally, and instead produced clones of themselves. What would the world be like in another 20 or 30 years? The answer is: much like today. Cloning would only copy the genetic aspects of people who are already here. Hating a world of clones is hating the current populace. Never before was Pogo so right: We have met the enemy, and he is us !", "Suppose that Unsolved Mysteries called you with news of a long-lost identical twin. Would that suddenly make you less of a person, less of an individual? It is hard to see how. So, why would a clone be different? Your clone would be raised in a different era by different people--like the lost identical twin, only younger than you. A person's basic humanity is not governed by how he or she came into this world, or whether somebody else happens to have the same DNA.", "Start by asking whether human beings have a right to reproduce. I say \"yes.\" I have no moral right to tell other people they shouldn't be able to have children, and I don't see that Bill Clinton has that right either. When Clinton says, \"Let us resist the temptation to copy ourselves,\" it comes from a man not known for resisting other temptations of the flesh. And for a politician, making noise about cloning is pretty close to a fleshly temptation itself. It's an easy way to show sound-bite leadership on an issue that everybody is talking about, without much risk of bitter consequences. After all, how much federally funded research was stopped by this ban? Probably almost none, because Clinton has maintained Ronald Reagan's policy of minimizing federal grants for research in human reproduction. Besides, most researchers thought cloning humans was impossible--so, for the moment, there's unlikely to be a grant-request backlog. There is nothing like banning the nonexistent to show true leadership.", "The pope, unlike the president, is known for resisting temptation. He also openly claims the authority to decide how people reproduce. I respect the pope's freedom to lead his religion, and his followers' freedom to follow his dictate. But calling for secular governments to implement a ban, thus extending his power beyond those he can persuade, shows rather explicitly that the pope does not respect the freedom of others. The basic religious doctrine he follows was set down some two millennia ago. Sheep feature prominently in the Bible, but cloning does not. So the pope's views on cloning are 1 st century rules applied using 15 th century religious thinking to a 21 st century issue. \n\n If humans have a right to reproduce, what right does society have to limit the means? Essentially all reproduction is done these days with medical help--at delivery, and often before. Truly natural human reproduction would mean 50 percent infant mortality and make pregnancy-related death the No. 1 killer of adult women.", "To some, the scientist laboring away to unlock the mysteries of life is a source of evil, never to be trusted. To others, including me, the scientist is the ray of light, illuminating the processes that make the universe work and making us better through that knowledge. Various arguments can be advanced toward either view, but one key statistic is squarely on my side. The vast majority of people, including those who rail against science, owe their very lives to previous medical discoveries. They embody the fruits of science. Don't let the forces of darkness, ignorance, and fear turn us back from research. Instead, let us raise--and yes, even clone--new generations of hapless ingrates, who can whine and rail against the discoveries of the next age.", "True, some forms of medical help are more invasive than others. With in vitro fertilization, the sperm and egg are combined in the lab and surgically implanted in the womb. Less than two decades ago, a similar concern was raised over the ethical issues involved in \"test-tube babies.\" To date, nearly 30,000 such babies have been born in the United States alone. Many would-be parents have been made happy. Who has been harmed? \n\n The cloning procedure is similar to IVF. The only difference is that the DNA of sperm and egg would be replaced by DNA from an adult cell. What law or principle--secular, humanist, or religious--says that one combination of genetic material in a flask is OK, but another is not? No matter how closely you study the 1 st century texts, I don't think you'll find the answer.", "Whatever the temptations of cloning, the process of natural reproduction will always remain a lot more fun. An expensive and uncomfortable lab procedure will never offer any real competition for sex. The people most likely to clone will be those in special circumstances--infertile couples who must endure IVF anyway, for example. Even there, many will mix genetics to mimic nature. Another special case is where one member of a couple has a severe genetic disease. They might choose a clone of the healthy parent, rather than burden their child with a joint heritage that could be fatal. \n\n The most upsetting possibility in human cloning isn't superwarriors or dictators. It's that rich people with big egos will clone themselves. The common practice of giving a boy the same name as his father or choosing a family name for a child of either sex reflects our hunger for vicarious immortality. Clones may resonate with this instinct and cause some people to reproduce this way. So what? Rich and egotistic folks do all sorts of annoying things, and the law is hardly the means with which to try and stop them.", "One recurring image in anti-cloning propaganda is of some evil dictator raising an army of cloned warriors. Excuse me, but who is going to raise such an army (\"raise\" in the sense used by parents)? Clones start out life as babies . Armies are far easier to raise the old fashioned way--by recruiting or drafting naive young adults. Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori has worked well enough to send countless young men to their deaths through the ages. Why mess with success?", "What if Saddam Hussein clones were to rule Iraq for another thousand years? Sounds bad, but Saddam's natural son Uday is reputed to make his father seem saintly by comparison. We have no more to fear from a clone of Saddam, or of Hitler, than we do from their natural-born kin--which is to say, we don't have much to fear: Dictators' kids rarely pose a problem. Stalin's daughter retired to Arizona, and Kim Jong Il of North Korea is laughable as Great Leader, Version 2.0. \n\n The notion of an 80-year-old man cloning himself to cheat death is quaint, but it is unrealistic. First, the baby wouldn't really be him. Second, is the old duffer really up to changing diapers? A persistent octogenarian might convince a younger couple to have his clone and raise it, but that is not much different from fathering a child via a surrogate mother.", "Once the fuss has died down and further animal research has paved the way, direct human cloning will be one more option among many specialized medical interventions in human reproduction, affecting only a tiny fraction of the population. Research into this area could bring far wider benefits. Clinton's knee-jerk policy changes nothing in the short run, but it is ultimately a giant step backward. In using an adult cell to create a clone, the \"cellular clock\" that determines the difference between an embryo and adult was somehow reset. Work in this area might help elucidate the process by which aging occurs and yield a way to reset the clocks in some of our own cells, allowing us to regenerate. Selfishly speaking, that would be more exciting to me than cloning, because it would help me . That's a lot more directly useful than letting me sire an identical twin 40 years my junior.", "Adifferent scare scenario is a world filled with copies of famous people only. We'll treat celebrity DNA like designer clothes, hankering for Michael Jordan's genes the way we covet his Nike sneakers today. But even celebrity infatuation has its limits. People are not more taken with celebrities than they are with themselves. Besides, such a trend would correct itself in a generation or two, because celebrity is closely linked to rarity. The world seems amused by one Howard Stern, but give us a hundred or a million of them, and they'll seem a lot less endearing.", "Remember that cloning is not the same as genetic engineering. We don't get to make superman--we have to find him first. Maybe we could clone the superwarrior from Congressional Medal of Honor winners. Their bravery might--or might not--be genetically determined. But, suppose that it is. You might end up with such a brave battalion of heroes that when a grenade lands in their midst, there is a competition to see who gets to jump on it to save the others. Admirable perhaps, but not necessarily the way to win a war. And what about the supply sergeants? The army has a lot more of them than heroes. You could try to breed an expert for every job, including the petty bureaucrats, but what's the point? There's not exactly a shortage of them.", "Twins aren't the only clones in everyday life. Think about seedless grapes or navel oranges--if there are no seeds, where did they come from? It's the plant equivalent of virgin birth--which is to say that they are all clones, propagated by cutting a shoot and planting it. Wine is almost entirely a cloned product. The grapes used for wine have seeds, but they've been cloned from shoots for more than a hundred years in the case of many vineyards. The same is true for many flowers. Go to a garden store, and you'll find products with delightful names like \"Olivia's Cloning Compound,\" a mix of hormones to dunk on the cut end of a shoot to help it take root." ], [ "Clones already exist. About one in every 1,000 births results in a pair of babies with the same DNA. We know them as identical twins. Scientific studies on such twins--reared together or apart--show that they share many characteristics. Just how many they share is a contentious topic in human biology. But genetic determinism is largely irrelevant to the cloning issue. Despite how many or how few individual characteristics twins--or other clones--have in common, they are different people in the most fundamental sense . They have their own identities, their own thoughts, and their own rights. Should you be confused on this point, just ask a twin.", "The \"deep ethical issues\" about cloning mainly boil down to jealousy. Economic jealousy is bad enough, and it is a factor here, but the thing that truly drives people crazy is sexual jealousy. Eons of evolution through sexual selection have made the average man or woman insanely jealous of any interloper who gains a reproductive advantage--say by diddling your spouse. Cloning is less personal than cuckoldry, but it strikes a similar chord: Someone has got the reproductive edge on you.", "Human Clones: Why Not? \n\n If you can clone a sheep, you can almost certainly clone a human being. Some of the most powerful people in the world have felt compelled to act against this threat. President Clinton swiftly imposed a ban on federal funding for human-cloning research. Bills are in the works in both houses of Congress to outlaw human cloning--a step urged on all governments by the pope himself. Cloning humans is taken to be either 1) a fundamentally evil thing that must be stopped or, at the very least, 2) a complex ethical issue that needs legislation and regulation. But what, exactly, is so bad about it?", "Fear of clones is just another form of racism. We all agree it is wrong to discriminate against people based on a set of genetic characteristics known as \"race.\" Calls for a ban on cloning amount to discrimination against people based on another genetic trait--the fact that somebody already has an identical DNA sequence. The most extreme form of discrimination is genocide--seeking to eliminate that which is different. In this case, the genocide is pre-emptive--clones are so scary that we must eliminate them before they exist with a ban on their creation. \n\n What is so special about natural reproduction anyway? Cloning is the only predictable way to reproduce, because it creates the identical twin of a known adult. Sexual reproduction is a crap shoot by comparison--some random mix of mom and dad. In evolutionary theory, this combination is thought to help stir the gene pool, so to speak. However, evolution for humans is essentially over, because we use medical science to control the death rate.", "True, some forms of medical help are more invasive than others. With in vitro fertilization, the sperm and egg are combined in the lab and surgically implanted in the womb. Less than two decades ago, a similar concern was raised over the ethical issues involved in \"test-tube babies.\" To date, nearly 30,000 such babies have been born in the United States alone. Many would-be parents have been made happy. Who has been harmed? \n\n The cloning procedure is similar to IVF. The only difference is that the DNA of sperm and egg would be replaced by DNA from an adult cell. What law or principle--secular, humanist, or religious--says that one combination of genetic material in a flask is OK, but another is not? No matter how closely you study the 1 st century texts, I don't think you'll find the answer.", "Suppose that Unsolved Mysteries called you with news of a long-lost identical twin. Would that suddenly make you less of a person, less of an individual? It is hard to see how. So, why would a clone be different? Your clone would be raised in a different era by different people--like the lost identical twin, only younger than you. A person's basic humanity is not governed by how he or she came into this world, or whether somebody else happens to have the same DNA.", "Start by asking whether human beings have a right to reproduce. I say \"yes.\" I have no moral right to tell other people they shouldn't be able to have children, and I don't see that Bill Clinton has that right either. When Clinton says, \"Let us resist the temptation to copy ourselves,\" it comes from a man not known for resisting other temptations of the flesh. And for a politician, making noise about cloning is pretty close to a fleshly temptation itself. It's an easy way to show sound-bite leadership on an issue that everybody is talking about, without much risk of bitter consequences. After all, how much federally funded research was stopped by this ban? Probably almost none, because Clinton has maintained Ronald Reagan's policy of minimizing federal grants for research in human reproduction. Besides, most researchers thought cloning humans was impossible--so, for the moment, there's unlikely to be a grant-request backlog. There is nothing like banning the nonexistent to show true leadership.", "Even if people have the right to do it, is cloning a good idea? Suppose that every prospective parent in the world stopped having children naturally, and instead produced clones of themselves. What would the world be like in another 20 or 30 years? The answer is: much like today. Cloning would only copy the genetic aspects of people who are already here. Hating a world of clones is hating the current populace. Never before was Pogo so right: We have met the enemy, and he is us !", "The pope, unlike the president, is known for resisting temptation. He also openly claims the authority to decide how people reproduce. I respect the pope's freedom to lead his religion, and his followers' freedom to follow his dictate. But calling for secular governments to implement a ban, thus extending his power beyond those he can persuade, shows rather explicitly that the pope does not respect the freedom of others. The basic religious doctrine he follows was set down some two millennia ago. Sheep feature prominently in the Bible, but cloning does not. So the pope's views on cloning are 1 st century rules applied using 15 th century religious thinking to a 21 st century issue. \n\n If humans have a right to reproduce, what right does society have to limit the means? Essentially all reproduction is done these days with medical help--at delivery, and often before. Truly natural human reproduction would mean 50 percent infant mortality and make pregnancy-related death the No. 1 killer of adult women.", "What if Saddam Hussein clones were to rule Iraq for another thousand years? Sounds bad, but Saddam's natural son Uday is reputed to make his father seem saintly by comparison. We have no more to fear from a clone of Saddam, or of Hitler, than we do from their natural-born kin--which is to say, we don't have much to fear: Dictators' kids rarely pose a problem. Stalin's daughter retired to Arizona, and Kim Jong Il of North Korea is laughable as Great Leader, Version 2.0. \n\n The notion of an 80-year-old man cloning himself to cheat death is quaint, but it is unrealistic. First, the baby wouldn't really be him. Second, is the old duffer really up to changing diapers? A persistent octogenarian might convince a younger couple to have his clone and raise it, but that is not much different from fathering a child via a surrogate mother.", "Once the fuss has died down and further animal research has paved the way, direct human cloning will be one more option among many specialized medical interventions in human reproduction, affecting only a tiny fraction of the population. Research into this area could bring far wider benefits. Clinton's knee-jerk policy changes nothing in the short run, but it is ultimately a giant step backward. In using an adult cell to create a clone, the \"cellular clock\" that determines the difference between an embryo and adult was somehow reset. Work in this area might help elucidate the process by which aging occurs and yield a way to reset the clocks in some of our own cells, allowing us to regenerate. Selfishly speaking, that would be more exciting to me than cloning, because it would help me . That's a lot more directly useful than letting me sire an identical twin 40 years my junior.", "One recurring image in anti-cloning propaganda is of some evil dictator raising an army of cloned warriors. Excuse me, but who is going to raise such an army (\"raise\" in the sense used by parents)? Clones start out life as babies . Armies are far easier to raise the old fashioned way--by recruiting or drafting naive young adults. Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori has worked well enough to send countless young men to their deaths through the ages. Why mess with success?", "To some, the scientist laboring away to unlock the mysteries of life is a source of evil, never to be trusted. To others, including me, the scientist is the ray of light, illuminating the processes that make the universe work and making us better through that knowledge. Various arguments can be advanced toward either view, but one key statistic is squarely on my side. The vast majority of people, including those who rail against science, owe their very lives to previous medical discoveries. They embody the fruits of science. Don't let the forces of darkness, ignorance, and fear turn us back from research. Instead, let us raise--and yes, even clone--new generations of hapless ingrates, who can whine and rail against the discoveries of the next age.", "Whatever the temptations of cloning, the process of natural reproduction will always remain a lot more fun. An expensive and uncomfortable lab procedure will never offer any real competition for sex. The people most likely to clone will be those in special circumstances--infertile couples who must endure IVF anyway, for example. Even there, many will mix genetics to mimic nature. Another special case is where one member of a couple has a severe genetic disease. They might choose a clone of the healthy parent, rather than burden their child with a joint heritage that could be fatal. \n\n The most upsetting possibility in human cloning isn't superwarriors or dictators. It's that rich people with big egos will clone themselves. The common practice of giving a boy the same name as his father or choosing a family name for a child of either sex reflects our hunger for vicarious immortality. Clones may resonate with this instinct and cause some people to reproduce this way. So what? Rich and egotistic folks do all sorts of annoying things, and the law is hardly the means with which to try and stop them.", "Adifferent scare scenario is a world filled with copies of famous people only. We'll treat celebrity DNA like designer clothes, hankering for Michael Jordan's genes the way we covet his Nike sneakers today. But even celebrity infatuation has its limits. People are not more taken with celebrities than they are with themselves. Besides, such a trend would correct itself in a generation or two, because celebrity is closely linked to rarity. The world seems amused by one Howard Stern, but give us a hundred or a million of them, and they'll seem a lot less endearing.", "Remember that cloning is not the same as genetic engineering. We don't get to make superman--we have to find him first. Maybe we could clone the superwarrior from Congressional Medal of Honor winners. Their bravery might--or might not--be genetically determined. But, suppose that it is. You might end up with such a brave battalion of heroes that when a grenade lands in their midst, there is a competition to see who gets to jump on it to save the others. Admirable perhaps, but not necessarily the way to win a war. And what about the supply sergeants? The army has a lot more of them than heroes. You could try to breed an expert for every job, including the petty bureaucrats, but what's the point? There's not exactly a shortage of them.", "Twins aren't the only clones in everyday life. Think about seedless grapes or navel oranges--if there are no seeds, where did they come from? It's the plant equivalent of virgin birth--which is to say that they are all clones, propagated by cutting a shoot and planting it. Wine is almost entirely a cloned product. The grapes used for wine have seeds, but they've been cloned from shoots for more than a hundred years in the case of many vineyards. The same is true for many flowers. Go to a garden store, and you'll find products with delightful names like \"Olivia's Cloning Compound,\" a mix of hormones to dunk on the cut end of a shoot to help it take root." ] ]
train	61053	[ "Which word doesn't describe Jeffers?", "Which word doesn't describe Tolliver?", "How does Tolliver feel about Betty at first?", "What did Tolliver tell Betty that was actually true?", "Why had Betty really come to Ganymede?" ]	[ [ "clever", "persistent", "hot-headed", "cocky" ], [ "hot-headed", "stubborn", "clever", "liar" ], [ "she's a rich man's daughter deserving of the company", "she's attractive and someone he should get to know", "she's an entitled girl that doesn't know what she's getting into", "she's a fun girl to joke around with while on Ganymede" ], [ "he regularly drives armored vehicles on missions", "the rock and ice slides kill people often", "volcanic puffballs pop out through the frozen crust", "how much he's making to work on Ganymede" ], [ "to stay as long as it takes to discover who was behaving illegally", "to arrest Jeffers for the crimes they knew he committed", "to study how the business was run", "to see if the real Betty could handle working there" ] ]	[ 1, 1, 3, 4, 1 ]	[ 0, 1, 0, 1, 0 ]	[ [ "\"Jeffers,\" he announced, \"this is ... just call her Betty.\"\n\n\n The manager's jowled features twisted into an expression of welcome as\n jovial as that of a hungry crocodile.\n\n\n \"Miss Koslow!\" he beamed, like a politician the day before the voting.\n \"It certainly is an honor to have you on Ganymede with us! That's all,\n Tolliver, you can go. Yes, indeed! Mr. Koslow—the president, that is:\n your father—sent a message about you. I repeat, it will be an honor to\n show you the ropes. Did you want something else, Tolliver?\"\n\n\n \"Never mind him, Mr. Jeffers,\" snapped the girl, in a tone new to\n Tolliver. \"We won't be working together, I'm afraid. You've already had\n enough rope.\"", "Jeffers seemed to stagger standing still behind his desk. His loose\n lips twitched uncertainly, and he looked questioningly to Tolliver. The\n pilot stared at Betty, trying to recall pictures he had seen of the\n elder Koslow. He was also trying to remember some of the lies he had\n told en route from the spaceport.\n\n\n \"Wh-wh-what do you mean, Miss Koslow?\" Jeffers stammered.\n\n\n He darted a suspicious glare at Tolliver.\n\n\n \"Mr. Jeffers,\" said the girl, \"I may look like just another spoiled\n little blonde, but the best part of this company will be mine someday.\n I was not allowed to reach twenty-two without learning something about\n holding on to it.\"\n\n\n Tolliver blinked. He had taken her for three or four years older.\n Jeffers now ignored him, intent upon the girl.", "Tolliver grunted. Sorrow would not reduce the throbbing, nor was he\n in a mood to undertake an explanation of why Jeffers did not like him\n anyway.\n\n\n \"I think perhaps you're going to have a shiner,\" remarked the girl.\n\n\n \"Thanks for letting me know in time,\" said Tolliver.\n\n\n The skin under his right eye did feel a trifle tight, but he could see\n well enough. The abandoned and empty look of the office worried him.\n\n\n \"What can we use to get out of here?\" he mused.\n\n\n \"Why should we try?\" asked the girl. \"What can he do?\"\n\n\n \"You'd be surprised. How did you catch on to him so soon?\"\n\n\n \"Your paycheck,\" said Betty. \"As soon as I saw that ridiculous amount,\n it was obvious that there was gross mismanagement here. It had to be\n Jeffers.\"", "The fallen hero, upon arising, had to content himself with grabbing\n Betty. The others were swarming over Tolliver. Jeffers came around his\n desk to assist.\nTolliver found himself dumped on the floor of an empty office in the\n adjoining warehouse building. It seemed to him that a long time had\n been spent in carrying him there.\n\n\n He heard an indignant yelp, and realized that the girl had been pitched\n in with him. The snapping of a lock was followed by the tramp of\n departing footsteps and then by silence.\n\n\n After considering the idea a few minutes, Tolliver managed to sit up.\n\n\n He had his wind back. But when he fingered the swelling lump behind his\n left ear, a sensation befuddled him momentarily.\n\n\n \"I'm sorry about that,\" murmured Betty.", "Tolliver, hardly thinking about it, expected the someone to be\n a secretary, but it turned out to be three members of Jeffers'\n headquarters staff. He recognized one as Rawlins, a warehouse chief,\n and guessed that the other two might be his assistants. They were large\n enough.\n\n\n \"No stupid questions!\" Jeffers ordered. \"Lock these two up while I\n think!\"\n\n\n Tolliver started for the door immediately, but was blocked off.\n\n\n \"Where should we lock—?\" the fellow paused to ask.\n\n\n Tolliver brought up a snappy uppercut to the man's chin, feeling that\n it was a poor time to engage Jeffers in fruitless debate.\n\n\n In the gravity of Ganymede, the man was knocked off balance as much as\n he was hurt, and sprawled on the floor.\n\n\n \"I\ntold\nyou no questions!\" bawled Jeffers.", "\"Okay I can't fire you legally—as long as you report for work,\"\n grumbled Jeffers, by now a shade more ruddy. \"We'll see how long you\n keep reporting. Because you're off the Callisto run as of now! Sit in\n your quarters and see if the company calls\nthat\nhazardous duty!\"\n\n\n \"Doesn't matter,\" answered Tolliver, grinning amiably. \"The hazardous\n part is just being on the same moon as you for the next six months.\"", "The picture of Jeffers huddled with his partners in the headquarters\n building, plotting the next move, brought Tolliver to his feet.\n\n\n There was nothing in the unused office but an old table and half a\n dozen plastic crates. He saw that the latter contained a mess of\n discarded records.\n\n\n \"Better than nothing at all,\" he muttered.\n\n\n He ripped out a double handful of the forms, crumpled them into a pile\n at the doorway, and pulled out his cigarette lighter.\n\n\n \"What do you think you're up to?\" asked Betty with some concern.\n\n\n \"This plastic is tough,\" said Tolliver, \"but it will bend with enough\n heat. If I can kick loose a hinge, maybe we can fool them yet!\"\n\n\n He got a little fire going, and fed it judiciously with more papers.", "The big moon-face of Jeffers, manager of the Ganymedan branch of\n Koslow Spaceways, glowered back at him. Its reddish tinge brightened\n the office noticeably, for such of Ganymede's surface as could be seen\n through the transparent dome outside the office window was cold, dim\n and rugged. The glowing semi-disk of Jupiter was more than half a\n million miles distant.\n\n\n \"Try not to be simple—for once!\" growled Jeffers. \"A little percentage\n here and there on the cargoes never shows by the time figures get back\n to Earth. The big jets in the home office don't care. They count it on\n the estimates.\"\n\n\n \"You asked any of them lately?\" Tolliver prodded.", "\"Aw, it's not like that,\" the manager muttered. \"You can ease out\n whenever your contract's up. Think we'd bend a good orbit on your\n account?\"\n\n\n Tolliver stared at him silently, but the other had difficulty meeting\n his eye.\n\n\n \"All right, then!\" Jeffers snapped after a long moment. \"If you want it\n that way, either you get in line with us or you're through right now!\"\n\n\n \"You can't fire me,\" retorted the pilot pityingly. \"I came out here\n on a contract. Five hundred credits a week base pay, five hundred for\n hazardous duty. How else can you get pilots out to Jupiter?\"", "In the end, he displayed conclusive evidence in the form of the weekly\n paycheck he had received that morning. It did not, naturally, indicate\n he was drawing the salary of a space pilot. Betty looked thoughtful.\n\n\n \"I'm retiring in six months if I'm still alive,\" he said bravely,\n edging the tractor into the airlock at their destination. \"Made my\n pile. No use pushing your luck too far.\"\n\n\n His charge seemed noticeably subdued, but cleared her throat to request\n that Tolliver guide her to the office of the manager. She trailed along\n as if with a burden of worry upon her mind, and the pilot's conscience\n prickled.\nI'll get hold of her after Jeffers is through and set her straight\n,\n he resolved.\nIt isn't really funny if the sucker is too ignorant to\n know better.\nRemembering his grudge against the manager, he took pleasure in walking\n in without knocking.", "Tolliver pulled her back, holding her in mid-air by the slack of her\n sweater.\n\n\n \"Actually, I have a fine idea,\" he informed the officer coldly. \"I\n happen to be a qualified space pilot. Everything here is under control.\n If Miss Koslow thinks you should arrest Jeffers, you can call us later\n on this channel.\"\n\n\n \"Miss Koslow?\" repeated the spacer. \"Did she tell you—well, no matter!\n If you'll be okay, we'll attend to the other affair immediately.\"\n\n\n He signed off promptly. The pilot faced Betty, who looked more offended\n than reassured at discovering his status.\n\n\n \"This 'Miss Koslow' business,\" he said suspiciously. \"He sounded funny\n about that.\"\n\n\n The girl grinned.", "He winked and walked out, deliberately leaving the door open behind him\n so as to enjoy the incoherent bellowing that followed him.\nLooks like a little vacation\n, he thought, unperturbed.\nHe'll come\n around. I just want to get back to Earth with a clean rep. Let Jeffers\n and his gang steal the Great Red Spot off Jupiter if they like! It's\n their risk.\nTolliver began to have his doubts the next day; which was \"Tuesday\"\n by the arbitrary calender constructed to match Ganymede's week-long\n journey around Jupiter.\n\n\n His contract guaranteed a pilot's rating, but someone had neglected to\n specify the type of craft to be piloted.\n\n\n On the bulletin board, Tolliver's name stood out beside the number\n of one of the airtight tractors used between the dome city and the\n spaceport, or for hauling cross-country to one of the mining domes.", "He soon found that there was nothing for him to do but hang around the\n garage in case a spaceship should land. The few runs to other domes\n seemed to be assigned to drivers with larger vehicles.\n\n\n The following day was just as boring, and the next more so. He swore\n when he found the assignment unchanged by \"Friday.\" Even the reflection\n that it was payday was small consolation.\n\n\n \"Hey, Johnny!\" said a voice at his shoulder. \"The word is that they're\n finally gonna trust you to take that creeper outside.\"\n\n\n Tolliver turned to see Red Higgins, a regular driver.\n\n\n \"What do you mean?\"\n\n\n \"They say some home-office relative is coming in on the\nJavelin\n.\"\n\n\n \"What's wrong with that?\" asked Tolliver. \"Outside of the way they keep\n handing out soft jobs to nephews, I mean.\"", "\"Now,\nlisten\n! Maybe they live soft back on Earth since the mines\n and the Jovian satellite colonies grew; but they were out here in the\n beginning, most of them.\nThey\nknow what it's like. D'ya think they\n don't expect us to make what we can on the side?\"\n\n\n Tolliver rammed his fists into the side pockets of his loose blue\n uniform jacket. He shook his head, grinning resignedly.\n\n\n \"You just don't listen to\nme\n,\" he complained. \"You know I took this\n piloting job just to scrape up money for an advanced engineering degree\n back on Earth. I only want to finish my year—not get into something I\n can't quit.\"\n\n\n Jeffers fidgeted in his chair, causing it to creak under the bulk of\n his body. It had been built for Ganymede, but not for Jeffers.", "When he heard Betty requesting assistance in arresting Jeffers and\n reporting the manager as the head of a ring of crooks, he began to\n suspect. He also noticed certain peculiarities about the remarks of the\n Patrolman.\nFor one thing, though the officer seemed well acquainted with Betty, he\n never addressed her by the name of Koslow. For another, he accepted the\n request as if he had been hanging in orbit merely until learning who to\n go down after.\nThey really sent her out to nail someone\n, Tolliver realized.\nOf\n course, she stumbled onto Jeffers by plain dumb luck. But she had an\n idea of what to look for. How do I get into these things? She might\n have got me killed!\n\"We do have one trouble,\" he heard Betty saying. \"This tractor driver,\n Tolliver, saved my neck by making the ship take off somehow, but he\n says it's set for a six-month orbit, or economy flight. Whatever they\n call it. I don't think he has any idea where we're headed.\"", "\"Those slides,\" he continued. \"Ganymede's only about the size of\n Mercury, something like 3200 miles in diameter, so things get heaped up\n at steep angles. When the rock and ice are set to sliding, they come\n at you practically horizontally. It doesn't need much start, and it\n barrels on for a long way before there's enough friction to stop it. If\n you're in the way—well, it's just too bad!\"\nSay, that's pretty good!\nhe told himself.\nWhat a liar you are,\n Tolliver!\nHe enlarged upon other dangers to be encountered on the satellite,\n taking care to impress the newcomer with the daredeviltry of John\n Tolliver, driver of \"missions\" across the menacing wastes between dome\n and port.", "\"Don't be silly. Daddy says I'm supposed to learn traffic routing and\n the business management of a local branch. They probably won't let me\n see much else.\"\n\n\n \"You never can tell,\" said the pilot, yielding to temptation. \"Any\n square inch of Ganymede is likely to be dangerous.\"\nI'll be sorry later\n, he reflected,\nbut if Jeffers keeps me jockeying\n this creeper, I'm entitled to some amusement. And Daddy's little girl\n is trying too hard to sound like one of the gang.\n\"Yeah,\" he went on, \"right now, I don't do a thing but drive missions\n from the city to the spaceport.\"\n\n\n \"Missions! You call driving a mile or so a\nmission\n?\"\n\n\n Tolliver pursed his lips and put on a shrewd expression.", "It was when he looked about to make sure that they were unobserved that\n he caught a glimpse of motion back toward the city. He peered at the\n spot through the dim light. After a moment, he definitely recognized\n the outline of a tractor breasting a rise in the ground and tilting\n downward again.\n\n\n \"In fact, we\nhave\nto get in to stay out of trouble,\" he said to Betty.\n\n\n He located the switch-cover in the hull, opened it and activated the\n mechanism that swung open the airlock and extended the ladder.", "\"Daddy gave me the title of tenth vice-president mostly as a joke, when\n he told me to find out what was wrong with operations on Ganymede.\n I have\nsome\nauthority, though. And you look like the source of the\n trouble to me.\"\n\n\n \"You can't prove anything,\" declared Jeffers hoarsely.\n\n\n \"Oh, can't I? I've already seen certain evidence, and the rest won't\n be hard to find. Where are your books, Mr. Jeffers? You're as good as\n fired!\"\n\n\n The manager dropped heavily to his chair. He stared unbelievingly at\n Betty, and Tolliver thought he muttered something about \"just landed.\"\n After a moment, the big man came out of his daze enough to stab an\n intercom button with his finger. He growled at someone on the other end\n to come in without a countdown.", "TOLLIVER'S ORBIT\nwas slow—but it wasn't boring. And\n\n it would get you there—as long as\n\n you weren't going anywhere anyhow!\nBy H. B. FYFE\n[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nJohnny Tolliver scowled across the desk at his superior. His black\n thatch was ruffled, as if he had been rubbed the wrong way.\n\n\n \"I didn't ask you to cut out your own graft, did I?\" he demanded.\n \"Just don't try to sucker me in on the deal. I know you're operating\n something sneaky all through the colony, but it's not for me.\"" ], [ "Tolliver grunted. Sorrow would not reduce the throbbing, nor was he\n in a mood to undertake an explanation of why Jeffers did not like him\n anyway.\n\n\n \"I think perhaps you're going to have a shiner,\" remarked the girl.\n\n\n \"Thanks for letting me know in time,\" said Tolliver.\n\n\n The skin under his right eye did feel a trifle tight, but he could see\n well enough. The abandoned and empty look of the office worried him.\n\n\n \"What can we use to get out of here?\" he mused.\n\n\n \"Why should we try?\" asked the girl. \"What can he do?\"\n\n\n \"You'd be surprised. How did you catch on to him so soon?\"\n\n\n \"Your paycheck,\" said Betty. \"As soon as I saw that ridiculous amount,\n it was obvious that there was gross mismanagement here. It had to be\n Jeffers.\"", "The fallen hero, upon arising, had to content himself with grabbing\n Betty. The others were swarming over Tolliver. Jeffers came around his\n desk to assist.\nTolliver found himself dumped on the floor of an empty office in the\n adjoining warehouse building. It seemed to him that a long time had\n been spent in carrying him there.\n\n\n He heard an indignant yelp, and realized that the girl had been pitched\n in with him. The snapping of a lock was followed by the tramp of\n departing footsteps and then by silence.\n\n\n After considering the idea a few minutes, Tolliver managed to sit up.\n\n\n He had his wind back. But when he fingered the swelling lump behind his\n left ear, a sensation befuddled him momentarily.\n\n\n \"I'm sorry about that,\" murmured Betty.", "\"Sorry to keep you waiting,\" she said, sliding into the seat beside\n Tolliver. \"By the way, just call me Betty.\"\n\n\n \"Sure,\" agreed Tolliver thinking,\nOhmigod! Trying already to be just\n one of the gang, instead of Lady Betty! Is her old man the treasurer,\n or does he just know where bodies are buried?\n\"They were making dates,\" said the girl. \"Were they ribbing me, or is\n it true that none of the four of them goes back with the ship?\"", "Tolliver pulled her back, holding her in mid-air by the slack of her\n sweater.\n\n\n \"Actually, I have a fine idea,\" he informed the officer coldly. \"I\n happen to be a qualified space pilot. Everything here is under control.\n If Miss Koslow thinks you should arrest Jeffers, you can call us later\n on this channel.\"\n\n\n \"Miss Koslow?\" repeated the spacer. \"Did she tell you—well, no matter!\n If you'll be okay, we'll attend to the other affair immediately.\"\n\n\n He signed off promptly. The pilot faced Betty, who looked more offended\n than reassured at discovering his status.\n\n\n \"This 'Miss Koslow' business,\" he said suspiciously. \"He sounded funny\n about that.\"\n\n\n The girl grinned.", "Tolliver groaned.\n\n\n \"Then, on the way over here, he as good as admitted everything. You\n didn't hear him, I guess. Well, he seemed to be caught all unaware, and\n seemed to blame you for it.\"\n\n\n \"Sure!\" grumbled the pilot. \"He thinks I told you he was grafting or\n smuggling, or whatever he has going for him here. That's why I want to\n get out of here—before I find myself involved in some kind of fatal\n accident!\"\n\n\n \"What do you know about the crooked goings-on here?\" asked Betty after\n a startled pause.\n\n\n \"Nothing,\" retorted Tolliver. \"Except that there are some. There are\n rumors, and I had a halfway invitation to join in. I think he sells\n things to the mining colonies and makes a double profit for himself by\n claiming the stuff lost in transit. You didn't think you scared him\n that bad over a little slack managing?\"", "\"Jeffers,\" he announced, \"this is ... just call her Betty.\"\n\n\n The manager's jowled features twisted into an expression of welcome as\n jovial as that of a hungry crocodile.\n\n\n \"Miss Koslow!\" he beamed, like a politician the day before the voting.\n \"It certainly is an honor to have you on Ganymede with us! That's all,\n Tolliver, you can go. Yes, indeed! Mr. Koslow—the president, that is:\n your father—sent a message about you. I repeat, it will be an honor to\n show you the ropes. Did you want something else, Tolliver?\"\n\n\n \"Never mind him, Mr. Jeffers,\" snapped the girl, in a tone new to\n Tolliver. \"We won't be working together, I'm afraid. You've already had\n enough rope.\"", "Tolliver, hardly thinking about it, expected the someone to be\n a secretary, but it turned out to be three members of Jeffers'\n headquarters staff. He recognized one as Rawlins, a warehouse chief,\n and guessed that the other two might be his assistants. They were large\n enough.\n\n\n \"No stupid questions!\" Jeffers ordered. \"Lock these two up while I\n think!\"\n\n\n Tolliver started for the door immediately, but was blocked off.\n\n\n \"Where should we lock—?\" the fellow paused to ask.\n\n\n Tolliver brought up a snappy uppercut to the man's chin, feeling that\n it was a poor time to engage Jeffers in fruitless debate.\n\n\n In the gravity of Ganymede, the man was knocked off balance as much as\n he was hurt, and sprawled on the floor.\n\n\n \"I\ntold\nyou no questions!\" bawled Jeffers.", "\"You know,\" he reflected, \"it might be better for you to stay here.\n He can't do much about you, and you don't have any real proof just by\n yourself.\"\n\n\n \"I'll come along with you, Tolliver,\" said the girl.\n\n\n \"No, I don't think you'd better.\"\n\n\n \"Why not?\"\n\n\n \"Well ... after all, what would he dare do? Arranging an accident to\n the daughter of the boss isn't something that he can pull off without a\n lot of investigation. He'd be better off just running for it.\"\n\n\n \"Let's not argue about it,\" said Betty, a trifle pale but looking\n determined. \"I'm coming with you. Is that stuff getting soft yet?\"", "\"Those slides,\" he continued. \"Ganymede's only about the size of\n Mercury, something like 3200 miles in diameter, so things get heaped up\n at steep angles. When the rock and ice are set to sliding, they come\n at you practically horizontally. It doesn't need much start, and it\n barrels on for a long way before there's enough friction to stop it. If\n you're in the way—well, it's just too bad!\"\nSay, that's pretty good!\nhe told himself.\nWhat a liar you are,\n Tolliver!\nHe enlarged upon other dangers to be encountered on the satellite,\n taking care to impress the newcomer with the daredeviltry of John\n Tolliver, driver of \"missions\" across the menacing wastes between dome\n and port.", "TOLLIVER'S ORBIT\nwas slow—but it wasn't boring. And\n\n it would get you there—as long as\n\n you weren't going anywhere anyhow!\nBy H. B. FYFE\n[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nJohnny Tolliver scowled across the desk at his superior. His black\n thatch was ruffled, as if he had been rubbed the wrong way.\n\n\n \"I didn't ask you to cut out your own graft, did I?\" he demanded.\n \"Just don't try to sucker me in on the deal. I know you're operating\n something sneaky all through the colony, but it's not for me.\"", "Jeffers seemed to stagger standing still behind his desk. His loose\n lips twitched uncertainly, and he looked questioningly to Tolliver. The\n pilot stared at Betty, trying to recall pictures he had seen of the\n elder Koslow. He was also trying to remember some of the lies he had\n told en route from the spaceport.\n\n\n \"Wh-wh-what do you mean, Miss Koslow?\" Jeffers stammered.\n\n\n He darted a suspicious glare at Tolliver.\n\n\n \"Mr. Jeffers,\" said the girl, \"I may look like just another spoiled\n little blonde, but the best part of this company will be mine someday.\n I was not allowed to reach twenty-two without learning something about\n holding on to it.\"\n\n\n Tolliver blinked. He had taken her for three or four years older.\n Jeffers now ignored him, intent upon the girl.", "\"Okay I can't fire you legally—as long as you report for work,\"\n grumbled Jeffers, by now a shade more ruddy. \"We'll see how long you\n keep reporting. Because you're off the Callisto run as of now! Sit in\n your quarters and see if the company calls\nthat\nhazardous duty!\"\n\n\n \"Doesn't matter,\" answered Tolliver, grinning amiably. \"The hazardous\n part is just being on the same moon as you for the next six months.\"", "Tolliver held her in front of the screen so she would not float out\n of range of the scanner and microphone. As she spoke, he stared\n exasperatedly at a bulkhead, marveling at the influence of a man who\n could arrange for a cruiser to escort his daughter to Ganymede and\n wondering what was behind it all.", "He soon found that there was nothing for him to do but hang around the\n garage in case a spaceship should land. The few runs to other domes\n seemed to be assigned to drivers with larger vehicles.\n\n\n The following day was just as boring, and the next more so. He swore\n when he found the assignment unchanged by \"Friday.\" Even the reflection\n that it was payday was small consolation.\n\n\n \"Hey, Johnny!\" said a voice at his shoulder. \"The word is that they're\n finally gonna trust you to take that creeper outside.\"\n\n\n Tolliver turned to see Red Higgins, a regular driver.\n\n\n \"What do you mean?\"\n\n\n \"They say some home-office relative is coming in on the\nJavelin\n.\"\n\n\n \"What's wrong with that?\" asked Tolliver. \"Outside of the way they keep\n handing out soft jobs to nephews, I mean.\"", "In the end, he displayed conclusive evidence in the form of the weekly\n paycheck he had received that morning. It did not, naturally, indicate\n he was drawing the salary of a space pilot. Betty looked thoughtful.\n\n\n \"I'm retiring in six months if I'm still alive,\" he said bravely,\n edging the tractor into the airlock at their destination. \"Made my\n pile. No use pushing your luck too far.\"\n\n\n His charge seemed noticeably subdued, but cleared her throat to request\n that Tolliver guide her to the office of the manager. She trailed along\n as if with a burden of worry upon her mind, and the pilot's conscience\n prickled.\nI'll get hold of her after Jeffers is through and set her straight\n,\n he resolved.\nIt isn't really funny if the sucker is too ignorant to\n know better.\nRemembering his grudge against the manager, he took pleasure in walking\n in without knocking.", "She was now sitting bolt upright in the swaying seat. Tolliver\n deliberately dipped one track into an icy hollow. In the light gravity,\n the tractor responded with a weird, floating lurch.", "\"Aah, these young punks just come out for a few months so they can go\n back to Earth making noises like spacemen. Sometimes there's no reason\n but them for sending a ship back with a crew instead of in an economy\n orbit. Wait till you see the baggage you'll have to load!\"\n\n\n Later in the day-period, Tolliver recalled this warning. Under a\n portable, double-chambered plastic dome blown up outside the ship's\n airlock, a crewman helped him load two trunks and a collection of bags\n into the tractor. He was struggling to suppress a feeling of outrage at\n the waste of fuel involved when the home-office relative emerged.\n\n\n She was about five feet four and moved as if she walked lightly even\n in stronger gravity than Ganymede's. Her trim coiffure was a shade too\n blonde which served to set off both the blue of her eyes and the cap\n apparently won from one of the pilots. She wore gray slacks and a heavy\n sweater, like a spacer.", "\"I can see you're used to sweeping girls off their feet,\" she commented\n sourly.\n\n\n \"The main problem is whether you can cook.\"\n\n\n Betty frowned at him.\n\n\n \"I'm pretty good with a pistol,\" she offered, \"or going over crooked\n books. But cook? Sorry.\"\n\n\n \"Well, one of us had better learn, and I'll have other things to do.\"\n\n\n \"I'll think about it,\" promised the girl, staring thoughtfully at the\n deck.\n\n\n Tolliver anchored himself in a seat and grinned as he thought about it\n too.\nAfter a while\n, he promised himself,\nI'll explain how I cut the fuel\n flow and see if she's detective enough to suspect that we're just\n orbiting Ganymede!", "He winked and walked out, deliberately leaving the door open behind him\n so as to enjoy the incoherent bellowing that followed him.\nLooks like a little vacation\n, he thought, unperturbed.\nHe'll come\n around. I just want to get back to Earth with a clean rep. Let Jeffers\n and his gang steal the Great Red Spot off Jupiter if they like! It's\n their risk.\nTolliver began to have his doubts the next day; which was \"Tuesday\"\n by the arbitrary calender constructed to match Ganymede's week-long\n journey around Jupiter.\n\n\n His contract guaranteed a pilot's rating, but someone had neglected to\n specify the type of craft to be piloted.\n\n\n On the bulletin board, Tolliver's name stood out beside the number\n of one of the airtight tractors used between the dome city and the\n spaceport, or for hauling cross-country to one of the mining domes.", "When he heard Betty requesting assistance in arresting Jeffers and\n reporting the manager as the head of a ring of crooks, he began to\n suspect. He also noticed certain peculiarities about the remarks of the\n Patrolman.\nFor one thing, though the officer seemed well acquainted with Betty, he\n never addressed her by the name of Koslow. For another, he accepted the\n request as if he had been hanging in orbit merely until learning who to\n go down after.\nThey really sent her out to nail someone\n, Tolliver realized.\nOf\n course, she stumbled onto Jeffers by plain dumb luck. But she had an\n idea of what to look for. How do I get into these things? She might\n have got me killed!\n\"We do have one trouble,\" he heard Betty saying. \"This tractor driver,\n Tolliver, saved my neck by making the ship take off somehow, but he\n says it's set for a six-month orbit, or economy flight. Whatever they\n call it. I don't think he has any idea where we're headed.\"" ], [ "Tolliver grunted. Sorrow would not reduce the throbbing, nor was he\n in a mood to undertake an explanation of why Jeffers did not like him\n anyway.\n\n\n \"I think perhaps you're going to have a shiner,\" remarked the girl.\n\n\n \"Thanks for letting me know in time,\" said Tolliver.\n\n\n The skin under his right eye did feel a trifle tight, but he could see\n well enough. The abandoned and empty look of the office worried him.\n\n\n \"What can we use to get out of here?\" he mused.\n\n\n \"Why should we try?\" asked the girl. \"What can he do?\"\n\n\n \"You'd be surprised. How did you catch on to him so soon?\"\n\n\n \"Your paycheck,\" said Betty. \"As soon as I saw that ridiculous amount,\n it was obvious that there was gross mismanagement here. It had to be\n Jeffers.\"", "The fallen hero, upon arising, had to content himself with grabbing\n Betty. The others were swarming over Tolliver. Jeffers came around his\n desk to assist.\nTolliver found himself dumped on the floor of an empty office in the\n adjoining warehouse building. It seemed to him that a long time had\n been spent in carrying him there.\n\n\n He heard an indignant yelp, and realized that the girl had been pitched\n in with him. The snapping of a lock was followed by the tramp of\n departing footsteps and then by silence.\n\n\n After considering the idea a few minutes, Tolliver managed to sit up.\n\n\n He had his wind back. But when he fingered the swelling lump behind his\n left ear, a sensation befuddled him momentarily.\n\n\n \"I'm sorry about that,\" murmured Betty.", "Tolliver pulled her back, holding her in mid-air by the slack of her\n sweater.\n\n\n \"Actually, I have a fine idea,\" he informed the officer coldly. \"I\n happen to be a qualified space pilot. Everything here is under control.\n If Miss Koslow thinks you should arrest Jeffers, you can call us later\n on this channel.\"\n\n\n \"Miss Koslow?\" repeated the spacer. \"Did she tell you—well, no matter!\n If you'll be okay, we'll attend to the other affair immediately.\"\n\n\n He signed off promptly. The pilot faced Betty, who looked more offended\n than reassured at discovering his status.\n\n\n \"This 'Miss Koslow' business,\" he said suspiciously. \"He sounded funny\n about that.\"\n\n\n The girl grinned.", "\"Sorry to keep you waiting,\" she said, sliding into the seat beside\n Tolliver. \"By the way, just call me Betty.\"\n\n\n \"Sure,\" agreed Tolliver thinking,\nOhmigod! Trying already to be just\n one of the gang, instead of Lady Betty! Is her old man the treasurer,\n or does he just know where bodies are buried?\n\"They were making dates,\" said the girl. \"Were they ribbing me, or is\n it true that none of the four of them goes back with the ship?\"", "\"You know,\" he reflected, \"it might be better for you to stay here.\n He can't do much about you, and you don't have any real proof just by\n yourself.\"\n\n\n \"I'll come along with you, Tolliver,\" said the girl.\n\n\n \"No, I don't think you'd better.\"\n\n\n \"Why not?\"\n\n\n \"Well ... after all, what would he dare do? Arranging an accident to\n the daughter of the boss isn't something that he can pull off without a\n lot of investigation. He'd be better off just running for it.\"\n\n\n \"Let's not argue about it,\" said Betty, a trifle pale but looking\n determined. \"I'm coming with you. Is that stuff getting soft yet?\"", "Tolliver groaned.\n\n\n \"Then, on the way over here, he as good as admitted everything. You\n didn't hear him, I guess. Well, he seemed to be caught all unaware, and\n seemed to blame you for it.\"\n\n\n \"Sure!\" grumbled the pilot. \"He thinks I told you he was grafting or\n smuggling, or whatever he has going for him here. That's why I want to\n get out of here—before I find myself involved in some kind of fatal\n accident!\"\n\n\n \"What do you know about the crooked goings-on here?\" asked Betty after\n a startled pause.\n\n\n \"Nothing,\" retorted Tolliver. \"Except that there are some. There are\n rumors, and I had a halfway invitation to join in. I think he sells\n things to the mining colonies and makes a double profit for himself by\n claiming the stuff lost in transit. You didn't think you scared him\n that bad over a little slack managing?\"", "\"Jeffers,\" he announced, \"this is ... just call her Betty.\"\n\n\n The manager's jowled features twisted into an expression of welcome as\n jovial as that of a hungry crocodile.\n\n\n \"Miss Koslow!\" he beamed, like a politician the day before the voting.\n \"It certainly is an honor to have you on Ganymede with us! That's all,\n Tolliver, you can go. Yes, indeed! Mr. Koslow—the president, that is:\n your father—sent a message about you. I repeat, it will be an honor to\n show you the ropes. Did you want something else, Tolliver?\"\n\n\n \"Never mind him, Mr. Jeffers,\" snapped the girl, in a tone new to\n Tolliver. \"We won't be working together, I'm afraid. You've already had\n enough rope.\"", "Jeffers seemed to stagger standing still behind his desk. His loose\n lips twitched uncertainly, and he looked questioningly to Tolliver. The\n pilot stared at Betty, trying to recall pictures he had seen of the\n elder Koslow. He was also trying to remember some of the lies he had\n told en route from the spaceport.\n\n\n \"Wh-wh-what do you mean, Miss Koslow?\" Jeffers stammered.\n\n\n He darted a suspicious glare at Tolliver.\n\n\n \"Mr. Jeffers,\" said the girl, \"I may look like just another spoiled\n little blonde, but the best part of this company will be mine someday.\n I was not allowed to reach twenty-two without learning something about\n holding on to it.\"\n\n\n Tolliver blinked. He had taken her for three or four years older.\n Jeffers now ignored him, intent upon the girl.", "\"I can see you're used to sweeping girls off their feet,\" she commented\n sourly.\n\n\n \"The main problem is whether you can cook.\"\n\n\n Betty frowned at him.\n\n\n \"I'm pretty good with a pistol,\" she offered, \"or going over crooked\n books. But cook? Sorry.\"\n\n\n \"Well, one of us had better learn, and I'll have other things to do.\"\n\n\n \"I'll think about it,\" promised the girl, staring thoughtfully at the\n deck.\n\n\n Tolliver anchored himself in a seat and grinned as he thought about it\n too.\nAfter a while\n, he promised himself,\nI'll explain how I cut the fuel\n flow and see if she's detective enough to suspect that we're just\n orbiting Ganymede!", "When he heard Betty requesting assistance in arresting Jeffers and\n reporting the manager as the head of a ring of crooks, he began to\n suspect. He also noticed certain peculiarities about the remarks of the\n Patrolman.\nFor one thing, though the officer seemed well acquainted with Betty, he\n never addressed her by the name of Koslow. For another, he accepted the\n request as if he had been hanging in orbit merely until learning who to\n go down after.\nThey really sent her out to nail someone\n, Tolliver realized.\nOf\n course, she stumbled onto Jeffers by plain dumb luck. But she had an\n idea of what to look for. How do I get into these things? She might\n have got me killed!\n\"We do have one trouble,\" he heard Betty saying. \"This tractor driver,\n Tolliver, saved my neck by making the ship take off somehow, but he\n says it's set for a six-month orbit, or economy flight. Whatever they\n call it. I don't think he has any idea where we're headed.\"", "He caught up and touched helmets again.\n\n\n \"Just act as if you're on business,\" he told her. \"For all anyone can\n see, we might be inspecting the dome.\"\n\n\n \"Where are you going?\" asked Betty.\n\n\n \"Right through the wall, and then head for the nearest mine. Jeffers\n can't be running\neverything\n!\"\n\n\n \"Is there any way to get to a TV?\" asked the girl. \"I ... uh ... Daddy\n gave me a good number to call if I needed help.\"\n\n\n \"How good?\"\n\n\n \"Pretty official, as a matter of fact.\"\n\n\n \"All right,\" Tolliver decided. \"We'll try the ship you just came in on.\n They might have finished refueling and left her empty.\"", "He ran a practiced eye over the board, reading the condition of the\n ship. It pleased him. Everything was ready for a takeoff into an\n economy orbit for Earth. He busied himself making a few adjustments,\n doing his best to ignore the protests from his partner in crime. He\n warned her the trip might be long.\n\n\n \"I told you not to come,\" he said at last. \"Now sit back!\"\n\n\n He sat down and pushed a button to start the igniting process.\n\n\n In a moment, he could feel the rumble of the rockets through the deck,\n and then it was out of his hands for several minutes.\n\n\n \"That wasn't so bad,\" Betty admitted some time later. \"Did you go in\n the right direction?\"\n\n\n \"Who knows?\" retorted Tolliver. \"There wasn't time to check\neverything\n. We'll worry about that after we make your call.\"", "\"Relax, Tolliver,\" she told him. \"Did you really believe Daddy would\n send his own little girl way out here to Ganymede to look for whoever\n was gypping him?\"\n\n\n \"You ... you...?\"\n\n\n \"Sure. The name's Betty Hanlon. I work for a private investigating\n firm. If old Koslow had a son to impersonate—\"\n\n\n \"I'd be stuck for six months in this orbit with some brash young man,\"\n Tolliver finished for her. \"I guess it's better this way,\" he said\n meditatively a moment later.\n\n\n \"Oh, come\non\n! Can't they get us back? How can you tell where we're\n going?\"\n\n\n \"I know enough to check takeoff time. It was practically due anyhow, so\n we'll float into the vicinity of Earth at about the right time to be\n picked up.\"", "In the end, he displayed conclusive evidence in the form of the weekly\n paycheck he had received that morning. It did not, naturally, indicate\n he was drawing the salary of a space pilot. Betty looked thoughtful.\n\n\n \"I'm retiring in six months if I'm still alive,\" he said bravely,\n edging the tractor into the airlock at their destination. \"Made my\n pile. No use pushing your luck too far.\"\n\n\n His charge seemed noticeably subdued, but cleared her throat to request\n that Tolliver guide her to the office of the manager. She trailed along\n as if with a burden of worry upon her mind, and the pilot's conscience\n prickled.\nI'll get hold of her after Jeffers is through and set her straight\n,\n he resolved.\nIt isn't really funny if the sucker is too ignorant to\n know better.\nRemembering his grudge against the manager, he took pleasure in walking\n in without knocking.", "It took him considerable scrambling to boost the girl up the ladder and\n inside, but he managed. They passed through the airlock, fretting at\n the time required to seal, pump air and open the inner hatch; and then\n Tolliver led the way up another ladder to the control room. It was a\n clumsy trip in their spacesuits, but he wanted to save time.\nIn the control room, he shoved the girl into an acceleration seat,\n glanced at the gauges and showed her how to open her helmet.\n\n\n \"Leave the suit on,\" he ordered, getting in the first word while she\n was still shaking her head. \"It will help a little on the takeoff.\"\n\n\n \"Takeoff!\" shrilled Betty. \"What do you think you're going to do? I\n just want to use the radio or TV!\"\n\n\n \"That tractor will get here in a minute or two. They might cut your\n conversation kind of short. Now shut up and let me look over these\n dials!\"", "\"Oh!\" Betty looked helpless. \"It's in my pocket.\"\n\n\n Tolliver sighed. In their weightless state, it was no easy task to pry\n her out of the spacesuit. He thought of inquiring if she needed any\n further help, but reminded himself that this was the boss's daughter.\n When Betty produced a memo giving frequency and call sign, he set about\n making contact.\n\n\n It took only a few minutes, as if the channel had been monitored\n expectantly, and the man who flickered into life on the screen wore a\n uniform.\n\n\n \"Space Patrol?\" whispered Tolliver incredulously.\n\n\n \"That's right,\" said Betty. \"Uh ... Daddy made arrangements for me.\"", "They had to cross one open lane between buildings, and Tolliver was\n very conscious of moving figures in the distance; but no one seemed to\n look their way.\n\n\n Reaching the foot of the main dome over the establishment, he glanced\n furtively about, then plunged his knife into the transparent material.\n\n\n From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Betty make a startled\n gesture, but he had his work cut out for him. This was tougher than the\n interior dome.\n\n\n Finally, he managed to saw a ragged slit through which they could\n squeeze. There was room to walk between the inner and outer layer, so\n he moved along a few yards. A little dust began to blow about where\n they had gone through. He touched helmets once more.", "The picture of Jeffers huddled with his partners in the headquarters\n building, plotting the next move, brought Tolliver to his feet.\n\n\n There was nothing in the unused office but an old table and half a\n dozen plastic crates. He saw that the latter contained a mess of\n discarded records.\n\n\n \"Better than nothing at all,\" he muttered.\n\n\n He ripped out a double handful of the forms, crumpled them into a pile\n at the doorway, and pulled out his cigarette lighter.\n\n\n \"What do you think you're up to?\" asked Betty with some concern.\n\n\n \"This plastic is tough,\" said Tolliver, \"but it will bend with enough\n heat. If I can kick loose a hinge, maybe we can fool them yet!\"\n\n\n He got a little fire going, and fed it judiciously with more papers.", "It was when he looked about to make sure that they were unobserved that\n he caught a glimpse of motion back toward the city. He peered at the\n spot through the dim light. After a moment, he definitely recognized\n the outline of a tractor breasting a rise in the ground and tilting\n downward again.\n\n\n \"In fact, we\nhave\nto get in to stay out of trouble,\" he said to Betty.\n\n\n He located the switch-cover in the hull, opened it and activated the\n mechanism that swung open the airlock and extended the ladder.", "TOLLIVER'S ORBIT\nwas slow—but it wasn't boring. And\n\n it would get you there—as long as\n\n you weren't going anywhere anyhow!\nBy H. B. FYFE\n[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nJohnny Tolliver scowled across the desk at his superior. His black\n thatch was ruffled, as if he had been rubbed the wrong way.\n\n\n \"I didn't ask you to cut out your own graft, did I?\" he demanded.\n \"Just don't try to sucker me in on the deal. I know you're operating\n something sneaky all through the colony, but it's not for me.\"" ], [ "Tolliver grunted. Sorrow would not reduce the throbbing, nor was he\n in a mood to undertake an explanation of why Jeffers did not like him\n anyway.\n\n\n \"I think perhaps you're going to have a shiner,\" remarked the girl.\n\n\n \"Thanks for letting me know in time,\" said Tolliver.\n\n\n The skin under his right eye did feel a trifle tight, but he could see\n well enough. The abandoned and empty look of the office worried him.\n\n\n \"What can we use to get out of here?\" he mused.\n\n\n \"Why should we try?\" asked the girl. \"What can he do?\"\n\n\n \"You'd be surprised. How did you catch on to him so soon?\"\n\n\n \"Your paycheck,\" said Betty. \"As soon as I saw that ridiculous amount,\n it was obvious that there was gross mismanagement here. It had to be\n Jeffers.\"", "Tolliver groaned.\n\n\n \"Then, on the way over here, he as good as admitted everything. You\n didn't hear him, I guess. Well, he seemed to be caught all unaware, and\n seemed to blame you for it.\"\n\n\n \"Sure!\" grumbled the pilot. \"He thinks I told you he was grafting or\n smuggling, or whatever he has going for him here. That's why I want to\n get out of here—before I find myself involved in some kind of fatal\n accident!\"\n\n\n \"What do you know about the crooked goings-on here?\" asked Betty after\n a startled pause.\n\n\n \"Nothing,\" retorted Tolliver. \"Except that there are some. There are\n rumors, and I had a halfway invitation to join in. I think he sells\n things to the mining colonies and makes a double profit for himself by\n claiming the stuff lost in transit. You didn't think you scared him\n that bad over a little slack managing?\"", "Tolliver pulled her back, holding her in mid-air by the slack of her\n sweater.\n\n\n \"Actually, I have a fine idea,\" he informed the officer coldly. \"I\n happen to be a qualified space pilot. Everything here is under control.\n If Miss Koslow thinks you should arrest Jeffers, you can call us later\n on this channel.\"\n\n\n \"Miss Koslow?\" repeated the spacer. \"Did she tell you—well, no matter!\n If you'll be okay, we'll attend to the other affair immediately.\"\n\n\n He signed off promptly. The pilot faced Betty, who looked more offended\n than reassured at discovering his status.\n\n\n \"This 'Miss Koslow' business,\" he said suspiciously. \"He sounded funny\n about that.\"\n\n\n The girl grinned.", "\"You know,\" he reflected, \"it might be better for you to stay here.\n He can't do much about you, and you don't have any real proof just by\n yourself.\"\n\n\n \"I'll come along with you, Tolliver,\" said the girl.\n\n\n \"No, I don't think you'd better.\"\n\n\n \"Why not?\"\n\n\n \"Well ... after all, what would he dare do? Arranging an accident to\n the daughter of the boss isn't something that he can pull off without a\n lot of investigation. He'd be better off just running for it.\"\n\n\n \"Let's not argue about it,\" said Betty, a trifle pale but looking\n determined. \"I'm coming with you. Is that stuff getting soft yet?\"", "The fallen hero, upon arising, had to content himself with grabbing\n Betty. The others were swarming over Tolliver. Jeffers came around his\n desk to assist.\nTolliver found himself dumped on the floor of an empty office in the\n adjoining warehouse building. It seemed to him that a long time had\n been spent in carrying him there.\n\n\n He heard an indignant yelp, and realized that the girl had been pitched\n in with him. The snapping of a lock was followed by the tramp of\n departing footsteps and then by silence.\n\n\n After considering the idea a few minutes, Tolliver managed to sit up.\n\n\n He had his wind back. But when he fingered the swelling lump behind his\n left ear, a sensation befuddled him momentarily.\n\n\n \"I'm sorry about that,\" murmured Betty.", "\"Sorry to keep you waiting,\" she said, sliding into the seat beside\n Tolliver. \"By the way, just call me Betty.\"\n\n\n \"Sure,\" agreed Tolliver thinking,\nOhmigod! Trying already to be just\n one of the gang, instead of Lady Betty! Is her old man the treasurer,\n or does he just know where bodies are buried?\n\"They were making dates,\" said the girl. \"Were they ribbing me, or is\n it true that none of the four of them goes back with the ship?\"", "Jeffers seemed to stagger standing still behind his desk. His loose\n lips twitched uncertainly, and he looked questioningly to Tolliver. The\n pilot stared at Betty, trying to recall pictures he had seen of the\n elder Koslow. He was also trying to remember some of the lies he had\n told en route from the spaceport.\n\n\n \"Wh-wh-what do you mean, Miss Koslow?\" Jeffers stammered.\n\n\n He darted a suspicious glare at Tolliver.\n\n\n \"Mr. Jeffers,\" said the girl, \"I may look like just another spoiled\n little blonde, but the best part of this company will be mine someday.\n I was not allowed to reach twenty-two without learning something about\n holding on to it.\"\n\n\n Tolliver blinked. He had taken her for three or four years older.\n Jeffers now ignored him, intent upon the girl.", "\"I can see you're used to sweeping girls off their feet,\" she commented\n sourly.\n\n\n \"The main problem is whether you can cook.\"\n\n\n Betty frowned at him.\n\n\n \"I'm pretty good with a pistol,\" she offered, \"or going over crooked\n books. But cook? Sorry.\"\n\n\n \"Well, one of us had better learn, and I'll have other things to do.\"\n\n\n \"I'll think about it,\" promised the girl, staring thoughtfully at the\n deck.\n\n\n Tolliver anchored himself in a seat and grinned as he thought about it\n too.\nAfter a while\n, he promised himself,\nI'll explain how I cut the fuel\n flow and see if she's detective enough to suspect that we're just\n orbiting Ganymede!", "When he heard Betty requesting assistance in arresting Jeffers and\n reporting the manager as the head of a ring of crooks, he began to\n suspect. He also noticed certain peculiarities about the remarks of the\n Patrolman.\nFor one thing, though the officer seemed well acquainted with Betty, he\n never addressed her by the name of Koslow. For another, he accepted the\n request as if he had been hanging in orbit merely until learning who to\n go down after.\nThey really sent her out to nail someone\n, Tolliver realized.\nOf\n course, she stumbled onto Jeffers by plain dumb luck. But she had an\n idea of what to look for. How do I get into these things? She might\n have got me killed!\n\"We do have one trouble,\" he heard Betty saying. \"This tractor driver,\n Tolliver, saved my neck by making the ship take off somehow, but he\n says it's set for a six-month orbit, or economy flight. Whatever they\n call it. I don't think he has any idea where we're headed.\"", "He caught up and touched helmets again.\n\n\n \"Just act as if you're on business,\" he told her. \"For all anyone can\n see, we might be inspecting the dome.\"\n\n\n \"Where are you going?\" asked Betty.\n\n\n \"Right through the wall, and then head for the nearest mine. Jeffers\n can't be running\neverything\n!\"\n\n\n \"Is there any way to get to a TV?\" asked the girl. \"I ... uh ... Daddy\n gave me a good number to call if I needed help.\"\n\n\n \"How good?\"\n\n\n \"Pretty official, as a matter of fact.\"\n\n\n \"All right,\" Tolliver decided. \"We'll try the ship you just came in on.\n They might have finished refueling and left her empty.\"", "\"Jeffers,\" he announced, \"this is ... just call her Betty.\"\n\n\n The manager's jowled features twisted into an expression of welcome as\n jovial as that of a hungry crocodile.\n\n\n \"Miss Koslow!\" he beamed, like a politician the day before the voting.\n \"It certainly is an honor to have you on Ganymede with us! That's all,\n Tolliver, you can go. Yes, indeed! Mr. Koslow—the president, that is:\n your father—sent a message about you. I repeat, it will be an honor to\n show you the ropes. Did you want something else, Tolliver?\"\n\n\n \"Never mind him, Mr. Jeffers,\" snapped the girl, in a tone new to\n Tolliver. \"We won't be working together, I'm afraid. You've already had\n enough rope.\"", "\"Relax, Tolliver,\" she told him. \"Did you really believe Daddy would\n send his own little girl way out here to Ganymede to look for whoever\n was gypping him?\"\n\n\n \"You ... you...?\"\n\n\n \"Sure. The name's Betty Hanlon. I work for a private investigating\n firm. If old Koslow had a son to impersonate—\"\n\n\n \"I'd be stuck for six months in this orbit with some brash young man,\"\n Tolliver finished for her. \"I guess it's better this way,\" he said\n meditatively a moment later.\n\n\n \"Oh, come\non\n! Can't they get us back? How can you tell where we're\n going?\"\n\n\n \"I know enough to check takeoff time. It was practically due anyhow, so\n we'll float into the vicinity of Earth at about the right time to be\n picked up.\"", "In the end, he displayed conclusive evidence in the form of the weekly\n paycheck he had received that morning. It did not, naturally, indicate\n he was drawing the salary of a space pilot. Betty looked thoughtful.\n\n\n \"I'm retiring in six months if I'm still alive,\" he said bravely,\n edging the tractor into the airlock at their destination. \"Made my\n pile. No use pushing your luck too far.\"\n\n\n His charge seemed noticeably subdued, but cleared her throat to request\n that Tolliver guide her to the office of the manager. She trailed along\n as if with a burden of worry upon her mind, and the pilot's conscience\n prickled.\nI'll get hold of her after Jeffers is through and set her straight\n,\n he resolved.\nIt isn't really funny if the sucker is too ignorant to\n know better.\nRemembering his grudge against the manager, he took pleasure in walking\n in without knocking.", "He ran a practiced eye over the board, reading the condition of the\n ship. It pleased him. Everything was ready for a takeoff into an\n economy orbit for Earth. He busied himself making a few adjustments,\n doing his best to ignore the protests from his partner in crime. He\n warned her the trip might be long.\n\n\n \"I told you not to come,\" he said at last. \"Now sit back!\"\n\n\n He sat down and pushed a button to start the igniting process.\n\n\n In a moment, he could feel the rumble of the rockets through the deck,\n and then it was out of his hands for several minutes.\n\n\n \"That wasn't so bad,\" Betty admitted some time later. \"Did you go in\n the right direction?\"\n\n\n \"Who knows?\" retorted Tolliver. \"There wasn't time to check\neverything\n. We'll worry about that after we make your call.\"", "The picture of Jeffers huddled with his partners in the headquarters\n building, plotting the next move, brought Tolliver to his feet.\n\n\n There was nothing in the unused office but an old table and half a\n dozen plastic crates. He saw that the latter contained a mess of\n discarded records.\n\n\n \"Better than nothing at all,\" he muttered.\n\n\n He ripped out a double handful of the forms, crumpled them into a pile\n at the doorway, and pulled out his cigarette lighter.\n\n\n \"What do you think you're up to?\" asked Betty with some concern.\n\n\n \"This plastic is tough,\" said Tolliver, \"but it will bend with enough\n heat. If I can kick loose a hinge, maybe we can fool them yet!\"\n\n\n He got a little fire going, and fed it judiciously with more papers.", "\"Oh!\" Betty looked helpless. \"It's in my pocket.\"\n\n\n Tolliver sighed. In their weightless state, it was no easy task to pry\n her out of the spacesuit. He thought of inquiring if she needed any\n further help, but reminded himself that this was the boss's daughter.\n When Betty produced a memo giving frequency and call sign, he set about\n making contact.\n\n\n It took only a few minutes, as if the channel had been monitored\n expectantly, and the man who flickered into life on the screen wore a\n uniform.\n\n\n \"Space Patrol?\" whispered Tolliver incredulously.\n\n\n \"That's right,\" said Betty. \"Uh ... Daddy made arrangements for me.\"", "They had to cross one open lane between buildings, and Tolliver was\n very conscious of moving figures in the distance; but no one seemed to\n look their way.\n\n\n Reaching the foot of the main dome over the establishment, he glanced\n furtively about, then plunged his knife into the transparent material.\n\n\n From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Betty make a startled\n gesture, but he had his work cut out for him. This was tougher than the\n interior dome.\n\n\n Finally, he managed to saw a ragged slit through which they could\n squeeze. There was room to walk between the inner and outer layer, so\n he moved along a few yards. A little dust began to blow about where\n they had gone through. He touched helmets once more.", "It was when he looked about to make sure that they were unobserved that\n he caught a glimpse of motion back toward the city. He peered at the\n spot through the dim light. After a moment, he definitely recognized\n the outline of a tractor breasting a rise in the ground and tilting\n downward again.\n\n\n \"In fact, we\nhave\nto get in to stay out of trouble,\" he said to Betty.\n\n\n He located the switch-cover in the hull, opened it and activated the\n mechanism that swung open the airlock and extended the ladder.", "It took him considerable scrambling to boost the girl up the ladder and\n inside, but he managed. They passed through the airlock, fretting at\n the time required to seal, pump air and open the inner hatch; and then\n Tolliver led the way up another ladder to the control room. It was a\n clumsy trip in their spacesuits, but he wanted to save time.\nIn the control room, he shoved the girl into an acceleration seat,\n glanced at the gauges and showed her how to open her helmet.\n\n\n \"Leave the suit on,\" he ordered, getting in the first word while she\n was still shaking her head. \"It will help a little on the takeoff.\"\n\n\n \"Takeoff!\" shrilled Betty. \"What do you think you're going to do? I\n just want to use the radio or TV!\"\n\n\n \"That tractor will get here in a minute or two. They might cut your\n conversation kind of short. Now shut up and let me look over these\n dials!\"", "\"Daddy gave me the title of tenth vice-president mostly as a joke, when\n he told me to find out what was wrong with operations on Ganymede.\n I have\nsome\nauthority, though. And you look like the source of the\n trouble to me.\"\n\n\n \"You can't prove anything,\" declared Jeffers hoarsely.\n\n\n \"Oh, can't I? I've already seen certain evidence, and the rest won't\n be hard to find. Where are your books, Mr. Jeffers? You're as good as\n fired!\"\n\n\n The manager dropped heavily to his chair. He stared unbelievingly at\n Betty, and Tolliver thought he muttered something about \"just landed.\"\n After a moment, the big man came out of his daze enough to stab an\n intercom button with his finger. He growled at someone on the other end\n to come in without a countdown." ], [ "\"I can see you're used to sweeping girls off their feet,\" she commented\n sourly.\n\n\n \"The main problem is whether you can cook.\"\n\n\n Betty frowned at him.\n\n\n \"I'm pretty good with a pistol,\" she offered, \"or going over crooked\n books. But cook? Sorry.\"\n\n\n \"Well, one of us had better learn, and I'll have other things to do.\"\n\n\n \"I'll think about it,\" promised the girl, staring thoughtfully at the\n deck.\n\n\n Tolliver anchored himself in a seat and grinned as he thought about it\n too.\nAfter a while\n, he promised himself,\nI'll explain how I cut the fuel\n flow and see if she's detective enough to suspect that we're just\n orbiting Ganymede!", "\"Jeffers,\" he announced, \"this is ... just call her Betty.\"\n\n\n The manager's jowled features twisted into an expression of welcome as\n jovial as that of a hungry crocodile.\n\n\n \"Miss Koslow!\" he beamed, like a politician the day before the voting.\n \"It certainly is an honor to have you on Ganymede with us! That's all,\n Tolliver, you can go. Yes, indeed! Mr. Koslow—the president, that is:\n your father—sent a message about you. I repeat, it will be an honor to\n show you the ropes. Did you want something else, Tolliver?\"\n\n\n \"Never mind him, Mr. Jeffers,\" snapped the girl, in a tone new to\n Tolliver. \"We won't be working together, I'm afraid. You've already had\n enough rope.\"", "\"Don't sneer at Ganymede, honey!\" he warned portentously. \"Many a\n man who did isn't here today. Take the fellow who used to drive this\n mission!\"\n\n\n \"You can call me Betty. What happened to him?\"\n\n\n \"I'll tell you some day,\" Tolliver promised darkly. \"This moon can\n strike like a vicious animal.\"\n\n\n \"Oh, they told me there was nothing alive on Ganymede!\"\n\n\n \"I was thinking of the mountain slides,\" said the pilot. \"Not to\n mention volcanic puffballs that pop out through the frozen crust where\n you'd least expect. That's why I draw such high pay for driving an\n unarmored tractor.\"\n\n\n \"You use armored vehicles?\" gasped the girl.", "\"Relax, Tolliver,\" she told him. \"Did you really believe Daddy would\n send his own little girl way out here to Ganymede to look for whoever\n was gypping him?\"\n\n\n \"You ... you...?\"\n\n\n \"Sure. The name's Betty Hanlon. I work for a private investigating\n firm. If old Koslow had a son to impersonate—\"\n\n\n \"I'd be stuck for six months in this orbit with some brash young man,\"\n Tolliver finished for her. \"I guess it's better this way,\" he said\n meditatively a moment later.\n\n\n \"Oh, come\non\n! Can't they get us back? How can you tell where we're\n going?\"\n\n\n \"I know enough to check takeoff time. It was practically due anyhow, so\n we'll float into the vicinity of Earth at about the right time to be\n picked up.\"", "He went on to explain something of the tremendous cost in fuel\n necessary to make more than minor corrections to their course. Even\n though the Patrol ship could easily catch the slow freighter, bringing\n along enough fuel to head back would be something else again.\n\n\n \"We'll just have to ride it out,\" he said sympathetically. \"The ship is\n provisioned according to law, and you were probably going back anyhow.\"\n\n\n \"I didn't expect to so soon.\"\n\n\n \"Yeah, you were pretty lucky. They'll think you're a marvel to crack\n the case in about three hours on Ganymede.\"\n\n\n \"Great!\" muttered Betty. \"What a lucky girl I am!\"\n\n\n \"Yes,\" admitted Tolliver, \"there\nare\nproblems. If you like, we might\n get the captain of that Patrol ship to legalize the situation by TV.\"", "When he heard Betty requesting assistance in arresting Jeffers and\n reporting the manager as the head of a ring of crooks, he began to\n suspect. He also noticed certain peculiarities about the remarks of the\n Patrolman.\nFor one thing, though the officer seemed well acquainted with Betty, he\n never addressed her by the name of Koslow. For another, he accepted the\n request as if he had been hanging in orbit merely until learning who to\n go down after.\nThey really sent her out to nail someone\n, Tolliver realized.\nOf\n course, she stumbled onto Jeffers by plain dumb luck. But she had an\n idea of what to look for. How do I get into these things? She might\n have got me killed!\n\"We do have one trouble,\" he heard Betty saying. \"This tractor driver,\n Tolliver, saved my neck by making the ship take off somehow, but he\n says it's set for a six-month orbit, or economy flight. Whatever they\n call it. I don't think he has any idea where we're headed.\"", "Tolliver held her in front of the screen so she would not float out\n of range of the scanner and microphone. As she spoke, he stared\n exasperatedly at a bulkhead, marveling at the influence of a man who\n could arrange for a cruiser to escort his daughter to Ganymede and\n wondering what was behind it all.", "\"This time,\" he said, \"the air will really start to blow, so get\n through as fast as you can. If I can slap this piece of plastic over\n the rip, it may stow down the loss of pressure enough to give us quite\n a lead before the alarms go off.\"\n\n\n Through the faceplates, he saw the girl nod, wide-eyed.\n\n\n As soon as he plunged the knife into the outer layer, he could see\n dusty, moist air puffing out into the near-vacuum of Ganymede's\n surface. Fumbling, he cut as fast as he could and shoved Betty through\n the small opening.", "Then, when he decided that it was safe enough to pause and tell her\n how to manage better, the sight of her outraged scowl through the\n face-plate made him think better of it.\nBy the time we reach the ship, she'll have learned\n, he consoled\n himself.\nIt was a long mile, even at the pace human muscles could achieve on\n Ganymede. They took one short rest, during which Tolliver was forced\n to explain away the dangers of slides and volcanic puffballs. He\n admitted to having exaggerated slightly. In the end, they reached the\n spaceship.\n\n\n There seemed to be no one about. The landing dome had been collapsed\n and stored, and the ship's airlock port was closed.\n\n\n \"That's all right,\" Tolliver told the girl. \"We can get in with no\n trouble.\"", "\"Daddy gave me the title of tenth vice-president mostly as a joke, when\n he told me to find out what was wrong with operations on Ganymede.\n I have\nsome\nauthority, though. And you look like the source of the\n trouble to me.\"\n\n\n \"You can't prove anything,\" declared Jeffers hoarsely.\n\n\n \"Oh, can't I? I've already seen certain evidence, and the rest won't\n be hard to find. Where are your books, Mr. Jeffers? You're as good as\n fired!\"\n\n\n The manager dropped heavily to his chair. He stared unbelievingly at\n Betty, and Tolliver thought he muttered something about \"just landed.\"\n After a moment, the big man came out of his daze enough to stab an\n intercom button with his finger. He growled at someone on the other end\n to come in without a countdown.", "\"It's true enough,\" Tolliver assured her. \"We need people out here, and\n it costs a lot to make the trip. They found they could send back loaded\n ships by 'automatic' flight—that is, a long, slow, economical orbit\n and automatic signalling equipment. Then they're boarded approaching\n Earth's orbit and landed by pilots who don't have to waste their time\n making the entire trip.\"\nHe followed the signals of a spacesuited member of the port staff and\n maneuvered out of the dome. Then he headed the tractor across the\n frozen surface of Ganymede toward the permanent domes of the city.\n\n\n \"How is it here?\" asked the girl. \"They told me it's pretty rough.\"\n\n\n \"What did you expect?\" asked Tolliver. \"Square dances with champagne?\"", "It took him considerable scrambling to boost the girl up the ladder and\n inside, but he managed. They passed through the airlock, fretting at\n the time required to seal, pump air and open the inner hatch; and then\n Tolliver led the way up another ladder to the control room. It was a\n clumsy trip in their spacesuits, but he wanted to save time.\nIn the control room, he shoved the girl into an acceleration seat,\n glanced at the gauges and showed her how to open her helmet.\n\n\n \"Leave the suit on,\" he ordered, getting in the first word while she\n was still shaking her head. \"It will help a little on the takeoff.\"\n\n\n \"Takeoff!\" shrilled Betty. \"What do you think you're going to do? I\n just want to use the radio or TV!\"\n\n\n \"That tractor will get here in a minute or two. They might cut your\n conversation kind of short. Now shut up and let me look over these\n dials!\"", "Jeffers seemed to stagger standing still behind his desk. His loose\n lips twitched uncertainly, and he looked questioningly to Tolliver. The\n pilot stared at Betty, trying to recall pictures he had seen of the\n elder Koslow. He was also trying to remember some of the lies he had\n told en route from the spaceport.\n\n\n \"Wh-wh-what do you mean, Miss Koslow?\" Jeffers stammered.\n\n\n He darted a suspicious glare at Tolliver.\n\n\n \"Mr. Jeffers,\" said the girl, \"I may look like just another spoiled\n little blonde, but the best part of this company will be mine someday.\n I was not allowed to reach twenty-two without learning something about\n holding on to it.\"\n\n\n Tolliver blinked. He had taken her for three or four years older.\n Jeffers now ignored him, intent upon the girl.", "\"Don't be silly. Daddy says I'm supposed to learn traffic routing and\n the business management of a local branch. They probably won't let me\n see much else.\"\n\n\n \"You never can tell,\" said the pilot, yielding to temptation. \"Any\n square inch of Ganymede is likely to be dangerous.\"\nI'll be sorry later\n, he reflected,\nbut if Jeffers keeps me jockeying\n this creeper, I'm entitled to some amusement. And Daddy's little girl\n is trying too hard to sound like one of the gang.\n\"Yeah,\" he went on, \"right now, I don't do a thing but drive missions\n from the city to the spaceport.\"\n\n\n \"Missions! You call driving a mile or so a\nmission\n?\"\n\n\n Tolliver pursed his lips and put on a shrewd expression.", "\"Oh!\" Betty looked helpless. \"It's in my pocket.\"\n\n\n Tolliver sighed. In their weightless state, it was no easy task to pry\n her out of the spacesuit. He thought of inquiring if she needed any\n further help, but reminded himself that this was the boss's daughter.\n When Betty produced a memo giving frequency and call sign, he set about\n making contact.\n\n\n It took only a few minutes, as if the channel had been monitored\n expectantly, and the man who flickered into life on the screen wore a\n uniform.\n\n\n \"Space Patrol?\" whispered Tolliver incredulously.\n\n\n \"That's right,\" said Betty. \"Uh ... Daddy made arrangements for me.\"", "\"Aah, these young punks just come out for a few months so they can go\n back to Earth making noises like spacemen. Sometimes there's no reason\n but them for sending a ship back with a crew instead of in an economy\n orbit. Wait till you see the baggage you'll have to load!\"\n\n\n Later in the day-period, Tolliver recalled this warning. Under a\n portable, double-chambered plastic dome blown up outside the ship's\n airlock, a crewman helped him load two trunks and a collection of bags\n into the tractor. He was struggling to suppress a feeling of outrage at\n the waste of fuel involved when the home-office relative emerged.\n\n\n She was about five feet four and moved as if she walked lightly even\n in stronger gravity than Ganymede's. Her trim coiffure was a shade too\n blonde which served to set off both the blue of her eyes and the cap\n apparently won from one of the pilots. She wore gray slacks and a heavy\n sweater, like a spacer.", "Tolliver pulled her back, holding her in mid-air by the slack of her\n sweater.\n\n\n \"Actually, I have a fine idea,\" he informed the officer coldly. \"I\n happen to be a qualified space pilot. Everything here is under control.\n If Miss Koslow thinks you should arrest Jeffers, you can call us later\n on this channel.\"\n\n\n \"Miss Koslow?\" repeated the spacer. \"Did she tell you—well, no matter!\n If you'll be okay, we'll attend to the other affair immediately.\"\n\n\n He signed off promptly. The pilot faced Betty, who looked more offended\n than reassured at discovering his status.\n\n\n \"This 'Miss Koslow' business,\" he said suspiciously. \"He sounded funny\n about that.\"\n\n\n The girl grinned.", "He ran a practiced eye over the board, reading the condition of the\n ship. It pleased him. Everything was ready for a takeoff into an\n economy orbit for Earth. He busied himself making a few adjustments,\n doing his best to ignore the protests from his partner in crime. He\n warned her the trip might be long.\n\n\n \"I told you not to come,\" he said at last. \"Now sit back!\"\n\n\n He sat down and pushed a button to start the igniting process.\n\n\n In a moment, he could feel the rumble of the rockets through the deck,\n and then it was out of his hands for several minutes.\n\n\n \"That wasn't so bad,\" Betty admitted some time later. \"Did you go in\n the right direction?\"\n\n\n \"Who knows?\" retorted Tolliver. \"There wasn't time to check\neverything\n. We'll worry about that after we make your call.\"", "\"Those slides,\" he continued. \"Ganymede's only about the size of\n Mercury, something like 3200 miles in diameter, so things get heaped up\n at steep angles. When the rock and ice are set to sliding, they come\n at you practically horizontally. It doesn't need much start, and it\n barrels on for a long way before there's enough friction to stop it. If\n you're in the way—well, it's just too bad!\"\nSay, that's pretty good!\nhe told himself.\nWhat a liar you are,\n Tolliver!\nHe enlarged upon other dangers to be encountered on the satellite,\n taking care to impress the newcomer with the daredeviltry of John\n Tolliver, driver of \"missions\" across the menacing wastes between dome\n and port.", "\"Sorry to keep you waiting,\" she said, sliding into the seat beside\n Tolliver. \"By the way, just call me Betty.\"\n\n\n \"Sure,\" agreed Tolliver thinking,\nOhmigod! Trying already to be just\n one of the gang, instead of Lady Betty! Is her old man the treasurer,\n or does he just know where bodies are buried?\n\"They were making dates,\" said the girl. \"Were they ribbing me, or is\n it true that none of the four of them goes back with the ship?\"" ] ]
train	61263	[ "Given Arapoulous' description of his homeland, what can you conclude about it?", "What can you infer about the industry in Arapoulous' homeland?", "Given d'Land's lack of a successful college, what can you best infer about the society there?", "What can you conclude about Retief's character?", "Why is Retief so concerned about the tractor order?", "Are the two thousand students truly being sent off to college?", "What is one common theme in this article?" ]	[ [ "The conditions allow for successful crop growing.", "The conditions there are inhospitable.", "Arapoulous' homeland has unpredictable seasons.", "There are few people living back on the land which Arapoulous comes from." ], [ "It is an agricultural industry, deriving its profit from the land.", "It is a small industry, deriving just enough profit for everyone to sustain themselves.", "It is a highly advanced industry, deriving its profit from mechanization.", "It is a technological industry, deriving its profit from intelligence." ], [ "It is not an intellectual society.", "It is a society that despises education.", "It is a society lacking sufficient leadership to establish better education sources.", "It is a society that has found it is more prosperous without high-level education." ], [ "He is gullible and easily tricked.", "He is firm but can be harsh.", "He has a soft spot for few in his life.", "He can greedy and demanding." ], [ "Because he knows whoever ordered the tractors has bad intentions.", "Because he knows the order is a mistake.", "Because the order of tractors is unusually large.", "Because no one else appears to be concerned about the tractors." ], [ "No, because there exists few academic resources for them where they are heading. ", "Yes, because there is a small college out where the students are heading.", "No, because they are going to a rural setting.", "No, because Retief has suspicions over the situation of transporting the students." ], [ "Money buys happiness.", "Suspicion indicates deception.", "Education does not always lead to success.", "Wit and charm are the keys for negotiation." ] ]	[ 1, 1, 1, 2, 3, 1, 2 ]	[ 1, 0, 1, 1, 0, 1, 1 ]	[ [ "Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.\n\n\n \"How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?\"\n\n\n \"Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.\"\n\n\n In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. \"Sorry if I'm rushing you,\n Retief,\" he said. \"But have you got anything for me?\"\n\n\n Retief waved at the wine bottles. \"What do you know about Croanie?\"\n\n\n \"Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you like\n fish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoon\n time. Over a foot long.\"\n\n\n \"You on good terms with them?\"\n\n\n \"Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.\"\n\n\n \"So?\"", "\"I've seen some of your furniture,\" Retief said. \"Beautiful work.\"\n\n\n Arapoulous nodded. \"All local timbers too. Lots of metals in our soil\n and those sulphates give the woods some color, I'll tell you. Then\n comes the Monsoon. Rain—it comes down in sheets. But the sun's getting\n closer. Shines all the time. Ever seen it pouring rain in the sunshine?\n That's the music-writing season. Then summer. Summer's hot. We stay\n inside in the daytime and have beach parties all night. Lots of beach\n on Lovenbroy; we're mostly islands. That's the drama and symphony time.\n The theatres are set up on the sand, or anchored off-shore. You have\n the music and the surf and the bonfires and stars—we're close to the\n center of a globular cluster, you know....\"\n\n\n \"You say it's time now for the wine crop?\"", "\"Don't try to describe it, Mr. Retief,\" Arapoulous said. He took a\n mouthful of wine, swished it around his teeth, swallowed. \"It's Bacchus\n wine, that's all. Nothing like it in the Galaxy.\" He pushed the second\n bottle toward Retief. \"The custom back home is to alternate red wine\n and black.\"\nRetief put aside his cigar, pulled the wires loose, nudged the cork,\n caught it as it popped up.\n\n\n \"Bad luck if you miss the cork,\" Arapoulous said, nodding. \"You\n probably never heard about the trouble we had on Lovenbroy a few years\n back?\"\n\n\n \"Can't say that I did, Hank.\" Retief poured the black wine into two\n fresh glasses. \"Here's to the harvest.\"", "\"Sounds very pleasant,\" Retief said. \"Where does the Libraries and\n Education Division come in?\"\n\n\n Arapoulous leaned forward. \"We go in pretty heavy for the arts. Folks\n can't spend all their time hybridizing plants. We've turned all the\n land area we've got into parks and farms. Course, we left some sizable\n forest areas for hunting and such. Lovenbroy's a nice place, Mr.\n Retief.\"\n\n\n \"It sounds like it, Mr. Arapoulous. Just what—\"\n\n\n \"Call me Hank. We've got long seasons back home. Five of 'em. Our\n year's about eighteen Terry months. Cold as hell in winter; eccentric\n orbit, you know. Blue-black sky, stars visible all day. We do mostly\n painting and sculpture in the winter. Then Spring; still plenty cold.\n Lots of skiing, bob-sledding, ice skating; and it's the season for\n woodworkers. Our furniture—\"", "\"This isn't\ndrinking\n. It's just wine.\" Arapoulous pulled the wire\n retainer loose, thumbed the cork. It rose slowly, then popped in the\n air. Arapoulous caught it. Aromatic fumes wafted from the bottle.\n \"Besides, my feelings would be hurt if you didn't join me.\" He winked.\n\n\n Retief took two thin-walled glasses from a table beside the desk. \"Come\n to think of it, we also have to be careful about violating quaint\n native customs.\"\n\n\n Arapoulous filled the glasses. Retief picked one up, sniffed the deep\n rust-colored fluid, tasted it, then took a healthy swallow. He looked\n at Arapoulous thoughtfully.\n\n\n \"Hmmm. It tastes like salted pecans, with an undercurrent of crusted\n port.\"", "\"We've got plenty of minerals on Lovenbroy,\" Arapoulous said,\n swallowing wine. \"But we don't plan to wreck the landscape mining 'em.\n We like to farm. About ten years back some neighbors of ours landed a\n force. They figured they knew better what to do with our minerals than\n we did. Wanted to strip-mine, smelt ore. We convinced 'em otherwise.\n But it took a year, and we lost a lot of men.\"\n\n\n \"That's too bad,\" Retief said. \"I'd say this one tastes more like roast\n beef and popcorn over a Riesling base.\"\n\n\n \"It put us in a bad spot,\" Arapoulous went on. \"We had to borrow\n money from a world called Croanie. Mortgaged our crops. Had to start\n exporting art work too. Plenty of buyers, but it's not the same when\n you're doing it for strangers.\"", "\"That's right. Autumn's our harvest season. Most years we have just the\n ordinary crops. Fruit, grain, that kind of thing; getting it in doesn't\n take long. We spend most of the time on architecture, getting new\n places ready for the winter or remodeling the older ones. We spend a\n lot of time in our houses. We like to have them comfortable. But this\n year's different. This is Wine Year.\"\nArapoulous puffed on his cigar, looked worriedly at Retief. \"Our wine\n crop is our big money crop,\" he said. \"We make enough to keep us going.\n But this year....\"\n\n\n \"The crop isn't panning out?\"\n\n\n \"Oh, the crop's fine. One of the best I can remember. Course, I'm only\n twenty-eight; I can't remember but two other harvests. The problem's\n not the crop.\"\n\n\n \"Have you lost your markets? That sounds like a matter for the\n Commercial—\"", "\"Lost our markets? Mister, nobody that ever tasted our wines ever\n settled for anything else!\"\n\n\n \"It sounds like I've been missing something,\" said Retief. \"I'll have\n to try them some time.\"\n\n\n Arapoulous put his bundle on the desk, pulled off the wrappings. \"No\n time like the present,\" he said.\n\n\n Retief looked at the two squat bottles, one green, one amber, both\n dusty, with faded labels, and blackened corks secured by wire.\n\n\n \"Drinking on duty is frowned on in the Corps, Mr. Arapoulous,\" he said.", "\"Forty-two, Terry years,\" Arapoulous said. \"But this year it looks bad.\n We've got a bumper crop—and we're short-handed. If we don't get a big\n vintage, Croanie steps in. Lord knows what they'll do to the land. Then\n next vintage time, with them holding half our grape acreage—\"\n\n\n \"You hocked the vineyards?\"\n\n\n \"Yep. Pretty dumb, huh? But we figured twelve years was a long time.\"\n\n\n \"On the whole,\" Retief said, \"I think I prefer the black. But the red\n is hard to beat....\"\n\n\n \"What we figured was, maybe you Culture boys could help us out. A loan\n to see us through the vintage, enough to hire extra hands. Then we'd\n repay it in sculpture, painting, furniture—\"", "Retief gave instructions, then rang off and turned to Arapoulous.\n\n\n \"As soon as I get off a couple of TWX's, I think we'd better get down\n to the port, Hank. I think I'd like to see the students off personally.\"", "\"You work for this Culture bunch, do you? Funny. I thought they were\n all ribbon-counter boys. Never mind. I'm Hank Arapoulous. I'm a farmer.\n What I wanted to see you about was—\" He shifted in his chair. \"Well,\n out on Lovenbroy we've got a serious problem. The wine crop is just\n about ready. We start picking in another two, three months. Now I don't\n know if you're familiar with the Bacchus vines we grow...?\"\n\n\n \"No,\" Retief said. \"Have a cigar?\" He pushed a box across the desk.\n Arapoulous took one. \"Bacchus vines are an unusual crop,\" he said,\n puffing the cigar alight. \"Only mature every twelve years. In between,\n the vines don't need a lot of attention, so our time's mostly our own.\n We like to farm, though. Spend a lot of time developing new forms.\n Apples the size of a melon—and sweet—\"", "\"Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over here\n a dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot of\n bad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easy\n game.\"\n\n\n Miss Furkle buzzed. \"I have your lists,\" she said shortly.\n\n\n \"Bring them in, please.\"\nThe secretary placed the papers on the desk. Arapoulous caught her eye\n and grinned. She sniffed and marched from the room.\n\n\n \"What that gal needs is a slippery time in the grape mash,\" Arapoulous\n observed. Retief thumbed through the papers, pausing to read from time\n to time. He finished and looked at Arapoulous.\n\n\n \"How many men do you need for the harvest, Hank?\" Retief inquired.\n\n\n Arapoulous sniffed his wine glass and looked thoughtful.", "\"Well, the loan's due. The wine crop would put us in the clear. But\n we need harvest hands. Picking Bacchus grapes isn't a job you can\n turn over to machinery—and anyway we wouldn't if we could. Vintage\n season is the high point of living on Lovenbroy. Everybody joins in.\n First, there's the picking in the fields. Miles and miles of vineyards\n covering the mountain sides, and crowding the river banks, with gardens\n here and there. Big vines, eight feet high, loaded with fruit, and deep\n grass growing between. The wine-carriers keep on the run, bringing wine\n to the pickers. There's prizes for the biggest day's output, bets on\n who can fill the most baskets in an hour.... The sun's high and bright,", "\"Great. Thanks.\" It was half a minute before a thick-necked red-faced\n man in a tight hat walked in. He wore an old-fashioned suit, a drab\n shirt, shiny shoes with round toes and an ill-tempered expression.\n\"What is it you wish?\" he barked. \"I understood in my discussions with\n the other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for these\n irritating conferences.\"\n\n\n \"I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. How\n many this time?\"\n\n\n \"Two thousand.\"\n\n\n \"And where will they be going?\"\n\n\n \"Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job is\n to provide transportation.\"\n\n\n \"Will there be any other students embarking this season?\"", "and it's just cool enough to give you plenty of energy. Come nightfall,\n the tables are set up in the garden plots, and the feast is laid on:\n roast turkeys, beef, hams, all kinds of fowl. Big salads. Plenty of\n fruit. Fresh-baked bread ... and wine, plenty of wine. The cooking's\n done by a different crew each night in each garden, and there's prizes\n for the best crews.", "\"I understand you hold a mortgage on the best land on Lovenbroy,\"\n Retief said. \"Any connection?\"\n\n\n \"Why ... ah ... no. Of course not, ha ha.\"\n\n\n \"Who gets the tractors eventually?\"\n\n\n \"Retief, this is unwarranted interference!\"\n\n\n \"Who gets them?\"\n\n\n \"They happen to be going to Lovenbroy. But I scarcely see—\"\n\n\n \"And who's the friend you're helping out with an unauthorized\n transshipment of grant material?\"\n\n\n \"Why ... ah ... I've been working with a Mr. Gulver, a Bogan\n representative.\"\n\n\n \"And when will they be shipped?\"\n\n\n \"Why, they went out a week ago. They'll be half way there by now. But\n look here, Retief, this isn't what you're thinking!\"", "\"Then the wine-making. We still tramp out the vintage. That's mostly\n for the young folks but anybody's welcome. That's when things start to\n get loosened up. Matter of fact, pretty near half our young-uns are\n born after a vintage. All bets are off then. It keeps a fellow on his\n toes though. Ever tried to hold onto a gal wearing nothing but a layer\n of grape juice?\"\n\"Never did,\" Retief said. \"You say most of the children are born after\n a vintage. That would make them only twelve years old by the time—\"\n\n\n \"Oh, that's Lovenbroy years; they'd be eighteen, Terry reckoning.\"\n\n\n \"I was thinking you looked a little mature for twenty-eight,\" Retief\n said.", "\"Academic details are the affair of the students and their professors,\"\n Magnan said. \"Our function is merely to bring them together. See\n that you don't antagonize the Bogan representative. This will\n be an excellent opportunity for you to practice your diplomatic\n restraint—not your strong point, I'm sure you'll agree.\"\n\n\n A buzzer sounded. Retief punched a button. \"What is it, Miss Furkle?\"\n\n\n \"That—bucolic person from Lovenbroy is here again.\" On the small desk\n screen, Miss Furkle's meaty features were compressed in disapproval.\n\n\n \"This fellow's a confounded pest. I'll leave him to you, Retief,\"\n Magnan said. \"Tell him something. Get rid of him. And remember: here\n at Corps HQ, all eyes are upon you.\"\n\n\n \"If I'd thought of that, I'd have worn my other suit,\" Retief said.", "\"I see they're sending two thousand students to d'Land,\" Retief said,\n glancing at the Memo for Record. \"That's a sizable sublimation.\"\n\n\n Magnan nodded. \"The Bogans have launched no less than four military\n campaigns in the last two decades. They're known as the Hoodlums of\n the Nicodemean Cluster. Now, perhaps, we shall see them breaking that\n precedent and entering into the cultural life of the Galaxy.\"\n\n\n \"Breaking and entering,\" Retief said. \"You may have something there.\n But I'm wondering what they'll study on d'Land. That's an industrial\n world of the poor but honest variety.\"", "Magnan snorted and passed from view. Retief punched Miss Furkle's\n button.\n\n\n \"Send the bucolic person in.\"\nA tall broad man with bronze skin and gray hair, wearing tight trousers\n of heavy cloth, a loose shirt open at the neck and a short jacket,\n stepped into the room. He had a bundle under his arm. He paused at\n sight of Retief, looked him over momentarily, then advanced and held\n out his hand. Retief took it. For a moment the two big men stood, face\n to face. The newcomer's jaw muscles knotted. Then he winced.\n\n\n Retief dropped his hand and motioned to a chair.\n\n\n \"That's nice knuckle work, mister,\" the stranger said, massaging his\n hand. \"First time anybody ever did that to me. My fault though. I\n started it, I guess.\" He grinned and sat down.\n\n\n \"What can I do for you?\" Retief said." ], [ "Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.\n\n\n \"How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?\"\n\n\n \"Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.\"\n\n\n In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. \"Sorry if I'm rushing you,\n Retief,\" he said. \"But have you got anything for me?\"\n\n\n Retief waved at the wine bottles. \"What do you know about Croanie?\"\n\n\n \"Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you like\n fish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoon\n time. Over a foot long.\"\n\n\n \"You on good terms with them?\"\n\n\n \"Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.\"\n\n\n \"So?\"", "\"That's right. Autumn's our harvest season. Most years we have just the\n ordinary crops. Fruit, grain, that kind of thing; getting it in doesn't\n take long. We spend most of the time on architecture, getting new\n places ready for the winter or remodeling the older ones. We spend a\n lot of time in our houses. We like to have them comfortable. But this\n year's different. This is Wine Year.\"\nArapoulous puffed on his cigar, looked worriedly at Retief. \"Our wine\n crop is our big money crop,\" he said. \"We make enough to keep us going.\n But this year....\"\n\n\n \"The crop isn't panning out?\"\n\n\n \"Oh, the crop's fine. One of the best I can remember. Course, I'm only\n twenty-eight; I can't remember but two other harvests. The problem's\n not the crop.\"\n\n\n \"Have you lost your markets? That sounds like a matter for the\n Commercial—\"", "\"I've seen some of your furniture,\" Retief said. \"Beautiful work.\"\n\n\n Arapoulous nodded. \"All local timbers too. Lots of metals in our soil\n and those sulphates give the woods some color, I'll tell you. Then\n comes the Monsoon. Rain—it comes down in sheets. But the sun's getting\n closer. Shines all the time. Ever seen it pouring rain in the sunshine?\n That's the music-writing season. Then summer. Summer's hot. We stay\n inside in the daytime and have beach parties all night. Lots of beach\n on Lovenbroy; we're mostly islands. That's the drama and symphony time.\n The theatres are set up on the sand, or anchored off-shore. You have\n the music and the surf and the bonfires and stars—we're close to the\n center of a globular cluster, you know....\"\n\n\n \"You say it's time now for the wine crop?\"", "\"We've got plenty of minerals on Lovenbroy,\" Arapoulous said,\n swallowing wine. \"But we don't plan to wreck the landscape mining 'em.\n We like to farm. About ten years back some neighbors of ours landed a\n force. They figured they knew better what to do with our minerals than\n we did. Wanted to strip-mine, smelt ore. We convinced 'em otherwise.\n But it took a year, and we lost a lot of men.\"\n\n\n \"That's too bad,\" Retief said. \"I'd say this one tastes more like roast\n beef and popcorn over a Riesling base.\"\n\n\n \"It put us in a bad spot,\" Arapoulous went on. \"We had to borrow\n money from a world called Croanie. Mortgaged our crops. Had to start\n exporting art work too. Plenty of buyers, but it's not the same when\n you're doing it for strangers.\"", "\"Forty-two, Terry years,\" Arapoulous said. \"But this year it looks bad.\n We've got a bumper crop—and we're short-handed. If we don't get a big\n vintage, Croanie steps in. Lord knows what they'll do to the land. Then\n next vintage time, with them holding half our grape acreage—\"\n\n\n \"You hocked the vineyards?\"\n\n\n \"Yep. Pretty dumb, huh? But we figured twelve years was a long time.\"\n\n\n \"On the whole,\" Retief said, \"I think I prefer the black. But the red\n is hard to beat....\"\n\n\n \"What we figured was, maybe you Culture boys could help us out. A loan\n to see us through the vintage, enough to hire extra hands. Then we'd\n repay it in sculpture, painting, furniture—\"", "\"Don't try to describe it, Mr. Retief,\" Arapoulous said. He took a\n mouthful of wine, swished it around his teeth, swallowed. \"It's Bacchus\n wine, that's all. Nothing like it in the Galaxy.\" He pushed the second\n bottle toward Retief. \"The custom back home is to alternate red wine\n and black.\"\nRetief put aside his cigar, pulled the wires loose, nudged the cork,\n caught it as it popped up.\n\n\n \"Bad luck if you miss the cork,\" Arapoulous said, nodding. \"You\n probably never heard about the trouble we had on Lovenbroy a few years\n back?\"\n\n\n \"Can't say that I did, Hank.\" Retief poured the black wine into two\n fresh glasses. \"Here's to the harvest.\"", "\"This isn't\ndrinking\n. It's just wine.\" Arapoulous pulled the wire\n retainer loose, thumbed the cork. It rose slowly, then popped in the\n air. Arapoulous caught it. Aromatic fumes wafted from the bottle.\n \"Besides, my feelings would be hurt if you didn't join me.\" He winked.\n\n\n Retief took two thin-walled glasses from a table beside the desk. \"Come\n to think of it, we also have to be careful about violating quaint\n native customs.\"\n\n\n Arapoulous filled the glasses. Retief picked one up, sniffed the deep\n rust-colored fluid, tasted it, then took a healthy swallow. He looked\n at Arapoulous thoughtfully.\n\n\n \"Hmmm. It tastes like salted pecans, with an undercurrent of crusted\n port.\"", "\"Sounds very pleasant,\" Retief said. \"Where does the Libraries and\n Education Division come in?\"\n\n\n Arapoulous leaned forward. \"We go in pretty heavy for the arts. Folks\n can't spend all their time hybridizing plants. We've turned all the\n land area we've got into parks and farms. Course, we left some sizable\n forest areas for hunting and such. Lovenbroy's a nice place, Mr.\n Retief.\"\n\n\n \"It sounds like it, Mr. Arapoulous. Just what—\"\n\n\n \"Call me Hank. We've got long seasons back home. Five of 'em. Our\n year's about eighteen Terry months. Cold as hell in winter; eccentric\n orbit, you know. Blue-black sky, stars visible all day. We do mostly\n painting and sculpture in the winter. Then Spring; still plenty cold.\n Lots of skiing, bob-sledding, ice skating; and it's the season for\n woodworkers. Our furniture—\"", "\"You work for this Culture bunch, do you? Funny. I thought they were\n all ribbon-counter boys. Never mind. I'm Hank Arapoulous. I'm a farmer.\n What I wanted to see you about was—\" He shifted in his chair. \"Well,\n out on Lovenbroy we've got a serious problem. The wine crop is just\n about ready. We start picking in another two, three months. Now I don't\n know if you're familiar with the Bacchus vines we grow...?\"\n\n\n \"No,\" Retief said. \"Have a cigar?\" He pushed a box across the desk.\n Arapoulous took one. \"Bacchus vines are an unusual crop,\" he said,\n puffing the cigar alight. \"Only mature every twelve years. In between,\n the vines don't need a lot of attention, so our time's mostly our own.\n We like to farm, though. Spend a lot of time developing new forms.\n Apples the size of a melon—and sweet—\"", "\"Lost our markets? Mister, nobody that ever tasted our wines ever\n settled for anything else!\"\n\n\n \"It sounds like I've been missing something,\" said Retief. \"I'll have\n to try them some time.\"\n\n\n Arapoulous put his bundle on the desk, pulled off the wrappings. \"No\n time like the present,\" he said.\n\n\n Retief looked at the two squat bottles, one green, one amber, both\n dusty, with faded labels, and blackened corks secured by wire.\n\n\n \"Drinking on duty is frowned on in the Corps, Mr. Arapoulous,\" he said.", "\"Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over here\n a dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot of\n bad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easy\n game.\"\n\n\n Miss Furkle buzzed. \"I have your lists,\" she said shortly.\n\n\n \"Bring them in, please.\"\nThe secretary placed the papers on the desk. Arapoulous caught her eye\n and grinned. She sniffed and marched from the room.\n\n\n \"What that gal needs is a slippery time in the grape mash,\" Arapoulous\n observed. Retief thumbed through the papers, pausing to read from time\n to time. He finished and looked at Arapoulous.\n\n\n \"How many men do you need for the harvest, Hank?\" Retief inquired.\n\n\n Arapoulous sniffed his wine glass and looked thoughtful.", "Retief gave instructions, then rang off and turned to Arapoulous.\n\n\n \"As soon as I get off a couple of TWX's, I think we'd better get down\n to the port, Hank. I think I'd like to see the students off personally.\"", "\"Well, the loan's due. The wine crop would put us in the clear. But\n we need harvest hands. Picking Bacchus grapes isn't a job you can\n turn over to machinery—and anyway we wouldn't if we could. Vintage\n season is the high point of living on Lovenbroy. Everybody joins in.\n First, there's the picking in the fields. Miles and miles of vineyards\n covering the mountain sides, and crowding the river banks, with gardens\n here and there. Big vines, eight feet high, loaded with fruit, and deep\n grass growing between. The wine-carriers keep on the run, bringing wine\n to the pickers. There's prizes for the biggest day's output, bets on\n who can fill the most baskets in an hour.... The sun's high and bright,", "\"Great. Thanks.\" It was half a minute before a thick-necked red-faced\n man in a tight hat walked in. He wore an old-fashioned suit, a drab\n shirt, shiny shoes with round toes and an ill-tempered expression.\n\"What is it you wish?\" he barked. \"I understood in my discussions with\n the other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for these\n irritating conferences.\"\n\n\n \"I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. How\n many this time?\"\n\n\n \"Two thousand.\"\n\n\n \"And where will they be going?\"\n\n\n \"Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job is\n to provide transportation.\"\n\n\n \"Will there be any other students embarking this season?\"", "\"One unit would require a good-sized plant to handle its output,\"\n Retief said. \"Now Croanie subsists on her fisheries. She has perhaps\n half a dozen pint-sized processing plants. Maybe, in a bind, they\n could handle the ore ten WV's could scrape up ... if Croanie had any\n ore. It doesn't. By the way, isn't a WV a poor choice as a mining\n outfit? I should think—\"\n\n\n \"See here, Retief! Why all this interest in a few surplus tractors?\n And in any event, what business is it of yours how we plan to use the\n equipment? That's an internal affair of my government. Mr. Whaffle—\"\n\n\n \"I'm not Mr. Whaffle. What are you going to do with the other four\n hundred and ninety tractors?\"\n\n\n \"I understood the grant was to be with no strings attached!\"", "and it's just cool enough to give you plenty of energy. Come nightfall,\n the tables are set up in the garden plots, and the feast is laid on:\n roast turkeys, beef, hams, all kinds of fowl. Big salads. Plenty of\n fruit. Fresh-baked bread ... and wine, plenty of wine. The cooking's\n done by a different crew each night in each garden, and there's prizes\n for the best crews.", "It would be a pity, he reflected, if anything should interfere with the\n production of such vintages....\n\n\n Half an hour later he laid the folder aside, keyed the phone and put\n through a call to the Croanie Legation. He asked for the Commercial\n Attache.\n\n\n \"Retief here, Corps HQ,\" he said airily. \"About the MEDDLE shipment,\n the tractors. I'm wondering if there's been a slip up. My records show\n we're shipping five hundred units....\"\n\n\n \"That's correct. Five hundred.\"\n\n\n Retief waited.\n\n\n \"Ah ... are you there, Retief?\"\n\n\n \"I'm still here. And I'm still wondering about the five hundred\n tractors.\"\n\n\n \"It's perfectly in order. I thought it was all settled. Mr. Whaffle—\"", "Miss Furkle's chins quivered. \"Well! If you feel I'm incompetent—\"\n\n\n \"Just questioning the possibility of a mistake, Miss Furkle. Five\n hundred tractors is a lot of equipment.\"\n\n\n \"Was there anything further?\" Miss Furkle inquired frigidly.\n\n\n \"I sincerely hope not,\" Retief said.\nIII\n\n\n Leaning back in Magnan's padded chair with power swivel and\n hip-u-matic concontour, Retief leafed through a folder labelled \"CERP\n 7-602-Ba; CROANIE (general).\" He paused at a page headed Industry.\n\n\n Still reading, he opened the desk drawer, took out the two bottles of\n Bacchus wine and two glasses. He poured an inch of wine into each and\n sipped the black wine meditatively.", "\"Strip mining gear.\" Whaffle took a slip of paper from a breast pocket,\n blinked at it. \"Bolo Model WV/1 tractors, to be specific. Why is MUDDLE\n interested in MEDDLE's activities?\"\n\n\n \"Forgive my curiosity, Mr. Whaffle. It's just that Croanie cropped up\n earlier today. It seems she holds a mortgage on some vineyards over\n on—\"\n\n\n \"That's not MEDDLE's affair, sir,\" Whaffle cut in. \"I have sufficient\n problems as Chief of MEDDLE without probing into MUDDLE'S business.\"\n\n\n \"Speaking of tractors,\" another man put in, \"we over at the Special\n Committee for Rehabilitation and Overhaul of Under-developed Nations'\n General Economies have been trying for months to get a request for\n mining equipment for d'Land through MEDDLE—\"", "\"For the present. Miss Furkle, Mr. Magnan is vacationing. That leaves\n me with the question of two thousand young male students headed for\n a world with no classrooms for them ... a world in need of tractors.\n But the tractors are on their way to Croanie, a world under obligation\n to Boge. And Croanie holds a mortgage on the best grape acreage on\n Lovenbroy.\"\n\n\n \"Well!\" Miss Furkle snapped, small eyes glaring under unplucked brows.\n \"I hope you're not questioning Mr. Magnan's wisdom!\"\n\n\n \"About Mr. Magnan's wisdom there can be no question,\" Retief said. \"But\n never mind. I'd like you to look up an item for me. How many tractors\n will Croanie be getting under the MEDDLE program?\"\n\n\n \"Why, that's entirely MEDDLE business,\" Miss Furkle said. \"Mr. Magnan\n always—\"" ], [ "Back at the MUDDLE office, Retief buzzed Miss Furkle.\n\n\n \"Do you know the name of the institution these Bogan students are bound\n for?\"\n\n\n \"Why, the University at d'Land, of course.\"\n\n\n \"Would that be the Technical College?\"\n\n\n Miss Furkle's mouth puckered. \"I'm sure I've never pried into these\n details.\"\n\n\n \"Where does doing your job stop and prying begin, Miss Furkle?\" Retief\n said. \"Personally, I'm curious as to just what it is these students are\n travelling so far to study—at Corps expense.\"\n\n\n \"Mr. Magnan never—\"", "\"SCROUNGE was late on the scene,\" Whaffle said. \"First come, first\n served. That's our policy at MEDDLE. Good day, gentlemen.\" He strode\n off, briefcase under his arm.\n\n\n \"That's the trouble with peaceful worlds,\" the SCROUNGE committeeman\n said. \"Boge is a troublemaker, so every agency in the Corps is out\n to pacify her. While my chance to make a record—that is, assist\n peace-loving d'Land—comes to naught.\" He shook his head.\n\n\n \"What kind of university do they have on d'Land?\" asked Retief. \"We're\n sending them two thousand exchange students. It must be quite an\n institution.\"\n\n\n \"University? D'Land has one under-endowed technical college.\"\n\n\n \"Will all the exchange students be studying at the Technical College?\"", "\"I see they're sending two thousand students to d'Land,\" Retief said,\n glancing at the Memo for Record. \"That's a sizable sublimation.\"\n\n\n Magnan nodded. \"The Bogans have launched no less than four military\n campaigns in the last two decades. They're known as the Hoodlums of\n the Nicodemean Cluster. Now, perhaps, we shall see them breaking that\n precedent and entering into the cultural life of the Galaxy.\"\n\n\n \"Breaking and entering,\" Retief said. \"You may have something there.\n But I'm wondering what they'll study on d'Land. That's an industrial\n world of the poor but honest variety.\"", "\"Two thousand students? Hah! Two\nhundred\nstudents would overtax the\n facilities of the college.\"\n\n\n \"I wonder if the Bogans know that?\"\n\n\n \"The Bogans? Why, most of d'Land's difficulties are due to the unwise\n trade agreement she entered into with Boge. Two thousand students\n indeed!\" He snorted and walked away.\nRetief stopped by the office to pick up a short cape, then rode the\n elevator to the roof of the 230-story Corps HQ building and hailed a\n cab to the port. The Bogan students had arrived early. Retief saw them\n lined up on the ramp waiting to go through customs. It would be half\n an hour before they were cleared through. He turned into the bar and\n ordered a beer.\n\n\n A tall young fellow on the next stool raised his glass.\n\n\n \"Happy days,\" he said.\n\n\n \"And nights to match.\"", "\"Sounds very pleasant,\" Retief said. \"Where does the Libraries and\n Education Division come in?\"\n\n\n Arapoulous leaned forward. \"We go in pretty heavy for the arts. Folks\n can't spend all their time hybridizing plants. We've turned all the\n land area we've got into parks and farms. Course, we left some sizable\n forest areas for hunting and such. Lovenbroy's a nice place, Mr.\n Retief.\"\n\n\n \"It sounds like it, Mr. Arapoulous. Just what—\"\n\n\n \"Call me Hank. We've got long seasons back home. Five of 'em. Our\n year's about eighteen Terry months. Cold as hell in winter; eccentric\n orbit, you know. Blue-black sky, stars visible all day. We do mostly\n painting and sculpture in the winter. Then Spring; still plenty cold.\n Lots of skiing, bob-sledding, ice skating; and it's the season for\n woodworkers. Our furniture—\"", "\"Academic details are the affair of the students and their professors,\"\n Magnan said. \"Our function is merely to bring them together. See\n that you don't antagonize the Bogan representative. This will\n be an excellent opportunity for you to practice your diplomatic\n restraint—not your strong point, I'm sure you'll agree.\"\n\n\n A buzzer sounded. Retief punched a button. \"What is it, Miss Furkle?\"\n\n\n \"That—bucolic person from Lovenbroy is here again.\" On the small desk\n screen, Miss Furkle's meaty features were compressed in disapproval.\n\n\n \"This fellow's a confounded pest. I'll leave him to you, Retief,\"\n Magnan said. \"Tell him something. Get rid of him. And remember: here\n at Corps HQ, all eyes are upon you.\"\n\n\n \"If I'd thought of that, I'd have worn my other suit,\" Retief said.", "\"Great. Thanks.\" It was half a minute before a thick-necked red-faced\n man in a tight hat walked in. He wore an old-fashioned suit, a drab\n shirt, shiny shoes with round toes and an ill-tempered expression.\n\"What is it you wish?\" he barked. \"I understood in my discussions with\n the other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for these\n irritating conferences.\"\n\n\n \"I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. How\n many this time?\"\n\n\n \"Two thousand.\"\n\n\n \"And where will they be going?\"\n\n\n \"Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job is\n to provide transportation.\"\n\n\n \"Will there be any other students embarking this season?\"", "\"Sorry, Hank. All we do here is work out itineraries for traveling\n side-shows, that kind of thing. Now, if you needed a troop of Groaci\n nose-flute players—\"\n\n\n \"Can they pick grapes?\"\n\n\n \"Nope. Anyway, they can't stand the daylight. Have you talked this over\n with the Labor Office?\"\n\n\n \"Sure did. They said they'd fix us up with all the electronics\n specialists and computer programmers we wanted—but no field hands.\n Said it was what they classified as menial drudgery; you'd have thought\n I was trying to buy slaves.\"\n\n\n The buzzer sounded. Miss Furkle's features appeared on the desk screen.\n\n\n \"You're due at the Intergroup Council in five minutes,\" she said. \"Then\n afterwards, there are the Bogan students to meet.\"", "\"For the present. Miss Furkle, Mr. Magnan is vacationing. That leaves\n me with the question of two thousand young male students headed for\n a world with no classrooms for them ... a world in need of tractors.\n But the tractors are on their way to Croanie, a world under obligation\n to Boge. And Croanie holds a mortgage on the best grape acreage on\n Lovenbroy.\"\n\n\n \"Well!\" Miss Furkle snapped, small eyes glaring under unplucked brows.\n \"I hope you're not questioning Mr. Magnan's wisdom!\"\n\n\n \"About Mr. Magnan's wisdom there can be no question,\" Retief said. \"But\n never mind. I'd like you to look up an item for me. How many tractors\n will Croanie be getting under the MEDDLE program?\"\n\n\n \"Why, that's entirely MEDDLE business,\" Miss Furkle said. \"Mr. Magnan\n always—\"", "and it's just cool enough to give you plenty of energy. Come nightfall,\n the tables are set up in the garden plots, and the feast is laid on:\n roast turkeys, beef, hams, all kinds of fowl. Big salads. Plenty of\n fruit. Fresh-baked bread ... and wine, plenty of wine. The cooking's\n done by a different crew each night in each garden, and there's prizes\n for the best crews.", "\"I understand you hold a mortgage on the best land on Lovenbroy,\"\n Retief said. \"Any connection?\"\n\n\n \"Why ... ah ... no. Of course not, ha ha.\"\n\n\n \"Who gets the tractors eventually?\"\n\n\n \"Retief, this is unwarranted interference!\"\n\n\n \"Who gets them?\"\n\n\n \"They happen to be going to Lovenbroy. But I scarcely see—\"\n\n\n \"And who's the friend you're helping out with an unauthorized\n transshipment of grant material?\"\n\n\n \"Why ... ah ... I've been working with a Mr. Gulver, a Bogan\n representative.\"\n\n\n \"And when will they be shipped?\"\n\n\n \"Why, they went out a week ago. They'll be half way there by now. But\n look here, Retief, this isn't what you're thinking!\"", "\"Heck, no,\" he said. \"Say, uh, Mr. Karsh, are we gonna get to go to\n town? We fellas were thinking—\"\n\n\n \"You were, hah? You act like a bunch of school kids! I mean ... no! Now\n line up!\"\n\n\n \"We have quarters ready for the students,\" Retief said. \"If you'd like\n to bring them around to the west side, I have a couple of copters laid\n on.\"\n\n\n \"Thanks,\" said Karsh. \"They'll stay here until take-off time. Can't\n have the little dears wandering around loose. Might get ideas about\n going over the hill.\" He hiccupped. \"I mean they might play hookey.\"\n\n\n \"We've scheduled your re-embarkation for noon tomorrow. That's a long\n wait. MUDDLE's arranged theater tickets and a dinner.\"", "\"Sorry,\" Karsh said. \"As soon as the baggage gets here, we're off.\" He\n hiccupped again. \"Can't travel without our baggage, y'know.\"\n\n\n \"Suit yourself,\" Retief said. \"Where's the baggage now?\"\n\n\n \"Coming in aboard a Croanie lighter.\"\n\n\n \"Maybe you'd like to arrange for a meal for the students here.\"\n\n\n \"Sure,\" Karsh said. \"That's a good idea. Why don't you join us?\" Karsh\n winked. \"And bring a few beers.\"\n\n\n \"Not this time,\" Retief said. He watched the students, still emerging\n from Customs. \"They seem to be all boys,\" he commented. \"No female\n students?\"\n\n\n \"Maybe later,\" Karsh said. \"You know, after we see how the first bunch\n is received.\"", "\"Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over here\n a dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot of\n bad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easy\n game.\"\n\n\n Miss Furkle buzzed. \"I have your lists,\" she said shortly.\n\n\n \"Bring them in, please.\"\nThe secretary placed the papers on the desk. Arapoulous caught her eye\n and grinned. She sniffed and marched from the room.\n\n\n \"What that gal needs is a slippery time in the grape mash,\" Arapoulous\n observed. Retief thumbed through the papers, pausing to read from time\n to time. He finished and looked at Arapoulous.\n\n\n \"How many men do you need for the harvest, Hank?\" Retief inquired.\n\n\n Arapoulous sniffed his wine glass and looked thoughtful.", "\"That's right. Autumn's our harvest season. Most years we have just the\n ordinary crops. Fruit, grain, that kind of thing; getting it in doesn't\n take long. We spend most of the time on architecture, getting new\n places ready for the winter or remodeling the older ones. We spend a\n lot of time in our houses. We like to have them comfortable. But this\n year's different. This is Wine Year.\"\nArapoulous puffed on his cigar, looked worriedly at Retief. \"Our wine\n crop is our big money crop,\" he said. \"We make enough to keep us going.\n But this year....\"\n\n\n \"The crop isn't panning out?\"\n\n\n \"Oh, the crop's fine. One of the best I can remember. Course, I'm only\n twenty-eight; I can't remember but two other harvests. The problem's\n not the crop.\"\n\n\n \"Have you lost your markets? That sounds like a matter for the\n Commercial—\"", "\"How do you know what I'm thinking? I don't know myself.\" Retief rang\n off, buzzed the secretary.\n\n\n \"Miss Furkle, I'd like to be notified immediately of any new\n applications that might come in from the Bogan Consulate for placement\n of students.\"\n\n\n \"Well, it happens, by coincidence, that I have an application here now.\n Mr. Gulver of the Consulate brought it in.\"\n\n\n \"Is Mr. Gulver in the office? I'd like to see him.\"\n\n\n \"I'll ask him if he has time.\"", "\"Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business.\" Gulver looked at Retief with\n pursed lips. \"As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching another\n two thousand to Featherweight.\"\n\n\n \"Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,\"\n Retief said. \"Your people must be unusually interested in that region\n of space.\"\n\n\n \"If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters of\n importance to see to.\"\n\n\n After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. \"I'd like to have a\n break-out of all the student movements that have been planned under the\n present program,\" he said. \"And see if you can get a summary of what\n MEDDLE has been shipping lately.\"", "\"Strip mining gear.\" Whaffle took a slip of paper from a breast pocket,\n blinked at it. \"Bolo Model WV/1 tractors, to be specific. Why is MUDDLE\n interested in MEDDLE's activities?\"\n\n\n \"Forgive my curiosity, Mr. Whaffle. It's just that Croanie cropped up\n earlier today. It seems she holds a mortgage on some vineyards over\n on—\"\n\n\n \"That's not MEDDLE's affair, sir,\" Whaffle cut in. \"I have sufficient\n problems as Chief of MEDDLE without probing into MUDDLE'S business.\"\n\n\n \"Speaking of tractors,\" another man put in, \"we over at the Special\n Committee for Rehabilitation and Overhaul of Under-developed Nations'\n General Economies have been trying for months to get a request for\n mining equipment for d'Land through MEDDLE—\"", "\"Forty-two, Terry years,\" Arapoulous said. \"But this year it looks bad.\n We've got a bumper crop—and we're short-handed. If we don't get a big\n vintage, Croanie steps in. Lord knows what they'll do to the land. Then\n next vintage time, with them holding half our grape acreage—\"\n\n\n \"You hocked the vineyards?\"\n\n\n \"Yep. Pretty dumb, huh? But we figured twelve years was a long time.\"\n\n\n \"On the whole,\" Retief said, \"I think I prefer the black. But the red\n is hard to beat....\"\n\n\n \"What we figured was, maybe you Culture boys could help us out. A loan\n to see us through the vintage, enough to hire extra hands. Then we'd\n repay it in sculpture, painting, furniture—\"", "\"A hundred would help,\" he said. \"A thousand would be better. Cheers.\"\n\n\n \"What would you say to two thousand?\"\n\n\n \"Two thousand? Retief, you're not fooling?\"\n\n\n \"I hope not.\" He picked up the phone, called the Port Authority, asked\n for the dispatch clerk.\n\n\n \"Hello, Jim. Say, I have a favor to ask of you. You know that\n contingent of Bogan students. They're traveling aboard the two CDT\n transports. I'm interested in the baggage that goes with the students.\n Has it arrived yet? Okay, I'll wait.\"\n\n\n Jim came back to the phone. \"Yeah, Retief, it's here. Just arrived.\n But there's a funny thing. It's not consigned to d'Land. It's ticketed\n clear through to Lovenbroy.\"" ], [ "\"I understand you hold a mortgage on the best land on Lovenbroy,\"\n Retief said. \"Any connection?\"\n\n\n \"Why ... ah ... no. Of course not, ha ha.\"\n\n\n \"Who gets the tractors eventually?\"\n\n\n \"Retief, this is unwarranted interference!\"\n\n\n \"Who gets them?\"\n\n\n \"They happen to be going to Lovenbroy. But I scarcely see—\"\n\n\n \"And who's the friend you're helping out with an unauthorized\n transshipment of grant material?\"\n\n\n \"Why ... ah ... I've been working with a Mr. Gulver, a Bogan\n representative.\"\n\n\n \"And when will they be shipped?\"\n\n\n \"Why, they went out a week ago. They'll be half way there by now. But\n look here, Retief, this isn't what you're thinking!\"", "\"You said it.\" He gulped half his beer. \"My name's Karsh. Mr. Karsh.\n Yep, Mr. Karsh. Boy, this is a drag, sitting around this place\n waiting....\"\n\n\n \"You meeting somebody?\"\n\n\n \"Yeah. Bunch of babies. Kids. How they expect—Never mind. Have one on\n me.\"\n\n\n \"Thanks. You a Scoutmaster?\"\n\n\n \"I'll tell you what I am. I'm a cradle-robber. You know—\" he turned\n to Retief—\"not one of those kids is over eighteen.\" He hiccupped.\n \"Students, you know. Never saw a student with a beard, did you?\"\n\n\n \"Lots of times. You're meeting the students, are you?\"\n\n\n The young fellow blinked at Retief. \"Oh, you know about it, huh?\"", "\"How do you know what I'm thinking? I don't know myself.\" Retief rang\n off, buzzed the secretary.\n\n\n \"Miss Furkle, I'd like to be notified immediately of any new\n applications that might come in from the Bogan Consulate for placement\n of students.\"\n\n\n \"Well, it happens, by coincidence, that I have an application here now.\n Mr. Gulver of the Consulate brought it in.\"\n\n\n \"Is Mr. Gulver in the office? I'd like to see him.\"\n\n\n \"I'll ask him if he has time.\"", "\"This isn't\ndrinking\n. It's just wine.\" Arapoulous pulled the wire\n retainer loose, thumbed the cork. It rose slowly, then popped in the\n air. Arapoulous caught it. Aromatic fumes wafted from the bottle.\n \"Besides, my feelings would be hurt if you didn't join me.\" He winked.\n\n\n Retief took two thin-walled glasses from a table beside the desk. \"Come\n to think of it, we also have to be careful about violating quaint\n native customs.\"\n\n\n Arapoulous filled the glasses. Retief picked one up, sniffed the deep\n rust-colored fluid, tasted it, then took a healthy swallow. He looked\n at Arapoulous thoughtfully.\n\n\n \"Hmmm. It tastes like salted pecans, with an undercurrent of crusted\n port.\"", "It would be a pity, he reflected, if anything should interfere with the\n production of such vintages....\n\n\n Half an hour later he laid the folder aside, keyed the phone and put\n through a call to the Croanie Legation. He asked for the Commercial\n Attache.\n\n\n \"Retief here, Corps HQ,\" he said airily. \"About the MEDDLE shipment,\n the tractors. I'm wondering if there's been a slip up. My records show\n we're shipping five hundred units....\"\n\n\n \"That's correct. Five hundred.\"\n\n\n Retief waited.\n\n\n \"Ah ... are you there, Retief?\"\n\n\n \"I'm still here. And I'm still wondering about the five hundred\n tractors.\"\n\n\n \"It's perfectly in order. I thought it was all settled. Mr. Whaffle—\"", "Magnan snorted and passed from view. Retief punched Miss Furkle's\n button.\n\n\n \"Send the bucolic person in.\"\nA tall broad man with bronze skin and gray hair, wearing tight trousers\n of heavy cloth, a loose shirt open at the neck and a short jacket,\n stepped into the room. He had a bundle under his arm. He paused at\n sight of Retief, looked him over momentarily, then advanced and held\n out his hand. Retief took it. For a moment the two big men stood, face\n to face. The newcomer's jaw muscles knotted. Then he winced.\n\n\n Retief dropped his hand and motioned to a chair.\n\n\n \"That's nice knuckle work, mister,\" the stranger said, massaging his\n hand. \"First time anybody ever did that to me. My fault though. I\n started it, I guess.\" He grinned and sat down.\n\n\n \"What can I do for you?\" Retief said.", "Miss Furkle's chins quivered. \"Well! If you feel I'm incompetent—\"\n\n\n \"Just questioning the possibility of a mistake, Miss Furkle. Five\n hundred tractors is a lot of equipment.\"\n\n\n \"Was there anything further?\" Miss Furkle inquired frigidly.\n\n\n \"I sincerely hope not,\" Retief said.\nIII\n\n\n Leaning back in Magnan's padded chair with power swivel and\n hip-u-matic concontour, Retief leafed through a folder labelled \"CERP\n 7-602-Ba; CROANIE (general).\" He paused at a page headed Industry.\n\n\n Still reading, he opened the desk drawer, took out the two bottles of\n Bacchus wine and two glasses. He poured an inch of wine into each and\n sipped the black wine meditatively.", "\"Academic details are the affair of the students and their professors,\"\n Magnan said. \"Our function is merely to bring them together. See\n that you don't antagonize the Bogan representative. This will\n be an excellent opportunity for you to practice your diplomatic\n restraint—not your strong point, I'm sure you'll agree.\"\n\n\n A buzzer sounded. Retief punched a button. \"What is it, Miss Furkle?\"\n\n\n \"That—bucolic person from Lovenbroy is here again.\" On the small desk\n screen, Miss Furkle's meaty features were compressed in disapproval.\n\n\n \"This fellow's a confounded pest. I'll leave him to you, Retief,\"\n Magnan said. \"Tell him something. Get rid of him. And remember: here\n at Corps HQ, all eyes are upon you.\"\n\n\n \"If I'd thought of that, I'd have worn my other suit,\" Retief said.", "Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.\n\n\n \"How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?\"\n\n\n \"Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.\"\n\n\n In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. \"Sorry if I'm rushing you,\n Retief,\" he said. \"But have you got anything for me?\"\n\n\n Retief waved at the wine bottles. \"What do you know about Croanie?\"\n\n\n \"Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you like\n fish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoon\n time. Over a foot long.\"\n\n\n \"You on good terms with them?\"\n\n\n \"Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.\"\n\n\n \"So?\"", "\"Thanks.\" Retief finished his glass, stood. \"I have to run, Hank,\" he\n said. \"Let me think this over. Maybe I can come up with something.\n Check with me day after tomorrow. And you'd better leave the bottles\n here. Cultural exhibits, you know.\"\nII\n\n\n As the council meeting broke up, Retief caught the eye of a colleague\n across the table.\n\n\n \"Mr. Whaffle, you mentioned a shipment going to a place called Croanie.\n What are they getting?\"\n\n\n Whaffle blinked. \"You're the fellow who's filling in for Magnan, over\n at MUDDLE,\" he said. \"Properly speaking, equipment grants are the\n sole concern of the Motorized Equipment Depot, Division of Loans and\n Exchanges.\" He pursed his lips. \"However, I suppose there's no harm in\n telling you. They'll be receiving heavy mining equipment.\"\n\n\n \"Drill rigs, that sort of thing?\"", "\"I know it's bad manners to ask questions. It's an old diplomatic\n tradition that any time you can get anybody to accept anything as a\n gift, you've scored points in the game. But if Croanie has some scheme\n cooking—\"\n\"Nothing like that, Retief. It's a mere business transaction.\"\n\n\n \"What kind of business do you do with a Bolo WV? With or without a\n blade attached, it's what's known as a continental siege unit.\"\n\n\n \"Great Heavens, Retief! Don't jump to conclusions! Would you have us\n branded as warmongers? Frankly—is this a closed line?\"\n\n\n \"Certainly. You may speak freely.\"\n\n\n \"The tractors are for transshipment. We've gotten ourselves into a\n difficult situation, balance-of-payments-wise. This is an accommodation\n to a group with which we have rather strong business ties.\"", "\"Sorry,\" Karsh said. \"As soon as the baggage gets here, we're off.\" He\n hiccupped again. \"Can't travel without our baggage, y'know.\"\n\n\n \"Suit yourself,\" Retief said. \"Where's the baggage now?\"\n\n\n \"Coming in aboard a Croanie lighter.\"\n\n\n \"Maybe you'd like to arrange for a meal for the students here.\"\n\n\n \"Sure,\" Karsh said. \"That's a good idea. Why don't you join us?\" Karsh\n winked. \"And bring a few beers.\"\n\n\n \"Not this time,\" Retief said. He watched the students, still emerging\n from Customs. \"They seem to be all boys,\" he commented. \"No female\n students?\"\n\n\n \"Maybe later,\" Karsh said. \"You know, after we see how the first bunch\n is received.\"", "\"Don't try to describe it, Mr. Retief,\" Arapoulous said. He took a\n mouthful of wine, swished it around his teeth, swallowed. \"It's Bacchus\n wine, that's all. Nothing like it in the Galaxy.\" He pushed the second\n bottle toward Retief. \"The custom back home is to alternate red wine\n and black.\"\nRetief put aside his cigar, pulled the wires loose, nudged the cork,\n caught it as it popped up.\n\n\n \"Bad luck if you miss the cork,\" Arapoulous said, nodding. \"You\n probably never heard about the trouble we had on Lovenbroy a few years\n back?\"\n\n\n \"Can't say that I did, Hank.\" Retief poured the black wine into two\n fresh glasses. \"Here's to the harvest.\"", "\"Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over here\n a dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot of\n bad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easy\n game.\"\n\n\n Miss Furkle buzzed. \"I have your lists,\" she said shortly.\n\n\n \"Bring them in, please.\"\nThe secretary placed the papers on the desk. Arapoulous caught her eye\n and grinned. She sniffed and marched from the room.\n\n\n \"What that gal needs is a slippery time in the grape mash,\" Arapoulous\n observed. Retief thumbed through the papers, pausing to read from time\n to time. He finished and looked at Arapoulous.\n\n\n \"How many men do you need for the harvest, Hank?\" Retief inquired.\n\n\n Arapoulous sniffed his wine glass and looked thoughtful.", "\"For the present. Miss Furkle, Mr. Magnan is vacationing. That leaves\n me with the question of two thousand young male students headed for\n a world with no classrooms for them ... a world in need of tractors.\n But the tractors are on their way to Croanie, a world under obligation\n to Boge. And Croanie holds a mortgage on the best grape acreage on\n Lovenbroy.\"\n\n\n \"Well!\" Miss Furkle snapped, small eyes glaring under unplucked brows.\n \"I hope you're not questioning Mr. Magnan's wisdom!\"\n\n\n \"About Mr. Magnan's wisdom there can be no question,\" Retief said. \"But\n never mind. I'd like you to look up an item for me. How many tractors\n will Croanie be getting under the MEDDLE program?\"\n\n\n \"Why, that's entirely MEDDLE business,\" Miss Furkle said. \"Mr. Magnan\n always—\"", "\"Listen, Jim,\" Retief said. \"I want you to go over to the warehouse and\n take a look at that baggage for me.\"\n\n\n Retief waited while the dispatch clerk carried out the errand. The\n level in the two bottles had gone down an inch when Jim returned to\n the phone.\n\n\n \"Hey, I took a look at that baggage, Retief. Something funny going on.\n Guns. 2mm needlers, Mark XII hand blasters, power pistols—\"\n\n\n \"It's okay, Jim. Nothing to worry about. Just a mix-up. Now, Jim,\n I'm going to ask you to do something more for me. I'm covering for a\n friend. It seems he slipped up. I wouldn't want word to get out, you\n understand. I'll send along a written change order in the morning that\n will cover you officially. Meanwhile, here's what I want you to do....\"", "\"Lost our markets? Mister, nobody that ever tasted our wines ever\n settled for anything else!\"\n\n\n \"It sounds like I've been missing something,\" said Retief. \"I'll have\n to try them some time.\"\n\n\n Arapoulous put his bundle on the desk, pulled off the wrappings. \"No\n time like the present,\" he said.\n\n\n Retief looked at the two squat bottles, one green, one amber, both\n dusty, with faded labels, and blackened corks secured by wire.\n\n\n \"Drinking on duty is frowned on in the Corps, Mr. Arapoulous,\" he said.", "\"Say, this business of alternating drinks is the real McCoy,\" Retief\n said. \"What's the problem? Croanie about to foreclose?\"", "\"I don't appreciate frivolity with reference to this Division,\" Magnan\n said testily. \"When I first came here, the Manpower Utilization\n Directorate, Division of Libraries and Education was a shambles. I\n fancy I've made MUDDLE what it is today. Frankly, I question the\n wisdom of placing you in charge of such a sensitive desk, even for two\n weeks. But remember. Yours is purely a rubber-stamp function.\"\n\n\n \"In that case, let's leave it to Miss Furkle. I'll take a couple of\n weeks off myself. With her poundage, she could bring plenty of pressure\n to bear.\"\n\n\n \"I assume you jest, Retief,\" Magnan said sadly. \"I should expect even\n you to appreciate that Bogan participation in the Exchange Program may\n be the first step toward sublimation of their aggressions into more\n cultivated channels.\"", "\"I represent MUDDLE.\"\n\n\n Karsh finished his beer, ordered another. \"I came on ahead. Sort of\n an advance guard for the kids. I trained 'em myself. Treated it like\n a game, but they can handle a CSU. Don't know how they'll act under\n pressure. If I had my old platoon—\"\n\n\n He looked at his beer glass, pushed it back. \"Had enough,\" he said. \"So\n long, friend. Or are you coming along?\"\n\n\n Retief nodded. \"Might as well.\"\nAt the exit to the Customs enclosure, Retief watched as the first of\n the Bogan students came through, caught sight of Karsh and snapped to\n attention, his chest out.\n\n\n \"Drop that, mister,\" Karsh snapped. \"Is that any way for a student to\n act?\"\n\n\n The youth, a round-faced lad with broad shoulders, grinned." ], [ "\"I understand you hold a mortgage on the best land on Lovenbroy,\"\n Retief said. \"Any connection?\"\n\n\n \"Why ... ah ... no. Of course not, ha ha.\"\n\n\n \"Who gets the tractors eventually?\"\n\n\n \"Retief, this is unwarranted interference!\"\n\n\n \"Who gets them?\"\n\n\n \"They happen to be going to Lovenbroy. But I scarcely see—\"\n\n\n \"And who's the friend you're helping out with an unauthorized\n transshipment of grant material?\"\n\n\n \"Why ... ah ... I've been working with a Mr. Gulver, a Bogan\n representative.\"\n\n\n \"And when will they be shipped?\"\n\n\n \"Why, they went out a week ago. They'll be half way there by now. But\n look here, Retief, this isn't what you're thinking!\"", "It would be a pity, he reflected, if anything should interfere with the\n production of such vintages....\n\n\n Half an hour later he laid the folder aside, keyed the phone and put\n through a call to the Croanie Legation. He asked for the Commercial\n Attache.\n\n\n \"Retief here, Corps HQ,\" he said airily. \"About the MEDDLE shipment,\n the tractors. I'm wondering if there's been a slip up. My records show\n we're shipping five hundred units....\"\n\n\n \"That's correct. Five hundred.\"\n\n\n Retief waited.\n\n\n \"Ah ... are you there, Retief?\"\n\n\n \"I'm still here. And I'm still wondering about the five hundred\n tractors.\"\n\n\n \"It's perfectly in order. I thought it was all settled. Mr. Whaffle—\"", "\"For the present. Miss Furkle, Mr. Magnan is vacationing. That leaves\n me with the question of two thousand young male students headed for\n a world with no classrooms for them ... a world in need of tractors.\n But the tractors are on their way to Croanie, a world under obligation\n to Boge. And Croanie holds a mortgage on the best grape acreage on\n Lovenbroy.\"\n\n\n \"Well!\" Miss Furkle snapped, small eyes glaring under unplucked brows.\n \"I hope you're not questioning Mr. Magnan's wisdom!\"\n\n\n \"About Mr. Magnan's wisdom there can be no question,\" Retief said. \"But\n never mind. I'd like you to look up an item for me. How many tractors\n will Croanie be getting under the MEDDLE program?\"\n\n\n \"Why, that's entirely MEDDLE business,\" Miss Furkle said. \"Mr. Magnan\n always—\"", "\"One unit would require a good-sized plant to handle its output,\"\n Retief said. \"Now Croanie subsists on her fisheries. She has perhaps\n half a dozen pint-sized processing plants. Maybe, in a bind, they\n could handle the ore ten WV's could scrape up ... if Croanie had any\n ore. It doesn't. By the way, isn't a WV a poor choice as a mining\n outfit? I should think—\"\n\n\n \"See here, Retief! Why all this interest in a few surplus tractors?\n And in any event, what business is it of yours how we plan to use the\n equipment? That's an internal affair of my government. Mr. Whaffle—\"\n\n\n \"I'm not Mr. Whaffle. What are you going to do with the other four\n hundred and ninety tractors?\"\n\n\n \"I understood the grant was to be with no strings attached!\"", "\"I know it's bad manners to ask questions. It's an old diplomatic\n tradition that any time you can get anybody to accept anything as a\n gift, you've scored points in the game. But if Croanie has some scheme\n cooking—\"\n\"Nothing like that, Retief. It's a mere business transaction.\"\n\n\n \"What kind of business do you do with a Bolo WV? With or without a\n blade attached, it's what's known as a continental siege unit.\"\n\n\n \"Great Heavens, Retief! Don't jump to conclusions! Would you have us\n branded as warmongers? Frankly—is this a closed line?\"\n\n\n \"Certainly. You may speak freely.\"\n\n\n \"The tractors are for transshipment. We've gotten ourselves into a\n difficult situation, balance-of-payments-wise. This is an accommodation\n to a group with which we have rather strong business ties.\"", "\"I'm sure he did. Let me know about the tractors as soon as you can.\"\nMiss Furkle sniffed and disappeared from the screen. Retief left the\n office, descended forty-one stories, followed a corridor to the Corps\n Library. In the stacks he thumbed through catalogues, pored over\n indices.\n\n\n \"Can I help you?\" someone chirped. A tiny librarian stood at his elbow.\n\n\n \"Thank you, ma'am,\" Retief said. \"I'm looking for information on a\n mining rig. A Bolo model WV tractor.\"\n\n\n \"You won't find it in the industrial section,\" the librarian said.\n \"Come along.\" Retief followed her along the stacks to a well-lit\n section lettered ARMAMENTS. She took a tape from the shelf, plugged\n it into the viewer, flipped through and stopped at a squat armored\n vehicle.", "Miss Furkle's chins quivered. \"Well! If you feel I'm incompetent—\"\n\n\n \"Just questioning the possibility of a mistake, Miss Furkle. Five\n hundred tractors is a lot of equipment.\"\n\n\n \"Was there anything further?\" Miss Furkle inquired frigidly.\n\n\n \"I sincerely hope not,\" Retief said.\nIII\n\n\n Leaning back in Magnan's padded chair with power swivel and\n hip-u-matic concontour, Retief leafed through a folder labelled \"CERP\n 7-602-Ba; CROANIE (general).\" He paused at a page headed Industry.\n\n\n Still reading, he opened the desk drawer, took out the two bottles of\n Bacchus wine and two glasses. He poured an inch of wine into each and\n sipped the black wine meditatively.", "\"That's the model WV,\" she said. \"It's what is known as a continental\n siege unit. It carries four men, with a half-megaton/second firepower.\"\n\n\n \"There must be an error somewhere,\" Retief said. \"The Bolo model I want\n is a tractor. Model WV M-1—\"\n\"Oh, the modification was the addition of a bulldozer blade for\n demolition work. That must be what confused you.\"\n\n\n \"Probably—among other things. Thank you.\"\n\n\n Miss Furkle was waiting at the office. \"I have the information you\n wanted,\" she said. \"I've had it for over ten minutes. I was under the\n impression you needed it urgently, and I went to great lengths—\"\n\n\n \"Sure,\" Retief said. \"Shoot. How many tractors?\"\n\n\n \"Five hundred.\"\n\n\n \"Are you sure?\"", "\"Thanks.\" Retief finished his glass, stood. \"I have to run, Hank,\" he\n said. \"Let me think this over. Maybe I can come up with something.\n Check with me day after tomorrow. And you'd better leave the bottles\n here. Cultural exhibits, you know.\"\nII\n\n\n As the council meeting broke up, Retief caught the eye of a colleague\n across the table.\n\n\n \"Mr. Whaffle, you mentioned a shipment going to a place called Croanie.\n What are they getting?\"\n\n\n Whaffle blinked. \"You're the fellow who's filling in for Magnan, over\n at MUDDLE,\" he said. \"Properly speaking, equipment grants are the\n sole concern of the Motorized Equipment Depot, Division of Loans and\n Exchanges.\" He pursed his lips. \"However, I suppose there's no harm in\n telling you. They'll be receiving heavy mining equipment.\"\n\n\n \"Drill rigs, that sort of thing?\"", "\"How do you know what I'm thinking? I don't know myself.\" Retief rang\n off, buzzed the secretary.\n\n\n \"Miss Furkle, I'd like to be notified immediately of any new\n applications that might come in from the Bogan Consulate for placement\n of students.\"\n\n\n \"Well, it happens, by coincidence, that I have an application here now.\n Mr. Gulver of the Consulate brought it in.\"\n\n\n \"Is Mr. Gulver in the office? I'd like to see him.\"\n\n\n \"I'll ask him if he has time.\"", "\"Say, this business of alternating drinks is the real McCoy,\" Retief\n said. \"What's the problem? Croanie about to foreclose?\"", "\"Academic details are the affair of the students and their professors,\"\n Magnan said. \"Our function is merely to bring them together. See\n that you don't antagonize the Bogan representative. This will\n be an excellent opportunity for you to practice your diplomatic\n restraint—not your strong point, I'm sure you'll agree.\"\n\n\n A buzzer sounded. Retief punched a button. \"What is it, Miss Furkle?\"\n\n\n \"That—bucolic person from Lovenbroy is here again.\" On the small desk\n screen, Miss Furkle's meaty features were compressed in disapproval.\n\n\n \"This fellow's a confounded pest. I'll leave him to you, Retief,\"\n Magnan said. \"Tell him something. Get rid of him. And remember: here\n at Corps HQ, all eyes are upon you.\"\n\n\n \"If I'd thought of that, I'd have worn my other suit,\" Retief said.", "\"Listen, Jim,\" Retief said. \"I want you to go over to the warehouse and\n take a look at that baggage for me.\"\n\n\n Retief waited while the dispatch clerk carried out the errand. The\n level in the two bottles had gone down an inch when Jim returned to\n the phone.\n\n\n \"Hey, I took a look at that baggage, Retief. Something funny going on.\n Guns. 2mm needlers, Mark XII hand blasters, power pistols—\"\n\n\n \"It's okay, Jim. Nothing to worry about. Just a mix-up. Now, Jim,\n I'm going to ask you to do something more for me. I'm covering for a\n friend. It seems he slipped up. I wouldn't want word to get out, you\n understand. I'll send along a written change order in the morning that\n will cover you officially. Meanwhile, here's what I want you to do....\"", "\"You work for this Culture bunch, do you? Funny. I thought they were\n all ribbon-counter boys. Never mind. I'm Hank Arapoulous. I'm a farmer.\n What I wanted to see you about was—\" He shifted in his chair. \"Well,\n out on Lovenbroy we've got a serious problem. The wine crop is just\n about ready. We start picking in another two, three months. Now I don't\n know if you're familiar with the Bacchus vines we grow...?\"\n\n\n \"No,\" Retief said. \"Have a cigar?\" He pushed a box across the desk.\n Arapoulous took one. \"Bacchus vines are an unusual crop,\" he said,\n puffing the cigar alight. \"Only mature every twelve years. In between,\n the vines don't need a lot of attention, so our time's mostly our own.\n We like to farm, though. Spend a lot of time developing new forms.\n Apples the size of a melon—and sweet—\"", "\"You said it.\" He gulped half his beer. \"My name's Karsh. Mr. Karsh.\n Yep, Mr. Karsh. Boy, this is a drag, sitting around this place\n waiting....\"\n\n\n \"You meeting somebody?\"\n\n\n \"Yeah. Bunch of babies. Kids. How they expect—Never mind. Have one on\n me.\"\n\n\n \"Thanks. You a Scoutmaster?\"\n\n\n \"I'll tell you what I am. I'm a cradle-robber. You know—\" he turned\n to Retief—\"not one of those kids is over eighteen.\" He hiccupped.\n \"Students, you know. Never saw a student with a beard, did you?\"\n\n\n \"Lots of times. You're meeting the students, are you?\"\n\n\n The young fellow blinked at Retief. \"Oh, you know about it, huh?\"", "Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.\n\n\n \"How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?\"\n\n\n \"Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.\"\n\n\n In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. \"Sorry if I'm rushing you,\n Retief,\" he said. \"But have you got anything for me?\"\n\n\n Retief waved at the wine bottles. \"What do you know about Croanie?\"\n\n\n \"Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you like\n fish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoon\n time. Over a foot long.\"\n\n\n \"You on good terms with them?\"\n\n\n \"Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.\"\n\n\n \"So?\"", "\"Sorry,\" Karsh said. \"As soon as the baggage gets here, we're off.\" He\n hiccupped again. \"Can't travel without our baggage, y'know.\"\n\n\n \"Suit yourself,\" Retief said. \"Where's the baggage now?\"\n\n\n \"Coming in aboard a Croanie lighter.\"\n\n\n \"Maybe you'd like to arrange for a meal for the students here.\"\n\n\n \"Sure,\" Karsh said. \"That's a good idea. Why don't you join us?\" Karsh\n winked. \"And bring a few beers.\"\n\n\n \"Not this time,\" Retief said. He watched the students, still emerging\n from Customs. \"They seem to be all boys,\" he commented. \"No female\n students?\"\n\n\n \"Maybe later,\" Karsh said. \"You know, after we see how the first bunch\n is received.\"", "Magnan snorted and passed from view. Retief punched Miss Furkle's\n button.\n\n\n \"Send the bucolic person in.\"\nA tall broad man with bronze skin and gray hair, wearing tight trousers\n of heavy cloth, a loose shirt open at the neck and a short jacket,\n stepped into the room. He had a bundle under his arm. He paused at\n sight of Retief, looked him over momentarily, then advanced and held\n out his hand. Retief took it. For a moment the two big men stood, face\n to face. The newcomer's jaw muscles knotted. Then he winced.\n\n\n Retief dropped his hand and motioned to a chair.\n\n\n \"That's nice knuckle work, mister,\" the stranger said, massaging his\n hand. \"First time anybody ever did that to me. My fault though. I\n started it, I guess.\" He grinned and sat down.\n\n\n \"What can I do for you?\" Retief said.", "\"Forty-two, Terry years,\" Arapoulous said. \"But this year it looks bad.\n We've got a bumper crop—and we're short-handed. If we don't get a big\n vintage, Croanie steps in. Lord knows what they'll do to the land. Then\n next vintage time, with them holding half our grape acreage—\"\n\n\n \"You hocked the vineyards?\"\n\n\n \"Yep. Pretty dumb, huh? But we figured twelve years was a long time.\"\n\n\n \"On the whole,\" Retief said, \"I think I prefer the black. But the red\n is hard to beat....\"\n\n\n \"What we figured was, maybe you Culture boys could help us out. A loan\n to see us through the vintage, enough to hire extra hands. Then we'd\n repay it in sculpture, painting, furniture—\"", "\"That's right. Autumn's our harvest season. Most years we have just the\n ordinary crops. Fruit, grain, that kind of thing; getting it in doesn't\n take long. We spend most of the time on architecture, getting new\n places ready for the winter or remodeling the older ones. We spend a\n lot of time in our houses. We like to have them comfortable. But this\n year's different. This is Wine Year.\"\nArapoulous puffed on his cigar, looked worriedly at Retief. \"Our wine\n crop is our big money crop,\" he said. \"We make enough to keep us going.\n But this year....\"\n\n\n \"The crop isn't panning out?\"\n\n\n \"Oh, the crop's fine. One of the best I can remember. Course, I'm only\n twenty-eight; I can't remember but two other harvests. The problem's\n not the crop.\"\n\n\n \"Have you lost your markets? That sounds like a matter for the\n Commercial—\"" ], [ "\"Great. Thanks.\" It was half a minute before a thick-necked red-faced\n man in a tight hat walked in. He wore an old-fashioned suit, a drab\n shirt, shiny shoes with round toes and an ill-tempered expression.\n\"What is it you wish?\" he barked. \"I understood in my discussions with\n the other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for these\n irritating conferences.\"\n\n\n \"I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. How\n many this time?\"\n\n\n \"Two thousand.\"\n\n\n \"And where will they be going?\"\n\n\n \"Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job is\n to provide transportation.\"\n\n\n \"Will there be any other students embarking this season?\"", "\"Two thousand students? Hah! Two\nhundred\nstudents would overtax the\n facilities of the college.\"\n\n\n \"I wonder if the Bogans know that?\"\n\n\n \"The Bogans? Why, most of d'Land's difficulties are due to the unwise\n trade agreement she entered into with Boge. Two thousand students\n indeed!\" He snorted and walked away.\nRetief stopped by the office to pick up a short cape, then rode the\n elevator to the roof of the 230-story Corps HQ building and hailed a\n cab to the port. The Bogan students had arrived early. Retief saw them\n lined up on the ramp waiting to go through customs. It would be half\n an hour before they were cleared through. He turned into the bar and\n ordered a beer.\n\n\n A tall young fellow on the next stool raised his glass.\n\n\n \"Happy days,\" he said.\n\n\n \"And nights to match.\"", "\"I see they're sending two thousand students to d'Land,\" Retief said,\n glancing at the Memo for Record. \"That's a sizable sublimation.\"\n\n\n Magnan nodded. \"The Bogans have launched no less than four military\n campaigns in the last two decades. They're known as the Hoodlums of\n the Nicodemean Cluster. Now, perhaps, we shall see them breaking that\n precedent and entering into the cultural life of the Galaxy.\"\n\n\n \"Breaking and entering,\" Retief said. \"You may have something there.\n But I'm wondering what they'll study on d'Land. That's an industrial\n world of the poor but honest variety.\"", "Back at the MUDDLE office, Retief buzzed Miss Furkle.\n\n\n \"Do you know the name of the institution these Bogan students are bound\n for?\"\n\n\n \"Why, the University at d'Land, of course.\"\n\n\n \"Would that be the Technical College?\"\n\n\n Miss Furkle's mouth puckered. \"I'm sure I've never pried into these\n details.\"\n\n\n \"Where does doing your job stop and prying begin, Miss Furkle?\" Retief\n said. \"Personally, I'm curious as to just what it is these students are\n travelling so far to study—at Corps expense.\"\n\n\n \"Mr. Magnan never—\"", "\"Heck, no,\" he said. \"Say, uh, Mr. Karsh, are we gonna get to go to\n town? We fellas were thinking—\"\n\n\n \"You were, hah? You act like a bunch of school kids! I mean ... no! Now\n line up!\"\n\n\n \"We have quarters ready for the students,\" Retief said. \"If you'd like\n to bring them around to the west side, I have a couple of copters laid\n on.\"\n\n\n \"Thanks,\" said Karsh. \"They'll stay here until take-off time. Can't\n have the little dears wandering around loose. Might get ideas about\n going over the hill.\" He hiccupped. \"I mean they might play hookey.\"\n\n\n \"We've scheduled your re-embarkation for noon tomorrow. That's a long\n wait. MUDDLE's arranged theater tickets and a dinner.\"", "Retief gave instructions, then rang off and turned to Arapoulous.\n\n\n \"As soon as I get off a couple of TWX's, I think we'd better get down\n to the port, Hank. I think I'd like to see the students off personally.\"", "\"Academic details are the affair of the students and their professors,\"\n Magnan said. \"Our function is merely to bring them together. See\n that you don't antagonize the Bogan representative. This will\n be an excellent opportunity for you to practice your diplomatic\n restraint—not your strong point, I'm sure you'll agree.\"\n\n\n A buzzer sounded. Retief punched a button. \"What is it, Miss Furkle?\"\n\n\n \"That—bucolic person from Lovenbroy is here again.\" On the small desk\n screen, Miss Furkle's meaty features were compressed in disapproval.\n\n\n \"This fellow's a confounded pest. I'll leave him to you, Retief,\"\n Magnan said. \"Tell him something. Get rid of him. And remember: here\n at Corps HQ, all eyes are upon you.\"\n\n\n \"If I'd thought of that, I'd have worn my other suit,\" Retief said.", "\"Sorry,\" Karsh said. \"As soon as the baggage gets here, we're off.\" He\n hiccupped again. \"Can't travel without our baggage, y'know.\"\n\n\n \"Suit yourself,\" Retief said. \"Where's the baggage now?\"\n\n\n \"Coming in aboard a Croanie lighter.\"\n\n\n \"Maybe you'd like to arrange for a meal for the students here.\"\n\n\n \"Sure,\" Karsh said. \"That's a good idea. Why don't you join us?\" Karsh\n winked. \"And bring a few beers.\"\n\n\n \"Not this time,\" Retief said. He watched the students, still emerging\n from Customs. \"They seem to be all boys,\" he commented. \"No female\n students?\"\n\n\n \"Maybe later,\" Karsh said. \"You know, after we see how the first bunch\n is received.\"", "\"Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business.\" Gulver looked at Retief with\n pursed lips. \"As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching another\n two thousand to Featherweight.\"\n\n\n \"Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,\"\n Retief said. \"Your people must be unusually interested in that region\n of space.\"\n\n\n \"If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters of\n importance to see to.\"\n\n\n After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. \"I'd like to have a\n break-out of all the student movements that have been planned under the\n present program,\" he said. \"And see if you can get a summary of what\n MEDDLE has been shipping lately.\"", "\"SCROUNGE was late on the scene,\" Whaffle said. \"First come, first\n served. That's our policy at MEDDLE. Good day, gentlemen.\" He strode\n off, briefcase under his arm.\n\n\n \"That's the trouble with peaceful worlds,\" the SCROUNGE committeeman\n said. \"Boge is a troublemaker, so every agency in the Corps is out\n to pacify her. While my chance to make a record—that is, assist\n peace-loving d'Land—comes to naught.\" He shook his head.\n\n\n \"What kind of university do they have on d'Land?\" asked Retief. \"We're\n sending them two thousand exchange students. It must be quite an\n institution.\"\n\n\n \"University? D'Land has one under-endowed technical college.\"\n\n\n \"Will all the exchange students be studying at the Technical College?\"", "\"Sorry, Hank. All we do here is work out itineraries for traveling\n side-shows, that kind of thing. Now, if you needed a troop of Groaci\n nose-flute players—\"\n\n\n \"Can they pick grapes?\"\n\n\n \"Nope. Anyway, they can't stand the daylight. Have you talked this over\n with the Labor Office?\"\n\n\n \"Sure did. They said they'd fix us up with all the electronics\n specialists and computer programmers we wanted—but no field hands.\n Said it was what they classified as menial drudgery; you'd have thought\n I was trying to buy slaves.\"\n\n\n The buzzer sounded. Miss Furkle's features appeared on the desk screen.\n\n\n \"You're due at the Intergroup Council in five minutes,\" she said. \"Then\n afterwards, there are the Bogan students to meet.\"", "\"I represent MUDDLE.\"\n\n\n Karsh finished his beer, ordered another. \"I came on ahead. Sort of\n an advance guard for the kids. I trained 'em myself. Treated it like\n a game, but they can handle a CSU. Don't know how they'll act under\n pressure. If I had my old platoon—\"\n\n\n He looked at his beer glass, pushed it back. \"Had enough,\" he said. \"So\n long, friend. Or are you coming along?\"\n\n\n Retief nodded. \"Might as well.\"\nAt the exit to the Customs enclosure, Retief watched as the first of\n the Bogan students came through, caught sight of Karsh and snapped to\n attention, his chest out.\n\n\n \"Drop that, mister,\" Karsh snapped. \"Is that any way for a student to\n act?\"\n\n\n The youth, a round-faced lad with broad shoulders, grinned.", "\"How do you know what I'm thinking? I don't know myself.\" Retief rang\n off, buzzed the secretary.\n\n\n \"Miss Furkle, I'd like to be notified immediately of any new\n applications that might come in from the Bogan Consulate for placement\n of students.\"\n\n\n \"Well, it happens, by coincidence, that I have an application here now.\n Mr. Gulver of the Consulate brought it in.\"\n\n\n \"Is Mr. Gulver in the office? I'd like to see him.\"\n\n\n \"I'll ask him if he has time.\"", "\"For the present. Miss Furkle, Mr. Magnan is vacationing. That leaves\n me with the question of two thousand young male students headed for\n a world with no classrooms for them ... a world in need of tractors.\n But the tractors are on their way to Croanie, a world under obligation\n to Boge. And Croanie holds a mortgage on the best grape acreage on\n Lovenbroy.\"\n\n\n \"Well!\" Miss Furkle snapped, small eyes glaring under unplucked brows.\n \"I hope you're not questioning Mr. Magnan's wisdom!\"\n\n\n \"About Mr. Magnan's wisdom there can be no question,\" Retief said. \"But\n never mind. I'd like you to look up an item for me. How many tractors\n will Croanie be getting under the MEDDLE program?\"\n\n\n \"Why, that's entirely MEDDLE business,\" Miss Furkle said. \"Mr. Magnan\n always—\"", "\"You said it.\" He gulped half his beer. \"My name's Karsh. Mr. Karsh.\n Yep, Mr. Karsh. Boy, this is a drag, sitting around this place\n waiting....\"\n\n\n \"You meeting somebody?\"\n\n\n \"Yeah. Bunch of babies. Kids. How they expect—Never mind. Have one on\n me.\"\n\n\n \"Thanks. You a Scoutmaster?\"\n\n\n \"I'll tell you what I am. I'm a cradle-robber. You know—\" he turned\n to Retief—\"not one of those kids is over eighteen.\" He hiccupped.\n \"Students, you know. Never saw a student with a beard, did you?\"\n\n\n \"Lots of times. You're meeting the students, are you?\"\n\n\n The young fellow blinked at Retief. \"Oh, you know about it, huh?\"", "\"A hundred would help,\" he said. \"A thousand would be better. Cheers.\"\n\n\n \"What would you say to two thousand?\"\n\n\n \"Two thousand? Retief, you're not fooling?\"\n\n\n \"I hope not.\" He picked up the phone, called the Port Authority, asked\n for the dispatch clerk.\n\n\n \"Hello, Jim. Say, I have a favor to ask of you. You know that\n contingent of Bogan students. They're traveling aboard the two CDT\n transports. I'm interested in the baggage that goes with the students.\n Has it arrived yet? Okay, I'll wait.\"\n\n\n Jim came back to the phone. \"Yeah, Retief, it's here. Just arrived.\n But there's a funny thing. It's not consigned to d'Land. It's ticketed\n clear through to Lovenbroy.\"", "and it's just cool enough to give you plenty of energy. Come nightfall,\n the tables are set up in the garden plots, and the feast is laid on:\n roast turkeys, beef, hams, all kinds of fowl. Big salads. Plenty of\n fruit. Fresh-baked bread ... and wine, plenty of wine. The cooking's\n done by a different crew each night in each garden, and there's prizes\n for the best crews.", "\"Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over here\n a dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot of\n bad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easy\n game.\"\n\n\n Miss Furkle buzzed. \"I have your lists,\" she said shortly.\n\n\n \"Bring them in, please.\"\nThe secretary placed the papers on the desk. Arapoulous caught her eye\n and grinned. She sniffed and marched from the room.\n\n\n \"What that gal needs is a slippery time in the grape mash,\" Arapoulous\n observed. Retief thumbed through the papers, pausing to read from time\n to time. He finished and looked at Arapoulous.\n\n\n \"How many men do you need for the harvest, Hank?\" Retief inquired.\n\n\n Arapoulous sniffed his wine glass and looked thoughtful.", "\"I don't appreciate frivolity with reference to this Division,\" Magnan\n said testily. \"When I first came here, the Manpower Utilization\n Directorate, Division of Libraries and Education was a shambles. I\n fancy I've made MUDDLE what it is today. Frankly, I question the\n wisdom of placing you in charge of such a sensitive desk, even for two\n weeks. But remember. Yours is purely a rubber-stamp function.\"\n\n\n \"In that case, let's leave it to Miss Furkle. I'll take a couple of\n weeks off myself. With her poundage, she could bring plenty of pressure\n to bear.\"\n\n\n \"I assume you jest, Retief,\" Magnan said sadly. \"I should expect even\n you to appreciate that Bogan participation in the Exchange Program may\n be the first step toward sublimation of their aggressions into more\n cultivated channels.\"", "\"Well, the loan's due. The wine crop would put us in the clear. But\n we need harvest hands. Picking Bacchus grapes isn't a job you can\n turn over to machinery—and anyway we wouldn't if we could. Vintage\n season is the high point of living on Lovenbroy. Everybody joins in.\n First, there's the picking in the fields. Miles and miles of vineyards\n covering the mountain sides, and crowding the river banks, with gardens\n here and there. Big vines, eight feet high, loaded with fruit, and deep\n grass growing between. The wine-carriers keep on the run, bringing wine\n to the pickers. There's prizes for the biggest day's output, bets on\n who can fill the most baskets in an hour.... The sun's high and bright," ], [ "\"Forty-two, Terry years,\" Arapoulous said. \"But this year it looks bad.\n We've got a bumper crop—and we're short-handed. If we don't get a big\n vintage, Croanie steps in. Lord knows what they'll do to the land. Then\n next vintage time, with them holding half our grape acreage—\"\n\n\n \"You hocked the vineyards?\"\n\n\n \"Yep. Pretty dumb, huh? But we figured twelve years was a long time.\"\n\n\n \"On the whole,\" Retief said, \"I think I prefer the black. But the red\n is hard to beat....\"\n\n\n \"What we figured was, maybe you Culture boys could help us out. A loan\n to see us through the vintage, enough to hire extra hands. Then we'd\n repay it in sculpture, painting, furniture—\"", "\"This isn't\ndrinking\n. It's just wine.\" Arapoulous pulled the wire\n retainer loose, thumbed the cork. It rose slowly, then popped in the\n air. Arapoulous caught it. Aromatic fumes wafted from the bottle.\n \"Besides, my feelings would be hurt if you didn't join me.\" He winked.\n\n\n Retief took two thin-walled glasses from a table beside the desk. \"Come\n to think of it, we also have to be careful about violating quaint\n native customs.\"\n\n\n Arapoulous filled the glasses. Retief picked one up, sniffed the deep\n rust-colored fluid, tasted it, then took a healthy swallow. He looked\n at Arapoulous thoughtfully.\n\n\n \"Hmmm. It tastes like salted pecans, with an undercurrent of crusted\n port.\"", "\"We've got plenty of minerals on Lovenbroy,\" Arapoulous said,\n swallowing wine. \"But we don't plan to wreck the landscape mining 'em.\n We like to farm. About ten years back some neighbors of ours landed a\n force. They figured they knew better what to do with our minerals than\n we did. Wanted to strip-mine, smelt ore. We convinced 'em otherwise.\n But it took a year, and we lost a lot of men.\"\n\n\n \"That's too bad,\" Retief said. \"I'd say this one tastes more like roast\n beef and popcorn over a Riesling base.\"\n\n\n \"It put us in a bad spot,\" Arapoulous went on. \"We had to borrow\n money from a world called Croanie. Mortgaged our crops. Had to start\n exporting art work too. Plenty of buyers, but it's not the same when\n you're doing it for strangers.\"", "and it's just cool enough to give you plenty of energy. Come nightfall,\n the tables are set up in the garden plots, and the feast is laid on:\n roast turkeys, beef, hams, all kinds of fowl. Big salads. Plenty of\n fruit. Fresh-baked bread ... and wine, plenty of wine. The cooking's\n done by a different crew each night in each garden, and there's prizes\n for the best crews.", "\"I've seen some of your furniture,\" Retief said. \"Beautiful work.\"\n\n\n Arapoulous nodded. \"All local timbers too. Lots of metals in our soil\n and those sulphates give the woods some color, I'll tell you. Then\n comes the Monsoon. Rain—it comes down in sheets. But the sun's getting\n closer. Shines all the time. Ever seen it pouring rain in the sunshine?\n That's the music-writing season. Then summer. Summer's hot. We stay\n inside in the daytime and have beach parties all night. Lots of beach\n on Lovenbroy; we're mostly islands. That's the drama and symphony time.\n The theatres are set up on the sand, or anchored off-shore. You have\n the music and the surf and the bonfires and stars—we're close to the\n center of a globular cluster, you know....\"\n\n\n \"You say it's time now for the wine crop?\"", "\"Sounds very pleasant,\" Retief said. \"Where does the Libraries and\n Education Division come in?\"\n\n\n Arapoulous leaned forward. \"We go in pretty heavy for the arts. Folks\n can't spend all their time hybridizing plants. We've turned all the\n land area we've got into parks and farms. Course, we left some sizable\n forest areas for hunting and such. Lovenbroy's a nice place, Mr.\n Retief.\"\n\n\n \"It sounds like it, Mr. Arapoulous. Just what—\"\n\n\n \"Call me Hank. We've got long seasons back home. Five of 'em. Our\n year's about eighteen Terry months. Cold as hell in winter; eccentric\n orbit, you know. Blue-black sky, stars visible all day. We do mostly\n painting and sculpture in the winter. Then Spring; still plenty cold.\n Lots of skiing, bob-sledding, ice skating; and it's the season for\n woodworkers. Our furniture—\"", "\"Well, the loan's due. The wine crop would put us in the clear. But\n we need harvest hands. Picking Bacchus grapes isn't a job you can\n turn over to machinery—and anyway we wouldn't if we could. Vintage\n season is the high point of living on Lovenbroy. Everybody joins in.\n First, there's the picking in the fields. Miles and miles of vineyards\n covering the mountain sides, and crowding the river banks, with gardens\n here and there. Big vines, eight feet high, loaded with fruit, and deep\n grass growing between. The wine-carriers keep on the run, bringing wine\n to the pickers. There's prizes for the biggest day's output, bets on\n who can fill the most baskets in an hour.... The sun's high and bright,", "\"Sorry, Hank. All we do here is work out itineraries for traveling\n side-shows, that kind of thing. Now, if you needed a troop of Groaci\n nose-flute players—\"\n\n\n \"Can they pick grapes?\"\n\n\n \"Nope. Anyway, they can't stand the daylight. Have you talked this over\n with the Labor Office?\"\n\n\n \"Sure did. They said they'd fix us up with all the electronics\n specialists and computer programmers we wanted—but no field hands.\n Said it was what they classified as menial drudgery; you'd have thought\n I was trying to buy slaves.\"\n\n\n The buzzer sounded. Miss Furkle's features appeared on the desk screen.\n\n\n \"You're due at the Intergroup Council in five minutes,\" she said. \"Then\n afterwards, there are the Bogan students to meet.\"", "\"Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over here\n a dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot of\n bad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easy\n game.\"\n\n\n Miss Furkle buzzed. \"I have your lists,\" she said shortly.\n\n\n \"Bring them in, please.\"\nThe secretary placed the papers on the desk. Arapoulous caught her eye\n and grinned. She sniffed and marched from the room.\n\n\n \"What that gal needs is a slippery time in the grape mash,\" Arapoulous\n observed. Retief thumbed through the papers, pausing to read from time\n to time. He finished and looked at Arapoulous.\n\n\n \"How many men do you need for the harvest, Hank?\" Retief inquired.\n\n\n Arapoulous sniffed his wine glass and looked thoughtful.", "Miss Furkle's chins quivered. \"Well! If you feel I'm incompetent—\"\n\n\n \"Just questioning the possibility of a mistake, Miss Furkle. Five\n hundred tractors is a lot of equipment.\"\n\n\n \"Was there anything further?\" Miss Furkle inquired frigidly.\n\n\n \"I sincerely hope not,\" Retief said.\nIII\n\n\n Leaning back in Magnan's padded chair with power swivel and\n hip-u-matic concontour, Retief leafed through a folder labelled \"CERP\n 7-602-Ba; CROANIE (general).\" He paused at a page headed Industry.\n\n\n Still reading, he opened the desk drawer, took out the two bottles of\n Bacchus wine and two glasses. He poured an inch of wine into each and\n sipped the black wine meditatively.", "\"You work for this Culture bunch, do you? Funny. I thought they were\n all ribbon-counter boys. Never mind. I'm Hank Arapoulous. I'm a farmer.\n What I wanted to see you about was—\" He shifted in his chair. \"Well,\n out on Lovenbroy we've got a serious problem. The wine crop is just\n about ready. We start picking in another two, three months. Now I don't\n know if you're familiar with the Bacchus vines we grow...?\"\n\n\n \"No,\" Retief said. \"Have a cigar?\" He pushed a box across the desk.\n Arapoulous took one. \"Bacchus vines are an unusual crop,\" he said,\n puffing the cigar alight. \"Only mature every twelve years. In between,\n the vines don't need a lot of attention, so our time's mostly our own.\n We like to farm, though. Spend a lot of time developing new forms.\n Apples the size of a melon—and sweet—\"", "\"How do you know what I'm thinking? I don't know myself.\" Retief rang\n off, buzzed the secretary.\n\n\n \"Miss Furkle, I'd like to be notified immediately of any new\n applications that might come in from the Bogan Consulate for placement\n of students.\"\n\n\n \"Well, it happens, by coincidence, that I have an application here now.\n Mr. Gulver of the Consulate brought it in.\"\n\n\n \"Is Mr. Gulver in the office? I'd like to see him.\"\n\n\n \"I'll ask him if he has time.\"", "\"Academic details are the affair of the students and their professors,\"\n Magnan said. \"Our function is merely to bring them together. See\n that you don't antagonize the Bogan representative. This will\n be an excellent opportunity for you to practice your diplomatic\n restraint—not your strong point, I'm sure you'll agree.\"\n\n\n A buzzer sounded. Retief punched a button. \"What is it, Miss Furkle?\"\n\n\n \"That—bucolic person from Lovenbroy is here again.\" On the small desk\n screen, Miss Furkle's meaty features were compressed in disapproval.\n\n\n \"This fellow's a confounded pest. I'll leave him to you, Retief,\"\n Magnan said. \"Tell him something. Get rid of him. And remember: here\n at Corps HQ, all eyes are upon you.\"\n\n\n \"If I'd thought of that, I'd have worn my other suit,\" Retief said.", "\"Great. Thanks.\" It was half a minute before a thick-necked red-faced\n man in a tight hat walked in. He wore an old-fashioned suit, a drab\n shirt, shiny shoes with round toes and an ill-tempered expression.\n\"What is it you wish?\" he barked. \"I understood in my discussions with\n the other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for these\n irritating conferences.\"\n\n\n \"I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. How\n many this time?\"\n\n\n \"Two thousand.\"\n\n\n \"And where will they be going?\"\n\n\n \"Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job is\n to provide transportation.\"\n\n\n \"Will there be any other students embarking this season?\"", "\"That's right. Autumn's our harvest season. Most years we have just the\n ordinary crops. Fruit, grain, that kind of thing; getting it in doesn't\n take long. We spend most of the time on architecture, getting new\n places ready for the winter or remodeling the older ones. We spend a\n lot of time in our houses. We like to have them comfortable. But this\n year's different. This is Wine Year.\"\nArapoulous puffed on his cigar, looked worriedly at Retief. \"Our wine\n crop is our big money crop,\" he said. \"We make enough to keep us going.\n But this year....\"\n\n\n \"The crop isn't panning out?\"\n\n\n \"Oh, the crop's fine. One of the best I can remember. Course, I'm only\n twenty-eight; I can't remember but two other harvests. The problem's\n not the crop.\"\n\n\n \"Have you lost your markets? That sounds like a matter for the\n Commercial—\"", "\"Then the wine-making. We still tramp out the vintage. That's mostly\n for the young folks but anybody's welcome. That's when things start to\n get loosened up. Matter of fact, pretty near half our young-uns are\n born after a vintage. All bets are off then. It keeps a fellow on his\n toes though. Ever tried to hold onto a gal wearing nothing but a layer\n of grape juice?\"\n\"Never did,\" Retief said. \"You say most of the children are born after\n a vintage. That would make them only twelve years old by the time—\"\n\n\n \"Oh, that's Lovenbroy years; they'd be eighteen, Terry reckoning.\"\n\n\n \"I was thinking you looked a little mature for twenty-eight,\" Retief\n said.", "\"Don't try to describe it, Mr. Retief,\" Arapoulous said. He took a\n mouthful of wine, swished it around his teeth, swallowed. \"It's Bacchus\n wine, that's all. Nothing like it in the Galaxy.\" He pushed the second\n bottle toward Retief. \"The custom back home is to alternate red wine\n and black.\"\nRetief put aside his cigar, pulled the wires loose, nudged the cork,\n caught it as it popped up.\n\n\n \"Bad luck if you miss the cork,\" Arapoulous said, nodding. \"You\n probably never heard about the trouble we had on Lovenbroy a few years\n back?\"\n\n\n \"Can't say that I did, Hank.\" Retief poured the black wine into two\n fresh glasses. \"Here's to the harvest.\"", "\"For the present. Miss Furkle, Mr. Magnan is vacationing. That leaves\n me with the question of two thousand young male students headed for\n a world with no classrooms for them ... a world in need of tractors.\n But the tractors are on their way to Croanie, a world under obligation\n to Boge. And Croanie holds a mortgage on the best grape acreage on\n Lovenbroy.\"\n\n\n \"Well!\" Miss Furkle snapped, small eyes glaring under unplucked brows.\n \"I hope you're not questioning Mr. Magnan's wisdom!\"\n\n\n \"About Mr. Magnan's wisdom there can be no question,\" Retief said. \"But\n never mind. I'd like you to look up an item for me. How many tractors\n will Croanie be getting under the MEDDLE program?\"\n\n\n \"Why, that's entirely MEDDLE business,\" Miss Furkle said. \"Mr. Magnan\n always—\"", "\"One unit would require a good-sized plant to handle its output,\"\n Retief said. \"Now Croanie subsists on her fisheries. She has perhaps\n half a dozen pint-sized processing plants. Maybe, in a bind, they\n could handle the ore ten WV's could scrape up ... if Croanie had any\n ore. It doesn't. By the way, isn't a WV a poor choice as a mining\n outfit? I should think—\"\n\n\n \"See here, Retief! Why all this interest in a few surplus tractors?\n And in any event, what business is it of yours how we plan to use the\n equipment? That's an internal affair of my government. Mr. Whaffle—\"\n\n\n \"I'm not Mr. Whaffle. What are you going to do with the other four\n hundred and ninety tractors?\"\n\n\n \"I understood the grant was to be with no strings attached!\"", "\"Listen, Jim,\" Retief said. \"I want you to go over to the warehouse and\n take a look at that baggage for me.\"\n\n\n Retief waited while the dispatch clerk carried out the errand. The\n level in the two bottles had gone down an inch when Jim returned to\n the phone.\n\n\n \"Hey, I took a look at that baggage, Retief. Something funny going on.\n Guns. 2mm needlers, Mark XII hand blasters, power pistols—\"\n\n\n \"It's okay, Jim. Nothing to worry about. Just a mix-up. Now, Jim,\n I'm going to ask you to do something more for me. I'm covering for a\n friend. It seems he slipped up. I wouldn't want word to get out, you\n understand. I'll send along a written change order in the morning that\n will cover you officially. Meanwhile, here's what I want you to do....\"" ] ]
train	51296	[ "How does Rikud change through the story?", "What seems to be true about the world Rikud lives in?", "Why is Rikud oddly satisfied about Crifer's limp foot?", "What does the viewport allow Rikud to realize?", "What struggle does the door in the library represent?", "What happens when Rikud grows violent when the others don't believe him.", "Why does everyone begin to starve and grow thirsty?", "What does Rikud's victory represent?" ]	[ [ "He questions his world, his lack of autonomy, and what it really means to live. ", "He realizes that he will one day have a mate chosen for him, and children as well. ", "He realizes his desire to feel pain, and to hurt for the first time. ", "He questions his \"strange\" thoughts, and how pervasive they are. " ], [ "It's run by machines, and no longer run by people. There is no room for decisions. ", "Change never happens. It's a concept that's been erased. ", "Women and men are segregated, because they can't live with one another. ", "It's run by machines, and no longer run by people. They remember a time when they could make decisions, but no longer can. " ], [ "It's new and interesting. Rikud is tired of the regular. ", "It means that people can hurt, which Rikud has an interest in. ", "He dislikes Crifer, and enjoys the fact that he is stuck with an anomaly. ", "It's evidence that imperfections still exist, and validates Rikud's feelings. " ], [ "There is more to the world outside of the ship they are on. ", "The viewport is not a flat space, and objects can pass through it. ", "The stars are indeed changing. ", "The garden outside is moving. " ], [ "The struggle between man and machine, and the power machine now has over them. ", "The struggle for Rikud and all the others to conceptualize what they don't know or haven't seen before. ", "Rikud's fear of what's behind it. ", "The struggle between authority and the people it runs. " ], [ "They start grabbing at one another to deescalate the situation.", "They all start to do it, because they've never seen violence before and don't understand it. ", "Confusion breaks out. ", "Everyone grows fearful and watches what Rikud does. " ], [ "Without the buzzer, there is no food or drink to have. ", "The buzzer no longer works, and no one knows how to fix it. ", "Rikud broke the buzzer, and they're all waiting. ", "Rikud broke the buzzer, and without it they don't know how to care for themselves. " ], [ "Victory over authority.", "Victory over the world, and overcoming its changes. ", "Victory over fear of the unknown, and embracing of change. ", "Victory over indecision. " ] ]	[ 1, 1, 4, 1, 2, 2, 4, 3 ]	[ 1, 1, 0, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0 ]	[ [ "And when Chuls looked away in disinterest, Rikud became angry. If only\n the man would realize! If only anyone would realize! It all seemed so\n obvious. If he, Rikud, walked from one part of the world to another,\n it was with a purpose—to eat, or to sleep, or perhaps to bathe in the\n health-rays. Now if the world had walked from—somewhere, through the\n vast star-speckled darkness and to the great garden outside, this also\n was purposeful. The world had arrived at the garden for a reason. But\n if everyone lived as if the world still stood in blackness, how could\n they find the nature of that purpose?\n\n\n \"I will eat,\" Chuls said, breaking Rikud's revery.\n\n\n Damn the man, all he did was eat!\n\n\n Yet he did have initiative after a sort. He knew when to eat. Because\n he was hungry.\n\n\n And Rikud, too, was hungry.", "Somehow, Rikud knew this question for a healthy sign. But he could\n not tell them of his most amazing thought of all. The change in the\n viewport could mean only one thing. The world had been walking—the\n word seemed all wrong to Rikud, but he could think of no other, unless\n it were running. The world had been walking somewhere. That somewhere\n was the garden and the world had arrived.\n\n\n \"It is an old picture of the garden,\" Chuls suggested, \"and the plants\n are different.\"\n\n\n \"Then they've changed?\"\n\n\n \"No, merely different.\"\n\n\n \"Well, what about the viewport?\nIt\nchanged. Where are the stars?\n Where are they, Chuls, if it did not change?\"\n\n\n \"The stars come out at night.\"\n\n\n \"So there is a change from day to night!\"", "Other hands reached out, and Rikud stumbled. He fell and then someone\n was on top of him, and he struggled. He rolled and was up again, and\n he did not like the sound of the angry voices. Someone said, \"Let us\n do to Rikud what he said he did to the machinery.\" Rikud ran. In the\n darkness, his feet prodded many bodies. There were those who were too\n weak to rise. Rikud, too, felt a strange light-headedness and a gnawing\n hurt in his stomach. But it didn't matter. He heard the angry voices\n and the feet pounding behind him, and he wanted only to get away.\n\n\n It was dark and he was hungry and everyone who was strong enough to run\n was chasing him, but every time he thought of the garden outside, and\n how big it was, the darkness and the hunger and the people chasing him\n were unimportant. It was so big that it would swallow him up completely\n and positively.\n\n\n He became sickly giddy thinking about it.", "Startled, Rikud leaped back. The sullen roar in the rear of the world\n had ceased abruptly. Instead an ominous silence, broken at regular\n intervals by a sharp booming.\n\n\n Change—\n\n\n \"Won't you eat, Rikud?\" Chuls called from somewhere down below.\n\n\n \"Damn the man,\" Rikud thought. Then aloud: \"Yes, I'll eat. Later.\"\n\n\n \"It's time....\" Chuls' voice trailed off again, impotently.\n\n\n But Rikud forgot the old man completely. A new idea occurred to him,\n and for a while he struggled with it. What he saw—what he had always\n seen, except that now there was the added factor of change—perhaps did\n not exist\nin\nthe viewport.\n\n\n Maybe it existed\nthrough\nthe viewport.", "This frightened Rikud, although he didn't know why. He'd like it,\n though. Maybe then he could take them outside with him to the big\n garden of the two viewports. And then he wouldn't be afraid because he\n could huddle close to them and he wouldn't be alone.\nRikud heard the throbbing again as he stood in the room of the\n machinery. For a long time he watched the wheels and cogs and gears\n spinning and humming. He watched for he knew not how long. And then he\n began to wonder. If he destroyed the wheels and the cogs and the gears,\n would the buzzer stop? It probably would, because, as Rikud saw it, he\n was clearly an \"unauthorized person.\" He had heard the voice again\n upon entering the room.", "Rikud muttered to himself and undressed. The world had begun to annoy\n him. Now why shouldn't a man be permitted to do what he wanted, when\n he wanted to do it?\nThere\nwas a strange thought, and Rikud's brain\n whirled once more down the tortuous course of half-formed questions and\n unsatisfactory answers.\n\n\n He had even wondered what it was like to get hurt. No one ever got\n hurt. Once, here in this same ray room, he had had the impulse to hurl\n himself head-first against the wall, just to see what would happen.\n But something soft had cushioned the impact—something which had come\n into being just for the moment and then abruptly passed into non-being\n again, something which was as impalpable as air.", "Rikud grabbed Chuls' blouse with his big fist. Then, startled by what\n he did, his hands began to tremble. But he held on, and he tugged at\n the blouse.\n\n\n \"Stop that,\" said the older man, mildly.\nCrifer hopped up and down. \"Look what Rikud's doing! I don't know what\n he's doing, but look. He's holding Chuls' blouse.\"\n\n\n \"Stop that,\" repeated Chuls, his face reddening.\n\n\n \"Only if you'll go with me.\" Rikud was panting.\n\n\n Chuls tugged at his wrist. By this time a crowd had gathered. Some of\n them watched Crifer jump up and down, but most of them watched Rikud\n holding Chuls' blouse.\n\n\n \"I think I can do that,\" declared Wilm, clutching a fistful of Crifer's\n shirt.", "They were strangely shaped in some ways, and yet in others completely\n human, and their voices were high, like singing. Rikud found them oddly\n exciting. He liked them. He liked the garden, for all its hugeness.\n With so many people, and especially now with women, he was not afraid.\n\n\n It was much better than the small world of machinery, buzzer,\n frightening doors and women by appointment only.\n\n\n Rikud felt at home.", "Differently.\nHe had long wondered about the door in the back of the library, and\n now, as Crifer sat cross-legged on one of the dusty tables, reading\n machine and book on astronomy or stars in his lap, Rikud approached the\n door.\n\n\n \"What's in here?\" he demanded.\n\n\n \"It's a door, I think,\" said Crifer.\n\n\n \"I know, but what's beyond it?\"\n\n\n \"Beyond it? Oh, you mean\nthrough\nthe door.\"\n\n\n \"Yes.\"\n\n\n \"Well,\" Crifer scratched his head, \"I don't think anyone ever opened\n it. It's only a door.\"\n\n\n \"I will,\" said Rikud.\n\n\n \"You will what?\"\n\n\n \"Open it. Open the door and look inside.\"", "He found a metal rod, bright and shiny, three feet long and half as\n wide as his arm. He tugged at it and it came loose from the wires that\n held it in place. He hefted it carefully for a moment, and then he\n swung the bar into the mass of metal. Each time he heard a grinding,\n crashing sound. He looked as the gears and cogs and wheels crumbled\n under his blows, shattered by the strength of his arm.\nAlmost casually he strode about the room, but his blows were not\n casual. Soon his easy strides had given way to frenzied running. Rikud\n smashed everything in sight.\n\n\n When the lights winked out, he stopped. Anyway, by that time the room\n was a shambles of twisted, broken metal. He laughed, softly at first,\n but presently he was roaring, and the sound doubled and redoubled in\n his ears because now the throbbing had stopped.", "Rikud screamed and hurtled back through the corridor, and his face\n was so terrible in the light streaming in through the viewport that\n everyone fled before him. He stumbled again in the place of the\n machinery, and down on his hands and knees he fondled the bits of metal\n which he could see in the dim light through the open door.\n\n\n \"Where's the buzzer?\" he sobbed. \"I must find the buzzer.\"\n\n\n Crifer's voice, from the darkness inside, said, \"You broke it. You\n broke it. And now we will break you—\"\n\n\n Rikud got up and ran. He reached the door again and then he slipped\n down against it, exhausted. Behind him, the voices and the footsteps\n came, and soon he saw Crifer's head peer in through the passageway.\n Then there were others, and then they were walking toward him.", "Rikud had been stopped in this action, although there was no real\n authority to stop him. This puzzled him, because somehow he felt that\n there should have been authority. A long time ago the reading machine\n in the library had told him of the elders—a meaningless term—who had\n governed the world. They told you to do something and you did it, but\n that was silly, because now no one told you to do anything. You only\n listened to the buzzer.", "That was maddening. Rikud turned again to the port, where he could see\n nothing but an obscuring cloud of white vapor, murky, swirling, more\n confusing than ever.\n\n\n \"Chuls,\" he called, remembering, \"come here.\"\n\n\n \"I am here,\" said a voice at his elbow.\n\n\n Rikud whirled on the little figure and pointed to the swirling cloud of\n vapor. \"What do you see?\"\n\n\n Chuls looked. \"The viewport, of course.\"\n\n\n \"What else?\"\n\n\n \"Else? Nothing.\"\n\n\n Anger welled up inside Rikud. \"All right,\" he said, \"listen. What do\n you hear?\"\n\n\n \"Broom, brroom, brrroom!\" Chuls imitated the intermittent blasting of\n the engines. \"I'm hungry, Rikud.\"", "A hand reached out in the darkness and grabbed at his head. He heard\n Crifer's voice. \"I have Rikud's head.\" The voice was nasty, hostile.\n\n\n Crifer, more than anyone, had been his friend. But now that he had\n broken the machinery, Crifer was his enemy, because Crifer came nearer\n to understanding the situation than anyone except Rikud.\n\n\n The hand reached out again, and it struck Rikud hard across the face.\n \"I hit him! I hit him!\"", "If anyone else had noticed the change, he failed to mention it. This\n disturbed Rikud, although he could not tell why. And, because he had\n realized this odd difference in himself, he kept it locked up inside\n him.\n\n\n Today, space looked somehow different. The stars—it was a meaningless\n concept to Rikud, but that was what everyone called the bright\n pinpoints of light on the black backdrop in the viewport—were not\n apparent in the speckled profusion Rikud had always known. Instead,\n there was more of the blackness, and one very bright star set apart\n by itself in the middle of the viewport.\n\n\n If he had understood the term, Rikud would have told himself this was\n odd. His head ached with the half-born thought. It was—it was—what\n was it?\n\n\n Someone was clomping up the companionway behind Rikud. He turned and\n greeted gray-haired old Chuls.", "Only this one was different. In it Rikud saw the viewport. But how? The\n viewport stood on the other end of the world. It did seem smaller, and,\n although it looked out on the garden, Rikud sensed that the topography\n was different. Then the garden extended even farther than he had\n thought. It was endless, extending all the way to a ridge of mounds way\n off in the distance.\n\n\n And this door one could walk through, into the garden. Rikud put his\n hand on the door, all the while watching the garden through the new\n viewport. He began to turn the handle.\n\n\n Then he trembled.\n\n\n What would he do out in the garden?", "And Rikud could remember the rest of what the reading machine had said.\n There had been a revolt—again a term without any real meaning, a term\n that could have no reality outside of the reading machine—and the\n elders were overthrown. Here Rikud had been lost utterly. The people\n had decided that they did not know where they were going, or why, and\n that it was unfair that the elders alone had this authority. They were\n born and they lived and they died as the elders directed, like little\n cogs in a great machine. Much of this Rikud could not understand, but\n he knew enough to realize that the reading machine had sided with the\n people against the elders, and it said the people had won.", "\"Changing?\" Crifer questioned the fuzzy concept as much as he\n questioned what it might mean in this particular case.\n\n\n \"Yes, there are less of them, and one is bigger and brighter than the\n others.\"\n\n\n \"Astronomy says some stars are variable,\" Crifer offered, but Rikud\n knew his lame-footed companion understood the word no better than he\n did.\n\n\n Over on Rikud's right, Chuls began to dress. \"Variability,\" he told\n them, \"is a contradictory term. Nothing is variable. It can't be.\"\n\n\n \"I'm only saying what I read in the book,\" Crifer protested mildly.\n\n\n \"Well, it's wrong. Variability and change are two words without\n meaning.\"\n\n\n \"People grow old,\" Rikud suggested.", "But if he didn't open the door and go into the garden outside, he would\n die because he had no food and no water and his stomach gurgled and\n grumbled and hurt. And everyone was chasing him.\n\n\n He stumbled through the darkness and felt his way back to the library,\n through the inner door and into the room with the voice—but the\n voice didn't speak this time—through its door and into the place of\n machinery. Behind him, he could hear the voices at the first door, and\n he thought for a moment that no one would come after him. But he heard\n Crifer yell something, and then feet pounding in the passage.\n\n\n Rikud tripped over something and sprawled awkwardly across the floor.\n He felt a sharp hurt in his head, and when he reached up to touch it\n with his hands there in the darkness, his fingers came away wet.", "Under the tube at Rikud's left lay Crifer. The man was short and heavy\n through the shoulders and chest, and he had a lame foot. Every time\n Rikud looked at that foot, it was with a sense of satisfaction. True,\n this was the only case of its kind, the exception to the rule, but it\n proved the world was not perfect. Rikud was guiltily glad when he saw\n Crifer limp.\n\n\n But, if anyone else saw it, he never said a word. Not even Crifer.\nNow Crifer said, \"I've been reading again, Rikud.\"\n\n\n \"Yes?\" Almost no one read any more, and the library was heavy with the\n smell of dust. Reading represented initiative on the part of Crifer; it\n meant that, in the two unoccupied hours before sleep, he went to the\n library and listened to the reading machine. Everyone else simply sat\n about and talked. That was the custom. Everyone did it." ], [ "Rikud muttered to himself and undressed. The world had begun to annoy\n him. Now why shouldn't a man be permitted to do what he wanted, when\n he wanted to do it?\nThere\nwas a strange thought, and Rikud's brain\n whirled once more down the tortuous course of half-formed questions and\n unsatisfactory answers.\n\n\n He had even wondered what it was like to get hurt. No one ever got\n hurt. Once, here in this same ray room, he had had the impulse to hurl\n himself head-first against the wall, just to see what would happen.\n But something soft had cushioned the impact—something which had come\n into being just for the moment and then abruptly passed into non-being\n again, something which was as impalpable as air.", "And when Chuls looked away in disinterest, Rikud became angry. If only\n the man would realize! If only anyone would realize! It all seemed so\n obvious. If he, Rikud, walked from one part of the world to another,\n it was with a purpose—to eat, or to sleep, or perhaps to bathe in the\n health-rays. Now if the world had walked from—somewhere, through the\n vast star-speckled darkness and to the great garden outside, this also\n was purposeful. The world had arrived at the garden for a reason. But\n if everyone lived as if the world still stood in blackness, how could\n they find the nature of that purpose?\n\n\n \"I will eat,\" Chuls said, breaking Rikud's revery.\n\n\n Damn the man, all he did was eat!\n\n\n Yet he did have initiative after a sort. He knew when to eat. Because\n he was hungry.\n\n\n And Rikud, too, was hungry.", "Rikud had been stopped in this action, although there was no real\n authority to stop him. This puzzled him, because somehow he felt that\n there should have been authority. A long time ago the reading machine\n in the library had told him of the elders—a meaningless term—who had\n governed the world. They told you to do something and you did it, but\n that was silly, because now no one told you to do anything. You only\n listened to the buzzer.", "Somehow, Rikud knew this question for a healthy sign. But he could\n not tell them of his most amazing thought of all. The change in the\n viewport could mean only one thing. The world had been walking—the\n word seemed all wrong to Rikud, but he could think of no other, unless\n it were running. The world had been walking somewhere. That somewhere\n was the garden and the world had arrived.\n\n\n \"It is an old picture of the garden,\" Chuls suggested, \"and the plants\n are different.\"\n\n\n \"Then they've changed?\"\n\n\n \"No, merely different.\"\n\n\n \"Well, what about the viewport?\nIt\nchanged. Where are the stars?\n Where are they, Chuls, if it did not change?\"\n\n\n \"The stars come out at night.\"\n\n\n \"So there is a change from day to night!\"", "Startled, Rikud leaped back. The sullen roar in the rear of the world\n had ceased abruptly. Instead an ominous silence, broken at regular\n intervals by a sharp booming.\n\n\n Change—\n\n\n \"Won't you eat, Rikud?\" Chuls called from somewhere down below.\n\n\n \"Damn the man,\" Rikud thought. Then aloud: \"Yes, I'll eat. Later.\"\n\n\n \"It's time....\" Chuls' voice trailed off again, impotently.\n\n\n But Rikud forgot the old man completely. A new idea occurred to him,\n and for a while he struggled with it. What he saw—what he had always\n seen, except that now there was the added factor of change—perhaps did\n not exist\nin\nthe viewport.\n\n\n Maybe it existed\nthrough\nthe viewport.", "This frightened Rikud, although he didn't know why. He'd like it,\n though. Maybe then he could take them outside with him to the big\n garden of the two viewports. And then he wouldn't be afraid because he\n could huddle close to them and he wouldn't be alone.\nRikud heard the throbbing again as he stood in the room of the\n machinery. For a long time he watched the wheels and cogs and gears\n spinning and humming. He watched for he knew not how long. And then he\n began to wonder. If he destroyed the wheels and the cogs and the gears,\n would the buzzer stop? It probably would, because, as Rikud saw it, he\n was clearly an \"unauthorized person.\" He had heard the voice again\n upon entering the room.", "The old man turned and strode off down the corridor toward the dining\n room, and Rikud was glad to be alone once more.\nNow the vapor had departed, except for a few tenuous whisps. For a\n moment Rikud thought he could see the gardens rearward in the world.\n But that was silly. What were the gardens doing in the viewport? And\n besides, Rikud had the distinct feeling that here was something far\n vaster than the gardens, although all of it existed in the viewport\n which was no wider than the length of his body. The gardens, moreover,\n did not jump and dance before his eyes the way the viewport gardens\n did. Nor did they spin. Nor did the trees grow larger with every jolt.\n\n\n Rikud sat down hard. He blinked.", "Other hands reached out, and Rikud stumbled. He fell and then someone\n was on top of him, and he struggled. He rolled and was up again, and\n he did not like the sound of the angry voices. Someone said, \"Let us\n do to Rikud what he said he did to the machinery.\" Rikud ran. In the\n darkness, his feet prodded many bodies. There were those who were too\n weak to rise. Rikud, too, felt a strange light-headedness and a gnawing\n hurt in his stomach. But it didn't matter. He heard the angry voices\n and the feet pounding behind him, and he wanted only to get away.\n\n\n It was dark and he was hungry and everyone who was strong enough to run\n was chasing him, but every time he thought of the garden outside, and\n how big it was, the darkness and the hunger and the people chasing him\n were unimportant. It was so big that it would swallow him up completely\n and positively.\n\n\n He became sickly giddy thinking about it.", "They were strangely shaped in some ways, and yet in others completely\n human, and their voices were high, like singing. Rikud found them oddly\n exciting. He liked them. He liked the garden, for all its hugeness.\n With so many people, and especially now with women, he was not afraid.\n\n\n It was much better than the small world of machinery, buzzer,\n frightening doors and women by appointment only.\n\n\n Rikud felt at home.", "The world had come to rest on the garden of the viewport.\nFor a whole week that view did not change, and Rikud had come to accept\n it as fact. There—through the viewport and in it—was a garden. A\n garden larger than the entire world, a garden of plants which Rikud had\n never seen before, although he had always liked to stroll through the\n world's garden and he had come to know every plant well. Nevertheless,\n it was a garden.\n\n\n He told Chuls, but Chuls had responded, \"It is the viewport.\"\n\n\n Crifer, on the other hand, wasn't so sure. \"It looks like the garden,\"\n he admitted to Rikud. \"But why should the garden be in the viewport?\"", "Under the tube at Rikud's left lay Crifer. The man was short and heavy\n through the shoulders and chest, and he had a lame foot. Every time\n Rikud looked at that foot, it was with a sense of satisfaction. True,\n this was the only case of its kind, the exception to the rule, but it\n proved the world was not perfect. Rikud was guiltily glad when he saw\n Crifer limp.\n\n\n But, if anyone else saw it, he never said a word. Not even Crifer.\nNow Crifer said, \"I've been reading again, Rikud.\"\n\n\n \"Yes?\" Almost no one read any more, and the library was heavy with the\n smell of dust. Reading represented initiative on the part of Crifer; it\n meant that, in the two unoccupied hours before sleep, he went to the\n library and listened to the reading machine. Everyone else simply sat\n about and talked. That was the custom. Everyone did it.", "That was maddening. Rikud turned again to the port, where he could see\n nothing but an obscuring cloud of white vapor, murky, swirling, more\n confusing than ever.\n\n\n \"Chuls,\" he called, remembering, \"come here.\"\n\n\n \"I am here,\" said a voice at his elbow.\n\n\n Rikud whirled on the little figure and pointed to the swirling cloud of\n vapor. \"What do you see?\"\n\n\n Chuls looked. \"The viewport, of course.\"\n\n\n \"What else?\"\n\n\n \"Else? Nothing.\"\n\n\n Anger welled up inside Rikud. \"All right,\" he said, \"listen. What do\n you hear?\"\n\n\n \"Broom, brroom, brrroom!\" Chuls imitated the intermittent blasting of\n the engines. \"I'm hungry, Rikud.\"", "Only this one was different. In it Rikud saw the viewport. But how? The\n viewport stood on the other end of the world. It did seem smaller, and,\n although it looked out on the garden, Rikud sensed that the topography\n was different. Then the garden extended even farther than he had\n thought. It was endless, extending all the way to a ridge of mounds way\n off in the distance.\n\n\n And this door one could walk through, into the garden. Rikud put his\n hand on the door, all the while watching the garden through the new\n viewport. He began to turn the handle.\n\n\n Then he trembled.\n\n\n What would he do out in the garden?", "And Rikud could remember the rest of what the reading machine had said.\n There had been a revolt—again a term without any real meaning, a term\n that could have no reality outside of the reading machine—and the\n elders were overthrown. Here Rikud had been lost utterly. The people\n had decided that they did not know where they were going, or why, and\n that it was unfair that the elders alone had this authority. They were\n born and they lived and they died as the elders directed, like little\n cogs in a great machine. Much of this Rikud could not understand, but\n he knew enough to realize that the reading machine had sided with the\n people against the elders, and it said the people had won.", "He stared out into the garden, and off into the distance, where the\n blue-white globe which might have been a star stood just above the row\n of mounds.\nCrifer was tugging at him, trying to pull him away from the door, and\n someone was grabbing at his legs, trying to make him fall. He kicked\n out and the hands let go, and then he turned the handle and shoved the\n weight of his body with all his strength against the door.\n\n\n It opened and he stepped outside into the warmth.\n\n\n The air was fresh, fresher than any air Rikud had ever breathed. He\n walked around aimlessly, touching the plants and bending down to feel\n the floor, and sometimes he looked at the blue-white globe on the\n horizon. It was all very beautiful.", "Crifer growled. \"I know. You shouldn't have done it. That was a bad\n thing you did, Rikud.\"\n\n\n \"It was not bad. The world has moved through the blackness and the\n stars and now we should go outside to live in the big garden there\n beyond the viewport.\"\n\n\n \"That's ridiculous,\" Chuls said.\n\n\n Even Crifer now was angry at Rikud. \"He broke the buzzer and no one can\n eat. I hate Rikud, I think.\"\n\n\n There was a lot of noise in the darkness, and someone else said, \"I\n hate Rikud.\" Then everyone was saying it.\n\n\n Rikud was sad. Soon he would die, because no one would go outside with\n him and he could not go outside alone. In five more years he would have\n had a woman, too. He wondered if it was dark and hungry in the women's\n quarters. Did women eat?", "He got up slowly and opened the next door. The voices behind him were\n closer now. Light streamed in through the viewport. After the darkness,\n it frightened Rikud and it made his eyes smart, and he could hear those\n behind him retreating to a safe distance. But their voices were not\n far away, and he knew they would come after him because they wanted to\n break him.\n\n\n Rikud looked out upon the garden and he trembled. Out there was life.\n The garden stretched off in unthinkable immensity to the cluster of\n low mounds against the bright blue which roofed the many plants. If\n plants could live out there as they did within the world, then so could\n people. Rikud and his people\nshould\n. This was why the world had moved\n across the darkness and the stars for all Rikud's lifetime and more.\n But he was afraid.", "But if he wasn't reading himself, Rikud usually went to sleep. All the\n people ever talked about was what they had done during the day, and it\n was always the same.\n\n\n \"Yes,\" said Crifer. \"I found a book about the stars. They're also\n called astronomy, I think.\"\n\n\n This was a new thought to Rikud, and he propped his head up on one\n elbow. \"What did you find out?\"\n\n\n \"That's about all. They're just called astronomy, I think.\"\n\n\n \"Well, where's the book?\" Rikud would read it tomorrow.\n\n\n \"I left it in the library. You can find several of them under\n 'astronomy,' with a cross-reference under 'stars.' They're synonymous\n terms.\"\n\n\n \"You know,\" Rikud said, sitting up now, \"the stars in the viewport are\n changing.\"", "Rikud screamed and hurtled back through the corridor, and his face\n was so terrible in the light streaming in through the viewport that\n everyone fled before him. He stumbled again in the place of the\n machinery, and down on his hands and knees he fondled the bits of metal\n which he could see in the dim light through the open door.\n\n\n \"Where's the buzzer?\" he sobbed. \"I must find the buzzer.\"\n\n\n Crifer's voice, from the darkness inside, said, \"You broke it. You\n broke it. And now we will break you—\"\n\n\n Rikud got up and ran. He reached the door again and then he slipped\n down against it, exhausted. Behind him, the voices and the footsteps\n came, and soon he saw Crifer's head peer in through the passageway.\n Then there were others, and then they were walking toward him.", "Whimpering, he fled.\nAll around Rikud were darkness and hunger and thirst. The buzzer did\n not sound because Rikud had silenced it forever. And no one went to\n eat or drink. Rikud himself had fumbled through the blackness and the\n whimpering to the dining room, his tongue dry and swollen, but the\n smooth belt that flowed with water and with savory dishes did not run\n any more. The machinery, Rikud realized, also was responsible for food.\n\n\n Chuls said, over and over, \"I'm hungry.\"\n\n\n \"We will eat and we will drink when the buzzer tells us,\" Wilm replied\n confidently.\n\n\n \"It won't any more,\" Rikud said.\n\n\n \"What won't?\"\n\n\n \"The buzzer will never sound again. I broke it.\"" ], [ "Under the tube at Rikud's left lay Crifer. The man was short and heavy\n through the shoulders and chest, and he had a lame foot. Every time\n Rikud looked at that foot, it was with a sense of satisfaction. True,\n this was the only case of its kind, the exception to the rule, but it\n proved the world was not perfect. Rikud was guiltily glad when he saw\n Crifer limp.\n\n\n But, if anyone else saw it, he never said a word. Not even Crifer.\nNow Crifer said, \"I've been reading again, Rikud.\"\n\n\n \"Yes?\" Almost no one read any more, and the library was heavy with the\n smell of dust. Reading represented initiative on the part of Crifer; it\n meant that, in the two unoccupied hours before sleep, he went to the\n library and listened to the reading machine. Everyone else simply sat\n about and talked. That was the custom. Everyone did it.", "\"What are you doing that for?\" demanded Wilm, who was shorter even than\n Crifer, but had no lame foot.\n\n\n \"Doing what?\"\n\n\n \"Speaking so loudly when Chuls, who is close, obviously has no trouble\n hearing you.\"\n\n\n \"Maybe yelling will make him understand.\"\n\n\n Crifer hobbled about on his good foot, doing a meaningless little jig.\n \"Why don't we go see?\" he suggested. Then, confused, he frowned.\n\n\n \"Well, I won't go,\" Chuls replied. \"There's no reason to go. If Rikud\n has been imagining things, why should I?\"\n\n\n \"I imagined nothing. I'll show you—\"\n\n\n \"You'll show me nothing because I won't go.\"", "He reached up and grasped the handle of the door and he saw that his\n fingers were red with the wetness which had come from his hurt head.\n Slowly he slipped to the cool floor—how his head was burning!—and for\n a long time he lay there, thinking he would never rise again. Inside he\n heard the voices again, and soon a foot and then another pounded on\n the metal of the passage. He heard Crifer's voice louder than the rest:\n \"There is Rikud on the floor!\"\n\n\n Tugging at the handle of the door, Rikud pulled himself upright.\n Something small and brown scurried across the other side of the\n viewport and Rikud imagined it turned to look at him with two hideous\n red eyes.", "Rikud screamed and hurtled back through the corridor, and his face\n was so terrible in the light streaming in through the viewport that\n everyone fled before him. He stumbled again in the place of the\n machinery, and down on his hands and knees he fondled the bits of metal\n which he could see in the dim light through the open door.\n\n\n \"Where's the buzzer?\" he sobbed. \"I must find the buzzer.\"\n\n\n Crifer's voice, from the darkness inside, said, \"You broke it. You\n broke it. And now we will break you—\"\n\n\n Rikud got up and ran. He reached the door again and then he slipped\n down against it, exhausted. Behind him, the voices and the footsteps\n came, and soon he saw Crifer's head peer in through the passageway.\n Then there were others, and then they were walking toward him.", "Differently.\nHe had long wondered about the door in the back of the library, and\n now, as Crifer sat cross-legged on one of the dusty tables, reading\n machine and book on astronomy or stars in his lap, Rikud approached the\n door.\n\n\n \"What's in here?\" he demanded.\n\n\n \"It's a door, I think,\" said Crifer.\n\n\n \"I know, but what's beyond it?\"\n\n\n \"Beyond it? Oh, you mean\nthrough\nthe door.\"\n\n\n \"Yes.\"\n\n\n \"Well,\" Crifer scratched his head, \"I don't think anyone ever opened\n it. It's only a door.\"\n\n\n \"I will,\" said Rikud.\n\n\n \"You will what?\"\n\n\n \"Open it. Open the door and look inside.\"", "A hand reached out in the darkness and grabbed at his head. He heard\n Crifer's voice. \"I have Rikud's head.\" The voice was nasty, hostile.\n\n\n Crifer, more than anyone, had been his friend. But now that he had\n broken the machinery, Crifer was his enemy, because Crifer came nearer\n to understanding the situation than anyone except Rikud.\n\n\n The hand reached out again, and it struck Rikud hard across the face.\n \"I hit him! I hit him!\"", "Rikud grabbed Chuls' blouse with his big fist. Then, startled by what\n he did, his hands began to tremble. But he held on, and he tugged at\n the blouse.\n\n\n \"Stop that,\" said the older man, mildly.\nCrifer hopped up and down. \"Look what Rikud's doing! I don't know what\n he's doing, but look. He's holding Chuls' blouse.\"\n\n\n \"Stop that,\" repeated Chuls, his face reddening.\n\n\n \"Only if you'll go with me.\" Rikud was panting.\n\n\n Chuls tugged at his wrist. By this time a crowd had gathered. Some of\n them watched Crifer jump up and down, but most of them watched Rikud\n holding Chuls' blouse.\n\n\n \"I think I can do that,\" declared Wilm, clutching a fistful of Crifer's\n shirt.", "He stared out into the garden, and off into the distance, where the\n blue-white globe which might have been a star stood just above the row\n of mounds.\nCrifer was tugging at him, trying to pull him away from the door, and\n someone was grabbing at his legs, trying to make him fall. He kicked\n out and the hands let go, and then he turned the handle and shoved the\n weight of his body with all his strength against the door.\n\n\n It opened and he stepped outside into the warmth.\n\n\n The air was fresh, fresher than any air Rikud had ever breathed. He\n walked around aimlessly, touching the plants and bending down to feel\n the floor, and sometimes he looked at the blue-white globe on the\n horizon. It was all very beautiful.", "But if he didn't open the door and go into the garden outside, he would\n die because he had no food and no water and his stomach gurgled and\n grumbled and hurt. And everyone was chasing him.\n\n\n He stumbled through the darkness and felt his way back to the library,\n through the inner door and into the room with the voice—but the\n voice didn't speak this time—through its door and into the place of\n machinery. Behind him, he could hear the voices at the first door, and\n he thought for a moment that no one would come after him. But he heard\n Crifer yell something, and then feet pounding in the passage.\n\n\n Rikud tripped over something and sprawled awkwardly across the floor.\n He felt a sharp hurt in his head, and when he reached up to touch it\n with his hands there in the darkness, his fingers came away wet.", "He couldn't go alone. He'd die of the strangeness. It was a silly\n thought; no one ever died of anything until he was a hundred. Rikud\n couldn't fathom the rapid thumping of his heart. And Rikud's mouth felt\n dry; he wanted to swallow, but couldn't.\n\n\n Slowly, he took his hand off the door lever. He made his way back\n through the tunnel and then through the room of machinery and finally\n through the little room with the confusing voice to Crifer.\n\n\n By the time he reached the lame-footed man, Rikud was running. He did\n not dare once to look back. He stood shaking at Crifer's side, and\n sweat covered him in a clammy film. He never wanted to look at the\n garden again. Not when he knew there was a door through which he could\n walk and then might find himself in the garden.", "They were strangely shaped in some ways, and yet in others completely\n human, and their voices were high, like singing. Rikud found them oddly\n exciting. He liked them. He liked the garden, for all its hugeness.\n With so many people, and especially now with women, he was not afraid.\n\n\n It was much better than the small world of machinery, buzzer,\n frightening doors and women by appointment only.\n\n\n Rikud felt at home.", "This frightened Rikud, although he didn't know why. He'd like it,\n though. Maybe then he could take them outside with him to the big\n garden of the two viewports. And then he wouldn't be afraid because he\n could huddle close to them and he wouldn't be alone.\nRikud heard the throbbing again as he stood in the room of the\n machinery. For a long time he watched the wheels and cogs and gears\n spinning and humming. He watched for he knew not how long. And then he\n began to wonder. If he destroyed the wheels and the cogs and the gears,\n would the buzzer stop? It probably would, because, as Rikud saw it, he\n was clearly an \"unauthorized person.\" He had heard the voice again\n upon entering the room.", "He found a metal rod, bright and shiny, three feet long and half as\n wide as his arm. He tugged at it and it came loose from the wires that\n held it in place. He hefted it carefully for a moment, and then he\n swung the bar into the mass of metal. Each time he heard a grinding,\n crashing sound. He looked as the gears and cogs and wheels crumbled\n under his blows, shattered by the strength of his arm.\nAlmost casually he strode about the room, but his blows were not\n casual. Soon his easy strides had given way to frenzied running. Rikud\n smashed everything in sight.\n\n\n When the lights winked out, he stopped. Anyway, by that time the room\n was a shambles of twisted, broken metal. He laughed, softly at first,\n but presently he was roaring, and the sound doubled and redoubled in\n his ears because now the throbbing had stopped.", "And when Chuls looked away in disinterest, Rikud became angry. If only\n the man would realize! If only anyone would realize! It all seemed so\n obvious. If he, Rikud, walked from one part of the world to another,\n it was with a purpose—to eat, or to sleep, or perhaps to bathe in the\n health-rays. Now if the world had walked from—somewhere, through the\n vast star-speckled darkness and to the great garden outside, this also\n was purposeful. The world had arrived at the garden for a reason. But\n if everyone lived as if the world still stood in blackness, how could\n they find the nature of that purpose?\n\n\n \"I will eat,\" Chuls said, breaking Rikud's revery.\n\n\n Damn the man, all he did was eat!\n\n\n Yet he did have initiative after a sort. He knew when to eat. Because\n he was hungry.\n\n\n And Rikud, too, was hungry.", "Rikud muttered to himself and undressed. The world had begun to annoy\n him. Now why shouldn't a man be permitted to do what he wanted, when\n he wanted to do it?\nThere\nwas a strange thought, and Rikud's brain\n whirled once more down the tortuous course of half-formed questions and\n unsatisfactory answers.\n\n\n He had even wondered what it was like to get hurt. No one ever got\n hurt. Once, here in this same ray room, he had had the impulse to hurl\n himself head-first against the wall, just to see what would happen.\n But something soft had cushioned the impact—something which had come\n into being just for the moment and then abruptly passed into non-being\n again, something which was as impalpable as air.", "Other hands reached out, and Rikud stumbled. He fell and then someone\n was on top of him, and he struggled. He rolled and was up again, and\n he did not like the sound of the angry voices. Someone said, \"Let us\n do to Rikud what he said he did to the machinery.\" Rikud ran. In the\n darkness, his feet prodded many bodies. There were those who were too\n weak to rise. Rikud, too, felt a strange light-headedness and a gnawing\n hurt in his stomach. But it didn't matter. He heard the angry voices\n and the feet pounding behind him, and he wanted only to get away.\n\n\n It was dark and he was hungry and everyone who was strong enough to run\n was chasing him, but every time he thought of the garden outside, and\n how big it was, the darkness and the hunger and the people chasing him\n were unimportant. It was so big that it would swallow him up completely\n and positively.\n\n\n He became sickly giddy thinking about it.", "Now in the health room, Rikud felt a warmth in the rays. Grudgingly, he\n had to admit to himself that it was not unpleasant. He could see the\n look of easy contentment on Chuls' face as the rays fanned down upon\n him, bathing his old body in a forgotten magic which, many generations\n before Rikud's time, had negated the necessity for a knowledge of\n medicine. But when, in another ten years, Chuls would perish of old\n age, the rays would no longer suffice. Nothing would, for Chuls. Rikud\n often thought of his own death, still seventy-five years in the future,\n not without a sense of alarm. Yet old Chuls seemed heedless, with only\n a decade to go.", "Near the ship, water that did not come from a machine gurgled across\n the land, and Rikud lay down and drank. It was cool and good, and when\n he got up, Crifer and Wilm were outside the world, and some of the\n others followed. They stood around for a long time before going to the\n water to drink.\nRikud sat down and tore off a piece of a plant, munching on it. It was\n good.\n\n\n Crifer picked his head up, from the water, his chin wet. \"Even feelings\n are variable. I don't hate you now, Rikud.\"\n\n\n Rikud smiled, staring at the ship. \"People are variable, too, Crifer.\n That is, if those creatures coming from the ship are people.\"\n\n\n \"They're women,\" said Crifer.", "Somehow, Rikud knew this question for a healthy sign. But he could\n not tell them of his most amazing thought of all. The change in the\n viewport could mean only one thing. The world had been walking—the\n word seemed all wrong to Rikud, but he could think of no other, unless\n it were running. The world had been walking somewhere. That somewhere\n was the garden and the world had arrived.\n\n\n \"It is an old picture of the garden,\" Chuls suggested, \"and the plants\n are different.\"\n\n\n \"Then they've changed?\"\n\n\n \"No, merely different.\"\n\n\n \"Well, what about the viewport?\nIt\nchanged. Where are the stars?\n Where are they, Chuls, if it did not change?\"\n\n\n \"The stars come out at night.\"\n\n\n \"So there is a change from day to night!\"", "That was maddening. Rikud turned again to the port, where he could see\n nothing but an obscuring cloud of white vapor, murky, swirling, more\n confusing than ever.\n\n\n \"Chuls,\" he called, remembering, \"come here.\"\n\n\n \"I am here,\" said a voice at his elbow.\n\n\n Rikud whirled on the little figure and pointed to the swirling cloud of\n vapor. \"What do you see?\"\n\n\n Chuls looked. \"The viewport, of course.\"\n\n\n \"What else?\"\n\n\n \"Else? Nothing.\"\n\n\n Anger welled up inside Rikud. \"All right,\" he said, \"listen. What do\n you hear?\"\n\n\n \"Broom, brroom, brrroom!\" Chuls imitated the intermittent blasting of\n the engines. \"I'm hungry, Rikud.\"" ], [ "Only this one was different. In it Rikud saw the viewport. But how? The\n viewport stood on the other end of the world. It did seem smaller, and,\n although it looked out on the garden, Rikud sensed that the topography\n was different. Then the garden extended even farther than he had\n thought. It was endless, extending all the way to a ridge of mounds way\n off in the distance.\n\n\n And this door one could walk through, into the garden. Rikud put his\n hand on the door, all the while watching the garden through the new\n viewport. He began to turn the handle.\n\n\n Then he trembled.\n\n\n What would he do out in the garden?", "That was maddening. Rikud turned again to the port, where he could see\n nothing but an obscuring cloud of white vapor, murky, swirling, more\n confusing than ever.\n\n\n \"Chuls,\" he called, remembering, \"come here.\"\n\n\n \"I am here,\" said a voice at his elbow.\n\n\n Rikud whirled on the little figure and pointed to the swirling cloud of\n vapor. \"What do you see?\"\n\n\n Chuls looked. \"The viewport, of course.\"\n\n\n \"What else?\"\n\n\n \"Else? Nothing.\"\n\n\n Anger welled up inside Rikud. \"All right,\" he said, \"listen. What do\n you hear?\"\n\n\n \"Broom, brroom, brrroom!\" Chuls imitated the intermittent blasting of\n the engines. \"I'm hungry, Rikud.\"", "The old man turned and strode off down the corridor toward the dining\n room, and Rikud was glad to be alone once more.\nNow the vapor had departed, except for a few tenuous whisps. For a\n moment Rikud thought he could see the gardens rearward in the world.\n But that was silly. What were the gardens doing in the viewport? And\n besides, Rikud had the distinct feeling that here was something far\n vaster than the gardens, although all of it existed in the viewport\n which was no wider than the length of his body. The gardens, moreover,\n did not jump and dance before his eyes the way the viewport gardens\n did. Nor did they spin. Nor did the trees grow larger with every jolt.\n\n\n Rikud sat down hard. He blinked.", "Somehow, Rikud knew this question for a healthy sign. But he could\n not tell them of his most amazing thought of all. The change in the\n viewport could mean only one thing. The world had been walking—the\n word seemed all wrong to Rikud, but he could think of no other, unless\n it were running. The world had been walking somewhere. That somewhere\n was the garden and the world had arrived.\n\n\n \"It is an old picture of the garden,\" Chuls suggested, \"and the plants\n are different.\"\n\n\n \"Then they've changed?\"\n\n\n \"No, merely different.\"\n\n\n \"Well, what about the viewport?\nIt\nchanged. Where are the stars?\n Where are they, Chuls, if it did not change?\"\n\n\n \"The stars come out at night.\"\n\n\n \"So there is a change from day to night!\"", "The world had come to rest on the garden of the viewport.\nFor a whole week that view did not change, and Rikud had come to accept\n it as fact. There—through the viewport and in it—was a garden. A\n garden larger than the entire world, a garden of plants which Rikud had\n never seen before, although he had always liked to stroll through the\n world's garden and he had come to know every plant well. Nevertheless,\n it was a garden.\n\n\n He told Chuls, but Chuls had responded, \"It is the viewport.\"\n\n\n Crifer, on the other hand, wasn't so sure. \"It looks like the garden,\"\n he admitted to Rikud. \"But why should the garden be in the viewport?\"", "Presently Rikud became aware that his eyes were not tearing any longer,\n and he turned to look at the viewport. What he saw now was so new that\n he couldn't at first accept it. Instead, he blinked and rubbed his\n eyes, sure that the ball of blue-white fire somehow had damaged them.\n But the new view persisted.\n\n\n Of stars there were few, and of the blackness, almost nothing. Gone,\n too, was the burning globe. Something loomed there in the port, so huge\n that it spread out over almost the entire surface. Something big and\n round, all grays and greens and browns, and something for which Rikud\n had no name.\n\n\n A few moments more, and Rikud no longer could see the sphere. A section\n of it had expanded outward and assumed the rectangular shape of the\n viewport, and its size as well. It seemed neatly sheered down the\n middle, so that on one side Rikud saw an expanse of brown and green,\n and on the other, blue.", "Startled, Rikud leaped back. The sullen roar in the rear of the world\n had ceased abruptly. Instead an ominous silence, broken at regular\n intervals by a sharp booming.\n\n\n Change—\n\n\n \"Won't you eat, Rikud?\" Chuls called from somewhere down below.\n\n\n \"Damn the man,\" Rikud thought. Then aloud: \"Yes, I'll eat. Later.\"\n\n\n \"It's time....\" Chuls' voice trailed off again, impotently.\n\n\n But Rikud forgot the old man completely. A new idea occurred to him,\n and for a while he struggled with it. What he saw—what he had always\n seen, except that now there was the added factor of change—perhaps did\n not exist\nin\nthe viewport.\n\n\n Maybe it existed\nthrough\nthe viewport.", "This frightened Rikud, although he didn't know why. He'd like it,\n though. Maybe then he could take them outside with him to the big\n garden of the two viewports. And then he wouldn't be afraid because he\n could huddle close to them and he wouldn't be alone.\nRikud heard the throbbing again as he stood in the room of the\n machinery. For a long time he watched the wheels and cogs and gears\n spinning and humming. He watched for he knew not how long. And then he\n began to wonder. If he destroyed the wheels and the cogs and the gears,\n would the buzzer stop? It probably would, because, as Rikud saw it, he\n was clearly an \"unauthorized person.\" He had heard the voice again\n upon entering the room.", "He opened the door and ran through the little corridor to the smaller\n viewport. Outside he could see the stars, and, dimly, the terrain\n beneath them. But everything was so dark that only the stars shone\n clearly. All else was bathed in a shadow of unreality.\n\n\n Rikud never wanted to do anything more than he wanted to open that\n door. But his hands trembled too much when he touched it, and once,\n when he pressed his face close against the viewport, there in the\n darkness, something bright flashed briefly through the sky and was gone.", "He got up slowly and opened the next door. The voices behind him were\n closer now. Light streamed in through the viewport. After the darkness,\n it frightened Rikud and it made his eyes smart, and he could hear those\n behind him retreating to a safe distance. But their voices were not\n far away, and he knew they would come after him because they wanted to\n break him.\n\n\n Rikud looked out upon the garden and he trembled. Out there was life.\n The garden stretched off in unthinkable immensity to the cluster of\n low mounds against the bright blue which roofed the many plants. If\n plants could live out there as they did within the world, then so could\n people. Rikud and his people\nshould\n. This was why the world had moved\n across the darkness and the stars for all Rikud's lifetime and more.\n But he was afraid.", "Rikud screamed and hurtled back through the corridor, and his face\n was so terrible in the light streaming in through the viewport that\n everyone fled before him. He stumbled again in the place of the\n machinery, and down on his hands and knees he fondled the bits of metal\n which he could see in the dim light through the open door.\n\n\n \"Where's the buzzer?\" he sobbed. \"I must find the buzzer.\"\n\n\n Crifer's voice, from the darkness inside, said, \"You broke it. You\n broke it. And now we will break you—\"\n\n\n Rikud got up and ran. He reached the door again and then he slipped\n down against it, exhausted. Behind him, the voices and the footsteps\n came, and soon he saw Crifer's head peer in through the passageway.\n Then there were others, and then they were walking toward him.", "He reached up and grasped the handle of the door and he saw that his\n fingers were red with the wetness which had come from his hurt head.\n Slowly he slipped to the cool floor—how his head was burning!—and for\n a long time he lay there, thinking he would never rise again. Inside he\n heard the voices again, and soon a foot and then another pounded on\n the metal of the passage. He heard Crifer's voice louder than the rest:\n \"There is Rikud on the floor!\"\n\n\n Tugging at the handle of the door, Rikud pulled himself upright.\n Something small and brown scurried across the other side of the\n viewport and Rikud imagined it turned to look at him with two hideous\n red eyes.", "And when Chuls looked away in disinterest, Rikud became angry. If only\n the man would realize! If only anyone would realize! It all seemed so\n obvious. If he, Rikud, walked from one part of the world to another,\n it was with a purpose—to eat, or to sleep, or perhaps to bathe in the\n health-rays. Now if the world had walked from—somewhere, through the\n vast star-speckled darkness and to the great garden outside, this also\n was purposeful. The world had arrived at the garden for a reason. But\n if everyone lived as if the world still stood in blackness, how could\n they find the nature of that purpose?\n\n\n \"I will eat,\" Chuls said, breaking Rikud's revery.\n\n\n Damn the man, all he did was eat!\n\n\n Yet he did have initiative after a sort. He knew when to eat. Because\n he was hungry.\n\n\n And Rikud, too, was hungry.", "It was so big.\nThree or four days passed before Rikud calmed himself enough to\n talk about his experience. When he did, only Crifer seemed at all\n interested, yet the lame-footed man's mind was inadequate to cope with\n the situation. He suggested that the viewport might also be variable\n and Rikud found himself wishing that his friend had never read that\n book on astronomy.\n\n\n Chuls did not believe Rikud at all. \"There are not that many doors in\n the world,\" he said. \"The library has a door and there is a door to the\n women's quarters; in five years, the Calculator will send you through\n that. But there are no others.\"\n\n\n Chuls smiled an indulgent smile and Rikud came nearer to him. \"Now, by\n the world, there are two other doors!\"\n\n\n Rikud began to shout, and everyone looked at him queerly.", "Differently.\nHe had long wondered about the door in the back of the library, and\n now, as Crifer sat cross-legged on one of the dusty tables, reading\n machine and book on astronomy or stars in his lap, Rikud approached the\n door.\n\n\n \"What's in here?\" he demanded.\n\n\n \"It's a door, I think,\" said Crifer.\n\n\n \"I know, but what's beyond it?\"\n\n\n \"Beyond it? Oh, you mean\nthrough\nthe door.\"\n\n\n \"Yes.\"\n\n\n \"Well,\" Crifer scratched his head, \"I don't think anyone ever opened\n it. It's only a door.\"\n\n\n \"I will,\" said Rikud.\n\n\n \"You will what?\"\n\n\n \"Open it. Open the door and look inside.\"", "Rikud muttered to himself and undressed. The world had begun to annoy\n him. Now why shouldn't a man be permitted to do what he wanted, when\n he wanted to do it?\nThere\nwas a strange thought, and Rikud's brain\n whirled once more down the tortuous course of half-formed questions and\n unsatisfactory answers.\n\n\n He had even wondered what it was like to get hurt. No one ever got\n hurt. Once, here in this same ray room, he had had the impulse to hurl\n himself head-first against the wall, just to see what would happen.\n But something soft had cushioned the impact—something which had come\n into being just for the moment and then abruptly passed into non-being\n again, something which was as impalpable as air.", "He stared out into the garden, and off into the distance, where the\n blue-white globe which might have been a star stood just above the row\n of mounds.\nCrifer was tugging at him, trying to pull him away from the door, and\n someone was grabbing at his legs, trying to make him fall. He kicked\n out and the hands let go, and then he turned the handle and shoved the\n weight of his body with all his strength against the door.\n\n\n It opened and he stepped outside into the warmth.\n\n\n The air was fresh, fresher than any air Rikud had ever breathed. He\n walked around aimlessly, touching the plants and bending down to feel\n the floor, and sometimes he looked at the blue-white globe on the\n horizon. It was all very beautiful.", "If anyone else had noticed the change, he failed to mention it. This\n disturbed Rikud, although he could not tell why. And, because he had\n realized this odd difference in himself, he kept it locked up inside\n him.\n\n\n Today, space looked somehow different. The stars—it was a meaningless\n concept to Rikud, but that was what everyone called the bright\n pinpoints of light on the black backdrop in the viewport—were not\n apparent in the speckled profusion Rikud had always known. Instead,\n there was more of the blackness, and one very bright star set apart\n by itself in the middle of the viewport.\n\n\n If he had understood the term, Rikud would have told himself this was\n odd. His head ached with the half-born thought. It was—it was—what\n was it?\n\n\n Someone was clomping up the companionway behind Rikud. He turned and\n greeted gray-haired old Chuls.", "They were strangely shaped in some ways, and yet in others completely\n human, and their voices were high, like singing. Rikud found them oddly\n exciting. He liked them. He liked the garden, for all its hugeness.\n With so many people, and especially now with women, he was not afraid.\n\n\n It was much better than the small world of machinery, buzzer,\n frightening doors and women by appointment only.\n\n\n Rikud felt at home.", "He found a metal rod, bright and shiny, three feet long and half as\n wide as his arm. He tugged at it and it came loose from the wires that\n held it in place. He hefted it carefully for a moment, and then he\n swung the bar into the mass of metal. Each time he heard a grinding,\n crashing sound. He looked as the gears and cogs and wheels crumbled\n under his blows, shattered by the strength of his arm.\nAlmost casually he strode about the room, but his blows were not\n casual. Soon his easy strides had given way to frenzied running. Rikud\n smashed everything in sight.\n\n\n When the lights winked out, he stopped. Anyway, by that time the room\n was a shambles of twisted, broken metal. He laughed, softly at first,\n but presently he was roaring, and the sound doubled and redoubled in\n his ears because now the throbbing had stopped." ], [ "Differently.\nHe had long wondered about the door in the back of the library, and\n now, as Crifer sat cross-legged on one of the dusty tables, reading\n machine and book on astronomy or stars in his lap, Rikud approached the\n door.\n\n\n \"What's in here?\" he demanded.\n\n\n \"It's a door, I think,\" said Crifer.\n\n\n \"I know, but what's beyond it?\"\n\n\n \"Beyond it? Oh, you mean\nthrough\nthe door.\"\n\n\n \"Yes.\"\n\n\n \"Well,\" Crifer scratched his head, \"I don't think anyone ever opened\n it. It's only a door.\"\n\n\n \"I will,\" said Rikud.\n\n\n \"You will what?\"\n\n\n \"Open it. Open the door and look inside.\"", "But if he didn't open the door and go into the garden outside, he would\n die because he had no food and no water and his stomach gurgled and\n grumbled and hurt. And everyone was chasing him.\n\n\n He stumbled through the darkness and felt his way back to the library,\n through the inner door and into the room with the voice—but the\n voice didn't speak this time—through its door and into the place of\n machinery. Behind him, he could hear the voices at the first door, and\n he thought for a moment that no one would come after him. But he heard\n Crifer yell something, and then feet pounding in the passage.\n\n\n Rikud tripped over something and sprawled awkwardly across the floor.\n He felt a sharp hurt in his head, and when he reached up to touch it\n with his hands there in the darkness, his fingers came away wet.", "He couldn't go alone. He'd die of the strangeness. It was a silly\n thought; no one ever died of anything until he was a hundred. Rikud\n couldn't fathom the rapid thumping of his heart. And Rikud's mouth felt\n dry; he wanted to swallow, but couldn't.\n\n\n Slowly, he took his hand off the door lever. He made his way back\n through the tunnel and then through the room of machinery and finally\n through the little room with the confusing voice to Crifer.\n\n\n By the time he reached the lame-footed man, Rikud was running. He did\n not dare once to look back. He stood shaking at Crifer's side, and\n sweat covered him in a clammy film. He never wanted to look at the\n garden again. Not when he knew there was a door through which he could\n walk and then might find himself in the garden.", "When he opened the door a strange new noise filled his ears, a gentle\n humming, punctuated by a\nthrob-throb-throb\nwhich sounded not unlike\n the booming of the engines last week, except that this new sound didn't\n blast nearly so loudly against his eardrums. And what met Rikud's\n eyes—he blinked and looked again, but it was still there—cogs and\n gears and wheels and nameless things all strange and beautiful because\n they shone with a luster unfamiliar to him.\n\n\n \"Odd,\" Rikud said aloud. Then he thought, \"Now there's a good word, but\n no one quite seems to know its meaning.\"\n\n\n Odder still was the third door. Rikud suddenly thought there might\n exist an endless succession of them, especially when the third one\n opened on a bare tunnel which led to yet another door.", "It was so big.\nThree or four days passed before Rikud calmed himself enough to\n talk about his experience. When he did, only Crifer seemed at all\n interested, yet the lame-footed man's mind was inadequate to cope with\n the situation. He suggested that the viewport might also be variable\n and Rikud found himself wishing that his friend had never read that\n book on astronomy.\n\n\n Chuls did not believe Rikud at all. \"There are not that many doors in\n the world,\" he said. \"The library has a door and there is a door to the\n women's quarters; in five years, the Calculator will send you through\n that. But there are no others.\"\n\n\n Chuls smiled an indulgent smile and Rikud came nearer to him. \"Now, by\n the world, there are two other doors!\"\n\n\n Rikud began to shout, and everyone looked at him queerly.", "A long pause. Then, \"Can you do it?\"\n\n\n \"I think so.\"\n\n\n \"You can't, probably. How can anyone go where no one has been before?\n There's nothing. It just isn't. It's only a door, Rikud.\"\n\n\n \"No—\" Rikud began, but the words faded off into a sharp intake of\n breath. Rikud had turned the knob and pushed. The door opened silently,\n and Crifer said, \"Doors are variable, too, I think.\"\n\n\n Rikud saw a small room, perhaps half a dozen paces across, at the other\n end of which was another door, just like the first. Halfway across,\n Rikud heard a voice not unlike that of the reading machine.", "He reached up and grasped the handle of the door and he saw that his\n fingers were red with the wetness which had come from his hurt head.\n Slowly he slipped to the cool floor—how his head was burning!—and for\n a long time he lay there, thinking he would never rise again. Inside he\n heard the voices again, and soon a foot and then another pounded on\n the metal of the passage. He heard Crifer's voice louder than the rest:\n \"There is Rikud on the floor!\"\n\n\n Tugging at the handle of the door, Rikud pulled himself upright.\n Something small and brown scurried across the other side of the\n viewport and Rikud imagined it turned to look at him with two hideous\n red eyes.", "Only this one was different. In it Rikud saw the viewport. But how? The\n viewport stood on the other end of the world. It did seem smaller, and,\n although it looked out on the garden, Rikud sensed that the topography\n was different. Then the garden extended even farther than he had\n thought. It was endless, extending all the way to a ridge of mounds way\n off in the distance.\n\n\n And this door one could walk through, into the garden. Rikud put his\n hand on the door, all the while watching the garden through the new\n viewport. He began to turn the handle.\n\n\n Then he trembled.\n\n\n What would he do out in the garden?", "He opened the door and ran through the little corridor to the smaller\n viewport. Outside he could see the stars, and, dimly, the terrain\n beneath them. But everything was so dark that only the stars shone\n clearly. All else was bathed in a shadow of unreality.\n\n\n Rikud never wanted to do anything more than he wanted to open that\n door. But his hands trembled too much when he touched it, and once,\n when he pressed his face close against the viewport, there in the\n darkness, something bright flashed briefly through the sky and was gone.", "He missed the beginning, but then:\n—therefore, permit no unauthorized persons to go through this\n door. The machinery in the next room is your protection against the\n rigors of space. A thousand years from now, journey's end, you may\n have discarded it for something better—who knows? But if you have\n not, then here is your protection. As nearly as possible, this ship\n is a perfect, self-sustaining world. It is more than that: it is\n human-sustaining as well. Try to hurt yourself and the ship will not\n permit it—within limits, of course. But you can damage the ship, and\n to avoid any possibility of that, no unauthorized persons are to be\n permitted through this door—\nRikud gave the voice up as hopeless. There were too many confusing\n words. What in the world was an unauthorized person? More interesting\n than that, however, was the second door. Would it lead to another\n voice? Rikud hoped that it wouldn't.", "He got up slowly and opened the next door. The voices behind him were\n closer now. Light streamed in through the viewport. After the darkness,\n it frightened Rikud and it made his eyes smart, and he could hear those\n behind him retreating to a safe distance. But their voices were not\n far away, and he knew they would come after him because they wanted to\n break him.\n\n\n Rikud looked out upon the garden and he trembled. Out there was life.\n The garden stretched off in unthinkable immensity to the cluster of\n low mounds against the bright blue which roofed the many plants. If\n plants could live out there as they did within the world, then so could\n people. Rikud and his people\nshould\n. This was why the world had moved\n across the darkness and the stars for all Rikud's lifetime and more.\n But he was afraid.", "He stared out into the garden, and off into the distance, where the\n blue-white globe which might have been a star stood just above the row\n of mounds.\nCrifer was tugging at him, trying to pull him away from the door, and\n someone was grabbing at his legs, trying to make him fall. He kicked\n out and the hands let go, and then he turned the handle and shoved the\n weight of his body with all his strength against the door.\n\n\n It opened and he stepped outside into the warmth.\n\n\n The air was fresh, fresher than any air Rikud had ever breathed. He\n walked around aimlessly, touching the plants and bending down to feel\n the floor, and sometimes he looked at the blue-white globe on the\n horizon. It was all very beautiful.", "Rikud screamed and hurtled back through the corridor, and his face\n was so terrible in the light streaming in through the viewport that\n everyone fled before him. He stumbled again in the place of the\n machinery, and down on his hands and knees he fondled the bits of metal\n which he could see in the dim light through the open door.\n\n\n \"Where's the buzzer?\" he sobbed. \"I must find the buzzer.\"\n\n\n Crifer's voice, from the darkness inside, said, \"You broke it. You\n broke it. And now we will break you—\"\n\n\n Rikud got up and ran. He reached the door again and then he slipped\n down against it, exhausted. Behind him, the voices and the footsteps\n came, and soon he saw Crifer's head peer in through the passageway.\n Then there were others, and then they were walking toward him.", "This frightened Rikud, although he didn't know why. He'd like it,\n though. Maybe then he could take them outside with him to the big\n garden of the two viewports. And then he wouldn't be afraid because he\n could huddle close to them and he wouldn't be alone.\nRikud heard the throbbing again as he stood in the room of the\n machinery. For a long time he watched the wheels and cogs and gears\n spinning and humming. He watched for he knew not how long. And then he\n began to wonder. If he destroyed the wheels and the cogs and the gears,\n would the buzzer stop? It probably would, because, as Rikud saw it, he\n was clearly an \"unauthorized person.\" He had heard the voice again\n upon entering the room.", "Other hands reached out, and Rikud stumbled. He fell and then someone\n was on top of him, and he struggled. He rolled and was up again, and\n he did not like the sound of the angry voices. Someone said, \"Let us\n do to Rikud what he said he did to the machinery.\" Rikud ran. In the\n darkness, his feet prodded many bodies. There were those who were too\n weak to rise. Rikud, too, felt a strange light-headedness and a gnawing\n hurt in his stomach. But it didn't matter. He heard the angry voices\n and the feet pounding behind him, and he wanted only to get away.\n\n\n It was dark and he was hungry and everyone who was strong enough to run\n was chasing him, but every time he thought of the garden outside, and\n how big it was, the darkness and the hunger and the people chasing him\n were unimportant. It was so big that it would swallow him up completely\n and positively.\n\n\n He became sickly giddy thinking about it.", "\"What are you doing that for?\" demanded Wilm, who was shorter even than\n Crifer, but had no lame foot.\n\n\n \"Doing what?\"\n\n\n \"Speaking so loudly when Chuls, who is close, obviously has no trouble\n hearing you.\"\n\n\n \"Maybe yelling will make him understand.\"\n\n\n Crifer hobbled about on his good foot, doing a meaningless little jig.\n \"Why don't we go see?\" he suggested. Then, confused, he frowned.\n\n\n \"Well, I won't go,\" Chuls replied. \"There's no reason to go. If Rikud\n has been imagining things, why should I?\"\n\n\n \"I imagined nothing. I'll show you—\"\n\n\n \"You'll show me nothing because I won't go.\"", "He found a metal rod, bright and shiny, three feet long and half as\n wide as his arm. He tugged at it and it came loose from the wires that\n held it in place. He hefted it carefully for a moment, and then he\n swung the bar into the mass of metal. Each time he heard a grinding,\n crashing sound. He looked as the gears and cogs and wheels crumbled\n under his blows, shattered by the strength of his arm.\nAlmost casually he strode about the room, but his blows were not\n casual. Soon his easy strides had given way to frenzied running. Rikud\n smashed everything in sight.\n\n\n When the lights winked out, he stopped. Anyway, by that time the room\n was a shambles of twisted, broken metal. He laughed, softly at first,\n but presently he was roaring, and the sound doubled and redoubled in\n his ears because now the throbbing had stopped.", "Whimpering, he fled.\nAll around Rikud were darkness and hunger and thirst. The buzzer did\n not sound because Rikud had silenced it forever. And no one went to\n eat or drink. Rikud himself had fumbled through the blackness and the\n whimpering to the dining room, his tongue dry and swollen, but the\n smooth belt that flowed with water and with savory dishes did not run\n any more. The machinery, Rikud realized, also was responsible for food.\n\n\n Chuls said, over and over, \"I'm hungry.\"\n\n\n \"We will eat and we will drink when the buzzer tells us,\" Wilm replied\n confidently.\n\n\n \"It won't any more,\" Rikud said.\n\n\n \"What won't?\"\n\n\n \"The buzzer will never sound again. I broke it.\"", "They were strangely shaped in some ways, and yet in others completely\n human, and their voices were high, like singing. Rikud found them oddly\n exciting. He liked them. He liked the garden, for all its hugeness.\n With so many people, and especially now with women, he was not afraid.\n\n\n It was much better than the small world of machinery, buzzer,\n frightening doors and women by appointment only.\n\n\n Rikud felt at home.", "The old man turned and strode off down the corridor toward the dining\n room, and Rikud was glad to be alone once more.\nNow the vapor had departed, except for a few tenuous whisps. For a\n moment Rikud thought he could see the gardens rearward in the world.\n But that was silly. What were the gardens doing in the viewport? And\n besides, Rikud had the distinct feeling that here was something far\n vaster than the gardens, although all of it existed in the viewport\n which was no wider than the length of his body. The gardens, moreover,\n did not jump and dance before his eyes the way the viewport gardens\n did. Nor did they spin. Nor did the trees grow larger with every jolt.\n\n\n Rikud sat down hard. He blinked." ], [ "Other hands reached out, and Rikud stumbled. He fell and then someone\n was on top of him, and he struggled. He rolled and was up again, and\n he did not like the sound of the angry voices. Someone said, \"Let us\n do to Rikud what he said he did to the machinery.\" Rikud ran. In the\n darkness, his feet prodded many bodies. There were those who were too\n weak to rise. Rikud, too, felt a strange light-headedness and a gnawing\n hurt in his stomach. But it didn't matter. He heard the angry voices\n and the feet pounding behind him, and he wanted only to get away.\n\n\n It was dark and he was hungry and everyone who was strong enough to run\n was chasing him, but every time he thought of the garden outside, and\n how big it was, the darkness and the hunger and the people chasing him\n were unimportant. It was so big that it would swallow him up completely\n and positively.\n\n\n He became sickly giddy thinking about it.", "\"What are you doing that for?\" demanded Wilm, who was shorter even than\n Crifer, but had no lame foot.\n\n\n \"Doing what?\"\n\n\n \"Speaking so loudly when Chuls, who is close, obviously has no trouble\n hearing you.\"\n\n\n \"Maybe yelling will make him understand.\"\n\n\n Crifer hobbled about on his good foot, doing a meaningless little jig.\n \"Why don't we go see?\" he suggested. Then, confused, he frowned.\n\n\n \"Well, I won't go,\" Chuls replied. \"There's no reason to go. If Rikud\n has been imagining things, why should I?\"\n\n\n \"I imagined nothing. I'll show you—\"\n\n\n \"You'll show me nothing because I won't go.\"", "Rikud grabbed Chuls' blouse with his big fist. Then, startled by what\n he did, his hands began to tremble. But he held on, and he tugged at\n the blouse.\n\n\n \"Stop that,\" said the older man, mildly.\nCrifer hopped up and down. \"Look what Rikud's doing! I don't know what\n he's doing, but look. He's holding Chuls' blouse.\"\n\n\n \"Stop that,\" repeated Chuls, his face reddening.\n\n\n \"Only if you'll go with me.\" Rikud was panting.\n\n\n Chuls tugged at his wrist. By this time a crowd had gathered. Some of\n them watched Crifer jump up and down, but most of them watched Rikud\n holding Chuls' blouse.\n\n\n \"I think I can do that,\" declared Wilm, clutching a fistful of Crifer's\n shirt.", "This frightened Rikud, although he didn't know why. He'd like it,\n though. Maybe then he could take them outside with him to the big\n garden of the two viewports. And then he wouldn't be afraid because he\n could huddle close to them and he wouldn't be alone.\nRikud heard the throbbing again as he stood in the room of the\n machinery. For a long time he watched the wheels and cogs and gears\n spinning and humming. He watched for he knew not how long. And then he\n began to wonder. If he destroyed the wheels and the cogs and the gears,\n would the buzzer stop? It probably would, because, as Rikud saw it, he\n was clearly an \"unauthorized person.\" He had heard the voice again\n upon entering the room.", "Rikud screamed and hurtled back through the corridor, and his face\n was so terrible in the light streaming in through the viewport that\n everyone fled before him. He stumbled again in the place of the\n machinery, and down on his hands and knees he fondled the bits of metal\n which he could see in the dim light through the open door.\n\n\n \"Where's the buzzer?\" he sobbed. \"I must find the buzzer.\"\n\n\n Crifer's voice, from the darkness inside, said, \"You broke it. You\n broke it. And now we will break you—\"\n\n\n Rikud got up and ran. He reached the door again and then he slipped\n down against it, exhausted. Behind him, the voices and the footsteps\n came, and soon he saw Crifer's head peer in through the passageway.\n Then there were others, and then they were walking toward him.", "A hand reached out in the darkness and grabbed at his head. He heard\n Crifer's voice. \"I have Rikud's head.\" The voice was nasty, hostile.\n\n\n Crifer, more than anyone, had been his friend. But now that he had\n broken the machinery, Crifer was his enemy, because Crifer came nearer\n to understanding the situation than anyone except Rikud.\n\n\n The hand reached out again, and it struck Rikud hard across the face.\n \"I hit him! I hit him!\"", "Rikud muttered to himself and undressed. The world had begun to annoy\n him. Now why shouldn't a man be permitted to do what he wanted, when\n he wanted to do it?\nThere\nwas a strange thought, and Rikud's brain\n whirled once more down the tortuous course of half-formed questions and\n unsatisfactory answers.\n\n\n He had even wondered what it was like to get hurt. No one ever got\n hurt. Once, here in this same ray room, he had had the impulse to hurl\n himself head-first against the wall, just to see what would happen.\n But something soft had cushioned the impact—something which had come\n into being just for the moment and then abruptly passed into non-being\n again, something which was as impalpable as air.", "And when Chuls looked away in disinterest, Rikud became angry. If only\n the man would realize! If only anyone would realize! It all seemed so\n obvious. If he, Rikud, walked from one part of the world to another,\n it was with a purpose—to eat, or to sleep, or perhaps to bathe in the\n health-rays. Now if the world had walked from—somewhere, through the\n vast star-speckled darkness and to the great garden outside, this also\n was purposeful. The world had arrived at the garden for a reason. But\n if everyone lived as if the world still stood in blackness, how could\n they find the nature of that purpose?\n\n\n \"I will eat,\" Chuls said, breaking Rikud's revery.\n\n\n Damn the man, all he did was eat!\n\n\n Yet he did have initiative after a sort. He knew when to eat. Because\n he was hungry.\n\n\n And Rikud, too, was hungry.", "That was maddening. Rikud turned again to the port, where he could see\n nothing but an obscuring cloud of white vapor, murky, swirling, more\n confusing than ever.\n\n\n \"Chuls,\" he called, remembering, \"come here.\"\n\n\n \"I am here,\" said a voice at his elbow.\n\n\n Rikud whirled on the little figure and pointed to the swirling cloud of\n vapor. \"What do you see?\"\n\n\n Chuls looked. \"The viewport, of course.\"\n\n\n \"What else?\"\n\n\n \"Else? Nothing.\"\n\n\n Anger welled up inside Rikud. \"All right,\" he said, \"listen. What do\n you hear?\"\n\n\n \"Broom, brroom, brrroom!\" Chuls imitated the intermittent blasting of\n the engines. \"I'm hungry, Rikud.\"", "Startled, Rikud leaped back. The sullen roar in the rear of the world\n had ceased abruptly. Instead an ominous silence, broken at regular\n intervals by a sharp booming.\n\n\n Change—\n\n\n \"Won't you eat, Rikud?\" Chuls called from somewhere down below.\n\n\n \"Damn the man,\" Rikud thought. Then aloud: \"Yes, I'll eat. Later.\"\n\n\n \"It's time....\" Chuls' voice trailed off again, impotently.\n\n\n But Rikud forgot the old man completely. A new idea occurred to him,\n and for a while he struggled with it. What he saw—what he had always\n seen, except that now there was the added factor of change—perhaps did\n not exist\nin\nthe viewport.\n\n\n Maybe it existed\nthrough\nthe viewport.", "He found a metal rod, bright and shiny, three feet long and half as\n wide as his arm. He tugged at it and it came loose from the wires that\n held it in place. He hefted it carefully for a moment, and then he\n swung the bar into the mass of metal. Each time he heard a grinding,\n crashing sound. He looked as the gears and cogs and wheels crumbled\n under his blows, shattered by the strength of his arm.\nAlmost casually he strode about the room, but his blows were not\n casual. Soon his easy strides had given way to frenzied running. Rikud\n smashed everything in sight.\n\n\n When the lights winked out, he stopped. Anyway, by that time the room\n was a shambles of twisted, broken metal. He laughed, softly at first,\n but presently he was roaring, and the sound doubled and redoubled in\n his ears because now the throbbing had stopped.", "But if he didn't open the door and go into the garden outside, he would\n die because he had no food and no water and his stomach gurgled and\n grumbled and hurt. And everyone was chasing him.\n\n\n He stumbled through the darkness and felt his way back to the library,\n through the inner door and into the room with the voice—but the\n voice didn't speak this time—through its door and into the place of\n machinery. Behind him, he could hear the voices at the first door, and\n he thought for a moment that no one would come after him. But he heard\n Crifer yell something, and then feet pounding in the passage.\n\n\n Rikud tripped over something and sprawled awkwardly across the floor.\n He felt a sharp hurt in his head, and when he reached up to touch it\n with his hands there in the darkness, his fingers came away wet.", "He reached up and grasped the handle of the door and he saw that his\n fingers were red with the wetness which had come from his hurt head.\n Slowly he slipped to the cool floor—how his head was burning!—and for\n a long time he lay there, thinking he would never rise again. Inside he\n heard the voices again, and soon a foot and then another pounded on\n the metal of the passage. He heard Crifer's voice louder than the rest:\n \"There is Rikud on the floor!\"\n\n\n Tugging at the handle of the door, Rikud pulled himself upright.\n Something small and brown scurried across the other side of the\n viewport and Rikud imagined it turned to look at him with two hideous\n red eyes.", "Crifer growled. \"I know. You shouldn't have done it. That was a bad\n thing you did, Rikud.\"\n\n\n \"It was not bad. The world has moved through the blackness and the\n stars and now we should go outside to live in the big garden there\n beyond the viewport.\"\n\n\n \"That's ridiculous,\" Chuls said.\n\n\n Even Crifer now was angry at Rikud. \"He broke the buzzer and no one can\n eat. I hate Rikud, I think.\"\n\n\n There was a lot of noise in the darkness, and someone else said, \"I\n hate Rikud.\" Then everyone was saying it.\n\n\n Rikud was sad. Soon he would die, because no one would go outside with\n him and he could not go outside alone. In five more years he would have\n had a woman, too. He wondered if it was dark and hungry in the women's\n quarters. Did women eat?", "They were strangely shaped in some ways, and yet in others completely\n human, and their voices were high, like singing. Rikud found them oddly\n exciting. He liked them. He liked the garden, for all its hugeness.\n With so many people, and especially now with women, he was not afraid.\n\n\n It was much better than the small world of machinery, buzzer,\n frightening doors and women by appointment only.\n\n\n Rikud felt at home.", "Whimpering, he fled.\nAll around Rikud were darkness and hunger and thirst. The buzzer did\n not sound because Rikud had silenced it forever. And no one went to\n eat or drink. Rikud himself had fumbled through the blackness and the\n whimpering to the dining room, his tongue dry and swollen, but the\n smooth belt that flowed with water and with savory dishes did not run\n any more. The machinery, Rikud realized, also was responsible for food.\n\n\n Chuls said, over and over, \"I'm hungry.\"\n\n\n \"We will eat and we will drink when the buzzer tells us,\" Wilm replied\n confidently.\n\n\n \"It won't any more,\" Rikud said.\n\n\n \"What won't?\"\n\n\n \"The buzzer will never sound again. I broke it.\"", "Rikud had been stopped in this action, although there was no real\n authority to stop him. This puzzled him, because somehow he felt that\n there should have been authority. A long time ago the reading machine\n in the library had told him of the elders—a meaningless term—who had\n governed the world. They told you to do something and you did it, but\n that was silly, because now no one told you to do anything. You only\n listened to the buzzer.", "And Rikud could remember the rest of what the reading machine had said.\n There had been a revolt—again a term without any real meaning, a term\n that could have no reality outside of the reading machine—and the\n elders were overthrown. Here Rikud had been lost utterly. The people\n had decided that they did not know where they were going, or why, and\n that it was unfair that the elders alone had this authority. They were\n born and they lived and they died as the elders directed, like little\n cogs in a great machine. Much of this Rikud could not understand, but\n he knew enough to realize that the reading machine had sided with the\n people against the elders, and it said the people had won.", "He couldn't go alone. He'd die of the strangeness. It was a silly\n thought; no one ever died of anything until he was a hundred. Rikud\n couldn't fathom the rapid thumping of his heart. And Rikud's mouth felt\n dry; he wanted to swallow, but couldn't.\n\n\n Slowly, he took his hand off the door lever. He made his way back\n through the tunnel and then through the room of machinery and finally\n through the little room with the confusing voice to Crifer.\n\n\n By the time he reached the lame-footed man, Rikud was running. He did\n not dare once to look back. He stood shaking at Crifer's side, and\n sweat covered him in a clammy film. He never wanted to look at the\n garden again. Not when he knew there was a door through which he could\n walk and then might find himself in the garden.", "It was so big.\nThree or four days passed before Rikud calmed himself enough to\n talk about his experience. When he did, only Crifer seemed at all\n interested, yet the lame-footed man's mind was inadequate to cope with\n the situation. He suggested that the viewport might also be variable\n and Rikud found himself wishing that his friend had never read that\n book on astronomy.\n\n\n Chuls did not believe Rikud at all. \"There are not that many doors in\n the world,\" he said. \"The library has a door and there is a door to the\n women's quarters; in five years, the Calculator will send you through\n that. But there are no others.\"\n\n\n Chuls smiled an indulgent smile and Rikud came nearer to him. \"Now, by\n the world, there are two other doors!\"\n\n\n Rikud began to shout, and everyone looked at him queerly." ], [ "Whimpering, he fled.\nAll around Rikud were darkness and hunger and thirst. The buzzer did\n not sound because Rikud had silenced it forever. And no one went to\n eat or drink. Rikud himself had fumbled through the blackness and the\n whimpering to the dining room, his tongue dry and swollen, but the\n smooth belt that flowed with water and with savory dishes did not run\n any more. The machinery, Rikud realized, also was responsible for food.\n\n\n Chuls said, over and over, \"I'm hungry.\"\n\n\n \"We will eat and we will drink when the buzzer tells us,\" Wilm replied\n confidently.\n\n\n \"It won't any more,\" Rikud said.\n\n\n \"What won't?\"\n\n\n \"The buzzer will never sound again. I broke it.\"", "Other hands reached out, and Rikud stumbled. He fell and then someone\n was on top of him, and he struggled. He rolled and was up again, and\n he did not like the sound of the angry voices. Someone said, \"Let us\n do to Rikud what he said he did to the machinery.\" Rikud ran. In the\n darkness, his feet prodded many bodies. There were those who were too\n weak to rise. Rikud, too, felt a strange light-headedness and a gnawing\n hurt in his stomach. But it didn't matter. He heard the angry voices\n and the feet pounding behind him, and he wanted only to get away.\n\n\n It was dark and he was hungry and everyone who was strong enough to run\n was chasing him, but every time he thought of the garden outside, and\n how big it was, the darkness and the hunger and the people chasing him\n were unimportant. It was so big that it would swallow him up completely\n and positively.\n\n\n He became sickly giddy thinking about it.", "And when Chuls looked away in disinterest, Rikud became angry. If only\n the man would realize! If only anyone would realize! It all seemed so\n obvious. If he, Rikud, walked from one part of the world to another,\n it was with a purpose—to eat, or to sleep, or perhaps to bathe in the\n health-rays. Now if the world had walked from—somewhere, through the\n vast star-speckled darkness and to the great garden outside, this also\n was purposeful. The world had arrived at the garden for a reason. But\n if everyone lived as if the world still stood in blackness, how could\n they find the nature of that purpose?\n\n\n \"I will eat,\" Chuls said, breaking Rikud's revery.\n\n\n Damn the man, all he did was eat!\n\n\n Yet he did have initiative after a sort. He knew when to eat. Because\n he was hungry.\n\n\n And Rikud, too, was hungry.", "Crifer growled. \"I know. You shouldn't have done it. That was a bad\n thing you did, Rikud.\"\n\n\n \"It was not bad. The world has moved through the blackness and the\n stars and now we should go outside to live in the big garden there\n beyond the viewport.\"\n\n\n \"That's ridiculous,\" Chuls said.\n\n\n Even Crifer now was angry at Rikud. \"He broke the buzzer and no one can\n eat. I hate Rikud, I think.\"\n\n\n There was a lot of noise in the darkness, and someone else said, \"I\n hate Rikud.\" Then everyone was saying it.\n\n\n Rikud was sad. Soon he would die, because no one would go outside with\n him and he could not go outside alone. In five more years he would have\n had a woman, too. He wondered if it was dark and hungry in the women's\n quarters. Did women eat?", "But if he didn't open the door and go into the garden outside, he would\n die because he had no food and no water and his stomach gurgled and\n grumbled and hurt. And everyone was chasing him.\n\n\n He stumbled through the darkness and felt his way back to the library,\n through the inner door and into the room with the voice—but the\n voice didn't speak this time—through its door and into the place of\n machinery. Behind him, he could hear the voices at the first door, and\n he thought for a moment that no one would come after him. But he heard\n Crifer yell something, and then feet pounding in the passage.\n\n\n Rikud tripped over something and sprawled awkwardly across the floor.\n He felt a sharp hurt in his head, and when he reached up to touch it\n with his hands there in the darkness, his fingers came away wet.", "Perhaps they ate plants. Once, in the garden, Rikud had broken off a\n frond and tasted it. It had been bitter, but not unpleasant. Maybe the\n plants in the viewport would even be better.\n\n\n \"We will not be hungry if we go outside,\" he said. \"We can eat there.\"\n\n\n \"We can eat if the buzzer sounds, but it is broken,\" Chuls said dully.\n\n\n Crifer shrilled, \"Maybe it is only variable and will buzz again.\"\n\n\n \"No,\" Rikud assured him. \"It won't.\"\n\n\n \"Then you broke it and I hate you,\" said Crifer. \"We should break you,\n too, to show you how it is to be broken.\"\n\n\n \"We must go outside—through the viewport.\" Rikud listened to the odd\n gurgling sound his stomach made.", "Presently, the members of the crowd had pretty well paired off, each\n partner grabbing for his companion's blouse. They giggled and laughed\n and some began to hop up and down as Crifer had done.\n\n\n A buzzer sounded and automatically Rikud found himself releasing Chuls.\n\n\n Chuls said, forgetting the incident completely, \"Time to retire.\"\n\n\n In a moment, the room was cleared. Rikud stood alone. He cleared his\n throat and listened to the sound, all by itself in the stillness. What\n would have happened if they hadn't retired? But they always did things\n punctually like that, whenever the buzzer sounded. They ate with the\n buzzer, bathed in the health-rays with it, slept with it.\n\n\n What would they do if the buzzer stopped buzzing?", "He reached up and grasped the handle of the door and he saw that his\n fingers were red with the wetness which had come from his hurt head.\n Slowly he slipped to the cool floor—how his head was burning!—and for\n a long time he lay there, thinking he would never rise again. Inside he\n heard the voices again, and soon a foot and then another pounded on\n the metal of the passage. He heard Crifer's voice louder than the rest:\n \"There is Rikud on the floor!\"\n\n\n Tugging at the handle of the door, Rikud pulled himself upright.\n Something small and brown scurried across the other side of the\n viewport and Rikud imagined it turned to look at him with two hideous\n red eyes.", "\"What are you doing that for?\" demanded Wilm, who was shorter even than\n Crifer, but had no lame foot.\n\n\n \"Doing what?\"\n\n\n \"Speaking so loudly when Chuls, who is close, obviously has no trouble\n hearing you.\"\n\n\n \"Maybe yelling will make him understand.\"\n\n\n Crifer hobbled about on his good foot, doing a meaningless little jig.\n \"Why don't we go see?\" he suggested. Then, confused, he frowned.\n\n\n \"Well, I won't go,\" Chuls replied. \"There's no reason to go. If Rikud\n has been imagining things, why should I?\"\n\n\n \"I imagined nothing. I'll show you—\"\n\n\n \"You'll show me nothing because I won't go.\"", "He stared out into the garden, and off into the distance, where the\n blue-white globe which might have been a star stood just above the row\n of mounds.\nCrifer was tugging at him, trying to pull him away from the door, and\n someone was grabbing at his legs, trying to make him fall. He kicked\n out and the hands let go, and then he turned the handle and shoved the\n weight of his body with all his strength against the door.\n\n\n It opened and he stepped outside into the warmth.\n\n\n The air was fresh, fresher than any air Rikud had ever breathed. He\n walked around aimlessly, touching the plants and bending down to feel\n the floor, and sometimes he looked at the blue-white globe on the\n horizon. It was all very beautiful.", "Rikud had been stopped in this action, although there was no real\n authority to stop him. This puzzled him, because somehow he felt that\n there should have been authority. A long time ago the reading machine\n in the library had told him of the elders—a meaningless term—who had\n governed the world. They told you to do something and you did it, but\n that was silly, because now no one told you to do anything. You only\n listened to the buzzer.", "He got up slowly and opened the next door. The voices behind him were\n closer now. Light streamed in through the viewport. After the darkness,\n it frightened Rikud and it made his eyes smart, and he could hear those\n behind him retreating to a safe distance. But their voices were not\n far away, and he knew they would come after him because they wanted to\n break him.\n\n\n Rikud looked out upon the garden and he trembled. Out there was life.\n The garden stretched off in unthinkable immensity to the cluster of\n low mounds against the bright blue which roofed the many plants. If\n plants could live out there as they did within the world, then so could\n people. Rikud and his people\nshould\n. This was why the world had moved\n across the darkness and the stars for all Rikud's lifetime and more.\n But he was afraid.", "Startled, Rikud leaped back. The sullen roar in the rear of the world\n had ceased abruptly. Instead an ominous silence, broken at regular\n intervals by a sharp booming.\n\n\n Change—\n\n\n \"Won't you eat, Rikud?\" Chuls called from somewhere down below.\n\n\n \"Damn the man,\" Rikud thought. Then aloud: \"Yes, I'll eat. Later.\"\n\n\n \"It's time....\" Chuls' voice trailed off again, impotently.\n\n\n But Rikud forgot the old man completely. A new idea occurred to him,\n and for a while he struggled with it. What he saw—what he had always\n seen, except that now there was the added factor of change—perhaps did\n not exist\nin\nthe viewport.\n\n\n Maybe it existed\nthrough\nthe viewport.", "This frightened Rikud, although he didn't know why. He'd like it,\n though. Maybe then he could take them outside with him to the big\n garden of the two viewports. And then he wouldn't be afraid because he\n could huddle close to them and he wouldn't be alone.\nRikud heard the throbbing again as he stood in the room of the\n machinery. For a long time he watched the wheels and cogs and gears\n spinning and humming. He watched for he knew not how long. And then he\n began to wonder. If he destroyed the wheels and the cogs and the gears,\n would the buzzer stop? It probably would, because, as Rikud saw it, he\n was clearly an \"unauthorized person.\" He had heard the voice again\n upon entering the room.", "He couldn't go alone. He'd die of the strangeness. It was a silly\n thought; no one ever died of anything until he was a hundred. Rikud\n couldn't fathom the rapid thumping of his heart. And Rikud's mouth felt\n dry; he wanted to swallow, but couldn't.\n\n\n Slowly, he took his hand off the door lever. He made his way back\n through the tunnel and then through the room of machinery and finally\n through the little room with the confusing voice to Crifer.\n\n\n By the time he reached the lame-footed man, Rikud was running. He did\n not dare once to look back. He stood shaking at Crifer's side, and\n sweat covered him in a clammy film. He never wanted to look at the\n garden again. Not when he knew there was a door through which he could\n walk and then might find himself in the garden.", "Somehow, Rikud knew this question for a healthy sign. But he could\n not tell them of his most amazing thought of all. The change in the\n viewport could mean only one thing. The world had been walking—the\n word seemed all wrong to Rikud, but he could think of no other, unless\n it were running. The world had been walking somewhere. That somewhere\n was the garden and the world had arrived.\n\n\n \"It is an old picture of the garden,\" Chuls suggested, \"and the plants\n are different.\"\n\n\n \"Then they've changed?\"\n\n\n \"No, merely different.\"\n\n\n \"Well, what about the viewport?\nIt\nchanged. Where are the stars?\n Where are they, Chuls, if it did not change?\"\n\n\n \"The stars come out at night.\"\n\n\n \"So there is a change from day to night!\"", "Chuls said, \"It is time for my bath in the health-rays. I saw you here\n and knew it was your time, too....\"\n\n\n His voice trailed off. Rikud knew that something which he could not\n explain had entered the elder man's head for a moment, but it had\n departed almost before Chuls knew of its existence.\n\n\n \"I'll go with you,\" Rikud told him.\nA hardly perceptible purple glow pervaded the air in the room of the\n health-rays. Perhaps two score men lay about, naked, under the ray\n tubes. Chuls stripped himself and selected the space under a vacant\n tube. Rikud, for his part, wanted to get back to the viewport and watch\n the one new bright star. He had the distinct notion it was growing\n larger every moment. He turned to go, but the door clicked shut and a\n metallic voice said. \"Fifteen minutes under the tubes, please.\"", "\"Changing?\" Crifer questioned the fuzzy concept as much as he\n questioned what it might mean in this particular case.\n\n\n \"Yes, there are less of them, and one is bigger and brighter than the\n others.\"\n\n\n \"Astronomy says some stars are variable,\" Crifer offered, but Rikud\n knew his lame-footed companion understood the word no better than he\n did.\n\n\n Over on Rikud's right, Chuls began to dress. \"Variability,\" he told\n them, \"is a contradictory term. Nothing is variable. It can't be.\"\n\n\n \"I'm only saying what I read in the book,\" Crifer protested mildly.\n\n\n \"Well, it's wrong. Variability and change are two words without\n meaning.\"\n\n\n \"People grow old,\" Rikud suggested.", "Rikud grabbed Chuls' blouse with his big fist. Then, startled by what\n he did, his hands began to tremble. But he held on, and he tugged at\n the blouse.\n\n\n \"Stop that,\" said the older man, mildly.\nCrifer hopped up and down. \"Look what Rikud's doing! I don't know what\n he's doing, but look. He's holding Chuls' blouse.\"\n\n\n \"Stop that,\" repeated Chuls, his face reddening.\n\n\n \"Only if you'll go with me.\" Rikud was panting.\n\n\n Chuls tugged at his wrist. By this time a crowd had gathered. Some of\n them watched Crifer jump up and down, but most of them watched Rikud\n holding Chuls' blouse.\n\n\n \"I think I can do that,\" declared Wilm, clutching a fistful of Crifer's\n shirt.", "Rikud muttered to himself and undressed. The world had begun to annoy\n him. Now why shouldn't a man be permitted to do what he wanted, when\n he wanted to do it?\nThere\nwas a strange thought, and Rikud's brain\n whirled once more down the tortuous course of half-formed questions and\n unsatisfactory answers.\n\n\n He had even wondered what it was like to get hurt. No one ever got\n hurt. Once, here in this same ray room, he had had the impulse to hurl\n himself head-first against the wall, just to see what would happen.\n But something soft had cushioned the impact—something which had come\n into being just for the moment and then abruptly passed into non-being\n again, something which was as impalpable as air." ], [ "And Rikud could remember the rest of what the reading machine had said.\n There had been a revolt—again a term without any real meaning, a term\n that could have no reality outside of the reading machine—and the\n elders were overthrown. Here Rikud had been lost utterly. The people\n had decided that they did not know where they were going, or why, and\n that it was unfair that the elders alone had this authority. They were\n born and they lived and they died as the elders directed, like little\n cogs in a great machine. Much of this Rikud could not understand, but\n he knew enough to realize that the reading machine had sided with the\n people against the elders, and it said the people had won.", "And when Chuls looked away in disinterest, Rikud became angry. If only\n the man would realize! If only anyone would realize! It all seemed so\n obvious. If he, Rikud, walked from one part of the world to another,\n it was with a purpose—to eat, or to sleep, or perhaps to bathe in the\n health-rays. Now if the world had walked from—somewhere, through the\n vast star-speckled darkness and to the great garden outside, this also\n was purposeful. The world had arrived at the garden for a reason. But\n if everyone lived as if the world still stood in blackness, how could\n they find the nature of that purpose?\n\n\n \"I will eat,\" Chuls said, breaking Rikud's revery.\n\n\n Damn the man, all he did was eat!\n\n\n Yet he did have initiative after a sort. He knew when to eat. Because\n he was hungry.\n\n\n And Rikud, too, was hungry.", "That was maddening. Rikud turned again to the port, where he could see\n nothing but an obscuring cloud of white vapor, murky, swirling, more\n confusing than ever.\n\n\n \"Chuls,\" he called, remembering, \"come here.\"\n\n\n \"I am here,\" said a voice at his elbow.\n\n\n Rikud whirled on the little figure and pointed to the swirling cloud of\n vapor. \"What do you see?\"\n\n\n Chuls looked. \"The viewport, of course.\"\n\n\n \"What else?\"\n\n\n \"Else? Nothing.\"\n\n\n Anger welled up inside Rikud. \"All right,\" he said, \"listen. What do\n you hear?\"\n\n\n \"Broom, brroom, brrroom!\" Chuls imitated the intermittent blasting of\n the engines. \"I'm hungry, Rikud.\"", "This frightened Rikud, although he didn't know why. He'd like it,\n though. Maybe then he could take them outside with him to the big\n garden of the two viewports. And then he wouldn't be afraid because he\n could huddle close to them and he wouldn't be alone.\nRikud heard the throbbing again as he stood in the room of the\n machinery. For a long time he watched the wheels and cogs and gears\n spinning and humming. He watched for he knew not how long. And then he\n began to wonder. If he destroyed the wheels and the cogs and the gears,\n would the buzzer stop? It probably would, because, as Rikud saw it, he\n was clearly an \"unauthorized person.\" He had heard the voice again\n upon entering the room.", "Rikud grabbed Chuls' blouse with his big fist. Then, startled by what\n he did, his hands began to tremble. But he held on, and he tugged at\n the blouse.\n\n\n \"Stop that,\" said the older man, mildly.\nCrifer hopped up and down. \"Look what Rikud's doing! I don't know what\n he's doing, but look. He's holding Chuls' blouse.\"\n\n\n \"Stop that,\" repeated Chuls, his face reddening.\n\n\n \"Only if you'll go with me.\" Rikud was panting.\n\n\n Chuls tugged at his wrist. By this time a crowd had gathered. Some of\n them watched Crifer jump up and down, but most of them watched Rikud\n holding Chuls' blouse.\n\n\n \"I think I can do that,\" declared Wilm, clutching a fistful of Crifer's\n shirt.", "Other hands reached out, and Rikud stumbled. He fell and then someone\n was on top of him, and he struggled. He rolled and was up again, and\n he did not like the sound of the angry voices. Someone said, \"Let us\n do to Rikud what he said he did to the machinery.\" Rikud ran. In the\n darkness, his feet prodded many bodies. There were those who were too\n weak to rise. Rikud, too, felt a strange light-headedness and a gnawing\n hurt in his stomach. But it didn't matter. He heard the angry voices\n and the feet pounding behind him, and he wanted only to get away.\n\n\n It was dark and he was hungry and everyone who was strong enough to run\n was chasing him, but every time he thought of the garden outside, and\n how big it was, the darkness and the hunger and the people chasing him\n were unimportant. It was so big that it would swallow him up completely\n and positively.\n\n\n He became sickly giddy thinking about it.", "Somehow, Rikud knew this question for a healthy sign. But he could\n not tell them of his most amazing thought of all. The change in the\n viewport could mean only one thing. The world had been walking—the\n word seemed all wrong to Rikud, but he could think of no other, unless\n it were running. The world had been walking somewhere. That somewhere\n was the garden and the world had arrived.\n\n\n \"It is an old picture of the garden,\" Chuls suggested, \"and the plants\n are different.\"\n\n\n \"Then they've changed?\"\n\n\n \"No, merely different.\"\n\n\n \"Well, what about the viewport?\nIt\nchanged. Where are the stars?\n Where are they, Chuls, if it did not change?\"\n\n\n \"The stars come out at night.\"\n\n\n \"So there is a change from day to night!\"", "Startled, Rikud leaped back. The sullen roar in the rear of the world\n had ceased abruptly. Instead an ominous silence, broken at regular\n intervals by a sharp booming.\n\n\n Change—\n\n\n \"Won't you eat, Rikud?\" Chuls called from somewhere down below.\n\n\n \"Damn the man,\" Rikud thought. Then aloud: \"Yes, I'll eat. Later.\"\n\n\n \"It's time....\" Chuls' voice trailed off again, impotently.\n\n\n But Rikud forgot the old man completely. A new idea occurred to him,\n and for a while he struggled with it. What he saw—what he had always\n seen, except that now there was the added factor of change—perhaps did\n not exist\nin\nthe viewport.\n\n\n Maybe it existed\nthrough\nthe viewport.", "Rikud muttered to himself and undressed. The world had begun to annoy\n him. Now why shouldn't a man be permitted to do what he wanted, when\n he wanted to do it?\nThere\nwas a strange thought, and Rikud's brain\n whirled once more down the tortuous course of half-formed questions and\n unsatisfactory answers.\n\n\n He had even wondered what it was like to get hurt. No one ever got\n hurt. Once, here in this same ray room, he had had the impulse to hurl\n himself head-first against the wall, just to see what would happen.\n But something soft had cushioned the impact—something which had come\n into being just for the moment and then abruptly passed into non-being\n again, something which was as impalpable as air.", "Rikud had been stopped in this action, although there was no real\n authority to stop him. This puzzled him, because somehow he felt that\n there should have been authority. A long time ago the reading machine\n in the library had told him of the elders—a meaningless term—who had\n governed the world. They told you to do something and you did it, but\n that was silly, because now no one told you to do anything. You only\n listened to the buzzer.", "He found a metal rod, bright and shiny, three feet long and half as\n wide as his arm. He tugged at it and it came loose from the wires that\n held it in place. He hefted it carefully for a moment, and then he\n swung the bar into the mass of metal. Each time he heard a grinding,\n crashing sound. He looked as the gears and cogs and wheels crumbled\n under his blows, shattered by the strength of his arm.\nAlmost casually he strode about the room, but his blows were not\n casual. Soon his easy strides had given way to frenzied running. Rikud\n smashed everything in sight.\n\n\n When the lights winked out, he stopped. Anyway, by that time the room\n was a shambles of twisted, broken metal. He laughed, softly at first,\n but presently he was roaring, and the sound doubled and redoubled in\n his ears because now the throbbing had stopped.", "Rikud screamed and hurtled back through the corridor, and his face\n was so terrible in the light streaming in through the viewport that\n everyone fled before him. He stumbled again in the place of the\n machinery, and down on his hands and knees he fondled the bits of metal\n which he could see in the dim light through the open door.\n\n\n \"Where's the buzzer?\" he sobbed. \"I must find the buzzer.\"\n\n\n Crifer's voice, from the darkness inside, said, \"You broke it. You\n broke it. And now we will break you—\"\n\n\n Rikud got up and ran. He reached the door again and then he slipped\n down against it, exhausted. Behind him, the voices and the footsteps\n came, and soon he saw Crifer's head peer in through the passageway.\n Then there were others, and then they were walking toward him.", "A hand reached out in the darkness and grabbed at his head. He heard\n Crifer's voice. \"I have Rikud's head.\" The voice was nasty, hostile.\n\n\n Crifer, more than anyone, had been his friend. But now that he had\n broken the machinery, Crifer was his enemy, because Crifer came nearer\n to understanding the situation than anyone except Rikud.\n\n\n The hand reached out again, and it struck Rikud hard across the face.\n \"I hit him! I hit him!\"", "They were strangely shaped in some ways, and yet in others completely\n human, and their voices were high, like singing. Rikud found them oddly\n exciting. He liked them. He liked the garden, for all its hugeness.\n With so many people, and especially now with women, he was not afraid.\n\n\n It was much better than the small world of machinery, buzzer,\n frightening doors and women by appointment only.\n\n\n Rikud felt at home.", "Whimpering, he fled.\nAll around Rikud were darkness and hunger and thirst. The buzzer did\n not sound because Rikud had silenced it forever. And no one went to\n eat or drink. Rikud himself had fumbled through the blackness and the\n whimpering to the dining room, his tongue dry and swollen, but the\n smooth belt that flowed with water and with savory dishes did not run\n any more. The machinery, Rikud realized, also was responsible for food.\n\n\n Chuls said, over and over, \"I'm hungry.\"\n\n\n \"We will eat and we will drink when the buzzer tells us,\" Wilm replied\n confidently.\n\n\n \"It won't any more,\" Rikud said.\n\n\n \"What won't?\"\n\n\n \"The buzzer will never sound again. I broke it.\"", "Only this one was different. In it Rikud saw the viewport. But how? The\n viewport stood on the other end of the world. It did seem smaller, and,\n although it looked out on the garden, Rikud sensed that the topography\n was different. Then the garden extended even farther than he had\n thought. It was endless, extending all the way to a ridge of mounds way\n off in the distance.\n\n\n And this door one could walk through, into the garden. Rikud put his\n hand on the door, all the while watching the garden through the new\n viewport. He began to turn the handle.\n\n\n Then he trembled.\n\n\n What would he do out in the garden?", "Under the tube at Rikud's left lay Crifer. The man was short and heavy\n through the shoulders and chest, and he had a lame foot. Every time\n Rikud looked at that foot, it was with a sense of satisfaction. True,\n this was the only case of its kind, the exception to the rule, but it\n proved the world was not perfect. Rikud was guiltily glad when he saw\n Crifer limp.\n\n\n But, if anyone else saw it, he never said a word. Not even Crifer.\nNow Crifer said, \"I've been reading again, Rikud.\"\n\n\n \"Yes?\" Almost no one read any more, and the library was heavy with the\n smell of dust. Reading represented initiative on the part of Crifer; it\n meant that, in the two unoccupied hours before sleep, he went to the\n library and listened to the reading machine. Everyone else simply sat\n about and talked. That was the custom. Everyone did it.", "Now in the health room, Rikud felt a warmth in the rays. Grudgingly, he\n had to admit to himself that it was not unpleasant. He could see the\n look of easy contentment on Chuls' face as the rays fanned down upon\n him, bathing his old body in a forgotten magic which, many generations\n before Rikud's time, had negated the necessity for a knowledge of\n medicine. But when, in another ten years, Chuls would perish of old\n age, the rays would no longer suffice. Nothing would, for Chuls. Rikud\n often thought of his own death, still seventy-five years in the future,\n not without a sense of alarm. Yet old Chuls seemed heedless, with only\n a decade to go.", "The old man turned and strode off down the corridor toward the dining\n room, and Rikud was glad to be alone once more.\nNow the vapor had departed, except for a few tenuous whisps. For a\n moment Rikud thought he could see the gardens rearward in the world.\n But that was silly. What were the gardens doing in the viewport? And\n besides, Rikud had the distinct feeling that here was something far\n vaster than the gardens, although all of it existed in the viewport\n which was no wider than the length of his body. The gardens, moreover,\n did not jump and dance before his eyes the way the viewport gardens\n did. Nor did they spin. Nor did the trees grow larger with every jolt.\n\n\n Rikud sat down hard. He blinked.", "\"What are you doing that for?\" demanded Wilm, who was shorter even than\n Crifer, but had no lame foot.\n\n\n \"Doing what?\"\n\n\n \"Speaking so loudly when Chuls, who is close, obviously has no trouble\n hearing you.\"\n\n\n \"Maybe yelling will make him understand.\"\n\n\n Crifer hobbled about on his good foot, doing a meaningless little jig.\n \"Why don't we go see?\" he suggested. Then, confused, he frowned.\n\n\n \"Well, I won't go,\" Chuls replied. \"There's no reason to go. If Rikud\n has been imagining things, why should I?\"\n\n\n \"I imagined nothing. I'll show you—\"\n\n\n \"You'll show me nothing because I won't go.\"" ] ]
train	51203	[ "Why did Ben fear the Venusians?", "Why was Ben in search of the man with the red beard?", "What did the dead man compare the Spacemen to in disgust?", "How long ago had it been since Ben had first encountered the dead man?", "From the passage, at what age can we determine that Ben decide that his future would involve being a Spaceman?", "Where was the rumored headquarters for the group of renegade spacemen?", "How long did Maggie care for Ben before he finally awoke after rescuing him?", "What caused Ben to physically assault Cobb?", "Why did Maggie decide to save Ben?", "Why did Maggie not travel with her husband, Jacob, while on his missions?" ]	[ [ "They stood eerily motionless. ", "He had heard they were telepaths.", "They stood silent and unblinking in a eerie manner. ", "They were large and scaly and resembled toads." ], [ "He was hoping to order a drink. ", "He was able to take him back to Mars.", "He would be able to get away from the Martians playing sad music. ", "He would then be able to escape the dead man. " ], [ "Bees", "Garbage", "Maggots", "Flies" ], [ "3 weeks", "1 month ", "3 months", "1 week" ], [ "5", "25", "10", "16" ], [ "Venus", "Mars", "Earth", "exiled in the Solar System " ], [ "Nine days ", "Three days", "Nineteen days. ", "Six days" ], [ "Cobb physically assaulted Ben first. ", "Cobb's vocal disgust for spacemen. ", "Ben was trying to prove a point about his masculinity. ", "He thought he was someone else. " ], [ "She felt sorry for him, knowing he hadn't meant to kill Cobb.", "She knew her husband needed an astrogator.", "She was also on the run and needed a companion. ", "She was pressured by the others. " ], [ "Jacob didn't think women should be in unexplored space. ", "She feared space exploration. ", "She was to be searching for an astrogator. ", "Maggie didn't think women should be in unexplored space. " ] ]	[ 2, 4, 4, 4, 1, 1, 1, 2, 2, 1 ]	[ 0, 0, 0, 0, 1, 0, 0, 1, 0, 1 ]	[ [ "The boy grabbed his hand. Because Ben could think of no reason for\n resisting, he followed. They plunged into shifting layers of smoke and\n through the drone of alcohol-cracked voices.\nThey passed the bar with its line of lean-featured, slit-eyed\n Earthmen—merchant spacemen.\n\n\n They wormed down a narrow aisle flanked by booths carved from Venusian\n marble that jutted up into the semi-darkness like fog-blanketed\n tombstones.\n\n\n Several times, Ben glimpsed the bulky figures of CO\n 2\n -breathing\n Venusians, the first he'd ever seen.\n\n\n They were smoky gray, scaly, naked giants, toads in human shape.\n They stood solitary and motionless, aloof, their green-lidded eyes\n unblinking. They certainly didn't look like telepaths, as Ben had heard\n they were, but the thought sent a fresh rivulet of fear down his spine.", "The white-clad men charged, neuro-clubs upraised.\n\n\n A woman screamed. The music ceased. The Martian orchestra slunk with\n feline stealth to a rear exit. Only the giant Venusians remained\n undisturbed. They stood unmoving, their staring eyes shifting lazily in\n Ben's direction.\n\n\n \"Curtis!\" one of the policemen yelled. \"You're covered! Hold it!\"\n\n\n Ben whirled away from the advancing police, made for the exit into\n which the musicians had disappeared.\n\n\n A hissing sound traveled past his left ear, a sound like compressed air\n escaping from a container. A dime-sized section of the concrete wall\n ahead of him crumbled.\n\n\n He stumbled forward. They were using deadly neuro-pistols now, not the\n mildly stunning neuro-clubs.", "And whereas no legally recognized ship had ventured past Mars, the\n souped-up renegade rigs had supposedly hit the asteroids. Their\n headquarters was Venus. Their leader—a subject of popular and\n fantastic conjecture in the men's audiozines—was rumored to be a\n red-bearded giant.\nSo\n, Ben reflected,\nyou can take a beer-and-pretzels tale seriously.\n You can hide for a couple of days, get rid of your uniform, change your\n name. You can wait for a chance to get to Venus. To hell with your\n duty. You can try to stay in space, even if you exile yourself from\n Earth.\nAfter all, was it right for a single second, a single insignificant\n second, to destroy a man's life and his dream?\nHe was lucky. He found a tramp freighter whose skipper was on his last\n flight before retirement. Discipline was lax, investigation of new\n personnel even more so.\n\n\n Ben Curtis made it to Venus.", "Minutes passed. There were two more whiskeys. A ceaseless parade of\n faces broke through the smoky veil that enclosed him—reddish balloon\n faces, scaly reptilian faces, white-skinned, slit-eyed faces, and\n occasionally a white, rouged, powdered face. But nowhere was there a\n face with a red beard.\n\n\n A sense of hopelessness gripped Ben Curtis. Hoover City was but one of\n a dozen cities of Venus. Each had twenty dives such as this.\n\n\n He needed help.\n\n\n But his picture must have been 'scoped to Venusian visiscreens. A\n reward must have been offered for his capture. Whom could he trust? The\n Martian kid, perhaps?\n\n\n Far down the darkened aisle nearest him, his eyes caught a flash of\n white. He tensed.\n\n\n Like the uniform of a Security Policeman, he thought.", "For an instant, Ben's mind rose above the haunting vision of the dead\n man. He thought,\nWhat are they doing here, these Martians? Here, in\n a smoke-filled room under a metalite dome on a dust-covered world?\n Couldn't they have played their music on Mars? Or had they, like me,\n felt the challenge of new worlds?\nHe sobered. It didn't matter. He ordered a whiskey from a Chinese\n waiter. He wet his lips but did not drink. His gaze wandered over the\n faces of the Inn's other occupants.\nYou've got to find him\n, he thought.\nYou've got to find the man with\n the red beard. It's the only way you can escape the dead man.\nThe dead man was real. His name was Cobb. He was stout and flabby and\n about forty and he hated spacemen.", "Then, for a single absurd second, Ben was seized with terror—just as,\n a moment before, he'd been overwhelmed with anger.\n\n\n He ran.\nFor some twenty minutes, he raced through a dizzying, nightmare world\n of dark rocketfront alleys and shouting voices and pursuing feet.\n\n\n At last, abruptly, he realized that he was alone and in silence. He saw\n that he was still on the rocketfront, but in the Tycho-ward side of the\n city.\n\n\n He huddled in a dark corner of a loading platform and lit a cigarette.\n A thousand stars—a thousand motionless balls of silver fire—shone\n above him through Luna City's transparent dome.", "\"You are spacemen?\"\n\n\n Ben threw a fifty-cent credit piece on the table. \"Here. Take off, will\n you?\"\n\n\n Spiderlike fingers swept down upon the coin. \"\nIch danke, senor.\nYou\n know why city is called Hoover City?\"\n\n\n Ben didn't answer.\n\n\n \"They say it is because after women come, they want first thing a\n thousand vacuum cleaners for dust. What is vacuum cleaner,\nmonsieur\n?\"\n\n\n Ben raised his hand as if to strike the boy.\n\n\n \"\nAi-yee\n, I go. You keep listen to good Martian music.\"\n\n\n The toothpick of a body melted into the semi-darkness.", "His gaze shifted to another aisle and another hint of whiteness.\n\n\n And then he saw another and another and another.\n\n\n Each whiteness became brighter and closer, like shrinking spokes of a\n wheel with Ben as their focal point.\nYou idiot! The damned Martian kid! You should have known!\nLight showered the room in a dazzling explosion. Ben, half blinded,\n realized that a broad circle of unshaded globes in the ceiling had been\n turned on.\n\n\n The light washed away the room's strangeness and its air of brooding\n wickedness, revealing drab concrete walls and a debris-strewn floor.\n\n\n Eyes blinked and squinted. There were swift, frightened movements and\n a chorus of angry murmurs. The patrons of the Blast Inn were like\n tatter-clad occupants of a house whose walls have been ripped away.\n\n\n Ben Curtis twisted his lean body erect. His chair tumbled backward,\n falling.", "Most of the big room lay obscured behind a shimmering veil of tobacco\n smoke and the sweet, heavy fumes of Martian Devil's Egg. Here and\n there, Ben saw moving figures. He could not tell if they were Earthmen,\n Martians or Venusians.\n\n\n Someone tugged at his greasy coat. He jumped, thinking absurdly that it\n was the dead man's hand.\n\n\n \"\nComa esta, senor?\n\" a small voice piped. \"\nSpeken die Deutsch?\n Desirez-vous d'amour? Da? Nyet?\n\"\n\n\n Ben looked down.\n\n\n The speaker was an eager-eyed Martian boy of about ten. He was like\n a red-skinned marionette with pipestem arms and legs, clad in a torn\n skivvy shirt and faded blue dungarees.\n\n\n \"I'm American,\" Ben muttered.", "There was just one flaw in his decision. He hadn't realized that the\n memory of the dead man's face would haunt him, torment him, follow him\n as constantly as breath flowed into his lungs.\n\n\n But might not the rumble of atomic engines drown the murmuring dead\n voice? Might not the vision of alien worlds and infinite spaceways\n obscure the dead face?\n\n\n So now he sat searching for a perhaps nonexistent red-bearded giant,\n and hoping and doubting and fearing, all at once.\n\n\n \"You look for someone,\nsenor\n?\"\n\n\n He jumped. \"Oh. You still here?\"\n\n\n \"\nOui.\n\" The Martian kid grinned, his mouth full of purple teeth. \"I\n keep you company on your first night in Hoover City,\nn'est-ce-pas\n?\"\n\n\n \"This isn't my first night here,\" Ben lied. \"I've been around a while.\"", "It had begun a week ago in Luna City. The flight from White Sands had\n been successful. Ben, quietly and moderately, wanted to celebrate.\n He stopped alone in a rocketfront bar for a beer. The man named Cobb\n plopped his portly and unsteady posterior on the stool next to him.\n\n\n \"Spacemen,\" he muttered, \"are getting like flies. Everywhere, all you\n see's spacemen.\"\n\n\n He was a neatly dressed civilian.\n\n\n Ben smiled. \"If it weren't for spacemen, you wouldn't be here.\"\n\n\n \"The name's Cobb.\" The man hiccoughed. \"Spacemen in their white monkey\n suits. They think they're little tin gods. Betcha you think you're a\n little tin god.\" He downed a shot of whiskey.", "When he next awoke, his gaze turned first to the window. There was\n light outside, but he had no way of knowing if this was morning, noon\n or afternoon—or on what planet.\n\n\n He saw no white-domed buildings of Hoover City, no formal lines of\n green-treed parks, no streams of buzzing gyro-cars. There was only a\n translucent and infinite whiteness. It was as if the window were set on\n the edge of the Universe overlooking a solemn, silent and matterless\n void.\n\n\n The girl entered the room.\n\n\n \"Hi,\" she said, smiling. The dark half-moons under her eyes were less\n prominent. Her face was relaxed.\n\n\n She increased the pressure in his rubberex pillows and helped him rise\n to a sitting position.\n\n\n \"Where are we?\" he asked.\n\n\n \"Venus.\"", "Ben rose and started to leave the bar, but Cobb grabbed his arm and\n held him there.\n\n\n \"Thas what you are—a sucker. You're young now. Wait ten years. You'll\n be dyin' of radiation rot or a meteor'll get you. Wait and see, sucker!\"\n\n\n Until this instant, Ben had suppressed his anger. Now, suddenly and\n without warning, it welled up into savage fury.\n\n\n His fist struck the man on the chin. Cobb's eyes gaped in shocked\n horror. He spun backward. His head cracked sickeningly on the edge of\n the bar. The sound was like a punctuation mark signaling the end of\n life.\n\n\n He sank to the floor, eyes glassy, blood tricking down his jaw.\n\n\n Ben knew that he was dead.", "Ben stiffened. He was twenty-four and dressed in the white,\n crimson-braided uniform of the\nOdyssey's\njunior astrogation officer.\n He was three months out of the Academy at White Sands and the shining\n uniform was like a key to all the mysteries of the Universe.\n\n\n He'd sought long for that key.\nAt the age of five—perhaps in order to dull the memory of his parents'\n death in a recent strato-jet crash—he'd spent hours watching the night\n sky for streaking flame-tails of Moon rockets. At ten, he'd ground\n his first telescope. At fourteen, he'd converted an abandoned shed on\n the government boarding-school grounds to a retreat which housed his\n collection of astronomy and rocketry books.", "Once he spied a white-uniformed officer of Hoover City's Security\n Police. The man was striding down an aisle, idly tapping his neuro-club\n against the stone booths.\nKeep walking\n, Ben told himself.\nYou look the same as anyone else\n here. Keep walking. Look straight ahead.\nThe officer passed. Ben breathed easier.\n\n\n \"Here we are,\nmonsieur\n,\" piped the Martian boy. \"A\ntres\nfine table.\n Close in the shadows.\"\n\n\n Ben winced. How did this kid know he wanted to sit in the shadows?\n Frowning, he sat down—he and the dead man.\n\n\n He listened to the lonely rhythms of the four-piece Martian orchestra.", "A Coffin for Jacob\nBy EDWARD W. LUDWIG\n\n\n Illustrated by EMSH\n\n\n [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Galaxy Science Fiction May 1956.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nWith never a moment to rest, the pursuit\n \nthrough space felt like a game of hounds\n \nand hares ... or was it follow the leader?\nBen Curtis eased his pale, gaunt body through the open doorway of the\n Blast Inn, the dead man following silently behind him.\n\n\n His fear-borne gaze traveled into the dimly illumined Venusian gin\n mill. The place was like an evil caldron steaming with a brew whose\n ingredients had been culled from the back corners of three planets.", "At sixteen, he'd spent every weekend holiday hitchhiking from Boys\n Town No. 5 in the Catskills to Long Island Spaceport. There, among\n the grizzled veterans of the old Moon Patrol, he'd found friends who\n understood his dream and who later recommended his appointment to the\n U. S. Academy for the Conquest of Space.\n\n\n And a month ago, he'd signed aboard the\nOdyssey\n—the first ship, it\n was rumored, equipped to venture as far as the asteroids and perhaps\n beyond.\n\n\n Cobb was persistent: \"Damn fools shoulda known enough to stay on Earth.\n What the hell good is it, jumpin' from planet to planet?\"\nThe guy's drunk\n, Ben thought. He took his drink and moved three\n stools down the bar.\n\n\n Cobb followed. \"You don't like the truth, eh, kid? You don't like\n people to call you a sucker.\"", "She sat on a plain chair beside his bed. \"I know everything about you,\n Lieutenant Curtis.\"\n\n\n \"How did you learn my name? I destroyed all my papers—\"\n\n\n \"I know that you're twenty-four. Born July 10, 1971. Orphaned at four,\n you attended Boys Town in the Catskills till you were 19. You graduated\n from the Academy at White Sands last June with a major in Astrogation.\n Your rating for the five-year period was 3.8—the second highest in a\n class of fifty-seven. Your only low mark in the five years was a 3.2 in\n History of Martian Civilization. Want me to go on?\"\n\n\n Fascinated, Ben nodded.", "She hesitated. He thought,\nDamn it, of all the questions, why did I\n ask that?\nFinally she said, \"He had a wife.\"\n\n\n \"Children?\"\n\n\n \"Two. I don't know their ages.\"\n\n\n She left the room.\nHe sank into the softness of his bed. As he turned over on his side,\n his gaze fell upon an object on a bureau in a far corner of the room.\n\n\n He sat straight up, his chest heaving.\n\n\n The object was a tri-dimensional photo of a rock-faced man in a\n merchant spaceman's uniform. He was a giant of a man with a neatly\n trimmed\nred beard\n!\n\n\n Ben stared at the photo for a long time. At length, he slipped into\n restless sleep. Images of faces and echoes of words spun through his\n brain.", "His body was buried now—probably in the silent gray wastes outside\n Luna City. But he'd become a kind of invisible Siamese twin, as much a\n part of Ben as sight in his eyes.\n\n\n Sometimes the image would be shuffling drunkenly beside him, its lips\n spitting whiskey-slurred curses.\n\n\n Again, its face would be a pop-eyed mask of surprise as Ben's fist\n thudded into its jaw. More often, the face would be frozen in the\n whiteness of death. The large eyes would stare. Blood would trickle\n from a corner of the gaping mouth.\n\n\n You can forget a living man. You can defeat him or submit to him or\n ignore him, and the matter is over and done. You can't escape from a\n memory that has burned into your mind." ], [ "The dead man returned to him. Bloodied lips cursed at him. Glassy eyes\n accused him. Somewhere were two lost children crying in the night.\n\n\n And towering above him was a red-bearded man whose great hands reached\n down and beckoned to him. Ben crawled through the night on hands and\n knees, his legs numb and useless. The crying of the children was a\n chilling wail in his ears.\n\n\n His head rose and turned to the red-bearded man. His pleading voice\n screamed out to him in a thick, harsh cackle. Yet even as he screamed,\n the giant disappeared, to be replaced by white-booted feet stomping\n relentlessly toward him.\n\n\n He awoke still screaming....\n\n\n A night without darkness passed. Ben lay waiting for Maggie's return, a\n question already formed in his mind.\n\n\n She came and at once he asked, \"Who is the man with the red beard?\"", "For an instant, Ben's mind rose above the haunting vision of the dead\n man. He thought,\nWhat are they doing here, these Martians? Here, in\n a smoke-filled room under a metalite dome on a dust-covered world?\n Couldn't they have played their music on Mars? Or had they, like me,\n felt the challenge of new worlds?\nHe sobered. It didn't matter. He ordered a whiskey from a Chinese\n waiter. He wet his lips but did not drink. His gaze wandered over the\n faces of the Inn's other occupants.\nYou've got to find him\n, he thought.\nYou've got to find the man with\n the red beard. It's the only way you can escape the dead man.\nThe dead man was real. His name was Cobb. He was stout and flabby and\n about forty and he hated spacemen.", "There was just one flaw in his decision. He hadn't realized that the\n memory of the dead man's face would haunt him, torment him, follow him\n as constantly as breath flowed into his lungs.\n\n\n But might not the rumble of atomic engines drown the murmuring dead\n voice? Might not the vision of alien worlds and infinite spaceways\n obscure the dead face?\n\n\n So now he sat searching for a perhaps nonexistent red-bearded giant,\n and hoping and doubting and fearing, all at once.\n\n\n \"You look for someone,\nsenor\n?\"\n\n\n He jumped. \"Oh. You still here?\"\n\n\n \"\nOui.\n\" The Martian kid grinned, his mouth full of purple teeth. \"I\n keep you company on your first night in Hoover City,\nn'est-ce-pas\n?\"\n\n\n \"This isn't my first night here,\" Ben lied. \"I've been around a while.\"", "Minutes passed. There were two more whiskeys. A ceaseless parade of\n faces broke through the smoky veil that enclosed him—reddish balloon\n faces, scaly reptilian faces, white-skinned, slit-eyed faces, and\n occasionally a white, rouged, powdered face. But nowhere was there a\n face with a red beard.\n\n\n A sense of hopelessness gripped Ben Curtis. Hoover City was but one of\n a dozen cities of Venus. Each had twenty dives such as this.\n\n\n He needed help.\n\n\n But his picture must have been 'scoped to Venusian visiscreens. A\n reward must have been offered for his capture. Whom could he trust? The\n Martian kid, perhaps?\n\n\n Far down the darkened aisle nearest him, his eyes caught a flash of\n white. He tensed.\n\n\n Like the uniform of a Security Policeman, he thought.", "She hesitated. He thought,\nDamn it, of all the questions, why did I\n ask that?\nFinally she said, \"He had a wife.\"\n\n\n \"Children?\"\n\n\n \"Two. I don't know their ages.\"\n\n\n She left the room.\nHe sank into the softness of his bed. As he turned over on his side,\n his gaze fell upon an object on a bureau in a far corner of the room.\n\n\n He sat straight up, his chest heaving.\n\n\n The object was a tri-dimensional photo of a rock-faced man in a\n merchant spaceman's uniform. He was a giant of a man with a neatly\n trimmed\nred beard\n!\n\n\n Ben stared at the photo for a long time. At length, he slipped into\n restless sleep. Images of faces and echoes of words spun through his\n brain.", "And whereas no legally recognized ship had ventured past Mars, the\n souped-up renegade rigs had supposedly hit the asteroids. Their\n headquarters was Venus. Their leader—a subject of popular and\n fantastic conjecture in the men's audiozines—was rumored to be a\n red-bearded giant.\nSo\n, Ben reflected,\nyou can take a beer-and-pretzels tale seriously.\n You can hide for a couple of days, get rid of your uniform, change your\n name. You can wait for a chance to get to Venus. To hell with your\n duty. You can try to stay in space, even if you exile yourself from\n Earth.\nAfter all, was it right for a single second, a single insignificant\n second, to destroy a man's life and his dream?\nHe was lucky. He found a tramp freighter whose skipper was on his last\n flight before retirement. Discipline was lax, investigation of new\n personnel even more so.\n\n\n Ben Curtis made it to Venus.", "His gaze shifted to another aisle and another hint of whiteness.\n\n\n And then he saw another and another and another.\n\n\n Each whiteness became brighter and closer, like shrinking spokes of a\n wheel with Ben as their focal point.\nYou idiot! The damned Martian kid! You should have known!\nLight showered the room in a dazzling explosion. Ben, half blinded,\n realized that a broad circle of unshaded globes in the ceiling had been\n turned on.\n\n\n The light washed away the room's strangeness and its air of brooding\n wickedness, revealing drab concrete walls and a debris-strewn floor.\n\n\n Eyes blinked and squinted. There were swift, frightened movements and\n a chorus of angry murmurs. The patrons of the Blast Inn were like\n tatter-clad occupants of a house whose walls have been ripped away.\n\n\n Ben Curtis twisted his lean body erect. His chair tumbled backward,\n falling.", "Ben rose and started to leave the bar, but Cobb grabbed his arm and\n held him there.\n\n\n \"Thas what you are—a sucker. You're young now. Wait ten years. You'll\n be dyin' of radiation rot or a meteor'll get you. Wait and see, sucker!\"\n\n\n Until this instant, Ben had suppressed his anger. Now, suddenly and\n without warning, it welled up into savage fury.\n\n\n His fist struck the man on the chin. Cobb's eyes gaped in shocked\n horror. He spun backward. His head cracked sickeningly on the edge of\n the bar. The sound was like a punctuation mark signaling the end of\n life.\n\n\n He sank to the floor, eyes glassy, blood tricking down his jaw.\n\n\n Ben knew that he was dead.", "It had begun a week ago in Luna City. The flight from White Sands had\n been successful. Ben, quietly and moderately, wanted to celebrate.\n He stopped alone in a rocketfront bar for a beer. The man named Cobb\n plopped his portly and unsteady posterior on the stool next to him.\n\n\n \"Spacemen,\" he muttered, \"are getting like flies. Everywhere, all you\n see's spacemen.\"\n\n\n He was a neatly dressed civilian.\n\n\n Ben smiled. \"If it weren't for spacemen, you wouldn't be here.\"\n\n\n \"The name's Cobb.\" The man hiccoughed. \"Spacemen in their white monkey\n suits. They think they're little tin gods. Betcha you think you're a\n little tin god.\" He downed a shot of whiskey.", "He didn't hear the answer or anything else.\nBen Curtis had no precise sensation of awakening. Return to\n consciousness was an intangible evolution from a world of black\n nothingness to a dream-like state of awareness.\n\n\n He felt the pressure of hands on his naked arms and shoulders,\n hands that massaged, manipulated, fought to restore circulation and\n sensitivity. He knew they were strong hands. Their strength seemed to\n transfer itself to his own body.\n\n\n For a long time, he tried to open his eyes. His lids felt welded\n shut. But after a while, they opened. His world of darkness gave way\n to a translucent cloak of mist. A round, featureless shape hovered\n constantly above him—a face, he supposed.\n\n\n He tried to talk. Although his lips moved slightly, the only sound was\n a deep, staccato grunting.", "Then, for a single absurd second, Ben was seized with terror—just as,\n a moment before, he'd been overwhelmed with anger.\n\n\n He ran.\nFor some twenty minutes, he raced through a dizzying, nightmare world\n of dark rocketfront alleys and shouting voices and pursuing feet.\n\n\n At last, abruptly, he realized that he was alone and in silence. He saw\n that he was still on the rocketfront, but in the Tycho-ward side of the\n city.\n\n\n He huddled in a dark corner of a loading platform and lit a cigarette.\n A thousand stars—a thousand motionless balls of silver fire—shone\n above him through Luna City's transparent dome.", "His body was buried now—probably in the silent gray wastes outside\n Luna City. But he'd become a kind of invisible Siamese twin, as much a\n part of Ben as sight in his eyes.\n\n\n Sometimes the image would be shuffling drunkenly beside him, its lips\n spitting whiskey-slurred curses.\n\n\n Again, its face would be a pop-eyed mask of surprise as Ben's fist\n thudded into its jaw. More often, the face would be frozen in the\n whiteness of death. The large eyes would stare. Blood would trickle\n from a corner of the gaping mouth.\n\n\n You can forget a living man. You can defeat him or submit to him or\n ignore him, and the matter is over and done. You can't escape from a\n memory that has burned into your mind.", "Once he spied a white-uniformed officer of Hoover City's Security\n Police. The man was striding down an aisle, idly tapping his neuro-club\n against the stone booths.\nKeep walking\n, Ben told himself.\nYou look the same as anyone else\n here. Keep walking. Look straight ahead.\nThe officer passed. Ben breathed easier.\n\n\n \"Here we are,\nmonsieur\n,\" piped the Martian boy. \"A\ntres\nfine table.\n Close in the shadows.\"\n\n\n Ben winced. How did this kid know he wanted to sit in the shadows?\n Frowning, he sat down—he and the dead man.\n\n\n He listened to the lonely rhythms of the four-piece Martian orchestra.", "Most of the big room lay obscured behind a shimmering veil of tobacco\n smoke and the sweet, heavy fumes of Martian Devil's Egg. Here and\n there, Ben saw moving figures. He could not tell if they were Earthmen,\n Martians or Venusians.\n\n\n Someone tugged at his greasy coat. He jumped, thinking absurdly that it\n was the dead man's hand.\n\n\n \"\nComa esta, senor?\n\" a small voice piped. \"\nSpeken die Deutsch?\n Desirez-vous d'amour? Da? Nyet?\n\"\n\n\n Ben looked down.\n\n\n The speaker was an eager-eyed Martian boy of about ten. He was like\n a red-skinned marionette with pipestem arms and legs, clad in a torn\n skivvy shirt and faded blue dungarees.\n\n\n \"I'm American,\" Ben muttered.", "Hands were guiding him. He was aware of being pushed and pulled. A\n door closed behind him. The glare of the flashlight faded from his\n vision—if he still had vision.\n\n\n \"You're sure?\" the voice persisted.\n\n\n \"I'm sure,\" Ben managed to say.\n\n\n \"I have no antidote. You may die.\"\n\n\n His mind fought to comprehend. With the anti-paralysis injection,\n massage and rest, a man could recover from the effects of mortocain\n within half a day. Without treatment, the paralysis could spread to\n heart and lungs. It could become a paralysis of death. An effective\n weapon: the slightest wound compelled the average criminal to surrender\n at once.\n\n\n \"Anti ... anti ...\" The words were as heavy as blobs of mercury forced\n from his throat. \"No ... I'm sure ... sure.\"", "\"Ah,\nbuena\n! I speak English\ntres\nfine,\nsenor\n. I have Martian\n friend, she\ntres\npretty and\ntres\nfat. She weigh almost eighty\n pounds,\nmonsieur\n. I take you to her,\nsi\n?\"\n\n\n Ben shook his head.\nHe thought,\nI don't want your Martian wench. I don't want your opium\n or your Devil's Egg or your Venusian kali. But if you had a drug that'd\n bring a dead man to life, I'd buy and pay with my soul.\n\"It is deal,\nmonsieur\n? Five dollars or twenty\nkeelis\nfor visit\n Martian friend. Maybe you like House of Dreams. For House of Dreams—\"\n\n\n \"I'm not buying.\"\n\n\n The dirty-faced kid shrugged. \"Then I show you to good table,—\ntres\n bien\n. I do not charge you,\nsenor\n.\"", "The boy grabbed his hand. Because Ben could think of no reason for\n resisting, he followed. They plunged into shifting layers of smoke and\n through the drone of alcohol-cracked voices.\nThey passed the bar with its line of lean-featured, slit-eyed\n Earthmen—merchant spacemen.\n\n\n They wormed down a narrow aisle flanked by booths carved from Venusian\n marble that jutted up into the semi-darkness like fog-blanketed\n tombstones.\n\n\n Several times, Ben glimpsed the bulky figures of CO\n 2\n -breathing\n Venusians, the first he'd ever seen.\n\n\n They were smoky gray, scaly, naked giants, toads in human shape.\n They stood solitary and motionless, aloof, their green-lidded eyes\n unblinking. They certainly didn't look like telepaths, as Ben had heard\n they were, but the thought sent a fresh rivulet of fear down his spine.", "Then a pressure and a coldness were on his left hand. He realized that\n someone had seized it.\n\n\n A soft feminine voice spoke to him. \"You're wounded? They hit you?\"\n\n\n \"Yes.\" His thick lips wouldn't let go of the word.\n\n\n \"You want to escape—even now?\"\n\n\n \"Yes.\"\n\n\n \"You may die if you don't give yourself up.\"\n\n\n \"No, no.\"\n\n\n He tried to stumble toward the exit.\n\n\n \"All right then. Not that way. Here, this way.\"\n\n\n Heavy footsteps thudded toward them. A few yards away, a flashlight\n flicked on.", "Ben stiffened. He was twenty-four and dressed in the white,\n crimson-braided uniform of the\nOdyssey's\njunior astrogation officer.\n He was three months out of the Academy at White Sands and the shining\n uniform was like a key to all the mysteries of the Universe.\n\n\n He'd sought long for that key.\nAt the age of five—perhaps in order to dull the memory of his parents'\n death in a recent strato-jet crash—he'd spent hours watching the night\n sky for streaking flame-tails of Moon rockets. At ten, he'd ground\n his first telescope. At fourteen, he'd converted an abandoned shed on\n the government boarding-school grounds to a retreat which housed his\n collection of astronomy and rocketry books.", "A Coffin for Jacob\nBy EDWARD W. LUDWIG\n\n\n Illustrated by EMSH\n\n\n [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Galaxy Science Fiction May 1956.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nWith never a moment to rest, the pursuit\n \nthrough space felt like a game of hounds\n \nand hares ... or was it follow the leader?\nBen Curtis eased his pale, gaunt body through the open doorway of the\n Blast Inn, the dead man following silently behind him.\n\n\n His fear-borne gaze traveled into the dimly illumined Venusian gin\n mill. The place was like an evil caldron steaming with a brew whose\n ingredients had been culled from the back corners of three planets." ], [ "For an instant, Ben's mind rose above the haunting vision of the dead\n man. He thought,\nWhat are they doing here, these Martians? Here, in\n a smoke-filled room under a metalite dome on a dust-covered world?\n Couldn't they have played their music on Mars? Or had they, like me,\n felt the challenge of new worlds?\nHe sobered. It didn't matter. He ordered a whiskey from a Chinese\n waiter. He wet his lips but did not drink. His gaze wandered over the\n faces of the Inn's other occupants.\nYou've got to find him\n, he thought.\nYou've got to find the man with\n the red beard. It's the only way you can escape the dead man.\nThe dead man was real. His name was Cobb. He was stout and flabby and\n about forty and he hated spacemen.", "\"You are spacemen?\"\n\n\n Ben threw a fifty-cent credit piece on the table. \"Here. Take off, will\n you?\"\n\n\n Spiderlike fingers swept down upon the coin. \"\nIch danke, senor.\nYou\n know why city is called Hoover City?\"\n\n\n Ben didn't answer.\n\n\n \"They say it is because after women come, they want first thing a\n thousand vacuum cleaners for dust. What is vacuum cleaner,\nmonsieur\n?\"\n\n\n Ben raised his hand as if to strike the boy.\n\n\n \"\nAi-yee\n, I go. You keep listen to good Martian music.\"\n\n\n The toothpick of a body melted into the semi-darkness.", "It had begun a week ago in Luna City. The flight from White Sands had\n been successful. Ben, quietly and moderately, wanted to celebrate.\n He stopped alone in a rocketfront bar for a beer. The man named Cobb\n plopped his portly and unsteady posterior on the stool next to him.\n\n\n \"Spacemen,\" he muttered, \"are getting like flies. Everywhere, all you\n see's spacemen.\"\n\n\n He was a neatly dressed civilian.\n\n\n Ben smiled. \"If it weren't for spacemen, you wouldn't be here.\"\n\n\n \"The name's Cobb.\" The man hiccoughed. \"Spacemen in their white monkey\n suits. They think they're little tin gods. Betcha you think you're a\n little tin god.\" He downed a shot of whiskey.", "Most of the big room lay obscured behind a shimmering veil of tobacco\n smoke and the sweet, heavy fumes of Martian Devil's Egg. Here and\n there, Ben saw moving figures. He could not tell if they were Earthmen,\n Martians or Venusians.\n\n\n Someone tugged at his greasy coat. He jumped, thinking absurdly that it\n was the dead man's hand.\n\n\n \"\nComa esta, senor?\n\" a small voice piped. \"\nSpeken die Deutsch?\n Desirez-vous d'amour? Da? Nyet?\n\"\n\n\n Ben looked down.\n\n\n The speaker was an eager-eyed Martian boy of about ten. He was like\n a red-skinned marionette with pipestem arms and legs, clad in a torn\n skivvy shirt and faded blue dungarees.\n\n\n \"I'm American,\" Ben muttered.", "There was just one flaw in his decision. He hadn't realized that the\n memory of the dead man's face would haunt him, torment him, follow him\n as constantly as breath flowed into his lungs.\n\n\n But might not the rumble of atomic engines drown the murmuring dead\n voice? Might not the vision of alien worlds and infinite spaceways\n obscure the dead face?\n\n\n So now he sat searching for a perhaps nonexistent red-bearded giant,\n and hoping and doubting and fearing, all at once.\n\n\n \"You look for someone,\nsenor\n?\"\n\n\n He jumped. \"Oh. You still here?\"\n\n\n \"\nOui.\n\" The Martian kid grinned, his mouth full of purple teeth. \"I\n keep you company on your first night in Hoover City,\nn'est-ce-pas\n?\"\n\n\n \"This isn't my first night here,\" Ben lied. \"I've been around a while.\"", "But he heard someone say, \"Don't try to talk.\" It was the same gentle\n voice he'd heard in the Blast Inn. \"Don't talk. Just lie still and\n rest. Everything'll be all right.\"\nEverything all right\n, he thought dimly.\n\n\n There were long periods of lethargy when he was aware of nothing. There\n were periods of light and of darkness. Gradually he grew aware of\n things. He realized that the soft rubber mouth of a spaceman's oxygen\n mask was clamped over his nose. He felt the heat of electric blankets\n swathed about his body. Occasionally a tube would be in his mouth and\n he would taste liquid food and feel a pleasant warmth in his stomach.\n\n\n Always, it seemed, the face was above him, floating in the obscuring\n mist. Always, it seemed, the soft voice was echoing in his ears:", "At sixteen, he'd spent every weekend holiday hitchhiking from Boys\n Town No. 5 in the Catskills to Long Island Spaceport. There, among\n the grizzled veterans of the old Moon Patrol, he'd found friends who\n understood his dream and who later recommended his appointment to the\n U. S. Academy for the Conquest of Space.\n\n\n And a month ago, he'd signed aboard the\nOdyssey\n—the first ship, it\n was rumored, equipped to venture as far as the asteroids and perhaps\n beyond.\n\n\n Cobb was persistent: \"Damn fools shoulda known enough to stay on Earth.\n What the hell good is it, jumpin' from planet to planet?\"\nThe guy's drunk\n, Ben thought. He took his drink and moved three\n stools down the bar.\n\n\n Cobb followed. \"You don't like the truth, eh, kid? You don't like\n people to call you a sucker.\"", "Once he spied a white-uniformed officer of Hoover City's Security\n Police. The man was striding down an aisle, idly tapping his neuro-club\n against the stone booths.\nKeep walking\n, Ben told himself.\nYou look the same as anyone else\n here. Keep walking. Look straight ahead.\nThe officer passed. Ben breathed easier.\n\n\n \"Here we are,\nmonsieur\n,\" piped the Martian boy. \"A\ntres\nfine table.\n Close in the shadows.\"\n\n\n Ben winced. How did this kid know he wanted to sit in the shadows?\n Frowning, he sat down—he and the dead man.\n\n\n He listened to the lonely rhythms of the four-piece Martian orchestra.", "He remembered a little picture book his mother had given him when she\n was alive. Under the bright pictures of spacemen were the captions:\n\n\n \"A Space Officer Is Honest\" \"A Space Officer Is Loyal.\" \"A Space\n Officer Is Dutiful.\"\n\n\n Honesty, loyalty, duty. Trite words, but without those concepts,\n mankind would never have broken away from the planet that held it\n prisoner for half a million years.\n\n\n Without them, Everson, after three failures and a hundred men dead,\n would never have landed on the Moon twenty-seven years ago.", "A Coffin for Jacob\nBy EDWARD W. LUDWIG\n\n\n Illustrated by EMSH\n\n\n [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Galaxy Science Fiction May 1956.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nWith never a moment to rest, the pursuit\n \nthrough space felt like a game of hounds\n \nand hares ... or was it follow the leader?\nBen Curtis eased his pale, gaunt body through the open doorway of the\n Blast Inn, the dead man following silently behind him.\n\n\n His fear-borne gaze traveled into the dimly illumined Venusian gin\n mill. The place was like an evil caldron steaming with a brew whose\n ingredients had been culled from the back corners of three planets.", "His body was buried now—probably in the silent gray wastes outside\n Luna City. But he'd become a kind of invisible Siamese twin, as much a\n part of Ben as sight in his eyes.\n\n\n Sometimes the image would be shuffling drunkenly beside him, its lips\n spitting whiskey-slurred curses.\n\n\n Again, its face would be a pop-eyed mask of surprise as Ben's fist\n thudded into its jaw. More often, the face would be frozen in the\n whiteness of death. The large eyes would stare. Blood would trickle\n from a corner of the gaping mouth.\n\n\n You can forget a living man. You can defeat him or submit to him or\n ignore him, and the matter is over and done. You can't escape from a\n memory that has burned into your mind.", "Ben rose and started to leave the bar, but Cobb grabbed his arm and\n held him there.\n\n\n \"Thas what you are—a sucker. You're young now. Wait ten years. You'll\n be dyin' of radiation rot or a meteor'll get you. Wait and see, sucker!\"\n\n\n Until this instant, Ben had suppressed his anger. Now, suddenly and\n without warning, it welled up into savage fury.\n\n\n His fist struck the man on the chin. Cobb's eyes gaped in shocked\n horror. He spun backward. His head cracked sickeningly on the edge of\n the bar. The sound was like a punctuation mark signaling the end of\n life.\n\n\n He sank to the floor, eyes glassy, blood tricking down his jaw.\n\n\n Ben knew that he was dead.", "His gaze shifted to another aisle and another hint of whiteness.\n\n\n And then he saw another and another and another.\n\n\n Each whiteness became brighter and closer, like shrinking spokes of a\n wheel with Ben as their focal point.\nYou idiot! The damned Martian kid! You should have known!\nLight showered the room in a dazzling explosion. Ben, half blinded,\n realized that a broad circle of unshaded globes in the ceiling had been\n turned on.\n\n\n The light washed away the room's strangeness and its air of brooding\n wickedness, revealing drab concrete walls and a debris-strewn floor.\n\n\n Eyes blinked and squinted. There were swift, frightened movements and\n a chorus of angry murmurs. The patrons of the Blast Inn were like\n tatter-clad occupants of a house whose walls have been ripped away.\n\n\n Ben Curtis twisted his lean body erect. His chair tumbled backward,\n falling.", "The boy grabbed his hand. Because Ben could think of no reason for\n resisting, he followed. They plunged into shifting layers of smoke and\n through the drone of alcohol-cracked voices.\nThey passed the bar with its line of lean-featured, slit-eyed\n Earthmen—merchant spacemen.\n\n\n They wormed down a narrow aisle flanked by booths carved from Venusian\n marble that jutted up into the semi-darkness like fog-blanketed\n tombstones.\n\n\n Several times, Ben glimpsed the bulky figures of CO\n 2\n -breathing\n Venusians, the first he'd ever seen.\n\n\n They were smoky gray, scaly, naked giants, toads in human shape.\n They stood solitary and motionless, aloof, their green-lidded eyes\n unblinking. They certainly didn't look like telepaths, as Ben had heard\n they were, but the thought sent a fresh rivulet of fear down his spine.", "She hesitated. He thought,\nDamn it, of all the questions, why did I\n ask that?\nFinally she said, \"He had a wife.\"\n\n\n \"Children?\"\n\n\n \"Two. I don't know their ages.\"\n\n\n She left the room.\nHe sank into the softness of his bed. As he turned over on his side,\n his gaze fell upon an object on a bureau in a far corner of the room.\n\n\n He sat straight up, his chest heaving.\n\n\n The object was a tri-dimensional photo of a rock-faced man in a\n merchant spaceman's uniform. He was a giant of a man with a neatly\n trimmed\nred beard\n!\n\n\n Ben stared at the photo for a long time. At length, he slipped into\n restless sleep. Images of faces and echoes of words spun through his\n brain.", "\"You were accepted as junior astrogation officer aboard the\nOdyssey\n.\n You did well on your flight from Roswell to Luna City. In a barroom\n fight in Luna City, you struck and killed a man named Arthur Cobb, a\n pre-fab salesman. You've been charged with second degree murder and\n escape. A reward of 5,000 credits has been offered for your capture.\n You came to Hoover City in the hope of finding a renegade group of\n spacemen who operate beyond Mars. You were looking for them in the\n Blast Inn.\"\n\n\n He gaped incredulously, struggling to rise from his pillows. \"I—don't\n get it.\"\n\n\n \"There are ways of finding out what we want to know. As I told you, we\n have many friends.\"\n\n\n He fell back into his pillows, breathing hard. She rose quickly.", "The Martians were fragile, doll-like creatures with heads too large for\n their spindly bodies. Their long fingers played upon the strings of\n their\ncirillas\nor crawled over the holes of their flutes like spider\n legs. Their tune was sad. Even when they played an Earth tune, it still\n seemed a song of old Mars, charged with echoes of lost voices and\n forgotten grandeur.", "And whereas no legally recognized ship had ventured past Mars, the\n souped-up renegade rigs had supposedly hit the asteroids. Their\n headquarters was Venus. Their leader—a subject of popular and\n fantastic conjecture in the men's audiozines—was rumored to be a\n red-bearded giant.\nSo\n, Ben reflected,\nyou can take a beer-and-pretzels tale seriously.\n You can hide for a couple of days, get rid of your uniform, change your\n name. You can wait for a chance to get to Venus. To hell with your\n duty. You can try to stay in space, even if you exile yourself from\n Earth.\nAfter all, was it right for a single second, a single insignificant\n second, to destroy a man's life and his dream?\nHe was lucky. He found a tramp freighter whose skipper was on his last\n flight before retirement. Discipline was lax, investigation of new\n personnel even more so.\n\n\n Ben Curtis made it to Venus.", "The dead man returned to him. Bloodied lips cursed at him. Glassy eyes\n accused him. Somewhere were two lost children crying in the night.\n\n\n And towering above him was a red-bearded man whose great hands reached\n down and beckoned to him. Ben crawled through the night on hands and\n knees, his legs numb and useless. The crying of the children was a\n chilling wail in his ears.\n\n\n His head rose and turned to the red-bearded man. His pleading voice\n screamed out to him in a thick, harsh cackle. Yet even as he screamed,\n the giant disappeared, to be replaced by white-booted feet stomping\n relentlessly toward him.\n\n\n He awoke still screaming....\n\n\n A night without darkness passed. Ben lay waiting for Maggie's return, a\n question already formed in his mind.\n\n\n She came and at once he asked, \"Who is the man with the red beard?\"", "Ben stiffened. He was twenty-four and dressed in the white,\n crimson-braided uniform of the\nOdyssey's\njunior astrogation officer.\n He was three months out of the Academy at White Sands and the shining\n uniform was like a key to all the mysteries of the Universe.\n\n\n He'd sought long for that key.\nAt the age of five—perhaps in order to dull the memory of his parents'\n death in a recent strato-jet crash—he'd spent hours watching the night\n sky for streaking flame-tails of Moon rockets. At ten, he'd ground\n his first telescope. At fourteen, he'd converted an abandoned shed on\n the government boarding-school grounds to a retreat which housed his\n collection of astronomy and rocketry books." ], [ "The dead man returned to him. Bloodied lips cursed at him. Glassy eyes\n accused him. Somewhere were two lost children crying in the night.\n\n\n And towering above him was a red-bearded man whose great hands reached\n down and beckoned to him. Ben crawled through the night on hands and\n knees, his legs numb and useless. The crying of the children was a\n chilling wail in his ears.\n\n\n His head rose and turned to the red-bearded man. His pleading voice\n screamed out to him in a thick, harsh cackle. Yet even as he screamed,\n the giant disappeared, to be replaced by white-booted feet stomping\n relentlessly toward him.\n\n\n He awoke still screaming....\n\n\n A night without darkness passed. Ben lay waiting for Maggie's return, a\n question already formed in his mind.\n\n\n She came and at once he asked, \"Who is the man with the red beard?\"", "His body was buried now—probably in the silent gray wastes outside\n Luna City. But he'd become a kind of invisible Siamese twin, as much a\n part of Ben as sight in his eyes.\n\n\n Sometimes the image would be shuffling drunkenly beside him, its lips\n spitting whiskey-slurred curses.\n\n\n Again, its face would be a pop-eyed mask of surprise as Ben's fist\n thudded into its jaw. More often, the face would be frozen in the\n whiteness of death. The large eyes would stare. Blood would trickle\n from a corner of the gaping mouth.\n\n\n You can forget a living man. You can defeat him or submit to him or\n ignore him, and the matter is over and done. You can't escape from a\n memory that has burned into your mind.", "There was just one flaw in his decision. He hadn't realized that the\n memory of the dead man's face would haunt him, torment him, follow him\n as constantly as breath flowed into his lungs.\n\n\n But might not the rumble of atomic engines drown the murmuring dead\n voice? Might not the vision of alien worlds and infinite spaceways\n obscure the dead face?\n\n\n So now he sat searching for a perhaps nonexistent red-bearded giant,\n and hoping and doubting and fearing, all at once.\n\n\n \"You look for someone,\nsenor\n?\"\n\n\n He jumped. \"Oh. You still here?\"\n\n\n \"\nOui.\n\" The Martian kid grinned, his mouth full of purple teeth. \"I\n keep you company on your first night in Hoover City,\nn'est-ce-pas\n?\"\n\n\n \"This isn't my first night here,\" Ben lied. \"I've been around a while.\"", "He didn't hear the answer or anything else.\nBen Curtis had no precise sensation of awakening. Return to\n consciousness was an intangible evolution from a world of black\n nothingness to a dream-like state of awareness.\n\n\n He felt the pressure of hands on his naked arms and shoulders,\n hands that massaged, manipulated, fought to restore circulation and\n sensitivity. He knew they were strong hands. Their strength seemed to\n transfer itself to his own body.\n\n\n For a long time, he tried to open his eyes. His lids felt welded\n shut. But after a while, they opened. His world of darkness gave way\n to a translucent cloak of mist. A round, featureless shape hovered\n constantly above him—a face, he supposed.\n\n\n He tried to talk. Although his lips moved slightly, the only sound was\n a deep, staccato grunting.", "Once he spied a white-uniformed officer of Hoover City's Security\n Police. The man was striding down an aisle, idly tapping his neuro-club\n against the stone booths.\nKeep walking\n, Ben told himself.\nYou look the same as anyone else\n here. Keep walking. Look straight ahead.\nThe officer passed. Ben breathed easier.\n\n\n \"Here we are,\nmonsieur\n,\" piped the Martian boy. \"A\ntres\nfine table.\n Close in the shadows.\"\n\n\n Ben winced. How did this kid know he wanted to sit in the shadows?\n Frowning, he sat down—he and the dead man.\n\n\n He listened to the lonely rhythms of the four-piece Martian orchestra.", "For an instant, Ben's mind rose above the haunting vision of the dead\n man. He thought,\nWhat are they doing here, these Martians? Here, in\n a smoke-filled room under a metalite dome on a dust-covered world?\n Couldn't they have played their music on Mars? Or had they, like me,\n felt the challenge of new worlds?\nHe sobered. It didn't matter. He ordered a whiskey from a Chinese\n waiter. He wet his lips but did not drink. His gaze wandered over the\n faces of the Inn's other occupants.\nYou've got to find him\n, he thought.\nYou've got to find the man with\n the red beard. It's the only way you can escape the dead man.\nThe dead man was real. His name was Cobb. He was stout and flabby and\n about forty and he hated spacemen.", "Ben rose and started to leave the bar, but Cobb grabbed his arm and\n held him there.\n\n\n \"Thas what you are—a sucker. You're young now. Wait ten years. You'll\n be dyin' of radiation rot or a meteor'll get you. Wait and see, sucker!\"\n\n\n Until this instant, Ben had suppressed his anger. Now, suddenly and\n without warning, it welled up into savage fury.\n\n\n His fist struck the man on the chin. Cobb's eyes gaped in shocked\n horror. He spun backward. His head cracked sickeningly on the edge of\n the bar. The sound was like a punctuation mark signaling the end of\n life.\n\n\n He sank to the floor, eyes glassy, blood tricking down his jaw.\n\n\n Ben knew that he was dead.", "She hesitated. He thought,\nDamn it, of all the questions, why did I\n ask that?\nFinally she said, \"He had a wife.\"\n\n\n \"Children?\"\n\n\n \"Two. I don't know their ages.\"\n\n\n She left the room.\nHe sank into the softness of his bed. As he turned over on his side,\n his gaze fell upon an object on a bureau in a far corner of the room.\n\n\n He sat straight up, his chest heaving.\n\n\n The object was a tri-dimensional photo of a rock-faced man in a\n merchant spaceman's uniform. He was a giant of a man with a neatly\n trimmed\nred beard\n!\n\n\n Ben stared at the photo for a long time. At length, he slipped into\n restless sleep. Images of faces and echoes of words spun through his\n brain.", "Hands were guiding him. He was aware of being pushed and pulled. A\n door closed behind him. The glare of the flashlight faded from his\n vision—if he still had vision.\n\n\n \"You're sure?\" the voice persisted.\n\n\n \"I'm sure,\" Ben managed to say.\n\n\n \"I have no antidote. You may die.\"\n\n\n His mind fought to comprehend. With the anti-paralysis injection,\n massage and rest, a man could recover from the effects of mortocain\n within half a day. Without treatment, the paralysis could spread to\n heart and lungs. It could become a paralysis of death. An effective\n weapon: the slightest wound compelled the average criminal to surrender\n at once.\n\n\n \"Anti ... anti ...\" The words were as heavy as blobs of mercury forced\n from his throat. \"No ... I'm sure ... sure.\"", "His gaze shifted to another aisle and another hint of whiteness.\n\n\n And then he saw another and another and another.\n\n\n Each whiteness became brighter and closer, like shrinking spokes of a\n wheel with Ben as their focal point.\nYou idiot! The damned Martian kid! You should have known!\nLight showered the room in a dazzling explosion. Ben, half blinded,\n realized that a broad circle of unshaded globes in the ceiling had been\n turned on.\n\n\n The light washed away the room's strangeness and its air of brooding\n wickedness, revealing drab concrete walls and a debris-strewn floor.\n\n\n Eyes blinked and squinted. There were swift, frightened movements and\n a chorus of angry murmurs. The patrons of the Blast Inn were like\n tatter-clad occupants of a house whose walls have been ripped away.\n\n\n Ben Curtis twisted his lean body erect. His chair tumbled backward,\n falling.", "\"Ah,\nbuena\n! I speak English\ntres\nfine,\nsenor\n. I have Martian\n friend, she\ntres\npretty and\ntres\nfat. She weigh almost eighty\n pounds,\nmonsieur\n. I take you to her,\nsi\n?\"\n\n\n Ben shook his head.\nHe thought,\nI don't want your Martian wench. I don't want your opium\n or your Devil's Egg or your Venusian kali. But if you had a drug that'd\n bring a dead man to life, I'd buy and pay with my soul.\n\"It is deal,\nmonsieur\n? Five dollars or twenty\nkeelis\nfor visit\n Martian friend. Maybe you like House of Dreams. For House of Dreams—\"\n\n\n \"I'm not buying.\"\n\n\n The dirty-faced kid shrugged. \"Then I show you to good table,—\ntres\n bien\n. I do not charge you,\nsenor\n.\"", "A Coffin for Jacob\nBy EDWARD W. LUDWIG\n\n\n Illustrated by EMSH\n\n\n [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Galaxy Science Fiction May 1956.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nWith never a moment to rest, the pursuit\n \nthrough space felt like a game of hounds\n \nand hares ... or was it follow the leader?\nBen Curtis eased his pale, gaunt body through the open doorway of the\n Blast Inn, the dead man following silently behind him.\n\n\n His fear-borne gaze traveled into the dimly illumined Venusian gin\n mill. The place was like an evil caldron steaming with a brew whose\n ingredients had been culled from the back corners of three planets.", "It had begun a week ago in Luna City. The flight from White Sands had\n been successful. Ben, quietly and moderately, wanted to celebrate.\n He stopped alone in a rocketfront bar for a beer. The man named Cobb\n plopped his portly and unsteady posterior on the stool next to him.\n\n\n \"Spacemen,\" he muttered, \"are getting like flies. Everywhere, all you\n see's spacemen.\"\n\n\n He was a neatly dressed civilian.\n\n\n Ben smiled. \"If it weren't for spacemen, you wouldn't be here.\"\n\n\n \"The name's Cobb.\" The man hiccoughed. \"Spacemen in their white monkey\n suits. They think they're little tin gods. Betcha you think you're a\n little tin god.\" He downed a shot of whiskey.", "Ben stiffened. He was twenty-four and dressed in the white,\n crimson-braided uniform of the\nOdyssey's\njunior astrogation officer.\n He was three months out of the Academy at White Sands and the shining\n uniform was like a key to all the mysteries of the Universe.\n\n\n He'd sought long for that key.\nAt the age of five—perhaps in order to dull the memory of his parents'\n death in a recent strato-jet crash—he'd spent hours watching the night\n sky for streaking flame-tails of Moon rockets. At ten, he'd ground\n his first telescope. At fourteen, he'd converted an abandoned shed on\n the government boarding-school grounds to a retreat which housed his\n collection of astronomy and rocketry books.", "\"You are better?\" the kind voice asked.\nThe face was that of a girl probably somewhere between twenty-five\n and thirty. Her features, devoid of makeup, had an unhealthy-looking\n pallor, as if she hadn't used a sunlamp for many weeks. Yet, at the\n same time, her firm slim body suggested a solidity and a strength. Her\n straight brown hair was combed backward, tight upon her scalp, and\n drawn together in a knot at the nape of her neck.\n\n\n \"I—I am better,\" he murmured. His words were still slow and thick. \"I\n am going to live?\"\n\n\n \"You will live.\"\n\n\n He thought for a moment. \"How long have I been here?\"\n\n\n \"Nine days.\"\n\n\n \"You took care of me?\" He noted the deep, dark circles beneath her\n sleep-robbed eyes.\n\n\n She nodded.", "Then, for a single absurd second, Ben was seized with terror—just as,\n a moment before, he'd been overwhelmed with anger.\n\n\n He ran.\nFor some twenty minutes, he raced through a dizzying, nightmare world\n of dark rocketfront alleys and shouting voices and pursuing feet.\n\n\n At last, abruptly, he realized that he was alone and in silence. He saw\n that he was still on the rocketfront, but in the Tycho-ward side of the\n city.\n\n\n He huddled in a dark corner of a loading platform and lit a cigarette.\n A thousand stars—a thousand motionless balls of silver fire—shone\n above him through Luna City's transparent dome.", "Another hiss passed his cheek. He was about twelve feet from the exit.\nAnother second\n, his brain screamed.\nJust another second—\nOr would the exits be guarded?\n\n\n He heard the hiss.\n\n\n It hit directly in the small of his back. There was no pain, just a\n slight pricking sensation, like the shallow jab of a needle.\nHe froze as if yanked to a stop by a noose. His body seemed to be\n growing, swelling into balloon proportions. He knew that the tiny\n needle had imbedded itself deep in his flesh, knew that the paralyzing\n mortocain was spreading like icy fire into every fiber and muscle of\n his body.\n\n\n He staggered like a man of stone moving in slow motion. He'd have\n fifteen—maybe twenty—seconds before complete lethargy of mind and\n body overpowered him.\n\n\n In the dark world beyond his fading consciousness, he heard a voice\n yell, \"Turn on the damn lights!\"", "But he heard someone say, \"Don't try to talk.\" It was the same gentle\n voice he'd heard in the Blast Inn. \"Don't talk. Just lie still and\n rest. Everything'll be all right.\"\nEverything all right\n, he thought dimly.\n\n\n There were long periods of lethargy when he was aware of nothing. There\n were periods of light and of darkness. Gradually he grew aware of\n things. He realized that the soft rubber mouth of a spaceman's oxygen\n mask was clamped over his nose. He felt the heat of electric blankets\n swathed about his body. Occasionally a tube would be in his mouth and\n he would taste liquid food and feel a pleasant warmth in his stomach.\n\n\n Always, it seemed, the face was above him, floating in the obscuring\n mist. Always, it seemed, the soft voice was echoing in his ears:", "Minutes passed. There were two more whiskeys. A ceaseless parade of\n faces broke through the smoky veil that enclosed him—reddish balloon\n faces, scaly reptilian faces, white-skinned, slit-eyed faces, and\n occasionally a white, rouged, powdered face. But nowhere was there a\n face with a red beard.\n\n\n A sense of hopelessness gripped Ben Curtis. Hoover City was but one of\n a dozen cities of Venus. Each had twenty dives such as this.\n\n\n He needed help.\n\n\n But his picture must have been 'scoped to Venusian visiscreens. A\n reward must have been offered for his capture. Whom could he trust? The\n Martian kid, perhaps?\n\n\n Far down the darkened aisle nearest him, his eyes caught a flash of\n white. He tensed.\n\n\n Like the uniform of a Security Policeman, he thought.", "Most of the big room lay obscured behind a shimmering veil of tobacco\n smoke and the sweet, heavy fumes of Martian Devil's Egg. Here and\n there, Ben saw moving figures. He could not tell if they were Earthmen,\n Martians or Venusians.\n\n\n Someone tugged at his greasy coat. He jumped, thinking absurdly that it\n was the dead man's hand.\n\n\n \"\nComa esta, senor?\n\" a small voice piped. \"\nSpeken die Deutsch?\n Desirez-vous d'amour? Da? Nyet?\n\"\n\n\n Ben looked down.\n\n\n The speaker was an eager-eyed Martian boy of about ten. He was like\n a red-skinned marionette with pipestem arms and legs, clad in a torn\n skivvy shirt and faded blue dungarees.\n\n\n \"I'm American,\" Ben muttered." ], [ "Ben stiffened. He was twenty-four and dressed in the white,\n crimson-braided uniform of the\nOdyssey's\njunior astrogation officer.\n He was three months out of the Academy at White Sands and the shining\n uniform was like a key to all the mysteries of the Universe.\n\n\n He'd sought long for that key.\nAt the age of five—perhaps in order to dull the memory of his parents'\n death in a recent strato-jet crash—he'd spent hours watching the night\n sky for streaking flame-tails of Moon rockets. At ten, he'd ground\n his first telescope. At fourteen, he'd converted an abandoned shed on\n the government boarding-school grounds to a retreat which housed his\n collection of astronomy and rocketry books.", "At sixteen, he'd spent every weekend holiday hitchhiking from Boys\n Town No. 5 in the Catskills to Long Island Spaceport. There, among\n the grizzled veterans of the old Moon Patrol, he'd found friends who\n understood his dream and who later recommended his appointment to the\n U. S. Academy for the Conquest of Space.\n\n\n And a month ago, he'd signed aboard the\nOdyssey\n—the first ship, it\n was rumored, equipped to venture as far as the asteroids and perhaps\n beyond.\n\n\n Cobb was persistent: \"Damn fools shoulda known enough to stay on Earth.\n What the hell good is it, jumpin' from planet to planet?\"\nThe guy's drunk\n, Ben thought. He took his drink and moved three\n stools down the bar.\n\n\n Cobb followed. \"You don't like the truth, eh, kid? You don't like\n people to call you a sucker.\"", "\"Then we move on. We dream up new gimmicks for our crates and take them\n to Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, Pluto. In time, maybe, we'll be\n pushed out of the System itself. Maybe it won't be the white-suited\n boys who'll make that first hop to the stars. It\ncould\nbe us, you\n know—if we live long enough. But that Asteroid Belt is murder. You\n can't follow the text-book rules of astrogation out there. You make up\n your own.\"\nBen stiffened. \"And that's why you want me for an astrogator.\"\n\n\n Maggie rose, her eyes wistful. \"If you want to come—and if you get\n well.\" She looked at him strangely.\n\n\n \"Suppose—\" He fought to find the right words. \"Suppose I got well and\n decided not to join Jacob. What would happen to me? Would you let me\n go?\"", "It had begun a week ago in Luna City. The flight from White Sands had\n been successful. Ben, quietly and moderately, wanted to celebrate.\n He stopped alone in a rocketfront bar for a beer. The man named Cobb\n plopped his portly and unsteady posterior on the stool next to him.\n\n\n \"Spacemen,\" he muttered, \"are getting like flies. Everywhere, all you\n see's spacemen.\"\n\n\n He was a neatly dressed civilian.\n\n\n Ben smiled. \"If it weren't for spacemen, you wouldn't be here.\"\n\n\n \"The name's Cobb.\" The man hiccoughed. \"Spacemen in their white monkey\n suits. They think they're little tin gods. Betcha you think you're a\n little tin god.\" He downed a shot of whiskey.", "There was just one flaw in his decision. He hadn't realized that the\n memory of the dead man's face would haunt him, torment him, follow him\n as constantly as breath flowed into his lungs.\n\n\n But might not the rumble of atomic engines drown the murmuring dead\n voice? Might not the vision of alien worlds and infinite spaceways\n obscure the dead face?\n\n\n So now he sat searching for a perhaps nonexistent red-bearded giant,\n and hoping and doubting and fearing, all at once.\n\n\n \"You look for someone,\nsenor\n?\"\n\n\n He jumped. \"Oh. You still here?\"\n\n\n \"\nOui.\n\" The Martian kid grinned, his mouth full of purple teeth. \"I\n keep you company on your first night in Hoover City,\nn'est-ce-pas\n?\"\n\n\n \"This isn't my first night here,\" Ben lied. \"I've been around a while.\"", "And whereas no legally recognized ship had ventured past Mars, the\n souped-up renegade rigs had supposedly hit the asteroids. Their\n headquarters was Venus. Their leader—a subject of popular and\n fantastic conjecture in the men's audiozines—was rumored to be a\n red-bearded giant.\nSo\n, Ben reflected,\nyou can take a beer-and-pretzels tale seriously.\n You can hide for a couple of days, get rid of your uniform, change your\n name. You can wait for a chance to get to Venus. To hell with your\n duty. You can try to stay in space, even if you exile yourself from\n Earth.\nAfter all, was it right for a single second, a single insignificant\n second, to destroy a man's life and his dream?\nHe was lucky. He found a tramp freighter whose skipper was on his last\n flight before retirement. Discipline was lax, investigation of new\n personnel even more so.\n\n\n Ben Curtis made it to Venus.", "\"You are spacemen?\"\n\n\n Ben threw a fifty-cent credit piece on the table. \"Here. Take off, will\n you?\"\n\n\n Spiderlike fingers swept down upon the coin. \"\nIch danke, senor.\nYou\n know why city is called Hoover City?\"\n\n\n Ben didn't answer.\n\n\n \"They say it is because after women come, they want first thing a\n thousand vacuum cleaners for dust. What is vacuum cleaner,\nmonsieur\n?\"\n\n\n Ben raised his hand as if to strike the boy.\n\n\n \"\nAi-yee\n, I go. You keep listen to good Martian music.\"\n\n\n The toothpick of a body melted into the semi-darkness.", "For an instant, Ben's mind rose above the haunting vision of the dead\n man. He thought,\nWhat are they doing here, these Martians? Here, in\n a smoke-filled room under a metalite dome on a dust-covered world?\n Couldn't they have played their music on Mars? Or had they, like me,\n felt the challenge of new worlds?\nHe sobered. It didn't matter. He ordered a whiskey from a Chinese\n waiter. He wet his lips but did not drink. His gaze wandered over the\n faces of the Inn's other occupants.\nYou've got to find him\n, he thought.\nYou've got to find the man with\n the red beard. It's the only way you can escape the dead man.\nThe dead man was real. His name was Cobb. He was stout and flabby and\n about forty and he hated spacemen.", "He remembered a little picture book his mother had given him when she\n was alive. Under the bright pictures of spacemen were the captions:\n\n\n \"A Space Officer Is Honest\" \"A Space Officer Is Loyal.\" \"A Space\n Officer Is Dutiful.\"\n\n\n Honesty, loyalty, duty. Trite words, but without those concepts,\n mankind would never have broken away from the planet that held it\n prisoner for half a million years.\n\n\n Without them, Everson, after three failures and a hundred men dead,\n would never have landed on the Moon twenty-seven years ago.", "She hesitated. He thought,\nDamn it, of all the questions, why did I\n ask that?\nFinally she said, \"He had a wife.\"\n\n\n \"Children?\"\n\n\n \"Two. I don't know their ages.\"\n\n\n She left the room.\nHe sank into the softness of his bed. As he turned over on his side,\n his gaze fell upon an object on a bureau in a far corner of the room.\n\n\n He sat straight up, his chest heaving.\n\n\n The object was a tri-dimensional photo of a rock-faced man in a\n merchant spaceman's uniform. He was a giant of a man with a neatly\n trimmed\nred beard\n!\n\n\n Ben stared at the photo for a long time. At length, he slipped into\n restless sleep. Images of faces and echoes of words spun through his\n brain.", "Ben rose and started to leave the bar, but Cobb grabbed his arm and\n held him there.\n\n\n \"Thas what you are—a sucker. You're young now. Wait ten years. You'll\n be dyin' of radiation rot or a meteor'll get you. Wait and see, sucker!\"\n\n\n Until this instant, Ben had suppressed his anger. Now, suddenly and\n without warning, it welled up into savage fury.\n\n\n His fist struck the man on the chin. Cobb's eyes gaped in shocked\n horror. He spun backward. His head cracked sickeningly on the edge of\n the bar. The sound was like a punctuation mark signaling the end of\n life.\n\n\n He sank to the floor, eyes glassy, blood tricking down his jaw.\n\n\n Ben knew that he was dead.", "Once he spied a white-uniformed officer of Hoover City's Security\n Police. The man was striding down an aisle, idly tapping his neuro-club\n against the stone booths.\nKeep walking\n, Ben told himself.\nYou look the same as anyone else\n here. Keep walking. Look straight ahead.\nThe officer passed. Ben breathed easier.\n\n\n \"Here we are,\nmonsieur\n,\" piped the Martian boy. \"A\ntres\nfine table.\n Close in the shadows.\"\n\n\n Ben winced. How did this kid know he wanted to sit in the shadows?\n Frowning, he sat down—he and the dead man.\n\n\n He listened to the lonely rhythms of the four-piece Martian orchestra.", "His gaze shifted to another aisle and another hint of whiteness.\n\n\n And then he saw another and another and another.\n\n\n Each whiteness became brighter and closer, like shrinking spokes of a\n wheel with Ben as their focal point.\nYou idiot! The damned Martian kid! You should have known!\nLight showered the room in a dazzling explosion. Ben, half blinded,\n realized that a broad circle of unshaded globes in the ceiling had been\n turned on.\n\n\n The light washed away the room's strangeness and its air of brooding\n wickedness, revealing drab concrete walls and a debris-strewn floor.\n\n\n Eyes blinked and squinted. There were swift, frightened movements and\n a chorus of angry murmurs. The patrons of the Blast Inn were like\n tatter-clad occupants of a house whose walls have been ripped away.\n\n\n Ben Curtis twisted his lean body erect. His chair tumbled backward,\n falling.", "Then, for a single absurd second, Ben was seized with terror—just as,\n a moment before, he'd been overwhelmed with anger.\n\n\n He ran.\nFor some twenty minutes, he raced through a dizzying, nightmare world\n of dark rocketfront alleys and shouting voices and pursuing feet.\n\n\n At last, abruptly, he realized that he was alone and in silence. He saw\n that he was still on the rocketfront, but in the Tycho-ward side of the\n city.\n\n\n He huddled in a dark corner of a loading platform and lit a cigarette.\n A thousand stars—a thousand motionless balls of silver fire—shone\n above him through Luna City's transparent dome.", "She sat on a plain chair beside his bed. \"I know everything about you,\n Lieutenant Curtis.\"\n\n\n \"How did you learn my name? I destroyed all my papers—\"\n\n\n \"I know that you're twenty-four. Born July 10, 1971. Orphaned at four,\n you attended Boys Town in the Catskills till you were 19. You graduated\n from the Academy at White Sands last June with a major in Astrogation.\n Your rating for the five-year period was 3.8—the second highest in a\n class of fifty-seven. Your only low mark in the five years was a 3.2 in\n History of Martian Civilization. Want me to go on?\"\n\n\n Fascinated, Ben nodded.", "Most of the big room lay obscured behind a shimmering veil of tobacco\n smoke and the sweet, heavy fumes of Martian Devil's Egg. Here and\n there, Ben saw moving figures. He could not tell if they were Earthmen,\n Martians or Venusians.\n\n\n Someone tugged at his greasy coat. He jumped, thinking absurdly that it\n was the dead man's hand.\n\n\n \"\nComa esta, senor?\n\" a small voice piped. \"\nSpeken die Deutsch?\n Desirez-vous d'amour? Da? Nyet?\n\"\n\n\n Ben looked down.\n\n\n The speaker was an eager-eyed Martian boy of about ten. He was like\n a red-skinned marionette with pipestem arms and legs, clad in a torn\n skivvy shirt and faded blue dungarees.\n\n\n \"I'm American,\" Ben muttered.", "He was sorry he'd hit Cobb, of course. He was not sorry he'd run.\n Escaping at least gave him a power of choice, of decision.\nYou can do two things\n, he thought.\nYou can give yourself up, and that's what a good officer would do.\n That would eliminate the escape charge. You'd get off with voluntary\n manslaughter. Under interplanetary law, that would mean ten years in\n prison and a dishonorable discharge. And then you'd be free.\nBut you'd be through with rockets and space. They don't want new\n men over thirty-four for officers on rockets or even for third-class\n jet-men on beat-up freighters—they don't want convicted killers. You'd", "The boy grabbed his hand. Because Ben could think of no reason for\n resisting, he followed. They plunged into shifting layers of smoke and\n through the drone of alcohol-cracked voices.\nThey passed the bar with its line of lean-featured, slit-eyed\n Earthmen—merchant spacemen.\n\n\n They wormed down a narrow aisle flanked by booths carved from Venusian\n marble that jutted up into the semi-darkness like fog-blanketed\n tombstones.\n\n\n Several times, Ben glimpsed the bulky figures of CO\n 2\n -breathing\n Venusians, the first he'd ever seen.\n\n\n They were smoky gray, scaly, naked giants, toads in human shape.\n They stood solitary and motionless, aloof, their green-lidded eyes\n unblinking. They certainly didn't look like telepaths, as Ben had heard\n they were, but the thought sent a fresh rivulet of fear down his spine.", "Her thin face was criss-crossed by emotion—alarm, then bewilderment,\n then fear. \"I don't know. That would be up to Jacob.\"\n\n\n He lay biting his lip, staring at the photo of Jacob. She touched his\n hand and it seemed that sadness now dominated the flurry of emotion\n that had coursed through her.\n\n\n \"The only thing that matters, really,\" she murmured, \"is your walking\n again. We'll try this afternoon. Okay?\"\n\n\n \"Okay,\" he said.\n\n\n When she left, his eyes were still turned toward Jacob's photo.\n\n\n He was like two people, he thought.\n\n\n Half of him was an officer of the Space Corps. Perhaps one single\n starry-eyed boy out of ten thousand was lucky enough to reach that goal.", "His body was buried now—probably in the silent gray wastes outside\n Luna City. But he'd become a kind of invisible Siamese twin, as much a\n part of Ben as sight in his eyes.\n\n\n Sometimes the image would be shuffling drunkenly beside him, its lips\n spitting whiskey-slurred curses.\n\n\n Again, its face would be a pop-eyed mask of surprise as Ben's fist\n thudded into its jaw. More often, the face would be frozen in the\n whiteness of death. The large eyes would stare. Blood would trickle\n from a corner of the gaping mouth.\n\n\n You can forget a living man. You can defeat him or submit to him or\n ignore him, and the matter is over and done. You can't escape from a\n memory that has burned into your mind." ], [ "And whereas no legally recognized ship had ventured past Mars, the\n souped-up renegade rigs had supposedly hit the asteroids. Their\n headquarters was Venus. Their leader—a subject of popular and\n fantastic conjecture in the men's audiozines—was rumored to be a\n red-bearded giant.\nSo\n, Ben reflected,\nyou can take a beer-and-pretzels tale seriously.\n You can hide for a couple of days, get rid of your uniform, change your\n name. You can wait for a chance to get to Venus. To hell with your\n duty. You can try to stay in space, even if you exile yourself from\n Earth.\nAfter all, was it right for a single second, a single insignificant\n second, to destroy a man's life and his dream?\nHe was lucky. He found a tramp freighter whose skipper was on his last\n flight before retirement. Discipline was lax, investigation of new\n personnel even more so.\n\n\n Ben Curtis made it to Venus.", "\"He said unexplored space is no place for a woman. So I've been\n studying criminal reports and photos from the Interplanetary Bureau of\n Investigation and trying to find recruits like yourself. You know how\n we operate?\"\n\n\n He told her the tales he'd heard.\nShe nodded. \"There are quite a few of us now—about a thousand—and a\n dozen ships. Our base used to be here on Venus, down toward the Pole.\n The dome we're in now was designed and built by us a few years ago\n after we got pushed off Mars. We lost a few men in the construction,\n but with almost every advance in space, someone dies.\"\n\n\n \"Venus is getting too civilized. We're moving out and this dome is only\n a temporary base when we have cases like yours. The new base—I might\n as well tell you it's going to be an asteroid. I won't say which one.\"", "get the rest of the thrill of conquering space through video and by\n peeking through electric fences of spaceports.\nOr—\nThere were old wives' tales of a group of renegade spacemen who\n operated from the Solar System's frontiers. The spacemen weren't\n outlaws. They were misfits, rejectees from the clearing houses on Earth.", "\"You were accepted as junior astrogation officer aboard the\nOdyssey\n.\n You did well on your flight from Roswell to Luna City. In a barroom\n fight in Luna City, you struck and killed a man named Arthur Cobb, a\n pre-fab salesman. You've been charged with second degree murder and\n escape. A reward of 5,000 credits has been offered for your capture.\n You came to Hoover City in the hope of finding a renegade group of\n spacemen who operate beyond Mars. You were looking for them in the\n Blast Inn.\"\n\n\n He gaped incredulously, struggling to rise from his pillows. \"I—don't\n get it.\"\n\n\n \"There are ways of finding out what we want to know. As I told you, we\n have many friends.\"\n\n\n He fell back into his pillows, breathing hard. She rose quickly.", "At sixteen, he'd spent every weekend holiday hitchhiking from Boys\n Town No. 5 in the Catskills to Long Island Spaceport. There, among\n the grizzled veterans of the old Moon Patrol, he'd found friends who\n understood his dream and who later recommended his appointment to the\n U. S. Academy for the Conquest of Space.\n\n\n And a month ago, he'd signed aboard the\nOdyssey\n—the first ship, it\n was rumored, equipped to venture as far as the asteroids and perhaps\n beyond.\n\n\n Cobb was persistent: \"Damn fools shoulda known enough to stay on Earth.\n What the hell good is it, jumpin' from planet to planet?\"\nThe guy's drunk\n, Ben thought. He took his drink and moved three\n stools down the bar.\n\n\n Cobb followed. \"You don't like the truth, eh, kid? You don't like\n people to call you a sucker.\"", "\"Don't get the idea that we're outlaws. Sure, about half our group is\n wanted by the Bureau, but we make honest livings. We're just people\n like yourself and Jacob.\"\n\n\n \"Jacob? Your husband?\"\n\n\n She laughed. \"Makes you think of a Biblical character, doesn't it?\n Jacob's anything but that. And just plain 'Jake' reminds one of a\n grizzled old uranium prospector and he isn't like that, either.\"\n\n\n She lit a cigarette. \"Anyway, the wanted ones stay out beyond the\n frontiers. Jacob and those like him can never return to Earth—not even\n to Hoover City—except dead. The others are physical or psycho rejects\n who couldn't get clearance if they went back to Earth. They know\n nothing but rocketing and won't give up. They bring in our ships to\n frontier ports like Hoover City to unload cargo and take on supplies.\"", "It had begun a week ago in Luna City. The flight from White Sands had\n been successful. Ben, quietly and moderately, wanted to celebrate.\n He stopped alone in a rocketfront bar for a beer. The man named Cobb\n plopped his portly and unsteady posterior on the stool next to him.\n\n\n \"Spacemen,\" he muttered, \"are getting like flies. Everywhere, all you\n see's spacemen.\"\n\n\n He was a neatly dressed civilian.\n\n\n Ben smiled. \"If it weren't for spacemen, you wouldn't be here.\"\n\n\n \"The name's Cobb.\" The man hiccoughed. \"Spacemen in their white monkey\n suits. They think they're little tin gods. Betcha you think you're a\n little tin god.\" He downed a shot of whiskey.", "\"Don't the authorities object?\"\n\n\n \"Not very strongly. The I. B. I. has too many problems right here to\n search the whole System for a few two-bit crooks. Besides, we carry\n cargoes of almost pure uranium and tungsten and all the stuff that's\n scarce on Earth and Mars and Venus. Nobody really cares whether it\n comes from the asteroids or Hades. If we want to risk our lives mining\n it, that's our business.\"\n\n\n She pursed her lips. \"But if they guessed how strong we are or that we\n have friends planted in the I. B. I.—well, things might be different.\n There probably would be a crackdown.\"\n\n\n Ben scowled. \"What happens if there\nis\na crackdown? And what will you\n do when Space Corps ships officially reach the asteroids? They can't\n ignore you then.\"", "For an instant, Ben's mind rose above the haunting vision of the dead\n man. He thought,\nWhat are they doing here, these Martians? Here, in\n a smoke-filled room under a metalite dome on a dust-covered world?\n Couldn't they have played their music on Mars? Or had they, like me,\n felt the challenge of new worlds?\nHe sobered. It didn't matter. He ordered a whiskey from a Chinese\n waiter. He wet his lips but did not drink. His gaze wandered over the\n faces of the Inn's other occupants.\nYou've got to find him\n, he thought.\nYou've got to find the man with\n the red beard. It's the only way you can escape the dead man.\nThe dead man was real. His name was Cobb. He was stout and flabby and\n about forty and he hated spacemen.", "There was just one flaw in his decision. He hadn't realized that the\n memory of the dead man's face would haunt him, torment him, follow him\n as constantly as breath flowed into his lungs.\n\n\n But might not the rumble of atomic engines drown the murmuring dead\n voice? Might not the vision of alien worlds and infinite spaceways\n obscure the dead face?\n\n\n So now he sat searching for a perhaps nonexistent red-bearded giant,\n and hoping and doubting and fearing, all at once.\n\n\n \"You look for someone,\nsenor\n?\"\n\n\n He jumped. \"Oh. You still here?\"\n\n\n \"\nOui.\n\" The Martian kid grinned, his mouth full of purple teeth. \"I\n keep you company on your first night in Hoover City,\nn'est-ce-pas\n?\"\n\n\n \"This isn't my first night here,\" Ben lied. \"I've been around a while.\"", "The boy grabbed his hand. Because Ben could think of no reason for\n resisting, he followed. They plunged into shifting layers of smoke and\n through the drone of alcohol-cracked voices.\nThey passed the bar with its line of lean-featured, slit-eyed\n Earthmen—merchant spacemen.\n\n\n They wormed down a narrow aisle flanked by booths carved from Venusian\n marble that jutted up into the semi-darkness like fog-blanketed\n tombstones.\n\n\n Several times, Ben glimpsed the bulky figures of CO\n 2\n -breathing\n Venusians, the first he'd ever seen.\n\n\n They were smoky gray, scaly, naked giants, toads in human shape.\n They stood solitary and motionless, aloof, their green-lidded eyes\n unblinking. They certainly didn't look like telepaths, as Ben had heard\n they were, but the thought sent a fresh rivulet of fear down his spine.", "He remembered a little picture book his mother had given him when she\n was alive. Under the bright pictures of spacemen were the captions:\n\n\n \"A Space Officer Is Honest\" \"A Space Officer Is Loyal.\" \"A Space\n Officer Is Dutiful.\"\n\n\n Honesty, loyalty, duty. Trite words, but without those concepts,\n mankind would never have broken away from the planet that held it\n prisoner for half a million years.\n\n\n Without them, Everson, after three failures and a hundred men dead,\n would never have landed on the Moon twenty-seven years ago.", "\"You are spacemen?\"\n\n\n Ben threw a fifty-cent credit piece on the table. \"Here. Take off, will\n you?\"\n\n\n Spiderlike fingers swept down upon the coin. \"\nIch danke, senor.\nYou\n know why city is called Hoover City?\"\n\n\n Ben didn't answer.\n\n\n \"They say it is because after women come, they want first thing a\n thousand vacuum cleaners for dust. What is vacuum cleaner,\nmonsieur\n?\"\n\n\n Ben raised his hand as if to strike the boy.\n\n\n \"\nAi-yee\n, I go. You keep listen to good Martian music.\"\n\n\n The toothpick of a body melted into the semi-darkness.", "She smiled. \"I was right then when I gave you that thumbnail biog. You\nwere\nlooking for him, weren't you?\"\n\n\n \"Who is he?\"\n\n\n She sat on the chair beside him.\n\n\n \"My husband,\" she said softly.\n\n\n He began to understand. \"And your husband needs an astrogator? That's\n why you saved me?\"\n\n\n \"We need all the good men we can get.\"\n\n\n \"Where is he?\"\n\n\n She cocked her head in mock suspicion. \"Somewhere between Mercury and\n Pluto. He's building a new base for us—and a home for me. When his\n ship returns, I'll be going to him.\"\n\n\n \"Why aren't you with him now?\"", "\"Then we move on. We dream up new gimmicks for our crates and take them\n to Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, Pluto. In time, maybe, we'll be\n pushed out of the System itself. Maybe it won't be the white-suited\n boys who'll make that first hop to the stars. It\ncould\nbe us, you\n know—if we live long enough. But that Asteroid Belt is murder. You\n can't follow the text-book rules of astrogation out there. You make up\n your own.\"\nBen stiffened. \"And that's why you want me for an astrogator.\"\n\n\n Maggie rose, her eyes wistful. \"If you want to come—and if you get\n well.\" She looked at him strangely.\n\n\n \"Suppose—\" He fought to find the right words. \"Suppose I got well and\n decided not to join Jacob. What would happen to me? Would you let me\n go?\"", "Most of the big room lay obscured behind a shimmering veil of tobacco\n smoke and the sweet, heavy fumes of Martian Devil's Egg. Here and\n there, Ben saw moving figures. He could not tell if they were Earthmen,\n Martians or Venusians.\n\n\n Someone tugged at his greasy coat. He jumped, thinking absurdly that it\n was the dead man's hand.\n\n\n \"\nComa esta, senor?\n\" a small voice piped. \"\nSpeken die Deutsch?\n Desirez-vous d'amour? Da? Nyet?\n\"\n\n\n Ben looked down.\n\n\n The speaker was an eager-eyed Martian boy of about ten. He was like\n a red-skinned marionette with pipestem arms and legs, clad in a torn\n skivvy shirt and faded blue dungarees.\n\n\n \"I'm American,\" Ben muttered.", "He was sorry he'd hit Cobb, of course. He was not sorry he'd run.\n Escaping at least gave him a power of choice, of decision.\nYou can do two things\n, he thought.\nYou can give yourself up, and that's what a good officer would do.\n That would eliminate the escape charge. You'd get off with voluntary\n manslaughter. Under interplanetary law, that would mean ten years in\n prison and a dishonorable discharge. And then you'd be free.\nBut you'd be through with rockets and space. They don't want new\n men over thirty-four for officers on rockets or even for third-class\n jet-men on beat-up freighters—they don't want convicted killers. You'd", "Minutes passed. There were two more whiskeys. A ceaseless parade of\n faces broke through the smoky veil that enclosed him—reddish balloon\n faces, scaly reptilian faces, white-skinned, slit-eyed faces, and\n occasionally a white, rouged, powdered face. But nowhere was there a\n face with a red beard.\n\n\n A sense of hopelessness gripped Ben Curtis. Hoover City was but one of\n a dozen cities of Venus. Each had twenty dives such as this.\n\n\n He needed help.\n\n\n But his picture must have been 'scoped to Venusian visiscreens. A\n reward must have been offered for his capture. Whom could he trust? The\n Martian kid, perhaps?\n\n\n Far down the darkened aisle nearest him, his eyes caught a flash of\n white. He tensed.\n\n\n Like the uniform of a Security Policeman, he thought.", "Then, for a single absurd second, Ben was seized with terror—just as,\n a moment before, he'd been overwhelmed with anger.\n\n\n He ran.\nFor some twenty minutes, he raced through a dizzying, nightmare world\n of dark rocketfront alleys and shouting voices and pursuing feet.\n\n\n At last, abruptly, he realized that he was alone and in silence. He saw\n that he was still on the rocketfront, but in the Tycho-ward side of the\n city.\n\n\n He huddled in a dark corner of a loading platform and lit a cigarette.\n A thousand stars—a thousand motionless balls of silver fire—shone\n above him through Luna City's transparent dome.", "The white-clad men charged, neuro-clubs upraised.\n\n\n A woman screamed. The music ceased. The Martian orchestra slunk with\n feline stealth to a rear exit. Only the giant Venusians remained\n undisturbed. They stood unmoving, their staring eyes shifting lazily in\n Ben's direction.\n\n\n \"Curtis!\" one of the policemen yelled. \"You're covered! Hold it!\"\n\n\n Ben whirled away from the advancing police, made for the exit into\n which the musicians had disappeared.\n\n\n A hissing sound traveled past his left ear, a sound like compressed air\n escaping from a container. A dime-sized section of the concrete wall\n ahead of him crumbled.\n\n\n He stumbled forward. They were using deadly neuro-pistols now, not the\n mildly stunning neuro-clubs." ], [ "He didn't hear the answer or anything else.\nBen Curtis had no precise sensation of awakening. Return to\n consciousness was an intangible evolution from a world of black\n nothingness to a dream-like state of awareness.\n\n\n He felt the pressure of hands on his naked arms and shoulders,\n hands that massaged, manipulated, fought to restore circulation and\n sensitivity. He knew they were strong hands. Their strength seemed to\n transfer itself to his own body.\n\n\n For a long time, he tried to open his eyes. His lids felt welded\n shut. But after a while, they opened. His world of darkness gave way\n to a translucent cloak of mist. A round, featureless shape hovered\n constantly above him—a face, he supposed.\n\n\n He tried to talk. Although his lips moved slightly, the only sound was\n a deep, staccato grunting.", "\"I'm sorry,\" she said. \"I shouldn't have told you yet. I felt so happy\n because you're alive. Rest now. We'll talk again soon.\"\n\n\n \"Maggie, you—you said I'd live. You didn't say I'd be able to walk\n again.\"\n\n\n She lowered her gaze. \"I hope you'll be able to.\"\n\n\n \"But you don't think I will, do you?\"\n\n\n \"I don't know. We'll try walking tomorrow. Don't think about it now.\n Rest.\"\n\n\n He tried to relax, but his mind was a vortex of conjecture.\n\n\n \"Just one more question,\" he almost whispered.\n\n\n \"Yes?\"\n\n\n \"The man I killed—did he have a wife?\"", "The dead man returned to him. Bloodied lips cursed at him. Glassy eyes\n accused him. Somewhere were two lost children crying in the night.\n\n\n And towering above him was a red-bearded man whose great hands reached\n down and beckoned to him. Ben crawled through the night on hands and\n knees, his legs numb and useless. The crying of the children was a\n chilling wail in his ears.\n\n\n His head rose and turned to the red-bearded man. His pleading voice\n screamed out to him in a thick, harsh cackle. Yet even as he screamed,\n the giant disappeared, to be replaced by white-booted feet stomping\n relentlessly toward him.\n\n\n He awoke still screaming....\n\n\n A night without darkness passed. Ben lay waiting for Maggie's return, a\n question already formed in his mind.\n\n\n She came and at once he asked, \"Who is the man with the red beard?\"", "\"You are better?\" the kind voice asked.\nThe face was that of a girl probably somewhere between twenty-five\n and thirty. Her features, devoid of makeup, had an unhealthy-looking\n pallor, as if she hadn't used a sunlamp for many weeks. Yet, at the\n same time, her firm slim body suggested a solidity and a strength. Her\n straight brown hair was combed backward, tight upon her scalp, and\n drawn together in a knot at the nape of her neck.\n\n\n \"I—I am better,\" he murmured. His words were still slow and thick. \"I\n am going to live?\"\n\n\n \"You will live.\"\n\n\n He thought for a moment. \"How long have I been here?\"\n\n\n \"Nine days.\"\n\n\n \"You took care of me?\" He noted the deep, dark circles beneath her\n sleep-robbed eyes.\n\n\n She nodded.", "\"Then we move on. We dream up new gimmicks for our crates and take them\n to Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, Pluto. In time, maybe, we'll be\n pushed out of the System itself. Maybe it won't be the white-suited\n boys who'll make that first hop to the stars. It\ncould\nbe us, you\n know—if we live long enough. But that Asteroid Belt is murder. You\n can't follow the text-book rules of astrogation out there. You make up\n your own.\"\nBen stiffened. \"And that's why you want me for an astrogator.\"\n\n\n Maggie rose, her eyes wistful. \"If you want to come—and if you get\n well.\" She looked at him strangely.\n\n\n \"Suppose—\" He fought to find the right words. \"Suppose I got well and\n decided not to join Jacob. What would happen to me? Would you let me\n go?\"", "But he heard someone say, \"Don't try to talk.\" It was the same gentle\n voice he'd heard in the Blast Inn. \"Don't talk. Just lie still and\n rest. Everything'll be all right.\"\nEverything all right\n, he thought dimly.\n\n\n There were long periods of lethargy when he was aware of nothing. There\n were periods of light and of darkness. Gradually he grew aware of\n things. He realized that the soft rubber mouth of a spaceman's oxygen\n mask was clamped over his nose. He felt the heat of electric blankets\n swathed about his body. Occasionally a tube would be in his mouth and\n he would taste liquid food and feel a pleasant warmth in his stomach.\n\n\n Always, it seemed, the face was above him, floating in the obscuring\n mist. Always, it seemed, the soft voice was echoing in his ears:", "\"You're the one who carried me when I was shot?\"\n\n\n \"Yes.\"\n\n\n \"Why?\"\n\n\n Suddenly he began to cough. Breath came hard. She held the oxygen mask\n in readiness. He shook his head, not wanting it.\n\n\n \"Why?\" he asked again.\n\n\n \"It would be a long story. Perhaps I'll tell you tomorrow.\"\n\n\n A new thought, cloaked in sudden fear, entered his murky consciousness.\n \"Tell me, will—will I be well again? Will I be able to walk?\"\n\n\n He lay back then, panting, exhausted.\n\n\n \"You have nothing to worry about,\" the girl said softly. Her cool hand\n touched his hot forehead. \"Rest. We'll talk later.\"\n\n\n His eyes closed and breath came easier. He slept.", "\"Swallow this now. That's it. You must have food.\" Or, \"Close your\n eyes. Don't strain. It won't be long. You're getting better.\"\nBetter\n, he'd think.\nGetting better....\nAt last, after one of the periods of lethargy, his eyes opened. The\n mist brightened, then dissolved.\n\n\n He beheld the cracked, unpainted ceiling of a small room, its colorless\n walls broken with a single, round window. He saw the footboard of his\n aluminite bed and the outlines of his feet beneath a faded blanket.\n\n\n Finally he saw the face and figure that stood at his side.", "Hands were guiding him. He was aware of being pushed and pulled. A\n door closed behind him. The glare of the flashlight faded from his\n vision—if he still had vision.\n\n\n \"You're sure?\" the voice persisted.\n\n\n \"I'm sure,\" Ben managed to say.\n\n\n \"I have no antidote. You may die.\"\n\n\n His mind fought to comprehend. With the anti-paralysis injection,\n massage and rest, a man could recover from the effects of mortocain\n within half a day. Without treatment, the paralysis could spread to\n heart and lungs. It could become a paralysis of death. An effective\n weapon: the slightest wound compelled the average criminal to surrender\n at once.\n\n\n \"Anti ... anti ...\" The words were as heavy as blobs of mercury forced\n from his throat. \"No ... I'm sure ... sure.\"", "\"We're not in Hoover City?\"\n\n\n \"No.\"\n\n\n He looked at her, wondering. \"You won't tell me?\"\n\n\n \"Not yet. Later, perhaps.\"\n\n\n \"Then how did you get me here? How did we escape from the Inn?\"\nShe shrugged. \"We have friends who can be bribed. A hiding place in the\n city, the use of a small desert-taxi, a pass to leave the city—these\n can be had for a price.\"\n\n\n \"You'll tell me your name?\"\n\n\n \"Maggie.\"\n\n\n \"Why did you save me?\"\n\n\n Her eyes twinkled mischievously. \"Because you're a good astrogator.\"\n\n\n His own eyes widened. \"How did you know that?\"", "\"Ah,\nbuena\n! I speak English\ntres\nfine,\nsenor\n. I have Martian\n friend, she\ntres\npretty and\ntres\nfat. She weigh almost eighty\n pounds,\nmonsieur\n. I take you to her,\nsi\n?\"\n\n\n Ben shook his head.\nHe thought,\nI don't want your Martian wench. I don't want your opium\n or your Devil's Egg or your Venusian kali. But if you had a drug that'd\n bring a dead man to life, I'd buy and pay with my soul.\n\"It is deal,\nmonsieur\n? Five dollars or twenty\nkeelis\nfor visit\n Martian friend. Maybe you like House of Dreams. For House of Dreams—\"\n\n\n \"I'm not buying.\"\n\n\n The dirty-faced kid shrugged. \"Then I show you to good table,—\ntres\n bien\n. I do not charge you,\nsenor\n.\"", "She hesitated. He thought,\nDamn it, of all the questions, why did I\n ask that?\nFinally she said, \"He had a wife.\"\n\n\n \"Children?\"\n\n\n \"Two. I don't know their ages.\"\n\n\n She left the room.\nHe sank into the softness of his bed. As he turned over on his side,\n his gaze fell upon an object on a bureau in a far corner of the room.\n\n\n He sat straight up, his chest heaving.\n\n\n The object was a tri-dimensional photo of a rock-faced man in a\n merchant spaceman's uniform. He was a giant of a man with a neatly\n trimmed\nred beard\n!\n\n\n Ben stared at the photo for a long time. At length, he slipped into\n restless sleep. Images of faces and echoes of words spun through his\n brain.", "His gaze shifted to another aisle and another hint of whiteness.\n\n\n And then he saw another and another and another.\n\n\n Each whiteness became brighter and closer, like shrinking spokes of a\n wheel with Ben as their focal point.\nYou idiot! The damned Martian kid! You should have known!\nLight showered the room in a dazzling explosion. Ben, half blinded,\n realized that a broad circle of unshaded globes in the ceiling had been\n turned on.\n\n\n The light washed away the room's strangeness and its air of brooding\n wickedness, revealing drab concrete walls and a debris-strewn floor.\n\n\n Eyes blinked and squinted. There were swift, frightened movements and\n a chorus of angry murmurs. The patrons of the Blast Inn were like\n tatter-clad occupants of a house whose walls have been ripped away.\n\n\n Ben Curtis twisted his lean body erect. His chair tumbled backward,\n falling.", "Then a pressure and a coldness were on his left hand. He realized that\n someone had seized it.\n\n\n A soft feminine voice spoke to him. \"You're wounded? They hit you?\"\n\n\n \"Yes.\" His thick lips wouldn't let go of the word.\n\n\n \"You want to escape—even now?\"\n\n\n \"Yes.\"\n\n\n \"You may die if you don't give yourself up.\"\n\n\n \"No, no.\"\n\n\n He tried to stumble toward the exit.\n\n\n \"All right then. Not that way. Here, this way.\"\n\n\n Heavy footsteps thudded toward them. A few yards away, a flashlight\n flicked on.", "Ben rose and started to leave the bar, but Cobb grabbed his arm and\n held him there.\n\n\n \"Thas what you are—a sucker. You're young now. Wait ten years. You'll\n be dyin' of radiation rot or a meteor'll get you. Wait and see, sucker!\"\n\n\n Until this instant, Ben had suppressed his anger. Now, suddenly and\n without warning, it welled up into savage fury.\n\n\n His fist struck the man on the chin. Cobb's eyes gaped in shocked\n horror. He spun backward. His head cracked sickeningly on the edge of\n the bar. The sound was like a punctuation mark signaling the end of\n life.\n\n\n He sank to the floor, eyes glassy, blood tricking down his jaw.\n\n\n Ben knew that he was dead.", "His body was buried now—probably in the silent gray wastes outside\n Luna City. But he'd become a kind of invisible Siamese twin, as much a\n part of Ben as sight in his eyes.\n\n\n Sometimes the image would be shuffling drunkenly beside him, its lips\n spitting whiskey-slurred curses.\n\n\n Again, its face would be a pop-eyed mask of surprise as Ben's fist\n thudded into its jaw. More often, the face would be frozen in the\n whiteness of death. The large eyes would stare. Blood would trickle\n from a corner of the gaping mouth.\n\n\n You can forget a living man. You can defeat him or submit to him or\n ignore him, and the matter is over and done. You can't escape from a\n memory that has burned into your mind.", "Then, for a single absurd second, Ben was seized with terror—just as,\n a moment before, he'd been overwhelmed with anger.\n\n\n He ran.\nFor some twenty minutes, he raced through a dizzying, nightmare world\n of dark rocketfront alleys and shouting voices and pursuing feet.\n\n\n At last, abruptly, he realized that he was alone and in silence. He saw\n that he was still on the rocketfront, but in the Tycho-ward side of the\n city.\n\n\n He huddled in a dark corner of a loading platform and lit a cigarette.\n A thousand stars—a thousand motionless balls of silver fire—shone\n above him through Luna City's transparent dome.", "There was just one flaw in his decision. He hadn't realized that the\n memory of the dead man's face would haunt him, torment him, follow him\n as constantly as breath flowed into his lungs.\n\n\n But might not the rumble of atomic engines drown the murmuring dead\n voice? Might not the vision of alien worlds and infinite spaceways\n obscure the dead face?\n\n\n So now he sat searching for a perhaps nonexistent red-bearded giant,\n and hoping and doubting and fearing, all at once.\n\n\n \"You look for someone,\nsenor\n?\"\n\n\n He jumped. \"Oh. You still here?\"\n\n\n \"\nOui.\n\" The Martian kid grinned, his mouth full of purple teeth. \"I\n keep you company on your first night in Hoover City,\nn'est-ce-pas\n?\"\n\n\n \"This isn't my first night here,\" Ben lied. \"I've been around a while.\"", "Ben stiffened. He was twenty-four and dressed in the white,\n crimson-braided uniform of the\nOdyssey's\njunior astrogation officer.\n He was three months out of the Academy at White Sands and the shining\n uniform was like a key to all the mysteries of the Universe.\n\n\n He'd sought long for that key.\nAt the age of five—perhaps in order to dull the memory of his parents'\n death in a recent strato-jet crash—he'd spent hours watching the night\n sky for streaking flame-tails of Moon rockets. At ten, he'd ground\n his first telescope. At fourteen, he'd converted an abandoned shed on\n the government boarding-school grounds to a retreat which housed his\n collection of astronomy and rocketry books.", "She sat on a plain chair beside his bed. \"I know everything about you,\n Lieutenant Curtis.\"\n\n\n \"How did you learn my name? I destroyed all my papers—\"\n\n\n \"I know that you're twenty-four. Born July 10, 1971. Orphaned at four,\n you attended Boys Town in the Catskills till you were 19. You graduated\n from the Academy at White Sands last June with a major in Astrogation.\n Your rating for the five-year period was 3.8—the second highest in a\n class of fifty-seven. Your only low mark in the five years was a 3.2 in\n History of Martian Civilization. Want me to go on?\"\n\n\n Fascinated, Ben nodded." ], [ "Ben rose and started to leave the bar, but Cobb grabbed his arm and\n held him there.\n\n\n \"Thas what you are—a sucker. You're young now. Wait ten years. You'll\n be dyin' of radiation rot or a meteor'll get you. Wait and see, sucker!\"\n\n\n Until this instant, Ben had suppressed his anger. Now, suddenly and\n without warning, it welled up into savage fury.\n\n\n His fist struck the man on the chin. Cobb's eyes gaped in shocked\n horror. He spun backward. His head cracked sickeningly on the edge of\n the bar. The sound was like a punctuation mark signaling the end of\n life.\n\n\n He sank to the floor, eyes glassy, blood tricking down his jaw.\n\n\n Ben knew that he was dead.", "It had begun a week ago in Luna City. The flight from White Sands had\n been successful. Ben, quietly and moderately, wanted to celebrate.\n He stopped alone in a rocketfront bar for a beer. The man named Cobb\n plopped his portly and unsteady posterior on the stool next to him.\n\n\n \"Spacemen,\" he muttered, \"are getting like flies. Everywhere, all you\n see's spacemen.\"\n\n\n He was a neatly dressed civilian.\n\n\n Ben smiled. \"If it weren't for spacemen, you wouldn't be here.\"\n\n\n \"The name's Cobb.\" The man hiccoughed. \"Spacemen in their white monkey\n suits. They think they're little tin gods. Betcha you think you're a\n little tin god.\" He downed a shot of whiskey.", "For an instant, Ben's mind rose above the haunting vision of the dead\n man. He thought,\nWhat are they doing here, these Martians? Here, in\n a smoke-filled room under a metalite dome on a dust-covered world?\n Couldn't they have played their music on Mars? Or had they, like me,\n felt the challenge of new worlds?\nHe sobered. It didn't matter. He ordered a whiskey from a Chinese\n waiter. He wet his lips but did not drink. His gaze wandered over the\n faces of the Inn's other occupants.\nYou've got to find him\n, he thought.\nYou've got to find the man with\n the red beard. It's the only way you can escape the dead man.\nThe dead man was real. His name was Cobb. He was stout and flabby and\n about forty and he hated spacemen.", "The dead man returned to him. Bloodied lips cursed at him. Glassy eyes\n accused him. Somewhere were two lost children crying in the night.\n\n\n And towering above him was a red-bearded man whose great hands reached\n down and beckoned to him. Ben crawled through the night on hands and\n knees, his legs numb and useless. The crying of the children was a\n chilling wail in his ears.\n\n\n His head rose and turned to the red-bearded man. His pleading voice\n screamed out to him in a thick, harsh cackle. Yet even as he screamed,\n the giant disappeared, to be replaced by white-booted feet stomping\n relentlessly toward him.\n\n\n He awoke still screaming....\n\n\n A night without darkness passed. Ben lay waiting for Maggie's return, a\n question already formed in his mind.\n\n\n She came and at once he asked, \"Who is the man with the red beard?\"", "His gaze shifted to another aisle and another hint of whiteness.\n\n\n And then he saw another and another and another.\n\n\n Each whiteness became brighter and closer, like shrinking spokes of a\n wheel with Ben as their focal point.\nYou idiot! The damned Martian kid! You should have known!\nLight showered the room in a dazzling explosion. Ben, half blinded,\n realized that a broad circle of unshaded globes in the ceiling had been\n turned on.\n\n\n The light washed away the room's strangeness and its air of brooding\n wickedness, revealing drab concrete walls and a debris-strewn floor.\n\n\n Eyes blinked and squinted. There were swift, frightened movements and\n a chorus of angry murmurs. The patrons of the Blast Inn were like\n tatter-clad occupants of a house whose walls have been ripped away.\n\n\n Ben Curtis twisted his lean body erect. His chair tumbled backward,\n falling.", "He didn't hear the answer or anything else.\nBen Curtis had no precise sensation of awakening. Return to\n consciousness was an intangible evolution from a world of black\n nothingness to a dream-like state of awareness.\n\n\n He felt the pressure of hands on his naked arms and shoulders,\n hands that massaged, manipulated, fought to restore circulation and\n sensitivity. He knew they were strong hands. Their strength seemed to\n transfer itself to his own body.\n\n\n For a long time, he tried to open his eyes. His lids felt welded\n shut. But after a while, they opened. His world of darkness gave way\n to a translucent cloak of mist. A round, featureless shape hovered\n constantly above him—a face, he supposed.\n\n\n He tried to talk. Although his lips moved slightly, the only sound was\n a deep, staccato grunting.", "Then, for a single absurd second, Ben was seized with terror—just as,\n a moment before, he'd been overwhelmed with anger.\n\n\n He ran.\nFor some twenty minutes, he raced through a dizzying, nightmare world\n of dark rocketfront alleys and shouting voices and pursuing feet.\n\n\n At last, abruptly, he realized that he was alone and in silence. He saw\n that he was still on the rocketfront, but in the Tycho-ward side of the\n city.\n\n\n He huddled in a dark corner of a loading platform and lit a cigarette.\n A thousand stars—a thousand motionless balls of silver fire—shone\n above him through Luna City's transparent dome.", "The white-clad men charged, neuro-clubs upraised.\n\n\n A woman screamed. The music ceased. The Martian orchestra slunk with\n feline stealth to a rear exit. Only the giant Venusians remained\n undisturbed. They stood unmoving, their staring eyes shifting lazily in\n Ben's direction.\n\n\n \"Curtis!\" one of the policemen yelled. \"You're covered! Hold it!\"\n\n\n Ben whirled away from the advancing police, made for the exit into\n which the musicians had disappeared.\n\n\n A hissing sound traveled past his left ear, a sound like compressed air\n escaping from a container. A dime-sized section of the concrete wall\n ahead of him crumbled.\n\n\n He stumbled forward. They were using deadly neuro-pistols now, not the\n mildly stunning neuro-clubs.", "His body was buried now—probably in the silent gray wastes outside\n Luna City. But he'd become a kind of invisible Siamese twin, as much a\n part of Ben as sight in his eyes.\n\n\n Sometimes the image would be shuffling drunkenly beside him, its lips\n spitting whiskey-slurred curses.\n\n\n Again, its face would be a pop-eyed mask of surprise as Ben's fist\n thudded into its jaw. More often, the face would be frozen in the\n whiteness of death. The large eyes would stare. Blood would trickle\n from a corner of the gaping mouth.\n\n\n You can forget a living man. You can defeat him or submit to him or\n ignore him, and the matter is over and done. You can't escape from a\n memory that has burned into your mind.", "At sixteen, he'd spent every weekend holiday hitchhiking from Boys\n Town No. 5 in the Catskills to Long Island Spaceport. There, among\n the grizzled veterans of the old Moon Patrol, he'd found friends who\n understood his dream and who later recommended his appointment to the\n U. S. Academy for the Conquest of Space.\n\n\n And a month ago, he'd signed aboard the\nOdyssey\n—the first ship, it\n was rumored, equipped to venture as far as the asteroids and perhaps\n beyond.\n\n\n Cobb was persistent: \"Damn fools shoulda known enough to stay on Earth.\n What the hell good is it, jumpin' from planet to planet?\"\nThe guy's drunk\n, Ben thought. He took his drink and moved three\n stools down the bar.\n\n\n Cobb followed. \"You don't like the truth, eh, kid? You don't like\n people to call you a sucker.\"", "Hands were guiding him. He was aware of being pushed and pulled. A\n door closed behind him. The glare of the flashlight faded from his\n vision—if he still had vision.\n\n\n \"You're sure?\" the voice persisted.\n\n\n \"I'm sure,\" Ben managed to say.\n\n\n \"I have no antidote. You may die.\"\n\n\n His mind fought to comprehend. With the anti-paralysis injection,\n massage and rest, a man could recover from the effects of mortocain\n within half a day. Without treatment, the paralysis could spread to\n heart and lungs. It could become a paralysis of death. An effective\n weapon: the slightest wound compelled the average criminal to surrender\n at once.\n\n\n \"Anti ... anti ...\" The words were as heavy as blobs of mercury forced\n from his throat. \"No ... I'm sure ... sure.\"", "The boy grabbed his hand. Because Ben could think of no reason for\n resisting, he followed. They plunged into shifting layers of smoke and\n through the drone of alcohol-cracked voices.\nThey passed the bar with its line of lean-featured, slit-eyed\n Earthmen—merchant spacemen.\n\n\n They wormed down a narrow aisle flanked by booths carved from Venusian\n marble that jutted up into the semi-darkness like fog-blanketed\n tombstones.\n\n\n Several times, Ben glimpsed the bulky figures of CO\n 2\n -breathing\n Venusians, the first he'd ever seen.\n\n\n They were smoky gray, scaly, naked giants, toads in human shape.\n They stood solitary and motionless, aloof, their green-lidded eyes\n unblinking. They certainly didn't look like telepaths, as Ben had heard\n they were, but the thought sent a fresh rivulet of fear down his spine.", "He was sorry he'd hit Cobb, of course. He was not sorry he'd run.\n Escaping at least gave him a power of choice, of decision.\nYou can do two things\n, he thought.\nYou can give yourself up, and that's what a good officer would do.\n That would eliminate the escape charge. You'd get off with voluntary\n manslaughter. Under interplanetary law, that would mean ten years in\n prison and a dishonorable discharge. And then you'd be free.\nBut you'd be through with rockets and space. They don't want new\n men over thirty-four for officers on rockets or even for third-class\n jet-men on beat-up freighters—they don't want convicted killers. You'd", "She hesitated. He thought,\nDamn it, of all the questions, why did I\n ask that?\nFinally she said, \"He had a wife.\"\n\n\n \"Children?\"\n\n\n \"Two. I don't know their ages.\"\n\n\n She left the room.\nHe sank into the softness of his bed. As he turned over on his side,\n his gaze fell upon an object on a bureau in a far corner of the room.\n\n\n He sat straight up, his chest heaving.\n\n\n The object was a tri-dimensional photo of a rock-faced man in a\n merchant spaceman's uniform. He was a giant of a man with a neatly\n trimmed\nred beard\n!\n\n\n Ben stared at the photo for a long time. At length, he slipped into\n restless sleep. Images of faces and echoes of words spun through his\n brain.", "Once he spied a white-uniformed officer of Hoover City's Security\n Police. The man was striding down an aisle, idly tapping his neuro-club\n against the stone booths.\nKeep walking\n, Ben told himself.\nYou look the same as anyone else\n here. Keep walking. Look straight ahead.\nThe officer passed. Ben breathed easier.\n\n\n \"Here we are,\nmonsieur\n,\" piped the Martian boy. \"A\ntres\nfine table.\n Close in the shadows.\"\n\n\n Ben winced. How did this kid know he wanted to sit in the shadows?\n Frowning, he sat down—he and the dead man.\n\n\n He listened to the lonely rhythms of the four-piece Martian orchestra.", "Most of the big room lay obscured behind a shimmering veil of tobacco\n smoke and the sweet, heavy fumes of Martian Devil's Egg. Here and\n there, Ben saw moving figures. He could not tell if they were Earthmen,\n Martians or Venusians.\n\n\n Someone tugged at his greasy coat. He jumped, thinking absurdly that it\n was the dead man's hand.\n\n\n \"\nComa esta, senor?\n\" a small voice piped. \"\nSpeken die Deutsch?\n Desirez-vous d'amour? Da? Nyet?\n\"\n\n\n Ben looked down.\n\n\n The speaker was an eager-eyed Martian boy of about ten. He was like\n a red-skinned marionette with pipestem arms and legs, clad in a torn\n skivvy shirt and faded blue dungarees.\n\n\n \"I'm American,\" Ben muttered.", "Then a pressure and a coldness were on his left hand. He realized that\n someone had seized it.\n\n\n A soft feminine voice spoke to him. \"You're wounded? They hit you?\"\n\n\n \"Yes.\" His thick lips wouldn't let go of the word.\n\n\n \"You want to escape—even now?\"\n\n\n \"Yes.\"\n\n\n \"You may die if you don't give yourself up.\"\n\n\n \"No, no.\"\n\n\n He tried to stumble toward the exit.\n\n\n \"All right then. Not that way. Here, this way.\"\n\n\n Heavy footsteps thudded toward them. A few yards away, a flashlight\n flicked on.", "Another hiss passed his cheek. He was about twelve feet from the exit.\nAnother second\n, his brain screamed.\nJust another second—\nOr would the exits be guarded?\n\n\n He heard the hiss.\n\n\n It hit directly in the small of his back. There was no pain, just a\n slight pricking sensation, like the shallow jab of a needle.\nHe froze as if yanked to a stop by a noose. His body seemed to be\n growing, swelling into balloon proportions. He knew that the tiny\n needle had imbedded itself deep in his flesh, knew that the paralyzing\n mortocain was spreading like icy fire into every fiber and muscle of\n his body.\n\n\n He staggered like a man of stone moving in slow motion. He'd have\n fifteen—maybe twenty—seconds before complete lethargy of mind and\n body overpowered him.\n\n\n In the dark world beyond his fading consciousness, he heard a voice\n yell, \"Turn on the damn lights!\"", "\"You're the one who carried me when I was shot?\"\n\n\n \"Yes.\"\n\n\n \"Why?\"\n\n\n Suddenly he began to cough. Breath came hard. She held the oxygen mask\n in readiness. He shook his head, not wanting it.\n\n\n \"Why?\" he asked again.\n\n\n \"It would be a long story. Perhaps I'll tell you tomorrow.\"\n\n\n A new thought, cloaked in sudden fear, entered his murky consciousness.\n \"Tell me, will—will I be well again? Will I be able to walk?\"\n\n\n He lay back then, panting, exhausted.\n\n\n \"You have nothing to worry about,\" the girl said softly. Her cool hand\n touched his hot forehead. \"Rest. We'll talk later.\"\n\n\n His eyes closed and breath came easier. He slept.", "\"Ah,\nbuena\n! I speak English\ntres\nfine,\nsenor\n. I have Martian\n friend, she\ntres\npretty and\ntres\nfat. She weigh almost eighty\n pounds,\nmonsieur\n. I take you to her,\nsi\n?\"\n\n\n Ben shook his head.\nHe thought,\nI don't want your Martian wench. I don't want your opium\n or your Devil's Egg or your Venusian kali. But if you had a drug that'd\n bring a dead man to life, I'd buy and pay with my soul.\n\"It is deal,\nmonsieur\n? Five dollars or twenty\nkeelis\nfor visit\n Martian friend. Maybe you like House of Dreams. For House of Dreams—\"\n\n\n \"I'm not buying.\"\n\n\n The dirty-faced kid shrugged. \"Then I show you to good table,—\ntres\n bien\n. I do not charge you,\nsenor\n.\"" ], [ "\"Then we move on. We dream up new gimmicks for our crates and take them\n to Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, Pluto. In time, maybe, we'll be\n pushed out of the System itself. Maybe it won't be the white-suited\n boys who'll make that first hop to the stars. It\ncould\nbe us, you\n know—if we live long enough. But that Asteroid Belt is murder. You\n can't follow the text-book rules of astrogation out there. You make up\n your own.\"\nBen stiffened. \"And that's why you want me for an astrogator.\"\n\n\n Maggie rose, her eyes wistful. \"If you want to come—and if you get\n well.\" She looked at him strangely.\n\n\n \"Suppose—\" He fought to find the right words. \"Suppose I got well and\n decided not to join Jacob. What would happen to me? Would you let me\n go?\"", "\"I'm sorry,\" she said. \"I shouldn't have told you yet. I felt so happy\n because you're alive. Rest now. We'll talk again soon.\"\n\n\n \"Maggie, you—you said I'd live. You didn't say I'd be able to walk\n again.\"\n\n\n She lowered her gaze. \"I hope you'll be able to.\"\n\n\n \"But you don't think I will, do you?\"\n\n\n \"I don't know. We'll try walking tomorrow. Don't think about it now.\n Rest.\"\n\n\n He tried to relax, but his mind was a vortex of conjecture.\n\n\n \"Just one more question,\" he almost whispered.\n\n\n \"Yes?\"\n\n\n \"The man I killed—did he have a wife?\"", "The dead man returned to him. Bloodied lips cursed at him. Glassy eyes\n accused him. Somewhere were two lost children crying in the night.\n\n\n And towering above him was a red-bearded man whose great hands reached\n down and beckoned to him. Ben crawled through the night on hands and\n knees, his legs numb and useless. The crying of the children was a\n chilling wail in his ears.\n\n\n His head rose and turned to the red-bearded man. His pleading voice\n screamed out to him in a thick, harsh cackle. Yet even as he screamed,\n the giant disappeared, to be replaced by white-booted feet stomping\n relentlessly toward him.\n\n\n He awoke still screaming....\n\n\n A night without darkness passed. Ben lay waiting for Maggie's return, a\n question already formed in his mind.\n\n\n She came and at once he asked, \"Who is the man with the red beard?\"", "\"We're not in Hoover City?\"\n\n\n \"No.\"\n\n\n He looked at her, wondering. \"You won't tell me?\"\n\n\n \"Not yet. Later, perhaps.\"\n\n\n \"Then how did you get me here? How did we escape from the Inn?\"\nShe shrugged. \"We have friends who can be bribed. A hiding place in the\n city, the use of a small desert-taxi, a pass to leave the city—these\n can be had for a price.\"\n\n\n \"You'll tell me your name?\"\n\n\n \"Maggie.\"\n\n\n \"Why did you save me?\"\n\n\n Her eyes twinkled mischievously. \"Because you're a good astrogator.\"\n\n\n His own eyes widened. \"How did you know that?\"", "Ben rose and started to leave the bar, but Cobb grabbed his arm and\n held him there.\n\n\n \"Thas what you are—a sucker. You're young now. Wait ten years. You'll\n be dyin' of radiation rot or a meteor'll get you. Wait and see, sucker!\"\n\n\n Until this instant, Ben had suppressed his anger. Now, suddenly and\n without warning, it welled up into savage fury.\n\n\n His fist struck the man on the chin. Cobb's eyes gaped in shocked\n horror. He spun backward. His head cracked sickeningly on the edge of\n the bar. The sound was like a punctuation mark signaling the end of\n life.\n\n\n He sank to the floor, eyes glassy, blood tricking down his jaw.\n\n\n Ben knew that he was dead.", "\"You're the one who carried me when I was shot?\"\n\n\n \"Yes.\"\n\n\n \"Why?\"\n\n\n Suddenly he began to cough. Breath came hard. She held the oxygen mask\n in readiness. He shook his head, not wanting it.\n\n\n \"Why?\" he asked again.\n\n\n \"It would be a long story. Perhaps I'll tell you tomorrow.\"\n\n\n A new thought, cloaked in sudden fear, entered his murky consciousness.\n \"Tell me, will—will I be well again? Will I be able to walk?\"\n\n\n He lay back then, panting, exhausted.\n\n\n \"You have nothing to worry about,\" the girl said softly. Her cool hand\n touched his hot forehead. \"Rest. We'll talk later.\"\n\n\n His eyes closed and breath came easier. He slept.", "Then a pressure and a coldness were on his left hand. He realized that\n someone had seized it.\n\n\n A soft feminine voice spoke to him. \"You're wounded? They hit you?\"\n\n\n \"Yes.\" His thick lips wouldn't let go of the word.\n\n\n \"You want to escape—even now?\"\n\n\n \"Yes.\"\n\n\n \"You may die if you don't give yourself up.\"\n\n\n \"No, no.\"\n\n\n He tried to stumble toward the exit.\n\n\n \"All right then. Not that way. Here, this way.\"\n\n\n Heavy footsteps thudded toward them. A few yards away, a flashlight\n flicked on.", "He didn't hear the answer or anything else.\nBen Curtis had no precise sensation of awakening. Return to\n consciousness was an intangible evolution from a world of black\n nothingness to a dream-like state of awareness.\n\n\n He felt the pressure of hands on his naked arms and shoulders,\n hands that massaged, manipulated, fought to restore circulation and\n sensitivity. He knew they were strong hands. Their strength seemed to\n transfer itself to his own body.\n\n\n For a long time, he tried to open his eyes. His lids felt welded\n shut. But after a while, they opened. His world of darkness gave way\n to a translucent cloak of mist. A round, featureless shape hovered\n constantly above him—a face, he supposed.\n\n\n He tried to talk. Although his lips moved slightly, the only sound was\n a deep, staccato grunting.", "\"You are better?\" the kind voice asked.\nThe face was that of a girl probably somewhere between twenty-five\n and thirty. Her features, devoid of makeup, had an unhealthy-looking\n pallor, as if she hadn't used a sunlamp for many weeks. Yet, at the\n same time, her firm slim body suggested a solidity and a strength. Her\n straight brown hair was combed backward, tight upon her scalp, and\n drawn together in a knot at the nape of her neck.\n\n\n \"I—I am better,\" he murmured. His words were still slow and thick. \"I\n am going to live?\"\n\n\n \"You will live.\"\n\n\n He thought for a moment. \"How long have I been here?\"\n\n\n \"Nine days.\"\n\n\n \"You took care of me?\" He noted the deep, dark circles beneath her\n sleep-robbed eyes.\n\n\n She nodded.", "She hesitated. He thought,\nDamn it, of all the questions, why did I\n ask that?\nFinally she said, \"He had a wife.\"\n\n\n \"Children?\"\n\n\n \"Two. I don't know their ages.\"\n\n\n She left the room.\nHe sank into the softness of his bed. As he turned over on his side,\n his gaze fell upon an object on a bureau in a far corner of the room.\n\n\n He sat straight up, his chest heaving.\n\n\n The object was a tri-dimensional photo of a rock-faced man in a\n merchant spaceman's uniform. He was a giant of a man with a neatly\n trimmed\nred beard\n!\n\n\n Ben stared at the photo for a long time. At length, he slipped into\n restless sleep. Images of faces and echoes of words spun through his\n brain.", "His gaze shifted to another aisle and another hint of whiteness.\n\n\n And then he saw another and another and another.\n\n\n Each whiteness became brighter and closer, like shrinking spokes of a\n wheel with Ben as their focal point.\nYou idiot! The damned Martian kid! You should have known!\nLight showered the room in a dazzling explosion. Ben, half blinded,\n realized that a broad circle of unshaded globes in the ceiling had been\n turned on.\n\n\n The light washed away the room's strangeness and its air of brooding\n wickedness, revealing drab concrete walls and a debris-strewn floor.\n\n\n Eyes blinked and squinted. There were swift, frightened movements and\n a chorus of angry murmurs. The patrons of the Blast Inn were like\n tatter-clad occupants of a house whose walls have been ripped away.\n\n\n Ben Curtis twisted his lean body erect. His chair tumbled backward,\n falling.", "Hands were guiding him. He was aware of being pushed and pulled. A\n door closed behind him. The glare of the flashlight faded from his\n vision—if he still had vision.\n\n\n \"You're sure?\" the voice persisted.\n\n\n \"I'm sure,\" Ben managed to say.\n\n\n \"I have no antidote. You may die.\"\n\n\n His mind fought to comprehend. With the anti-paralysis injection,\n massage and rest, a man could recover from the effects of mortocain\n within half a day. Without treatment, the paralysis could spread to\n heart and lungs. It could become a paralysis of death. An effective\n weapon: the slightest wound compelled the average criminal to surrender\n at once.\n\n\n \"Anti ... anti ...\" The words were as heavy as blobs of mercury forced\n from his throat. \"No ... I'm sure ... sure.\"", "\"Ah,\nbuena\n! I speak English\ntres\nfine,\nsenor\n. I have Martian\n friend, she\ntres\npretty and\ntres\nfat. She weigh almost eighty\n pounds,\nmonsieur\n. I take you to her,\nsi\n?\"\n\n\n Ben shook his head.\nHe thought,\nI don't want your Martian wench. I don't want your opium\n or your Devil's Egg or your Venusian kali. But if you had a drug that'd\n bring a dead man to life, I'd buy and pay with my soul.\n\"It is deal,\nmonsieur\n? Five dollars or twenty\nkeelis\nfor visit\n Martian friend. Maybe you like House of Dreams. For House of Dreams—\"\n\n\n \"I'm not buying.\"\n\n\n The dirty-faced kid shrugged. \"Then I show you to good table,—\ntres\n bien\n. I do not charge you,\nsenor\n.\"", "Then, for a single absurd second, Ben was seized with terror—just as,\n a moment before, he'd been overwhelmed with anger.\n\n\n He ran.\nFor some twenty minutes, he raced through a dizzying, nightmare world\n of dark rocketfront alleys and shouting voices and pursuing feet.\n\n\n At last, abruptly, he realized that he was alone and in silence. He saw\n that he was still on the rocketfront, but in the Tycho-ward side of the\n city.\n\n\n He huddled in a dark corner of a loading platform and lit a cigarette.\n A thousand stars—a thousand motionless balls of silver fire—shone\n above him through Luna City's transparent dome.", "But he heard someone say, \"Don't try to talk.\" It was the same gentle\n voice he'd heard in the Blast Inn. \"Don't talk. Just lie still and\n rest. Everything'll be all right.\"\nEverything all right\n, he thought dimly.\n\n\n There were long periods of lethargy when he was aware of nothing. There\n were periods of light and of darkness. Gradually he grew aware of\n things. He realized that the soft rubber mouth of a spaceman's oxygen\n mask was clamped over his nose. He felt the heat of electric blankets\n swathed about his body. Occasionally a tube would be in his mouth and\n he would taste liquid food and feel a pleasant warmth in his stomach.\n\n\n Always, it seemed, the face was above him, floating in the obscuring\n mist. Always, it seemed, the soft voice was echoing in his ears:", "He was sorry he'd hit Cobb, of course. He was not sorry he'd run.\n Escaping at least gave him a power of choice, of decision.\nYou can do two things\n, he thought.\nYou can give yourself up, and that's what a good officer would do.\n That would eliminate the escape charge. You'd get off with voluntary\n manslaughter. Under interplanetary law, that would mean ten years in\n prison and a dishonorable discharge. And then you'd be free.\nBut you'd be through with rockets and space. They don't want new\n men over thirty-four for officers on rockets or even for third-class\n jet-men on beat-up freighters—they don't want convicted killers. You'd", "His body was buried now—probably in the silent gray wastes outside\n Luna City. But he'd become a kind of invisible Siamese twin, as much a\n part of Ben as sight in his eyes.\n\n\n Sometimes the image would be shuffling drunkenly beside him, its lips\n spitting whiskey-slurred curses.\n\n\n Again, its face would be a pop-eyed mask of surprise as Ben's fist\n thudded into its jaw. More often, the face would be frozen in the\n whiteness of death. The large eyes would stare. Blood would trickle\n from a corner of the gaping mouth.\n\n\n You can forget a living man. You can defeat him or submit to him or\n ignore him, and the matter is over and done. You can't escape from a\n memory that has burned into your mind.", "\"Swallow this now. That's it. You must have food.\" Or, \"Close your\n eyes. Don't strain. It won't be long. You're getting better.\"\nBetter\n, he'd think.\nGetting better....\nAt last, after one of the periods of lethargy, his eyes opened. The\n mist brightened, then dissolved.\n\n\n He beheld the cracked, unpainted ceiling of a small room, its colorless\n walls broken with a single, round window. He saw the footboard of his\n aluminite bed and the outlines of his feet beneath a faded blanket.\n\n\n Finally he saw the face and figure that stood at his side.", "Her thin face was criss-crossed by emotion—alarm, then bewilderment,\n then fear. \"I don't know. That would be up to Jacob.\"\n\n\n He lay biting his lip, staring at the photo of Jacob. She touched his\n hand and it seemed that sadness now dominated the flurry of emotion\n that had coursed through her.\n\n\n \"The only thing that matters, really,\" she murmured, \"is your walking\n again. We'll try this afternoon. Okay?\"\n\n\n \"Okay,\" he said.\n\n\n When she left, his eyes were still turned toward Jacob's photo.\n\n\n He was like two people, he thought.\n\n\n Half of him was an officer of the Space Corps. Perhaps one single\n starry-eyed boy out of ten thousand was lucky enough to reach that goal.", "There was just one flaw in his decision. He hadn't realized that the\n memory of the dead man's face would haunt him, torment him, follow him\n as constantly as breath flowed into his lungs.\n\n\n But might not the rumble of atomic engines drown the murmuring dead\n voice? Might not the vision of alien worlds and infinite spaceways\n obscure the dead face?\n\n\n So now he sat searching for a perhaps nonexistent red-bearded giant,\n and hoping and doubting and fearing, all at once.\n\n\n \"You look for someone,\nsenor\n?\"\n\n\n He jumped. \"Oh. You still here?\"\n\n\n \"\nOui.\n\" The Martian kid grinned, his mouth full of purple teeth. \"I\n keep you company on your first night in Hoover City,\nn'est-ce-pas\n?\"\n\n\n \"This isn't my first night here,\" Ben lied. \"I've been around a while.\"" ], [ "\"Then we move on. We dream up new gimmicks for our crates and take them\n to Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, Pluto. In time, maybe, we'll be\n pushed out of the System itself. Maybe it won't be the white-suited\n boys who'll make that first hop to the stars. It\ncould\nbe us, you\n know—if we live long enough. But that Asteroid Belt is murder. You\n can't follow the text-book rules of astrogation out there. You make up\n your own.\"\nBen stiffened. \"And that's why you want me for an astrogator.\"\n\n\n Maggie rose, her eyes wistful. \"If you want to come—and if you get\n well.\" She looked at him strangely.\n\n\n \"Suppose—\" He fought to find the right words. \"Suppose I got well and\n decided not to join Jacob. What would happen to me? Would you let me\n go?\"", "Her thin face was criss-crossed by emotion—alarm, then bewilderment,\n then fear. \"I don't know. That would be up to Jacob.\"\n\n\n He lay biting his lip, staring at the photo of Jacob. She touched his\n hand and it seemed that sadness now dominated the flurry of emotion\n that had coursed through her.\n\n\n \"The only thing that matters, really,\" she murmured, \"is your walking\n again. We'll try this afternoon. Okay?\"\n\n\n \"Okay,\" he said.\n\n\n When she left, his eyes were still turned toward Jacob's photo.\n\n\n He was like two people, he thought.\n\n\n Half of him was an officer of the Space Corps. Perhaps one single\n starry-eyed boy out of ten thousand was lucky enough to reach that goal.", "\"Don't get the idea that we're outlaws. Sure, about half our group is\n wanted by the Bureau, but we make honest livings. We're just people\n like yourself and Jacob.\"\n\n\n \"Jacob? Your husband?\"\n\n\n She laughed. \"Makes you think of a Biblical character, doesn't it?\n Jacob's anything but that. And just plain 'Jake' reminds one of a\n grizzled old uranium prospector and he isn't like that, either.\"\n\n\n She lit a cigarette. \"Anyway, the wanted ones stay out beyond the\n frontiers. Jacob and those like him can never return to Earth—not even\n to Hoover City—except dead. The others are physical or psycho rejects\n who couldn't get clearance if they went back to Earth. They know\n nothing but rocketing and won't give up. They bring in our ships to\n frontier ports like Hoover City to unload cargo and take on supplies.\"", "\"We're not in Hoover City?\"\n\n\n \"No.\"\n\n\n He looked at her, wondering. \"You won't tell me?\"\n\n\n \"Not yet. Later, perhaps.\"\n\n\n \"Then how did you get me here? How did we escape from the Inn?\"\nShe shrugged. \"We have friends who can be bribed. A hiding place in the\n city, the use of a small desert-taxi, a pass to leave the city—these\n can be had for a price.\"\n\n\n \"You'll tell me your name?\"\n\n\n \"Maggie.\"\n\n\n \"Why did you save me?\"\n\n\n Her eyes twinkled mischievously. \"Because you're a good astrogator.\"\n\n\n His own eyes widened. \"How did you know that?\"", "\"I'm sorry,\" she said. \"I shouldn't have told you yet. I felt so happy\n because you're alive. Rest now. We'll talk again soon.\"\n\n\n \"Maggie, you—you said I'd live. You didn't say I'd be able to walk\n again.\"\n\n\n She lowered her gaze. \"I hope you'll be able to.\"\n\n\n \"But you don't think I will, do you?\"\n\n\n \"I don't know. We'll try walking tomorrow. Don't think about it now.\n Rest.\"\n\n\n He tried to relax, but his mind was a vortex of conjecture.\n\n\n \"Just one more question,\" he almost whispered.\n\n\n \"Yes?\"\n\n\n \"The man I killed—did he have a wife?\"", "The dead man returned to him. Bloodied lips cursed at him. Glassy eyes\n accused him. Somewhere were two lost children crying in the night.\n\n\n And towering above him was a red-bearded man whose great hands reached\n down and beckoned to him. Ben crawled through the night on hands and\n knees, his legs numb and useless. The crying of the children was a\n chilling wail in his ears.\n\n\n His head rose and turned to the red-bearded man. His pleading voice\n screamed out to him in a thick, harsh cackle. Yet even as he screamed,\n the giant disappeared, to be replaced by white-booted feet stomping\n relentlessly toward him.\n\n\n He awoke still screaming....\n\n\n A night without darkness passed. Ben lay waiting for Maggie's return, a\n question already formed in his mind.\n\n\n She came and at once he asked, \"Who is the man with the red beard?\"", "She hesitated. He thought,\nDamn it, of all the questions, why did I\n ask that?\nFinally she said, \"He had a wife.\"\n\n\n \"Children?\"\n\n\n \"Two. I don't know their ages.\"\n\n\n She left the room.\nHe sank into the softness of his bed. As he turned over on his side,\n his gaze fell upon an object on a bureau in a far corner of the room.\n\n\n He sat straight up, his chest heaving.\n\n\n The object was a tri-dimensional photo of a rock-faced man in a\n merchant spaceman's uniform. He was a giant of a man with a neatly\n trimmed\nred beard\n!\n\n\n Ben stared at the photo for a long time. At length, he slipped into\n restless sleep. Images of faces and echoes of words spun through his\n brain.", "A Coffin for Jacob\nBy EDWARD W. LUDWIG\n\n\n Illustrated by EMSH\n\n\n [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Galaxy Science Fiction May 1956.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nWith never a moment to rest, the pursuit\n \nthrough space felt like a game of hounds\n \nand hares ... or was it follow the leader?\nBen Curtis eased his pale, gaunt body through the open doorway of the\n Blast Inn, the dead man following silently behind him.\n\n\n His fear-borne gaze traveled into the dimly illumined Venusian gin\n mill. The place was like an evil caldron steaming with a brew whose\n ingredients had been culled from the back corners of three planets.", "She smiled. \"I was right then when I gave you that thumbnail biog. You\nwere\nlooking for him, weren't you?\"\n\n\n \"Who is he?\"\n\n\n She sat on the chair beside him.\n\n\n \"My husband,\" she said softly.\n\n\n He began to understand. \"And your husband needs an astrogator? That's\n why you saved me?\"\n\n\n \"We need all the good men we can get.\"\n\n\n \"Where is he?\"\n\n\n She cocked her head in mock suspicion. \"Somewhere between Mercury and\n Pluto. He's building a new base for us—and a home for me. When his\n ship returns, I'll be going to him.\"\n\n\n \"Why aren't you with him now?\"", "Then a pressure and a coldness were on his left hand. He realized that\n someone had seized it.\n\n\n A soft feminine voice spoke to him. \"You're wounded? They hit you?\"\n\n\n \"Yes.\" His thick lips wouldn't let go of the word.\n\n\n \"You want to escape—even now?\"\n\n\n \"Yes.\"\n\n\n \"You may die if you don't give yourself up.\"\n\n\n \"No, no.\"\n\n\n He tried to stumble toward the exit.\n\n\n \"All right then. Not that way. Here, this way.\"\n\n\n Heavy footsteps thudded toward them. A few yards away, a flashlight\n flicked on.", "He remembered a little picture book his mother had given him when she\n was alive. Under the bright pictures of spacemen were the captions:\n\n\n \"A Space Officer Is Honest\" \"A Space Officer Is Loyal.\" \"A Space\n Officer Is Dutiful.\"\n\n\n Honesty, loyalty, duty. Trite words, but without those concepts,\n mankind would never have broken away from the planet that held it\n prisoner for half a million years.\n\n\n Without them, Everson, after three failures and a hundred men dead,\n would never have landed on the Moon twenty-seven years ago.", "\"He said unexplored space is no place for a woman. So I've been\n studying criminal reports and photos from the Interplanetary Bureau of\n Investigation and trying to find recruits like yourself. You know how\n we operate?\"\n\n\n He told her the tales he'd heard.\nShe nodded. \"There are quite a few of us now—about a thousand—and a\n dozen ships. Our base used to be here on Venus, down toward the Pole.\n The dome we're in now was designed and built by us a few years ago\n after we got pushed off Mars. We lost a few men in the construction,\n but with almost every advance in space, someone dies.\"\n\n\n \"Venus is getting too civilized. We're moving out and this dome is only\n a temporary base when we have cases like yours. The new base—I might\n as well tell you it's going to be an asteroid. I won't say which one.\"", "At sixteen, he'd spent every weekend holiday hitchhiking from Boys\n Town No. 5 in the Catskills to Long Island Spaceport. There, among\n the grizzled veterans of the old Moon Patrol, he'd found friends who\n understood his dream and who later recommended his appointment to the\n U. S. Academy for the Conquest of Space.\n\n\n And a month ago, he'd signed aboard the\nOdyssey\n—the first ship, it\n was rumored, equipped to venture as far as the asteroids and perhaps\n beyond.\n\n\n Cobb was persistent: \"Damn fools shoulda known enough to stay on Earth.\n What the hell good is it, jumpin' from planet to planet?\"\nThe guy's drunk\n, Ben thought. He took his drink and moved three\n stools down the bar.\n\n\n Cobb followed. \"You don't like the truth, eh, kid? You don't like\n people to call you a sucker.\"", "There was just one flaw in his decision. He hadn't realized that the\n memory of the dead man's face would haunt him, torment him, follow him\n as constantly as breath flowed into his lungs.\n\n\n But might not the rumble of atomic engines drown the murmuring dead\n voice? Might not the vision of alien worlds and infinite spaceways\n obscure the dead face?\n\n\n So now he sat searching for a perhaps nonexistent red-bearded giant,\n and hoping and doubting and fearing, all at once.\n\n\n \"You look for someone,\nsenor\n?\"\n\n\n He jumped. \"Oh. You still here?\"\n\n\n \"\nOui.\n\" The Martian kid grinned, his mouth full of purple teeth. \"I\n keep you company on your first night in Hoover City,\nn'est-ce-pas\n?\"\n\n\n \"This isn't my first night here,\" Ben lied. \"I've been around a while.\"", "But he heard someone say, \"Don't try to talk.\" It was the same gentle\n voice he'd heard in the Blast Inn. \"Don't talk. Just lie still and\n rest. Everything'll be all right.\"\nEverything all right\n, he thought dimly.\n\n\n There were long periods of lethargy when he was aware of nothing. There\n were periods of light and of darkness. Gradually he grew aware of\n things. He realized that the soft rubber mouth of a spaceman's oxygen\n mask was clamped over his nose. He felt the heat of electric blankets\n swathed about his body. Occasionally a tube would be in his mouth and\n he would taste liquid food and feel a pleasant warmth in his stomach.\n\n\n Always, it seemed, the face was above him, floating in the obscuring\n mist. Always, it seemed, the soft voice was echoing in his ears:", "\"You're the one who carried me when I was shot?\"\n\n\n \"Yes.\"\n\n\n \"Why?\"\n\n\n Suddenly he began to cough. Breath came hard. She held the oxygen mask\n in readiness. He shook his head, not wanting it.\n\n\n \"Why?\" he asked again.\n\n\n \"It would be a long story. Perhaps I'll tell you tomorrow.\"\n\n\n A new thought, cloaked in sudden fear, entered his murky consciousness.\n \"Tell me, will—will I be well again? Will I be able to walk?\"\n\n\n He lay back then, panting, exhausted.\n\n\n \"You have nothing to worry about,\" the girl said softly. Her cool hand\n touched his hot forehead. \"Rest. We'll talk later.\"\n\n\n His eyes closed and breath came easier. He slept.", "He was sorry he'd hit Cobb, of course. He was not sorry he'd run.\n Escaping at least gave him a power of choice, of decision.\nYou can do two things\n, he thought.\nYou can give yourself up, and that's what a good officer would do.\n That would eliminate the escape charge. You'd get off with voluntary\n manslaughter. Under interplanetary law, that would mean ten years in\n prison and a dishonorable discharge. And then you'd be free.\nBut you'd be through with rockets and space. They don't want new\n men over thirty-four for officers on rockets or even for third-class\n jet-men on beat-up freighters—they don't want convicted killers. You'd", "\"Swallow this now. That's it. You must have food.\" Or, \"Close your\n eyes. Don't strain. It won't be long. You're getting better.\"\nBetter\n, he'd think.\nGetting better....\nAt last, after one of the periods of lethargy, his eyes opened. The\n mist brightened, then dissolved.\n\n\n He beheld the cracked, unpainted ceiling of a small room, its colorless\n walls broken with a single, round window. He saw the footboard of his\n aluminite bed and the outlines of his feet beneath a faded blanket.\n\n\n Finally he saw the face and figure that stood at his side.", "He didn't hear the answer or anything else.\nBen Curtis had no precise sensation of awakening. Return to\n consciousness was an intangible evolution from a world of black\n nothingness to a dream-like state of awareness.\n\n\n He felt the pressure of hands on his naked arms and shoulders,\n hands that massaged, manipulated, fought to restore circulation and\n sensitivity. He knew they were strong hands. Their strength seemed to\n transfer itself to his own body.\n\n\n For a long time, he tried to open his eyes. His lids felt welded\n shut. But after a while, they opened. His world of darkness gave way\n to a translucent cloak of mist. A round, featureless shape hovered\n constantly above him—a face, he supposed.\n\n\n He tried to talk. Although his lips moved slightly, the only sound was\n a deep, staccato grunting.", "When he next awoke, his gaze turned first to the window. There was\n light outside, but he had no way of knowing if this was morning, noon\n or afternoon—or on what planet.\n\n\n He saw no white-domed buildings of Hoover City, no formal lines of\n green-treed parks, no streams of buzzing gyro-cars. There was only a\n translucent and infinite whiteness. It was as if the window were set on\n the edge of the Universe overlooking a solemn, silent and matterless\n void.\n\n\n The girl entered the room.\n\n\n \"Hi,\" she said, smiling. The dark half-moons under her eyes were less\n prominent. Her face was relaxed.\n\n\n She increased the pressure in his rubberex pillows and helped him rise\n to a sitting position.\n\n\n \"Where are we?\" he asked.\n\n\n \"Venus.\"" ] ]
train	49165	[ "Which word least describes Baron?", "Which planet wasn't well-known according to the text?", "What doesn't Baron think was a reason for their failure?", "Who seems to be the least intelligent person?", "What isn't an obstacle on Mercury?", "Which word least describes McIvers?", "What didn't happen to McIvers?", "What wasn't an issue their bodies were going through?", "What likely caused the most problems?" ]	[ [ "confident", "realistic", "enthusiastic", "curious" ], [ "Jupiter", "Venus", "Mars", "Mercury" ], [ "McIvers", "the Major's experience", "poor mapping", "faulty equipment" ], [ "Stone", "McIvers", "Sanderson", "Mikuta" ], [ "zero gravity", "rough terrain", "volcanoes", "extreme temperatures" ], [ "fidgety", "experienced", "lucky", "stubborn" ], [ "the major turned down his idea", "he located the first explorers", "he got lost", "he took a detour" ], [ "dehydration", "malnutrition", "headaches", "irritation" ], [ "the toxic gases", "the high temperatures", "vehicle trouble", "incorrect mapping" ] ]	[ 2, 4, 2, 2, 1, 4, 3, 2, 2 ]	[ 1, 0, 1, 1, 0, 1, 1, 1, 0 ]	[ [ "vaguely—Andean climbers, or at least two of them were. Over\n near the door he recognized old Balmer, who had mapped\n the first passage to the core of Vulcan Crater on Venus. Baron\n returned his smile with a nod. Then he settled back and\n waited impatiently for the intruder who demanded his time\n without justifying it.\nPresently a small, grizzled man crossed the room and sat\n down at Baron’s table. He was short and wiry. His face held\n no key to his age—he might have been thirty or a thousand—but\n he looked weary and immensely ugly. His cheeks and\n forehead were twisted and brown, with scars that were still\n healing.\nThe stranger said, “I’m glad you waited. I’ve heard you’re", "And he never stood still; he was always moving, always doing\n something with his hands, or talking, or pacing about.\nEvidently the Major decided not to press the issue of his\n arrival. There was still work to do, and an hour later we were\n running the final tests on the pressure suits. That evening,\n Stone and McIvers were thick as thieves, and everything was\n set for an early departure after we got some rest.\n“And that,” said Baron, finishing his drink and signaling\n the waiter for another pair, “was your first big mistake.”\nPeter Claney raised his eyebrows. “McIvers?”\n“Of course.”\nClaney shrugged, glanced at the small quiet tables around\n them. “There are lots of bizarre personalities around a place", "Baron’s eyes were wide with excitement, all trace of anger\n gone. “Great balls of fire, man—\nwhere have you been hiding?\nWe’ve been trying to contact you for months!”\n“I know. I was hoping you’d quit looking and chuck the\n whole idea.”\n“Quit looking!” Baron bent forward over the table. “My\n friend, we’d given up hope, but we’ve never quit looking.\n Here, have a drink. There’s so much you can tell us.” His\n fingers were trembling.\nPeter Claney shook his head. “I can’t tell you anything you\n want to hear.”\n“But you’ve\ngot\nto. You’re the only man on Earth who’s", "Crossing\nby Alan E. Nourse\nJAMES BARON was not pleased to hear that he had had\n a visitor when he reached the Red Lion that evening. He\n had no stomach for mysteries, vast or trifling, and there\n were pressing things to think about at this time. Yet the doorman\n had flagged him as he came in from the street: “A thousand\n pardons, Mr. Baron. The gentleman—he would leave no\n name. He said you’d want to see him. He will be back by\n eight.”\nNow Baron drummed his fingers on the table top, staring\n about the quiet lounge. Street trade was discouraged at the\n Red Lion, gently but persuasively; the patrons were few in\n number. Across to the right was a group that Baron knew", "do it and neither can you. No human beings will ever cross\n the Brightside alive, not if they try for centuries.”\n“Nonsense,” Baron declared. “We will.”\nClaney shrugged. “I was there. I know what I’m saying. You\n can blame the equipment or the men—there were flaws in\n both quarters—but we just didn’t know what we were fighting.\n It was the\nplanet\nthat whipped us, that and the\nSun\n. They’ll\n whip you, too, if you try it.”\n“Never,” said Baron.\n“Let me tell you,” Peter Claney said.\nI’d been interested in the Brightside for almost as long as\n I can remember (Claney said). I guess I was about ten when", "planning to attempt the Brightside.”\nBaron stared at the man for a moment. “I see you can read\n telecasts,” he said coldly. “The news was correct. We are going\n to make a Brightside Crossing.”\n“At perihelion?”\n“Of course. When else?”\nThe grizzled man searched Baron’s face for a moment\n without expression. Then he said slowly, “No, I’m afraid you’re\n not going to make the Crossing.”\n“Say, who are you, if you don’t mind?” Baron demanded.\n“The name is Claney,” said the stranger.\nThere was a silence. Then: “Claney?\nPeter\nClaney?”\n“That’s right.”", "He was a major in the Interplanetary Service\n for some years and hung onto the title after he gave up\n his commission.\nHe was with Armstrong on Mars during his Service days,\n did a good deal of the original mapping and surveying for\n the Colony there. I first met him on Venus; we spent five\n years together up there doing some of the nastiest exploring\n since the Matto Grasso. Then he made the attempt on Vulcan\n Crater that paved the way for Balmer a few years later.\nI’d always liked the Major—he was big and quiet and cool,\n the sort of guy who always had things figured a little further\n ahead than anyone else and always knew what to do in a tight\n place. Too many men in this game are all nerve and luck,", "like this, and some of the best wouldn’t seem to be the most\n reliable at first glance. Anyway, personality problems weren’t\n our big problem right then.\nEquipment\nworried us first and\nroute\nnext.”\nBaron nodded in agreement. “What kind of suits did you\n have?”\n“The best insulating suits ever made,” said Claney. “Each\n one had an inner lining of a fiberglass modification, to avoid\n the clumsiness of asbestos, and carried the refrigerating unit\n and oxygen storage which we recharged from the sledges every\n eight hours. Outer layer carried a monomolecular chrome reflecting\n surface that made us glitter like Christmas trees. And\n we had a half-inch dead-air space under positive pressure between", "sulfur in the shadows were boiling like oatmeal over a campfire.”\nBaron licked his lips. His fingers stroked the cool, wet glass\n as he set it down on the tablecloth.\n“Go on,” he said tautly. “You started on schedule?”\n“Oh, yes,” said Claney, “we started on schedule, all right.\n We just didn’t quite end on schedule, that was all. But I’m\n getting to that.”\nHe settled back in his chair and continued.\nWe jumped off from Twilight on a course due southeast\n with thirty days to make it to the Center of Brightside. If we\n could cross an average of seventy miles a day, we could hit\n Center exactly at perihelion, the point of Mercury’s closest", "attempted a Brightside Crossing and lived through it! And the\n story you cleared for the news—it was nothing. We need\ndetails\n. Where did your equipment fall down? Where did you\n miscalculate? What were the trouble spots?” Baron jabbed a\n finger at Claney’s face. “That, for instance—epithelioma?\n Why? What was wrong with your glass? Your filters? We’ve\n got to know those things. If you can tell us, we can make\n it across where your attempt failed—”\n“You want to know why we failed?” asked Claney.\n“Of course we want to know. We\nhave\nto know.”\n“It’s simple. We failed because it can’t be done. We couldn’t", "at each other. Then McIvers would say how good a beer would\n taste, and off we’d go. We’d have murdered our grandmothers\n for one ice-cold bottle of beer.\nAfter a few driving periods, I began to get my bearings at\n the wheel. We were moving down into desolation that made\n Earth’s old Death Valley look like a Japanese rose garden.\n Huge sun-baked cracks opened up in the floor of the gorge,\n with black cliffs jutting up on either side; the air was filled\n with a barely visible yellowish mist of sulfur and sulfurous\n gases.\nIt was a hot, barren hole, no place for any man to go, but\n the challenge was so powerful you could almost feel it. No one\n had ever crossed this land before and escaped. Those who had", "that avoided those upheavals as far as possible. But in the final\n analysis, we were barely scraping the surface. The only way\n we would find out what was happening where was to be there.\nFinally, on the third day, McIvers blew in on a freight\n rocket from Venus. He’d missed the ship that the Major and\n I had taken by a few hours, and had conned his way to Venus\n in hopes of getting a hop from there. He didn’t seem too upset\n about it, as though this were his usual way of doing things and\n he couldn’t see why everyone should get so excited.\nHe was a tall, rangy man with long, wavy hair prematurely\n gray, and the sort of eyes that looked like a climber’s—half-closed,\n sleepy, almost indolent, but capable of abrupt alertness.", "He talked too much, while we were resting or while we were\n driving; wisecracks, witticisms, unfunny jokes that wore thin\n with repetition. He took to making side trips from the route\n now and then, never far, but a little further each time.\nJack Stone reacted quite the opposite; he grew quieter with\n each stop, more reserved and apprehensive. I didn’t like it, but\n I figured that it would pass off after a while. I was apprehensive\n enough myself; I just managed to hide it better.\nAnd every mile the Sun got bigger and whiter and higher in\n the sky and hotter. Without our ultra-violet screens and glare\n filters we would have been blinded; as it was our eyes ached\n constantly and the skin on our faces itched and tingled at the", "I’d heard plenty of stories about Ted McIvers and I wasn’t\n too happy to hear that he was joining us. “Kind of a daredevil,\n isn’t he?”\n“Maybe. He’s lucky and skillful. Where do you draw the\n line? We’ll need plenty of both.”\n“Have you ever worked with him?” I asked.\n“No. Are you worried?”\n“Not exactly. But Brightside is no place to count on luck.”\nThe Major laughed. “I don’t think we need to worry about\n McIvers. We understood each other when I talked up the\n trip to him and we’re going to need each other too much to\n do any fooling around.” He turned back to the supply list.\n “Meanwhile, let’s get this stuff listed and packed. We’ll need", "the two layers. Warning thermocouples, of course—at\n 770 degrees, it wouldn’t take much time to fry us to cinders\n if the suits failed somewhere.”\n“How about the Bugs?”\n“They were insulated, too, but we weren’t counting on\n them too much for protection.”\n“You weren’t!” Baron exclaimed. “Why not?”\n“We’d be in and out of them too much. They gave us mobility\n and storage, but we knew we’d have to do a lot of\n forward work on foot.” Claney smiled bitterly. “Which meant\n that we had an inch of fiberglass and a half-inch of dead air\n between us and a surface temperature where lead flowed like\n water and zinc was almost at melting point and the pools of", "can’t see on the pictures that can kill us.” He tossed the charts\n down excitedly. “Look, let me take a Bug out ahead and work\n reconnaissance, keep five, maybe ten miles ahead of the column.\n I can stay on good solid ground, of course, but scan the\n area closely and radio back to Peter where to avoid the flaws.\n Then—”\n“No dice,” the Major broke in.\n“But why not? We could save ourselves days!”\n“I don’t care what we could save. We stay together. When\n we get to the Center, I want live men along with me. That\n means we stay within easy sight of each other at all times. Any\n climber knows that everybody is safer in a party than one man\n alone—any time, any place.”", "McIvers stared at him, his cheeks an angry red. Finally he\n gave a sullen nod. “Okay. If you say so.”\n“Well, I say so and I mean it. I don’t want any fancy stuff.\n We’re going to hit Center together, and finish the Crossing together.\n Got that?”\nMcIvers nodded. Mikuta then looked at Stone and me and\n we nodded, too.\n“All right,” he said slowly. “Now that we’ve got it straight,\n let’s go.”\nIt was hot. If I forget everything else about that trek, I’ll\n never forget that huge yellow Sun glaring down, without a\n break, hotter and hotter with every mile. We knew that the\n first few days would be the easiest and we were rested and", "ash, filling crevices and declivities—offering a soft, treacherous\n surface for the Bug’s pillow tires.\nI learned to read the ground, to tell a covered fault by the\n sag of the dust; I learned to spot a passable crack, and tell it\n from an impassable cut. Time after time the Bugs ground to\n a halt while we explored a passage on foot, tied together with\n light copper cable, digging, advancing, digging some more\n until we were sure the surface would carry the machines. It\n was cruel work; we slept in exhaustion. But it went smoothly,\n at first.\nToo smoothly, it seemed to me, and the others seemed to\n think so, too.\nMcIvers’ restlessness was beginning to grate on our nerves.", "I gunned my motor and nothing happened.\nI could see the dull gray stuff seeping up around the hubs,\n thick and tenacious, splattering around in steaming gobs as\n the wheels spun. I knew what had happened the moment the\n wheels gave and, a few minutes later, they chained me to the\n tractor and dragged me back out of the mire. It looked for\n all the world like thick gray mud, but it was a pit of molten\n lead, steaming under a soft layer of concealing ash.\nI picked my way more cautiously then. We were getting into\n an area of recent surface activity; the surface was really treacherous.\n I caught myself wishing that the Major had okayed\n McIvers’ scheme for an advanced scout; more dangerous for\n the individual, maybe, but I was driving blind now and I didn’t", "Stone was a youngster—hardly twenty-five, I’d say—but\n he’d been with the Major at Vulcan and had begged to join\n this trek. I had a funny feeling that Jack really didn’t care for\n exploring too much, but he thought Mikuta was God, followed\n him around like a puppy.\nIt didn’t matter to me as long as he knew what he was getting\n in for. You don’t go asking people in this game why they do it—they’re\n liable to get awfully uneasy and none of them can\n ever give you an answer that makes sense. Anyway, Stone had\n borrowed three men from the Lab, and had the supplies and\n equipment all lined up when we got there, ready to check\n and test.\nWe dug right in. With plenty of funds—tri-V money and" ], [ "I told him one-thirty-five.\n“That much!” he said. “Well, there can’t be much fat on\n you, at any rate. How do you take heat?”\n“You should know,” I said. “Venus was no icebox.”\n“No, I mean\nreal\nheat.”\nThen I began to get it. “You’re planning a trip.”\n“That’s right. A hot trip.” He grinned at me. “Might be\n dangerous, too.”\n“What trip?”\n“Brightside of Mercury,” the Major said.\nI whistled cautiously. “At aphelion?”\nHe threw his head back. “Why try a Crossing at aphelion?\n What have you done then? Four thousand miles of butcherous", "do it and neither can you. No human beings will ever cross\n the Brightside alive, not if they try for centuries.”\n“Nonsense,” Baron declared. “We will.”\nClaney shrugged. “I was there. I know what I’m saying. You\n can blame the equipment or the men—there were flaws in\n both quarters—but we just didn’t know what we were fighting.\n It was the\nplanet\nthat whipped us, that and the\nSun\n. They’ll\n whip you, too, if you try it.”\n“Never,” said Baron.\n“Let me tell you,” Peter Claney said.\nI’d been interested in the Brightside for almost as long as\n I can remember (Claney said). I guess I was about ten when", "60 degrees with the libration. The Solar ’scope could take that\n much change and they’d get good clear observation of the Sun\n for about seventy out of the eighty-eight days it takes the planet\n to wheel around.\nThe Major was counting on Sanderson knowing something\n about Mercury as well as the Sun when we camped at the Lab\n to make final preparations.\nSanderson did. He thought we’d lost our minds and he said\n so, but he gave us all the help he could. He spent a week\n briefing Jack Stone, the third member of our party, who had\n arrived with the supplies and equipment a few days earlier.\n Poor Jack met us at the rocket landing almost bawling, Sanderson\n had given him such a gloomy picture of what Brightside\n was like.", "That makes the Brightside of Mercury at perihelion the hottest\n place in the Solar System, with one single exception: the\n surface of the Sun itself.\nIt would be a hellish trek. Only a few men had ever learned\n just\nhow\nhellish and they never came back to tell about it. It\n was a real hell’s Crossing, but someday, I thought, somebody\n would cross it.\nI wanted to be along.\nThe Twilight Lab, near the northern pole of Mercury, was the\n obvious jumping-off place. The setup there wasn’t very extensive—a\n rocket landing, the labs and quarters for Sanderson’s\n crew sunk deep into the crust, and the tower that housed\n the Solar ’scope that Sanderson had built up there ten years", "heat, just to have some joker come along, use your data and\n drum you out of the glory by crossing at perihelion forty-four\n days later? No, thanks. I want the Brightside without any nonsense\n about it.” He leaned across me eagerly. “I want to make\n a Crossing at perihelion and I want to cross on the surface. If\n a man can do that, he’s got Mercury. Until then,\nnobody’s\ngot\n Mercury. I want Mercury—but I’ll need help getting it.”\nI’d thought of it a thousand times and never dared consider\n it. Nobody had, since Wyatt and Carpenter disappeared. Mercury\n turns on its axis in the same time that it wheels around\n the Sun, which means that the Brightside is always facing in.", "attempted a Brightside Crossing and lived through it! And the\n story you cleared for the news—it was nothing. We need\ndetails\n. Where did your equipment fall down? Where did you\n miscalculate? What were the trouble spots?” Baron jabbed a\n finger at Claney’s face. “That, for instance—epithelioma?\n Why? What was wrong with your glass? Your filters? We’ve\n got to know those things. If you can tell us, we can make\n it across where your attempt failed—”\n“You want to know why we failed?” asked Claney.\n“Of course we want to know. We\nhave\nto know.”\n“It’s simple. We failed because it can’t be done. We couldn’t", "before.\nTwilight Lab wasn’t particularly interested in the Brightside,\n of course—the Sun was Sanderson’s baby and he’d picked\n Mercury as the closest chunk of rock to the Sun that could\n hold his observatory. He’d chosen a good location, too. On\n Mercury, the Brightside temperature hits 770° F. at perihelion\n and the Darkside runs pretty constant at -410° F. No permanent\n installation with a human crew could survive at either\n extreme. But with Mercury’s wobble, the twilight zone between\n Brightside and Darkside offers something closer to survival\n temperatures.\nSanderson built the Lab up near the pole, where the zone\n is about five miles wide, so the temperature only varies 50 to", "planning to attempt the Brightside.”\nBaron stared at the man for a moment. “I see you can read\n telecasts,” he said coldly. “The news was correct. We are going\n to make a Brightside Crossing.”\n“At perihelion?”\n“Of course. When else?”\nThe grizzled man searched Baron’s face for a moment\n without expression. Then he said slowly, “No, I’m afraid you’re\n not going to make the Crossing.”\n“Say, who are you, if you don’t mind?” Baron demanded.\n“The name is Claney,” said the stranger.\nThere was a silence. Then: “Claney?\nPeter\nClaney?”\n“That’s right.”", "that avoided those upheavals as far as possible. But in the final\n analysis, we were barely scraping the surface. The only way\n we would find out what was happening where was to be there.\nFinally, on the third day, McIvers blew in on a freight\n rocket from Venus. He’d missed the ship that the Major and\n I had taken by a few hours, and had conned his way to Venus\n in hopes of getting a hop from there. He didn’t seem too upset\n about it, as though this were his usual way of doing things and\n he couldn’t see why everyone should get so excited.\nHe was a tall, rangy man with long, wavy hair prematurely\n gray, and the sort of eyes that looked like a climber’s—half-closed,\n sleepy, almost indolent, but capable of abrupt alertness.", "little outpost observatory and the tracks stopped. We\n were in virgin territory and already the Sun was beginning to\n bite.\nWe didn’t\nfeel\nthe heat so much those first days out. We\nsaw\nit. The refrig units kept our skins at a nice comfortable seventy-five\n degrees Fahrenheit inside our suits, but our eyes watched\n that glaring Sun and the baked yellow rocks going past, and\n some nerve pathways got twisted up, somehow. We poured\n sweat as if we were in a superheated furnace.\nWe drove eight hours and slept five. When a sleep period\n came due, we pulled the Bugs together into a square, threw up\n a light aluminum sun-shield and lay out in the dust and rocks.", "vaguely—Andean climbers, or at least two of them were. Over\n near the door he recognized old Balmer, who had mapped\n the first passage to the core of Vulcan Crater on Venus. Baron\n returned his smile with a nod. Then he settled back and\n waited impatiently for the intruder who demanded his time\n without justifying it.\nPresently a small, grizzled man crossed the room and sat\n down at Baron’s table. He was short and wiry. His face held\n no key to his age—he might have been thirty or a thousand—but\n he looked weary and immensely ugly. His cheeks and\n forehead were twisted and brown, with scars that were still\n healing.\nThe stranger said, “I’m glad you waited. I’ve heard you’re", "localized.\nBut there were problems of atmosphere on Brightside, as\n well. There was an atmosphere and a constant atmospheric\n flow from Brightside to Darkside. Not much—the lighter gases\n had reached escape velocity and disappeared from Brightside\n millennia ago—but there was CO\n 2\n , and nitrogen, and traces of\n other heavier gases. There was also an abundance of sulfur\n vapor, as well as carbon disulfide and sulfur dioxide.\nThe atmospheric tide moved toward the Darkside, where it\n condensed, carrying enough volcanic ash with it for Sanderson\n to estimate the depth and nature of the surface upheavals on\n Brightside from his samplings. The trick was to find a passage", "sulfur in the shadows were boiling like oatmeal over a campfire.”\nBaron licked his lips. His fingers stroked the cool, wet glass\n as he set it down on the tablecloth.\n“Go on,” he said tautly. “You started on schedule?”\n“Oh, yes,” said Claney, “we started on schedule, all right.\n We just didn’t quite end on schedule, that was all. But I’m\n getting to that.”\nHe settled back in his chair and continued.\nWe jumped off from Twilight on a course due southeast\n with thirty days to make it to the Center of Brightside. If we\n could cross an average of seventy miles a day, we could hit\n Center exactly at perihelion, the point of Mercury’s closest", "approach to the Sun—which made Center the hottest part of\n the planet at the hottest it ever gets.\nThe Sun was already huge and yellow over the horizon\n when we started, twice the size it appears on Earth. Every day\n that Sun would grow bigger and whiter, and every day the\n surface would get hotter. But once we reached Center, the job\n was only half done—we would still have to travel another\n two thousand miles to the opposite twilight zone. Sanderson\n was to meet us on the other side in the Laboratory’s scout ship,\n approximately sixty days from the time we jumped off.\nThat was the plan, in outline. It was up to us to cross those\n seventy miles a day, no matter how hot it became, no matter\n what terrain we had to cross. Detours would be dangerous and", "Wyatt and Carpenter made the last attempt—that was in 2082,\n I think. I followed the news stories like a tri-V serial and then\n I was heartbroken when they just disappeared.\nI know now that they were a pair of idiots, starting off without\n proper equipment, with practically no knowledge of surface\n conditions, without any charts—they couldn’t have made\n a hundred miles—but I didn’t know that then and it was a\n terrible tragedy. After that, I followed Sanderson’s work in the\n Twilight Lab up there and began to get Brightside into my\n blood, sure as death.\nBut it was Mikuta’s idea to attempt a Crossing. Did you ever\n know Tom Mikuta? I don’t suppose you did. No, not Japanese—Polish-American.", "He was a major in the Interplanetary Service\n for some years and hung onto the title after he gave up\n his commission.\nHe was with Armstrong on Mars during his Service days,\n did a good deal of the original mapping and surveying for\n the Colony there. I first met him on Venus; we spent five\n years together up there doing some of the nastiest exploring\n since the Matto Grasso. Then he made the attempt on Vulcan\n Crater that paved the way for Balmer a few years later.\nI’d always liked the Major—he was big and quiet and cool,\n the sort of guy who always had things figured a little further\n ahead than anyone else and always knew what to do in a tight\n place. Too many men in this game are all nerve and luck,", "tried it had been cruelly punished, but the land was still there,\n so it had to be crossed. Not the easy way. It had to be crossed\n the hardest way possible: overland, through anything the land\n could throw up to us, at the most difficult time possible.\nYet we knew that even the land might have been conquered\n before, except for that Sun. We’d fought absolute cold before\n and won. We’d never fought heat like this and won. The only\n worse heat in the Solar System was the surface of the Sun\n itself.\nBrightside was worth trying for. We would get it or it would\n get us. That was the bargain.\nI learned a lot about Mercury those first few driving periods.\n The gorge petered out after a hundred miles and we moved", "The sun-shield cut the temperature down sixty or seventy\n degrees, for whatever help that was. And then we ate from the\n forward sledge—sucking through tubes—protein, carbohydrates,\n bulk gelatin, vitamins.\nThe Major measured water out with an iron hand, because\n we’d have drunk ourselves into nephritis in a week otherwise.\n We were constantly, unceasingly thirsty. Ask the physiologists\n and psychiatrists why—they can give you have a dozen interesting\n reasons—but all we knew, or cared about, was that it\n happened to be so.\nWe didn’t sleep the first few stops, as a consequence. Our\n eyes burned in spite of the filters and we had roaring headaches,\n but we couldn’t sleep them off. We sat around looking", "to cut weight sharply and our time is short. Sanderson says\n we should leave in three days.”\nTwo days later, McIvers hadn’t arrived. The Major didn’t\n say much about it. Stone was getting edgy and so was I. We\n spent the second day studying charts of the Brightside, such as\n they were. The best available were pretty poor, taken from so\n far out that the detail dissolved into blurs on blow-up. They\n showed the biggest ranges of peaks and craters and faults, and\n that was all. Still, we could use them to plan a broad outline\n of our course.\n“This range here,” the Major said as we crowded around\n the board, “is largely inactive, according to Sanderson. But\n these to the south and west\ncould\nbe active. Seismograph", "He talked too much, while we were resting or while we were\n driving; wisecracks, witticisms, unfunny jokes that wore thin\n with repetition. He took to making side trips from the route\n now and then, never far, but a little further each time.\nJack Stone reacted quite the opposite; he grew quieter with\n each stop, more reserved and apprehensive. I didn’t like it, but\n I figured that it would pass off after a while. I was apprehensive\n enough myself; I just managed to hide it better.\nAnd every mile the Sun got bigger and whiter and higher in\n the sky and hotter. Without our ultra-violet screens and glare\n filters we would have been blinded; as it was our eyes ached\n constantly and the skin on our faces itched and tingled at the" ], [ "attempted a Brightside Crossing and lived through it! And the\n story you cleared for the news—it was nothing. We need\ndetails\n. Where did your equipment fall down? Where did you\n miscalculate? What were the trouble spots?” Baron jabbed a\n finger at Claney’s face. “That, for instance—epithelioma?\n Why? What was wrong with your glass? Your filters? We’ve\n got to know those things. If you can tell us, we can make\n it across where your attempt failed—”\n“You want to know why we failed?” asked Claney.\n“Of course we want to know. We\nhave\nto know.”\n“It’s simple. We failed because it can’t be done. We couldn’t", "And he never stood still; he was always moving, always doing\n something with his hands, or talking, or pacing about.\nEvidently the Major decided not to press the issue of his\n arrival. There was still work to do, and an hour later we were\n running the final tests on the pressure suits. That evening,\n Stone and McIvers were thick as thieves, and everything was\n set for an early departure after we got some rest.\n“And that,” said Baron, finishing his drink and signaling\n the waiter for another pair, “was your first big mistake.”\nPeter Claney raised his eyebrows. “McIvers?”\n“Of course.”\nClaney shrugged, glanced at the small quiet tables around\n them. “There are lots of bizarre personalities around a place", "do it and neither can you. No human beings will ever cross\n the Brightside alive, not if they try for centuries.”\n“Nonsense,” Baron declared. “We will.”\nClaney shrugged. “I was there. I know what I’m saying. You\n can blame the equipment or the men—there were flaws in\n both quarters—but we just didn’t know what we were fighting.\n It was the\nplanet\nthat whipped us, that and the\nSun\n. They’ll\n whip you, too, if you try it.”\n“Never,” said Baron.\n“Let me tell you,” Peter Claney said.\nI’d been interested in the Brightside for almost as long as\n I can remember (Claney said). I guess I was about ten when", "planning to attempt the Brightside.”\nBaron stared at the man for a moment. “I see you can read\n telecasts,” he said coldly. “The news was correct. We are going\n to make a Brightside Crossing.”\n“At perihelion?”\n“Of course. When else?”\nThe grizzled man searched Baron’s face for a moment\n without expression. Then he said slowly, “No, I’m afraid you’re\n not going to make the Crossing.”\n“Say, who are you, if you don’t mind?” Baron demanded.\n“The name is Claney,” said the stranger.\nThere was a silence. Then: “Claney?\nPeter\nClaney?”\n“That’s right.”", "Baron’s eyes were wide with excitement, all trace of anger\n gone. “Great balls of fire, man—\nwhere have you been hiding?\nWe’ve been trying to contact you for months!”\n“I know. I was hoping you’d quit looking and chuck the\n whole idea.”\n“Quit looking!” Baron bent forward over the table. “My\n friend, we’d given up hope, but we’ve never quit looking.\n Here, have a drink. There’s so much you can tell us.” His\n fingers were trembling.\nPeter Claney shook his head. “I can’t tell you anything you\n want to hear.”\n“But you’ve\ngot\nto. You’re the only man on Earth who’s", "vaguely—Andean climbers, or at least two of them were. Over\n near the door he recognized old Balmer, who had mapped\n the first passage to the core of Vulcan Crater on Venus. Baron\n returned his smile with a nod. Then he settled back and\n waited impatiently for the intruder who demanded his time\n without justifying it.\nPresently a small, grizzled man crossed the room and sat\n down at Baron’s table. He was short and wiry. His face held\n no key to his age—he might have been thirty or a thousand—but\n he looked weary and immensely ugly. His cheeks and\n forehead were twisted and brown, with scars that were still\n healing.\nThe stranger said, “I’m glad you waited. I’ve heard you’re", "like this, and some of the best wouldn’t seem to be the most\n reliable at first glance. Anyway, personality problems weren’t\n our big problem right then.\nEquipment\nworried us first and\nroute\nnext.”\nBaron nodded in agreement. “What kind of suits did you\n have?”\n“The best insulating suits ever made,” said Claney. “Each\n one had an inner lining of a fiberglass modification, to avoid\n the clumsiness of asbestos, and carried the refrigerating unit\n and oxygen storage which we recharged from the sledges every\n eight hours. Outer layer carried a monomolecular chrome reflecting\n surface that made us glitter like Christmas trees. And\n we had a half-inch dead-air space under positive pressure between", "Crossing\nby Alan E. Nourse\nJAMES BARON was not pleased to hear that he had had\n a visitor when he reached the Red Lion that evening. He\n had no stomach for mysteries, vast or trifling, and there\n were pressing things to think about at this time. Yet the doorman\n had flagged him as he came in from the street: “A thousand\n pardons, Mr. Baron. The gentleman—he would leave no\n name. He said you’d want to see him. He will be back by\n eight.”\nNow Baron drummed his fingers on the table top, staring\n about the quiet lounge. Street trade was discouraged at the\n Red Lion, gently but persuasively; the patrons were few in\n number. Across to the right was a group that Baron knew", "can’t see on the pictures that can kill us.” He tossed the charts\n down excitedly. “Look, let me take a Bug out ahead and work\n reconnaissance, keep five, maybe ten miles ahead of the column.\n I can stay on good solid ground, of course, but scan the\n area closely and radio back to Peter where to avoid the flaws.\n Then—”\n“No dice,” the Major broke in.\n“But why not? We could save ourselves days!”\n“I don’t care what we could save. We stay together. When\n we get to the Center, I want live men along with me. That\n means we stay within easy sight of each other at all times. Any\n climber knows that everybody is safer in a party than one man\n alone—any time, any place.”", "end of an eight-hour trek.\nBut it took one of those side trips of McIvers’ to deliver the\n penultimate blow to our already fraying nerves. He had driven\n down a side-branch of a long canyon running off west of our\n route and was almost out of sight in a cloud of ash when we\n heard a sharp cry through our earphones.\nI wheeled my Bug around with my heart in my throat and\n spotted him through the binocs, waving frantically from the\n top of his machine. The Major and I took off, lumbering down\n the gulch after him as fast as the Bugs could go, with a thousand\n horrible pictures racing through our minds....\nWe found him standing stock-still, pointing down the gorge\n and, for once, he didn’t have anything to say. It was the wreck", "like it.\nOne error in judgment could sink us all, but I wasn’t thinking\n much about the others. I was worried about\nme\n, plenty\n worried. I kept thinking, better McIvers should go than me.\n It wasn’t healthy thinking and I knew it, but I couldn’t get the\n thought out of my mind.\nIt was a grueling eight hours and we slept poorly. Back in\n the Bug again, we moved still more slowly—edging out on a\n broad flat plateau, dodging a network of gaping surface cracks—winding\n back and forth in an effort to keep the machines on\n solid rock. I couldn’t see far ahead, because of the yellow haze\n rising from the cracks, so I was almost on top of it when I saw", "that avoided those upheavals as far as possible. But in the final\n analysis, we were barely scraping the surface. The only way\n we would find out what was happening where was to be there.\nFinally, on the third day, McIvers blew in on a freight\n rocket from Venus. He’d missed the ship that the Major and\n I had taken by a few hours, and had conned his way to Venus\n in hopes of getting a hop from there. He didn’t seem too upset\n about it, as though this were his usual way of doing things and\n he couldn’t see why everyone should get so excited.\nHe was a tall, rangy man with long, wavy hair prematurely\n gray, and the sort of eyes that looked like a climber’s—half-closed,\n sleepy, almost indolent, but capable of abrupt alertness.", "the two layers. Warning thermocouples, of course—at\n 770 degrees, it wouldn’t take much time to fry us to cinders\n if the suits failed somewhere.”\n“How about the Bugs?”\n“They were insulated, too, but we weren’t counting on\n them too much for protection.”\n“You weren’t!” Baron exclaimed. “Why not?”\n“We’d be in and out of them too much. They gave us mobility\n and storage, but we knew we’d have to do a lot of\n forward work on foot.” Claney smiled bitterly. “Which meant\n that we had an inch of fiberglass and a half-inch of dead air\n between us and a surface temperature where lead flowed like\n water and zinc was almost at melting point and the pools of", "Stone was a youngster—hardly twenty-five, I’d say—but\n he’d been with the Major at Vulcan and had begged to join\n this trek. I had a funny feeling that Jack really didn’t care for\n exploring too much, but he thought Mikuta was God, followed\n him around like a puppy.\nIt didn’t matter to me as long as he knew what he was getting\n in for. You don’t go asking people in this game why they do it—they’re\n liable to get awfully uneasy and none of them can\n ever give you an answer that makes sense. Anyway, Stone had\n borrowed three men from the Lab, and had the supplies and\n equipment all lined up when we got there, ready to check\n and test.\nWe dug right in. With plenty of funds—tri-V money and", "at each other. Then McIvers would say how good a beer would\n taste, and off we’d go. We’d have murdered our grandmothers\n for one ice-cold bottle of beer.\nAfter a few driving periods, I began to get my bearings at\n the wheel. We were moving down into desolation that made\n Earth’s old Death Valley look like a Japanese rose garden.\n Huge sun-baked cracks opened up in the floor of the gorge,\n with black cliffs jutting up on either side; the air was filled\n with a barely visible yellowish mist of sulfur and sulfurous\n gases.\nIt was a hot, barren hole, no place for any man to go, but\n the challenge was so powerful you could almost feel it. No one\n had ever crossed this land before and escaped. Those who had", "I gunned my motor and nothing happened.\nI could see the dull gray stuff seeping up around the hubs,\n thick and tenacious, splattering around in steaming gobs as\n the wheels spun. I knew what had happened the moment the\n wheels gave and, a few minutes later, they chained me to the\n tractor and dragged me back out of the mire. It looked for\n all the world like thick gray mud, but it was a pit of molten\n lead, steaming under a soft layer of concealing ash.\nI picked my way more cautiously then. We were getting into\n an area of recent surface activity; the surface was really treacherous.\n I caught myself wishing that the Major had okayed\n McIvers’ scheme for an advanced scout; more dangerous for\n the individual, maybe, but I was driving blind now and I didn’t", "McIvers stared at him, his cheeks an angry red. Finally he\n gave a sullen nod. “Okay. If you say so.”\n“Well, I say so and I mean it. I don’t want any fancy stuff.\n We’re going to hit Center together, and finish the Crossing together.\n Got that?”\nMcIvers nodded. Mikuta then looked at Stone and me and\n we nodded, too.\n“All right,” he said slowly. “Now that we’ve got it straight,\n let’s go.”\nIt was hot. If I forget everything else about that trek, I’ll\n never forget that huge yellow Sun glaring down, without a\n break, hotter and hotter with every mile. We knew that the\n first few days would be the easiest and we were rested and", "ash, filling crevices and declivities—offering a soft, treacherous\n surface for the Bug’s pillow tires.\nI learned to read the ground, to tell a covered fault by the\n sag of the dust; I learned to spot a passable crack, and tell it\n from an impassable cut. Time after time the Bugs ground to\n a halt while we explored a passage on foot, tied together with\n light copper cable, digging, advancing, digging some more\n until we were sure the surface would carry the machines. It\n was cruel work; we slept in exhaustion. But it went smoothly,\n at first.\nToo smoothly, it seemed to me, and the others seemed to\n think so, too.\nMcIvers’ restlessness was beginning to grate on our nerves.", "He talked too much, while we were resting or while we were\n driving; wisecracks, witticisms, unfunny jokes that wore thin\n with repetition. He took to making side trips from the route\n now and then, never far, but a little further each time.\nJack Stone reacted quite the opposite; he grew quieter with\n each stop, more reserved and apprehensive. I didn’t like it, but\n I figured that it would pass off after a while. I was apprehensive\n enough myself; I just managed to hide it better.\nAnd every mile the Sun got bigger and whiter and higher in\n the sky and hotter. Without our ultra-violet screens and glare\n filters we would have been blinded; as it was our eyes ached\n constantly and the skin on our faces itched and tingled at the", "He was a major in the Interplanetary Service\n for some years and hung onto the title after he gave up\n his commission.\nHe was with Armstrong on Mars during his Service days,\n did a good deal of the original mapping and surveying for\n the Colony there. I first met him on Venus; we spent five\n years together up there doing some of the nastiest exploring\n since the Matto Grasso. Then he made the attempt on Vulcan\n Crater that paved the way for Balmer a few years later.\nI’d always liked the Major—he was big and quiet and cool,\n the sort of guy who always had things figured a little further\n ahead than anyone else and always knew what to do in a tight\n place. Too many men in this game are all nerve and luck," ], [ "And he never stood still; he was always moving, always doing\n something with his hands, or talking, or pacing about.\nEvidently the Major decided not to press the issue of his\n arrival. There was still work to do, and an hour later we were\n running the final tests on the pressure suits. That evening,\n Stone and McIvers were thick as thieves, and everything was\n set for an early departure after we got some rest.\n“And that,” said Baron, finishing his drink and signaling\n the waiter for another pair, “was your first big mistake.”\nPeter Claney raised his eyebrows. “McIvers?”\n“Of course.”\nClaney shrugged, glanced at the small quiet tables around\n them. “There are lots of bizarre personalities around a place", "like it.\nOne error in judgment could sink us all, but I wasn’t thinking\n much about the others. I was worried about\nme\n, plenty\n worried. I kept thinking, better McIvers should go than me.\n It wasn’t healthy thinking and I knew it, but I couldn’t get the\n thought out of my mind.\nIt was a grueling eight hours and we slept poorly. Back in\n the Bug again, we moved still more slowly—edging out on a\n broad flat plateau, dodging a network of gaping surface cracks—winding\n back and forth in an effort to keep the machines on\n solid rock. I couldn’t see far ahead, because of the yellow haze\n rising from the cracks, so I was almost on top of it when I saw", "I’d heard plenty of stories about Ted McIvers and I wasn’t\n too happy to hear that he was joining us. “Kind of a daredevil,\n isn’t he?”\n“Maybe. He’s lucky and skillful. Where do you draw the\n line? We’ll need plenty of both.”\n“Have you ever worked with him?” I asked.\n“No. Are you worried?”\n“Not exactly. But Brightside is no place to count on luck.”\nThe Major laughed. “I don’t think we need to worry about\n McIvers. We understood each other when I talked up the\n trip to him and we’re going to need each other too much to\n do any fooling around.” He turned back to the supply list.\n “Meanwhile, let’s get this stuff listed and packed. We’ll need", "McIvers stared at him, his cheeks an angry red. Finally he\n gave a sullen nod. “Okay. If you say so.”\n“Well, I say so and I mean it. I don’t want any fancy stuff.\n We’re going to hit Center together, and finish the Crossing together.\n Got that?”\nMcIvers nodded. Mikuta then looked at Stone and me and\n we nodded, too.\n“All right,” he said slowly. “Now that we’ve got it straight,\n let’s go.”\nIt was hot. If I forget everything else about that trek, I’ll\n never forget that huge yellow Sun glaring down, without a\n break, hotter and hotter with every mile. We knew that the\n first few days would be the easiest and we were rested and", "ash, filling crevices and declivities—offering a soft, treacherous\n surface for the Bug’s pillow tires.\nI learned to read the ground, to tell a covered fault by the\n sag of the dust; I learned to spot a passable crack, and tell it\n from an impassable cut. Time after time the Bugs ground to\n a halt while we explored a passage on foot, tied together with\n light copper cable, digging, advancing, digging some more\n until we were sure the surface would carry the machines. It\n was cruel work; we slept in exhaustion. But it went smoothly,\n at first.\nToo smoothly, it seemed to me, and the others seemed to\n think so, too.\nMcIvers’ restlessness was beginning to grate on our nerves.", "I gunned my motor and nothing happened.\nI could see the dull gray stuff seeping up around the hubs,\n thick and tenacious, splattering around in steaming gobs as\n the wheels spun. I knew what had happened the moment the\n wheels gave and, a few minutes later, they chained me to the\n tractor and dragged me back out of the mire. It looked for\n all the world like thick gray mud, but it was a pit of molten\n lead, steaming under a soft layer of concealing ash.\nI picked my way more cautiously then. We were getting into\n an area of recent surface activity; the surface was really treacherous.\n I caught myself wishing that the Major had okayed\n McIvers’ scheme for an advanced scout; more dangerous for\n the individual, maybe, but I was driving blind now and I didn’t", "He talked too much, while we were resting or while we were\n driving; wisecracks, witticisms, unfunny jokes that wore thin\n with repetition. He took to making side trips from the route\n now and then, never far, but a little further each time.\nJack Stone reacted quite the opposite; he grew quieter with\n each stop, more reserved and apprehensive. I didn’t like it, but\n I figured that it would pass off after a while. I was apprehensive\n enough myself; I just managed to hide it better.\nAnd every mile the Sun got bigger and whiter and higher in\n the sky and hotter. Without our ultra-violet screens and glare\n filters we would have been blinded; as it was our eyes ached\n constantly and the skin on our faces itched and tingled at the", "Wyatt and Carpenter made the last attempt—that was in 2082,\n I think. I followed the news stories like a tri-V serial and then\n I was heartbroken when they just disappeared.\nI know now that they were a pair of idiots, starting off without\n proper equipment, with practically no knowledge of surface\n conditions, without any charts—they couldn’t have made\n a hundred miles—but I didn’t know that then and it was a\n terrible tragedy. After that, I followed Sanderson’s work in the\n Twilight Lab up there and began to get Brightside into my\n blood, sure as death.\nBut it was Mikuta’s idea to attempt a Crossing. Did you ever\n know Tom Mikuta? I don’t suppose you did. No, not Japanese—Polish-American.", "can’t see on the pictures that can kill us.” He tossed the charts\n down excitedly. “Look, let me take a Bug out ahead and work\n reconnaissance, keep five, maybe ten miles ahead of the column.\n I can stay on good solid ground, of course, but scan the\n area closely and radio back to Peter where to avoid the flaws.\n Then—”\n“No dice,” the Major broke in.\n“But why not? We could save ourselves days!”\n“I don’t care what we could save. We stay together. When\n we get to the Center, I want live men along with me. That\n means we stay within easy sight of each other at all times. Any\n climber knows that everybody is safer in a party than one man\n alone—any time, any place.”", "take the sledges. That would give me a little more mobility.”\nThe Major looked up sharply at Stone. “Do you buy that,\n Jack?”\nStone shrugged. “I don’t mind. Mac wanted—”\nMcIvers made an impatient gesture with his hands. “It\n doesn’t matter. I just feel better when I’m on the move. Does\n it make any difference?”\n“I guess it doesn’t,” said the Major. “Then you’ll flank\n Peter along with me. Right?”\n“Sure, sure.” McIvers pulled at his lower lip. “Who’s going\n to do the advance scouting?”\n“It sounds like I am,” I cut in. “We want to keep the lead\n Bug light as possible.”", "vaguely—Andean climbers, or at least two of them were. Over\n near the door he recognized old Balmer, who had mapped\n the first passage to the core of Vulcan Crater on Venus. Baron\n returned his smile with a nod. Then he settled back and\n waited impatiently for the intruder who demanded his time\n without justifying it.\nPresently a small, grizzled man crossed the room and sat\n down at Baron’s table. He was short and wiry. His face held\n no key to his age—he might have been thirty or a thousand—but\n he looked weary and immensely ugly. His cheeks and\n forehead were twisted and brown, with scars that were still\n healing.\nThe stranger said, “I’m glad you waited. I’ve heard you’re", "Stone was a youngster—hardly twenty-five, I’d say—but\n he’d been with the Major at Vulcan and had begged to join\n this trek. I had a funny feeling that Jack really didn’t care for\n exploring too much, but he thought Mikuta was God, followed\n him around like a puppy.\nIt didn’t matter to me as long as he knew what he was getting\n in for. You don’t go asking people in this game why they do it—they’re\n liable to get awfully uneasy and none of them can\n ever give you an answer that makes sense. Anyway, Stone had\n borrowed three men from the Lab, and had the supplies and\n equipment all lined up when we got there, ready to check\n and test.\nWe dug right in. With plenty of funds—tri-V money and", "He was a major in the Interplanetary Service\n for some years and hung onto the title after he gave up\n his commission.\nHe was with Armstrong on Mars during his Service days,\n did a good deal of the original mapping and surveying for\n the Colony there. I first met him on Venus; we spent five\n years together up there doing some of the nastiest exploring\n since the Matto Grasso. Then he made the attempt on Vulcan\n Crater that paved the way for Balmer a few years later.\nI’d always liked the Major—he was big and quiet and cool,\n the sort of guy who always had things figured a little further\n ahead than anyone else and always knew what to do in a tight\n place. Too many men in this game are all nerve and luck,", "like this, and some of the best wouldn’t seem to be the most\n reliable at first glance. Anyway, personality problems weren’t\n our big problem right then.\nEquipment\nworried us first and\nroute\nnext.”\nBaron nodded in agreement. “What kind of suits did you\n have?”\n“The best insulating suits ever made,” said Claney. “Each\n one had an inner lining of a fiberglass modification, to avoid\n the clumsiness of asbestos, and carried the refrigerating unit\n and oxygen storage which we recharged from the sledges every\n eight hours. Outer layer carried a monomolecular chrome reflecting\n surface that made us glitter like Christmas trees. And\n we had a half-inch dead-air space under positive pressure between", "that avoided those upheavals as far as possible. But in the final\n analysis, we were barely scraping the surface. The only way\n we would find out what was happening where was to be there.\nFinally, on the third day, McIvers blew in on a freight\n rocket from Venus. He’d missed the ship that the Major and\n I had taken by a few hours, and had conned his way to Venus\n in hopes of getting a hop from there. He didn’t seem too upset\n about it, as though this were his usual way of doing things and\n he couldn’t see why everyone should get so excited.\nHe was a tall, rangy man with long, wavy hair prematurely\n gray, and the sort of eyes that looked like a climber’s—half-closed,\n sleepy, almost indolent, but capable of abrupt alertness.", "Baron’s eyes were wide with excitement, all trace of anger\n gone. “Great balls of fire, man—\nwhere have you been hiding?\nWe’ve been trying to contact you for months!”\n“I know. I was hoping you’d quit looking and chuck the\n whole idea.”\n“Quit looking!” Baron bent forward over the table. “My\n friend, we’d given up hope, but we’ve never quit looking.\n Here, have a drink. There’s so much you can tell us.” His\n fingers were trembling.\nPeter Claney shook his head. “I can’t tell you anything you\n want to hear.”\n“But you’ve\ngot\nto. You’re the only man on Earth who’s", "at each other. Then McIvers would say how good a beer would\n taste, and off we’d go. We’d have murdered our grandmothers\n for one ice-cold bottle of beer.\nAfter a few driving periods, I began to get my bearings at\n the wheel. We were moving down into desolation that made\n Earth’s old Death Valley look like a Japanese rose garden.\n Huge sun-baked cracks opened up in the floor of the gorge,\n with black cliffs jutting up on either side; the air was filled\n with a barely visible yellowish mist of sulfur and sulfurous\n gases.\nIt was a hot, barren hole, no place for any man to go, but\n the challenge was so powerful you could almost feel it. No one\n had ever crossed this land before and escaped. Those who had", "some government cash the Major had talked his way around—our\n equipment was new and good. Mikuta had done the designing\n and testing himself, with a big assist from Sanderson.\n We had four Bugs, three of them the light pillow-tire models,\n with special lead-cooled cut-in engines when the heat set in,\n and one heavy-duty tractor model for pulling the sledges.\nThe Major went over them like a kid at the circus. Then he\n said, “Have you heard anything from McIvers?”\n“Who’s he?” Stone wanted to know.\n“He’ll be joining us. He’s a good man—got quite a name\n for climbing, back home.” The Major turned to me. “You’ve\n probably heard of him.”", "planning to attempt the Brightside.”\nBaron stared at the man for a moment. “I see you can read\n telecasts,” he said coldly. “The news was correct. We are going\n to make a Brightside Crossing.”\n“At perihelion?”\n“Of course. When else?”\nThe grizzled man searched Baron’s face for a moment\n without expression. Then he said slowly, “No, I’m afraid you’re\n not going to make the Crossing.”\n“Say, who are you, if you don’t mind?” Baron demanded.\n“The name is Claney,” said the stranger.\nThere was a silence. Then: “Claney?\nPeter\nClaney?”\n“That’s right.”", "do it and neither can you. No human beings will ever cross\n the Brightside alive, not if they try for centuries.”\n“Nonsense,” Baron declared. “We will.”\nClaney shrugged. “I was there. I know what I’m saying. You\n can blame the equipment or the men—there were flaws in\n both quarters—but we just didn’t know what we were fighting.\n It was the\nplanet\nthat whipped us, that and the\nSun\n. They’ll\n whip you, too, if you try it.”\n“Never,” said Baron.\n“Let me tell you,” Peter Claney said.\nI’d been interested in the Brightside for almost as long as\n I can remember (Claney said). I guess I was about ten when" ], [ "heat, just to have some joker come along, use your data and\n drum you out of the glory by crossing at perihelion forty-four\n days later? No, thanks. I want the Brightside without any nonsense\n about it.” He leaned across me eagerly. “I want to make\n a Crossing at perihelion and I want to cross on the surface. If\n a man can do that, he’s got Mercury. Until then,\nnobody’s\ngot\n Mercury. I want Mercury—but I’ll need help getting it.”\nI’d thought of it a thousand times and never dared consider\n it. Nobody had, since Wyatt and Carpenter disappeared. Mercury\n turns on its axis in the same time that it wheels around\n the Sun, which means that the Brightside is always facing in.", "tried it had been cruelly punished, but the land was still there,\n so it had to be crossed. Not the easy way. It had to be crossed\n the hardest way possible: overland, through anything the land\n could throw up to us, at the most difficult time possible.\nYet we knew that even the land might have been conquered\n before, except for that Sun. We’d fought absolute cold before\n and won. We’d never fought heat like this and won. The only\n worse heat in the Solar System was the surface of the Sun\n itself.\nBrightside was worth trying for. We would get it or it would\n get us. That was the bargain.\nI learned a lot about Mercury those first few driving periods.\n The gorge petered out after a hundred miles and we moved", "onto the slope of a range of ragged craters that ran south and\n east. This range had shown no activity since the first landing\n on Mercury forty years before, but beyond it there were active\n cones. Yellow fumes rose from the craters constantly; their\n sides were shrouded with heavy ash.\nWe couldn’t detect a wind, but we knew there was a hot,\n sulfurous breeze sweeping in great continental tides across the\n face of the planet. Not enough for erosion, though. The craters\n rose up out of jagged gorges, huge towering spears of rock and\n rubble. Below were the vast yellow flatlands, smoking and hissing\n from the gases beneath the crust. Over everything was gray\n dust—silicates and salts, pumice and limestone and granite", "That makes the Brightside of Mercury at perihelion the hottest\n place in the Solar System, with one single exception: the\n surface of the Sun itself.\nIt would be a hellish trek. Only a few men had ever learned\n just\nhow\nhellish and they never came back to tell about it. It\n was a real hell’s Crossing, but someday, I thought, somebody\n would cross it.\nI wanted to be along.\nThe Twilight Lab, near the northern pole of Mercury, was the\n obvious jumping-off place. The setup there wasn’t very extensive—a\n rocket landing, the labs and quarters for Sanderson’s\n crew sunk deep into the crust, and the tower that housed\n the Solar ’scope that Sanderson had built up there ten years", "before.\nTwilight Lab wasn’t particularly interested in the Brightside,\n of course—the Sun was Sanderson’s baby and he’d picked\n Mercury as the closest chunk of rock to the Sun that could\n hold his observatory. He’d chosen a good location, too. On\n Mercury, the Brightside temperature hits 770° F. at perihelion\n and the Darkside runs pretty constant at -410° F. No permanent\n installation with a human crew could survive at either\n extreme. But with Mercury’s wobble, the twilight zone between\n Brightside and Darkside offers something closer to survival\n temperatures.\nSanderson built the Lab up near the pole, where the zone\n is about five miles wide, so the temperature only varies 50 to", "I told him one-thirty-five.\n“That much!” he said. “Well, there can’t be much fat on\n you, at any rate. How do you take heat?”\n“You should know,” I said. “Venus was no icebox.”\n“No, I mean\nreal\nheat.”\nThen I began to get it. “You’re planning a trip.”\n“That’s right. A hot trip.” He grinned at me. “Might be\n dangerous, too.”\n“What trip?”\n“Brightside of Mercury,” the Major said.\nI whistled cautiously. “At aphelion?”\nHe threw his head back. “Why try a Crossing at aphelion?\n What have you done then? Four thousand miles of butcherous", "sulfur in the shadows were boiling like oatmeal over a campfire.”\nBaron licked his lips. His fingers stroked the cool, wet glass\n as he set it down on the tablecloth.\n“Go on,” he said tautly. “You started on schedule?”\n“Oh, yes,” said Claney, “we started on schedule, all right.\n We just didn’t quite end on schedule, that was all. But I’m\n getting to that.”\nHe settled back in his chair and continued.\nWe jumped off from Twilight on a course due southeast\n with thirty days to make it to the Center of Brightside. If we\n could cross an average of seventy miles a day, we could hit\n Center exactly at perihelion, the point of Mercury’s closest", "60 degrees with the libration. The Solar ’scope could take that\n much change and they’d get good clear observation of the Sun\n for about seventy out of the eighty-eight days it takes the planet\n to wheel around.\nThe Major was counting on Sanderson knowing something\n about Mercury as well as the Sun when we camped at the Lab\n to make final preparations.\nSanderson did. He thought we’d lost our minds and he said\n so, but he gave us all the help he could. He spent a week\n briefing Jack Stone, the third member of our party, who had\n arrived with the supplies and equipment a few days earlier.\n Poor Jack met us at the rocket landing almost bawling, Sanderson\n had given him such a gloomy picture of what Brightside\n was like.", "do it and neither can you. No human beings will ever cross\n the Brightside alive, not if they try for centuries.”\n“Nonsense,” Baron declared. “We will.”\nClaney shrugged. “I was there. I know what I’m saying. You\n can blame the equipment or the men—there were flaws in\n both quarters—but we just didn’t know what we were fighting.\n It was the\nplanet\nthat whipped us, that and the\nSun\n. They’ll\n whip you, too, if you try it.”\n“Never,” said Baron.\n“Let me tell you,” Peter Claney said.\nI’d been interested in the Brightside for almost as long as\n I can remember (Claney said). I guess I was about ten when", "attempted a Brightside Crossing and lived through it! And the\n story you cleared for the news—it was nothing. We need\ndetails\n. Where did your equipment fall down? Where did you\n miscalculate? What were the trouble spots?” Baron jabbed a\n finger at Claney’s face. “That, for instance—epithelioma?\n Why? What was wrong with your glass? Your filters? We’ve\n got to know those things. If you can tell us, we can make\n it across where your attempt failed—”\n“You want to know why we failed?” asked Claney.\n“Of course we want to know. We\nhave\nto know.”\n“It’s simple. We failed because it can’t be done. We couldn’t", "localized.\nBut there were problems of atmosphere on Brightside, as\n well. There was an atmosphere and a constant atmospheric\n flow from Brightside to Darkside. Not much—the lighter gases\n had reached escape velocity and disappeared from Brightside\n millennia ago—but there was CO\n 2\n , and nitrogen, and traces of\n other heavier gases. There was also an abundance of sulfur\n vapor, as well as carbon disulfide and sulfur dioxide.\nThe atmospheric tide moved toward the Darkside, where it\n condensed, carrying enough volcanic ash with it for Sanderson\n to estimate the depth and nature of the surface upheavals on\n Brightside from his samplings. The trick was to find a passage", "with no judgment. The Major had both. He also had the kind\n of personality that could take a crew of wild men and\n make them work like a well-oiled machine across a thousand\n miles of Venus jungle. I liked him and I trusted him.\nHe contacted me in New York and he was very casual at\n first. We spent an evening here at the Red Lion, talking about\n old times; he told me about the Vulcan business, and how he’d\n been out to see Sanderson and the Twilight Lab on Mercury,\n and how he preferred a hot trek to a cold one any day of the\n year—and then he wanted to know what I’d been doing since\n Venus and what my plans were.\n“No particular plans,” I told him. “Why?”\nHe looked me over. “How much do you weigh, Peter?”", "little outpost observatory and the tracks stopped. We\n were in virgin territory and already the Sun was beginning to\n bite.\nWe didn’t\nfeel\nthe heat so much those first days out. We\nsaw\nit. The refrig units kept our skins at a nice comfortable seventy-five\n degrees Fahrenheit inside our suits, but our eyes watched\n that glaring Sun and the baked yellow rocks going past, and\n some nerve pathways got twisted up, somehow. We poured\n sweat as if we were in a superheated furnace.\nWe drove eight hours and slept five. When a sleep period\n came due, we pulled the Bugs together into a square, threw up\n a light aluminum sun-shield and lay out in the dust and rocks.", "that avoided those upheavals as far as possible. But in the final\n analysis, we were barely scraping the surface. The only way\n we would find out what was happening where was to be there.\nFinally, on the third day, McIvers blew in on a freight\n rocket from Venus. He’d missed the ship that the Major and\n I had taken by a few hours, and had conned his way to Venus\n in hopes of getting a hop from there. He didn’t seem too upset\n about it, as though this were his usual way of doing things and\n he couldn’t see why everyone should get so excited.\nHe was a tall, rangy man with long, wavy hair prematurely\n gray, and the sort of eyes that looked like a climber’s—half-closed,\n sleepy, almost indolent, but capable of abrupt alertness.", "The sun-shield cut the temperature down sixty or seventy\n degrees, for whatever help that was. And then we ate from the\n forward sledge—sucking through tubes—protein, carbohydrates,\n bulk gelatin, vitamins.\nThe Major measured water out with an iron hand, because\n we’d have drunk ourselves into nephritis in a week otherwise.\n We were constantly, unceasingly thirsty. Ask the physiologists\n and psychiatrists why—they can give you have a dozen interesting\n reasons—but all we knew, or cared about, was that it\n happened to be so.\nWe didn’t sleep the first few stops, as a consequence. Our\n eyes burned in spite of the filters and we had roaring headaches,\n but we couldn’t sleep them off. We sat around looking", "like this, and some of the best wouldn’t seem to be the most\n reliable at first glance. Anyway, personality problems weren’t\n our big problem right then.\nEquipment\nworried us first and\nroute\nnext.”\nBaron nodded in agreement. “What kind of suits did you\n have?”\n“The best insulating suits ever made,” said Claney. “Each\n one had an inner lining of a fiberglass modification, to avoid\n the clumsiness of asbestos, and carried the refrigerating unit\n and oxygen storage which we recharged from the sledges every\n eight hours. Outer layer carried a monomolecular chrome reflecting\n surface that made us glitter like Christmas trees. And\n we had a half-inch dead-air space under positive pressure between", "vaguely—Andean climbers, or at least two of them were. Over\n near the door he recognized old Balmer, who had mapped\n the first passage to the core of Vulcan Crater on Venus. Baron\n returned his smile with a nod. Then he settled back and\n waited impatiently for the intruder who demanded his time\n without justifying it.\nPresently a small, grizzled man crossed the room and sat\n down at Baron’s table. He was short and wiry. His face held\n no key to his age—he might have been thirty or a thousand—but\n he looked weary and immensely ugly. His cheeks and\n forehead were twisted and brown, with scars that were still\n healing.\nThe stranger said, “I’m glad you waited. I’ve heard you’re", "approach to the Sun—which made Center the hottest part of\n the planet at the hottest it ever gets.\nThe Sun was already huge and yellow over the horizon\n when we started, twice the size it appears on Earth. Every day\n that Sun would grow bigger and whiter, and every day the\n surface would get hotter. But once we reached Center, the job\n was only half done—we would still have to travel another\n two thousand miles to the opposite twilight zone. Sanderson\n was to meet us on the other side in the Laboratory’s scout ship,\n approximately sixty days from the time we jumped off.\nThat was the plan, in outline. It was up to us to cross those\n seventy miles a day, no matter how hot it became, no matter\n what terrain we had to cross. Detours would be dangerous and", "at each other. Then McIvers would say how good a beer would\n taste, and off we’d go. We’d have murdered our grandmothers\n for one ice-cold bottle of beer.\nAfter a few driving periods, I began to get my bearings at\n the wheel. We were moving down into desolation that made\n Earth’s old Death Valley look like a Japanese rose garden.\n Huge sun-baked cracks opened up in the floor of the gorge,\n with black cliffs jutting up on either side; the air was filled\n with a barely visible yellowish mist of sulfur and sulfurous\n gases.\nIt was a hot, barren hole, no place for any man to go, but\n the challenge was so powerful you could almost feel it. No one\n had ever crossed this land before and escaped. Those who had", "tracings suggest a lot of activity in that region, getting worse\n down toward the equator—not only volcanic, but sub-surface\n shifting.”\nStone nodded. “Sanderson told me there was probably constant\n surface activity.”\nThe Major shrugged. “Well, it’s treacherous, there’s no\n doubt of it. But the only way to avoid it is to travel over the\n Pole, which would lose us days and offer us no guarantee of\n less activity to the west. Now we might avoid some if we could\n find a pass through this range and cut sharp east—”\nIt seemed that the more we considered the problem, the\n further we got from a solution. We knew there were active\n volcanoes on the Brightside—even on the Darkside, though\n surface activity there was pretty much slowed down and" ], [ "I’d heard plenty of stories about Ted McIvers and I wasn’t\n too happy to hear that he was joining us. “Kind of a daredevil,\n isn’t he?”\n“Maybe. He’s lucky and skillful. Where do you draw the\n line? We’ll need plenty of both.”\n“Have you ever worked with him?” I asked.\n“No. Are you worried?”\n“Not exactly. But Brightside is no place to count on luck.”\nThe Major laughed. “I don’t think we need to worry about\n McIvers. We understood each other when I talked up the\n trip to him and we’re going to need each other too much to\n do any fooling around.” He turned back to the supply list.\n “Meanwhile, let’s get this stuff listed and packed. We’ll need", "McIvers stared at him, his cheeks an angry red. Finally he\n gave a sullen nod. “Okay. If you say so.”\n“Well, I say so and I mean it. I don’t want any fancy stuff.\n We’re going to hit Center together, and finish the Crossing together.\n Got that?”\nMcIvers nodded. Mikuta then looked at Stone and me and\n we nodded, too.\n“All right,” he said slowly. “Now that we’ve got it straight,\n let’s go.”\nIt was hot. If I forget everything else about that trek, I’ll\n never forget that huge yellow Sun glaring down, without a\n break, hotter and hotter with every mile. We knew that the\n first few days would be the easiest and we were rested and", "at each other. Then McIvers would say how good a beer would\n taste, and off we’d go. We’d have murdered our grandmothers\n for one ice-cold bottle of beer.\nAfter a few driving periods, I began to get my bearings at\n the wheel. We were moving down into desolation that made\n Earth’s old Death Valley look like a Japanese rose garden.\n Huge sun-baked cracks opened up in the floor of the gorge,\n with black cliffs jutting up on either side; the air was filled\n with a barely visible yellowish mist of sulfur and sulfurous\n gases.\nIt was a hot, barren hole, no place for any man to go, but\n the challenge was so powerful you could almost feel it. No one\n had ever crossed this land before and escaped. Those who had", "some government cash the Major had talked his way around—our\n equipment was new and good. Mikuta had done the designing\n and testing himself, with a big assist from Sanderson.\n We had four Bugs, three of them the light pillow-tire models,\n with special lead-cooled cut-in engines when the heat set in,\n and one heavy-duty tractor model for pulling the sledges.\nThe Major went over them like a kid at the circus. Then he\n said, “Have you heard anything from McIvers?”\n“Who’s he?” Stone wanted to know.\n“He’ll be joining us. He’s a good man—got quite a name\n for climbing, back home.” The Major turned to me. “You’ve\n probably heard of him.”", "that avoided those upheavals as far as possible. But in the final\n analysis, we were barely scraping the surface. The only way\n we would find out what was happening where was to be there.\nFinally, on the third day, McIvers blew in on a freight\n rocket from Venus. He’d missed the ship that the Major and\n I had taken by a few hours, and had conned his way to Venus\n in hopes of getting a hop from there. He didn’t seem too upset\n about it, as though this were his usual way of doing things and\n he couldn’t see why everyone should get so excited.\nHe was a tall, rangy man with long, wavy hair prematurely\n gray, and the sort of eyes that looked like a climber’s—half-closed,\n sleepy, almost indolent, but capable of abrupt alertness.", "And he never stood still; he was always moving, always doing\n something with his hands, or talking, or pacing about.\nEvidently the Major decided not to press the issue of his\n arrival. There was still work to do, and an hour later we were\n running the final tests on the pressure suits. That evening,\n Stone and McIvers were thick as thieves, and everything was\n set for an early departure after we got some rest.\n“And that,” said Baron, finishing his drink and signaling\n the waiter for another pair, “was your first big mistake.”\nPeter Claney raised his eyebrows. “McIvers?”\n“Of course.”\nClaney shrugged, glanced at the small quiet tables around\n them. “There are lots of bizarre personalities around a place", "take the sledges. That would give me a little more mobility.”\nThe Major looked up sharply at Stone. “Do you buy that,\n Jack?”\nStone shrugged. “I don’t mind. Mac wanted—”\nMcIvers made an impatient gesture with his hands. “It\n doesn’t matter. I just feel better when I’m on the move. Does\n it make any difference?”\n“I guess it doesn’t,” said the Major. “Then you’ll flank\n Peter along with me. Right?”\n“Sure, sure.” McIvers pulled at his lower lip. “Who’s going\n to do the advance scouting?”\n“It sounds like I am,” I cut in. “We want to keep the lead\n Bug light as possible.”", "like it.\nOne error in judgment could sink us all, but I wasn’t thinking\n much about the others. I was worried about\nme\n, plenty\n worried. I kept thinking, better McIvers should go than me.\n It wasn’t healthy thinking and I knew it, but I couldn’t get the\n thought out of my mind.\nIt was a grueling eight hours and we slept poorly. Back in\n the Bug again, we moved still more slowly—edging out on a\n broad flat plateau, dodging a network of gaping surface cracks—winding\n back and forth in an effort to keep the machines on\n solid rock. I couldn’t see far ahead, because of the yellow haze\n rising from the cracks, so I was almost on top of it when I saw", "end of an eight-hour trek.\nBut it took one of those side trips of McIvers’ to deliver the\n penultimate blow to our already fraying nerves. He had driven\n down a side-branch of a long canyon running off west of our\n route and was almost out of sight in a cloud of ash when we\n heard a sharp cry through our earphones.\nI wheeled my Bug around with my heart in my throat and\n spotted him through the binocs, waving frantically from the\n top of his machine. The Major and I took off, lumbering down\n the gulch after him as fast as the Bugs could go, with a thousand\n horrible pictures racing through our minds....\nWe found him standing stock-still, pointing down the gorge\n and, for once, he didn’t have anything to say. It was the wreck", "ash, filling crevices and declivities—offering a soft, treacherous\n surface for the Bug’s pillow tires.\nI learned to read the ground, to tell a covered fault by the\n sag of the dust; I learned to spot a passable crack, and tell it\n from an impassable cut. Time after time the Bugs ground to\n a halt while we explored a passage on foot, tied together with\n light copper cable, digging, advancing, digging some more\n until we were sure the surface would carry the machines. It\n was cruel work; we slept in exhaustion. But it went smoothly,\n at first.\nToo smoothly, it seemed to me, and the others seemed to\n think so, too.\nMcIvers’ restlessness was beginning to grate on our nerves.", "time-consuming. Delays could cost us our lives. We all knew\n that.\nThe Major briefed us on details an hour before we left.\n “Peter, you’ll take the lead Bug, the small one we stripped\n down for you. Stone and I will flank you on either side, giving\n you a hundred-yard lead. McIvers, you’ll have the job of\n dragging the sledges, so we’ll have to direct your course pretty\n closely. Peter’s job is to pick the passage at any given point.\n If there’s any doubt of safe passage, we’ll all explore ahead\n on foot before we risk the Bugs. Got that?”\nMcIvers and Stone exchanged glances. McIvers said: “Jack\n and I were planning to change around. We figured he could", "to cut weight sharply and our time is short. Sanderson says\n we should leave in three days.”\nTwo days later, McIvers hadn’t arrived. The Major didn’t\n say much about it. Stone was getting edgy and so was I. We\n spent the second day studying charts of the Brightside, such as\n they were. The best available were pretty poor, taken from so\n far out that the detail dissolved into blurs on blow-up. They\n showed the biggest ranges of peaks and craters and faults, and\n that was all. Still, we could use them to plan a broad outline\n of our course.\n“This range here,” the Major said as we crowded around\n the board, “is largely inactive, according to Sanderson. But\n these to the south and west\ncould\nbe active. Seismograph", "I gunned my motor and nothing happened.\nI could see the dull gray stuff seeping up around the hubs,\n thick and tenacious, splattering around in steaming gobs as\n the wheels spun. I knew what had happened the moment the\n wheels gave and, a few minutes later, they chained me to the\n tractor and dragged me back out of the mire. It looked for\n all the world like thick gray mud, but it was a pit of molten\n lead, steaming under a soft layer of concealing ash.\nI picked my way more cautiously then. We were getting into\n an area of recent surface activity; the surface was really treacherous.\n I caught myself wishing that the Major had okayed\n McIvers’ scheme for an advanced scout; more dangerous for\n the individual, maybe, but I was driving blind now and I didn’t", "fresh when we started down the long ragged gorge southeast of\n the Twilight Lab.\nI moved out first; back over my shoulder, I could see the\n Major and McIvers crawling out behind me, their pillow tires\n taking the rugged floor of the gorge smoothly. Behind them,\n Stone dragged the sledges.\nEven at only 30 per cent Earth gravity they were a strain on\n the big tractor, until the ski-blades bit into the fluffy volcanic\n ash blanketing the valley. We even had a path to follow for\n the first twenty miles.\nI kept my eyes pasted to the big polaroid binocs, picking out\n the track the early research teams had made out into the edge\n of Brightside. But in a couple of hours we rumbled past Sanderson’s", "He was a major in the Interplanetary Service\n for some years and hung onto the title after he gave up\n his commission.\nHe was with Armstrong on Mars during his Service days,\n did a good deal of the original mapping and surveying for\n the Colony there. I first met him on Venus; we spent five\n years together up there doing some of the nastiest exploring\n since the Matto Grasso. Then he made the attempt on Vulcan\n Crater that paved the way for Balmer a few years later.\nI’d always liked the Major—he was big and quiet and cool,\n the sort of guy who always had things figured a little further\n ahead than anyone else and always knew what to do in a tight\n place. Too many men in this game are all nerve and luck,", "like this, and some of the best wouldn’t seem to be the most\n reliable at first glance. Anyway, personality problems weren’t\n our big problem right then.\nEquipment\nworried us first and\nroute\nnext.”\nBaron nodded in agreement. “What kind of suits did you\n have?”\n“The best insulating suits ever made,” said Claney. “Each\n one had an inner lining of a fiberglass modification, to avoid\n the clumsiness of asbestos, and carried the refrigerating unit\n and oxygen storage which we recharged from the sledges every\n eight hours. Outer layer carried a monomolecular chrome reflecting\n surface that made us glitter like Christmas trees. And\n we had a half-inch dead-air space under positive pressure between", "vaguely—Andean climbers, or at least two of them were. Over\n near the door he recognized old Balmer, who had mapped\n the first passage to the core of Vulcan Crater on Venus. Baron\n returned his smile with a nod. Then he settled back and\n waited impatiently for the intruder who demanded his time\n without justifying it.\nPresently a small, grizzled man crossed the room and sat\n down at Baron’s table. He was short and wiry. His face held\n no key to his age—he might have been thirty or a thousand—but\n he looked weary and immensely ugly. His cheeks and\n forehead were twisted and brown, with scars that were still\n healing.\nThe stranger said, “I’m glad you waited. I’ve heard you’re", "Mikuta nodded. “That’s right. Peter’s Bug is stripped down\n to the frame and wheels.”\nMcIvers shook his head. “No, I mean the\nadvance\nwork.\n You need somebody out ahead—four or five miles, at least—to\n pick up the big flaws and active surface changes, don’t you?”\n He stared at the Major. “I mean, how can we tell what sort of\n a hole we may be moving into, unless we have a scout up\n ahead?”\n“That’s what we have the charts for,” the Major said\n sharply.\n“Charts! I’m talking about\ndetail\nwork. We don’t need to\n worry about the major topography. It’s the little faults you", "Baron’s eyes were wide with excitement, all trace of anger\n gone. “Great balls of fire, man—\nwhere have you been hiding?\nWe’ve been trying to contact you for months!”\n“I know. I was hoping you’d quit looking and chuck the\n whole idea.”\n“Quit looking!” Baron bent forward over the table. “My\n friend, we’d given up hope, but we’ve never quit looking.\n Here, have a drink. There’s so much you can tell us.” His\n fingers were trembling.\nPeter Claney shook his head. “I can’t tell you anything you\n want to hear.”\n“But you’ve\ngot\nto. You’re the only man on Earth who’s", "Wyatt and Carpenter made the last attempt—that was in 2082,\n I think. I followed the news stories like a tri-V serial and then\n I was heartbroken when they just disappeared.\nI know now that they were a pair of idiots, starting off without\n proper equipment, with practically no knowledge of surface\n conditions, without any charts—they couldn’t have made\n a hundred miles—but I didn’t know that then and it was a\n terrible tragedy. After that, I followed Sanderson’s work in the\n Twilight Lab up there and began to get Brightside into my\n blood, sure as death.\nBut it was Mikuta’s idea to attempt a Crossing. Did you ever\n know Tom Mikuta? I don’t suppose you did. No, not Japanese—Polish-American." ], [ "that avoided those upheavals as far as possible. But in the final\n analysis, we were barely scraping the surface. The only way\n we would find out what was happening where was to be there.\nFinally, on the third day, McIvers blew in on a freight\n rocket from Venus. He’d missed the ship that the Major and\n I had taken by a few hours, and had conned his way to Venus\n in hopes of getting a hop from there. He didn’t seem too upset\n about it, as though this were his usual way of doing things and\n he couldn’t see why everyone should get so excited.\nHe was a tall, rangy man with long, wavy hair prematurely\n gray, and the sort of eyes that looked like a climber’s—half-closed,\n sleepy, almost indolent, but capable of abrupt alertness.", "I’d heard plenty of stories about Ted McIvers and I wasn’t\n too happy to hear that he was joining us. “Kind of a daredevil,\n isn’t he?”\n“Maybe. He’s lucky and skillful. Where do you draw the\n line? We’ll need plenty of both.”\n“Have you ever worked with him?” I asked.\n“No. Are you worried?”\n“Not exactly. But Brightside is no place to count on luck.”\nThe Major laughed. “I don’t think we need to worry about\n McIvers. We understood each other when I talked up the\n trip to him and we’re going to need each other too much to\n do any fooling around.” He turned back to the supply list.\n “Meanwhile, let’s get this stuff listed and packed. We’ll need", "McIvers stared at him, his cheeks an angry red. Finally he\n gave a sullen nod. “Okay. If you say so.”\n“Well, I say so and I mean it. I don’t want any fancy stuff.\n We’re going to hit Center together, and finish the Crossing together.\n Got that?”\nMcIvers nodded. Mikuta then looked at Stone and me and\n we nodded, too.\n“All right,” he said slowly. “Now that we’ve got it straight,\n let’s go.”\nIt was hot. If I forget everything else about that trek, I’ll\n never forget that huge yellow Sun glaring down, without a\n break, hotter and hotter with every mile. We knew that the\n first few days would be the easiest and we were rested and", "at each other. Then McIvers would say how good a beer would\n taste, and off we’d go. We’d have murdered our grandmothers\n for one ice-cold bottle of beer.\nAfter a few driving periods, I began to get my bearings at\n the wheel. We were moving down into desolation that made\n Earth’s old Death Valley look like a Japanese rose garden.\n Huge sun-baked cracks opened up in the floor of the gorge,\n with black cliffs jutting up on either side; the air was filled\n with a barely visible yellowish mist of sulfur and sulfurous\n gases.\nIt was a hot, barren hole, no place for any man to go, but\n the challenge was so powerful you could almost feel it. No one\n had ever crossed this land before and escaped. Those who had", "some government cash the Major had talked his way around—our\n equipment was new and good. Mikuta had done the designing\n and testing himself, with a big assist from Sanderson.\n We had four Bugs, three of them the light pillow-tire models,\n with special lead-cooled cut-in engines when the heat set in,\n and one heavy-duty tractor model for pulling the sledges.\nThe Major went over them like a kid at the circus. Then he\n said, “Have you heard anything from McIvers?”\n“Who’s he?” Stone wanted to know.\n“He’ll be joining us. He’s a good man—got quite a name\n for climbing, back home.” The Major turned to me. “You’ve\n probably heard of him.”", "end of an eight-hour trek.\nBut it took one of those side trips of McIvers’ to deliver the\n penultimate blow to our already fraying nerves. He had driven\n down a side-branch of a long canyon running off west of our\n route and was almost out of sight in a cloud of ash when we\n heard a sharp cry through our earphones.\nI wheeled my Bug around with my heart in my throat and\n spotted him through the binocs, waving frantically from the\n top of his machine. The Major and I took off, lumbering down\n the gulch after him as fast as the Bugs could go, with a thousand\n horrible pictures racing through our minds....\nWe found him standing stock-still, pointing down the gorge\n and, for once, he didn’t have anything to say. It was the wreck", "And he never stood still; he was always moving, always doing\n something with his hands, or talking, or pacing about.\nEvidently the Major decided not to press the issue of his\n arrival. There was still work to do, and an hour later we were\n running the final tests on the pressure suits. That evening,\n Stone and McIvers were thick as thieves, and everything was\n set for an early departure after we got some rest.\n“And that,” said Baron, finishing his drink and signaling\n the waiter for another pair, “was your first big mistake.”\nPeter Claney raised his eyebrows. “McIvers?”\n“Of course.”\nClaney shrugged, glanced at the small quiet tables around\n them. “There are lots of bizarre personalities around a place", "like it.\nOne error in judgment could sink us all, but I wasn’t thinking\n much about the others. I was worried about\nme\n, plenty\n worried. I kept thinking, better McIvers should go than me.\n It wasn’t healthy thinking and I knew it, but I couldn’t get the\n thought out of my mind.\nIt was a grueling eight hours and we slept poorly. Back in\n the Bug again, we moved still more slowly—edging out on a\n broad flat plateau, dodging a network of gaping surface cracks—winding\n back and forth in an effort to keep the machines on\n solid rock. I couldn’t see far ahead, because of the yellow haze\n rising from the cracks, so I was almost on top of it when I saw", "take the sledges. That would give me a little more mobility.”\nThe Major looked up sharply at Stone. “Do you buy that,\n Jack?”\nStone shrugged. “I don’t mind. Mac wanted—”\nMcIvers made an impatient gesture with his hands. “It\n doesn’t matter. I just feel better when I’m on the move. Does\n it make any difference?”\n“I guess it doesn’t,” said the Major. “Then you’ll flank\n Peter along with me. Right?”\n“Sure, sure.” McIvers pulled at his lower lip. “Who’s going\n to do the advance scouting?”\n“It sounds like I am,” I cut in. “We want to keep the lead\n Bug light as possible.”", "ash, filling crevices and declivities—offering a soft, treacherous\n surface for the Bug’s pillow tires.\nI learned to read the ground, to tell a covered fault by the\n sag of the dust; I learned to spot a passable crack, and tell it\n from an impassable cut. Time after time the Bugs ground to\n a halt while we explored a passage on foot, tied together with\n light copper cable, digging, advancing, digging some more\n until we were sure the surface would carry the machines. It\n was cruel work; we slept in exhaustion. But it went smoothly,\n at first.\nToo smoothly, it seemed to me, and the others seemed to\n think so, too.\nMcIvers’ restlessness was beginning to grate on our nerves.", "I gunned my motor and nothing happened.\nI could see the dull gray stuff seeping up around the hubs,\n thick and tenacious, splattering around in steaming gobs as\n the wheels spun. I knew what had happened the moment the\n wheels gave and, a few minutes later, they chained me to the\n tractor and dragged me back out of the mire. It looked for\n all the world like thick gray mud, but it was a pit of molten\n lead, steaming under a soft layer of concealing ash.\nI picked my way more cautiously then. We were getting into\n an area of recent surface activity; the surface was really treacherous.\n I caught myself wishing that the Major had okayed\n McIvers’ scheme for an advanced scout; more dangerous for\n the individual, maybe, but I was driving blind now and I didn’t", "to cut weight sharply and our time is short. Sanderson says\n we should leave in three days.”\nTwo days later, McIvers hadn’t arrived. The Major didn’t\n say much about it. Stone was getting edgy and so was I. We\n spent the second day studying charts of the Brightside, such as\n they were. The best available were pretty poor, taken from so\n far out that the detail dissolved into blurs on blow-up. They\n showed the biggest ranges of peaks and craters and faults, and\n that was all. Still, we could use them to plan a broad outline\n of our course.\n“This range here,” the Major said as we crowded around\n the board, “is largely inactive, according to Sanderson. But\n these to the south and west\ncould\nbe active. Seismograph", "fresh when we started down the long ragged gorge southeast of\n the Twilight Lab.\nI moved out first; back over my shoulder, I could see the\n Major and McIvers crawling out behind me, their pillow tires\n taking the rugged floor of the gorge smoothly. Behind them,\n Stone dragged the sledges.\nEven at only 30 per cent Earth gravity they were a strain on\n the big tractor, until the ski-blades bit into the fluffy volcanic\n ash blanketing the valley. We even had a path to follow for\n the first twenty miles.\nI kept my eyes pasted to the big polaroid binocs, picking out\n the track the early research teams had made out into the edge\n of Brightside. But in a couple of hours we rumbled past Sanderson’s", "time-consuming. Delays could cost us our lives. We all knew\n that.\nThe Major briefed us on details an hour before we left.\n “Peter, you’ll take the lead Bug, the small one we stripped\n down for you. Stone and I will flank you on either side, giving\n you a hundred-yard lead. McIvers, you’ll have the job of\n dragging the sledges, so we’ll have to direct your course pretty\n closely. Peter’s job is to pick the passage at any given point.\n If there’s any doubt of safe passage, we’ll all explore ahead\n on foot before we risk the Bugs. Got that?”\nMcIvers and Stone exchanged glances. McIvers said: “Jack\n and I were planning to change around. We figured he could", "Baron’s eyes were wide with excitement, all trace of anger\n gone. “Great balls of fire, man—\nwhere have you been hiding?\nWe’ve been trying to contact you for months!”\n“I know. I was hoping you’d quit looking and chuck the\n whole idea.”\n“Quit looking!” Baron bent forward over the table. “My\n friend, we’d given up hope, but we’ve never quit looking.\n Here, have a drink. There’s so much you can tell us.” His\n fingers were trembling.\nPeter Claney shook his head. “I can’t tell you anything you\n want to hear.”\n“But you’ve\ngot\nto. You’re the only man on Earth who’s", "attempted a Brightside Crossing and lived through it! And the\n story you cleared for the news—it was nothing. We need\ndetails\n. Where did your equipment fall down? Where did you\n miscalculate? What were the trouble spots?” Baron jabbed a\n finger at Claney’s face. “That, for instance—epithelioma?\n Why? What was wrong with your glass? Your filters? We’ve\n got to know those things. If you can tell us, we can make\n it across where your attempt failed—”\n“You want to know why we failed?” asked Claney.\n“Of course we want to know. We\nhave\nto know.”\n“It’s simple. We failed because it can’t be done. We couldn’t", "He was a major in the Interplanetary Service\n for some years and hung onto the title after he gave up\n his commission.\nHe was with Armstrong on Mars during his Service days,\n did a good deal of the original mapping and surveying for\n the Colony there. I first met him on Venus; we spent five\n years together up there doing some of the nastiest exploring\n since the Matto Grasso. Then he made the attempt on Vulcan\n Crater that paved the way for Balmer a few years later.\nI’d always liked the Major—he was big and quiet and cool,\n the sort of guy who always had things figured a little further\n ahead than anyone else and always knew what to do in a tight\n place. Too many men in this game are all nerve and luck,", "He talked too much, while we were resting or while we were\n driving; wisecracks, witticisms, unfunny jokes that wore thin\n with repetition. He took to making side trips from the route\n now and then, never far, but a little further each time.\nJack Stone reacted quite the opposite; he grew quieter with\n each stop, more reserved and apprehensive. I didn’t like it, but\n I figured that it would pass off after a while. I was apprehensive\n enough myself; I just managed to hide it better.\nAnd every mile the Sun got bigger and whiter and higher in\n the sky and hotter. Without our ultra-violet screens and glare\n filters we would have been blinded; as it was our eyes ached\n constantly and the skin on our faces itched and tingled at the", "Wyatt and Carpenter made the last attempt—that was in 2082,\n I think. I followed the news stories like a tri-V serial and then\n I was heartbroken when they just disappeared.\nI know now that they were a pair of idiots, starting off without\n proper equipment, with practically no knowledge of surface\n conditions, without any charts—they couldn’t have made\n a hundred miles—but I didn’t know that then and it was a\n terrible tragedy. After that, I followed Sanderson’s work in the\n Twilight Lab up there and began to get Brightside into my\n blood, sure as death.\nBut it was Mikuta’s idea to attempt a Crossing. Did you ever\n know Tom Mikuta? I don’t suppose you did. No, not Japanese—Polish-American.", "Stone was a youngster—hardly twenty-five, I’d say—but\n he’d been with the Major at Vulcan and had begged to join\n this trek. I had a funny feeling that Jack really didn’t care for\n exploring too much, but he thought Mikuta was God, followed\n him around like a puppy.\nIt didn’t matter to me as long as he knew what he was getting\n in for. You don’t go asking people in this game why they do it—they’re\n liable to get awfully uneasy and none of them can\n ever give you an answer that makes sense. Anyway, Stone had\n borrowed three men from the Lab, and had the supplies and\n equipment all lined up when we got there, ready to check\n and test.\nWe dug right in. With plenty of funds—tri-V money and" ], [ "He talked too much, while we were resting or while we were\n driving; wisecracks, witticisms, unfunny jokes that wore thin\n with repetition. He took to making side trips from the route\n now and then, never far, but a little further each time.\nJack Stone reacted quite the opposite; he grew quieter with\n each stop, more reserved and apprehensive. I didn’t like it, but\n I figured that it would pass off after a while. I was apprehensive\n enough myself; I just managed to hide it better.\nAnd every mile the Sun got bigger and whiter and higher in\n the sky and hotter. Without our ultra-violet screens and glare\n filters we would have been blinded; as it was our eyes ached\n constantly and the skin on our faces itched and tingled at the", "that avoided those upheavals as far as possible. But in the final\n analysis, we were barely scraping the surface. The only way\n we would find out what was happening where was to be there.\nFinally, on the third day, McIvers blew in on a freight\n rocket from Venus. He’d missed the ship that the Major and\n I had taken by a few hours, and had conned his way to Venus\n in hopes of getting a hop from there. He didn’t seem too upset\n about it, as though this were his usual way of doing things and\n he couldn’t see why everyone should get so excited.\nHe was a tall, rangy man with long, wavy hair prematurely\n gray, and the sort of eyes that looked like a climber’s—half-closed,\n sleepy, almost indolent, but capable of abrupt alertness.", "of a Bug; an old-fashioned half-track model of the sort that\n hadn’t been in use for years. It was wedged tight in a cut in\n the rock, an axle broken, its casing split wide open up the\n middle, half-buried in a rock slide. A dozen feet away were\n two insulated suits with white bones gleaming through the\n fiberglass helmets.\nThis was as far as Wyatt and Carpenter had gotten on\ntheir\nBrightside Crossing.\nOn the fifth driving period out, the terrain began to change.\n It looked the same, but every now and then it\nfelt\ndifferent.\n On two occasions I felt my wheels spin, with a howl of protest\n from my engine. Then, quite suddenly, the Bug gave a lurch;", "The sun-shield cut the temperature down sixty or seventy\n degrees, for whatever help that was. And then we ate from the\n forward sledge—sucking through tubes—protein, carbohydrates,\n bulk gelatin, vitamins.\nThe Major measured water out with an iron hand, because\n we’d have drunk ourselves into nephritis in a week otherwise.\n We were constantly, unceasingly thirsty. Ask the physiologists\n and psychiatrists why—they can give you have a dozen interesting\n reasons—but all we knew, or cared about, was that it\n happened to be so.\nWe didn’t sleep the first few stops, as a consequence. Our\n eyes burned in spite of the filters and we had roaring headaches,\n but we couldn’t sleep them off. We sat around looking", "And he never stood still; he was always moving, always doing\n something with his hands, or talking, or pacing about.\nEvidently the Major decided not to press the issue of his\n arrival. There was still work to do, and an hour later we were\n running the final tests on the pressure suits. That evening,\n Stone and McIvers were thick as thieves, and everything was\n set for an early departure after we got some rest.\n“And that,” said Baron, finishing his drink and signaling\n the waiter for another pair, “was your first big mistake.”\nPeter Claney raised his eyebrows. “McIvers?”\n“Of course.”\nClaney shrugged, glanced at the small quiet tables around\n them. “There are lots of bizarre personalities around a place", "like this, and some of the best wouldn’t seem to be the most\n reliable at first glance. Anyway, personality problems weren’t\n our big problem right then.\nEquipment\nworried us first and\nroute\nnext.”\nBaron nodded in agreement. “What kind of suits did you\n have?”\n“The best insulating suits ever made,” said Claney. “Each\n one had an inner lining of a fiberglass modification, to avoid\n the clumsiness of asbestos, and carried the refrigerating unit\n and oxygen storage which we recharged from the sledges every\n eight hours. Outer layer carried a monomolecular chrome reflecting\n surface that made us glitter like Christmas trees. And\n we had a half-inch dead-air space under positive pressure between", "like it.\nOne error in judgment could sink us all, but I wasn’t thinking\n much about the others. I was worried about\nme\n, plenty\n worried. I kept thinking, better McIvers should go than me.\n It wasn’t healthy thinking and I knew it, but I couldn’t get the\n thought out of my mind.\nIt was a grueling eight hours and we slept poorly. Back in\n the Bug again, we moved still more slowly—edging out on a\n broad flat plateau, dodging a network of gaping surface cracks—winding\n back and forth in an effort to keep the machines on\n solid rock. I couldn’t see far ahead, because of the yellow haze\n rising from the cracks, so I was almost on top of it when I saw", "localized.\nBut there were problems of atmosphere on Brightside, as\n well. There was an atmosphere and a constant atmospheric\n flow from Brightside to Darkside. Not much—the lighter gases\n had reached escape velocity and disappeared from Brightside\n millennia ago—but there was CO\n 2\n , and nitrogen, and traces of\n other heavier gases. There was also an abundance of sulfur\n vapor, as well as carbon disulfide and sulfur dioxide.\nThe atmospheric tide moved toward the Darkside, where it\n condensed, carrying enough volcanic ash with it for Sanderson\n to estimate the depth and nature of the surface upheavals on\n Brightside from his samplings. The trick was to find a passage", "McIvers stared at him, his cheeks an angry red. Finally he\n gave a sullen nod. “Okay. If you say so.”\n“Well, I say so and I mean it. I don’t want any fancy stuff.\n We’re going to hit Center together, and finish the Crossing together.\n Got that?”\nMcIvers nodded. Mikuta then looked at Stone and me and\n we nodded, too.\n“All right,” he said slowly. “Now that we’ve got it straight,\n let’s go.”\nIt was hot. If I forget everything else about that trek, I’ll\n never forget that huge yellow Sun glaring down, without a\n break, hotter and hotter with every mile. We knew that the\n first few days would be the easiest and we were rested and", "the two layers. Warning thermocouples, of course—at\n 770 degrees, it wouldn’t take much time to fry us to cinders\n if the suits failed somewhere.”\n“How about the Bugs?”\n“They were insulated, too, but we weren’t counting on\n them too much for protection.”\n“You weren’t!” Baron exclaimed. “Why not?”\n“We’d be in and out of them too much. They gave us mobility\n and storage, but we knew we’d have to do a lot of\n forward work on foot.” Claney smiled bitterly. “Which meant\n that we had an inch of fiberglass and a half-inch of dead air\n between us and a surface temperature where lead flowed like\n water and zinc was almost at melting point and the pools of", "I gunned my motor and nothing happened.\nI could see the dull gray stuff seeping up around the hubs,\n thick and tenacious, splattering around in steaming gobs as\n the wheels spun. I knew what had happened the moment the\n wheels gave and, a few minutes later, they chained me to the\n tractor and dragged me back out of the mire. It looked for\n all the world like thick gray mud, but it was a pit of molten\n lead, steaming under a soft layer of concealing ash.\nI picked my way more cautiously then. We were getting into\n an area of recent surface activity; the surface was really treacherous.\n I caught myself wishing that the Major had okayed\n McIvers’ scheme for an advanced scout; more dangerous for\n the individual, maybe, but I was driving blind now and I didn’t", "at each other. Then McIvers would say how good a beer would\n taste, and off we’d go. We’d have murdered our grandmothers\n for one ice-cold bottle of beer.\nAfter a few driving periods, I began to get my bearings at\n the wheel. We were moving down into desolation that made\n Earth’s old Death Valley look like a Japanese rose garden.\n Huge sun-baked cracks opened up in the floor of the gorge,\n with black cliffs jutting up on either side; the air was filled\n with a barely visible yellowish mist of sulfur and sulfurous\n gases.\nIt was a hot, barren hole, no place for any man to go, but\n the challenge was so powerful you could almost feel it. No one\n had ever crossed this land before and escaped. Those who had", "ash, filling crevices and declivities—offering a soft, treacherous\n surface for the Bug’s pillow tires.\nI learned to read the ground, to tell a covered fault by the\n sag of the dust; I learned to spot a passable crack, and tell it\n from an impassable cut. Time after time the Bugs ground to\n a halt while we explored a passage on foot, tied together with\n light copper cable, digging, advancing, digging some more\n until we were sure the surface would carry the machines. It\n was cruel work; we slept in exhaustion. But it went smoothly,\n at first.\nToo smoothly, it seemed to me, and the others seemed to\n think so, too.\nMcIvers’ restlessness was beginning to grate on our nerves.", "Stone was a youngster—hardly twenty-five, I’d say—but\n he’d been with the Major at Vulcan and had begged to join\n this trek. I had a funny feeling that Jack really didn’t care for\n exploring too much, but he thought Mikuta was God, followed\n him around like a puppy.\nIt didn’t matter to me as long as he knew what he was getting\n in for. You don’t go asking people in this game why they do it—they’re\n liable to get awfully uneasy and none of them can\n ever give you an answer that makes sense. Anyway, Stone had\n borrowed three men from the Lab, and had the supplies and\n equipment all lined up when we got there, ready to check\n and test.\nWe dug right in. With plenty of funds—tri-V money and", "attempted a Brightside Crossing and lived through it! And the\n story you cleared for the news—it was nothing. We need\ndetails\n. Where did your equipment fall down? Where did you\n miscalculate? What were the trouble spots?” Baron jabbed a\n finger at Claney’s face. “That, for instance—epithelioma?\n Why? What was wrong with your glass? Your filters? We’ve\n got to know those things. If you can tell us, we can make\n it across where your attempt failed—”\n“You want to know why we failed?” asked Claney.\n“Of course we want to know. We\nhave\nto know.”\n“It’s simple. We failed because it can’t be done. We couldn’t", "end of an eight-hour trek.\nBut it took one of those side trips of McIvers’ to deliver the\n penultimate blow to our already fraying nerves. He had driven\n down a side-branch of a long canyon running off west of our\n route and was almost out of sight in a cloud of ash when we\n heard a sharp cry through our earphones.\nI wheeled my Bug around with my heart in my throat and\n spotted him through the binocs, waving frantically from the\n top of his machine. The Major and I took off, lumbering down\n the gulch after him as fast as the Bugs could go, with a thousand\n horrible pictures racing through our minds....\nWe found him standing stock-still, pointing down the gorge\n and, for once, he didn’t have anything to say. It was the wreck", "do it and neither can you. No human beings will ever cross\n the Brightside alive, not if they try for centuries.”\n“Nonsense,” Baron declared. “We will.”\nClaney shrugged. “I was there. I know what I’m saying. You\n can blame the equipment or the men—there were flaws in\n both quarters—but we just didn’t know what we were fighting.\n It was the\nplanet\nthat whipped us, that and the\nSun\n. They’ll\n whip you, too, if you try it.”\n“Never,” said Baron.\n“Let me tell you,” Peter Claney said.\nI’d been interested in the Brightside for almost as long as\n I can remember (Claney said). I guess I was about ten when", "vaguely—Andean climbers, or at least two of them were. Over\n near the door he recognized old Balmer, who had mapped\n the first passage to the core of Vulcan Crater on Venus. Baron\n returned his smile with a nod. Then he settled back and\n waited impatiently for the intruder who demanded his time\n without justifying it.\nPresently a small, grizzled man crossed the room and sat\n down at Baron’s table. He was short and wiry. His face held\n no key to his age—he might have been thirty or a thousand—but\n he looked weary and immensely ugly. His cheeks and\n forehead were twisted and brown, with scars that were still\n healing.\nThe stranger said, “I’m glad you waited. I’ve heard you’re", "little outpost observatory and the tracks stopped. We\n were in virgin territory and already the Sun was beginning to\n bite.\nWe didn’t\nfeel\nthe heat so much those first days out. We\nsaw\nit. The refrig units kept our skins at a nice comfortable seventy-five\n degrees Fahrenheit inside our suits, but our eyes watched\n that glaring Sun and the baked yellow rocks going past, and\n some nerve pathways got twisted up, somehow. We poured\n sweat as if we were in a superheated furnace.\nWe drove eight hours and slept five. When a sleep period\n came due, we pulled the Bugs together into a square, threw up\n a light aluminum sun-shield and lay out in the dust and rocks.", "time-consuming. Delays could cost us our lives. We all knew\n that.\nThe Major briefed us on details an hour before we left.\n “Peter, you’ll take the lead Bug, the small one we stripped\n down for you. Stone and I will flank you on either side, giving\n you a hundred-yard lead. McIvers, you’ll have the job of\n dragging the sledges, so we’ll have to direct your course pretty\n closely. Peter’s job is to pick the passage at any given point.\n If there’s any doubt of safe passage, we’ll all explore ahead\n on foot before we risk the Bugs. Got that?”\nMcIvers and Stone exchanged glances. McIvers said: “Jack\n and I were planning to change around. We figured he could" ], [ "like this, and some of the best wouldn’t seem to be the most\n reliable at first glance. Anyway, personality problems weren’t\n our big problem right then.\nEquipment\nworried us first and\nroute\nnext.”\nBaron nodded in agreement. “What kind of suits did you\n have?”\n“The best insulating suits ever made,” said Claney. “Each\n one had an inner lining of a fiberglass modification, to avoid\n the clumsiness of asbestos, and carried the refrigerating unit\n and oxygen storage which we recharged from the sledges every\n eight hours. Outer layer carried a monomolecular chrome reflecting\n surface that made us glitter like Christmas trees. And\n we had a half-inch dead-air space under positive pressure between", "He talked too much, while we were resting or while we were\n driving; wisecracks, witticisms, unfunny jokes that wore thin\n with repetition. He took to making side trips from the route\n now and then, never far, but a little further each time.\nJack Stone reacted quite the opposite; he grew quieter with\n each stop, more reserved and apprehensive. I didn’t like it, but\n I figured that it would pass off after a while. I was apprehensive\n enough myself; I just managed to hide it better.\nAnd every mile the Sun got bigger and whiter and higher in\n the sky and hotter. Without our ultra-violet screens and glare\n filters we would have been blinded; as it was our eyes ached\n constantly and the skin on our faces itched and tingled at the", "like it.\nOne error in judgment could sink us all, but I wasn’t thinking\n much about the others. I was worried about\nme\n, plenty\n worried. I kept thinking, better McIvers should go than me.\n It wasn’t healthy thinking and I knew it, but I couldn’t get the\n thought out of my mind.\nIt was a grueling eight hours and we slept poorly. Back in\n the Bug again, we moved still more slowly—edging out on a\n broad flat plateau, dodging a network of gaping surface cracks—winding\n back and forth in an effort to keep the machines on\n solid rock. I couldn’t see far ahead, because of the yellow haze\n rising from the cracks, so I was almost on top of it when I saw", "And he never stood still; he was always moving, always doing\n something with his hands, or talking, or pacing about.\nEvidently the Major decided not to press the issue of his\n arrival. There was still work to do, and an hour later we were\n running the final tests on the pressure suits. That evening,\n Stone and McIvers were thick as thieves, and everything was\n set for an early departure after we got some rest.\n“And that,” said Baron, finishing his drink and signaling\n the waiter for another pair, “was your first big mistake.”\nPeter Claney raised his eyebrows. “McIvers?”\n“Of course.”\nClaney shrugged, glanced at the small quiet tables around\n them. “There are lots of bizarre personalities around a place", "ash, filling crevices and declivities—offering a soft, treacherous\n surface for the Bug’s pillow tires.\nI learned to read the ground, to tell a covered fault by the\n sag of the dust; I learned to spot a passable crack, and tell it\n from an impassable cut. Time after time the Bugs ground to\n a halt while we explored a passage on foot, tied together with\n light copper cable, digging, advancing, digging some more\n until we were sure the surface would carry the machines. It\n was cruel work; we slept in exhaustion. But it went smoothly,\n at first.\nToo smoothly, it seemed to me, and the others seemed to\n think so, too.\nMcIvers’ restlessness was beginning to grate on our nerves.", "that avoided those upheavals as far as possible. But in the final\n analysis, we were barely scraping the surface. The only way\n we would find out what was happening where was to be there.\nFinally, on the third day, McIvers blew in on a freight\n rocket from Venus. He’d missed the ship that the Major and\n I had taken by a few hours, and had conned his way to Venus\n in hopes of getting a hop from there. He didn’t seem too upset\n about it, as though this were his usual way of doing things and\n he couldn’t see why everyone should get so excited.\nHe was a tall, rangy man with long, wavy hair prematurely\n gray, and the sort of eyes that looked like a climber’s—half-closed,\n sleepy, almost indolent, but capable of abrupt alertness.", "time-consuming. Delays could cost us our lives. We all knew\n that.\nThe Major briefed us on details an hour before we left.\n “Peter, you’ll take the lead Bug, the small one we stripped\n down for you. Stone and I will flank you on either side, giving\n you a hundred-yard lead. McIvers, you’ll have the job of\n dragging the sledges, so we’ll have to direct your course pretty\n closely. Peter’s job is to pick the passage at any given point.\n If there’s any doubt of safe passage, we’ll all explore ahead\n on foot before we risk the Bugs. Got that?”\nMcIvers and Stone exchanged glances. McIvers said: “Jack\n and I were planning to change around. We figured he could", "localized.\nBut there were problems of atmosphere on Brightside, as\n well. There was an atmosphere and a constant atmospheric\n flow from Brightside to Darkside. Not much—the lighter gases\n had reached escape velocity and disappeared from Brightside\n millennia ago—but there was CO\n 2\n , and nitrogen, and traces of\n other heavier gases. There was also an abundance of sulfur\n vapor, as well as carbon disulfide and sulfur dioxide.\nThe atmospheric tide moved toward the Darkside, where it\n condensed, carrying enough volcanic ash with it for Sanderson\n to estimate the depth and nature of the surface upheavals on\n Brightside from his samplings. The trick was to find a passage", "tracings suggest a lot of activity in that region, getting worse\n down toward the equator—not only volcanic, but sub-surface\n shifting.”\nStone nodded. “Sanderson told me there was probably constant\n surface activity.”\nThe Major shrugged. “Well, it’s treacherous, there’s no\n doubt of it. But the only way to avoid it is to travel over the\n Pole, which would lose us days and offer us no guarantee of\n less activity to the west. Now we might avoid some if we could\n find a pass through this range and cut sharp east—”\nIt seemed that the more we considered the problem, the\n further we got from a solution. We knew there were active\n volcanoes on the Brightside—even on the Darkside, though\n surface activity there was pretty much slowed down and", "I gunned my motor and nothing happened.\nI could see the dull gray stuff seeping up around the hubs,\n thick and tenacious, splattering around in steaming gobs as\n the wheels spun. I knew what had happened the moment the\n wheels gave and, a few minutes later, they chained me to the\n tractor and dragged me back out of the mire. It looked for\n all the world like thick gray mud, but it was a pit of molten\n lead, steaming under a soft layer of concealing ash.\nI picked my way more cautiously then. We were getting into\n an area of recent surface activity; the surface was really treacherous.\n I caught myself wishing that the Major had okayed\n McIvers’ scheme for an advanced scout; more dangerous for\n the individual, maybe, but I was driving blind now and I didn’t", "The sun-shield cut the temperature down sixty or seventy\n degrees, for whatever help that was. And then we ate from the\n forward sledge—sucking through tubes—protein, carbohydrates,\n bulk gelatin, vitamins.\nThe Major measured water out with an iron hand, because\n we’d have drunk ourselves into nephritis in a week otherwise.\n We were constantly, unceasingly thirsty. Ask the physiologists\n and psychiatrists why—they can give you have a dozen interesting\n reasons—but all we knew, or cared about, was that it\n happened to be so.\nWe didn’t sleep the first few stops, as a consequence. Our\n eyes burned in spite of the filters and we had roaring headaches,\n but we couldn’t sleep them off. We sat around looking", "little outpost observatory and the tracks stopped. We\n were in virgin territory and already the Sun was beginning to\n bite.\nWe didn’t\nfeel\nthe heat so much those first days out. We\nsaw\nit. The refrig units kept our skins at a nice comfortable seventy-five\n degrees Fahrenheit inside our suits, but our eyes watched\n that glaring Sun and the baked yellow rocks going past, and\n some nerve pathways got twisted up, somehow. We poured\n sweat as if we were in a superheated furnace.\nWe drove eight hours and slept five. When a sleep period\n came due, we pulled the Bugs together into a square, threw up\n a light aluminum sun-shield and lay out in the dust and rocks.", "McIvers stared at him, his cheeks an angry red. Finally he\n gave a sullen nod. “Okay. If you say so.”\n“Well, I say so and I mean it. I don’t want any fancy stuff.\n We’re going to hit Center together, and finish the Crossing together.\n Got that?”\nMcIvers nodded. Mikuta then looked at Stone and me and\n we nodded, too.\n“All right,” he said slowly. “Now that we’ve got it straight,\n let’s go.”\nIt was hot. If I forget everything else about that trek, I’ll\n never forget that huge yellow Sun glaring down, without a\n break, hotter and hotter with every mile. We knew that the\n first few days would be the easiest and we were rested and", "some government cash the Major had talked his way around—our\n equipment was new and good. Mikuta had done the designing\n and testing himself, with a big assist from Sanderson.\n We had four Bugs, three of them the light pillow-tire models,\n with special lead-cooled cut-in engines when the heat set in,\n and one heavy-duty tractor model for pulling the sledges.\nThe Major went over them like a kid at the circus. Then he\n said, “Have you heard anything from McIvers?”\n“Who’s he?” Stone wanted to know.\n“He’ll be joining us. He’s a good man—got quite a name\n for climbing, back home.” The Major turned to me. “You’ve\n probably heard of him.”", "of a Bug; an old-fashioned half-track model of the sort that\n hadn’t been in use for years. It was wedged tight in a cut in\n the rock, an axle broken, its casing split wide open up the\n middle, half-buried in a rock slide. A dozen feet away were\n two insulated suits with white bones gleaming through the\n fiberglass helmets.\nThis was as far as Wyatt and Carpenter had gotten on\ntheir\nBrightside Crossing.\nOn the fifth driving period out, the terrain began to change.\n It looked the same, but every now and then it\nfelt\ndifferent.\n On two occasions I felt my wheels spin, with a howl of protest\n from my engine. Then, quite suddenly, the Bug gave a lurch;", "end of an eight-hour trek.\nBut it took one of those side trips of McIvers’ to deliver the\n penultimate blow to our already fraying nerves. He had driven\n down a side-branch of a long canyon running off west of our\n route and was almost out of sight in a cloud of ash when we\n heard a sharp cry through our earphones.\nI wheeled my Bug around with my heart in my throat and\n spotted him through the binocs, waving frantically from the\n top of his machine. The Major and I took off, lumbering down\n the gulch after him as fast as the Bugs could go, with a thousand\n horrible pictures racing through our minds....\nWe found him standing stock-still, pointing down the gorge\n and, for once, he didn’t have anything to say. It was the wreck", "at each other. Then McIvers would say how good a beer would\n taste, and off we’d go. We’d have murdered our grandmothers\n for one ice-cold bottle of beer.\nAfter a few driving periods, I began to get my bearings at\n the wheel. We were moving down into desolation that made\n Earth’s old Death Valley look like a Japanese rose garden.\n Huge sun-baked cracks opened up in the floor of the gorge,\n with black cliffs jutting up on either side; the air was filled\n with a barely visible yellowish mist of sulfur and sulfurous\n gases.\nIt was a hot, barren hole, no place for any man to go, but\n the challenge was so powerful you could almost feel it. No one\n had ever crossed this land before and escaped. Those who had", "the two layers. Warning thermocouples, of course—at\n 770 degrees, it wouldn’t take much time to fry us to cinders\n if the suits failed somewhere.”\n“How about the Bugs?”\n“They were insulated, too, but we weren’t counting on\n them too much for protection.”\n“You weren’t!” Baron exclaimed. “Why not?”\n“We’d be in and out of them too much. They gave us mobility\n and storage, but we knew we’d have to do a lot of\n forward work on foot.” Claney smiled bitterly. “Which meant\n that we had an inch of fiberglass and a half-inch of dead air\n between us and a surface temperature where lead flowed like\n water and zinc was almost at melting point and the pools of", "Stone was a youngster—hardly twenty-five, I’d say—but\n he’d been with the Major at Vulcan and had begged to join\n this trek. I had a funny feeling that Jack really didn’t care for\n exploring too much, but he thought Mikuta was God, followed\n him around like a puppy.\nIt didn’t matter to me as long as he knew what he was getting\n in for. You don’t go asking people in this game why they do it—they’re\n liable to get awfully uneasy and none of them can\n ever give you an answer that makes sense. Anyway, Stone had\n borrowed three men from the Lab, and had the supplies and\n equipment all lined up when we got there, ready to check\n and test.\nWe dug right in. With plenty of funds—tri-V money and", "60 degrees with the libration. The Solar ’scope could take that\n much change and they’d get good clear observation of the Sun\n for about seventy out of the eighty-eight days it takes the planet\n to wheel around.\nThe Major was counting on Sanderson knowing something\n about Mercury as well as the Sun when we camped at the Lab\n to make final preparations.\nSanderson did. He thought we’d lost our minds and he said\n so, but he gave us all the help he could. He spent a week\n briefing Jack Stone, the third member of our party, who had\n arrived with the supplies and equipment a few days earlier.\n Poor Jack met us at the rocket landing almost bawling, Sanderson\n had given him such a gloomy picture of what Brightside\n was like." ] ]
train	20071	[ "Why does Jack stop going to meetings for the terminally ill?", "What is Tyler Durden's mission about?", "Does the author feel Fight Club is an original concept?", "Why was Brandon raped and murdered?", "What is the author's least favorite film out of the four reviews?", "Which character does the author feel represents the perplexity at the center of Boys Don't Cry?", "How does the author feel about Mumford?", "To which actor did the author credit a slightly better than normal performance?" ]	[ [ "His apartment explodes, and he must move out of the meeting area.", "He dies from a terminal illness.", "Bob, from the testicular cancer group, has become too clingy.", "A woman, Marla, starts coming to the same meetings. Marla is not terminally ill." ], [ "Self-improvement", "Self-destruction", "Masturbation", "Subversive acts, both large and small" ], [ "Yes, the film points to new possibilities in storytelling.", "No, but voice-over narration is back in style.", "No, it feels like a mixture of Johnny Rotten, Jake La Motta, and Jesus.", "No, it feels like corporate-subsidized art." ], [ "He was involved in a barroom brawl.", "He was raped and murdered after his physical gender was discovered.", "He was attacked after hitting on a beautiful girl in a bar.", "He was attacked after surfing from the bumper of a pickup truck." ], [ "Fight Club", "Boys Don't Cry", "Mumford", "Happy Texas" ], [ "Brandon Teena", "Lana", "John", "Pierce" ], [ "It was a flop.", "It's like a noir Norman Rockwell painting.", "The author loved it, even though it was a flop.", "The film gave the author psychological mumps." ], [ "Ted Danson", "Loren Dean", "Brad Pitt", "Steve Zahn" ] ]	[ 4, 2, 3, 2, 4, 2, 3, 3 ]	[ 0, 0, 1, 0, 0, 0, 1, 1 ]	[ [ "It always gives you a rush, though. At first, it goofs on the absurd feminization of an absurdly macho culture. An increasingly desperate insomniac, Jack finds relief (and release) only at meetings for the terminally ill. At a testicular cancer", "meetings for essentially the same voyeuristic ends, and the presence of this \"tourist\" makes it impossible for Jack to emote.", "They cling to each other and sob. But Jack's idyll is rudely disrupted by--wouldn't you know it?--a woman. A dark-eyed, sepulchral head case named Marla Singer (Helena Bonham Carter) begins showing up at all the same disparate", "Jack finds another outlet, though. On a plane, he meets Tyler Durden (Brad Pitt), a cryptic hipster with a penchant for subversive acts both large (he makes high-priced soaps from liposuctioned", "group, he's enfolded in the ample arms of Bob (the singer Meat Loaf Aday), a former bodybuilder who ruined his health with steroids and now has \"bitch tits.\" Jack and Bob subscribe to a new form of male bonding:", "human fat) and small (he splices frames from porn flicks into kiddie movies). When Jack's apartment mysteriously explodes--along with his carefully chosen IKEA furniture--he moves into Tyler's squalid warehouse and helps to found a new religion: Fight Club,", "The novel, the first by Chuck Palahniuk (the surname sounds like Eskimo for \"palooka\"--which somehow fits), walks a line between the straight and ironic--it isn't always clear if its glib sociological pronouncements are meant to be taken straight or as the ravings of a delusional mama's boy. But onscreen, when Pitt announces to the assembled fighters that they are the \"middle children of history\" with \"no purpose and no place\"--emasculated on one hand by the lack of a unifying crisis (a world war or depression) and on the other by lack of material wealth as promised by television--he seems meant to be intoning gospel. \"We are a generation of men raised by women,\" Tyler announces, and adds, \"If our fathers bail, what does that tell you about God?\" (I give up: What?)", "is polishing brass on the Titanic \"), the only creative outlet left is annihilation. \"It's only after we've lost everything that we're free to do anything,\" he says.", "F ight Club could use a few different perspectives: a woman's, obviously, but also an African-American's--someone who'd have a different take on the \"healing\" properties of violence. It's also unclear just what has emasculated Jack: Is it that he's a materialist or that the materials themselves (i.e., IKEA's lacquered particle boards) don't measure up to his fantasies of opulence? Is he motivated by spiritual hunger or envy? Tyler's subsequent idea of confining his group's mayhem to franchise coffee bars and corporate-subsidized art is a witty one--it's like a parody of neo-Nazism as re-enacted by yuppies. It might have been a howl if performed by, say, the troupe of artsy German nihilists in Joel and Ethan Coen's The Big Lebowski (1998). Somehow Brad Pitt doesn't have the same piquancy.", "in the morning,\" someone tells Brandon after a barroom brawl, and he takes the news with a glee that's almost mystical: \"I am????? Oh, shit!!!\" he cries, grinning. That might be my favorite moment in the picture, because", "Not to mention a hole in your head. Fight Club careers from one resonant satirical idea to the next without quite deciding whether its characters are full of crap or are Gen X prophets.", "oblivion that's the strongest. \"Self-improvement,\" explains Tyler, \"is masturbation\"; self-destruction is the new way. Tyler's manifesto calls for an end to consumerism (\"Things you own end up owning you\"), and since society is going down (\"Martha Stewart", "Boys Do Bleed \n\n Fight Club is silly stuff, sensationalism that mistakes itself for satire, but it's also a brash and transporting piece of moviemaking, like Raging Bull on acid. The film opens with--literally--a surge of adrenalin, which travels through the bloodstream and into the brain of its protagonist, Jack (Edward Norton), who's viewed, as the camera pulls out of his insides, with a gun stuck in his mouth. How'd he get into this pickle? He's going to tell you, breezily, and the director, David Fincher, is going to illustrate his narrative--violently. Fincher ( Seven , 1995; The Game , 1997) is out to bombard you with so much feverish imagery that you have no choice but to succumb to the movie's reeling, punch-drunk worldview. By the end, you might feel as if you, too, have a mouthful of blood.", "That the people with whom Brandon feels most at home would kill him if they knew his true gender is the movie's most tragic irony--and the one that lifts it out of the realm of gay-martyr hagiography and into something more complex and irreducible: a meditation on the irrelevance of gender. Peirce's triumph is to make these scenes at once exuberant (occasionally hilarious) and foreboding, so that all the seeds of Brandon's killing are right there on the screen. John (Peter Sarsgaard), one of his future rapists and murderers, calls him \"little buddy\" and seems almost attracted to him; Sarsgaard's performance is a finely chiseled study of how unresolved emotion can suddenly resolve itself into violence.", "in which young males gather after hours in the basement of a nightclub to pound one another (and be pounded) to a bloody pulp. That last parenthesis isn't so parenthetical. In some ways, it's the longing to be beaten into", "Fincher and his screenwriter, Jim Uhls, seem to think they've broken new ground in Fight Club , that their metaphor for our discontents hits harder than anyone else's. Certainly it produces more bloody splatter. But 20 years ago, the same impulse was called punk and, as Greil Marcus documents in Lipstick Traces , it was other things before that. Yes, the mixture of Johnny Rotten, Jake La Motta, and Jesus is unique; and the Faludi-esque emasculation themes are more explicit. But there's something deeply movie-ish about the whole conceit, as if the novelist and director were weaned on Martin Scorsese pictures and never stopped dreaming of recapturing that first masochistic rush.", "role she has been longing for her whole life. In a redneck Nebraska bar, Brandon throws back a shot of whiskey and the gesture--a macho cliché--becomes an act of self-discovery. Every gesture does. \"You're gonna have a shiner", "depressive (Loren Dean) posing as a psychologist is full of doddering misconceptions about psychotherapy. I almost don't know why I loved it, but the relaxed pacing and the witty turns by Martin Short, Ted Danson, David Paymer, and Mary", ", which has apparently flopped but which you can still catch at second- and third-tier theaters. It looks peculiar--a Norman Rockwell painting with noir shadows. And its tale of a small town healed by a", "Swank's ecstatic expression carries us through the next hour, as Brandon acts out his urban-cowboy fantasies--\"surfing\" from the bumper of a pickup truck, rolling in the mud, and straddling a barstool with one hand on a brewski and" ], [ "Jack finds another outlet, though. On a plane, he meets Tyler Durden (Brad Pitt), a cryptic hipster with a penchant for subversive acts both large (he makes high-priced soaps from liposuctioned", "The novel, the first by Chuck Palahniuk (the surname sounds like Eskimo for \"palooka\"--which somehow fits), walks a line between the straight and ironic--it isn't always clear if its glib sociological pronouncements are meant to be taken straight or as the ravings of a delusional mama's boy. But onscreen, when Pitt announces to the assembled fighters that they are the \"middle children of history\" with \"no purpose and no place\"--emasculated on one hand by the lack of a unifying crisis (a world war or depression) and on the other by lack of material wealth as promised by television--he seems meant to be intoning gospel. \"We are a generation of men raised by women,\" Tyler announces, and adds, \"If our fathers bail, what does that tell you about God?\" (I give up: What?)", "human fat) and small (he splices frames from porn flicks into kiddie movies). When Jack's apartment mysteriously explodes--along with his carefully chosen IKEA furniture--he moves into Tyler's squalid warehouse and helps to found a new religion: Fight Club,", "oblivion that's the strongest. \"Self-improvement,\" explains Tyler, \"is masturbation\"; self-destruction is the new way. Tyler's manifesto calls for an end to consumerism (\"Things you own end up owning you\"), and since society is going down (\"Martha Stewart", "Fincher and his screenwriter, Jim Uhls, seem to think they've broken new ground in Fight Club , that their metaphor for our discontents hits harder than anyone else's. Certainly it produces more bloody splatter. But 20 years ago, the same impulse was called punk and, as Greil Marcus documents in Lipstick Traces , it was other things before that. Yes, the mixture of Johnny Rotten, Jake La Motta, and Jesus is unique; and the Faludi-esque emasculation themes are more explicit. But there's something deeply movie-ish about the whole conceit, as if the novelist and director were weaned on Martin Scorsese pictures and never stopped dreaming of recapturing that first masochistic rush.", "Not to mention a hole in your head. Fight Club careers from one resonant satirical idea to the next without quite deciding whether its characters are full of crap or are Gen X prophets.", "Boys Do Bleed \n\n Fight Club is silly stuff, sensationalism that mistakes itself for satire, but it's also a brash and transporting piece of moviemaking, like Raging Bull on acid. The film opens with--literally--a surge of adrenalin, which travels through the bloodstream and into the brain of its protagonist, Jack (Edward Norton), who's viewed, as the camera pulls out of his insides, with a gun stuck in his mouth. How'd he get into this pickle? He's going to tell you, breezily, and the director, David Fincher, is going to illustrate his narrative--violently. Fincher ( Seven , 1995; The Game , 1997) is out to bombard you with so much feverish imagery that you have no choice but to succumb to the movie's reeling, punch-drunk worldview. By the end, you might feel as if you, too, have a mouthful of blood.", "F ight Club could use a few different perspectives: a woman's, obviously, but also an African-American's--someone who'd have a different take on the \"healing\" properties of violence. It's also unclear just what has emasculated Jack: Is it that he's a materialist or that the materials themselves (i.e., IKEA's lacquered particle boards) don't measure up to his fantasies of opulence? Is he motivated by spiritual hunger or envy? Tyler's subsequent idea of confining his group's mayhem to franchise coffee bars and corporate-subsidized art is a witty one--it's like a parody of neo-Nazism as re-enacted by yuppies. It might have been a howl if performed by, say, the troupe of artsy German nihilists in Joel and Ethan Coen's The Big Lebowski (1998). Somehow Brad Pitt doesn't have the same piquancy.", "is polishing brass on the Titanic \"), the only creative outlet left is annihilation. \"It's only after we've lost everything that we're free to do anything,\" he says.", "It always gives you a rush, though. At first, it goofs on the absurd feminization of an absurdly macho culture. An increasingly desperate insomniac, Jack finds relief (and release) only at meetings for the terminally ill. At a testicular cancer", "Until then, however, he has done a fabulous job of keeping it spinning. The most thrilling thing about Fight Club isn't what it says but how Uhls and Fincher pull you into its narrator's head and simulate his adrenalin rushes. A veteran of rock videos, Fincher is one of those filmmakers who helps make the case that MTV--along with digital editing--has transformed cinema for better as well as worse. The syntax has become more intricate. Voice-over narration, once considered uncinematic, is back in style, along with novelistic asides, digressions, fantasies, and flashbacks. To make a point, you can jazzily interject anything--even, as in Three Kings , a shot of a bullet slicing through internal organs. Films like Fight Club might not gel, but they have a breathless, free-associational quality that points to new possibilities in storytelling. Or maybe old possibilities: The language of movies hasn't seemed this unfettered since the pre-sound days of Sergei Eisenstein and Abel Gance.", "They cling to each other and sob. But Jack's idyll is rudely disrupted by--wouldn't you know it?--a woman. A dark-eyed, sepulchral head case named Marla Singer (Helena Bonham Carter) begins showing up at all the same disparate", "in which young males gather after hours in the basement of a nightclub to pound one another (and be pounded) to a bloody pulp. That last parenthesis isn't so parenthetical. In some ways, it's the longing to be beaten into", "Actually, Pitt isn't as terrible as usual: He's playing not a character but a conceit, and he can bask in his movie-idol arrogance, which seems to be the most authentic emotion he has. But the film belongs to Norton. As a ferocious skinhead in last year's American History X , Norton was taut and ropy, his long torso curled into a sneer; here, he's skinny and wilting, a quivering pansy. Even when he fights he doesn't transform--he's a raging wimp. The performance is marvelous, and it makes poetic sense in light of the movie's climactic twist. But that twist will annoy more people than it will delight, if only because it shifts the drama from the realm of the sociological to that of the psychoanalytic. The finale, scored with the Pixies' great \"Where Is My Mind?\" comes off facetiously--as if Fincher is throwing the movie away.", "in the morning,\" someone tells Brandon after a barroom brawl, and he takes the news with a glee that's almost mystical: \"I am????? Oh, shit!!!\" he cries, grinning. That might be my favorite moment in the picture, because", "role she has been longing for her whole life. In a redneck Nebraska bar, Brandon throws back a shot of whiskey and the gesture--a macho cliché--becomes an act of self-discovery. Every gesture does. \"You're gonna have a shiner", "group, he's enfolded in the ample arms of Bob (the singer Meat Loaf Aday), a former bodybuilder who ruined his health with steroids and now has \"bitch tits.\" Jack and Bob subscribe to a new form of male bonding:", "meetings for essentially the same voyeuristic ends, and the presence of this \"tourist\" makes it impossible for Jack to emote.", "Swank's ecstatic expression carries us through the next hour, as Brandon acts out his urban-cowboy fantasies--\"surfing\" from the bumper of a pickup truck, rolling in the mud, and straddling a barstool with one hand on a brewski and", "That the people with whom Brandon feels most at home would kill him if they knew his true gender is the movie's most tragic irony--and the one that lifts it out of the realm of gay-martyr hagiography and into something more complex and irreducible: a meditation on the irrelevance of gender. Peirce's triumph is to make these scenes at once exuberant (occasionally hilarious) and foreboding, so that all the seeds of Brandon's killing are right there on the screen. John (Peter Sarsgaard), one of his future rapists and murderers, calls him \"little buddy\" and seems almost attracted to him; Sarsgaard's performance is a finely chiseled study of how unresolved emotion can suddenly resolve itself into violence." ], [ "Fincher and his screenwriter, Jim Uhls, seem to think they've broken new ground in Fight Club , that their metaphor for our discontents hits harder than anyone else's. Certainly it produces more bloody splatter. But 20 years ago, the same impulse was called punk and, as Greil Marcus documents in Lipstick Traces , it was other things before that. Yes, the mixture of Johnny Rotten, Jake La Motta, and Jesus is unique; and the Faludi-esque emasculation themes are more explicit. But there's something deeply movie-ish about the whole conceit, as if the novelist and director were weaned on Martin Scorsese pictures and never stopped dreaming of recapturing that first masochistic rush.", "The novel, the first by Chuck Palahniuk (the surname sounds like Eskimo for \"palooka\"--which somehow fits), walks a line between the straight and ironic--it isn't always clear if its glib sociological pronouncements are meant to be taken straight or as the ravings of a delusional mama's boy. But onscreen, when Pitt announces to the assembled fighters that they are the \"middle children of history\" with \"no purpose and no place\"--emasculated on one hand by the lack of a unifying crisis (a world war or depression) and on the other by lack of material wealth as promised by television--he seems meant to be intoning gospel. \"We are a generation of men raised by women,\" Tyler announces, and adds, \"If our fathers bail, what does that tell you about God?\" (I give up: What?)", "Until then, however, he has done a fabulous job of keeping it spinning. The most thrilling thing about Fight Club isn't what it says but how Uhls and Fincher pull you into its narrator's head and simulate his adrenalin rushes. A veteran of rock videos, Fincher is one of those filmmakers who helps make the case that MTV--along with digital editing--has transformed cinema for better as well as worse. The syntax has become more intricate. Voice-over narration, once considered uncinematic, is back in style, along with novelistic asides, digressions, fantasies, and flashbacks. To make a point, you can jazzily interject anything--even, as in Three Kings , a shot of a bullet slicing through internal organs. Films like Fight Club might not gel, but they have a breathless, free-associational quality that points to new possibilities in storytelling. Or maybe old possibilities: The language of movies hasn't seemed this unfettered since the pre-sound days of Sergei Eisenstein and Abel Gance.", "Not to mention a hole in your head. Fight Club careers from one resonant satirical idea to the next without quite deciding whether its characters are full of crap or are Gen X prophets.", "Boys Do Bleed \n\n Fight Club is silly stuff, sensationalism that mistakes itself for satire, but it's also a brash and transporting piece of moviemaking, like Raging Bull on acid. The film opens with--literally--a surge of adrenalin, which travels through the bloodstream and into the brain of its protagonist, Jack (Edward Norton), who's viewed, as the camera pulls out of his insides, with a gun stuck in his mouth. How'd he get into this pickle? He's going to tell you, breezily, and the director, David Fincher, is going to illustrate his narrative--violently. Fincher ( Seven , 1995; The Game , 1997) is out to bombard you with so much feverish imagery that you have no choice but to succumb to the movie's reeling, punch-drunk worldview. By the end, you might feel as if you, too, have a mouthful of blood.", "human fat) and small (he splices frames from porn flicks into kiddie movies). When Jack's apartment mysteriously explodes--along with his carefully chosen IKEA furniture--he moves into Tyler's squalid warehouse and helps to found a new religion: Fight Club,", "F ight Club could use a few different perspectives: a woman's, obviously, but also an African-American's--someone who'd have a different take on the \"healing\" properties of violence. It's also unclear just what has emasculated Jack: Is it that he's a materialist or that the materials themselves (i.e., IKEA's lacquered particle boards) don't measure up to his fantasies of opulence? Is he motivated by spiritual hunger or envy? Tyler's subsequent idea of confining his group's mayhem to franchise coffee bars and corporate-subsidized art is a witty one--it's like a parody of neo-Nazism as re-enacted by yuppies. It might have been a howl if performed by, say, the troupe of artsy German nihilists in Joel and Ethan Coen's The Big Lebowski (1998). Somehow Brad Pitt doesn't have the same piquancy.", "Jack finds another outlet, though. On a plane, he meets Tyler Durden (Brad Pitt), a cryptic hipster with a penchant for subversive acts both large (he makes high-priced soaps from liposuctioned", "Actually, Pitt isn't as terrible as usual: He's playing not a character but a conceit, and he can bask in his movie-idol arrogance, which seems to be the most authentic emotion he has. But the film belongs to Norton. As a ferocious skinhead in last year's American History X , Norton was taut and ropy, his long torso curled into a sneer; here, he's skinny and wilting, a quivering pansy. Even when he fights he doesn't transform--he's a raging wimp. The performance is marvelous, and it makes poetic sense in light of the movie's climactic twist. But that twist will annoy more people than it will delight, if only because it shifts the drama from the realm of the sociological to that of the psychoanalytic. The finale, scored with the Pixies' great \"Where Is My Mind?\" comes off facetiously--as if Fincher is throwing the movie away.", "oblivion that's the strongest. \"Self-improvement,\" explains Tyler, \"is masturbation\"; self-destruction is the new way. Tyler's manifesto calls for an end to consumerism (\"Things you own end up owning you\"), and since society is going down (\"Martha Stewart", "in which young males gather after hours in the basement of a nightclub to pound one another (and be pounded) to a bloody pulp. That last parenthesis isn't so parenthetical. In some ways, it's the longing to be beaten into", "is polishing brass on the Titanic \"), the only creative outlet left is annihilation. \"It's only after we've lost everything that we're free to do anything,\" he says.", "It always gives you a rush, though. At first, it goofs on the absurd feminization of an absurdly macho culture. An increasingly desperate insomniac, Jack finds relief (and release) only at meetings for the terminally ill. At a testicular cancer", "in the morning,\" someone tells Brandon after a barroom brawl, and he takes the news with a glee that's almost mystical: \"I am????? Oh, shit!!!\" he cries, grinning. That might be my favorite moment in the picture, because", "They cling to each other and sob. But Jack's idyll is rudely disrupted by--wouldn't you know it?--a woman. A dark-eyed, sepulchral head case named Marla Singer (Helena Bonham Carter) begins showing up at all the same disparate", "role she has been longing for her whole life. In a redneck Nebraska bar, Brandon throws back a shot of whiskey and the gesture--a macho cliché--becomes an act of self-discovery. Every gesture does. \"You're gonna have a shiner", "Though harrowing, the second half of Boys Don't Cry isn't as great as the first. The early scenes evoke elation and dread simultaneously, the later ones just dread; and the last half-hour is unrelieved torture. What keeps the movie tantalizing is Chloë Sevigny's Lana, who might or might not know that Brandon is a girl but who's entranced by him anyway. With her lank hair, hooded eyes, and air of sleepy sensuality, Sevigny--maybe even more than Swank--embodies the mystery of sex that's at the core of Boys Don't Cry . Everything she does is deliberate, ironic, slightly unreadable--and unyielding. She's could be saying, \"I'm in this world but not of it. ... You'd never dream what's underneath.\"", "meetings for essentially the same voyeuristic ends, and the presence of this \"tourist\" makes it impossible for Jack to emote.", "That the people with whom Brandon feels most at home would kill him if they knew his true gender is the movie's most tragic irony--and the one that lifts it out of the realm of gay-martyr hagiography and into something more complex and irreducible: a meditation on the irrelevance of gender. Peirce's triumph is to make these scenes at once exuberant (occasionally hilarious) and foreboding, so that all the seeds of Brandon's killing are right there on the screen. John (Peter Sarsgaard), one of his future rapists and murderers, calls him \"little buddy\" and seems almost attracted to him; Sarsgaard's performance is a finely chiseled study of how unresolved emotion can suddenly resolve itself into violence.", ", which has apparently flopped but which you can still catch at second- and third-tier theaters. It looks peculiar--a Norman Rockwell painting with noir shadows. And its tale of a small town healed by a" ], [ "That the people with whom Brandon feels most at home would kill him if they knew his true gender is the movie's most tragic irony--and the one that lifts it out of the realm of gay-martyr hagiography and into something more complex and irreducible: a meditation on the irrelevance of gender. Peirce's triumph is to make these scenes at once exuberant (occasionally hilarious) and foreboding, so that all the seeds of Brandon's killing are right there on the screen. John (Peter Sarsgaard), one of his future rapists and murderers, calls him \"little buddy\" and seems almost attracted to him; Sarsgaard's performance is a finely chiseled study of how unresolved emotion can suddenly resolve itself into violence.", "in the morning,\" someone tells Brandon after a barroom brawl, and he takes the news with a glee that's almost mystical: \"I am????? Oh, shit!!!\" he cries, grinning. That might be my favorite moment in the picture, because", "Though harrowing, the second half of Boys Don't Cry isn't as great as the first. The early scenes evoke elation and dread simultaneously, the later ones just dread; and the last half-hour is unrelieved torture. What keeps the movie tantalizing is Chloë Sevigny's Lana, who might or might not know that Brandon is a girl but who's entranced by him anyway. With her lank hair, hooded eyes, and air of sleepy sensuality, Sevigny--maybe even more than Swank--embodies the mystery of sex that's at the core of Boys Don't Cry . Everything she does is deliberate, ironic, slightly unreadable--and unyielding. She's could be saying, \"I'm in this world but not of it. ... You'd never dream what's underneath.\"", "Swank's ecstatic expression carries us through the next hour, as Brandon acts out his urban-cowboy fantasies--\"surfing\" from the bumper of a pickup truck, rolling in the mud, and straddling a barstool with one hand on a brewski and", "The novel, the first by Chuck Palahniuk (the surname sounds like Eskimo for \"palooka\"--which somehow fits), walks a line between the straight and ironic--it isn't always clear if its glib sociological pronouncements are meant to be taken straight or as the ravings of a delusional mama's boy. But onscreen, when Pitt announces to the assembled fighters that they are the \"middle children of history\" with \"no purpose and no place\"--emasculated on one hand by the lack of a unifying crisis (a world war or depression) and on the other by lack of material wealth as promised by television--he seems meant to be intoning gospel. \"We are a generation of men raised by women,\" Tyler announces, and adds, \"If our fathers bail, what does that tell you about God?\" (I give up: What?)", "in which young males gather after hours in the basement of a nightclub to pound one another (and be pounded) to a bloody pulp. That last parenthesis isn't so parenthetical. In some ways, it's the longing to be beaten into", "role she has been longing for her whole life. In a redneck Nebraska bar, Brandon throws back a shot of whiskey and the gesture--a macho cliché--becomes an act of self-discovery. Every gesture does. \"You're gonna have a shiner", "shorn of her hated female tresses and becoming \"Brandon,\" who swaggers around in tight jeans and leather jackets. The joy is in watching the actor transform, and I don't just mean Swank: I mean Teena Brandon playing Brandon Teena--the", "human fat) and small (he splices frames from porn flicks into kiddie movies). When Jack's apartment mysteriously explodes--along with his carefully chosen IKEA furniture--he moves into Tyler's squalid warehouse and helps to found a new religion: Fight Club,", "It always gives you a rush, though. At first, it goofs on the absurd feminization of an absurdly macho culture. An increasingly desperate insomniac, Jack finds relief (and release) only at meetings for the terminally ill. At a testicular cancer", "oblivion that's the strongest. \"Self-improvement,\" explains Tyler, \"is masturbation\"; self-destruction is the new way. Tyler's manifesto calls for an end to consumerism (\"Things you own end up owning you\"), and since society is going down (\"Martha Stewart", "Jack finds another outlet, though. On a plane, he meets Tyler Durden (Brad Pitt), a cryptic hipster with a penchant for subversive acts both large (he makes high-priced soaps from liposuctioned", "F ight Club could use a few different perspectives: a woman's, obviously, but also an African-American's--someone who'd have a different take on the \"healing\" properties of violence. It's also unclear just what has emasculated Jack: Is it that he's a materialist or that the materials themselves (i.e., IKEA's lacquered particle boards) don't measure up to his fantasies of opulence? Is he motivated by spiritual hunger or envy? Tyler's subsequent idea of confining his group's mayhem to franchise coffee bars and corporate-subsidized art is a witty one--it's like a parody of neo-Nazism as re-enacted by yuppies. It might have been a howl if performed by, say, the troupe of artsy German nihilists in Joel and Ethan Coen's The Big Lebowski (1998). Somehow Brad Pitt doesn't have the same piquancy.", "Boys Do Bleed \n\n Fight Club is silly stuff, sensationalism that mistakes itself for satire, but it's also a brash and transporting piece of moviemaking, like Raging Bull on acid. The film opens with--literally--a surge of adrenalin, which travels through the bloodstream and into the brain of its protagonist, Jack (Edward Norton), who's viewed, as the camera pulls out of his insides, with a gun stuck in his mouth. How'd he get into this pickle? He's going to tell you, breezily, and the director, David Fincher, is going to illustrate his narrative--violently. Fincher ( Seven , 1995; The Game , 1997) is out to bombard you with so much feverish imagery that you have no choice but to succumb to the movie's reeling, punch-drunk worldview. By the end, you might feel as if you, too, have a mouthful of blood.", "An actress named Hilary Swank gives one of the most rapturous performances I've ever seen as the cross-dressing Brandon Teena (a k a Teena Brandon) in Kimberly Peirce's stark and astonishingly", "Fincher and his screenwriter, Jim Uhls, seem to think they've broken new ground in Fight Club , that their metaphor for our discontents hits harder than anyone else's. Certainly it produces more bloody splatter. But 20 years ago, the same impulse was called punk and, as Greil Marcus documents in Lipstick Traces , it was other things before that. Yes, the mixture of Johnny Rotten, Jake La Motta, and Jesus is unique; and the Faludi-esque emasculation themes are more explicit. But there's something deeply movie-ish about the whole conceit, as if the novelist and director were weaned on Martin Scorsese pictures and never stopped dreaming of recapturing that first masochistic rush.", "group, he's enfolded in the ample arms of Bob (the singer Meat Loaf Aday), a former bodybuilder who ruined his health with steroids and now has \"bitch tits.\" Jack and Bob subscribe to a new form of male bonding:", "meetings for essentially the same voyeuristic ends, and the presence of this \"tourist\" makes it impossible for Jack to emote.", "is polishing brass on the Titanic \"), the only creative outlet left is annihilation. \"It's only after we've lost everything that we're free to do anything,\" he says.", "Not to mention a hole in your head. Fight Club careers from one resonant satirical idea to the next without quite deciding whether its characters are full of crap or are Gen X prophets." ], [ ", which has apparently flopped but which you can still catch at second- and third-tier theaters. It looks peculiar--a Norman Rockwell painting with noir shadows. And its tale of a small town healed by a", "in the morning,\" someone tells Brandon after a barroom brawl, and he takes the news with a glee that's almost mystical: \"I am????? Oh, shit!!!\" he cries, grinning. That might be my favorite moment in the picture, because", "It's hard to make a serious case for Lawrence Kasdan's Mumford", "posseses the cinema's most expressive honking-nasal voice and who slumps through the movie like the world's most lyrical anti-ballerina. Even her puffy cheeks are eloquent: They made me think of Mumford as the home of the psychological mumps.", "Fincher and his screenwriter, Jim Uhls, seem to think they've broken new ground in Fight Club , that their metaphor for our discontents hits harder than anyone else's. Certainly it produces more bloody splatter. But 20 years ago, the same impulse was called punk and, as Greil Marcus documents in Lipstick Traces , it was other things before that. Yes, the mixture of Johnny Rotten, Jake La Motta, and Jesus is unique; and the Faludi-esque emasculation themes are more explicit. But there's something deeply movie-ish about the whole conceit, as if the novelist and director were weaned on Martin Scorsese pictures and never stopped dreaming of recapturing that first masochistic rush.", "Until then, however, he has done a fabulous job of keeping it spinning. The most thrilling thing about Fight Club isn't what it says but how Uhls and Fincher pull you into its narrator's head and simulate his adrenalin rushes. A veteran of rock videos, Fincher is one of those filmmakers who helps make the case that MTV--along with digital editing--has transformed cinema for better as well as worse. The syntax has become more intricate. Voice-over narration, once considered uncinematic, is back in style, along with novelistic asides, digressions, fantasies, and flashbacks. To make a point, you can jazzily interject anything--even, as in Three Kings , a shot of a bullet slicing through internal organs. Films like Fight Club might not gel, but they have a breathless, free-associational quality that points to new possibilities in storytelling. Or maybe old possibilities: The language of movies hasn't seemed this unfettered since the pre-sound days of Sergei Eisenstein and Abel Gance.", "Actually, Pitt isn't as terrible as usual: He's playing not a character but a conceit, and he can bask in his movie-idol arrogance, which seems to be the most authentic emotion he has. But the film belongs to Norton. As a ferocious skinhead in last year's American History X , Norton was taut and ropy, his long torso curled into a sneer; here, he's skinny and wilting, a quivering pansy. Even when he fights he doesn't transform--he's a raging wimp. The performance is marvelous, and it makes poetic sense in light of the movie's climactic twist. But that twist will annoy more people than it will delight, if only because it shifts the drama from the realm of the sociological to that of the psychoanalytic. The finale, scored with the Pixies' great \"Where Is My Mind?\" comes off facetiously--as if Fincher is throwing the movie away.", "The novel, the first by Chuck Palahniuk (the surname sounds like Eskimo for \"palooka\"--which somehow fits), walks a line between the straight and ironic--it isn't always clear if its glib sociological pronouncements are meant to be taken straight or as the ravings of a delusional mama's boy. But onscreen, when Pitt announces to the assembled fighters that they are the \"middle children of history\" with \"no purpose and no place\"--emasculated on one hand by the lack of a unifying crisis (a world war or depression) and on the other by lack of material wealth as promised by television--he seems meant to be intoning gospel. \"We are a generation of men raised by women,\" Tyler announces, and adds, \"If our fathers bail, what does that tell you about God?\" (I give up: What?)", "human fat) and small (he splices frames from porn flicks into kiddie movies). When Jack's apartment mysteriously explodes--along with his carefully chosen IKEA furniture--he moves into Tyler's squalid warehouse and helps to found a new religion: Fight Club,", "That the people with whom Brandon feels most at home would kill him if they knew his true gender is the movie's most tragic irony--and the one that lifts it out of the realm of gay-martyr hagiography and into something more complex and irreducible: a meditation on the irrelevance of gender. Peirce's triumph is to make these scenes at once exuberant (occasionally hilarious) and foreboding, so that all the seeds of Brandon's killing are right there on the screen. John (Peter Sarsgaard), one of his future rapists and murderers, calls him \"little buddy\" and seems almost attracted to him; Sarsgaard's performance is a finely chiseled study of how unresolved emotion can suddenly resolve itself into violence.", "is polishing brass on the Titanic \"), the only creative outlet left is annihilation. \"It's only after we've lost everything that we're free to do anything,\" he says.", "shorn of her hated female tresses and becoming \"Brandon,\" who swaggers around in tight jeans and leather jackets. The joy is in watching the actor transform, and I don't just mean Swank: I mean Teena Brandon playing Brandon Teena--the", "Though harrowing, the second half of Boys Don't Cry isn't as great as the first. The early scenes evoke elation and dread simultaneously, the later ones just dread; and the last half-hour is unrelieved torture. What keeps the movie tantalizing is Chloë Sevigny's Lana, who might or might not know that Brandon is a girl but who's entranced by him anyway. With her lank hair, hooded eyes, and air of sleepy sensuality, Sevigny--maybe even more than Swank--embodies the mystery of sex that's at the core of Boys Don't Cry . Everything she does is deliberate, ironic, slightly unreadable--and unyielding. She's could be saying, \"I'm in this world but not of it. ... You'd never dream what's underneath.\"", "Not to mention a hole in your head. Fight Club careers from one resonant satirical idea to the next without quite deciding whether its characters are full of crap or are Gen X prophets.", "I n brief: If a friend tells you you'll love Happy Texas , rethink the friendship. This clunky mistaken-identity comedy about escaped cons who impersonate gay pageant directors doesn't even make sense on its own low farcical terms; it's mostly one lame homo joke after another. The only bright spot is Steve Zahn, who could be the offspring of Michael J. Fox and Crispin Glover if they'd mated on the set of Back to the Future (1985).", "Boys Do Bleed \n\n Fight Club is silly stuff, sensationalism that mistakes itself for satire, but it's also a brash and transporting piece of moviemaking, like Raging Bull on acid. The film opens with--literally--a surge of adrenalin, which travels through the bloodstream and into the brain of its protagonist, Jack (Edward Norton), who's viewed, as the camera pulls out of his insides, with a gun stuck in his mouth. How'd he get into this pickle? He's going to tell you, breezily, and the director, David Fincher, is going to illustrate his narrative--violently. Fincher ( Seven , 1995; The Game , 1997) is out to bombard you with so much feverish imagery that you have no choice but to succumb to the movie's reeling, punch-drunk worldview. By the end, you might feel as if you, too, have a mouthful of blood.", "depressive (Loren Dean) posing as a psychologist is full of doddering misconceptions about psychotherapy. I almost don't know why I loved it, but the relaxed pacing and the witty turns by Martin Short, Ted Danson, David Paymer, and Mary", "Swank's ecstatic expression carries us through the next hour, as Brandon acts out his urban-cowboy fantasies--\"surfing\" from the bumper of a pickup truck, rolling in the mud, and straddling a barstool with one hand on a brewski and", "oblivion that's the strongest. \"Self-improvement,\" explains Tyler, \"is masturbation\"; self-destruction is the new way. Tyler's manifesto calls for an end to consumerism (\"Things you own end up owning you\"), and since society is going down (\"Martha Stewart", "role she has been longing for her whole life. In a redneck Nebraska bar, Brandon throws back a shot of whiskey and the gesture--a macho cliché--becomes an act of self-discovery. Every gesture does. \"You're gonna have a shiner" ], [ "Though harrowing, the second half of Boys Don't Cry isn't as great as the first. The early scenes evoke elation and dread simultaneously, the later ones just dread; and the last half-hour is unrelieved torture. What keeps the movie tantalizing is Chloë Sevigny's Lana, who might or might not know that Brandon is a girl but who's entranced by him anyway. With her lank hair, hooded eyes, and air of sleepy sensuality, Sevigny--maybe even more than Swank--embodies the mystery of sex that's at the core of Boys Don't Cry . Everything she does is deliberate, ironic, slightly unreadable--and unyielding. She's could be saying, \"I'm in this world but not of it. ... You'd never dream what's underneath.\"", "That the people with whom Brandon feels most at home would kill him if they knew his true gender is the movie's most tragic irony--and the one that lifts it out of the realm of gay-martyr hagiography and into something more complex and irreducible: a meditation on the irrelevance of gender. Peirce's triumph is to make these scenes at once exuberant (occasionally hilarious) and foreboding, so that all the seeds of Brandon's killing are right there on the screen. John (Peter Sarsgaard), one of his future rapists and murderers, calls him \"little buddy\" and seems almost attracted to him; Sarsgaard's performance is a finely chiseled study of how unresolved emotion can suddenly resolve itself into violence.", "The novel, the first by Chuck Palahniuk (the surname sounds like Eskimo for \"palooka\"--which somehow fits), walks a line between the straight and ironic--it isn't always clear if its glib sociological pronouncements are meant to be taken straight or as the ravings of a delusional mama's boy. But onscreen, when Pitt announces to the assembled fighters that they are the \"middle children of history\" with \"no purpose and no place\"--emasculated on one hand by the lack of a unifying crisis (a world war or depression) and on the other by lack of material wealth as promised by television--he seems meant to be intoning gospel. \"We are a generation of men raised by women,\" Tyler announces, and adds, \"If our fathers bail, what does that tell you about God?\" (I give up: What?)", "shorn of her hated female tresses and becoming \"Brandon,\" who swaggers around in tight jeans and leather jackets. The joy is in watching the actor transform, and I don't just mean Swank: I mean Teena Brandon playing Brandon Teena--the", "An actress named Hilary Swank gives one of the most rapturous performances I've ever seen as the cross-dressing Brandon Teena (a k a Teena Brandon) in Kimberly Peirce's stark and astonishingly", "role she has been longing for her whole life. In a redneck Nebraska bar, Brandon throws back a shot of whiskey and the gesture--a macho cliché--becomes an act of self-discovery. Every gesture does. \"You're gonna have a shiner", "beautiful debut feature, Boys Don't Cry . The movie opens with Teena being", "Boys Do Bleed \n\n Fight Club is silly stuff, sensationalism that mistakes itself for satire, but it's also a brash and transporting piece of moviemaking, like Raging Bull on acid. The film opens with--literally--a surge of adrenalin, which travels through the bloodstream and into the brain of its protagonist, Jack (Edward Norton), who's viewed, as the camera pulls out of his insides, with a gun stuck in his mouth. How'd he get into this pickle? He's going to tell you, breezily, and the director, David Fincher, is going to illustrate his narrative--violently. Fincher ( Seven , 1995; The Game , 1997) is out to bombard you with so much feverish imagery that you have no choice but to succumb to the movie's reeling, punch-drunk worldview. By the end, you might feel as if you, too, have a mouthful of blood.", "in the morning,\" someone tells Brandon after a barroom brawl, and he takes the news with a glee that's almost mystical: \"I am????? Oh, shit!!!\" he cries, grinning. That might be my favorite moment in the picture, because", "It always gives you a rush, though. At first, it goofs on the absurd feminization of an absurdly macho culture. An increasingly desperate insomniac, Jack finds relief (and release) only at meetings for the terminally ill. At a testicular cancer", "Fincher and his screenwriter, Jim Uhls, seem to think they've broken new ground in Fight Club , that their metaphor for our discontents hits harder than anyone else's. Certainly it produces more bloody splatter. But 20 years ago, the same impulse was called punk and, as Greil Marcus documents in Lipstick Traces , it was other things before that. Yes, the mixture of Johnny Rotten, Jake La Motta, and Jesus is unique; and the Faludi-esque emasculation themes are more explicit. But there's something deeply movie-ish about the whole conceit, as if the novelist and director were weaned on Martin Scorsese pictures and never stopped dreaming of recapturing that first masochistic rush.", "Actually, Pitt isn't as terrible as usual: He's playing not a character but a conceit, and he can bask in his movie-idol arrogance, which seems to be the most authentic emotion he has. But the film belongs to Norton. As a ferocious skinhead in last year's American History X , Norton was taut and ropy, his long torso curled into a sneer; here, he's skinny and wilting, a quivering pansy. Even when he fights he doesn't transform--he's a raging wimp. The performance is marvelous, and it makes poetic sense in light of the movie's climactic twist. But that twist will annoy more people than it will delight, if only because it shifts the drama from the realm of the sociological to that of the psychoanalytic. The finale, scored with the Pixies' great \"Where Is My Mind?\" comes off facetiously--as if Fincher is throwing the movie away.", "in which young males gather after hours in the basement of a nightclub to pound one another (and be pounded) to a bloody pulp. That last parenthesis isn't so parenthetical. In some ways, it's the longing to be beaten into", "Swank's ecstatic expression carries us through the next hour, as Brandon acts out his urban-cowboy fantasies--\"surfing\" from the bumper of a pickup truck, rolling in the mud, and straddling a barstool with one hand on a brewski and", "posseses the cinema's most expressive honking-nasal voice and who slumps through the movie like the world's most lyrical anti-ballerina. Even her puffy cheeks are eloquent: They made me think of Mumford as the home of the psychological mumps.", "F ight Club could use a few different perspectives: a woman's, obviously, but also an African-American's--someone who'd have a different take on the \"healing\" properties of violence. It's also unclear just what has emasculated Jack: Is it that he's a materialist or that the materials themselves (i.e., IKEA's lacquered particle boards) don't measure up to his fantasies of opulence? Is he motivated by spiritual hunger or envy? Tyler's subsequent idea of confining his group's mayhem to franchise coffee bars and corporate-subsidized art is a witty one--it's like a parody of neo-Nazism as re-enacted by yuppies. It might have been a howl if performed by, say, the troupe of artsy German nihilists in Joel and Ethan Coen's The Big Lebowski (1998). Somehow Brad Pitt doesn't have the same piquancy.", "Not to mention a hole in your head. Fight Club careers from one resonant satirical idea to the next without quite deciding whether its characters are full of crap or are Gen X prophets.", "meetings for essentially the same voyeuristic ends, and the presence of this \"tourist\" makes it impossible for Jack to emote.", "group, he's enfolded in the ample arms of Bob (the singer Meat Loaf Aday), a former bodybuilder who ruined his health with steroids and now has \"bitch tits.\" Jack and Bob subscribe to a new form of male bonding:", "human fat) and small (he splices frames from porn flicks into kiddie movies). When Jack's apartment mysteriously explodes--along with his carefully chosen IKEA furniture--he moves into Tyler's squalid warehouse and helps to found a new religion: Fight Club," ], [ "posseses the cinema's most expressive honking-nasal voice and who slumps through the movie like the world's most lyrical anti-ballerina. Even her puffy cheeks are eloquent: They made me think of Mumford as the home of the psychological mumps.", "It's hard to make a serious case for Lawrence Kasdan's Mumford", "The novel, the first by Chuck Palahniuk (the surname sounds like Eskimo for \"palooka\"--which somehow fits), walks a line between the straight and ironic--it isn't always clear if its glib sociological pronouncements are meant to be taken straight or as the ravings of a delusional mama's boy. But onscreen, when Pitt announces to the assembled fighters that they are the \"middle children of history\" with \"no purpose and no place\"--emasculated on one hand by the lack of a unifying crisis (a world war or depression) and on the other by lack of material wealth as promised by television--he seems meant to be intoning gospel. \"We are a generation of men raised by women,\" Tyler announces, and adds, \"If our fathers bail, what does that tell you about God?\" (I give up: What?)", "in the morning,\" someone tells Brandon after a barroom brawl, and he takes the news with a glee that's almost mystical: \"I am????? Oh, shit!!!\" he cries, grinning. That might be my favorite moment in the picture, because", "meetings for essentially the same voyeuristic ends, and the presence of this \"tourist\" makes it impossible for Jack to emote.", "Fincher and his screenwriter, Jim Uhls, seem to think they've broken new ground in Fight Club , that their metaphor for our discontents hits harder than anyone else's. Certainly it produces more bloody splatter. But 20 years ago, the same impulse was called punk and, as Greil Marcus documents in Lipstick Traces , it was other things before that. Yes, the mixture of Johnny Rotten, Jake La Motta, and Jesus is unique; and the Faludi-esque emasculation themes are more explicit. But there's something deeply movie-ish about the whole conceit, as if the novelist and director were weaned on Martin Scorsese pictures and never stopped dreaming of recapturing that first masochistic rush.", "is polishing brass on the Titanic \"), the only creative outlet left is annihilation. \"It's only after we've lost everything that we're free to do anything,\" he says.", "oblivion that's the strongest. \"Self-improvement,\" explains Tyler, \"is masturbation\"; self-destruction is the new way. Tyler's manifesto calls for an end to consumerism (\"Things you own end up owning you\"), and since society is going down (\"Martha Stewart", "human fat) and small (he splices frames from porn flicks into kiddie movies). When Jack's apartment mysteriously explodes--along with his carefully chosen IKEA furniture--he moves into Tyler's squalid warehouse and helps to found a new religion: Fight Club,", "group, he's enfolded in the ample arms of Bob (the singer Meat Loaf Aday), a former bodybuilder who ruined his health with steroids and now has \"bitch tits.\" Jack and Bob subscribe to a new form of male bonding:", "Swank's ecstatic expression carries us through the next hour, as Brandon acts out his urban-cowboy fantasies--\"surfing\" from the bumper of a pickup truck, rolling in the mud, and straddling a barstool with one hand on a brewski and", "in which young males gather after hours in the basement of a nightclub to pound one another (and be pounded) to a bloody pulp. That last parenthesis isn't so parenthetical. In some ways, it's the longing to be beaten into", "depressive (Loren Dean) posing as a psychologist is full of doddering misconceptions about psychotherapy. I almost don't know why I loved it, but the relaxed pacing and the witty turns by Martin Short, Ted Danson, David Paymer, and Mary", "That the people with whom Brandon feels most at home would kill him if they knew his true gender is the movie's most tragic irony--and the one that lifts it out of the realm of gay-martyr hagiography and into something more complex and irreducible: a meditation on the irrelevance of gender. Peirce's triumph is to make these scenes at once exuberant (occasionally hilarious) and foreboding, so that all the seeds of Brandon's killing are right there on the screen. John (Peter Sarsgaard), one of his future rapists and murderers, calls him \"little buddy\" and seems almost attracted to him; Sarsgaard's performance is a finely chiseled study of how unresolved emotion can suddenly resolve itself into violence.", "It always gives you a rush, though. At first, it goofs on the absurd feminization of an absurdly macho culture. An increasingly desperate insomniac, Jack finds relief (and release) only at meetings for the terminally ill. At a testicular cancer", "role she has been longing for her whole life. In a redneck Nebraska bar, Brandon throws back a shot of whiskey and the gesture--a macho cliché--becomes an act of self-discovery. Every gesture does. \"You're gonna have a shiner", "Actually, Pitt isn't as terrible as usual: He's playing not a character but a conceit, and he can bask in his movie-idol arrogance, which seems to be the most authentic emotion he has. But the film belongs to Norton. As a ferocious skinhead in last year's American History X , Norton was taut and ropy, his long torso curled into a sneer; here, he's skinny and wilting, a quivering pansy. Even when he fights he doesn't transform--he's a raging wimp. The performance is marvelous, and it makes poetic sense in light of the movie's climactic twist. But that twist will annoy more people than it will delight, if only because it shifts the drama from the realm of the sociological to that of the psychoanalytic. The finale, scored with the Pixies' great \"Where Is My Mind?\" comes off facetiously--as if Fincher is throwing the movie away.", "McDonnell surely helped. I can't decide if the weirdly affectless Dean is inspired or inept, but my indecision suggests why he works in the role. There's no doubt, however, about his even more depressive love object, Hope Davis, who", "shorn of her hated female tresses and becoming \"Brandon,\" who swaggers around in tight jeans and leather jackets. The joy is in watching the actor transform, and I don't just mean Swank: I mean Teena Brandon playing Brandon Teena--the", "Not to mention a hole in your head. Fight Club careers from one resonant satirical idea to the next without quite deciding whether its characters are full of crap or are Gen X prophets." ], [ "McDonnell surely helped. I can't decide if the weirdly affectless Dean is inspired or inept, but my indecision suggests why he works in the role. There's no doubt, however, about his even more depressive love object, Hope Davis, who", "Actually, Pitt isn't as terrible as usual: He's playing not a character but a conceit, and he can bask in his movie-idol arrogance, which seems to be the most authentic emotion he has. But the film belongs to Norton. As a ferocious skinhead in last year's American History X , Norton was taut and ropy, his long torso curled into a sneer; here, he's skinny and wilting, a quivering pansy. Even when he fights he doesn't transform--he's a raging wimp. The performance is marvelous, and it makes poetic sense in light of the movie's climactic twist. But that twist will annoy more people than it will delight, if only because it shifts the drama from the realm of the sociological to that of the psychoanalytic. The finale, scored with the Pixies' great \"Where Is My Mind?\" comes off facetiously--as if Fincher is throwing the movie away.", "shorn of her hated female tresses and becoming \"Brandon,\" who swaggers around in tight jeans and leather jackets. The joy is in watching the actor transform, and I don't just mean Swank: I mean Teena Brandon playing Brandon Teena--the", "depressive (Loren Dean) posing as a psychologist is full of doddering misconceptions about psychotherapy. I almost don't know why I loved it, but the relaxed pacing and the witty turns by Martin Short, Ted Danson, David Paymer, and Mary", ", which has apparently flopped but which you can still catch at second- and third-tier theaters. It looks peculiar--a Norman Rockwell painting with noir shadows. And its tale of a small town healed by a", "Though harrowing, the second half of Boys Don't Cry isn't as great as the first. The early scenes evoke elation and dread simultaneously, the later ones just dread; and the last half-hour is unrelieved torture. What keeps the movie tantalizing is Chloë Sevigny's Lana, who might or might not know that Brandon is a girl but who's entranced by him anyway. With her lank hair, hooded eyes, and air of sleepy sensuality, Sevigny--maybe even more than Swank--embodies the mystery of sex that's at the core of Boys Don't Cry . Everything she does is deliberate, ironic, slightly unreadable--and unyielding. She's could be saying, \"I'm in this world but not of it. ... You'd never dream what's underneath.\"", "An actress named Hilary Swank gives one of the most rapturous performances I've ever seen as the cross-dressing Brandon Teena (a k a Teena Brandon) in Kimberly Peirce's stark and astonishingly", "The novel, the first by Chuck Palahniuk (the surname sounds like Eskimo for \"palooka\"--which somehow fits), walks a line between the straight and ironic--it isn't always clear if its glib sociological pronouncements are meant to be taken straight or as the ravings of a delusional mama's boy. But onscreen, when Pitt announces to the assembled fighters that they are the \"middle children of history\" with \"no purpose and no place\"--emasculated on one hand by the lack of a unifying crisis (a world war or depression) and on the other by lack of material wealth as promised by television--he seems meant to be intoning gospel. \"We are a generation of men raised by women,\" Tyler announces, and adds, \"If our fathers bail, what does that tell you about God?\" (I give up: What?)", "in the morning,\" someone tells Brandon after a barroom brawl, and he takes the news with a glee that's almost mystical: \"I am????? Oh, shit!!!\" he cries, grinning. That might be my favorite moment in the picture, because", "role she has been longing for her whole life. In a redneck Nebraska bar, Brandon throws back a shot of whiskey and the gesture--a macho cliché--becomes an act of self-discovery. Every gesture does. \"You're gonna have a shiner", "I n brief: If a friend tells you you'll love Happy Texas , rethink the friendship. This clunky mistaken-identity comedy about escaped cons who impersonate gay pageant directors doesn't even make sense on its own low farcical terms; it's mostly one lame homo joke after another. The only bright spot is Steve Zahn, who could be the offspring of Michael J. Fox and Crispin Glover if they'd mated on the set of Back to the Future (1985).", "posseses the cinema's most expressive honking-nasal voice and who slumps through the movie like the world's most lyrical anti-ballerina. Even her puffy cheeks are eloquent: They made me think of Mumford as the home of the psychological mumps.", "That the people with whom Brandon feels most at home would kill him if they knew his true gender is the movie's most tragic irony--and the one that lifts it out of the realm of gay-martyr hagiography and into something more complex and irreducible: a meditation on the irrelevance of gender. Peirce's triumph is to make these scenes at once exuberant (occasionally hilarious) and foreboding, so that all the seeds of Brandon's killing are right there on the screen. John (Peter Sarsgaard), one of his future rapists and murderers, calls him \"little buddy\" and seems almost attracted to him; Sarsgaard's performance is a finely chiseled study of how unresolved emotion can suddenly resolve itself into violence.", "meetings for essentially the same voyeuristic ends, and the presence of this \"tourist\" makes it impossible for Jack to emote.", "Swank's ecstatic expression carries us through the next hour, as Brandon acts out his urban-cowboy fantasies--\"surfing\" from the bumper of a pickup truck, rolling in the mud, and straddling a barstool with one hand on a brewski and", "Fincher and his screenwriter, Jim Uhls, seem to think they've broken new ground in Fight Club , that their metaphor for our discontents hits harder than anyone else's. Certainly it produces more bloody splatter. But 20 years ago, the same impulse was called punk and, as Greil Marcus documents in Lipstick Traces , it was other things before that. Yes, the mixture of Johnny Rotten, Jake La Motta, and Jesus is unique; and the Faludi-esque emasculation themes are more explicit. But there's something deeply movie-ish about the whole conceit, as if the novelist and director were weaned on Martin Scorsese pictures and never stopped dreaming of recapturing that first masochistic rush.", "group, he's enfolded in the ample arms of Bob (the singer Meat Loaf Aday), a former bodybuilder who ruined his health with steroids and now has \"bitch tits.\" Jack and Bob subscribe to a new form of male bonding:", "Until then, however, he has done a fabulous job of keeping it spinning. The most thrilling thing about Fight Club isn't what it says but how Uhls and Fincher pull you into its narrator's head and simulate his adrenalin rushes. A veteran of rock videos, Fincher is one of those filmmakers who helps make the case that MTV--along with digital editing--has transformed cinema for better as well as worse. The syntax has become more intricate. Voice-over narration, once considered uncinematic, is back in style, along with novelistic asides, digressions, fantasies, and flashbacks. To make a point, you can jazzily interject anything--even, as in Three Kings , a shot of a bullet slicing through internal organs. Films like Fight Club might not gel, but they have a breathless, free-associational quality that points to new possibilities in storytelling. Or maybe old possibilities: The language of movies hasn't seemed this unfettered since the pre-sound days of Sergei Eisenstein and Abel Gance.", "F ight Club could use a few different perspectives: a woman's, obviously, but also an African-American's--someone who'd have a different take on the \"healing\" properties of violence. It's also unclear just what has emasculated Jack: Is it that he's a materialist or that the materials themselves (i.e., IKEA's lacquered particle boards) don't measure up to his fantasies of opulence? Is he motivated by spiritual hunger or envy? Tyler's subsequent idea of confining his group's mayhem to franchise coffee bars and corporate-subsidized art is a witty one--it's like a parody of neo-Nazism as re-enacted by yuppies. It might have been a howl if performed by, say, the troupe of artsy German nihilists in Joel and Ethan Coen's The Big Lebowski (1998). Somehow Brad Pitt doesn't have the same piquancy.", "It always gives you a rush, though. At first, it goofs on the absurd feminization of an absurdly macho culture. An increasingly desperate insomniac, Jack finds relief (and release) only at meetings for the terminally ill. At a testicular cancer" ] ]
train	26957	[ "What is a star mother?", "Why doesn't Martha want the general to bring Terry home?", "How has being a star mother changed Martha?", "What does Martha think about the TV reporter?", "Why doesn't Martha's description of Terry fit what the reporter considers to be the norm?", "Why does Martha wear Terry's jacket?", "How long did Martha spend outside looking at the stars waiting for Terry's first pass?", "Why does Martha seem so calm when Terry's death is confirmed?" ]	[ [ "A star mother is a mother who becomes a celebrity.", "A star mother is the mother of an astronaut.", "A star mother is the mother of someone in the military.", " A star mother is the mother of a celebrity." ], [ "Martha does not want to be blamed for spending taxpayers' money on an expensive search and rescue operation.", "Martha feels Terry would want to spend eternity amongst the stars.", "Martha does not want the media circus to continue.", "Martha knows the same kind of accident or worse could happen to the search and rescue team." ], [ "Martha has become more extroverted", "She has a new appreciation for the stars.", "She has become conceited thanks to her newfound fame.", "Martha's new celebrity status has doubled her egg business." ], [ "She thinks the reporter is terribly polite.", "She thinks the reporter is a suave young man.", "She thinks the reporter is twisting her words to fit his narrative.", "She thinks the reporter is pushy." ], [ "Terry is passionate about space exploration.", "Terry didn't like football.", "Terry is an only child.", "Terry is shy. A bookworm, who doesn't play sports." ], [ "The reporter asked her to wear Terry's jacket.", "She could see her breath in the air.", "She wants to feel close to Terry.", "Terry's jacket reminds the neighbors that she is a star mother." ], [ "Two to three hours", "Less than an hour", "More than three hours", "Between one and two hours" ], [ "Martha made peace with Terry's death in the hours since the general's last telegram.", "After communing with the stars in the afternoon, Martha realizes that this is the way Terry would want to go.", "Martha is very angry with the general and is doing everything in her power to not yell at him.", "Martha is in shock. The reality of Terry's death has yet to set in." ] ]	[ 2, 2, 2, 3, 4, 3, 3, 1 ]	[ 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 1 ]	[ [ "STAR MOTHER\nBy ROBERT F. YOUNG\nA touching story of the most\n enduring love in all eternity.\nThat\n night her son was the\n first star.\n\n\n She stood motionless in the\n garden, one hand pressed against\n her heart, watching him rise\n above the fields where he had\n played as a boy, where he had\n worked as a young man; and she\n wondered whether he was thinking\n of those fields now, whether\n he was thinking of her standing\n alone in the April night with her\n memories; whether he was\n thinking of the verandahed\n house behind her, with its empty\n rooms and silent halls, that once\n upon a time had been his birthplace.", "She rose with the sun and fed\n the chickens, fixed and ate her\n breakfast, collected the eggs and\n put them in their cardboard\n boxes, then started out on her\n Wednesday morning run. \"My\n land, Martha, I don't see how\n you stand it with him way up\n there! Doesn't it get on your\nnerves\n?\" (\"Yes ... Yes, it\n does.\") \"Martha, when are they\n bringing him back down?\"\n (\"Today ...\nToday\n!\") \"It must\n be wonderful being a star mother,\n Martha.\" (\"Yes, it is—in a\n way.\")\n\n\n Wonderful ... and terrible.\n\n\n If only he can last it out for\n a few more hours, she thought.\n If only they can bring him down\n safe and sound. Then the vigil\n will be over, and some other\n mother can take over the awesome\n responsibility of having a\n son become a star—", "She raised her eyes to the\n patch of sky where her son had\n passed in his shining metal sarcophagus.\n Sirius blossomed\n there, blue-white and beautiful.\n She raised her eyes still higher—and\n beheld the vast parterre\n of Orion with its central motif\n of vivid forget-me-nots, its far-flung\n blooms of Betelguese and\n Rigel, of Bellatrix and Saiph ...\n And higher yet—and there\n flamed the exquisite flower beds\n of Taurus and Gemini, there\n burgeoned the riotous wreath of\n the Crab; there lay the pulsing\n petals of the Pleiades ... And\n down the ecliptic garden path,\n wafted by a stellar breeze, drifted\n the ocher rose of Mars ...\n\n\n \"No,\" she said again.", "younger and Bill was courting\n her, looking up at the moon\n sometimes; and once in a while,\n when a star fell, making a wish.\n But this was different. It was\n different because now she had\n a personal interest in the sky, a\n new affinity with its myriad inhabitants.", "She went about her work as\n usual, collecting the eggs and\n allocating them in their cardboard\n boxes, then setting off in\n the station wagon on her Tuesday\n morning run. She had expected\n a deluge of questions\n from her customers. She was not\n disappointed. \"Is Terry really\n way up there all alone, Martha?\"\n \"Aren't you\nscared\n, Martha?\" \"I\n do hope they can get him back\n down all right, Martha.\" She\n supposed it must have given\n them quite a turn to have their\n egg woman change into a star\n mother overnight.", "A few of the questions concerned\n herself: Was Terry her\n only child? (\"Yes.\") What had\n happened to her husband? (\"He\n was killed in the Korean War.\")\n What did she think of the new\n law granting star mothers top\n priority on any and all information\n relating to their sons? (\"I\n think it's a fine law ... It's too\n bad they couldn't have shown\n similar humanity toward the\n war mothers of World War II.\")\nIt was late in the afternoon\n by the time the TV crew got\n everything repacked into their\n cars and trucks and made their\n departure. Martha fixed herself\n a light supper, then donned an", "Higher still and higher he\n rose in the southern sky, and\n then, when he had reached his\n zenith, he dropped swiftly down\n past the dark edge of the Earth\n and disappeared from sight. A\n boy grown up too soon, riding\n round and round the world on\n a celestial carousel, encased in\n an airtight metal capsule in an\n airtight metal chariot ...\nWhy don't they leave the stars\n alone?\nshe thought.\nWhy don't\n they leave the stars to God?\nThe general's second telegram\n came early the next morning:\n Explorer XII\ndoing splendidly.\n Expect to bring your son down\n sometime tomorrow\n.", "And how bright they became\n when you kept looking at them!\n They seemed to come alive, almost,\n pulsing brilliantly down\n out of the blackness of the night ...\n And they were different colors,\n too, she noticed with a start.\n Some of them were blue and\n some were red, others were yellow\n ... green ... orange ...", "Slowly the sky darkened and\n the stars began to appear. At\n length\nher\nstar appeared, but its\n swift passage blurred before her\n eyes. Tires crunched on the\n gravel then, and headlights\n washed the darkness from the\n drive. A car door slammed.\n\n\n Martha did not move.\nPlease\n God\n, she thought,\nlet it be Terry\n,\n even though she knew that it\n couldn't possibly be Terry. Footsteps\n sounded behind her, paused.\n Someone coughed softly. She\n turned then—\n\n\n \"Good evening, ma'am.\"\n\n\n She saw the circlet of stars\n on the gray epaulet; she saw the\n stern handsome face; she saw\n the dark tired eyes. And she\n knew. Even before he spoke\n again, she knew—", "It grew cold in the April garden\n and she could see her breath.\n There was a strange crispness,\n a strange clarity about the\n night, that she had never known\n before ... She glanced at her\n watch, was astonished to see that\n the hands indicated two minutes\n after nine. Where had the time\n gone? Tremulously she faced the\n southern horizon ... and saw\n her Terry appear in his shining\n chariot, riding up the star-pebbled\n path of his orbit, a star in\n his own right, dropping swiftly\n now, down, down, and out of\n sight beyond the dark wheeling\n mass of the Earth ... She took\n a deep, proud breath, realized\n that she was wildly waving her\n hand and let it fall slowly to her\n side. Make a wish! she thought,\n like a little girl, and she wished\n him pleasant dreams and a safe\n return and wrapped the wish in\n all her love and cast it starward.\nSometime tomorrow, the general's\n telegram had said—\n\n\n That meant sometime today!", "old suede jacket of Terry's and\n went out into the garden to wait\n for the sun to go down. According\n to the time table the general\n had outlined in his first telegram,\n Terry's first Tuesday\n night passage wasn't due to occur\n till 9:05. But it seemed only\n right that she should be outside\n when the stars started to come\n out. Presently they did, and she\n watched them wink on, one by\n one, in the deepening darkness\n of the sky. She'd never been\n much of a one for the stars;\n most of her life she'd been much\n too busy on Earth to bother with\n things celestial. She could remember,\n when she was much", "—probably won't get a chance\n to write you again before take-off,\n but don't worry, Ma. The\nExplorer XII\nis the greatest bird\n they ever built. Nothing short of\n a direct meteorite hit can hurt\n it, and the odds are a million to\n one ...\nWhy don't they leave the stars\n alone? Why don't they leave the\n stars to God?\nThe afternoon shadows lengthened\n on the lawn and the sun\n grew red and swollen over the\n western hills. Martha fixed supper,\n tried to eat, and couldn't.\n After a while, when the light\n began to fade, she slipped into", "The general had raised his\n eyes, too; now, slowly, he lowered\n them. \"I think I understand,\n ma'am. And I'm glad\n that's the way you want it ...\n The stars\nare\nbeautiful tonight,\n aren't they.\"\n\n\n \"More beautiful than they've\n ever been,\" she said.\nAfter the general had gone,\n she looked up once more at the\n vast and variegated garden of\n the sky where her son lay buried,\n then she turned and walked\n slowly back to the memoried\n house.\nTHE END\nTranscriber's Note:\nThis etext was produced from\nAmazing Stories\nJanuary 1959.\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.\n copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and\n typographical errors have been corrected without note.", "\"The same meteorite that\n damaged the ejection mechanism,\n ma'am. It penetrated the\n capsule, too. We didn't find out\n till just a while ago—but there\n was nothing we could have done\n anyway ... Are you all right,\n ma'am?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. I'm all right.\"\n\n\n \"I wanted to express my regrets\n personally. I know how you\n must feel.\"\n\n\n \"It's all right.\"\n\n\n \"We will, of course, make\n every effort to bring back his ... remains ... so\n that he can\n have a fitting burial on Earth.\"\n\n\n \"No,\" she said.\n\n\n \"I beg your pardon, ma'am?\"", "She hadn't expected the TV interview,\n though, and she would\n have avoided it if it had been\n politely possible. But what could\n she do when the line of cars and\n trucks pulled into the drive and\n the technicians got out and started\n setting up their equipment in\n the backyard? What could she\n say when the suave young man\n came up to her and said, \"We\n want you to know that we're all\n very proud of your boy up there,\n ma'am, and we hope you'll do us\n the honor of answering a few\n questions.\"", "Most of the questions concerned\n Terry, as was fitting.\n From the way the suave young\n man asked them, though, she got\n the impression that he was trying\n to prove that her son was\n just like any other average\n American boy, and such just\n didn't happen to be the case. But\n whenever she opened her mouth\n to mention, say, how he used to\n study till all hours of the night,\n or how difficult it had been for\n him to make friends because of\n his shyness, or the fact that he\n had never gone out for football—whenever\n she started to mention\n any of these things, the\n suave young man was in great\n haste to interrupt her and to\n twist her words, by requestioning,\n into a different meaning\n altogether, till Terry's behavior\n pattern seemed to coincide with\n the behavior pattern which the\n suave young man apparently considered\n the norm, but which, if\n followed, Martha was sure,\n would produce not young men\n bent on exploring space but\n young men bent on exploring\n trivia.", "If only ...\nThe general's third telegram\n arrived that afternoon:\nRegret\n to inform you that meteorite impact\n on satellite hull severely\n damaged capsule-detachment\n mechanism, making ejection impossible.\n Will make every effort\n to find another means of accomplishing\n your son's return.\nTerry!—", "See the little boy playing beneath\n the maple tree, moving his\n tiny cars up and down the tiny\n streets of his make-believe village;\n the little boy, his fuzz of\n hair gold in the sunlight, his\n cherub-cheeks pink in the summer\n wind—\nTerry!—\nUp the lane the blue-denimed\n young man walks, swinging his\n thin tanned arms, his long legs\n making near-grownup strides\n over the sun-seared grass; the\n sky blue and bright behind him,\n the song of cicada rising and\n falling in the hazy September\n air—\nTerry ...", "Terry's jacket and went outside." ], [ "Slowly the sky darkened and\n the stars began to appear. At\n length\nher\nstar appeared, but its\n swift passage blurred before her\n eyes. Tires crunched on the\n gravel then, and headlights\n washed the darkness from the\n drive. A car door slammed.\n\n\n Martha did not move.\nPlease\n God\n, she thought,\nlet it be Terry\n,\n even though she knew that it\n couldn't possibly be Terry. Footsteps\n sounded behind her, paused.\n Someone coughed softly. She\n turned then—\n\n\n \"Good evening, ma'am.\"\n\n\n She saw the circlet of stars\n on the gray epaulet; she saw the\n stern handsome face; she saw\n the dark tired eyes. And she\n knew. Even before he spoke\n again, she knew—", "Most of the questions concerned\n Terry, as was fitting.\n From the way the suave young\n man asked them, though, she got\n the impression that he was trying\n to prove that her son was\n just like any other average\n American boy, and such just\n didn't happen to be the case. But\n whenever she opened her mouth\n to mention, say, how he used to\n study till all hours of the night,\n or how difficult it had been for\n him to make friends because of\n his shyness, or the fact that he\n had never gone out for football—whenever\n she started to mention\n any of these things, the\n suave young man was in great\n haste to interrupt her and to\n twist her words, by requestioning,\n into a different meaning\n altogether, till Terry's behavior\n pattern seemed to coincide with\n the behavior pattern which the\n suave young man apparently considered\n the norm, but which, if\n followed, Martha was sure,\n would produce not young men\n bent on exploring space but\n young men bent on exploring\n trivia.", "A few of the questions concerned\n herself: Was Terry her\n only child? (\"Yes.\") What had\n happened to her husband? (\"He\n was killed in the Korean War.\")\n What did she think of the new\n law granting star mothers top\n priority on any and all information\n relating to their sons? (\"I\n think it's a fine law ... It's too\n bad they couldn't have shown\n similar humanity toward the\n war mothers of World War II.\")\nIt was late in the afternoon\n by the time the TV crew got\n everything repacked into their\n cars and trucks and made their\n departure. Martha fixed herself\n a light supper, then donned an", "If only ...\nThe general's third telegram\n arrived that afternoon:\nRegret\n to inform you that meteorite impact\n on satellite hull severely\n damaged capsule-detachment\n mechanism, making ejection impossible.\n Will make every effort\n to find another means of accomplishing\n your son's return.\nTerry!—", "It grew cold in the April garden\n and she could see her breath.\n There was a strange crispness,\n a strange clarity about the\n night, that she had never known\n before ... She glanced at her\n watch, was astonished to see that\n the hands indicated two minutes\n after nine. Where had the time\n gone? Tremulously she faced the\n southern horizon ... and saw\n her Terry appear in his shining\n chariot, riding up the star-pebbled\n path of his orbit, a star in\n his own right, dropping swiftly\n now, down, down, and out of\n sight beyond the dark wheeling\n mass of the Earth ... She took\n a deep, proud breath, realized\n that she was wildly waving her\n hand and let it fall slowly to her\n side. Make a wish! she thought,\n like a little girl, and she wished\n him pleasant dreams and a safe\n return and wrapped the wish in\n all her love and cast it starward.\nSometime tomorrow, the general's\n telegram had said—\n\n\n That meant sometime today!", "old suede jacket of Terry's and\n went out into the garden to wait\n for the sun to go down. According\n to the time table the general\n had outlined in his first telegram,\n Terry's first Tuesday\n night passage wasn't due to occur\n till 9:05. But it seemed only\n right that she should be outside\n when the stars started to come\n out. Presently they did, and she\n watched them wink on, one by\n one, in the deepening darkness\n of the sky. She'd never been\n much of a one for the stars;\n most of her life she'd been much\n too busy on Earth to bother with\n things celestial. She could remember,\n when she was much", "She went about her work as\n usual, collecting the eggs and\n allocating them in their cardboard\n boxes, then setting off in\n the station wagon on her Tuesday\n morning run. She had expected\n a deluge of questions\n from her customers. She was not\n disappointed. \"Is Terry really\n way up there all alone, Martha?\"\n \"Aren't you\nscared\n, Martha?\" \"I\n do hope they can get him back\n down all right, Martha.\" She\n supposed it must have given\n them quite a turn to have their\n egg woman change into a star\n mother overnight.", "She hadn't expected the TV interview,\n though, and she would\n have avoided it if it had been\n politely possible. But what could\n she do when the line of cars and\n trucks pulled into the drive and\n the technicians got out and started\n setting up their equipment in\n the backyard? What could she\n say when the suave young man\n came up to her and said, \"We\n want you to know that we're all\n very proud of your boy up there,\n ma'am, and we hope you'll do us\n the honor of answering a few\n questions.\"", "She rose with the sun and fed\n the chickens, fixed and ate her\n breakfast, collected the eggs and\n put them in their cardboard\n boxes, then started out on her\n Wednesday morning run. \"My\n land, Martha, I don't see how\n you stand it with him way up\n there! Doesn't it get on your\nnerves\n?\" (\"Yes ... Yes, it\n does.\") \"Martha, when are they\n bringing him back down?\"\n (\"Today ...\nToday\n!\") \"It must\n be wonderful being a star mother,\n Martha.\" (\"Yes, it is—in a\n way.\")\n\n\n Wonderful ... and terrible.\n\n\n If only he can last it out for\n a few more hours, she thought.\n If only they can bring him down\n safe and sound. Then the vigil\n will be over, and some other\n mother can take over the awesome\n responsibility of having a\n son become a star—", "\"The same meteorite that\n damaged the ejection mechanism,\n ma'am. It penetrated the\n capsule, too. We didn't find out\n till just a while ago—but there\n was nothing we could have done\n anyway ... Are you all right,\n ma'am?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. I'm all right.\"\n\n\n \"I wanted to express my regrets\n personally. I know how you\n must feel.\"\n\n\n \"It's all right.\"\n\n\n \"We will, of course, make\n every effort to bring back his ... remains ... so\n that he can\n have a fitting burial on Earth.\"\n\n\n \"No,\" she said.\n\n\n \"I beg your pardon, ma'am?\"", "The general had raised his\n eyes, too; now, slowly, he lowered\n them. \"I think I understand,\n ma'am. And I'm glad\n that's the way you want it ...\n The stars\nare\nbeautiful tonight,\n aren't they.\"\n\n\n \"More beautiful than they've\n ever been,\" she said.\nAfter the general had gone,\n she looked up once more at the\n vast and variegated garden of\n the sky where her son lay buried,\n then she turned and walked\n slowly back to the memoried\n house.\nTHE END\nTranscriber's Note:\nThis etext was produced from\nAmazing Stories\nJanuary 1959.\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.\n copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and\n typographical errors have been corrected without note.", "—probably won't get a chance\n to write you again before take-off,\n but don't worry, Ma. The\nExplorer XII\nis the greatest bird\n they ever built. Nothing short of\n a direct meteorite hit can hurt\n it, and the odds are a million to\n one ...\nWhy don't they leave the stars\n alone? Why don't they leave the\n stars to God?\nThe afternoon shadows lengthened\n on the lawn and the sun\n grew red and swollen over the\n western hills. Martha fixed supper,\n tried to eat, and couldn't.\n After a while, when the light\n began to fade, she slipped into", "Higher still and higher he\n rose in the southern sky, and\n then, when he had reached his\n zenith, he dropped swiftly down\n past the dark edge of the Earth\n and disappeared from sight. A\n boy grown up too soon, riding\n round and round the world on\n a celestial carousel, encased in\n an airtight metal capsule in an\n airtight metal chariot ...\nWhy don't they leave the stars\n alone?\nshe thought.\nWhy don't\n they leave the stars to God?\nThe general's second telegram\n came early the next morning:\n Explorer XII\ndoing splendidly.\n Expect to bring your son down\n sometime tomorrow\n.", "She raised her eyes to the\n patch of sky where her son had\n passed in his shining metal sarcophagus.\n Sirius blossomed\n there, blue-white and beautiful.\n She raised her eyes still higher—and\n beheld the vast parterre\n of Orion with its central motif\n of vivid forget-me-nots, its far-flung\n blooms of Betelguese and\n Rigel, of Bellatrix and Saiph ...\n And higher yet—and there\n flamed the exquisite flower beds\n of Taurus and Gemini, there\n burgeoned the riotous wreath of\n the Crab; there lay the pulsing\n petals of the Pleiades ... And\n down the ecliptic garden path,\n wafted by a stellar breeze, drifted\n the ocher rose of Mars ...\n\n\n \"No,\" she said again.", "See the little boy playing beneath\n the maple tree, moving his\n tiny cars up and down the tiny\n streets of his make-believe village;\n the little boy, his fuzz of\n hair gold in the sunlight, his\n cherub-cheeks pink in the summer\n wind—\nTerry!—\nUp the lane the blue-denimed\n young man walks, swinging his\n thin tanned arms, his long legs\n making near-grownup strides\n over the sun-seared grass; the\n sky blue and bright behind him,\n the song of cicada rising and\n falling in the hazy September\n air—\nTerry ...", "STAR MOTHER\nBy ROBERT F. YOUNG\nA touching story of the most\n enduring love in all eternity.\nThat\n night her son was the\n first star.\n\n\n She stood motionless in the\n garden, one hand pressed against\n her heart, watching him rise\n above the fields where he had\n played as a boy, where he had\n worked as a young man; and she\n wondered whether he was thinking\n of those fields now, whether\n he was thinking of her standing\n alone in the April night with her\n memories; whether he was\n thinking of the verandahed\n house behind her, with its empty\n rooms and silent halls, that once\n upon a time had been his birthplace.", "Terry's jacket and went outside.", "younger and Bill was courting\n her, looking up at the moon\n sometimes; and once in a while,\n when a star fell, making a wish.\n But this was different. It was\n different because now she had\n a personal interest in the sky, a\n new affinity with its myriad inhabitants.", "And how bright they became\n when you kept looking at them!\n They seemed to come alive, almost,\n pulsing brilliantly down\n out of the blackness of the night ...\n And they were different colors,\n too, she noticed with a start.\n Some of them were blue and\n some were red, others were yellow\n ... green ... orange ..." ], [ "She rose with the sun and fed\n the chickens, fixed and ate her\n breakfast, collected the eggs and\n put them in their cardboard\n boxes, then started out on her\n Wednesday morning run. \"My\n land, Martha, I don't see how\n you stand it with him way up\n there! Doesn't it get on your\nnerves\n?\" (\"Yes ... Yes, it\n does.\") \"Martha, when are they\n bringing him back down?\"\n (\"Today ...\nToday\n!\") \"It must\n be wonderful being a star mother,\n Martha.\" (\"Yes, it is—in a\n way.\")\n\n\n Wonderful ... and terrible.\n\n\n If only he can last it out for\n a few more hours, she thought.\n If only they can bring him down\n safe and sound. Then the vigil\n will be over, and some other\n mother can take over the awesome\n responsibility of having a\n son become a star—", "She went about her work as\n usual, collecting the eggs and\n allocating them in their cardboard\n boxes, then setting off in\n the station wagon on her Tuesday\n morning run. She had expected\n a deluge of questions\n from her customers. She was not\n disappointed. \"Is Terry really\n way up there all alone, Martha?\"\n \"Aren't you\nscared\n, Martha?\" \"I\n do hope they can get him back\n down all right, Martha.\" She\n supposed it must have given\n them quite a turn to have their\n egg woman change into a star\n mother overnight.", "STAR MOTHER\nBy ROBERT F. YOUNG\nA touching story of the most\n enduring love in all eternity.\nThat\n night her son was the\n first star.\n\n\n She stood motionless in the\n garden, one hand pressed against\n her heart, watching him rise\n above the fields where he had\n played as a boy, where he had\n worked as a young man; and she\n wondered whether he was thinking\n of those fields now, whether\n he was thinking of her standing\n alone in the April night with her\n memories; whether he was\n thinking of the verandahed\n house behind her, with its empty\n rooms and silent halls, that once\n upon a time had been his birthplace.", "A few of the questions concerned\n herself: Was Terry her\n only child? (\"Yes.\") What had\n happened to her husband? (\"He\n was killed in the Korean War.\")\n What did she think of the new\n law granting star mothers top\n priority on any and all information\n relating to their sons? (\"I\n think it's a fine law ... It's too\n bad they couldn't have shown\n similar humanity toward the\n war mothers of World War II.\")\nIt was late in the afternoon\n by the time the TV crew got\n everything repacked into their\n cars and trucks and made their\n departure. Martha fixed herself\n a light supper, then donned an", "Slowly the sky darkened and\n the stars began to appear. At\n length\nher\nstar appeared, but its\n swift passage blurred before her\n eyes. Tires crunched on the\n gravel then, and headlights\n washed the darkness from the\n drive. A car door slammed.\n\n\n Martha did not move.\nPlease\n God\n, she thought,\nlet it be Terry\n,\n even though she knew that it\n couldn't possibly be Terry. Footsteps\n sounded behind her, paused.\n Someone coughed softly. She\n turned then—\n\n\n \"Good evening, ma'am.\"\n\n\n She saw the circlet of stars\n on the gray epaulet; she saw the\n stern handsome face; she saw\n the dark tired eyes. And she\n knew. Even before he spoke\n again, she knew—", "Most of the questions concerned\n Terry, as was fitting.\n From the way the suave young\n man asked them, though, she got\n the impression that he was trying\n to prove that her son was\n just like any other average\n American boy, and such just\n didn't happen to be the case. But\n whenever she opened her mouth\n to mention, say, how he used to\n study till all hours of the night,\n or how difficult it had been for\n him to make friends because of\n his shyness, or the fact that he\n had never gone out for football—whenever\n she started to mention\n any of these things, the\n suave young man was in great\n haste to interrupt her and to\n twist her words, by requestioning,\n into a different meaning\n altogether, till Terry's behavior\n pattern seemed to coincide with\n the behavior pattern which the\n suave young man apparently considered\n the norm, but which, if\n followed, Martha was sure,\n would produce not young men\n bent on exploring space but\n young men bent on exploring\n trivia.", "younger and Bill was courting\n her, looking up at the moon\n sometimes; and once in a while,\n when a star fell, making a wish.\n But this was different. It was\n different because now she had\n a personal interest in the sky, a\n new affinity with its myriad inhabitants.", "She raised her eyes to the\n patch of sky where her son had\n passed in his shining metal sarcophagus.\n Sirius blossomed\n there, blue-white and beautiful.\n She raised her eyes still higher—and\n beheld the vast parterre\n of Orion with its central motif\n of vivid forget-me-nots, its far-flung\n blooms of Betelguese and\n Rigel, of Bellatrix and Saiph ...\n And higher yet—and there\n flamed the exquisite flower beds\n of Taurus and Gemini, there\n burgeoned the riotous wreath of\n the Crab; there lay the pulsing\n petals of the Pleiades ... And\n down the ecliptic garden path,\n wafted by a stellar breeze, drifted\n the ocher rose of Mars ...\n\n\n \"No,\" she said again.", "She hadn't expected the TV interview,\n though, and she would\n have avoided it if it had been\n politely possible. But what could\n she do when the line of cars and\n trucks pulled into the drive and\n the technicians got out and started\n setting up their equipment in\n the backyard? What could she\n say when the suave young man\n came up to her and said, \"We\n want you to know that we're all\n very proud of your boy up there,\n ma'am, and we hope you'll do us\n the honor of answering a few\n questions.\"", "It grew cold in the April garden\n and she could see her breath.\n There was a strange crispness,\n a strange clarity about the\n night, that she had never known\n before ... She glanced at her\n watch, was astonished to see that\n the hands indicated two minutes\n after nine. Where had the time\n gone? Tremulously she faced the\n southern horizon ... and saw\n her Terry appear in his shining\n chariot, riding up the star-pebbled\n path of his orbit, a star in\n his own right, dropping swiftly\n now, down, down, and out of\n sight beyond the dark wheeling\n mass of the Earth ... She took\n a deep, proud breath, realized\n that she was wildly waving her\n hand and let it fall slowly to her\n side. Make a wish! she thought,\n like a little girl, and she wished\n him pleasant dreams and a safe\n return and wrapped the wish in\n all her love and cast it starward.\nSometime tomorrow, the general's\n telegram had said—\n\n\n That meant sometime today!", "—probably won't get a chance\n to write you again before take-off,\n but don't worry, Ma. The\nExplorer XII\nis the greatest bird\n they ever built. Nothing short of\n a direct meteorite hit can hurt\n it, and the odds are a million to\n one ...\nWhy don't they leave the stars\n alone? Why don't they leave the\n stars to God?\nThe afternoon shadows lengthened\n on the lawn and the sun\n grew red and swollen over the\n western hills. Martha fixed supper,\n tried to eat, and couldn't.\n After a while, when the light\n began to fade, she slipped into", "old suede jacket of Terry's and\n went out into the garden to wait\n for the sun to go down. According\n to the time table the general\n had outlined in his first telegram,\n Terry's first Tuesday\n night passage wasn't due to occur\n till 9:05. But it seemed only\n right that she should be outside\n when the stars started to come\n out. Presently they did, and she\n watched them wink on, one by\n one, in the deepening darkness\n of the sky. She'd never been\n much of a one for the stars;\n most of her life she'd been much\n too busy on Earth to bother with\n things celestial. She could remember,\n when she was much", "Higher still and higher he\n rose in the southern sky, and\n then, when he had reached his\n zenith, he dropped swiftly down\n past the dark edge of the Earth\n and disappeared from sight. A\n boy grown up too soon, riding\n round and round the world on\n a celestial carousel, encased in\n an airtight metal capsule in an\n airtight metal chariot ...\nWhy don't they leave the stars\n alone?\nshe thought.\nWhy don't\n they leave the stars to God?\nThe general's second telegram\n came early the next morning:\n Explorer XII\ndoing splendidly.\n Expect to bring your son down\n sometime tomorrow\n.", "And how bright they became\n when you kept looking at them!\n They seemed to come alive, almost,\n pulsing brilliantly down\n out of the blackness of the night ...\n And they were different colors,\n too, she noticed with a start.\n Some of them were blue and\n some were red, others were yellow\n ... green ... orange ...", "\"The same meteorite that\n damaged the ejection mechanism,\n ma'am. It penetrated the\n capsule, too. We didn't find out\n till just a while ago—but there\n was nothing we could have done\n anyway ... Are you all right,\n ma'am?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. I'm all right.\"\n\n\n \"I wanted to express my regrets\n personally. I know how you\n must feel.\"\n\n\n \"It's all right.\"\n\n\n \"We will, of course, make\n every effort to bring back his ... remains ... so\n that he can\n have a fitting burial on Earth.\"\n\n\n \"No,\" she said.\n\n\n \"I beg your pardon, ma'am?\"", "The general had raised his\n eyes, too; now, slowly, he lowered\n them. \"I think I understand,\n ma'am. And I'm glad\n that's the way you want it ...\n The stars\nare\nbeautiful tonight,\n aren't they.\"\n\n\n \"More beautiful than they've\n ever been,\" she said.\nAfter the general had gone,\n she looked up once more at the\n vast and variegated garden of\n the sky where her son lay buried,\n then she turned and walked\n slowly back to the memoried\n house.\nTHE END\nTranscriber's Note:\nThis etext was produced from\nAmazing Stories\nJanuary 1959.\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.\n copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and\n typographical errors have been corrected without note.", "If only ...\nThe general's third telegram\n arrived that afternoon:\nRegret\n to inform you that meteorite impact\n on satellite hull severely\n damaged capsule-detachment\n mechanism, making ejection impossible.\n Will make every effort\n to find another means of accomplishing\n your son's return.\nTerry!—", "See the little boy playing beneath\n the maple tree, moving his\n tiny cars up and down the tiny\n streets of his make-believe village;\n the little boy, his fuzz of\n hair gold in the sunlight, his\n cherub-cheeks pink in the summer\n wind—\nTerry!—\nUp the lane the blue-denimed\n young man walks, swinging his\n thin tanned arms, his long legs\n making near-grownup strides\n over the sun-seared grass; the\n sky blue and bright behind him,\n the song of cicada rising and\n falling in the hazy September\n air—\nTerry ...", "Terry's jacket and went outside." ], [ "She hadn't expected the TV interview,\n though, and she would\n have avoided it if it had been\n politely possible. But what could\n she do when the line of cars and\n trucks pulled into the drive and\n the technicians got out and started\n setting up their equipment in\n the backyard? What could she\n say when the suave young man\n came up to her and said, \"We\n want you to know that we're all\n very proud of your boy up there,\n ma'am, and we hope you'll do us\n the honor of answering a few\n questions.\"", "Most of the questions concerned\n Terry, as was fitting.\n From the way the suave young\n man asked them, though, she got\n the impression that he was trying\n to prove that her son was\n just like any other average\n American boy, and such just\n didn't happen to be the case. But\n whenever she opened her mouth\n to mention, say, how he used to\n study till all hours of the night,\n or how difficult it had been for\n him to make friends because of\n his shyness, or the fact that he\n had never gone out for football—whenever\n she started to mention\n any of these things, the\n suave young man was in great\n haste to interrupt her and to\n twist her words, by requestioning,\n into a different meaning\n altogether, till Terry's behavior\n pattern seemed to coincide with\n the behavior pattern which the\n suave young man apparently considered\n the norm, but which, if\n followed, Martha was sure,\n would produce not young men\n bent on exploring space but\n young men bent on exploring\n trivia.", "Slowly the sky darkened and\n the stars began to appear. At\n length\nher\nstar appeared, but its\n swift passage blurred before her\n eyes. Tires crunched on the\n gravel then, and headlights\n washed the darkness from the\n drive. A car door slammed.\n\n\n Martha did not move.\nPlease\n God\n, she thought,\nlet it be Terry\n,\n even though she knew that it\n couldn't possibly be Terry. Footsteps\n sounded behind her, paused.\n Someone coughed softly. She\n turned then—\n\n\n \"Good evening, ma'am.\"\n\n\n She saw the circlet of stars\n on the gray epaulet; she saw the\n stern handsome face; she saw\n the dark tired eyes. And she\n knew. Even before he spoke\n again, she knew—", "A few of the questions concerned\n herself: Was Terry her\n only child? (\"Yes.\") What had\n happened to her husband? (\"He\n was killed in the Korean War.\")\n What did she think of the new\n law granting star mothers top\n priority on any and all information\n relating to their sons? (\"I\n think it's a fine law ... It's too\n bad they couldn't have shown\n similar humanity toward the\n war mothers of World War II.\")\nIt was late in the afternoon\n by the time the TV crew got\n everything repacked into their\n cars and trucks and made their\n departure. Martha fixed herself\n a light supper, then donned an", "She went about her work as\n usual, collecting the eggs and\n allocating them in their cardboard\n boxes, then setting off in\n the station wagon on her Tuesday\n morning run. She had expected\n a deluge of questions\n from her customers. She was not\n disappointed. \"Is Terry really\n way up there all alone, Martha?\"\n \"Aren't you\nscared\n, Martha?\" \"I\n do hope they can get him back\n down all right, Martha.\" She\n supposed it must have given\n them quite a turn to have their\n egg woman change into a star\n mother overnight.", "She rose with the sun and fed\n the chickens, fixed and ate her\n breakfast, collected the eggs and\n put them in their cardboard\n boxes, then started out on her\n Wednesday morning run. \"My\n land, Martha, I don't see how\n you stand it with him way up\n there! Doesn't it get on your\nnerves\n?\" (\"Yes ... Yes, it\n does.\") \"Martha, when are they\n bringing him back down?\"\n (\"Today ...\nToday\n!\") \"It must\n be wonderful being a star mother,\n Martha.\" (\"Yes, it is—in a\n way.\")\n\n\n Wonderful ... and terrible.\n\n\n If only he can last it out for\n a few more hours, she thought.\n If only they can bring him down\n safe and sound. Then the vigil\n will be over, and some other\n mother can take over the awesome\n responsibility of having a\n son become a star—", "It grew cold in the April garden\n and she could see her breath.\n There was a strange crispness,\n a strange clarity about the\n night, that she had never known\n before ... She glanced at her\n watch, was astonished to see that\n the hands indicated two minutes\n after nine. Where had the time\n gone? Tremulously she faced the\n southern horizon ... and saw\n her Terry appear in his shining\n chariot, riding up the star-pebbled\n path of his orbit, a star in\n his own right, dropping swiftly\n now, down, down, and out of\n sight beyond the dark wheeling\n mass of the Earth ... She took\n a deep, proud breath, realized\n that she was wildly waving her\n hand and let it fall slowly to her\n side. Make a wish! she thought,\n like a little girl, and she wished\n him pleasant dreams and a safe\n return and wrapped the wish in\n all her love and cast it starward.\nSometime tomorrow, the general's\n telegram had said—\n\n\n That meant sometime today!", "old suede jacket of Terry's and\n went out into the garden to wait\n for the sun to go down. According\n to the time table the general\n had outlined in his first telegram,\n Terry's first Tuesday\n night passage wasn't due to occur\n till 9:05. But it seemed only\n right that she should be outside\n when the stars started to come\n out. Presently they did, and she\n watched them wink on, one by\n one, in the deepening darkness\n of the sky. She'd never been\n much of a one for the stars;\n most of her life she'd been much\n too busy on Earth to bother with\n things celestial. She could remember,\n when she was much", "\"The same meteorite that\n damaged the ejection mechanism,\n ma'am. It penetrated the\n capsule, too. We didn't find out\n till just a while ago—but there\n was nothing we could have done\n anyway ... Are you all right,\n ma'am?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. I'm all right.\"\n\n\n \"I wanted to express my regrets\n personally. I know how you\n must feel.\"\n\n\n \"It's all right.\"\n\n\n \"We will, of course, make\n every effort to bring back his ... remains ... so\n that he can\n have a fitting burial on Earth.\"\n\n\n \"No,\" she said.\n\n\n \"I beg your pardon, ma'am?\"", "younger and Bill was courting\n her, looking up at the moon\n sometimes; and once in a while,\n when a star fell, making a wish.\n But this was different. It was\n different because now she had\n a personal interest in the sky, a\n new affinity with its myriad inhabitants.", "—probably won't get a chance\n to write you again before take-off,\n but don't worry, Ma. The\nExplorer XII\nis the greatest bird\n they ever built. Nothing short of\n a direct meteorite hit can hurt\n it, and the odds are a million to\n one ...\nWhy don't they leave the stars\n alone? Why don't they leave the\n stars to God?\nThe afternoon shadows lengthened\n on the lawn and the sun\n grew red and swollen over the\n western hills. Martha fixed supper,\n tried to eat, and couldn't.\n After a while, when the light\n began to fade, she slipped into", "She raised her eyes to the\n patch of sky where her son had\n passed in his shining metal sarcophagus.\n Sirius blossomed\n there, blue-white and beautiful.\n She raised her eyes still higher—and\n beheld the vast parterre\n of Orion with its central motif\n of vivid forget-me-nots, its far-flung\n blooms of Betelguese and\n Rigel, of Bellatrix and Saiph ...\n And higher yet—and there\n flamed the exquisite flower beds\n of Taurus and Gemini, there\n burgeoned the riotous wreath of\n the Crab; there lay the pulsing\n petals of the Pleiades ... And\n down the ecliptic garden path,\n wafted by a stellar breeze, drifted\n the ocher rose of Mars ...\n\n\n \"No,\" she said again.", "Higher still and higher he\n rose in the southern sky, and\n then, when he had reached his\n zenith, he dropped swiftly down\n past the dark edge of the Earth\n and disappeared from sight. A\n boy grown up too soon, riding\n round and round the world on\n a celestial carousel, encased in\n an airtight metal capsule in an\n airtight metal chariot ...\nWhy don't they leave the stars\n alone?\nshe thought.\nWhy don't\n they leave the stars to God?\nThe general's second telegram\n came early the next morning:\n Explorer XII\ndoing splendidly.\n Expect to bring your son down\n sometime tomorrow\n.", "If only ...\nThe general's third telegram\n arrived that afternoon:\nRegret\n to inform you that meteorite impact\n on satellite hull severely\n damaged capsule-detachment\n mechanism, making ejection impossible.\n Will make every effort\n to find another means of accomplishing\n your son's return.\nTerry!—", "The general had raised his\n eyes, too; now, slowly, he lowered\n them. \"I think I understand,\n ma'am. And I'm glad\n that's the way you want it ...\n The stars\nare\nbeautiful tonight,\n aren't they.\"\n\n\n \"More beautiful than they've\n ever been,\" she said.\nAfter the general had gone,\n she looked up once more at the\n vast and variegated garden of\n the sky where her son lay buried,\n then she turned and walked\n slowly back to the memoried\n house.\nTHE END\nTranscriber's Note:\nThis etext was produced from\nAmazing Stories\nJanuary 1959.\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.\n copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and\n typographical errors have been corrected without note.", "STAR MOTHER\nBy ROBERT F. YOUNG\nA touching story of the most\n enduring love in all eternity.\nThat\n night her son was the\n first star.\n\n\n She stood motionless in the\n garden, one hand pressed against\n her heart, watching him rise\n above the fields where he had\n played as a boy, where he had\n worked as a young man; and she\n wondered whether he was thinking\n of those fields now, whether\n he was thinking of her standing\n alone in the April night with her\n memories; whether he was\n thinking of the verandahed\n house behind her, with its empty\n rooms and silent halls, that once\n upon a time had been his birthplace.", "And how bright they became\n when you kept looking at them!\n They seemed to come alive, almost,\n pulsing brilliantly down\n out of the blackness of the night ...\n And they were different colors,\n too, she noticed with a start.\n Some of them were blue and\n some were red, others were yellow\n ... green ... orange ...", "Terry's jacket and went outside.", "See the little boy playing beneath\n the maple tree, moving his\n tiny cars up and down the tiny\n streets of his make-believe village;\n the little boy, his fuzz of\n hair gold in the sunlight, his\n cherub-cheeks pink in the summer\n wind—\nTerry!—\nUp the lane the blue-denimed\n young man walks, swinging his\n thin tanned arms, his long legs\n making near-grownup strides\n over the sun-seared grass; the\n sky blue and bright behind him,\n the song of cicada rising and\n falling in the hazy September\n air—\nTerry ..." ], [ "Most of the questions concerned\n Terry, as was fitting.\n From the way the suave young\n man asked them, though, she got\n the impression that he was trying\n to prove that her son was\n just like any other average\n American boy, and such just\n didn't happen to be the case. But\n whenever she opened her mouth\n to mention, say, how he used to\n study till all hours of the night,\n or how difficult it had been for\n him to make friends because of\n his shyness, or the fact that he\n had never gone out for football—whenever\n she started to mention\n any of these things, the\n suave young man was in great\n haste to interrupt her and to\n twist her words, by requestioning,\n into a different meaning\n altogether, till Terry's behavior\n pattern seemed to coincide with\n the behavior pattern which the\n suave young man apparently considered\n the norm, but which, if\n followed, Martha was sure,\n would produce not young men\n bent on exploring space but\n young men bent on exploring\n trivia.", "Slowly the sky darkened and\n the stars began to appear. At\n length\nher\nstar appeared, but its\n swift passage blurred before her\n eyes. Tires crunched on the\n gravel then, and headlights\n washed the darkness from the\n drive. A car door slammed.\n\n\n Martha did not move.\nPlease\n God\n, she thought,\nlet it be Terry\n,\n even though she knew that it\n couldn't possibly be Terry. Footsteps\n sounded behind her, paused.\n Someone coughed softly. She\n turned then—\n\n\n \"Good evening, ma'am.\"\n\n\n She saw the circlet of stars\n on the gray epaulet; she saw the\n stern handsome face; she saw\n the dark tired eyes. And she\n knew. Even before he spoke\n again, she knew—", "She went about her work as\n usual, collecting the eggs and\n allocating them in their cardboard\n boxes, then setting off in\n the station wagon on her Tuesday\n morning run. She had expected\n a deluge of questions\n from her customers. She was not\n disappointed. \"Is Terry really\n way up there all alone, Martha?\"\n \"Aren't you\nscared\n, Martha?\" \"I\n do hope they can get him back\n down all right, Martha.\" She\n supposed it must have given\n them quite a turn to have their\n egg woman change into a star\n mother overnight.", "A few of the questions concerned\n herself: Was Terry her\n only child? (\"Yes.\") What had\n happened to her husband? (\"He\n was killed in the Korean War.\")\n What did she think of the new\n law granting star mothers top\n priority on any and all information\n relating to their sons? (\"I\n think it's a fine law ... It's too\n bad they couldn't have shown\n similar humanity toward the\n war mothers of World War II.\")\nIt was late in the afternoon\n by the time the TV crew got\n everything repacked into their\n cars and trucks and made their\n departure. Martha fixed herself\n a light supper, then donned an", "She rose with the sun and fed\n the chickens, fixed and ate her\n breakfast, collected the eggs and\n put them in their cardboard\n boxes, then started out on her\n Wednesday morning run. \"My\n land, Martha, I don't see how\n you stand it with him way up\n there! Doesn't it get on your\nnerves\n?\" (\"Yes ... Yes, it\n does.\") \"Martha, when are they\n bringing him back down?\"\n (\"Today ...\nToday\n!\") \"It must\n be wonderful being a star mother,\n Martha.\" (\"Yes, it is—in a\n way.\")\n\n\n Wonderful ... and terrible.\n\n\n If only he can last it out for\n a few more hours, she thought.\n If only they can bring him down\n safe and sound. Then the vigil\n will be over, and some other\n mother can take over the awesome\n responsibility of having a\n son become a star—", "She hadn't expected the TV interview,\n though, and she would\n have avoided it if it had been\n politely possible. But what could\n she do when the line of cars and\n trucks pulled into the drive and\n the technicians got out and started\n setting up their equipment in\n the backyard? What could she\n say when the suave young man\n came up to her and said, \"We\n want you to know that we're all\n very proud of your boy up there,\n ma'am, and we hope you'll do us\n the honor of answering a few\n questions.\"", "old suede jacket of Terry's and\n went out into the garden to wait\n for the sun to go down. According\n to the time table the general\n had outlined in his first telegram,\n Terry's first Tuesday\n night passage wasn't due to occur\n till 9:05. But it seemed only\n right that she should be outside\n when the stars started to come\n out. Presently they did, and she\n watched them wink on, one by\n one, in the deepening darkness\n of the sky. She'd never been\n much of a one for the stars;\n most of her life she'd been much\n too busy on Earth to bother with\n things celestial. She could remember,\n when she was much", "It grew cold in the April garden\n and she could see her breath.\n There was a strange crispness,\n a strange clarity about the\n night, that she had never known\n before ... She glanced at her\n watch, was astonished to see that\n the hands indicated two minutes\n after nine. Where had the time\n gone? Tremulously she faced the\n southern horizon ... and saw\n her Terry appear in his shining\n chariot, riding up the star-pebbled\n path of his orbit, a star in\n his own right, dropping swiftly\n now, down, down, and out of\n sight beyond the dark wheeling\n mass of the Earth ... She took\n a deep, proud breath, realized\n that she was wildly waving her\n hand and let it fall slowly to her\n side. Make a wish! she thought,\n like a little girl, and she wished\n him pleasant dreams and a safe\n return and wrapped the wish in\n all her love and cast it starward.\nSometime tomorrow, the general's\n telegram had said—\n\n\n That meant sometime today!", "See the little boy playing beneath\n the maple tree, moving his\n tiny cars up and down the tiny\n streets of his make-believe village;\n the little boy, his fuzz of\n hair gold in the sunlight, his\n cherub-cheeks pink in the summer\n wind—\nTerry!—\nUp the lane the blue-denimed\n young man walks, swinging his\n thin tanned arms, his long legs\n making near-grownup strides\n over the sun-seared grass; the\n sky blue and bright behind him,\n the song of cicada rising and\n falling in the hazy September\n air—\nTerry ...", "She raised her eyes to the\n patch of sky where her son had\n passed in his shining metal sarcophagus.\n Sirius blossomed\n there, blue-white and beautiful.\n She raised her eyes still higher—and\n beheld the vast parterre\n of Orion with its central motif\n of vivid forget-me-nots, its far-flung\n blooms of Betelguese and\n Rigel, of Bellatrix and Saiph ...\n And higher yet—and there\n flamed the exquisite flower beds\n of Taurus and Gemini, there\n burgeoned the riotous wreath of\n the Crab; there lay the pulsing\n petals of the Pleiades ... And\n down the ecliptic garden path,\n wafted by a stellar breeze, drifted\n the ocher rose of Mars ...\n\n\n \"No,\" she said again.", "Terry's jacket and went outside.", "younger and Bill was courting\n her, looking up at the moon\n sometimes; and once in a while,\n when a star fell, making a wish.\n But this was different. It was\n different because now she had\n a personal interest in the sky, a\n new affinity with its myriad inhabitants.", "\"The same meteorite that\n damaged the ejection mechanism,\n ma'am. It penetrated the\n capsule, too. We didn't find out\n till just a while ago—but there\n was nothing we could have done\n anyway ... Are you all right,\n ma'am?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. I'm all right.\"\n\n\n \"I wanted to express my regrets\n personally. I know how you\n must feel.\"\n\n\n \"It's all right.\"\n\n\n \"We will, of course, make\n every effort to bring back his ... remains ... so\n that he can\n have a fitting burial on Earth.\"\n\n\n \"No,\" she said.\n\n\n \"I beg your pardon, ma'am?\"", "—probably won't get a chance\n to write you again before take-off,\n but don't worry, Ma. The\nExplorer XII\nis the greatest bird\n they ever built. Nothing short of\n a direct meteorite hit can hurt\n it, and the odds are a million to\n one ...\nWhy don't they leave the stars\n alone? Why don't they leave the\n stars to God?\nThe afternoon shadows lengthened\n on the lawn and the sun\n grew red and swollen over the\n western hills. Martha fixed supper,\n tried to eat, and couldn't.\n After a while, when the light\n began to fade, she slipped into", "If only ...\nThe general's third telegram\n arrived that afternoon:\nRegret\n to inform you that meteorite impact\n on satellite hull severely\n damaged capsule-detachment\n mechanism, making ejection impossible.\n Will make every effort\n to find another means of accomplishing\n your son's return.\nTerry!—", "Higher still and higher he\n rose in the southern sky, and\n then, when he had reached his\n zenith, he dropped swiftly down\n past the dark edge of the Earth\n and disappeared from sight. A\n boy grown up too soon, riding\n round and round the world on\n a celestial carousel, encased in\n an airtight metal capsule in an\n airtight metal chariot ...\nWhy don't they leave the stars\n alone?\nshe thought.\nWhy don't\n they leave the stars to God?\nThe general's second telegram\n came early the next morning:\n Explorer XII\ndoing splendidly.\n Expect to bring your son down\n sometime tomorrow\n.", "The general had raised his\n eyes, too; now, slowly, he lowered\n them. \"I think I understand,\n ma'am. And I'm glad\n that's the way you want it ...\n The stars\nare\nbeautiful tonight,\n aren't they.\"\n\n\n \"More beautiful than they've\n ever been,\" she said.\nAfter the general had gone,\n she looked up once more at the\n vast and variegated garden of\n the sky where her son lay buried,\n then she turned and walked\n slowly back to the memoried\n house.\nTHE END\nTranscriber's Note:\nThis etext was produced from\nAmazing Stories\nJanuary 1959.\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.\n copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and\n typographical errors have been corrected without note.", "And how bright they became\n when you kept looking at them!\n They seemed to come alive, almost,\n pulsing brilliantly down\n out of the blackness of the night ...\n And they were different colors,\n too, she noticed with a start.\n Some of them were blue and\n some were red, others were yellow\n ... green ... orange ...", "STAR MOTHER\nBy ROBERT F. YOUNG\nA touching story of the most\n enduring love in all eternity.\nThat\n night her son was the\n first star.\n\n\n She stood motionless in the\n garden, one hand pressed against\n her heart, watching him rise\n above the fields where he had\n played as a boy, where he had\n worked as a young man; and she\n wondered whether he was thinking\n of those fields now, whether\n he was thinking of her standing\n alone in the April night with her\n memories; whether he was\n thinking of the verandahed\n house behind her, with its empty\n rooms and silent halls, that once\n upon a time had been his birthplace." ], [ "Slowly the sky darkened and\n the stars began to appear. At\n length\nher\nstar appeared, but its\n swift passage blurred before her\n eyes. Tires crunched on the\n gravel then, and headlights\n washed the darkness from the\n drive. A car door slammed.\n\n\n Martha did not move.\nPlease\n God\n, she thought,\nlet it be Terry\n,\n even though she knew that it\n couldn't possibly be Terry. Footsteps\n sounded behind her, paused.\n Someone coughed softly. She\n turned then—\n\n\n \"Good evening, ma'am.\"\n\n\n She saw the circlet of stars\n on the gray epaulet; she saw the\n stern handsome face; she saw\n the dark tired eyes. And she\n knew. Even before he spoke\n again, she knew—", "Terry's jacket and went outside.", "old suede jacket of Terry's and\n went out into the garden to wait\n for the sun to go down. According\n to the time table the general\n had outlined in his first telegram,\n Terry's first Tuesday\n night passage wasn't due to occur\n till 9:05. But it seemed only\n right that she should be outside\n when the stars started to come\n out. Presently they did, and she\n watched them wink on, one by\n one, in the deepening darkness\n of the sky. She'd never been\n much of a one for the stars;\n most of her life she'd been much\n too busy on Earth to bother with\n things celestial. She could remember,\n when she was much", "Most of the questions concerned\n Terry, as was fitting.\n From the way the suave young\n man asked them, though, she got\n the impression that he was trying\n to prove that her son was\n just like any other average\n American boy, and such just\n didn't happen to be the case. But\n whenever she opened her mouth\n to mention, say, how he used to\n study till all hours of the night,\n or how difficult it had been for\n him to make friends because of\n his shyness, or the fact that he\n had never gone out for football—whenever\n she started to mention\n any of these things, the\n suave young man was in great\n haste to interrupt her and to\n twist her words, by requestioning,\n into a different meaning\n altogether, till Terry's behavior\n pattern seemed to coincide with\n the behavior pattern which the\n suave young man apparently considered\n the norm, but which, if\n followed, Martha was sure,\n would produce not young men\n bent on exploring space but\n young men bent on exploring\n trivia.", "She went about her work as\n usual, collecting the eggs and\n allocating them in their cardboard\n boxes, then setting off in\n the station wagon on her Tuesday\n morning run. She had expected\n a deluge of questions\n from her customers. She was not\n disappointed. \"Is Terry really\n way up there all alone, Martha?\"\n \"Aren't you\nscared\n, Martha?\" \"I\n do hope they can get him back\n down all right, Martha.\" She\n supposed it must have given\n them quite a turn to have their\n egg woman change into a star\n mother overnight.", "It grew cold in the April garden\n and she could see her breath.\n There was a strange crispness,\n a strange clarity about the\n night, that she had never known\n before ... She glanced at her\n watch, was astonished to see that\n the hands indicated two minutes\n after nine. Where had the time\n gone? Tremulously she faced the\n southern horizon ... and saw\n her Terry appear in his shining\n chariot, riding up the star-pebbled\n path of his orbit, a star in\n his own right, dropping swiftly\n now, down, down, and out of\n sight beyond the dark wheeling\n mass of the Earth ... She took\n a deep, proud breath, realized\n that she was wildly waving her\n hand and let it fall slowly to her\n side. Make a wish! she thought,\n like a little girl, and she wished\n him pleasant dreams and a safe\n return and wrapped the wish in\n all her love and cast it starward.\nSometime tomorrow, the general's\n telegram had said—\n\n\n That meant sometime today!", "A few of the questions concerned\n herself: Was Terry her\n only child? (\"Yes.\") What had\n happened to her husband? (\"He\n was killed in the Korean War.\")\n What did she think of the new\n law granting star mothers top\n priority on any and all information\n relating to their sons? (\"I\n think it's a fine law ... It's too\n bad they couldn't have shown\n similar humanity toward the\n war mothers of World War II.\")\nIt was late in the afternoon\n by the time the TV crew got\n everything repacked into their\n cars and trucks and made their\n departure. Martha fixed herself\n a light supper, then donned an", "She rose with the sun and fed\n the chickens, fixed and ate her\n breakfast, collected the eggs and\n put them in their cardboard\n boxes, then started out on her\n Wednesday morning run. \"My\n land, Martha, I don't see how\n you stand it with him way up\n there! Doesn't it get on your\nnerves\n?\" (\"Yes ... Yes, it\n does.\") \"Martha, when are they\n bringing him back down?\"\n (\"Today ...\nToday\n!\") \"It must\n be wonderful being a star mother,\n Martha.\" (\"Yes, it is—in a\n way.\")\n\n\n Wonderful ... and terrible.\n\n\n If only he can last it out for\n a few more hours, she thought.\n If only they can bring him down\n safe and sound. Then the vigil\n will be over, and some other\n mother can take over the awesome\n responsibility of having a\n son become a star—", "See the little boy playing beneath\n the maple tree, moving his\n tiny cars up and down the tiny\n streets of his make-believe village;\n the little boy, his fuzz of\n hair gold in the sunlight, his\n cherub-cheeks pink in the summer\n wind—\nTerry!—\nUp the lane the blue-denimed\n young man walks, swinging his\n thin tanned arms, his long legs\n making near-grownup strides\n over the sun-seared grass; the\n sky blue and bright behind him,\n the song of cicada rising and\n falling in the hazy September\n air—\nTerry ...", "\"The same meteorite that\n damaged the ejection mechanism,\n ma'am. It penetrated the\n capsule, too. We didn't find out\n till just a while ago—but there\n was nothing we could have done\n anyway ... Are you all right,\n ma'am?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. I'm all right.\"\n\n\n \"I wanted to express my regrets\n personally. I know how you\n must feel.\"\n\n\n \"It's all right.\"\n\n\n \"We will, of course, make\n every effort to bring back his ... remains ... so\n that he can\n have a fitting burial on Earth.\"\n\n\n \"No,\" she said.\n\n\n \"I beg your pardon, ma'am?\"", "—probably won't get a chance\n to write you again before take-off,\n but don't worry, Ma. The\nExplorer XII\nis the greatest bird\n they ever built. Nothing short of\n a direct meteorite hit can hurt\n it, and the odds are a million to\n one ...\nWhy don't they leave the stars\n alone? Why don't they leave the\n stars to God?\nThe afternoon shadows lengthened\n on the lawn and the sun\n grew red and swollen over the\n western hills. Martha fixed supper,\n tried to eat, and couldn't.\n After a while, when the light\n began to fade, she slipped into", "She hadn't expected the TV interview,\n though, and she would\n have avoided it if it had been\n politely possible. But what could\n she do when the line of cars and\n trucks pulled into the drive and\n the technicians got out and started\n setting up their equipment in\n the backyard? What could she\n say when the suave young man\n came up to her and said, \"We\n want you to know that we're all\n very proud of your boy up there,\n ma'am, and we hope you'll do us\n the honor of answering a few\n questions.\"", "younger and Bill was courting\n her, looking up at the moon\n sometimes; and once in a while,\n when a star fell, making a wish.\n But this was different. It was\n different because now she had\n a personal interest in the sky, a\n new affinity with its myriad inhabitants.", "She raised her eyes to the\n patch of sky where her son had\n passed in his shining metal sarcophagus.\n Sirius blossomed\n there, blue-white and beautiful.\n She raised her eyes still higher—and\n beheld the vast parterre\n of Orion with its central motif\n of vivid forget-me-nots, its far-flung\n blooms of Betelguese and\n Rigel, of Bellatrix and Saiph ...\n And higher yet—and there\n flamed the exquisite flower beds\n of Taurus and Gemini, there\n burgeoned the riotous wreath of\n the Crab; there lay the pulsing\n petals of the Pleiades ... And\n down the ecliptic garden path,\n wafted by a stellar breeze, drifted\n the ocher rose of Mars ...\n\n\n \"No,\" she said again.", "The general had raised his\n eyes, too; now, slowly, he lowered\n them. \"I think I understand,\n ma'am. And I'm glad\n that's the way you want it ...\n The stars\nare\nbeautiful tonight,\n aren't they.\"\n\n\n \"More beautiful than they've\n ever been,\" she said.\nAfter the general had gone,\n she looked up once more at the\n vast and variegated garden of\n the sky where her son lay buried,\n then she turned and walked\n slowly back to the memoried\n house.\nTHE END\nTranscriber's Note:\nThis etext was produced from\nAmazing Stories\nJanuary 1959.\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.\n copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and\n typographical errors have been corrected without note.", "Higher still and higher he\n rose in the southern sky, and\n then, when he had reached his\n zenith, he dropped swiftly down\n past the dark edge of the Earth\n and disappeared from sight. A\n boy grown up too soon, riding\n round and round the world on\n a celestial carousel, encased in\n an airtight metal capsule in an\n airtight metal chariot ...\nWhy don't they leave the stars\n alone?\nshe thought.\nWhy don't\n they leave the stars to God?\nThe general's second telegram\n came early the next morning:\n Explorer XII\ndoing splendidly.\n Expect to bring your son down\n sometime tomorrow\n.", "If only ...\nThe general's third telegram\n arrived that afternoon:\nRegret\n to inform you that meteorite impact\n on satellite hull severely\n damaged capsule-detachment\n mechanism, making ejection impossible.\n Will make every effort\n to find another means of accomplishing\n your son's return.\nTerry!—", "STAR MOTHER\nBy ROBERT F. YOUNG\nA touching story of the most\n enduring love in all eternity.\nThat\n night her son was the\n first star.\n\n\n She stood motionless in the\n garden, one hand pressed against\n her heart, watching him rise\n above the fields where he had\n played as a boy, where he had\n worked as a young man; and she\n wondered whether he was thinking\n of those fields now, whether\n he was thinking of her standing\n alone in the April night with her\n memories; whether he was\n thinking of the verandahed\n house behind her, with its empty\n rooms and silent halls, that once\n upon a time had been his birthplace.", "And how bright they became\n when you kept looking at them!\n They seemed to come alive, almost,\n pulsing brilliantly down\n out of the blackness of the night ...\n And they were different colors,\n too, she noticed with a start.\n Some of them were blue and\n some were red, others were yellow\n ... green ... orange ..." ], [ "Slowly the sky darkened and\n the stars began to appear. At\n length\nher\nstar appeared, but its\n swift passage blurred before her\n eyes. Tires crunched on the\n gravel then, and headlights\n washed the darkness from the\n drive. A car door slammed.\n\n\n Martha did not move.\nPlease\n God\n, she thought,\nlet it be Terry\n,\n even though she knew that it\n couldn't possibly be Terry. Footsteps\n sounded behind her, paused.\n Someone coughed softly. She\n turned then—\n\n\n \"Good evening, ma'am.\"\n\n\n She saw the circlet of stars\n on the gray epaulet; she saw the\n stern handsome face; she saw\n the dark tired eyes. And she\n knew. Even before he spoke\n again, she knew—", "old suede jacket of Terry's and\n went out into the garden to wait\n for the sun to go down. According\n to the time table the general\n had outlined in his first telegram,\n Terry's first Tuesday\n night passage wasn't due to occur\n till 9:05. But it seemed only\n right that she should be outside\n when the stars started to come\n out. Presently they did, and she\n watched them wink on, one by\n one, in the deepening darkness\n of the sky. She'd never been\n much of a one for the stars;\n most of her life she'd been much\n too busy on Earth to bother with\n things celestial. She could remember,\n when she was much", "It grew cold in the April garden\n and she could see her breath.\n There was a strange crispness,\n a strange clarity about the\n night, that she had never known\n before ... She glanced at her\n watch, was astonished to see that\n the hands indicated two minutes\n after nine. Where had the time\n gone? Tremulously she faced the\n southern horizon ... and saw\n her Terry appear in his shining\n chariot, riding up the star-pebbled\n path of his orbit, a star in\n his own right, dropping swiftly\n now, down, down, and out of\n sight beyond the dark wheeling\n mass of the Earth ... She took\n a deep, proud breath, realized\n that she was wildly waving her\n hand and let it fall slowly to her\n side. Make a wish! she thought,\n like a little girl, and she wished\n him pleasant dreams and a safe\n return and wrapped the wish in\n all her love and cast it starward.\nSometime tomorrow, the general's\n telegram had said—\n\n\n That meant sometime today!", "She went about her work as\n usual, collecting the eggs and\n allocating them in their cardboard\n boxes, then setting off in\n the station wagon on her Tuesday\n morning run. She had expected\n a deluge of questions\n from her customers. She was not\n disappointed. \"Is Terry really\n way up there all alone, Martha?\"\n \"Aren't you\nscared\n, Martha?\" \"I\n do hope they can get him back\n down all right, Martha.\" She\n supposed it must have given\n them quite a turn to have their\n egg woman change into a star\n mother overnight.", "She rose with the sun and fed\n the chickens, fixed and ate her\n breakfast, collected the eggs and\n put them in their cardboard\n boxes, then started out on her\n Wednesday morning run. \"My\n land, Martha, I don't see how\n you stand it with him way up\n there! Doesn't it get on your\nnerves\n?\" (\"Yes ... Yes, it\n does.\") \"Martha, when are they\n bringing him back down?\"\n (\"Today ...\nToday\n!\") \"It must\n be wonderful being a star mother,\n Martha.\" (\"Yes, it is—in a\n way.\")\n\n\n Wonderful ... and terrible.\n\n\n If only he can last it out for\n a few more hours, she thought.\n If only they can bring him down\n safe and sound. Then the vigil\n will be over, and some other\n mother can take over the awesome\n responsibility of having a\n son become a star—", "younger and Bill was courting\n her, looking up at the moon\n sometimes; and once in a while,\n when a star fell, making a wish.\n But this was different. It was\n different because now she had\n a personal interest in the sky, a\n new affinity with its myriad inhabitants.", "Most of the questions concerned\n Terry, as was fitting.\n From the way the suave young\n man asked them, though, she got\n the impression that he was trying\n to prove that her son was\n just like any other average\n American boy, and such just\n didn't happen to be the case. But\n whenever she opened her mouth\n to mention, say, how he used to\n study till all hours of the night,\n or how difficult it had been for\n him to make friends because of\n his shyness, or the fact that he\n had never gone out for football—whenever\n she started to mention\n any of these things, the\n suave young man was in great\n haste to interrupt her and to\n twist her words, by requestioning,\n into a different meaning\n altogether, till Terry's behavior\n pattern seemed to coincide with\n the behavior pattern which the\n suave young man apparently considered\n the norm, but which, if\n followed, Martha was sure,\n would produce not young men\n bent on exploring space but\n young men bent on exploring\n trivia.", "A few of the questions concerned\n herself: Was Terry her\n only child? (\"Yes.\") What had\n happened to her husband? (\"He\n was killed in the Korean War.\")\n What did she think of the new\n law granting star mothers top\n priority on any and all information\n relating to their sons? (\"I\n think it's a fine law ... It's too\n bad they couldn't have shown\n similar humanity toward the\n war mothers of World War II.\")\nIt was late in the afternoon\n by the time the TV crew got\n everything repacked into their\n cars and trucks and made their\n departure. Martha fixed herself\n a light supper, then donned an", "She raised her eyes to the\n patch of sky where her son had\n passed in his shining metal sarcophagus.\n Sirius blossomed\n there, blue-white and beautiful.\n She raised her eyes still higher—and\n beheld the vast parterre\n of Orion with its central motif\n of vivid forget-me-nots, its far-flung\n blooms of Betelguese and\n Rigel, of Bellatrix and Saiph ...\n And higher yet—and there\n flamed the exquisite flower beds\n of Taurus and Gemini, there\n burgeoned the riotous wreath of\n the Crab; there lay the pulsing\n petals of the Pleiades ... And\n down the ecliptic garden path,\n wafted by a stellar breeze, drifted\n the ocher rose of Mars ...\n\n\n \"No,\" she said again.", "—probably won't get a chance\n to write you again before take-off,\n but don't worry, Ma. The\nExplorer XII\nis the greatest bird\n they ever built. Nothing short of\n a direct meteorite hit can hurt\n it, and the odds are a million to\n one ...\nWhy don't they leave the stars\n alone? Why don't they leave the\n stars to God?\nThe afternoon shadows lengthened\n on the lawn and the sun\n grew red and swollen over the\n western hills. Martha fixed supper,\n tried to eat, and couldn't.\n After a while, when the light\n began to fade, she slipped into", "STAR MOTHER\nBy ROBERT F. YOUNG\nA touching story of the most\n enduring love in all eternity.\nThat\n night her son was the\n first star.\n\n\n She stood motionless in the\n garden, one hand pressed against\n her heart, watching him rise\n above the fields where he had\n played as a boy, where he had\n worked as a young man; and she\n wondered whether he was thinking\n of those fields now, whether\n he was thinking of her standing\n alone in the April night with her\n memories; whether he was\n thinking of the verandahed\n house behind her, with its empty\n rooms and silent halls, that once\n upon a time had been his birthplace.", "Higher still and higher he\n rose in the southern sky, and\n then, when he had reached his\n zenith, he dropped swiftly down\n past the dark edge of the Earth\n and disappeared from sight. A\n boy grown up too soon, riding\n round and round the world on\n a celestial carousel, encased in\n an airtight metal capsule in an\n airtight metal chariot ...\nWhy don't they leave the stars\n alone?\nshe thought.\nWhy don't\n they leave the stars to God?\nThe general's second telegram\n came early the next morning:\n Explorer XII\ndoing splendidly.\n Expect to bring your son down\n sometime tomorrow\n.", "And how bright they became\n when you kept looking at them!\n They seemed to come alive, almost,\n pulsing brilliantly down\n out of the blackness of the night ...\n And they were different colors,\n too, she noticed with a start.\n Some of them were blue and\n some were red, others were yellow\n ... green ... orange ...", "If only ...\nThe general's third telegram\n arrived that afternoon:\nRegret\n to inform you that meteorite impact\n on satellite hull severely\n damaged capsule-detachment\n mechanism, making ejection impossible.\n Will make every effort\n to find another means of accomplishing\n your son's return.\nTerry!—", "Terry's jacket and went outside.", "See the little boy playing beneath\n the maple tree, moving his\n tiny cars up and down the tiny\n streets of his make-believe village;\n the little boy, his fuzz of\n hair gold in the sunlight, his\n cherub-cheeks pink in the summer\n wind—\nTerry!—\nUp the lane the blue-denimed\n young man walks, swinging his\n thin tanned arms, his long legs\n making near-grownup strides\n over the sun-seared grass; the\n sky blue and bright behind him,\n the song of cicada rising and\n falling in the hazy September\n air—\nTerry ...", "The general had raised his\n eyes, too; now, slowly, he lowered\n them. \"I think I understand,\n ma'am. And I'm glad\n that's the way you want it ...\n The stars\nare\nbeautiful tonight,\n aren't they.\"\n\n\n \"More beautiful than they've\n ever been,\" she said.\nAfter the general had gone,\n she looked up once more at the\n vast and variegated garden of\n the sky where her son lay buried,\n then she turned and walked\n slowly back to the memoried\n house.\nTHE END\nTranscriber's Note:\nThis etext was produced from\nAmazing Stories\nJanuary 1959.\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.\n copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and\n typographical errors have been corrected without note.", "\"The same meteorite that\n damaged the ejection mechanism,\n ma'am. It penetrated the\n capsule, too. We didn't find out\n till just a while ago—but there\n was nothing we could have done\n anyway ... Are you all right,\n ma'am?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. I'm all right.\"\n\n\n \"I wanted to express my regrets\n personally. I know how you\n must feel.\"\n\n\n \"It's all right.\"\n\n\n \"We will, of course, make\n every effort to bring back his ... remains ... so\n that he can\n have a fitting burial on Earth.\"\n\n\n \"No,\" she said.\n\n\n \"I beg your pardon, ma'am?\"", "She hadn't expected the TV interview,\n though, and she would\n have avoided it if it had been\n politely possible. But what could\n she do when the line of cars and\n trucks pulled into the drive and\n the technicians got out and started\n setting up their equipment in\n the backyard? What could she\n say when the suave young man\n came up to her and said, \"We\n want you to know that we're all\n very proud of your boy up there,\n ma'am, and we hope you'll do us\n the honor of answering a few\n questions.\"" ], [ "Slowly the sky darkened and\n the stars began to appear. At\n length\nher\nstar appeared, but its\n swift passage blurred before her\n eyes. Tires crunched on the\n gravel then, and headlights\n washed the darkness from the\n drive. A car door slammed.\n\n\n Martha did not move.\nPlease\n God\n, she thought,\nlet it be Terry\n,\n even though she knew that it\n couldn't possibly be Terry. Footsteps\n sounded behind her, paused.\n Someone coughed softly. She\n turned then—\n\n\n \"Good evening, ma'am.\"\n\n\n She saw the circlet of stars\n on the gray epaulet; she saw the\n stern handsome face; she saw\n the dark tired eyes. And she\n knew. Even before he spoke\n again, she knew—", "She went about her work as\n usual, collecting the eggs and\n allocating them in their cardboard\n boxes, then setting off in\n the station wagon on her Tuesday\n morning run. She had expected\n a deluge of questions\n from her customers. She was not\n disappointed. \"Is Terry really\n way up there all alone, Martha?\"\n \"Aren't you\nscared\n, Martha?\" \"I\n do hope they can get him back\n down all right, Martha.\" She\n supposed it must have given\n them quite a turn to have their\n egg woman change into a star\n mother overnight.", "A few of the questions concerned\n herself: Was Terry her\n only child? (\"Yes.\") What had\n happened to her husband? (\"He\n was killed in the Korean War.\")\n What did she think of the new\n law granting star mothers top\n priority on any and all information\n relating to their sons? (\"I\n think it's a fine law ... It's too\n bad they couldn't have shown\n similar humanity toward the\n war mothers of World War II.\")\nIt was late in the afternoon\n by the time the TV crew got\n everything repacked into their\n cars and trucks and made their\n departure. Martha fixed herself\n a light supper, then donned an", "Most of the questions concerned\n Terry, as was fitting.\n From the way the suave young\n man asked them, though, she got\n the impression that he was trying\n to prove that her son was\n just like any other average\n American boy, and such just\n didn't happen to be the case. But\n whenever she opened her mouth\n to mention, say, how he used to\n study till all hours of the night,\n or how difficult it had been for\n him to make friends because of\n his shyness, or the fact that he\n had never gone out for football—whenever\n she started to mention\n any of these things, the\n suave young man was in great\n haste to interrupt her and to\n twist her words, by requestioning,\n into a different meaning\n altogether, till Terry's behavior\n pattern seemed to coincide with\n the behavior pattern which the\n suave young man apparently considered\n the norm, but which, if\n followed, Martha was sure,\n would produce not young men\n bent on exploring space but\n young men bent on exploring\n trivia.", "It grew cold in the April garden\n and she could see her breath.\n There was a strange crispness,\n a strange clarity about the\n night, that she had never known\n before ... She glanced at her\n watch, was astonished to see that\n the hands indicated two minutes\n after nine. Where had the time\n gone? Tremulously she faced the\n southern horizon ... and saw\n her Terry appear in his shining\n chariot, riding up the star-pebbled\n path of his orbit, a star in\n his own right, dropping swiftly\n now, down, down, and out of\n sight beyond the dark wheeling\n mass of the Earth ... She took\n a deep, proud breath, realized\n that she was wildly waving her\n hand and let it fall slowly to her\n side. Make a wish! she thought,\n like a little girl, and she wished\n him pleasant dreams and a safe\n return and wrapped the wish in\n all her love and cast it starward.\nSometime tomorrow, the general's\n telegram had said—\n\n\n That meant sometime today!", "old suede jacket of Terry's and\n went out into the garden to wait\n for the sun to go down. According\n to the time table the general\n had outlined in his first telegram,\n Terry's first Tuesday\n night passage wasn't due to occur\n till 9:05. But it seemed only\n right that she should be outside\n when the stars started to come\n out. Presently they did, and she\n watched them wink on, one by\n one, in the deepening darkness\n of the sky. She'd never been\n much of a one for the stars;\n most of her life she'd been much\n too busy on Earth to bother with\n things celestial. She could remember,\n when she was much", "\"The same meteorite that\n damaged the ejection mechanism,\n ma'am. It penetrated the\n capsule, too. We didn't find out\n till just a while ago—but there\n was nothing we could have done\n anyway ... Are you all right,\n ma'am?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. I'm all right.\"\n\n\n \"I wanted to express my regrets\n personally. I know how you\n must feel.\"\n\n\n \"It's all right.\"\n\n\n \"We will, of course, make\n every effort to bring back his ... remains ... so\n that he can\n have a fitting burial on Earth.\"\n\n\n \"No,\" she said.\n\n\n \"I beg your pardon, ma'am?\"", "She rose with the sun and fed\n the chickens, fixed and ate her\n breakfast, collected the eggs and\n put them in their cardboard\n boxes, then started out on her\n Wednesday morning run. \"My\n land, Martha, I don't see how\n you stand it with him way up\n there! Doesn't it get on your\nnerves\n?\" (\"Yes ... Yes, it\n does.\") \"Martha, when are they\n bringing him back down?\"\n (\"Today ...\nToday\n!\") \"It must\n be wonderful being a star mother,\n Martha.\" (\"Yes, it is—in a\n way.\")\n\n\n Wonderful ... and terrible.\n\n\n If only he can last it out for\n a few more hours, she thought.\n If only they can bring him down\n safe and sound. Then the vigil\n will be over, and some other\n mother can take over the awesome\n responsibility of having a\n son become a star—", "She hadn't expected the TV interview,\n though, and she would\n have avoided it if it had been\n politely possible. But what could\n she do when the line of cars and\n trucks pulled into the drive and\n the technicians got out and started\n setting up their equipment in\n the backyard? What could she\n say when the suave young man\n came up to her and said, \"We\n want you to know that we're all\n very proud of your boy up there,\n ma'am, and we hope you'll do us\n the honor of answering a few\n questions.\"", "—probably won't get a chance\n to write you again before take-off,\n but don't worry, Ma. The\nExplorer XII\nis the greatest bird\n they ever built. Nothing short of\n a direct meteorite hit can hurt\n it, and the odds are a million to\n one ...\nWhy don't they leave the stars\n alone? Why don't they leave the\n stars to God?\nThe afternoon shadows lengthened\n on the lawn and the sun\n grew red and swollen over the\n western hills. Martha fixed supper,\n tried to eat, and couldn't.\n After a while, when the light\n began to fade, she slipped into", "She raised her eyes to the\n patch of sky where her son had\n passed in his shining metal sarcophagus.\n Sirius blossomed\n there, blue-white and beautiful.\n She raised her eyes still higher—and\n beheld the vast parterre\n of Orion with its central motif\n of vivid forget-me-nots, its far-flung\n blooms of Betelguese and\n Rigel, of Bellatrix and Saiph ...\n And higher yet—and there\n flamed the exquisite flower beds\n of Taurus and Gemini, there\n burgeoned the riotous wreath of\n the Crab; there lay the pulsing\n petals of the Pleiades ... And\n down the ecliptic garden path,\n wafted by a stellar breeze, drifted\n the ocher rose of Mars ...\n\n\n \"No,\" she said again.", "See the little boy playing beneath\n the maple tree, moving his\n tiny cars up and down the tiny\n streets of his make-believe village;\n the little boy, his fuzz of\n hair gold in the sunlight, his\n cherub-cheeks pink in the summer\n wind—\nTerry!—\nUp the lane the blue-denimed\n young man walks, swinging his\n thin tanned arms, his long legs\n making near-grownup strides\n over the sun-seared grass; the\n sky blue and bright behind him,\n the song of cicada rising and\n falling in the hazy September\n air—\nTerry ...", "If only ...\nThe general's third telegram\n arrived that afternoon:\nRegret\n to inform you that meteorite impact\n on satellite hull severely\n damaged capsule-detachment\n mechanism, making ejection impossible.\n Will make every effort\n to find another means of accomplishing\n your son's return.\nTerry!—", "The general had raised his\n eyes, too; now, slowly, he lowered\n them. \"I think I understand,\n ma'am. And I'm glad\n that's the way you want it ...\n The stars\nare\nbeautiful tonight,\n aren't they.\"\n\n\n \"More beautiful than they've\n ever been,\" she said.\nAfter the general had gone,\n she looked up once more at the\n vast and variegated garden of\n the sky where her son lay buried,\n then she turned and walked\n slowly back to the memoried\n house.\nTHE END\nTranscriber's Note:\nThis etext was produced from\nAmazing Stories\nJanuary 1959.\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.\n copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and\n typographical errors have been corrected without note.", "Higher still and higher he\n rose in the southern sky, and\n then, when he had reached his\n zenith, he dropped swiftly down\n past the dark edge of the Earth\n and disappeared from sight. A\n boy grown up too soon, riding\n round and round the world on\n a celestial carousel, encased in\n an airtight metal capsule in an\n airtight metal chariot ...\nWhy don't they leave the stars\n alone?\nshe thought.\nWhy don't\n they leave the stars to God?\nThe general's second telegram\n came early the next morning:\n Explorer XII\ndoing splendidly.\n Expect to bring your son down\n sometime tomorrow\n.", "STAR MOTHER\nBy ROBERT F. YOUNG\nA touching story of the most\n enduring love in all eternity.\nThat\n night her son was the\n first star.\n\n\n She stood motionless in the\n garden, one hand pressed against\n her heart, watching him rise\n above the fields where he had\n played as a boy, where he had\n worked as a young man; and she\n wondered whether he was thinking\n of those fields now, whether\n he was thinking of her standing\n alone in the April night with her\n memories; whether he was\n thinking of the verandahed\n house behind her, with its empty\n rooms and silent halls, that once\n upon a time had been his birthplace.", "younger and Bill was courting\n her, looking up at the moon\n sometimes; and once in a while,\n when a star fell, making a wish.\n But this was different. It was\n different because now she had\n a personal interest in the sky, a\n new affinity with its myriad inhabitants.", "Terry's jacket and went outside.", "And how bright they became\n when you kept looking at them!\n They seemed to come alive, almost,\n pulsing brilliantly down\n out of the blackness of the night ...\n And they were different colors,\n too, she noticed with a start.\n Some of them were blue and\n some were red, others were yellow\n ... green ... orange ..." ] ]
train	27665	[ "Why does Donald's wife think it is funny that Donald might lead the junior achievement group?", "What is the most likely cause of the accident that displaced Marjorie and Donald from their home?", "Doris, Peter, and Hilary have all of the following characteristics in common EXCEPT for their:", "What is the most likely reason why Peter, Doris, and Hilary were interested in joining the junior achievement group?", "What is Hilary's tone described as \"dark\" when he remarks that there will be people interested in using his before-shave lotion?", "Central theme of the story? Unrestrained allows for greater success and creativity and progress?", "What is the central irony at the end of the story? He ends up becoming an employee of children", "What is the most likely reason for the junior achievement group's shared characteristics?" ]	[ [ "Donald is prone to get carried away with 'side projects,' which his wife finds amusing", "Donald's students know more than he does about science and industry", "Donald has no desire or innate talent to participate in sales- or marketing-related schemes", "Donald comes home each day and complains about his students, yet he is volunteering to spend more time with them" ], [ "Food supply depletion", "Radioactive toxicity", "Viral contamination", "Climate devastation" ], [ "Controlled movements", "Skin complexions", "Regulated voices", "Intelligence quotients" ], [ "Desire to test their creative ideas in a less restricted environment", "Desire to recruit Donald to work for the Commission of Ridgeville", "Desire to challenge authority and wreak havoc on the town of Ridgeville", "Desire to acquire a large amount of funds in order to eliminate the need to go to college" ], [ "He senses that Donald is going to dismiss the idea because it is too costly", "He senses that Donald is scheming to patent the idea for his own profiteering", "He senses that Donald is beginning to understand his malicious intent for the before-shave lotion", "He senses that Donald is underestimating the potential of his good idea" ], [ "When children are allowed to challenge authority, the possibilities for havoc aren't as extreme as adults assume they will be", "When children are allowed to control a group, the possibilities for destruction are higher than in a controlled, rulebound environment", "When children are allowed to follow their dreams, the possibilities for failure are more amplified than in a practical, realistic environment", "When children are allowed to embrace creativity, the possibilities for innovation are higher than in a rigid, standardized environment" ], [ "While Donald feels insecure regarding his science background, he becomes more confident due to his experience innovating with the children ", "While Donald initially expresses concern about selling items door-to-door, all the customers end up coming to him and the group members", "While Donald is excited about the opportunity to impart his knowledge, he becomes the employee of students who have more qualifications than he does", "While Donald despises teaching, he ends up committing to more teaching-related responsibilities over the course of a school year" ], [ "They have experienced expected and unanticipated consequences of nuclear fallout", "Their parents are all members of the Ridgeville Commission", "They are all actually androids that have been programmed by scientists of the Ridgeville Commission", "They have been meeting secretly for years before they came together under the guise of the junior achievement group" ] ]	[ 3, 2, 4, 1, 4, 4, 3, 2 ]	[ 0, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 1 ]	[ [ "Fallout is, of course, always disastrous—\n \none way or another\nJUNIOR ACHIEVEMENT\nBY WILLIAM LEE\nILLUSTRATED BY SCHOENHERR\n\"What would you think,\" I asked\n Marjorie over supper, \"if I should undertake\n to lead a junior achievement\n group this summer?\"\n\n\n She pondered it while she went to\n the kitchen to bring in the dessert.\n It was dried apricot pie, and very\n tasty, I might add.\n\n\n \"Why, Donald,\" she said, \"it could\n be quite interesting, if I understand\n what a junior achievement group is.\n What gave you the idea?\"\n\n\n \"It wasn't my idea, really,\" I admitted.\n \"Mr. McCormack called me\n to the office today, and told me that\n some of the children in the lower\n grades wanted to start one. They\n need adult guidance of course, and\n one of the group suggested my name.\"", "The two on my right were cast in\n a different mold. Mary McCready\n was a big husky redhead of twelve,\n with a face full of freckles and an\n infectious laugh, and Tommy Miller,\n a few months younger, was just an\n average, extroverted, well adjusted\n youngster, noisy and restless, tee-shirted\n and butch-barbered.\n\n\n The group exchanged looks to see\n who would lead off, and Peter Cope\n seemed to be elected.\n\n\n \"Well, Mr. Henderson, a junior\n achievement group is a bunch of kids\n who get together to manufacture and\n sell things, and maybe make some\n money.\"\n\n\n \"Is that what you want to do,\" I\n asked, \"make money?\"\n\n\n \"Why not?\" Tommy asked.\n \"There's something wrong with making\n money?\"", "\"It has the purpose,\" I told her,\n \"of teaching the members something\n about commerce and industry. They\n manufacture simple compositions\n like polishing waxes and sell them\n from door-to-door. Some groups have\n built up tidy little bank accounts\n which are available for later educational\n expenses.\"\n\n\n \"Gracious, you wouldn't have to\n sell from door-to-door, would you?\"\n\n\n \"Of course not. I'd just tell the\n kids how to do it.\"\n\n\n Marjorie put back her head and\n laughed, and I was forced to join her,\n for we both recognize that my understanding\n and \"feel\" for commercial\n matters—if I may use that expression—is\n almost nonexistent.", "I should explain, perhaps, that I\n teach a course in general science in\n our Ridgeville Junior High School,\n and another in general physics in the\n Senior High School. It's a privilege\n which I'm sure many educators must\n envy, teaching in Ridgeville, for our\n new school is a fine one, and our\n academic standards are high. On the\n other hand, the fathers of most of\n my students work for the Commission\n and a constant awareness of the Commission\n and its work pervades the\n town. It is an uneasy privilege then,\n at least sometimes, to teach my old-fashioned\n brand of science to these\n children of a new age.\n\n\n \"That's very nice,\" said Marjorie.\n \"What does a junior achievement\n group do?\"", "\"Winter quarters,\" Marge repeated.\n \"You mean you're going to try to\n keep the group going after school\n starts?\"\n\n\n \"Why not? The kids can sail\n through their courses without thinking\n about them, and actually they\n won't put in more than a few hours\n a week during the school year.\"\n\n\n \"Even so, it's child labor, isn't it?\"\n\n\n \"Child labor nothing. They're the\n employers. Jeff McCord and I will\n be the only employees—just at first,\n anyway.\"\n\n\n Marge choked on something. \"Did\n you say you'd be an employee?\"", "\"Oh, all right,\" I said, \"laugh at\n my commercial aspirations. But don't\n worry about it, really. Mr. McCormack\n said we could get Mr. Wells from\n Commercial Department to help out\n if he was needed. There is one problem,\n though. Mr. McCormack is going\n to put up fifty dollars to buy any\n raw materials wanted and he rather\n suggested that I might advance another\n fifty. The question is, could we\n do it?\"\n\n\n Marjorie did mental arithmetic.\n \"Yes,\" she said, \"yes, if it's something\n you'd like to do.\"", "The usual products, of course, with\n these junior achievement efforts, are\n chemical specialties that can be made\n safely and that people will buy and\n use without misgivings—solvent to\n free up rusty bolts, cleaner to remove\n road tar, mechanic's hand soap—that\n sort of thing. Mr. McCormack had\n told me, though, that I might find\n these youngsters a bit more ambitious.\n \"The Miller boy and Mary McCready,\"\n he had said, \"have exceptionally\n high IQ's—around one forty\n or one fifty. The other three are hard\n to classify. They have some of the\n attributes of exceptional pupils, but\n much of the time they seem to have\n little interest in their studies. The\n junior achievement idea has sparked\n their imaginations. Maybe it'll be just\n what they need.\"", "I'd forgotten all about organization,\n and that, according to all the\n articles I had perused, is most important\n to such groups. It's standard practice\n for every member of the group\n to be a company officer. Of course a\n young boy who doesn't know any better,\n may wind up a sales manager.\n\n\n Over the sandwiches, then, I suggested\n nominating company officers,\n but they seemed not to be interested.\n Peter Cope waved it off by remarking\n that they'd each do what came\n naturally. On the other hand, they\n pondered at some length about a\n name for the organization, without\n reaching any conclusions, so we returned\n to the problem of what to\n make.\n\n\n It was Mary, finally, who advanced\n the thought of kites. At first there\n was little enthusiasm, then Peter said,\n \"You know, we could work up something\n new. Has anybody ever seen a\n kite made like a wind sock?\"", "\"It was priceless. Just before rush\n hour. Suds built up in the basin and\n overflowed, and down the library\n steps and covered the whole street.\n And the funniest part was they kept\n right on coming. You couldn't imagine\n so much suds coming from that\n little pool of water. There was a\n three-block traffic jam and Harry got\n us some marvelous pictures—men\n rolling up their trousers to wade\n across the street. And this morning,\"\n she chortled, \"somebody phoned in\n an anonymous tip to the police—of\n course it was the same boy that did\n it—Tommy—Miller?—and so here\n we are. And we just saw a demonstration\n of that fabulous kite and saw\n all those simply captivating mice.\"\n\n\n \"Mice?\"", "\"No.\" She shook her head in mock\n despondency. \"I'm not very technical.\n Just sort of miscellaneous. But if the\n group wanted to raise some mice, I'd\n be willing to turn over a project I've\n had going at home.\"\n\n\n \"You could sell mice?\" Tommy demanded\n incredulously.\n\n\n \"Mice,\" I echoed, then sat back and\n thought about it. \"Are they a pure\n strain? One of the recognized laboratory\n strains? Healthy mice of the\n right strain,\" I explained to Tommy,\n \"might be sold to laboratories. I have\n an idea the Commission buys a supply\n every month.\"\n\n\n \"No,\" said Doris, \"these aren't laboratory\n mice. They're fancy ones. I\n got the first four pairs from a pet\n shop in Denver, but they're red—sort\n of chipmunk color, you know. I've\n carried them through seventeen generations\n of careful selection.\"", "Doris added to this that if you\n could make the discs light enough to\n float, they might be colored white\n and spread on the surface of a reservoir\n to reduce evaporation.\n\n\n These latter ideas had made unknowing\n use of some basic physics,\n and I'm afraid I relapsed for a few\n minutes into the role of teacher and\n told them a little bit about the laws\n of radiation and absorption of heat.\n\n\n \"My,\" said Marjorie, \"they're really\n smart boys and girls. Tommy Miller\n does sound like a born salesman.\n Somehow I don't think you're going\n to have to call in Mr. Wells.\"", "\"Well,\" Peter said, looking a little\n embarrassed, \"we were planning to\n buy a hydraulic press. You see, Doris\n put some embroidery on that scheme\n of mine for making ball bearings.\"\n He grabbed a sheet of paper. \"Look,\n we make a roller bearing, this shape\n only it's a permanent magnet. Then\n you see—.\" And he was off.\n\n\n \"What did they do today, dear?\"\n Marge asked as she refilled my coffee\n cup.\n\n\n \"Thanks,\" I said. \"Let's see, it was\n a big day. We picked out a hydraulic\n press, Doris read us the first chapter\n of the book she's starting, and we\n found a place over a garage on\n Fourth Street that we can rent for\n winter quarters. Oh, yes, and Jeff is\n starting action to get the company\n incorporated.\"", "\"Perhaps,\" I countered, \"somebody\n should tell me.\"\n\n\n \"You mean you don't know, honestly?\n Oh, it's fabulous. Best story I've\n had for ages. It'll make the city papers.\"\n She led me around the corner\n of the barn to a spot of comparative\n quiet.\n\n\n \"You didn't know that one of your\n junior whatsisnames poured detergent\n in the Memorial Fountain basin\n last night?\"\n\n\n I shook my head numbly.", "Hilary had been deep in thought.\n He said suddenly, \"Gosh, I think I\n know how to make a—what do you\n want to call it—a before-shave lotion.\"\n\n\n \"What would that be?\" I asked.\n\n\n \"You'd use it before you shaved.\"\n\n\n \"I suppose there might be people\n who'd prefer to use it beforehand,\"\n I conceded.\n\n\n \"There will be people,\" he said\n darkly, and subsided.\n\n\n Mrs. Miller came out to the barn\n after a while, bringing a bucket of\n soft drinks and ice, a couple of loaves\n of bread and ingredients for a variety\n of sandwiches. The parents had\n agreed to underwrite lunches at the\n barn and Betty Miller philosophically\n assumed the role of commissary\n officer. She paused only to say hello\n and to ask how we were progressing\n with our organization meeting.", "\"Yes, of course. Who would ever\n have thought you could breed mice\n with those cute furry tails?\"\nWell, after a while things quieted\n down. They had to. The police left\n after sobering up long enough to\n give me a serious warning against\n letting such a thing happen again.\n Mr. Miller, who had come home to\n see what all the excitement was, went\n back to work and Mrs. Miller went\n back to the house and the reporter\n and photographer drifted off to file\n their story, or whatever it is they do.\n Tommy was jubilant.\n\n\n \"Did you hear what she said? It'll\n make the city papers. I wish we had\n a thousand kites. Ten thousand. Oh\n boy, selling is fun. Hilary, when can\n you make some more of that stuff?\n And Doris, how many mice do you\n have?\"", "The third event of Wednesday\n came to my ears on Thursday morning.\n\n\n I was a little late arriving at the\n barn, and was taken a bit aback to\n find the roadway leading to it rather\n full of parked automobiles, and the\n barn itself rather full of people, including\n two policemen. Our Ridgeville\n police are quite young men, but\n in uniform they still look ominous\n and I was relieved to see that they\n were laughing and evidently enjoying\n themselves.\n\n\n \"Well, now,\" I demanded, in my\n best classroom voice. \"What is all\n this?\"\n\n\n \"Are you Henderson?\" the larger\n policeman asked.\n\n\n \"I am indeed,\" I said, and a flash\n bulb went off. A young lady grasped\n my arm.\n\n\n \"Oh, please, Mr. Henderson, come\n outside where it's quieter and tell me\n all about it.\"", "\"O.K.,\" I said, \"let's relax. You\n don't need to treat me as a teacher,\n you know. I stopped being a school\n teacher when the final grades went in\n last Friday. I'm on vacation now. My\n job here is only to advise, and I'm\n going to do that as little as possible.\n You're going to decide what to do,\n and if it's safe and legal and possible\n to do with the starting capital we\n have, I'll go along with it and help\n in any way I can. This is your meeting.\"\n\n\n Mr. McCormack had told me, and\n in some detail, about the youngsters\n I'd be dealing with. The three who\n were sitting to my left were the ones\n who had proposed the group in the\n first place.", "\"I see. Just a mixture of stuff. And\n do your whiskers grow back the next\n day?\"\n\n\n \"Right on schedule,\" I said.\n\n\n McCord unfolded his length and\n stood staring out into the rain. Presently\n he said, \"Henderson, Hilary\n and I are heading for my office. We\n can work there better than here, and\n if we're going to break the hearts of\n the razor industry, there's no better\n time to start than now.\"\n\n\n When they had driven off I turned\n and said, \"Let's talk a while. We can\n always clean mouse cages later.\n Where's Tommy?\"\n\n\n \"Oh, he stopped at the bank to get\n a loan.\"\n\n\n \"What on earth for? We have over\n six thousand in the account.\"", "\"Well, now,\" I admitted, \"the market\n for red mice might be rather limited.\n Why don't you consider making\n an after-shave lotion? Denatured alcohol,\n glycerine, water, a little color\n and perfume. You could buy some\n bottles and have some labels printed.\n You'd be in business before you\n knew it.\"\n\n\n There was a pause, then Tommy\n inquired, \"How do you sell it?\"\n\n\n \"Door-to-door.\"\n\n\n He made a face. \"Never build up\n any volume. Unless it did something\n extra. You say we'd put color in it.\n How about enough color to leave\n your face looking tanned. Men won't\n use cosmetics and junk, but if they\n didn't have to admit it, they might\n like the shave lotion.\"", "\"Hi,\" he said. \"You're Donald\n Henderson, right? My name is McCord—Jeff\n McCord—and I work in\n the Patent Section at the Commission's\n downtown office. My boss sent\n me over here, but if he hadn't, I\n think I'd have come anyway. What\n are you doing to get patent protection\n on Ridge Industries' new developments?\"\n\n\n I got my back unkinked and dusted\n off my knees. \"Well, now,\" I said,\n \"I've been wondering whether something\n shouldn't be done, but I know\n very little about such matters—.\"" ], [ "Fallout is, of course, always disastrous—\n \none way or another\nJUNIOR ACHIEVEMENT\nBY WILLIAM LEE\nILLUSTRATED BY SCHOENHERR\n\"What would you think,\" I asked\n Marjorie over supper, \"if I should undertake\n to lead a junior achievement\n group this summer?\"\n\n\n She pondered it while she went to\n the kitchen to bring in the dessert.\n It was dried apricot pie, and very\n tasty, I might add.\n\n\n \"Why, Donald,\" she said, \"it could\n be quite interesting, if I understand\n what a junior achievement group is.\n What gave you the idea?\"\n\n\n \"It wasn't my idea, really,\" I admitted.\n \"Mr. McCormack called me\n to the office today, and told me that\n some of the children in the lower\n grades wanted to start one. They\n need adult guidance of course, and\n one of the group suggested my name.\"", "We've had to watch such things\n rather closely for the last ten—no,\n eleven years. Back in the old Ridgeville,\n fifty-odd miles to the south, we\n had our home almost paid for, when\n the accident occurred. It was in the\n path of the heaviest fallout, and we\n couldn't have kept on living there\n even if the town had stayed. When\n Ridgeville moved to its present site,\n so, of course, did we, which meant\n starting mortgage payments all over\n again.\nThus it was that on a Wednesday\n morning about three weeks later, I\n was sitting at one end of a plank picnic\n table with five boys and girls\n lined up along the sides. This was to\n be our headquarters and factory for\n the summer—a roomy unused barn\n belonging to the parents of one of\n the group members, Tommy Miller.", "\"Well,\" Peter said, looking a little\n embarrassed, \"we were planning to\n buy a hydraulic press. You see, Doris\n put some embroidery on that scheme\n of mine for making ball bearings.\"\n He grabbed a sheet of paper. \"Look,\n we make a roller bearing, this shape\n only it's a permanent magnet. Then\n you see—.\" And he was off.\n\n\n \"What did they do today, dear?\"\n Marge asked as she refilled my coffee\n cup.\n\n\n \"Thanks,\" I said. \"Let's see, it was\n a big day. We picked out a hydraulic\n press, Doris read us the first chapter\n of the book she's starting, and we\n found a place over a garage on\n Fourth Street that we can rent for\n winter quarters. Oh, yes, and Jeff is\n starting action to get the company\n incorporated.\"", "Doris added to this that if you\n could make the discs light enough to\n float, they might be colored white\n and spread on the surface of a reservoir\n to reduce evaporation.\n\n\n These latter ideas had made unknowing\n use of some basic physics,\n and I'm afraid I relapsed for a few\n minutes into the role of teacher and\n told them a little bit about the laws\n of radiation and absorption of heat.\n\n\n \"My,\" said Marjorie, \"they're really\n smart boys and girls. Tommy Miller\n does sound like a born salesman.\n Somehow I don't think you're going\n to have to call in Mr. Wells.\"", "\"It was priceless. Just before rush\n hour. Suds built up in the basin and\n overflowed, and down the library\n steps and covered the whole street.\n And the funniest part was they kept\n right on coming. You couldn't imagine\n so much suds coming from that\n little pool of water. There was a\n three-block traffic jam and Harry got\n us some marvelous pictures—men\n rolling up their trousers to wade\n across the street. And this morning,\"\n she chortled, \"somebody phoned in\n an anonymous tip to the police—of\n course it was the same boy that did\n it—Tommy—Miller?—and so here\n we are. And we just saw a demonstration\n of that fabulous kite and saw\n all those simply captivating mice.\"\n\n\n \"Mice?\"", "\"Oh, all right,\" I said, \"laugh at\n my commercial aspirations. But don't\n worry about it, really. Mr. McCormack\n said we could get Mr. Wells from\n Commercial Department to help out\n if he was needed. There is one problem,\n though. Mr. McCormack is going\n to put up fifty dollars to buy any\n raw materials wanted and he rather\n suggested that I might advance another\n fifty. The question is, could we\n do it?\"\n\n\n Marjorie did mental arithmetic.\n \"Yes,\" she said, \"yes, if it's something\n you'd like to do.\"", "I should explain, perhaps, that I\n teach a course in general science in\n our Ridgeville Junior High School,\n and another in general physics in the\n Senior High School. It's a privilege\n which I'm sure many educators must\n envy, teaching in Ridgeville, for our\n new school is a fine one, and our\n academic standards are high. On the\n other hand, the fathers of most of\n my students work for the Commission\n and a constant awareness of the Commission\n and its work pervades the\n town. It is an uneasy privilege then,\n at least sometimes, to teach my old-fashioned\n brand of science to these\n children of a new age.\n\n\n \"That's very nice,\" said Marjorie.\n \"What does a junior achievement\n group do?\"", "\"I see. Just a mixture of stuff. And\n do your whiskers grow back the next\n day?\"\n\n\n \"Right on schedule,\" I said.\n\n\n McCord unfolded his length and\n stood staring out into the rain. Presently\n he said, \"Henderson, Hilary\n and I are heading for my office. We\n can work there better than here, and\n if we're going to break the hearts of\n the razor industry, there's no better\n time to start than now.\"\n\n\n When they had driven off I turned\n and said, \"Let's talk a while. We can\n always clean mouse cages later.\n Where's Tommy?\"\n\n\n \"Oh, he stopped at the bank to get\n a loan.\"\n\n\n \"What on earth for? We have over\n six thousand in the account.\"", "\"It has the purpose,\" I told her,\n \"of teaching the members something\n about commerce and industry. They\n manufacture simple compositions\n like polishing waxes and sell them\n from door-to-door. Some groups have\n built up tidy little bank accounts\n which are available for later educational\n expenses.\"\n\n\n \"Gracious, you wouldn't have to\n sell from door-to-door, would you?\"\n\n\n \"Of course not. I'd just tell the\n kids how to do it.\"\n\n\n Marjorie put back her head and\n laughed, and I was forced to join her,\n for we both recognize that my understanding\n and \"feel\" for commercial\n matters—if I may use that expression—is\n almost nonexistent.", "\"So then I stopped by at Apex\n Stationers,\" Tommy went on, \"and ordered\n some paper and envelopes. We\n hadn't picked a name yesterday, but I\n figured what's to lose, and picked one.\n Ridge Industries, how's that?\" Everybody\n nodded.\n\n\n \"Just three lines on the letterhead,\"\n he explained. \"Ridge Industries—Ridgeville—Montana.\"\n\n\n I got my voice back and said, \"Engraved,\n I trust.\"\n\n\n \"Well, sure,\" he replied. \"You can't\n afford to look chintzy.\"\nMy appetite was not at its best\n that evening, and Marjorie recognized\n that something was concerning\n me, but she asked no questions, and\n I only told her about the success of\n the kite, and the youngsters embarking\n on a shopping trip for paper, glue\n and wood splints. There was no use\n in both of us worrying.", "The third event of Wednesday\n came to my ears on Thursday morning.\n\n\n I was a little late arriving at the\n barn, and was taken a bit aback to\n find the roadway leading to it rather\n full of parked automobiles, and the\n barn itself rather full of people, including\n two policemen. Our Ridgeville\n police are quite young men, but\n in uniform they still look ominous\n and I was relieved to see that they\n were laughing and evidently enjoying\n themselves.\n\n\n \"Well, now,\" I demanded, in my\n best classroom voice. \"What is all\n this?\"\n\n\n \"Are you Henderson?\" the larger\n policeman asked.\n\n\n \"I am indeed,\" I said, and a flash\n bulb went off. A young lady grasped\n my arm.\n\n\n \"Oh, please, Mr. Henderson, come\n outside where it's quieter and tell me\n all about it.\"", "\"Perhaps,\" I countered, \"somebody\n should tell me.\"\n\n\n \"You mean you don't know, honestly?\n Oh, it's fabulous. Best story I've\n had for ages. It'll make the city papers.\"\n She led me around the corner\n of the barn to a spot of comparative\n quiet.\n\n\n \"You didn't know that one of your\n junior whatsisnames poured detergent\n in the Memorial Fountain basin\n last night?\"\n\n\n I shook my head numbly.", "\"Winter quarters,\" Marge repeated.\n \"You mean you're going to try to\n keep the group going after school\n starts?\"\n\n\n \"Why not? The kids can sail\n through their courses without thinking\n about them, and actually they\n won't put in more than a few hours\n a week during the school year.\"\n\n\n \"Even so, it's child labor, isn't it?\"\n\n\n \"Child labor nothing. They're the\n employers. Jeff McCord and I will\n be the only employees—just at first,\n anyway.\"\n\n\n Marge choked on something. \"Did\n you say you'd be an employee?\"", "It was rather regrettable that, after\n the\nCourier\ngave us most of the third\n page, including photographs, we rarely\n had a day without a few visitors.\n Many of them wanted to buy mice or\n kites, but Tommy refused to sell any\n mice at retail and we soon had to disappoint\n those who wanted kites. The\n Supermarket took all we had—except\n a dozen—and at a dollar fifty\n each. Tommy's ideas of pricing rather\n frightened me, but he set the value\n of the mice at ten dollars a pair\n and got it without any arguments.\n\n\n Our beautiful stationery arrived,\n and we had some invoice forms printed\n up in a hurry—not engraved, for\n a wonder.\n\n\n It was on Tuesday—following the\n Thursday—that a lanky young man\n disentangled himself from his car\n and strolled into the barn. I looked\n up from the floor where I was tacking\n squares of screening onto wooden\n frames.", "Nobody had. Pete drew figures in\n the air with his hands. \"How about\n the hole at the small end?\"\n\n\n \"I'll make one tonight,\" said Doris,\n \"and think about the small end.\n It'll work out all right.\"\n\n\n I wished that the youngsters weren't\n starting out by inventing a new\n article to manufacture, and risking an\n almost certain disappointment, but to\n hold my guidance to the minimum, I\n said nothing, knowing that later I\n could help them redesign it along\n standard lines.\nAt supper I reviewed the day's\n happenings with Marjorie and tried\n to recall all of the ideas which had\n been propounded. Most of them were\n impractical, of course, for a group of\n children to attempt, but several of\n them appeared quite attractive.", "I do feel just a little embarrassed\n about the kite, even now. The fact\n that it flew surprised me. That it flew\n so confoundedly well was humiliating.\n Four of them were at the barn\n when I arrived next morning; or\n rather on the rise of ground just beyond\n it, and the kite hung motionless\n and almost out of sight in the pale\n sky. I stood and watched for a moment,\n then they saw me.\n\n\n \"Hello, Mr. Henderson,\" Mary said,\n and proffered the cord which was\n wound on a fishing reel. I played the\n kite up and down for a few minutes,\n then reeled it in. It was, almost exactly,\n a wind sock, but the hole at the\n small end was shaped—by wire—into\n the general form of a kidney bean.\n It was beautifully made, and had a\n sort of professional look about it.\n\n\n \"It flies too well,\" Mary told Doris.\n \"A kite ought to get caught in a tree\n sometimes.\"", "Doris Enright was a grave young\n lady of ten years, who might, I\n thought, be quite a beauty in a few\n more years, but was at the moment\n rather angular—all shoulders and elbows.\n Peter Cope, Jr. and Hilary Matlack\n were skinny kids, too. The three\n were of an age and were all tall for\n ten-year-olds.\n\n\n I had the impression during that\n first meeting that they looked rather\n alike, but this wasn't so. Their features\n were quite different. Perhaps\n from association, for they were close\n friends, they had just come to have\n a certain similarity of restrained gesture\n and of modulated voice. And\n they were all tanned by sun and wind\n to a degree that made their eyes seem\n light and their teeth startlingly white.", "The day that our application on\n the kite design went to Washington,\n Mary wrote a dozen toy manufacturers\n scattered from New York to Los\n Angeles, sent a kite to each one and\n offered to license the design. Result,\n one licensee with a thousand dollar\n advance against next season's royalties.\nIt was a rainy morning about three\n weeks later that I arrived at the barn.\n Jeff McCord was there, and the whole\n team except Tommy. Jeff lowered his\n feet from the picnic table and said,\n \"Hi.\"\n\n\n \"Hi yourself,\" I told him. \"You\n look pleased.\"", "By Wednesday of the following\n week we had almost three hundred\n kites finished and packed into flat\n cardboard boxes, and frankly I didn't\n care if I never saw another. Tommy,\n who by mutual consent, was our\n authority on sales, didn't want to sell\n any until we had, as he put it, enough\n to meet the demand, but this quantity\n seemed to satisfy him. He said he\n would sell them the next week and\n Mary McCready, with a fine burst of\n confidence, asked him in all seriousness\n to be sure to hold out a dozen.\n\n\n Three other things occurred that\n day, two of which I knew about immediately.\n Mary brought a portable\n typewriter from home and spent part\n of the afternoon banging away at\n what seemed to me, since I use two\n fingers only, a very creditable speed.\n\n\n And Hilary brought in a bottle of\n his new detergent. It was a syrupy\n yellow liquid with a nice collar of\n suds. He'd been busy in his home\n laboratory after all, it seemed.", "Those mice! I have always kept\n my enthusiasm for rodents within\n bounds, but I must admit they were\n charming little beasts, with tails as\n bushy as miniature squirrels.\n\n\n \"How many generations?\" I asked\n Doris.\n\n\n \"Seventeen. No, eighteen, now.\n Want to see the genetic charts?\"\n\n\n I won't try to explain it as she did\n to me, but it was quite evident that\n the new mice were breeding true.\n Presently we asked Betty Miller to\n come back down to the barn for a\n conference. She listened and asked\n questions. At last she said, \"Well, all\n right, if you promise me they can't\n get out of their cages. But heaven\n knows what you'll do when fall\n comes. They won't live in an unheated\n barn and you can't bring them\n into the house.\"" ], [ "Doris Enright was a grave young\n lady of ten years, who might, I\n thought, be quite a beauty in a few\n more years, but was at the moment\n rather angular—all shoulders and elbows.\n Peter Cope, Jr. and Hilary Matlack\n were skinny kids, too. The three\n were of an age and were all tall for\n ten-year-olds.\n\n\n I had the impression during that\n first meeting that they looked rather\n alike, but this wasn't so. Their features\n were quite different. Perhaps\n from association, for they were close\n friends, they had just come to have\n a certain similarity of restrained gesture\n and of modulated voice. And\n they were all tanned by sun and wind\n to a degree that made their eyes seem\n light and their teeth startlingly white.", "\"Like the liquid dishwashing detergents?\"\n I asked.\n\n\n He was scornful. \"No, they're formulations—you\n know, mixtures.\n That's cookbook chemistry. I mean a\n brand new synthetic detergent. I've\n got an idea for one that ought to be\n good even in the hard water we've\n got around here.\"\n\n\n \"Well, now,\" I said, \"organic synthesis\n sounds like another operation\n calling for capital investment. If we\n should keep the achievement group\n going for several summers, it might\n be possible later on to carry out a\n safe synthesis of some sort. You're\n Dr. Matlack's son, aren't you? Been\n dipping into your father's library?\"\n\n\n \"Some,\" said Hilary, \"and I've got\n a home laboratory.\"\n\n\n \"How about you, Doris?\" I prompted.\n \"Do you have a special field of interest?\"", "Doris added to this that if you\n could make the discs light enough to\n float, they might be colored white\n and spread on the surface of a reservoir\n to reduce evaporation.\n\n\n These latter ideas had made unknowing\n use of some basic physics,\n and I'm afraid I relapsed for a few\n minutes into the role of teacher and\n told them a little bit about the laws\n of radiation and absorption of heat.\n\n\n \"My,\" said Marjorie, \"they're really\n smart boys and girls. Tommy Miller\n does sound like a born salesman.\n Somehow I don't think you're going\n to have to call in Mr. Wells.\"", "\"Well,\" Peter said, looking a little\n embarrassed, \"we were planning to\n buy a hydraulic press. You see, Doris\n put some embroidery on that scheme\n of mine for making ball bearings.\"\n He grabbed a sheet of paper. \"Look,\n we make a roller bearing, this shape\n only it's a permanent magnet. Then\n you see—.\" And he was off.\n\n\n \"What did they do today, dear?\"\n Marge asked as she refilled my coffee\n cup.\n\n\n \"Thanks,\" I said. \"Let's see, it was\n a big day. We picked out a hydraulic\n press, Doris read us the first chapter\n of the book she's starting, and we\n found a place over a garage on\n Fourth Street that we can rent for\n winter quarters. Oh, yes, and Jeff is\n starting action to get the company\n incorporated.\"", "By Wednesday of the following\n week we had almost three hundred\n kites finished and packed into flat\n cardboard boxes, and frankly I didn't\n care if I never saw another. Tommy,\n who by mutual consent, was our\n authority on sales, didn't want to sell\n any until we had, as he put it, enough\n to meet the demand, but this quantity\n seemed to satisfy him. He said he\n would sell them the next week and\n Mary McCready, with a fine burst of\n confidence, asked him in all seriousness\n to be sure to hold out a dozen.\n\n\n Three other things occurred that\n day, two of which I knew about immediately.\n Mary brought a portable\n typewriter from home and spent part\n of the afternoon banging away at\n what seemed to me, since I use two\n fingers only, a very creditable speed.\n\n\n And Hilary brought in a bottle of\n his new detergent. It was a syrupy\n yellow liquid with a nice collar of\n suds. He'd been busy in his home\n laboratory after all, it seemed.", "The two on my right were cast in\n a different mold. Mary McCready\n was a big husky redhead of twelve,\n with a face full of freckles and an\n infectious laugh, and Tommy Miller,\n a few months younger, was just an\n average, extroverted, well adjusted\n youngster, noisy and restless, tee-shirted\n and butch-barbered.\n\n\n The group exchanged looks to see\n who would lead off, and Peter Cope\n seemed to be elected.\n\n\n \"Well, Mr. Henderson, a junior\n achievement group is a bunch of kids\n who get together to manufacture and\n sell things, and maybe make some\n money.\"\n\n\n \"Is that what you want to do,\" I\n asked, \"make money?\"\n\n\n \"Why not?\" Tommy asked.\n \"There's something wrong with making\n money?\"", "\"Well, sure, I suppose we want to,\"\n said Hilary. \"We'll need some money\n to do the things we want to do later.\"\n\n\n \"And what sort of things would\n you like to make and sell?\" I asked.", "Nobody had. Pete drew figures in\n the air with his hands. \"How about\n the hole at the small end?\"\n\n\n \"I'll make one tonight,\" said Doris,\n \"and think about the small end.\n It'll work out all right.\"\n\n\n I wished that the youngsters weren't\n starting out by inventing a new\n article to manufacture, and risking an\n almost certain disappointment, but to\n hold my guidance to the minimum, I\n said nothing, knowing that later I\n could help them redesign it along\n standard lines.\nAt supper I reviewed the day's\n happenings with Marjorie and tried\n to recall all of the ideas which had\n been propounded. Most of them were\n impractical, of course, for a group of\n children to attempt, but several of\n them appeared quite attractive.", "Hilary had been deep in thought.\n He said suddenly, \"Gosh, I think I\n know how to make a—what do you\n want to call it—a before-shave lotion.\"\n\n\n \"What would that be?\" I asked.\n\n\n \"You'd use it before you shaved.\"\n\n\n \"I suppose there might be people\n who'd prefer to use it beforehand,\"\n I conceded.\n\n\n \"There will be people,\" he said\n darkly, and subsided.\n\n\n Mrs. Miller came out to the barn\n after a while, bringing a bucket of\n soft drinks and ice, a couple of loaves\n of bread and ingredients for a variety\n of sandwiches. The parents had\n agreed to underwrite lunches at the\n barn and Betty Miller philosophically\n assumed the role of commissary\n officer. She paused only to say hello\n and to ask how we were progressing\n with our organization meeting.", "\"I am,\" he replied, \"in a cautious\n legal sense, of course. Hilary and I\n were just going over the situation on\n his phosphonate detergent. I've spent\n the last three nights studying the patent\n literature and a few standard\n texts touching on phosphonates.\n There are a zillion patents on synthetic\n detergents and a good round\n fifty on phosphonates, but it looks\"—he\n held up a long admonitory hand—\"it\n just looks as though we had a clear\n spot. If we do get protection, you've\n got a real salable property.\"\n\n\n \"That's fine, Mr. McCord,\" Hilary\n said, \"but it's not very important.\"\n\n\n \"No?\" Jeff tilted an inquiring eyebrow\n at me, and I handed him a small\n bottle. He opened and sniffed at it\n gingerly. \"What gives?\"", "\"You're right,\" Doris agreed. \"Let's\n see it.\" She gave the wire at the small\n end the slightest of twists. \"There, it\n ought to swoop.\"\n\n\n Sure enough, in the moderate\n breeze of that morning, the kite\n swooped and yawed to Mary's entire\n satisfaction. As we trailed back to the\n barn I asked Doris, \"How did you\n know that flattening the lower edge\n of the hole would create instability?\"\n She looked doubtful.\n\n\n \"Why it would have to, wouldn't\n it? It changed the pattern of air pressures.\"\n She glanced at me quickly.\n \"Of course, I tried a lot of different\n shapes while I was making it.\"\n\n\n \"Naturally,\" I said, and let it go at\n that. \"Where's Tommy?\"", "\"O.K.,\" I said, \"let's relax. You\n don't need to treat me as a teacher,\n you know. I stopped being a school\n teacher when the final grades went in\n last Friday. I'm on vacation now. My\n job here is only to advise, and I'm\n going to do that as little as possible.\n You're going to decide what to do,\n and if it's safe and legal and possible\n to do with the starting capital we\n have, I'll go along with it and help\n in any way I can. This is your meeting.\"\n\n\n Mr. McCormack had told me, and\n in some detail, about the youngsters\n I'd be dealing with. The three who\n were sitting to my left were the ones\n who had proposed the group in the\n first place.", "The usual products, of course, with\n these junior achievement efforts, are\n chemical specialties that can be made\n safely and that people will buy and\n use without misgivings—solvent to\n free up rusty bolts, cleaner to remove\n road tar, mechanic's hand soap—that\n sort of thing. Mr. McCormack had\n told me, though, that I might find\n these youngsters a bit more ambitious.\n \"The Miller boy and Mary McCready,\"\n he had said, \"have exceptionally\n high IQ's—around one forty\n or one fifty. The other three are hard\n to classify. They have some of the\n attributes of exceptional pupils, but\n much of the time they seem to have\n little interest in their studies. The\n junior achievement idea has sparked\n their imaginations. Maybe it'll be just\n what they need.\"", "I do feel just a little embarrassed\n about the kite, even now. The fact\n that it flew surprised me. That it flew\n so confoundedly well was humiliating.\n Four of them were at the barn\n when I arrived next morning; or\n rather on the rise of ground just beyond\n it, and the kite hung motionless\n and almost out of sight in the pale\n sky. I stood and watched for a moment,\n then they saw me.\n\n\n \"Hello, Mr. Henderson,\" Mary said,\n and proffered the cord which was\n wound on a fishing reel. I played the\n kite up and down for a few minutes,\n then reeled it in. It was, almost exactly,\n a wind sock, but the hole at the\n small end was shaped—by wire—into\n the general form of a kidney bean.\n It was beautifully made, and had a\n sort of professional look about it.\n\n\n \"It flies too well,\" Mary told Doris.\n \"A kite ought to get caught in a tree\n sometimes.\"", "\"Yes, of course. Who would ever\n have thought you could breed mice\n with those cute furry tails?\"\nWell, after a while things quieted\n down. They had to. The police left\n after sobering up long enough to\n give me a serious warning against\n letting such a thing happen again.\n Mr. Miller, who had come home to\n see what all the excitement was, went\n back to work and Mrs. Miller went\n back to the house and the reporter\n and photographer drifted off to file\n their story, or whatever it is they do.\n Tommy was jubilant.\n\n\n \"Did you hear what she said? It'll\n make the city papers. I wish we had\n a thousand kites. Ten thousand. Oh\n boy, selling is fun. Hilary, when can\n you make some more of that stuff?\n And Doris, how many mice do you\n have?\"", "Those mice! I have always kept\n my enthusiasm for rodents within\n bounds, but I must admit they were\n charming little beasts, with tails as\n bushy as miniature squirrels.\n\n\n \"How many generations?\" I asked\n Doris.\n\n\n \"Seventeen. No, eighteen, now.\n Want to see the genetic charts?\"\n\n\n I won't try to explain it as she did\n to me, but it was quite evident that\n the new mice were breeding true.\n Presently we asked Betty Miller to\n come back down to the barn for a\n conference. She listened and asked\n questions. At last she said, \"Well, all\n right, if you promise me they can't\n get out of their cages. But heaven\n knows what you'll do when fall\n comes. They won't live in an unheated\n barn and you can't bring them\n into the house.\"", "I'd forgotten all about organization,\n and that, according to all the\n articles I had perused, is most important\n to such groups. It's standard practice\n for every member of the group\n to be a company officer. Of course a\n young boy who doesn't know any better,\n may wind up a sales manager.\n\n\n Over the sandwiches, then, I suggested\n nominating company officers,\n but they seemed not to be interested.\n Peter Cope waved it off by remarking\n that they'd each do what came\n naturally. On the other hand, they\n pondered at some length about a\n name for the organization, without\n reaching any conclusions, so we returned\n to the problem of what to\n make.\n\n\n It was Mary, finally, who advanced\n the thought of kites. At first there\n was little enthusiasm, then Peter said,\n \"You know, we could work up something\n new. Has anybody ever seen a\n kite made like a wind sock?\"", "\"No.\" She shook her head in mock\n despondency. \"I'm not very technical.\n Just sort of miscellaneous. But if the\n group wanted to raise some mice, I'd\n be willing to turn over a project I've\n had going at home.\"\n\n\n \"You could sell mice?\" Tommy demanded\n incredulously.\n\n\n \"Mice,\" I echoed, then sat back and\n thought about it. \"Are they a pure\n strain? One of the recognized laboratory\n strains? Healthy mice of the\n right strain,\" I explained to Tommy,\n \"might be sold to laboratories. I have\n an idea the Commission buys a supply\n every month.\"\n\n\n \"No,\" said Doris, \"these aren't laboratory\n mice. They're fancy ones. I\n got the first four pairs from a pet\n shop in Denver, but they're red—sort\n of chipmunk color, you know. I've\n carried them through seventeen generations\n of careful selection.\"", "\"I see. Just a mixture of stuff. And\n do your whiskers grow back the next\n day?\"\n\n\n \"Right on schedule,\" I said.\n\n\n McCord unfolded his length and\n stood staring out into the rain. Presently\n he said, \"Henderson, Hilary\n and I are heading for my office. We\n can work there better than here, and\n if we're going to break the hearts of\n the razor industry, there's no better\n time to start than now.\"\n\n\n When they had driven off I turned\n and said, \"Let's talk a while. We can\n always clean mouse cages later.\n Where's Tommy?\"\n\n\n \"Oh, he stopped at the bank to get\n a loan.\"\n\n\n \"What on earth for? We have over\n six thousand in the account.\"", "The third event of Wednesday\n came to my ears on Thursday morning.\n\n\n I was a little late arriving at the\n barn, and was taken a bit aback to\n find the roadway leading to it rather\n full of parked automobiles, and the\n barn itself rather full of people, including\n two policemen. Our Ridgeville\n police are quite young men, but\n in uniform they still look ominous\n and I was relieved to see that they\n were laughing and evidently enjoying\n themselves.\n\n\n \"Well, now,\" I demanded, in my\n best classroom voice. \"What is all\n this?\"\n\n\n \"Are you Henderson?\" the larger\n policeman asked.\n\n\n \"I am indeed,\" I said, and a flash\n bulb went off. A young lady grasped\n my arm.\n\n\n \"Oh, please, Mr. Henderson, come\n outside where it's quieter and tell me\n all about it.\"" ], [ "The two on my right were cast in\n a different mold. Mary McCready\n was a big husky redhead of twelve,\n with a face full of freckles and an\n infectious laugh, and Tommy Miller,\n a few months younger, was just an\n average, extroverted, well adjusted\n youngster, noisy and restless, tee-shirted\n and butch-barbered.\n\n\n The group exchanged looks to see\n who would lead off, and Peter Cope\n seemed to be elected.\n\n\n \"Well, Mr. Henderson, a junior\n achievement group is a bunch of kids\n who get together to manufacture and\n sell things, and maybe make some\n money.\"\n\n\n \"Is that what you want to do,\" I\n asked, \"make money?\"\n\n\n \"Why not?\" Tommy asked.\n \"There's something wrong with making\n money?\"", "Doris Enright was a grave young\n lady of ten years, who might, I\n thought, be quite a beauty in a few\n more years, but was at the moment\n rather angular—all shoulders and elbows.\n Peter Cope, Jr. and Hilary Matlack\n were skinny kids, too. The three\n were of an age and were all tall for\n ten-year-olds.\n\n\n I had the impression during that\n first meeting that they looked rather\n alike, but this wasn't so. Their features\n were quite different. Perhaps\n from association, for they were close\n friends, they had just come to have\n a certain similarity of restrained gesture\n and of modulated voice. And\n they were all tanned by sun and wind\n to a degree that made their eyes seem\n light and their teeth startlingly white.", "The usual products, of course, with\n these junior achievement efforts, are\n chemical specialties that can be made\n safely and that people will buy and\n use without misgivings—solvent to\n free up rusty bolts, cleaner to remove\n road tar, mechanic's hand soap—that\n sort of thing. Mr. McCormack had\n told me, though, that I might find\n these youngsters a bit more ambitious.\n \"The Miller boy and Mary McCready,\"\n he had said, \"have exceptionally\n high IQ's—around one forty\n or one fifty. The other three are hard\n to classify. They have some of the\n attributes of exceptional pupils, but\n much of the time they seem to have\n little interest in their studies. The\n junior achievement idea has sparked\n their imaginations. Maybe it'll be just\n what they need.\"", "\"Like the liquid dishwashing detergents?\"\n I asked.\n\n\n He was scornful. \"No, they're formulations—you\n know, mixtures.\n That's cookbook chemistry. I mean a\n brand new synthetic detergent. I've\n got an idea for one that ought to be\n good even in the hard water we've\n got around here.\"\n\n\n \"Well, now,\" I said, \"organic synthesis\n sounds like another operation\n calling for capital investment. If we\n should keep the achievement group\n going for several summers, it might\n be possible later on to carry out a\n safe synthesis of some sort. You're\n Dr. Matlack's son, aren't you? Been\n dipping into your father's library?\"\n\n\n \"Some,\" said Hilary, \"and I've got\n a home laboratory.\"\n\n\n \"How about you, Doris?\" I prompted.\n \"Do you have a special field of interest?\"", "I should explain, perhaps, that I\n teach a course in general science in\n our Ridgeville Junior High School,\n and another in general physics in the\n Senior High School. It's a privilege\n which I'm sure many educators must\n envy, teaching in Ridgeville, for our\n new school is a fine one, and our\n academic standards are high. On the\n other hand, the fathers of most of\n my students work for the Commission\n and a constant awareness of the Commission\n and its work pervades the\n town. It is an uneasy privilege then,\n at least sometimes, to teach my old-fashioned\n brand of science to these\n children of a new age.\n\n\n \"That's very nice,\" said Marjorie.\n \"What does a junior achievement\n group do?\"", "\"Well,\" Peter said, looking a little\n embarrassed, \"we were planning to\n buy a hydraulic press. You see, Doris\n put some embroidery on that scheme\n of mine for making ball bearings.\"\n He grabbed a sheet of paper. \"Look,\n we make a roller bearing, this shape\n only it's a permanent magnet. Then\n you see—.\" And he was off.\n\n\n \"What did they do today, dear?\"\n Marge asked as she refilled my coffee\n cup.\n\n\n \"Thanks,\" I said. \"Let's see, it was\n a big day. We picked out a hydraulic\n press, Doris read us the first chapter\n of the book she's starting, and we\n found a place over a garage on\n Fourth Street that we can rent for\n winter quarters. Oh, yes, and Jeff is\n starting action to get the company\n incorporated.\"", "\"Well, sure, I suppose we want to,\"\n said Hilary. \"We'll need some money\n to do the things we want to do later.\"\n\n\n \"And what sort of things would\n you like to make and sell?\" I asked.", "Fallout is, of course, always disastrous—\n \none way or another\nJUNIOR ACHIEVEMENT\nBY WILLIAM LEE\nILLUSTRATED BY SCHOENHERR\n\"What would you think,\" I asked\n Marjorie over supper, \"if I should undertake\n to lead a junior achievement\n group this summer?\"\n\n\n She pondered it while she went to\n the kitchen to bring in the dessert.\n It was dried apricot pie, and very\n tasty, I might add.\n\n\n \"Why, Donald,\" she said, \"it could\n be quite interesting, if I understand\n what a junior achievement group is.\n What gave you the idea?\"\n\n\n \"It wasn't my idea, really,\" I admitted.\n \"Mr. McCormack called me\n to the office today, and told me that\n some of the children in the lower\n grades wanted to start one. They\n need adult guidance of course, and\n one of the group suggested my name.\"", "\"It has the purpose,\" I told her,\n \"of teaching the members something\n about commerce and industry. They\n manufacture simple compositions\n like polishing waxes and sell them\n from door-to-door. Some groups have\n built up tidy little bank accounts\n which are available for later educational\n expenses.\"\n\n\n \"Gracious, you wouldn't have to\n sell from door-to-door, would you?\"\n\n\n \"Of course not. I'd just tell the\n kids how to do it.\"\n\n\n Marjorie put back her head and\n laughed, and I was forced to join her,\n for we both recognize that my understanding\n and \"feel\" for commercial\n matters—if I may use that expression—is\n almost nonexistent.", "\"O.K.,\" I said, \"let's relax. You\n don't need to treat me as a teacher,\n you know. I stopped being a school\n teacher when the final grades went in\n last Friday. I'm on vacation now. My\n job here is only to advise, and I'm\n going to do that as little as possible.\n You're going to decide what to do,\n and if it's safe and legal and possible\n to do with the starting capital we\n have, I'll go along with it and help\n in any way I can. This is your meeting.\"\n\n\n Mr. McCormack had told me, and\n in some detail, about the youngsters\n I'd be dealing with. The three who\n were sitting to my left were the ones\n who had proposed the group in the\n first place.", "I'd forgotten all about organization,\n and that, according to all the\n articles I had perused, is most important\n to such groups. It's standard practice\n for every member of the group\n to be a company officer. Of course a\n young boy who doesn't know any better,\n may wind up a sales manager.\n\n\n Over the sandwiches, then, I suggested\n nominating company officers,\n but they seemed not to be interested.\n Peter Cope waved it off by remarking\n that they'd each do what came\n naturally. On the other hand, they\n pondered at some length about a\n name for the organization, without\n reaching any conclusions, so we returned\n to the problem of what to\n make.\n\n\n It was Mary, finally, who advanced\n the thought of kites. At first there\n was little enthusiasm, then Peter said,\n \"You know, we could work up something\n new. Has anybody ever seen a\n kite made like a wind sock?\"", "Nobody had. Pete drew figures in\n the air with his hands. \"How about\n the hole at the small end?\"\n\n\n \"I'll make one tonight,\" said Doris,\n \"and think about the small end.\n It'll work out all right.\"\n\n\n I wished that the youngsters weren't\n starting out by inventing a new\n article to manufacture, and risking an\n almost certain disappointment, but to\n hold my guidance to the minimum, I\n said nothing, knowing that later I\n could help them redesign it along\n standard lines.\nAt supper I reviewed the day's\n happenings with Marjorie and tried\n to recall all of the ideas which had\n been propounded. Most of them were\n impractical, of course, for a group of\n children to attempt, but several of\n them appeared quite attractive.", "Doris added to this that if you\n could make the discs light enough to\n float, they might be colored white\n and spread on the surface of a reservoir\n to reduce evaporation.\n\n\n These latter ideas had made unknowing\n use of some basic physics,\n and I'm afraid I relapsed for a few\n minutes into the role of teacher and\n told them a little bit about the laws\n of radiation and absorption of heat.\n\n\n \"My,\" said Marjorie, \"they're really\n smart boys and girls. Tommy Miller\n does sound like a born salesman.\n Somehow I don't think you're going\n to have to call in Mr. Wells.\"", "Hilary had been deep in thought.\n He said suddenly, \"Gosh, I think I\n know how to make a—what do you\n want to call it—a before-shave lotion.\"\n\n\n \"What would that be?\" I asked.\n\n\n \"You'd use it before you shaved.\"\n\n\n \"I suppose there might be people\n who'd prefer to use it beforehand,\"\n I conceded.\n\n\n \"There will be people,\" he said\n darkly, and subsided.\n\n\n Mrs. Miller came out to the barn\n after a while, bringing a bucket of\n soft drinks and ice, a couple of loaves\n of bread and ingredients for a variety\n of sandwiches. The parents had\n agreed to underwrite lunches at the\n barn and Betty Miller philosophically\n assumed the role of commissary\n officer. She paused only to say hello\n and to ask how we were progressing\n with our organization meeting.", "\"Winter quarters,\" Marge repeated.\n \"You mean you're going to try to\n keep the group going after school\n starts?\"\n\n\n \"Why not? The kids can sail\n through their courses without thinking\n about them, and actually they\n won't put in more than a few hours\n a week during the school year.\"\n\n\n \"Even so, it's child labor, isn't it?\"\n\n\n \"Child labor nothing. They're the\n employers. Jeff McCord and I will\n be the only employees—just at first,\n anyway.\"\n\n\n Marge choked on something. \"Did\n you say you'd be an employee?\"", "By Wednesday of the following\n week we had almost three hundred\n kites finished and packed into flat\n cardboard boxes, and frankly I didn't\n care if I never saw another. Tommy,\n who by mutual consent, was our\n authority on sales, didn't want to sell\n any until we had, as he put it, enough\n to meet the demand, but this quantity\n seemed to satisfy him. He said he\n would sell them the next week and\n Mary McCready, with a fine burst of\n confidence, asked him in all seriousness\n to be sure to hold out a dozen.\n\n\n Three other things occurred that\n day, two of which I knew about immediately.\n Mary brought a portable\n typewriter from home and spent part\n of the afternoon banging away at\n what seemed to me, since I use two\n fingers only, a very creditable speed.\n\n\n And Hilary brought in a bottle of\n his new detergent. It was a syrupy\n yellow liquid with a nice collar of\n suds. He'd been busy in his home\n laboratory after all, it seemed.", "Mary said, \"Why don't we make a\n freckle remover? I'd be our first customer.\"\n\"The thing to do,\" Tommy offered,\n \"is to figure out what people in\n Ridgeville want to buy, then sell it\n to them.\"\n\n\n \"I'd like to make something by\n powder metallurgy techniques,\" said\n Pete. He fixed me with a challenging\n eye. \"You should be able to make\n ball bearings by molding, then densify\n them by electroplating.\"\n\n\n \"And all we'd need is a hydraulic\n press,\" I told him, \"which, on a guess,\n might cost ten thousand dollars. Let's\n think of something easier.\"\n\n\n Pete mulled it over and nodded\n reluctantly. \"Then maybe something\n in the electronics field. A hi-fi sub-assembly\n of some kind.\"\n\n\n \"How about a new detergent?\" Hilary\n put in.", "\"No.\" She shook her head in mock\n despondency. \"I'm not very technical.\n Just sort of miscellaneous. But if the\n group wanted to raise some mice, I'd\n be willing to turn over a project I've\n had going at home.\"\n\n\n \"You could sell mice?\" Tommy demanded\n incredulously.\n\n\n \"Mice,\" I echoed, then sat back and\n thought about it. \"Are they a pure\n strain? One of the recognized laboratory\n strains? Healthy mice of the\n right strain,\" I explained to Tommy,\n \"might be sold to laboratories. I have\n an idea the Commission buys a supply\n every month.\"\n\n\n \"No,\" said Doris, \"these aren't laboratory\n mice. They're fancy ones. I\n got the first four pairs from a pet\n shop in Denver, but they're red—sort\n of chipmunk color, you know. I've\n carried them through seventeen generations\n of careful selection.\"", "We've had to watch such things\n rather closely for the last ten—no,\n eleven years. Back in the old Ridgeville,\n fifty-odd miles to the south, we\n had our home almost paid for, when\n the accident occurred. It was in the\n path of the heaviest fallout, and we\n couldn't have kept on living there\n even if the town had stayed. When\n Ridgeville moved to its present site,\n so, of course, did we, which meant\n starting mortgage payments all over\n again.\nThus it was that on a Wednesday\n morning about three weeks later, I\n was sitting at one end of a plank picnic\n table with five boys and girls\n lined up along the sides. This was to\n be our headquarters and factory for\n the summer—a roomy unused barn\n belonging to the parents of one of\n the group members, Tommy Miller.", "The third event of Wednesday\n came to my ears on Thursday morning.\n\n\n I was a little late arriving at the\n barn, and was taken a bit aback to\n find the roadway leading to it rather\n full of parked automobiles, and the\n barn itself rather full of people, including\n two policemen. Our Ridgeville\n police are quite young men, but\n in uniform they still look ominous\n and I was relieved to see that they\n were laughing and evidently enjoying\n themselves.\n\n\n \"Well, now,\" I demanded, in my\n best classroom voice. \"What is all\n this?\"\n\n\n \"Are you Henderson?\" the larger\n policeman asked.\n\n\n \"I am indeed,\" I said, and a flash\n bulb went off. A young lady grasped\n my arm.\n\n\n \"Oh, please, Mr. Henderson, come\n outside where it's quieter and tell me\n all about it.\"" ], [ "Hilary had been deep in thought.\n He said suddenly, \"Gosh, I think I\n know how to make a—what do you\n want to call it—a before-shave lotion.\"\n\n\n \"What would that be?\" I asked.\n\n\n \"You'd use it before you shaved.\"\n\n\n \"I suppose there might be people\n who'd prefer to use it beforehand,\"\n I conceded.\n\n\n \"There will be people,\" he said\n darkly, and subsided.\n\n\n Mrs. Miller came out to the barn\n after a while, bringing a bucket of\n soft drinks and ice, a couple of loaves\n of bread and ingredients for a variety\n of sandwiches. The parents had\n agreed to underwrite lunches at the\n barn and Betty Miller philosophically\n assumed the role of commissary\n officer. She paused only to say hello\n and to ask how we were progressing\n with our organization meeting.", "\"Before-shave lotion,\" Hilary told\n him. \"You've shaved this morning,\n but try some anyway.\"\n\n\n Jeff looked momentarily dubious,\n then puddled some in his palm and\n moistened his jaw line. \"Smells\n good,\" he noted, \"and feels nice and\n cool. Now what?\"\n\n\n \"Wipe your face.\" Jeff located a\n handkerchief and wiped, looked at\n the cloth, wiped again, and stared.\n\n\n \"What is it?\"\n\n\n \"A whisker stiffener. It makes each\n hair brittle enough to break off right\n at the surface of your skin.\"\n\n\n \"So I perceive. What is it?\"\n\n\n \"Oh, just a mixture of stuff. Cookbook\n chemistry. Cysteine thiolactone\n and a fat-soluble magnesium compound.\"", "\"I am,\" he replied, \"in a cautious\n legal sense, of course. Hilary and I\n were just going over the situation on\n his phosphonate detergent. I've spent\n the last three nights studying the patent\n literature and a few standard\n texts touching on phosphonates.\n There are a zillion patents on synthetic\n detergents and a good round\n fifty on phosphonates, but it looks\"—he\n held up a long admonitory hand—\"it\n just looks as though we had a clear\n spot. If we do get protection, you've\n got a real salable property.\"\n\n\n \"That's fine, Mr. McCord,\" Hilary\n said, \"but it's not very important.\"\n\n\n \"No?\" Jeff tilted an inquiring eyebrow\n at me, and I handed him a small\n bottle. He opened and sniffed at it\n gingerly. \"What gives?\"", "By Wednesday of the following\n week we had almost three hundred\n kites finished and packed into flat\n cardboard boxes, and frankly I didn't\n care if I never saw another. Tommy,\n who by mutual consent, was our\n authority on sales, didn't want to sell\n any until we had, as he put it, enough\n to meet the demand, but this quantity\n seemed to satisfy him. He said he\n would sell them the next week and\n Mary McCready, with a fine burst of\n confidence, asked him in all seriousness\n to be sure to hold out a dozen.\n\n\n Three other things occurred that\n day, two of which I knew about immediately.\n Mary brought a portable\n typewriter from home and spent part\n of the afternoon banging away at\n what seemed to me, since I use two\n fingers only, a very creditable speed.\n\n\n And Hilary brought in a bottle of\n his new detergent. It was a syrupy\n yellow liquid with a nice collar of\n suds. He'd been busy in his home\n laboratory after all, it seemed.", "\"Well, now,\" I admitted, \"the market\n for red mice might be rather limited.\n Why don't you consider making\n an after-shave lotion? Denatured alcohol,\n glycerine, water, a little color\n and perfume. You could buy some\n bottles and have some labels printed.\n You'd be in business before you\n knew it.\"\n\n\n There was a pause, then Tommy\n inquired, \"How do you sell it?\"\n\n\n \"Door-to-door.\"\n\n\n He made a face. \"Never build up\n any volume. Unless it did something\n extra. You say we'd put color in it.\n How about enough color to leave\n your face looking tanned. Men won't\n use cosmetics and junk, but if they\n didn't have to admit it, they might\n like the shave lotion.\"", "\"I see. Just a mixture of stuff. And\n do your whiskers grow back the next\n day?\"\n\n\n \"Right on schedule,\" I said.\n\n\n McCord unfolded his length and\n stood staring out into the rain. Presently\n he said, \"Henderson, Hilary\n and I are heading for my office. We\n can work there better than here, and\n if we're going to break the hearts of\n the razor industry, there's no better\n time to start than now.\"\n\n\n When they had driven off I turned\n and said, \"Let's talk a while. We can\n always clean mouse cages later.\n Where's Tommy?\"\n\n\n \"Oh, he stopped at the bank to get\n a loan.\"\n\n\n \"What on earth for? We have over\n six thousand in the account.\"", "\"What is it?\" I asked. \"You never\n told us.\"\n\n\n Hilary grinned. \"Lauryl benzyl\n phosphonic acid, dipotassium salt, in\n 20% solution.\"\n\n\n \"Goodness.\" I protested, \"it's been\n twenty-five years since my last course\n in chemistry. Perhaps if I saw the\n formula—.\"\n\n\n He gave me a singularly adult\n smile and jotted down a scrawl of\n symbols and lines. It meant little to\n me.\n\n\n \"Is it good?\"\n\n\n For answer he seized the ice bucket,\n now empty of its soda bottles,\n trickled in a few drops from the bottle\n and swished the contents. Foam\n mounted to the rim and spilled over.\n \"And that's our best grade of Ridgeville\n water,\" he pointed out. \"Hardest\n in the country.\"", "\"Well, sure, I suppose we want to,\"\n said Hilary. \"We'll need some money\n to do the things we want to do later.\"\n\n\n \"And what sort of things would\n you like to make and sell?\" I asked.", "Doris Enright was a grave young\n lady of ten years, who might, I\n thought, be quite a beauty in a few\n more years, but was at the moment\n rather angular—all shoulders and elbows.\n Peter Cope, Jr. and Hilary Matlack\n were skinny kids, too. The three\n were of an age and were all tall for\n ten-year-olds.\n\n\n I had the impression during that\n first meeting that they looked rather\n alike, but this wasn't so. Their features\n were quite different. Perhaps\n from association, for they were close\n friends, they had just come to have\n a certain similarity of restrained gesture\n and of modulated voice. And\n they were all tanned by sun and wind\n to a degree that made their eyes seem\n light and their teeth startlingly white.", "The usual products, of course, with\n these junior achievement efforts, are\n chemical specialties that can be made\n safely and that people will buy and\n use without misgivings—solvent to\n free up rusty bolts, cleaner to remove\n road tar, mechanic's hand soap—that\n sort of thing. Mr. McCormack had\n told me, though, that I might find\n these youngsters a bit more ambitious.\n \"The Miller boy and Mary McCready,\"\n he had said, \"have exceptionally\n high IQ's—around one forty\n or one fifty. The other three are hard\n to classify. They have some of the\n attributes of exceptional pupils, but\n much of the time they seem to have\n little interest in their studies. The\n junior achievement idea has sparked\n their imaginations. Maybe it'll be just\n what they need.\"", "\"Like the liquid dishwashing detergents?\"\n I asked.\n\n\n He was scornful. \"No, they're formulations—you\n know, mixtures.\n That's cookbook chemistry. I mean a\n brand new synthetic detergent. I've\n got an idea for one that ought to be\n good even in the hard water we've\n got around here.\"\n\n\n \"Well, now,\" I said, \"organic synthesis\n sounds like another operation\n calling for capital investment. If we\n should keep the achievement group\n going for several summers, it might\n be possible later on to carry out a\n safe synthesis of some sort. You're\n Dr. Matlack's son, aren't you? Been\n dipping into your father's library?\"\n\n\n \"Some,\" said Hilary, \"and I've got\n a home laboratory.\"\n\n\n \"How about you, Doris?\" I prompted.\n \"Do you have a special field of interest?\"", "\"It was priceless. Just before rush\n hour. Suds built up in the basin and\n overflowed, and down the library\n steps and covered the whole street.\n And the funniest part was they kept\n right on coming. You couldn't imagine\n so much suds coming from that\n little pool of water. There was a\n three-block traffic jam and Harry got\n us some marvelous pictures—men\n rolling up their trousers to wade\n across the street. And this morning,\"\n she chortled, \"somebody phoned in\n an anonymous tip to the police—of\n course it was the same boy that did\n it—Tommy—Miller?—and so here\n we are. And we just saw a demonstration\n of that fabulous kite and saw\n all those simply captivating mice.\"\n\n\n \"Mice?\"", "\"Yes, of course. Who would ever\n have thought you could breed mice\n with those cute furry tails?\"\nWell, after a while things quieted\n down. They had to. The police left\n after sobering up long enough to\n give me a serious warning against\n letting such a thing happen again.\n Mr. Miller, who had come home to\n see what all the excitement was, went\n back to work and Mrs. Miller went\n back to the house and the reporter\n and photographer drifted off to file\n their story, or whatever it is they do.\n Tommy was jubilant.\n\n\n \"Did you hear what she said? It'll\n make the city papers. I wish we had\n a thousand kites. Ten thousand. Oh\n boy, selling is fun. Hilary, when can\n you make some more of that stuff?\n And Doris, how many mice do you\n have?\"", "The day that our application on\n the kite design went to Washington,\n Mary wrote a dozen toy manufacturers\n scattered from New York to Los\n Angeles, sent a kite to each one and\n offered to license the design. Result,\n one licensee with a thousand dollar\n advance against next season's royalties.\nIt was a rainy morning about three\n weeks later that I arrived at the barn.\n Jeff McCord was there, and the whole\n team except Tommy. Jeff lowered his\n feet from the picnic table and said,\n \"Hi.\"\n\n\n \"Hi yourself,\" I told him. \"You\n look pleased.\"", "\"Perhaps,\" I countered, \"somebody\n should tell me.\"\n\n\n \"You mean you don't know, honestly?\n Oh, it's fabulous. Best story I've\n had for ages. It'll make the city papers.\"\n She led me around the corner\n of the barn to a spot of comparative\n quiet.\n\n\n \"You didn't know that one of your\n junior whatsisnames poured detergent\n in the Memorial Fountain basin\n last night?\"\n\n\n I shook my head numbly.", "Doris added to this that if you\n could make the discs light enough to\n float, they might be colored white\n and spread on the surface of a reservoir\n to reduce evaporation.\n\n\n These latter ideas had made unknowing\n use of some basic physics,\n and I'm afraid I relapsed for a few\n minutes into the role of teacher and\n told them a little bit about the laws\n of radiation and absorption of heat.\n\n\n \"My,\" said Marjorie, \"they're really\n smart boys and girls. Tommy Miller\n does sound like a born salesman.\n Somehow I don't think you're going\n to have to call in Mr. Wells.\"", "Tommy, for example, wanted to\n put tooth powder into tablets that\n one would chew before brushing the\n teeth. He thought there should be\n two colors in the same bottle—orange\n for morning and blue for night,\n the blue ones designed to leave the\n mouth alkaline at bed time.\n\n\n Pete wanted to make a combination\n nail and wood screw. You'd\n drive it in with a hammer up to the\n threaded part, then send it home with\n a few turns of a screwdriver.\n\n\n Hilary, reluctantly forsaking his\n ideas on detergents, suggested we\n make black plastic discs, like poker\n chips but thinner and as cheap as\n possible, to scatter on a snowy sidewalk\n where they would pick up extra\n heat from the sun and melt the\n snow more rapidly. Afterward one\n would sweep up and collect the discs.", "The two on my right were cast in\n a different mold. Mary McCready\n was a big husky redhead of twelve,\n with a face full of freckles and an\n infectious laugh, and Tommy Miller,\n a few months younger, was just an\n average, extroverted, well adjusted\n youngster, noisy and restless, tee-shirted\n and butch-barbered.\n\n\n The group exchanged looks to see\n who would lead off, and Peter Cope\n seemed to be elected.\n\n\n \"Well, Mr. Henderson, a junior\n achievement group is a bunch of kids\n who get together to manufacture and\n sell things, and maybe make some\n money.\"\n\n\n \"Is that what you want to do,\" I\n asked, \"make money?\"\n\n\n \"Why not?\" Tommy asked.\n \"There's something wrong with making\n money?\"", "\"Well,\" Peter said, looking a little\n embarrassed, \"we were planning to\n buy a hydraulic press. You see, Doris\n put some embroidery on that scheme\n of mine for making ball bearings.\"\n He grabbed a sheet of paper. \"Look,\n we make a roller bearing, this shape\n only it's a permanent magnet. Then\n you see—.\" And he was off.\n\n\n \"What did they do today, dear?\"\n Marge asked as she refilled my coffee\n cup.\n\n\n \"Thanks,\" I said. \"Let's see, it was\n a big day. We picked out a hydraulic\n press, Doris read us the first chapter\n of the book she's starting, and we\n found a place over a garage on\n Fourth Street that we can rent for\n winter quarters. Oh, yes, and Jeff is\n starting action to get the company\n incorporated.\"", "It was rather regrettable that, after\n the\nCourier\ngave us most of the third\n page, including photographs, we rarely\n had a day without a few visitors.\n Many of them wanted to buy mice or\n kites, but Tommy refused to sell any\n mice at retail and we soon had to disappoint\n those who wanted kites. The\n Supermarket took all we had—except\n a dozen—and at a dollar fifty\n each. Tommy's ideas of pricing rather\n frightened me, but he set the value\n of the mice at ten dollars a pair\n and got it without any arguments.\n\n\n Our beautiful stationery arrived,\n and we had some invoice forms printed\n up in a hurry—not engraved, for\n a wonder.\n\n\n It was on Tuesday—following the\n Thursday—that a lanky young man\n disentangled himself from his car\n and strolled into the barn. I looked\n up from the floor where I was tacking\n squares of screening onto wooden\n frames." ], [ "\"Yes, of course. Who would ever\n have thought you could breed mice\n with those cute furry tails?\"\nWell, after a while things quieted\n down. They had to. The police left\n after sobering up long enough to\n give me a serious warning against\n letting such a thing happen again.\n Mr. Miller, who had come home to\n see what all the excitement was, went\n back to work and Mrs. Miller went\n back to the house and the reporter\n and photographer drifted off to file\n their story, or whatever it is they do.\n Tommy was jubilant.\n\n\n \"Did you hear what she said? It'll\n make the city papers. I wish we had\n a thousand kites. Ten thousand. Oh\n boy, selling is fun. Hilary, when can\n you make some more of that stuff?\n And Doris, how many mice do you\n have?\"", "\"Well,\" Peter said, looking a little\n embarrassed, \"we were planning to\n buy a hydraulic press. You see, Doris\n put some embroidery on that scheme\n of mine for making ball bearings.\"\n He grabbed a sheet of paper. \"Look,\n we make a roller bearing, this shape\n only it's a permanent magnet. Then\n you see—.\" And he was off.\n\n\n \"What did they do today, dear?\"\n Marge asked as she refilled my coffee\n cup.\n\n\n \"Thanks,\" I said. \"Let's see, it was\n a big day. We picked out a hydraulic\n press, Doris read us the first chapter\n of the book she's starting, and we\n found a place over a garage on\n Fourth Street that we can rent for\n winter quarters. Oh, yes, and Jeff is\n starting action to get the company\n incorporated.\"", "The two on my right were cast in\n a different mold. Mary McCready\n was a big husky redhead of twelve,\n with a face full of freckles and an\n infectious laugh, and Tommy Miller,\n a few months younger, was just an\n average, extroverted, well adjusted\n youngster, noisy and restless, tee-shirted\n and butch-barbered.\n\n\n The group exchanged looks to see\n who would lead off, and Peter Cope\n seemed to be elected.\n\n\n \"Well, Mr. Henderson, a junior\n achievement group is a bunch of kids\n who get together to manufacture and\n sell things, and maybe make some\n money.\"\n\n\n \"Is that what you want to do,\" I\n asked, \"make money?\"\n\n\n \"Why not?\" Tommy asked.\n \"There's something wrong with making\n money?\"", "I do feel just a little embarrassed\n about the kite, even now. The fact\n that it flew surprised me. That it flew\n so confoundedly well was humiliating.\n Four of them were at the barn\n when I arrived next morning; or\n rather on the rise of ground just beyond\n it, and the kite hung motionless\n and almost out of sight in the pale\n sky. I stood and watched for a moment,\n then they saw me.\n\n\n \"Hello, Mr. Henderson,\" Mary said,\n and proffered the cord which was\n wound on a fishing reel. I played the\n kite up and down for a few minutes,\n then reeled it in. It was, almost exactly,\n a wind sock, but the hole at the\n small end was shaped—by wire—into\n the general form of a kidney bean.\n It was beautifully made, and had a\n sort of professional look about it.\n\n\n \"It flies too well,\" Mary told Doris.\n \"A kite ought to get caught in a tree\n sometimes.\"", "\"Well, now,\" I admitted, \"the market\n for red mice might be rather limited.\n Why don't you consider making\n an after-shave lotion? Denatured alcohol,\n glycerine, water, a little color\n and perfume. You could buy some\n bottles and have some labels printed.\n You'd be in business before you\n knew it.\"\n\n\n There was a pause, then Tommy\n inquired, \"How do you sell it?\"\n\n\n \"Door-to-door.\"\n\n\n He made a face. \"Never build up\n any volume. Unless it did something\n extra. You say we'd put color in it.\n How about enough color to leave\n your face looking tanned. Men won't\n use cosmetics and junk, but if they\n didn't have to admit it, they might\n like the shave lotion.\"", "\"It was priceless. Just before rush\n hour. Suds built up in the basin and\n overflowed, and down the library\n steps and covered the whole street.\n And the funniest part was they kept\n right on coming. You couldn't imagine\n so much suds coming from that\n little pool of water. There was a\n three-block traffic jam and Harry got\n us some marvelous pictures—men\n rolling up their trousers to wade\n across the street. And this morning,\"\n she chortled, \"somebody phoned in\n an anonymous tip to the police—of\n course it was the same boy that did\n it—Tommy—Miller?—and so here\n we are. And we just saw a demonstration\n of that fabulous kite and saw\n all those simply captivating mice.\"\n\n\n \"Mice?\"", "\"I am,\" he replied, \"in a cautious\n legal sense, of course. Hilary and I\n were just going over the situation on\n his phosphonate detergent. I've spent\n the last three nights studying the patent\n literature and a few standard\n texts touching on phosphonates.\n There are a zillion patents on synthetic\n detergents and a good round\n fifty on phosphonates, but it looks\"—he\n held up a long admonitory hand—\"it\n just looks as though we had a clear\n spot. If we do get protection, you've\n got a real salable property.\"\n\n\n \"That's fine, Mr. McCord,\" Hilary\n said, \"but it's not very important.\"\n\n\n \"No?\" Jeff tilted an inquiring eyebrow\n at me, and I handed him a small\n bottle. He opened and sniffed at it\n gingerly. \"What gives?\"", "The day that our application on\n the kite design went to Washington,\n Mary wrote a dozen toy manufacturers\n scattered from New York to Los\n Angeles, sent a kite to each one and\n offered to license the design. Result,\n one licensee with a thousand dollar\n advance against next season's royalties.\nIt was a rainy morning about three\n weeks later that I arrived at the barn.\n Jeff McCord was there, and the whole\n team except Tommy. Jeff lowered his\n feet from the picnic table and said,\n \"Hi.\"\n\n\n \"Hi yourself,\" I told him. \"You\n look pleased.\"", "\"I see. Just a mixture of stuff. And\n do your whiskers grow back the next\n day?\"\n\n\n \"Right on schedule,\" I said.\n\n\n McCord unfolded his length and\n stood staring out into the rain. Presently\n he said, \"Henderson, Hilary\n and I are heading for my office. We\n can work there better than here, and\n if we're going to break the hearts of\n the razor industry, there's no better\n time to start than now.\"\n\n\n When they had driven off I turned\n and said, \"Let's talk a while. We can\n always clean mouse cages later.\n Where's Tommy?\"\n\n\n \"Oh, he stopped at the bank to get\n a loan.\"\n\n\n \"What on earth for? We have over\n six thousand in the account.\"", "I'd forgotten all about organization,\n and that, according to all the\n articles I had perused, is most important\n to such groups. It's standard practice\n for every member of the group\n to be a company officer. Of course a\n young boy who doesn't know any better,\n may wind up a sales manager.\n\n\n Over the sandwiches, then, I suggested\n nominating company officers,\n but they seemed not to be interested.\n Peter Cope waved it off by remarking\n that they'd each do what came\n naturally. On the other hand, they\n pondered at some length about a\n name for the organization, without\n reaching any conclusions, so we returned\n to the problem of what to\n make.\n\n\n It was Mary, finally, who advanced\n the thought of kites. At first there\n was little enthusiasm, then Peter said,\n \"You know, we could work up something\n new. Has anybody ever seen a\n kite made like a wind sock?\"", "The usual products, of course, with\n these junior achievement efforts, are\n chemical specialties that can be made\n safely and that people will buy and\n use without misgivings—solvent to\n free up rusty bolts, cleaner to remove\n road tar, mechanic's hand soap—that\n sort of thing. Mr. McCormack had\n told me, though, that I might find\n these youngsters a bit more ambitious.\n \"The Miller boy and Mary McCready,\"\n he had said, \"have exceptionally\n high IQ's—around one forty\n or one fifty. The other three are hard\n to classify. They have some of the\n attributes of exceptional pupils, but\n much of the time they seem to have\n little interest in their studies. The\n junior achievement idea has sparked\n their imaginations. Maybe it'll be just\n what they need.\"", "\"You're right,\" Doris agreed. \"Let's\n see it.\" She gave the wire at the small\n end the slightest of twists. \"There, it\n ought to swoop.\"\n\n\n Sure enough, in the moderate\n breeze of that morning, the kite\n swooped and yawed to Mary's entire\n satisfaction. As we trailed back to the\n barn I asked Doris, \"How did you\n know that flattening the lower edge\n of the hole would create instability?\"\n She looked doubtful.\n\n\n \"Why it would have to, wouldn't\n it? It changed the pattern of air pressures.\"\n She glanced at me quickly.\n \"Of course, I tried a lot of different\n shapes while I was making it.\"\n\n\n \"Naturally,\" I said, and let it go at\n that. \"Where's Tommy?\"", "Fallout is, of course, always disastrous—\n \none way or another\nJUNIOR ACHIEVEMENT\nBY WILLIAM LEE\nILLUSTRATED BY SCHOENHERR\n\"What would you think,\" I asked\n Marjorie over supper, \"if I should undertake\n to lead a junior achievement\n group this summer?\"\n\n\n She pondered it while she went to\n the kitchen to bring in the dessert.\n It was dried apricot pie, and very\n tasty, I might add.\n\n\n \"Why, Donald,\" she said, \"it could\n be quite interesting, if I understand\n what a junior achievement group is.\n What gave you the idea?\"\n\n\n \"It wasn't my idea, really,\" I admitted.\n \"Mr. McCormack called me\n to the office today, and told me that\n some of the children in the lower\n grades wanted to start one. They\n need adult guidance of course, and\n one of the group suggested my name.\"", "\"O.K.,\" I said, \"let's relax. You\n don't need to treat me as a teacher,\n you know. I stopped being a school\n teacher when the final grades went in\n last Friday. I'm on vacation now. My\n job here is only to advise, and I'm\n going to do that as little as possible.\n You're going to decide what to do,\n and if it's safe and legal and possible\n to do with the starting capital we\n have, I'll go along with it and help\n in any way I can. This is your meeting.\"\n\n\n Mr. McCormack had told me, and\n in some detail, about the youngsters\n I'd be dealing with. The three who\n were sitting to my left were the ones\n who had proposed the group in the\n first place.", "Doris added to this that if you\n could make the discs light enough to\n float, they might be colored white\n and spread on the surface of a reservoir\n to reduce evaporation.\n\n\n These latter ideas had made unknowing\n use of some basic physics,\n and I'm afraid I relapsed for a few\n minutes into the role of teacher and\n told them a little bit about the laws\n of radiation and absorption of heat.\n\n\n \"My,\" said Marjorie, \"they're really\n smart boys and girls. Tommy Miller\n does sound like a born salesman.\n Somehow I don't think you're going\n to have to call in Mr. Wells.\"", "On Friday we all got down to work,\n and presently had a regular production\n line under way; stapling the\n wood splints, then wetting them with\n a resin solution and shaping them\n over a mandrel to stiffen, cutting the\n plastic film around a pattern, assembling\n and hanging the finished kites\n from an overhead beam until the cement\n had set. Pete Cope had located\n a big roll of red plastic film from\n somewhere, and it made a wonderful-looking\n kite. Happily, I didn't know\n what the film cost until the first kites\n were sold.", "Nobody had. Pete drew figures in\n the air with his hands. \"How about\n the hole at the small end?\"\n\n\n \"I'll make one tonight,\" said Doris,\n \"and think about the small end.\n It'll work out all right.\"\n\n\n I wished that the youngsters weren't\n starting out by inventing a new\n article to manufacture, and risking an\n almost certain disappointment, but to\n hold my guidance to the minimum, I\n said nothing, knowing that later I\n could help them redesign it along\n standard lines.\nAt supper I reviewed the day's\n happenings with Marjorie and tried\n to recall all of the ideas which had\n been propounded. Most of them were\n impractical, of course, for a group of\n children to attempt, but several of\n them appeared quite attractive.", "\"Oh, all right,\" I said, \"laugh at\n my commercial aspirations. But don't\n worry about it, really. Mr. McCormack\n said we could get Mr. Wells from\n Commercial Department to help out\n if he was needed. There is one problem,\n though. Mr. McCormack is going\n to put up fifty dollars to buy any\n raw materials wanted and he rather\n suggested that I might advance another\n fifty. The question is, could we\n do it?\"\n\n\n Marjorie did mental arithmetic.\n \"Yes,\" she said, \"yes, if it's something\n you'd like to do.\"", "Those mice! I have always kept\n my enthusiasm for rodents within\n bounds, but I must admit they were\n charming little beasts, with tails as\n bushy as miniature squirrels.\n\n\n \"How many generations?\" I asked\n Doris.\n\n\n \"Seventeen. No, eighteen, now.\n Want to see the genetic charts?\"\n\n\n I won't try to explain it as she did\n to me, but it was quite evident that\n the new mice were breeding true.\n Presently we asked Betty Miller to\n come back down to the barn for a\n conference. She listened and asked\n questions. At last she said, \"Well, all\n right, if you promise me they can't\n get out of their cages. But heaven\n knows what you'll do when fall\n comes. They won't live in an unheated\n barn and you can't bring them\n into the house.\"", "\"Perhaps,\" I countered, \"somebody\n should tell me.\"\n\n\n \"You mean you don't know, honestly?\n Oh, it's fabulous. Best story I've\n had for ages. It'll make the city papers.\"\n She led me around the corner\n of the barn to a spot of comparative\n quiet.\n\n\n \"You didn't know that one of your\n junior whatsisnames poured detergent\n in the Memorial Fountain basin\n last night?\"\n\n\n I shook my head numbly." ], [ "\"Winter quarters,\" Marge repeated.\n \"You mean you're going to try to\n keep the group going after school\n starts?\"\n\n\n \"Why not? The kids can sail\n through their courses without thinking\n about them, and actually they\n won't put in more than a few hours\n a week during the school year.\"\n\n\n \"Even so, it's child labor, isn't it?\"\n\n\n \"Child labor nothing. They're the\n employers. Jeff McCord and I will\n be the only employees—just at first,\n anyway.\"\n\n\n Marge choked on something. \"Did\n you say you'd be an employee?\"", "The two on my right were cast in\n a different mold. Mary McCready\n was a big husky redhead of twelve,\n with a face full of freckles and an\n infectious laugh, and Tommy Miller,\n a few months younger, was just an\n average, extroverted, well adjusted\n youngster, noisy and restless, tee-shirted\n and butch-barbered.\n\n\n The group exchanged looks to see\n who would lead off, and Peter Cope\n seemed to be elected.\n\n\n \"Well, Mr. Henderson, a junior\n achievement group is a bunch of kids\n who get together to manufacture and\n sell things, and maybe make some\n money.\"\n\n\n \"Is that what you want to do,\" I\n asked, \"make money?\"\n\n\n \"Why not?\" Tommy asked.\n \"There's something wrong with making\n money?\"", "I do feel just a little embarrassed\n about the kite, even now. The fact\n that it flew surprised me. That it flew\n so confoundedly well was humiliating.\n Four of them were at the barn\n when I arrived next morning; or\n rather on the rise of ground just beyond\n it, and the kite hung motionless\n and almost out of sight in the pale\n sky. I stood and watched for a moment,\n then they saw me.\n\n\n \"Hello, Mr. Henderson,\" Mary said,\n and proffered the cord which was\n wound on a fishing reel. I played the\n kite up and down for a few minutes,\n then reeled it in. It was, almost exactly,\n a wind sock, but the hole at the\n small end was shaped—by wire—into\n the general form of a kidney bean.\n It was beautifully made, and had a\n sort of professional look about it.\n\n\n \"It flies too well,\" Mary told Doris.\n \"A kite ought to get caught in a tree\n sometimes.\"", "\"It was priceless. Just before rush\n hour. Suds built up in the basin and\n overflowed, and down the library\n steps and covered the whole street.\n And the funniest part was they kept\n right on coming. You couldn't imagine\n so much suds coming from that\n little pool of water. There was a\n three-block traffic jam and Harry got\n us some marvelous pictures—men\n rolling up their trousers to wade\n across the street. And this morning,\"\n she chortled, \"somebody phoned in\n an anonymous tip to the police—of\n course it was the same boy that did\n it—Tommy—Miller?—and so here\n we are. And we just saw a demonstration\n of that fabulous kite and saw\n all those simply captivating mice.\"\n\n\n \"Mice?\"", "Doris added to this that if you\n could make the discs light enough to\n float, they might be colored white\n and spread on the surface of a reservoir\n to reduce evaporation.\n\n\n These latter ideas had made unknowing\n use of some basic physics,\n and I'm afraid I relapsed for a few\n minutes into the role of teacher and\n told them a little bit about the laws\n of radiation and absorption of heat.\n\n\n \"My,\" said Marjorie, \"they're really\n smart boys and girls. Tommy Miller\n does sound like a born salesman.\n Somehow I don't think you're going\n to have to call in Mr. Wells.\"", "It was rather regrettable that, after\n the\nCourier\ngave us most of the third\n page, including photographs, we rarely\n had a day without a few visitors.\n Many of them wanted to buy mice or\n kites, but Tommy refused to sell any\n mice at retail and we soon had to disappoint\n those who wanted kites. The\n Supermarket took all we had—except\n a dozen—and at a dollar fifty\n each. Tommy's ideas of pricing rather\n frightened me, but he set the value\n of the mice at ten dollars a pair\n and got it without any arguments.\n\n\n Our beautiful stationery arrived,\n and we had some invoice forms printed\n up in a hurry—not engraved, for\n a wonder.\n\n\n It was on Tuesday—following the\n Thursday—that a lanky young man\n disentangled himself from his car\n and strolled into the barn. I looked\n up from the floor where I was tacking\n squares of screening onto wooden\n frames.", "\"Well,\" Peter said, looking a little\n embarrassed, \"we were planning to\n buy a hydraulic press. You see, Doris\n put some embroidery on that scheme\n of mine for making ball bearings.\"\n He grabbed a sheet of paper. \"Look,\n we make a roller bearing, this shape\n only it's a permanent magnet. Then\n you see—.\" And he was off.\n\n\n \"What did they do today, dear?\"\n Marge asked as she refilled my coffee\n cup.\n\n\n \"Thanks,\" I said. \"Let's see, it was\n a big day. We picked out a hydraulic\n press, Doris read us the first chapter\n of the book she's starting, and we\n found a place over a garage on\n Fourth Street that we can rent for\n winter quarters. Oh, yes, and Jeff is\n starting action to get the company\n incorporated.\"", "Nobody had. Pete drew figures in\n the air with his hands. \"How about\n the hole at the small end?\"\n\n\n \"I'll make one tonight,\" said Doris,\n \"and think about the small end.\n It'll work out all right.\"\n\n\n I wished that the youngsters weren't\n starting out by inventing a new\n article to manufacture, and risking an\n almost certain disappointment, but to\n hold my guidance to the minimum, I\n said nothing, knowing that later I\n could help them redesign it along\n standard lines.\nAt supper I reviewed the day's\n happenings with Marjorie and tried\n to recall all of the ideas which had\n been propounded. Most of them were\n impractical, of course, for a group of\n children to attempt, but several of\n them appeared quite attractive.", "We've had to watch such things\n rather closely for the last ten—no,\n eleven years. Back in the old Ridgeville,\n fifty-odd miles to the south, we\n had our home almost paid for, when\n the accident occurred. It was in the\n path of the heaviest fallout, and we\n couldn't have kept on living there\n even if the town had stayed. When\n Ridgeville moved to its present site,\n so, of course, did we, which meant\n starting mortgage payments all over\n again.\nThus it was that on a Wednesday\n morning about three weeks later, I\n was sitting at one end of a plank picnic\n table with five boys and girls\n lined up along the sides. This was to\n be our headquarters and factory for\n the summer—a roomy unused barn\n belonging to the parents of one of\n the group members, Tommy Miller.", "\"Yes, of course. Who would ever\n have thought you could breed mice\n with those cute furry tails?\"\nWell, after a while things quieted\n down. They had to. The police left\n after sobering up long enough to\n give me a serious warning against\n letting such a thing happen again.\n Mr. Miller, who had come home to\n see what all the excitement was, went\n back to work and Mrs. Miller went\n back to the house and the reporter\n and photographer drifted off to file\n their story, or whatever it is they do.\n Tommy was jubilant.\n\n\n \"Did you hear what she said? It'll\n make the city papers. I wish we had\n a thousand kites. Ten thousand. Oh\n boy, selling is fun. Hilary, when can\n you make some more of that stuff?\n And Doris, how many mice do you\n have?\"", "\"I see. Just a mixture of stuff. And\n do your whiskers grow back the next\n day?\"\n\n\n \"Right on schedule,\" I said.\n\n\n McCord unfolded his length and\n stood staring out into the rain. Presently\n he said, \"Henderson, Hilary\n and I are heading for my office. We\n can work there better than here, and\n if we're going to break the hearts of\n the razor industry, there's no better\n time to start than now.\"\n\n\n When they had driven off I turned\n and said, \"Let's talk a while. We can\n always clean mouse cages later.\n Where's Tommy?\"\n\n\n \"Oh, he stopped at the bank to get\n a loan.\"\n\n\n \"What on earth for? We have over\n six thousand in the account.\"", "Fallout is, of course, always disastrous—\n \none way or another\nJUNIOR ACHIEVEMENT\nBY WILLIAM LEE\nILLUSTRATED BY SCHOENHERR\n\"What would you think,\" I asked\n Marjorie over supper, \"if I should undertake\n to lead a junior achievement\n group this summer?\"\n\n\n She pondered it while she went to\n the kitchen to bring in the dessert.\n It was dried apricot pie, and very\n tasty, I might add.\n\n\n \"Why, Donald,\" she said, \"it could\n be quite interesting, if I understand\n what a junior achievement group is.\n What gave you the idea?\"\n\n\n \"It wasn't my idea, really,\" I admitted.\n \"Mr. McCormack called me\n to the office today, and told me that\n some of the children in the lower\n grades wanted to start one. They\n need adult guidance of course, and\n one of the group suggested my name.\"", "The day that our application on\n the kite design went to Washington,\n Mary wrote a dozen toy manufacturers\n scattered from New York to Los\n Angeles, sent a kite to each one and\n offered to license the design. Result,\n one licensee with a thousand dollar\n advance against next season's royalties.\nIt was a rainy morning about three\n weeks later that I arrived at the barn.\n Jeff McCord was there, and the whole\n team except Tommy. Jeff lowered his\n feet from the picnic table and said,\n \"Hi.\"\n\n\n \"Hi yourself,\" I told him. \"You\n look pleased.\"", "I'd forgotten all about organization,\n and that, according to all the\n articles I had perused, is most important\n to such groups. It's standard practice\n for every member of the group\n to be a company officer. Of course a\n young boy who doesn't know any better,\n may wind up a sales manager.\n\n\n Over the sandwiches, then, I suggested\n nominating company officers,\n but they seemed not to be interested.\n Peter Cope waved it off by remarking\n that they'd each do what came\n naturally. On the other hand, they\n pondered at some length about a\n name for the organization, without\n reaching any conclusions, so we returned\n to the problem of what to\n make.\n\n\n It was Mary, finally, who advanced\n the thought of kites. At first there\n was little enthusiasm, then Peter said,\n \"You know, we could work up something\n new. Has anybody ever seen a\n kite made like a wind sock?\"", "\"I got two hundred and fifty,\" he\n volunteered—not without a hint of\n complacency in his voice. \"It didn't\n take long, but they sure made it out\n a big deal. Half the guys in the bank\n had to be called in to listen to the\n proposition. The account's in your\n name, Mr. Henderson, and you'll have\n to make out the checks. And they\n want you to stop in at the bank and\n give them a specimen signature. Oh,\n yes, and cosign the note.\"\n\n\n My heart sank. I'd never had any\n dealings with banks except in the\n matter of mortgages, and bank people\n make me most uneasy. To say\n nothing of finding myself responsible\n for a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar\n note—over two weeks salary. I made\n a mental vow to sign very few checks.", "The usual products, of course, with\n these junior achievement efforts, are\n chemical specialties that can be made\n safely and that people will buy and\n use without misgivings—solvent to\n free up rusty bolts, cleaner to remove\n road tar, mechanic's hand soap—that\n sort of thing. Mr. McCormack had\n told me, though, that I might find\n these youngsters a bit more ambitious.\n \"The Miller boy and Mary McCready,\"\n he had said, \"have exceptionally\n high IQ's—around one forty\n or one fifty. The other three are hard\n to classify. They have some of the\n attributes of exceptional pupils, but\n much of the time they seem to have\n little interest in their studies. The\n junior achievement idea has sparked\n their imaginations. Maybe it'll be just\n what they need.\"", "\"It has the purpose,\" I told her,\n \"of teaching the members something\n about commerce and industry. They\n manufacture simple compositions\n like polishing waxes and sell them\n from door-to-door. Some groups have\n built up tidy little bank accounts\n which are available for later educational\n expenses.\"\n\n\n \"Gracious, you wouldn't have to\n sell from door-to-door, would you?\"\n\n\n \"Of course not. I'd just tell the\n kids how to do it.\"\n\n\n Marjorie put back her head and\n laughed, and I was forced to join her,\n for we both recognize that my understanding\n and \"feel\" for commercial\n matters—if I may use that expression—is\n almost nonexistent.", "Doris Enright was a grave young\n lady of ten years, who might, I\n thought, be quite a beauty in a few\n more years, but was at the moment\n rather angular—all shoulders and elbows.\n Peter Cope, Jr. and Hilary Matlack\n were skinny kids, too. The three\n were of an age and were all tall for\n ten-year-olds.\n\n\n I had the impression during that\n first meeting that they looked rather\n alike, but this wasn't so. Their features\n were quite different. Perhaps\n from association, for they were close\n friends, they had just come to have\n a certain similarity of restrained gesture\n and of modulated voice. And\n they were all tanned by sun and wind\n to a degree that made their eyes seem\n light and their teeth startlingly white.", "\"Perhaps,\" I countered, \"somebody\n should tell me.\"\n\n\n \"You mean you don't know, honestly?\n Oh, it's fabulous. Best story I've\n had for ages. It'll make the city papers.\"\n She led me around the corner\n of the barn to a spot of comparative\n quiet.\n\n\n \"You didn't know that one of your\n junior whatsisnames poured detergent\n in the Memorial Fountain basin\n last night?\"\n\n\n I shook my head numbly.", "\"So then I stopped by at Apex\n Stationers,\" Tommy went on, \"and ordered\n some paper and envelopes. We\n hadn't picked a name yesterday, but I\n figured what's to lose, and picked one.\n Ridge Industries, how's that?\" Everybody\n nodded.\n\n\n \"Just three lines on the letterhead,\"\n he explained. \"Ridge Industries—Ridgeville—Montana.\"\n\n\n I got my voice back and said, \"Engraved,\n I trust.\"\n\n\n \"Well, sure,\" he replied. \"You can't\n afford to look chintzy.\"\nMy appetite was not at its best\n that evening, and Marjorie recognized\n that something was concerning\n me, but she asked no questions, and\n I only told her about the success of\n the kite, and the youngsters embarking\n on a shopping trip for paper, glue\n and wood splints. There was no use\n in both of us worrying." ], [ "The two on my right were cast in\n a different mold. Mary McCready\n was a big husky redhead of twelve,\n with a face full of freckles and an\n infectious laugh, and Tommy Miller,\n a few months younger, was just an\n average, extroverted, well adjusted\n youngster, noisy and restless, tee-shirted\n and butch-barbered.\n\n\n The group exchanged looks to see\n who would lead off, and Peter Cope\n seemed to be elected.\n\n\n \"Well, Mr. Henderson, a junior\n achievement group is a bunch of kids\n who get together to manufacture and\n sell things, and maybe make some\n money.\"\n\n\n \"Is that what you want to do,\" I\n asked, \"make money?\"\n\n\n \"Why not?\" Tommy asked.\n \"There's something wrong with making\n money?\"", "I should explain, perhaps, that I\n teach a course in general science in\n our Ridgeville Junior High School,\n and another in general physics in the\n Senior High School. It's a privilege\n which I'm sure many educators must\n envy, teaching in Ridgeville, for our\n new school is a fine one, and our\n academic standards are high. On the\n other hand, the fathers of most of\n my students work for the Commission\n and a constant awareness of the Commission\n and its work pervades the\n town. It is an uneasy privilege then,\n at least sometimes, to teach my old-fashioned\n brand of science to these\n children of a new age.\n\n\n \"That's very nice,\" said Marjorie.\n \"What does a junior achievement\n group do?\"", "The usual products, of course, with\n these junior achievement efforts, are\n chemical specialties that can be made\n safely and that people will buy and\n use without misgivings—solvent to\n free up rusty bolts, cleaner to remove\n road tar, mechanic's hand soap—that\n sort of thing. Mr. McCormack had\n told me, though, that I might find\n these youngsters a bit more ambitious.\n \"The Miller boy and Mary McCready,\"\n he had said, \"have exceptionally\n high IQ's—around one forty\n or one fifty. The other three are hard\n to classify. They have some of the\n attributes of exceptional pupils, but\n much of the time they seem to have\n little interest in their studies. The\n junior achievement idea has sparked\n their imaginations. Maybe it'll be just\n what they need.\"", "Fallout is, of course, always disastrous—\n \none way or another\nJUNIOR ACHIEVEMENT\nBY WILLIAM LEE\nILLUSTRATED BY SCHOENHERR\n\"What would you think,\" I asked\n Marjorie over supper, \"if I should undertake\n to lead a junior achievement\n group this summer?\"\n\n\n She pondered it while she went to\n the kitchen to bring in the dessert.\n It was dried apricot pie, and very\n tasty, I might add.\n\n\n \"Why, Donald,\" she said, \"it could\n be quite interesting, if I understand\n what a junior achievement group is.\n What gave you the idea?\"\n\n\n \"It wasn't my idea, really,\" I admitted.\n \"Mr. McCormack called me\n to the office today, and told me that\n some of the children in the lower\n grades wanted to start one. They\n need adult guidance of course, and\n one of the group suggested my name.\"", "\"O.K.,\" I said, \"let's relax. You\n don't need to treat me as a teacher,\n you know. I stopped being a school\n teacher when the final grades went in\n last Friday. I'm on vacation now. My\n job here is only to advise, and I'm\n going to do that as little as possible.\n You're going to decide what to do,\n and if it's safe and legal and possible\n to do with the starting capital we\n have, I'll go along with it and help\n in any way I can. This is your meeting.\"\n\n\n Mr. McCormack had told me, and\n in some detail, about the youngsters\n I'd be dealing with. The three who\n were sitting to my left were the ones\n who had proposed the group in the\n first place.", "I'd forgotten all about organization,\n and that, according to all the\n articles I had perused, is most important\n to such groups. It's standard practice\n for every member of the group\n to be a company officer. Of course a\n young boy who doesn't know any better,\n may wind up a sales manager.\n\n\n Over the sandwiches, then, I suggested\n nominating company officers,\n but they seemed not to be interested.\n Peter Cope waved it off by remarking\n that they'd each do what came\n naturally. On the other hand, they\n pondered at some length about a\n name for the organization, without\n reaching any conclusions, so we returned\n to the problem of what to\n make.\n\n\n It was Mary, finally, who advanced\n the thought of kites. At first there\n was little enthusiasm, then Peter said,\n \"You know, we could work up something\n new. Has anybody ever seen a\n kite made like a wind sock?\"", "Doris Enright was a grave young\n lady of ten years, who might, I\n thought, be quite a beauty in a few\n more years, but was at the moment\n rather angular—all shoulders and elbows.\n Peter Cope, Jr. and Hilary Matlack\n were skinny kids, too. The three\n were of an age and were all tall for\n ten-year-olds.\n\n\n I had the impression during that\n first meeting that they looked rather\n alike, but this wasn't so. Their features\n were quite different. Perhaps\n from association, for they were close\n friends, they had just come to have\n a certain similarity of restrained gesture\n and of modulated voice. And\n they were all tanned by sun and wind\n to a degree that made their eyes seem\n light and their teeth startlingly white.", "\"It has the purpose,\" I told her,\n \"of teaching the members something\n about commerce and industry. They\n manufacture simple compositions\n like polishing waxes and sell them\n from door-to-door. Some groups have\n built up tidy little bank accounts\n which are available for later educational\n expenses.\"\n\n\n \"Gracious, you wouldn't have to\n sell from door-to-door, would you?\"\n\n\n \"Of course not. I'd just tell the\n kids how to do it.\"\n\n\n Marjorie put back her head and\n laughed, and I was forced to join her,\n for we both recognize that my understanding\n and \"feel\" for commercial\n matters—if I may use that expression—is\n almost nonexistent.", "\"Winter quarters,\" Marge repeated.\n \"You mean you're going to try to\n keep the group going after school\n starts?\"\n\n\n \"Why not? The kids can sail\n through their courses without thinking\n about them, and actually they\n won't put in more than a few hours\n a week during the school year.\"\n\n\n \"Even so, it's child labor, isn't it?\"\n\n\n \"Child labor nothing. They're the\n employers. Jeff McCord and I will\n be the only employees—just at first,\n anyway.\"\n\n\n Marge choked on something. \"Did\n you say you'd be an employee?\"", "We've had to watch such things\n rather closely for the last ten—no,\n eleven years. Back in the old Ridgeville,\n fifty-odd miles to the south, we\n had our home almost paid for, when\n the accident occurred. It was in the\n path of the heaviest fallout, and we\n couldn't have kept on living there\n even if the town had stayed. When\n Ridgeville moved to its present site,\n so, of course, did we, which meant\n starting mortgage payments all over\n again.\nThus it was that on a Wednesday\n morning about three weeks later, I\n was sitting at one end of a plank picnic\n table with five boys and girls\n lined up along the sides. This was to\n be our headquarters and factory for\n the summer—a roomy unused barn\n belonging to the parents of one of\n the group members, Tommy Miller.", "Doris added to this that if you\n could make the discs light enough to\n float, they might be colored white\n and spread on the surface of a reservoir\n to reduce evaporation.\n\n\n These latter ideas had made unknowing\n use of some basic physics,\n and I'm afraid I relapsed for a few\n minutes into the role of teacher and\n told them a little bit about the laws\n of radiation and absorption of heat.\n\n\n \"My,\" said Marjorie, \"they're really\n smart boys and girls. Tommy Miller\n does sound like a born salesman.\n Somehow I don't think you're going\n to have to call in Mr. Wells.\"", "\"Like the liquid dishwashing detergents?\"\n I asked.\n\n\n He was scornful. \"No, they're formulations—you\n know, mixtures.\n That's cookbook chemistry. I mean a\n brand new synthetic detergent. I've\n got an idea for one that ought to be\n good even in the hard water we've\n got around here.\"\n\n\n \"Well, now,\" I said, \"organic synthesis\n sounds like another operation\n calling for capital investment. If we\n should keep the achievement group\n going for several summers, it might\n be possible later on to carry out a\n safe synthesis of some sort. You're\n Dr. Matlack's son, aren't you? Been\n dipping into your father's library?\"\n\n\n \"Some,\" said Hilary, \"and I've got\n a home laboratory.\"\n\n\n \"How about you, Doris?\" I prompted.\n \"Do you have a special field of interest?\"", "Nobody had. Pete drew figures in\n the air with his hands. \"How about\n the hole at the small end?\"\n\n\n \"I'll make one tonight,\" said Doris,\n \"and think about the small end.\n It'll work out all right.\"\n\n\n I wished that the youngsters weren't\n starting out by inventing a new\n article to manufacture, and risking an\n almost certain disappointment, but to\n hold my guidance to the minimum, I\n said nothing, knowing that later I\n could help them redesign it along\n standard lines.\nAt supper I reviewed the day's\n happenings with Marjorie and tried\n to recall all of the ideas which had\n been propounded. Most of them were\n impractical, of course, for a group of\n children to attempt, but several of\n them appeared quite attractive.", "\"Perhaps,\" I countered, \"somebody\n should tell me.\"\n\n\n \"You mean you don't know, honestly?\n Oh, it's fabulous. Best story I've\n had for ages. It'll make the city papers.\"\n She led me around the corner\n of the barn to a spot of comparative\n quiet.\n\n\n \"You didn't know that one of your\n junior whatsisnames poured detergent\n in the Memorial Fountain basin\n last night?\"\n\n\n I shook my head numbly.", "\"Well,\" Peter said, looking a little\n embarrassed, \"we were planning to\n buy a hydraulic press. You see, Doris\n put some embroidery on that scheme\n of mine for making ball bearings.\"\n He grabbed a sheet of paper. \"Look,\n we make a roller bearing, this shape\n only it's a permanent magnet. Then\n you see—.\" And he was off.\n\n\n \"What did they do today, dear?\"\n Marge asked as she refilled my coffee\n cup.\n\n\n \"Thanks,\" I said. \"Let's see, it was\n a big day. We picked out a hydraulic\n press, Doris read us the first chapter\n of the book she's starting, and we\n found a place over a garage on\n Fourth Street that we can rent for\n winter quarters. Oh, yes, and Jeff is\n starting action to get the company\n incorporated.\"", "\"No.\" She shook her head in mock\n despondency. \"I'm not very technical.\n Just sort of miscellaneous. But if the\n group wanted to raise some mice, I'd\n be willing to turn over a project I've\n had going at home.\"\n\n\n \"You could sell mice?\" Tommy demanded\n incredulously.\n\n\n \"Mice,\" I echoed, then sat back and\n thought about it. \"Are they a pure\n strain? One of the recognized laboratory\n strains? Healthy mice of the\n right strain,\" I explained to Tommy,\n \"might be sold to laboratories. I have\n an idea the Commission buys a supply\n every month.\"\n\n\n \"No,\" said Doris, \"these aren't laboratory\n mice. They're fancy ones. I\n got the first four pairs from a pet\n shop in Denver, but they're red—sort\n of chipmunk color, you know. I've\n carried them through seventeen generations\n of careful selection.\"", "\"Well, now,\" I admitted, \"the market\n for red mice might be rather limited.\n Why don't you consider making\n an after-shave lotion? Denatured alcohol,\n glycerine, water, a little color\n and perfume. You could buy some\n bottles and have some labels printed.\n You'd be in business before you\n knew it.\"\n\n\n There was a pause, then Tommy\n inquired, \"How do you sell it?\"\n\n\n \"Door-to-door.\"\n\n\n He made a face. \"Never build up\n any volume. Unless it did something\n extra. You say we'd put color in it.\n How about enough color to leave\n your face looking tanned. Men won't\n use cosmetics and junk, but if they\n didn't have to admit it, they might\n like the shave lotion.\"", "Hilary had been deep in thought.\n He said suddenly, \"Gosh, I think I\n know how to make a—what do you\n want to call it—a before-shave lotion.\"\n\n\n \"What would that be?\" I asked.\n\n\n \"You'd use it before you shaved.\"\n\n\n \"I suppose there might be people\n who'd prefer to use it beforehand,\"\n I conceded.\n\n\n \"There will be people,\" he said\n darkly, and subsided.\n\n\n Mrs. Miller came out to the barn\n after a while, bringing a bucket of\n soft drinks and ice, a couple of loaves\n of bread and ingredients for a variety\n of sandwiches. The parents had\n agreed to underwrite lunches at the\n barn and Betty Miller philosophically\n assumed the role of commissary\n officer. She paused only to say hello\n and to ask how we were progressing\n with our organization meeting.", "\"So then I stopped by at Apex\n Stationers,\" Tommy went on, \"and ordered\n some paper and envelopes. We\n hadn't picked a name yesterday, but I\n figured what's to lose, and picked one.\n Ridge Industries, how's that?\" Everybody\n nodded.\n\n\n \"Just three lines on the letterhead,\"\n he explained. \"Ridge Industries—Ridgeville—Montana.\"\n\n\n I got my voice back and said, \"Engraved,\n I trust.\"\n\n\n \"Well, sure,\" he replied. \"You can't\n afford to look chintzy.\"\nMy appetite was not at its best\n that evening, and Marjorie recognized\n that something was concerning\n me, but she asked no questions, and\n I only told her about the success of\n the kite, and the youngsters embarking\n on a shopping trip for paper, glue\n and wood splints. There was no use\n in both of us worrying.", "The day that our application on\n the kite design went to Washington,\n Mary wrote a dozen toy manufacturers\n scattered from New York to Los\n Angeles, sent a kite to each one and\n offered to license the design. Result,\n one licensee with a thousand dollar\n advance against next season's royalties.\nIt was a rainy morning about three\n weeks later that I arrived at the barn.\n Jeff McCord was there, and the whole\n team except Tommy. Jeff lowered his\n feet from the picnic table and said,\n \"Hi.\"\n\n\n \"Hi yourself,\" I told him. \"You\n look pleased.\"" ] ]
train	24247	[ "Who is Big Louis?", "How did Joe get to 2133?", "Why do Reston-Farrell and Brett-James bring Joe to the future?", "Why do Reston-Farrell and Brett-James want Howard Temple-Tracy dead?", "How does Joe feel about Brett-James and Reston-Farrell?", "Why does Joe call Citizen Temple-Tracy Chief?", "Why does everyone in the future have hyphenated names?", "What city is Temple-Tracy in?", "What is the punishment for murder in the future?", "Why can't Joe go back to 1960?" ]	[ [ "Big Louis is Lawrence Reston-Farrell's boss.", "Big Louis is Al Rossi's boss.", "Big Louis is Warren Brett- James' boss.", "Big Louis is Joe Prantera's boss." ], [ "He was cryogenically frozen in 1960 and awakened in 2133.", "He was transported through time from 1960 to 2133 by Brett-James and Reston-Farrell.", "Joe fell through a crack in time, which put him in 2133.", "Brett-James and Reston-Farrell used a vortex manipulator to transport Joe to 2133." ], [ "Joe was going to kill Al Rossi. Reston-Farrell and Brett James need Rossi alive.", "Joe is a caregiver. They want him to take care of someone.", "Joe is a hitman. They want him to kill someone.", "Joe is a variant. They removed him from 1960 to correct the timeline." ], [ "Howard Temple-Tracy is an evil genius recruiting people to his cult.", "Howard Temple-Tracy is a terrorist bent on destroying North America.", "Howard Temple-Tracy is an evil genius trying to take over the world.", "Howard Temple-Tracy is a hitman trying to kill Reston-Farrell and Brett-James. They are just defending themselves." ], [ "Joe is a little intimidated by them as they seem to be significantly more educated than he is.", "Joe doesn't know what to think. There's no such thing as time travel. He must be going crazy.", "Joe thinks they are ridiculous and that Howard Temple-Tracy would make a better associate.", "Joe thinks they are cowards as they are unable to kill their enemy themselves." ], [ "Temple-Tracy is the Chief of Police.", "Temple-Tracy is the head of the Fire Department.", "Temple-Tracy is the head of the Time Travel Bureau.", "Joe wants Temple-Tracy to know Joe regards him as superior." ], [ "Everyone in the future is pretentious.", "In the future, they honor the maternal lineage.", "In the future, they have such a large population it was necessary to differentiate between citizens.", "Everyone in the future uses the name of both spouses." ], [ "Los Angeles", "New New Mexico", "New New York", "Nuevo Los Angeles" ], [ "Death", "Erasure from the timeline", "Life in prison", "Psychiatric Care" ], [ "Temple-Tracy destroyed the vortex manipulator.", "The time circuits were damaged when they brought Joe into the future.", "Temple -Tracy destroyed the time transmitter.", "Time only moves one way." ] ]	[ 4, 2, 3, 1, 3, 4, 2, 4, 4, 4 ]	[ 0, 0, 0, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0 ]	[ [ "He was in, he thought, a hospital\n and his first reaction was to think,\nThis here California. Everything different.\nThen his second thought was\nSomething went wrong. Big Louis, he\n ain't going to like this.\nHe brought his thinking to the\n present. So far as he could remember,\n he hadn't completely pulled the trigger.\n That at least meant that whatever\n the rap was it wouldn't be too\n tough. With luck, the syndicate would\n get him off with a couple of years at\n Quentin.\n\n\n A door slid open in the wall in a\n way that Joe had never seen a door\n operate before.\nThis here California.\nThe clothes on the newcomer were\n wrong, too. For the first time, Joe\n Prantera began to sense an alienness—a\n something that was awfully\n wrong.\n\n\n The other spoke precisely and\n slowly, the way a highly educated man\n speaks a language which he reads\n and writes fluently but has little occasion\n to practice vocally. \"You have recovered?\"", "The other put down the unaccepted\n glass. \"We were afraid first\n realization would be a shock to you,\"\n he said. \"My colleague is in the adjoining\n room. We will be glad to explain\n to you if you will join us there.\"\n\n\n \"I wanta get out of here,\" Joe said.\n\n\n \"Where would you go?\"\n\n\n The fear of police, of Al Rossi's\n vengeance, of the measures that\n might be taken by Big Louis on his\n failure, were now far away.\n\n\n Reston-Farrell had approached the\n door by which he had entered and it\n reopened for him. He went through\n it without looking back.", "Joe said, very slowly, \"Chief, in the\n line you're in these days you needa\n heavy around with wunna these. Otherwise,\n Chief, you're gunna wind up\n in some gutter with a lotta holes in\n you. What I'm doin', I'm askin' for a\n job. You need a good man knows how\n to handle wunna these, Chief.\"\n\n\n Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy\n eyed him appraisingly. \"Perhaps,\" he\n said, \"you are right at that. In the near\n future, I may well need an assistant\n knowledgeable in the field of violence.\n Tell me more about yourself.\n You surprise me considerably.\"", "Joe glared at him. Then sat down\n again, as abruptly as he'd arisen.\n\"Let's start all over again. I got this\n straight, you brought me, some\n screwy way, all the way ... here.\n O.K., I'll buy that. I seen what it looks\n like out that window—\" The real\n comprehension was seeping through\n to him even as he talked. \"Everybody\n I know, Jessie, Tony, the Kid, Big\n Louis, everybody, they're dead. Even\n Big Louis.\"\n\n\n \"Yes,\" Brett-James said, his voice\n soft. \"They are all dead, Mr. Prantera.\n Their children are all dead, and their\n grandchildren.\"\n\n\n The two men of the future said\n nothing more for long minutes while\n Joe Prantera's mind whirled its confusion.\n\n\n Finally he said, \"What's this bit\n about you wanting me to give it to\n some guy.\"", "\"Look, before I can give it to this\n guy I gotta know some place where\n he'll be at some time. Get it? Like Al\n Rossi. My finger, he works in Rossi's\n house, see? He lets me know every\n Wednesday night, eight o'clock, Al\n leaves the house all by hisself. O.K.,\n so I can make plans, like, to give it\n to him.\" Joe Prantera wound it up\n reasonably. \"You gotta have a finger.\"\n\n\n Brett-James said, \"Why not just go\n to Temple-Tracy's apartment and, ah,\n dispose of him?\"\n\n\n \"Jest walk in, eh? You think I'm\n stupid? How do I know how many\n witnesses hangin' around? How do I\n know if the guy's carryin' heat?\"\n\n\n \"Heat?\"", "\"Well, then do it yourself.\" Joe\n Prantera's irritation over this whole\n complicated mess was growing. And\n already he was beginning to long for\n the things he knew—for Jessie and\n Tony and the others, for his favorite\n bar, for the lasagne down at Papa\n Giovanni's. Right now he could have\n welcomed a calling down at the hands\n of Big Louis.\n\n\n Reston-Farrell had come to his feet\n and walked to one of the large room's\n windows. He looked out, as though\n unseeing. Then, his back turned, he\n said, \"We have tried, but it is simply\n not in us, Mr. Prantera.\"\n\n\n \"You mean you're yella?\"\n\n\n \"No, if by that you mean afraid. It\n is simply not within us to take the\n life of a fellow creature—not to speak\n of a fellow man.\"", "Illustrated by van Dongen\nA gun is an interesting weapon; it can be hired, of\n course, and naturally doesn't care who hires it. Something\n much the same can be said of the gunman, too....\nGUN FOR HIRE\nBy\nMACK\n\n REYNOLDS\nJoe Prantera\n called\n softly, \"Al.\" The pleasurable,\n comfortable,\n warm feeling began\n spreading over him, the\n way it always did.\n\n\n The older man stopped and\n squinted, but not suspiciously, even\n now.\n\n\n The evening was dark, it was unlikely\n that the other even saw the\n circle of steel that was the mouth of\n the shotgun barrel, now resting on\n the car's window ledge.\n\n\n \"Who's it?\" he growled.\n\n\n Joe Prantera said softly, \"Big Louis\n sent me, Al.\"\n\n\n And he pressed the trigger.", "Besides, already Joe was beginning\n to feel the comfortable, pleasurable,\n warm feeling that came to him on\n occasions like this.\n\n\n He said, \"You're sure this guy talks\n American, eh?\"\n\n\n Warren Brett-James said, \"Quite\n sure. He is a student of history.\"\n\n\n \"And he won't think it's funny I\n talk American to him, eh?\"\n\n\n \"He'll undoubtedly be intrigued.\"\n\n\n They pulled up before a large\n apartment building that overlooked\n the area once known as Wilmington.\n\n\n Joe was coolly efficient now. He\n pulled out the automatic, held it\n down below his knees and threw a\n shell into the barrel. He eased the\n hammer down, thumbed on the\n safety, stuck the weapon back in his\n belt and beneath the jacketlike garment\n he wore.", "\"A gun, a gun. Ya think I'm stupid?\n I come to give it to him and he\n gives it to me instead.\"\n\n\n Dr. Reston-Farrell said, \"Howard\n Temple-Tracy lives alone. He customarily\n receives visitors every afternoon,\n largely potential followers. He\n is attempting to recruit members to\n an organization he is forming. It\n would be quite simple for you to\n enter his establishment and dispose\n of him. I assure you, he does not possess\n weapons.\"\n\n\n Joe was indignant. \"Just like that,\n eh?\" he said sarcastically. \"Then what\n happens? How do I get out of the\n building? Where's my get car parked?\n Where do I hide out? Where do I\n dump the heat?\"\n\n\n \"Dump the heat?\"\n\n\n \"Get rid of the gun. You want I\n should get caught with the gun on\n me? I'd wind up in the gas chamber\n so quick—\"", "Reston-Farrell and Brett-James\n were both present. The three of them\n sat in the living room of the latter's\n apartment, sipping a sparkling wine\n which seemed to be the prevailing\n beverage of the day. For Joe's taste\n it was insipid stuff. Happily, rye was\n available to those who wanted it.\n\n\n Reston-Farrell said, \"You mean,\n where does he reside? Why, here in\n this city.\"\n\n\n \"Well, that's handy, eh?\" Joe\n scratched himself thoughtfully. \"You\n got somebody can finger him for me?\"\n\n\n \"Finger him?\"", "There was nothing else to do. Joe\n dressed, then followed him.\nIn the adjoining room was a circular\n table that would have accommodated\n a dozen persons. Two were\n seated there now, papers, books and\n soiled coffee cups before them. There\n had evidently been a long wait.\n\n\n Reston-Farrell, the one Joe had already\n met, was tall and drawn of face\n and with a chainsmoker's nervousness.\n The other was heavier and more\n at ease. They were both, Joe estimated,\n somewhere in their middle fifties.\n They both looked like docs. He\n wondered, all over again, if this was\n some kind of pressure cooker.\n\n\n But that didn't explain the view\n from the window.\n\n\n Reston-Farrell said, \"May I present\n my colleague, Citizen Warren Brett-James?\n Warren, this is our guest from\n ... from yesteryear, Mr. Joseph Salviati-Prantera.\"", "The doctor nodded at the validity\n of the question. \"Mr. Prantera,\nHomo\n sapiens\nis a unique animal. Physically\n he matures at approximately the age\n of thirteen. However, mental maturity\n and adjustment is often not fully\n realized until thirty or even more.\n Indeed, it is sometimes never\n achieved. Before such maturity is\n reached, our youth are susceptible to\n romantic appeal. Nationalism, chauvinism,\n racism, the supposed glory of\n the military, all seem romantic to the\n immature. They rebel at the orderliness\n of present society. They seek entertainment\n in excitement. Citizen\n Temple-Tracy is aware of this and\n finds his recruits among the young.\"\n\n\n \"O.K., so this guy is dangerous.\n You want him knocked off before he\n screws everything up. But the way\n things are, there's no way of making\n a get. So you'll have to get some other\n patsy. Not me.\"", "Joe nodded.\n\n\n \"Enter,\" the other said.\n\n\n A door had slid open on the other\n side of the room. Joe walked through\n it and into what was obviously an office.\n Citizen Temple-Tracy sat at a\n desk. There was only one other chair\n in the room. Joe Prantera ignored it\n and remained standing.\n\n\n Citizen Temple-Tracy said, \"What\n can I do for you?\"\n\n\n Joe looked at him for a long, long\n moment. Then he reached down to\n his belt and brought forth the .45\n automatic. He moistened his lips.\n\n\n Joe said softly, \"You know what\n this here is?\"\n\n\n Temple-Tracy stared at the weapon.\n \"It's a handgun, circa, I would\n say, about 1925 Old Calendar. What\n in the world are you doing with it?\"", "Joe Prantera looked at the other\n expressionlessly. Maybe the old duck\n was one of these foreign doctors, like.\n\n\n The newcomer said, \"You have undoubtedly\n been through a most harrowing\n experience. If you have any\n untoward symptoms, possibly I could\n be of assistance.\"\n\n\n Joe couldn't figure out how he\n stood. For one thing, there should\n have been some kind of police guard.\n\n\n The other said, \"Perhaps a bit of\n stimulant?\"\n\n\n Joe said flatly, \"I wanta lawyer.\"\n\n\n The newcomer frowned at him. \"A\n lawyer?\"\n\n\n \"I'm not sayin' nothin'. Not until I\n get a mouthpiece.\"\n\n\n The newcomer started off on another\n tack. \"My name is Lawrence\n Reston-Farrell. If I am not mistaken,\n you are Joseph Salviati-Prantera.\"", "He said, \"O.K. See you guys later.\"\n He left them and entered the building.\n\n\n An elevator—he still wasn't used\n to their speed in this era—whooshed\n him to the penthouse duplex occupied\n by Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy.\n\n\n There were two persons in the reception\n room but they left on Joe's\n arrival, without bothering to look at\n him more than glancingly.\n\n\n He spotted the screen immediately\n and went over and stood before it.\n\n\n The screen lit and revealed a\n heavy-set, dour of countenance man\n seated at a desk. He looked into Joe\n Prantera's face, scowled and said\n something.\n\n\n Joe said, \"Joseph Salviati-Prantera\n to interview Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy.\"\n\n\n The other's shaggy eyebrows rose.\n \"Indeed,\" he said. \"In Amer-English?\"", "\"Sure I heard of Hitler and Stalin,\"\n Joe growled. \"I ain't stupid.\"\n\n\n The other nodded. \"Such men are\n unique. They have a drive ... a\n drive to power which exceeds by far\n the ambitions of the average man.\n They are genii in their way, Mr. Prantera,\n genii of evil. Such a genius of\n evil has appeared on the current\n scene.\"\n\n\n \"Now we're getting somewheres,\"\n Joe snorted. \"So you got a guy what's\n a little ambitious, like, eh? And you\n guys ain't got the guts to give it to\n him. O.K. What's in it for me?\"\n\n\n The two of them frowned, exchanged\n glances. Reston-Farrell said,\n \"You know, that is one aspect we had\n not considered.\"", "\"O.K., O.K.,\" Joe Prantera growled.\n \"So everybody's got it made. What I\n wanta know is what's all this about\n me giving it ta somebody? If everything's\n so great, how come you want\n me to knock this guy off?\"\n\n\n Reston-Farrell bent forward and\n thumped his right index finger twice\n on the table. \"The bacterium of hate—a\n new strain—has found the human\n race unprotected from its disease.\n We had thought our vaccines\n immunized us.\"\n\n\n \"What's that suppose to mean?\"\n\n\n Brett-James took up the ball again.\n \"Mr. Prantera, have you ever heard of\n Ghengis Khan, of Tamerlane, Alexander,\n Caesar?\"\n\n\n Joe Prantera scowled at him emptily.\n\n\n \"Or, more likely, of Napoleon, Hitler,\n Stalin?\"", "Joe stared at him, and then at the\n other. He couldn't believe he was getting\n through to them. Or, at least,\n that they were to him.\n\n\n Finally he said, \"If I get this, you\n want me to do a job for you.\"\n\n\n \"That is correct.\"\n\n\n Joe said, \"You guys know the kind\n of jobs I do?\"\n\n\n \"That is correct.\"\n\n\n \"Like hell you do. You think I'm\n stupid? I never even seen you before.\"\n Joe Prantera came abruptly to\n his feet. \"I'm gettin' outta here.\"\n\n\n For the second time, Reston-Farrell\n said, \"Where would you go, Mr.\n Prantera?\"", "Salviati happened to be Joe's mother's\n maiden name. But it was unlikely\n this character could have known that.\n Joe had been born in Naples and his\n mother had died in childbirth. His\n father hadn't brought him to the\n States until the age of five and by that\n time he had a stepmother.\n\n\n \"I wanta mouthpiece,\" Joe said\n flatly, \"or let me outta here.\"\n\n\n Lawrence Reston-Farrell said, \"You\n are not being constrained. There are\n clothes for you in the closet there.\"\n\n\n Joe gingerly tried swinging his\n feet to the floor and sitting up, while\n the other stood watching him, strangely.\n He came to his feet. With the exception\n of a faint nausea, which\n brought back memories of that extreme\n condition he'd suffered during\n ... during what? He hadn't the\n vaguest idea of what had happened.", "Brett-James said to Joe Prantera,\n \"Had we not, ah, taken you at the\n time we did, do you realize what\n would have happened?\"\n\n\n \"Sure,\" Joe grunted. \"I woulda let\n old Al Rossi have it right in the guts,\n five times. Then I woulda took the\n plane back to Chi.\"\n\n\n Brett-James was shaking his head.\n \"No. You see, by coincidence, a police\n squad car was coming down the\n street just at that moment to arrest\n Mr. Rossi. You would have been apprehended.\n As I understand Californian\n law of the period, your life\n would have been forfeit, Mr. Prantera.\"\n\n\n Joe winced. It didn't occur to him\n to doubt their word." ], [ "Joe Prantera had been rocking\n with the mental blows he had been\n assimilating, but this was the final\n haymaker. He was stuck in this\n squaresville of a world.\nJoe Prantera on a job was thorough.\n\n\n Careful, painstaking, competent.\n\n\n He spent the first three days of his\n life in the year 2133 getting the feel\n of things. Brett-James and Reston-Farrell\n had been appointed to work\n with him. Joe didn't meet any of the\n others who belonged to the group\n which had taken the measures to\n bring him from the past. He didn't\n want to meet them. The fewer persons\n involved, the better.", "\"2133,\" Reston-Farrell said. \"2133\n A.D. they would say.\"\n\n\n Joe Prantera looked from one of\n them to the other, scowling. \"What\n are you guys talking about?\"\n\n\n Warren Brett-James said softly,\n \"Mr. Prantera, you are no longer in\n the year 1960, you are now in the\n year 2133.\"\n\n\n He said, uncomprehendingly, \"You\n mean I been, like, unconscious for—\"\n He let the sentence fall away as he\n realized the impossibility.\n\n\n Brett-James said gently, \"Hardly\n for one hundred and seventy years,\n Mr. Prantera.\"\n\n\n Reston-Farrell said, \"I am afraid we\n are confusing you. Briefly, we have\ntransported\nyou, I suppose one might\n say, from your own era to ours.\"", "The other put down the unaccepted\n glass. \"We were afraid first\n realization would be a shock to you,\"\n he said. \"My colleague is in the adjoining\n room. We will be glad to explain\n to you if you will join us there.\"\n\n\n \"I wanta get out of here,\" Joe said.\n\n\n \"Where would you go?\"\n\n\n The fear of police, of Al Rossi's\n vengeance, of the measures that\n might be taken by Big Louis on his\n failure, were now far away.\n\n\n Reston-Farrell had approached the\n door by which he had entered and it\n reopened for him. He went through\n it without looking back.", "He stayed in the apartment of\n Reston-Farrell. Joe had been right,\n Reston-Farrell was a medical doctor.\n Brett-James evidently had something\n to do with the process that had enabled\n them to bring Joe from the\n past. Joe didn't know how they'd\n done it, and he didn't care. Joe was a\n realist. He was here. The thing was\n to adapt.\n\n\n There didn't seem to be any hurry.\n Once the deal was made, they left it\n up to him to make the decisions.\n\n\n They drove him around the town,\n when he wished to check the traffic\n arteries. They flew him about the\n whole vicinity. From the air, Southern\n California looked much the same\n as it had in his own time. Oceans,\n mountains, and to a lesser extent, deserts,\n are fairly permanent even\n against man's corroding efforts.", "Joe glared at him. Then sat down\n again, as abruptly as he'd arisen.\n\"Let's start all over again. I got this\n straight, you brought me, some\n screwy way, all the way ... here.\n O.K., I'll buy that. I seen what it looks\n like out that window—\" The real\n comprehension was seeping through\n to him even as he talked. \"Everybody\n I know, Jessie, Tony, the Kid, Big\n Louis, everybody, they're dead. Even\n Big Louis.\"\n\n\n \"Yes,\" Brett-James said, his voice\n soft. \"They are all dead, Mr. Prantera.\n Their children are all dead, and their\n grandchildren.\"\n\n\n The two men of the future said\n nothing more for long minutes while\n Joe Prantera's mind whirled its confusion.\n\n\n Finally he said, \"What's this bit\n about you wanting me to give it to\n some guy.\"", "It was while he was flying with\n Brett-James on the second day that\n Joe said, \"How about Mexico? Could\n I make the get to Mexico?\"\n\n\n The physicist looked at him questioningly.\n \"Get?\" he said.\n\n\n Joe Prantera said impatiently, \"The\n getaway. After I give it to this Howard\n Temple-Tracy guy, I gotta go on\n the run, don't I?\"\n\n\n \"I see.\" Brett-James cleared his\n throat. \"Mexico is no longer a separate\n nation, Mr. Prantera. All North\n America has been united into one\n unit. Today, there are only eight nations\n in the world.\"\n\n\n \"Where's the nearest?\"\n\n\n \"South America.\"\n\n\n \"That's a helluva long way to go on\n a get.\"", "Joe didn't allow himself to think\n of its means of delivery. He took up\n the drink and bolted it. He put the\n glass down and said carefully,\n \"What's it all about, huh?\"\n\n\n Warren Brett-James said soothingly,\n \"Prepare yourself for somewhat\n of a shock, Mr. Prantera. You are no\n longer in Los Angeles—\"\n\n\n \"Ya think I'm stupid? I can see\n that.\"\n\n\n \"I was about to say, Los Angeles of\n 1960. Mr. Prantera, we welcome you\n to Nuevo Los Angeles.\"\n\n\n \"Ta where?\"\n\n\n \"To Nuevo Los Angeles and to\n the year—\" Brett-James looked at his\n companion. \"What is the date, Old\n Calendar?\"", "Joe Prantera had never been exposed\n to the concept of time travel.\n He had simply never associated with\n anyone who had ever even remotely\n considered such an idea. Now he said,\n \"You mean, like, I been asleep all\n that time?\"\n\n\n \"Not exactly,\" Brett-James said,\n frowning.\n\n\n Reston-Farrell said, \"Suffice to say,\n you are now one hundred and seventy-three\n years after the last memory you\n have.\"\n\n\n Joe Prantera's mind suddenly reverted\n to those last memories and his\n eyes narrowed dangerously. He felt\n suddenly at bay. He said, \"Maybe\n you guys better let me in on what's\n this all about.\"\n\n\n Reston-Farrell said, \"Mr. Prantera,\n we have brought you from your era\n to perform a task for us.\"", "There was nothing else to do. Joe\n dressed, then followed him.\nIn the adjoining room was a circular\n table that would have accommodated\n a dozen persons. Two were\n seated there now, papers, books and\n soiled coffee cups before them. There\n had evidently been a long wait.\n\n\n Reston-Farrell, the one Joe had already\n met, was tall and drawn of face\n and with a chainsmoker's nervousness.\n The other was heavier and more\n at ease. They were both, Joe estimated,\n somewhere in their middle fifties.\n They both looked like docs. He\n wondered, all over again, if this was\n some kind of pressure cooker.\n\n\n But that didn't explain the view\n from the window.\n\n\n Reston-Farrell said, \"May I present\n my colleague, Citizen Warren Brett-James?\n Warren, this is our guest from\n ... from yesteryear, Mr. Joseph Salviati-Prantera.\"", "Joe gave him a long, chill look\n and then stepped to the window. He\n couldn't figure the other. Unless he\n was a fruitcake. Maybe he was in\n some kind of pressure cooker and\n this was one of the fruitcakes.\n\n\n He looked out, however, not on the\n lawns and walks of a sanitarium but\n upon a wide boulevard of what was\n obviously a populous city.\n\n\n And for a moment again, Joe Prantera\n felt the depths of nausea.\n\n\n This was not his world.\n\n\n He stared for a long, long moment.\n The cars didn't even have wheels, he\n noted dully. He turned slowly and\n faced the older man.\n\n\n Reston-Farrell said compassionately,\n \"Try this, it's excellent cognac.\"\n\n\n Joe Prantera stared at him, said finally,\n flatly, \"What's it all about?\"", "Joe stared at him, and then at the\n other. He couldn't believe he was getting\n through to them. Or, at least,\n that they were to him.\n\n\n Finally he said, \"If I get this, you\n want me to do a job for you.\"\n\n\n \"That is correct.\"\n\n\n Joe said, \"You guys know the kind\n of jobs I do?\"\n\n\n \"That is correct.\"\n\n\n \"Like hell you do. You think I'm\n stupid? I never even seen you before.\"\n Joe Prantera came abruptly to\n his feet. \"I'm gettin' outta here.\"\n\n\n For the second time, Reston-Farrell\n said, \"Where would you go, Mr.\n Prantera?\"", "He was in, he thought, a hospital\n and his first reaction was to think,\nThis here California. Everything different.\nThen his second thought was\nSomething went wrong. Big Louis, he\n ain't going to like this.\nHe brought his thinking to the\n present. So far as he could remember,\n he hadn't completely pulled the trigger.\n That at least meant that whatever\n the rap was it wouldn't be too\n tough. With luck, the syndicate would\n get him off with a couple of years at\n Quentin.\n\n\n A door slid open in the wall in a\n way that Joe had never seen a door\n operate before.\nThis here California.\nThe clothes on the newcomer were\n wrong, too. For the first time, Joe\n Prantera began to sense an alienness—a\n something that was awfully\n wrong.\n\n\n The other spoke precisely and\n slowly, the way a highly educated man\n speaks a language which he reads\n and writes fluently but has little occasion\n to practice vocally. \"You have recovered?\"", "He said, \"O.K. See you guys later.\"\n He left them and entered the building.\n\n\n An elevator—he still wasn't used\n to their speed in this era—whooshed\n him to the penthouse duplex occupied\n by Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy.\n\n\n There were two persons in the reception\n room but they left on Joe's\n arrival, without bothering to look at\n him more than glancingly.\n\n\n He spotted the screen immediately\n and went over and stood before it.\n\n\n The screen lit and revealed a\n heavy-set, dour of countenance man\n seated at a desk. He looked into Joe\n Prantera's face, scowled and said\n something.\n\n\n Joe said, \"Joseph Salviati-Prantera\n to interview Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy.\"\n\n\n The other's shaggy eyebrows rose.\n \"Indeed,\" he said. \"In Amer-English?\"", "Joe snapped: \"Everything you guys\n say sounds crazy. Let's start all over\n again.\"\n\n\n Brett-James said, \"Let me do it,\n Lawrence.\" He turned his eyes to Joe.\n \"Mr. Prantera, in your own era, did\n you ever consider the future?\"\n\n\n Joe looked at him blankly.\n\n\n \"In your day you were confronted\n with national and international, problems.\n Just as we are today and just as\n nations were a century or a millennium\n ago.\"\n\n\n \"Sure, O.K., so we had problems. I\n know whatcha mean—like wars, and\n depressions and dictators and like\n that.\"\n\n\n \"Yes, like that,\" Brett-James\n nodded.", "Besides, already Joe was beginning\n to feel the comfortable, pleasurable,\n warm feeling that came to him on\n occasions like this.\n\n\n He said, \"You're sure this guy talks\n American, eh?\"\n\n\n Warren Brett-James said, \"Quite\n sure. He is a student of history.\"\n\n\n \"And he won't think it's funny I\n talk American to him, eh?\"\n\n\n \"He'll undoubtedly be intrigued.\"\n\n\n They pulled up before a large\n apartment building that overlooked\n the area once known as Wilmington.\n\n\n Joe was coolly efficient now. He\n pulled out the automatic, held it\n down below his knees and threw a\n shell into the barrel. He eased the\n hammer down, thumbed on the\n safety, stuck the weapon back in his\n belt and beneath the jacketlike garment\n he wore.", "Joe said, very slowly, \"Chief, in the\n line you're in these days you needa\n heavy around with wunna these. Otherwise,\n Chief, you're gunna wind up\n in some gutter with a lotta holes in\n you. What I'm doin', I'm askin' for a\n job. You need a good man knows how\n to handle wunna these, Chief.\"\n\n\n Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy\n eyed him appraisingly. \"Perhaps,\" he\n said, \"you are right at that. In the near\n future, I may well need an assistant\n knowledgeable in the field of violence.\n Tell me more about yourself.\n You surprise me considerably.\"", "Brett-James nodded to him, friendly,\n so far as Joe could see. He said\n gently, \"I think it would be Mr. Joseph\n Prantera, wouldn't it? The maternal\n linage was almost universally\n ignored.\" His voice too gave the impression\n he was speaking a language\n not usually on his tongue.\n\n\n Joe took an empty chair, hardly\n bothering to note its alien qualities.\n His body seemed to\nfit\ninto the piece\n of furniture, as though it had been\n molded to his order.\n\n\n Joe said, \"I think maybe I'll take\n that there drink, Doc.\"\n\n\n Reston-Farrell said, \"Of course,\"\n and then something else Joe didn't\n get. Whatever the something else\n was, a slot opened in the middle of\n the table and a glass, so clear of texture\n as to be all but invisible, was\n elevated. It contained possibly three\n ounces of golden fluid.", "Salviati happened to be Joe's mother's\n maiden name. But it was unlikely\n this character could have known that.\n Joe had been born in Naples and his\n mother had died in childbirth. His\n father hadn't brought him to the\n States until the age of five and by that\n time he had a stepmother.\n\n\n \"I wanta mouthpiece,\" Joe said\n flatly, \"or let me outta here.\"\n\n\n Lawrence Reston-Farrell said, \"You\n are not being constrained. There are\n clothes for you in the closet there.\"\n\n\n Joe gingerly tried swinging his\n feet to the floor and sitting up, while\n the other stood watching him, strangely.\n He came to his feet. With the exception\n of a faint nausea, which\n brought back memories of that extreme\n condition he'd suffered during\n ... during what? He hadn't the\n vaguest idea of what had happened.", "Joe nodded.\n\n\n \"Enter,\" the other said.\n\n\n A door had slid open on the other\n side of the room. Joe walked through\n it and into what was obviously an office.\n Citizen Temple-Tracy sat at a\n desk. There was only one other chair\n in the room. Joe Prantera ignored it\n and remained standing.\n\n\n Citizen Temple-Tracy said, \"What\n can I do for you?\"\n\n\n Joe looked at him for a long, long\n moment. Then he reached down to\n his belt and brought forth the .45\n automatic. He moistened his lips.\n\n\n Joe said softly, \"You know what\n this here is?\"\n\n\n Temple-Tracy stared at the weapon.\n \"It's a handgun, circa, I would\n say, about 1925 Old Calendar. What\n in the world are you doing with it?\"", "Brett-James said to Joe Prantera,\n \"Had we not, ah, taken you at the\n time we did, do you realize what\n would have happened?\"\n\n\n \"Sure,\" Joe grunted. \"I woulda let\n old Al Rossi have it right in the guts,\n five times. Then I woulda took the\n plane back to Chi.\"\n\n\n Brett-James was shaking his head.\n \"No. You see, by coincidence, a police\n squad car was coming down the\n street just at that moment to arrest\n Mr. Rossi. You would have been apprehended.\n As I understand Californian\n law of the period, your life\n would have been forfeit, Mr. Prantera.\"\n\n\n Joe winced. It didn't occur to him\n to doubt their word." ], [ "Joe Prantera had never been exposed\n to the concept of time travel.\n He had simply never associated with\n anyone who had ever even remotely\n considered such an idea. Now he said,\n \"You mean, like, I been asleep all\n that time?\"\n\n\n \"Not exactly,\" Brett-James said,\n frowning.\n\n\n Reston-Farrell said, \"Suffice to say,\n you are now one hundred and seventy-three\n years after the last memory you\n have.\"\n\n\n Joe Prantera's mind suddenly reverted\n to those last memories and his\n eyes narrowed dangerously. He felt\n suddenly at bay. He said, \"Maybe\n you guys better let me in on what's\n this all about.\"\n\n\n Reston-Farrell said, \"Mr. Prantera,\n we have brought you from your era\n to perform a task for us.\"", "Joe glared at him. Then sat down\n again, as abruptly as he'd arisen.\n\"Let's start all over again. I got this\n straight, you brought me, some\n screwy way, all the way ... here.\n O.K., I'll buy that. I seen what it looks\n like out that window—\" The real\n comprehension was seeping through\n to him even as he talked. \"Everybody\n I know, Jessie, Tony, the Kid, Big\n Louis, everybody, they're dead. Even\n Big Louis.\"\n\n\n \"Yes,\" Brett-James said, his voice\n soft. \"They are all dead, Mr. Prantera.\n Their children are all dead, and their\n grandchildren.\"\n\n\n The two men of the future said\n nothing more for long minutes while\n Joe Prantera's mind whirled its confusion.\n\n\n Finally he said, \"What's this bit\n about you wanting me to give it to\n some guy.\"", "He stayed in the apartment of\n Reston-Farrell. Joe had been right,\n Reston-Farrell was a medical doctor.\n Brett-James evidently had something\n to do with the process that had enabled\n them to bring Joe from the\n past. Joe didn't know how they'd\n done it, and he didn't care. Joe was a\n realist. He was here. The thing was\n to adapt.\n\n\n There didn't seem to be any hurry.\n Once the deal was made, they left it\n up to him to make the decisions.\n\n\n They drove him around the town,\n when he wished to check the traffic\n arteries. They flew him about the\n whole vicinity. From the air, Southern\n California looked much the same\n as it had in his own time. Oceans,\n mountains, and to a lesser extent, deserts,\n are fairly permanent even\n against man's corroding efforts.", "Reston-Farrell said, \"As to reward,\n Mr. Prantera, we have already told\n you there is ultra-abundance in this\n age. Once this task has been performed,\n we will sponsor your entry\n into present day society. Competent\n psychiatric therapy will soon remove\n your present—\"\n\n\n \"Waita minute, now. You figure on\n gettin' me candled by some head\n shrinker, eh? No thanks, Buster. I'm\n going back to my own—\"\n\n\n Brett-James was shaking his head\n again. \"I am afraid there is no return,\n Mr. Prantera. Time travel works but\n in one direction,\nwith\nthe flow of the\n time stream. There can be no return\n to your own era.\"", "Reston-Farrell and Brett-James\n were both present. The three of them\n sat in the living room of the latter's\n apartment, sipping a sparkling wine\n which seemed to be the prevailing\n beverage of the day. For Joe's taste\n it was insipid stuff. Happily, rye was\n available to those who wanted it.\n\n\n Reston-Farrell said, \"You mean,\n where does he reside? Why, here in\n this city.\"\n\n\n \"Well, that's handy, eh?\" Joe\n scratched himself thoughtfully. \"You\n got somebody can finger him for me?\"\n\n\n \"Finger him?\"", "\"2133,\" Reston-Farrell said. \"2133\n A.D. they would say.\"\n\n\n Joe Prantera looked from one of\n them to the other, scowling. \"What\n are you guys talking about?\"\n\n\n Warren Brett-James said softly,\n \"Mr. Prantera, you are no longer in\n the year 1960, you are now in the\n year 2133.\"\n\n\n He said, uncomprehendingly, \"You\n mean I been, like, unconscious for—\"\n He let the sentence fall away as he\n realized the impossibility.\n\n\n Brett-James said gently, \"Hardly\n for one hundred and seventy years,\n Mr. Prantera.\"\n\n\n Reston-Farrell said, \"I am afraid we\n are confusing you. Briefly, we have\ntransported\nyou, I suppose one might\n say, from your own era to ours.\"", "There was nothing else to do. Joe\n dressed, then followed him.\nIn the adjoining room was a circular\n table that would have accommodated\n a dozen persons. Two were\n seated there now, papers, books and\n soiled coffee cups before them. There\n had evidently been a long wait.\n\n\n Reston-Farrell, the one Joe had already\n met, was tall and drawn of face\n and with a chainsmoker's nervousness.\n The other was heavier and more\n at ease. They were both, Joe estimated,\n somewhere in their middle fifties.\n They both looked like docs. He\n wondered, all over again, if this was\n some kind of pressure cooker.\n\n\n But that didn't explain the view\n from the window.\n\n\n Reston-Farrell said, \"May I present\n my colleague, Citizen Warren Brett-James?\n Warren, this is our guest from\n ... from yesteryear, Mr. Joseph Salviati-Prantera.\"", "\"Yes,\" Brett-James said evenly.\n\n\n \"Well then, figure something else.\n You think I'm stupid?\"\n\n\n \"Mr. Prantera,\" Dr. Reston-Farrell\n said, \"there has been as much progress\n in the field of psychiatry in the\n past two centuries as there has in\n any other. Your treatment would be\n brief and painless, believe me.\"\n\n\n Joe said coldly, \"And what happens\n to you guys? How do you know I\n won't rat on you?\"\n\n\n Brett-James said gently, \"The moment\n after you have accomplished\n your mission, we plan to turn ourselves\n over to the nearest institution\n to have determined whether or not\n we also need therapy.\"\n\n\n \"Now I'm beginning to wonder\n about you guys,\" Joe said. \"Look, all\n over again, what'd'ya wanta give it to\n this guy for?\"", "Joe snapped: \"Everything you guys\n say sounds crazy. Let's start all over\n again.\"\n\n\n Brett-James said, \"Let me do it,\n Lawrence.\" He turned his eyes to Joe.\n \"Mr. Prantera, in your own era, did\n you ever consider the future?\"\n\n\n Joe looked at him blankly.\n\n\n \"In your day you were confronted\n with national and international, problems.\n Just as we are today and just as\n nations were a century or a millennium\n ago.\"\n\n\n \"Sure, O.K., so we had problems. I\n know whatcha mean—like wars, and\n depressions and dictators and like\n that.\"\n\n\n \"Yes, like that,\" Brett-James\n nodded.", "\"That is why we brought you here,\n Mr. Prantera. You were ... you\n are, a professional assassin.\"\n\n\n \"Hey, wait a minute, now.\"\n\n\n Reston-Farrell went on, ignoring\n the interruption. \"There is small\n point in denying your calling. Pray\n remember that at the point when we\n ...\ntransported\nyou, you were about\n to dispose of a contemporary named\n Alphonso Annunziata-Rossi. A citizen,\n I might say, whose demise would\n probably have caused small dismay to\n society.\"\n\n\n They had him pegged all right. Joe\n said, \"But why me? Why don't you\n get some heavy from now? Somebody\n knows the ropes these days.\"\n\n\n Brett-James said, \"Mr. Prantera,\n there are no professional assassins in\n this age, nor have there been for over\n a century and a half.\"", "Joe Prantera had been rocking\n with the mental blows he had been\n assimilating, but this was the final\n haymaker. He was stuck in this\n squaresville of a world.\nJoe Prantera on a job was thorough.\n\n\n Careful, painstaking, competent.\n\n\n He spent the first three days of his\n life in the year 2133 getting the feel\n of things. Brett-James and Reston-Farrell\n had been appointed to work\n with him. Joe didn't meet any of the\n others who belonged to the group\n which had taken the measures to\n bring him from the past. He didn't\n want to meet them. The fewer persons\n involved, the better.", "Brett-James nodded to him, friendly,\n so far as Joe could see. He said\n gently, \"I think it would be Mr. Joseph\n Prantera, wouldn't it? The maternal\n linage was almost universally\n ignored.\" His voice too gave the impression\n he was speaking a language\n not usually on his tongue.\n\n\n Joe took an empty chair, hardly\n bothering to note its alien qualities.\n His body seemed to\nfit\ninto the piece\n of furniture, as though it had been\n molded to his order.\n\n\n Joe said, \"I think maybe I'll take\n that there drink, Doc.\"\n\n\n Reston-Farrell said, \"Of course,\"\n and then something else Joe didn't\n get. Whatever the something else\n was, a slot opened in the middle of\n the table and a glass, so clear of texture\n as to be all but invisible, was\n elevated. It contained possibly three\n ounces of golden fluid.", "The other put down the unaccepted\n glass. \"We were afraid first\n realization would be a shock to you,\"\n he said. \"My colleague is in the adjoining\n room. We will be glad to explain\n to you if you will join us there.\"\n\n\n \"I wanta get out of here,\" Joe said.\n\n\n \"Where would you go?\"\n\n\n The fear of police, of Al Rossi's\n vengeance, of the measures that\n might be taken by Big Louis on his\n failure, were now far away.\n\n\n Reston-Farrell had approached the\n door by which he had entered and it\n reopened for him. He went through\n it without looking back.", "\"See here, Mr. Prantera,\" Brett-James\n said softly. \"We no longer have\n capital punishment, you must realize.\"\n\n\n \"O.K. I still don't wanta get caught.\n What\nis\nthe rap these days, huh?\"\n Joe scowled. \"You said they didn't\n have no jails any more.\"\n\n\n \"This is difficult for you to understand,\n I imagine,\" Reston-Farrell told\n him, \"but, you see, we no longer punish\n people in this era.\"\n\n\n That took a long, unbelieving moment\n to sink in. \"You mean, like, no\n matter what they do? That's crazy.\n Everybody'd be running around giving\n it to everybody else.\"", "Joe didn't allow himself to think\n of its means of delivery. He took up\n the drink and bolted it. He put the\n glass down and said carefully,\n \"What's it all about, huh?\"\n\n\n Warren Brett-James said soothingly,\n \"Prepare yourself for somewhat\n of a shock, Mr. Prantera. You are no\n longer in Los Angeles—\"\n\n\n \"Ya think I'm stupid? I can see\n that.\"\n\n\n \"I was about to say, Los Angeles of\n 1960. Mr. Prantera, we welcome you\n to Nuevo Los Angeles.\"\n\n\n \"Ta where?\"\n\n\n \"To Nuevo Los Angeles and to\n the year—\" Brett-James looked at his\n companion. \"What is the date, Old\n Calendar?\"", "Brett-James said to Joe Prantera,\n \"Had we not, ah, taken you at the\n time we did, do you realize what\n would have happened?\"\n\n\n \"Sure,\" Joe grunted. \"I woulda let\n old Al Rossi have it right in the guts,\n five times. Then I woulda took the\n plane back to Chi.\"\n\n\n Brett-James was shaking his head.\n \"No. You see, by coincidence, a police\n squad car was coming down the\n street just at that moment to arrest\n Mr. Rossi. You would have been apprehended.\n As I understand Californian\n law of the period, your life\n would have been forfeit, Mr. Prantera.\"\n\n\n Joe winced. It didn't occur to him\n to doubt their word.", "Joe gave him a long, chill look\n and then stepped to the window. He\n couldn't figure the other. Unless he\n was a fruitcake. Maybe he was in\n some kind of pressure cooker and\n this was one of the fruitcakes.\n\n\n He looked out, however, not on the\n lawns and walks of a sanitarium but\n upon a wide boulevard of what was\n obviously a populous city.\n\n\n And for a moment again, Joe Prantera\n felt the depths of nausea.\n\n\n This was not his world.\n\n\n He stared for a long, long moment.\n The cars didn't even have wheels, he\n noted dully. He turned slowly and\n faced the older man.\n\n\n Reston-Farrell said compassionately,\n \"Try this, it's excellent cognac.\"\n\n\n Joe Prantera stared at him, said finally,\n flatly, \"What's it all about?\"", "\"You mean there's no place in the\n whole world where they talk American?\"\n Joe demanded, aghast.\nDr. Reston-Farrell controlled the\n car. Joe Prantera sat in the seat next\n to him and Warren Brett-James sat\n in the back. Joe had, tucked in his\n belt, a .45 caliber automatic, once displayed\n in a museum. It had been\n more easily procured than the ammunition\n to fit it, but that problem too\n had been solved.\n\n\n The others were nervous, obviously\n repelled by the very conception of\n what they had planned.\n\n\n Inwardly, Joe was amused. Now\n that they had got in the clutch, the\n others were on the verge of chickening\n out. He knew it wouldn't have\n taken much for them to cancel the\n project. It wasn't any answer though.\n If they allowed him to call it off today,\n they'd talk themselves into it\n again before the week was through.", "Besides, already Joe was beginning\n to feel the comfortable, pleasurable,\n warm feeling that came to him on\n occasions like this.\n\n\n He said, \"You're sure this guy talks\n American, eh?\"\n\n\n Warren Brett-James said, \"Quite\n sure. He is a student of history.\"\n\n\n \"And he won't think it's funny I\n talk American to him, eh?\"\n\n\n \"He'll undoubtedly be intrigued.\"\n\n\n They pulled up before a large\n apartment building that overlooked\n the area once known as Wilmington.\n\n\n Joe was coolly efficient now. He\n pulled out the automatic, held it\n down below his knees and threw a\n shell into the barrel. He eased the\n hammer down, thumbed on the\n safety, stuck the weapon back in his\n belt and beneath the jacketlike garment\n he wore.", "Joe stared at him, and then at the\n other. He couldn't believe he was getting\n through to them. Or, at least,\n that they were to him.\n\n\n Finally he said, \"If I get this, you\n want me to do a job for you.\"\n\n\n \"That is correct.\"\n\n\n Joe said, \"You guys know the kind\n of jobs I do?\"\n\n\n \"That is correct.\"\n\n\n \"Like hell you do. You think I'm\n stupid? I never even seen you before.\"\n Joe Prantera came abruptly to\n his feet. \"I'm gettin' outta here.\"\n\n\n For the second time, Reston-Farrell\n said, \"Where would you go, Mr.\n Prantera?\"" ], [ "\"A gun, a gun. Ya think I'm stupid?\n I come to give it to him and he\n gives it to me instead.\"\n\n\n Dr. Reston-Farrell said, \"Howard\n Temple-Tracy lives alone. He customarily\n receives visitors every afternoon,\n largely potential followers. He\n is attempting to recruit members to\n an organization he is forming. It\n would be quite simple for you to\n enter his establishment and dispose\n of him. I assure you, he does not possess\n weapons.\"\n\n\n Joe was indignant. \"Just like that,\n eh?\" he said sarcastically. \"Then what\n happens? How do I get out of the\n building? Where's my get car parked?\n Where do I hide out? Where do I\n dump the heat?\"\n\n\n \"Dump the heat?\"\n\n\n \"Get rid of the gun. You want I\n should get caught with the gun on\n me? I'd wind up in the gas chamber\n so quick—\"", "Reston-Farrell and Brett-James\n were both present. The three of them\n sat in the living room of the latter's\n apartment, sipping a sparkling wine\n which seemed to be the prevailing\n beverage of the day. For Joe's taste\n it was insipid stuff. Happily, rye was\n available to those who wanted it.\n\n\n Reston-Farrell said, \"You mean,\n where does he reside? Why, here in\n this city.\"\n\n\n \"Well, that's handy, eh?\" Joe\n scratched himself thoughtfully. \"You\n got somebody can finger him for me?\"\n\n\n \"Finger him?\"", "\"Yes,\" Brett-James said evenly.\n\n\n \"Well then, figure something else.\n You think I'm stupid?\"\n\n\n \"Mr. Prantera,\" Dr. Reston-Farrell\n said, \"there has been as much progress\n in the field of psychiatry in the\n past two centuries as there has in\n any other. Your treatment would be\n brief and painless, believe me.\"\n\n\n Joe said coldly, \"And what happens\n to you guys? How do you know I\n won't rat on you?\"\n\n\n Brett-James said gently, \"The moment\n after you have accomplished\n your mission, we plan to turn ourselves\n over to the nearest institution\n to have determined whether or not\n we also need therapy.\"\n\n\n \"Now I'm beginning to wonder\n about you guys,\" Joe said. \"Look, all\n over again, what'd'ya wanta give it to\n this guy for?\"", "\"The motivation for crime has\n been removed, Mr. Prantera,\" Reston-Farrell\n attempted to explain. \"A\n person who commits a violence\n against another is obviously in need\n of medical care. And, consequently,\n receives it.\"\n\n\n \"You mean, like, if I steal a car or\n something, they just take me to a\n doctor?\" Joe Prantera was unbelieving.\n\n\n \"Why would anybody wish to steal\n a car?\" Reston-Farrell said easily.\n\n\n \"But if I\ngive it\nto somebody?\"\n\n\n \"You will be turned over to a medical\n institution. Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy\n is the last man you will\n ever kill, Mr. Prantera.\"\n\n\n A chillness was in the belly of Joe\n Prantera. He said very slowly, very\n dangerously, \"You guys figure on me\n getting caught, don't you?\"", "\"O.K., O.K.,\" Joe Prantera growled.\n \"So everybody's got it made. What I\n wanta know is what's all this about\n me giving it ta somebody? If everything's\n so great, how come you want\n me to knock this guy off?\"\n\n\n Reston-Farrell bent forward and\n thumped his right index finger twice\n on the table. \"The bacterium of hate—a\n new strain—has found the human\n race unprotected from its disease.\n We had thought our vaccines\n immunized us.\"\n\n\n \"What's that suppose to mean?\"\n\n\n Brett-James took up the ball again.\n \"Mr. Prantera, have you ever heard of\n Ghengis Khan, of Tamerlane, Alexander,\n Caesar?\"\n\n\n Joe Prantera scowled at him emptily.\n\n\n \"Or, more likely, of Napoleon, Hitler,\n Stalin?\"", "There was nothing else to do. Joe\n dressed, then followed him.\nIn the adjoining room was a circular\n table that would have accommodated\n a dozen persons. Two were\n seated there now, papers, books and\n soiled coffee cups before them. There\n had evidently been a long wait.\n\n\n Reston-Farrell, the one Joe had already\n met, was tall and drawn of face\n and with a chainsmoker's nervousness.\n The other was heavier and more\n at ease. They were both, Joe estimated,\n somewhere in their middle fifties.\n They both looked like docs. He\n wondered, all over again, if this was\n some kind of pressure cooker.\n\n\n But that didn't explain the view\n from the window.\n\n\n Reston-Farrell said, \"May I present\n my colleague, Citizen Warren Brett-James?\n Warren, this is our guest from\n ... from yesteryear, Mr. Joseph Salviati-Prantera.\"", "\"That is why we brought you here,\n Mr. Prantera. You were ... you\n are, a professional assassin.\"\n\n\n \"Hey, wait a minute, now.\"\n\n\n Reston-Farrell went on, ignoring\n the interruption. \"There is small\n point in denying your calling. Pray\n remember that at the point when we\n ...\ntransported\nyou, you were about\n to dispose of a contemporary named\n Alphonso Annunziata-Rossi. A citizen,\n I might say, whose demise would\n probably have caused small dismay to\n society.\"\n\n\n They had him pegged all right. Joe\n said, \"But why me? Why don't you\n get some heavy from now? Somebody\n knows the ropes these days.\"\n\n\n Brett-James said, \"Mr. Prantera,\n there are no professional assassins in\n this age, nor have there been for over\n a century and a half.\"", "Brett-James cleared his throat.\n \"Mr. Prantera, there are no banks.\"\n\n\n \"No banks! You gotta have banks!\"\n\n\n \"And no money to put in them.\n We found it a rather antiquated\n method of distribution well over a\n century ago.\"\n\n\n Joe had given up. Now he merely\n stared.\n\n\n Brett-James said reasonably, \"We\n found we were devoting as much\n time to financial matters in all their\n endless ramifications—including\n bank robberies—as we were to productive\n efforts. So we turned to more\n efficient methods of distribution.\"\nOn the fourth day, Joe said, \"O.K.,\n let's get down to facts. Summa the\n things you guys say don't stick together\n so good. Now, first place,\n where's this guy Temple-Tracy you\n want knocked off?\"", "\"Look, before I can give it to this\n guy I gotta know some place where\n he'll be at some time. Get it? Like Al\n Rossi. My finger, he works in Rossi's\n house, see? He lets me know every\n Wednesday night, eight o'clock, Al\n leaves the house all by hisself. O.K.,\n so I can make plans, like, to give it\n to him.\" Joe Prantera wound it up\n reasonably. \"You gotta have a finger.\"\n\n\n Brett-James said, \"Why not just go\n to Temple-Tracy's apartment and, ah,\n dispose of him?\"\n\n\n \"Jest walk in, eh? You think I'm\n stupid? How do I know how many\n witnesses hangin' around? How do I\n know if the guy's carryin' heat?\"\n\n\n \"Heat?\"", "The doctor nodded at the validity\n of the question. \"Mr. Prantera,\nHomo\n sapiens\nis a unique animal. Physically\n he matures at approximately the age\n of thirteen. However, mental maturity\n and adjustment is often not fully\n realized until thirty or even more.\n Indeed, it is sometimes never\n achieved. Before such maturity is\n reached, our youth are susceptible to\n romantic appeal. Nationalism, chauvinism,\n racism, the supposed glory of\n the military, all seem romantic to the\n immature. They rebel at the orderliness\n of present society. They seek entertainment\n in excitement. Citizen\n Temple-Tracy is aware of this and\n finds his recruits among the young.\"\n\n\n \"O.K., so this guy is dangerous.\n You want him knocked off before he\n screws everything up. But the way\n things are, there's no way of making\n a get. So you'll have to get some other\n patsy. Not me.\"", "\"Well, then do it yourself.\" Joe\n Prantera's irritation over this whole\n complicated mess was growing. And\n already he was beginning to long for\n the things he knew—for Jessie and\n Tony and the others, for his favorite\n bar, for the lasagne down at Papa\n Giovanni's. Right now he could have\n welcomed a calling down at the hands\n of Big Louis.\n\n\n Reston-Farrell had come to his feet\n and walked to one of the large room's\n windows. He looked out, as though\n unseeing. Then, his back turned, he\n said, \"We have tried, but it is simply\n not in us, Mr. Prantera.\"\n\n\n \"You mean you're yella?\"\n\n\n \"No, if by that you mean afraid. It\n is simply not within us to take the\n life of a fellow creature—not to speak\n of a fellow man.\"", "The other put down the unaccepted\n glass. \"We were afraid first\n realization would be a shock to you,\"\n he said. \"My colleague is in the adjoining\n room. We will be glad to explain\n to you if you will join us there.\"\n\n\n \"I wanta get out of here,\" Joe said.\n\n\n \"Where would you go?\"\n\n\n The fear of police, of Al Rossi's\n vengeance, of the measures that\n might be taken by Big Louis on his\n failure, were now far away.\n\n\n Reston-Farrell had approached the\n door by which he had entered and it\n reopened for him. He went through\n it without looking back.", "Reston-Farrell said, \"As to reward,\n Mr. Prantera, we have already told\n you there is ultra-abundance in this\n age. Once this task has been performed,\n we will sponsor your entry\n into present day society. Competent\n psychiatric therapy will soon remove\n your present—\"\n\n\n \"Waita minute, now. You figure on\n gettin' me candled by some head\n shrinker, eh? No thanks, Buster. I'm\n going back to my own—\"\n\n\n Brett-James was shaking his head\n again. \"I am afraid there is no return,\n Mr. Prantera. Time travel works but\n in one direction,\nwith\nthe flow of the\n time stream. There can be no return\n to your own era.\"", "Brett-James said to Joe Prantera,\n \"Had we not, ah, taken you at the\n time we did, do you realize what\n would have happened?\"\n\n\n \"Sure,\" Joe grunted. \"I woulda let\n old Al Rossi have it right in the guts,\n five times. Then I woulda took the\n plane back to Chi.\"\n\n\n Brett-James was shaking his head.\n \"No. You see, by coincidence, a police\n squad car was coming down the\n street just at that moment to arrest\n Mr. Rossi. You would have been apprehended.\n As I understand Californian\n law of the period, your life\n would have been forfeit, Mr. Prantera.\"\n\n\n Joe winced. It didn't occur to him\n to doubt their word.", "\"See here, Mr. Prantera,\" Brett-James\n said softly. \"We no longer have\n capital punishment, you must realize.\"\n\n\n \"O.K. I still don't wanta get caught.\n What\nis\nthe rap these days, huh?\"\n Joe scowled. \"You said they didn't\n have no jails any more.\"\n\n\n \"This is difficult for you to understand,\n I imagine,\" Reston-Farrell told\n him, \"but, you see, we no longer punish\n people in this era.\"\n\n\n That took a long, unbelieving moment\n to sink in. \"You mean, like, no\n matter what they do? That's crazy.\n Everybody'd be running around giving\n it to everybody else.\"", "Joe glared at him. Then sat down\n again, as abruptly as he'd arisen.\n\"Let's start all over again. I got this\n straight, you brought me, some\n screwy way, all the way ... here.\n O.K., I'll buy that. I seen what it looks\n like out that window—\" The real\n comprehension was seeping through\n to him even as he talked. \"Everybody\n I know, Jessie, Tony, the Kid, Big\n Louis, everybody, they're dead. Even\n Big Louis.\"\n\n\n \"Yes,\" Brett-James said, his voice\n soft. \"They are all dead, Mr. Prantera.\n Their children are all dead, and their\n grandchildren.\"\n\n\n The two men of the future said\n nothing more for long minutes while\n Joe Prantera's mind whirled its confusion.\n\n\n Finally he said, \"What's this bit\n about you wanting me to give it to\n some guy.\"", "\"Sure, Chief. It's kinda a long\n story, though. First off, I better tell\n you you got some bad enemies, Chief.\n Two guys special, named Brett-James\n and Doc Reston-Farrell. I think one\n of the first jobs I'm gunna hafta do\n for you, Chief, is to give it to those\n two.\"\nTHE END\nTranscriber's Note:\nThis etext was produced from\nAnalog\nDecember\n 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.\n copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and\n typographical errors have been corrected without note.", "Joe stared at him, and then at the\n other. He couldn't believe he was getting\n through to them. Or, at least,\n that they were to him.\n\n\n Finally he said, \"If I get this, you\n want me to do a job for you.\"\n\n\n \"That is correct.\"\n\n\n Joe said, \"You guys know the kind\n of jobs I do?\"\n\n\n \"That is correct.\"\n\n\n \"Like hell you do. You think I'm\n stupid? I never even seen you before.\"\n Joe Prantera came abruptly to\n his feet. \"I'm gettin' outta here.\"\n\n\n For the second time, Reston-Farrell\n said, \"Where would you go, Mr.\n Prantera?\"", "The doctor said, \"We explained\n the other day, Mr. Prantera. Citizen\n Howard Temple-Tracy is a dangerous,\n atavistic, evil genius. We are\n afraid for our institutions if his plans\n are allowed to mature.\"\n\n\n \"Well if you got things so good,\n everybody's got it made, like, who'd\n listen to him?\"", "\"You mean there's no place in the\n whole world where they talk American?\"\n Joe demanded, aghast.\nDr. Reston-Farrell controlled the\n car. Joe Prantera sat in the seat next\n to him and Warren Brett-James sat\n in the back. Joe had, tucked in his\n belt, a .45 caliber automatic, once displayed\n in a museum. It had been\n more easily procured than the ammunition\n to fit it, but that problem too\n had been solved.\n\n\n The others were nervous, obviously\n repelled by the very conception of\n what they had planned.\n\n\n Inwardly, Joe was amused. Now\n that they had got in the clutch, the\n others were on the verge of chickening\n out. He knew it wouldn't have\n taken much for them to cancel the\n project. It wasn't any answer though.\n If they allowed him to call it off today,\n they'd talk themselves into it\n again before the week was through." ], [ "Reston-Farrell and Brett-James\n were both present. The three of them\n sat in the living room of the latter's\n apartment, sipping a sparkling wine\n which seemed to be the prevailing\n beverage of the day. For Joe's taste\n it was insipid stuff. Happily, rye was\n available to those who wanted it.\n\n\n Reston-Farrell said, \"You mean,\n where does he reside? Why, here in\n this city.\"\n\n\n \"Well, that's handy, eh?\" Joe\n scratched himself thoughtfully. \"You\n got somebody can finger him for me?\"\n\n\n \"Finger him?\"", "There was nothing else to do. Joe\n dressed, then followed him.\nIn the adjoining room was a circular\n table that would have accommodated\n a dozen persons. Two were\n seated there now, papers, books and\n soiled coffee cups before them. There\n had evidently been a long wait.\n\n\n Reston-Farrell, the one Joe had already\n met, was tall and drawn of face\n and with a chainsmoker's nervousness.\n The other was heavier and more\n at ease. They were both, Joe estimated,\n somewhere in their middle fifties.\n They both looked like docs. He\n wondered, all over again, if this was\n some kind of pressure cooker.\n\n\n But that didn't explain the view\n from the window.\n\n\n Reston-Farrell said, \"May I present\n my colleague, Citizen Warren Brett-James?\n Warren, this is our guest from\n ... from yesteryear, Mr. Joseph Salviati-Prantera.\"", "\"Yes,\" Brett-James said evenly.\n\n\n \"Well then, figure something else.\n You think I'm stupid?\"\n\n\n \"Mr. Prantera,\" Dr. Reston-Farrell\n said, \"there has been as much progress\n in the field of psychiatry in the\n past two centuries as there has in\n any other. Your treatment would be\n brief and painless, believe me.\"\n\n\n Joe said coldly, \"And what happens\n to you guys? How do you know I\n won't rat on you?\"\n\n\n Brett-James said gently, \"The moment\n after you have accomplished\n your mission, we plan to turn ourselves\n over to the nearest institution\n to have determined whether or not\n we also need therapy.\"\n\n\n \"Now I'm beginning to wonder\n about you guys,\" Joe said. \"Look, all\n over again, what'd'ya wanta give it to\n this guy for?\"", "Brett-James nodded to him, friendly,\n so far as Joe could see. He said\n gently, \"I think it would be Mr. Joseph\n Prantera, wouldn't it? The maternal\n linage was almost universally\n ignored.\" His voice too gave the impression\n he was speaking a language\n not usually on his tongue.\n\n\n Joe took an empty chair, hardly\n bothering to note its alien qualities.\n His body seemed to\nfit\ninto the piece\n of furniture, as though it had been\n molded to his order.\n\n\n Joe said, \"I think maybe I'll take\n that there drink, Doc.\"\n\n\n Reston-Farrell said, \"Of course,\"\n and then something else Joe didn't\n get. Whatever the something else\n was, a slot opened in the middle of\n the table and a glass, so clear of texture\n as to be all but invisible, was\n elevated. It contained possibly three\n ounces of golden fluid.", "Besides, already Joe was beginning\n to feel the comfortable, pleasurable,\n warm feeling that came to him on\n occasions like this.\n\n\n He said, \"You're sure this guy talks\n American, eh?\"\n\n\n Warren Brett-James said, \"Quite\n sure. He is a student of history.\"\n\n\n \"And he won't think it's funny I\n talk American to him, eh?\"\n\n\n \"He'll undoubtedly be intrigued.\"\n\n\n They pulled up before a large\n apartment building that overlooked\n the area once known as Wilmington.\n\n\n Joe was coolly efficient now. He\n pulled out the automatic, held it\n down below his knees and threw a\n shell into the barrel. He eased the\n hammer down, thumbed on the\n safety, stuck the weapon back in his\n belt and beneath the jacketlike garment\n he wore.", "Joe glared at him. Then sat down\n again, as abruptly as he'd arisen.\n\"Let's start all over again. I got this\n straight, you brought me, some\n screwy way, all the way ... here.\n O.K., I'll buy that. I seen what it looks\n like out that window—\" The real\n comprehension was seeping through\n to him even as he talked. \"Everybody\n I know, Jessie, Tony, the Kid, Big\n Louis, everybody, they're dead. Even\n Big Louis.\"\n\n\n \"Yes,\" Brett-James said, his voice\n soft. \"They are all dead, Mr. Prantera.\n Their children are all dead, and their\n grandchildren.\"\n\n\n The two men of the future said\n nothing more for long minutes while\n Joe Prantera's mind whirled its confusion.\n\n\n Finally he said, \"What's this bit\n about you wanting me to give it to\n some guy.\"", "The other put down the unaccepted\n glass. \"We were afraid first\n realization would be a shock to you,\"\n he said. \"My colleague is in the adjoining\n room. We will be glad to explain\n to you if you will join us there.\"\n\n\n \"I wanta get out of here,\" Joe said.\n\n\n \"Where would you go?\"\n\n\n The fear of police, of Al Rossi's\n vengeance, of the measures that\n might be taken by Big Louis on his\n failure, were now far away.\n\n\n Reston-Farrell had approached the\n door by which he had entered and it\n reopened for him. He went through\n it without looking back.", "\"Well, then do it yourself.\" Joe\n Prantera's irritation over this whole\n complicated mess was growing. And\n already he was beginning to long for\n the things he knew—for Jessie and\n Tony and the others, for his favorite\n bar, for the lasagne down at Papa\n Giovanni's. Right now he could have\n welcomed a calling down at the hands\n of Big Louis.\n\n\n Reston-Farrell had come to his feet\n and walked to one of the large room's\n windows. He looked out, as though\n unseeing. Then, his back turned, he\n said, \"We have tried, but it is simply\n not in us, Mr. Prantera.\"\n\n\n \"You mean you're yella?\"\n\n\n \"No, if by that you mean afraid. It\n is simply not within us to take the\n life of a fellow creature—not to speak\n of a fellow man.\"", "\"O.K., O.K.,\" Joe Prantera growled.\n \"So everybody's got it made. What I\n wanta know is what's all this about\n me giving it ta somebody? If everything's\n so great, how come you want\n me to knock this guy off?\"\n\n\n Reston-Farrell bent forward and\n thumped his right index finger twice\n on the table. \"The bacterium of hate—a\n new strain—has found the human\n race unprotected from its disease.\n We had thought our vaccines\n immunized us.\"\n\n\n \"What's that suppose to mean?\"\n\n\n Brett-James took up the ball again.\n \"Mr. Prantera, have you ever heard of\n Ghengis Khan, of Tamerlane, Alexander,\n Caesar?\"\n\n\n Joe Prantera scowled at him emptily.\n\n\n \"Or, more likely, of Napoleon, Hitler,\n Stalin?\"", "He stayed in the apartment of\n Reston-Farrell. Joe had been right,\n Reston-Farrell was a medical doctor.\n Brett-James evidently had something\n to do with the process that had enabled\n them to bring Joe from the\n past. Joe didn't know how they'd\n done it, and he didn't care. Joe was a\n realist. He was here. The thing was\n to adapt.\n\n\n There didn't seem to be any hurry.\n Once the deal was made, they left it\n up to him to make the decisions.\n\n\n They drove him around the town,\n when he wished to check the traffic\n arteries. They flew him about the\n whole vicinity. From the air, Southern\n California looked much the same\n as it had in his own time. Oceans,\n mountains, and to a lesser extent, deserts,\n are fairly permanent even\n against man's corroding efforts.", "Brett-James said to Joe Prantera,\n \"Had we not, ah, taken you at the\n time we did, do you realize what\n would have happened?\"\n\n\n \"Sure,\" Joe grunted. \"I woulda let\n old Al Rossi have it right in the guts,\n five times. Then I woulda took the\n plane back to Chi.\"\n\n\n Brett-James was shaking his head.\n \"No. You see, by coincidence, a police\n squad car was coming down the\n street just at that moment to arrest\n Mr. Rossi. You would have been apprehended.\n As I understand Californian\n law of the period, your life\n would have been forfeit, Mr. Prantera.\"\n\n\n Joe winced. It didn't occur to him\n to doubt their word.", "Joe stared at him, and then at the\n other. He couldn't believe he was getting\n through to them. Or, at least,\n that they were to him.\n\n\n Finally he said, \"If I get this, you\n want me to do a job for you.\"\n\n\n \"That is correct.\"\n\n\n Joe said, \"You guys know the kind\n of jobs I do?\"\n\n\n \"That is correct.\"\n\n\n \"Like hell you do. You think I'm\n stupid? I never even seen you before.\"\n Joe Prantera came abruptly to\n his feet. \"I'm gettin' outta here.\"\n\n\n For the second time, Reston-Farrell\n said, \"Where would you go, Mr.\n Prantera?\"", "Joe Prantera had been rocking\n with the mental blows he had been\n assimilating, but this was the final\n haymaker. He was stuck in this\n squaresville of a world.\nJoe Prantera on a job was thorough.\n\n\n Careful, painstaking, competent.\n\n\n He spent the first three days of his\n life in the year 2133 getting the feel\n of things. Brett-James and Reston-Farrell\n had been appointed to work\n with him. Joe didn't meet any of the\n others who belonged to the group\n which had taken the measures to\n bring him from the past. He didn't\n want to meet them. The fewer persons\n involved, the better.", "Joe Prantera looked at the other\n expressionlessly. Maybe the old duck\n was one of these foreign doctors, like.\n\n\n The newcomer said, \"You have undoubtedly\n been through a most harrowing\n experience. If you have any\n untoward symptoms, possibly I could\n be of assistance.\"\n\n\n Joe couldn't figure out how he\n stood. For one thing, there should\n have been some kind of police guard.\n\n\n The other said, \"Perhaps a bit of\n stimulant?\"\n\n\n Joe said flatly, \"I wanta lawyer.\"\n\n\n The newcomer frowned at him. \"A\n lawyer?\"\n\n\n \"I'm not sayin' nothin'. Not until I\n get a mouthpiece.\"\n\n\n The newcomer started off on another\n tack. \"My name is Lawrence\n Reston-Farrell. If I am not mistaken,\n you are Joseph Salviati-Prantera.\"", "\"That is why we brought you here,\n Mr. Prantera. You were ... you\n are, a professional assassin.\"\n\n\n \"Hey, wait a minute, now.\"\n\n\n Reston-Farrell went on, ignoring\n the interruption. \"There is small\n point in denying your calling. Pray\n remember that at the point when we\n ...\ntransported\nyou, you were about\n to dispose of a contemporary named\n Alphonso Annunziata-Rossi. A citizen,\n I might say, whose demise would\n probably have caused small dismay to\n society.\"\n\n\n They had him pegged all right. Joe\n said, \"But why me? Why don't you\n get some heavy from now? Somebody\n knows the ropes these days.\"\n\n\n Brett-James said, \"Mr. Prantera,\n there are no professional assassins in\n this age, nor have there been for over\n a century and a half.\"", "Joe Prantera had never been exposed\n to the concept of time travel.\n He had simply never associated with\n anyone who had ever even remotely\n considered such an idea. Now he said,\n \"You mean, like, I been asleep all\n that time?\"\n\n\n \"Not exactly,\" Brett-James said,\n frowning.\n\n\n Reston-Farrell said, \"Suffice to say,\n you are now one hundred and seventy-three\n years after the last memory you\n have.\"\n\n\n Joe Prantera's mind suddenly reverted\n to those last memories and his\n eyes narrowed dangerously. He felt\n suddenly at bay. He said, \"Maybe\n you guys better let me in on what's\n this all about.\"\n\n\n Reston-Farrell said, \"Mr. Prantera,\n we have brought you from your era\n to perform a task for us.\"", "\"You mean there's no place in the\n whole world where they talk American?\"\n Joe demanded, aghast.\nDr. Reston-Farrell controlled the\n car. Joe Prantera sat in the seat next\n to him and Warren Brett-James sat\n in the back. Joe had, tucked in his\n belt, a .45 caliber automatic, once displayed\n in a museum. It had been\n more easily procured than the ammunition\n to fit it, but that problem too\n had been solved.\n\n\n The others were nervous, obviously\n repelled by the very conception of\n what they had planned.\n\n\n Inwardly, Joe was amused. Now\n that they had got in the clutch, the\n others were on the verge of chickening\n out. He knew it wouldn't have\n taken much for them to cancel the\n project. It wasn't any answer though.\n If they allowed him to call it off today,\n they'd talk themselves into it\n again before the week was through.", "Salviati happened to be Joe's mother's\n maiden name. But it was unlikely\n this character could have known that.\n Joe had been born in Naples and his\n mother had died in childbirth. His\n father hadn't brought him to the\n States until the age of five and by that\n time he had a stepmother.\n\n\n \"I wanta mouthpiece,\" Joe said\n flatly, \"or let me outta here.\"\n\n\n Lawrence Reston-Farrell said, \"You\n are not being constrained. There are\n clothes for you in the closet there.\"\n\n\n Joe gingerly tried swinging his\n feet to the floor and sitting up, while\n the other stood watching him, strangely.\n He came to his feet. With the exception\n of a faint nausea, which\n brought back memories of that extreme\n condition he'd suffered during\n ... during what? He hadn't the\n vaguest idea of what had happened.", "Joe snapped: \"Everything you guys\n say sounds crazy. Let's start all over\n again.\"\n\n\n Brett-James said, \"Let me do it,\n Lawrence.\" He turned his eyes to Joe.\n \"Mr. Prantera, in your own era, did\n you ever consider the future?\"\n\n\n Joe looked at him blankly.\n\n\n \"In your day you were confronted\n with national and international, problems.\n Just as we are today and just as\n nations were a century or a millennium\n ago.\"\n\n\n \"Sure, O.K., so we had problems. I\n know whatcha mean—like wars, and\n depressions and dictators and like\n that.\"\n\n\n \"Yes, like that,\" Brett-James\n nodded.", "Joe gave him a long, chill look\n and then stepped to the window. He\n couldn't figure the other. Unless he\n was a fruitcake. Maybe he was in\n some kind of pressure cooker and\n this was one of the fruitcakes.\n\n\n He looked out, however, not on the\n lawns and walks of a sanitarium but\n upon a wide boulevard of what was\n obviously a populous city.\n\n\n And for a moment again, Joe Prantera\n felt the depths of nausea.\n\n\n This was not his world.\n\n\n He stared for a long, long moment.\n The cars didn't even have wheels, he\n noted dully. He turned slowly and\n faced the older man.\n\n\n Reston-Farrell said compassionately,\n \"Try this, it's excellent cognac.\"\n\n\n Joe Prantera stared at him, said finally,\n flatly, \"What's it all about?\"" ], [ "Joe said, very slowly, \"Chief, in the\n line you're in these days you needa\n heavy around with wunna these. Otherwise,\n Chief, you're gunna wind up\n in some gutter with a lotta holes in\n you. What I'm doin', I'm askin' for a\n job. You need a good man knows how\n to handle wunna these, Chief.\"\n\n\n Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy\n eyed him appraisingly. \"Perhaps,\" he\n said, \"you are right at that. In the near\n future, I may well need an assistant\n knowledgeable in the field of violence.\n Tell me more about yourself.\n You surprise me considerably.\"", "Joe nodded.\n\n\n \"Enter,\" the other said.\n\n\n A door had slid open on the other\n side of the room. Joe walked through\n it and into what was obviously an office.\n Citizen Temple-Tracy sat at a\n desk. There was only one other chair\n in the room. Joe Prantera ignored it\n and remained standing.\n\n\n Citizen Temple-Tracy said, \"What\n can I do for you?\"\n\n\n Joe looked at him for a long, long\n moment. Then he reached down to\n his belt and brought forth the .45\n automatic. He moistened his lips.\n\n\n Joe said softly, \"You know what\n this here is?\"\n\n\n Temple-Tracy stared at the weapon.\n \"It's a handgun, circa, I would\n say, about 1925 Old Calendar. What\n in the world are you doing with it?\"", "He said, \"O.K. See you guys later.\"\n He left them and entered the building.\n\n\n An elevator—he still wasn't used\n to their speed in this era—whooshed\n him to the penthouse duplex occupied\n by Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy.\n\n\n There were two persons in the reception\n room but they left on Joe's\n arrival, without bothering to look at\n him more than glancingly.\n\n\n He spotted the screen immediately\n and went over and stood before it.\n\n\n The screen lit and revealed a\n heavy-set, dour of countenance man\n seated at a desk. He looked into Joe\n Prantera's face, scowled and said\n something.\n\n\n Joe said, \"Joseph Salviati-Prantera\n to interview Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy.\"\n\n\n The other's shaggy eyebrows rose.\n \"Indeed,\" he said. \"In Amer-English?\"", "The doctor nodded at the validity\n of the question. \"Mr. Prantera,\nHomo\n sapiens\nis a unique animal. Physically\n he matures at approximately the age\n of thirteen. However, mental maturity\n and adjustment is often not fully\n realized until thirty or even more.\n Indeed, it is sometimes never\n achieved. Before such maturity is\n reached, our youth are susceptible to\n romantic appeal. Nationalism, chauvinism,\n racism, the supposed glory of\n the military, all seem romantic to the\n immature. They rebel at the orderliness\n of present society. They seek entertainment\n in excitement. Citizen\n Temple-Tracy is aware of this and\n finds his recruits among the young.\"\n\n\n \"O.K., so this guy is dangerous.\n You want him knocked off before he\n screws everything up. But the way\n things are, there's no way of making\n a get. So you'll have to get some other\n patsy. Not me.\"", "\"A gun, a gun. Ya think I'm stupid?\n I come to give it to him and he\n gives it to me instead.\"\n\n\n Dr. Reston-Farrell said, \"Howard\n Temple-Tracy lives alone. He customarily\n receives visitors every afternoon,\n largely potential followers. He\n is attempting to recruit members to\n an organization he is forming. It\n would be quite simple for you to\n enter his establishment and dispose\n of him. I assure you, he does not possess\n weapons.\"\n\n\n Joe was indignant. \"Just like that,\n eh?\" he said sarcastically. \"Then what\n happens? How do I get out of the\n building? Where's my get car parked?\n Where do I hide out? Where do I\n dump the heat?\"\n\n\n \"Dump the heat?\"\n\n\n \"Get rid of the gun. You want I\n should get caught with the gun on\n me? I'd wind up in the gas chamber\n so quick—\"", "The doctor said, \"We explained\n the other day, Mr. Prantera. Citizen\n Howard Temple-Tracy is a dangerous,\n atavistic, evil genius. We are\n afraid for our institutions if his plans\n are allowed to mature.\"\n\n\n \"Well if you got things so good,\n everybody's got it made, like, who'd\n listen to him?\"", "There was nothing else to do. Joe\n dressed, then followed him.\nIn the adjoining room was a circular\n table that would have accommodated\n a dozen persons. Two were\n seated there now, papers, books and\n soiled coffee cups before them. There\n had evidently been a long wait.\n\n\n Reston-Farrell, the one Joe had already\n met, was tall and drawn of face\n and with a chainsmoker's nervousness.\n The other was heavier and more\n at ease. They were both, Joe estimated,\n somewhere in their middle fifties.\n They both looked like docs. He\n wondered, all over again, if this was\n some kind of pressure cooker.\n\n\n But that didn't explain the view\n from the window.\n\n\n Reston-Farrell said, \"May I present\n my colleague, Citizen Warren Brett-James?\n Warren, this is our guest from\n ... from yesteryear, Mr. Joseph Salviati-Prantera.\"", "Besides, already Joe was beginning\n to feel the comfortable, pleasurable,\n warm feeling that came to him on\n occasions like this.\n\n\n He said, \"You're sure this guy talks\n American, eh?\"\n\n\n Warren Brett-James said, \"Quite\n sure. He is a student of history.\"\n\n\n \"And he won't think it's funny I\n talk American to him, eh?\"\n\n\n \"He'll undoubtedly be intrigued.\"\n\n\n They pulled up before a large\n apartment building that overlooked\n the area once known as Wilmington.\n\n\n Joe was coolly efficient now. He\n pulled out the automatic, held it\n down below his knees and threw a\n shell into the barrel. He eased the\n hammer down, thumbed on the\n safety, stuck the weapon back in his\n belt and beneath the jacketlike garment\n he wore.", "Brett-James cleared his throat.\n \"Mr. Prantera, there are no banks.\"\n\n\n \"No banks! You gotta have banks!\"\n\n\n \"And no money to put in them.\n We found it a rather antiquated\n method of distribution well over a\n century ago.\"\n\n\n Joe had given up. Now he merely\n stared.\n\n\n Brett-James said reasonably, \"We\n found we were devoting as much\n time to financial matters in all their\n endless ramifications—including\n bank robberies—as we were to productive\n efforts. So we turned to more\n efficient methods of distribution.\"\nOn the fourth day, Joe said, \"O.K.,\n let's get down to facts. Summa the\n things you guys say don't stick together\n so good. Now, first place,\n where's this guy Temple-Tracy you\n want knocked off?\"", "\"Look, before I can give it to this\n guy I gotta know some place where\n he'll be at some time. Get it? Like Al\n Rossi. My finger, he works in Rossi's\n house, see? He lets me know every\n Wednesday night, eight o'clock, Al\n leaves the house all by hisself. O.K.,\n so I can make plans, like, to give it\n to him.\" Joe Prantera wound it up\n reasonably. \"You gotta have a finger.\"\n\n\n Brett-James said, \"Why not just go\n to Temple-Tracy's apartment and, ah,\n dispose of him?\"\n\n\n \"Jest walk in, eh? You think I'm\n stupid? How do I know how many\n witnesses hangin' around? How do I\n know if the guy's carryin' heat?\"\n\n\n \"Heat?\"", "Reston-Farrell and Brett-James\n were both present. The three of them\n sat in the living room of the latter's\n apartment, sipping a sparkling wine\n which seemed to be the prevailing\n beverage of the day. For Joe's taste\n it was insipid stuff. Happily, rye was\n available to those who wanted it.\n\n\n Reston-Farrell said, \"You mean,\n where does he reside? Why, here in\n this city.\"\n\n\n \"Well, that's handy, eh?\" Joe\n scratched himself thoughtfully. \"You\n got somebody can finger him for me?\"\n\n\n \"Finger him?\"", "Brett-James nodded to him, friendly,\n so far as Joe could see. He said\n gently, \"I think it would be Mr. Joseph\n Prantera, wouldn't it? The maternal\n linage was almost universally\n ignored.\" His voice too gave the impression\n he was speaking a language\n not usually on his tongue.\n\n\n Joe took an empty chair, hardly\n bothering to note its alien qualities.\n His body seemed to\nfit\ninto the piece\n of furniture, as though it had been\n molded to his order.\n\n\n Joe said, \"I think maybe I'll take\n that there drink, Doc.\"\n\n\n Reston-Farrell said, \"Of course,\"\n and then something else Joe didn't\n get. Whatever the something else\n was, a slot opened in the middle of\n the table and a glass, so clear of texture\n as to be all but invisible, was\n elevated. It contained possibly three\n ounces of golden fluid.", "\"The motivation for crime has\n been removed, Mr. Prantera,\" Reston-Farrell\n attempted to explain. \"A\n person who commits a violence\n against another is obviously in need\n of medical care. And, consequently,\n receives it.\"\n\n\n \"You mean, like, if I steal a car or\n something, they just take me to a\n doctor?\" Joe Prantera was unbelieving.\n\n\n \"Why would anybody wish to steal\n a car?\" Reston-Farrell said easily.\n\n\n \"But if I\ngive it\nto somebody?\"\n\n\n \"You will be turned over to a medical\n institution. Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy\n is the last man you will\n ever kill, Mr. Prantera.\"\n\n\n A chillness was in the belly of Joe\n Prantera. He said very slowly, very\n dangerously, \"You guys figure on me\n getting caught, don't you?\"", "Joe Prantera looked at the other\n expressionlessly. Maybe the old duck\n was one of these foreign doctors, like.\n\n\n The newcomer said, \"You have undoubtedly\n been through a most harrowing\n experience. If you have any\n untoward symptoms, possibly I could\n be of assistance.\"\n\n\n Joe couldn't figure out how he\n stood. For one thing, there should\n have been some kind of police guard.\n\n\n The other said, \"Perhaps a bit of\n stimulant?\"\n\n\n Joe said flatly, \"I wanta lawyer.\"\n\n\n The newcomer frowned at him. \"A\n lawyer?\"\n\n\n \"I'm not sayin' nothin'. Not until I\n get a mouthpiece.\"\n\n\n The newcomer started off on another\n tack. \"My name is Lawrence\n Reston-Farrell. If I am not mistaken,\n you are Joseph Salviati-Prantera.\"", "He was in, he thought, a hospital\n and his first reaction was to think,\nThis here California. Everything different.\nThen his second thought was\nSomething went wrong. Big Louis, he\n ain't going to like this.\nHe brought his thinking to the\n present. So far as he could remember,\n he hadn't completely pulled the trigger.\n That at least meant that whatever\n the rap was it wouldn't be too\n tough. With luck, the syndicate would\n get him off with a couple of years at\n Quentin.\n\n\n A door slid open in the wall in a\n way that Joe had never seen a door\n operate before.\nThis here California.\nThe clothes on the newcomer were\n wrong, too. For the first time, Joe\n Prantera began to sense an alienness—a\n something that was awfully\n wrong.\n\n\n The other spoke precisely and\n slowly, the way a highly educated man\n speaks a language which he reads\n and writes fluently but has little occasion\n to practice vocally. \"You have recovered?\"", "Joe glared at him. Then sat down\n again, as abruptly as he'd arisen.\n\"Let's start all over again. I got this\n straight, you brought me, some\n screwy way, all the way ... here.\n O.K., I'll buy that. I seen what it looks\n like out that window—\" The real\n comprehension was seeping through\n to him even as he talked. \"Everybody\n I know, Jessie, Tony, the Kid, Big\n Louis, everybody, they're dead. Even\n Big Louis.\"\n\n\n \"Yes,\" Brett-James said, his voice\n soft. \"They are all dead, Mr. Prantera.\n Their children are all dead, and their\n grandchildren.\"\n\n\n The two men of the future said\n nothing more for long minutes while\n Joe Prantera's mind whirled its confusion.\n\n\n Finally he said, \"What's this bit\n about you wanting me to give it to\n some guy.\"", "The other put down the unaccepted\n glass. \"We were afraid first\n realization would be a shock to you,\"\n he said. \"My colleague is in the adjoining\n room. We will be glad to explain\n to you if you will join us there.\"\n\n\n \"I wanta get out of here,\" Joe said.\n\n\n \"Where would you go?\"\n\n\n The fear of police, of Al Rossi's\n vengeance, of the measures that\n might be taken by Big Louis on his\n failure, were now far away.\n\n\n Reston-Farrell had approached the\n door by which he had entered and it\n reopened for him. He went through\n it without looking back.", "Joe snapped: \"Everything you guys\n say sounds crazy. Let's start all over\n again.\"\n\n\n Brett-James said, \"Let me do it,\n Lawrence.\" He turned his eyes to Joe.\n \"Mr. Prantera, in your own era, did\n you ever consider the future?\"\n\n\n Joe looked at him blankly.\n\n\n \"In your day you were confronted\n with national and international, problems.\n Just as we are today and just as\n nations were a century or a millennium\n ago.\"\n\n\n \"Sure, O.K., so we had problems. I\n know whatcha mean—like wars, and\n depressions and dictators and like\n that.\"\n\n\n \"Yes, like that,\" Brett-James\n nodded.", "Salviati happened to be Joe's mother's\n maiden name. But it was unlikely\n this character could have known that.\n Joe had been born in Naples and his\n mother had died in childbirth. His\n father hadn't brought him to the\n States until the age of five and by that\n time he had a stepmother.\n\n\n \"I wanta mouthpiece,\" Joe said\n flatly, \"or let me outta here.\"\n\n\n Lawrence Reston-Farrell said, \"You\n are not being constrained. There are\n clothes for you in the closet there.\"\n\n\n Joe gingerly tried swinging his\n feet to the floor and sitting up, while\n the other stood watching him, strangely.\n He came to his feet. With the exception\n of a faint nausea, which\n brought back memories of that extreme\n condition he'd suffered during\n ... during what? He hadn't the\n vaguest idea of what had happened.", "It was while he was flying with\n Brett-James on the second day that\n Joe said, \"How about Mexico? Could\n I make the get to Mexico?\"\n\n\n The physicist looked at him questioningly.\n \"Get?\" he said.\n\n\n Joe Prantera said impatiently, \"The\n getaway. After I give it to this Howard\n Temple-Tracy guy, I gotta go on\n the run, don't I?\"\n\n\n \"I see.\" Brett-James cleared his\n throat. \"Mexico is no longer a separate\n nation, Mr. Prantera. All North\n America has been united into one\n unit. Today, there are only eight nations\n in the world.\"\n\n\n \"Where's the nearest?\"\n\n\n \"South America.\"\n\n\n \"That's a helluva long way to go on\n a get.\"" ], [ "\"I am afraid you have no alternative,\"\n Brett-James said gently. \"Without\n us, what will you do? Mr. Prantera,\n you do not even speak the language.\"\n\n\n \"What'd'ya mean? I don't understand\n summa the big words you eggheads\n use, but I get by O.K.\"\n\n\n Brett-James said, \"Amer-English is\n no longer the language spoken by the\n man in the street, Mr. Prantera. Only\n students of such subjects any longer\n speak such tongues as Amer-English,\n French, Russian or the many others\n that once confused the race with\n their limitations as a means of communication.\"", "Joe snapped: \"Everything you guys\n say sounds crazy. Let's start all over\n again.\"\n\n\n Brett-James said, \"Let me do it,\n Lawrence.\" He turned his eyes to Joe.\n \"Mr. Prantera, in your own era, did\n you ever consider the future?\"\n\n\n Joe looked at him blankly.\n\n\n \"In your day you were confronted\n with national and international, problems.\n Just as we are today and just as\n nations were a century or a millennium\n ago.\"\n\n\n \"Sure, O.K., so we had problems. I\n know whatcha mean—like wars, and\n depressions and dictators and like\n that.\"\n\n\n \"Yes, like that,\" Brett-James\n nodded.", "The heavy-set man paused a moment.\n \"Yes, like that,\" he repeated.\n \"That we confront you now indicates\n that the problems of your day were\n solved. Hadn't they been, the world\n most surely would have destroyed itself.\n Wars? Our pedagogues are hard\n put to convince their students that\n such ever existed. More than a century\n and a half ago our society eliminated\n the reasons for international\n conflict. For that matter,\" he added\n musingly, \"we eliminated most international\n boundaries. Depressions?\n Shortly after your own period, man\n awoke to the fact that he had achieved\n to the point where it was possible to\n produce an abundance for all with a", "Joe glared at him. Then sat down\n again, as abruptly as he'd arisen.\n\"Let's start all over again. I got this\n straight, you brought me, some\n screwy way, all the way ... here.\n O.K., I'll buy that. I seen what it looks\n like out that window—\" The real\n comprehension was seeping through\n to him even as he talked. \"Everybody\n I know, Jessie, Tony, the Kid, Big\n Louis, everybody, they're dead. Even\n Big Louis.\"\n\n\n \"Yes,\" Brett-James said, his voice\n soft. \"They are all dead, Mr. Prantera.\n Their children are all dead, and their\n grandchildren.\"\n\n\n The two men of the future said\n nothing more for long minutes while\n Joe Prantera's mind whirled its confusion.\n\n\n Finally he said, \"What's this bit\n about you wanting me to give it to\n some guy.\"", "Joe Prantera had been rocking\n with the mental blows he had been\n assimilating, but this was the final\n haymaker. He was stuck in this\n squaresville of a world.\nJoe Prantera on a job was thorough.\n\n\n Careful, painstaking, competent.\n\n\n He spent the first three days of his\n life in the year 2133 getting the feel\n of things. Brett-James and Reston-Farrell\n had been appointed to work\n with him. Joe didn't meet any of the\n others who belonged to the group\n which had taken the measures to\n bring him from the past. He didn't\n want to meet them. The fewer persons\n involved, the better.", "Brett-James nodded to him, friendly,\n so far as Joe could see. He said\n gently, \"I think it would be Mr. Joseph\n Prantera, wouldn't it? The maternal\n linage was almost universally\n ignored.\" His voice too gave the impression\n he was speaking a language\n not usually on his tongue.\n\n\n Joe took an empty chair, hardly\n bothering to note its alien qualities.\n His body seemed to\nfit\ninto the piece\n of furniture, as though it had been\n molded to his order.\n\n\n Joe said, \"I think maybe I'll take\n that there drink, Doc.\"\n\n\n Reston-Farrell said, \"Of course,\"\n and then something else Joe didn't\n get. Whatever the something else\n was, a slot opened in the middle of\n the table and a glass, so clear of texture\n as to be all but invisible, was\n elevated. It contained possibly three\n ounces of golden fluid.", "\"See here, Mr. Prantera,\" Brett-James\n said softly. \"We no longer have\n capital punishment, you must realize.\"\n\n\n \"O.K. I still don't wanta get caught.\n What\nis\nthe rap these days, huh?\"\n Joe scowled. \"You said they didn't\n have no jails any more.\"\n\n\n \"This is difficult for you to understand,\n I imagine,\" Reston-Farrell told\n him, \"but, you see, we no longer punish\n people in this era.\"\n\n\n That took a long, unbelieving moment\n to sink in. \"You mean, like, no\n matter what they do? That's crazy.\n Everybody'd be running around giving\n it to everybody else.\"", "He said, \"O.K. See you guys later.\"\n He left them and entered the building.\n\n\n An elevator—he still wasn't used\n to their speed in this era—whooshed\n him to the penthouse duplex occupied\n by Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy.\n\n\n There were two persons in the reception\n room but they left on Joe's\n arrival, without bothering to look at\n him more than glancingly.\n\n\n He spotted the screen immediately\n and went over and stood before it.\n\n\n The screen lit and revealed a\n heavy-set, dour of countenance man\n seated at a desk. He looked into Joe\n Prantera's face, scowled and said\n something.\n\n\n Joe said, \"Joseph Salviati-Prantera\n to interview Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy.\"\n\n\n The other's shaggy eyebrows rose.\n \"Indeed,\" he said. \"In Amer-English?\"", "\"2133,\" Reston-Farrell said. \"2133\n A.D. they would say.\"\n\n\n Joe Prantera looked from one of\n them to the other, scowling. \"What\n are you guys talking about?\"\n\n\n Warren Brett-James said softly,\n \"Mr. Prantera, you are no longer in\n the year 1960, you are now in the\n year 2133.\"\n\n\n He said, uncomprehendingly, \"You\n mean I been, like, unconscious for—\"\n He let the sentence fall away as he\n realized the impossibility.\n\n\n Brett-James said gently, \"Hardly\n for one hundred and seventy years,\n Mr. Prantera.\"\n\n\n Reston-Farrell said, \"I am afraid we\n are confusing you. Briefly, we have\ntransported\nyou, I suppose one might\n say, from your own era to ours.\"", "It was while he was flying with\n Brett-James on the second day that\n Joe said, \"How about Mexico? Could\n I make the get to Mexico?\"\n\n\n The physicist looked at him questioningly.\n \"Get?\" he said.\n\n\n Joe Prantera said impatiently, \"The\n getaway. After I give it to this Howard\n Temple-Tracy guy, I gotta go on\n the run, don't I?\"\n\n\n \"I see.\" Brett-James cleared his\n throat. \"Mexico is no longer a separate\n nation, Mr. Prantera. All North\n America has been united into one\n unit. Today, there are only eight nations\n in the world.\"\n\n\n \"Where's the nearest?\"\n\n\n \"South America.\"\n\n\n \"That's a helluva long way to go on\n a get.\"", "Salviati happened to be Joe's mother's\n maiden name. But it was unlikely\n this character could have known that.\n Joe had been born in Naples and his\n mother had died in childbirth. His\n father hadn't brought him to the\n States until the age of five and by that\n time he had a stepmother.\n\n\n \"I wanta mouthpiece,\" Joe said\n flatly, \"or let me outta here.\"\n\n\n Lawrence Reston-Farrell said, \"You\n are not being constrained. There are\n clothes for you in the closet there.\"\n\n\n Joe gingerly tried swinging his\n feet to the floor and sitting up, while\n the other stood watching him, strangely.\n He came to his feet. With the exception\n of a faint nausea, which\n brought back memories of that extreme\n condition he'd suffered during\n ... during what? He hadn't the\n vaguest idea of what had happened.", "He was in, he thought, a hospital\n and his first reaction was to think,\nThis here California. Everything different.\nThen his second thought was\nSomething went wrong. Big Louis, he\n ain't going to like this.\nHe brought his thinking to the\n present. So far as he could remember,\n he hadn't completely pulled the trigger.\n That at least meant that whatever\n the rap was it wouldn't be too\n tough. With luck, the syndicate would\n get him off with a couple of years at\n Quentin.\n\n\n A door slid open in the wall in a\n way that Joe had never seen a door\n operate before.\nThis here California.\nThe clothes on the newcomer were\n wrong, too. For the first time, Joe\n Prantera began to sense an alienness—a\n something that was awfully\n wrong.\n\n\n The other spoke precisely and\n slowly, the way a highly educated man\n speaks a language which he reads\n and writes fluently but has little occasion\n to practice vocally. \"You have recovered?\"", "There was nothing else to do. Joe\n dressed, then followed him.\nIn the adjoining room was a circular\n table that would have accommodated\n a dozen persons. Two were\n seated there now, papers, books and\n soiled coffee cups before them. There\n had evidently been a long wait.\n\n\n Reston-Farrell, the one Joe had already\n met, was tall and drawn of face\n and with a chainsmoker's nervousness.\n The other was heavier and more\n at ease. They were both, Joe estimated,\n somewhere in their middle fifties.\n They both looked like docs. He\n wondered, all over again, if this was\n some kind of pressure cooker.\n\n\n But that didn't explain the view\n from the window.\n\n\n Reston-Farrell said, \"May I present\n my colleague, Citizen Warren Brett-James?\n Warren, this is our guest from\n ... from yesteryear, Mr. Joseph Salviati-Prantera.\"", "\"The motivation for crime has\n been removed, Mr. Prantera,\" Reston-Farrell\n attempted to explain. \"A\n person who commits a violence\n against another is obviously in need\n of medical care. And, consequently,\n receives it.\"\n\n\n \"You mean, like, if I steal a car or\n something, they just take me to a\n doctor?\" Joe Prantera was unbelieving.\n\n\n \"Why would anybody wish to steal\n a car?\" Reston-Farrell said easily.\n\n\n \"But if I\ngive it\nto somebody?\"\n\n\n \"You will be turned over to a medical\n institution. Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy\n is the last man you will\n ever kill, Mr. Prantera.\"\n\n\n A chillness was in the belly of Joe\n Prantera. He said very slowly, very\n dangerously, \"You guys figure on me\n getting caught, don't you?\"", "\"O.K., O.K.,\" Joe Prantera growled.\n \"So everybody's got it made. What I\n wanta know is what's all this about\n me giving it ta somebody? If everything's\n so great, how come you want\n me to knock this guy off?\"\n\n\n Reston-Farrell bent forward and\n thumped his right index finger twice\n on the table. \"The bacterium of hate—a\n new strain—has found the human\n race unprotected from its disease.\n We had thought our vaccines\n immunized us.\"\n\n\n \"What's that suppose to mean?\"\n\n\n Brett-James took up the ball again.\n \"Mr. Prantera, have you ever heard of\n Ghengis Khan, of Tamerlane, Alexander,\n Caesar?\"\n\n\n Joe Prantera scowled at him emptily.\n\n\n \"Or, more likely, of Napoleon, Hitler,\n Stalin?\"", "Joe didn't allow himself to think\n of its means of delivery. He took up\n the drink and bolted it. He put the\n glass down and said carefully,\n \"What's it all about, huh?\"\n\n\n Warren Brett-James said soothingly,\n \"Prepare yourself for somewhat\n of a shock, Mr. Prantera. You are no\n longer in Los Angeles—\"\n\n\n \"Ya think I'm stupid? I can see\n that.\"\n\n\n \"I was about to say, Los Angeles of\n 1960. Mr. Prantera, we welcome you\n to Nuevo Los Angeles.\"\n\n\n \"Ta where?\"\n\n\n \"To Nuevo Los Angeles and to\n the year—\" Brett-James looked at his\n companion. \"What is the date, Old\n Calendar?\"", "\"You mean there's no place in the\n whole world where they talk American?\"\n Joe demanded, aghast.\nDr. Reston-Farrell controlled the\n car. Joe Prantera sat in the seat next\n to him and Warren Brett-James sat\n in the back. Joe had, tucked in his\n belt, a .45 caliber automatic, once displayed\n in a museum. It had been\n more easily procured than the ammunition\n to fit it, but that problem too\n had been solved.\n\n\n The others were nervous, obviously\n repelled by the very conception of\n what they had planned.\n\n\n Inwardly, Joe was amused. Now\n that they had got in the clutch, the\n others were on the verge of chickening\n out. He knew it wouldn't have\n taken much for them to cancel the\n project. It wasn't any answer though.\n If they allowed him to call it off today,\n they'd talk themselves into it\n again before the week was through.", "minimum of toil. Overnight, for all\n practical purposes, the whole world\n was industrialized, automated. The\n second industrial revolution was accompanied\n by revolutionary changes\n in almost every field, certainly in every\n science. Dictators? Your ancestors\n found, Mr. Prantera, that it is\n difficult for a man to be free so long\n as others are still enslaved. Today the\n democratic ethic has reached a pinnacle\n never dreamed of in your own\n era.\"", "Joe Prantera had never been exposed\n to the concept of time travel.\n He had simply never associated with\n anyone who had ever even remotely\n considered such an idea. Now he said,\n \"You mean, like, I been asleep all\n that time?\"\n\n\n \"Not exactly,\" Brett-James said,\n frowning.\n\n\n Reston-Farrell said, \"Suffice to say,\n you are now one hundred and seventy-three\n years after the last memory you\n have.\"\n\n\n Joe Prantera's mind suddenly reverted\n to those last memories and his\n eyes narrowed dangerously. He felt\n suddenly at bay. He said, \"Maybe\n you guys better let me in on what's\n this all about.\"\n\n\n Reston-Farrell said, \"Mr. Prantera,\n we have brought you from your era\n to perform a task for us.\"", "Brett-James cleared his throat.\n \"Mr. Prantera, there are no banks.\"\n\n\n \"No banks! You gotta have banks!\"\n\n\n \"And no money to put in them.\n We found it a rather antiquated\n method of distribution well over a\n century ago.\"\n\n\n Joe had given up. Now he merely\n stared.\n\n\n Brett-James said reasonably, \"We\n found we were devoting as much\n time to financial matters in all their\n endless ramifications—including\n bank robberies—as we were to productive\n efforts. So we turned to more\n efficient methods of distribution.\"\nOn the fourth day, Joe said, \"O.K.,\n let's get down to facts. Summa the\n things you guys say don't stick together\n so good. Now, first place,\n where's this guy Temple-Tracy you\n want knocked off?\"" ], [ "Joe nodded.\n\n\n \"Enter,\" the other said.\n\n\n A door had slid open on the other\n side of the room. Joe walked through\n it and into what was obviously an office.\n Citizen Temple-Tracy sat at a\n desk. There was only one other chair\n in the room. Joe Prantera ignored it\n and remained standing.\n\n\n Citizen Temple-Tracy said, \"What\n can I do for you?\"\n\n\n Joe looked at him for a long, long\n moment. Then he reached down to\n his belt and brought forth the .45\n automatic. He moistened his lips.\n\n\n Joe said softly, \"You know what\n this here is?\"\n\n\n Temple-Tracy stared at the weapon.\n \"It's a handgun, circa, I would\n say, about 1925 Old Calendar. What\n in the world are you doing with it?\"", "\"A gun, a gun. Ya think I'm stupid?\n I come to give it to him and he\n gives it to me instead.\"\n\n\n Dr. Reston-Farrell said, \"Howard\n Temple-Tracy lives alone. He customarily\n receives visitors every afternoon,\n largely potential followers. He\n is attempting to recruit members to\n an organization he is forming. It\n would be quite simple for you to\n enter his establishment and dispose\n of him. I assure you, he does not possess\n weapons.\"\n\n\n Joe was indignant. \"Just like that,\n eh?\" he said sarcastically. \"Then what\n happens? How do I get out of the\n building? Where's my get car parked?\n Where do I hide out? Where do I\n dump the heat?\"\n\n\n \"Dump the heat?\"\n\n\n \"Get rid of the gun. You want I\n should get caught with the gun on\n me? I'd wind up in the gas chamber\n so quick—\"", "Joe said, very slowly, \"Chief, in the\n line you're in these days you needa\n heavy around with wunna these. Otherwise,\n Chief, you're gunna wind up\n in some gutter with a lotta holes in\n you. What I'm doin', I'm askin' for a\n job. You need a good man knows how\n to handle wunna these, Chief.\"\n\n\n Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy\n eyed him appraisingly. \"Perhaps,\" he\n said, \"you are right at that. In the near\n future, I may well need an assistant\n knowledgeable in the field of violence.\n Tell me more about yourself.\n You surprise me considerably.\"", "Brett-James cleared his throat.\n \"Mr. Prantera, there are no banks.\"\n\n\n \"No banks! You gotta have banks!\"\n\n\n \"And no money to put in them.\n We found it a rather antiquated\n method of distribution well over a\n century ago.\"\n\n\n Joe had given up. Now he merely\n stared.\n\n\n Brett-James said reasonably, \"We\n found we were devoting as much\n time to financial matters in all their\n endless ramifications—including\n bank robberies—as we were to productive\n efforts. So we turned to more\n efficient methods of distribution.\"\nOn the fourth day, Joe said, \"O.K.,\n let's get down to facts. Summa the\n things you guys say don't stick together\n so good. Now, first place,\n where's this guy Temple-Tracy you\n want knocked off?\"", "He said, \"O.K. See you guys later.\"\n He left them and entered the building.\n\n\n An elevator—he still wasn't used\n to their speed in this era—whooshed\n him to the penthouse duplex occupied\n by Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy.\n\n\n There were two persons in the reception\n room but they left on Joe's\n arrival, without bothering to look at\n him more than glancingly.\n\n\n He spotted the screen immediately\n and went over and stood before it.\n\n\n The screen lit and revealed a\n heavy-set, dour of countenance man\n seated at a desk. He looked into Joe\n Prantera's face, scowled and said\n something.\n\n\n Joe said, \"Joseph Salviati-Prantera\n to interview Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy.\"\n\n\n The other's shaggy eyebrows rose.\n \"Indeed,\" he said. \"In Amer-English?\"", "The doctor nodded at the validity\n of the question. \"Mr. Prantera,\nHomo\n sapiens\nis a unique animal. Physically\n he matures at approximately the age\n of thirteen. However, mental maturity\n and adjustment is often not fully\n realized until thirty or even more.\n Indeed, it is sometimes never\n achieved. Before such maturity is\n reached, our youth are susceptible to\n romantic appeal. Nationalism, chauvinism,\n racism, the supposed glory of\n the military, all seem romantic to the\n immature. They rebel at the orderliness\n of present society. They seek entertainment\n in excitement. Citizen\n Temple-Tracy is aware of this and\n finds his recruits among the young.\"\n\n\n \"O.K., so this guy is dangerous.\n You want him knocked off before he\n screws everything up. But the way\n things are, there's no way of making\n a get. So you'll have to get some other\n patsy. Not me.\"", "\"Look, before I can give it to this\n guy I gotta know some place where\n he'll be at some time. Get it? Like Al\n Rossi. My finger, he works in Rossi's\n house, see? He lets me know every\n Wednesday night, eight o'clock, Al\n leaves the house all by hisself. O.K.,\n so I can make plans, like, to give it\n to him.\" Joe Prantera wound it up\n reasonably. \"You gotta have a finger.\"\n\n\n Brett-James said, \"Why not just go\n to Temple-Tracy's apartment and, ah,\n dispose of him?\"\n\n\n \"Jest walk in, eh? You think I'm\n stupid? How do I know how many\n witnesses hangin' around? How do I\n know if the guy's carryin' heat?\"\n\n\n \"Heat?\"", "The doctor said, \"We explained\n the other day, Mr. Prantera. Citizen\n Howard Temple-Tracy is a dangerous,\n atavistic, evil genius. We are\n afraid for our institutions if his plans\n are allowed to mature.\"\n\n\n \"Well if you got things so good,\n everybody's got it made, like, who'd\n listen to him?\"", "Reston-Farrell and Brett-James\n were both present. The three of them\n sat in the living room of the latter's\n apartment, sipping a sparkling wine\n which seemed to be the prevailing\n beverage of the day. For Joe's taste\n it was insipid stuff. Happily, rye was\n available to those who wanted it.\n\n\n Reston-Farrell said, \"You mean,\n where does he reside? Why, here in\n this city.\"\n\n\n \"Well, that's handy, eh?\" Joe\n scratched himself thoughtfully. \"You\n got somebody can finger him for me?\"\n\n\n \"Finger him?\"", "It was while he was flying with\n Brett-James on the second day that\n Joe said, \"How about Mexico? Could\n I make the get to Mexico?\"\n\n\n The physicist looked at him questioningly.\n \"Get?\" he said.\n\n\n Joe Prantera said impatiently, \"The\n getaway. After I give it to this Howard\n Temple-Tracy guy, I gotta go on\n the run, don't I?\"\n\n\n \"I see.\" Brett-James cleared his\n throat. \"Mexico is no longer a separate\n nation, Mr. Prantera. All North\n America has been united into one\n unit. Today, there are only eight nations\n in the world.\"\n\n\n \"Where's the nearest?\"\n\n\n \"South America.\"\n\n\n \"That's a helluva long way to go on\n a get.\"", "\"The motivation for crime has\n been removed, Mr. Prantera,\" Reston-Farrell\n attempted to explain. \"A\n person who commits a violence\n against another is obviously in need\n of medical care. And, consequently,\n receives it.\"\n\n\n \"You mean, like, if I steal a car or\n something, they just take me to a\n doctor?\" Joe Prantera was unbelieving.\n\n\n \"Why would anybody wish to steal\n a car?\" Reston-Farrell said easily.\n\n\n \"But if I\ngive it\nto somebody?\"\n\n\n \"You will be turned over to a medical\n institution. Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy\n is the last man you will\n ever kill, Mr. Prantera.\"\n\n\n A chillness was in the belly of Joe\n Prantera. He said very slowly, very\n dangerously, \"You guys figure on me\n getting caught, don't you?\"", "\"You mean there's no place in the\n whole world where they talk American?\"\n Joe demanded, aghast.\nDr. Reston-Farrell controlled the\n car. Joe Prantera sat in the seat next\n to him and Warren Brett-James sat\n in the back. Joe had, tucked in his\n belt, a .45 caliber automatic, once displayed\n in a museum. It had been\n more easily procured than the ammunition\n to fit it, but that problem too\n had been solved.\n\n\n The others were nervous, obviously\n repelled by the very conception of\n what they had planned.\n\n\n Inwardly, Joe was amused. Now\n that they had got in the clutch, the\n others were on the verge of chickening\n out. He knew it wouldn't have\n taken much for them to cancel the\n project. It wasn't any answer though.\n If they allowed him to call it off today,\n they'd talk themselves into it\n again before the week was through.", "Besides, already Joe was beginning\n to feel the comfortable, pleasurable,\n warm feeling that came to him on\n occasions like this.\n\n\n He said, \"You're sure this guy talks\n American, eh?\"\n\n\n Warren Brett-James said, \"Quite\n sure. He is a student of history.\"\n\n\n \"And he won't think it's funny I\n talk American to him, eh?\"\n\n\n \"He'll undoubtedly be intrigued.\"\n\n\n They pulled up before a large\n apartment building that overlooked\n the area once known as Wilmington.\n\n\n Joe was coolly efficient now. He\n pulled out the automatic, held it\n down below his knees and threw a\n shell into the barrel. He eased the\n hammer down, thumbed on the\n safety, stuck the weapon back in his\n belt and beneath the jacketlike garment\n he wore.", "There was nothing else to do. Joe\n dressed, then followed him.\nIn the adjoining room was a circular\n table that would have accommodated\n a dozen persons. Two were\n seated there now, papers, books and\n soiled coffee cups before them. There\n had evidently been a long wait.\n\n\n Reston-Farrell, the one Joe had already\n met, was tall and drawn of face\n and with a chainsmoker's nervousness.\n The other was heavier and more\n at ease. They were both, Joe estimated,\n somewhere in their middle fifties.\n They both looked like docs. He\n wondered, all over again, if this was\n some kind of pressure cooker.\n\n\n But that didn't explain the view\n from the window.\n\n\n Reston-Farrell said, \"May I present\n my colleague, Citizen Warren Brett-James?\n Warren, this is our guest from\n ... from yesteryear, Mr. Joseph Salviati-Prantera.\"", "He was dressed in a hospital-type\n nightgown. He looked down at it and\n snorted and made his way over to the\n closet. It opened on his approach, the\n door sliding back into the wall in\n much the same manner as the room's\n door had opened for Reston-Farrell.\n\n\n Joe Prantera scowled and said,\n \"These ain't my clothes.\"\n\n\n \"No, I am afraid not.\"\n\n\n \"You think I'd be seen dead wearing\n this stuff? What is this, some religious\n crackpot hospital?\"\n\n\n Reston-Farrell said, \"I am afraid,\n Mr. Salviati-Prantera, that these are\n the only garments available. I suggest\n you look out the window there.\"", "He was in, he thought, a hospital\n and his first reaction was to think,\nThis here California. Everything different.\nThen his second thought was\nSomething went wrong. Big Louis, he\n ain't going to like this.\nHe brought his thinking to the\n present. So far as he could remember,\n he hadn't completely pulled the trigger.\n That at least meant that whatever\n the rap was it wouldn't be too\n tough. With luck, the syndicate would\n get him off with a couple of years at\n Quentin.\n\n\n A door slid open in the wall in a\n way that Joe had never seen a door\n operate before.\nThis here California.\nThe clothes on the newcomer were\n wrong, too. For the first time, Joe\n Prantera began to sense an alienness—a\n something that was awfully\n wrong.\n\n\n The other spoke precisely and\n slowly, the way a highly educated man\n speaks a language which he reads\n and writes fluently but has little occasion\n to practice vocally. \"You have recovered?\"", "He stayed in the apartment of\n Reston-Farrell. Joe had been right,\n Reston-Farrell was a medical doctor.\n Brett-James evidently had something\n to do with the process that had enabled\n them to bring Joe from the\n past. Joe didn't know how they'd\n done it, and he didn't care. Joe was a\n realist. He was here. The thing was\n to adapt.\n\n\n There didn't seem to be any hurry.\n Once the deal was made, they left it\n up to him to make the decisions.\n\n\n They drove him around the town,\n when he wished to check the traffic\n arteries. They flew him about the\n whole vicinity. From the air, Southern\n California looked much the same\n as it had in his own time. Oceans,\n mountains, and to a lesser extent, deserts,\n are fairly permanent even\n against man's corroding efforts.", "Joe didn't allow himself to think\n of its means of delivery. He took up\n the drink and bolted it. He put the\n glass down and said carefully,\n \"What's it all about, huh?\"\n\n\n Warren Brett-James said soothingly,\n \"Prepare yourself for somewhat\n of a shock, Mr. Prantera. You are no\n longer in Los Angeles—\"\n\n\n \"Ya think I'm stupid? I can see\n that.\"\n\n\n \"I was about to say, Los Angeles of\n 1960. Mr. Prantera, we welcome you\n to Nuevo Los Angeles.\"\n\n\n \"Ta where?\"\n\n\n \"To Nuevo Los Angeles and to\n the year—\" Brett-James looked at his\n companion. \"What is the date, Old\n Calendar?\"", "Joe gave him a long, chill look\n and then stepped to the window. He\n couldn't figure the other. Unless he\n was a fruitcake. Maybe he was in\n some kind of pressure cooker and\n this was one of the fruitcakes.\n\n\n He looked out, however, not on the\n lawns and walks of a sanitarium but\n upon a wide boulevard of what was\n obviously a populous city.\n\n\n And for a moment again, Joe Prantera\n felt the depths of nausea.\n\n\n This was not his world.\n\n\n He stared for a long, long moment.\n The cars didn't even have wheels, he\n noted dully. He turned slowly and\n faced the older man.\n\n\n Reston-Farrell said compassionately,\n \"Try this, it's excellent cognac.\"\n\n\n Joe Prantera stared at him, said finally,\n flatly, \"What's it all about?\"", "Salviati happened to be Joe's mother's\n maiden name. But it was unlikely\n this character could have known that.\n Joe had been born in Naples and his\n mother had died in childbirth. His\n father hadn't brought him to the\n States until the age of five and by that\n time he had a stepmother.\n\n\n \"I wanta mouthpiece,\" Joe said\n flatly, \"or let me outta here.\"\n\n\n Lawrence Reston-Farrell said, \"You\n are not being constrained. There are\n clothes for you in the closet there.\"\n\n\n Joe gingerly tried swinging his\n feet to the floor and sitting up, while\n the other stood watching him, strangely.\n He came to his feet. With the exception\n of a faint nausea, which\n brought back memories of that extreme\n condition he'd suffered during\n ... during what? He hadn't the\n vaguest idea of what had happened." ], [ "\"The motivation for crime has\n been removed, Mr. Prantera,\" Reston-Farrell\n attempted to explain. \"A\n person who commits a violence\n against another is obviously in need\n of medical care. And, consequently,\n receives it.\"\n\n\n \"You mean, like, if I steal a car or\n something, they just take me to a\n doctor?\" Joe Prantera was unbelieving.\n\n\n \"Why would anybody wish to steal\n a car?\" Reston-Farrell said easily.\n\n\n \"But if I\ngive it\nto somebody?\"\n\n\n \"You will be turned over to a medical\n institution. Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy\n is the last man you will\n ever kill, Mr. Prantera.\"\n\n\n A chillness was in the belly of Joe\n Prantera. He said very slowly, very\n dangerously, \"You guys figure on me\n getting caught, don't you?\"", "\"See here, Mr. Prantera,\" Brett-James\n said softly. \"We no longer have\n capital punishment, you must realize.\"\n\n\n \"O.K. I still don't wanta get caught.\n What\nis\nthe rap these days, huh?\"\n Joe scowled. \"You said they didn't\n have no jails any more.\"\n\n\n \"This is difficult for you to understand,\n I imagine,\" Reston-Farrell told\n him, \"but, you see, we no longer punish\n people in this era.\"\n\n\n That took a long, unbelieving moment\n to sink in. \"You mean, like, no\n matter what they do? That's crazy.\n Everybody'd be running around giving\n it to everybody else.\"", "He was in, he thought, a hospital\n and his first reaction was to think,\nThis here California. Everything different.\nThen his second thought was\nSomething went wrong. Big Louis, he\n ain't going to like this.\nHe brought his thinking to the\n present. So far as he could remember,\n he hadn't completely pulled the trigger.\n That at least meant that whatever\n the rap was it wouldn't be too\n tough. With luck, the syndicate would\n get him off with a couple of years at\n Quentin.\n\n\n A door slid open in the wall in a\n way that Joe had never seen a door\n operate before.\nThis here California.\nThe clothes on the newcomer were\n wrong, too. For the first time, Joe\n Prantera began to sense an alienness—a\n something that was awfully\n wrong.\n\n\n The other spoke precisely and\n slowly, the way a highly educated man\n speaks a language which he reads\n and writes fluently but has little occasion\n to practice vocally. \"You have recovered?\"", "\"We hadn't thought of the matter\n being handled in that manner.\"\n\n\n Joe eyed him in scorn. \"Oh, you\n didn't, huh? What happens after I\n give it to this guy? I just sit around\n and wait for the cops to put the arm\n on me?\"\n\n\n Brett-James grimaced in amusement.\n \"Mr. Prantera, this will probably\n be difficult for you to comprehend,\n but there are no police in this\n era.\"\n\n\n Joe gaped at him. \"No police!\n What happens if you gotta throw\n some guy in stir?\"\n\n\n \"If I understand your idiom correctly,\n you mean prison. There are\n no prisons in this era, Mr. Prantera.\"\n\n\n Joe stared. \"No cops, no jails. What\n stops anybody? What stops anybody\n from just going into some bank, like,\n and collecting up all the bread?\"", "\"A gun, a gun. Ya think I'm stupid?\n I come to give it to him and he\n gives it to me instead.\"\n\n\n Dr. Reston-Farrell said, \"Howard\n Temple-Tracy lives alone. He customarily\n receives visitors every afternoon,\n largely potential followers. He\n is attempting to recruit members to\n an organization he is forming. It\n would be quite simple for you to\n enter his establishment and dispose\n of him. I assure you, he does not possess\n weapons.\"\n\n\n Joe was indignant. \"Just like that,\n eh?\" he said sarcastically. \"Then what\n happens? How do I get out of the\n building? Where's my get car parked?\n Where do I hide out? Where do I\n dump the heat?\"\n\n\n \"Dump the heat?\"\n\n\n \"Get rid of the gun. You want I\n should get caught with the gun on\n me? I'd wind up in the gas chamber\n so quick—\"", "Joe Prantera had been rocking\n with the mental blows he had been\n assimilating, but this was the final\n haymaker. He was stuck in this\n squaresville of a world.\nJoe Prantera on a job was thorough.\n\n\n Careful, painstaking, competent.\n\n\n He spent the first three days of his\n life in the year 2133 getting the feel\n of things. Brett-James and Reston-Farrell\n had been appointed to work\n with him. Joe didn't meet any of the\n others who belonged to the group\n which had taken the measures to\n bring him from the past. He didn't\n want to meet them. The fewer persons\n involved, the better.", "\"That is why we brought you here,\n Mr. Prantera. You were ... you\n are, a professional assassin.\"\n\n\n \"Hey, wait a minute, now.\"\n\n\n Reston-Farrell went on, ignoring\n the interruption. \"There is small\n point in denying your calling. Pray\n remember that at the point when we\n ...\ntransported\nyou, you were about\n to dispose of a contemporary named\n Alphonso Annunziata-Rossi. A citizen,\n I might say, whose demise would\n probably have caused small dismay to\n society.\"\n\n\n They had him pegged all right. Joe\n said, \"But why me? Why don't you\n get some heavy from now? Somebody\n knows the ropes these days.\"\n\n\n Brett-James said, \"Mr. Prantera,\n there are no professional assassins in\n this age, nor have there been for over\n a century and a half.\"", "Reston-Farrell said, \"As to reward,\n Mr. Prantera, we have already told\n you there is ultra-abundance in this\n age. Once this task has been performed,\n we will sponsor your entry\n into present day society. Competent\n psychiatric therapy will soon remove\n your present—\"\n\n\n \"Waita minute, now. You figure on\n gettin' me candled by some head\n shrinker, eh? No thanks, Buster. I'm\n going back to my own—\"\n\n\n Brett-James was shaking his head\n again. \"I am afraid there is no return,\n Mr. Prantera. Time travel works but\n in one direction,\nwith\nthe flow of the\n time stream. There can be no return\n to your own era.\"", "Brett-James cleared his throat.\n \"Mr. Prantera, there are no banks.\"\n\n\n \"No banks! You gotta have banks!\"\n\n\n \"And no money to put in them.\n We found it a rather antiquated\n method of distribution well over a\n century ago.\"\n\n\n Joe had given up. Now he merely\n stared.\n\n\n Brett-James said reasonably, \"We\n found we were devoting as much\n time to financial matters in all their\n endless ramifications—including\n bank robberies—as we were to productive\n efforts. So we turned to more\n efficient methods of distribution.\"\nOn the fourth day, Joe said, \"O.K.,\n let's get down to facts. Summa the\n things you guys say don't stick together\n so good. Now, first place,\n where's this guy Temple-Tracy you\n want knocked off?\"", "Joe glared at him. Then sat down\n again, as abruptly as he'd arisen.\n\"Let's start all over again. I got this\n straight, you brought me, some\n screwy way, all the way ... here.\n O.K., I'll buy that. I seen what it looks\n like out that window—\" The real\n comprehension was seeping through\n to him even as he talked. \"Everybody\n I know, Jessie, Tony, the Kid, Big\n Louis, everybody, they're dead. Even\n Big Louis.\"\n\n\n \"Yes,\" Brett-James said, his voice\n soft. \"They are all dead, Mr. Prantera.\n Their children are all dead, and their\n grandchildren.\"\n\n\n The two men of the future said\n nothing more for long minutes while\n Joe Prantera's mind whirled its confusion.\n\n\n Finally he said, \"What's this bit\n about you wanting me to give it to\n some guy.\"", "The doctor nodded at the validity\n of the question. \"Mr. Prantera,\nHomo\n sapiens\nis a unique animal. Physically\n he matures at approximately the age\n of thirteen. However, mental maturity\n and adjustment is often not fully\n realized until thirty or even more.\n Indeed, it is sometimes never\n achieved. Before such maturity is\n reached, our youth are susceptible to\n romantic appeal. Nationalism, chauvinism,\n racism, the supposed glory of\n the military, all seem romantic to the\n immature. They rebel at the orderliness\n of present society. They seek entertainment\n in excitement. Citizen\n Temple-Tracy is aware of this and\n finds his recruits among the young.\"\n\n\n \"O.K., so this guy is dangerous.\n You want him knocked off before he\n screws everything up. But the way\n things are, there's no way of making\n a get. So you'll have to get some other\n patsy. Not me.\"", "It was while he was flying with\n Brett-James on the second day that\n Joe said, \"How about Mexico? Could\n I make the get to Mexico?\"\n\n\n The physicist looked at him questioningly.\n \"Get?\" he said.\n\n\n Joe Prantera said impatiently, \"The\n getaway. After I give it to this Howard\n Temple-Tracy guy, I gotta go on\n the run, don't I?\"\n\n\n \"I see.\" Brett-James cleared his\n throat. \"Mexico is no longer a separate\n nation, Mr. Prantera. All North\n America has been united into one\n unit. Today, there are only eight nations\n in the world.\"\n\n\n \"Where's the nearest?\"\n\n\n \"South America.\"\n\n\n \"That's a helluva long way to go on\n a get.\"", "Brett-James said to Joe Prantera,\n \"Had we not, ah, taken you at the\n time we did, do you realize what\n would have happened?\"\n\n\n \"Sure,\" Joe grunted. \"I woulda let\n old Al Rossi have it right in the guts,\n five times. Then I woulda took the\n plane back to Chi.\"\n\n\n Brett-James was shaking his head.\n \"No. You see, by coincidence, a police\n squad car was coming down the\n street just at that moment to arrest\n Mr. Rossi. You would have been apprehended.\n As I understand Californian\n law of the period, your life\n would have been forfeit, Mr. Prantera.\"\n\n\n Joe winced. It didn't occur to him\n to doubt their word.", "\"2133,\" Reston-Farrell said. \"2133\n A.D. they would say.\"\n\n\n Joe Prantera looked from one of\n them to the other, scowling. \"What\n are you guys talking about?\"\n\n\n Warren Brett-James said softly,\n \"Mr. Prantera, you are no longer in\n the year 1960, you are now in the\n year 2133.\"\n\n\n He said, uncomprehendingly, \"You\n mean I been, like, unconscious for—\"\n He let the sentence fall away as he\n realized the impossibility.\n\n\n Brett-James said gently, \"Hardly\n for one hundred and seventy years,\n Mr. Prantera.\"\n\n\n Reston-Farrell said, \"I am afraid we\n are confusing you. Briefly, we have\ntransported\nyou, I suppose one might\n say, from your own era to ours.\"", "\"O.K., O.K.,\" Joe Prantera growled.\n \"So everybody's got it made. What I\n wanta know is what's all this about\n me giving it ta somebody? If everything's\n so great, how come you want\n me to knock this guy off?\"\n\n\n Reston-Farrell bent forward and\n thumped his right index finger twice\n on the table. \"The bacterium of hate—a\n new strain—has found the human\n race unprotected from its disease.\n We had thought our vaccines\n immunized us.\"\n\n\n \"What's that suppose to mean?\"\n\n\n Brett-James took up the ball again.\n \"Mr. Prantera, have you ever heard of\n Ghengis Khan, of Tamerlane, Alexander,\n Caesar?\"\n\n\n Joe Prantera scowled at him emptily.\n\n\n \"Or, more likely, of Napoleon, Hitler,\n Stalin?\"", "\"Yes,\" Brett-James said evenly.\n\n\n \"Well then, figure something else.\n You think I'm stupid?\"\n\n\n \"Mr. Prantera,\" Dr. Reston-Farrell\n said, \"there has been as much progress\n in the field of psychiatry in the\n past two centuries as there has in\n any other. Your treatment would be\n brief and painless, believe me.\"\n\n\n Joe said coldly, \"And what happens\n to you guys? How do you know I\n won't rat on you?\"\n\n\n Brett-James said gently, \"The moment\n after you have accomplished\n your mission, we plan to turn ourselves\n over to the nearest institution\n to have determined whether or not\n we also need therapy.\"\n\n\n \"Now I'm beginning to wonder\n about you guys,\" Joe said. \"Look, all\n over again, what'd'ya wanta give it to\n this guy for?\"", "\"Well, then do it yourself.\" Joe\n Prantera's irritation over this whole\n complicated mess was growing. And\n already he was beginning to long for\n the things he knew—for Jessie and\n Tony and the others, for his favorite\n bar, for the lasagne down at Papa\n Giovanni's. Right now he could have\n welcomed a calling down at the hands\n of Big Louis.\n\n\n Reston-Farrell had come to his feet\n and walked to one of the large room's\n windows. He looked out, as though\n unseeing. Then, his back turned, he\n said, \"We have tried, but it is simply\n not in us, Mr. Prantera.\"\n\n\n \"You mean you're yella?\"\n\n\n \"No, if by that you mean afraid. It\n is simply not within us to take the\n life of a fellow creature—not to speak\n of a fellow man.\"", "The heavy-set man paused a moment.\n \"Yes, like that,\" he repeated.\n \"That we confront you now indicates\n that the problems of your day were\n solved. Hadn't they been, the world\n most surely would have destroyed itself.\n Wars? Our pedagogues are hard\n put to convince their students that\n such ever existed. More than a century\n and a half ago our society eliminated\n the reasons for international\n conflict. For that matter,\" he added\n musingly, \"we eliminated most international\n boundaries. Depressions?\n Shortly after your own period, man\n awoke to the fact that he had achieved\n to the point where it was possible to\n produce an abundance for all with a", "Joe didn't allow himself to think\n of its means of delivery. He took up\n the drink and bolted it. He put the\n glass down and said carefully,\n \"What's it all about, huh?\"\n\n\n Warren Brett-James said soothingly,\n \"Prepare yourself for somewhat\n of a shock, Mr. Prantera. You are no\n longer in Los Angeles—\"\n\n\n \"Ya think I'm stupid? I can see\n that.\"\n\n\n \"I was about to say, Los Angeles of\n 1960. Mr. Prantera, we welcome you\n to Nuevo Los Angeles.\"\n\n\n \"Ta where?\"\n\n\n \"To Nuevo Los Angeles and to\n the year—\" Brett-James looked at his\n companion. \"What is the date, Old\n Calendar?\"", "Reston-Farrell and Brett-James\n were both present. The three of them\n sat in the living room of the latter's\n apartment, sipping a sparkling wine\n which seemed to be the prevailing\n beverage of the day. For Joe's taste\n it was insipid stuff. Happily, rye was\n available to those who wanted it.\n\n\n Reston-Farrell said, \"You mean,\n where does he reside? Why, here in\n this city.\"\n\n\n \"Well, that's handy, eh?\" Joe\n scratched himself thoughtfully. \"You\n got somebody can finger him for me?\"\n\n\n \"Finger him?\"" ], [ "Joe didn't allow himself to think\n of its means of delivery. He took up\n the drink and bolted it. He put the\n glass down and said carefully,\n \"What's it all about, huh?\"\n\n\n Warren Brett-James said soothingly,\n \"Prepare yourself for somewhat\n of a shock, Mr. Prantera. You are no\n longer in Los Angeles—\"\n\n\n \"Ya think I'm stupid? I can see\n that.\"\n\n\n \"I was about to say, Los Angeles of\n 1960. Mr. Prantera, we welcome you\n to Nuevo Los Angeles.\"\n\n\n \"Ta where?\"\n\n\n \"To Nuevo Los Angeles and to\n the year—\" Brett-James looked at his\n companion. \"What is the date, Old\n Calendar?\"", "Joe Prantera had never been exposed\n to the concept of time travel.\n He had simply never associated with\n anyone who had ever even remotely\n considered such an idea. Now he said,\n \"You mean, like, I been asleep all\n that time?\"\n\n\n \"Not exactly,\" Brett-James said,\n frowning.\n\n\n Reston-Farrell said, \"Suffice to say,\n you are now one hundred and seventy-three\n years after the last memory you\n have.\"\n\n\n Joe Prantera's mind suddenly reverted\n to those last memories and his\n eyes narrowed dangerously. He felt\n suddenly at bay. He said, \"Maybe\n you guys better let me in on what's\n this all about.\"\n\n\n Reston-Farrell said, \"Mr. Prantera,\n we have brought you from your era\n to perform a task for us.\"", "Reston-Farrell said, \"As to reward,\n Mr. Prantera, we have already told\n you there is ultra-abundance in this\n age. Once this task has been performed,\n we will sponsor your entry\n into present day society. Competent\n psychiatric therapy will soon remove\n your present—\"\n\n\n \"Waita minute, now. You figure on\n gettin' me candled by some head\n shrinker, eh? No thanks, Buster. I'm\n going back to my own—\"\n\n\n Brett-James was shaking his head\n again. \"I am afraid there is no return,\n Mr. Prantera. Time travel works but\n in one direction,\nwith\nthe flow of the\n time stream. There can be no return\n to your own era.\"", "Joe snapped: \"Everything you guys\n say sounds crazy. Let's start all over\n again.\"\n\n\n Brett-James said, \"Let me do it,\n Lawrence.\" He turned his eyes to Joe.\n \"Mr. Prantera, in your own era, did\n you ever consider the future?\"\n\n\n Joe looked at him blankly.\n\n\n \"In your day you were confronted\n with national and international, problems.\n Just as we are today and just as\n nations were a century or a millennium\n ago.\"\n\n\n \"Sure, O.K., so we had problems. I\n know whatcha mean—like wars, and\n depressions and dictators and like\n that.\"\n\n\n \"Yes, like that,\" Brett-James\n nodded.", "\"2133,\" Reston-Farrell said. \"2133\n A.D. they would say.\"\n\n\n Joe Prantera looked from one of\n them to the other, scowling. \"What\n are you guys talking about?\"\n\n\n Warren Brett-James said softly,\n \"Mr. Prantera, you are no longer in\n the year 1960, you are now in the\n year 2133.\"\n\n\n He said, uncomprehendingly, \"You\n mean I been, like, unconscious for—\"\n He let the sentence fall away as he\n realized the impossibility.\n\n\n Brett-James said gently, \"Hardly\n for one hundred and seventy years,\n Mr. Prantera.\"\n\n\n Reston-Farrell said, \"I am afraid we\n are confusing you. Briefly, we have\ntransported\nyou, I suppose one might\n say, from your own era to ours.\"", "Joe glared at him. Then sat down\n again, as abruptly as he'd arisen.\n\"Let's start all over again. I got this\n straight, you brought me, some\n screwy way, all the way ... here.\n O.K., I'll buy that. I seen what it looks\n like out that window—\" The real\n comprehension was seeping through\n to him even as he talked. \"Everybody\n I know, Jessie, Tony, the Kid, Big\n Louis, everybody, they're dead. Even\n Big Louis.\"\n\n\n \"Yes,\" Brett-James said, his voice\n soft. \"They are all dead, Mr. Prantera.\n Their children are all dead, and their\n grandchildren.\"\n\n\n The two men of the future said\n nothing more for long minutes while\n Joe Prantera's mind whirled its confusion.\n\n\n Finally he said, \"What's this bit\n about you wanting me to give it to\n some guy.\"", "Joe Prantera had been rocking\n with the mental blows he had been\n assimilating, but this was the final\n haymaker. He was stuck in this\n squaresville of a world.\nJoe Prantera on a job was thorough.\n\n\n Careful, painstaking, competent.\n\n\n He spent the first three days of his\n life in the year 2133 getting the feel\n of things. Brett-James and Reston-Farrell\n had been appointed to work\n with him. Joe didn't meet any of the\n others who belonged to the group\n which had taken the measures to\n bring him from the past. He didn't\n want to meet them. The fewer persons\n involved, the better.", "He stayed in the apartment of\n Reston-Farrell. Joe had been right,\n Reston-Farrell was a medical doctor.\n Brett-James evidently had something\n to do with the process that had enabled\n them to bring Joe from the\n past. Joe didn't know how they'd\n done it, and he didn't care. Joe was a\n realist. He was here. The thing was\n to adapt.\n\n\n There didn't seem to be any hurry.\n Once the deal was made, they left it\n up to him to make the decisions.\n\n\n They drove him around the town,\n when he wished to check the traffic\n arteries. They flew him about the\n whole vicinity. From the air, Southern\n California looked much the same\n as it had in his own time. Oceans,\n mountains, and to a lesser extent, deserts,\n are fairly permanent even\n against man's corroding efforts.", "Joe gave him a long, chill look\n and then stepped to the window. He\n couldn't figure the other. Unless he\n was a fruitcake. Maybe he was in\n some kind of pressure cooker and\n this was one of the fruitcakes.\n\n\n He looked out, however, not on the\n lawns and walks of a sanitarium but\n upon a wide boulevard of what was\n obviously a populous city.\n\n\n And for a moment again, Joe Prantera\n felt the depths of nausea.\n\n\n This was not his world.\n\n\n He stared for a long, long moment.\n The cars didn't even have wheels, he\n noted dully. He turned slowly and\n faced the older man.\n\n\n Reston-Farrell said compassionately,\n \"Try this, it's excellent cognac.\"\n\n\n Joe Prantera stared at him, said finally,\n flatly, \"What's it all about?\"", "The other put down the unaccepted\n glass. \"We were afraid first\n realization would be a shock to you,\"\n he said. \"My colleague is in the adjoining\n room. We will be glad to explain\n to you if you will join us there.\"\n\n\n \"I wanta get out of here,\" Joe said.\n\n\n \"Where would you go?\"\n\n\n The fear of police, of Al Rossi's\n vengeance, of the measures that\n might be taken by Big Louis on his\n failure, were now far away.\n\n\n Reston-Farrell had approached the\n door by which he had entered and it\n reopened for him. He went through\n it without looking back.", "It was while he was flying with\n Brett-James on the second day that\n Joe said, \"How about Mexico? Could\n I make the get to Mexico?\"\n\n\n The physicist looked at him questioningly.\n \"Get?\" he said.\n\n\n Joe Prantera said impatiently, \"The\n getaway. After I give it to this Howard\n Temple-Tracy guy, I gotta go on\n the run, don't I?\"\n\n\n \"I see.\" Brett-James cleared his\n throat. \"Mexico is no longer a separate\n nation, Mr. Prantera. All North\n America has been united into one\n unit. Today, there are only eight nations\n in the world.\"\n\n\n \"Where's the nearest?\"\n\n\n \"South America.\"\n\n\n \"That's a helluva long way to go on\n a get.\"", "\"That is why we brought you here,\n Mr. Prantera. You were ... you\n are, a professional assassin.\"\n\n\n \"Hey, wait a minute, now.\"\n\n\n Reston-Farrell went on, ignoring\n the interruption. \"There is small\n point in denying your calling. Pray\n remember that at the point when we\n ...\ntransported\nyou, you were about\n to dispose of a contemporary named\n Alphonso Annunziata-Rossi. A citizen,\n I might say, whose demise would\n probably have caused small dismay to\n society.\"\n\n\n They had him pegged all right. Joe\n said, \"But why me? Why don't you\n get some heavy from now? Somebody\n knows the ropes these days.\"\n\n\n Brett-James said, \"Mr. Prantera,\n there are no professional assassins in\n this age, nor have there been for over\n a century and a half.\"", "Brett-James said to Joe Prantera,\n \"Had we not, ah, taken you at the\n time we did, do you realize what\n would have happened?\"\n\n\n \"Sure,\" Joe grunted. \"I woulda let\n old Al Rossi have it right in the guts,\n five times. Then I woulda took the\n plane back to Chi.\"\n\n\n Brett-James was shaking his head.\n \"No. You see, by coincidence, a police\n squad car was coming down the\n street just at that moment to arrest\n Mr. Rossi. You would have been apprehended.\n As I understand Californian\n law of the period, your life\n would have been forfeit, Mr. Prantera.\"\n\n\n Joe winced. It didn't occur to him\n to doubt their word.", "There was nothing else to do. Joe\n dressed, then followed him.\nIn the adjoining room was a circular\n table that would have accommodated\n a dozen persons. Two were\n seated there now, papers, books and\n soiled coffee cups before them. There\n had evidently been a long wait.\n\n\n Reston-Farrell, the one Joe had already\n met, was tall and drawn of face\n and with a chainsmoker's nervousness.\n The other was heavier and more\n at ease. They were both, Joe estimated,\n somewhere in their middle fifties.\n They both looked like docs. He\n wondered, all over again, if this was\n some kind of pressure cooker.\n\n\n But that didn't explain the view\n from the window.\n\n\n Reston-Farrell said, \"May I present\n my colleague, Citizen Warren Brett-James?\n Warren, this is our guest from\n ... from yesteryear, Mr. Joseph Salviati-Prantera.\"", "\"Well, then do it yourself.\" Joe\n Prantera's irritation over this whole\n complicated mess was growing. And\n already he was beginning to long for\n the things he knew—for Jessie and\n Tony and the others, for his favorite\n bar, for the lasagne down at Papa\n Giovanni's. Right now he could have\n welcomed a calling down at the hands\n of Big Louis.\n\n\n Reston-Farrell had come to his feet\n and walked to one of the large room's\n windows. He looked out, as though\n unseeing. Then, his back turned, he\n said, \"We have tried, but it is simply\n not in us, Mr. Prantera.\"\n\n\n \"You mean you're yella?\"\n\n\n \"No, if by that you mean afraid. It\n is simply not within us to take the\n life of a fellow creature—not to speak\n of a fellow man.\"", "And at that moment, the universe\n caved inward upon Joseph Marie\n Prantera.\n\n\n There was nausea and nausea upon\n nausea.\n\n\n There was a falling through all\n space and through all time. There was\n doubling and twisting and twitching\n of every muscle and nerve.\n\n\n There was pain, horror and tumultuous\n fear.\n\n\n And he came out of it as quickly\n and completely as he'd gone in.", "\"See here, Mr. Prantera,\" Brett-James\n said softly. \"We no longer have\n capital punishment, you must realize.\"\n\n\n \"O.K. I still don't wanta get caught.\n What\nis\nthe rap these days, huh?\"\n Joe scowled. \"You said they didn't\n have no jails any more.\"\n\n\n \"This is difficult for you to understand,\n I imagine,\" Reston-Farrell told\n him, \"but, you see, we no longer punish\n people in this era.\"\n\n\n That took a long, unbelieving moment\n to sink in. \"You mean, like, no\n matter what they do? That's crazy.\n Everybody'd be running around giving\n it to everybody else.\"", "Salviati happened to be Joe's mother's\n maiden name. But it was unlikely\n this character could have known that.\n Joe had been born in Naples and his\n mother had died in childbirth. His\n father hadn't brought him to the\n States until the age of five and by that\n time he had a stepmother.\n\n\n \"I wanta mouthpiece,\" Joe said\n flatly, \"or let me outta here.\"\n\n\n Lawrence Reston-Farrell said, \"You\n are not being constrained. There are\n clothes for you in the closet there.\"\n\n\n Joe gingerly tried swinging his\n feet to the floor and sitting up, while\n the other stood watching him, strangely.\n He came to his feet. With the exception\n of a faint nausea, which\n brought back memories of that extreme\n condition he'd suffered during\n ... during what? He hadn't the\n vaguest idea of what had happened.", "He was in, he thought, a hospital\n and his first reaction was to think,\nThis here California. Everything different.\nThen his second thought was\nSomething went wrong. Big Louis, he\n ain't going to like this.\nHe brought his thinking to the\n present. So far as he could remember,\n he hadn't completely pulled the trigger.\n That at least meant that whatever\n the rap was it wouldn't be too\n tough. With luck, the syndicate would\n get him off with a couple of years at\n Quentin.\n\n\n A door slid open in the wall in a\n way that Joe had never seen a door\n operate before.\nThis here California.\nThe clothes on the newcomer were\n wrong, too. For the first time, Joe\n Prantera began to sense an alienness—a\n something that was awfully\n wrong.\n\n\n The other spoke precisely and\n slowly, the way a highly educated man\n speaks a language which he reads\n and writes fluently but has little occasion\n to practice vocally. \"You have recovered?\"", "\"Yes,\" Brett-James said evenly.\n\n\n \"Well then, figure something else.\n You think I'm stupid?\"\n\n\n \"Mr. Prantera,\" Dr. Reston-Farrell\n said, \"there has been as much progress\n in the field of psychiatry in the\n past two centuries as there has in\n any other. Your treatment would be\n brief and painless, believe me.\"\n\n\n Joe said coldly, \"And what happens\n to you guys? How do you know I\n won't rat on you?\"\n\n\n Brett-James said gently, \"The moment\n after you have accomplished\n your mission, we plan to turn ourselves\n over to the nearest institution\n to have determined whether or not\n we also need therapy.\"\n\n\n \"Now I'm beginning to wonder\n about you guys,\" Joe said. \"Look, all\n over again, what'd'ya wanta give it to\n this guy for?\"" ] ]
train	99903	[ "What is the purpose of the article?", "What terms best describes the author's attitude toward hunches of perceived criminality based on one's physical appearance?", "Historical figures have proposed all of the following theories regarding physiognomy EXCEPT for the idea that:", "What is one halo effect of physiognomy?", "According to the author, what drives our decisions to publish certain content on social media platforms?", "What is the danger of using certain pictures to represent people in court?", "Which type of person is likely to receive the most brutal treatment in the legal system, compared to the other response options?", "According to the author, what are people actually judging when they believe they're detecting a proclivity for delinquent behavior?" ]	[ [ "To explain how physiognomy has evolved over time and affected society in harmful ways", "To provide an impartial historical account of physiognomy, a once popular branch of science", "To predict how physiognomy could be manipulated to worsen current social inequities", "To convince an audience of the benefits of physiognomy as a criminal justice tool" ], [ "skeptical and dismissive", "neutral and hypothetical", "incredulous and antagonistic", "curious and imaginative" ], [ "humans share similar characteristics to animals based on their facial features and mannerisms", "humans can use physiognomy to select which employees, slaves, and mates may be most compatible with them", "humans are constantly influenced by physiognomy on a daily basis", "humans will never be able to eliminate the effects of physiognomy from their decision-making" ], [ "It has morphed to become something more credible than its original version", "It has morphed to become something less credible than its original version", "It has created a trend that imprisons innocent people", "It has created a bias that favors more attractive people" ], [ "awareness of being judged", "potential for monetization", "rejection of conformity", "fear of not fitting in" ], [ "The pictures can cause further emotional distress for families who have been affected by a perpetrator.", "The pictures can elicit negative or guilty connotations, which can influence a jury or the public before a trial.", "The pictures may have been edited in order to make the defendant look more guilty of criminal behavior.", "The pictures may not represent what the person look like during the time they were accused of committing the crime." ], [ "masculine faces", "sharp-featured faces", "overfamiliar faces", "suspicious faces" ], [ "media filtering", "prejudice", "intelligence", "demographics" ] ]	[ 1, 1, 4, 4, 1, 2, 4, 4 ]	[ 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 1 ]	[ [ "In the 17th century, Swiss poet Johann Caspar Lavater took della Porta's methodology and ran with it, commissioning artists to illustrate his popular Essays On Physiognomy – which, to the chagrin of his contemporary, the writer Hannah More, sold for \"fifteen guineas a set… while in vain we boast that philosophy [has] broken down all the strongholds of prejudice, ignorance, and superstition.\"", "Face value\nWhen the BBC broadcast the recent documentary by Louis Theroux that looked back at the time he spent in the company of Jimmy Savile, there was disbelief across social media that no one had stepped in to stop Savile from committing his crimes. Some blamed the BBC, some blamed those in Savile's immediate circle, but others blamed a simple error of human judgment. \n\n \"He literally couldn't look more like a paedophile,\" read one post – one of many to state a supposedly incontrovertible truth: that Savile's criminal tendencies could have been detected from the shape of his features, his eyes, his hair. Moreover, this has nothing to do with the benefit of hindsight and should have been picked up at the time. His looks, they suggested, were a moral indicator, with a wealth of compelling visual evidence to support the claim.", "All of Greek society, it was claimed, could benefit from this skill: it could assist with choosing an employee, a slave or a spouse, while its inherent vagueness made it intriguing to philosophers and useful for scientists who bent the theories to support their own beliefs. It became a recognised science in the Islamic world, and was used and taught in Europe throughout late antiquity and the early Middle Ages, despite nagging doubts among thinkers and physicians of the day. In the early 16th century, Leonardo da Vinci claimed not to \"concern myself with false physiognomy, because these chimeras have no scientific foundation.\"", "The aforementioned study at Shanghai's Jiao Tong University, with its enthusiastic, data-driven analyses of such questions as \"What features of a human face betray its owner's propensity for crimes?\" prompted a wave of press coverage.\nThe vision outlined in these articles is of an unethical dystopia where neural networks can assess our faces and establish a likely score for criminality – but Todorov is scathing about this paper, too. \"The main problem is the sampling of the images,\" he says. \"There is not enough information about the [nature of] the images of the people who were convicted. Second, clearly, there are huge differences between the two samples [of convicts and non-convicts] [in terms of] education and socio-economic status.\"\nIn other words, your appearance is affected by the kind of life you've led, so the classifiers within the computer program are simply distinguishing between different demographics rather than detecting a propensity for criminal behaviour.", "While it's true that we judge books by their covers, covers are more than just faces; we piece together all kinds of cues from people to form our impressions of them. Jimmy Savile's appearance was unusual by any standards, but we absorbed a great deal of information about him over the years that will have influenced our opinions – not least from the original Louis Theroux programme from 2000 that was reexamined in that recent BBC documentary. Savile's vague resemblance to the Child Catcher from the film Chitty Chitty Bang Bang is convenient but ultimately misleading, and the way it reinforces the idea of what a paedophile might 'look like' is unfortunate; not least because it helps to sustain a low-level belief in the 'science' of physiognomy, despite its tendency to crumble under the slightest cross examination.\nThis article was originally published on TheLong+Short. Read the original article.", "The revitalisation of the theory of physiognomy by the Shanghai students is, according to Todorov, deeply problematic on a theoretical level. \"Are we back to Lombroso's theory,\" he asks, \"that criminals were anomalous creatures, evolutionary degenerates? How does one become criminal, and what role do various life forces play into this? There are people making claims that you just need to look at the face to predict personality and behaviour, but many of these people have not given much thought to their underlying assumptions.\"", "When retired teacher Christopher Jefferies was held by police in connection with the murder of Joanna Yeates in Bristol back in 2010, more than half a dozen newspapers gave his unusual appearance particular scrutiny and made assumptions accordingly, which in turn influenced public opinion. This culminated in substantial damages for defamation, two convictions for contempt of court and a painful ordeal for Jefferies, who was entirely innocent. \n\n This kind of deep-seated bias looms large throughout physiognomic works of the 19th and 20th centuries, from absurdities such as Vaught's Practical Character Reader of 1902 (handy if you want to find out what a \"deceitful chin\" looks like) to more inherently troubling volumes such as Cesare Lombroso's Criminal Man.", "Data-driven studies, based upon huge quantities of facial data, would seem to offer the final word on this. Since 2005, computational models have used various techniques to test for links between social attributes and facial features, resulting in suggestions that our faces can betray, for example, political leanings, sexual orientation and criminality. One BBC Future article from 2015 even describes the 'discipline' of physiognomy as 'gaining credibility'. But Todorov details many problems with these studies, pointing out the challenging nature of doing such experiments with sufficient rigour – not least because different images of the same people can prompt wildly differing results.", "Lavater's work was criticised for being ridden with bias (black faces rarely emerged well from his analyses) but he was right in one respect: \"Whether they are or are not sensible of it,\" he wrote, \"all men are daily influenced by physiognomy.\" \n\n Many studies have been done into our psychological response to faces, and it's clear that a so-called halo effect will inevitably work its magic. \"Attractive people are regarded as better at everything,\" says Professor Peter Hancock, lecturer in Psychology at Stirling University. \"And we can't shake that off because there's some truth to it. Good genes produce intelligent people, attractive faces, fit bodies, and we imagine that they're going to be good at everything else, too. We don't have good insight into our own behaviour. We tend to think we understand what we're doing, but we don't.\"", "Theories of physiognomy, however, would persist beyond the Renaissance. In 1586, Italian scholar Giambattista della Porta published a book, De humana physiognomonia libri IIII, which established him as the 'father of Physiognomy'. Della Porta's thinking was based on the 'doctrine of signatures'; the idea that the appearance of plants and animals offers clues to their nature. For example, as one writer of the time suggested, walnuts are good for curing headaches because they're shaped a bit like a human head. The theories in della Porta's book were supported by dozens of detailed illustrations which, by comparing human faces to those of animals, suggested that they must surely share similar character traits.", "Hancock describes attending a conference where one speaker showed a series of black faces and white faces to students (who were mostly white) and asked them what they thought the experiment was about. \"They knew that he was trying to assess whether they would rate the black ones as more criminal,\" says Hancock. \"But then they did!\" \n\n We attribute social characteristics based on opinions we already hold about certain kinds of faces: whether they look unusual in some way, whether they resemble a partner, a family member or even ourselves, or perhaps have some other cultural association. Physiognomy ultimately stems from what Alexander Todorov, professor of psychology at Princeton University, calls an 'overgeneralisation hypothesis'. \"People,\" he wrote, \"use easily accessible facial information (eg an expression such as a smile, cues to gender and ethnic group) to make social attributions congruent with this information (eg a nice person).\" \n\n In a social media age, the pictures we choose to represent ourselves online are a form of self-presentation driven by those social attributions and the knowledge that our pictures are being judged.", "Experiments at Princeton found that we take less than one tenth of a second to form an opinion of strangers from their pictures, and those opinions tend to stand firm even if we're exposed to those pictures for a longer period of time. That tendency to judge instantly gives rise to a number of selfie tropes that are deemed to elicit positive responses, particularly when it comes to photos on dating profiles: certain angles, particular expressions, minute adjustments of eyebrows and lips that might appear to be about narcissism and vanity, but are more about a fear of being incorrectly assessed. After all, false suppositions based on people's faces are hugely influential within society, and in extreme cases they can have a huge impact on people's lives.", "A recent paper, published by Xiaolin Wu and Xi Zhang of Shanghai's Jiao Tong University, claims to be the first to use machine learning and neural networks to attempt a fully automated inference of criminality from facial images, removing prejudice from the equation and testing the validity of our gut feelings. \"What facial features influence the average Joe's impulsive and yet consensual judgments on social attributes?\" they ask. Through a study of 1,856 images (\"controlled for race, gender, age and facial expression\") they claim to have established the validity of \"automated, face-induced inference on criminality, despite the historical controversy surrounding this line of enquiry.\" \n\n In other words, they believe that they've found a relationship between looking like a criminal and actually being one.", "This isn't to say that the use of big data, and particularly the use of composite imagery (digitally blending together certain types of faces) doesn't give us useful information and fascinating correlations. \"You can, for example, take a given face and use computer software to make it look more or less trustworthy,\" says Hancock. \"I remember a colleague playing with this and he made a less trustworthy version of George W Bush – and how shifty did he look! I'm surprised that they're not using these techniques in political advertising, because you couldn't tell that anything had been done [to the picture], but when you look at it you think 'I wouldn't trust him'.\"", "In a woeful misreading of Darwinian theory, Lombroso unwittingly founded the field of anthropological criminology, and more specifically the idea of the born criminal: a hereditary quality that posed a danger to society and must be rooted out. His theories became discredited during the 20th century, but the kind of bias displayed by Lombroso can still be found in legal systems across the world; studies show that people with stereotypically 'untrustworthy' faces tend to receive harsher treatment than those who don't. There's evidently some consensus over people's attitudes toward certain faces, but it doesn't follow that the consensus is correct.", "It's a claim that's been made many times over the years. Physiognomy, the 'science' of judging people by their appearance, was first theorised by the ancient Greeks in around the 5th century BC. Aristotle's pronouncement that \"it is possible to infer character from features\" led to a number of works relating to 'Physiognomica', a word derived from\nphysis\n(nature),\nnomos\n(law) and (or)\ngnomon\n(judge or interpreter).", "Todorov is also wary of these classifiers misidentifying more 'innocent' people than identifying actual criminals, and accuracy is a concern shared by Peter Hancock. \"Networks don't assess faces in the same way that we do,\" he says. \"One of our systems, which is a deep network, has a recognition engine which generates an ordered list of how similar various faces are. And sometimes you get good matches – but other times you look at them and say, well, it's the wrong race! To humans they look completely different. And that underlines the fact that the networks are working in a different sort of way, and actually you don't really know how they're working. They're the ultimate black box.\"", "After performing a number of autopsies on criminals, the Italian physician claimed to have discovered a number of common characteristics, and it's worth listing them if only to establish the supposed criminality of pretty much everyone you know:\nUnusually short or tall height; small head, but large face; fleshy lips, but thin upper lip; protuberances on head and around ear; wrinkles on forehead and face; large sinus cavities or bumpy face; tattoos; receding hairline; large incisors; bushy eyebrows, tending to meet across nose; large eye sockets but deep-set eyes; beaked or flat nose; strong jaw line; small and sloping forehead; small or weak chin; thin neck; sloping shoulders but large chest; large, protruding ears; long arms; high cheek bones; pointy or snubbed fingers or toes.", "The only attributes that we're reasonably good at detecting, according to research done at the University of Michigan in the 1960s and later tested at the University of Stirling in 2007, are extroversion and conscientiousness. For other traits there's insufficient evidence that our hunches are correct, with anomalies explained by our evolved aversion to 'ugliness', established links between broader faces and powerful physiques, or cultural associations with certain demographics which are reinforced with nagging regularity by newspapers, books, television and film.", "We know that paedophiles, murderers and other violent criminals come in many shapes and sizes. If we knew nothing about their criminal history, some of their photos might even appear attractive. But the idea that someone's features betray their character is something rooted deep within us; it's the reason why certain photos perform well on dating apps, or why trustworthy-looking politicians might rack up votes. But how wrong are our hunches of perceived criminality?" ], [ "In a woeful misreading of Darwinian theory, Lombroso unwittingly founded the field of anthropological criminology, and more specifically the idea of the born criminal: a hereditary quality that posed a danger to society and must be rooted out. His theories became discredited during the 20th century, but the kind of bias displayed by Lombroso can still be found in legal systems across the world; studies show that people with stereotypically 'untrustworthy' faces tend to receive harsher treatment than those who don't. There's evidently some consensus over people's attitudes toward certain faces, but it doesn't follow that the consensus is correct.", "When retired teacher Christopher Jefferies was held by police in connection with the murder of Joanna Yeates in Bristol back in 2010, more than half a dozen newspapers gave his unusual appearance particular scrutiny and made assumptions accordingly, which in turn influenced public opinion. This culminated in substantial damages for defamation, two convictions for contempt of court and a painful ordeal for Jefferies, who was entirely innocent. \n\n This kind of deep-seated bias looms large throughout physiognomic works of the 19th and 20th centuries, from absurdities such as Vaught's Practical Character Reader of 1902 (handy if you want to find out what a \"deceitful chin\" looks like) to more inherently troubling volumes such as Cesare Lombroso's Criminal Man.", "We know that paedophiles, murderers and other violent criminals come in many shapes and sizes. If we knew nothing about their criminal history, some of their photos might even appear attractive. But the idea that someone's features betray their character is something rooted deep within us; it's the reason why certain photos perform well on dating apps, or why trustworthy-looking politicians might rack up votes. But how wrong are our hunches of perceived criminality?", "A recent paper, published by Xiaolin Wu and Xi Zhang of Shanghai's Jiao Tong University, claims to be the first to use machine learning and neural networks to attempt a fully automated inference of criminality from facial images, removing prejudice from the equation and testing the validity of our gut feelings. \"What facial features influence the average Joe's impulsive and yet consensual judgments on social attributes?\" they ask. Through a study of 1,856 images (\"controlled for race, gender, age and facial expression\") they claim to have established the validity of \"automated, face-induced inference on criminality, despite the historical controversy surrounding this line of enquiry.\" \n\n In other words, they believe that they've found a relationship between looking like a criminal and actually being one.", "Hancock describes attending a conference where one speaker showed a series of black faces and white faces to students (who were mostly white) and asked them what they thought the experiment was about. \"They knew that he was trying to assess whether they would rate the black ones as more criminal,\" says Hancock. \"But then they did!\" \n\n We attribute social characteristics based on opinions we already hold about certain kinds of faces: whether they look unusual in some way, whether they resemble a partner, a family member or even ourselves, or perhaps have some other cultural association. Physiognomy ultimately stems from what Alexander Todorov, professor of psychology at Princeton University, calls an 'overgeneralisation hypothesis'. \"People,\" he wrote, \"use easily accessible facial information (eg an expression such as a smile, cues to gender and ethnic group) to make social attributions congruent with this information (eg a nice person).\" \n\n In a social media age, the pictures we choose to represent ourselves online are a form of self-presentation driven by those social attributions and the knowledge that our pictures are being judged.", "Face value\nWhen the BBC broadcast the recent documentary by Louis Theroux that looked back at the time he spent in the company of Jimmy Savile, there was disbelief across social media that no one had stepped in to stop Savile from committing his crimes. Some blamed the BBC, some blamed those in Savile's immediate circle, but others blamed a simple error of human judgment. \n\n \"He literally couldn't look more like a paedophile,\" read one post – one of many to state a supposedly incontrovertible truth: that Savile's criminal tendencies could have been detected from the shape of his features, his eyes, his hair. Moreover, this has nothing to do with the benefit of hindsight and should have been picked up at the time. His looks, they suggested, were a moral indicator, with a wealth of compelling visual evidence to support the claim.", "The revitalisation of the theory of physiognomy by the Shanghai students is, according to Todorov, deeply problematic on a theoretical level. \"Are we back to Lombroso's theory,\" he asks, \"that criminals were anomalous creatures, evolutionary degenerates? How does one become criminal, and what role do various life forces play into this? There are people making claims that you just need to look at the face to predict personality and behaviour, but many of these people have not given much thought to their underlying assumptions.\"", "Data-driven studies, based upon huge quantities of facial data, would seem to offer the final word on this. Since 2005, computational models have used various techniques to test for links between social attributes and facial features, resulting in suggestions that our faces can betray, for example, political leanings, sexual orientation and criminality. One BBC Future article from 2015 even describes the 'discipline' of physiognomy as 'gaining credibility'. But Todorov details many problems with these studies, pointing out the challenging nature of doing such experiments with sufficient rigour – not least because different images of the same people can prompt wildly differing results.", "The only attributes that we're reasonably good at detecting, according to research done at the University of Michigan in the 1960s and later tested at the University of Stirling in 2007, are extroversion and conscientiousness. For other traits there's insufficient evidence that our hunches are correct, with anomalies explained by our evolved aversion to 'ugliness', established links between broader faces and powerful physiques, or cultural associations with certain demographics which are reinforced with nagging regularity by newspapers, books, television and film.", "It's a claim that's been made many times over the years. Physiognomy, the 'science' of judging people by their appearance, was first theorised by the ancient Greeks in around the 5th century BC. Aristotle's pronouncement that \"it is possible to infer character from features\" led to a number of works relating to 'Physiognomica', a word derived from\nphysis\n(nature),\nnomos\n(law) and (or)\ngnomon\n(judge or interpreter).", "Lavater's work was criticised for being ridden with bias (black faces rarely emerged well from his analyses) but he was right in one respect: \"Whether they are or are not sensible of it,\" he wrote, \"all men are daily influenced by physiognomy.\" \n\n Many studies have been done into our psychological response to faces, and it's clear that a so-called halo effect will inevitably work its magic. \"Attractive people are regarded as better at everything,\" says Professor Peter Hancock, lecturer in Psychology at Stirling University. \"And we can't shake that off because there's some truth to it. Good genes produce intelligent people, attractive faces, fit bodies, and we imagine that they're going to be good at everything else, too. We don't have good insight into our own behaviour. We tend to think we understand what we're doing, but we don't.\"", "After performing a number of autopsies on criminals, the Italian physician claimed to have discovered a number of common characteristics, and it's worth listing them if only to establish the supposed criminality of pretty much everyone you know:\nUnusually short or tall height; small head, but large face; fleshy lips, but thin upper lip; protuberances on head and around ear; wrinkles on forehead and face; large sinus cavities or bumpy face; tattoos; receding hairline; large incisors; bushy eyebrows, tending to meet across nose; large eye sockets but deep-set eyes; beaked or flat nose; strong jaw line; small and sloping forehead; small or weak chin; thin neck; sloping shoulders but large chest; large, protruding ears; long arms; high cheek bones; pointy or snubbed fingers or toes.", "While it's true that we judge books by their covers, covers are more than just faces; we piece together all kinds of cues from people to form our impressions of them. Jimmy Savile's appearance was unusual by any standards, but we absorbed a great deal of information about him over the years that will have influenced our opinions – not least from the original Louis Theroux programme from 2000 that was reexamined in that recent BBC documentary. Savile's vague resemblance to the Child Catcher from the film Chitty Chitty Bang Bang is convenient but ultimately misleading, and the way it reinforces the idea of what a paedophile might 'look like' is unfortunate; not least because it helps to sustain a low-level belief in the 'science' of physiognomy, despite its tendency to crumble under the slightest cross examination.\nThis article was originally published on TheLong+Short. Read the original article.", "The aforementioned study at Shanghai's Jiao Tong University, with its enthusiastic, data-driven analyses of such questions as \"What features of a human face betray its owner's propensity for crimes?\" prompted a wave of press coverage.\nThe vision outlined in these articles is of an unethical dystopia where neural networks can assess our faces and establish a likely score for criminality – but Todorov is scathing about this paper, too. \"The main problem is the sampling of the images,\" he says. \"There is not enough information about the [nature of] the images of the people who were convicted. Second, clearly, there are huge differences between the two samples [of convicts and non-convicts] [in terms of] education and socio-economic status.\"\nIn other words, your appearance is affected by the kind of life you've led, so the classifiers within the computer program are simply distinguishing between different demographics rather than detecting a propensity for criminal behaviour.", "Todorov is also wary of these classifiers misidentifying more 'innocent' people than identifying actual criminals, and accuracy is a concern shared by Peter Hancock. \"Networks don't assess faces in the same way that we do,\" he says. \"One of our systems, which is a deep network, has a recognition engine which generates an ordered list of how similar various faces are. And sometimes you get good matches – but other times you look at them and say, well, it's the wrong race! To humans they look completely different. And that underlines the fact that the networks are working in a different sort of way, and actually you don't really know how they're working. They're the ultimate black box.\"", "Experiments at Princeton found that we take less than one tenth of a second to form an opinion of strangers from their pictures, and those opinions tend to stand firm even if we're exposed to those pictures for a longer period of time. That tendency to judge instantly gives rise to a number of selfie tropes that are deemed to elicit positive responses, particularly when it comes to photos on dating profiles: certain angles, particular expressions, minute adjustments of eyebrows and lips that might appear to be about narcissism and vanity, but are more about a fear of being incorrectly assessed. After all, false suppositions based on people's faces are hugely influential within society, and in extreme cases they can have a huge impact on people's lives.", "In the 17th century, Swiss poet Johann Caspar Lavater took della Porta's methodology and ran with it, commissioning artists to illustrate his popular Essays On Physiognomy – which, to the chagrin of his contemporary, the writer Hannah More, sold for \"fifteen guineas a set… while in vain we boast that philosophy [has] broken down all the strongholds of prejudice, ignorance, and superstition.\"", "Theories of physiognomy, however, would persist beyond the Renaissance. In 1586, Italian scholar Giambattista della Porta published a book, De humana physiognomonia libri IIII, which established him as the 'father of Physiognomy'. Della Porta's thinking was based on the 'doctrine of signatures'; the idea that the appearance of plants and animals offers clues to their nature. For example, as one writer of the time suggested, walnuts are good for curing headaches because they're shaped a bit like a human head. The theories in della Porta's book were supported by dozens of detailed illustrations which, by comparing human faces to those of animals, suggested that they must surely share similar character traits.", "This isn't to say that the use of big data, and particularly the use of composite imagery (digitally blending together certain types of faces) doesn't give us useful information and fascinating correlations. \"You can, for example, take a given face and use computer software to make it look more or less trustworthy,\" says Hancock. \"I remember a colleague playing with this and he made a less trustworthy version of George W Bush – and how shifty did he look! I'm surprised that they're not using these techniques in political advertising, because you couldn't tell that anything had been done [to the picture], but when you look at it you think 'I wouldn't trust him'.\"", "All of Greek society, it was claimed, could benefit from this skill: it could assist with choosing an employee, a slave or a spouse, while its inherent vagueness made it intriguing to philosophers and useful for scientists who bent the theories to support their own beliefs. It became a recognised science in the Islamic world, and was used and taught in Europe throughout late antiquity and the early Middle Ages, despite nagging doubts among thinkers and physicians of the day. In the early 16th century, Leonardo da Vinci claimed not to \"concern myself with false physiognomy, because these chimeras have no scientific foundation.\"" ], [ "Theories of physiognomy, however, would persist beyond the Renaissance. In 1586, Italian scholar Giambattista della Porta published a book, De humana physiognomonia libri IIII, which established him as the 'father of Physiognomy'. Della Porta's thinking was based on the 'doctrine of signatures'; the idea that the appearance of plants and animals offers clues to their nature. For example, as one writer of the time suggested, walnuts are good for curing headaches because they're shaped a bit like a human head. The theories in della Porta's book were supported by dozens of detailed illustrations which, by comparing human faces to those of animals, suggested that they must surely share similar character traits.", "It's a claim that's been made many times over the years. Physiognomy, the 'science' of judging people by their appearance, was first theorised by the ancient Greeks in around the 5th century BC. Aristotle's pronouncement that \"it is possible to infer character from features\" led to a number of works relating to 'Physiognomica', a word derived from\nphysis\n(nature),\nnomos\n(law) and (or)\ngnomon\n(judge or interpreter).", "When retired teacher Christopher Jefferies was held by police in connection with the murder of Joanna Yeates in Bristol back in 2010, more than half a dozen newspapers gave his unusual appearance particular scrutiny and made assumptions accordingly, which in turn influenced public opinion. This culminated in substantial damages for defamation, two convictions for contempt of court and a painful ordeal for Jefferies, who was entirely innocent. \n\n This kind of deep-seated bias looms large throughout physiognomic works of the 19th and 20th centuries, from absurdities such as Vaught's Practical Character Reader of 1902 (handy if you want to find out what a \"deceitful chin\" looks like) to more inherently troubling volumes such as Cesare Lombroso's Criminal Man.", "The revitalisation of the theory of physiognomy by the Shanghai students is, according to Todorov, deeply problematic on a theoretical level. \"Are we back to Lombroso's theory,\" he asks, \"that criminals were anomalous creatures, evolutionary degenerates? How does one become criminal, and what role do various life forces play into this? There are people making claims that you just need to look at the face to predict personality and behaviour, but many of these people have not given much thought to their underlying assumptions.\"", "In a woeful misreading of Darwinian theory, Lombroso unwittingly founded the field of anthropological criminology, and more specifically the idea of the born criminal: a hereditary quality that posed a danger to society and must be rooted out. His theories became discredited during the 20th century, but the kind of bias displayed by Lombroso can still be found in legal systems across the world; studies show that people with stereotypically 'untrustworthy' faces tend to receive harsher treatment than those who don't. There's evidently some consensus over people's attitudes toward certain faces, but it doesn't follow that the consensus is correct.", "All of Greek society, it was claimed, could benefit from this skill: it could assist with choosing an employee, a slave or a spouse, while its inherent vagueness made it intriguing to philosophers and useful for scientists who bent the theories to support their own beliefs. It became a recognised science in the Islamic world, and was used and taught in Europe throughout late antiquity and the early Middle Ages, despite nagging doubts among thinkers and physicians of the day. In the early 16th century, Leonardo da Vinci claimed not to \"concern myself with false physiognomy, because these chimeras have no scientific foundation.\"", "In the 17th century, Swiss poet Johann Caspar Lavater took della Porta's methodology and ran with it, commissioning artists to illustrate his popular Essays On Physiognomy – which, to the chagrin of his contemporary, the writer Hannah More, sold for \"fifteen guineas a set… while in vain we boast that philosophy [has] broken down all the strongholds of prejudice, ignorance, and superstition.\"", "Data-driven studies, based upon huge quantities of facial data, would seem to offer the final word on this. Since 2005, computational models have used various techniques to test for links between social attributes and facial features, resulting in suggestions that our faces can betray, for example, political leanings, sexual orientation and criminality. One BBC Future article from 2015 even describes the 'discipline' of physiognomy as 'gaining credibility'. But Todorov details many problems with these studies, pointing out the challenging nature of doing such experiments with sufficient rigour – not least because different images of the same people can prompt wildly differing results.", "Lavater's work was criticised for being ridden with bias (black faces rarely emerged well from his analyses) but he was right in one respect: \"Whether they are or are not sensible of it,\" he wrote, \"all men are daily influenced by physiognomy.\" \n\n Many studies have been done into our psychological response to faces, and it's clear that a so-called halo effect will inevitably work its magic. \"Attractive people are regarded as better at everything,\" says Professor Peter Hancock, lecturer in Psychology at Stirling University. \"And we can't shake that off because there's some truth to it. Good genes produce intelligent people, attractive faces, fit bodies, and we imagine that they're going to be good at everything else, too. We don't have good insight into our own behaviour. We tend to think we understand what we're doing, but we don't.\"", "After performing a number of autopsies on criminals, the Italian physician claimed to have discovered a number of common characteristics, and it's worth listing them if only to establish the supposed criminality of pretty much everyone you know:\nUnusually short or tall height; small head, but large face; fleshy lips, but thin upper lip; protuberances on head and around ear; wrinkles on forehead and face; large sinus cavities or bumpy face; tattoos; receding hairline; large incisors; bushy eyebrows, tending to meet across nose; large eye sockets but deep-set eyes; beaked or flat nose; strong jaw line; small and sloping forehead; small or weak chin; thin neck; sloping shoulders but large chest; large, protruding ears; long arms; high cheek bones; pointy or snubbed fingers or toes.", "We know that paedophiles, murderers and other violent criminals come in many shapes and sizes. If we knew nothing about their criminal history, some of their photos might even appear attractive. But the idea that someone's features betray their character is something rooted deep within us; it's the reason why certain photos perform well on dating apps, or why trustworthy-looking politicians might rack up votes. But how wrong are our hunches of perceived criminality?", "The only attributes that we're reasonably good at detecting, according to research done at the University of Michigan in the 1960s and later tested at the University of Stirling in 2007, are extroversion and conscientiousness. For other traits there's insufficient evidence that our hunches are correct, with anomalies explained by our evolved aversion to 'ugliness', established links between broader faces and powerful physiques, or cultural associations with certain demographics which are reinforced with nagging regularity by newspapers, books, television and film.", "Face value\nWhen the BBC broadcast the recent documentary by Louis Theroux that looked back at the time he spent in the company of Jimmy Savile, there was disbelief across social media that no one had stepped in to stop Savile from committing his crimes. Some blamed the BBC, some blamed those in Savile's immediate circle, but others blamed a simple error of human judgment. \n\n \"He literally couldn't look more like a paedophile,\" read one post – one of many to state a supposedly incontrovertible truth: that Savile's criminal tendencies could have been detected from the shape of his features, his eyes, his hair. Moreover, this has nothing to do with the benefit of hindsight and should have been picked up at the time. His looks, they suggested, were a moral indicator, with a wealth of compelling visual evidence to support the claim.", "While it's true that we judge books by their covers, covers are more than just faces; we piece together all kinds of cues from people to form our impressions of them. Jimmy Savile's appearance was unusual by any standards, but we absorbed a great deal of information about him over the years that will have influenced our opinions – not least from the original Louis Theroux programme from 2000 that was reexamined in that recent BBC documentary. Savile's vague resemblance to the Child Catcher from the film Chitty Chitty Bang Bang is convenient but ultimately misleading, and the way it reinforces the idea of what a paedophile might 'look like' is unfortunate; not least because it helps to sustain a low-level belief in the 'science' of physiognomy, despite its tendency to crumble under the slightest cross examination.\nThis article was originally published on TheLong+Short. Read the original article.", "Hancock describes attending a conference where one speaker showed a series of black faces and white faces to students (who were mostly white) and asked them what they thought the experiment was about. \"They knew that he was trying to assess whether they would rate the black ones as more criminal,\" says Hancock. \"But then they did!\" \n\n We attribute social characteristics based on opinions we already hold about certain kinds of faces: whether they look unusual in some way, whether they resemble a partner, a family member or even ourselves, or perhaps have some other cultural association. Physiognomy ultimately stems from what Alexander Todorov, professor of psychology at Princeton University, calls an 'overgeneralisation hypothesis'. \"People,\" he wrote, \"use easily accessible facial information (eg an expression such as a smile, cues to gender and ethnic group) to make social attributions congruent with this information (eg a nice person).\" \n\n In a social media age, the pictures we choose to represent ourselves online are a form of self-presentation driven by those social attributions and the knowledge that our pictures are being judged.", "The aforementioned study at Shanghai's Jiao Tong University, with its enthusiastic, data-driven analyses of such questions as \"What features of a human face betray its owner's propensity for crimes?\" prompted a wave of press coverage.\nThe vision outlined in these articles is of an unethical dystopia where neural networks can assess our faces and establish a likely score for criminality – but Todorov is scathing about this paper, too. \"The main problem is the sampling of the images,\" he says. \"There is not enough information about the [nature of] the images of the people who were convicted. Second, clearly, there are huge differences between the two samples [of convicts and non-convicts] [in terms of] education and socio-economic status.\"\nIn other words, your appearance is affected by the kind of life you've led, so the classifiers within the computer program are simply distinguishing between different demographics rather than detecting a propensity for criminal behaviour.", "A recent paper, published by Xiaolin Wu and Xi Zhang of Shanghai's Jiao Tong University, claims to be the first to use machine learning and neural networks to attempt a fully automated inference of criminality from facial images, removing prejudice from the equation and testing the validity of our gut feelings. \"What facial features influence the average Joe's impulsive and yet consensual judgments on social attributes?\" they ask. Through a study of 1,856 images (\"controlled for race, gender, age and facial expression\") they claim to have established the validity of \"automated, face-induced inference on criminality, despite the historical controversy surrounding this line of enquiry.\" \n\n In other words, they believe that they've found a relationship between looking like a criminal and actually being one.", "Experiments at Princeton found that we take less than one tenth of a second to form an opinion of strangers from their pictures, and those opinions tend to stand firm even if we're exposed to those pictures for a longer period of time. That tendency to judge instantly gives rise to a number of selfie tropes that are deemed to elicit positive responses, particularly when it comes to photos on dating profiles: certain angles, particular expressions, minute adjustments of eyebrows and lips that might appear to be about narcissism and vanity, but are more about a fear of being incorrectly assessed. After all, false suppositions based on people's faces are hugely influential within society, and in extreme cases they can have a huge impact on people's lives.", "This isn't to say that the use of big data, and particularly the use of composite imagery (digitally blending together certain types of faces) doesn't give us useful information and fascinating correlations. \"You can, for example, take a given face and use computer software to make it look more or less trustworthy,\" says Hancock. \"I remember a colleague playing with this and he made a less trustworthy version of George W Bush – and how shifty did he look! I'm surprised that they're not using these techniques in political advertising, because you couldn't tell that anything had been done [to the picture], but when you look at it you think 'I wouldn't trust him'.\"", "Todorov is also wary of these classifiers misidentifying more 'innocent' people than identifying actual criminals, and accuracy is a concern shared by Peter Hancock. \"Networks don't assess faces in the same way that we do,\" he says. \"One of our systems, which is a deep network, has a recognition engine which generates an ordered list of how similar various faces are. And sometimes you get good matches – but other times you look at them and say, well, it's the wrong race! To humans they look completely different. And that underlines the fact that the networks are working in a different sort of way, and actually you don't really know how they're working. They're the ultimate black box.\"" ], [ "Lavater's work was criticised for being ridden with bias (black faces rarely emerged well from his analyses) but he was right in one respect: \"Whether they are or are not sensible of it,\" he wrote, \"all men are daily influenced by physiognomy.\" \n\n Many studies have been done into our psychological response to faces, and it's clear that a so-called halo effect will inevitably work its magic. \"Attractive people are regarded as better at everything,\" says Professor Peter Hancock, lecturer in Psychology at Stirling University. \"And we can't shake that off because there's some truth to it. Good genes produce intelligent people, attractive faces, fit bodies, and we imagine that they're going to be good at everything else, too. We don't have good insight into our own behaviour. We tend to think we understand what we're doing, but we don't.\"", "It's a claim that's been made many times over the years. Physiognomy, the 'science' of judging people by their appearance, was first theorised by the ancient Greeks in around the 5th century BC. Aristotle's pronouncement that \"it is possible to infer character from features\" led to a number of works relating to 'Physiognomica', a word derived from\nphysis\n(nature),\nnomos\n(law) and (or)\ngnomon\n(judge or interpreter).", "Theories of physiognomy, however, would persist beyond the Renaissance. In 1586, Italian scholar Giambattista della Porta published a book, De humana physiognomonia libri IIII, which established him as the 'father of Physiognomy'. Della Porta's thinking was based on the 'doctrine of signatures'; the idea that the appearance of plants and animals offers clues to their nature. For example, as one writer of the time suggested, walnuts are good for curing headaches because they're shaped a bit like a human head. The theories in della Porta's book were supported by dozens of detailed illustrations which, by comparing human faces to those of animals, suggested that they must surely share similar character traits.", "When retired teacher Christopher Jefferies was held by police in connection with the murder of Joanna Yeates in Bristol back in 2010, more than half a dozen newspapers gave his unusual appearance particular scrutiny and made assumptions accordingly, which in turn influenced public opinion. This culminated in substantial damages for defamation, two convictions for contempt of court and a painful ordeal for Jefferies, who was entirely innocent. \n\n This kind of deep-seated bias looms large throughout physiognomic works of the 19th and 20th centuries, from absurdities such as Vaught's Practical Character Reader of 1902 (handy if you want to find out what a \"deceitful chin\" looks like) to more inherently troubling volumes such as Cesare Lombroso's Criminal Man.", "Data-driven studies, based upon huge quantities of facial data, would seem to offer the final word on this. Since 2005, computational models have used various techniques to test for links between social attributes and facial features, resulting in suggestions that our faces can betray, for example, political leanings, sexual orientation and criminality. One BBC Future article from 2015 even describes the 'discipline' of physiognomy as 'gaining credibility'. But Todorov details many problems with these studies, pointing out the challenging nature of doing such experiments with sufficient rigour – not least because different images of the same people can prompt wildly differing results.", "Hancock describes attending a conference where one speaker showed a series of black faces and white faces to students (who were mostly white) and asked them what they thought the experiment was about. \"They knew that he was trying to assess whether they would rate the black ones as more criminal,\" says Hancock. \"But then they did!\" \n\n We attribute social characteristics based on opinions we already hold about certain kinds of faces: whether they look unusual in some way, whether they resemble a partner, a family member or even ourselves, or perhaps have some other cultural association. Physiognomy ultimately stems from what Alexander Todorov, professor of psychology at Princeton University, calls an 'overgeneralisation hypothesis'. \"People,\" he wrote, \"use easily accessible facial information (eg an expression such as a smile, cues to gender and ethnic group) to make social attributions congruent with this information (eg a nice person).\" \n\n In a social media age, the pictures we choose to represent ourselves online are a form of self-presentation driven by those social attributions and the knowledge that our pictures are being judged.", "The only attributes that we're reasonably good at detecting, according to research done at the University of Michigan in the 1960s and later tested at the University of Stirling in 2007, are extroversion and conscientiousness. For other traits there's insufficient evidence that our hunches are correct, with anomalies explained by our evolved aversion to 'ugliness', established links between broader faces and powerful physiques, or cultural associations with certain demographics which are reinforced with nagging regularity by newspapers, books, television and film.", "The revitalisation of the theory of physiognomy by the Shanghai students is, according to Todorov, deeply problematic on a theoretical level. \"Are we back to Lombroso's theory,\" he asks, \"that criminals were anomalous creatures, evolutionary degenerates? How does one become criminal, and what role do various life forces play into this? There are people making claims that you just need to look at the face to predict personality and behaviour, but many of these people have not given much thought to their underlying assumptions.\"", "In a woeful misreading of Darwinian theory, Lombroso unwittingly founded the field of anthropological criminology, and more specifically the idea of the born criminal: a hereditary quality that posed a danger to society and must be rooted out. His theories became discredited during the 20th century, but the kind of bias displayed by Lombroso can still be found in legal systems across the world; studies show that people with stereotypically 'untrustworthy' faces tend to receive harsher treatment than those who don't. There's evidently some consensus over people's attitudes toward certain faces, but it doesn't follow that the consensus is correct.", "We know that paedophiles, murderers and other violent criminals come in many shapes and sizes. If we knew nothing about their criminal history, some of their photos might even appear attractive. But the idea that someone's features betray their character is something rooted deep within us; it's the reason why certain photos perform well on dating apps, or why trustworthy-looking politicians might rack up votes. But how wrong are our hunches of perceived criminality?", "In the 17th century, Swiss poet Johann Caspar Lavater took della Porta's methodology and ran with it, commissioning artists to illustrate his popular Essays On Physiognomy – which, to the chagrin of his contemporary, the writer Hannah More, sold for \"fifteen guineas a set… while in vain we boast that philosophy [has] broken down all the strongholds of prejudice, ignorance, and superstition.\"", "Experiments at Princeton found that we take less than one tenth of a second to form an opinion of strangers from their pictures, and those opinions tend to stand firm even if we're exposed to those pictures for a longer period of time. That tendency to judge instantly gives rise to a number of selfie tropes that are deemed to elicit positive responses, particularly when it comes to photos on dating profiles: certain angles, particular expressions, minute adjustments of eyebrows and lips that might appear to be about narcissism and vanity, but are more about a fear of being incorrectly assessed. After all, false suppositions based on people's faces are hugely influential within society, and in extreme cases they can have a huge impact on people's lives.", "All of Greek society, it was claimed, could benefit from this skill: it could assist with choosing an employee, a slave or a spouse, while its inherent vagueness made it intriguing to philosophers and useful for scientists who bent the theories to support their own beliefs. It became a recognised science in the Islamic world, and was used and taught in Europe throughout late antiquity and the early Middle Ages, despite nagging doubts among thinkers and physicians of the day. In the early 16th century, Leonardo da Vinci claimed not to \"concern myself with false physiognomy, because these chimeras have no scientific foundation.\"", "While it's true that we judge books by their covers, covers are more than just faces; we piece together all kinds of cues from people to form our impressions of them. Jimmy Savile's appearance was unusual by any standards, but we absorbed a great deal of information about him over the years that will have influenced our opinions – not least from the original Louis Theroux programme from 2000 that was reexamined in that recent BBC documentary. Savile's vague resemblance to the Child Catcher from the film Chitty Chitty Bang Bang is convenient but ultimately misleading, and the way it reinforces the idea of what a paedophile might 'look like' is unfortunate; not least because it helps to sustain a low-level belief in the 'science' of physiognomy, despite its tendency to crumble under the slightest cross examination.\nThis article was originally published on TheLong+Short. Read the original article.", "Face value\nWhen the BBC broadcast the recent documentary by Louis Theroux that looked back at the time he spent in the company of Jimmy Savile, there was disbelief across social media that no one had stepped in to stop Savile from committing his crimes. Some blamed the BBC, some blamed those in Savile's immediate circle, but others blamed a simple error of human judgment. \n\n \"He literally couldn't look more like a paedophile,\" read one post – one of many to state a supposedly incontrovertible truth: that Savile's criminal tendencies could have been detected from the shape of his features, his eyes, his hair. Moreover, this has nothing to do with the benefit of hindsight and should have been picked up at the time. His looks, they suggested, were a moral indicator, with a wealth of compelling visual evidence to support the claim.", "This isn't to say that the use of big data, and particularly the use of composite imagery (digitally blending together certain types of faces) doesn't give us useful information and fascinating correlations. \"You can, for example, take a given face and use computer software to make it look more or less trustworthy,\" says Hancock. \"I remember a colleague playing with this and he made a less trustworthy version of George W Bush – and how shifty did he look! I'm surprised that they're not using these techniques in political advertising, because you couldn't tell that anything had been done [to the picture], but when you look at it you think 'I wouldn't trust him'.\"", "After performing a number of autopsies on criminals, the Italian physician claimed to have discovered a number of common characteristics, and it's worth listing them if only to establish the supposed criminality of pretty much everyone you know:\nUnusually short or tall height; small head, but large face; fleshy lips, but thin upper lip; protuberances on head and around ear; wrinkles on forehead and face; large sinus cavities or bumpy face; tattoos; receding hairline; large incisors; bushy eyebrows, tending to meet across nose; large eye sockets but deep-set eyes; beaked or flat nose; strong jaw line; small and sloping forehead; small or weak chin; thin neck; sloping shoulders but large chest; large, protruding ears; long arms; high cheek bones; pointy or snubbed fingers or toes.", "The aforementioned study at Shanghai's Jiao Tong University, with its enthusiastic, data-driven analyses of such questions as \"What features of a human face betray its owner's propensity for crimes?\" prompted a wave of press coverage.\nThe vision outlined in these articles is of an unethical dystopia where neural networks can assess our faces and establish a likely score for criminality – but Todorov is scathing about this paper, too. \"The main problem is the sampling of the images,\" he says. \"There is not enough information about the [nature of] the images of the people who were convicted. Second, clearly, there are huge differences between the two samples [of convicts and non-convicts] [in terms of] education and socio-economic status.\"\nIn other words, your appearance is affected by the kind of life you've led, so the classifiers within the computer program are simply distinguishing between different demographics rather than detecting a propensity for criminal behaviour.", "A recent paper, published by Xiaolin Wu and Xi Zhang of Shanghai's Jiao Tong University, claims to be the first to use machine learning and neural networks to attempt a fully automated inference of criminality from facial images, removing prejudice from the equation and testing the validity of our gut feelings. \"What facial features influence the average Joe's impulsive and yet consensual judgments on social attributes?\" they ask. Through a study of 1,856 images (\"controlled for race, gender, age and facial expression\") they claim to have established the validity of \"automated, face-induced inference on criminality, despite the historical controversy surrounding this line of enquiry.\" \n\n In other words, they believe that they've found a relationship between looking like a criminal and actually being one.", "Todorov is also wary of these classifiers misidentifying more 'innocent' people than identifying actual criminals, and accuracy is a concern shared by Peter Hancock. \"Networks don't assess faces in the same way that we do,\" he says. \"One of our systems, which is a deep network, has a recognition engine which generates an ordered list of how similar various faces are. And sometimes you get good matches – but other times you look at them and say, well, it's the wrong race! To humans they look completely different. And that underlines the fact that the networks are working in a different sort of way, and actually you don't really know how they're working. They're the ultimate black box.\"" ], [ "Hancock describes attending a conference where one speaker showed a series of black faces and white faces to students (who were mostly white) and asked them what they thought the experiment was about. \"They knew that he was trying to assess whether they would rate the black ones as more criminal,\" says Hancock. \"But then they did!\" \n\n We attribute social characteristics based on opinions we already hold about certain kinds of faces: whether they look unusual in some way, whether they resemble a partner, a family member or even ourselves, or perhaps have some other cultural association. Physiognomy ultimately stems from what Alexander Todorov, professor of psychology at Princeton University, calls an 'overgeneralisation hypothesis'. \"People,\" he wrote, \"use easily accessible facial information (eg an expression such as a smile, cues to gender and ethnic group) to make social attributions congruent with this information (eg a nice person).\" \n\n In a social media age, the pictures we choose to represent ourselves online are a form of self-presentation driven by those social attributions and the knowledge that our pictures are being judged.", "Experiments at Princeton found that we take less than one tenth of a second to form an opinion of strangers from their pictures, and those opinions tend to stand firm even if we're exposed to those pictures for a longer period of time. That tendency to judge instantly gives rise to a number of selfie tropes that are deemed to elicit positive responses, particularly when it comes to photos on dating profiles: certain angles, particular expressions, minute adjustments of eyebrows and lips that might appear to be about narcissism and vanity, but are more about a fear of being incorrectly assessed. After all, false suppositions based on people's faces are hugely influential within society, and in extreme cases they can have a huge impact on people's lives.", "Lavater's work was criticised for being ridden with bias (black faces rarely emerged well from his analyses) but he was right in one respect: \"Whether they are or are not sensible of it,\" he wrote, \"all men are daily influenced by physiognomy.\" \n\n Many studies have been done into our psychological response to faces, and it's clear that a so-called halo effect will inevitably work its magic. \"Attractive people are regarded as better at everything,\" says Professor Peter Hancock, lecturer in Psychology at Stirling University. \"And we can't shake that off because there's some truth to it. Good genes produce intelligent people, attractive faces, fit bodies, and we imagine that they're going to be good at everything else, too. We don't have good insight into our own behaviour. We tend to think we understand what we're doing, but we don't.\"", "Data-driven studies, based upon huge quantities of facial data, would seem to offer the final word on this. Since 2005, computational models have used various techniques to test for links between social attributes and facial features, resulting in suggestions that our faces can betray, for example, political leanings, sexual orientation and criminality. One BBC Future article from 2015 even describes the 'discipline' of physiognomy as 'gaining credibility'. But Todorov details many problems with these studies, pointing out the challenging nature of doing such experiments with sufficient rigour – not least because different images of the same people can prompt wildly differing results.", "Face value\nWhen the BBC broadcast the recent documentary by Louis Theroux that looked back at the time he spent in the company of Jimmy Savile, there was disbelief across social media that no one had stepped in to stop Savile from committing his crimes. Some blamed the BBC, some blamed those in Savile's immediate circle, but others blamed a simple error of human judgment. \n\n \"He literally couldn't look more like a paedophile,\" read one post – one of many to state a supposedly incontrovertible truth: that Savile's criminal tendencies could have been detected from the shape of his features, his eyes, his hair. Moreover, this has nothing to do with the benefit of hindsight and should have been picked up at the time. His looks, they suggested, were a moral indicator, with a wealth of compelling visual evidence to support the claim.", "The aforementioned study at Shanghai's Jiao Tong University, with its enthusiastic, data-driven analyses of such questions as \"What features of a human face betray its owner's propensity for crimes?\" prompted a wave of press coverage.\nThe vision outlined in these articles is of an unethical dystopia where neural networks can assess our faces and establish a likely score for criminality – but Todorov is scathing about this paper, too. \"The main problem is the sampling of the images,\" he says. \"There is not enough information about the [nature of] the images of the people who were convicted. Second, clearly, there are huge differences between the two samples [of convicts and non-convicts] [in terms of] education and socio-economic status.\"\nIn other words, your appearance is affected by the kind of life you've led, so the classifiers within the computer program are simply distinguishing between different demographics rather than detecting a propensity for criminal behaviour.", "This isn't to say that the use of big data, and particularly the use of composite imagery (digitally blending together certain types of faces) doesn't give us useful information and fascinating correlations. \"You can, for example, take a given face and use computer software to make it look more or less trustworthy,\" says Hancock. \"I remember a colleague playing with this and he made a less trustworthy version of George W Bush – and how shifty did he look! I'm surprised that they're not using these techniques in political advertising, because you couldn't tell that anything had been done [to the picture], but when you look at it you think 'I wouldn't trust him'.\"", "Todorov is also wary of these classifiers misidentifying more 'innocent' people than identifying actual criminals, and accuracy is a concern shared by Peter Hancock. \"Networks don't assess faces in the same way that we do,\" he says. \"One of our systems, which is a deep network, has a recognition engine which generates an ordered list of how similar various faces are. And sometimes you get good matches – but other times you look at them and say, well, it's the wrong race! To humans they look completely different. And that underlines the fact that the networks are working in a different sort of way, and actually you don't really know how they're working. They're the ultimate black box.\"", "While it's true that we judge books by their covers, covers are more than just faces; we piece together all kinds of cues from people to form our impressions of them. Jimmy Savile's appearance was unusual by any standards, but we absorbed a great deal of information about him over the years that will have influenced our opinions – not least from the original Louis Theroux programme from 2000 that was reexamined in that recent BBC documentary. Savile's vague resemblance to the Child Catcher from the film Chitty Chitty Bang Bang is convenient but ultimately misleading, and the way it reinforces the idea of what a paedophile might 'look like' is unfortunate; not least because it helps to sustain a low-level belief in the 'science' of physiognomy, despite its tendency to crumble under the slightest cross examination.\nThis article was originally published on TheLong+Short. Read the original article.", "The only attributes that we're reasonably good at detecting, according to research done at the University of Michigan in the 1960s and later tested at the University of Stirling in 2007, are extroversion and conscientiousness. For other traits there's insufficient evidence that our hunches are correct, with anomalies explained by our evolved aversion to 'ugliness', established links between broader faces and powerful physiques, or cultural associations with certain demographics which are reinforced with nagging regularity by newspapers, books, television and film.", "Theories of physiognomy, however, would persist beyond the Renaissance. In 1586, Italian scholar Giambattista della Porta published a book, De humana physiognomonia libri IIII, which established him as the 'father of Physiognomy'. Della Porta's thinking was based on the 'doctrine of signatures'; the idea that the appearance of plants and animals offers clues to their nature. For example, as one writer of the time suggested, walnuts are good for curing headaches because they're shaped a bit like a human head. The theories in della Porta's book were supported by dozens of detailed illustrations which, by comparing human faces to those of animals, suggested that they must surely share similar character traits.", "In the 17th century, Swiss poet Johann Caspar Lavater took della Porta's methodology and ran with it, commissioning artists to illustrate his popular Essays On Physiognomy – which, to the chagrin of his contemporary, the writer Hannah More, sold for \"fifteen guineas a set… while in vain we boast that philosophy [has] broken down all the strongholds of prejudice, ignorance, and superstition.\"", "A recent paper, published by Xiaolin Wu and Xi Zhang of Shanghai's Jiao Tong University, claims to be the first to use machine learning and neural networks to attempt a fully automated inference of criminality from facial images, removing prejudice from the equation and testing the validity of our gut feelings. \"What facial features influence the average Joe's impulsive and yet consensual judgments on social attributes?\" they ask. Through a study of 1,856 images (\"controlled for race, gender, age and facial expression\") they claim to have established the validity of \"automated, face-induced inference on criminality, despite the historical controversy surrounding this line of enquiry.\" \n\n In other words, they believe that they've found a relationship between looking like a criminal and actually being one.", "When retired teacher Christopher Jefferies was held by police in connection with the murder of Joanna Yeates in Bristol back in 2010, more than half a dozen newspapers gave his unusual appearance particular scrutiny and made assumptions accordingly, which in turn influenced public opinion. This culminated in substantial damages for defamation, two convictions for contempt of court and a painful ordeal for Jefferies, who was entirely innocent. \n\n This kind of deep-seated bias looms large throughout physiognomic works of the 19th and 20th centuries, from absurdities such as Vaught's Practical Character Reader of 1902 (handy if you want to find out what a \"deceitful chin\" looks like) to more inherently troubling volumes such as Cesare Lombroso's Criminal Man.", "We know that paedophiles, murderers and other violent criminals come in many shapes and sizes. If we knew nothing about their criminal history, some of their photos might even appear attractive. But the idea that someone's features betray their character is something rooted deep within us; it's the reason why certain photos perform well on dating apps, or why trustworthy-looking politicians might rack up votes. But how wrong are our hunches of perceived criminality?", "The revitalisation of the theory of physiognomy by the Shanghai students is, according to Todorov, deeply problematic on a theoretical level. \"Are we back to Lombroso's theory,\" he asks, \"that criminals were anomalous creatures, evolutionary degenerates? How does one become criminal, and what role do various life forces play into this? There are people making claims that you just need to look at the face to predict personality and behaviour, but many of these people have not given much thought to their underlying assumptions.\"", "In a woeful misreading of Darwinian theory, Lombroso unwittingly founded the field of anthropological criminology, and more specifically the idea of the born criminal: a hereditary quality that posed a danger to society and must be rooted out. His theories became discredited during the 20th century, but the kind of bias displayed by Lombroso can still be found in legal systems across the world; studies show that people with stereotypically 'untrustworthy' faces tend to receive harsher treatment than those who don't. There's evidently some consensus over people's attitudes toward certain faces, but it doesn't follow that the consensus is correct.", "It's a claim that's been made many times over the years. Physiognomy, the 'science' of judging people by their appearance, was first theorised by the ancient Greeks in around the 5th century BC. Aristotle's pronouncement that \"it is possible to infer character from features\" led to a number of works relating to 'Physiognomica', a word derived from\nphysis\n(nature),\nnomos\n(law) and (or)\ngnomon\n(judge or interpreter).", "After performing a number of autopsies on criminals, the Italian physician claimed to have discovered a number of common characteristics, and it's worth listing them if only to establish the supposed criminality of pretty much everyone you know:\nUnusually short or tall height; small head, but large face; fleshy lips, but thin upper lip; protuberances on head and around ear; wrinkles on forehead and face; large sinus cavities or bumpy face; tattoos; receding hairline; large incisors; bushy eyebrows, tending to meet across nose; large eye sockets but deep-set eyes; beaked or flat nose; strong jaw line; small and sloping forehead; small or weak chin; thin neck; sloping shoulders but large chest; large, protruding ears; long arms; high cheek bones; pointy or snubbed fingers or toes.", "All of Greek society, it was claimed, could benefit from this skill: it could assist with choosing an employee, a slave or a spouse, while its inherent vagueness made it intriguing to philosophers and useful for scientists who bent the theories to support their own beliefs. It became a recognised science in the Islamic world, and was used and taught in Europe throughout late antiquity and the early Middle Ages, despite nagging doubts among thinkers and physicians of the day. In the early 16th century, Leonardo da Vinci claimed not to \"concern myself with false physiognomy, because these chimeras have no scientific foundation.\"" ], [ "Hancock describes attending a conference where one speaker showed a series of black faces and white faces to students (who were mostly white) and asked them what they thought the experiment was about. \"They knew that he was trying to assess whether they would rate the black ones as more criminal,\" says Hancock. \"But then they did!\" \n\n We attribute social characteristics based on opinions we already hold about certain kinds of faces: whether they look unusual in some way, whether they resemble a partner, a family member or even ourselves, or perhaps have some other cultural association. Physiognomy ultimately stems from what Alexander Todorov, professor of psychology at Princeton University, calls an 'overgeneralisation hypothesis'. \"People,\" he wrote, \"use easily accessible facial information (eg an expression such as a smile, cues to gender and ethnic group) to make social attributions congruent with this information (eg a nice person).\" \n\n In a social media age, the pictures we choose to represent ourselves online are a form of self-presentation driven by those social attributions and the knowledge that our pictures are being judged.", "When retired teacher Christopher Jefferies was held by police in connection with the murder of Joanna Yeates in Bristol back in 2010, more than half a dozen newspapers gave his unusual appearance particular scrutiny and made assumptions accordingly, which in turn influenced public opinion. This culminated in substantial damages for defamation, two convictions for contempt of court and a painful ordeal for Jefferies, who was entirely innocent. \n\n This kind of deep-seated bias looms large throughout physiognomic works of the 19th and 20th centuries, from absurdities such as Vaught's Practical Character Reader of 1902 (handy if you want to find out what a \"deceitful chin\" looks like) to more inherently troubling volumes such as Cesare Lombroso's Criminal Man.", "In a woeful misreading of Darwinian theory, Lombroso unwittingly founded the field of anthropological criminology, and more specifically the idea of the born criminal: a hereditary quality that posed a danger to society and must be rooted out. His theories became discredited during the 20th century, but the kind of bias displayed by Lombroso can still be found in legal systems across the world; studies show that people with stereotypically 'untrustworthy' faces tend to receive harsher treatment than those who don't. There's evidently some consensus over people's attitudes toward certain faces, but it doesn't follow that the consensus is correct.", "We know that paedophiles, murderers and other violent criminals come in many shapes and sizes. If we knew nothing about their criminal history, some of their photos might even appear attractive. But the idea that someone's features betray their character is something rooted deep within us; it's the reason why certain photos perform well on dating apps, or why trustworthy-looking politicians might rack up votes. But how wrong are our hunches of perceived criminality?", "This isn't to say that the use of big data, and particularly the use of composite imagery (digitally blending together certain types of faces) doesn't give us useful information and fascinating correlations. \"You can, for example, take a given face and use computer software to make it look more or less trustworthy,\" says Hancock. \"I remember a colleague playing with this and he made a less trustworthy version of George W Bush – and how shifty did he look! I'm surprised that they're not using these techniques in political advertising, because you couldn't tell that anything had been done [to the picture], but when you look at it you think 'I wouldn't trust him'.\"", "Experiments at Princeton found that we take less than one tenth of a second to form an opinion of strangers from their pictures, and those opinions tend to stand firm even if we're exposed to those pictures for a longer period of time. That tendency to judge instantly gives rise to a number of selfie tropes that are deemed to elicit positive responses, particularly when it comes to photos on dating profiles: certain angles, particular expressions, minute adjustments of eyebrows and lips that might appear to be about narcissism and vanity, but are more about a fear of being incorrectly assessed. After all, false suppositions based on people's faces are hugely influential within society, and in extreme cases they can have a huge impact on people's lives.", "Todorov is also wary of these classifiers misidentifying more 'innocent' people than identifying actual criminals, and accuracy is a concern shared by Peter Hancock. \"Networks don't assess faces in the same way that we do,\" he says. \"One of our systems, which is a deep network, has a recognition engine which generates an ordered list of how similar various faces are. And sometimes you get good matches – but other times you look at them and say, well, it's the wrong race! To humans they look completely different. And that underlines the fact that the networks are working in a different sort of way, and actually you don't really know how they're working. They're the ultimate black box.\"", "Face value\nWhen the BBC broadcast the recent documentary by Louis Theroux that looked back at the time he spent in the company of Jimmy Savile, there was disbelief across social media that no one had stepped in to stop Savile from committing his crimes. Some blamed the BBC, some blamed those in Savile's immediate circle, but others blamed a simple error of human judgment. \n\n \"He literally couldn't look more like a paedophile,\" read one post – one of many to state a supposedly incontrovertible truth: that Savile's criminal tendencies could have been detected from the shape of his features, his eyes, his hair. Moreover, this has nothing to do with the benefit of hindsight and should have been picked up at the time. His looks, they suggested, were a moral indicator, with a wealth of compelling visual evidence to support the claim.", "It's a claim that's been made many times over the years. Physiognomy, the 'science' of judging people by their appearance, was first theorised by the ancient Greeks in around the 5th century BC. Aristotle's pronouncement that \"it is possible to infer character from features\" led to a number of works relating to 'Physiognomica', a word derived from\nphysis\n(nature),\nnomos\n(law) and (or)\ngnomon\n(judge or interpreter).", "Data-driven studies, based upon huge quantities of facial data, would seem to offer the final word on this. Since 2005, computational models have used various techniques to test for links between social attributes and facial features, resulting in suggestions that our faces can betray, for example, political leanings, sexual orientation and criminality. One BBC Future article from 2015 even describes the 'discipline' of physiognomy as 'gaining credibility'. But Todorov details many problems with these studies, pointing out the challenging nature of doing such experiments with sufficient rigour – not least because different images of the same people can prompt wildly differing results.", "The aforementioned study at Shanghai's Jiao Tong University, with its enthusiastic, data-driven analyses of such questions as \"What features of a human face betray its owner's propensity for crimes?\" prompted a wave of press coverage.\nThe vision outlined in these articles is of an unethical dystopia where neural networks can assess our faces and establish a likely score for criminality – but Todorov is scathing about this paper, too. \"The main problem is the sampling of the images,\" he says. \"There is not enough information about the [nature of] the images of the people who were convicted. Second, clearly, there are huge differences between the two samples [of convicts and non-convicts] [in terms of] education and socio-economic status.\"\nIn other words, your appearance is affected by the kind of life you've led, so the classifiers within the computer program are simply distinguishing between different demographics rather than detecting a propensity for criminal behaviour.", "A recent paper, published by Xiaolin Wu and Xi Zhang of Shanghai's Jiao Tong University, claims to be the first to use machine learning and neural networks to attempt a fully automated inference of criminality from facial images, removing prejudice from the equation and testing the validity of our gut feelings. \"What facial features influence the average Joe's impulsive and yet consensual judgments on social attributes?\" they ask. Through a study of 1,856 images (\"controlled for race, gender, age and facial expression\") they claim to have established the validity of \"automated, face-induced inference on criminality, despite the historical controversy surrounding this line of enquiry.\" \n\n In other words, they believe that they've found a relationship between looking like a criminal and actually being one.", "In the 17th century, Swiss poet Johann Caspar Lavater took della Porta's methodology and ran with it, commissioning artists to illustrate his popular Essays On Physiognomy – which, to the chagrin of his contemporary, the writer Hannah More, sold for \"fifteen guineas a set… while in vain we boast that philosophy [has] broken down all the strongholds of prejudice, ignorance, and superstition.\"", "While it's true that we judge books by their covers, covers are more than just faces; we piece together all kinds of cues from people to form our impressions of them. Jimmy Savile's appearance was unusual by any standards, but we absorbed a great deal of information about him over the years that will have influenced our opinions – not least from the original Louis Theroux programme from 2000 that was reexamined in that recent BBC documentary. Savile's vague resemblance to the Child Catcher from the film Chitty Chitty Bang Bang is convenient but ultimately misleading, and the way it reinforces the idea of what a paedophile might 'look like' is unfortunate; not least because it helps to sustain a low-level belief in the 'science' of physiognomy, despite its tendency to crumble under the slightest cross examination.\nThis article was originally published on TheLong+Short. Read the original article.", "The revitalisation of the theory of physiognomy by the Shanghai students is, according to Todorov, deeply problematic on a theoretical level. \"Are we back to Lombroso's theory,\" he asks, \"that criminals were anomalous creatures, evolutionary degenerates? How does one become criminal, and what role do various life forces play into this? There are people making claims that you just need to look at the face to predict personality and behaviour, but many of these people have not given much thought to their underlying assumptions.\"", "Lavater's work was criticised for being ridden with bias (black faces rarely emerged well from his analyses) but he was right in one respect: \"Whether they are or are not sensible of it,\" he wrote, \"all men are daily influenced by physiognomy.\" \n\n Many studies have been done into our psychological response to faces, and it's clear that a so-called halo effect will inevitably work its magic. \"Attractive people are regarded as better at everything,\" says Professor Peter Hancock, lecturer in Psychology at Stirling University. \"And we can't shake that off because there's some truth to it. Good genes produce intelligent people, attractive faces, fit bodies, and we imagine that they're going to be good at everything else, too. We don't have good insight into our own behaviour. We tend to think we understand what we're doing, but we don't.\"", "Theories of physiognomy, however, would persist beyond the Renaissance. In 1586, Italian scholar Giambattista della Porta published a book, De humana physiognomonia libri IIII, which established him as the 'father of Physiognomy'. Della Porta's thinking was based on the 'doctrine of signatures'; the idea that the appearance of plants and animals offers clues to their nature. For example, as one writer of the time suggested, walnuts are good for curing headaches because they're shaped a bit like a human head. The theories in della Porta's book were supported by dozens of detailed illustrations which, by comparing human faces to those of animals, suggested that they must surely share similar character traits.", "All of Greek society, it was claimed, could benefit from this skill: it could assist with choosing an employee, a slave or a spouse, while its inherent vagueness made it intriguing to philosophers and useful for scientists who bent the theories to support their own beliefs. It became a recognised science in the Islamic world, and was used and taught in Europe throughout late antiquity and the early Middle Ages, despite nagging doubts among thinkers and physicians of the day. In the early 16th century, Leonardo da Vinci claimed not to \"concern myself with false physiognomy, because these chimeras have no scientific foundation.\"", "The only attributes that we're reasonably good at detecting, according to research done at the University of Michigan in the 1960s and later tested at the University of Stirling in 2007, are extroversion and conscientiousness. For other traits there's insufficient evidence that our hunches are correct, with anomalies explained by our evolved aversion to 'ugliness', established links between broader faces and powerful physiques, or cultural associations with certain demographics which are reinforced with nagging regularity by newspapers, books, television and film.", "After performing a number of autopsies on criminals, the Italian physician claimed to have discovered a number of common characteristics, and it's worth listing them if only to establish the supposed criminality of pretty much everyone you know:\nUnusually short or tall height; small head, but large face; fleshy lips, but thin upper lip; protuberances on head and around ear; wrinkles on forehead and face; large sinus cavities or bumpy face; tattoos; receding hairline; large incisors; bushy eyebrows, tending to meet across nose; large eye sockets but deep-set eyes; beaked or flat nose; strong jaw line; small and sloping forehead; small or weak chin; thin neck; sloping shoulders but large chest; large, protruding ears; long arms; high cheek bones; pointy or snubbed fingers or toes." ], [ "In a woeful misreading of Darwinian theory, Lombroso unwittingly founded the field of anthropological criminology, and more specifically the idea of the born criminal: a hereditary quality that posed a danger to society and must be rooted out. His theories became discredited during the 20th century, but the kind of bias displayed by Lombroso can still be found in legal systems across the world; studies show that people with stereotypically 'untrustworthy' faces tend to receive harsher treatment than those who don't. There's evidently some consensus over people's attitudes toward certain faces, but it doesn't follow that the consensus is correct.", "When retired teacher Christopher Jefferies was held by police in connection with the murder of Joanna Yeates in Bristol back in 2010, more than half a dozen newspapers gave his unusual appearance particular scrutiny and made assumptions accordingly, which in turn influenced public opinion. This culminated in substantial damages for defamation, two convictions for contempt of court and a painful ordeal for Jefferies, who was entirely innocent. \n\n This kind of deep-seated bias looms large throughout physiognomic works of the 19th and 20th centuries, from absurdities such as Vaught's Practical Character Reader of 1902 (handy if you want to find out what a \"deceitful chin\" looks like) to more inherently troubling volumes such as Cesare Lombroso's Criminal Man.", "Todorov is also wary of these classifiers misidentifying more 'innocent' people than identifying actual criminals, and accuracy is a concern shared by Peter Hancock. \"Networks don't assess faces in the same way that we do,\" he says. \"One of our systems, which is a deep network, has a recognition engine which generates an ordered list of how similar various faces are. And sometimes you get good matches – but other times you look at them and say, well, it's the wrong race! To humans they look completely different. And that underlines the fact that the networks are working in a different sort of way, and actually you don't really know how they're working. They're the ultimate black box.\"", "After performing a number of autopsies on criminals, the Italian physician claimed to have discovered a number of common characteristics, and it's worth listing them if only to establish the supposed criminality of pretty much everyone you know:\nUnusually short or tall height; small head, but large face; fleshy lips, but thin upper lip; protuberances on head and around ear; wrinkles on forehead and face; large sinus cavities or bumpy face; tattoos; receding hairline; large incisors; bushy eyebrows, tending to meet across nose; large eye sockets but deep-set eyes; beaked or flat nose; strong jaw line; small and sloping forehead; small or weak chin; thin neck; sloping shoulders but large chest; large, protruding ears; long arms; high cheek bones; pointy or snubbed fingers or toes.", "A recent paper, published by Xiaolin Wu and Xi Zhang of Shanghai's Jiao Tong University, claims to be the first to use machine learning and neural networks to attempt a fully automated inference of criminality from facial images, removing prejudice from the equation and testing the validity of our gut feelings. \"What facial features influence the average Joe's impulsive and yet consensual judgments on social attributes?\" they ask. Through a study of 1,856 images (\"controlled for race, gender, age and facial expression\") they claim to have established the validity of \"automated, face-induced inference on criminality, despite the historical controversy surrounding this line of enquiry.\" \n\n In other words, they believe that they've found a relationship between looking like a criminal and actually being one.", "We know that paedophiles, murderers and other violent criminals come in many shapes and sizes. If we knew nothing about their criminal history, some of their photos might even appear attractive. But the idea that someone's features betray their character is something rooted deep within us; it's the reason why certain photos perform well on dating apps, or why trustworthy-looking politicians might rack up votes. But how wrong are our hunches of perceived criminality?", "It's a claim that's been made many times over the years. Physiognomy, the 'science' of judging people by their appearance, was first theorised by the ancient Greeks in around the 5th century BC. Aristotle's pronouncement that \"it is possible to infer character from features\" led to a number of works relating to 'Physiognomica', a word derived from\nphysis\n(nature),\nnomos\n(law) and (or)\ngnomon\n(judge or interpreter).", "The revitalisation of the theory of physiognomy by the Shanghai students is, according to Todorov, deeply problematic on a theoretical level. \"Are we back to Lombroso's theory,\" he asks, \"that criminals were anomalous creatures, evolutionary degenerates? How does one become criminal, and what role do various life forces play into this? There are people making claims that you just need to look at the face to predict personality and behaviour, but many of these people have not given much thought to their underlying assumptions.\"", "The aforementioned study at Shanghai's Jiao Tong University, with its enthusiastic, data-driven analyses of such questions as \"What features of a human face betray its owner's propensity for crimes?\" prompted a wave of press coverage.\nThe vision outlined in these articles is of an unethical dystopia where neural networks can assess our faces and establish a likely score for criminality – but Todorov is scathing about this paper, too. \"The main problem is the sampling of the images,\" he says. \"There is not enough information about the [nature of] the images of the people who were convicted. Second, clearly, there are huge differences between the two samples [of convicts and non-convicts] [in terms of] education and socio-economic status.\"\nIn other words, your appearance is affected by the kind of life you've led, so the classifiers within the computer program are simply distinguishing between different demographics rather than detecting a propensity for criminal behaviour.", "Lavater's work was criticised for being ridden with bias (black faces rarely emerged well from his analyses) but he was right in one respect: \"Whether they are or are not sensible of it,\" he wrote, \"all men are daily influenced by physiognomy.\" \n\n Many studies have been done into our psychological response to faces, and it's clear that a so-called halo effect will inevitably work its magic. \"Attractive people are regarded as better at everything,\" says Professor Peter Hancock, lecturer in Psychology at Stirling University. \"And we can't shake that off because there's some truth to it. Good genes produce intelligent people, attractive faces, fit bodies, and we imagine that they're going to be good at everything else, too. We don't have good insight into our own behaviour. We tend to think we understand what we're doing, but we don't.\"", "Face value\nWhen the BBC broadcast the recent documentary by Louis Theroux that looked back at the time he spent in the company of Jimmy Savile, there was disbelief across social media that no one had stepped in to stop Savile from committing his crimes. Some blamed the BBC, some blamed those in Savile's immediate circle, but others blamed a simple error of human judgment. \n\n \"He literally couldn't look more like a paedophile,\" read one post – one of many to state a supposedly incontrovertible truth: that Savile's criminal tendencies could have been detected from the shape of his features, his eyes, his hair. Moreover, this has nothing to do with the benefit of hindsight and should have been picked up at the time. His looks, they suggested, were a moral indicator, with a wealth of compelling visual evidence to support the claim.", "Hancock describes attending a conference where one speaker showed a series of black faces and white faces to students (who were mostly white) and asked them what they thought the experiment was about. \"They knew that he was trying to assess whether they would rate the black ones as more criminal,\" says Hancock. \"But then they did!\" \n\n We attribute social characteristics based on opinions we already hold about certain kinds of faces: whether they look unusual in some way, whether they resemble a partner, a family member or even ourselves, or perhaps have some other cultural association. Physiognomy ultimately stems from what Alexander Todorov, professor of psychology at Princeton University, calls an 'overgeneralisation hypothesis'. \"People,\" he wrote, \"use easily accessible facial information (eg an expression such as a smile, cues to gender and ethnic group) to make social attributions congruent with this information (eg a nice person).\" \n\n In a social media age, the pictures we choose to represent ourselves online are a form of self-presentation driven by those social attributions and the knowledge that our pictures are being judged.", "Data-driven studies, based upon huge quantities of facial data, would seem to offer the final word on this. Since 2005, computational models have used various techniques to test for links between social attributes and facial features, resulting in suggestions that our faces can betray, for example, political leanings, sexual orientation and criminality. One BBC Future article from 2015 even describes the 'discipline' of physiognomy as 'gaining credibility'. But Todorov details many problems with these studies, pointing out the challenging nature of doing such experiments with sufficient rigour – not least because different images of the same people can prompt wildly differing results.", "In the 17th century, Swiss poet Johann Caspar Lavater took della Porta's methodology and ran with it, commissioning artists to illustrate his popular Essays On Physiognomy – which, to the chagrin of his contemporary, the writer Hannah More, sold for \"fifteen guineas a set… while in vain we boast that philosophy [has] broken down all the strongholds of prejudice, ignorance, and superstition.\"", "The only attributes that we're reasonably good at detecting, according to research done at the University of Michigan in the 1960s and later tested at the University of Stirling in 2007, are extroversion and conscientiousness. For other traits there's insufficient evidence that our hunches are correct, with anomalies explained by our evolved aversion to 'ugliness', established links between broader faces and powerful physiques, or cultural associations with certain demographics which are reinforced with nagging regularity by newspapers, books, television and film.", "While it's true that we judge books by their covers, covers are more than just faces; we piece together all kinds of cues from people to form our impressions of them. Jimmy Savile's appearance was unusual by any standards, but we absorbed a great deal of information about him over the years that will have influenced our opinions – not least from the original Louis Theroux programme from 2000 that was reexamined in that recent BBC documentary. Savile's vague resemblance to the Child Catcher from the film Chitty Chitty Bang Bang is convenient but ultimately misleading, and the way it reinforces the idea of what a paedophile might 'look like' is unfortunate; not least because it helps to sustain a low-level belief in the 'science' of physiognomy, despite its tendency to crumble under the slightest cross examination.\nThis article was originally published on TheLong+Short. Read the original article.", "Experiments at Princeton found that we take less than one tenth of a second to form an opinion of strangers from their pictures, and those opinions tend to stand firm even if we're exposed to those pictures for a longer period of time. That tendency to judge instantly gives rise to a number of selfie tropes that are deemed to elicit positive responses, particularly when it comes to photos on dating profiles: certain angles, particular expressions, minute adjustments of eyebrows and lips that might appear to be about narcissism and vanity, but are more about a fear of being incorrectly assessed. After all, false suppositions based on people's faces are hugely influential within society, and in extreme cases they can have a huge impact on people's lives.", "Theories of physiognomy, however, would persist beyond the Renaissance. In 1586, Italian scholar Giambattista della Porta published a book, De humana physiognomonia libri IIII, which established him as the 'father of Physiognomy'. Della Porta's thinking was based on the 'doctrine of signatures'; the idea that the appearance of plants and animals offers clues to their nature. For example, as one writer of the time suggested, walnuts are good for curing headaches because they're shaped a bit like a human head. The theories in della Porta's book were supported by dozens of detailed illustrations which, by comparing human faces to those of animals, suggested that they must surely share similar character traits.", "All of Greek society, it was claimed, could benefit from this skill: it could assist with choosing an employee, a slave or a spouse, while its inherent vagueness made it intriguing to philosophers and useful for scientists who bent the theories to support their own beliefs. It became a recognised science in the Islamic world, and was used and taught in Europe throughout late antiquity and the early Middle Ages, despite nagging doubts among thinkers and physicians of the day. In the early 16th century, Leonardo da Vinci claimed not to \"concern myself with false physiognomy, because these chimeras have no scientific foundation.\"", "This isn't to say that the use of big data, and particularly the use of composite imagery (digitally blending together certain types of faces) doesn't give us useful information and fascinating correlations. \"You can, for example, take a given face and use computer software to make it look more or less trustworthy,\" says Hancock. \"I remember a colleague playing with this and he made a less trustworthy version of George W Bush – and how shifty did he look! I'm surprised that they're not using these techniques in political advertising, because you couldn't tell that anything had been done [to the picture], but when you look at it you think 'I wouldn't trust him'.\"" ], [ "In a woeful misreading of Darwinian theory, Lombroso unwittingly founded the field of anthropological criminology, and more specifically the idea of the born criminal: a hereditary quality that posed a danger to society and must be rooted out. His theories became discredited during the 20th century, but the kind of bias displayed by Lombroso can still be found in legal systems across the world; studies show that people with stereotypically 'untrustworthy' faces tend to receive harsher treatment than those who don't. There's evidently some consensus over people's attitudes toward certain faces, but it doesn't follow that the consensus is correct.", "We know that paedophiles, murderers and other violent criminals come in many shapes and sizes. If we knew nothing about their criminal history, some of their photos might even appear attractive. But the idea that someone's features betray their character is something rooted deep within us; it's the reason why certain photos perform well on dating apps, or why trustworthy-looking politicians might rack up votes. But how wrong are our hunches of perceived criminality?", "It's a claim that's been made many times over the years. Physiognomy, the 'science' of judging people by their appearance, was first theorised by the ancient Greeks in around the 5th century BC. Aristotle's pronouncement that \"it is possible to infer character from features\" led to a number of works relating to 'Physiognomica', a word derived from\nphysis\n(nature),\nnomos\n(law) and (or)\ngnomon\n(judge or interpreter).", "A recent paper, published by Xiaolin Wu and Xi Zhang of Shanghai's Jiao Tong University, claims to be the first to use machine learning and neural networks to attempt a fully automated inference of criminality from facial images, removing prejudice from the equation and testing the validity of our gut feelings. \"What facial features influence the average Joe's impulsive and yet consensual judgments on social attributes?\" they ask. Through a study of 1,856 images (\"controlled for race, gender, age and facial expression\") they claim to have established the validity of \"automated, face-induced inference on criminality, despite the historical controversy surrounding this line of enquiry.\" \n\n In other words, they believe that they've found a relationship between looking like a criminal and actually being one.", "Face value\nWhen the BBC broadcast the recent documentary by Louis Theroux that looked back at the time he spent in the company of Jimmy Savile, there was disbelief across social media that no one had stepped in to stop Savile from committing his crimes. Some blamed the BBC, some blamed those in Savile's immediate circle, but others blamed a simple error of human judgment. \n\n \"He literally couldn't look more like a paedophile,\" read one post – one of many to state a supposedly incontrovertible truth: that Savile's criminal tendencies could have been detected from the shape of his features, his eyes, his hair. Moreover, this has nothing to do with the benefit of hindsight and should have been picked up at the time. His looks, they suggested, were a moral indicator, with a wealth of compelling visual evidence to support the claim.", "The aforementioned study at Shanghai's Jiao Tong University, with its enthusiastic, data-driven analyses of such questions as \"What features of a human face betray its owner's propensity for crimes?\" prompted a wave of press coverage.\nThe vision outlined in these articles is of an unethical dystopia where neural networks can assess our faces and establish a likely score for criminality – but Todorov is scathing about this paper, too. \"The main problem is the sampling of the images,\" he says. \"There is not enough information about the [nature of] the images of the people who were convicted. Second, clearly, there are huge differences between the two samples [of convicts and non-convicts] [in terms of] education and socio-economic status.\"\nIn other words, your appearance is affected by the kind of life you've led, so the classifiers within the computer program are simply distinguishing between different demographics rather than detecting a propensity for criminal behaviour.", "Data-driven studies, based upon huge quantities of facial data, would seem to offer the final word on this. Since 2005, computational models have used various techniques to test for links between social attributes and facial features, resulting in suggestions that our faces can betray, for example, political leanings, sexual orientation and criminality. One BBC Future article from 2015 even describes the 'discipline' of physiognomy as 'gaining credibility'. But Todorov details many problems with these studies, pointing out the challenging nature of doing such experiments with sufficient rigour – not least because different images of the same people can prompt wildly differing results.", "The only attributes that we're reasonably good at detecting, according to research done at the University of Michigan in the 1960s and later tested at the University of Stirling in 2007, are extroversion and conscientiousness. For other traits there's insufficient evidence that our hunches are correct, with anomalies explained by our evolved aversion to 'ugliness', established links between broader faces and powerful physiques, or cultural associations with certain demographics which are reinforced with nagging regularity by newspapers, books, television and film.", "The revitalisation of the theory of physiognomy by the Shanghai students is, according to Todorov, deeply problematic on a theoretical level. \"Are we back to Lombroso's theory,\" he asks, \"that criminals were anomalous creatures, evolutionary degenerates? How does one become criminal, and what role do various life forces play into this? There are people making claims that you just need to look at the face to predict personality and behaviour, but many of these people have not given much thought to their underlying assumptions.\"", "Hancock describes attending a conference where one speaker showed a series of black faces and white faces to students (who were mostly white) and asked them what they thought the experiment was about. \"They knew that he was trying to assess whether they would rate the black ones as more criminal,\" says Hancock. \"But then they did!\" \n\n We attribute social characteristics based on opinions we already hold about certain kinds of faces: whether they look unusual in some way, whether they resemble a partner, a family member or even ourselves, or perhaps have some other cultural association. Physiognomy ultimately stems from what Alexander Todorov, professor of psychology at Princeton University, calls an 'overgeneralisation hypothesis'. \"People,\" he wrote, \"use easily accessible facial information (eg an expression such as a smile, cues to gender and ethnic group) to make social attributions congruent with this information (eg a nice person).\" \n\n In a social media age, the pictures we choose to represent ourselves online are a form of self-presentation driven by those social attributions and the knowledge that our pictures are being judged.", "While it's true that we judge books by their covers, covers are more than just faces; we piece together all kinds of cues from people to form our impressions of them. Jimmy Savile's appearance was unusual by any standards, but we absorbed a great deal of information about him over the years that will have influenced our opinions – not least from the original Louis Theroux programme from 2000 that was reexamined in that recent BBC documentary. Savile's vague resemblance to the Child Catcher from the film Chitty Chitty Bang Bang is convenient but ultimately misleading, and the way it reinforces the idea of what a paedophile might 'look like' is unfortunate; not least because it helps to sustain a low-level belief in the 'science' of physiognomy, despite its tendency to crumble under the slightest cross examination.\nThis article was originally published on TheLong+Short. Read the original article.", "Lavater's work was criticised for being ridden with bias (black faces rarely emerged well from his analyses) but he was right in one respect: \"Whether they are or are not sensible of it,\" he wrote, \"all men are daily influenced by physiognomy.\" \n\n Many studies have been done into our psychological response to faces, and it's clear that a so-called halo effect will inevitably work its magic. \"Attractive people are regarded as better at everything,\" says Professor Peter Hancock, lecturer in Psychology at Stirling University. \"And we can't shake that off because there's some truth to it. Good genes produce intelligent people, attractive faces, fit bodies, and we imagine that they're going to be good at everything else, too. We don't have good insight into our own behaviour. We tend to think we understand what we're doing, but we don't.\"", "After performing a number of autopsies on criminals, the Italian physician claimed to have discovered a number of common characteristics, and it's worth listing them if only to establish the supposed criminality of pretty much everyone you know:\nUnusually short or tall height; small head, but large face; fleshy lips, but thin upper lip; protuberances on head and around ear; wrinkles on forehead and face; large sinus cavities or bumpy face; tattoos; receding hairline; large incisors; bushy eyebrows, tending to meet across nose; large eye sockets but deep-set eyes; beaked or flat nose; strong jaw line; small and sloping forehead; small or weak chin; thin neck; sloping shoulders but large chest; large, protruding ears; long arms; high cheek bones; pointy or snubbed fingers or toes.", "When retired teacher Christopher Jefferies was held by police in connection with the murder of Joanna Yeates in Bristol back in 2010, more than half a dozen newspapers gave his unusual appearance particular scrutiny and made assumptions accordingly, which in turn influenced public opinion. This culminated in substantial damages for defamation, two convictions for contempt of court and a painful ordeal for Jefferies, who was entirely innocent. \n\n This kind of deep-seated bias looms large throughout physiognomic works of the 19th and 20th centuries, from absurdities such as Vaught's Practical Character Reader of 1902 (handy if you want to find out what a \"deceitful chin\" looks like) to more inherently troubling volumes such as Cesare Lombroso's Criminal Man.", "Experiments at Princeton found that we take less than one tenth of a second to form an opinion of strangers from their pictures, and those opinions tend to stand firm even if we're exposed to those pictures for a longer period of time. That tendency to judge instantly gives rise to a number of selfie tropes that are deemed to elicit positive responses, particularly when it comes to photos on dating profiles: certain angles, particular expressions, minute adjustments of eyebrows and lips that might appear to be about narcissism and vanity, but are more about a fear of being incorrectly assessed. After all, false suppositions based on people's faces are hugely influential within society, and in extreme cases they can have a huge impact on people's lives.", "Todorov is also wary of these classifiers misidentifying more 'innocent' people than identifying actual criminals, and accuracy is a concern shared by Peter Hancock. \"Networks don't assess faces in the same way that we do,\" he says. \"One of our systems, which is a deep network, has a recognition engine which generates an ordered list of how similar various faces are. And sometimes you get good matches – but other times you look at them and say, well, it's the wrong race! To humans they look completely different. And that underlines the fact that the networks are working in a different sort of way, and actually you don't really know how they're working. They're the ultimate black box.\"", "Theories of physiognomy, however, would persist beyond the Renaissance. In 1586, Italian scholar Giambattista della Porta published a book, De humana physiognomonia libri IIII, which established him as the 'father of Physiognomy'. Della Porta's thinking was based on the 'doctrine of signatures'; the idea that the appearance of plants and animals offers clues to their nature. For example, as one writer of the time suggested, walnuts are good for curing headaches because they're shaped a bit like a human head. The theories in della Porta's book were supported by dozens of detailed illustrations which, by comparing human faces to those of animals, suggested that they must surely share similar character traits.", "In the 17th century, Swiss poet Johann Caspar Lavater took della Porta's methodology and ran with it, commissioning artists to illustrate his popular Essays On Physiognomy – which, to the chagrin of his contemporary, the writer Hannah More, sold for \"fifteen guineas a set… while in vain we boast that philosophy [has] broken down all the strongholds of prejudice, ignorance, and superstition.\"", "This isn't to say that the use of big data, and particularly the use of composite imagery (digitally blending together certain types of faces) doesn't give us useful information and fascinating correlations. \"You can, for example, take a given face and use computer software to make it look more or less trustworthy,\" says Hancock. \"I remember a colleague playing with this and he made a less trustworthy version of George W Bush – and how shifty did he look! I'm surprised that they're not using these techniques in political advertising, because you couldn't tell that anything had been done [to the picture], but when you look at it you think 'I wouldn't trust him'.\"", "All of Greek society, it was claimed, could benefit from this skill: it could assist with choosing an employee, a slave or a spouse, while its inherent vagueness made it intriguing to philosophers and useful for scientists who bent the theories to support their own beliefs. It became a recognised science in the Islamic world, and was used and taught in Europe throughout late antiquity and the early Middle Ages, despite nagging doubts among thinkers and physicians of the day. In the early 16th century, Leonardo da Vinci claimed not to \"concern myself with false physiognomy, because these chimeras have no scientific foundation.\"" ] ]
valid	62476	[ "Why were Duane and Stevens fighting?\n", "How did the fight between Duane and Stevens end?", "Why did Duane say he did not recognize the girl?", "Why did Andrias feel uncertain?", "How does Andrias feel about the league?", "What is the cargo Duane and Stevens are transporting?", "What would most likely have happened if Andrias had not waved out the guard?", "Why did Duane not kill Andrias?", "Why did Duane ring the bell?", "How did Duane feel in the guard's clothing?" ]	[ [ "Andrias had promised Stevens $100,000", "Stevens wanted to keep $50,000 of Duane's money", "Stevens wanted to keep $40,000 of Duane's money", "Duane had been promised $50,000" ], [ "Duane pulled a gun on Stevens", "They floated weightless into the corridor", "They were both knocked unconscious", "Duane killed Stevens" ], [ "His eyes were covered", "He had a head injury", "He had killed someone", "He was playing dumb" ], [ "He wasn't sure if people would follow his orders", "He was afraid he might not get the cargo", "He wasn't sure whether Duane had lost his memory or not", "He wondered how deadly Duane was" ], [ "He wants to usurp their power", "He is grateful they made him governor of Callisto", "He is loyal", "He believes the league cannot be stopped" ], [ "420 cases of dehydrated foods and drilling supplies", "800 guns", "tools", "4000 guns" ], [ "Duane would not have turned over the cargo", "Duane would not have escaped", "Duane would not have signed the paper", "Andrias would have died" ], [ "He tried to kill him but failed", "He did not have the opportunity to kill him", "He did kill him", "He did not want to be a killer" ], [ "To call a guard because he was done signing", "To begin his escape plan", "To call help for Andrias", "To signal the course change" ], [ "uncomfortable", "sleek", "martial", "fruitful" ] ]	[ 3, 3, 2, 3, 1, 4, 2, 4, 2, 1 ]	[ 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 1, 1, 0, 1, 1 ]	[ [ "\"Forget what I think,\" Stevens said, his voice clipped and angry. \"I\n don't care about fairness, Duane, except to myself. I've done all the\n work on this—I've supplied the goods. My price is set, a hundred\n thousand Earth dollars. What Andrias promised you is no concern of\n mine. The fact is that, after I've taken my share, there's only ten\n thousand left. That's all you get!\"\n\n\n Duane stared at him a long second, then nodded abruptly. \"I was right\n the first time,\" he said. \"I'll\nhave\nto kill you!\"\nAlready his hand was streaking toward the grip of his dis-gun, touching\n it, drawing it forth. But the white-haired man was faster. His arms\n swept up and pinioned Duane, holding him impotent.\n\n\n \"Don't be a fool,\" he grated. \"Duane—\"", "He hurled himself at Andrias, hands sweeping around to grapple for the\n dark man's throat. Andrias, off-balance, staggered backward. But his\n own hands were diving for the twin heat guns that hung at his waist.\n\n\n Duane saw his danger, and reacted. His foot twisted around Andrias'\n ankle; his hands at the other's throat gripped tighter. He lunged\n forward, slamming the hard top of his head into the other's face,\n feeling flesh and cartilage give as Andrias' nose mashed flat. His own\n head pin-wheeled dizzily, agonizingly, as the jar revived the pain of\n his earlier accident.\n\n\n But Andrias, unconscious already, tumbled back with Duane on top of\n him. His head made an audible, spine-chilling thud as it hit the\n carpeted floor.\n\n\n Duane got up, retrieving the two heat guns, and stared at him.", "The P.A. speaker rattled, blared something unintelligible. Neither man\n heard it. Duane lunged forward into the taller man's grip, sliding down\n to the floor. The white-haired man grappled furiously to keep his hold\n on Peter's gun arm, but Peter was slipping away. Belatedly, Stevens\n went for his own gun.\n\n\n He was too late. Duane's was out and leveled at him.\n\n\n \"\nNow\nwill you listen to reason?\" Duane panted. But he halted, and the\n muzzle of his weapon wavered. The floor swooped and surged beneath him\n as the thrust of the mighty jets was cut off. Suddenly there was no\n gravity. The two men, locked together, floated weightlessly out to the\n center of the corridor.\n\n\n \"Course change!\" gasped white-haired Stevens. \"Good God!\"", "A muted alarm bell sounded through the P.A. speakers, signaling a\n one-minute warning. The white-haired man cocked his eyebrow.\n\n\n \"Not at all,\" he said. He took the measure of his slim, red-headed\n opponent. Taller, heavier, older, he was still no more uncompromisingly\n belligerent than Duane, standing there. \"Not at all,\" he repeated.\n \"Just take your ten thousand and let it go at that. Don't make trouble.\n Leave Andrias out of our private argument.\"\n\n\n \"Damn you!\" Duane flared. \"I was promised fifty thousand. I need that\n money. Do you think—\"", "\"\nThey tell me I killed Stevens the same way\n,\" he thought. \"\nI'm\n getting in a rut!\n\"\n\n\n But Andrias was not dead, though he was out as cold as the void beyond\n Pluto. The thick carpeting had saved him from a broken head.\n\n\n Duane stepped over the unconscious man and looked around the room. It\n was furnished severely, to the point of barrenness. Two chairs before\n Andrias' ornate, bare-topped desk and one luxurious chair behind it;\n a tasseled bell cord within easy reach of Andrias' chair; the long\n carpet. That was all it contained.\n\n\n The problem of getting out was serious, he saw. How could one—\nIII", "\"You're right, Duane,\" he said. \"I could blast you, too. Nobody would\n win that way, so let's leave the guns where they are.\"\n\n\n The muscles twitched in Peter Duane's cheeks, but his voice, when it\n came, was controlled. \"Don't think we're going to let this go,\" he\n said. \"We'll take it up with Andrias tonight. We'll see whether you can\n cut me out!\"\n\n\n The white-haired man's smile faded. He stepped forward, one hand\n bracing him against the thrust of the rocket engines underneath,\n holding to the guide rail at the side of the ship's corridor.", "\"You play rough, Duane,\" he observed. \"I thought you'd have trouble\n with Stevens. I didn't think you'd find it necessary to put him out of\n the way so permanently. Well, no matter. If you had to kill him, it's\n no skin off my nose. Give me a release on the merchandise. I've got\n your money here.\"\nDuane waved a hand and pushed himself dizzily erect, swinging his legs\n over the side of the high cot. A sheet had been thrown over him, but he\n was fully dressed. He examined his clothing with interest—gray tunic,\n gray leather spaceman's boots. It was unfamiliar.\n\n\n He shook his head in further confusion, and the motion burst within his\n skull, throbbing hotly. He closed his eyes until it subsided, trying to\n force his brain to operate, to explain to him where and what he was.\n\n\n He looked at the man named Andrias.", "Duane could remember the scene clearly. Could almost see the sharp,\n aquiline face of the man who had spoken to him. But there memory\n stopped.\n\n\n A fugitive recollection raced through his mind. He halted it, dragged\n it back, pinned it down....\n\n\n They had stopped in Darkside, the spaceport on the side of Luna that\n keeps perpetually averted from Earth, as if the moon knows shame and\n wants to hide the rough and roaring dome city that nestles in one\n of the great craters. Duane remembered sitting in a low-ceilinged,\n smoke-heavy room, across the table from a tall man with white hair.\n Stevens!\n\n\n \"\nFour thousand electron rifles\n,\" the man had said. \"\nLatest\n government issue. Never mind how I got them; they're perfect. You know\n my price. Take it or leave it. And it's payable the minute we touch\n ground on Callisto.\n\"", "Then he shook his head. \"No,\" he said. \"You're lying all right. You\n killed Stevens to get his share—and now you're trying to hold me up.\n That's your last chance that just went by, Duane. From now on, I'm\n running this show!\"\n\n\n He spun around and strode to the door, thrust it open. \"Dakin!\" he\n bellowed. \"Reed!\"\n\n\n Two large, ugly men in field-gray uniforms, emblazoned with the\n shooting-star insignia of Callisto's League police, came in, looking to\n Andrias for instructions.\n\n\n \"Duane here is resisting arrest,\" Andrias said. \"Take him along. We'll\n fix up the charges later.\"\n\n\n \"You can't do that,\" Duane said wearily. \"I'm sick. If you've got\n something against me, save it. Wait till my head clears. I'm sure I can\n explain—\"", "He walked around the desk to the bell cord. He took a deep breath,\n tugged it savagely, and at once was in speedy motion, racing toward the\n door, his footsteps muffled in the deep, springy carpet. Almost as he\n reached it, he saw it begin to open. He quickly sidestepped and was out\n of the guard's sight, behind the door, as the man looked in.\n\n\n Quick suspicion flared in his eyes, then certainty as he saw Andrias\n huddled on the floor. He opened his mouth to cry out—\n\n\n But Duane's arm was around his throat, and he had no breath to spare.\n Duane's foot lashed out and the door slammed shut; Duane's balled left\n fist came up and connected with the guard's chin. Abruptly the man\n slumped.", "The guard had remained just inside the door, at attention. Andrias\n waved him out.\n\n\n \"Here I am,\" said Duane. \"What do you want?\"\n\n\n Andrias said, \"I've had the ship inspected and what I want is on it.\n That saves your life, for now. But the cargo is in your name. I could\n take it by force, if I had to. I prefer not to.\" He picked up a paper,\n handed it to Duane. \"In spite of your behavior, you can keep alive.\n You can even collect the money for the guns—Stevens' share as well\n as your own. This is a release form, authorizing my men to take four\n hundred and twenty cases of dehydrated foods and drilling supplies from\n the hold of the\nCameroon\n—the ship you came on. Sign it, and we'll\n forget our argument. Only, sign it now and get it over with. I'm losing\n patience, Duane.\"\n\n\n Duane said, without expression, \"No.\"", "He dragged one of the boxes down, ripped it open with the sharp point\n of a handling hook. Short-barreled, flare-mouthed guns rolled out,\n tumbling over the floor. Eight of them were in that one box, and\n hundreds of boxes all about. Duane picked one up, broke it, peered into\n the chamber where the tiny capsule of U-235 would explode with infinite\n violence when the trigger was pulled, spraying radiant death three\n thousand yards in the direction the gun was aimed....\n\n\n And that memory ended.\n\n\n Duane got up, stared at his haggard face in the cracked mirror over\n the bed. \"\nThey say I'm a killer\n,\" he thought. \"\nApparently I'm a\n gun-runner as well. Good lord—what am I not?\n\"\n\n\n His reflection—white, drawn face made all the more pallid by the red\n hair that blazed over it—stared back at him. There was no answer\n there. If only he could remember—", "\"Nobody seems to believe me,\" he said, \"but I really don't know what's\n going on. Things are moving too fast for me. Really, I—why, I don't\n even know my own name! My head—it hurts. I can't think clearly.\"\n\n\n Andrias straightened, turned a darkly-suspicious look on Duane. \"Don't\n play tricks on me,\" he said savagely. \"I haven't time for them. I won't\n mince words with you. Give me a release on the cargo now, before I have\n to get rough. This is a lot more important to me than your life is.\"\n\n\n \"Go to hell,\" Duane said shortly. \"I'm playing no tricks.\"\n\n\n There was an instant's doubt in Andrias' eyes, then it flashed away. He\n bent closer, peered at Duane. \"I almost think—\" he began.", "A long, powerful ground car slid up before them. Andrias got in front,\n while the two uniformed men shoved Duane into the back of the car,\n climbed in beside him. Andrias gave a curt order, and the car shot\n forward.\n\n\n The driver, sitting beside Andrias, leaned forward and readied a hand\n under the dashboard. The high wail of a siren came instantly from the\n car's roof, and what traffic was on the broad, straight highway into\n which they had turned pulled aside to let them race through.", "Conspiracy on Callisto\nBy JAMES MacCREIGH\nRevolt was flaring on Callisto, and Peter Duane\n\n held the secret that would make the uprising a\n\n success or failure. Yet he could make no move,\n\n could favor no side—his memory was gone—he\n\n didn't know for whom he fought.\n\n\n [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Planet Stories Winter 1943.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nDuane's hand flicked to his waist and hung there, poised. His dis-gun\n remained undrawn.\n\n\n The tall, white-haired man—Stevens—smiled.", "He stood up and looked around. He had to act quickly. Already Andrias'\n breath was audible; he saw the man grimace and an arm flopped\n spasmodically on the floor. Consciousness was on its way back.\n\n\n Duane touched the heat gun he'd thrust into his belt; drew it and held\n it poised, while he sought to discover what was in his own mind. He'd\n killed a man already, they said. Was he then a killer—could he shoot\n Andrias now, in cold blood, with so much to gain and nothing to lose?\n\n\n He stood there a moment. Then, abruptly, he reversed the weapon and\n chopped it down on Andrias' skull.\n\n\n There was a sharp grunt from the still unconscious man, but no other\n sign. Only—the first tremors of movement that had shown on him halted,\n and did not reappear.", "Dark red flooded into Andrias' sallow face. His jaws bunched angrily\n and there was a ragged thread of incomplete control to his voice as he\n spoke.\n\n\n \"I'll have your neck for this, Duane,\" he said softly.\n\n\n Duane looked at the man's eyes. Death was behind them, peeping out.\n Mentally he shrugged. What difference did it make?\n\n\n \"Give me the pen,\" he said shortly.\n\n\n Andrias exhaled a deep breath. You could see the tension leave him, the\n mottled anger fade from his face and leave it without expression. He\n handed the paper to Duane without a word. He gave him a pen, watched\n him scrawl his name.\n\n\n \"That,\" he said, \"is better.\" He paused a moment ruminatively. \"It\n would have been better still if you'd not stalled me so long. I find\n that hard to forgive in my associates.\"", "He said, \"Duane, Andrias is your boss, not mine. I'm a free lance; I\n work for myself. When we land on Callisto tonight I'll be with you when\n you turn our—shall I say, our\ncargo\n?—over to him. And I'll collect\n my fair share of the proceeds. That's as far as it goes. I take no\n orders from him.\"\n\n\n A heavy-set man in blue appeared at the end of the connecting corridor.\n He was moving fast, but stopped short when he saw the two men.\n\n\n \"Hey!\" he said. \"Change of course—get to your cabins.\" He seemed about\n to walk up to them, then reconsidered and hurried off. Neither man paid\n any attention.\n\n\n Duane said, \"Do I have to kill you?\" It was only a question as he asked\n it, without threatening.", "Andrias' eyes widened. \"You amaze me, Duane,\" he said. He rose and\n stepped around the desk, confronting Duane. \"I almost think you really\n have lost your memory, Duane,\" he said. \"Otherwise, surely you would\n know that this is all the rifles I need. With them I'll\ntake\nwhatever\n else I want!\"\n\n\n Duane said, \"You're ready, then....\"\n\n\n He took time to think it over, but he knew that no thought was\n required. Already the hands that he had locked behind him were\n clenched, taut. Already the muscles of his legs were tensing.\n\n\n \"You're ready,\" he repeated. \"You've armed the Callistan exiles—the\n worst gutter scum on nine planets. You're set to betray the League that\n gave you power here.... Well, that changes things. I can't let you do\n it!\"", "The dark man laughed. \"Take your time, Duane,\" he said easily. \"You'll\n remember me. My name's Andrias. I've been waiting here for you to wake\n up. We have some business matters to discuss.\"\n\n\n The nurse, still eyeing Duane with an odd bewilderment, said: \"I'll\n leave you alone for a moment. Don't talk too much to him, Mr. Andrias.\n He's still suffering from shock.\"\n\n\n \"I won't,\" Andrias promised, grinning. Then, as the girl left the room,\n the smile dropped from his face." ], [ "He hurled himself at Andrias, hands sweeping around to grapple for the\n dark man's throat. Andrias, off-balance, staggered backward. But his\n own hands were diving for the twin heat guns that hung at his waist.\n\n\n Duane saw his danger, and reacted. His foot twisted around Andrias'\n ankle; his hands at the other's throat gripped tighter. He lunged\n forward, slamming the hard top of his head into the other's face,\n feeling flesh and cartilage give as Andrias' nose mashed flat. His own\n head pin-wheeled dizzily, agonizingly, as the jar revived the pain of\n his earlier accident.\n\n\n But Andrias, unconscious already, tumbled back with Duane on top of\n him. His head made an audible, spine-chilling thud as it hit the\n carpeted floor.\n\n\n Duane got up, retrieving the two heat guns, and stared at him.", "He walked around the desk to the bell cord. He took a deep breath,\n tugged it savagely, and at once was in speedy motion, racing toward the\n door, his footsteps muffled in the deep, springy carpet. Almost as he\n reached it, he saw it begin to open. He quickly sidestepped and was out\n of the guard's sight, behind the door, as the man looked in.\n\n\n Quick suspicion flared in his eyes, then certainty as he saw Andrias\n huddled on the floor. He opened his mouth to cry out—\n\n\n But Duane's arm was around his throat, and he had no breath to spare.\n Duane's foot lashed out and the door slammed shut; Duane's balled left\n fist came up and connected with the guard's chin. Abruptly the man\n slumped.", "\"\nThey tell me I killed Stevens the same way\n,\" he thought. \"\nI'm\n getting in a rut!\n\"\n\n\n But Andrias was not dead, though he was out as cold as the void beyond\n Pluto. The thick carpeting had saved him from a broken head.\n\n\n Duane stepped over the unconscious man and looked around the room. It\n was furnished severely, to the point of barrenness. Two chairs before\n Andrias' ornate, bare-topped desk and one luxurious chair behind it;\n a tasseled bell cord within easy reach of Andrias' chair; the long\n carpet. That was all it contained.\n\n\n The problem of getting out was serious, he saw. How could one—\nIII", "\"Forget what I think,\" Stevens said, his voice clipped and angry. \"I\n don't care about fairness, Duane, except to myself. I've done all the\n work on this—I've supplied the goods. My price is set, a hundred\n thousand Earth dollars. What Andrias promised you is no concern of\n mine. The fact is that, after I've taken my share, there's only ten\n thousand left. That's all you get!\"\n\n\n Duane stared at him a long second, then nodded abruptly. \"I was right\n the first time,\" he said. \"I'll\nhave\nto kill you!\"\nAlready his hand was streaking toward the grip of his dis-gun, touching\n it, drawing it forth. But the white-haired man was faster. His arms\n swept up and pinioned Duane, holding him impotent.\n\n\n \"Don't be a fool,\" he grated. \"Duane—\"", "A muted alarm bell sounded through the P.A. speakers, signaling a\n one-minute warning. The white-haired man cocked his eyebrow.\n\n\n \"Not at all,\" he said. He took the measure of his slim, red-headed\n opponent. Taller, heavier, older, he was still no more uncompromisingly\n belligerent than Duane, standing there. \"Not at all,\" he repeated.\n \"Just take your ten thousand and let it go at that. Don't make trouble.\n Leave Andrias out of our private argument.\"\n\n\n \"Damn you!\" Duane flared. \"I was promised fifty thousand. I need that\n money. Do you think—\"", "The P.A. speaker rattled, blared something unintelligible. Neither man\n heard it. Duane lunged forward into the taller man's grip, sliding down\n to the floor. The white-haired man grappled furiously to keep his hold\n on Peter's gun arm, but Peter was slipping away. Belatedly, Stevens\n went for his own gun.\n\n\n He was too late. Duane's was out and leveled at him.\n\n\n \"\nNow\nwill you listen to reason?\" Duane panted. But he halted, and the\n muzzle of his weapon wavered. The floor swooped and surged beneath him\n as the thrust of the mighty jets was cut off. Suddenly there was no\n gravity. The two men, locked together, floated weightlessly out to the\n center of the corridor.\n\n\n \"Course change!\" gasped white-haired Stevens. \"Good God!\"", "\"You're right, Duane,\" he said. \"I could blast you, too. Nobody would\n win that way, so let's leave the guns where they are.\"\n\n\n The muscles twitched in Peter Duane's cheeks, but his voice, when it\n came, was controlled. \"Don't think we're going to let this go,\" he\n said. \"We'll take it up with Andrias tonight. We'll see whether you can\n cut me out!\"\n\n\n The white-haired man's smile faded. He stepped forward, one hand\n bracing him against the thrust of the rocket engines underneath,\n holding to the guide rail at the side of the ship's corridor.", "He stood up and looked around. He had to act quickly. Already Andrias'\n breath was audible; he saw the man grimace and an arm flopped\n spasmodically on the floor. Consciousness was on its way back.\n\n\n Duane touched the heat gun he'd thrust into his belt; drew it and held\n it poised, while he sought to discover what was in his own mind. He'd\n killed a man already, they said. Was he then a killer—could he shoot\n Andrias now, in cold blood, with so much to gain and nothing to lose?\n\n\n He stood there a moment. Then, abruptly, he reversed the weapon and\n chopped it down on Andrias' skull.\n\n\n There was a sharp grunt from the still unconscious man, but no other\n sign. Only—the first tremors of movement that had shown on him halted,\n and did not reappear.", "Then he shook his head. \"No,\" he said. \"You're lying all right. You\n killed Stevens to get his share—and now you're trying to hold me up.\n That's your last chance that just went by, Duane. From now on, I'm\n running this show!\"\n\n\n He spun around and strode to the door, thrust it open. \"Dakin!\" he\n bellowed. \"Reed!\"\n\n\n Two large, ugly men in field-gray uniforms, emblazoned with the\n shooting-star insignia of Callisto's League police, came in, looking to\n Andrias for instructions.\n\n\n \"Duane here is resisting arrest,\" Andrias said. \"Take him along. We'll\n fix up the charges later.\"\n\n\n \"You can't do that,\" Duane said wearily. \"I'm sick. If you've got\n something against me, save it. Wait till my head clears. I'm sure I can\n explain—\"", "\"You play rough, Duane,\" he observed. \"I thought you'd have trouble\n with Stevens. I didn't think you'd find it necessary to put him out of\n the way so permanently. Well, no matter. If you had to kill him, it's\n no skin off my nose. Give me a release on the merchandise. I've got\n your money here.\"\nDuane waved a hand and pushed himself dizzily erect, swinging his legs\n over the side of the high cot. A sheet had been thrown over him, but he\n was fully dressed. He examined his clothing with interest—gray tunic,\n gray leather spaceman's boots. It was unfamiliar.\n\n\n He shook his head in further confusion, and the motion burst within his\n skull, throbbing hotly. He closed his eyes until it subsided, trying to\n force his brain to operate, to explain to him where and what he was.\n\n\n He looked at the man named Andrias.", "Duane took a deep breath and let the man drop to the floor. But he\n paused only a second; now he had two unconscious men on his hands and\n he dared let neither revive until he was prepared.\n\n\n He grasped the guard's arm and dragged him roughly the length of the\n room. He leaped on top of the desk, brutally scarring its gleaming top\n with the hard spikes of his boots. His agile fingers unfastened the\n long bell cord without causing it to ring and, bearing it, he dropped\n again to the floor.\n\n\n Tugging and straining, he got the limp form of Andrias into his own\n chair, bound him with the bell cord, gagged him with the priceless\n Venus-wool scarf Andrias wore knotted about his throat. He tested his\n bindings with full strength, and smiled. Those would hold, let Andrias\n struggle as he would.", "Duane could remember the scene clearly. Could almost see the sharp,\n aquiline face of the man who had spoken to him. But there memory\n stopped.\n\n\n A fugitive recollection raced through his mind. He halted it, dragged\n it back, pinned it down....\n\n\n They had stopped in Darkside, the spaceport on the side of Luna that\n keeps perpetually averted from Earth, as if the moon knows shame and\n wants to hide the rough and roaring dome city that nestles in one\n of the great craters. Duane remembered sitting in a low-ceilinged,\n smoke-heavy room, across the table from a tall man with white hair.\n Stevens!\n\n\n \"\nFour thousand electron rifles\n,\" the man had said. \"\nLatest\n government issue. Never mind how I got them; they're perfect. You know\n my price. Take it or leave it. And it's payable the minute we touch\n ground on Callisto.\n\"", "The guard had remained just inside the door, at attention. Andrias\n waved him out.\n\n\n \"Here I am,\" said Duane. \"What do you want?\"\n\n\n Andrias said, \"I've had the ship inspected and what I want is on it.\n That saves your life, for now. But the cargo is in your name. I could\n take it by force, if I had to. I prefer not to.\" He picked up a paper,\n handed it to Duane. \"In spite of your behavior, you can keep alive.\n You can even collect the money for the guns—Stevens' share as well\n as your own. This is a release form, authorizing my men to take four\n hundred and twenty cases of dehydrated foods and drilling supplies from\n the hold of the\nCameroon\n—the ship you came on. Sign it, and we'll\n forget our argument. Only, sign it now and get it over with. I'm losing\n patience, Duane.\"\n\n\n Duane said, without expression, \"No.\"", "\"\nNo\n,\" Duane thought. \"\nWhatever they say, I'm not a killer!\n\"\n\n\n But still he had to get out. How?\n\n\n Once more he stared around the room, catalogued its contents. The guard\n would be getting impatient. Perhaps any minute he would tap the door,\n first timorously, then with heavier strokes.\n\n\n The guard! There was a way!\nDuane eyed the length of the room. Thirty feet—it would take him a\n couple of seconds to run it at full speed. Was that fast enough?\n\n\n There was only one way to find out.", "He dragged one of the boxes down, ripped it open with the sharp point\n of a handling hook. Short-barreled, flare-mouthed guns rolled out,\n tumbling over the floor. Eight of them were in that one box, and\n hundreds of boxes all about. Duane picked one up, broke it, peered into\n the chamber where the tiny capsule of U-235 would explode with infinite\n violence when the trigger was pulled, spraying radiant death three\n thousand yards in the direction the gun was aimed....\n\n\n And that memory ended.\n\n\n Duane got up, stared at his haggard face in the cracked mirror over\n the bed. \"\nThey say I'm a killer\n,\" he thought. \"\nApparently I'm a\n gun-runner as well. Good lord—what am I not?\n\"\n\n\n His reflection—white, drawn face made all the more pallid by the red\n hair that blazed over it—stared back at him. There was no answer\n there. If only he could remember—", "An idea bloomed in Duane's brain. He looked, then, at unconscious\n Andrias—and the idea withered again.\n\n\n He had thought of forcing Andrias himself to front for him, at gun's\n point, in the conventional manner of escaping prisoners. But fist\n fights, fiction to the contrary notwithstanding, leave marks on the men\n who lose them. Andrias' throat was speckled with the livid marks of\n Duane's fingers; Duane's head, butting Andrias in the face, had drawn a\n thick stream of crimson from his nostrils, turned his sharp nose askew.\n\n\n No guard of Andrias' would have been deceived for an instant, looking\n at that face—even assuming that Andrias could have been forced to\n cooperate by the threat of a gun. Which, considering the stake Andrias\n had in this play, was doubtful....", "A long, powerful ground car slid up before them. Andrias got in front,\n while the two uniformed men shoved Duane into the back of the car,\n climbed in beside him. Andrias gave a curt order, and the car shot\n forward.\n\n\n The driver, sitting beside Andrias, leaned forward and readied a hand\n under the dashboard. The high wail of a siren came instantly from the\n car's roof, and what traffic was on the broad, straight highway into\n which they had turned pulled aside to let them race through.", "\"Nobody seems to believe me,\" he said, \"but I really don't know what's\n going on. Things are moving too fast for me. Really, I—why, I don't\n even know my own name! My head—it hurts. I can't think clearly.\"\n\n\n Andrias straightened, turned a darkly-suspicious look on Duane. \"Don't\n play tricks on me,\" he said savagely. \"I haven't time for them. I won't\n mince words with you. Give me a release on the cargo now, before I have\n to get rough. This is a lot more important to me than your life is.\"\n\n\n \"Go to hell,\" Duane said shortly. \"I'm playing no tricks.\"\n\n\n There was an instant's doubt in Andrias' eyes, then it flashed away. He\n bent closer, peered at Duane. \"I almost think—\" he began.", "Dark red flooded into Andrias' sallow face. His jaws bunched angrily\n and there was a ragged thread of incomplete control to his voice as he\n spoke.\n\n\n \"I'll have your neck for this, Duane,\" he said softly.\n\n\n Duane looked at the man's eyes. Death was behind them, peeping out.\n Mentally he shrugged. What difference did it make?\n\n\n \"Give me the pen,\" he said shortly.\n\n\n Andrias exhaled a deep breath. You could see the tension leave him, the\n mottled anger fade from his face and leave it without expression. He\n handed the paper to Duane without a word. He gave him a pen, watched\n him scrawl his name.\n\n\n \"That,\" he said, \"is better.\" He paused a moment ruminatively. \"It\n would have been better still if you'd not stalled me so long. I find\n that hard to forgive in my associates.\"", "The dark man laughed. \"Take your time, Duane,\" he said easily. \"You'll\n remember me. My name's Andrias. I've been waiting here for you to wake\n up. We have some business matters to discuss.\"\n\n\n The nurse, still eyeing Duane with an odd bewilderment, said: \"I'll\n leave you alone for a moment. Don't talk too much to him, Mr. Andrias.\n He's still suffering from shock.\"\n\n\n \"I won't,\" Andrias promised, grinning. Then, as the girl left the room,\n the smile dropped from his face." ], [ "Duane screwed his eyes tight together and grimaced. When he opened\n them again there was alertness and clarity in them—but there was also\n bafflement.\n\n\n \"Girl,\" he said, \"who are you? Where am I?\"\n\n\n \"Peter!\" There was shock and hurt in the tone of her voice. \"I'm—don't\n you know me, Peter?\"\n\n\n Duane shook his head confusedly. \"I don't know anything,\" he said.\n \"I—I don't even know my own name.\"\n\n\n \"Duane, Duane,\" a man's heavy voice said. \"That won't wash. Don't play\n dumb on me.\"\n\n\n \"Duane?\" he said. \"Duane....\" He swiveled his head and saw a dark,\n squat man frowning at him. \"Who are you?\" Peter asked.", "The dark man laughed. \"Take your time, Duane,\" he said easily. \"You'll\n remember me. My name's Andrias. I've been waiting here for you to wake\n up. We have some business matters to discuss.\"\n\n\n The nurse, still eyeing Duane with an odd bewilderment, said: \"I'll\n leave you alone for a moment. Don't talk too much to him, Mr. Andrias.\n He's still suffering from shock.\"\n\n\n \"I won't,\" Andrias promised, grinning. Then, as the girl left the room,\n the smile dropped from his face.", "\"Nobody seems to believe me,\" he said, \"but I really don't know what's\n going on. Things are moving too fast for me. Really, I—why, I don't\n even know my own name! My head—it hurts. I can't think clearly.\"\n\n\n Andrias straightened, turned a darkly-suspicious look on Duane. \"Don't\n play tricks on me,\" he said savagely. \"I haven't time for them. I won't\n mince words with you. Give me a release on the cargo now, before I have\n to get rough. This is a lot more important to me than your life is.\"\n\n\n \"Go to hell,\" Duane said shortly. \"I'm playing no tricks.\"\n\n\n There was an instant's doubt in Andrias' eyes, then it flashed away. He\n bent closer, peered at Duane. \"I almost think—\" he began.", "He dragged one of the boxes down, ripped it open with the sharp point\n of a handling hook. Short-barreled, flare-mouthed guns rolled out,\n tumbling over the floor. Eight of them were in that one box, and\n hundreds of boxes all about. Duane picked one up, broke it, peered into\n the chamber where the tiny capsule of U-235 would explode with infinite\n violence when the trigger was pulled, spraying radiant death three\n thousand yards in the direction the gun was aimed....\n\n\n And that memory ended.\n\n\n Duane got up, stared at his haggard face in the cracked mirror over\n the bed. \"\nThey say I'm a killer\n,\" he thought. \"\nApparently I'm a\n gun-runner as well. Good lord—what am I not?\n\"\n\n\n His reflection—white, drawn face made all the more pallid by the red\n hair that blazed over it—stared back at him. There was no answer\n there. If only he could remember—", "And the lights went out in a burst of crashing pain for Peter Duane.\nSomeone was talking to him. Duane tried to force an eye open to see who\n it was, and failed. Something damp and clinging was all about his face,\n obscuring his vision. But the voice filtered in.\n\n\n \"Open your mouth,\" it said. \"Please, Peter, open your mouth. You're all\n right. Just swallow this.\"\n\n\n It was a girl's voice. Duane was suddenly conscious that a girl's light\n hand was on his shoulder. He shook his head feebly.\n\n\n The voice became more insistent. \"Swallow this,\" it said. \"It's only a\n stimulant, to help you throw off the shock of your—accident. You're\n all right, otherwise.\"", "\"You play rough, Duane,\" he observed. \"I thought you'd have trouble\n with Stevens. I didn't think you'd find it necessary to put him out of\n the way so permanently. Well, no matter. If you had to kill him, it's\n no skin off my nose. Give me a release on the merchandise. I've got\n your money here.\"\nDuane waved a hand and pushed himself dizzily erect, swinging his legs\n over the side of the high cot. A sheet had been thrown over him, but he\n was fully dressed. He examined his clothing with interest—gray tunic,\n gray leather spaceman's boots. It was unfamiliar.\n\n\n He shook his head in further confusion, and the motion burst within his\n skull, throbbing hotly. He closed his eyes until it subsided, trying to\n force his brain to operate, to explain to him where and what he was.\n\n\n He looked at the man named Andrias.", "He walked around the desk to the bell cord. He took a deep breath,\n tugged it savagely, and at once was in speedy motion, racing toward the\n door, his footsteps muffled in the deep, springy carpet. Almost as he\n reached it, he saw it begin to open. He quickly sidestepped and was out\n of the guard's sight, behind the door, as the man looked in.\n\n\n Quick suspicion flared in his eyes, then certainty as he saw Andrias\n huddled on the floor. He opened his mouth to cry out—\n\n\n But Duane's arm was around his throat, and he had no breath to spare.\n Duane's foot lashed out and the door slammed shut; Duane's balled left\n fist came up and connected with the guard's chin. Abruptly the man\n slumped.", "The other guard stirred, leaned over. \"Shut up,\" he said heavily.\n \"You'll have plenty of chance for talking later.\"\nBut the chance was a long time in coming. Duane found himself, an hour\n later, still in the barred room into which he'd been thrust. The guards\n had brought him there, at Andrias' order, and left him. That had been\n all.\n\n\n This was not a regular jail, Duane realized. It was more like a\n palace, something out of Earth's Roman-empire days, all white stone\n and frescoed walls. Duane wished for human companionship—particularly\n that of the nurse. Of all the people he'd met since awakening in that\n hospital bed, only she seemed warm and human. The others were—brutal,\n deadly. It was too bad, Duane reflected, that he'd failed to remember\n her. She'd seemed hurt, and she had certainly known him by first name.\n But perhaps she would understand.", "He hurled himself at Andrias, hands sweeping around to grapple for the\n dark man's throat. Andrias, off-balance, staggered backward. But his\n own hands were diving for the twin heat guns that hung at his waist.\n\n\n Duane saw his danger, and reacted. His foot twisted around Andrias'\n ankle; his hands at the other's throat gripped tighter. He lunged\n forward, slamming the hard top of his head into the other's face,\n feeling flesh and cartilage give as Andrias' nose mashed flat. His own\n head pin-wheeled dizzily, agonizingly, as the jar revived the pain of\n his earlier accident.\n\n\n But Andrias, unconscious already, tumbled back with Duane on top of\n him. His head made an audible, spine-chilling thud as it hit the\n carpeted floor.\n\n\n Duane got up, retrieving the two heat guns, and stared at him.", "\"All right, Duane.\" The deep voice of a guard came to him as the door\n swung open. \"Stop making eyes at yourself.\"\n\n\n Duane looked around. The guard beckoned. \"Governor Andrias wants to\n speak to you—now. Let's not keep the governor waiting.\"\nA long, narrow room, with a long carpet leading from the entrance up to\n a great heavy desk—that was Andrias' office. Duane felt a click in his\n memory as he entered. One of the ancient Earth dictators had employed\n just such a psychological trick to overawe those who came to beg favors\n of him. Muslini, or some such name.\n\n\n The trick failed to work. Duane had other things on his mind; he walked\n the thirty-foot length of the room, designed to imbue him with a sense\n of his own unimportance, as steadily as he'd ever walked in the open\n air of his home planet.\n\n\n Whichever planet that was.", "An idea bloomed in Duane's brain. He looked, then, at unconscious\n Andrias—and the idea withered again.\n\n\n He had thought of forcing Andrias himself to front for him, at gun's\n point, in the conventional manner of escaping prisoners. But fist\n fights, fiction to the contrary notwithstanding, leave marks on the men\n who lose them. Andrias' throat was speckled with the livid marks of\n Duane's fingers; Duane's head, butting Andrias in the face, had drawn a\n thick stream of crimson from his nostrils, turned his sharp nose askew.\n\n\n No guard of Andrias' would have been deceived for an instant, looking\n at that face—even assuming that Andrias could have been forced to\n cooperate by the threat of a gun. Which, considering the stake Andrias\n had in this play, was doubtful....", "He stood up and looked around. He had to act quickly. Already Andrias'\n breath was audible; he saw the man grimace and an arm flopped\n spasmodically on the floor. Consciousness was on its way back.\n\n\n Duane touched the heat gun he'd thrust into his belt; drew it and held\n it poised, while he sought to discover what was in his own mind. He'd\n killed a man already, they said. Was he then a killer—could he shoot\n Andrias now, in cold blood, with so much to gain and nothing to lose?\n\n\n He stood there a moment. Then, abruptly, he reversed the weapon and\n chopped it down on Andrias' skull.\n\n\n There was a sharp grunt from the still unconscious man, but no other\n sign. Only—the first tremors of movement that had shown on him halted,\n and did not reappear.", "A long, powerful ground car slid up before them. Andrias got in front,\n while the two uniformed men shoved Duane into the back of the car,\n climbed in beside him. Andrias gave a curt order, and the car shot\n forward.\n\n\n The driver, sitting beside Andrias, leaned forward and readied a hand\n under the dashboard. The high wail of a siren came instantly from the\n car's roof, and what traffic was on the broad, straight highway into\n which they had turned pulled aside to let them race through.", "Duane could remember the scene clearly. Could almost see the sharp,\n aquiline face of the man who had spoken to him. But there memory\n stopped.\n\n\n A fugitive recollection raced through his mind. He halted it, dragged\n it back, pinned it down....\n\n\n They had stopped in Darkside, the spaceport on the side of Luna that\n keeps perpetually averted from Earth, as if the moon knows shame and\n wants to hide the rough and roaring dome city that nestles in one\n of the great craters. Duane remembered sitting in a low-ceilinged,\n smoke-heavy room, across the table from a tall man with white hair.\n Stevens!\n\n\n \"\nFour thousand electron rifles\n,\" the man had said. \"\nLatest\n government issue. Never mind how I got them; they're perfect. You know\n my price. Take it or leave it. And it's payable the minute we touch\n ground on Callisto.\n\"", "\"\nNo\n,\" Duane thought. \"\nWhatever they say, I'm not a killer!\n\"\n\n\n But still he had to get out. How?\n\n\n Once more he stared around the room, catalogued its contents. The guard\n would be getting impatient. Perhaps any minute he would tap the door,\n first timorously, then with heavier strokes.\n\n\n The guard! There was a way!\nDuane eyed the length of the room. Thirty feet—it would take him a\n couple of seconds to run it at full speed. Was that fast enough?\n\n\n There was only one way to find out.", "A muted alarm bell sounded through the P.A. speakers, signaling a\n one-minute warning. The white-haired man cocked his eyebrow.\n\n\n \"Not at all,\" he said. He took the measure of his slim, red-headed\n opponent. Taller, heavier, older, he was still no more uncompromisingly\n belligerent than Duane, standing there. \"Not at all,\" he repeated.\n \"Just take your ten thousand and let it go at that. Don't make trouble.\n Leave Andrias out of our private argument.\"\n\n\n \"Damn you!\" Duane flared. \"I was promised fifty thousand. I need that\n money. Do you think—\"", "Ahead lay the tall spires of a city. Graceful, hundreds of feet high,\n they seemed dreamlike yet somehow oddly familiar to Duane. Somewhere\n he had seen them before. He dragged deep into his mind, plumbing the\n cloudy, impenetrable haze that had settled on it, trying to bring forth\n the memories that he should have had. Amnesia, they called it; complete\n forgetting of the happenings of a lifetime. He'd heard of it—but never\n dreamed it could happen to him!\nMy name, it seems, is Peter Duane\n, he thought.\nAnd they tell me that\n I killed a man!\nThe thought was starkly incredible to him. A white-haired man, it had\n been; someone named Stevens. He tried to remember.\n\n\n Yes, there had been a white-haired man. And there had been an argument.\n Something to do with money, with a shipment of goods that Stevens had\n supplied to Duane. There has even been talk of killing....", "There had been a few minutes of haggling over terms, then a handshake\n and a drink from a thin-necked flagon of pale-yellow liquid fire.\n\n\n He and the white-haired man had gone out then, made their way by\n unfrequented side streets to a great windowless building. Duane\n remembered the white-hot stars overhead, shining piercingly through\n the great transparent dome that kept the air in the sealed city of\n Darkside, as they stood at the entrance of the warehouse and spoke in\n low tones to the man who answered their summons.\n\n\n Then, inside. And they were looking at a huge chamber full of stacked\n fiber boxes—containing nothing but dehydrated dairy products and\n mining tools, by the stencils they bore. Duane had turned to the\n white-haired man with a puzzled question—and the man had laughed aloud.", "Duane took a deep breath and let the man drop to the floor. But he\n paused only a second; now he had two unconscious men on his hands and\n he dared let neither revive until he was prepared.\n\n\n He grasped the guard's arm and dragged him roughly the length of the\n room. He leaped on top of the desk, brutally scarring its gleaming top\n with the hard spikes of his boots. His agile fingers unfastened the\n long bell cord without causing it to ring and, bearing it, he dropped\n again to the floor.\n\n\n Tugging and straining, he got the limp form of Andrias into his own\n chair, bound him with the bell cord, gagged him with the priceless\n Venus-wool scarf Andrias wore knotted about his throat. He tested his\n bindings with full strength, and smiled. Those would hold, let Andrias\n struggle as he would.", "Then he shook his head. \"No,\" he said. \"You're lying all right. You\n killed Stevens to get his share—and now you're trying to hold me up.\n That's your last chance that just went by, Duane. From now on, I'm\n running this show!\"\n\n\n He spun around and strode to the door, thrust it open. \"Dakin!\" he\n bellowed. \"Reed!\"\n\n\n Two large, ugly men in field-gray uniforms, emblazoned with the\n shooting-star insignia of Callisto's League police, came in, looking to\n Andrias for instructions.\n\n\n \"Duane here is resisting arrest,\" Andrias said. \"Take him along. We'll\n fix up the charges later.\"\n\n\n \"You can't do that,\" Duane said wearily. \"I'm sick. If you've got\n something against me, save it. Wait till my head clears. I'm sure I can\n explain—\"" ], [ "\"Nobody seems to believe me,\" he said, \"but I really don't know what's\n going on. Things are moving too fast for me. Really, I—why, I don't\n even know my own name! My head—it hurts. I can't think clearly.\"\n\n\n Andrias straightened, turned a darkly-suspicious look on Duane. \"Don't\n play tricks on me,\" he said savagely. \"I haven't time for them. I won't\n mince words with you. Give me a release on the cargo now, before I have\n to get rough. This is a lot more important to me than your life is.\"\n\n\n \"Go to hell,\" Duane said shortly. \"I'm playing no tricks.\"\n\n\n There was an instant's doubt in Andrias' eyes, then it flashed away. He\n bent closer, peered at Duane. \"I almost think—\" he began.", "The dark man laughed. \"Take your time, Duane,\" he said easily. \"You'll\n remember me. My name's Andrias. I've been waiting here for you to wake\n up. We have some business matters to discuss.\"\n\n\n The nurse, still eyeing Duane with an odd bewilderment, said: \"I'll\n leave you alone for a moment. Don't talk too much to him, Mr. Andrias.\n He's still suffering from shock.\"\n\n\n \"I won't,\" Andrias promised, grinning. Then, as the girl left the room,\n the smile dropped from his face.", "He stood up and looked around. He had to act quickly. Already Andrias'\n breath was audible; he saw the man grimace and an arm flopped\n spasmodically on the floor. Consciousness was on its way back.\n\n\n Duane touched the heat gun he'd thrust into his belt; drew it and held\n it poised, while he sought to discover what was in his own mind. He'd\n killed a man already, they said. Was he then a killer—could he shoot\n Andrias now, in cold blood, with so much to gain and nothing to lose?\n\n\n He stood there a moment. Then, abruptly, he reversed the weapon and\n chopped it down on Andrias' skull.\n\n\n There was a sharp grunt from the still unconscious man, but no other\n sign. Only—the first tremors of movement that had shown on him halted,\n and did not reappear.", "\"You play rough, Duane,\" he observed. \"I thought you'd have trouble\n with Stevens. I didn't think you'd find it necessary to put him out of\n the way so permanently. Well, no matter. If you had to kill him, it's\n no skin off my nose. Give me a release on the merchandise. I've got\n your money here.\"\nDuane waved a hand and pushed himself dizzily erect, swinging his legs\n over the side of the high cot. A sheet had been thrown over him, but he\n was fully dressed. He examined his clothing with interest—gray tunic,\n gray leather spaceman's boots. It was unfamiliar.\n\n\n He shook his head in further confusion, and the motion burst within his\n skull, throbbing hotly. He closed his eyes until it subsided, trying to\n force his brain to operate, to explain to him where and what he was.\n\n\n He looked at the man named Andrias.", "\"\nThey tell me I killed Stevens the same way\n,\" he thought. \"\nI'm\n getting in a rut!\n\"\n\n\n But Andrias was not dead, though he was out as cold as the void beyond\n Pluto. The thick carpeting had saved him from a broken head.\n\n\n Duane stepped over the unconscious man and looked around the room. It\n was furnished severely, to the point of barrenness. Two chairs before\n Andrias' ornate, bare-topped desk and one luxurious chair behind it;\n a tasseled bell cord within easy reach of Andrias' chair; the long\n carpet. That was all it contained.\n\n\n The problem of getting out was serious, he saw. How could one—\nIII", "The guard he stripped of clothing, bound and gagged with his own\n belt and spaceman's kerchief. He dragged him around behind the desk,\n thrust him under it out of sight. Andrias' chair he turned so that the\n unconscious face was averted from the door. Should anyone look in,\n then, the fact of Andrias' unconsciousness might not be noticed.\n\n\n Then he took off his own clothes, quickly assumed the field-gray\n uniform of the guard. It fit like the skin of a fruit. He felt himself\n bulging out of it in a dozen places. The long cape the guard wore would\n conceal that, perhaps. In any case, there was nothing better.\n\n\n Trying to make his stride as martial as possible, he walked down the\n long carpet to the door, opened it and stepped outside.", "An idea bloomed in Duane's brain. He looked, then, at unconscious\n Andrias—and the idea withered again.\n\n\n He had thought of forcing Andrias himself to front for him, at gun's\n point, in the conventional manner of escaping prisoners. But fist\n fights, fiction to the contrary notwithstanding, leave marks on the men\n who lose them. Andrias' throat was speckled with the livid marks of\n Duane's fingers; Duane's head, butting Andrias in the face, had drawn a\n thick stream of crimson from his nostrils, turned his sharp nose askew.\n\n\n No guard of Andrias' would have been deceived for an instant, looking\n at that face—even assuming that Andrias could have been forced to\n cooperate by the threat of a gun. Which, considering the stake Andrias\n had in this play, was doubtful....", "He hurled himself at Andrias, hands sweeping around to grapple for the\n dark man's throat. Andrias, off-balance, staggered backward. But his\n own hands were diving for the twin heat guns that hung at his waist.\n\n\n Duane saw his danger, and reacted. His foot twisted around Andrias'\n ankle; his hands at the other's throat gripped tighter. He lunged\n forward, slamming the hard top of his head into the other's face,\n feeling flesh and cartilage give as Andrias' nose mashed flat. His own\n head pin-wheeled dizzily, agonizingly, as the jar revived the pain of\n his earlier accident.\n\n\n But Andrias, unconscious already, tumbled back with Duane on top of\n him. His head made an audible, spine-chilling thud as it hit the\n carpeted floor.\n\n\n Duane got up, retrieving the two heat guns, and stared at him.", "A long, powerful ground car slid up before them. Andrias got in front,\n while the two uniformed men shoved Duane into the back of the car,\n climbed in beside him. Andrias gave a curt order, and the car shot\n forward.\n\n\n The driver, sitting beside Andrias, leaned forward and readied a hand\n under the dashboard. The high wail of a siren came instantly from the\n car's roof, and what traffic was on the broad, straight highway into\n which they had turned pulled aside to let them race through.", "Methodically he ransacked the drawers of Andrias' desk. Papers, a\n whole arsenal of hand guns, Callistan money by the bale, ominously\n black-covered notebooks with cryptic figures littering their\n pages—those were the contents. A coldly impersonal desk, without the\n familiar trivia most men accumulate. There was nothing, certainly, that\n would get him out of a building that so closely resembled a fortress.\n\n\n He tumbled the things back into the drawers helter-skelter, turned\n Andrias over and searched his pockets. More money—the man must have\n had a fortune within reach at all times—and a few meaningless papers.\n Duane took the release he had signed and tore it to shreds. But that\n was only a gesture. When Andrias came to, unless Duane had managed to\n get away and accomplish something, the mere lack of written permission\n would not keep him from the rocket's lethal cargo!\n\n\n When Andrias came to....", "Andrias' eyes widened. \"You amaze me, Duane,\" he said. He rose and\n stepped around the desk, confronting Duane. \"I almost think you really\n have lost your memory, Duane,\" he said. \"Otherwise, surely you would\n know that this is all the rifles I need. With them I'll\ntake\nwhatever\n else I want!\"\n\n\n Duane said, \"You're ready, then....\"\n\n\n He took time to think it over, but he knew that no thought was\n required. Already the hands that he had locked behind him were\n clenched, taut. Already the muscles of his legs were tensing.\n\n\n \"You're ready,\" he repeated. \"You've armed the Callistan exiles—the\n worst gutter scum on nine planets. You're set to betray the League that\n gave you power here.... Well, that changes things. I can't let you do\n it!\"", "\"All right, Duane.\" The deep voice of a guard came to him as the door\n swung open. \"Stop making eyes at yourself.\"\n\n\n Duane looked around. The guard beckoned. \"Governor Andrias wants to\n speak to you—now. Let's not keep the governor waiting.\"\nA long, narrow room, with a long carpet leading from the entrance up to\n a great heavy desk—that was Andrias' office. Duane felt a click in his\n memory as he entered. One of the ancient Earth dictators had employed\n just such a psychological trick to overawe those who came to beg favors\n of him. Muslini, or some such name.\n\n\n The trick failed to work. Duane had other things on his mind; he walked\n the thirty-foot length of the room, designed to imbue him with a sense\n of his own unimportance, as steadily as he'd ever walked in the open\n air of his home planet.\n\n\n Whichever planet that was.", "Duane took a deep breath and let the man drop to the floor. But he\n paused only a second; now he had two unconscious men on his hands and\n he dared let neither revive until he was prepared.\n\n\n He grasped the guard's arm and dragged him roughly the length of the\n room. He leaped on top of the desk, brutally scarring its gleaming top\n with the hard spikes of his boots. His agile fingers unfastened the\n long bell cord without causing it to ring and, bearing it, he dropped\n again to the floor.\n\n\n Tugging and straining, he got the limp form of Andrias into his own\n chair, bound him with the bell cord, gagged him with the priceless\n Venus-wool scarf Andrias wore knotted about his throat. He tested his\n bindings with full strength, and smiled. Those would hold, let Andrias\n struggle as he would.", "He walked around the desk to the bell cord. He took a deep breath,\n tugged it savagely, and at once was in speedy motion, racing toward the\n door, his footsteps muffled in the deep, springy carpet. Almost as he\n reached it, he saw it begin to open. He quickly sidestepped and was out\n of the guard's sight, behind the door, as the man looked in.\n\n\n Quick suspicion flared in his eyes, then certainty as he saw Andrias\n huddled on the floor. He opened his mouth to cry out—\n\n\n But Duane's arm was around his throat, and he had no breath to spare.\n Duane's foot lashed out and the door slammed shut; Duane's balled left\n fist came up and connected with the guard's chin. Abruptly the man\n slumped.", "Dark red flooded into Andrias' sallow face. His jaws bunched angrily\n and there was a ragged thread of incomplete control to his voice as he\n spoke.\n\n\n \"I'll have your neck for this, Duane,\" he said softly.\n\n\n Duane looked at the man's eyes. Death was behind them, peeping out.\n Mentally he shrugged. What difference did it make?\n\n\n \"Give me the pen,\" he said shortly.\n\n\n Andrias exhaled a deep breath. You could see the tension leave him, the\n mottled anger fade from his face and leave it without expression. He\n handed the paper to Duane without a word. He gave him a pen, watched\n him scrawl his name.\n\n\n \"That,\" he said, \"is better.\" He paused a moment ruminatively. \"It\n would have been better still if you'd not stalled me so long. I find\n that hard to forgive in my associates.\"", "But—murder! Duane looked at his hands helplessly.\n\n\n Andrias, up ahead, was turning around. He looked sharply at Duane, for\n a long second. An uncertainty clouded his eyes, and abruptly he looked\n forward again without speaking.\n\n\n \"Who's this man Andrias?\" Duane whispered to the nearest guard.\n\n\n The man stared at him. \"Governor Andrias,\" he said, \"is the League's\n deputy on Callisto. You know—the Earth-Mars League. They put Governor\n Andrias here to—well, to govern for them.\"\n\n\n \"League?\" Duane asked, wrinkling his brow. He had heard something about\n a League once, yes. But it was all so nebulous....", "The other guard stirred, leaned over. \"Shut up,\" he said heavily.\n \"You'll have plenty of chance for talking later.\"\nBut the chance was a long time in coming. Duane found himself, an hour\n later, still in the barred room into which he'd been thrust. The guards\n had brought him there, at Andrias' order, and left him. That had been\n all.\n\n\n This was not a regular jail, Duane realized. It was more like a\n palace, something out of Earth's Roman-empire days, all white stone\n and frescoed walls. Duane wished for human companionship—particularly\n that of the nurse. Of all the people he'd met since awakening in that\n hospital bed, only she seemed warm and human. The others were—brutal,\n deadly. It was too bad, Duane reflected, that he'd failed to remember\n her. She'd seemed hurt, and she had certainly known him by first name.\n But perhaps she would understand.", "Then he shook his head. \"No,\" he said. \"You're lying all right. You\n killed Stevens to get his share—and now you're trying to hold me up.\n That's your last chance that just went by, Duane. From now on, I'm\n running this show!\"\n\n\n He spun around and strode to the door, thrust it open. \"Dakin!\" he\n bellowed. \"Reed!\"\n\n\n Two large, ugly men in field-gray uniforms, emblazoned with the\n shooting-star insignia of Callisto's League police, came in, looking to\n Andrias for instructions.\n\n\n \"Duane here is resisting arrest,\" Andrias said. \"Take him along. We'll\n fix up the charges later.\"\n\n\n \"You can't do that,\" Duane said wearily. \"I'm sick. If you've got\n something against me, save it. Wait till my head clears. I'm sure I can\n explain—\"", "Duane sat down on a lumpy, sagging bed and buried his head in his\n hands. Dim ghosts of memory were wandering in his mind. He tried to\n conjure them into stronger relief, or to exorcise them entirely.\n\n\n Somewhere, some time, a man had said to him, \"\nAndrias is secretly\n arming the Callistan cutthroats for revolt against the League. He wants\n personal power—he's prepared to pay any price for it. He needs guns,\n Earth guns smuggled in through the League patrol. If he can wipe out\n the League police garrison—those who are loyal to the League, still,\n instead of to Andrias—he can sit back and laugh at any fleet Earth and\n Mars can send. Rockets are clumsy in an atmosphere. They're helpless.\n And if he can arm enough of Callisto's rabble, he can't be stopped.\n That's why he'll pay for electron rifles with their weight in gold.\n\"", "A muted alarm bell sounded through the P.A. speakers, signaling a\n one-minute warning. The white-haired man cocked his eyebrow.\n\n\n \"Not at all,\" he said. He took the measure of his slim, red-headed\n opponent. Taller, heavier, older, he was still no more uncompromisingly\n belligerent than Duane, standing there. \"Not at all,\" he repeated.\n \"Just take your ten thousand and let it go at that. Don't make trouble.\n Leave Andrias out of our private argument.\"\n\n\n \"Damn you!\" Duane flared. \"I was promised fifty thousand. I need that\n money. Do you think—\"" ], [ "Andrias' eyes widened. \"You amaze me, Duane,\" he said. He rose and\n stepped around the desk, confronting Duane. \"I almost think you really\n have lost your memory, Duane,\" he said. \"Otherwise, surely you would\n know that this is all the rifles I need. With them I'll\ntake\nwhatever\n else I want!\"\n\n\n Duane said, \"You're ready, then....\"\n\n\n He took time to think it over, but he knew that no thought was\n required. Already the hands that he had locked behind him were\n clenched, taut. Already the muscles of his legs were tensing.\n\n\n \"You're ready,\" he repeated. \"You've armed the Callistan exiles—the\n worst gutter scum on nine planets. You're set to betray the League that\n gave you power here.... Well, that changes things. I can't let you do\n it!\"", "But—murder! Duane looked at his hands helplessly.\n\n\n Andrias, up ahead, was turning around. He looked sharply at Duane, for\n a long second. An uncertainty clouded his eyes, and abruptly he looked\n forward again without speaking.\n\n\n \"Who's this man Andrias?\" Duane whispered to the nearest guard.\n\n\n The man stared at him. \"Governor Andrias,\" he said, \"is the League's\n deputy on Callisto. You know—the Earth-Mars League. They put Governor\n Andrias here to—well, to govern for them.\"\n\n\n \"League?\" Duane asked, wrinkling his brow. He had heard something about\n a League once, yes. But it was all so nebulous....", "\"Nobody seems to believe me,\" he said, \"but I really don't know what's\n going on. Things are moving too fast for me. Really, I—why, I don't\n even know my own name! My head—it hurts. I can't think clearly.\"\n\n\n Andrias straightened, turned a darkly-suspicious look on Duane. \"Don't\n play tricks on me,\" he said savagely. \"I haven't time for them. I won't\n mince words with you. Give me a release on the cargo now, before I have\n to get rough. This is a lot more important to me than your life is.\"\n\n\n \"Go to hell,\" Duane said shortly. \"I'm playing no tricks.\"\n\n\n There was an instant's doubt in Andrias' eyes, then it flashed away. He\n bent closer, peered at Duane. \"I almost think—\" he began.", "The dark man laughed. \"Take your time, Duane,\" he said easily. \"You'll\n remember me. My name's Andrias. I've been waiting here for you to wake\n up. We have some business matters to discuss.\"\n\n\n The nurse, still eyeing Duane with an odd bewilderment, said: \"I'll\n leave you alone for a moment. Don't talk too much to him, Mr. Andrias.\n He's still suffering from shock.\"\n\n\n \"I won't,\" Andrias promised, grinning. Then, as the girl left the room,\n the smile dropped from his face.", "\"You play rough, Duane,\" he observed. \"I thought you'd have trouble\n with Stevens. I didn't think you'd find it necessary to put him out of\n the way so permanently. Well, no matter. If you had to kill him, it's\n no skin off my nose. Give me a release on the merchandise. I've got\n your money here.\"\nDuane waved a hand and pushed himself dizzily erect, swinging his legs\n over the side of the high cot. A sheet had been thrown over him, but he\n was fully dressed. He examined his clothing with interest—gray tunic,\n gray leather spaceman's boots. It was unfamiliar.\n\n\n He shook his head in further confusion, and the motion burst within his\n skull, throbbing hotly. He closed his eyes until it subsided, trying to\n force his brain to operate, to explain to him where and what he was.\n\n\n He looked at the man named Andrias.", "Then he shook his head. \"No,\" he said. \"You're lying all right. You\n killed Stevens to get his share—and now you're trying to hold me up.\n That's your last chance that just went by, Duane. From now on, I'm\n running this show!\"\n\n\n He spun around and strode to the door, thrust it open. \"Dakin!\" he\n bellowed. \"Reed!\"\n\n\n Two large, ugly men in field-gray uniforms, emblazoned with the\n shooting-star insignia of Callisto's League police, came in, looking to\n Andrias for instructions.\n\n\n \"Duane here is resisting arrest,\" Andrias said. \"Take him along. We'll\n fix up the charges later.\"\n\n\n \"You can't do that,\" Duane said wearily. \"I'm sick. If you've got\n something against me, save it. Wait till my head clears. I'm sure I can\n explain—\"", "Duane sat down on a lumpy, sagging bed and buried his head in his\n hands. Dim ghosts of memory were wandering in his mind. He tried to\n conjure them into stronger relief, or to exorcise them entirely.\n\n\n Somewhere, some time, a man had said to him, \"\nAndrias is secretly\n arming the Callistan cutthroats for revolt against the League. He wants\n personal power—he's prepared to pay any price for it. He needs guns,\n Earth guns smuggled in through the League patrol. If he can wipe out\n the League police garrison—those who are loyal to the League, still,\n instead of to Andrias—he can sit back and laugh at any fleet Earth and\n Mars can send. Rockets are clumsy in an atmosphere. They're helpless.\n And if he can arm enough of Callisto's rabble, he can't be stopped.\n That's why he'll pay for electron rifles with their weight in gold.\n\"", "Dark red flooded into Andrias' sallow face. His jaws bunched angrily\n and there was a ragged thread of incomplete control to his voice as he\n spoke.\n\n\n \"I'll have your neck for this, Duane,\" he said softly.\n\n\n Duane looked at the man's eyes. Death was behind them, peeping out.\n Mentally he shrugged. What difference did it make?\n\n\n \"Give me the pen,\" he said shortly.\n\n\n Andrias exhaled a deep breath. You could see the tension leave him, the\n mottled anger fade from his face and leave it without expression. He\n handed the paper to Duane without a word. He gave him a pen, watched\n him scrawl his name.\n\n\n \"That,\" he said, \"is better.\" He paused a moment ruminatively. \"It\n would have been better still if you'd not stalled me so long. I find\n that hard to forgive in my associates.\"", "A long, powerful ground car slid up before them. Andrias got in front,\n while the two uniformed men shoved Duane into the back of the car,\n climbed in beside him. Andrias gave a curt order, and the car shot\n forward.\n\n\n The driver, sitting beside Andrias, leaned forward and readied a hand\n under the dashboard. The high wail of a siren came instantly from the\n car's roof, and what traffic was on the broad, straight highway into\n which they had turned pulled aside to let them race through.", "\"\nThey tell me I killed Stevens the same way\n,\" he thought. \"\nI'm\n getting in a rut!\n\"\n\n\n But Andrias was not dead, though he was out as cold as the void beyond\n Pluto. The thick carpeting had saved him from a broken head.\n\n\n Duane stepped over the unconscious man and looked around the room. It\n was furnished severely, to the point of barrenness. Two chairs before\n Andrias' ornate, bare-topped desk and one luxurious chair behind it;\n a tasseled bell cord within easy reach of Andrias' chair; the long\n carpet. That was all it contained.\n\n\n The problem of getting out was serious, he saw. How could one—\nIII", "\"All right, Duane.\" The deep voice of a guard came to him as the door\n swung open. \"Stop making eyes at yourself.\"\n\n\n Duane looked around. The guard beckoned. \"Governor Andrias wants to\n speak to you—now. Let's not keep the governor waiting.\"\nA long, narrow room, with a long carpet leading from the entrance up to\n a great heavy desk—that was Andrias' office. Duane felt a click in his\n memory as he entered. One of the ancient Earth dictators had employed\n just such a psychological trick to overawe those who came to beg favors\n of him. Muslini, or some such name.\n\n\n The trick failed to work. Duane had other things on his mind; he walked\n the thirty-foot length of the room, designed to imbue him with a sense\n of his own unimportance, as steadily as he'd ever walked in the open\n air of his home planet.\n\n\n Whichever planet that was.", "He stood up and looked around. He had to act quickly. Already Andrias'\n breath was audible; he saw the man grimace and an arm flopped\n spasmodically on the floor. Consciousness was on its way back.\n\n\n Duane touched the heat gun he'd thrust into his belt; drew it and held\n it poised, while he sought to discover what was in his own mind. He'd\n killed a man already, they said. Was he then a killer—could he shoot\n Andrias now, in cold blood, with so much to gain and nothing to lose?\n\n\n He stood there a moment. Then, abruptly, he reversed the weapon and\n chopped it down on Andrias' skull.\n\n\n There was a sharp grunt from the still unconscious man, but no other\n sign. Only—the first tremors of movement that had shown on him halted,\n and did not reappear.", "He hurled himself at Andrias, hands sweeping around to grapple for the\n dark man's throat. Andrias, off-balance, staggered backward. But his\n own hands were diving for the twin heat guns that hung at his waist.\n\n\n Duane saw his danger, and reacted. His foot twisted around Andrias'\n ankle; his hands at the other's throat gripped tighter. He lunged\n forward, slamming the hard top of his head into the other's face,\n feeling flesh and cartilage give as Andrias' nose mashed flat. His own\n head pin-wheeled dizzily, agonizingly, as the jar revived the pain of\n his earlier accident.\n\n\n But Andrias, unconscious already, tumbled back with Duane on top of\n him. His head made an audible, spine-chilling thud as it hit the\n carpeted floor.\n\n\n Duane got up, retrieving the two heat guns, and stared at him.", "A muted alarm bell sounded through the P.A. speakers, signaling a\n one-minute warning. The white-haired man cocked his eyebrow.\n\n\n \"Not at all,\" he said. He took the measure of his slim, red-headed\n opponent. Taller, heavier, older, he was still no more uncompromisingly\n belligerent than Duane, standing there. \"Not at all,\" he repeated.\n \"Just take your ten thousand and let it go at that. Don't make trouble.\n Leave Andrias out of our private argument.\"\n\n\n \"Damn you!\" Duane flared. \"I was promised fifty thousand. I need that\n money. Do you think—\"", "The other guard stirred, leaned over. \"Shut up,\" he said heavily.\n \"You'll have plenty of chance for talking later.\"\nBut the chance was a long time in coming. Duane found himself, an hour\n later, still in the barred room into which he'd been thrust. The guards\n had brought him there, at Andrias' order, and left him. That had been\n all.\n\n\n This was not a regular jail, Duane realized. It was more like a\n palace, something out of Earth's Roman-empire days, all white stone\n and frescoed walls. Duane wished for human companionship—particularly\n that of the nurse. Of all the people he'd met since awakening in that\n hospital bed, only she seemed warm and human. The others were—brutal,\n deadly. It was too bad, Duane reflected, that he'd failed to remember\n her. She'd seemed hurt, and she had certainly known him by first name.\n But perhaps she would understand.", "He said, \"Duane, Andrias is your boss, not mine. I'm a free lance; I\n work for myself. When we land on Callisto tonight I'll be with you when\n you turn our—shall I say, our\ncargo\n?—over to him. And I'll collect\n my fair share of the proceeds. That's as far as it goes. I take no\n orders from him.\"\n\n\n A heavy-set man in blue appeared at the end of the connecting corridor.\n He was moving fast, but stopped short when he saw the two men.\n\n\n \"Hey!\" he said. \"Change of course—get to your cabins.\" He seemed about\n to walk up to them, then reconsidered and hurried off. Neither man paid\n any attention.\n\n\n Duane said, \"Do I have to kill you?\" It was only a question as he asked\n it, without threatening.", "The guard had remained just inside the door, at attention. Andrias\n waved him out.\n\n\n \"Here I am,\" said Duane. \"What do you want?\"\n\n\n Andrias said, \"I've had the ship inspected and what I want is on it.\n That saves your life, for now. But the cargo is in your name. I could\n take it by force, if I had to. I prefer not to.\" He picked up a paper,\n handed it to Duane. \"In spite of your behavior, you can keep alive.\n You can even collect the money for the guns—Stevens' share as well\n as your own. This is a release form, authorizing my men to take four\n hundred and twenty cases of dehydrated foods and drilling supplies from\n the hold of the\nCameroon\n—the ship you came on. Sign it, and we'll\n forget our argument. Only, sign it now and get it over with. I'm losing\n patience, Duane.\"\n\n\n Duane said, without expression, \"No.\"", "Methodically he ransacked the drawers of Andrias' desk. Papers, a\n whole arsenal of hand guns, Callistan money by the bale, ominously\n black-covered notebooks with cryptic figures littering their\n pages—those were the contents. A coldly impersonal desk, without the\n familiar trivia most men accumulate. There was nothing, certainly, that\n would get him out of a building that so closely resembled a fortress.\n\n\n He tumbled the things back into the drawers helter-skelter, turned\n Andrias over and searched his pockets. More money—the man must have\n had a fortune within reach at all times—and a few meaningless papers.\n Duane took the release he had signed and tore it to shreds. But that\n was only a gesture. When Andrias came to, unless Duane had managed to\n get away and accomplish something, the mere lack of written permission\n would not keep him from the rocket's lethal cargo!\n\n\n When Andrias came to....", "The guard he stripped of clothing, bound and gagged with his own\n belt and spaceman's kerchief. He dragged him around behind the desk,\n thrust him under it out of sight. Andrias' chair he turned so that the\n unconscious face was averted from the door. Should anyone look in,\n then, the fact of Andrias' unconsciousness might not be noticed.\n\n\n Then he took off his own clothes, quickly assumed the field-gray\n uniform of the guard. It fit like the skin of a fruit. He felt himself\n bulging out of it in a dozen places. The long cape the guard wore would\n conceal that, perhaps. In any case, there was nothing better.\n\n\n Trying to make his stride as martial as possible, he walked down the\n long carpet to the door, opened it and stepped outside.", "He walked around the desk to the bell cord. He took a deep breath,\n tugged it savagely, and at once was in speedy motion, racing toward the\n door, his footsteps muffled in the deep, springy carpet. Almost as he\n reached it, he saw it begin to open. He quickly sidestepped and was out\n of the guard's sight, behind the door, as the man looked in.\n\n\n Quick suspicion flared in his eyes, then certainty as he saw Andrias\n huddled on the floor. He opened his mouth to cry out—\n\n\n But Duane's arm was around his throat, and he had no breath to spare.\n Duane's foot lashed out and the door slammed shut; Duane's balled left\n fist came up and connected with the guard's chin. Abruptly the man\n slumped." ], [ "Duane could remember the scene clearly. Could almost see the sharp,\n aquiline face of the man who had spoken to him. But there memory\n stopped.\n\n\n A fugitive recollection raced through his mind. He halted it, dragged\n it back, pinned it down....\n\n\n They had stopped in Darkside, the spaceport on the side of Luna that\n keeps perpetually averted from Earth, as if the moon knows shame and\n wants to hide the rough and roaring dome city that nestles in one\n of the great craters. Duane remembered sitting in a low-ceilinged,\n smoke-heavy room, across the table from a tall man with white hair.\n Stevens!\n\n\n \"\nFour thousand electron rifles\n,\" the man had said. \"\nLatest\n government issue. Never mind how I got them; they're perfect. You know\n my price. Take it or leave it. And it's payable the minute we touch\n ground on Callisto.\n\"", "\"Nobody seems to believe me,\" he said, \"but I really don't know what's\n going on. Things are moving too fast for me. Really, I—why, I don't\n even know my own name! My head—it hurts. I can't think clearly.\"\n\n\n Andrias straightened, turned a darkly-suspicious look on Duane. \"Don't\n play tricks on me,\" he said savagely. \"I haven't time for them. I won't\n mince words with you. Give me a release on the cargo now, before I have\n to get rough. This is a lot more important to me than your life is.\"\n\n\n \"Go to hell,\" Duane said shortly. \"I'm playing no tricks.\"\n\n\n There was an instant's doubt in Andrias' eyes, then it flashed away. He\n bent closer, peered at Duane. \"I almost think—\" he began.", "The guard had remained just inside the door, at attention. Andrias\n waved him out.\n\n\n \"Here I am,\" said Duane. \"What do you want?\"\n\n\n Andrias said, \"I've had the ship inspected and what I want is on it.\n That saves your life, for now. But the cargo is in your name. I could\n take it by force, if I had to. I prefer not to.\" He picked up a paper,\n handed it to Duane. \"In spite of your behavior, you can keep alive.\n You can even collect the money for the guns—Stevens' share as well\n as your own. This is a release form, authorizing my men to take four\n hundred and twenty cases of dehydrated foods and drilling supplies from\n the hold of the\nCameroon\n—the ship you came on. Sign it, and we'll\n forget our argument. Only, sign it now and get it over with. I'm losing\n patience, Duane.\"\n\n\n Duane said, without expression, \"No.\"", "There had been a few minutes of haggling over terms, then a handshake\n and a drink from a thin-necked flagon of pale-yellow liquid fire.\n\n\n He and the white-haired man had gone out then, made their way by\n unfrequented side streets to a great windowless building. Duane\n remembered the white-hot stars overhead, shining piercingly through\n the great transparent dome that kept the air in the sealed city of\n Darkside, as they stood at the entrance of the warehouse and spoke in\n low tones to the man who answered their summons.\n\n\n Then, inside. And they were looking at a huge chamber full of stacked\n fiber boxes—containing nothing but dehydrated dairy products and\n mining tools, by the stencils they bore. Duane had turned to the\n white-haired man with a puzzled question—and the man had laughed aloud.", "\"You play rough, Duane,\" he observed. \"I thought you'd have trouble\n with Stevens. I didn't think you'd find it necessary to put him out of\n the way so permanently. Well, no matter. If you had to kill him, it's\n no skin off my nose. Give me a release on the merchandise. I've got\n your money here.\"\nDuane waved a hand and pushed himself dizzily erect, swinging his legs\n over the side of the high cot. A sheet had been thrown over him, but he\n was fully dressed. He examined his clothing with interest—gray tunic,\n gray leather spaceman's boots. It was unfamiliar.\n\n\n He shook his head in further confusion, and the motion burst within his\n skull, throbbing hotly. He closed his eyes until it subsided, trying to\n force his brain to operate, to explain to him where and what he was.\n\n\n He looked at the man named Andrias.", "\"Forget what I think,\" Stevens said, his voice clipped and angry. \"I\n don't care about fairness, Duane, except to myself. I've done all the\n work on this—I've supplied the goods. My price is set, a hundred\n thousand Earth dollars. What Andrias promised you is no concern of\n mine. The fact is that, after I've taken my share, there's only ten\n thousand left. That's all you get!\"\n\n\n Duane stared at him a long second, then nodded abruptly. \"I was right\n the first time,\" he said. \"I'll\nhave\nto kill you!\"\nAlready his hand was streaking toward the grip of his dis-gun, touching\n it, drawing it forth. But the white-haired man was faster. His arms\n swept up and pinioned Duane, holding him impotent.\n\n\n \"Don't be a fool,\" he grated. \"Duane—\"", "He said, \"Duane, Andrias is your boss, not mine. I'm a free lance; I\n work for myself. When we land on Callisto tonight I'll be with you when\n you turn our—shall I say, our\ncargo\n?—over to him. And I'll collect\n my fair share of the proceeds. That's as far as it goes. I take no\n orders from him.\"\n\n\n A heavy-set man in blue appeared at the end of the connecting corridor.\n He was moving fast, but stopped short when he saw the two men.\n\n\n \"Hey!\" he said. \"Change of course—get to your cabins.\" He seemed about\n to walk up to them, then reconsidered and hurried off. Neither man paid\n any attention.\n\n\n Duane said, \"Do I have to kill you?\" It was only a question as he asked\n it, without threatening.", "A long, powerful ground car slid up before them. Andrias got in front,\n while the two uniformed men shoved Duane into the back of the car,\n climbed in beside him. Andrias gave a curt order, and the car shot\n forward.\n\n\n The driver, sitting beside Andrias, leaned forward and readied a hand\n under the dashboard. The high wail of a siren came instantly from the\n car's roof, and what traffic was on the broad, straight highway into\n which they had turned pulled aside to let them race through.", "The P.A. speaker rattled, blared something unintelligible. Neither man\n heard it. Duane lunged forward into the taller man's grip, sliding down\n to the floor. The white-haired man grappled furiously to keep his hold\n on Peter's gun arm, but Peter was slipping away. Belatedly, Stevens\n went for his own gun.\n\n\n He was too late. Duane's was out and leveled at him.\n\n\n \"\nNow\nwill you listen to reason?\" Duane panted. But he halted, and the\n muzzle of his weapon wavered. The floor swooped and surged beneath him\n as the thrust of the mighty jets was cut off. Suddenly there was no\n gravity. The two men, locked together, floated weightlessly out to the\n center of the corridor.\n\n\n \"Course change!\" gasped white-haired Stevens. \"Good God!\"", "\"\nThey tell me I killed Stevens the same way\n,\" he thought. \"\nI'm\n getting in a rut!\n\"\n\n\n But Andrias was not dead, though he was out as cold as the void beyond\n Pluto. The thick carpeting had saved him from a broken head.\n\n\n Duane stepped over the unconscious man and looked around the room. It\n was furnished severely, to the point of barrenness. Two chairs before\n Andrias' ornate, bare-topped desk and one luxurious chair behind it;\n a tasseled bell cord within easy reach of Andrias' chair; the long\n carpet. That was all it contained.\n\n\n The problem of getting out was serious, he saw. How could one—\nIII", "He dragged one of the boxes down, ripped it open with the sharp point\n of a handling hook. Short-barreled, flare-mouthed guns rolled out,\n tumbling over the floor. Eight of them were in that one box, and\n hundreds of boxes all about. Duane picked one up, broke it, peered into\n the chamber where the tiny capsule of U-235 would explode with infinite\n violence when the trigger was pulled, spraying radiant death three\n thousand yards in the direction the gun was aimed....\n\n\n And that memory ended.\n\n\n Duane got up, stared at his haggard face in the cracked mirror over\n the bed. \"\nThey say I'm a killer\n,\" he thought. \"\nApparently I'm a\n gun-runner as well. Good lord—what am I not?\n\"\n\n\n His reflection—white, drawn face made all the more pallid by the red\n hair that blazed over it—stared back at him. There was no answer\n there. If only he could remember—", "\"You're right, Duane,\" he said. \"I could blast you, too. Nobody would\n win that way, so let's leave the guns where they are.\"\n\n\n The muscles twitched in Peter Duane's cheeks, but his voice, when it\n came, was controlled. \"Don't think we're going to let this go,\" he\n said. \"We'll take it up with Andrias tonight. We'll see whether you can\n cut me out!\"\n\n\n The white-haired man's smile faded. He stepped forward, one hand\n bracing him against the thrust of the rocket engines underneath,\n holding to the guide rail at the side of the ship's corridor.", "Then he shook his head. \"No,\" he said. \"You're lying all right. You\n killed Stevens to get his share—and now you're trying to hold me up.\n That's your last chance that just went by, Duane. From now on, I'm\n running this show!\"\n\n\n He spun around and strode to the door, thrust it open. \"Dakin!\" he\n bellowed. \"Reed!\"\n\n\n Two large, ugly men in field-gray uniforms, emblazoned with the\n shooting-star insignia of Callisto's League police, came in, looking to\n Andrias for instructions.\n\n\n \"Duane here is resisting arrest,\" Andrias said. \"Take him along. We'll\n fix up the charges later.\"\n\n\n \"You can't do that,\" Duane said wearily. \"I'm sick. If you've got\n something against me, save it. Wait till my head clears. I'm sure I can\n explain—\"", "He hurled himself at Andrias, hands sweeping around to grapple for the\n dark man's throat. Andrias, off-balance, staggered backward. But his\n own hands were diving for the twin heat guns that hung at his waist.\n\n\n Duane saw his danger, and reacted. His foot twisted around Andrias'\n ankle; his hands at the other's throat gripped tighter. He lunged\n forward, slamming the hard top of his head into the other's face,\n feeling flesh and cartilage give as Andrias' nose mashed flat. His own\n head pin-wheeled dizzily, agonizingly, as the jar revived the pain of\n his earlier accident.\n\n\n But Andrias, unconscious already, tumbled back with Duane on top of\n him. His head made an audible, spine-chilling thud as it hit the\n carpeted floor.\n\n\n Duane got up, retrieving the two heat guns, and stared at him.", "He stood up and looked around. He had to act quickly. Already Andrias'\n breath was audible; he saw the man grimace and an arm flopped\n spasmodically on the floor. Consciousness was on its way back.\n\n\n Duane touched the heat gun he'd thrust into his belt; drew it and held\n it poised, while he sought to discover what was in his own mind. He'd\n killed a man already, they said. Was he then a killer—could he shoot\n Andrias now, in cold blood, with so much to gain and nothing to lose?\n\n\n He stood there a moment. Then, abruptly, he reversed the weapon and\n chopped it down on Andrias' skull.\n\n\n There was a sharp grunt from the still unconscious man, but no other\n sign. Only—the first tremors of movement that had shown on him halted,\n and did not reappear.", "Duane sat down on a lumpy, sagging bed and buried his head in his\n hands. Dim ghosts of memory were wandering in his mind. He tried to\n conjure them into stronger relief, or to exorcise them entirely.\n\n\n Somewhere, some time, a man had said to him, \"\nAndrias is secretly\n arming the Callistan cutthroats for revolt against the League. He wants\n personal power—he's prepared to pay any price for it. He needs guns,\n Earth guns smuggled in through the League patrol. If he can wipe out\n the League police garrison—those who are loyal to the League, still,\n instead of to Andrias—he can sit back and laugh at any fleet Earth and\n Mars can send. Rockets are clumsy in an atmosphere. They're helpless.\n And if he can arm enough of Callisto's rabble, he can't be stopped.\n That's why he'll pay for electron rifles with their weight in gold.\n\"", "A muted alarm bell sounded through the P.A. speakers, signaling a\n one-minute warning. The white-haired man cocked his eyebrow.\n\n\n \"Not at all,\" he said. He took the measure of his slim, red-headed\n opponent. Taller, heavier, older, he was still no more uncompromisingly\n belligerent than Duane, standing there. \"Not at all,\" he repeated.\n \"Just take your ten thousand and let it go at that. Don't make trouble.\n Leave Andrias out of our private argument.\"\n\n\n \"Damn you!\" Duane flared. \"I was promised fifty thousand. I need that\n money. Do you think—\"", "Dark red flooded into Andrias' sallow face. His jaws bunched angrily\n and there was a ragged thread of incomplete control to his voice as he\n spoke.\n\n\n \"I'll have your neck for this, Duane,\" he said softly.\n\n\n Duane looked at the man's eyes. Death was behind them, peeping out.\n Mentally he shrugged. What difference did it make?\n\n\n \"Give me the pen,\" he said shortly.\n\n\n Andrias exhaled a deep breath. You could see the tension leave him, the\n mottled anger fade from his face and leave it without expression. He\n handed the paper to Duane without a word. He gave him a pen, watched\n him scrawl his name.\n\n\n \"That,\" he said, \"is better.\" He paused a moment ruminatively. \"It\n would have been better still if you'd not stalled me so long. I find\n that hard to forgive in my associates.\"", "Methodically he ransacked the drawers of Andrias' desk. Papers, a\n whole arsenal of hand guns, Callistan money by the bale, ominously\n black-covered notebooks with cryptic figures littering their\n pages—those were the contents. A coldly impersonal desk, without the\n familiar trivia most men accumulate. There was nothing, certainly, that\n would get him out of a building that so closely resembled a fortress.\n\n\n He tumbled the things back into the drawers helter-skelter, turned\n Andrias over and searched his pockets. More money—the man must have\n had a fortune within reach at all times—and a few meaningless papers.\n Duane took the release he had signed and tore it to shreds. But that\n was only a gesture. When Andrias came to, unless Duane had managed to\n get away and accomplish something, the mere lack of written permission\n would not keep him from the rocket's lethal cargo!\n\n\n When Andrias came to....", "Ahead lay the tall spires of a city. Graceful, hundreds of feet high,\n they seemed dreamlike yet somehow oddly familiar to Duane. Somewhere\n he had seen them before. He dragged deep into his mind, plumbing the\n cloudy, impenetrable haze that had settled on it, trying to bring forth\n the memories that he should have had. Amnesia, they called it; complete\n forgetting of the happenings of a lifetime. He'd heard of it—but never\n dreamed it could happen to him!\nMy name, it seems, is Peter Duane\n, he thought.\nAnd they tell me that\n I killed a man!\nThe thought was starkly incredible to him. A white-haired man, it had\n been; someone named Stevens. He tried to remember.\n\n\n Yes, there had been a white-haired man. And there had been an argument.\n Something to do with money, with a shipment of goods that Stevens had\n supplied to Duane. There has even been talk of killing...." ], [ "He walked around the desk to the bell cord. He took a deep breath,\n tugged it savagely, and at once was in speedy motion, racing toward the\n door, his footsteps muffled in the deep, springy carpet. Almost as he\n reached it, he saw it begin to open. He quickly sidestepped and was out\n of the guard's sight, behind the door, as the man looked in.\n\n\n Quick suspicion flared in his eyes, then certainty as he saw Andrias\n huddled on the floor. He opened his mouth to cry out—\n\n\n But Duane's arm was around his throat, and he had no breath to spare.\n Duane's foot lashed out and the door slammed shut; Duane's balled left\n fist came up and connected with the guard's chin. Abruptly the man\n slumped.", "An idea bloomed in Duane's brain. He looked, then, at unconscious\n Andrias—and the idea withered again.\n\n\n He had thought of forcing Andrias himself to front for him, at gun's\n point, in the conventional manner of escaping prisoners. But fist\n fights, fiction to the contrary notwithstanding, leave marks on the men\n who lose them. Andrias' throat was speckled with the livid marks of\n Duane's fingers; Duane's head, butting Andrias in the face, had drawn a\n thick stream of crimson from his nostrils, turned his sharp nose askew.\n\n\n No guard of Andrias' would have been deceived for an instant, looking\n at that face—even assuming that Andrias could have been forced to\n cooperate by the threat of a gun. Which, considering the stake Andrias\n had in this play, was doubtful....", "The guard he stripped of clothing, bound and gagged with his own\n belt and spaceman's kerchief. He dragged him around behind the desk,\n thrust him under it out of sight. Andrias' chair he turned so that the\n unconscious face was averted from the door. Should anyone look in,\n then, the fact of Andrias' unconsciousness might not be noticed.\n\n\n Then he took off his own clothes, quickly assumed the field-gray\n uniform of the guard. It fit like the skin of a fruit. He felt himself\n bulging out of it in a dozen places. The long cape the guard wore would\n conceal that, perhaps. In any case, there was nothing better.\n\n\n Trying to make his stride as martial as possible, he walked down the\n long carpet to the door, opened it and stepped outside.", "He stood up and looked around. He had to act quickly. Already Andrias'\n breath was audible; he saw the man grimace and an arm flopped\n spasmodically on the floor. Consciousness was on its way back.\n\n\n Duane touched the heat gun he'd thrust into his belt; drew it and held\n it poised, while he sought to discover what was in his own mind. He'd\n killed a man already, they said. Was he then a killer—could he shoot\n Andrias now, in cold blood, with so much to gain and nothing to lose?\n\n\n He stood there a moment. Then, abruptly, he reversed the weapon and\n chopped it down on Andrias' skull.\n\n\n There was a sharp grunt from the still unconscious man, but no other\n sign. Only—the first tremors of movement that had shown on him halted,\n and did not reappear.", "Duane took a deep breath and let the man drop to the floor. But he\n paused only a second; now he had two unconscious men on his hands and\n he dared let neither revive until he was prepared.\n\n\n He grasped the guard's arm and dragged him roughly the length of the\n room. He leaped on top of the desk, brutally scarring its gleaming top\n with the hard spikes of his boots. His agile fingers unfastened the\n long bell cord without causing it to ring and, bearing it, he dropped\n again to the floor.\n\n\n Tugging and straining, he got the limp form of Andrias into his own\n chair, bound him with the bell cord, gagged him with the priceless\n Venus-wool scarf Andrias wore knotted about his throat. He tested his\n bindings with full strength, and smiled. Those would hold, let Andrias\n struggle as he would.", "The guard had remained just inside the door, at attention. Andrias\n waved him out.\n\n\n \"Here I am,\" said Duane. \"What do you want?\"\n\n\n Andrias said, \"I've had the ship inspected and what I want is on it.\n That saves your life, for now. But the cargo is in your name. I could\n take it by force, if I had to. I prefer not to.\" He picked up a paper,\n handed it to Duane. \"In spite of your behavior, you can keep alive.\n You can even collect the money for the guns—Stevens' share as well\n as your own. This is a release form, authorizing my men to take four\n hundred and twenty cases of dehydrated foods and drilling supplies from\n the hold of the\nCameroon\n—the ship you came on. Sign it, and we'll\n forget our argument. Only, sign it now and get it over with. I'm losing\n patience, Duane.\"\n\n\n Duane said, without expression, \"No.\"", "\"\nThey tell me I killed Stevens the same way\n,\" he thought. \"\nI'm\n getting in a rut!\n\"\n\n\n But Andrias was not dead, though he was out as cold as the void beyond\n Pluto. The thick carpeting had saved him from a broken head.\n\n\n Duane stepped over the unconscious man and looked around the room. It\n was furnished severely, to the point of barrenness. Two chairs before\n Andrias' ornate, bare-topped desk and one luxurious chair behind it;\n a tasseled bell cord within easy reach of Andrias' chair; the long\n carpet. That was all it contained.\n\n\n The problem of getting out was serious, he saw. How could one—\nIII", "The other guard stirred, leaned over. \"Shut up,\" he said heavily.\n \"You'll have plenty of chance for talking later.\"\nBut the chance was a long time in coming. Duane found himself, an hour\n later, still in the barred room into which he'd been thrust. The guards\n had brought him there, at Andrias' order, and left him. That had been\n all.\n\n\n This was not a regular jail, Duane realized. It was more like a\n palace, something out of Earth's Roman-empire days, all white stone\n and frescoed walls. Duane wished for human companionship—particularly\n that of the nurse. Of all the people he'd met since awakening in that\n hospital bed, only she seemed warm and human. The others were—brutal,\n deadly. It was too bad, Duane reflected, that he'd failed to remember\n her. She'd seemed hurt, and she had certainly known him by first name.\n But perhaps she would understand.", "Methodically he ransacked the drawers of Andrias' desk. Papers, a\n whole arsenal of hand guns, Callistan money by the bale, ominously\n black-covered notebooks with cryptic figures littering their\n pages—those were the contents. A coldly impersonal desk, without the\n familiar trivia most men accumulate. There was nothing, certainly, that\n would get him out of a building that so closely resembled a fortress.\n\n\n He tumbled the things back into the drawers helter-skelter, turned\n Andrias over and searched his pockets. More money—the man must have\n had a fortune within reach at all times—and a few meaningless papers.\n Duane took the release he had signed and tore it to shreds. But that\n was only a gesture. When Andrias came to, unless Duane had managed to\n get away and accomplish something, the mere lack of written permission\n would not keep him from the rocket's lethal cargo!\n\n\n When Andrias came to....", "The dark man laughed. \"Take your time, Duane,\" he said easily. \"You'll\n remember me. My name's Andrias. I've been waiting here for you to wake\n up. We have some business matters to discuss.\"\n\n\n The nurse, still eyeing Duane with an odd bewilderment, said: \"I'll\n leave you alone for a moment. Don't talk too much to him, Mr. Andrias.\n He's still suffering from shock.\"\n\n\n \"I won't,\" Andrias promised, grinning. Then, as the girl left the room,\n the smile dropped from his face.", "A long, powerful ground car slid up before them. Andrias got in front,\n while the two uniformed men shoved Duane into the back of the car,\n climbed in beside him. Andrias gave a curt order, and the car shot\n forward.\n\n\n The driver, sitting beside Andrias, leaned forward and readied a hand\n under the dashboard. The high wail of a siren came instantly from the\n car's roof, and what traffic was on the broad, straight highway into\n which they had turned pulled aside to let them race through.", "\"Nobody seems to believe me,\" he said, \"but I really don't know what's\n going on. Things are moving too fast for me. Really, I—why, I don't\n even know my own name! My head—it hurts. I can't think clearly.\"\n\n\n Andrias straightened, turned a darkly-suspicious look on Duane. \"Don't\n play tricks on me,\" he said savagely. \"I haven't time for them. I won't\n mince words with you. Give me a release on the cargo now, before I have\n to get rough. This is a lot more important to me than your life is.\"\n\n\n \"Go to hell,\" Duane said shortly. \"I'm playing no tricks.\"\n\n\n There was an instant's doubt in Andrias' eyes, then it flashed away. He\n bent closer, peered at Duane. \"I almost think—\" he began.", "He hurled himself at Andrias, hands sweeping around to grapple for the\n dark man's throat. Andrias, off-balance, staggered backward. But his\n own hands were diving for the twin heat guns that hung at his waist.\n\n\n Duane saw his danger, and reacted. His foot twisted around Andrias'\n ankle; his hands at the other's throat gripped tighter. He lunged\n forward, slamming the hard top of his head into the other's face,\n feeling flesh and cartilage give as Andrias' nose mashed flat. His own\n head pin-wheeled dizzily, agonizingly, as the jar revived the pain of\n his earlier accident.\n\n\n But Andrias, unconscious already, tumbled back with Duane on top of\n him. His head made an audible, spine-chilling thud as it hit the\n carpeted floor.\n\n\n Duane got up, retrieving the two heat guns, and stared at him.", "\"You play rough, Duane,\" he observed. \"I thought you'd have trouble\n with Stevens. I didn't think you'd find it necessary to put him out of\n the way so permanently. Well, no matter. If you had to kill him, it's\n no skin off my nose. Give me a release on the merchandise. I've got\n your money here.\"\nDuane waved a hand and pushed himself dizzily erect, swinging his legs\n over the side of the high cot. A sheet had been thrown over him, but he\n was fully dressed. He examined his clothing with interest—gray tunic,\n gray leather spaceman's boots. It was unfamiliar.\n\n\n He shook his head in further confusion, and the motion burst within his\n skull, throbbing hotly. He closed his eyes until it subsided, trying to\n force his brain to operate, to explain to him where and what he was.\n\n\n He looked at the man named Andrias.", "Andrias' eyes widened. \"You amaze me, Duane,\" he said. He rose and\n stepped around the desk, confronting Duane. \"I almost think you really\n have lost your memory, Duane,\" he said. \"Otherwise, surely you would\n know that this is all the rifles I need. With them I'll\ntake\nwhatever\n else I want!\"\n\n\n Duane said, \"You're ready, then....\"\n\n\n He took time to think it over, but he knew that no thought was\n required. Already the hands that he had locked behind him were\n clenched, taut. Already the muscles of his legs were tensing.\n\n\n \"You're ready,\" he repeated. \"You've armed the Callistan exiles—the\n worst gutter scum on nine planets. You're set to betray the League that\n gave you power here.... Well, that changes things. I can't let you do\n it!\"", "Then he shook his head. \"No,\" he said. \"You're lying all right. You\n killed Stevens to get his share—and now you're trying to hold me up.\n That's your last chance that just went by, Duane. From now on, I'm\n running this show!\"\n\n\n He spun around and strode to the door, thrust it open. \"Dakin!\" he\n bellowed. \"Reed!\"\n\n\n Two large, ugly men in field-gray uniforms, emblazoned with the\n shooting-star insignia of Callisto's League police, came in, looking to\n Andrias for instructions.\n\n\n \"Duane here is resisting arrest,\" Andrias said. \"Take him along. We'll\n fix up the charges later.\"\n\n\n \"You can't do that,\" Duane said wearily. \"I'm sick. If you've got\n something against me, save it. Wait till my head clears. I'm sure I can\n explain—\"", "Dark red flooded into Andrias' sallow face. His jaws bunched angrily\n and there was a ragged thread of incomplete control to his voice as he\n spoke.\n\n\n \"I'll have your neck for this, Duane,\" he said softly.\n\n\n Duane looked at the man's eyes. Death was behind them, peeping out.\n Mentally he shrugged. What difference did it make?\n\n\n \"Give me the pen,\" he said shortly.\n\n\n Andrias exhaled a deep breath. You could see the tension leave him, the\n mottled anger fade from his face and leave it without expression. He\n handed the paper to Duane without a word. He gave him a pen, watched\n him scrawl his name.\n\n\n \"That,\" he said, \"is better.\" He paused a moment ruminatively. \"It\n would have been better still if you'd not stalled me so long. I find\n that hard to forgive in my associates.\"", "\"You're right, Duane,\" he said. \"I could blast you, too. Nobody would\n win that way, so let's leave the guns where they are.\"\n\n\n The muscles twitched in Peter Duane's cheeks, but his voice, when it\n came, was controlled. \"Don't think we're going to let this go,\" he\n said. \"We'll take it up with Andrias tonight. We'll see whether you can\n cut me out!\"\n\n\n The white-haired man's smile faded. He stepped forward, one hand\n bracing him against the thrust of the rocket engines underneath,\n holding to the guide rail at the side of the ship's corridor.", "\"All right, Duane.\" The deep voice of a guard came to him as the door\n swung open. \"Stop making eyes at yourself.\"\n\n\n Duane looked around. The guard beckoned. \"Governor Andrias wants to\n speak to you—now. Let's not keep the governor waiting.\"\nA long, narrow room, with a long carpet leading from the entrance up to\n a great heavy desk—that was Andrias' office. Duane felt a click in his\n memory as he entered. One of the ancient Earth dictators had employed\n just such a psychological trick to overawe those who came to beg favors\n of him. Muslini, or some such name.\n\n\n The trick failed to work. Duane had other things on his mind; he walked\n the thirty-foot length of the room, designed to imbue him with a sense\n of his own unimportance, as steadily as he'd ever walked in the open\n air of his home planet.\n\n\n Whichever planet that was.", "\"Explain, hell.\" The dark man laughed. \"If I wait, this ship will be\n blasting off for Ganymede within two hours. I'll wait—but so will the\n ship. It's not going anywhere till I give it clearance. I run Callisto;\n I'll give the orders here!\"\nII\n\n\n Whoever this man Andrias was, thought Duane, he was certainly a man of\n importance on Callisto. As he had said,\nhe\ngave the orders.\n\n\n The crew of the rocket made no objection when Andrias and his men took\n Duane off without a word. Duane had thought the nurse, who seemed a\n good enough sort, might have said something on his behalf. But she was\n out of sight as they left. A curt sentence to a gray-clad official on\n the blast field where the rocket lay, and the man nodded and hurried\n off, to tell the rocket's captain that the ship was being refused\n clearance indefinitely." ], [ "He stood up and looked around. He had to act quickly. Already Andrias'\n breath was audible; he saw the man grimace and an arm flopped\n spasmodically on the floor. Consciousness was on its way back.\n\n\n Duane touched the heat gun he'd thrust into his belt; drew it and held\n it poised, while he sought to discover what was in his own mind. He'd\n killed a man already, they said. Was he then a killer—could he shoot\n Andrias now, in cold blood, with so much to gain and nothing to lose?\n\n\n He stood there a moment. Then, abruptly, he reversed the weapon and\n chopped it down on Andrias' skull.\n\n\n There was a sharp grunt from the still unconscious man, but no other\n sign. Only—the first tremors of movement that had shown on him halted,\n and did not reappear.", "He hurled himself at Andrias, hands sweeping around to grapple for the\n dark man's throat. Andrias, off-balance, staggered backward. But his\n own hands were diving for the twin heat guns that hung at his waist.\n\n\n Duane saw his danger, and reacted. His foot twisted around Andrias'\n ankle; his hands at the other's throat gripped tighter. He lunged\n forward, slamming the hard top of his head into the other's face,\n feeling flesh and cartilage give as Andrias' nose mashed flat. His own\n head pin-wheeled dizzily, agonizingly, as the jar revived the pain of\n his earlier accident.\n\n\n But Andrias, unconscious already, tumbled back with Duane on top of\n him. His head made an audible, spine-chilling thud as it hit the\n carpeted floor.\n\n\n Duane got up, retrieving the two heat guns, and stared at him.", "The dark man laughed. \"Take your time, Duane,\" he said easily. \"You'll\n remember me. My name's Andrias. I've been waiting here for you to wake\n up. We have some business matters to discuss.\"\n\n\n The nurse, still eyeing Duane with an odd bewilderment, said: \"I'll\n leave you alone for a moment. Don't talk too much to him, Mr. Andrias.\n He's still suffering from shock.\"\n\n\n \"I won't,\" Andrias promised, grinning. Then, as the girl left the room,\n the smile dropped from his face.", "\"Nobody seems to believe me,\" he said, \"but I really don't know what's\n going on. Things are moving too fast for me. Really, I—why, I don't\n even know my own name! My head—it hurts. I can't think clearly.\"\n\n\n Andrias straightened, turned a darkly-suspicious look on Duane. \"Don't\n play tricks on me,\" he said savagely. \"I haven't time for them. I won't\n mince words with you. Give me a release on the cargo now, before I have\n to get rough. This is a lot more important to me than your life is.\"\n\n\n \"Go to hell,\" Duane said shortly. \"I'm playing no tricks.\"\n\n\n There was an instant's doubt in Andrias' eyes, then it flashed away. He\n bent closer, peered at Duane. \"I almost think—\" he began.", "Andrias' eyes widened. \"You amaze me, Duane,\" he said. He rose and\n stepped around the desk, confronting Duane. \"I almost think you really\n have lost your memory, Duane,\" he said. \"Otherwise, surely you would\n know that this is all the rifles I need. With them I'll\ntake\nwhatever\n else I want!\"\n\n\n Duane said, \"You're ready, then....\"\n\n\n He took time to think it over, but he knew that no thought was\n required. Already the hands that he had locked behind him were\n clenched, taut. Already the muscles of his legs were tensing.\n\n\n \"You're ready,\" he repeated. \"You've armed the Callistan exiles—the\n worst gutter scum on nine planets. You're set to betray the League that\n gave you power here.... Well, that changes things. I can't let you do\n it!\"", "Dark red flooded into Andrias' sallow face. His jaws bunched angrily\n and there was a ragged thread of incomplete control to his voice as he\n spoke.\n\n\n \"I'll have your neck for this, Duane,\" he said softly.\n\n\n Duane looked at the man's eyes. Death was behind them, peeping out.\n Mentally he shrugged. What difference did it make?\n\n\n \"Give me the pen,\" he said shortly.\n\n\n Andrias exhaled a deep breath. You could see the tension leave him, the\n mottled anger fade from his face and leave it without expression. He\n handed the paper to Duane without a word. He gave him a pen, watched\n him scrawl his name.\n\n\n \"That,\" he said, \"is better.\" He paused a moment ruminatively. \"It\n would have been better still if you'd not stalled me so long. I find\n that hard to forgive in my associates.\"", "\"You play rough, Duane,\" he observed. \"I thought you'd have trouble\n with Stevens. I didn't think you'd find it necessary to put him out of\n the way so permanently. Well, no matter. If you had to kill him, it's\n no skin off my nose. Give me a release on the merchandise. I've got\n your money here.\"\nDuane waved a hand and pushed himself dizzily erect, swinging his legs\n over the side of the high cot. A sheet had been thrown over him, but he\n was fully dressed. He examined his clothing with interest—gray tunic,\n gray leather spaceman's boots. It was unfamiliar.\n\n\n He shook his head in further confusion, and the motion burst within his\n skull, throbbing hotly. He closed his eyes until it subsided, trying to\n force his brain to operate, to explain to him where and what he was.\n\n\n He looked at the man named Andrias.", "An idea bloomed in Duane's brain. He looked, then, at unconscious\n Andrias—and the idea withered again.\n\n\n He had thought of forcing Andrias himself to front for him, at gun's\n point, in the conventional manner of escaping prisoners. But fist\n fights, fiction to the contrary notwithstanding, leave marks on the men\n who lose them. Andrias' throat was speckled with the livid marks of\n Duane's fingers; Duane's head, butting Andrias in the face, had drawn a\n thick stream of crimson from his nostrils, turned his sharp nose askew.\n\n\n No guard of Andrias' would have been deceived for an instant, looking\n at that face—even assuming that Andrias could have been forced to\n cooperate by the threat of a gun. Which, considering the stake Andrias\n had in this play, was doubtful....", "\"\nThey tell me I killed Stevens the same way\n,\" he thought. \"\nI'm\n getting in a rut!\n\"\n\n\n But Andrias was not dead, though he was out as cold as the void beyond\n Pluto. The thick carpeting had saved him from a broken head.\n\n\n Duane stepped over the unconscious man and looked around the room. It\n was furnished severely, to the point of barrenness. Two chairs before\n Andrias' ornate, bare-topped desk and one luxurious chair behind it;\n a tasseled bell cord within easy reach of Andrias' chair; the long\n carpet. That was all it contained.\n\n\n The problem of getting out was serious, he saw. How could one—\nIII", "Then he shook his head. \"No,\" he said. \"You're lying all right. You\n killed Stevens to get his share—and now you're trying to hold me up.\n That's your last chance that just went by, Duane. From now on, I'm\n running this show!\"\n\n\n He spun around and strode to the door, thrust it open. \"Dakin!\" he\n bellowed. \"Reed!\"\n\n\n Two large, ugly men in field-gray uniforms, emblazoned with the\n shooting-star insignia of Callisto's League police, came in, looking to\n Andrias for instructions.\n\n\n \"Duane here is resisting arrest,\" Andrias said. \"Take him along. We'll\n fix up the charges later.\"\n\n\n \"You can't do that,\" Duane said wearily. \"I'm sick. If you've got\n something against me, save it. Wait till my head clears. I'm sure I can\n explain—\"", "He walked around the desk to the bell cord. He took a deep breath,\n tugged it savagely, and at once was in speedy motion, racing toward the\n door, his footsteps muffled in the deep, springy carpet. Almost as he\n reached it, he saw it begin to open. He quickly sidestepped and was out\n of the guard's sight, behind the door, as the man looked in.\n\n\n Quick suspicion flared in his eyes, then certainty as he saw Andrias\n huddled on the floor. He opened his mouth to cry out—\n\n\n But Duane's arm was around his throat, and he had no breath to spare.\n Duane's foot lashed out and the door slammed shut; Duane's balled left\n fist came up and connected with the guard's chin. Abruptly the man\n slumped.", "Duane took a deep breath and let the man drop to the floor. But he\n paused only a second; now he had two unconscious men on his hands and\n he dared let neither revive until he was prepared.\n\n\n He grasped the guard's arm and dragged him roughly the length of the\n room. He leaped on top of the desk, brutally scarring its gleaming top\n with the hard spikes of his boots. His agile fingers unfastened the\n long bell cord without causing it to ring and, bearing it, he dropped\n again to the floor.\n\n\n Tugging and straining, he got the limp form of Andrias into his own\n chair, bound him with the bell cord, gagged him with the priceless\n Venus-wool scarf Andrias wore knotted about his throat. He tested his\n bindings with full strength, and smiled. Those would hold, let Andrias\n struggle as he would.", "\"Forget what I think,\" Stevens said, his voice clipped and angry. \"I\n don't care about fairness, Duane, except to myself. I've done all the\n work on this—I've supplied the goods. My price is set, a hundred\n thousand Earth dollars. What Andrias promised you is no concern of\n mine. The fact is that, after I've taken my share, there's only ten\n thousand left. That's all you get!\"\n\n\n Duane stared at him a long second, then nodded abruptly. \"I was right\n the first time,\" he said. \"I'll\nhave\nto kill you!\"\nAlready his hand was streaking toward the grip of his dis-gun, touching\n it, drawing it forth. But the white-haired man was faster. His arms\n swept up and pinioned Duane, holding him impotent.\n\n\n \"Don't be a fool,\" he grated. \"Duane—\"", "Methodically he ransacked the drawers of Andrias' desk. Papers, a\n whole arsenal of hand guns, Callistan money by the bale, ominously\n black-covered notebooks with cryptic figures littering their\n pages—those were the contents. A coldly impersonal desk, without the\n familiar trivia most men accumulate. There was nothing, certainly, that\n would get him out of a building that so closely resembled a fortress.\n\n\n He tumbled the things back into the drawers helter-skelter, turned\n Andrias over and searched his pockets. More money—the man must have\n had a fortune within reach at all times—and a few meaningless papers.\n Duane took the release he had signed and tore it to shreds. But that\n was only a gesture. When Andrias came to, unless Duane had managed to\n get away and accomplish something, the mere lack of written permission\n would not keep him from the rocket's lethal cargo!\n\n\n When Andrias came to....", "He said, \"Duane, Andrias is your boss, not mine. I'm a free lance; I\n work for myself. When we land on Callisto tonight I'll be with you when\n you turn our—shall I say, our\ncargo\n?—over to him. And I'll collect\n my fair share of the proceeds. That's as far as it goes. I take no\n orders from him.\"\n\n\n A heavy-set man in blue appeared at the end of the connecting corridor.\n He was moving fast, but stopped short when he saw the two men.\n\n\n \"Hey!\" he said. \"Change of course—get to your cabins.\" He seemed about\n to walk up to them, then reconsidered and hurried off. Neither man paid\n any attention.\n\n\n Duane said, \"Do I have to kill you?\" It was only a question as he asked\n it, without threatening.", "\"You're right, Duane,\" he said. \"I could blast you, too. Nobody would\n win that way, so let's leave the guns where they are.\"\n\n\n The muscles twitched in Peter Duane's cheeks, but his voice, when it\n came, was controlled. \"Don't think we're going to let this go,\" he\n said. \"We'll take it up with Andrias tonight. We'll see whether you can\n cut me out!\"\n\n\n The white-haired man's smile faded. He stepped forward, one hand\n bracing him against the thrust of the rocket engines underneath,\n holding to the guide rail at the side of the ship's corridor.", "The guard had remained just inside the door, at attention. Andrias\n waved him out.\n\n\n \"Here I am,\" said Duane. \"What do you want?\"\n\n\n Andrias said, \"I've had the ship inspected and what I want is on it.\n That saves your life, for now. But the cargo is in your name. I could\n take it by force, if I had to. I prefer not to.\" He picked up a paper,\n handed it to Duane. \"In spite of your behavior, you can keep alive.\n You can even collect the money for the guns—Stevens' share as well\n as your own. This is a release form, authorizing my men to take four\n hundred and twenty cases of dehydrated foods and drilling supplies from\n the hold of the\nCameroon\n—the ship you came on. Sign it, and we'll\n forget our argument. Only, sign it now and get it over with. I'm losing\n patience, Duane.\"\n\n\n Duane said, without expression, \"No.\"", "A long, powerful ground car slid up before them. Andrias got in front,\n while the two uniformed men shoved Duane into the back of the car,\n climbed in beside him. Andrias gave a curt order, and the car shot\n forward.\n\n\n The driver, sitting beside Andrias, leaned forward and readied a hand\n under the dashboard. The high wail of a siren came instantly from the\n car's roof, and what traffic was on the broad, straight highway into\n which they had turned pulled aside to let them race through.", "A muted alarm bell sounded through the P.A. speakers, signaling a\n one-minute warning. The white-haired man cocked his eyebrow.\n\n\n \"Not at all,\" he said. He took the measure of his slim, red-headed\n opponent. Taller, heavier, older, he was still no more uncompromisingly\n belligerent than Duane, standing there. \"Not at all,\" he repeated.\n \"Just take your ten thousand and let it go at that. Don't make trouble.\n Leave Andrias out of our private argument.\"\n\n\n \"Damn you!\" Duane flared. \"I was promised fifty thousand. I need that\n money. Do you think—\"", "Duane sat down on a lumpy, sagging bed and buried his head in his\n hands. Dim ghosts of memory were wandering in his mind. He tried to\n conjure them into stronger relief, or to exorcise them entirely.\n\n\n Somewhere, some time, a man had said to him, \"\nAndrias is secretly\n arming the Callistan cutthroats for revolt against the League. He wants\n personal power—he's prepared to pay any price for it. He needs guns,\n Earth guns smuggled in through the League patrol. If he can wipe out\n the League police garrison—those who are loyal to the League, still,\n instead of to Andrias—he can sit back and laugh at any fleet Earth and\n Mars can send. Rockets are clumsy in an atmosphere. They're helpless.\n And if he can arm enough of Callisto's rabble, he can't be stopped.\n That's why he'll pay for electron rifles with their weight in gold.\n\"" ], [ "He walked around the desk to the bell cord. He took a deep breath,\n tugged it savagely, and at once was in speedy motion, racing toward the\n door, his footsteps muffled in the deep, springy carpet. Almost as he\n reached it, he saw it begin to open. He quickly sidestepped and was out\n of the guard's sight, behind the door, as the man looked in.\n\n\n Quick suspicion flared in his eyes, then certainty as he saw Andrias\n huddled on the floor. He opened his mouth to cry out—\n\n\n But Duane's arm was around his throat, and he had no breath to spare.\n Duane's foot lashed out and the door slammed shut; Duane's balled left\n fist came up and connected with the guard's chin. Abruptly the man\n slumped.", "Duane took a deep breath and let the man drop to the floor. But he\n paused only a second; now he had two unconscious men on his hands and\n he dared let neither revive until he was prepared.\n\n\n He grasped the guard's arm and dragged him roughly the length of the\n room. He leaped on top of the desk, brutally scarring its gleaming top\n with the hard spikes of his boots. His agile fingers unfastened the\n long bell cord without causing it to ring and, bearing it, he dropped\n again to the floor.\n\n\n Tugging and straining, he got the limp form of Andrias into his own\n chair, bound him with the bell cord, gagged him with the priceless\n Venus-wool scarf Andrias wore knotted about his throat. He tested his\n bindings with full strength, and smiled. Those would hold, let Andrias\n struggle as he would.", "A muted alarm bell sounded through the P.A. speakers, signaling a\n one-minute warning. The white-haired man cocked his eyebrow.\n\n\n \"Not at all,\" he said. He took the measure of his slim, red-headed\n opponent. Taller, heavier, older, he was still no more uncompromisingly\n belligerent than Duane, standing there. \"Not at all,\" he repeated.\n \"Just take your ten thousand and let it go at that. Don't make trouble.\n Leave Andrias out of our private argument.\"\n\n\n \"Damn you!\" Duane flared. \"I was promised fifty thousand. I need that\n money. Do you think—\"", "\"\nThey tell me I killed Stevens the same way\n,\" he thought. \"\nI'm\n getting in a rut!\n\"\n\n\n But Andrias was not dead, though he was out as cold as the void beyond\n Pluto. The thick carpeting had saved him from a broken head.\n\n\n Duane stepped over the unconscious man and looked around the room. It\n was furnished severely, to the point of barrenness. Two chairs before\n Andrias' ornate, bare-topped desk and one luxurious chair behind it;\n a tasseled bell cord within easy reach of Andrias' chair; the long\n carpet. That was all it contained.\n\n\n The problem of getting out was serious, he saw. How could one—\nIII", "\"\nNo\n,\" Duane thought. \"\nWhatever they say, I'm not a killer!\n\"\n\n\n But still he had to get out. How?\n\n\n Once more he stared around the room, catalogued its contents. The guard\n would be getting impatient. Perhaps any minute he would tap the door,\n first timorously, then with heavier strokes.\n\n\n The guard! There was a way!\nDuane eyed the length of the room. Thirty feet—it would take him a\n couple of seconds to run it at full speed. Was that fast enough?\n\n\n There was only one way to find out.", "He stood up and looked around. He had to act quickly. Already Andrias'\n breath was audible; he saw the man grimace and an arm flopped\n spasmodically on the floor. Consciousness was on its way back.\n\n\n Duane touched the heat gun he'd thrust into his belt; drew it and held\n it poised, while he sought to discover what was in his own mind. He'd\n killed a man already, they said. Was he then a killer—could he shoot\n Andrias now, in cold blood, with so much to gain and nothing to lose?\n\n\n He stood there a moment. Then, abruptly, he reversed the weapon and\n chopped it down on Andrias' skull.\n\n\n There was a sharp grunt from the still unconscious man, but no other\n sign. Only—the first tremors of movement that had shown on him halted,\n and did not reappear.", "He dragged one of the boxes down, ripped it open with the sharp point\n of a handling hook. Short-barreled, flare-mouthed guns rolled out,\n tumbling over the floor. Eight of them were in that one box, and\n hundreds of boxes all about. Duane picked one up, broke it, peered into\n the chamber where the tiny capsule of U-235 would explode with infinite\n violence when the trigger was pulled, spraying radiant death three\n thousand yards in the direction the gun was aimed....\n\n\n And that memory ended.\n\n\n Duane got up, stared at his haggard face in the cracked mirror over\n the bed. \"\nThey say I'm a killer\n,\" he thought. \"\nApparently I'm a\n gun-runner as well. Good lord—what am I not?\n\"\n\n\n His reflection—white, drawn face made all the more pallid by the red\n hair that blazed over it—stared back at him. There was no answer\n there. If only he could remember—", "A long, powerful ground car slid up before them. Andrias got in front,\n while the two uniformed men shoved Duane into the back of the car,\n climbed in beside him. Andrias gave a curt order, and the car shot\n forward.\n\n\n The driver, sitting beside Andrias, leaned forward and readied a hand\n under the dashboard. The high wail of a siren came instantly from the\n car's roof, and what traffic was on the broad, straight highway into\n which they had turned pulled aside to let them race through.", "\"Nobody seems to believe me,\" he said, \"but I really don't know what's\n going on. Things are moving too fast for me. Really, I—why, I don't\n even know my own name! My head—it hurts. I can't think clearly.\"\n\n\n Andrias straightened, turned a darkly-suspicious look on Duane. \"Don't\n play tricks on me,\" he said savagely. \"I haven't time for them. I won't\n mince words with you. Give me a release on the cargo now, before I have\n to get rough. This is a lot more important to me than your life is.\"\n\n\n \"Go to hell,\" Duane said shortly. \"I'm playing no tricks.\"\n\n\n There was an instant's doubt in Andrias' eyes, then it flashed away. He\n bent closer, peered at Duane. \"I almost think—\" he began.", "The dark man laughed. \"Take your time, Duane,\" he said easily. \"You'll\n remember me. My name's Andrias. I've been waiting here for you to wake\n up. We have some business matters to discuss.\"\n\n\n The nurse, still eyeing Duane with an odd bewilderment, said: \"I'll\n leave you alone for a moment. Don't talk too much to him, Mr. Andrias.\n He's still suffering from shock.\"\n\n\n \"I won't,\" Andrias promised, grinning. Then, as the girl left the room,\n the smile dropped from his face.", "He hurled himself at Andrias, hands sweeping around to grapple for the\n dark man's throat. Andrias, off-balance, staggered backward. But his\n own hands were diving for the twin heat guns that hung at his waist.\n\n\n Duane saw his danger, and reacted. His foot twisted around Andrias'\n ankle; his hands at the other's throat gripped tighter. He lunged\n forward, slamming the hard top of his head into the other's face,\n feeling flesh and cartilage give as Andrias' nose mashed flat. His own\n head pin-wheeled dizzily, agonizingly, as the jar revived the pain of\n his earlier accident.\n\n\n But Andrias, unconscious already, tumbled back with Duane on top of\n him. His head made an audible, spine-chilling thud as it hit the\n carpeted floor.\n\n\n Duane got up, retrieving the two heat guns, and stared at him.", "Duane screwed his eyes tight together and grimaced. When he opened\n them again there was alertness and clarity in them—but there was also\n bafflement.\n\n\n \"Girl,\" he said, \"who are you? Where am I?\"\n\n\n \"Peter!\" There was shock and hurt in the tone of her voice. \"I'm—don't\n you know me, Peter?\"\n\n\n Duane shook his head confusedly. \"I don't know anything,\" he said.\n \"I—I don't even know my own name.\"\n\n\n \"Duane, Duane,\" a man's heavy voice said. \"That won't wash. Don't play\n dumb on me.\"\n\n\n \"Duane?\" he said. \"Duane....\" He swiveled his head and saw a dark,\n squat man frowning at him. \"Who are you?\" Peter asked.", "Methodically he ransacked the drawers of Andrias' desk. Papers, a\n whole arsenal of hand guns, Callistan money by the bale, ominously\n black-covered notebooks with cryptic figures littering their\n pages—those were the contents. A coldly impersonal desk, without the\n familiar trivia most men accumulate. There was nothing, certainly, that\n would get him out of a building that so closely resembled a fortress.\n\n\n He tumbled the things back into the drawers helter-skelter, turned\n Andrias over and searched his pockets. More money—the man must have\n had a fortune within reach at all times—and a few meaningless papers.\n Duane took the release he had signed and tore it to shreds. But that\n was only a gesture. When Andrias came to, unless Duane had managed to\n get away and accomplish something, the mere lack of written permission\n would not keep him from the rocket's lethal cargo!\n\n\n When Andrias came to....", "And the lights went out in a burst of crashing pain for Peter Duane.\nSomeone was talking to him. Duane tried to force an eye open to see who\n it was, and failed. Something damp and clinging was all about his face,\n obscuring his vision. But the voice filtered in.\n\n\n \"Open your mouth,\" it said. \"Please, Peter, open your mouth. You're all\n right. Just swallow this.\"\n\n\n It was a girl's voice. Duane was suddenly conscious that a girl's light\n hand was on his shoulder. He shook his head feebly.\n\n\n The voice became more insistent. \"Swallow this,\" it said. \"It's only a\n stimulant, to help you throw off the shock of your—accident. You're\n all right, otherwise.\"", "An idea bloomed in Duane's brain. He looked, then, at unconscious\n Andrias—and the idea withered again.\n\n\n He had thought of forcing Andrias himself to front for him, at gun's\n point, in the conventional manner of escaping prisoners. But fist\n fights, fiction to the contrary notwithstanding, leave marks on the men\n who lose them. Andrias' throat was speckled with the livid marks of\n Duane's fingers; Duane's head, butting Andrias in the face, had drawn a\n thick stream of crimson from his nostrils, turned his sharp nose askew.\n\n\n No guard of Andrias' would have been deceived for an instant, looking\n at that face—even assuming that Andrias could have been forced to\n cooperate by the threat of a gun. Which, considering the stake Andrias\n had in this play, was doubtful....", "Andrias' eyes widened. \"You amaze me, Duane,\" he said. He rose and\n stepped around the desk, confronting Duane. \"I almost think you really\n have lost your memory, Duane,\" he said. \"Otherwise, surely you would\n know that this is all the rifles I need. With them I'll\ntake\nwhatever\n else I want!\"\n\n\n Duane said, \"You're ready, then....\"\n\n\n He took time to think it over, but he knew that no thought was\n required. Already the hands that he had locked behind him were\n clenched, taut. Already the muscles of his legs were tensing.\n\n\n \"You're ready,\" he repeated. \"You've armed the Callistan exiles—the\n worst gutter scum on nine planets. You're set to betray the League that\n gave you power here.... Well, that changes things. I can't let you do\n it!\"", "Duane sat down on a lumpy, sagging bed and buried his head in his\n hands. Dim ghosts of memory were wandering in his mind. He tried to\n conjure them into stronger relief, or to exorcise them entirely.\n\n\n Somewhere, some time, a man had said to him, \"\nAndrias is secretly\n arming the Callistan cutthroats for revolt against the League. He wants\n personal power—he's prepared to pay any price for it. He needs guns,\n Earth guns smuggled in through the League patrol. If he can wipe out\n the League police garrison—those who are loyal to the League, still,\n instead of to Andrias—he can sit back and laugh at any fleet Earth and\n Mars can send. Rockets are clumsy in an atmosphere. They're helpless.\n And if he can arm enough of Callisto's rabble, he can't be stopped.\n That's why he'll pay for electron rifles with their weight in gold.\n\"", "\"All right, Duane.\" The deep voice of a guard came to him as the door\n swung open. \"Stop making eyes at yourself.\"\n\n\n Duane looked around. The guard beckoned. \"Governor Andrias wants to\n speak to you—now. Let's not keep the governor waiting.\"\nA long, narrow room, with a long carpet leading from the entrance up to\n a great heavy desk—that was Andrias' office. Duane felt a click in his\n memory as he entered. One of the ancient Earth dictators had employed\n just such a psychological trick to overawe those who came to beg favors\n of him. Muslini, or some such name.\n\n\n The trick failed to work. Duane had other things on his mind; he walked\n the thirty-foot length of the room, designed to imbue him with a sense\n of his own unimportance, as steadily as he'd ever walked in the open\n air of his home planet.\n\n\n Whichever planet that was.", "Dark red flooded into Andrias' sallow face. His jaws bunched angrily\n and there was a ragged thread of incomplete control to his voice as he\n spoke.\n\n\n \"I'll have your neck for this, Duane,\" he said softly.\n\n\n Duane looked at the man's eyes. Death was behind them, peeping out.\n Mentally he shrugged. What difference did it make?\n\n\n \"Give me the pen,\" he said shortly.\n\n\n Andrias exhaled a deep breath. You could see the tension leave him, the\n mottled anger fade from his face and leave it without expression. He\n handed the paper to Duane without a word. He gave him a pen, watched\n him scrawl his name.\n\n\n \"That,\" he said, \"is better.\" He paused a moment ruminatively. \"It\n would have been better still if you'd not stalled me so long. I find\n that hard to forgive in my associates.\"", "Then he shook his head. \"No,\" he said. \"You're lying all right. You\n killed Stevens to get his share—and now you're trying to hold me up.\n That's your last chance that just went by, Duane. From now on, I'm\n running this show!\"\n\n\n He spun around and strode to the door, thrust it open. \"Dakin!\" he\n bellowed. \"Reed!\"\n\n\n Two large, ugly men in field-gray uniforms, emblazoned with the\n shooting-star insignia of Callisto's League police, came in, looking to\n Andrias for instructions.\n\n\n \"Duane here is resisting arrest,\" Andrias said. \"Take him along. We'll\n fix up the charges later.\"\n\n\n \"You can't do that,\" Duane said wearily. \"I'm sick. If you've got\n something against me, save it. Wait till my head clears. I'm sure I can\n explain—\"" ], [ "The guard he stripped of clothing, bound and gagged with his own\n belt and spaceman's kerchief. He dragged him around behind the desk,\n thrust him under it out of sight. Andrias' chair he turned so that the\n unconscious face was averted from the door. Should anyone look in,\n then, the fact of Andrias' unconsciousness might not be noticed.\n\n\n Then he took off his own clothes, quickly assumed the field-gray\n uniform of the guard. It fit like the skin of a fruit. He felt himself\n bulging out of it in a dozen places. The long cape the guard wore would\n conceal that, perhaps. In any case, there was nothing better.\n\n\n Trying to make his stride as martial as possible, he walked down the\n long carpet to the door, opened it and stepped outside.", "He walked around the desk to the bell cord. He took a deep breath,\n tugged it savagely, and at once was in speedy motion, racing toward the\n door, his footsteps muffled in the deep, springy carpet. Almost as he\n reached it, he saw it begin to open. He quickly sidestepped and was out\n of the guard's sight, behind the door, as the man looked in.\n\n\n Quick suspicion flared in his eyes, then certainty as he saw Andrias\n huddled on the floor. He opened his mouth to cry out—\n\n\n But Duane's arm was around his throat, and he had no breath to spare.\n Duane's foot lashed out and the door slammed shut; Duane's balled left\n fist came up and connected with the guard's chin. Abruptly the man\n slumped.", "Duane took a deep breath and let the man drop to the floor. But he\n paused only a second; now he had two unconscious men on his hands and\n he dared let neither revive until he was prepared.\n\n\n He grasped the guard's arm and dragged him roughly the length of the\n room. He leaped on top of the desk, brutally scarring its gleaming top\n with the hard spikes of his boots. His agile fingers unfastened the\n long bell cord without causing it to ring and, bearing it, he dropped\n again to the floor.\n\n\n Tugging and straining, he got the limp form of Andrias into his own\n chair, bound him with the bell cord, gagged him with the priceless\n Venus-wool scarf Andrias wore knotted about his throat. He tested his\n bindings with full strength, and smiled. Those would hold, let Andrias\n struggle as he would.", "\"\nNo\n,\" Duane thought. \"\nWhatever they say, I'm not a killer!\n\"\n\n\n But still he had to get out. How?\n\n\n Once more he stared around the room, catalogued its contents. The guard\n would be getting impatient. Perhaps any minute he would tap the door,\n first timorously, then with heavier strokes.\n\n\n The guard! There was a way!\nDuane eyed the length of the room. Thirty feet—it would take him a\n couple of seconds to run it at full speed. Was that fast enough?\n\n\n There was only one way to find out.", "A long, powerful ground car slid up before them. Andrias got in front,\n while the two uniformed men shoved Duane into the back of the car,\n climbed in beside him. Andrias gave a curt order, and the car shot\n forward.\n\n\n The driver, sitting beside Andrias, leaned forward and readied a hand\n under the dashboard. The high wail of a siren came instantly from the\n car's roof, and what traffic was on the broad, straight highway into\n which they had turned pulled aside to let them race through.", "\"All right, Duane.\" The deep voice of a guard came to him as the door\n swung open. \"Stop making eyes at yourself.\"\n\n\n Duane looked around. The guard beckoned. \"Governor Andrias wants to\n speak to you—now. Let's not keep the governor waiting.\"\nA long, narrow room, with a long carpet leading from the entrance up to\n a great heavy desk—that was Andrias' office. Duane felt a click in his\n memory as he entered. One of the ancient Earth dictators had employed\n just such a psychological trick to overawe those who came to beg favors\n of him. Muslini, or some such name.\n\n\n The trick failed to work. Duane had other things on his mind; he walked\n the thirty-foot length of the room, designed to imbue him with a sense\n of his own unimportance, as steadily as he'd ever walked in the open\n air of his home planet.\n\n\n Whichever planet that was.", "\"You play rough, Duane,\" he observed. \"I thought you'd have trouble\n with Stevens. I didn't think you'd find it necessary to put him out of\n the way so permanently. Well, no matter. If you had to kill him, it's\n no skin off my nose. Give me a release on the merchandise. I've got\n your money here.\"\nDuane waved a hand and pushed himself dizzily erect, swinging his legs\n over the side of the high cot. A sheet had been thrown over him, but he\n was fully dressed. He examined his clothing with interest—gray tunic,\n gray leather spaceman's boots. It was unfamiliar.\n\n\n He shook his head in further confusion, and the motion burst within his\n skull, throbbing hotly. He closed his eyes until it subsided, trying to\n force his brain to operate, to explain to him where and what he was.\n\n\n He looked at the man named Andrias.", "An idea bloomed in Duane's brain. He looked, then, at unconscious\n Andrias—and the idea withered again.\n\n\n He had thought of forcing Andrias himself to front for him, at gun's\n point, in the conventional manner of escaping prisoners. But fist\n fights, fiction to the contrary notwithstanding, leave marks on the men\n who lose them. Andrias' throat was speckled with the livid marks of\n Duane's fingers; Duane's head, butting Andrias in the face, had drawn a\n thick stream of crimson from his nostrils, turned his sharp nose askew.\n\n\n No guard of Andrias' would have been deceived for an instant, looking\n at that face—even assuming that Andrias could have been forced to\n cooperate by the threat of a gun. Which, considering the stake Andrias\n had in this play, was doubtful....", "He hurled himself at Andrias, hands sweeping around to grapple for the\n dark man's throat. Andrias, off-balance, staggered backward. But his\n own hands were diving for the twin heat guns that hung at his waist.\n\n\n Duane saw his danger, and reacted. His foot twisted around Andrias'\n ankle; his hands at the other's throat gripped tighter. He lunged\n forward, slamming the hard top of his head into the other's face,\n feeling flesh and cartilage give as Andrias' nose mashed flat. His own\n head pin-wheeled dizzily, agonizingly, as the jar revived the pain of\n his earlier accident.\n\n\n But Andrias, unconscious already, tumbled back with Duane on top of\n him. His head made an audible, spine-chilling thud as it hit the\n carpeted floor.\n\n\n Duane got up, retrieving the two heat guns, and stared at him.", "He stood up and looked around. He had to act quickly. Already Andrias'\n breath was audible; he saw the man grimace and an arm flopped\n spasmodically on the floor. Consciousness was on its way back.\n\n\n Duane touched the heat gun he'd thrust into his belt; drew it and held\n it poised, while he sought to discover what was in his own mind. He'd\n killed a man already, they said. Was he then a killer—could he shoot\n Andrias now, in cold blood, with so much to gain and nothing to lose?\n\n\n He stood there a moment. Then, abruptly, he reversed the weapon and\n chopped it down on Andrias' skull.\n\n\n There was a sharp grunt from the still unconscious man, but no other\n sign. Only—the first tremors of movement that had shown on him halted,\n and did not reappear.", "He dragged one of the boxes down, ripped it open with the sharp point\n of a handling hook. Short-barreled, flare-mouthed guns rolled out,\n tumbling over the floor. Eight of them were in that one box, and\n hundreds of boxes all about. Duane picked one up, broke it, peered into\n the chamber where the tiny capsule of U-235 would explode with infinite\n violence when the trigger was pulled, spraying radiant death three\n thousand yards in the direction the gun was aimed....\n\n\n And that memory ended.\n\n\n Duane got up, stared at his haggard face in the cracked mirror over\n the bed. \"\nThey say I'm a killer\n,\" he thought. \"\nApparently I'm a\n gun-runner as well. Good lord—what am I not?\n\"\n\n\n His reflection—white, drawn face made all the more pallid by the red\n hair that blazed over it—stared back at him. There was no answer\n there. If only he could remember—", "\"Nobody seems to believe me,\" he said, \"but I really don't know what's\n going on. Things are moving too fast for me. Really, I—why, I don't\n even know my own name! My head—it hurts. I can't think clearly.\"\n\n\n Andrias straightened, turned a darkly-suspicious look on Duane. \"Don't\n play tricks on me,\" he said savagely. \"I haven't time for them. I won't\n mince words with you. Give me a release on the cargo now, before I have\n to get rough. This is a lot more important to me than your life is.\"\n\n\n \"Go to hell,\" Duane said shortly. \"I'm playing no tricks.\"\n\n\n There was an instant's doubt in Andrias' eyes, then it flashed away. He\n bent closer, peered at Duane. \"I almost think—\" he began.", "\"\nThey tell me I killed Stevens the same way\n,\" he thought. \"\nI'm\n getting in a rut!\n\"\n\n\n But Andrias was not dead, though he was out as cold as the void beyond\n Pluto. The thick carpeting had saved him from a broken head.\n\n\n Duane stepped over the unconscious man and looked around the room. It\n was furnished severely, to the point of barrenness. Two chairs before\n Andrias' ornate, bare-topped desk and one luxurious chair behind it;\n a tasseled bell cord within easy reach of Andrias' chair; the long\n carpet. That was all it contained.\n\n\n The problem of getting out was serious, he saw. How could one—\nIII", "The other guard stirred, leaned over. \"Shut up,\" he said heavily.\n \"You'll have plenty of chance for talking later.\"\nBut the chance was a long time in coming. Duane found himself, an hour\n later, still in the barred room into which he'd been thrust. The guards\n had brought him there, at Andrias' order, and left him. That had been\n all.\n\n\n This was not a regular jail, Duane realized. It was more like a\n palace, something out of Earth's Roman-empire days, all white stone\n and frescoed walls. Duane wished for human companionship—particularly\n that of the nurse. Of all the people he'd met since awakening in that\n hospital bed, only she seemed warm and human. The others were—brutal,\n deadly. It was too bad, Duane reflected, that he'd failed to remember\n her. She'd seemed hurt, and she had certainly known him by first name.\n But perhaps she would understand.", "Duane screwed his eyes tight together and grimaced. When he opened\n them again there was alertness and clarity in them—but there was also\n bafflement.\n\n\n \"Girl,\" he said, \"who are you? Where am I?\"\n\n\n \"Peter!\" There was shock and hurt in the tone of her voice. \"I'm—don't\n you know me, Peter?\"\n\n\n Duane shook his head confusedly. \"I don't know anything,\" he said.\n \"I—I don't even know my own name.\"\n\n\n \"Duane, Duane,\" a man's heavy voice said. \"That won't wash. Don't play\n dumb on me.\"\n\n\n \"Duane?\" he said. \"Duane....\" He swiveled his head and saw a dark,\n squat man frowning at him. \"Who are you?\" Peter asked.", "The dark man laughed. \"Take your time, Duane,\" he said easily. \"You'll\n remember me. My name's Andrias. I've been waiting here for you to wake\n up. We have some business matters to discuss.\"\n\n\n The nurse, still eyeing Duane with an odd bewilderment, said: \"I'll\n leave you alone for a moment. Don't talk too much to him, Mr. Andrias.\n He's still suffering from shock.\"\n\n\n \"I won't,\" Andrias promised, grinning. Then, as the girl left the room,\n the smile dropped from his face.", "Dark red flooded into Andrias' sallow face. His jaws bunched angrily\n and there was a ragged thread of incomplete control to his voice as he\n spoke.\n\n\n \"I'll have your neck for this, Duane,\" he said softly.\n\n\n Duane looked at the man's eyes. Death was behind them, peeping out.\n Mentally he shrugged. What difference did it make?\n\n\n \"Give me the pen,\" he said shortly.\n\n\n Andrias exhaled a deep breath. You could see the tension leave him, the\n mottled anger fade from his face and leave it without expression. He\n handed the paper to Duane without a word. He gave him a pen, watched\n him scrawl his name.\n\n\n \"That,\" he said, \"is better.\" He paused a moment ruminatively. \"It\n would have been better still if you'd not stalled me so long. I find\n that hard to forgive in my associates.\"", "Methodically he ransacked the drawers of Andrias' desk. Papers, a\n whole arsenal of hand guns, Callistan money by the bale, ominously\n black-covered notebooks with cryptic figures littering their\n pages—those were the contents. A coldly impersonal desk, without the\n familiar trivia most men accumulate. There was nothing, certainly, that\n would get him out of a building that so closely resembled a fortress.\n\n\n He tumbled the things back into the drawers helter-skelter, turned\n Andrias over and searched his pockets. More money—the man must have\n had a fortune within reach at all times—and a few meaningless papers.\n Duane took the release he had signed and tore it to shreds. But that\n was only a gesture. When Andrias came to, unless Duane had managed to\n get away and accomplish something, the mere lack of written permission\n would not keep him from the rocket's lethal cargo!\n\n\n When Andrias came to....", "Andrias' eyes widened. \"You amaze me, Duane,\" he said. He rose and\n stepped around the desk, confronting Duane. \"I almost think you really\n have lost your memory, Duane,\" he said. \"Otherwise, surely you would\n know that this is all the rifles I need. With them I'll\ntake\nwhatever\n else I want!\"\n\n\n Duane said, \"You're ready, then....\"\n\n\n He took time to think it over, but he knew that no thought was\n required. Already the hands that he had locked behind him were\n clenched, taut. Already the muscles of his legs were tensing.\n\n\n \"You're ready,\" he repeated. \"You've armed the Callistan exiles—the\n worst gutter scum on nine planets. You're set to betray the League that\n gave you power here.... Well, that changes things. I can't let you do\n it!\"", "The guard had remained just inside the door, at attention. Andrias\n waved him out.\n\n\n \"Here I am,\" said Duane. \"What do you want?\"\n\n\n Andrias said, \"I've had the ship inspected and what I want is on it.\n That saves your life, for now. But the cargo is in your name. I could\n take it by force, if I had to. I prefer not to.\" He picked up a paper,\n handed it to Duane. \"In spite of your behavior, you can keep alive.\n You can even collect the money for the guns—Stevens' share as well\n as your own. This is a release form, authorizing my men to take four\n hundred and twenty cases of dehydrated foods and drilling supplies from\n the hold of the\nCameroon\n—the ship you came on. Sign it, and we'll\n forget our argument. Only, sign it now and get it over with. I'm losing\n patience, Duane.\"\n\n\n Duane said, without expression, \"No.\"" ] ]
valid	61467	[ "What seems to be the primary benefit of becoming a changeling?", "What was Asa's true motivation for choosing Jordan's Planet?", "What happens to a changeling after their sentence is served?", "Why would Tom Dorr frame Asa Graybar for stealing the Slider egg?", "Why did Furston instruct Graybar to eat berries?", "Why did Harriet crash the helicopter?", "The changelings on Jordan's Planet most closely resembled what Earth-dwelling creature?", "What unique physical features do Sliders have flanking their bodies?", "Why did Dorr most likely leave Graybar to fend for himself on Jordan's Planet after the Slider attack?" ]	[ [ "Efficient labor and reduced prison sentences.", "Regeneration of bodily organs.", "Extended life expectancy.", "Developing superhuman powers." ], [ "Studying Slider eggs in their natural habitat.", "He wanted to serve a reduced sentence.", "The conversions made mud-dwelling more comfortable.", "The bankroll was far greater than on other planets." ], [ "They continue to hunt Slider eggs for the Hazeltynes.", "They are converted back to their normal body and returned to Earth.", "They maintain their conversion as a permanent reminder of their crimes.", "They can choose to stay on their new planet or return to Earth." ], [ "Graybar's discoveries could ruin the Hazeltyne business.", "He was protecting himself from being a potential suspect in the theft.", "He was protecting Harriet from incrimination.", "He was getting paid a small fortune to do so." ], [ "To help him acclimate to his new changeling diet.", "To demonstrate the impossibility of escaping imprisonment and seeking refuge on Jordan's Planet.", "To help him develop an immunity to toxic plant life.", "So that he would have enough energy to hunt Slider eggs." ], [ "She thought the dead Slider was alive and tried to kill it.", "The gravity on Jordan's Planet was different from that on Earth.", "She was using it as a projectile to kill Graybar.", "She didn't know how to fly one." ], [ "A frog.", "A salamander.", "A worm.", "A gorilla." ], [ "Massive jaws for consuming prey.", "A wormlike torso for smooth navigation.", "Sixteen flippers for gripping mud.", "Greenish black scales for camouflage." ], [ "He wanted to neutralize the threat Graybar posed to his personal ambitions.", "He was jealous of Harriet's affection for Graybar.", "He was afraid of facing additional Slider attacks.", "He knew where the egg was, so it didn't matter if Graybar was alive or not." ] ]	[ 1, 1, 2, 1, 2, 2, 1, 3, 1 ]	[ 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 1, 1 ]	[ [ "\"Swallow this,\" said the doctor after making a series of tests.\n\n\n Asa swallowed the capsule. Two minutes later he felt himself beginning\n to lose consciousness.\n\n\n \"This is it!\" he thought in panic.\n\n\n He felt someone ease him back down onto a wheeled stretcher. Before\n consciousness faded completely he realized that no one got a chance\n to back out of becoming a changeling, that he was on his way to the\n conversion tank right now.\n\n\n When he finally awoke he felt well rested and very comfortable. But for\n a long time he was afraid to open his eyes.\n\n\n \"Come on, Graybar,\" said a deep, booming voice. \"Let's test our wings.\"\n\n\n It was not Kershaw's voice, but it had to be Kershaw. Asa opened his\n eyes.", "His only problem would be staying alive for a year.\nAn interview with a doctor from the Conversion Corps was required\n for all persons who elected changeling status. The law stated that\n potential changelings must be fully informed of the rights and hazards\n of altered shape before they signed a release. The requirement held\n whether or not the individual, like Asa, was already experienced.\n\n\n By the time humanity traveled to the stars, medical biology had made\n it possible to regenerate damaged or deficient organs of the body.\n Regeneration was limited only by advanced age. Sometime after a man's\n two hundredth year his body lost the ability to be coaxed into growing\n new cells. A fifth set of teeth was usually one's last. As long as\n senescence could be staved off, however, any man could have bulging\n biceps and a pencil waist, if he could pay for the treatment.", "Until the medical associations declared such treatments unethical there\n was even a short fad of deliberate deformities, with horns at the\n temples particularly popular.\n\n\n From regeneration it was a short step to specialized regrowth. The\n techniques were perfected to adapt humans to the dozen barely habitable\n worlds man had discovered. Even on Mars, the only planet outside Earth\n in the solar system where the human anatomy was remotely suitable, a\n man could work more efficiently with redesigned lungs and temperature\n controls than he could inside a pressure suit. On more bizarre planets\n a few light-years away the advantages of changeling bodies were\n greater.\n\n\n Unfortunately for planetary development companies, hardly anyone\n wanted to become a changeling. High pay lured few. So a law was passed\n permitting a convicted criminal to earn his freedom by putting in one\n year as a changeling for every five years he would otherwise have had\n to spend in rehabilitation.", "\"What types of changelings do you have orders for right now, doctor?\"\n Asa asked the man assigned to his case. It would look suspicious if he\n asked for Jordan's Planet without some preliminary questions.\n\n\n \"Four,\" answered the doctor.\n\n\n \"Squiffs for New Arcady. Adapted for climbing the skycraper trees and\n with the arm structure modified into pseudo-wings or gliding. Then we\n need spiderinos for Von Neumann Two. If you want the nearest thing we\n have to Earth, there's Caesar's Moon, where we'd just have to double\n your tolerance for carbon monoxide and make you a bigger and better\n gorilla than the natives. Last, of course, there's always a need for\n muck men on Jordan's Planet.\"\n\n\n The doctor shrugged, as if naturally no one could be expected to\n choose Jordan's Planet. Asa frowned in apparent consideration of the\n alternatives.", "Jumpy, Asa's cellmate, took one look at his face as he was put back\n behind bars.\n\n\n \"Guilty,\" Jumpy said.\n\n\n Asa glared at him.\n\n\n \"I know, I know,\" Jumpy said hastily. \"You were framed. But what's the\n rap?\"\n\n\n \"Five or one.\"\n\n\n \"Take the five,\" Jumpy advised. \"Learn basket-weaving in a nice\n air-conditioned rehab clinic. A year on a changeling deal will seem a\n lot longer, even if you're lucky enough to live through it.\"\n\n\n Asa took four steps to the far wall of the cell, stood there briefly\n with his head bent and turned to face Jumpy.", "\"What's the pay range?\" he asked.\n\n\n \"Ten dollars a day on Caesar's Moon. Fifteen on New Arcady or Von\n Neumann Two. Twenty-five on Jordan's.\"\n\n\n Asa raised his eyebrows.\n\n\n \"Why such a difference? Everyone knows about muck men living in the\n mud while they hunt Slider eggs. But don't your conversions make the\n changeling comfortable in his new environment?\"\n\n\n \"Sure they do,\" said the doctor. \"We can make you think mud feels\n better than chinchilla fur and we can have you jumping like a\n grasshopper despite the double gravity. But we can't make you like the\n sight of yourself. And we can't guarantee that a Slider won't kill you.\"\n\n\n \"Still,\" Asa mused aloud, \"it would mean a nice bankroll waiting at the\n end of the year.\"", "It would have been more bearable if the head had not retained strong\n traces of humanity. The nostrils flared wide and the jaws hardly\n emerged from the neck, but the ears were human ears and the eyes, under\n those horny ridges, were human eyes. Asa felt sure that the eyes could\n still weep.\n\n\n He started to walk forward and tipped over on his side. Kershaw laughed.\n\n\n \"Come to daddy, babykins,\" Kershaw said, holding out his hands. \"Only\n try hopping this time. And take it easy.\"\n\n\n Asa pushed himself upright with one arm and tried a small hop. Nerve\n and muscle coordination was perfect. He found himself leaping as high\n as Kershaw's head.\n\n\n \"That's the way,\" Kershaw said approvingly. \"Now get this on and we'll\n go outside.\"", "While Kershaw grabbed the door frame to help pull himself into the\n helicopter, Asa got under his companion's belly and lifted him by the\n waist. He hadn't realized before just how strong his new body was.\n Kershaw, as a muck man, would have weighed close to three hundred\n pounds on Earth, close to six hundred here.\n\n\n Dorr made no move to help, but the girl reached under Kershaw's\n shoulder and strained to get him in. Once he was inside, Asa saw, the\n cabin was crowded.\n\n\n \"Are you going to have room for me too?\" he asked.\n\n\n \"Not this trip,\" Dorr answered. \"Now give me the egg.\"\n\n\n Asa didn't hesitate. \"The egg stays with me,\" he said softly.\n\n\n \"You do what I tell you, mucker,\" said Dorr.", "Everyone had seen pictures of muck men. It was different having one\n stand beside you. Kershaw looked much like an enormous frog except that\n his head was still mostly human. He was sitting on webbed feet, his\n lower legs bent double under huge thighs, and his trunk tilted forward\n so that his arms dangled to the ground. The arms were as thick around\n as an ordinary man's legs. The hands had become efficient scoops, with\n broad fingers webbed to the first joint and tipped with spade-like\n claws. The skin was still pinkish but had become scaly. Not a thread of\n hair showed anywhere on the body, not even on the head.\n\n\n This, Asa realized, was what he looked like himself.", "\"Kershaw. I'm back, Furston.\"\n\n\n \"I'm Graybar.\"\n\n\n \"Kershaw again? Just start in where you left off, sucker. Come on,\n you.\" He pointed to Asa and leaped to the open portion of the courtyard.\n\n\n \"Do what he says,\" Kershaw whispered to Graybar. \"He's sort of a trusty\n and warden and parole officer rolled into one.\"\n\n\n Asa was put through a series of exercises to get him used to his\n distorted body, to teach him how to leap and how to dig. He was shown\n how to operate the radio he would carry and how to fire the pencil-slim\n rockets of this gun. Finally he was told to eat a few berries from a\n native vine. He did so and immediately vomited.\n\n\n Furston laughed.", "Hardly anyone faced with the beauty of a Slider's egg bothered to\n question its workings. For a few expectant moments there would be only\n random, fitful gleamings, and then there would be a wild coruscation of\n light, dancing from one filament to the next in a frenzy of brilliance.\n\n\n It took about four years for a Slider egg to die. Beauty, rarity and\n fading value made the eggs a luxury item like nothing the world had\n ever seen. If Asa had found a means of keeping them alive it would have\n made him wealthy at the expense of the Hazeltyne monopoly.\n\n\n \"You know what I think?\" Kershaw asked. \"I think those flashes are\n the egg calling its momma. They sparkle like a million diamonds when\n you scoop one out of the muck, and right away a Slider always comes\n swooping out of nowhere at you.\"", "\"Over here.\" Kershaw stood briefly above the weeds and fell back again.\n Asa leaped over to him.\n\n\n \"Thanks,\" Kershaw said. \"Muck men stick together. You'll make a good\n one. I wouldn't have had a chance. My leg's busted.\"\n\n\n \"The helicopter ought to be here pretty soon,\" Asa said. He looked over\n at the dead Slider and shook his head. \"Tell me, what are the odds on\n getting killed doing this?\"\n\n\n \"Last time I was here there was about one mucker killed for every six\n eggs brought out. Of course you're not supposed to stand there admiring\n the eggs like I did while a Slider comes up on you.\"\n\n\n Asa hopped over to the egg, which was still full of a dancing radiance\n where it rested on the mud. He scooped a hole in the muck and buried\n the egg.", "\"That's to remind you you're still a man,\" Furston said, grinning.\n \"Everything that grows on this planet is poison. So if you got any\n ideas of hiding out till your term is up, forget 'em. Right here is\n where you eat.\"\n\n\n Asa turned without a word and hopped feebly away from Furston. He\n lifted his head to breathe deeply and saw two humans watching him from\n an observation tower on the roof.\n\n\n He leaped twenty feet into the air for a closer look.\n\n\n Gazing at him with repugnance, after witnessing the end of his session\n with Furston, were Harriet Hazeltyne and general manager Tom Dorr.\n\n\n The girl's presence merely puzzled Asa, but Dorr's being here worried\n him. Dorr had tried to get rid of him once and was now in an excellent\n position to make the riddance permanent.", "They started at the center of the cleared area, shoveling up great gobs\n of mud with their hands and flinging them out of the clearing. Usually\n a muck man dug in a spiral out from the center, but Graybar and Kershaw\n dug in gradually widening semi-circles opposite each other. They had\n to dig four feet deep, and it was slow going until they had a pit\n big enough to stand in. Each handful of mud had to be squeezed gently\n before it was thrown away, to make sure it didn't conceal an egg. As he\n worked, Asa kept thinking what an inefficient system it was. Everything\n about the operation was wrong.\n\n\n \"Got it!\" Kershaw shouted. He leaped out of the pit and started wiping\n slime off a round object the size of a baseball. Asa jumped out to\n watch.", "At supper that night, squatting on the ground beside a low table with\n the dozen other muck men operating from the dome, Asa asked what the\n two were doing out here.\n\n\n \"The girl will inherit this racket some day, won't she?\" asked one of\n the others. \"She wants to see what kind of suckers are making her rich.\"\n\n\n \"Maybe that guy Dorr brought her along to show her what a big wheel\n he is,\" said one of the others. \"Just hope he doesn't take over the\n operations.\"\nIII\n\n\n Next morning Furston passed out guns, knives, radios, and pouches to\n carry any eggs the muck men found. He gave each man a compass and\n assigned the sectors to be worked during the day. Finally he called\n Graybar aside.\n\n\n \"In case you don't like it here,\" Furston said, \"you can get a week\n knocked off your sentence for every egg you bring in. Now get out there\n and work that muck.\"", "\"Nope,\" Asa said softly. \"I'm going into a conversion tank. I'm going\n to be a muck man, Jumpy. I'm going out to Jordan's Planet and hunt\n Slider eggs.\"\n\n\n \"Smuggling? It won't work.\"\n\n\n Asa didn't answer. The Hazeltyne company had gone after him because\n he had been working on a method of keeping Slider eggs alive. The\n Hazeltyne company would be happy to see him mark time for five years\n of so-called social reorientation. But if he could get out to Jordan's\n Planet, with his physiology adapted to the environment of that wretched\n world, he could study the eggs under conditions no laboratory could\n duplicate. He might even be able to cause trouble for Hazeltyne.", "He leaned forward to fill in the necessary form.\nSince it was cheaper to transport a normal human than to rig special\n environments in a spaceship, every planet operated its own conversion\n chambers. On the space freighter that carried him from Earth Asa\n Graybar was confined to a small cabin that was opened only for a guard\n to bring meals and take out dirty dishes. He was still a prisoner.\n\n\n Sometimes he could hear voices in the passageway outside, and once\n one of them sounded like a woman's. But since women neither served on\n spaceships nor worked in the dome settlements on harsher worlds, he\n decided it was his imagination. He might have been dead cargo for all\n he learned about space travel.\n\n\n Nevertheless his time was not wasted. He had as a companion, or\n cellmate, another convict who had elected conversion to muck man. More\n important, his companion had done time on Jordan's Planet before and\n had wanted to return.", "\"I've been meaning to ask you,\" Asa said. \"How do you handle the\n Sliders?\"\n\n\n Kershaw grinned.\n\n\n \"First you try to catch it with a rocket. If you miss you start leaping\n for home. All this time you're broadcasting for help, you understand.\n When the Slider catches you, you leap up while it buries its jaws in\n the mud where you were just standing. You dig your claws in its back\n and hang on while it rolls around in the mud. Finally, if the 'copter\n comes—and if they don't shoot off your head by mistake—you live to\n tell the tale.\"\nII\n\n\n Asa Graybar kept his normal form on Jordan's Planet just long enough to\n learn the discomfort of double gravity. He was told he needed another\n physical examination and was taken right in to a doctor. His heart was\n pounding to keep his blood circulating on this massive world, but the\n doctor had apparently learned to make allowances.", "Furston sent Graybar and Kershaw out together so that the veteran could\n show Asa the ropes. Asa had already learned that the wall around the\n courtyard was to keep Sliders out, not muck men in. He leaped over it\n and hopped along after Kershaw.\n\n\n Feet slapping against the mud, they went about five miles from the\n Hazeltyne station, swimming easily across ponds too broad to jump. The\n mud, if not precisely as pleasant to the touch as chinchilla fur, was\n not at all uncomfortable, and the dripping air caressed their skins\n like a summer breeze back on Earth. Tiny, slippery creatures skidded\n and splashed out of their way. Finally Kershaw stopped. His experienced\n eye had seen a trail of swamp weeds crushed low into the mud.\n\n\n \"Keep your eyes open,\" Kershaw said. \"There's a Slider been around here\n lately. If you see something like an express train headed our way,\n start shooting.\"", "\"It's the Slider eggs,\" explained Kershaw, the two-time loser. \"The\n ones you see on Earth knock your eyes out, but they've already begun\n to die. There's nothing like a fresh one. And I'm not the first to\n go crazy over them. When I was reconverted and got home I had nine\n thousand dollars waiting for me. That'll buy a two-year-old egg that\n flashes maybe four times a day. So I stole a new one and got caught.\"\n\n\n Asa had held a Slider egg in his hand as he gazed into it. He could\n understand. The shell was clear as crystal, taut but elastic, while\n the albumen was just as clear around the sparkling network of organic\n filaments that served as a yolk. Along these interior threads played\n tiny flashes of lightning, part of some unexplained process of life.\n Electrical instruments picked up static discharges from the egg, but\n the phenomenon remained a mystery." ], [ "\"Nope,\" Asa said softly. \"I'm going into a conversion tank. I'm going\n to be a muck man, Jumpy. I'm going out to Jordan's Planet and hunt\n Slider eggs.\"\n\n\n \"Smuggling? It won't work.\"\n\n\n Asa didn't answer. The Hazeltyne company had gone after him because\n he had been working on a method of keeping Slider eggs alive. The\n Hazeltyne company would be happy to see him mark time for five years\n of so-called social reorientation. But if he could get out to Jordan's\n Planet, with his physiology adapted to the environment of that wretched\n world, he could study the eggs under conditions no laboratory could\n duplicate. He might even be able to cause trouble for Hazeltyne.", "\"What types of changelings do you have orders for right now, doctor?\"\n Asa asked the man assigned to his case. It would look suspicious if he\n asked for Jordan's Planet without some preliminary questions.\n\n\n \"Four,\" answered the doctor.\n\n\n \"Squiffs for New Arcady. Adapted for climbing the skycraper trees and\n with the arm structure modified into pseudo-wings or gliding. Then we\n need spiderinos for Von Neumann Two. If you want the nearest thing we\n have to Earth, there's Caesar's Moon, where we'd just have to double\n your tolerance for carbon monoxide and make you a bigger and better\n gorilla than the natives. Last, of course, there's always a need for\n muck men on Jordan's Planet.\"\n\n\n The doctor shrugged, as if naturally no one could be expected to\n choose Jordan's Planet. Asa frowned in apparent consideration of the\n alternatives.", "Asa snapped on a belt and breech cloth combination that had flaps of\n fabric dangling from the belt in front and behind. He followed as\n Kershaw pushed open a sliding door to lead the way out of the room\n where they had been left to revive from conversion.\nThey went into a courtyard partly covered by a roof projecting from\n the Hazeltyne company's dome settlement. The far half of the courtyard\n was open to the gray drizzle that fell almost ceaselessly from the sky\n of Jordan's Planet and turned most of its surface into marsh and mud\n flats. A high wall enclosed the far portion of the courtyard. Ranged\n along the wall were thirty stalls for muck men.\n\n\n From fifty yards across the courtyard a muck man bounded over to them\n in two leaps. Attached to a harness across his shoulders and chest were\n a gun and a long knife.\n\n\n \"Names?\" he growled. He was a foot taller than Graybar and big\n everywhere in proportion.", "\"I've been meaning to ask you,\" Asa said. \"How do you handle the\n Sliders?\"\n\n\n Kershaw grinned.\n\n\n \"First you try to catch it with a rocket. If you miss you start leaping\n for home. All this time you're broadcasting for help, you understand.\n When the Slider catches you, you leap up while it buries its jaws in\n the mud where you were just standing. You dig your claws in its back\n and hang on while it rolls around in the mud. Finally, if the 'copter\n comes—and if they don't shoot off your head by mistake—you live to\n tell the tale.\"\nII\n\n\n Asa Graybar kept his normal form on Jordan's Planet just long enough to\n learn the discomfort of double gravity. He was told he needed another\n physical examination and was taken right in to a doctor. His heart was\n pounding to keep his blood circulating on this massive world, but the\n doctor had apparently learned to make allowances.", "He leaned forward to fill in the necessary form.\nSince it was cheaper to transport a normal human than to rig special\n environments in a spaceship, every planet operated its own conversion\n chambers. On the space freighter that carried him from Earth Asa\n Graybar was confined to a small cabin that was opened only for a guard\n to bring meals and take out dirty dishes. He was still a prisoner.\n\n\n Sometimes he could hear voices in the passageway outside, and once\n one of them sounded like a woman's. But since women neither served on\n spaceships nor worked in the dome settlements on harsher worlds, he\n decided it was his imagination. He might have been dead cargo for all\n he learned about space travel.\n\n\n Nevertheless his time was not wasted. He had as a companion, or\n cellmate, another convict who had elected conversion to muck man. More\n important, his companion had done time on Jordan's Planet before and\n had wanted to return.", "While Kershaw grabbed the door frame to help pull himself into the\n helicopter, Asa got under his companion's belly and lifted him by the\n waist. He hadn't realized before just how strong his new body was.\n Kershaw, as a muck man, would have weighed close to three hundred\n pounds on Earth, close to six hundred here.\n\n\n Dorr made no move to help, but the girl reached under Kershaw's\n shoulder and strained to get him in. Once he was inside, Asa saw, the\n cabin was crowded.\n\n\n \"Are you going to have room for me too?\" he asked.\n\n\n \"Not this trip,\" Dorr answered. \"Now give me the egg.\"\n\n\n Asa didn't hesitate. \"The egg stays with me,\" he said softly.\n\n\n \"You do what I tell you, mucker,\" said Dorr.", "\"That's to remind you you're still a man,\" Furston said, grinning.\n \"Everything that grows on this planet is poison. So if you got any\n ideas of hiding out till your term is up, forget 'em. Right here is\n where you eat.\"\n\n\n Asa turned without a word and hopped feebly away from Furston. He\n lifted his head to breathe deeply and saw two humans watching him from\n an observation tower on the roof.\n\n\n He leaped twenty feet into the air for a closer look.\n\n\n Gazing at him with repugnance, after witnessing the end of his session\n with Furston, were Harriet Hazeltyne and general manager Tom Dorr.\n\n\n The girl's presence merely puzzled Asa, but Dorr's being here worried\n him. Dorr had tried to get rid of him once and was now in an excellent\n position to make the riddance permanent.", "She looked up at the machine-gun on the helicopter.\n\n\n \"They feed at night, you know. And they eat their own kind,\" she said.\n \"The Slider you killed would draw them like ants to jam.\"\n\n\n Asa glanced around quickly to make sure no Sliders had already come. He\n eyed the helicopter with distaste at the thought of what a flimsy fort\n it would make.\n\n\n \"Anyway,\" Harriet said, \"I told him he couldn't just leave you here\n and we started arguing. I lost my temper. He thought he had brought me\n to Jordan's Planet on a fancy tour. I told him the real reason I was\n here was to check up for my father on the way he was running things and\n there seemed to be a lot wrong. So he told me very politely I could run\n things to suit myself and he walked off.\"\n\n\n She shrugged, as if to indicate that she had made a mess of things.", "\"This is Graybar, calling the helicopter,\" he said. \"When are you\n coming?\"\n\n\n There was no answer except the hum of carrier wave.\n\n\n If he tried to carry the egg back, Asa knew, Sliders would attack him\n all along the way. A man had no chance of getting five miles with an\n egg by himself. He could leave the egg here, of course. Even so he\n would be lucky if he got back, following a hazy compass course from\n which he and Kershaw had certainly deviated on their outward trip.\n There were no landmarks in this wilderness of bog to help him find his\n way. The workers were supposed to home in on radio signals, if they\n lost their bearings, but Dorr would deny him that help.\n\n\n What was the night like on Jordan's Planet? Maybe Sliders slept at\n night. If he could stay awake, and if he didn't faint from hunger in\n this strange new body, and if the Sliders left him alone....", "At supper that night, squatting on the ground beside a low table with\n the dozen other muck men operating from the dome, Asa asked what the\n two were doing out here.\n\n\n \"The girl will inherit this racket some day, won't she?\" asked one of\n the others. \"She wants to see what kind of suckers are making her rich.\"\n\n\n \"Maybe that guy Dorr brought her along to show her what a big wheel\n he is,\" said one of the others. \"Just hope he doesn't take over the\n operations.\"\nIII\n\n\n Next morning Furston passed out guns, knives, radios, and pouches to\n carry any eggs the muck men found. He gave each man a compass and\n assigned the sectors to be worked during the day. Finally he called\n Graybar aside.\n\n\n \"In case you don't like it here,\" Furston said, \"you can get a week\n knocked off your sentence for every egg you bring in. Now get out there\n and work that muck.\"", "\"What's the pay range?\" he asked.\n\n\n \"Ten dollars a day on Caesar's Moon. Fifteen on New Arcady or Von\n Neumann Two. Twenty-five on Jordan's.\"\n\n\n Asa raised his eyebrows.\n\n\n \"Why such a difference? Everyone knows about muck men living in the\n mud while they hunt Slider eggs. But don't your conversions make the\n changeling comfortable in his new environment?\"\n\n\n \"Sure they do,\" said the doctor. \"We can make you think mud feels\n better than chinchilla fur and we can have you jumping like a\n grasshopper despite the double gravity. But we can't make you like the\n sight of yourself. And we can't guarantee that a Slider won't kill you.\"\n\n\n \"Still,\" Asa mused aloud, \"it would mean a nice bankroll waiting at the\n end of the year.\"", "Asa leaped forward in consternation. Not only was his chance of safe\n passage back to the settlement wrecked, but now he would have the\n extra burden of taking care of the pilot. When he reached the nose\n of the helicopter he saw that the pilot, untangling herself from the\n controls to get up, was Harriet Hazeltyne.\nIV\n\n\n \"Are you hurt?\" Asa asked her. She reached for his shoulder to steady\n herself as she climbed out of the machine.\n\n\n \"I guess not,\" she said. \"But taking a fall in this gravity is no fun.\n From the way my face feels I ought to be getting a black eye pretty\n soon.\"\n\n\n \"What happened?\"\n\n\n \"I made a fool of myself.\" She made a face back in the direction of\n the settlement. \"Dorr wasn't going to come after you. He said anyone\n who talked back to him should try arguing with the Sliders.\"", "\"And you took the helicopter by yourself,\" Asa said, as if he could\n hardly believe it yet.\n\n\n \"Oh, back on Earth I can make a helicopter do stunts. But I wasn't used\n to this gravity. I don't suppose you could make this machine stand up\n straight?\"\n\n\n Asa tugged at the body of the Slider until he got it off the skids of\n the plane. He pulled with all his strength at the rotor blade sunk in\n the mud, but the weight of the helicopter was upon it and the mud held\n it with a suction of its own. After a few minutes he had to give up.\n\n\n \"We fight off the Sliders, then,\" she said, as matter of factly as if\n that problem was settled. \"If it's any comfort, I know how to handle\n the machine-gun.\"", "\"It's the Slider eggs,\" explained Kershaw, the two-time loser. \"The\n ones you see on Earth knock your eyes out, but they've already begun\n to die. There's nothing like a fresh one. And I'm not the first to\n go crazy over them. When I was reconverted and got home I had nine\n thousand dollars waiting for me. That'll buy a two-year-old egg that\n flashes maybe four times a day. So I stole a new one and got caught.\"\n\n\n Asa had held a Slider egg in his hand as he gazed into it. He could\n understand. The shell was clear as crystal, taut but elastic, while\n the albumen was just as clear around the sparkling network of organic\n filaments that served as a yolk. Along these interior threads played\n tiny flashes of lightning, part of some unexplained process of life.\n Electrical instruments picked up static discharges from the egg, but\n the phenomenon remained a mystery.", "\"Nope. I want to make sure you come back.\" Asa turned his head to\n Harriet. \"You see, Miss Hazeltyne, I don't trust your friend. You might\n ask him to tell you about it.\"\n\n\n Dorr stared at him with narrowed eyes. Suddenly he smiled in a way that\n worried Asa.\n\n\n \"Whatever you say, Graybar,\" Dorr said. He turned to the controls. In\n another minute the helicopter was in the sky.\nA round trip for the helicopter should have taken no more than twenty\n minutes, allowing time for Kershaw to be taken out at the settlement.\n\n\n After an hour passed Asa began to worry. He was sure Dorr would return\n for the egg. Finally he realized that Dorr could locate the egg\n approximately by the body of the dead Slider. Dorr could return for the\n egg any time with some other muck man to dig for it.\n\n\n Asa pulled down the mouthpiece of his radio.", "Jumpy, Asa's cellmate, took one look at his face as he was put back\n behind bars.\n\n\n \"Guilty,\" Jumpy said.\n\n\n Asa glared at him.\n\n\n \"I know, I know,\" Jumpy said hastily. \"You were framed. But what's the\n rap?\"\n\n\n \"Five or one.\"\n\n\n \"Take the five,\" Jumpy advised. \"Learn basket-weaving in a nice\n air-conditioned rehab clinic. A year on a changeling deal will seem a\n lot longer, even if you're lucky enough to live through it.\"\n\n\n Asa took four steps to the far wall of the cell, stood there briefly\n with his head bent and turned to face Jumpy.", "The girl with the Slider egg glittering in her hair watched the\n bailiff lead Asa Graybar out of the courtroom. He recognized her as\n old Hazeltyne's daughter Harriet, no doubt come to see justice done.\n She didn't have the hothouse-flower look Asa would have expected in a\n girl whose father owned the most valuable of the planetary franchises.\n She was not afraid to meet his eye, the eye of a judicially certified\n criminal. There was, perhaps, a crease of puzzlement in her brow, as if\n she had thought crimes were committed by shriveled, rat-faced types,\n and not by young biological engineers who still affected crewcuts.\n\n\n Tom Dorr, Hazeltyne's general manager, was her escort. Asa felt\n certain, without proof, that Dorr was the man who had framed him for\n the charge of grand theft by secreting a fresh Slider egg in his\n laboratory. The older man stared at Asa coldly as he was led out of\n the courtroom and down the corridor back to jail.", "A whirring noise made Asa jump in alarm.\n\n\n Then he smiled in relief, for it was the helicopter, the blessed\n helicopter, coming in over the swamp. But what if it was Dorr, coming\n back alone to dispose of him without any witnesses? Asa leaped for the\n carcass of the dead Slider and took shelter behind it.\n\n\n No machine-gun blast of rockets came from the helicopter. The big\n machine swooped low dizzily, tilted back in an inexpert attempt to\n hover, thumped down upon the mud and slid forward. As Asa jumped aside,\n the landing skids caught against the Slider's body and the helicopter\n flipped forward on its nose, one of the rotor blades plunging deep into\n the mud.", "Asa leaped with all his strength, sailing far out of the clearing.\n While he was still in the air he snapped the mouthpiece of his radio\n down from where it was hinged over his head. As he landed he turned\n instantly, his gun in his hand.\n\n\n \"Calling the 'copter!\" he spoke rapidly into the mouthpiece. \"Kershaw\n and Graybar, sector eight, five miles out. Hurry!\"\n\n\n \"Graybar?\" asked a voice in his earphone. \"What's up?\"\n\n\n \"We've got an egg but a Slider wants it back.\"\n\n\n \"On the way.\"", "\"Kershaw. I'm back, Furston.\"\n\n\n \"I'm Graybar.\"\n\n\n \"Kershaw again? Just start in where you left off, sucker. Come on,\n you.\" He pointed to Asa and leaped to the open portion of the courtyard.\n\n\n \"Do what he says,\" Kershaw whispered to Graybar. \"He's sort of a trusty\n and warden and parole officer rolled into one.\"\n\n\n Asa was put through a series of exercises to get him used to his\n distorted body, to teach him how to leap and how to dig. He was shown\n how to operate the radio he would carry and how to fire the pencil-slim\n rockets of this gun. Finally he was told to eat a few berries from a\n native vine. He did so and immediately vomited.\n\n\n Furston laughed." ], [ "Jumpy, Asa's cellmate, took one look at his face as he was put back\n behind bars.\n\n\n \"Guilty,\" Jumpy said.\n\n\n Asa glared at him.\n\n\n \"I know, I know,\" Jumpy said hastily. \"You were framed. But what's the\n rap?\"\n\n\n \"Five or one.\"\n\n\n \"Take the five,\" Jumpy advised. \"Learn basket-weaving in a nice\n air-conditioned rehab clinic. A year on a changeling deal will seem a\n lot longer, even if you're lucky enough to live through it.\"\n\n\n Asa took four steps to the far wall of the cell, stood there briefly\n with his head bent and turned to face Jumpy.", "Until the medical associations declared such treatments unethical there\n was even a short fad of deliberate deformities, with horns at the\n temples particularly popular.\n\n\n From regeneration it was a short step to specialized regrowth. The\n techniques were perfected to adapt humans to the dozen barely habitable\n worlds man had discovered. Even on Mars, the only planet outside Earth\n in the solar system where the human anatomy was remotely suitable, a\n man could work more efficiently with redesigned lungs and temperature\n controls than he could inside a pressure suit. On more bizarre planets\n a few light-years away the advantages of changeling bodies were\n greater.\n\n\n Unfortunately for planetary development companies, hardly anyone\n wanted to become a changeling. High pay lured few. So a law was passed\n permitting a convicted criminal to earn his freedom by putting in one\n year as a changeling for every five years he would otherwise have had\n to spend in rehabilitation.", "His only problem would be staying alive for a year.\nAn interview with a doctor from the Conversion Corps was required\n for all persons who elected changeling status. The law stated that\n potential changelings must be fully informed of the rights and hazards\n of altered shape before they signed a release. The requirement held\n whether or not the individual, like Asa, was already experienced.\n\n\n By the time humanity traveled to the stars, medical biology had made\n it possible to regenerate damaged or deficient organs of the body.\n Regeneration was limited only by advanced age. Sometime after a man's\n two hundredth year his body lost the ability to be coaxed into growing\n new cells. A fifth set of teeth was usually one's last. As long as\n senescence could be staved off, however, any man could have bulging\n biceps and a pencil waist, if he could pay for the treatment.", "\"Swallow this,\" said the doctor after making a series of tests.\n\n\n Asa swallowed the capsule. Two minutes later he felt himself beginning\n to lose consciousness.\n\n\n \"This is it!\" he thought in panic.\n\n\n He felt someone ease him back down onto a wheeled stretcher. Before\n consciousness faded completely he realized that no one got a chance\n to back out of becoming a changeling, that he was on his way to the\n conversion tank right now.\n\n\n When he finally awoke he felt well rested and very comfortable. But for\n a long time he was afraid to open his eyes.\n\n\n \"Come on, Graybar,\" said a deep, booming voice. \"Let's test our wings.\"\n\n\n It was not Kershaw's voice, but it had to be Kershaw. Asa opened his\n eyes.", "\"What types of changelings do you have orders for right now, doctor?\"\n Asa asked the man assigned to his case. It would look suspicious if he\n asked for Jordan's Planet without some preliminary questions.\n\n\n \"Four,\" answered the doctor.\n\n\n \"Squiffs for New Arcady. Adapted for climbing the skycraper trees and\n with the arm structure modified into pseudo-wings or gliding. Then we\n need spiderinos for Von Neumann Two. If you want the nearest thing we\n have to Earth, there's Caesar's Moon, where we'd just have to double\n your tolerance for carbon monoxide and make you a bigger and better\n gorilla than the natives. Last, of course, there's always a need for\n muck men on Jordan's Planet.\"\n\n\n The doctor shrugged, as if naturally no one could be expected to\n choose Jordan's Planet. Asa frowned in apparent consideration of the\n alternatives.", "\"That's to remind you you're still a man,\" Furston said, grinning.\n \"Everything that grows on this planet is poison. So if you got any\n ideas of hiding out till your term is up, forget 'em. Right here is\n where you eat.\"\n\n\n Asa turned without a word and hopped feebly away from Furston. He\n lifted his head to breathe deeply and saw two humans watching him from\n an observation tower on the roof.\n\n\n He leaped twenty feet into the air for a closer look.\n\n\n Gazing at him with repugnance, after witnessing the end of his session\n with Furston, were Harriet Hazeltyne and general manager Tom Dorr.\n\n\n The girl's presence merely puzzled Asa, but Dorr's being here worried\n him. Dorr had tried to get rid of him once and was now in an excellent\n position to make the riddance permanent.", "\"Kershaw. I'm back, Furston.\"\n\n\n \"I'm Graybar.\"\n\n\n \"Kershaw again? Just start in where you left off, sucker. Come on,\n you.\" He pointed to Asa and leaped to the open portion of the courtyard.\n\n\n \"Do what he says,\" Kershaw whispered to Graybar. \"He's sort of a trusty\n and warden and parole officer rolled into one.\"\n\n\n Asa was put through a series of exercises to get him used to his\n distorted body, to teach him how to leap and how to dig. He was shown\n how to operate the radio he would carry and how to fire the pencil-slim\n rockets of this gun. Finally he was told to eat a few berries from a\n native vine. He did so and immediately vomited.\n\n\n Furston laughed.", "It would have been more bearable if the head had not retained strong\n traces of humanity. The nostrils flared wide and the jaws hardly\n emerged from the neck, but the ears were human ears and the eyes, under\n those horny ridges, were human eyes. Asa felt sure that the eyes could\n still weep.\n\n\n He started to walk forward and tipped over on his side. Kershaw laughed.\n\n\n \"Come to daddy, babykins,\" Kershaw said, holding out his hands. \"Only\n try hopping this time. And take it easy.\"\n\n\n Asa pushed himself upright with one arm and tried a small hop. Nerve\n and muscle coordination was perfect. He found himself leaping as high\n as Kershaw's head.\n\n\n \"That's the way,\" Kershaw said approvingly. \"Now get this on and we'll\n go outside.\"", "At supper that night, squatting on the ground beside a low table with\n the dozen other muck men operating from the dome, Asa asked what the\n two were doing out here.\n\n\n \"The girl will inherit this racket some day, won't she?\" asked one of\n the others. \"She wants to see what kind of suckers are making her rich.\"\n\n\n \"Maybe that guy Dorr brought her along to show her what a big wheel\n he is,\" said one of the others. \"Just hope he doesn't take over the\n operations.\"\nIII\n\n\n Next morning Furston passed out guns, knives, radios, and pouches to\n carry any eggs the muck men found. He gave each man a compass and\n assigned the sectors to be worked during the day. Finally he called\n Graybar aside.\n\n\n \"In case you don't like it here,\" Furston said, \"you can get a week\n knocked off your sentence for every egg you bring in. Now get out there\n and work that muck.\"", "While Kershaw grabbed the door frame to help pull himself into the\n helicopter, Asa got under his companion's belly and lifted him by the\n waist. He hadn't realized before just how strong his new body was.\n Kershaw, as a muck man, would have weighed close to three hundred\n pounds on Earth, close to six hundred here.\n\n\n Dorr made no move to help, but the girl reached under Kershaw's\n shoulder and strained to get him in. Once he was inside, Asa saw, the\n cabin was crowded.\n\n\n \"Are you going to have room for me too?\" he asked.\n\n\n \"Not this trip,\" Dorr answered. \"Now give me the egg.\"\n\n\n Asa didn't hesitate. \"The egg stays with me,\" he said softly.\n\n\n \"You do what I tell you, mucker,\" said Dorr.", "\"What's the pay range?\" he asked.\n\n\n \"Ten dollars a day on Caesar's Moon. Fifteen on New Arcady or Von\n Neumann Two. Twenty-five on Jordan's.\"\n\n\n Asa raised his eyebrows.\n\n\n \"Why such a difference? Everyone knows about muck men living in the\n mud while they hunt Slider eggs. But don't your conversions make the\n changeling comfortable in his new environment?\"\n\n\n \"Sure they do,\" said the doctor. \"We can make you think mud feels\n better than chinchilla fur and we can have you jumping like a\n grasshopper despite the double gravity. But we can't make you like the\n sight of yourself. And we can't guarantee that a Slider won't kill you.\"\n\n\n \"Still,\" Asa mused aloud, \"it would mean a nice bankroll waiting at the\n end of the year.\"", "He leaned forward to fill in the necessary form.\nSince it was cheaper to transport a normal human than to rig special\n environments in a spaceship, every planet operated its own conversion\n chambers. On the space freighter that carried him from Earth Asa\n Graybar was confined to a small cabin that was opened only for a guard\n to bring meals and take out dirty dishes. He was still a prisoner.\n\n\n Sometimes he could hear voices in the passageway outside, and once\n one of them sounded like a woman's. But since women neither served on\n spaceships nor worked in the dome settlements on harsher worlds, he\n decided it was his imagination. He might have been dead cargo for all\n he learned about space travel.\n\n\n Nevertheless his time was not wasted. He had as a companion, or\n cellmate, another convict who had elected conversion to muck man. More\n important, his companion had done time on Jordan's Planet before and\n had wanted to return.", "They started at the center of the cleared area, shoveling up great gobs\n of mud with their hands and flinging them out of the clearing. Usually\n a muck man dug in a spiral out from the center, but Graybar and Kershaw\n dug in gradually widening semi-circles opposite each other. They had\n to dig four feet deep, and it was slow going until they had a pit\n big enough to stand in. Each handful of mud had to be squeezed gently\n before it was thrown away, to make sure it didn't conceal an egg. As he\n worked, Asa kept thinking what an inefficient system it was. Everything\n about the operation was wrong.\n\n\n \"Got it!\" Kershaw shouted. He leaped out of the pit and started wiping\n slime off a round object the size of a baseball. Asa jumped out to\n watch.", "\"Nope,\" Asa said softly. \"I'm going into a conversion tank. I'm going\n to be a muck man, Jumpy. I'm going out to Jordan's Planet and hunt\n Slider eggs.\"\n\n\n \"Smuggling? It won't work.\"\n\n\n Asa didn't answer. The Hazeltyne company had gone after him because\n he had been working on a method of keeping Slider eggs alive. The\n Hazeltyne company would be happy to see him mark time for five years\n of so-called social reorientation. But if he could get out to Jordan's\n Planet, with his physiology adapted to the environment of that wretched\n world, he could study the eggs under conditions no laboratory could\n duplicate. He might even be able to cause trouble for Hazeltyne.", "Everyone had seen pictures of muck men. It was different having one\n stand beside you. Kershaw looked much like an enormous frog except that\n his head was still mostly human. He was sitting on webbed feet, his\n lower legs bent double under huge thighs, and his trunk tilted forward\n so that his arms dangled to the ground. The arms were as thick around\n as an ordinary man's legs. The hands had become efficient scoops, with\n broad fingers webbed to the first joint and tipped with spade-like\n claws. The skin was still pinkish but had become scaly. Not a thread of\n hair showed anywhere on the body, not even on the head.\n\n\n This, Asa realized, was what he looked like himself.", "Hardly anyone faced with the beauty of a Slider's egg bothered to\n question its workings. For a few expectant moments there would be only\n random, fitful gleamings, and then there would be a wild coruscation of\n light, dancing from one filament to the next in a frenzy of brilliance.\n\n\n It took about four years for a Slider egg to die. Beauty, rarity and\n fading value made the eggs a luxury item like nothing the world had\n ever seen. If Asa had found a means of keeping them alive it would have\n made him wealthy at the expense of the Hazeltyne monopoly.\n\n\n \"You know what I think?\" Kershaw asked. \"I think those flashes are\n the egg calling its momma. They sparkle like a million diamonds when\n you scoop one out of the muck, and right away a Slider always comes\n swooping out of nowhere at you.\"", "The girl with the Slider egg glittering in her hair watched the\n bailiff lead Asa Graybar out of the courtroom. He recognized her as\n old Hazeltyne's daughter Harriet, no doubt come to see justice done.\n She didn't have the hothouse-flower look Asa would have expected in a\n girl whose father owned the most valuable of the planetary franchises.\n She was not afraid to meet his eye, the eye of a judicially certified\n criminal. There was, perhaps, a crease of puzzlement in her brow, as if\n she had thought crimes were committed by shriveled, rat-faced types,\n and not by young biological engineers who still affected crewcuts.\n\n\n Tom Dorr, Hazeltyne's general manager, was her escort. Asa felt\n certain, without proof, that Dorr was the man who had framed him for\n the charge of grand theft by secreting a fresh Slider egg in his\n laboratory. The older man stared at Asa coldly as he was led out of\n the courtroom and down the corridor back to jail.", "Furston sent Graybar and Kershaw out together so that the veteran could\n show Asa the ropes. Asa had already learned that the wall around the\n courtyard was to keep Sliders out, not muck men in. He leaped over it\n and hopped along after Kershaw.\n\n\n Feet slapping against the mud, they went about five miles from the\n Hazeltyne station, swimming easily across ponds too broad to jump. The\n mud, if not precisely as pleasant to the touch as chinchilla fur, was\n not at all uncomfortable, and the dripping air caressed their skins\n like a summer breeze back on Earth. Tiny, slippery creatures skidded\n and splashed out of their way. Finally Kershaw stopped. His experienced\n eye had seen a trail of swamp weeds crushed low into the mud.\n\n\n \"Keep your eyes open,\" Kershaw said. \"There's a Slider been around here\n lately. If you see something like an express train headed our way,\n start shooting.\"", "\"Nope. In this drizzle, at night, the Sliders would be on us before\n we could see them. We've got to try to get back.\" He stood in thought\n while she stared at him patiently. \"What happened to the other muck men\n who went out today?\" he asked.\n\n\n \"They were called in when the 'copter came out the first time. Some of\n them may not have got back yet.\"", "\"Over here.\" Kershaw stood briefly above the weeds and fell back again.\n Asa leaped over to him.\n\n\n \"Thanks,\" Kershaw said. \"Muck men stick together. You'll make a good\n one. I wouldn't have had a chance. My leg's busted.\"\n\n\n \"The helicopter ought to be here pretty soon,\" Asa said. He looked over\n at the dead Slider and shook his head. \"Tell me, what are the odds on\n getting killed doing this?\"\n\n\n \"Last time I was here there was about one mucker killed for every six\n eggs brought out. Of course you're not supposed to stand there admiring\n the eggs like I did while a Slider comes up on you.\"\n\n\n Asa hopped over to the egg, which was still full of a dancing radiance\n where it rested on the mud. He scooped a hole in the muck and buried\n the egg." ], [ "The girl with the Slider egg glittering in her hair watched the\n bailiff lead Asa Graybar out of the courtroom. He recognized her as\n old Hazeltyne's daughter Harriet, no doubt come to see justice done.\n She didn't have the hothouse-flower look Asa would have expected in a\n girl whose father owned the most valuable of the planetary franchises.\n She was not afraid to meet his eye, the eye of a judicially certified\n criminal. There was, perhaps, a crease of puzzlement in her brow, as if\n she had thought crimes were committed by shriveled, rat-faced types,\n and not by young biological engineers who still affected crewcuts.\n\n\n Tom Dorr, Hazeltyne's general manager, was her escort. Asa felt\n certain, without proof, that Dorr was the man who had framed him for\n the charge of grand theft by secreting a fresh Slider egg in his\n laboratory. The older man stared at Asa coldly as he was led out of\n the courtroom and down the corridor back to jail.", "\"Nope. I want to make sure you come back.\" Asa turned his head to\n Harriet. \"You see, Miss Hazeltyne, I don't trust your friend. You might\n ask him to tell you about it.\"\n\n\n Dorr stared at him with narrowed eyes. Suddenly he smiled in a way that\n worried Asa.\n\n\n \"Whatever you say, Graybar,\" Dorr said. He turned to the controls. In\n another minute the helicopter was in the sky.\nA round trip for the helicopter should have taken no more than twenty\n minutes, allowing time for Kershaw to be taken out at the settlement.\n\n\n After an hour passed Asa began to worry. He was sure Dorr would return\n for the egg. Finally he realized that Dorr could locate the egg\n approximately by the body of the dead Slider. Dorr could return for the\n egg any time with some other muck man to dig for it.\n\n\n Asa pulled down the mouthpiece of his radio.", "\"Just in case there are any more Sliders around,\" he explained.\n\n\n \"Makes no difference,\" said Kershaw, pointing upward. \"Here comes the\n 'copter, late as usual.\"\n\n\n The big machine circled them, hovered to inspect the dead Slider, and\n settled down on broad skids. Through the transparent nose Asa could see\n Tom Dorr and Harriet Hazeltyne. The company manager swung the door open\n and leaned out.\n\n\n \"I see you took care of the Slider,\" he said. \"Hand over the egg.\"\n\n\n \"Kershaw has a broken leg,\" Asa said. \"I'll help him in and then I'll\n get the egg.\"", "At supper that night, squatting on the ground beside a low table with\n the dozen other muck men operating from the dome, Asa asked what the\n two were doing out here.\n\n\n \"The girl will inherit this racket some day, won't she?\" asked one of\n the others. \"She wants to see what kind of suckers are making her rich.\"\n\n\n \"Maybe that guy Dorr brought her along to show her what a big wheel\n he is,\" said one of the others. \"Just hope he doesn't take over the\n operations.\"\nIII\n\n\n Next morning Furston passed out guns, knives, radios, and pouches to\n carry any eggs the muck men found. He gave each man a compass and\n assigned the sectors to be worked during the day. Finally he called\n Graybar aside.\n\n\n \"In case you don't like it here,\" Furston said, \"you can get a week\n knocked off your sentence for every egg you bring in. Now get out there\n and work that muck.\"", "\"This is Graybar, calling the helicopter,\" he said. \"When are you\n coming?\"\n\n\n There was no answer except the hum of carrier wave.\n\n\n If he tried to carry the egg back, Asa knew, Sliders would attack him\n all along the way. A man had no chance of getting five miles with an\n egg by himself. He could leave the egg here, of course. Even so he\n would be lucky if he got back, following a hazy compass course from\n which he and Kershaw had certainly deviated on their outward trip.\n There were no landmarks in this wilderness of bog to help him find his\n way. The workers were supposed to home in on radio signals, if they\n lost their bearings, but Dorr would deny him that help.\n\n\n What was the night like on Jordan's Planet? Maybe Sliders slept at\n night. If he could stay awake, and if he didn't faint from hunger in\n this strange new body, and if the Sliders left him alone....", "\"It's the Slider eggs,\" explained Kershaw, the two-time loser. \"The\n ones you see on Earth knock your eyes out, but they've already begun\n to die. There's nothing like a fresh one. And I'm not the first to\n go crazy over them. When I was reconverted and got home I had nine\n thousand dollars waiting for me. That'll buy a two-year-old egg that\n flashes maybe four times a day. So I stole a new one and got caught.\"\n\n\n Asa had held a Slider egg in his hand as he gazed into it. He could\n understand. The shell was clear as crystal, taut but elastic, while\n the albumen was just as clear around the sparkling network of organic\n filaments that served as a yolk. Along these interior threads played\n tiny flashes of lightning, part of some unexplained process of life.\n Electrical instruments picked up static discharges from the egg, but\n the phenomenon remained a mystery.", "Asa hopped back to the clearing. Kershaw must have been bowled over by\n the Slider's first rush, for he was trying to hop on one leg as if the\n other had been broken. The egg lay flickering on top of the mud where\n Kershaw had dropped it. The Slider, eight flippers on each side working\n madly, was twisting its thirty feet of wormlike body around for another\n charge.", "Asa leaped with all his strength, sailing far out of the clearing.\n While he was still in the air he snapped the mouthpiece of his radio\n down from where it was hinged over his head. As he landed he turned\n instantly, his gun in his hand.\n\n\n \"Calling the 'copter!\" he spoke rapidly into the mouthpiece. \"Kershaw\n and Graybar, sector eight, five miles out. Hurry!\"\n\n\n \"Graybar?\" asked a voice in his earphone. \"What's up?\"\n\n\n \"We've got an egg but a Slider wants it back.\"\n\n\n \"On the way.\"", "While Kershaw grabbed the door frame to help pull himself into the\n helicopter, Asa got under his companion's belly and lifted him by the\n waist. He hadn't realized before just how strong his new body was.\n Kershaw, as a muck man, would have weighed close to three hundred\n pounds on Earth, close to six hundred here.\n\n\n Dorr made no move to help, but the girl reached under Kershaw's\n shoulder and strained to get him in. Once he was inside, Asa saw, the\n cabin was crowded.\n\n\n \"Are you going to have room for me too?\" he asked.\n\n\n \"Not this trip,\" Dorr answered. \"Now give me the egg.\"\n\n\n Asa didn't hesitate. \"The egg stays with me,\" he said softly.\n\n\n \"You do what I tell you, mucker,\" said Dorr.", "Hardly anyone faced with the beauty of a Slider's egg bothered to\n question its workings. For a few expectant moments there would be only\n random, fitful gleamings, and then there would be a wild coruscation of\n light, dancing from one filament to the next in a frenzy of brilliance.\n\n\n It took about four years for a Slider egg to die. Beauty, rarity and\n fading value made the eggs a luxury item like nothing the world had\n ever seen. If Asa had found a means of keeping them alive it would have\n made him wealthy at the expense of the Hazeltyne monopoly.\n\n\n \"You know what I think?\" Kershaw asked. \"I think those flashes are\n the egg calling its momma. They sparkle like a million diamonds when\n you scoop one out of the muck, and right away a Slider always comes\n swooping out of nowhere at you.\"", "They started at the center of the cleared area, shoveling up great gobs\n of mud with their hands and flinging them out of the clearing. Usually\n a muck man dug in a spiral out from the center, but Graybar and Kershaw\n dug in gradually widening semi-circles opposite each other. They had\n to dig four feet deep, and it was slow going until they had a pit\n big enough to stand in. Each handful of mud had to be squeezed gently\n before it was thrown away, to make sure it didn't conceal an egg. As he\n worked, Asa kept thinking what an inefficient system it was. Everything\n about the operation was wrong.\n\n\n \"Got it!\" Kershaw shouted. He leaped out of the pit and started wiping\n slime off a round object the size of a baseball. Asa jumped out to\n watch.", "A whirring noise made Asa jump in alarm.\n\n\n Then he smiled in relief, for it was the helicopter, the blessed\n helicopter, coming in over the swamp. But what if it was Dorr, coming\n back alone to dispose of him without any witnesses? Asa leaped for the\n carcass of the dead Slider and took shelter behind it.\n\n\n No machine-gun blast of rockets came from the helicopter. The big\n machine swooped low dizzily, tilted back in an inexpert attempt to\n hover, thumped down upon the mud and slid forward. As Asa jumped aside,\n the landing skids caught against the Slider's body and the helicopter\n flipped forward on its nose, one of the rotor blades plunging deep into\n the mud.", "\"Nope,\" Asa said softly. \"I'm going into a conversion tank. I'm going\n to be a muck man, Jumpy. I'm going out to Jordan's Planet and hunt\n Slider eggs.\"\n\n\n \"Smuggling? It won't work.\"\n\n\n Asa didn't answer. The Hazeltyne company had gone after him because\n he had been working on a method of keeping Slider eggs alive. The\n Hazeltyne company would be happy to see him mark time for five years\n of so-called social reorientation. But if he could get out to Jordan's\n Planet, with his physiology adapted to the environment of that wretched\n world, he could study the eggs under conditions no laboratory could\n duplicate. He might even be able to cause trouble for Hazeltyne.", "\"A big one,\" Kershaw said. He held it, still smeared with traces of\n mud, lovingly to his cheek, and then lifted it to eye level. \"Just look\n at it.\"\nA SLIDER EGG\nThe egg was flashing with a mad radiance, like a thousand diamonds\n being splintered under a brilliant sun. Static crackled in Asa's\n earphones and he thought of what Kershaw had said, that the\n scintillation of an egg was an effect of its calls to a mother Slider\n for help. Asa looked around.\n\n\n \"Jump!\" he shouted.\n\n\n At the edge of the clearing a segmented length of greenish black\n scales, some two feet thick and six feet high, had reared up out of the\n weeds. The top segment was almost all mouth, already opened to show row\n upon row of teeth. Before Asa could draw his gun the Slider lowered\n its head to the ground, dug two front flippers into the mud and shot\n forward.", "\"Over here.\" Kershaw stood briefly above the weeds and fell back again.\n Asa leaped over to him.\n\n\n \"Thanks,\" Kershaw said. \"Muck men stick together. You'll make a good\n one. I wouldn't have had a chance. My leg's busted.\"\n\n\n \"The helicopter ought to be here pretty soon,\" Asa said. He looked over\n at the dead Slider and shook his head. \"Tell me, what are the odds on\n getting killed doing this?\"\n\n\n \"Last time I was here there was about one mucker killed for every six\n eggs brought out. Of course you're not supposed to stand there admiring\n the eggs like I did while a Slider comes up on you.\"\n\n\n Asa hopped over to the egg, which was still full of a dancing radiance\n where it rested on the mud. He scooped a hole in the muck and buried\n the egg.", "Furston sent Graybar and Kershaw out together so that the veteran could\n show Asa the ropes. Asa had already learned that the wall around the\n courtyard was to keep Sliders out, not muck men in. He leaped over it\n and hopped along after Kershaw.\n\n\n Feet slapping against the mud, they went about five miles from the\n Hazeltyne station, swimming easily across ponds too broad to jump. The\n mud, if not precisely as pleasant to the touch as chinchilla fur, was\n not at all uncomfortable, and the dripping air caressed their skins\n like a summer breeze back on Earth. Tiny, slippery creatures skidded\n and splashed out of their way. Finally Kershaw stopped. His experienced\n eye had seen a trail of swamp weeds crushed low into the mud.\n\n\n \"Keep your eyes open,\" Kershaw said. \"There's a Slider been around here\n lately. If you see something like an express train headed our way,\n start shooting.\"", "\"That's to remind you you're still a man,\" Furston said, grinning.\n \"Everything that grows on this planet is poison. So if you got any\n ideas of hiding out till your term is up, forget 'em. Right here is\n where you eat.\"\n\n\n Asa turned without a word and hopped feebly away from Furston. He\n lifted his head to breathe deeply and saw two humans watching him from\n an observation tower on the roof.\n\n\n He leaped twenty feet into the air for a closer look.\n\n\n Gazing at him with repugnance, after witnessing the end of his session\n with Furston, were Harriet Hazeltyne and general manager Tom Dorr.\n\n\n The girl's presence merely puzzled Asa, but Dorr's being here worried\n him. Dorr had tried to get rid of him once and was now in an excellent\n position to make the riddance permanent.", "Asa leaped forward in consternation. Not only was his chance of safe\n passage back to the settlement wrecked, but now he would have the\n extra burden of taking care of the pilot. When he reached the nose\n of the helicopter he saw that the pilot, untangling herself from the\n controls to get up, was Harriet Hazeltyne.\nIV\n\n\n \"Are you hurt?\" Asa asked her. She reached for his shoulder to steady\n herself as she climbed out of the machine.\n\n\n \"I guess not,\" she said. \"But taking a fall in this gravity is no fun.\n From the way my face feels I ought to be getting a black eye pretty\n soon.\"\n\n\n \"What happened?\"\n\n\n \"I made a fool of myself.\" She made a face back in the direction of\n the settlement. \"Dorr wasn't going to come after you. He said anyone\n who talked back to him should try arguing with the Sliders.\"", "\"I've been meaning to ask you,\" Asa said. \"How do you handle the\n Sliders?\"\n\n\n Kershaw grinned.\n\n\n \"First you try to catch it with a rocket. If you miss you start leaping\n for home. All this time you're broadcasting for help, you understand.\n When the Slider catches you, you leap up while it buries its jaws in\n the mud where you were just standing. You dig your claws in its back\n and hang on while it rolls around in the mud. Finally, if the 'copter\n comes—and if they don't shoot off your head by mistake—you live to\n tell the tale.\"\nII\n\n\n Asa Graybar kept his normal form on Jordan's Planet just long enough to\n learn the discomfort of double gravity. He was told he needed another\n physical examination and was taken right in to a doctor. His heart was\n pounding to keep his blood circulating on this massive world, but the\n doctor had apparently learned to make allowances.", "At each leap along the trail they peered quickly around. They saw no\n Sliders, but this meant little, for the beasts lived under the mud as\n much as on top of it.\n\n\n Kershaw halted again when they came to a roughly circular area some ten\n yards in diameter where the weeds had been torn out and lay rotting in\n the muck.\n\n\n \"We're in luck,\" he said as Asa skidded to a stop at his side. \"An egg\n was laid somewhere here within the last week. These places are hard to\n spot when the new weeds start growing.\"\n\n\n Kershaw took a long look around.\n\n\n \"No trouble in sight. We dig.\"" ], [ "\"Kershaw. I'm back, Furston.\"\n\n\n \"I'm Graybar.\"\n\n\n \"Kershaw again? Just start in where you left off, sucker. Come on,\n you.\" He pointed to Asa and leaped to the open portion of the courtyard.\n\n\n \"Do what he says,\" Kershaw whispered to Graybar. \"He's sort of a trusty\n and warden and parole officer rolled into one.\"\n\n\n Asa was put through a series of exercises to get him used to his\n distorted body, to teach him how to leap and how to dig. He was shown\n how to operate the radio he would carry and how to fire the pencil-slim\n rockets of this gun. Finally he was told to eat a few berries from a\n native vine. He did so and immediately vomited.\n\n\n Furston laughed.", "Furston sent Graybar and Kershaw out together so that the veteran could\n show Asa the ropes. Asa had already learned that the wall around the\n courtyard was to keep Sliders out, not muck men in. He leaped over it\n and hopped along after Kershaw.\n\n\n Feet slapping against the mud, they went about five miles from the\n Hazeltyne station, swimming easily across ponds too broad to jump. The\n mud, if not precisely as pleasant to the touch as chinchilla fur, was\n not at all uncomfortable, and the dripping air caressed their skins\n like a summer breeze back on Earth. Tiny, slippery creatures skidded\n and splashed out of their way. Finally Kershaw stopped. His experienced\n eye had seen a trail of swamp weeds crushed low into the mud.\n\n\n \"Keep your eyes open,\" Kershaw said. \"There's a Slider been around here\n lately. If you see something like an express train headed our way,\n start shooting.\"", "\"That's to remind you you're still a man,\" Furston said, grinning.\n \"Everything that grows on this planet is poison. So if you got any\n ideas of hiding out till your term is up, forget 'em. Right here is\n where you eat.\"\n\n\n Asa turned without a word and hopped feebly away from Furston. He\n lifted his head to breathe deeply and saw two humans watching him from\n an observation tower on the roof.\n\n\n He leaped twenty feet into the air for a closer look.\n\n\n Gazing at him with repugnance, after witnessing the end of his session\n with Furston, were Harriet Hazeltyne and general manager Tom Dorr.\n\n\n The girl's presence merely puzzled Asa, but Dorr's being here worried\n him. Dorr had tried to get rid of him once and was now in an excellent\n position to make the riddance permanent.", "At supper that night, squatting on the ground beside a low table with\n the dozen other muck men operating from the dome, Asa asked what the\n two were doing out here.\n\n\n \"The girl will inherit this racket some day, won't she?\" asked one of\n the others. \"She wants to see what kind of suckers are making her rich.\"\n\n\n \"Maybe that guy Dorr brought her along to show her what a big wheel\n he is,\" said one of the others. \"Just hope he doesn't take over the\n operations.\"\nIII\n\n\n Next morning Furston passed out guns, knives, radios, and pouches to\n carry any eggs the muck men found. He gave each man a compass and\n assigned the sectors to be worked during the day. Finally he called\n Graybar aside.\n\n\n \"In case you don't like it here,\" Furston said, \"you can get a week\n knocked off your sentence for every egg you bring in. Now get out there\n and work that muck.\"", "\"Nope. I want to make sure you come back.\" Asa turned his head to\n Harriet. \"You see, Miss Hazeltyne, I don't trust your friend. You might\n ask him to tell you about it.\"\n\n\n Dorr stared at him with narrowed eyes. Suddenly he smiled in a way that\n worried Asa.\n\n\n \"Whatever you say, Graybar,\" Dorr said. He turned to the controls. In\n another minute the helicopter was in the sky.\nA round trip for the helicopter should have taken no more than twenty\n minutes, allowing time for Kershaw to be taken out at the settlement.\n\n\n After an hour passed Asa began to worry. He was sure Dorr would return\n for the egg. Finally he realized that Dorr could locate the egg\n approximately by the body of the dead Slider. Dorr could return for the\n egg any time with some other muck man to dig for it.\n\n\n Asa pulled down the mouthpiece of his radio.", "They started at the center of the cleared area, shoveling up great gobs\n of mud with their hands and flinging them out of the clearing. Usually\n a muck man dug in a spiral out from the center, but Graybar and Kershaw\n dug in gradually widening semi-circles opposite each other. They had\n to dig four feet deep, and it was slow going until they had a pit\n big enough to stand in. Each handful of mud had to be squeezed gently\n before it was thrown away, to make sure it didn't conceal an egg. As he\n worked, Asa kept thinking what an inefficient system it was. Everything\n about the operation was wrong.\n\n\n \"Got it!\" Kershaw shouted. He leaped out of the pit and started wiping\n slime off a round object the size of a baseball. Asa jumped out to\n watch.", "\"This is Graybar, calling the helicopter,\" he said. \"When are you\n coming?\"\n\n\n There was no answer except the hum of carrier wave.\n\n\n If he tried to carry the egg back, Asa knew, Sliders would attack him\n all along the way. A man had no chance of getting five miles with an\n egg by himself. He could leave the egg here, of course. Even so he\n would be lucky if he got back, following a hazy compass course from\n which he and Kershaw had certainly deviated on their outward trip.\n There were no landmarks in this wilderness of bog to help him find his\n way. The workers were supposed to home in on radio signals, if they\n lost their bearings, but Dorr would deny him that help.\n\n\n What was the night like on Jordan's Planet? Maybe Sliders slept at\n night. If he could stay awake, and if he didn't faint from hunger in\n this strange new body, and if the Sliders left him alone....", "Asa leaped with all his strength, sailing far out of the clearing.\n While he was still in the air he snapped the mouthpiece of his radio\n down from where it was hinged over his head. As he landed he turned\n instantly, his gun in his hand.\n\n\n \"Calling the 'copter!\" he spoke rapidly into the mouthpiece. \"Kershaw\n and Graybar, sector eight, five miles out. Hurry!\"\n\n\n \"Graybar?\" asked a voice in his earphone. \"What's up?\"\n\n\n \"We've got an egg but a Slider wants it back.\"\n\n\n \"On the way.\"", "He leaned forward to fill in the necessary form.\nSince it was cheaper to transport a normal human than to rig special\n environments in a spaceship, every planet operated its own conversion\n chambers. On the space freighter that carried him from Earth Asa\n Graybar was confined to a small cabin that was opened only for a guard\n to bring meals and take out dirty dishes. He was still a prisoner.\n\n\n Sometimes he could hear voices in the passageway outside, and once\n one of them sounded like a woman's. But since women neither served on\n spaceships nor worked in the dome settlements on harsher worlds, he\n decided it was his imagination. He might have been dead cargo for all\n he learned about space travel.\n\n\n Nevertheless his time was not wasted. He had as a companion, or\n cellmate, another convict who had elected conversion to muck man. More\n important, his companion had done time on Jordan's Planet before and\n had wanted to return.", "It would have been more bearable if the head had not retained strong\n traces of humanity. The nostrils flared wide and the jaws hardly\n emerged from the neck, but the ears were human ears and the eyes, under\n those horny ridges, were human eyes. Asa felt sure that the eyes could\n still weep.\n\n\n He started to walk forward and tipped over on his side. Kershaw laughed.\n\n\n \"Come to daddy, babykins,\" Kershaw said, holding out his hands. \"Only\n try hopping this time. And take it easy.\"\n\n\n Asa pushed himself upright with one arm and tried a small hop. Nerve\n and muscle coordination was perfect. He found himself leaping as high\n as Kershaw's head.\n\n\n \"That's the way,\" Kershaw said approvingly. \"Now get this on and we'll\n go outside.\"", "\"Swallow this,\" said the doctor after making a series of tests.\n\n\n Asa swallowed the capsule. Two minutes later he felt himself beginning\n to lose consciousness.\n\n\n \"This is it!\" he thought in panic.\n\n\n He felt someone ease him back down onto a wheeled stretcher. Before\n consciousness faded completely he realized that no one got a chance\n to back out of becoming a changeling, that he was on his way to the\n conversion tank right now.\n\n\n When he finally awoke he felt well rested and very comfortable. But for\n a long time he was afraid to open his eyes.\n\n\n \"Come on, Graybar,\" said a deep, booming voice. \"Let's test our wings.\"\n\n\n It was not Kershaw's voice, but it had to be Kershaw. Asa opened his\n eyes.", "While Kershaw grabbed the door frame to help pull himself into the\n helicopter, Asa got under his companion's belly and lifted him by the\n waist. He hadn't realized before just how strong his new body was.\n Kershaw, as a muck man, would have weighed close to three hundred\n pounds on Earth, close to six hundred here.\n\n\n Dorr made no move to help, but the girl reached under Kershaw's\n shoulder and strained to get him in. Once he was inside, Asa saw, the\n cabin was crowded.\n\n\n \"Are you going to have room for me too?\" he asked.\n\n\n \"Not this trip,\" Dorr answered. \"Now give me the egg.\"\n\n\n Asa didn't hesitate. \"The egg stays with me,\" he said softly.\n\n\n \"You do what I tell you, mucker,\" said Dorr.", "\"I've been meaning to ask you,\" Asa said. \"How do you handle the\n Sliders?\"\n\n\n Kershaw grinned.\n\n\n \"First you try to catch it with a rocket. If you miss you start leaping\n for home. All this time you're broadcasting for help, you understand.\n When the Slider catches you, you leap up while it buries its jaws in\n the mud where you were just standing. You dig your claws in its back\n and hang on while it rolls around in the mud. Finally, if the 'copter\n comes—and if they don't shoot off your head by mistake—you live to\n tell the tale.\"\nII\n\n\n Asa Graybar kept his normal form on Jordan's Planet just long enough to\n learn the discomfort of double gravity. He was told he needed another\n physical examination and was taken right in to a doctor. His heart was\n pounding to keep his blood circulating on this massive world, but the\n doctor had apparently learned to make allowances.", "\"Over here.\" Kershaw stood briefly above the weeds and fell back again.\n Asa leaped over to him.\n\n\n \"Thanks,\" Kershaw said. \"Muck men stick together. You'll make a good\n one. I wouldn't have had a chance. My leg's busted.\"\n\n\n \"The helicopter ought to be here pretty soon,\" Asa said. He looked over\n at the dead Slider and shook his head. \"Tell me, what are the odds on\n getting killed doing this?\"\n\n\n \"Last time I was here there was about one mucker killed for every six\n eggs brought out. Of course you're not supposed to stand there admiring\n the eggs like I did while a Slider comes up on you.\"\n\n\n Asa hopped over to the egg, which was still full of a dancing radiance\n where it rested on the mud. He scooped a hole in the muck and buried\n the egg.", "The girl with the Slider egg glittering in her hair watched the\n bailiff lead Asa Graybar out of the courtroom. He recognized her as\n old Hazeltyne's daughter Harriet, no doubt come to see justice done.\n She didn't have the hothouse-flower look Asa would have expected in a\n girl whose father owned the most valuable of the planetary franchises.\n She was not afraid to meet his eye, the eye of a judicially certified\n criminal. There was, perhaps, a crease of puzzlement in her brow, as if\n she had thought crimes were committed by shriveled, rat-faced types,\n and not by young biological engineers who still affected crewcuts.\n\n\n Tom Dorr, Hazeltyne's general manager, was her escort. Asa felt\n certain, without proof, that Dorr was the man who had framed him for\n the charge of grand theft by secreting a fresh Slider egg in his\n laboratory. The older man stared at Asa coldly as he was led out of\n the courtroom and down the corridor back to jail.", "Asa hopped back to the clearing. Kershaw must have been bowled over by\n the Slider's first rush, for he was trying to hop on one leg as if the\n other had been broken. The egg lay flickering on top of the mud where\n Kershaw had dropped it. The Slider, eight flippers on each side working\n madly, was twisting its thirty feet of wormlike body around for another\n charge.", "Asa snapped on a belt and breech cloth combination that had flaps of\n fabric dangling from the belt in front and behind. He followed as\n Kershaw pushed open a sliding door to lead the way out of the room\n where they had been left to revive from conversion.\nThey went into a courtyard partly covered by a roof projecting from\n the Hazeltyne company's dome settlement. The far half of the courtyard\n was open to the gray drizzle that fell almost ceaselessly from the sky\n of Jordan's Planet and turned most of its surface into marsh and mud\n flats. A high wall enclosed the far portion of the courtyard. Ranged\n along the wall were thirty stalls for muck men.\n\n\n From fifty yards across the courtyard a muck man bounded over to them\n in two leaps. Attached to a harness across his shoulders and chest were\n a gun and a long knife.\n\n\n \"Names?\" he growled. He was a foot taller than Graybar and big\n everywhere in proportion.", "Asa leaped forward in consternation. Not only was his chance of safe\n passage back to the settlement wrecked, but now he would have the\n extra burden of taking care of the pilot. When he reached the nose\n of the helicopter he saw that the pilot, untangling herself from the\n controls to get up, was Harriet Hazeltyne.\nIV\n\n\n \"Are you hurt?\" Asa asked her. She reached for his shoulder to steady\n herself as she climbed out of the machine.\n\n\n \"I guess not,\" she said. \"But taking a fall in this gravity is no fun.\n From the way my face feels I ought to be getting a black eye pretty\n soon.\"\n\n\n \"What happened?\"\n\n\n \"I made a fool of myself.\" She made a face back in the direction of\n the settlement. \"Dorr wasn't going to come after you. He said anyone\n who talked back to him should try arguing with the Sliders.\"", "\"It's the Slider eggs,\" explained Kershaw, the two-time loser. \"The\n ones you see on Earth knock your eyes out, but they've already begun\n to die. There's nothing like a fresh one. And I'm not the first to\n go crazy over them. When I was reconverted and got home I had nine\n thousand dollars waiting for me. That'll buy a two-year-old egg that\n flashes maybe four times a day. So I stole a new one and got caught.\"\n\n\n Asa had held a Slider egg in his hand as he gazed into it. He could\n understand. The shell was clear as crystal, taut but elastic, while\n the albumen was just as clear around the sparkling network of organic\n filaments that served as a yolk. Along these interior threads played\n tiny flashes of lightning, part of some unexplained process of life.\n Electrical instruments picked up static discharges from the egg, but\n the phenomenon remained a mystery.", "Hardly anyone faced with the beauty of a Slider's egg bothered to\n question its workings. For a few expectant moments there would be only\n random, fitful gleamings, and then there would be a wild coruscation of\n light, dancing from one filament to the next in a frenzy of brilliance.\n\n\n It took about four years for a Slider egg to die. Beauty, rarity and\n fading value made the eggs a luxury item like nothing the world had\n ever seen. If Asa had found a means of keeping them alive it would have\n made him wealthy at the expense of the Hazeltyne monopoly.\n\n\n \"You know what I think?\" Kershaw asked. \"I think those flashes are\n the egg calling its momma. They sparkle like a million diamonds when\n you scoop one out of the muck, and right away a Slider always comes\n swooping out of nowhere at you.\"" ], [ "Asa leaped forward in consternation. Not only was his chance of safe\n passage back to the settlement wrecked, but now he would have the\n extra burden of taking care of the pilot. When he reached the nose\n of the helicopter he saw that the pilot, untangling herself from the\n controls to get up, was Harriet Hazeltyne.\nIV\n\n\n \"Are you hurt?\" Asa asked her. She reached for his shoulder to steady\n herself as she climbed out of the machine.\n\n\n \"I guess not,\" she said. \"But taking a fall in this gravity is no fun.\n From the way my face feels I ought to be getting a black eye pretty\n soon.\"\n\n\n \"What happened?\"\n\n\n \"I made a fool of myself.\" She made a face back in the direction of\n the settlement. \"Dorr wasn't going to come after you. He said anyone\n who talked back to him should try arguing with the Sliders.\"", "She looked up at the machine-gun on the helicopter.\n\n\n \"They feed at night, you know. And they eat their own kind,\" she said.\n \"The Slider you killed would draw them like ants to jam.\"\n\n\n Asa glanced around quickly to make sure no Sliders had already come. He\n eyed the helicopter with distaste at the thought of what a flimsy fort\n it would make.\n\n\n \"Anyway,\" Harriet said, \"I told him he couldn't just leave you here\n and we started arguing. I lost my temper. He thought he had brought me\n to Jordan's Planet on a fancy tour. I told him the real reason I was\n here was to check up for my father on the way he was running things and\n there seemed to be a lot wrong. So he told me very politely I could run\n things to suit myself and he walked off.\"\n\n\n She shrugged, as if to indicate that she had made a mess of things.", "A whirring noise made Asa jump in alarm.\n\n\n Then he smiled in relief, for it was the helicopter, the blessed\n helicopter, coming in over the swamp. But what if it was Dorr, coming\n back alone to dispose of him without any witnesses? Asa leaped for the\n carcass of the dead Slider and took shelter behind it.\n\n\n No machine-gun blast of rockets came from the helicopter. The big\n machine swooped low dizzily, tilted back in an inexpert attempt to\n hover, thumped down upon the mud and slid forward. As Asa jumped aside,\n the landing skids caught against the Slider's body and the helicopter\n flipped forward on its nose, one of the rotor blades plunging deep into\n the mud.", "\"Nope. I want to make sure you come back.\" Asa turned his head to\n Harriet. \"You see, Miss Hazeltyne, I don't trust your friend. You might\n ask him to tell you about it.\"\n\n\n Dorr stared at him with narrowed eyes. Suddenly he smiled in a way that\n worried Asa.\n\n\n \"Whatever you say, Graybar,\" Dorr said. He turned to the controls. In\n another minute the helicopter was in the sky.\nA round trip for the helicopter should have taken no more than twenty\n minutes, allowing time for Kershaw to be taken out at the settlement.\n\n\n After an hour passed Asa began to worry. He was sure Dorr would return\n for the egg. Finally he realized that Dorr could locate the egg\n approximately by the body of the dead Slider. Dorr could return for the\n egg any time with some other muck man to dig for it.\n\n\n Asa pulled down the mouthpiece of his radio.", "\"And you took the helicopter by yourself,\" Asa said, as if he could\n hardly believe it yet.\n\n\n \"Oh, back on Earth I can make a helicopter do stunts. But I wasn't used\n to this gravity. I don't suppose you could make this machine stand up\n straight?\"\n\n\n Asa tugged at the body of the Slider until he got it off the skids of\n the plane. He pulled with all his strength at the rotor blade sunk in\n the mud, but the weight of the helicopter was upon it and the mud held\n it with a suction of its own. After a few minutes he had to give up.\n\n\n \"We fight off the Sliders, then,\" she said, as matter of factly as if\n that problem was settled. \"If it's any comfort, I know how to handle\n the machine-gun.\"", "While Kershaw grabbed the door frame to help pull himself into the\n helicopter, Asa got under his companion's belly and lifted him by the\n waist. He hadn't realized before just how strong his new body was.\n Kershaw, as a muck man, would have weighed close to three hundred\n pounds on Earth, close to six hundred here.\n\n\n Dorr made no move to help, but the girl reached under Kershaw's\n shoulder and strained to get him in. Once he was inside, Asa saw, the\n cabin was crowded.\n\n\n \"Are you going to have room for me too?\" he asked.\n\n\n \"Not this trip,\" Dorr answered. \"Now give me the egg.\"\n\n\n Asa didn't hesitate. \"The egg stays with me,\" he said softly.\n\n\n \"You do what I tell you, mucker,\" said Dorr.", "\"Just in case there are any more Sliders around,\" he explained.\n\n\n \"Makes no difference,\" said Kershaw, pointing upward. \"Here comes the\n 'copter, late as usual.\"\n\n\n The big machine circled them, hovered to inspect the dead Slider, and\n settled down on broad skids. Through the transparent nose Asa could see\n Tom Dorr and Harriet Hazeltyne. The company manager swung the door open\n and leaned out.\n\n\n \"I see you took care of the Slider,\" he said. \"Hand over the egg.\"\n\n\n \"Kershaw has a broken leg,\" Asa said. \"I'll help him in and then I'll\n get the egg.\"", "\"Over here.\" Kershaw stood briefly above the weeds and fell back again.\n Asa leaped over to him.\n\n\n \"Thanks,\" Kershaw said. \"Muck men stick together. You'll make a good\n one. I wouldn't have had a chance. My leg's busted.\"\n\n\n \"The helicopter ought to be here pretty soon,\" Asa said. He looked over\n at the dead Slider and shook his head. \"Tell me, what are the odds on\n getting killed doing this?\"\n\n\n \"Last time I was here there was about one mucker killed for every six\n eggs brought out. Of course you're not supposed to stand there admiring\n the eggs like I did while a Slider comes up on you.\"\n\n\n Asa hopped over to the egg, which was still full of a dancing radiance\n where it rested on the mud. He scooped a hole in the muck and buried\n the egg.", "The girl with the Slider egg glittering in her hair watched the\n bailiff lead Asa Graybar out of the courtroom. He recognized her as\n old Hazeltyne's daughter Harriet, no doubt come to see justice done.\n She didn't have the hothouse-flower look Asa would have expected in a\n girl whose father owned the most valuable of the planetary franchises.\n She was not afraid to meet his eye, the eye of a judicially certified\n criminal. There was, perhaps, a crease of puzzlement in her brow, as if\n she had thought crimes were committed by shriveled, rat-faced types,\n and not by young biological engineers who still affected crewcuts.\n\n\n Tom Dorr, Hazeltyne's general manager, was her escort. Asa felt\n certain, without proof, that Dorr was the man who had framed him for\n the charge of grand theft by secreting a fresh Slider egg in his\n laboratory. The older man stared at Asa coldly as he was led out of\n the courtroom and down the corridor back to jail.", "At supper that night, squatting on the ground beside a low table with\n the dozen other muck men operating from the dome, Asa asked what the\n two were doing out here.\n\n\n \"The girl will inherit this racket some day, won't she?\" asked one of\n the others. \"She wants to see what kind of suckers are making her rich.\"\n\n\n \"Maybe that guy Dorr brought her along to show her what a big wheel\n he is,\" said one of the others. \"Just hope he doesn't take over the\n operations.\"\nIII\n\n\n Next morning Furston passed out guns, knives, radios, and pouches to\n carry any eggs the muck men found. He gave each man a compass and\n assigned the sectors to be worked during the day. Finally he called\n Graybar aside.\n\n\n \"In case you don't like it here,\" Furston said, \"you can get a week\n knocked off your sentence for every egg you bring in. Now get out there\n and work that muck.\"", "\"That's to remind you you're still a man,\" Furston said, grinning.\n \"Everything that grows on this planet is poison. So if you got any\n ideas of hiding out till your term is up, forget 'em. Right here is\n where you eat.\"\n\n\n Asa turned without a word and hopped feebly away from Furston. He\n lifted his head to breathe deeply and saw two humans watching him from\n an observation tower on the roof.\n\n\n He leaped twenty feet into the air for a closer look.\n\n\n Gazing at him with repugnance, after witnessing the end of his session\n with Furston, were Harriet Hazeltyne and general manager Tom Dorr.\n\n\n The girl's presence merely puzzled Asa, but Dorr's being here worried\n him. Dorr had tried to get rid of him once and was now in an excellent\n position to make the riddance permanent.", "Asa leaped with all his strength, sailing far out of the clearing.\n While he was still in the air he snapped the mouthpiece of his radio\n down from where it was hinged over his head. As he landed he turned\n instantly, his gun in his hand.\n\n\n \"Calling the 'copter!\" he spoke rapidly into the mouthpiece. \"Kershaw\n and Graybar, sector eight, five miles out. Hurry!\"\n\n\n \"Graybar?\" asked a voice in his earphone. \"What's up?\"\n\n\n \"We've got an egg but a Slider wants it back.\"\n\n\n \"On the way.\"", "\"This is Graybar, calling the helicopter,\" he said. \"When are you\n coming?\"\n\n\n There was no answer except the hum of carrier wave.\n\n\n If he tried to carry the egg back, Asa knew, Sliders would attack him\n all along the way. A man had no chance of getting five miles with an\n egg by himself. He could leave the egg here, of course. Even so he\n would be lucky if he got back, following a hazy compass course from\n which he and Kershaw had certainly deviated on their outward trip.\n There were no landmarks in this wilderness of bog to help him find his\n way. The workers were supposed to home in on radio signals, if they\n lost their bearings, but Dorr would deny him that help.\n\n\n What was the night like on Jordan's Planet? Maybe Sliders slept at\n night. If he could stay awake, and if he didn't faint from hunger in\n this strange new body, and if the Sliders left him alone....", "Asa hopped back to the clearing. Kershaw must have been bowled over by\n the Slider's first rush, for he was trying to hop on one leg as if the\n other had been broken. The egg lay flickering on top of the mud where\n Kershaw had dropped it. The Slider, eight flippers on each side working\n madly, was twisting its thirty feet of wormlike body around for another\n charge.", "\"Nope. In this drizzle, at night, the Sliders would be on us before\n we could see them. We've got to try to get back.\" He stood in thought\n while she stared at him patiently. \"What happened to the other muck men\n who went out today?\" he asked.\n\n\n \"They were called in when the 'copter came out the first time. Some of\n them may not have got back yet.\"", "They started at the center of the cleared area, shoveling up great gobs\n of mud with their hands and flinging them out of the clearing. Usually\n a muck man dug in a spiral out from the center, but Graybar and Kershaw\n dug in gradually widening semi-circles opposite each other. They had\n to dig four feet deep, and it was slow going until they had a pit\n big enough to stand in. Each handful of mud had to be squeezed gently\n before it was thrown away, to make sure it didn't conceal an egg. As he\n worked, Asa kept thinking what an inefficient system it was. Everything\n about the operation was wrong.\n\n\n \"Got it!\" Kershaw shouted. He leaped out of the pit and started wiping\n slime off a round object the size of a baseball. Asa jumped out to\n watch.", "Aiming hastily, Asa fired a rocket at the monster's middle segment. The\n rocket smashed through hard scales and exploded in a fountain of gray\n flesh. The Slider writhed, coating its wound in mud, and twisted toward\n Asa. He leaped to one side, firing from the air and missing, and saw\n the Slider turn toward the patch of weeds where he would land. His legs\n were tensed to leap again the moment he hit the mud, but he saw the\n Slider would be on top of him before he could escape. As he landed he\n thrust his gun forward almost into the mouth of the creature and fired\n again.\nEven as he was knocked aside into the muck, Asa's body was showered\n with shreds of alien flesh scattered by the rocket's explosion.\n Desperately pushing himself to his feet, he saw the long headless body\n shiver and lie still.\nAsa took a deep breath and looked around.\n\n\n \"Kershaw!\" he called. \"Where are you?\"", "It would have been more bearable if the head had not retained strong\n traces of humanity. The nostrils flared wide and the jaws hardly\n emerged from the neck, but the ears were human ears and the eyes, under\n those horny ridges, were human eyes. Asa felt sure that the eyes could\n still weep.\n\n\n He started to walk forward and tipped over on his side. Kershaw laughed.\n\n\n \"Come to daddy, babykins,\" Kershaw said, holding out his hands. \"Only\n try hopping this time. And take it easy.\"\n\n\n Asa pushed himself upright with one arm and tried a small hop. Nerve\n and muscle coordination was perfect. He found himself leaping as high\n as Kershaw's head.\n\n\n \"That's the way,\" Kershaw said approvingly. \"Now get this on and we'll\n go outside.\"", "\"It's the Slider eggs,\" explained Kershaw, the two-time loser. \"The\n ones you see on Earth knock your eyes out, but they've already begun\n to die. There's nothing like a fresh one. And I'm not the first to\n go crazy over them. When I was reconverted and got home I had nine\n thousand dollars waiting for me. That'll buy a two-year-old egg that\n flashes maybe four times a day. So I stole a new one and got caught.\"\n\n\n Asa had held a Slider egg in his hand as he gazed into it. He could\n understand. The shell was clear as crystal, taut but elastic, while\n the albumen was just as clear around the sparkling network of organic\n filaments that served as a yolk. Along these interior threads played\n tiny flashes of lightning, part of some unexplained process of life.\n Electrical instruments picked up static discharges from the egg, but\n the phenomenon remained a mystery.", "Jumpy, Asa's cellmate, took one look at his face as he was put back\n behind bars.\n\n\n \"Guilty,\" Jumpy said.\n\n\n Asa glared at him.\n\n\n \"I know, I know,\" Jumpy said hastily. \"You were framed. But what's the\n rap?\"\n\n\n \"Five or one.\"\n\n\n \"Take the five,\" Jumpy advised. \"Learn basket-weaving in a nice\n air-conditioned rehab clinic. A year on a changeling deal will seem a\n lot longer, even if you're lucky enough to live through it.\"\n\n\n Asa took four steps to the far wall of the cell, stood there briefly\n with his head bent and turned to face Jumpy." ], [ "\"What types of changelings do you have orders for right now, doctor?\"\n Asa asked the man assigned to his case. It would look suspicious if he\n asked for Jordan's Planet without some preliminary questions.\n\n\n \"Four,\" answered the doctor.\n\n\n \"Squiffs for New Arcady. Adapted for climbing the skycraper trees and\n with the arm structure modified into pseudo-wings or gliding. Then we\n need spiderinos for Von Neumann Two. If you want the nearest thing we\n have to Earth, there's Caesar's Moon, where we'd just have to double\n your tolerance for carbon monoxide and make you a bigger and better\n gorilla than the natives. Last, of course, there's always a need for\n muck men on Jordan's Planet.\"\n\n\n The doctor shrugged, as if naturally no one could be expected to\n choose Jordan's Planet. Asa frowned in apparent consideration of the\n alternatives.", "\"I've been meaning to ask you,\" Asa said. \"How do you handle the\n Sliders?\"\n\n\n Kershaw grinned.\n\n\n \"First you try to catch it with a rocket. If you miss you start leaping\n for home. All this time you're broadcasting for help, you understand.\n When the Slider catches you, you leap up while it buries its jaws in\n the mud where you were just standing. You dig your claws in its back\n and hang on while it rolls around in the mud. Finally, if the 'copter\n comes—and if they don't shoot off your head by mistake—you live to\n tell the tale.\"\nII\n\n\n Asa Graybar kept his normal form on Jordan's Planet just long enough to\n learn the discomfort of double gravity. He was told he needed another\n physical examination and was taken right in to a doctor. His heart was\n pounding to keep his blood circulating on this massive world, but the\n doctor had apparently learned to make allowances.", "Until the medical associations declared such treatments unethical there\n was even a short fad of deliberate deformities, with horns at the\n temples particularly popular.\n\n\n From regeneration it was a short step to specialized regrowth. The\n techniques were perfected to adapt humans to the dozen barely habitable\n worlds man had discovered. Even on Mars, the only planet outside Earth\n in the solar system where the human anatomy was remotely suitable, a\n man could work more efficiently with redesigned lungs and temperature\n controls than he could inside a pressure suit. On more bizarre planets\n a few light-years away the advantages of changeling bodies were\n greater.\n\n\n Unfortunately for planetary development companies, hardly anyone\n wanted to become a changeling. High pay lured few. So a law was passed\n permitting a convicted criminal to earn his freedom by putting in one\n year as a changeling for every five years he would otherwise have had\n to spend in rehabilitation.", "He leaned forward to fill in the necessary form.\nSince it was cheaper to transport a normal human than to rig special\n environments in a spaceship, every planet operated its own conversion\n chambers. On the space freighter that carried him from Earth Asa\n Graybar was confined to a small cabin that was opened only for a guard\n to bring meals and take out dirty dishes. He was still a prisoner.\n\n\n Sometimes he could hear voices in the passageway outside, and once\n one of them sounded like a woman's. But since women neither served on\n spaceships nor worked in the dome settlements on harsher worlds, he\n decided it was his imagination. He might have been dead cargo for all\n he learned about space travel.\n\n\n Nevertheless his time was not wasted. He had as a companion, or\n cellmate, another convict who had elected conversion to muck man. More\n important, his companion had done time on Jordan's Planet before and\n had wanted to return.", "Asa snapped on a belt and breech cloth combination that had flaps of\n fabric dangling from the belt in front and behind. He followed as\n Kershaw pushed open a sliding door to lead the way out of the room\n where they had been left to revive from conversion.\nThey went into a courtyard partly covered by a roof projecting from\n the Hazeltyne company's dome settlement. The far half of the courtyard\n was open to the gray drizzle that fell almost ceaselessly from the sky\n of Jordan's Planet and turned most of its surface into marsh and mud\n flats. A high wall enclosed the far portion of the courtyard. Ranged\n along the wall were thirty stalls for muck men.\n\n\n From fifty yards across the courtyard a muck man bounded over to them\n in two leaps. Attached to a harness across his shoulders and chest were\n a gun and a long knife.\n\n\n \"Names?\" he growled. He was a foot taller than Graybar and big\n everywhere in proportion.", "\"Swallow this,\" said the doctor after making a series of tests.\n\n\n Asa swallowed the capsule. Two minutes later he felt himself beginning\n to lose consciousness.\n\n\n \"This is it!\" he thought in panic.\n\n\n He felt someone ease him back down onto a wheeled stretcher. Before\n consciousness faded completely he realized that no one got a chance\n to back out of becoming a changeling, that he was on his way to the\n conversion tank right now.\n\n\n When he finally awoke he felt well rested and very comfortable. But for\n a long time he was afraid to open his eyes.\n\n\n \"Come on, Graybar,\" said a deep, booming voice. \"Let's test our wings.\"\n\n\n It was not Kershaw's voice, but it had to be Kershaw. Asa opened his\n eyes.", "While Kershaw grabbed the door frame to help pull himself into the\n helicopter, Asa got under his companion's belly and lifted him by the\n waist. He hadn't realized before just how strong his new body was.\n Kershaw, as a muck man, would have weighed close to three hundred\n pounds on Earth, close to six hundred here.\n\n\n Dorr made no move to help, but the girl reached under Kershaw's\n shoulder and strained to get him in. Once he was inside, Asa saw, the\n cabin was crowded.\n\n\n \"Are you going to have room for me too?\" he asked.\n\n\n \"Not this trip,\" Dorr answered. \"Now give me the egg.\"\n\n\n Asa didn't hesitate. \"The egg stays with me,\" he said softly.\n\n\n \"You do what I tell you, mucker,\" said Dorr.", "It would have been more bearable if the head had not retained strong\n traces of humanity. The nostrils flared wide and the jaws hardly\n emerged from the neck, but the ears were human ears and the eyes, under\n those horny ridges, were human eyes. Asa felt sure that the eyes could\n still weep.\n\n\n He started to walk forward and tipped over on his side. Kershaw laughed.\n\n\n \"Come to daddy, babykins,\" Kershaw said, holding out his hands. \"Only\n try hopping this time. And take it easy.\"\n\n\n Asa pushed himself upright with one arm and tried a small hop. Nerve\n and muscle coordination was perfect. He found himself leaping as high\n as Kershaw's head.\n\n\n \"That's the way,\" Kershaw said approvingly. \"Now get this on and we'll\n go outside.\"", "\"What's the pay range?\" he asked.\n\n\n \"Ten dollars a day on Caesar's Moon. Fifteen on New Arcady or Von\n Neumann Two. Twenty-five on Jordan's.\"\n\n\n Asa raised his eyebrows.\n\n\n \"Why such a difference? Everyone knows about muck men living in the\n mud while they hunt Slider eggs. But don't your conversions make the\n changeling comfortable in his new environment?\"\n\n\n \"Sure they do,\" said the doctor. \"We can make you think mud feels\n better than chinchilla fur and we can have you jumping like a\n grasshopper despite the double gravity. But we can't make you like the\n sight of yourself. And we can't guarantee that a Slider won't kill you.\"\n\n\n \"Still,\" Asa mused aloud, \"it would mean a nice bankroll waiting at the\n end of the year.\"", "\"This is Graybar, calling the helicopter,\" he said. \"When are you\n coming?\"\n\n\n There was no answer except the hum of carrier wave.\n\n\n If he tried to carry the egg back, Asa knew, Sliders would attack him\n all along the way. A man had no chance of getting five miles with an\n egg by himself. He could leave the egg here, of course. Even so he\n would be lucky if he got back, following a hazy compass course from\n which he and Kershaw had certainly deviated on their outward trip.\n There were no landmarks in this wilderness of bog to help him find his\n way. The workers were supposed to home in on radio signals, if they\n lost their bearings, but Dorr would deny him that help.\n\n\n What was the night like on Jordan's Planet? Maybe Sliders slept at\n night. If he could stay awake, and if he didn't faint from hunger in\n this strange new body, and if the Sliders left him alone....", "\"Nope,\" Asa said softly. \"I'm going into a conversion tank. I'm going\n to be a muck man, Jumpy. I'm going out to Jordan's Planet and hunt\n Slider eggs.\"\n\n\n \"Smuggling? It won't work.\"\n\n\n Asa didn't answer. The Hazeltyne company had gone after him because\n he had been working on a method of keeping Slider eggs alive. The\n Hazeltyne company would be happy to see him mark time for five years\n of so-called social reorientation. But if he could get out to Jordan's\n Planet, with his physiology adapted to the environment of that wretched\n world, he could study the eggs under conditions no laboratory could\n duplicate. He might even be able to cause trouble for Hazeltyne.", "She looked up at the machine-gun on the helicopter.\n\n\n \"They feed at night, you know. And they eat their own kind,\" she said.\n \"The Slider you killed would draw them like ants to jam.\"\n\n\n Asa glanced around quickly to make sure no Sliders had already come. He\n eyed the helicopter with distaste at the thought of what a flimsy fort\n it would make.\n\n\n \"Anyway,\" Harriet said, \"I told him he couldn't just leave you here\n and we started arguing. I lost my temper. He thought he had brought me\n to Jordan's Planet on a fancy tour. I told him the real reason I was\n here was to check up for my father on the way he was running things and\n there seemed to be a lot wrong. So he told me very politely I could run\n things to suit myself and he walked off.\"\n\n\n She shrugged, as if to indicate that she had made a mess of things.", "Everyone had seen pictures of muck men. It was different having one\n stand beside you. Kershaw looked much like an enormous frog except that\n his head was still mostly human. He was sitting on webbed feet, his\n lower legs bent double under huge thighs, and his trunk tilted forward\n so that his arms dangled to the ground. The arms were as thick around\n as an ordinary man's legs. The hands had become efficient scoops, with\n broad fingers webbed to the first joint and tipped with spade-like\n claws. The skin was still pinkish but had become scaly. Not a thread of\n hair showed anywhere on the body, not even on the head.\n\n\n This, Asa realized, was what he looked like himself.", "Furston sent Graybar and Kershaw out together so that the veteran could\n show Asa the ropes. Asa had already learned that the wall around the\n courtyard was to keep Sliders out, not muck men in. He leaped over it\n and hopped along after Kershaw.\n\n\n Feet slapping against the mud, they went about five miles from the\n Hazeltyne station, swimming easily across ponds too broad to jump. The\n mud, if not precisely as pleasant to the touch as chinchilla fur, was\n not at all uncomfortable, and the dripping air caressed their skins\n like a summer breeze back on Earth. Tiny, slippery creatures skidded\n and splashed out of their way. Finally Kershaw stopped. His experienced\n eye had seen a trail of swamp weeds crushed low into the mud.\n\n\n \"Keep your eyes open,\" Kershaw said. \"There's a Slider been around here\n lately. If you see something like an express train headed our way,\n start shooting.\"", "His only problem would be staying alive for a year.\nAn interview with a doctor from the Conversion Corps was required\n for all persons who elected changeling status. The law stated that\n potential changelings must be fully informed of the rights and hazards\n of altered shape before they signed a release. The requirement held\n whether or not the individual, like Asa, was already experienced.\n\n\n By the time humanity traveled to the stars, medical biology had made\n it possible to regenerate damaged or deficient organs of the body.\n Regeneration was limited only by advanced age. Sometime after a man's\n two hundredth year his body lost the ability to be coaxed into growing\n new cells. A fifth set of teeth was usually one's last. As long as\n senescence could be staved off, however, any man could have bulging\n biceps and a pencil waist, if he could pay for the treatment.", "\"It's the Slider eggs,\" explained Kershaw, the two-time loser. \"The\n ones you see on Earth knock your eyes out, but they've already begun\n to die. There's nothing like a fresh one. And I'm not the first to\n go crazy over them. When I was reconverted and got home I had nine\n thousand dollars waiting for me. That'll buy a two-year-old egg that\n flashes maybe four times a day. So I stole a new one and got caught.\"\n\n\n Asa had held a Slider egg in his hand as he gazed into it. He could\n understand. The shell was clear as crystal, taut but elastic, while\n the albumen was just as clear around the sparkling network of organic\n filaments that served as a yolk. Along these interior threads played\n tiny flashes of lightning, part of some unexplained process of life.\n Electrical instruments picked up static discharges from the egg, but\n the phenomenon remained a mystery.", "\"That's to remind you you're still a man,\" Furston said, grinning.\n \"Everything that grows on this planet is poison. So if you got any\n ideas of hiding out till your term is up, forget 'em. Right here is\n where you eat.\"\n\n\n Asa turned without a word and hopped feebly away from Furston. He\n lifted his head to breathe deeply and saw two humans watching him from\n an observation tower on the roof.\n\n\n He leaped twenty feet into the air for a closer look.\n\n\n Gazing at him with repugnance, after witnessing the end of his session\n with Furston, were Harriet Hazeltyne and general manager Tom Dorr.\n\n\n The girl's presence merely puzzled Asa, but Dorr's being here worried\n him. Dorr had tried to get rid of him once and was now in an excellent\n position to make the riddance permanent.", "Asa leaped with all his strength, sailing far out of the clearing.\n While he was still in the air he snapped the mouthpiece of his radio\n down from where it was hinged over his head. As he landed he turned\n instantly, his gun in his hand.\n\n\n \"Calling the 'copter!\" he spoke rapidly into the mouthpiece. \"Kershaw\n and Graybar, sector eight, five miles out. Hurry!\"\n\n\n \"Graybar?\" asked a voice in his earphone. \"What's up?\"\n\n\n \"We've got an egg but a Slider wants it back.\"\n\n\n \"On the way.\"", "\"Just in case there are any more Sliders around,\" he explained.\n\n\n \"Makes no difference,\" said Kershaw, pointing upward. \"Here comes the\n 'copter, late as usual.\"\n\n\n The big machine circled them, hovered to inspect the dead Slider, and\n settled down on broad skids. Through the transparent nose Asa could see\n Tom Dorr and Harriet Hazeltyne. The company manager swung the door open\n and leaned out.\n\n\n \"I see you took care of the Slider,\" he said. \"Hand over the egg.\"\n\n\n \"Kershaw has a broken leg,\" Asa said. \"I'll help him in and then I'll\n get the egg.\"", "At each leap along the trail they peered quickly around. They saw no\n Sliders, but this meant little, for the beasts lived under the mud as\n much as on top of it.\n\n\n Kershaw halted again when they came to a roughly circular area some ten\n yards in diameter where the weeds had been torn out and lay rotting in\n the muck.\n\n\n \"We're in luck,\" he said as Asa skidded to a stop at his side. \"An egg\n was laid somewhere here within the last week. These places are hard to\n spot when the new weeds start growing.\"\n\n\n Kershaw took a long look around.\n\n\n \"No trouble in sight. We dig.\"" ], [ "Asa hopped back to the clearing. Kershaw must have been bowled over by\n the Slider's first rush, for he was trying to hop on one leg as if the\n other had been broken. The egg lay flickering on top of the mud where\n Kershaw had dropped it. The Slider, eight flippers on each side working\n madly, was twisting its thirty feet of wormlike body around for another\n charge.", "Furston sent Graybar and Kershaw out together so that the veteran could\n show Asa the ropes. Asa had already learned that the wall around the\n courtyard was to keep Sliders out, not muck men in. He leaped over it\n and hopped along after Kershaw.\n\n\n Feet slapping against the mud, they went about five miles from the\n Hazeltyne station, swimming easily across ponds too broad to jump. The\n mud, if not precisely as pleasant to the touch as chinchilla fur, was\n not at all uncomfortable, and the dripping air caressed their skins\n like a summer breeze back on Earth. Tiny, slippery creatures skidded\n and splashed out of their way. Finally Kershaw stopped. His experienced\n eye had seen a trail of swamp weeds crushed low into the mud.\n\n\n \"Keep your eyes open,\" Kershaw said. \"There's a Slider been around here\n lately. If you see something like an express train headed our way,\n start shooting.\"", "At each leap along the trail they peered quickly around. They saw no\n Sliders, but this meant little, for the beasts lived under the mud as\n much as on top of it.\n\n\n Kershaw halted again when they came to a roughly circular area some ten\n yards in diameter where the weeds had been torn out and lay rotting in\n the muck.\n\n\n \"We're in luck,\" he said as Asa skidded to a stop at his side. \"An egg\n was laid somewhere here within the last week. These places are hard to\n spot when the new weeds start growing.\"\n\n\n Kershaw took a long look around.\n\n\n \"No trouble in sight. We dig.\"", "Asa leaped with all his strength, sailing far out of the clearing.\n While he was still in the air he snapped the mouthpiece of his radio\n down from where it was hinged over his head. As he landed he turned\n instantly, his gun in his hand.\n\n\n \"Calling the 'copter!\" he spoke rapidly into the mouthpiece. \"Kershaw\n and Graybar, sector eight, five miles out. Hurry!\"\n\n\n \"Graybar?\" asked a voice in his earphone. \"What's up?\"\n\n\n \"We've got an egg but a Slider wants it back.\"\n\n\n \"On the way.\"", "\"A big one,\" Kershaw said. He held it, still smeared with traces of\n mud, lovingly to his cheek, and then lifted it to eye level. \"Just look\n at it.\"\nA SLIDER EGG\nThe egg was flashing with a mad radiance, like a thousand diamonds\n being splintered under a brilliant sun. Static crackled in Asa's\n earphones and he thought of what Kershaw had said, that the\n scintillation of an egg was an effect of its calls to a mother Slider\n for help. Asa looked around.\n\n\n \"Jump!\" he shouted.\n\n\n At the edge of the clearing a segmented length of greenish black\n scales, some two feet thick and six feet high, had reared up out of the\n weeds. The top segment was almost all mouth, already opened to show row\n upon row of teeth. Before Asa could draw his gun the Slider lowered\n its head to the ground, dug two front flippers into the mud and shot\n forward.", "\"I've been meaning to ask you,\" Asa said. \"How do you handle the\n Sliders?\"\n\n\n Kershaw grinned.\n\n\n \"First you try to catch it with a rocket. If you miss you start leaping\n for home. All this time you're broadcasting for help, you understand.\n When the Slider catches you, you leap up while it buries its jaws in\n the mud where you were just standing. You dig your claws in its back\n and hang on while it rolls around in the mud. Finally, if the 'copter\n comes—and if they don't shoot off your head by mistake—you live to\n tell the tale.\"\nII\n\n\n Asa Graybar kept his normal form on Jordan's Planet just long enough to\n learn the discomfort of double gravity. He was told he needed another\n physical examination and was taken right in to a doctor. His heart was\n pounding to keep his blood circulating on this massive world, but the\n doctor had apparently learned to make allowances.", "\"Just in case there are any more Sliders around,\" he explained.\n\n\n \"Makes no difference,\" said Kershaw, pointing upward. \"Here comes the\n 'copter, late as usual.\"\n\n\n The big machine circled them, hovered to inspect the dead Slider, and\n settled down on broad skids. Through the transparent nose Asa could see\n Tom Dorr and Harriet Hazeltyne. The company manager swung the door open\n and leaned out.\n\n\n \"I see you took care of the Slider,\" he said. \"Hand over the egg.\"\n\n\n \"Kershaw has a broken leg,\" Asa said. \"I'll help him in and then I'll\n get the egg.\"", "\"It's the Slider eggs,\" explained Kershaw, the two-time loser. \"The\n ones you see on Earth knock your eyes out, but they've already begun\n to die. There's nothing like a fresh one. And I'm not the first to\n go crazy over them. When I was reconverted and got home I had nine\n thousand dollars waiting for me. That'll buy a two-year-old egg that\n flashes maybe four times a day. So I stole a new one and got caught.\"\n\n\n Asa had held a Slider egg in his hand as he gazed into it. He could\n understand. The shell was clear as crystal, taut but elastic, while\n the albumen was just as clear around the sparkling network of organic\n filaments that served as a yolk. Along these interior threads played\n tiny flashes of lightning, part of some unexplained process of life.\n Electrical instruments picked up static discharges from the egg, but\n the phenomenon remained a mystery.", "Hardly anyone faced with the beauty of a Slider's egg bothered to\n question its workings. For a few expectant moments there would be only\n random, fitful gleamings, and then there would be a wild coruscation of\n light, dancing from one filament to the next in a frenzy of brilliance.\n\n\n It took about four years for a Slider egg to die. Beauty, rarity and\n fading value made the eggs a luxury item like nothing the world had\n ever seen. If Asa had found a means of keeping them alive it would have\n made him wealthy at the expense of the Hazeltyne monopoly.\n\n\n \"You know what I think?\" Kershaw asked. \"I think those flashes are\n the egg calling its momma. They sparkle like a million diamonds when\n you scoop one out of the muck, and right away a Slider always comes\n swooping out of nowhere at you.\"", "\"And you took the helicopter by yourself,\" Asa said, as if he could\n hardly believe it yet.\n\n\n \"Oh, back on Earth I can make a helicopter do stunts. But I wasn't used\n to this gravity. I don't suppose you could make this machine stand up\n straight?\"\n\n\n Asa tugged at the body of the Slider until he got it off the skids of\n the plane. He pulled with all his strength at the rotor blade sunk in\n the mud, but the weight of the helicopter was upon it and the mud held\n it with a suction of its own. After a few minutes he had to give up.\n\n\n \"We fight off the Sliders, then,\" she said, as matter of factly as if\n that problem was settled. \"If it's any comfort, I know how to handle\n the machine-gun.\"", "Aiming hastily, Asa fired a rocket at the monster's middle segment. The\n rocket smashed through hard scales and exploded in a fountain of gray\n flesh. The Slider writhed, coating its wound in mud, and twisted toward\n Asa. He leaped to one side, firing from the air and missing, and saw\n the Slider turn toward the patch of weeds where he would land. His legs\n were tensed to leap again the moment he hit the mud, but he saw the\n Slider would be on top of him before he could escape. As he landed he\n thrust his gun forward almost into the mouth of the creature and fired\n again.\nEven as he was knocked aside into the muck, Asa's body was showered\n with shreds of alien flesh scattered by the rocket's explosion.\n Desperately pushing himself to his feet, he saw the long headless body\n shiver and lie still.\nAsa took a deep breath and looked around.\n\n\n \"Kershaw!\" he called. \"Where are you?\"", "She looked up at the machine-gun on the helicopter.\n\n\n \"They feed at night, you know. And they eat their own kind,\" she said.\n \"The Slider you killed would draw them like ants to jam.\"\n\n\n Asa glanced around quickly to make sure no Sliders had already come. He\n eyed the helicopter with distaste at the thought of what a flimsy fort\n it would make.\n\n\n \"Anyway,\" Harriet said, \"I told him he couldn't just leave you here\n and we started arguing. I lost my temper. He thought he had brought me\n to Jordan's Planet on a fancy tour. I told him the real reason I was\n here was to check up for my father on the way he was running things and\n there seemed to be a lot wrong. So he told me very politely I could run\n things to suit myself and he walked off.\"\n\n\n She shrugged, as if to indicate that she had made a mess of things.", "It would have been more bearable if the head had not retained strong\n traces of humanity. The nostrils flared wide and the jaws hardly\n emerged from the neck, but the ears were human ears and the eyes, under\n those horny ridges, were human eyes. Asa felt sure that the eyes could\n still weep.\n\n\n He started to walk forward and tipped over on his side. Kershaw laughed.\n\n\n \"Come to daddy, babykins,\" Kershaw said, holding out his hands. \"Only\n try hopping this time. And take it easy.\"\n\n\n Asa pushed himself upright with one arm and tried a small hop. Nerve\n and muscle coordination was perfect. He found himself leaping as high\n as Kershaw's head.\n\n\n \"That's the way,\" Kershaw said approvingly. \"Now get this on and we'll\n go outside.\"", "Everyone had seen pictures of muck men. It was different having one\n stand beside you. Kershaw looked much like an enormous frog except that\n his head was still mostly human. He was sitting on webbed feet, his\n lower legs bent double under huge thighs, and his trunk tilted forward\n so that his arms dangled to the ground. The arms were as thick around\n as an ordinary man's legs. The hands had become efficient scoops, with\n broad fingers webbed to the first joint and tipped with spade-like\n claws. The skin was still pinkish but had become scaly. Not a thread of\n hair showed anywhere on the body, not even on the head.\n\n\n This, Asa realized, was what he looked like himself.", "A whirring noise made Asa jump in alarm.\n\n\n Then he smiled in relief, for it was the helicopter, the blessed\n helicopter, coming in over the swamp. But what if it was Dorr, coming\n back alone to dispose of him without any witnesses? Asa leaped for the\n carcass of the dead Slider and took shelter behind it.\n\n\n No machine-gun blast of rockets came from the helicopter. The big\n machine swooped low dizzily, tilted back in an inexpert attempt to\n hover, thumped down upon the mud and slid forward. As Asa jumped aside,\n the landing skids caught against the Slider's body and the helicopter\n flipped forward on its nose, one of the rotor blades plunging deep into\n the mud.", "The girl with the Slider egg glittering in her hair watched the\n bailiff lead Asa Graybar out of the courtroom. He recognized her as\n old Hazeltyne's daughter Harriet, no doubt come to see justice done.\n She didn't have the hothouse-flower look Asa would have expected in a\n girl whose father owned the most valuable of the planetary franchises.\n She was not afraid to meet his eye, the eye of a judicially certified\n criminal. There was, perhaps, a crease of puzzlement in her brow, as if\n she had thought crimes were committed by shriveled, rat-faced types,\n and not by young biological engineers who still affected crewcuts.\n\n\n Tom Dorr, Hazeltyne's general manager, was her escort. Asa felt\n certain, without proof, that Dorr was the man who had framed him for\n the charge of grand theft by secreting a fresh Slider egg in his\n laboratory. The older man stared at Asa coldly as he was led out of\n the courtroom and down the corridor back to jail.", "\"This is Graybar, calling the helicopter,\" he said. \"When are you\n coming?\"\n\n\n There was no answer except the hum of carrier wave.\n\n\n If he tried to carry the egg back, Asa knew, Sliders would attack him\n all along the way. A man had no chance of getting five miles with an\n egg by himself. He could leave the egg here, of course. Even so he\n would be lucky if he got back, following a hazy compass course from\n which he and Kershaw had certainly deviated on their outward trip.\n There were no landmarks in this wilderness of bog to help him find his\n way. The workers were supposed to home in on radio signals, if they\n lost their bearings, but Dorr would deny him that help.\n\n\n What was the night like on Jordan's Planet? Maybe Sliders slept at\n night. If he could stay awake, and if he didn't faint from hunger in\n this strange new body, and if the Sliders left him alone....", "\"Over here.\" Kershaw stood briefly above the weeds and fell back again.\n Asa leaped over to him.\n\n\n \"Thanks,\" Kershaw said. \"Muck men stick together. You'll make a good\n one. I wouldn't have had a chance. My leg's busted.\"\n\n\n \"The helicopter ought to be here pretty soon,\" Asa said. He looked over\n at the dead Slider and shook his head. \"Tell me, what are the odds on\n getting killed doing this?\"\n\n\n \"Last time I was here there was about one mucker killed for every six\n eggs brought out. Of course you're not supposed to stand there admiring\n the eggs like I did while a Slider comes up on you.\"\n\n\n Asa hopped over to the egg, which was still full of a dancing radiance\n where it rested on the mud. He scooped a hole in the muck and buried\n the egg.", "\"Nope. In this drizzle, at night, the Sliders would be on us before\n we could see them. We've got to try to get back.\" He stood in thought\n while she stared at him patiently. \"What happened to the other muck men\n who went out today?\" he asked.\n\n\n \"They were called in when the 'copter came out the first time. Some of\n them may not have got back yet.\"", "Asa snapped on a belt and breech cloth combination that had flaps of\n fabric dangling from the belt in front and behind. He followed as\n Kershaw pushed open a sliding door to lead the way out of the room\n where they had been left to revive from conversion.\nThey went into a courtyard partly covered by a roof projecting from\n the Hazeltyne company's dome settlement. The far half of the courtyard\n was open to the gray drizzle that fell almost ceaselessly from the sky\n of Jordan's Planet and turned most of its surface into marsh and mud\n flats. A high wall enclosed the far portion of the courtyard. Ranged\n along the wall were thirty stalls for muck men.\n\n\n From fifty yards across the courtyard a muck man bounded over to them\n in two leaps. Attached to a harness across his shoulders and chest were\n a gun and a long knife.\n\n\n \"Names?\" he growled. He was a foot taller than Graybar and big\n everywhere in proportion." ], [ "\"This is Graybar, calling the helicopter,\" he said. \"When are you\n coming?\"\n\n\n There was no answer except the hum of carrier wave.\n\n\n If he tried to carry the egg back, Asa knew, Sliders would attack him\n all along the way. A man had no chance of getting five miles with an\n egg by himself. He could leave the egg here, of course. Even so he\n would be lucky if he got back, following a hazy compass course from\n which he and Kershaw had certainly deviated on their outward trip.\n There were no landmarks in this wilderness of bog to help him find his\n way. The workers were supposed to home in on radio signals, if they\n lost their bearings, but Dorr would deny him that help.\n\n\n What was the night like on Jordan's Planet? Maybe Sliders slept at\n night. If he could stay awake, and if he didn't faint from hunger in\n this strange new body, and if the Sliders left him alone....", "\"Nope. I want to make sure you come back.\" Asa turned his head to\n Harriet. \"You see, Miss Hazeltyne, I don't trust your friend. You might\n ask him to tell you about it.\"\n\n\n Dorr stared at him with narrowed eyes. Suddenly he smiled in a way that\n worried Asa.\n\n\n \"Whatever you say, Graybar,\" Dorr said. He turned to the controls. In\n another minute the helicopter was in the sky.\nA round trip for the helicopter should have taken no more than twenty\n minutes, allowing time for Kershaw to be taken out at the settlement.\n\n\n After an hour passed Asa began to worry. He was sure Dorr would return\n for the egg. Finally he realized that Dorr could locate the egg\n approximately by the body of the dead Slider. Dorr could return for the\n egg any time with some other muck man to dig for it.\n\n\n Asa pulled down the mouthpiece of his radio.", "\"I've been meaning to ask you,\" Asa said. \"How do you handle the\n Sliders?\"\n\n\n Kershaw grinned.\n\n\n \"First you try to catch it with a rocket. If you miss you start leaping\n for home. All this time you're broadcasting for help, you understand.\n When the Slider catches you, you leap up while it buries its jaws in\n the mud where you were just standing. You dig your claws in its back\n and hang on while it rolls around in the mud. Finally, if the 'copter\n comes—and if they don't shoot off your head by mistake—you live to\n tell the tale.\"\nII\n\n\n Asa Graybar kept his normal form on Jordan's Planet just long enough to\n learn the discomfort of double gravity. He was told he needed another\n physical examination and was taken right in to a doctor. His heart was\n pounding to keep his blood circulating on this massive world, but the\n doctor had apparently learned to make allowances.", "Furston sent Graybar and Kershaw out together so that the veteran could\n show Asa the ropes. Asa had already learned that the wall around the\n courtyard was to keep Sliders out, not muck men in. He leaped over it\n and hopped along after Kershaw.\n\n\n Feet slapping against the mud, they went about five miles from the\n Hazeltyne station, swimming easily across ponds too broad to jump. The\n mud, if not precisely as pleasant to the touch as chinchilla fur, was\n not at all uncomfortable, and the dripping air caressed their skins\n like a summer breeze back on Earth. Tiny, slippery creatures skidded\n and splashed out of their way. Finally Kershaw stopped. His experienced\n eye had seen a trail of swamp weeds crushed low into the mud.\n\n\n \"Keep your eyes open,\" Kershaw said. \"There's a Slider been around here\n lately. If you see something like an express train headed our way,\n start shooting.\"", "She looked up at the machine-gun on the helicopter.\n\n\n \"They feed at night, you know. And they eat their own kind,\" she said.\n \"The Slider you killed would draw them like ants to jam.\"\n\n\n Asa glanced around quickly to make sure no Sliders had already come. He\n eyed the helicopter with distaste at the thought of what a flimsy fort\n it would make.\n\n\n \"Anyway,\" Harriet said, \"I told him he couldn't just leave you here\n and we started arguing. I lost my temper. He thought he had brought me\n to Jordan's Planet on a fancy tour. I told him the real reason I was\n here was to check up for my father on the way he was running things and\n there seemed to be a lot wrong. So he told me very politely I could run\n things to suit myself and he walked off.\"\n\n\n She shrugged, as if to indicate that she had made a mess of things.", "The girl with the Slider egg glittering in her hair watched the\n bailiff lead Asa Graybar out of the courtroom. He recognized her as\n old Hazeltyne's daughter Harriet, no doubt come to see justice done.\n She didn't have the hothouse-flower look Asa would have expected in a\n girl whose father owned the most valuable of the planetary franchises.\n She was not afraid to meet his eye, the eye of a judicially certified\n criminal. There was, perhaps, a crease of puzzlement in her brow, as if\n she had thought crimes were committed by shriveled, rat-faced types,\n and not by young biological engineers who still affected crewcuts.\n\n\n Tom Dorr, Hazeltyne's general manager, was her escort. Asa felt\n certain, without proof, that Dorr was the man who had framed him for\n the charge of grand theft by secreting a fresh Slider egg in his\n laboratory. The older man stared at Asa coldly as he was led out of\n the courtroom and down the corridor back to jail.", "Asa leaped with all his strength, sailing far out of the clearing.\n While he was still in the air he snapped the mouthpiece of his radio\n down from where it was hinged over his head. As he landed he turned\n instantly, his gun in his hand.\n\n\n \"Calling the 'copter!\" he spoke rapidly into the mouthpiece. \"Kershaw\n and Graybar, sector eight, five miles out. Hurry!\"\n\n\n \"Graybar?\" asked a voice in his earphone. \"What's up?\"\n\n\n \"We've got an egg but a Slider wants it back.\"\n\n\n \"On the way.\"", "Asa leaped forward in consternation. Not only was his chance of safe\n passage back to the settlement wrecked, but now he would have the\n extra burden of taking care of the pilot. When he reached the nose\n of the helicopter he saw that the pilot, untangling herself from the\n controls to get up, was Harriet Hazeltyne.\nIV\n\n\n \"Are you hurt?\" Asa asked her. She reached for his shoulder to steady\n herself as she climbed out of the machine.\n\n\n \"I guess not,\" she said. \"But taking a fall in this gravity is no fun.\n From the way my face feels I ought to be getting a black eye pretty\n soon.\"\n\n\n \"What happened?\"\n\n\n \"I made a fool of myself.\" She made a face back in the direction of\n the settlement. \"Dorr wasn't going to come after you. He said anyone\n who talked back to him should try arguing with the Sliders.\"", "At supper that night, squatting on the ground beside a low table with\n the dozen other muck men operating from the dome, Asa asked what the\n two were doing out here.\n\n\n \"The girl will inherit this racket some day, won't she?\" asked one of\n the others. \"She wants to see what kind of suckers are making her rich.\"\n\n\n \"Maybe that guy Dorr brought her along to show her what a big wheel\n he is,\" said one of the others. \"Just hope he doesn't take over the\n operations.\"\nIII\n\n\n Next morning Furston passed out guns, knives, radios, and pouches to\n carry any eggs the muck men found. He gave each man a compass and\n assigned the sectors to be worked during the day. Finally he called\n Graybar aside.\n\n\n \"In case you don't like it here,\" Furston said, \"you can get a week\n knocked off your sentence for every egg you bring in. Now get out there\n and work that muck.\"", "\"Nope,\" Asa said softly. \"I'm going into a conversion tank. I'm going\n to be a muck man, Jumpy. I'm going out to Jordan's Planet and hunt\n Slider eggs.\"\n\n\n \"Smuggling? It won't work.\"\n\n\n Asa didn't answer. The Hazeltyne company had gone after him because\n he had been working on a method of keeping Slider eggs alive. The\n Hazeltyne company would be happy to see him mark time for five years\n of so-called social reorientation. But if he could get out to Jordan's\n Planet, with his physiology adapted to the environment of that wretched\n world, he could study the eggs under conditions no laboratory could\n duplicate. He might even be able to cause trouble for Hazeltyne.", "\"Just in case there are any more Sliders around,\" he explained.\n\n\n \"Makes no difference,\" said Kershaw, pointing upward. \"Here comes the\n 'copter, late as usual.\"\n\n\n The big machine circled them, hovered to inspect the dead Slider, and\n settled down on broad skids. Through the transparent nose Asa could see\n Tom Dorr and Harriet Hazeltyne. The company manager swung the door open\n and leaned out.\n\n\n \"I see you took care of the Slider,\" he said. \"Hand over the egg.\"\n\n\n \"Kershaw has a broken leg,\" Asa said. \"I'll help him in and then I'll\n get the egg.\"", "He leaned forward to fill in the necessary form.\nSince it was cheaper to transport a normal human than to rig special\n environments in a spaceship, every planet operated its own conversion\n chambers. On the space freighter that carried him from Earth Asa\n Graybar was confined to a small cabin that was opened only for a guard\n to bring meals and take out dirty dishes. He was still a prisoner.\n\n\n Sometimes he could hear voices in the passageway outside, and once\n one of them sounded like a woman's. But since women neither served on\n spaceships nor worked in the dome settlements on harsher worlds, he\n decided it was his imagination. He might have been dead cargo for all\n he learned about space travel.\n\n\n Nevertheless his time was not wasted. He had as a companion, or\n cellmate, another convict who had elected conversion to muck man. More\n important, his companion had done time on Jordan's Planet before and\n had wanted to return.", "\"Nope. In this drizzle, at night, the Sliders would be on us before\n we could see them. We've got to try to get back.\" He stood in thought\n while she stared at him patiently. \"What happened to the other muck men\n who went out today?\" he asked.\n\n\n \"They were called in when the 'copter came out the first time. Some of\n them may not have got back yet.\"", "While Kershaw grabbed the door frame to help pull himself into the\n helicopter, Asa got under his companion's belly and lifted him by the\n waist. He hadn't realized before just how strong his new body was.\n Kershaw, as a muck man, would have weighed close to three hundred\n pounds on Earth, close to six hundred here.\n\n\n Dorr made no move to help, but the girl reached under Kershaw's\n shoulder and strained to get him in. Once he was inside, Asa saw, the\n cabin was crowded.\n\n\n \"Are you going to have room for me too?\" he asked.\n\n\n \"Not this trip,\" Dorr answered. \"Now give me the egg.\"\n\n\n Asa didn't hesitate. \"The egg stays with me,\" he said softly.\n\n\n \"You do what I tell you, mucker,\" said Dorr.", "\"And you took the helicopter by yourself,\" Asa said, as if he could\n hardly believe it yet.\n\n\n \"Oh, back on Earth I can make a helicopter do stunts. But I wasn't used\n to this gravity. I don't suppose you could make this machine stand up\n straight?\"\n\n\n Asa tugged at the body of the Slider until he got it off the skids of\n the plane. He pulled with all his strength at the rotor blade sunk in\n the mud, but the weight of the helicopter was upon it and the mud held\n it with a suction of its own. After a few minutes he had to give up.\n\n\n \"We fight off the Sliders, then,\" she said, as matter of factly as if\n that problem was settled. \"If it's any comfort, I know how to handle\n the machine-gun.\"", "\"It's the Slider eggs,\" explained Kershaw, the two-time loser. \"The\n ones you see on Earth knock your eyes out, but they've already begun\n to die. There's nothing like a fresh one. And I'm not the first to\n go crazy over them. When I was reconverted and got home I had nine\n thousand dollars waiting for me. That'll buy a two-year-old egg that\n flashes maybe four times a day. So I stole a new one and got caught.\"\n\n\n Asa had held a Slider egg in his hand as he gazed into it. He could\n understand. The shell was clear as crystal, taut but elastic, while\n the albumen was just as clear around the sparkling network of organic\n filaments that served as a yolk. Along these interior threads played\n tiny flashes of lightning, part of some unexplained process of life.\n Electrical instruments picked up static discharges from the egg, but\n the phenomenon remained a mystery.", "\"Kershaw. I'm back, Furston.\"\n\n\n \"I'm Graybar.\"\n\n\n \"Kershaw again? Just start in where you left off, sucker. Come on,\n you.\" He pointed to Asa and leaped to the open portion of the courtyard.\n\n\n \"Do what he says,\" Kershaw whispered to Graybar. \"He's sort of a trusty\n and warden and parole officer rolled into one.\"\n\n\n Asa was put through a series of exercises to get him used to his\n distorted body, to teach him how to leap and how to dig. He was shown\n how to operate the radio he would carry and how to fire the pencil-slim\n rockets of this gun. Finally he was told to eat a few berries from a\n native vine. He did so and immediately vomited.\n\n\n Furston laughed.", "\"That's to remind you you're still a man,\" Furston said, grinning.\n \"Everything that grows on this planet is poison. So if you got any\n ideas of hiding out till your term is up, forget 'em. Right here is\n where you eat.\"\n\n\n Asa turned without a word and hopped feebly away from Furston. He\n lifted his head to breathe deeply and saw two humans watching him from\n an observation tower on the roof.\n\n\n He leaped twenty feet into the air for a closer look.\n\n\n Gazing at him with repugnance, after witnessing the end of his session\n with Furston, were Harriet Hazeltyne and general manager Tom Dorr.\n\n\n The girl's presence merely puzzled Asa, but Dorr's being here worried\n him. Dorr had tried to get rid of him once and was now in an excellent\n position to make the riddance permanent.", "Aiming hastily, Asa fired a rocket at the monster's middle segment. The\n rocket smashed through hard scales and exploded in a fountain of gray\n flesh. The Slider writhed, coating its wound in mud, and twisted toward\n Asa. He leaped to one side, firing from the air and missing, and saw\n the Slider turn toward the patch of weeds where he would land. His legs\n were tensed to leap again the moment he hit the mud, but he saw the\n Slider would be on top of him before he could escape. As he landed he\n thrust his gun forward almost into the mouth of the creature and fired\n again.\nEven as he was knocked aside into the muck, Asa's body was showered\n with shreds of alien flesh scattered by the rocket's explosion.\n Desperately pushing himself to his feet, he saw the long headless body\n shiver and lie still.\nAsa took a deep breath and looked around.\n\n\n \"Kershaw!\" he called. \"Where are you?\"", "A whirring noise made Asa jump in alarm.\n\n\n Then he smiled in relief, for it was the helicopter, the blessed\n helicopter, coming in over the swamp. But what if it was Dorr, coming\n back alone to dispose of him without any witnesses? Asa leaped for the\n carcass of the dead Slider and took shelter behind it.\n\n\n No machine-gun blast of rockets came from the helicopter. The big\n machine swooped low dizzily, tilted back in an inexpert attempt to\n hover, thumped down upon the mud and slid forward. As Asa jumped aside,\n the landing skids caught against the Slider's body and the helicopter\n flipped forward on its nose, one of the rotor blades plunging deep into\n the mud." ] ]
valid	60412	[ "What was the highest priority of the Doctors while treating His Eminence?", "What were the specialties of the Red and Green Doctors, respectively?", "Which planets do the physicians visit during the events of the story?", "Why is it risky for a planet to receive services when they are not under contract with Hospital Earth?", "How many people die during the events of the story?", "How many planets have medical service contracts with Earth?", "What were some of the treatments the Doctors tried on His Eminence?", "How did Earth come to be the hospital planet?", "What did the class of planet Morua II matter to the story line?" ]	[ [ "Learning about his ailment so they could cure it elsewhere in the galaxy", "Sparing their own lives", "Fulfilling their hippocratic oath to do no harm to His Eminence", "Convincing His Eminence to sign a contract with Hospital Earth" ], [ "Blood, Brain", "Unknown", "Heart, Digestive", "Blood, Respiratory" ], [ "Morua II", "Deneb III", "Lancet", "Morua II and Deneb III" ], [ "Hospital Earth may come to collect collateral for their services, which has been known to start war", "The physicians are known to be brutal and sometimes kill patients from planets that aren’t under contract", "The cost may be extremely expensive for emergency services outside of the contract, taking centuries to repay", "Their biology is not understood well, and mistakes can be made" ], [ "Two", "One", "Three", "Zero" ], [ "Over one hundred", "About fifty", "One", "Unknown" ], [ "Oral medicine, cold bath", "Intravenous fluids, oral medicine", "Intravenous fluids, stomach pump", "Lighting colorful torches, pounding mortar and pestle" ], [ "Earth had the most liquid water to be incorporated into medical treatments", "Earth was the site of a previous wartime hospital, and due to that experience they became known as the hospital planet", "As interplanetary transit developed, planets specialized", "Earth’s atmosphere has a unique ability to soothe many types of illnesses when patients from other planets are brought to Earth Hospital" ], [ "They were not under contract with Earth, but could be persuaded", "It meant the Doctors knew it was a place they should not treat any patients due to their lack of knowledge with their kind", "It meant the Doctors had the option to refuse their call for hospital services", "They got a priority position in the emergency queue due to their planet’s class" ] ]	[ 2, 2, 1, 4, 4, 4, 2, 3, 1 ]	[ 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 1, 1, 1, 1 ]	[ [ "His Eminence looked up at them from bloodshot eyes and greeted them\n with a groan of anguish that seemed to roll up from the soles of his\n feet. \"Go away,\" he moaned, closing his eyes again and rolling over\n with his back toward them.\n\n\n The Red Doctor blinked at his companion, then turned to Aguar. \"What\n illness is this?\" he whispered.\n\n\n \"He is afflicted with a Pox, as any fool can see. All others it\n kills—but His Eminence is the Tenth Son of a Tenth Son, and it is\n written—\"\n\n\n \"Yes, yes, I know. He can never die.\" Sam gave Wally a sour look. \"What\n happens, though, if he just up and does?\"\n\n\n Aguar's paw came down with a clatter on the hilt of his sword. \"\nHe\n does not die.\nWe have you here now. You are doctors, you say. Cure\n him.\"", "The room was deathly still except for a heavy snuffling sound from His\n Eminence and the plink-plink of the pestle on the mortar. The flask of\n purple stuff gurgled quietly. An hour passed, and another. Suddenly\n Jenkins motioned to Kiz. \"His pulse—quickly!\"\n\n\n Kiz scampered gratefully over to the bedside. \"A hundred and eighty,\"\n he whispered.\n\n\n Jenkins' face darkened. He peered at the sick man intently. \"It's a\n bad sign,\" he said. \"The Spirit is furious at the intrusion of an\n outsider.\" He motioned toward the mortar. \"Can you do this?\"\n\n\n Without breaking the rhythm he transferred the plinking-job to Kiz.\n He changed the dwindling intravenous bottle. \"Call me when the bottle\n is empty—or if there is any change. Whatever you do,\ndon't touch\n anything\n.\"", "The plink-plink rose to a frantic staccato as Jenkins checked the\n patient's vital signs, wiped more sweat from his furry brow. Quite\n suddenly His Eminence opened bleary eyes, stared about him, let out a\n monumental groan and buried his head in the blankets. In two minutes\n he was snoring softly. His face was cool now, his heart-beat slow and\n regular.", "Aguar halted them at the door-way. \"His Eminence will see you,\" he\n growled.\n\n\n \"Who is His Eminence?\" Jenkins asked.\n\n\n \"The Lord High Emperor of All Morua and Creator of the Galaxies,\" Aguar\n rumbled. \"He is the Tenth Son of a Tenth Son, and it is written that he\n can never die. When you enter, bow,\" he added.\n\n\n The Tenth Son of a Tenth Son couldn't have cared less whether they\n bowed or not. The room was dark and rank with the smell of sickness. On\n a pallet in the center lay a huge Moruan, panting and groaning. He was\n wrapped like a mummy in bedclothes of scarlet interwoven with gold; on\n either side of the bed braziers flickered with sickly greenish light.", "Jenkins looked sharply at Kiz, and the wizard nodded his head slowly.\n \"Try being quiet for a while,\" Jenkins said to Aguar. \"We're going to\n cure the Boss here.\" Solemnly he slipped off his scarlet tunic and cap\n and laid them on a bench, then set his black bag carefully on the floor\n and threw it open. \"First off, get rid of those things.\" He pointed\n to the braziers at the bedside. \"They're enough to give anybody a\n headache. And tell those people outside to stop the racket. How can\n they expect the Spirit of the Pox to come out of His Eminence when\n they're raising a din like that?\"\n\n\n Aguar's eyes widened for a moment as he hesitated; then he threw open\n the door and screamed a command. The wailing stopped as though a switch\n had been thrown. As a couple of cowering guards crept in to remove the\n braziers, Red Doctor Jenkins drew the wizard aside.", "With that he tiptoed from the room. Four murderous-looking guards\n caught Aguar's eye and followed him out, swords bared. Jenkins sank\n down on a bench in the hall and fell asleep in an instant.\nThey woke him once, hours later, to change the intravenous solution,\n and he found Kiz still intently pounding on the mortar. Jenkins\n administered more of the white powder in water down the tube, and went\n back to his bench. He had barely fallen asleep again when they were\n rousing him with frightened voices. \"Quickly!\" Aguar cried. \"There's\n been a terrible change!\"\n\n\n In the sickroom His Eminence was drenched with sweat, his face\n glistening in the light of the bunsen burners. He rolled from side to\n side, groaning hoarsely. \"\nFaster!\n\" Jenkins shouted to Kiz at the\n mortar, and began stripping off the sodden bedclothes. \"Blankets,\n now—plenty of them.\"", "\"Oh, the incantations were for the\ndoctors\n,\" said Jenkins. \"They\n expected them, obviously, since that was the only level of medicine\n they could understand. And incidentally, the only level that could\n possibly get us a Contract. Anyway, I couldn't do very much else, under\n the circumstances, except for a little supportive therapy. Without a\n Bio-survey we were hamstrung. But whatever the Pox is, it obviously\n involves fever, starvation and dehydration. I knew that His Eminence\n could assimilate carbohydrates, and I took a long gamble that an\n antipyretic wouldn't hurt him too much—\"\n\n\n Wally Stone's jaw sagged. \"So you treated him with sugar-water and\n aspirin,\" he said weakly. \"And on that you risked our necks.\"", "Aguar met him at the door. \"He's dying,\" he roared angrily. \"Why don't\n you do something? Every hour he sinks more rapidly, and all you do is\n poke holes in the healthy ones! And then you send in\nthis\nbag of\n bones again—\" He glowered at the tall purple-capped figure bending\n over the bed.", "\"Not quite,\" said the Red Doctor. \"You're forgetting that I had\n one other prescription to use—the oldest, most trustworthy\n healer-of-all-ills known to medicine, just as potent now as it was a\n thousand years ago. Without it, Hospital Earth might just as well pack\n up her little black bag and go home.\" He smiled into the mirror as he\n adjusted the scarlet band of the Red Service across his shoulders. \"We\n call it Tincture of Time,\" he said.", "\"Now!\" said Jenkins, pulling out a long thin rubber tube. \"This should\n annoy the Spirit of the Pox something fierce.\" He popped the tube into\n the patient's mouth. His Eminence rose up with a gasp, choking and\n fighting, but the tube went down. The Red Doctor ground three white\n pills into powder, mixed in some water, and poured it down the tube.\n\n\n Then he stepped back to view the scene, wiping cold perspiration from\n his forehead. He motioned to Kiz. \"You see what I'm doing, of course?\"\n he said loudly enough for Aguar and the guards to hear.\n\n\n \"Oh, yes—yes! Indeed, indeed,\" said Kiz.\n\n\n \"Fine. Now this is most important.\" Jenkins searched in the bag until\n he found a large mortar which he set down on the floor. Squatting\n behind it, he began tapping it slowly with the pestle, in perfect\n rhythm with the intravenous drip ... and waited.", "They walked to the bedside and lifted back the covers. Jenkins took a\n limp paw in his hand. He finally found a palpable pulse just below the\n second elbow joint. It was fast and thready. The creature's skin bagged\n loosely from his arm.\n\"Looks like His Eminence can't read,\" Wally muttered. \"He's going fast,\n Doc.\"\n\n\n Jenkins nodded grimly. \"What does it look like to you?\"\n\n\n \"How should I know? I've never seen a healthy Moruan before, to say\n nothing of a sick one. It looks like a pox all right.\"\n\n\n \"Probably a viremia of some sort.\" Jenkins went over the great groaning\n hulk with inquiring fingers.\n\n\n \"If it's a viremia, we're cooked,\" Stone whispered. \"None of the drugs\n cross over—and we won't have time to culture the stuff and grow any\n new ones—\"", "Jenkins turned to Aguar. \"How long has this gone on?\"\n\n\n \"For days,\" the Moruan growled. \"He can't speak. He grows hot and\n cannot eat. He moans until the Palace trembles.\"\n\n\n \"What about your own doctors?\"\n\n\n Aguar spat angrily on the floor. \"They are jealous as cats until\n trouble comes. Then they hide in the caves like chickens. See the\n green flames? Death flames. They leave him here to die. But now that\n is all over. We have heard about you wizards from Hospital Earth. You\n cure all, the stories say. You are very wise, they say. You balance\n the humors and drive forth the spirits of the Pox like devils.\" He\n gave them a terrible grin and tightened his hand on the gold-encrusted\n sword. \"Now we see.\"", "\"No thanks, not me. This is a medical case and it's all yours. What do\n you want me to do?\"\n\n\n \"Stay here and try your damnedest to get through to HQ,\" said Sam\n grimly. \"Tell them to send an armada, because we're liable to need one\n in the next few hours—\"\nIf the Tenth Son of a Tenth Son had looked bad before, three hours had\n witnessed no improvement. The potentate's skin had turned from grey\n to a pasty green as he lay panting on the bed. He seemed to have lost\n strength enough even to groan, and his eyes were glazed.\n\n\n Outside the royal chambers Jenkins found a group of green-clad\n mourners, wailing like banshees and tearing out their fur in great grey\n chunks. They stood about a flaming brazier; as Jenkins entered the\n sickroom the wails rose ten decibels and took on a howling-dog quality.", "\"Look,\" said Jenkins intensely. \"You've seen this illness before. We\n haven't. So you can at least get us started. What kind of course does\n it run?\"\n\n\n Silence.\n\n\n \"All right then, what causes it? Do you know? Bacteria? Virus?\n Degeneration?\"\n\n\n Silence.\n\n\n Jenkins' face was pale. \"Look, boys—your Boss out there is going to\n cool before long if something doesn't happen fast—\" His eyes narrowed\n on Kiz. \"Of course, that might be right up your alley—how about that?\n His Eminence bows out, somebody has to bow in, right? Maybe you, huh?\"", "\"Tell them to forget the armada,\" said Jenkins, grinning. \"And anyway,\n they've got things all wrong back at HQ.\" He brandished a huge roll\n of parchment, stricken through with the colors of the seven Medical\n Services of Hospital Earth. \"Take a look, my boy—the juiciest Medical\n Services Contract that's been written in three centuries—\" He tossed\n the Contract in the dry-storage locker with a sigh. \"Old Kiz just\n finished his first lesson, and he's still wondering what went on—\"\n\n\n \"So am I,\" said the Green Doctor suspiciously.\n\n\n \"It was simple. We cured His Eminence of the Pox.\"\n\n\n \"With what? Incantations?\"", "The whispers stopped and Kiz nodded to the Red Doctor. \"All right, we\n bargain,\" he said. \"\nAfter\nyou show us.\"\n\n\n \"Now or never.\" Jenkins threw open the door and nodded to the guards.\n \"I'll be in the sickroom in a very short while. If you're with me, I'll\n see you there. If not—\" He fingered his throat suggestively.\n\n\n As soon as they had gone Jenkins dived into the storeroom and began\n throwing flasks and bottles into a black bag. Wally Stone watched him\n in bewilderment. \"You're going to kill him,\" he moaned. \"Prayers,\n promises, pills and post-mortems. That's the Medical service for you.\"\n\n\n Sam grinned. \"Maybe you should operate on him.\nThat\nwould open their\n eyes all right.\"", "Aguar let out a horrified scream and raced from the room; in a moment\n he was back with a detachment of guards, all armed to the teeth, and\n three other Moruan physicians with their retinues of apprentices. Sam\n Jenkins held up his hand for silence. He allowed the first intravenous\n flask to pour in rapidly; the second he adjusted to a steady\n drip-drip-drip.\n\n\n Next he pulled two large bunsen burners and a gas tank from the bag.\n These he set up at the foot of the bed, adjusting the blue flames to\n high spear-tips. On the bedside table he set up a third with a flask\n above it; into this he poured some water and a few crystals from a dark\n bottle. In a moment the fluid in the flask was churning and boiling, an\n ominous purple color.\n\n\n Kiz watched goggle-eyed.", "\"Tell me what spells you've already used.\"\n\n\n Hurriedly, Kiz began enumerating, ticking off items on hairy fingers.\n As he talked Jenkins dug into the black bag and started assembling a\n liter flask, tubing and needles.\n\n\n \"First we brewed witches' root for seven hours and poured it over his\n belly. When the Pox appeared in spite of this we lit three red candles\n at the foot of the bed and beat His Eminence steadily for one hour out\n of four, with new rawhide. When His Eminence protested this, we were\n certain the Spirit had possessed him, so we beat him one hour out of\n two—\"\n\n\n Jenkins winced as the accounting of cabalistic clap-trap continued. His\n Eminence, he reflected, must have had the constitution of an ox. He\n glanced over at the panting figure on the bed. \"But doesn't\nanybody\never recover from this?\"", "Jenkins snatched the mortar from Kiz, and with a wild flourish smashed\n it on the stone floor. Then he grabbed the wizard's paw, raising it\n high. \"You've done well!\" he cried to the bewildered physician. \"It's\n over now—the Spirit has departed. His Eminence will recover.\"\nThey escorted him in triumphal procession back to the\nLancet\n, where\n Wally Stone stared in disbelief as Jenkins and Kiz bowed and hugged\n each other like long-lost brothers at a sad farewell. \"I finally got\n through to somebody at HQ,\" he said as the Red Doctor climbed aboard.\n \"It'll take them twenty days at least, to get help, considering that\n Morua is not a Contract planet and we're not supposed to be here in the\n first place, but that's the best they can do....\"", "Jenkins took a deep breath and gripped his red tunic around his throat\n tightly. \"Sure, sure,\" he said weakly. \"You just watch us.\"\n\"But what do you think we're going to do?\" the surgeon wailed, back\n in the control room of the\nLancet\n. \"Sam, we can't\ntouch\nhim. If\n he didn't die naturally we'd kill him for sure! We can't go near him\n without a Bio-survey—look what happened on Baron when they tried it!\n Half the planetary population wiped out before they realized that the\n antibiotic was more deadly to the race than the virus was....\"\n\n\n \"Might not be such a bad idea for Morua,\" the Red Doctor muttered\n grimly. \"Well, what did you expect me to do—politely refuse? And\n have our throats slit right on the spot?\" He grabbed a pad and began\n scribbling. \"We've got to do\nsomething\njust to keep alive for a\n while.\"" ], [ "\"Not quite,\" said the Red Doctor. \"You're forgetting that I had\n one other prescription to use—the oldest, most trustworthy\n healer-of-all-ills known to medicine, just as potent now as it was a\n thousand years ago. Without it, Hospital Earth might just as well pack\n up her little black bag and go home.\" He smiled into the mirror as he\n adjusted the scarlet band of the Red Service across his shoulders. \"We\n call it Tincture of Time,\" he said.", "His Eminence looked up at them from bloodshot eyes and greeted them\n with a groan of anguish that seemed to roll up from the soles of his\n feet. \"Go away,\" he moaned, closing his eyes again and rolling over\n with his back toward them.\n\n\n The Red Doctor blinked at his companion, then turned to Aguar. \"What\n illness is this?\" he whispered.\n\n\n \"He is afflicted with a Pox, as any fool can see. All others it\n kills—but His Eminence is the Tenth Son of a Tenth Son, and it is\n written—\"\n\n\n \"Yes, yes, I know. He can never die.\" Sam gave Wally a sour look. \"What\n happens, though, if he just up and does?\"\n\n\n Aguar's paw came down with a clatter on the hilt of his sword. \"\nHe\n does not die.\nWe have you here now. You are doctors, you say. Cure\n him.\"", "The whispers stopped and Kiz nodded to the Red Doctor. \"All right, we\n bargain,\" he said. \"\nAfter\nyou show us.\"\n\n\n \"Now or never.\" Jenkins threw open the door and nodded to the guards.\n \"I'll be in the sickroom in a very short while. If you're with me, I'll\n see you there. If not—\" He fingered his throat suggestively.\n\n\n As soon as they had gone Jenkins dived into the storeroom and began\n throwing flasks and bottles into a black bag. Wally Stone watched him\n in bewilderment. \"You're going to kill him,\" he moaned. \"Prayers,\n promises, pills and post-mortems. That's the Medical service for you.\"\n\n\n Sam grinned. \"Maybe you should operate on him.\nThat\nwould open their\n eyes all right.\"", "\"Tell them to forget the armada,\" said Jenkins, grinning. \"And anyway,\n they've got things all wrong back at HQ.\" He brandished a huge roll\n of parchment, stricken through with the colors of the seven Medical\n Services of Hospital Earth. \"Take a look, my boy—the juiciest Medical\n Services Contract that's been written in three centuries—\" He tossed\n the Contract in the dry-storage locker with a sigh. \"Old Kiz just\n finished his first lesson, and he's still wondering what went on—\"\n\n\n \"So am I,\" said the Green Doctor suspiciously.\n\n\n \"It was simple. We cured His Eminence of the Pox.\"\n\n\n \"With what? Incantations?\"", "Jenkins looked sharply at Kiz, and the wizard nodded his head slowly.\n \"Try being quiet for a while,\" Jenkins said to Aguar. \"We're going to\n cure the Boss here.\" Solemnly he slipped off his scarlet tunic and cap\n and laid them on a bench, then set his black bag carefully on the floor\n and threw it open. \"First off, get rid of those things.\" He pointed\n to the braziers at the bedside. \"They're enough to give anybody a\n headache. And tell those people outside to stop the racket. How can\n they expect the Spirit of the Pox to come out of His Eminence when\n they're raising a din like that?\"\n\n\n Aguar's eyes widened for a moment as he hesitated; then he threw open\n the door and screamed a command. The wailing stopped as though a switch\n had been thrown. As a couple of cowering guards crept in to remove the\n braziers, Red Doctor Jenkins drew the wizard aside.", "Kiz began sputtering indignantly; the Red Doctor cut him off. \"It\n adds up,\" he said heatedly. \"You've got the power, you've got your\n magic and all. Maybe you were the boys that turned thumbs down so\n violently on the idea of a Hospital Earth Contract, eh? Couldn't risk\n having outsiders cutting in on your trade.\" Jenkins rubbed his chin\n thoughtfully. \"But somehow it seems to me you'd have a whale of a lot\n more power if you learned how to control this Pox.\"\n\n\n Kiz stopped sputtering quite abruptly. He blinked at his confederates\n for a long moment. Then: \"You're an idiot. It can't be done.\"\n\n\n \"Suppose it could.\"\n\n\n \"The Spirit of the Pox is too strong. Our most powerful spells make him\n laugh. He eats our powders and drinks our potions. Even the Iron Circle\n won't drive him out.\"", "chain of Contracts from Aldebaran to Zarn, accepting calls, diagnosing\n ills, arranging for proper disposition of whatever medical problems\n they came across. Serious problems were shuttled back to Hospital Earth\n without delay; more frequently the GPP crews—doctors of the Red and\n Green services, representing the ancient Earthly arts of medicine and\n surgery—were able to handle the problems on the spot and by themselves.", "Jenkins turned to Aguar. \"How long has this gone on?\"\n\n\n \"For days,\" the Moruan growled. \"He can't speak. He grows hot and\n cannot eat. He moans until the Palace trembles.\"\n\n\n \"What about your own doctors?\"\n\n\n Aguar spat angrily on the floor. \"They are jealous as cats until\n trouble comes. Then they hide in the caves like chickens. See the\n green flames? Death flames. They leave him here to die. But now that\n is all over. We have heard about you wizards from Hospital Earth. You\n cure all, the stories say. You are very wise, they say. You balance\n the humors and drive forth the spirits of the Pox like devils.\" He\n gave them a terrible grin and tightened his hand on the gold-encrusted\n sword. \"Now we see.\"", "Aguar met him at the door. \"He's dying,\" he roared angrily. \"Why don't\n you do something? Every hour he sinks more rapidly, and all you do is\n poke holes in the healthy ones! And then you send in\nthis\nbag of\n bones again—\" He glowered at the tall purple-capped figure bending\n over the bed.", "For the crew of the\nLancet\nsix hours was seven hours too long. They\n herded cringing Moruan \"volunteers\" into the little ship's lab. Jenkins\n handled external examinations and blood and tissue chemistries; Stone\n ran the X-ray and pan-endoscopic examinations. After four grueling\n hours the Red Doctor groaned and scowled at the growing pile of data.\n \"Okay. It seems that they're vaguely humanoid. And that's about all we\n can say for sure. I think we're wasting time. What say we tackle the\n Wizards for a while?\"\n\n\n Aguar's guards urged the tall Moruan with the purple cap into the\n control room at gunpoint, along with a couple of minor medical\n potentates. Purple-hat's name was Kiz, and it seemed that he wasn't\n having any that day.", "\"Oh, the incantations were for the\ndoctors\n,\" said Jenkins. \"They\n expected them, obviously, since that was the only level of medicine\n they could understand. And incidentally, the only level that could\n possibly get us a Contract. Anyway, I couldn't do very much else, under\n the circumstances, except for a little supportive therapy. Without a\n Bio-survey we were hamstrung. But whatever the Pox is, it obviously\n involves fever, starvation and dehydration. I knew that His Eminence\n could assimilate carbohydrates, and I took a long gamble that an\n antipyretic wouldn't hurt him too much—\"\n\n\n Wally Stone's jaw sagged. \"So you treated him with sugar-water and\n aspirin,\" he said weakly. \"And on that you risked our necks.\"", "Jenkins took a deep breath and gripped his red tunic around his throat\n tightly. \"Sure, sure,\" he said weakly. \"You just watch us.\"\n\"But what do you think we're going to do?\" the surgeon wailed, back\n in the control room of the\nLancet\n. \"Sam, we can't\ntouch\nhim. If\n he didn't die naturally we'd kill him for sure! We can't go near him\n without a Bio-survey—look what happened on Baron when they tried it!\n Half the planetary population wiped out before they realized that the\n antibiotic was more deadly to the race than the virus was....\"\n\n\n \"Might not be such a bad idea for Morua,\" the Red Doctor muttered\n grimly. \"Well, what did you expect me to do—politely refuse? And\n have our throats slit right on the spot?\" He grabbed a pad and began\n scribbling. \"We've got to do\nsomething\njust to keep alive for a\n while.\"", "\"Now!\" said Jenkins, pulling out a long thin rubber tube. \"This should\n annoy the Spirit of the Pox something fierce.\" He popped the tube into\n the patient's mouth. His Eminence rose up with a gasp, choking and\n fighting, but the tube went down. The Red Doctor ground three white\n pills into powder, mixed in some water, and poured it down the tube.\n\n\n Then he stepped back to view the scene, wiping cold perspiration from\n his forehead. He motioned to Kiz. \"You see what I'm doing, of course?\"\n he said loudly enough for Aguar and the guards to hear.\n\n\n \"Oh, yes—yes! Indeed, indeed,\" said Kiz.\n\n\n \"Fine. Now this is most important.\" Jenkins searched in the bag until\n he found a large mortar which he set down on the floor. Squatting\n behind it, he began tapping it slowly with the pestle, in perfect\n rhythm with the intravenous drip ... and waited.", "Aguar let out a horrified scream and raced from the room; in a moment\n he was back with a detachment of guards, all armed to the teeth, and\n three other Moruan physicians with their retinues of apprentices. Sam\n Jenkins held up his hand for silence. He allowed the first intravenous\n flask to pour in rapidly; the second he adjusted to a steady\n drip-drip-drip.\n\n\n Next he pulled two large bunsen burners and a gas tank from the bag.\n These he set up at the foot of the bed, adjusting the blue flames to\n high spear-tips. On the bedside table he set up a third with a flask\n above it; into this he poured some water and a few crystals from a dark\n bottle. In a moment the fluid in the flask was churning and boiling, an\n ominous purple color.\n\n\n Kiz watched goggle-eyed.", "With that he tiptoed from the room. Four murderous-looking guards\n caught Aguar's eye and followed him out, swords bared. Jenkins sank\n down on a bench in the hall and fell asleep in an instant.\nThey woke him once, hours later, to change the intravenous solution,\n and he found Kiz still intently pounding on the mortar. Jenkins\n administered more of the white powder in water down the tube, and went\n back to his bench. He had barely fallen asleep again when they were\n rousing him with frightened voices. \"Quickly!\" Aguar cried. \"There's\n been a terrible change!\"\n\n\n In the sickroom His Eminence was drenched with sweat, his face\n glistening in the light of the bunsen burners. He rolled from side to\n side, groaning hoarsely. \"\nFaster!\n\" Jenkins shouted to Kiz at the\n mortar, and began stripping off the sodden bedclothes. \"Blankets,\n now—plenty of them.\"", "\"Wait a minute. Seems to me there was some sort of nasty business—\"\n\n\n Jenkins nodded heavily. \"There sure was. Five successive attempts\n to establish a Contract with them, and five times we got thrown out\n bodily. The last time an Earth ship landed there half the crew was\n summarily shot and the others came home with their ears cut off. Seems\n the folks on Morua II didn't want a Contract with Hospital Earth. And\n they're still in the jungle, as far as their medicine goes. Witch\n doctors and spells.\" He tossed the Info-card down the chute with a\n growl. \"So now we have an emergency call from them in a Contract code\n they couldn't possibly know.\"\n\n\n The surgeon in the green undershorts chewed his lip. \"Looks like\n somebody in that last crew spilled the beans before they shot him.\"\n\n\n \"Obviously.\"", "\"No thanks, not me. This is a medical case and it's all yours. What do\n you want me to do?\"\n\n\n \"Stay here and try your damnedest to get through to HQ,\" said Sam\n grimly. \"Tell them to send an armada, because we're liable to need one\n in the next few hours—\"\nIf the Tenth Son of a Tenth Son had looked bad before, three hours had\n witnessed no improvement. The potentate's skin had turned from grey\n to a pasty green as he lay panting on the bed. He seemed to have lost\n strength enough even to groan, and his eyes were glazed.\n\n\n Outside the royal chambers Jenkins found a group of green-clad\n mourners, wailing like banshees and tearing out their fur in great grey\n chunks. They stood about a flaming brazier; as Jenkins entered the\n sickroom the wails rose ten decibels and took on a howling-dog quality.", "\"Oh, yes—if the Spirit that afflicts them is very small. Those are\n the fortunate ones. They grow hot and sick, but they still can eat\n and drink—\" The wizard broke off to stare at the bottle-and-tube\n arrangement Jenkins had prepared. \"What's that?\"\n\n\n \"I told you about the iron needles, didn't I? Hold this a moment.\"\n Jenkins handed him the liter flask. \"Hold it high.\" He began searching\n for a vein on the patient's baggy arm. The Moruan equivalent of blood\n flowed back greenishly in the tube for an instant as he placed the\n needle; then the flask began to drip slowly.", "Jenkins snatched the mortar from Kiz, and with a wild flourish smashed\n it on the stone floor. Then he grabbed the wizard's paw, raising it\n high. \"You've done well!\" he cried to the bewildered physician. \"It's\n over now—the Spirit has departed. His Eminence will recover.\"\nThey escorted him in triumphal procession back to the\nLancet\n, where\n Wally Stone stared in disbelief as Jenkins and Kiz bowed and hugged\n each other like long-lost brothers at a sad farewell. \"I finally got\n through to somebody at HQ,\" he said as the Red Doctor climbed aboard.\n \"It'll take them twenty days at least, to get help, considering that\n Morua is not a Contract planet and we're not supposed to be here in the\n first place, but that's the best they can do....\"", "Aguar halted them at the door-way. \"His Eminence will see you,\" he\n growled.\n\n\n \"Who is His Eminence?\" Jenkins asked.\n\n\n \"The Lord High Emperor of All Morua and Creator of the Galaxies,\" Aguar\n rumbled. \"He is the Tenth Son of a Tenth Son, and it is written that he\n can never die. When you enter, bow,\" he added.\n\n\n The Tenth Son of a Tenth Son couldn't have cared less whether they\n bowed or not. The room was dark and rank with the smell of sickness. On\n a pallet in the center lay a huge Moruan, panting and groaning. He was\n wrapped like a mummy in bedclothes of scarlet interwoven with gold; on\n either side of the bed braziers flickered with sickly greenish light." ], [ "In the early days of galactic exploration, of course, Medical Services\n was only a minor factor in an expanding commercial network that drew\n multitudes of planets into social and economic interdependence; but\n in any growing civilization division of labor inevitably occurs.\n Other planets outstripped Earth in technology, in communications, in\n transport, and in production techniques—but Earth stood unrivaled in\n its development of the biological sciences. Wherever an Earth ship\n landed, the crew was soon rendering Medical Services of one sort or\n another, whether they had planned it that way or not. On Deneb III\n the Medical Service Contract was formalized, and Hospital Earth came\n into being. Into all known corners of the galaxy ships of the General\n Practice Patrol were dispatched—\"Galactic Pill Peddlers\" forging a", "\"Tell them to forget the armada,\" said Jenkins, grinning. \"And anyway,\n they've got things all wrong back at HQ.\" He brandished a huge roll\n of parchment, stricken through with the colors of the seven Medical\n Services of Hospital Earth. \"Take a look, my boy—the juiciest Medical\n Services Contract that's been written in three centuries—\" He tossed\n the Contract in the dry-storage locker with a sigh. \"Old Kiz just\n finished his first lesson, and he's still wondering what went on—\"\n\n\n \"So am I,\" said the Green Doctor suspiciously.\n\n\n \"It was simple. We cured His Eminence of the Pox.\"\n\n\n \"With what? Incantations?\"", "Jenkins twisted down the volume on his Translator with a grimace.\n \"You're lucky we came at all,\" he said peevishly. \"Where's your\n Contract? Where did you get the Code?\"\n\n\n \"Bother the Contract,\" the Moruan snarled. \"You're supposed to be\n physicians, eh?\" He eyed them up and down as though he disapproved of\n everything that he saw. \"You make sick people well?\"\n\n\n \"That's the general idea.\"\n\n\n \"All right.\" He poked a hairy finger at a shuttle car perched outside.\n \"In there.\"", "\"And spend the next twenty years scrubbing test tubes.\" Jenkins shook\n his head. \"Sorry, it took me too long to get aboard one of these tubs.\n We don't do that in the General Practice Patrol, remember? I don't know\n how Morua II got the code, but they got it, and that's all the farther\n we're supposed to think. We answer the call, and beef about it later.\n If we still happen to be around later, that is.\"\nIt had always been that way. Since the first formal Medical Service\n Contract had been signed with Deneb III centuries before, Hospital\n Earth had laboriously built its reputation on that single foundation\n stone: immediate medical assistance, without question or hesitation,\n whenever and wherever it was required, on any planet bound by Contract.\n That was the law, for Hospital Earth could not afford to jeopardize a\n Contract.", "Certain basic principles were always the same, a fact which accelerated\n the program considerably. Humanoid or not, all forms of life had basic\n qualities in common. Biochemical reactions were biochemical reactions,\n whether they happened to occur in a wing-creature of Wolf IV or a\n doctor from Sol III. Anatomy was a broad determinant: a jelly-blob from\n Deneb I with its fine skein of pulsating nerve fibrils was still just\n a jelly-blob, and would never rise above the level of amoeboid yes-no\n response because of its utter lack of organization. But a creature\n with an organized central nervous system and a functional division of\n work among organ systems could be categorized, tested, studied, and\n compared, and the information used in combating native disease. Given\n no major setbacks, and full cooperation of the natives, the job only\n took about six months to do—", "the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nThey didn't realize they were in trouble until it was too late to stop\n it. The call from Morua II came in quite innocently, relayed to the\n ship from HQ in Standard GPP Contract code for crash priority, which\n meant Top Grade Planetary Emergency, and don't argue about it, fellows,\n just get there, fast. Red Doctor Sam Jenkins took one look at the\n flashing blinker and slammed the controls into automatic; gyros hummed,\n bearings were computed and checked, and the General Practice Patrol\n ship\nLancet\nspun in its tracks, so to speak, and began homing on the\n call-source like a hound on a fox. The fact that Morua II was a Class\n VI planet didn't quite register with anybody, just then.\n\n\n Ten minutes later the Red Doctor reached for the results of the Initial\n Information Survey on Morua II, and let out a howl of alarm. A single\n card sat in the slot with a wide black stripe across it.", "Jenkins turned to Aguar. \"How long has this gone on?\"\n\n\n \"For days,\" the Moruan growled. \"He can't speak. He grows hot and\n cannot eat. He moans until the Palace trembles.\"\n\n\n \"What about your own doctors?\"\n\n\n Aguar spat angrily on the floor. \"They are jealous as cats until\n trouble comes. Then they hide in the caves like chickens. See the\n green flames? Death flames. They leave him here to die. But now that\n is all over. We have heard about you wizards from Hospital Earth. You\n cure all, the stories say. You are very wise, they say. You balance\n the humors and drive forth the spirits of the Pox like devils.\" He\n gave them a terrible grin and tightened his hand on the gold-encrusted\n sword. \"Now we see.\"", "\"Wait a minute. Seems to me there was some sort of nasty business—\"\n\n\n Jenkins nodded heavily. \"There sure was. Five successive attempts\n to establish a Contract with them, and five times we got thrown out\n bodily. The last time an Earth ship landed there half the crew was\n summarily shot and the others came home with their ears cut off. Seems\n the folks on Morua II didn't want a Contract with Hospital Earth. And\n they're still in the jungle, as far as their medicine goes. Witch\n doctors and spells.\" He tossed the Info-card down the chute with a\n growl. \"So now we have an emergency call from them in a Contract code\n they couldn't possibly know.\"\n\n\n The surgeon in the green undershorts chewed his lip. \"Looks like\n somebody in that last crew spilled the beans before they shot him.\"\n\n\n \"Obviously.\"", "Jenkins snatched the mortar from Kiz, and with a wild flourish smashed\n it on the stone floor. Then he grabbed the wizard's paw, raising it\n high. \"You've done well!\" he cried to the bewildered physician. \"It's\n over now—the Spirit has departed. His Eminence will recover.\"\nThey escorted him in triumphal procession back to the\nLancet\n, where\n Wally Stone stared in disbelief as Jenkins and Kiz bowed and hugged\n each other like long-lost brothers at a sad farewell. \"I finally got\n through to somebody at HQ,\" he said as the Red Doctor climbed aboard.\n \"It'll take them twenty days at least, to get help, considering that\n Morua is not a Contract planet and we're not supposed to be here in the\n first place, but that's the best they can do....\"", "chain of Contracts from Aldebaran to Zarn, accepting calls, diagnosing\n ills, arranging for proper disposition of whatever medical problems\n they came across. Serious problems were shuttled back to Hospital Earth\n without delay; more frequently the GPP crews—doctors of the Red and\n Green services, representing the ancient Earthly arts of medicine and\n surgery—were able to handle the problems on the spot and by themselves.", "The\nLancet\nhomed on the dismal grey planet with an escort of eight\n ugly fighter ships which had swarmed up like hornets to greet her. They\n triangled her in, grappled her, and dropped her with a bone-jarring\n crash into a landing slot on the edge of the city. As Sam Jenkins and\n Wally Stone picked themselves off the bulkheads, trying to rearrange\n the scarlet and green uniforms of their respective services, the main\n entrance lock burst open with a squeal of tortured metal. At least a\n dozen Moruans poured into the control room—huge bearlike creatures\n with heavy grey fur ruffing out around their faces like thick hairy\n dog collars. The one in command strode forward arrogantly, one huge\n paw leveling a placer-gun with a distinct air of business about it.\n \"Well, you took long enough!\" he roared, baring a set of yellow fangs\n that sent shivers up Jenkins' spine. \"Fourteen hours! Do you call that\n speed?\"", "It was a rugged service for a single planet to provide, and it was\n costly. Many planets studied the terms of Contract and declined,\n pleasantly but firmly—and were assured nevertheless that GPP ships\n would answer an emergency call if one was received. There would be a\n fee, of course, but the call would be answered. And then there were\n other planets—places such as Morua II....", "Jenkins snapped on the intercom. \"Wally,\" he yelped. \"Better get up\n here fast.\"\n\n\n \"Trouble?\" said the squawk-box, sleepily.\n\n\n \"Oh, brother,\" said Jenkins. \"Somebody's cracked the Contract Code or\n something.\"\n\n\n A moment later a tall sleepy man in green undershorts appeared at\n the control room, rubbing his eyes. \"What happened?\" he said. \"We've\n changed course.\"\n\n\n \"Yeah. Ever hear of Morua II?\"\n\n\n Green Doctor Wally Stone frowned and scratched his whiskered chin.\n \"Sounds familiar, but I can't quite tune in. Crash call?\" His eye\n caught the black-striped card. \"Class VI planet ... a plague spot! How\n can we get a crash-call from\nthis\n?\"\n\n\n \"You tell me,\" said Jenkins.", "For the crew of the\nLancet\nsix hours was seven hours too long. They\n herded cringing Moruan \"volunteers\" into the little ship's lab. Jenkins\n handled external examinations and blood and tissue chemistries; Stone\n ran the X-ray and pan-endoscopic examinations. After four grueling\n hours the Red Doctor groaned and scowled at the growing pile of data.\n \"Okay. It seems that they're vaguely humanoid. And that's about all we\n can say for sure. I think we're wasting time. What say we tackle the\n Wizards for a while?\"\n\n\n Aguar's guards urged the tall Moruan with the purple cap into the\n control room at gunpoint, along with a couple of minor medical\n potentates. Purple-hat's name was Kiz, and it seemed that he wasn't\n having any that day.", "Jenkins took a deep breath and gripped his red tunic around his throat\n tightly. \"Sure, sure,\" he said weakly. \"You just watch us.\"\n\"But what do you think we're going to do?\" the surgeon wailed, back\n in the control room of the\nLancet\n. \"Sam, we can't\ntouch\nhim. If\n he didn't die naturally we'd kill him for sure! We can't go near him\n without a Bio-survey—look what happened on Baron when they tried it!\n Half the planetary population wiped out before they realized that the\n antibiotic was more deadly to the race than the virus was....\"\n\n\n \"Might not be such a bad idea for Morua,\" the Red Doctor muttered\n grimly. \"Well, what did you expect me to do—politely refuse? And\n have our throats slit right on the spot?\" He grabbed a pad and began\n scribbling. \"We've got to do\nsomething\njust to keep alive for a\n while.\"", "\"Not quite,\" said the Red Doctor. \"You're forgetting that I had\n one other prescription to use—the oldest, most trustworthy\n healer-of-all-ills known to medicine, just as potent now as it was a\n thousand years ago. Without it, Hospital Earth might just as well pack\n up her little black bag and go home.\" He smiled into the mirror as he\n adjusted the scarlet band of the Red Service across his shoulders. \"We\n call it Tincture of Time,\" he said.", "Aguar halted them at the door-way. \"His Eminence will see you,\" he\n growled.\n\n\n \"Who is His Eminence?\" Jenkins asked.\n\n\n \"The Lord High Emperor of All Morua and Creator of the Galaxies,\" Aguar\n rumbled. \"He is the Tenth Son of a Tenth Son, and it is written that he\n can never die. When you enter, bow,\" he added.\n\n\n The Tenth Son of a Tenth Son couldn't have cared less whether they\n bowed or not. The room was dark and rank with the smell of sickness. On\n a pallet in the center lay a huge Moruan, panting and groaning. He was\n wrapped like a mummy in bedclothes of scarlet interwoven with gold; on\n either side of the bed braziers flickered with sickly greenish light.", "\"Yeah,\" said Wally. \"What, for instance?\"\n\n\n \"Well, we've got a little to go on just from looking at them. They're\n oxygen-breathers, which means they manage internal combustion of\n carbohydrates, somehow. From the grey skin color I'd guess at a cuprous\n or stannous heme-protein carrying system. They're carnivores, but god\n knows what their protein metabolism is like—Let's get going on some of\n these specimens Aguar has rounded up for us.\"\n\n\n They dug in frantically. Under normal conditions a GPP ship would\n send in a full crew of technicians to a newly-Contracted planet to\n make the initial Bio-survey of the indigenous races. Bio-chemists,\n physiologists, anatomists, microbiologists, radiologists—survey\n workers from every Service would examine and study the new clients,\n take them apart cell by cell to see what made them tick.", "His Eminence looked up at them from bloodshot eyes and greeted them\n with a groan of anguish that seemed to roll up from the soles of his\n feet. \"Go away,\" he moaned, closing his eyes again and rolling over\n with his back toward them.\n\n\n The Red Doctor blinked at his companion, then turned to Aguar. \"What\n illness is this?\" he whispered.\n\n\n \"He is afflicted with a Pox, as any fool can see. All others it\n kills—but His Eminence is the Tenth Son of a Tenth Son, and it is\n written—\"\n\n\n \"Yes, yes, I know. He can never die.\" Sam gave Wally a sour look. \"What\n happens, though, if he just up and does?\"\n\n\n Aguar's paw came down with a clatter on the hilt of his sword. \"\nHe\n does not die.\nWe have you here now. You are doctors, you say. Cure\n him.\"", "The whispers stopped and Kiz nodded to the Red Doctor. \"All right, we\n bargain,\" he said. \"\nAfter\nyou show us.\"\n\n\n \"Now or never.\" Jenkins threw open the door and nodded to the guards.\n \"I'll be in the sickroom in a very short while. If you're with me, I'll\n see you there. If not—\" He fingered his throat suggestively.\n\n\n As soon as they had gone Jenkins dived into the storeroom and began\n throwing flasks and bottles into a black bag. Wally Stone watched him\n in bewilderment. \"You're going to kill him,\" he moaned. \"Prayers,\n promises, pills and post-mortems. That's the Medical service for you.\"\n\n\n Sam grinned. \"Maybe you should operate on him.\nThat\nwould open their\n eyes all right.\"" ], [ "In the early days of galactic exploration, of course, Medical Services\n was only a minor factor in an expanding commercial network that drew\n multitudes of planets into social and economic interdependence; but\n in any growing civilization division of labor inevitably occurs.\n Other planets outstripped Earth in technology, in communications, in\n transport, and in production techniques—but Earth stood unrivaled in\n its development of the biological sciences. Wherever an Earth ship\n landed, the crew was soon rendering Medical Services of one sort or\n another, whether they had planned it that way or not. On Deneb III\n the Medical Service Contract was formalized, and Hospital Earth came\n into being. Into all known corners of the galaxy ships of the General\n Practice Patrol were dispatched—\"Galactic Pill Peddlers\" forging a", "It was a rugged service for a single planet to provide, and it was\n costly. Many planets studied the terms of Contract and declined,\n pleasantly but firmly—and were assured nevertheless that GPP ships\n would answer an emergency call if one was received. There would be a\n fee, of course, but the call would be answered. And then there were\n other planets—places such as Morua II....", "\"And spend the next twenty years scrubbing test tubes.\" Jenkins shook\n his head. \"Sorry, it took me too long to get aboard one of these tubs.\n We don't do that in the General Practice Patrol, remember? I don't know\n how Morua II got the code, but they got it, and that's all the farther\n we're supposed to think. We answer the call, and beef about it later.\n If we still happen to be around later, that is.\"\nIt had always been that way. Since the first formal Medical Service\n Contract had been signed with Deneb III centuries before, Hospital\n Earth had laboriously built its reputation on that single foundation\n stone: immediate medical assistance, without question or hesitation,\n whenever and wherever it was required, on any planet bound by Contract.\n That was the law, for Hospital Earth could not afford to jeopardize a\n Contract.", "\"Wait a minute. Seems to me there was some sort of nasty business—\"\n\n\n Jenkins nodded heavily. \"There sure was. Five successive attempts\n to establish a Contract with them, and five times we got thrown out\n bodily. The last time an Earth ship landed there half the crew was\n summarily shot and the others came home with their ears cut off. Seems\n the folks on Morua II didn't want a Contract with Hospital Earth. And\n they're still in the jungle, as far as their medicine goes. Witch\n doctors and spells.\" He tossed the Info-card down the chute with a\n growl. \"So now we have an emergency call from them in a Contract code\n they couldn't possibly know.\"\n\n\n The surgeon in the green undershorts chewed his lip. \"Looks like\n somebody in that last crew spilled the beans before they shot him.\"\n\n\n \"Obviously.\"", "chain of Contracts from Aldebaran to Zarn, accepting calls, diagnosing\n ills, arranging for proper disposition of whatever medical problems\n they came across. Serious problems were shuttled back to Hospital Earth\n without delay; more frequently the GPP crews—doctors of the Red and\n Green services, representing the ancient Earthly arts of medicine and\n surgery—were able to handle the problems on the spot and by themselves.", "Jenkins twisted down the volume on his Translator with a grimace.\n \"You're lucky we came at all,\" he said peevishly. \"Where's your\n Contract? Where did you get the Code?\"\n\n\n \"Bother the Contract,\" the Moruan snarled. \"You're supposed to be\n physicians, eh?\" He eyed them up and down as though he disapproved of\n everything that he saw. \"You make sick people well?\"\n\n\n \"That's the general idea.\"\n\n\n \"All right.\" He poked a hairy finger at a shuttle car perched outside.\n \"In there.\"", "\"Tell them to forget the armada,\" said Jenkins, grinning. \"And anyway,\n they've got things all wrong back at HQ.\" He brandished a huge roll\n of parchment, stricken through with the colors of the seven Medical\n Services of Hospital Earth. \"Take a look, my boy—the juiciest Medical\n Services Contract that's been written in three centuries—\" He tossed\n the Contract in the dry-storage locker with a sigh. \"Old Kiz just\n finished his first lesson, and he's still wondering what went on—\"\n\n\n \"So am I,\" said the Green Doctor suspiciously.\n\n\n \"It was simple. We cured His Eminence of the Pox.\"\n\n\n \"With what? Incantations?\"", "Jenkins snapped on the intercom. \"Wally,\" he yelped. \"Better get up\n here fast.\"\n\n\n \"Trouble?\" said the squawk-box, sleepily.\n\n\n \"Oh, brother,\" said Jenkins. \"Somebody's cracked the Contract Code or\n something.\"\n\n\n A moment later a tall sleepy man in green undershorts appeared at\n the control room, rubbing his eyes. \"What happened?\" he said. \"We've\n changed course.\"\n\n\n \"Yeah. Ever hear of Morua II?\"\n\n\n Green Doctor Wally Stone frowned and scratched his whiskered chin.\n \"Sounds familiar, but I can't quite tune in. Crash call?\" His eye\n caught the black-striped card. \"Class VI planet ... a plague spot! How\n can we get a crash-call from\nthis\n?\"\n\n\n \"You tell me,\" said Jenkins.", "the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nThey didn't realize they were in trouble until it was too late to stop\n it. The call from Morua II came in quite innocently, relayed to the\n ship from HQ in Standard GPP Contract code for crash priority, which\n meant Top Grade Planetary Emergency, and don't argue about it, fellows,\n just get there, fast. Red Doctor Sam Jenkins took one look at the\n flashing blinker and slammed the controls into automatic; gyros hummed,\n bearings were computed and checked, and the General Practice Patrol\n ship\nLancet\nspun in its tracks, so to speak, and began homing on the\n call-source like a hound on a fox. The fact that Morua II was a Class\n VI planet didn't quite register with anybody, just then.\n\n\n Ten minutes later the Red Doctor reached for the results of the Initial\n Information Survey on Morua II, and let out a howl of alarm. A single\n card sat in the slot with a wide black stripe across it.", "Certain basic principles were always the same, a fact which accelerated\n the program considerably. Humanoid or not, all forms of life had basic\n qualities in common. Biochemical reactions were biochemical reactions,\n whether they happened to occur in a wing-creature of Wolf IV or a\n doctor from Sol III. Anatomy was a broad determinant: a jelly-blob from\n Deneb I with its fine skein of pulsating nerve fibrils was still just\n a jelly-blob, and would never rise above the level of amoeboid yes-no\n response because of its utter lack of organization. But a creature\n with an organized central nervous system and a functional division of\n work among organ systems could be categorized, tested, studied, and\n compared, and the information used in combating native disease. Given\n no major setbacks, and full cooperation of the natives, the job only\n took about six months to do—", "\"Yeah,\" said Wally. \"What, for instance?\"\n\n\n \"Well, we've got a little to go on just from looking at them. They're\n oxygen-breathers, which means they manage internal combustion of\n carbohydrates, somehow. From the grey skin color I'd guess at a cuprous\n or stannous heme-protein carrying system. They're carnivores, but god\n knows what their protein metabolism is like—Let's get going on some of\n these specimens Aguar has rounded up for us.\"\n\n\n They dug in frantically. Under normal conditions a GPP ship would\n send in a full crew of technicians to a newly-Contracted planet to\n make the initial Bio-survey of the indigenous races. Bio-chemists,\n physiologists, anatomists, microbiologists, radiologists—survey\n workers from every Service would examine and study the new clients,\n take them apart cell by cell to see what made them tick.", "Jenkins took a deep breath and gripped his red tunic around his throat\n tightly. \"Sure, sure,\" he said weakly. \"You just watch us.\"\n\"But what do you think we're going to do?\" the surgeon wailed, back\n in the control room of the\nLancet\n. \"Sam, we can't\ntouch\nhim. If\n he didn't die naturally we'd kill him for sure! We can't go near him\n without a Bio-survey—look what happened on Baron when they tried it!\n Half the planetary population wiped out before they realized that the\n antibiotic was more deadly to the race than the virus was....\"\n\n\n \"Might not be such a bad idea for Morua,\" the Red Doctor muttered\n grimly. \"Well, what did you expect me to do—politely refuse? And\n have our throats slit right on the spot?\" He grabbed a pad and began\n scribbling. \"We've got to do\nsomething\njust to keep alive for a\n while.\"", "Jenkins snatched the mortar from Kiz, and with a wild flourish smashed\n it on the stone floor. Then he grabbed the wizard's paw, raising it\n high. \"You've done well!\" he cried to the bewildered physician. \"It's\n over now—the Spirit has departed. His Eminence will recover.\"\nThey escorted him in triumphal procession back to the\nLancet\n, where\n Wally Stone stared in disbelief as Jenkins and Kiz bowed and hugged\n each other like long-lost brothers at a sad farewell. \"I finally got\n through to somebody at HQ,\" he said as the Red Doctor climbed aboard.\n \"It'll take them twenty days at least, to get help, considering that\n Morua is not a Contract planet and we're not supposed to be here in the\n first place, but that's the best they can do....\"", "The\nLancet\nhomed on the dismal grey planet with an escort of eight\n ugly fighter ships which had swarmed up like hornets to greet her. They\n triangled her in, grappled her, and dropped her with a bone-jarring\n crash into a landing slot on the edge of the city. As Sam Jenkins and\n Wally Stone picked themselves off the bulkheads, trying to rearrange\n the scarlet and green uniforms of their respective services, the main\n entrance lock burst open with a squeal of tortured metal. At least a\n dozen Moruans poured into the control room—huge bearlike creatures\n with heavy grey fur ruffing out around their faces like thick hairy\n dog collars. The one in command strode forward arrogantly, one huge\n paw leveling a placer-gun with a distinct air of business about it.\n \"Well, you took long enough!\" he roared, baring a set of yellow fangs\n that sent shivers up Jenkins' spine. \"Fourteen hours! Do you call that\n speed?\"", "Kiz began sputtering indignantly; the Red Doctor cut him off. \"It\n adds up,\" he said heatedly. \"You've got the power, you've got your\n magic and all. Maybe you were the boys that turned thumbs down so\n violently on the idea of a Hospital Earth Contract, eh? Couldn't risk\n having outsiders cutting in on your trade.\" Jenkins rubbed his chin\n thoughtfully. \"But somehow it seems to me you'd have a whale of a lot\n more power if you learned how to control this Pox.\"\n\n\n Kiz stopped sputtering quite abruptly. He blinked at his confederates\n for a long moment. Then: \"You're an idiot. It can't be done.\"\n\n\n \"Suppose it could.\"\n\n\n \"The Spirit of the Pox is too strong. Our most powerful spells make him\n laugh. He eats our powders and drinks our potions. Even the Iron Circle\n won't drive him out.\"", "\"We can't promise,\" Jenkins began. \"Sometimes we're called too\n late—but perhaps not in this case,\" he added hastily when he saw the\n Moruan's face. \"Tenth Son and all that. But you'll have to give us\n freedom to work.\"\n\n\n \"What kind of freedom?\"\n\n\n \"We'll need supplies and information from our ship. We'll have to\n consult your physicians. We'll need healthy Moruans to examine—\"\n\n\n \"But you will cure him,\" Aguar said.", "\"Oh, the incantations were for the\ndoctors\n,\" said Jenkins. \"They\n expected them, obviously, since that was the only level of medicine\n they could understand. And incidentally, the only level that could\n possibly get us a Contract. Anyway, I couldn't do very much else, under\n the circumstances, except for a little supportive therapy. Without a\n Bio-survey we were hamstrung. But whatever the Pox is, it obviously\n involves fever, starvation and dehydration. I knew that His Eminence\n could assimilate carbohydrates, and I took a long gamble that an\n antipyretic wouldn't hurt him too much—\"\n\n\n Wally Stone's jaw sagged. \"So you treated him with sugar-water and\n aspirin,\" he said weakly. \"And on that you risked our necks.\"", "\"Not quite,\" said the Red Doctor. \"You're forgetting that I had\n one other prescription to use—the oldest, most trustworthy\n healer-of-all-ills known to medicine, just as potent now as it was a\n thousand years ago. Without it, Hospital Earth might just as well pack\n up her little black bag and go home.\" He smiled into the mirror as he\n adjusted the scarlet band of the Red Service across his shoulders. \"We\n call it Tincture of Time,\" he said.", "Jenkins turned to Aguar. \"How long has this gone on?\"\n\n\n \"For days,\" the Moruan growled. \"He can't speak. He grows hot and\n cannot eat. He moans until the Palace trembles.\"\n\n\n \"What about your own doctors?\"\n\n\n Aguar spat angrily on the floor. \"They are jealous as cats until\n trouble comes. Then they hide in the caves like chickens. See the\n green flames? Death flames. They leave him here to die. But now that\n is all over. We have heard about you wizards from Hospital Earth. You\n cure all, the stories say. You are very wise, they say. You balance\n the humors and drive forth the spirits of the Pox like devils.\" He\n gave them a terrible grin and tightened his hand on the gold-encrusted\n sword. \"Now we see.\"", "They walked to the bedside and lifted back the covers. Jenkins took a\n limp paw in his hand. He finally found a palpable pulse just below the\n second elbow joint. It was fast and thready. The creature's skin bagged\n loosely from his arm.\n\"Looks like His Eminence can't read,\" Wally muttered. \"He's going fast,\n Doc.\"\n\n\n Jenkins nodded grimly. \"What does it look like to you?\"\n\n\n \"How should I know? I've never seen a healthy Moruan before, to say\n nothing of a sick one. It looks like a pox all right.\"\n\n\n \"Probably a viremia of some sort.\" Jenkins went over the great groaning\n hulk with inquiring fingers.\n\n\n \"If it's a viremia, we're cooked,\" Stone whispered. \"None of the drugs\n cross over—and we won't have time to culture the stuff and grow any\n new ones—\"" ], [ "His Eminence looked up at them from bloodshot eyes and greeted them\n with a groan of anguish that seemed to roll up from the soles of his\n feet. \"Go away,\" he moaned, closing his eyes again and rolling over\n with his back toward them.\n\n\n The Red Doctor blinked at his companion, then turned to Aguar. \"What\n illness is this?\" he whispered.\n\n\n \"He is afflicted with a Pox, as any fool can see. All others it\n kills—but His Eminence is the Tenth Son of a Tenth Son, and it is\n written—\"\n\n\n \"Yes, yes, I know. He can never die.\" Sam gave Wally a sour look. \"What\n happens, though, if he just up and does?\"\n\n\n Aguar's paw came down with a clatter on the hilt of his sword. \"\nHe\n does not die.\nWe have you here now. You are doctors, you say. Cure\n him.\"", "Aguar met him at the door. \"He's dying,\" he roared angrily. \"Why don't\n you do something? Every hour he sinks more rapidly, and all you do is\n poke holes in the healthy ones! And then you send in\nthis\nbag of\n bones again—\" He glowered at the tall purple-capped figure bending\n over the bed.", "\"No thanks, not me. This is a medical case and it's all yours. What do\n you want me to do?\"\n\n\n \"Stay here and try your damnedest to get through to HQ,\" said Sam\n grimly. \"Tell them to send an armada, because we're liable to need one\n in the next few hours—\"\nIf the Tenth Son of a Tenth Son had looked bad before, three hours had\n witnessed no improvement. The potentate's skin had turned from grey\n to a pasty green as he lay panting on the bed. He seemed to have lost\n strength enough even to groan, and his eyes were glazed.\n\n\n Outside the royal chambers Jenkins found a group of green-clad\n mourners, wailing like banshees and tearing out their fur in great grey\n chunks. They stood about a flaming brazier; as Jenkins entered the\n sickroom the wails rose ten decibels and took on a howling-dog quality.", "With that he tiptoed from the room. Four murderous-looking guards\n caught Aguar's eye and followed him out, swords bared. Jenkins sank\n down on a bench in the hall and fell asleep in an instant.\nThey woke him once, hours later, to change the intravenous solution,\n and he found Kiz still intently pounding on the mortar. Jenkins\n administered more of the white powder in water down the tube, and went\n back to his bench. He had barely fallen asleep again when they were\n rousing him with frightened voices. \"Quickly!\" Aguar cried. \"There's\n been a terrible change!\"\n\n\n In the sickroom His Eminence was drenched with sweat, his face\n glistening in the light of the bunsen burners. He rolled from side to\n side, groaning hoarsely. \"\nFaster!\n\" Jenkins shouted to Kiz at the\n mortar, and began stripping off the sodden bedclothes. \"Blankets,\n now—plenty of them.\"", "Jenkins took a deep breath and gripped his red tunic around his throat\n tightly. \"Sure, sure,\" he said weakly. \"You just watch us.\"\n\"But what do you think we're going to do?\" the surgeon wailed, back\n in the control room of the\nLancet\n. \"Sam, we can't\ntouch\nhim. If\n he didn't die naturally we'd kill him for sure! We can't go near him\n without a Bio-survey—look what happened on Baron when they tried it!\n Half the planetary population wiped out before they realized that the\n antibiotic was more deadly to the race than the virus was....\"\n\n\n \"Might not be such a bad idea for Morua,\" the Red Doctor muttered\n grimly. \"Well, what did you expect me to do—politely refuse? And\n have our throats slit right on the spot?\" He grabbed a pad and began\n scribbling. \"We've got to do\nsomething\njust to keep alive for a\n while.\"", "Jenkins snatched the mortar from Kiz, and with a wild flourish smashed\n it on the stone floor. Then he grabbed the wizard's paw, raising it\n high. \"You've done well!\" he cried to the bewildered physician. \"It's\n over now—the Spirit has departed. His Eminence will recover.\"\nThey escorted him in triumphal procession back to the\nLancet\n, where\n Wally Stone stared in disbelief as Jenkins and Kiz bowed and hugged\n each other like long-lost brothers at a sad farewell. \"I finally got\n through to somebody at HQ,\" he said as the Red Doctor climbed aboard.\n \"It'll take them twenty days at least, to get help, considering that\n Morua is not a Contract planet and we're not supposed to be here in the\n first place, but that's the best they can do....\"", "The whispers stopped and Kiz nodded to the Red Doctor. \"All right, we\n bargain,\" he said. \"\nAfter\nyou show us.\"\n\n\n \"Now or never.\" Jenkins threw open the door and nodded to the guards.\n \"I'll be in the sickroom in a very short while. If you're with me, I'll\n see you there. If not—\" He fingered his throat suggestively.\n\n\n As soon as they had gone Jenkins dived into the storeroom and began\n throwing flasks and bottles into a black bag. Wally Stone watched him\n in bewilderment. \"You're going to kill him,\" he moaned. \"Prayers,\n promises, pills and post-mortems. That's the Medical service for you.\"\n\n\n Sam grinned. \"Maybe you should operate on him.\nThat\nwould open their\n eyes all right.\"", "The room was deathly still except for a heavy snuffling sound from His\n Eminence and the plink-plink of the pestle on the mortar. The flask of\n purple stuff gurgled quietly. An hour passed, and another. Suddenly\n Jenkins motioned to Kiz. \"His pulse—quickly!\"\n\n\n Kiz scampered gratefully over to the bedside. \"A hundred and eighty,\"\n he whispered.\n\n\n Jenkins' face darkened. He peered at the sick man intently. \"It's a\n bad sign,\" he said. \"The Spirit is furious at the intrusion of an\n outsider.\" He motioned toward the mortar. \"Can you do this?\"\n\n\n Without breaking the rhythm he transferred the plinking-job to Kiz.\n He changed the dwindling intravenous bottle. \"Call me when the bottle\n is empty—or if there is any change. Whatever you do,\ndon't touch\n anything\n.\"", "Jenkins turned to Aguar. \"How long has this gone on?\"\n\n\n \"For days,\" the Moruan growled. \"He can't speak. He grows hot and\n cannot eat. He moans until the Palace trembles.\"\n\n\n \"What about your own doctors?\"\n\n\n Aguar spat angrily on the floor. \"They are jealous as cats until\n trouble comes. Then they hide in the caves like chickens. See the\n green flames? Death flames. They leave him here to die. But now that\n is all over. We have heard about you wizards from Hospital Earth. You\n cure all, the stories say. You are very wise, they say. You balance\n the humors and drive forth the spirits of the Pox like devils.\" He\n gave them a terrible grin and tightened his hand on the gold-encrusted\n sword. \"Now we see.\"", "\"Look,\" said Jenkins intensely. \"You've seen this illness before. We\n haven't. So you can at least get us started. What kind of course does\n it run?\"\n\n\n Silence.\n\n\n \"All right then, what causes it? Do you know? Bacteria? Virus?\n Degeneration?\"\n\n\n Silence.\n\n\n Jenkins' face was pale. \"Look, boys—your Boss out there is going to\n cool before long if something doesn't happen fast—\" His eyes narrowed\n on Kiz. \"Of course, that might be right up your alley—how about that?\n His Eminence bows out, somebody has to bow in, right? Maybe you, huh?\"", "For the crew of the\nLancet\nsix hours was seven hours too long. They\n herded cringing Moruan \"volunteers\" into the little ship's lab. Jenkins\n handled external examinations and blood and tissue chemistries; Stone\n ran the X-ray and pan-endoscopic examinations. After four grueling\n hours the Red Doctor groaned and scowled at the growing pile of data.\n \"Okay. It seems that they're vaguely humanoid. And that's about all we\n can say for sure. I think we're wasting time. What say we tackle the\n Wizards for a while?\"\n\n\n Aguar's guards urged the tall Moruan with the purple cap into the\n control room at gunpoint, along with a couple of minor medical\n potentates. Purple-hat's name was Kiz, and it seemed that he wasn't\n having any that day.", "\"Oh, the incantations were for the\ndoctors\n,\" said Jenkins. \"They\n expected them, obviously, since that was the only level of medicine\n they could understand. And incidentally, the only level that could\n possibly get us a Contract. Anyway, I couldn't do very much else, under\n the circumstances, except for a little supportive therapy. Without a\n Bio-survey we were hamstrung. But whatever the Pox is, it obviously\n involves fever, starvation and dehydration. I knew that His Eminence\n could assimilate carbohydrates, and I took a long gamble that an\n antipyretic wouldn't hurt him too much—\"\n\n\n Wally Stone's jaw sagged. \"So you treated him with sugar-water and\n aspirin,\" he said weakly. \"And on that you risked our necks.\"", "\"Tell me what spells you've already used.\"\n\n\n Hurriedly, Kiz began enumerating, ticking off items on hairy fingers.\n As he talked Jenkins dug into the black bag and started assembling a\n liter flask, tubing and needles.\n\n\n \"First we brewed witches' root for seven hours and poured it over his\n belly. When the Pox appeared in spite of this we lit three red candles\n at the foot of the bed and beat His Eminence steadily for one hour out\n of four, with new rawhide. When His Eminence protested this, we were\n certain the Spirit had possessed him, so we beat him one hour out of\n two—\"\n\n\n Jenkins winced as the accounting of cabalistic clap-trap continued. His\n Eminence, he reflected, must have had the constitution of an ox. He\n glanced over at the panting figure on the bed. \"But doesn't\nanybody\never recover from this?\"", "They were herded into the car with three guards in front and three\n behind. A tunnel gulped them into darkness as the car careened madly\n into the city. For an endless period they pitched and churned through\n blackness—then suddenly emerged into a high, gilded hall with pale\n sunlight filtering down. From the number of decorated guards, and\n the scraping and groveling that went on as they were hurried through\n embattled corridors, it seemed likely they were nearing the seat of\n government. Finally a pair of steel doors opened to admit them to\n a long, arched hallway. Their leader, who was called Aguar by his\n flunkies, halted them with a snarl and walked across to the tall figure\n guarding the far door. The guard did not seem pleased; he wore a long\n purple cap with a gold ball on the end which twitched wildly as their\n whispered conference devolved into growling and snarling. Finally\n Aguar motioned them to follow, and they entered the far chamber, with\n Purple-Hat glaring at them malignantly as they passed.", "They walked to the bedside and lifted back the covers. Jenkins took a\n limp paw in his hand. He finally found a palpable pulse just below the\n second elbow joint. It was fast and thready. The creature's skin bagged\n loosely from his arm.\n\"Looks like His Eminence can't read,\" Wally muttered. \"He's going fast,\n Doc.\"\n\n\n Jenkins nodded grimly. \"What does it look like to you?\"\n\n\n \"How should I know? I've never seen a healthy Moruan before, to say\n nothing of a sick one. It looks like a pox all right.\"\n\n\n \"Probably a viremia of some sort.\" Jenkins went over the great groaning\n hulk with inquiring fingers.\n\n\n \"If it's a viremia, we're cooked,\" Stone whispered. \"None of the drugs\n cross over—and we won't have time to culture the stuff and grow any\n new ones—\"", "The plink-plink rose to a frantic staccato as Jenkins checked the\n patient's vital signs, wiped more sweat from his furry brow. Quite\n suddenly His Eminence opened bleary eyes, stared about him, let out a\n monumental groan and buried his head in the blankets. In two minutes\n he was snoring softly. His face was cool now, his heart-beat slow and\n regular.", "Jenkins looked sharply at Kiz, and the wizard nodded his head slowly.\n \"Try being quiet for a while,\" Jenkins said to Aguar. \"We're going to\n cure the Boss here.\" Solemnly he slipped off his scarlet tunic and cap\n and laid them on a bench, then set his black bag carefully on the floor\n and threw it open. \"First off, get rid of those things.\" He pointed\n to the braziers at the bedside. \"They're enough to give anybody a\n headache. And tell those people outside to stop the racket. How can\n they expect the Spirit of the Pox to come out of His Eminence when\n they're raising a din like that?\"\n\n\n Aguar's eyes widened for a moment as he hesitated; then he threw open\n the door and screamed a command. The wailing stopped as though a switch\n had been thrown. As a couple of cowering guards crept in to remove the\n braziers, Red Doctor Jenkins drew the wizard aside.", "\"Won't it, now! Well, we have iron\nneedles\nand potions that eat the\n bottoms out of their jars. Suppose\nthey\ndrive him out?\"\n\n\n The Moruan was visibly shaken. He held a whispered conference with his\n henchmen. \"You'll\nshow\nus these things?\" he asked suspiciously.\n\n\n \"I'll make a bargain,\" said Jenkins. \"You give us a Contract, we give\n you the power—fair enough?\"\n\n\n More whispers. Wally Stone tugged at Sam's sleeve. \"What do you think\n you're doing?\" he choked. \"These boys will cut your throat quicker than\n Aguar will—\"\n\n\n \"Maybe not,\" said Sam. \"Look, I've got an idea—risky, but it might\n work if you'll play along. We can't lose much.\"", "Aguar halted them at the door-way. \"His Eminence will see you,\" he\n growled.\n\n\n \"Who is His Eminence?\" Jenkins asked.\n\n\n \"The Lord High Emperor of All Morua and Creator of the Galaxies,\" Aguar\n rumbled. \"He is the Tenth Son of a Tenth Son, and it is written that he\n can never die. When you enter, bow,\" he added.\n\n\n The Tenth Son of a Tenth Son couldn't have cared less whether they\n bowed or not. The room was dark and rank with the smell of sickness. On\n a pallet in the center lay a huge Moruan, panting and groaning. He was\n wrapped like a mummy in bedclothes of scarlet interwoven with gold; on\n either side of the bed braziers flickered with sickly greenish light.", "R\n X\nBY ALAN E. NOURSE\nThe tenth son of a tenth son was very\n \nsick, but it was written that he would\n \nnever die. Of course, it was up to the\n \nEarth doctor to see that he didn't!\n[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Worlds of If Science Fiction, October 1957.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that" ], [ "In the early days of galactic exploration, of course, Medical Services\n was only a minor factor in an expanding commercial network that drew\n multitudes of planets into social and economic interdependence; but\n in any growing civilization division of labor inevitably occurs.\n Other planets outstripped Earth in technology, in communications, in\n transport, and in production techniques—but Earth stood unrivaled in\n its development of the biological sciences. Wherever an Earth ship\n landed, the crew was soon rendering Medical Services of one sort or\n another, whether they had planned it that way or not. On Deneb III\n the Medical Service Contract was formalized, and Hospital Earth came\n into being. Into all known corners of the galaxy ships of the General\n Practice Patrol were dispatched—\"Galactic Pill Peddlers\" forging a", "\"And spend the next twenty years scrubbing test tubes.\" Jenkins shook\n his head. \"Sorry, it took me too long to get aboard one of these tubs.\n We don't do that in the General Practice Patrol, remember? I don't know\n how Morua II got the code, but they got it, and that's all the farther\n we're supposed to think. We answer the call, and beef about it later.\n If we still happen to be around later, that is.\"\nIt had always been that way. Since the first formal Medical Service\n Contract had been signed with Deneb III centuries before, Hospital\n Earth had laboriously built its reputation on that single foundation\n stone: immediate medical assistance, without question or hesitation,\n whenever and wherever it was required, on any planet bound by Contract.\n That was the law, for Hospital Earth could not afford to jeopardize a\n Contract.", "It was a rugged service for a single planet to provide, and it was\n costly. Many planets studied the terms of Contract and declined,\n pleasantly but firmly—and were assured nevertheless that GPP ships\n would answer an emergency call if one was received. There would be a\n fee, of course, but the call would be answered. And then there were\n other planets—places such as Morua II....", "chain of Contracts from Aldebaran to Zarn, accepting calls, diagnosing\n ills, arranging for proper disposition of whatever medical problems\n they came across. Serious problems were shuttled back to Hospital Earth\n without delay; more frequently the GPP crews—doctors of the Red and\n Green services, representing the ancient Earthly arts of medicine and\n surgery—were able to handle the problems on the spot and by themselves.", "\"Wait a minute. Seems to me there was some sort of nasty business—\"\n\n\n Jenkins nodded heavily. \"There sure was. Five successive attempts\n to establish a Contract with them, and five times we got thrown out\n bodily. The last time an Earth ship landed there half the crew was\n summarily shot and the others came home with their ears cut off. Seems\n the folks on Morua II didn't want a Contract with Hospital Earth. And\n they're still in the jungle, as far as their medicine goes. Witch\n doctors and spells.\" He tossed the Info-card down the chute with a\n growl. \"So now we have an emergency call from them in a Contract code\n they couldn't possibly know.\"\n\n\n The surgeon in the green undershorts chewed his lip. \"Looks like\n somebody in that last crew spilled the beans before they shot him.\"\n\n\n \"Obviously.\"", "\"Tell them to forget the armada,\" said Jenkins, grinning. \"And anyway,\n they've got things all wrong back at HQ.\" He brandished a huge roll\n of parchment, stricken through with the colors of the seven Medical\n Services of Hospital Earth. \"Take a look, my boy—the juiciest Medical\n Services Contract that's been written in three centuries—\" He tossed\n the Contract in the dry-storage locker with a sigh. \"Old Kiz just\n finished his first lesson, and he's still wondering what went on—\"\n\n\n \"So am I,\" said the Green Doctor suspiciously.\n\n\n \"It was simple. We cured His Eminence of the Pox.\"\n\n\n \"With what? Incantations?\"", "Jenkins twisted down the volume on his Translator with a grimace.\n \"You're lucky we came at all,\" he said peevishly. \"Where's your\n Contract? Where did you get the Code?\"\n\n\n \"Bother the Contract,\" the Moruan snarled. \"You're supposed to be\n physicians, eh?\" He eyed them up and down as though he disapproved of\n everything that he saw. \"You make sick people well?\"\n\n\n \"That's the general idea.\"\n\n\n \"All right.\" He poked a hairy finger at a shuttle car perched outside.\n \"In there.\"", "Certain basic principles were always the same, a fact which accelerated\n the program considerably. Humanoid or not, all forms of life had basic\n qualities in common. Biochemical reactions were biochemical reactions,\n whether they happened to occur in a wing-creature of Wolf IV or a\n doctor from Sol III. Anatomy was a broad determinant: a jelly-blob from\n Deneb I with its fine skein of pulsating nerve fibrils was still just\n a jelly-blob, and would never rise above the level of amoeboid yes-no\n response because of its utter lack of organization. But a creature\n with an organized central nervous system and a functional division of\n work among organ systems could be categorized, tested, studied, and\n compared, and the information used in combating native disease. Given\n no major setbacks, and full cooperation of the natives, the job only\n took about six months to do—", "the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nThey didn't realize they were in trouble until it was too late to stop\n it. The call from Morua II came in quite innocently, relayed to the\n ship from HQ in Standard GPP Contract code for crash priority, which\n meant Top Grade Planetary Emergency, and don't argue about it, fellows,\n just get there, fast. Red Doctor Sam Jenkins took one look at the\n flashing blinker and slammed the controls into automatic; gyros hummed,\n bearings were computed and checked, and the General Practice Patrol\n ship\nLancet\nspun in its tracks, so to speak, and began homing on the\n call-source like a hound on a fox. The fact that Morua II was a Class\n VI planet didn't quite register with anybody, just then.\n\n\n Ten minutes later the Red Doctor reached for the results of the Initial\n Information Survey on Morua II, and let out a howl of alarm. A single\n card sat in the slot with a wide black stripe across it.", "Jenkins snapped on the intercom. \"Wally,\" he yelped. \"Better get up\n here fast.\"\n\n\n \"Trouble?\" said the squawk-box, sleepily.\n\n\n \"Oh, brother,\" said Jenkins. \"Somebody's cracked the Contract Code or\n something.\"\n\n\n A moment later a tall sleepy man in green undershorts appeared at\n the control room, rubbing his eyes. \"What happened?\" he said. \"We've\n changed course.\"\n\n\n \"Yeah. Ever hear of Morua II?\"\n\n\n Green Doctor Wally Stone frowned and scratched his whiskered chin.\n \"Sounds familiar, but I can't quite tune in. Crash call?\" His eye\n caught the black-striped card. \"Class VI planet ... a plague spot! How\n can we get a crash-call from\nthis\n?\"\n\n\n \"You tell me,\" said Jenkins.", "The\nLancet\nhomed on the dismal grey planet with an escort of eight\n ugly fighter ships which had swarmed up like hornets to greet her. They\n triangled her in, grappled her, and dropped her with a bone-jarring\n crash into a landing slot on the edge of the city. As Sam Jenkins and\n Wally Stone picked themselves off the bulkheads, trying to rearrange\n the scarlet and green uniforms of their respective services, the main\n entrance lock burst open with a squeal of tortured metal. At least a\n dozen Moruans poured into the control room—huge bearlike creatures\n with heavy grey fur ruffing out around their faces like thick hairy\n dog collars. The one in command strode forward arrogantly, one huge\n paw leveling a placer-gun with a distinct air of business about it.\n \"Well, you took long enough!\" he roared, baring a set of yellow fangs\n that sent shivers up Jenkins' spine. \"Fourteen hours! Do you call that\n speed?\"", "\"Yeah,\" said Wally. \"What, for instance?\"\n\n\n \"Well, we've got a little to go on just from looking at them. They're\n oxygen-breathers, which means they manage internal combustion of\n carbohydrates, somehow. From the grey skin color I'd guess at a cuprous\n or stannous heme-protein carrying system. They're carnivores, but god\n knows what their protein metabolism is like—Let's get going on some of\n these specimens Aguar has rounded up for us.\"\n\n\n They dug in frantically. Under normal conditions a GPP ship would\n send in a full crew of technicians to a newly-Contracted planet to\n make the initial Bio-survey of the indigenous races. Bio-chemists,\n physiologists, anatomists, microbiologists, radiologists—survey\n workers from every Service would examine and study the new clients,\n take them apart cell by cell to see what made them tick.", "Jenkins snatched the mortar from Kiz, and with a wild flourish smashed\n it on the stone floor. Then he grabbed the wizard's paw, raising it\n high. \"You've done well!\" he cried to the bewildered physician. \"It's\n over now—the Spirit has departed. His Eminence will recover.\"\nThey escorted him in triumphal procession back to the\nLancet\n, where\n Wally Stone stared in disbelief as Jenkins and Kiz bowed and hugged\n each other like long-lost brothers at a sad farewell. \"I finally got\n through to somebody at HQ,\" he said as the Red Doctor climbed aboard.\n \"It'll take them twenty days at least, to get help, considering that\n Morua is not a Contract planet and we're not supposed to be here in the\n first place, but that's the best they can do....\"", "\"Not quite,\" said the Red Doctor. \"You're forgetting that I had\n one other prescription to use—the oldest, most trustworthy\n healer-of-all-ills known to medicine, just as potent now as it was a\n thousand years ago. Without it, Hospital Earth might just as well pack\n up her little black bag and go home.\" He smiled into the mirror as he\n adjusted the scarlet band of the Red Service across his shoulders. \"We\n call it Tincture of Time,\" he said.", "For the crew of the\nLancet\nsix hours was seven hours too long. They\n herded cringing Moruan \"volunteers\" into the little ship's lab. Jenkins\n handled external examinations and blood and tissue chemistries; Stone\n ran the X-ray and pan-endoscopic examinations. After four grueling\n hours the Red Doctor groaned and scowled at the growing pile of data.\n \"Okay. It seems that they're vaguely humanoid. And that's about all we\n can say for sure. I think we're wasting time. What say we tackle the\n Wizards for a while?\"\n\n\n Aguar's guards urged the tall Moruan with the purple cap into the\n control room at gunpoint, along with a couple of minor medical\n potentates. Purple-hat's name was Kiz, and it seemed that he wasn't\n having any that day.", "Jenkins took a deep breath and gripped his red tunic around his throat\n tightly. \"Sure, sure,\" he said weakly. \"You just watch us.\"\n\"But what do you think we're going to do?\" the surgeon wailed, back\n in the control room of the\nLancet\n. \"Sam, we can't\ntouch\nhim. If\n he didn't die naturally we'd kill him for sure! We can't go near him\n without a Bio-survey—look what happened on Baron when they tried it!\n Half the planetary population wiped out before they realized that the\n antibiotic was more deadly to the race than the virus was....\"\n\n\n \"Might not be such a bad idea for Morua,\" the Red Doctor muttered\n grimly. \"Well, what did you expect me to do—politely refuse? And\n have our throats slit right on the spot?\" He grabbed a pad and began\n scribbling. \"We've got to do\nsomething\njust to keep alive for a\n while.\"", "Kiz began sputtering indignantly; the Red Doctor cut him off. \"It\n adds up,\" he said heatedly. \"You've got the power, you've got your\n magic and all. Maybe you were the boys that turned thumbs down so\n violently on the idea of a Hospital Earth Contract, eh? Couldn't risk\n having outsiders cutting in on your trade.\" Jenkins rubbed his chin\n thoughtfully. \"But somehow it seems to me you'd have a whale of a lot\n more power if you learned how to control this Pox.\"\n\n\n Kiz stopped sputtering quite abruptly. He blinked at his confederates\n for a long moment. Then: \"You're an idiot. It can't be done.\"\n\n\n \"Suppose it could.\"\n\n\n \"The Spirit of the Pox is too strong. Our most powerful spells make him\n laugh. He eats our powders and drinks our potions. Even the Iron Circle\n won't drive him out.\"", "\"No thanks, not me. This is a medical case and it's all yours. What do\n you want me to do?\"\n\n\n \"Stay here and try your damnedest to get through to HQ,\" said Sam\n grimly. \"Tell them to send an armada, because we're liable to need one\n in the next few hours—\"\nIf the Tenth Son of a Tenth Son had looked bad before, three hours had\n witnessed no improvement. The potentate's skin had turned from grey\n to a pasty green as he lay panting on the bed. He seemed to have lost\n strength enough even to groan, and his eyes were glazed.\n\n\n Outside the royal chambers Jenkins found a group of green-clad\n mourners, wailing like banshees and tearing out their fur in great grey\n chunks. They stood about a flaming brazier; as Jenkins entered the\n sickroom the wails rose ten decibels and took on a howling-dog quality.", "\"Oh, the incantations were for the\ndoctors\n,\" said Jenkins. \"They\n expected them, obviously, since that was the only level of medicine\n they could understand. And incidentally, the only level that could\n possibly get us a Contract. Anyway, I couldn't do very much else, under\n the circumstances, except for a little supportive therapy. Without a\n Bio-survey we were hamstrung. But whatever the Pox is, it obviously\n involves fever, starvation and dehydration. I knew that His Eminence\n could assimilate carbohydrates, and I took a long gamble that an\n antipyretic wouldn't hurt him too much—\"\n\n\n Wally Stone's jaw sagged. \"So you treated him with sugar-water and\n aspirin,\" he said weakly. \"And on that you risked our necks.\"", "Jenkins turned to Aguar. \"How long has this gone on?\"\n\n\n \"For days,\" the Moruan growled. \"He can't speak. He grows hot and\n cannot eat. He moans until the Palace trembles.\"\n\n\n \"What about your own doctors?\"\n\n\n Aguar spat angrily on the floor. \"They are jealous as cats until\n trouble comes. Then they hide in the caves like chickens. See the\n green flames? Death flames. They leave him here to die. But now that\n is all over. We have heard about you wizards from Hospital Earth. You\n cure all, the stories say. You are very wise, they say. You balance\n the humors and drive forth the spirits of the Pox like devils.\" He\n gave them a terrible grin and tightened his hand on the gold-encrusted\n sword. \"Now we see.\"" ], [ "His Eminence looked up at them from bloodshot eyes and greeted them\n with a groan of anguish that seemed to roll up from the soles of his\n feet. \"Go away,\" he moaned, closing his eyes again and rolling over\n with his back toward them.\n\n\n The Red Doctor blinked at his companion, then turned to Aguar. \"What\n illness is this?\" he whispered.\n\n\n \"He is afflicted with a Pox, as any fool can see. All others it\n kills—but His Eminence is the Tenth Son of a Tenth Son, and it is\n written—\"\n\n\n \"Yes, yes, I know. He can never die.\" Sam gave Wally a sour look. \"What\n happens, though, if he just up and does?\"\n\n\n Aguar's paw came down with a clatter on the hilt of his sword. \"\nHe\n does not die.\nWe have you here now. You are doctors, you say. Cure\n him.\"", "The room was deathly still except for a heavy snuffling sound from His\n Eminence and the plink-plink of the pestle on the mortar. The flask of\n purple stuff gurgled quietly. An hour passed, and another. Suddenly\n Jenkins motioned to Kiz. \"His pulse—quickly!\"\n\n\n Kiz scampered gratefully over to the bedside. \"A hundred and eighty,\"\n he whispered.\n\n\n Jenkins' face darkened. He peered at the sick man intently. \"It's a\n bad sign,\" he said. \"The Spirit is furious at the intrusion of an\n outsider.\" He motioned toward the mortar. \"Can you do this?\"\n\n\n Without breaking the rhythm he transferred the plinking-job to Kiz.\n He changed the dwindling intravenous bottle. \"Call me when the bottle\n is empty—or if there is any change. Whatever you do,\ndon't touch\n anything\n.\"", "With that he tiptoed from the room. Four murderous-looking guards\n caught Aguar's eye and followed him out, swords bared. Jenkins sank\n down on a bench in the hall and fell asleep in an instant.\nThey woke him once, hours later, to change the intravenous solution,\n and he found Kiz still intently pounding on the mortar. Jenkins\n administered more of the white powder in water down the tube, and went\n back to his bench. He had barely fallen asleep again when they were\n rousing him with frightened voices. \"Quickly!\" Aguar cried. \"There's\n been a terrible change!\"\n\n\n In the sickroom His Eminence was drenched with sweat, his face\n glistening in the light of the bunsen burners. He rolled from side to\n side, groaning hoarsely. \"\nFaster!\n\" Jenkins shouted to Kiz at the\n mortar, and began stripping off the sodden bedclothes. \"Blankets,\n now—plenty of them.\"", "The plink-plink rose to a frantic staccato as Jenkins checked the\n patient's vital signs, wiped more sweat from his furry brow. Quite\n suddenly His Eminence opened bleary eyes, stared about him, let out a\n monumental groan and buried his head in the blankets. In two minutes\n he was snoring softly. His face was cool now, his heart-beat slow and\n regular.", "\"Now!\" said Jenkins, pulling out a long thin rubber tube. \"This should\n annoy the Spirit of the Pox something fierce.\" He popped the tube into\n the patient's mouth. His Eminence rose up with a gasp, choking and\n fighting, but the tube went down. The Red Doctor ground three white\n pills into powder, mixed in some water, and poured it down the tube.\n\n\n Then he stepped back to view the scene, wiping cold perspiration from\n his forehead. He motioned to Kiz. \"You see what I'm doing, of course?\"\n he said loudly enough for Aguar and the guards to hear.\n\n\n \"Oh, yes—yes! Indeed, indeed,\" said Kiz.\n\n\n \"Fine. Now this is most important.\" Jenkins searched in the bag until\n he found a large mortar which he set down on the floor. Squatting\n behind it, he began tapping it slowly with the pestle, in perfect\n rhythm with the intravenous drip ... and waited.", "\"Oh, the incantations were for the\ndoctors\n,\" said Jenkins. \"They\n expected them, obviously, since that was the only level of medicine\n they could understand. And incidentally, the only level that could\n possibly get us a Contract. Anyway, I couldn't do very much else, under\n the circumstances, except for a little supportive therapy. Without a\n Bio-survey we were hamstrung. But whatever the Pox is, it obviously\n involves fever, starvation and dehydration. I knew that His Eminence\n could assimilate carbohydrates, and I took a long gamble that an\n antipyretic wouldn't hurt him too much—\"\n\n\n Wally Stone's jaw sagged. \"So you treated him with sugar-water and\n aspirin,\" he said weakly. \"And on that you risked our necks.\"", "\"Tell me what spells you've already used.\"\n\n\n Hurriedly, Kiz began enumerating, ticking off items on hairy fingers.\n As he talked Jenkins dug into the black bag and started assembling a\n liter flask, tubing and needles.\n\n\n \"First we brewed witches' root for seven hours and poured it over his\n belly. When the Pox appeared in spite of this we lit three red candles\n at the foot of the bed and beat His Eminence steadily for one hour out\n of four, with new rawhide. When His Eminence protested this, we were\n certain the Spirit had possessed him, so we beat him one hour out of\n two—\"\n\n\n Jenkins winced as the accounting of cabalistic clap-trap continued. His\n Eminence, he reflected, must have had the constitution of an ox. He\n glanced over at the panting figure on the bed. \"But doesn't\nanybody\never recover from this?\"", "Jenkins looked sharply at Kiz, and the wizard nodded his head slowly.\n \"Try being quiet for a while,\" Jenkins said to Aguar. \"We're going to\n cure the Boss here.\" Solemnly he slipped off his scarlet tunic and cap\n and laid them on a bench, then set his black bag carefully on the floor\n and threw it open. \"First off, get rid of those things.\" He pointed\n to the braziers at the bedside. \"They're enough to give anybody a\n headache. And tell those people outside to stop the racket. How can\n they expect the Spirit of the Pox to come out of His Eminence when\n they're raising a din like that?\"\n\n\n Aguar's eyes widened for a moment as he hesitated; then he threw open\n the door and screamed a command. The wailing stopped as though a switch\n had been thrown. As a couple of cowering guards crept in to remove the\n braziers, Red Doctor Jenkins drew the wizard aside.", "Aguar met him at the door. \"He's dying,\" he roared angrily. \"Why don't\n you do something? Every hour he sinks more rapidly, and all you do is\n poke holes in the healthy ones! And then you send in\nthis\nbag of\n bones again—\" He glowered at the tall purple-capped figure bending\n over the bed.", "Aguar halted them at the door-way. \"His Eminence will see you,\" he\n growled.\n\n\n \"Who is His Eminence?\" Jenkins asked.\n\n\n \"The Lord High Emperor of All Morua and Creator of the Galaxies,\" Aguar\n rumbled. \"He is the Tenth Son of a Tenth Son, and it is written that he\n can never die. When you enter, bow,\" he added.\n\n\n The Tenth Son of a Tenth Son couldn't have cared less whether they\n bowed or not. The room was dark and rank with the smell of sickness. On\n a pallet in the center lay a huge Moruan, panting and groaning. He was\n wrapped like a mummy in bedclothes of scarlet interwoven with gold; on\n either side of the bed braziers flickered with sickly greenish light.", "\"Look,\" said Jenkins intensely. \"You've seen this illness before. We\n haven't. So you can at least get us started. What kind of course does\n it run?\"\n\n\n Silence.\n\n\n \"All right then, what causes it? Do you know? Bacteria? Virus?\n Degeneration?\"\n\n\n Silence.\n\n\n Jenkins' face was pale. \"Look, boys—your Boss out there is going to\n cool before long if something doesn't happen fast—\" His eyes narrowed\n on Kiz. \"Of course, that might be right up your alley—how about that?\n His Eminence bows out, somebody has to bow in, right? Maybe you, huh?\"", "They walked to the bedside and lifted back the covers. Jenkins took a\n limp paw in his hand. He finally found a palpable pulse just below the\n second elbow joint. It was fast and thready. The creature's skin bagged\n loosely from his arm.\n\"Looks like His Eminence can't read,\" Wally muttered. \"He's going fast,\n Doc.\"\n\n\n Jenkins nodded grimly. \"What does it look like to you?\"\n\n\n \"How should I know? I've never seen a healthy Moruan before, to say\n nothing of a sick one. It looks like a pox all right.\"\n\n\n \"Probably a viremia of some sort.\" Jenkins went over the great groaning\n hulk with inquiring fingers.\n\n\n \"If it's a viremia, we're cooked,\" Stone whispered. \"None of the drugs\n cross over—and we won't have time to culture the stuff and grow any\n new ones—\"", "Jenkins turned to Aguar. \"How long has this gone on?\"\n\n\n \"For days,\" the Moruan growled. \"He can't speak. He grows hot and\n cannot eat. He moans until the Palace trembles.\"\n\n\n \"What about your own doctors?\"\n\n\n Aguar spat angrily on the floor. \"They are jealous as cats until\n trouble comes. Then they hide in the caves like chickens. See the\n green flames? Death flames. They leave him here to die. But now that\n is all over. We have heard about you wizards from Hospital Earth. You\n cure all, the stories say. You are very wise, they say. You balance\n the humors and drive forth the spirits of the Pox like devils.\" He\n gave them a terrible grin and tightened his hand on the gold-encrusted\n sword. \"Now we see.\"", "\"Not quite,\" said the Red Doctor. \"You're forgetting that I had\n one other prescription to use—the oldest, most trustworthy\n healer-of-all-ills known to medicine, just as potent now as it was a\n thousand years ago. Without it, Hospital Earth might just as well pack\n up her little black bag and go home.\" He smiled into the mirror as he\n adjusted the scarlet band of the Red Service across his shoulders. \"We\n call it Tincture of Time,\" he said.", "Aguar let out a horrified scream and raced from the room; in a moment\n he was back with a detachment of guards, all armed to the teeth, and\n three other Moruan physicians with their retinues of apprentices. Sam\n Jenkins held up his hand for silence. He allowed the first intravenous\n flask to pour in rapidly; the second he adjusted to a steady\n drip-drip-drip.\n\n\n Next he pulled two large bunsen burners and a gas tank from the bag.\n These he set up at the foot of the bed, adjusting the blue flames to\n high spear-tips. On the bedside table he set up a third with a flask\n above it; into this he poured some water and a few crystals from a dark\n bottle. In a moment the fluid in the flask was churning and boiling, an\n ominous purple color.\n\n\n Kiz watched goggle-eyed.", "\"Tell them to forget the armada,\" said Jenkins, grinning. \"And anyway,\n they've got things all wrong back at HQ.\" He brandished a huge roll\n of parchment, stricken through with the colors of the seven Medical\n Services of Hospital Earth. \"Take a look, my boy—the juiciest Medical\n Services Contract that's been written in three centuries—\" He tossed\n the Contract in the dry-storage locker with a sigh. \"Old Kiz just\n finished his first lesson, and he's still wondering what went on—\"\n\n\n \"So am I,\" said the Green Doctor suspiciously.\n\n\n \"It was simple. We cured His Eminence of the Pox.\"\n\n\n \"With what? Incantations?\"", "The whispers stopped and Kiz nodded to the Red Doctor. \"All right, we\n bargain,\" he said. \"\nAfter\nyou show us.\"\n\n\n \"Now or never.\" Jenkins threw open the door and nodded to the guards.\n \"I'll be in the sickroom in a very short while. If you're with me, I'll\n see you there. If not—\" He fingered his throat suggestively.\n\n\n As soon as they had gone Jenkins dived into the storeroom and began\n throwing flasks and bottles into a black bag. Wally Stone watched him\n in bewilderment. \"You're going to kill him,\" he moaned. \"Prayers,\n promises, pills and post-mortems. That's the Medical service for you.\"\n\n\n Sam grinned. \"Maybe you should operate on him.\nThat\nwould open their\n eyes all right.\"", "\"No thanks, not me. This is a medical case and it's all yours. What do\n you want me to do?\"\n\n\n \"Stay here and try your damnedest to get through to HQ,\" said Sam\n grimly. \"Tell them to send an armada, because we're liable to need one\n in the next few hours—\"\nIf the Tenth Son of a Tenth Son had looked bad before, three hours had\n witnessed no improvement. The potentate's skin had turned from grey\n to a pasty green as he lay panting on the bed. He seemed to have lost\n strength enough even to groan, and his eyes were glazed.\n\n\n Outside the royal chambers Jenkins found a group of green-clad\n mourners, wailing like banshees and tearing out their fur in great grey\n chunks. They stood about a flaming brazier; as Jenkins entered the\n sickroom the wails rose ten decibels and took on a howling-dog quality.", "For the crew of the\nLancet\nsix hours was seven hours too long. They\n herded cringing Moruan \"volunteers\" into the little ship's lab. Jenkins\n handled external examinations and blood and tissue chemistries; Stone\n ran the X-ray and pan-endoscopic examinations. After four grueling\n hours the Red Doctor groaned and scowled at the growing pile of data.\n \"Okay. It seems that they're vaguely humanoid. And that's about all we\n can say for sure. I think we're wasting time. What say we tackle the\n Wizards for a while?\"\n\n\n Aguar's guards urged the tall Moruan with the purple cap into the\n control room at gunpoint, along with a couple of minor medical\n potentates. Purple-hat's name was Kiz, and it seemed that he wasn't\n having any that day.", "\"Oh, yes—if the Spirit that afflicts them is very small. Those are\n the fortunate ones. They grow hot and sick, but they still can eat\n and drink—\" The wizard broke off to stare at the bottle-and-tube\n arrangement Jenkins had prepared. \"What's that?\"\n\n\n \"I told you about the iron needles, didn't I? Hold this a moment.\"\n Jenkins handed him the liter flask. \"Hold it high.\" He began searching\n for a vein on the patient's baggy arm. The Moruan equivalent of blood\n flowed back greenishly in the tube for an instant as he placed the\n needle; then the flask began to drip slowly." ], [ "In the early days of galactic exploration, of course, Medical Services\n was only a minor factor in an expanding commercial network that drew\n multitudes of planets into social and economic interdependence; but\n in any growing civilization division of labor inevitably occurs.\n Other planets outstripped Earth in technology, in communications, in\n transport, and in production techniques—but Earth stood unrivaled in\n its development of the biological sciences. Wherever an Earth ship\n landed, the crew was soon rendering Medical Services of one sort or\n another, whether they had planned it that way or not. On Deneb III\n the Medical Service Contract was formalized, and Hospital Earth came\n into being. Into all known corners of the galaxy ships of the General\n Practice Patrol were dispatched—\"Galactic Pill Peddlers\" forging a", "\"And spend the next twenty years scrubbing test tubes.\" Jenkins shook\n his head. \"Sorry, it took me too long to get aboard one of these tubs.\n We don't do that in the General Practice Patrol, remember? I don't know\n how Morua II got the code, but they got it, and that's all the farther\n we're supposed to think. We answer the call, and beef about it later.\n If we still happen to be around later, that is.\"\nIt had always been that way. Since the first formal Medical Service\n Contract had been signed with Deneb III centuries before, Hospital\n Earth had laboriously built its reputation on that single foundation\n stone: immediate medical assistance, without question or hesitation,\n whenever and wherever it was required, on any planet bound by Contract.\n That was the law, for Hospital Earth could not afford to jeopardize a\n Contract.", "\"Wait a minute. Seems to me there was some sort of nasty business—\"\n\n\n Jenkins nodded heavily. \"There sure was. Five successive attempts\n to establish a Contract with them, and five times we got thrown out\n bodily. The last time an Earth ship landed there half the crew was\n summarily shot and the others came home with their ears cut off. Seems\n the folks on Morua II didn't want a Contract with Hospital Earth. And\n they're still in the jungle, as far as their medicine goes. Witch\n doctors and spells.\" He tossed the Info-card down the chute with a\n growl. \"So now we have an emergency call from them in a Contract code\n they couldn't possibly know.\"\n\n\n The surgeon in the green undershorts chewed his lip. \"Looks like\n somebody in that last crew spilled the beans before they shot him.\"\n\n\n \"Obviously.\"", "\"Tell them to forget the armada,\" said Jenkins, grinning. \"And anyway,\n they've got things all wrong back at HQ.\" He brandished a huge roll\n of parchment, stricken through with the colors of the seven Medical\n Services of Hospital Earth. \"Take a look, my boy—the juiciest Medical\n Services Contract that's been written in three centuries—\" He tossed\n the Contract in the dry-storage locker with a sigh. \"Old Kiz just\n finished his first lesson, and he's still wondering what went on—\"\n\n\n \"So am I,\" said the Green Doctor suspiciously.\n\n\n \"It was simple. We cured His Eminence of the Pox.\"\n\n\n \"With what? Incantations?\"", "\"Not quite,\" said the Red Doctor. \"You're forgetting that I had\n one other prescription to use—the oldest, most trustworthy\n healer-of-all-ills known to medicine, just as potent now as it was a\n thousand years ago. Without it, Hospital Earth might just as well pack\n up her little black bag and go home.\" He smiled into the mirror as he\n adjusted the scarlet band of the Red Service across his shoulders. \"We\n call it Tincture of Time,\" he said.", "It was a rugged service for a single planet to provide, and it was\n costly. Many planets studied the terms of Contract and declined,\n pleasantly but firmly—and were assured nevertheless that GPP ships\n would answer an emergency call if one was received. There would be a\n fee, of course, but the call would be answered. And then there were\n other planets—places such as Morua II....", "Certain basic principles were always the same, a fact which accelerated\n the program considerably. Humanoid or not, all forms of life had basic\n qualities in common. Biochemical reactions were biochemical reactions,\n whether they happened to occur in a wing-creature of Wolf IV or a\n doctor from Sol III. Anatomy was a broad determinant: a jelly-blob from\n Deneb I with its fine skein of pulsating nerve fibrils was still just\n a jelly-blob, and would never rise above the level of amoeboid yes-no\n response because of its utter lack of organization. But a creature\n with an organized central nervous system and a functional division of\n work among organ systems could be categorized, tested, studied, and\n compared, and the information used in combating native disease. Given\n no major setbacks, and full cooperation of the natives, the job only\n took about six months to do—", "chain of Contracts from Aldebaran to Zarn, accepting calls, diagnosing\n ills, arranging for proper disposition of whatever medical problems\n they came across. Serious problems were shuttled back to Hospital Earth\n without delay; more frequently the GPP crews—doctors of the Red and\n Green services, representing the ancient Earthly arts of medicine and\n surgery—were able to handle the problems on the spot and by themselves.", "Jenkins turned to Aguar. \"How long has this gone on?\"\n\n\n \"For days,\" the Moruan growled. \"He can't speak. He grows hot and\n cannot eat. He moans until the Palace trembles.\"\n\n\n \"What about your own doctors?\"\n\n\n Aguar spat angrily on the floor. \"They are jealous as cats until\n trouble comes. Then they hide in the caves like chickens. See the\n green flames? Death flames. They leave him here to die. But now that\n is all over. We have heard about you wizards from Hospital Earth. You\n cure all, the stories say. You are very wise, they say. You balance\n the humors and drive forth the spirits of the Pox like devils.\" He\n gave them a terrible grin and tightened his hand on the gold-encrusted\n sword. \"Now we see.\"", "the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nThey didn't realize they were in trouble until it was too late to stop\n it. The call from Morua II came in quite innocently, relayed to the\n ship from HQ in Standard GPP Contract code for crash priority, which\n meant Top Grade Planetary Emergency, and don't argue about it, fellows,\n just get there, fast. Red Doctor Sam Jenkins took one look at the\n flashing blinker and slammed the controls into automatic; gyros hummed,\n bearings were computed and checked, and the General Practice Patrol\n ship\nLancet\nspun in its tracks, so to speak, and began homing on the\n call-source like a hound on a fox. The fact that Morua II was a Class\n VI planet didn't quite register with anybody, just then.\n\n\n Ten minutes later the Red Doctor reached for the results of the Initial\n Information Survey on Morua II, and let out a howl of alarm. A single\n card sat in the slot with a wide black stripe across it.", "Jenkins twisted down the volume on his Translator with a grimace.\n \"You're lucky we came at all,\" he said peevishly. \"Where's your\n Contract? Where did you get the Code?\"\n\n\n \"Bother the Contract,\" the Moruan snarled. \"You're supposed to be\n physicians, eh?\" He eyed them up and down as though he disapproved of\n everything that he saw. \"You make sick people well?\"\n\n\n \"That's the general idea.\"\n\n\n \"All right.\" He poked a hairy finger at a shuttle car perched outside.\n \"In there.\"", "Jenkins snapped on the intercom. \"Wally,\" he yelped. \"Better get up\n here fast.\"\n\n\n \"Trouble?\" said the squawk-box, sleepily.\n\n\n \"Oh, brother,\" said Jenkins. \"Somebody's cracked the Contract Code or\n something.\"\n\n\n A moment later a tall sleepy man in green undershorts appeared at\n the control room, rubbing his eyes. \"What happened?\" he said. \"We've\n changed course.\"\n\n\n \"Yeah. Ever hear of Morua II?\"\n\n\n Green Doctor Wally Stone frowned and scratched his whiskered chin.\n \"Sounds familiar, but I can't quite tune in. Crash call?\" His eye\n caught the black-striped card. \"Class VI planet ... a plague spot! How\n can we get a crash-call from\nthis\n?\"\n\n\n \"You tell me,\" said Jenkins.", "Kiz began sputtering indignantly; the Red Doctor cut him off. \"It\n adds up,\" he said heatedly. \"You've got the power, you've got your\n magic and all. Maybe you were the boys that turned thumbs down so\n violently on the idea of a Hospital Earth Contract, eh? Couldn't risk\n having outsiders cutting in on your trade.\" Jenkins rubbed his chin\n thoughtfully. \"But somehow it seems to me you'd have a whale of a lot\n more power if you learned how to control this Pox.\"\n\n\n Kiz stopped sputtering quite abruptly. He blinked at his confederates\n for a long moment. Then: \"You're an idiot. It can't be done.\"\n\n\n \"Suppose it could.\"\n\n\n \"The Spirit of the Pox is too strong. Our most powerful spells make him\n laugh. He eats our powders and drinks our potions. Even the Iron Circle\n won't drive him out.\"", "The\nLancet\nhomed on the dismal grey planet with an escort of eight\n ugly fighter ships which had swarmed up like hornets to greet her. They\n triangled her in, grappled her, and dropped her with a bone-jarring\n crash into a landing slot on the edge of the city. As Sam Jenkins and\n Wally Stone picked themselves off the bulkheads, trying to rearrange\n the scarlet and green uniforms of their respective services, the main\n entrance lock burst open with a squeal of tortured metal. At least a\n dozen Moruans poured into the control room—huge bearlike creatures\n with heavy grey fur ruffing out around their faces like thick hairy\n dog collars. The one in command strode forward arrogantly, one huge\n paw leveling a placer-gun with a distinct air of business about it.\n \"Well, you took long enough!\" he roared, baring a set of yellow fangs\n that sent shivers up Jenkins' spine. \"Fourteen hours! Do you call that\n speed?\"", "Jenkins snatched the mortar from Kiz, and with a wild flourish smashed\n it on the stone floor. Then he grabbed the wizard's paw, raising it\n high. \"You've done well!\" he cried to the bewildered physician. \"It's\n over now—the Spirit has departed. His Eminence will recover.\"\nThey escorted him in triumphal procession back to the\nLancet\n, where\n Wally Stone stared in disbelief as Jenkins and Kiz bowed and hugged\n each other like long-lost brothers at a sad farewell. \"I finally got\n through to somebody at HQ,\" he said as the Red Doctor climbed aboard.\n \"It'll take them twenty days at least, to get help, considering that\n Morua is not a Contract planet and we're not supposed to be here in the\n first place, but that's the best they can do....\"", "Jenkins took a deep breath and gripped his red tunic around his throat\n tightly. \"Sure, sure,\" he said weakly. \"You just watch us.\"\n\"But what do you think we're going to do?\" the surgeon wailed, back\n in the control room of the\nLancet\n. \"Sam, we can't\ntouch\nhim. If\n he didn't die naturally we'd kill him for sure! We can't go near him\n without a Bio-survey—look what happened on Baron when they tried it!\n Half the planetary population wiped out before they realized that the\n antibiotic was more deadly to the race than the virus was....\"\n\n\n \"Might not be such a bad idea for Morua,\" the Red Doctor muttered\n grimly. \"Well, what did you expect me to do—politely refuse? And\n have our throats slit right on the spot?\" He grabbed a pad and began\n scribbling. \"We've got to do\nsomething\njust to keep alive for a\n while.\"", "For the crew of the\nLancet\nsix hours was seven hours too long. They\n herded cringing Moruan \"volunteers\" into the little ship's lab. Jenkins\n handled external examinations and blood and tissue chemistries; Stone\n ran the X-ray and pan-endoscopic examinations. After four grueling\n hours the Red Doctor groaned and scowled at the growing pile of data.\n \"Okay. It seems that they're vaguely humanoid. And that's about all we\n can say for sure. I think we're wasting time. What say we tackle the\n Wizards for a while?\"\n\n\n Aguar's guards urged the tall Moruan with the purple cap into the\n control room at gunpoint, along with a couple of minor medical\n potentates. Purple-hat's name was Kiz, and it seemed that he wasn't\n having any that day.", "Aguar halted them at the door-way. \"His Eminence will see you,\" he\n growled.\n\n\n \"Who is His Eminence?\" Jenkins asked.\n\n\n \"The Lord High Emperor of All Morua and Creator of the Galaxies,\" Aguar\n rumbled. \"He is the Tenth Son of a Tenth Son, and it is written that he\n can never die. When you enter, bow,\" he added.\n\n\n The Tenth Son of a Tenth Son couldn't have cared less whether they\n bowed or not. The room was dark and rank with the smell of sickness. On\n a pallet in the center lay a huge Moruan, panting and groaning. He was\n wrapped like a mummy in bedclothes of scarlet interwoven with gold; on\n either side of the bed braziers flickered with sickly greenish light.", "\"Oh, the incantations were for the\ndoctors\n,\" said Jenkins. \"They\n expected them, obviously, since that was the only level of medicine\n they could understand. And incidentally, the only level that could\n possibly get us a Contract. Anyway, I couldn't do very much else, under\n the circumstances, except for a little supportive therapy. Without a\n Bio-survey we were hamstrung. But whatever the Pox is, it obviously\n involves fever, starvation and dehydration. I knew that His Eminence\n could assimilate carbohydrates, and I took a long gamble that an\n antipyretic wouldn't hurt him too much—\"\n\n\n Wally Stone's jaw sagged. \"So you treated him with sugar-water and\n aspirin,\" he said weakly. \"And on that you risked our necks.\"", "\"Yeah,\" said Wally. \"What, for instance?\"\n\n\n \"Well, we've got a little to go on just from looking at them. They're\n oxygen-breathers, which means they manage internal combustion of\n carbohydrates, somehow. From the grey skin color I'd guess at a cuprous\n or stannous heme-protein carrying system. They're carnivores, but god\n knows what their protein metabolism is like—Let's get going on some of\n these specimens Aguar has rounded up for us.\"\n\n\n They dug in frantically. Under normal conditions a GPP ship would\n send in a full crew of technicians to a newly-Contracted planet to\n make the initial Bio-survey of the indigenous races. Bio-chemists,\n physiologists, anatomists, microbiologists, radiologists—survey\n workers from every Service would examine and study the new clients,\n take them apart cell by cell to see what made them tick." ], [ "It was a rugged service for a single planet to provide, and it was\n costly. Many planets studied the terms of Contract and declined,\n pleasantly but firmly—and were assured nevertheless that GPP ships\n would answer an emergency call if one was received. There would be a\n fee, of course, but the call would be answered. And then there were\n other planets—places such as Morua II....", "Jenkins snapped on the intercom. \"Wally,\" he yelped. \"Better get up\n here fast.\"\n\n\n \"Trouble?\" said the squawk-box, sleepily.\n\n\n \"Oh, brother,\" said Jenkins. \"Somebody's cracked the Contract Code or\n something.\"\n\n\n A moment later a tall sleepy man in green undershorts appeared at\n the control room, rubbing his eyes. \"What happened?\" he said. \"We've\n changed course.\"\n\n\n \"Yeah. Ever hear of Morua II?\"\n\n\n Green Doctor Wally Stone frowned and scratched his whiskered chin.\n \"Sounds familiar, but I can't quite tune in. Crash call?\" His eye\n caught the black-striped card. \"Class VI planet ... a plague spot! How\n can we get a crash-call from\nthis\n?\"\n\n\n \"You tell me,\" said Jenkins.", "the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nThey didn't realize they were in trouble until it was too late to stop\n it. The call from Morua II came in quite innocently, relayed to the\n ship from HQ in Standard GPP Contract code for crash priority, which\n meant Top Grade Planetary Emergency, and don't argue about it, fellows,\n just get there, fast. Red Doctor Sam Jenkins took one look at the\n flashing blinker and slammed the controls into automatic; gyros hummed,\n bearings were computed and checked, and the General Practice Patrol\n ship\nLancet\nspun in its tracks, so to speak, and began homing on the\n call-source like a hound on a fox. The fact that Morua II was a Class\n VI planet didn't quite register with anybody, just then.\n\n\n Ten minutes later the Red Doctor reached for the results of the Initial\n Information Survey on Morua II, and let out a howl of alarm. A single\n card sat in the slot with a wide black stripe across it.", "\"Wait a minute. Seems to me there was some sort of nasty business—\"\n\n\n Jenkins nodded heavily. \"There sure was. Five successive attempts\n to establish a Contract with them, and five times we got thrown out\n bodily. The last time an Earth ship landed there half the crew was\n summarily shot and the others came home with their ears cut off. Seems\n the folks on Morua II didn't want a Contract with Hospital Earth. And\n they're still in the jungle, as far as their medicine goes. Witch\n doctors and spells.\" He tossed the Info-card down the chute with a\n growl. \"So now we have an emergency call from them in a Contract code\n they couldn't possibly know.\"\n\n\n The surgeon in the green undershorts chewed his lip. \"Looks like\n somebody in that last crew spilled the beans before they shot him.\"\n\n\n \"Obviously.\"", "For the crew of the\nLancet\nsix hours was seven hours too long. They\n herded cringing Moruan \"volunteers\" into the little ship's lab. Jenkins\n handled external examinations and blood and tissue chemistries; Stone\n ran the X-ray and pan-endoscopic examinations. After four grueling\n hours the Red Doctor groaned and scowled at the growing pile of data.\n \"Okay. It seems that they're vaguely humanoid. And that's about all we\n can say for sure. I think we're wasting time. What say we tackle the\n Wizards for a while?\"\n\n\n Aguar's guards urged the tall Moruan with the purple cap into the\n control room at gunpoint, along with a couple of minor medical\n potentates. Purple-hat's name was Kiz, and it seemed that he wasn't\n having any that day.", "Jenkins twisted down the volume on his Translator with a grimace.\n \"You're lucky we came at all,\" he said peevishly. \"Where's your\n Contract? Where did you get the Code?\"\n\n\n \"Bother the Contract,\" the Moruan snarled. \"You're supposed to be\n physicians, eh?\" He eyed them up and down as though he disapproved of\n everything that he saw. \"You make sick people well?\"\n\n\n \"That's the general idea.\"\n\n\n \"All right.\" He poked a hairy finger at a shuttle car perched outside.\n \"In there.\"", "\"And spend the next twenty years scrubbing test tubes.\" Jenkins shook\n his head. \"Sorry, it took me too long to get aboard one of these tubs.\n We don't do that in the General Practice Patrol, remember? I don't know\n how Morua II got the code, but they got it, and that's all the farther\n we're supposed to think. We answer the call, and beef about it later.\n If we still happen to be around later, that is.\"\nIt had always been that way. Since the first formal Medical Service\n Contract had been signed with Deneb III centuries before, Hospital\n Earth had laboriously built its reputation on that single foundation\n stone: immediate medical assistance, without question or hesitation,\n whenever and wherever it was required, on any planet bound by Contract.\n That was the law, for Hospital Earth could not afford to jeopardize a\n Contract.", "The\nLancet\nhomed on the dismal grey planet with an escort of eight\n ugly fighter ships which had swarmed up like hornets to greet her. They\n triangled her in, grappled her, and dropped her with a bone-jarring\n crash into a landing slot on the edge of the city. As Sam Jenkins and\n Wally Stone picked themselves off the bulkheads, trying to rearrange\n the scarlet and green uniforms of their respective services, the main\n entrance lock burst open with a squeal of tortured metal. At least a\n dozen Moruans poured into the control room—huge bearlike creatures\n with heavy grey fur ruffing out around their faces like thick hairy\n dog collars. The one in command strode forward arrogantly, one huge\n paw leveling a placer-gun with a distinct air of business about it.\n \"Well, you took long enough!\" he roared, baring a set of yellow fangs\n that sent shivers up Jenkins' spine. \"Fourteen hours! Do you call that\n speed?\"", "Aguar halted them at the door-way. \"His Eminence will see you,\" he\n growled.\n\n\n \"Who is His Eminence?\" Jenkins asked.\n\n\n \"The Lord High Emperor of All Morua and Creator of the Galaxies,\" Aguar\n rumbled. \"He is the Tenth Son of a Tenth Son, and it is written that he\n can never die. When you enter, bow,\" he added.\n\n\n The Tenth Son of a Tenth Son couldn't have cared less whether they\n bowed or not. The room was dark and rank with the smell of sickness. On\n a pallet in the center lay a huge Moruan, panting and groaning. He was\n wrapped like a mummy in bedclothes of scarlet interwoven with gold; on\n either side of the bed braziers flickered with sickly greenish light.", "Jenkins snatched the mortar from Kiz, and with a wild flourish smashed\n it on the stone floor. Then he grabbed the wizard's paw, raising it\n high. \"You've done well!\" he cried to the bewildered physician. \"It's\n over now—the Spirit has departed. His Eminence will recover.\"\nThey escorted him in triumphal procession back to the\nLancet\n, where\n Wally Stone stared in disbelief as Jenkins and Kiz bowed and hugged\n each other like long-lost brothers at a sad farewell. \"I finally got\n through to somebody at HQ,\" he said as the Red Doctor climbed aboard.\n \"It'll take them twenty days at least, to get help, considering that\n Morua is not a Contract planet and we're not supposed to be here in the\n first place, but that's the best they can do....\"", "Certain basic principles were always the same, a fact which accelerated\n the program considerably. Humanoid or not, all forms of life had basic\n qualities in common. Biochemical reactions were biochemical reactions,\n whether they happened to occur in a wing-creature of Wolf IV or a\n doctor from Sol III. Anatomy was a broad determinant: a jelly-blob from\n Deneb I with its fine skein of pulsating nerve fibrils was still just\n a jelly-blob, and would never rise above the level of amoeboid yes-no\n response because of its utter lack of organization. But a creature\n with an organized central nervous system and a functional division of\n work among organ systems could be categorized, tested, studied, and\n compared, and the information used in combating native disease. Given\n no major setbacks, and full cooperation of the natives, the job only\n took about six months to do—", "They walked to the bedside and lifted back the covers. Jenkins took a\n limp paw in his hand. He finally found a palpable pulse just below the\n second elbow joint. It was fast and thready. The creature's skin bagged\n loosely from his arm.\n\"Looks like His Eminence can't read,\" Wally muttered. \"He's going fast,\n Doc.\"\n\n\n Jenkins nodded grimly. \"What does it look like to you?\"\n\n\n \"How should I know? I've never seen a healthy Moruan before, to say\n nothing of a sick one. It looks like a pox all right.\"\n\n\n \"Probably a viremia of some sort.\" Jenkins went over the great groaning\n hulk with inquiring fingers.\n\n\n \"If it's a viremia, we're cooked,\" Stone whispered. \"None of the drugs\n cross over—and we won't have time to culture the stuff and grow any\n new ones—\"", "\"Yeah,\" said Wally. \"What, for instance?\"\n\n\n \"Well, we've got a little to go on just from looking at them. They're\n oxygen-breathers, which means they manage internal combustion of\n carbohydrates, somehow. From the grey skin color I'd guess at a cuprous\n or stannous heme-protein carrying system. They're carnivores, but god\n knows what their protein metabolism is like—Let's get going on some of\n these specimens Aguar has rounded up for us.\"\n\n\n They dug in frantically. Under normal conditions a GPP ship would\n send in a full crew of technicians to a newly-Contracted planet to\n make the initial Bio-survey of the indigenous races. Bio-chemists,\n physiologists, anatomists, microbiologists, radiologists—survey\n workers from every Service would examine and study the new clients,\n take them apart cell by cell to see what made them tick.", "Jenkins took a deep breath and gripped his red tunic around his throat\n tightly. \"Sure, sure,\" he said weakly. \"You just watch us.\"\n\"But what do you think we're going to do?\" the surgeon wailed, back\n in the control room of the\nLancet\n. \"Sam, we can't\ntouch\nhim. If\n he didn't die naturally we'd kill him for sure! We can't go near him\n without a Bio-survey—look what happened on Baron when they tried it!\n Half the planetary population wiped out before they realized that the\n antibiotic was more deadly to the race than the virus was....\"\n\n\n \"Might not be such a bad idea for Morua,\" the Red Doctor muttered\n grimly. \"Well, what did you expect me to do—politely refuse? And\n have our throats slit right on the spot?\" He grabbed a pad and began\n scribbling. \"We've got to do\nsomething\njust to keep alive for a\n while.\"", "\"We can't promise,\" Jenkins began. \"Sometimes we're called too\n late—but perhaps not in this case,\" he added hastily when he saw the\n Moruan's face. \"Tenth Son and all that. But you'll have to give us\n freedom to work.\"\n\n\n \"What kind of freedom?\"\n\n\n \"We'll need supplies and information from our ship. We'll have to\n consult your physicians. We'll need healthy Moruans to examine—\"\n\n\n \"But you will cure him,\" Aguar said.", "Jenkins turned to Aguar. \"How long has this gone on?\"\n\n\n \"For days,\" the Moruan growled. \"He can't speak. He grows hot and\n cannot eat. He moans until the Palace trembles.\"\n\n\n \"What about your own doctors?\"\n\n\n Aguar spat angrily on the floor. \"They are jealous as cats until\n trouble comes. Then they hide in the caves like chickens. See the\n green flames? Death flames. They leave him here to die. But now that\n is all over. We have heard about you wizards from Hospital Earth. You\n cure all, the stories say. You are very wise, they say. You balance\n the humors and drive forth the spirits of the Pox like devils.\" He\n gave them a terrible grin and tightened his hand on the gold-encrusted\n sword. \"Now we see.\"", "In the early days of galactic exploration, of course, Medical Services\n was only a minor factor in an expanding commercial network that drew\n multitudes of planets into social and economic interdependence; but\n in any growing civilization division of labor inevitably occurs.\n Other planets outstripped Earth in technology, in communications, in\n transport, and in production techniques—but Earth stood unrivaled in\n its development of the biological sciences. Wherever an Earth ship\n landed, the crew was soon rendering Medical Services of one sort or\n another, whether they had planned it that way or not. On Deneb III\n the Medical Service Contract was formalized, and Hospital Earth came\n into being. Into all known corners of the galaxy ships of the General\n Practice Patrol were dispatched—\"Galactic Pill Peddlers\" forging a", "\"Oh, yes—if the Spirit that afflicts them is very small. Those are\n the fortunate ones. They grow hot and sick, but they still can eat\n and drink—\" The wizard broke off to stare at the bottle-and-tube\n arrangement Jenkins had prepared. \"What's that?\"\n\n\n \"I told you about the iron needles, didn't I? Hold this a moment.\"\n Jenkins handed him the liter flask. \"Hold it high.\" He began searching\n for a vein on the patient's baggy arm. The Moruan equivalent of blood\n flowed back greenishly in the tube for an instant as he placed the\n needle; then the flask began to drip slowly.", "\"Tell them to forget the armada,\" said Jenkins, grinning. \"And anyway,\n they've got things all wrong back at HQ.\" He brandished a huge roll\n of parchment, stricken through with the colors of the seven Medical\n Services of Hospital Earth. \"Take a look, my boy—the juiciest Medical\n Services Contract that's been written in three centuries—\" He tossed\n the Contract in the dry-storage locker with a sigh. \"Old Kiz just\n finished his first lesson, and he's still wondering what went on—\"\n\n\n \"So am I,\" said the Green Doctor suspiciously.\n\n\n \"It was simple. We cured His Eminence of the Pox.\"\n\n\n \"With what? Incantations?\"", "\"Won't it, now! Well, we have iron\nneedles\nand potions that eat the\n bottoms out of their jars. Suppose\nthey\ndrive him out?\"\n\n\n The Moruan was visibly shaken. He held a whispered conference with his\n henchmen. \"You'll\nshow\nus these things?\" he asked suspiciously.\n\n\n \"I'll make a bargain,\" said Jenkins. \"You give us a Contract, we give\n you the power—fair enough?\"\n\n\n More whispers. Wally Stone tugged at Sam's sleeve. \"What do you think\n you're doing?\" he choked. \"These boys will cut your throat quicker than\n Aguar will—\"\n\n\n \"Maybe not,\" said Sam. \"Look, I've got an idea—risky, but it might\n work if you'll play along. We can't lose much.\"" ] ]
valid	51483	[ "How many people were living on the moon before the relief ship arrived?", "How did Chapman feel about the moon?", "Why was Dixon staying longer on the moon?", "How long had Dahl been on the moon?", "Who does Chapman want to visit when he returns to Earth?", "How did Klein feel about leaving his wife to go to the moon?", "Why does Chapman always inspect the men's equipment before they go outside?", "Why did Chapman feel embarrassed?", "How many different people tried to talk Chapman into staying on the moon?", "How much longer did they want Chapman to stay on the moon?" ]	[ [ "5", "4", "6", "7" ], [ "He liked it there", "He was glad to have the opportunity to stay longer", "He couldn't wait to leave", "He would stay longer for more money" ], [ "He was dead", "He would stay longer for double his salary", "He would stay in Chapman's place", "He wanted to stay forever" ], [ "1 year", "6 months", "1 year, 6 months", "3 years" ], [ "no one - he wants to sit alone in a room over Times Square", "his wife", "Ginny", "his mother" ], [ "He felt bad she threw a fit about it", "He spent a lot of time sitting and thinking about her", "He didn't want to leave but was motivated by the pay", "He knew she was happy to see him go" ], [ "He doesn't want them to join Dixon", "He's gone a little crazy from being on the moon too long", "It's his assigned duty", "He doesn't think they can look after themselves" ], [ "He shared that he wanted to go to a burlesque house", "He shared how much he missed people", "He shared that he wanted to be naked outdoors", "He told his coworker about his girlfriend" ], [ "5", "2", "3", "4" ], [ "3 years", "1.5 years", "forever", "6 years" ] ]	[ 3, 3, 1, 3, 3, 3, 1, 3, 3, 2 ]	[ 0, 0, 0, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1 ]	[ [ "\"Think we ought to radio the space station and see if they've left\n there yet?\" Klein asked.\n\n\n \"I talked to them on the last call,\" Chapman said. \"The relief ship\n left there twelve hours ago. They should get here\"—he looked at his\n watch—\"in about six and a half hours.\"\n\n\n \"Chap, you know, I've been thinking,\" Donley said quietly. \"You've\n been here just twice as long as the rest of us. What's the first thing\n you're going to do once you get back?\"\n\n\n It hit them, then. Dowden and Bening looked blank for a minute and\n blindly found packing cases to sit on. The top halves of their suits\n were still hanging on the bulkhead. Klein lowered his coffee cup and\n looked grave. Even Dahl glanced up expectantly.", "He had just locked the bag when he heard the rumble of the airlock and\n the soft hiss of air. Somebody had come back earlier than expected. He\n watched the inner door swing open and the spacesuited figure clump in\n and unscrew its helmet.\n\n\n Dahl. He had gone out to help Dowden on the Schmidt telescope. Maybe\n Dowden hadn't needed any help, with Bening along. Or more likely,\n considering the circumstances, Dahl wasn't much good at helping anybody\n today.\n\n\n Dahl stripped off his suit. His face was covered with light beads of\n sweat and his eyes were frightened.\n\n\n He moistened his lips slightly. \"Do—do you think they'll ever have\n relief ships up here more often than every eighteen months, Chap? I\n mean, considering the advance of—\"", "Lord, Chapman thought, I'll be happy when I can see some other faces.\n\n\n \"What'd they want?\" Klein had one eyelid open and a questioning look on\n his face.\n\n\n \"They wanted me to stay until the next relief ship lands,\" Chapman\n whispered back.\n\n\n \"What did you say?\"\n\n\n He shrugged. \"No.\"\n\n\n \"You kept it short,\" somebody else whispered. It was Donley, up and\n sitting on the side of his hammock. \"If it had been me, I would have\n told them just what they could do about it.\"\nThe others were awake now, with the exception of Dahl who had his face\n to the bulkhead and a pillow over his head.\n\n\n Dowden rubbed his eyes sleepily. \"Sore, aren't you?\"\n\n\n \"Kind of. Who wouldn't be?\"", "Klein jerked his thumb toward Dahl's bunk, held a finger to his lips,\n and walked noiselessly over to the small electric stove. It was his day\n for breakfast duty.\n\n\n The others started lacing up their bunks, getting ready for their last\n day of work on the Moon. In a few hours they'd be relieved by members\n of the Third research group and they'd be on their way back to Earth.\n\n\n And that includes me, Chapman thought. I'm going home. I'm finally\n going home.\n\n\n He walked silently to the one small, quartz window in the room. It was\n morning—the Moon's \"morning\"—and he shivered slightly. The rays of\n the Sun were just striking the far rim of the crater and long shadows\n shot across the crater floor. The rest of it was still blanketed in\n a dark jumble of powdery pumice and jagged peaks that would make the\n Black Hills of Dakota look like paradise.", "The others chimed in and Chapman grinned. Yesterday or a week ago they\n couldn't have done it. He had been there too long and he had hated it\n too much.\n\n\n The party quieted down after a while and Dowden and Bening finished\n getting into their suits. They still had a section of the sky to map\n before they left. Donley was right after them. There was an outcropping\n of rock that he wanted a sample of and some strata he wished to\n investigate.\n\n\n And the time went faster when you kept busy.\nChapman stopped them at the lock. \"Remember to check your suits for\n leaks,\" he warned. \"And check the valves of your oxygen tanks.\"\n\n\n Donley looked sour. \"I've gone out at least five hundred times,\" he\n said, \"and you check me each time.\"", "Chapman and Klein watched them dash across the pumice, making the\n tremendous leaps they used to read about in the Sunday supplements. The\n port of the rocket had opened and tiny figures were climbing down the\n ladder. The small figures from the bunker reached them and did a short\n jig of welcome. Then the figures linked arms and started back. Chapman\n noticed one—it was probably Donley—pat the ship affectionately before\n he started back.\nThey were in the lock and the air pumped in and then they were in\n the bunker, taking off their suits. The newcomers were impressed and\n solemn, very much aware of the tremendous responsibility that rested on\n their shoulders. Like Donley and Klein and the members of the Second\n group had been when they had landed. Like Chapman had been in the First.\n\n\n Donley and the others were all over them.\nHow was it back on Earth? Who had won the series? Was so-and-so still\n teaching at the university? What was the international situation?", "\"And I'd check you five hundred more,\" Chapman said. \"It takes only\n one mistake. And watch out for blisters under the pumice crust. You go\n through one of those and that's it, brother.\"\n\n\n Donley sighed. \"Chap, you watch us like an old mother hen. You see we\n check our suits, you settle our arguments, you see that we're not bored\n and that we stay healthy and happy. I think you'd blow our noses for us\n if we caught cold. But some day, Chap old man, you're gonna find out\n that your little boys can watch out for themselves!\"\n\n\n But he checked his suit for leaks and tested the valve of his tank\n before he left.\nOnly Klein and Chapman were left in the bunker. Klein was at the work\n table, carefully labeling some lichen specimens.\n\n\n \"I never knew you were married,\" Chapman said.", "\"Well, don't let it throw you. They've never been here on the Moon.\n They don't know what it's like. All they're trying to do is get a good\n man to stay on the job a while longer.\"\n\n\n \"\nAll\nthey're trying to do,\" Chapman said sarcastically. \"They've got\n a fat chance.\"\n\n\n \"They think you've found a home here,\" Donley said.\n\n\n \"Why the hell don't you guys shut up until morning?\" Dahl was awake,\n looking bitter. \"Some of us still have to stay here, you know. Some of\n us aren't going back today.\"\n\n\n No, Chapman thought, some of us aren't going back. You aren't. And\n Dixon's staying, too. Only Dixon isn't ever going back.", "Three years on the Moon and they didn't want him to come back.\n\n\n Three years on the Moon and they thought he'd be glad to stay for more.\n Just raise his salary or give him a bonus, the every-man-has-his-price\n idea. They probably thought he liked it there.\n\n\n Oh, sure, he loved it. Canned coffee, canned beans, canned pills,\n and canned air until your insides felt as though they were plated\n with tin. Life in a cramped, smelly little hut where you could take\n only ten steps in any one direction. Their little scientific home of\n tomorrow with none of the modern conveniences, a charming place where\n you couldn't take a shower, couldn't brush your teeth, and your kidneys\n didn't work right.\n\n\n And for double his salary they thought he'd be glad to stay for another\n year and a half. Or maybe three. He should probably be glad he had the\n opportunity.", "\"He died,\" Chapman said. \"He was a good kid, all wrapped up in science.\n Being on the Moon was the opportunity of a lifetime. He thought so much\n about it that he forgot a lot of little things—like how to stay alive.\n The day before the Second group came, he went out to finish some work\n he was interested in. He forgot to check for leaks and whether or not\n the valve on his tank was all the way closed. We couldn't get to him in\n time.\"\n\n\n \"He had his walkie-talkie with him?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. It worked fine, too. We heard everything that went through his\n mind at the end.\"\n\n\n Klein's face was blank. \"What's your real job here, Chap? Why does\n somebody have to stay for stopover?\"", "\"No, you should know that. I came as the pilot of the first ship. We\n made the bunker out of parts of the ship so there wasn't anything to\n go back on. I'm a good mechanic and I made myself useful with the\n machinery. When it occurred to us that somebody was going to have to\n stay over, I volunteered. I thought the others were so important that\n it was better they should take their samples and data back to Earth\n when the first relief ship came.\"\n\n\n \"You wouldn't do it again, though, would you?\"\n\n\n \"No, I wouldn't.\"\n\n\n \"Do you think Dahl will do as good a job as you've done here?\"", "\"Hell, lots of reasons, Julius. You can't get a whole relief crew and\n let them take over cold. They have to know where you left off. They\n have to know where things are, how things work, what to watch out for.\n And then, because you've been here a year and a half and know the\n ropes, you have to watch them to see that they stay alive in spite of\n themselves. The Moon's a new environment and you have to learn how to\n live in it. There's a lot of things to learn—and some people just\n never learn.\"\n\n\n \"You're nursemaid, then.\"\n\n\n \"I suppose you could call it that.\"\nKlein said, \"You're not a scientist, are you?\"", "Williams looked stricken and somebody said, \"Oh, shut up, Dahl.\"\n\n\n One of the men separated from the group and came over to Chapman. He\n held out his hand and said, \"My name's Eberlein. Captain of the relief\n ship. I understand you're in charge here?\"\n\n\n Chapman nodded and shook hands. They hadn't had a captain on the First\n ship. Just a pilot and crew. Eberlein looked every inch a captain, too.\n Craggy face, gray hair, the firm chin of a man who was sure of himself.\n\n\n \"You might say I'm in charge here,\" Chapman said.\n\n\n \"Well, look, Mr. Chapman, is there any place where we can talk together\n privately?\"", "Dahl took the plunge. \"Well, you see,\" he started eagerly, too far gone\n to remember such a thing as pride, \"you know my father's pretty well\n fixed. We would make it worth your while, Chap.\" He was feverish. \"It\n would mean eighteen more months, Chap, but they'd be well-paid months!\"\n\n\n Chapman felt tired. The good feeling he had about going home was slowly\n evaporating.\n\n\n \"If you have any report to make, I think you had better get at it,\"\n he cut in, keeping all the harshness he felt out of his voice. \"It'll\n be too late after the relief ship leaves. It'll be easier to give the\n captain your report than try to radio it back to Earth from here.\"\n\n\n He felt sorrier for Dahl than he could ever remember having felt for\n anybody. Long after going home, Dahl would remember this.\n\n\n It would eat at him like a cancer.", "A hundred yards from the research bunker he could make out the small\n mound of stones and the forlorn homemade cross, jury-rigged out of\n small condensed milk tins slid over crossed iron bars. You could still\n see the footprints in the powdery soil where the group had gathered\n about the grave. It had been more than eighteen months ago, but there\n was no wind to wear those tracks away. They'd be there forever.\n\n\n That's what happened to guys like Dixon, Chapman thought. On the Moon,\n one mistake could use up your whole quota of chances.\n\n\n Klein came back with the coffee. Chapman took a cup, gagged, and forced\n himself to swallow the rest of it. It had been in the can for so long\n you could almost taste the glue on the label.\nDonley was warming himself over his cup, looking thoughtful. Dowden and\n Bening were struggling into their suits, getting ready to go outside.\n Dahl was still sitting on his hammock, trying to ignore them.", "\"Is that all?\"\n\n\n Eberlein was ill at ease. \"Naturally you'd be paid well. I don't\n imagine any man would like being here all the time. They're prepared to\n double your salary—maybe even a bonus in addition—and let you have\n full charge. You'd be Director of the Luna Laboratories.\"\n\n\n All this and a title too, Chapman thought.\n\n\n \"That's it?\" Chapman asked.\n\n\n Eberlein frowned. \"Well, the Commission said they'd be willing to\n consider anything else you had in mind, if it was more money or....\"\n\n\n \"The answer is no,\" Chapman said. \"I'm not interested in more money\n for staying because I'm not interested in staying. Money can't buy it,\n captain. I'm sorry, but I'm afraid that you'd have to stay up here to\n appreciate that.", "They laughed. Somebody said: \"Go play your record, Chap. Today's the\n day for it.\"\n\n\n The phonograph was a small, wind-up model that Chapman had smuggled in\n when he had landed with the First group. The record was old and the\n shellac was nearly worn off, but the music was good.\n\n\n Way Back Home by Al Lewis.\nThey ran through it twice. They were beginning to feel it now, Chapman\n thought. They were going to go home in a little while and the idea was\n just starting to sink in.\n\n\n \"You know, Chap,\" Donley said, \"it won't seem like the same old Moon\n without you on it. Why, we'll look at it when we're out spooning or\n something and it just won't have the same old appeal.\"\n\n\n \"Like they say in the army,\" Bening said, \"you never had it so good.\n You found a home here.\"", "\"I like the feel of it,\" he said simply.\n\n\n Chapman cut off a single blade with his fingernail and put it between\n his lips. It had been years since he had seen grass and had the luxury\n of walking on it and lying on its cool thickness during those sultry\n summer nights when it was too hot to sleep indoors.\n\n\n Williams blushed. \"I thought we could spare a little water for it and\n maybe use the ultraviolet lamp on it some of the time. Couldn't help\n but bring it along; it seemed sort of like a symbol....\" He looked\n embarrassed.\n\n\n Chapman sympathized. If he had had any sense, he'd have tried to\n smuggle something like that up to the Moon instead of his phonograph.\n\n\n \"That's valuable grass,\" Dahl said sharply. \"Do you realize that at\n current freight rates up here, it's worth about ten dollars a blade?\"", "He stopped, feeling embarrassed. Klein's expression was encouraging.\n \"And then I think I'd like to go downtown and just watch the shoppers\n on the sidewalks. Or maybe go to a burlesque house and smell the cheap\n perfume and the popcorn and the people sweating in the dark.\"\n\n\n He studied his hands. \"I think what I miss most is people—all kinds\n of people. Bad people and good people and fat people and thin people,\n and people I can't understand. People who wouldn't know an atom from an\n artichoke. And people who wouldn't give a damn. We're a quarter of a\n million miles from nowhere, Julius, and to make it literary, I think I\n miss my fellow man more than anything.\"\n\n\n \"Got a girl back home?\" Klein asked almost casually.\n\n\n \"Yes.\"\n\n\n \"You're not like Dahl. You've never mentioned it.\"", "Cowardice is the one thing for which no man ever forgives himself.\nDonley was eating a sandwich and looking out the port, so, naturally,\n he saw the ship first. \"Well, whaddya know!\" he shouted. \"We got\n company!\" He dashed for his suit. Dowden and Bening piled after him and\n all three started for the lock.\n\n\n Chapman was standing in front of it. \"Check your suits,\" he said\n softly. \"Just be sure to check.\"\n\n\n \"Oh, what the hell, Chap!\" Donley started angrily. Then he shut up and\n went over his suit. He got to his tank and turned white. Empty. It was\n only half a mile to the relief rocket, so somebody would probably have\n got to him in time, but.... He bit his lips and got a full tank." ], [ "They laughed. Somebody said: \"Go play your record, Chap. Today's the\n day for it.\"\n\n\n The phonograph was a small, wind-up model that Chapman had smuggled in\n when he had landed with the First group. The record was old and the\n shellac was nearly worn off, but the music was good.\n\n\n Way Back Home by Al Lewis.\nThey ran through it twice. They were beginning to feel it now, Chapman\n thought. They were going to go home in a little while and the idea was\n just starting to sink in.\n\n\n \"You know, Chap,\" Donley said, \"it won't seem like the same old Moon\n without you on it. Why, we'll look at it when we're out spooning or\n something and it just won't have the same old appeal.\"\n\n\n \"Like they say in the army,\" Bening said, \"you never had it so good.\n You found a home here.\"", "\"Is that all?\"\n\n\n Eberlein was ill at ease. \"Naturally you'd be paid well. I don't\n imagine any man would like being here all the time. They're prepared to\n double your salary—maybe even a bonus in addition—and let you have\n full charge. You'd be Director of the Luna Laboratories.\"\n\n\n All this and a title too, Chapman thought.\n\n\n \"That's it?\" Chapman asked.\n\n\n Eberlein frowned. \"Well, the Commission said they'd be willing to\n consider anything else you had in mind, if it was more money or....\"\n\n\n \"The answer is no,\" Chapman said. \"I'm not interested in more money\n for staying because I'm not interested in staying. Money can't buy it,\n captain. I'm sorry, but I'm afraid that you'd have to stay up here to\n appreciate that.", "\"Well, don't let it throw you. They've never been here on the Moon.\n They don't know what it's like. All they're trying to do is get a good\n man to stay on the job a while longer.\"\n\n\n \"\nAll\nthey're trying to do,\" Chapman said sarcastically. \"They've got\n a fat chance.\"\n\n\n \"They think you've found a home here,\" Donley said.\n\n\n \"Why the hell don't you guys shut up until morning?\" Dahl was awake,\n looking bitter. \"Some of us still have to stay here, you know. Some of\n us aren't going back today.\"\n\n\n No, Chapman thought, some of us aren't going back. You aren't. And\n Dixon's staying, too. Only Dixon isn't ever going back.", "The others chimed in and Chapman grinned. Yesterday or a week ago they\n couldn't have done it. He had been there too long and he had hated it\n too much.\n\n\n The party quieted down after a while and Dowden and Bening finished\n getting into their suits. They still had a section of the sky to map\n before they left. Donley was right after them. There was an outcropping\n of rock that he wanted a sample of and some strata he wished to\n investigate.\n\n\n And the time went faster when you kept busy.\nChapman stopped them at the lock. \"Remember to check your suits for\n leaks,\" he warned. \"And check the valves of your oxygen tanks.\"\n\n\n Donley looked sour. \"I've gone out at least five hundred times,\" he\n said, \"and you check me each time.\"", "A hundred yards from the research bunker he could make out the small\n mound of stones and the forlorn homemade cross, jury-rigged out of\n small condensed milk tins slid over crossed iron bars. You could still\n see the footprints in the powdery soil where the group had gathered\n about the grave. It had been more than eighteen months ago, but there\n was no wind to wear those tracks away. They'd be there forever.\n\n\n That's what happened to guys like Dixon, Chapman thought. On the Moon,\n one mistake could use up your whole quota of chances.\n\n\n Klein came back with the coffee. Chapman took a cup, gagged, and forced\n himself to swallow the rest of it. It had been in the can for so long\n you could almost taste the glue on the label.\nDonley was warming himself over his cup, looking thoughtful. Dowden and\n Bening were struggling into their suits, getting ready to go outside.\n Dahl was still sitting on his hammock, trying to ignore them.", "Dahl took the plunge. \"Well, you see,\" he started eagerly, too far gone\n to remember such a thing as pride, \"you know my father's pretty well\n fixed. We would make it worth your while, Chap.\" He was feverish. \"It\n would mean eighteen more months, Chap, but they'd be well-paid months!\"\n\n\n Chapman felt tired. The good feeling he had about going home was slowly\n evaporating.\n\n\n \"If you have any report to make, I think you had better get at it,\"\n he cut in, keeping all the harshness he felt out of his voice. \"It'll\n be too late after the relief ship leaves. It'll be easier to give the\n captain your report than try to radio it back to Earth from here.\"\n\n\n He felt sorrier for Dahl than he could ever remember having felt for\n anybody. Long after going home, Dahl would remember this.\n\n\n It would eat at him like a cancer.", "Klein held up his hands. \"Look, Chap, I didn't mean you should stay. I\n know how much you hate it and the time you put in up here. It's just—\"\n His voice trailed away. \"It's just that I think it's such a damn\n important job.\"\n\n\n Klein had gone out in a last search for rock lichens and Chapman\n enjoyed one of his relatively few moments of privacy. He wandered over\n to his bunk and opened his barracks bag. He checked the underwear and\n his toothbrush and shaving kit for maybe the hundredth time and pushed\n the clothing down farther in the canvas. It was foolish because the\n bag was already packed and had been for a week. He remembered stalling\n it off for as long as he could and then the quiet satisfaction about a\n week before, when he had opened his small gear locker and transferred\n its meager belongings to the bag.", "\"He died,\" Chapman said. \"He was a good kid, all wrapped up in science.\n Being on the Moon was the opportunity of a lifetime. He thought so much\n about it that he forgot a lot of little things—like how to stay alive.\n The day before the Second group came, he went out to finish some work\n he was interested in. He forgot to check for leaks and whether or not\n the valve on his tank was all the way closed. We couldn't get to him in\n time.\"\n\n\n \"He had his walkie-talkie with him?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. It worked fine, too. We heard everything that went through his\n mind at the end.\"\n\n\n Klein's face was blank. \"What's your real job here, Chap? Why does\n somebody have to stay for stopover?\"", "\"I like the feel of it,\" he said simply.\n\n\n Chapman cut off a single blade with his fingernail and put it between\n his lips. It had been years since he had seen grass and had the luxury\n of walking on it and lying on its cool thickness during those sultry\n summer nights when it was too hot to sleep indoors.\n\n\n Williams blushed. \"I thought we could spare a little water for it and\n maybe use the ultraviolet lamp on it some of the time. Couldn't help\n but bring it along; it seemed sort of like a symbol....\" He looked\n embarrassed.\n\n\n Chapman sympathized. If he had had any sense, he'd have tried to\n smuggle something like that up to the Moon instead of his phonograph.\n\n\n \"That's valuable grass,\" Dahl said sharply. \"Do you realize that at\n current freight rates up here, it's worth about ten dollars a blade?\"", "Klein jerked his thumb toward Dahl's bunk, held a finger to his lips,\n and walked noiselessly over to the small electric stove. It was his day\n for breakfast duty.\n\n\n The others started lacing up their bunks, getting ready for their last\n day of work on the Moon. In a few hours they'd be relieved by members\n of the Third research group and they'd be on their way back to Earth.\n\n\n And that includes me, Chapman thought. I'm going home. I'm finally\n going home.\n\n\n He walked silently to the one small, quartz window in the room. It was\n morning—the Moon's \"morning\"—and he shivered slightly. The rays of\n the Sun were just striking the far rim of the crater and long shadows\n shot across the crater floor. The rest of it was still blanketed in\n a dark jumble of powdery pumice and jagged peaks that would make the\n Black Hills of Dakota look like paradise.", "\"And I'd check you five hundred more,\" Chapman said. \"It takes only\n one mistake. And watch out for blisters under the pumice crust. You go\n through one of those and that's it, brother.\"\n\n\n Donley sighed. \"Chap, you watch us like an old mother hen. You see we\n check our suits, you settle our arguments, you see that we're not bored\n and that we stay healthy and happy. I think you'd blow our noses for us\n if we caught cold. But some day, Chap old man, you're gonna find out\n that your little boys can watch out for themselves!\"\n\n\n But he checked his suit for leaks and tested the valve of his tank\n before he left.\nOnly Klein and Chapman were left in the bunker. Klein was at the work\n table, carefully labeling some lichen specimens.\n\n\n \"I never knew you were married,\" Chapman said.", "\"Oh, yes,\nbig plans\n. They're working on unmanned, open-side rockets\n now that could carry cargo and sheet steel for more bunkers like this.\n Enable us to enlarge the unit, have a series of bunkers all linked\n together. Make good laboratories and living quarters for you people.\"\n His eyes swept the room. \"Have a little privacy for a change.\"\n\n\n Chapman nodded. \"They could use a little privacy up here.\"\n\n\n The captain noticed the pronoun. \"Well, that's one of the reasons why\n I wanted to talk to you, Chapman. The Commission talked it over and\n they'd like to see you stay. They feel if they're going to enlarge it,\n add more bunkers and have more men up here, that a man of practical\n experience should be running things. They figure that you're the only\n man who's capable and who's had the experience.\"\n\n\n The captain vaguely felt the approach was all wrong.", "Chapman and Klein watched them dash across the pumice, making the\n tremendous leaps they used to read about in the Sunday supplements. The\n port of the rocket had opened and tiny figures were climbing down the\n ladder. The small figures from the bunker reached them and did a short\n jig of welcome. Then the figures linked arms and started back. Chapman\n noticed one—it was probably Donley—pat the ship affectionately before\n he started back.\nThey were in the lock and the air pumped in and then they were in\n the bunker, taking off their suits. The newcomers were impressed and\n solemn, very much aware of the tremendous responsibility that rested on\n their shoulders. Like Donley and Klein and the members of the Second\n group had been when they had landed. Like Chapman had been in the First.\n\n\n Donley and the others were all over them.\nHow was it back on Earth? Who had won the series? Was so-and-so still\n teaching at the university? What was the international situation?", "Lord, Chapman thought, I'll be happy when I can see some other faces.\n\n\n \"What'd they want?\" Klein had one eyelid open and a questioning look on\n his face.\n\n\n \"They wanted me to stay until the next relief ship lands,\" Chapman\n whispered back.\n\n\n \"What did you say?\"\n\n\n He shrugged. \"No.\"\n\n\n \"You kept it short,\" somebody else whispered. It was Donley, up and\n sitting on the side of his hammock. \"If it had been me, I would have\n told them just what they could do about it.\"\nThe others were awake now, with the exception of Dahl who had his face\n to the bulkhead and a pillow over his head.\n\n\n Dowden rubbed his eyes sleepily. \"Sore, aren't you?\"\n\n\n \"Kind of. Who wouldn't be?\"", "He stopped, feeling embarrassed. Klein's expression was encouraging.\n \"And then I think I'd like to go downtown and just watch the shoppers\n on the sidewalks. Or maybe go to a burlesque house and smell the cheap\n perfume and the popcorn and the people sweating in the dark.\"\n\n\n He studied his hands. \"I think what I miss most is people—all kinds\n of people. Bad people and good people and fat people and thin people,\n and people I can't understand. People who wouldn't know an atom from an\n artichoke. And people who wouldn't give a damn. We're a quarter of a\n million miles from nowhere, Julius, and to make it literary, I think I\n miss my fellow man more than anything.\"\n\n\n \"Got a girl back home?\" Klein asked almost casually.\n\n\n \"Yes.\"\n\n\n \"You're not like Dahl. You've never mentioned it.\"", "Klein didn't look up. \"There wasn't much sense in talking about it. You\n just get to thinking and wanting—and there's nothing you can do about\n it. You talk about it and it just makes it worse.\"\n\n\n \"She let you go without any fuss, huh?\"\n\n\n \"No, she didn't make any fuss. But I don't think she liked to see me\n go, either.\" He laughed a little. \"At least I hope she didn't.\"\nThey were silent for a while. \"What do you miss most, Chap?\" Klein\n asked. \"Oh, I know what we said a little while ago, but I mean\n seriously.\"\n\n\n Chapman thought a minute. \"I think I miss the sky,\" he said quietly.\n \"The blue sky and the green grass and trees with leaves on them that\n turn color in the Fall. I think, when I go back, that I'd like to go\n out in a rain storm and strip and feel the rain on my skin.\"", "\"No,\" Chapman interrupted bluntly. \"I don't. Not at least for ten\n years. The fuel's too expensive and the trip's too hazardous. On\n freight charges alone you're worth your weight in platinum when they\n send you here. Even if it becomes cheaper, Bob, it won't come about\n so it will shorten stopover right away.\" He stopped, feeling a little\n sorry for Dahl. \"It won't be too bad. There'll be new men up here and\n you'll pass a lot of time getting to know them.\"", "Three years on the Moon and they didn't want him to come back.\n\n\n Three years on the Moon and they thought he'd be glad to stay for more.\n Just raise his salary or give him a bonus, the every-man-has-his-price\n idea. They probably thought he liked it there.\n\n\n Oh, sure, he loved it. Canned coffee, canned beans, canned pills,\n and canned air until your insides felt as though they were plated\n with tin. Life in a cramped, smelly little hut where you could take\n only ten steps in any one direction. Their little scientific home of\n tomorrow with none of the modern conveniences, a charming place where\n you couldn't take a shower, couldn't brush your teeth, and your kidneys\n didn't work right.\n\n\n And for double his salary they thought he'd be glad to stay for another\n year and a half. Or maybe three. He should probably be glad he had the\n opportunity.", "Chapman frowned. \"Frankly, I hadn't thought of that. I don't believe\n I care. I've put in my time; it's somebody else's turn now. He\n volunteered for it. I think I was fair in explaining all about the job\n when you talked it over among yourselves.\"\n\n\n \"You did, but I don't think Dahl's the man for it. He's too young, too\n much of a kid. He volunteered because he thought it made him look like\n a hero. He doesn't have the judgment that an older man would have. That\n you have.\"\n\n\n Chapman turned slowly around and faced Klein.\n\n\n \"I'm not the indispensable man,\" he said slowly, \"and even if I was, it\n wouldn't make any difference to me. I'm sorry if Dahl is young. So was\n I. I've lost three years up here. And I don't intend to lose any more.\"", "\"Think we ought to radio the space station and see if they've left\n there yet?\" Klein asked.\n\n\n \"I talked to them on the last call,\" Chapman said. \"The relief ship\n left there twelve hours ago. They should get here\"—he looked at his\n watch—\"in about six and a half hours.\"\n\n\n \"Chap, you know, I've been thinking,\" Donley said quietly. \"You've\n been here just twice as long as the rest of us. What's the first thing\n you're going to do once you get back?\"\n\n\n It hit them, then. Dowden and Bening looked blank for a minute and\n blindly found packing cases to sit on. The top halves of their suits\n were still hanging on the bulkhead. Klein lowered his coffee cup and\n looked grave. Even Dahl glanced up expectantly." ], [ "\"Well, don't let it throw you. They've never been here on the Moon.\n They don't know what it's like. All they're trying to do is get a good\n man to stay on the job a while longer.\"\n\n\n \"\nAll\nthey're trying to do,\" Chapman said sarcastically. \"They've got\n a fat chance.\"\n\n\n \"They think you've found a home here,\" Donley said.\n\n\n \"Why the hell don't you guys shut up until morning?\" Dahl was awake,\n looking bitter. \"Some of us still have to stay here, you know. Some of\n us aren't going back today.\"\n\n\n No, Chapman thought, some of us aren't going back. You aren't. And\n Dixon's staying, too. Only Dixon isn't ever going back.", "Three years on the Moon and they didn't want him to come back.\n\n\n Three years on the Moon and they thought he'd be glad to stay for more.\n Just raise his salary or give him a bonus, the every-man-has-his-price\n idea. They probably thought he liked it there.\n\n\n Oh, sure, he loved it. Canned coffee, canned beans, canned pills,\n and canned air until your insides felt as though they were plated\n with tin. Life in a cramped, smelly little hut where you could take\n only ten steps in any one direction. Their little scientific home of\n tomorrow with none of the modern conveniences, a charming place where\n you couldn't take a shower, couldn't brush your teeth, and your kidneys\n didn't work right.\n\n\n And for double his salary they thought he'd be glad to stay for another\n year and a half. Or maybe three. He should probably be glad he had the\n opportunity.", "\"Is that all?\"\n\n\n Eberlein was ill at ease. \"Naturally you'd be paid well. I don't\n imagine any man would like being here all the time. They're prepared to\n double your salary—maybe even a bonus in addition—and let you have\n full charge. You'd be Director of the Luna Laboratories.\"\n\n\n All this and a title too, Chapman thought.\n\n\n \"That's it?\" Chapman asked.\n\n\n Eberlein frowned. \"Well, the Commission said they'd be willing to\n consider anything else you had in mind, if it was more money or....\"\n\n\n \"The answer is no,\" Chapman said. \"I'm not interested in more money\n for staying because I'm not interested in staying. Money can't buy it,\n captain. I'm sorry, but I'm afraid that you'd have to stay up here to\n appreciate that.", "A hundred yards from the research bunker he could make out the small\n mound of stones and the forlorn homemade cross, jury-rigged out of\n small condensed milk tins slid over crossed iron bars. You could still\n see the footprints in the powdery soil where the group had gathered\n about the grave. It had been more than eighteen months ago, but there\n was no wind to wear those tracks away. They'd be there forever.\n\n\n That's what happened to guys like Dixon, Chapman thought. On the Moon,\n one mistake could use up your whole quota of chances.\n\n\n Klein came back with the coffee. Chapman took a cup, gagged, and forced\n himself to swallow the rest of it. It had been in the can for so long\n you could almost taste the glue on the label.\nDonley was warming himself over his cup, looking thoughtful. Dowden and\n Bening were struggling into their suits, getting ready to go outside.\n Dahl was still sitting on his hammock, trying to ignore them.", "Dahl took the plunge. \"Well, you see,\" he started eagerly, too far gone\n to remember such a thing as pride, \"you know my father's pretty well\n fixed. We would make it worth your while, Chap.\" He was feverish. \"It\n would mean eighteen more months, Chap, but they'd be well-paid months!\"\n\n\n Chapman felt tired. The good feeling he had about going home was slowly\n evaporating.\n\n\n \"If you have any report to make, I think you had better get at it,\"\n he cut in, keeping all the harshness he felt out of his voice. \"It'll\n be too late after the relief ship leaves. It'll be easier to give the\n captain your report than try to radio it back to Earth from here.\"\n\n\n He felt sorrier for Dahl than he could ever remember having felt for\n anybody. Long after going home, Dahl would remember this.\n\n\n It would eat at him like a cancer.", "\"He died,\" Chapman said. \"He was a good kid, all wrapped up in science.\n Being on the Moon was the opportunity of a lifetime. He thought so much\n about it that he forgot a lot of little things—like how to stay alive.\n The day before the Second group came, he went out to finish some work\n he was interested in. He forgot to check for leaks and whether or not\n the valve on his tank was all the way closed. We couldn't get to him in\n time.\"\n\n\n \"He had his walkie-talkie with him?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. It worked fine, too. We heard everything that went through his\n mind at the end.\"\n\n\n Klein's face was blank. \"What's your real job here, Chap? Why does\n somebody have to stay for stopover?\"", "\"Oh, yes,\nbig plans\n. They're working on unmanned, open-side rockets\n now that could carry cargo and sheet steel for more bunkers like this.\n Enable us to enlarge the unit, have a series of bunkers all linked\n together. Make good laboratories and living quarters for you people.\"\n His eyes swept the room. \"Have a little privacy for a change.\"\n\n\n Chapman nodded. \"They could use a little privacy up here.\"\n\n\n The captain noticed the pronoun. \"Well, that's one of the reasons why\n I wanted to talk to you, Chapman. The Commission talked it over and\n they'd like to see you stay. They feel if they're going to enlarge it,\n add more bunkers and have more men up here, that a man of practical\n experience should be running things. They figure that you're the only\n man who's capable and who's had the experience.\"\n\n\n The captain vaguely felt the approach was all wrong.", "\"No, you should know that. I came as the pilot of the first ship. We\n made the bunker out of parts of the ship so there wasn't anything to\n go back on. I'm a good mechanic and I made myself useful with the\n machinery. When it occurred to us that somebody was going to have to\n stay over, I volunteered. I thought the others were so important that\n it was better they should take their samples and data back to Earth\n when the first relief ship came.\"\n\n\n \"You wouldn't do it again, though, would you?\"\n\n\n \"No, I wouldn't.\"\n\n\n \"Do you think Dahl will do as good a job as you've done here?\"", "The others chimed in and Chapman grinned. Yesterday or a week ago they\n couldn't have done it. He had been there too long and he had hated it\n too much.\n\n\n The party quieted down after a while and Dowden and Bening finished\n getting into their suits. They still had a section of the sky to map\n before they left. Donley was right after them. There was an outcropping\n of rock that he wanted a sample of and some strata he wished to\n investigate.\n\n\n And the time went faster when you kept busy.\nChapman stopped them at the lock. \"Remember to check your suits for\n leaks,\" he warned. \"And check the valves of your oxygen tanks.\"\n\n\n Donley looked sour. \"I've gone out at least five hundred times,\" he\n said, \"and you check me each time.\"", "\"No,\" Chapman interrupted bluntly. \"I don't. Not at least for ten\n years. The fuel's too expensive and the trip's too hazardous. On\n freight charges alone you're worth your weight in platinum when they\n send you here. Even if it becomes cheaper, Bob, it won't come about\n so it will shorten stopover right away.\" He stopped, feeling a little\n sorry for Dahl. \"It won't be too bad. There'll be new men up here and\n you'll pass a lot of time getting to know them.\"", "\"Think we ought to radio the space station and see if they've left\n there yet?\" Klein asked.\n\n\n \"I talked to them on the last call,\" Chapman said. \"The relief ship\n left there twelve hours ago. They should get here\"—he looked at his\n watch—\"in about six and a half hours.\"\n\n\n \"Chap, you know, I've been thinking,\" Donley said quietly. \"You've\n been here just twice as long as the rest of us. What's the first thing\n you're going to do once you get back?\"\n\n\n It hit them, then. Dowden and Bening looked blank for a minute and\n blindly found packing cases to sit on. The top halves of their suits\n were still hanging on the bulkhead. Klein lowered his coffee cup and\n looked grave. Even Dahl glanced up expectantly.", "Klein jerked his thumb toward Dahl's bunk, held a finger to his lips,\n and walked noiselessly over to the small electric stove. It was his day\n for breakfast duty.\n\n\n The others started lacing up their bunks, getting ready for their last\n day of work on the Moon. In a few hours they'd be relieved by members\n of the Third research group and they'd be on their way back to Earth.\n\n\n And that includes me, Chapman thought. I'm going home. I'm finally\n going home.\n\n\n He walked silently to the one small, quartz window in the room. It was\n morning—the Moon's \"morning\"—and he shivered slightly. The rays of\n the Sun were just striking the far rim of the crater and long shadows\n shot across the crater floor. The rest of it was still blanketed in\n a dark jumble of powdery pumice and jagged peaks that would make the\n Black Hills of Dakota look like paradise.", "He had just locked the bag when he heard the rumble of the airlock and\n the soft hiss of air. Somebody had come back earlier than expected. He\n watched the inner door swing open and the spacesuited figure clump in\n and unscrew its helmet.\n\n\n Dahl. He had gone out to help Dowden on the Schmidt telescope. Maybe\n Dowden hadn't needed any help, with Bening along. Or more likely,\n considering the circumstances, Dahl wasn't much good at helping anybody\n today.\n\n\n Dahl stripped off his suit. His face was covered with light beads of\n sweat and his eyes were frightened.\n\n\n He moistened his lips slightly. \"Do—do you think they'll ever have\n relief ships up here more often than every eighteen months, Chap? I\n mean, considering the advance of—\"", "\"Hell, lots of reasons, Julius. You can't get a whole relief crew and\n let them take over cold. They have to know where you left off. They\n have to know where things are, how things work, what to watch out for.\n And then, because you've been here a year and a half and know the\n ropes, you have to watch them to see that they stay alive in spite of\n themselves. The Moon's a new environment and you have to learn how to\n live in it. There's a lot of things to learn—and some people just\n never learn.\"\n\n\n \"You're nursemaid, then.\"\n\n\n \"I suppose you could call it that.\"\nKlein said, \"You're not a scientist, are you?\"", "He hadn't actually needed to pack, of course. In less than twenty-four\n hours he'd be back on Earth where he could drown himself in toothpaste\n and buy more tee shirts than he could wear in a lifetime. He could\n leave behind his shorts and socks and the outsize shirts he had\n inherited from—who was it? Driesbach?—of the First group. Dahl could\n probably use them or maybe one of the boys in the Third.\nBut it wasn't like going home unless you packed. It was part of the\n ritual, like marking off the last three weeks in pencil on the gray\n steel of the bulkhead beside his hammock. Just a few hours ago, when he\n woke up, he had made the last check mark and signed his name and the\n date. His signature was right beneath Dixon's.\n\n\n He frowned when he thought of Dixon and slid back the catch on the top\n of the bag and locked it. They should never have sent a kid like Dixon\n to the Moon.", "They walked over to one corner of the bunker. \"This is about as private\n as we can get, captain,\" Chapman said. \"What's on your mind?\"\nEberlein found a packing crate and made himself comfortable. He looked\n at Chapman.\n\n\n \"I've always wanted to meet the man who's spent more time here than\n anybody else,\" he began.\n\n\n \"I'm sure you wanted to see me for more reasons than just curiosity.\"\n\n\n Eberlein took out a pack of cigarets. \"Mind if I smoke?\"\n\n\n Chapman jerked a thumb toward Dahl. \"Ask him. He's in charge now.\"\n\n\n The captain didn't bother. He put the pack away. \"You know we have big\n plans for the station,\" he said.\n\n\n \"I hadn't heard of them.\"", "They laughed. Somebody said: \"Go play your record, Chap. Today's the\n day for it.\"\n\n\n The phonograph was a small, wind-up model that Chapman had smuggled in\n when he had landed with the First group. The record was old and the\n shellac was nearly worn off, but the music was good.\n\n\n Way Back Home by Al Lewis.\nThey ran through it twice. They were beginning to feel it now, Chapman\n thought. They were going to go home in a little while and the idea was\n just starting to sink in.\n\n\n \"You know, Chap,\" Donley said, \"it won't seem like the same old Moon\n without you on it. Why, we'll look at it when we're out spooning or\n something and it just won't have the same old appeal.\"\n\n\n \"Like they say in the army,\" Bening said, \"you never had it so good.\n You found a home here.\"", "Lord, Chapman thought, I'll be happy when I can see some other faces.\n\n\n \"What'd they want?\" Klein had one eyelid open and a questioning look on\n his face.\n\n\n \"They wanted me to stay until the next relief ship lands,\" Chapman\n whispered back.\n\n\n \"What did you say?\"\n\n\n He shrugged. \"No.\"\n\n\n \"You kept it short,\" somebody else whispered. It was Donley, up and\n sitting on the side of his hammock. \"If it had been me, I would have\n told them just what they could do about it.\"\nThe others were awake now, with the exception of Dahl who had his face\n to the bulkhead and a pillow over his head.\n\n\n Dowden rubbed his eyes sleepily. \"Sore, aren't you?\"\n\n\n \"Kind of. Who wouldn't be?\"", "\"I like the feel of it,\" he said simply.\n\n\n Chapman cut off a single blade with his fingernail and put it between\n his lips. It had been years since he had seen grass and had the luxury\n of walking on it and lying on its cool thickness during those sultry\n summer nights when it was too hot to sleep indoors.\n\n\n Williams blushed. \"I thought we could spare a little water for it and\n maybe use the ultraviolet lamp on it some of the time. Couldn't help\n but bring it along; it seemed sort of like a symbol....\" He looked\n embarrassed.\n\n\n Chapman sympathized. If he had had any sense, he'd have tried to\n smuggle something like that up to the Moon instead of his phonograph.\n\n\n \"That's valuable grass,\" Dahl said sharply. \"Do you realize that at\n current freight rates up here, it's worth about ten dollars a blade?\"", "\"And I'd check you five hundred more,\" Chapman said. \"It takes only\n one mistake. And watch out for blisters under the pumice crust. You go\n through one of those and that's it, brother.\"\n\n\n Donley sighed. \"Chap, you watch us like an old mother hen. You see we\n check our suits, you settle our arguments, you see that we're not bored\n and that we stay healthy and happy. I think you'd blow our noses for us\n if we caught cold. But some day, Chap old man, you're gonna find out\n that your little boys can watch out for themselves!\"\n\n\n But he checked his suit for leaks and tested the valve of his tank\n before he left.\nOnly Klein and Chapman were left in the bunker. Klein was at the work\n table, carefully labeling some lichen specimens.\n\n\n \"I never knew you were married,\" Chapman said." ], [ "\"Well, don't let it throw you. They've never been here on the Moon.\n They don't know what it's like. All they're trying to do is get a good\n man to stay on the job a while longer.\"\n\n\n \"\nAll\nthey're trying to do,\" Chapman said sarcastically. \"They've got\n a fat chance.\"\n\n\n \"They think you've found a home here,\" Donley said.\n\n\n \"Why the hell don't you guys shut up until morning?\" Dahl was awake,\n looking bitter. \"Some of us still have to stay here, you know. Some of\n us aren't going back today.\"\n\n\n No, Chapman thought, some of us aren't going back. You aren't. And\n Dixon's staying, too. Only Dixon isn't ever going back.", "A hundred yards from the research bunker he could make out the small\n mound of stones and the forlorn homemade cross, jury-rigged out of\n small condensed milk tins slid over crossed iron bars. You could still\n see the footprints in the powdery soil where the group had gathered\n about the grave. It had been more than eighteen months ago, but there\n was no wind to wear those tracks away. They'd be there forever.\n\n\n That's what happened to guys like Dixon, Chapman thought. On the Moon,\n one mistake could use up your whole quota of chances.\n\n\n Klein came back with the coffee. Chapman took a cup, gagged, and forced\n himself to swallow the rest of it. It had been in the can for so long\n you could almost taste the glue on the label.\nDonley was warming himself over his cup, looking thoughtful. Dowden and\n Bening were struggling into their suits, getting ready to go outside.\n Dahl was still sitting on his hammock, trying to ignore them.", "Klein jerked his thumb toward Dahl's bunk, held a finger to his lips,\n and walked noiselessly over to the small electric stove. It was his day\n for breakfast duty.\n\n\n The others started lacing up their bunks, getting ready for their last\n day of work on the Moon. In a few hours they'd be relieved by members\n of the Third research group and they'd be on their way back to Earth.\n\n\n And that includes me, Chapman thought. I'm going home. I'm finally\n going home.\n\n\n He walked silently to the one small, quartz window in the room. It was\n morning—the Moon's \"morning\"—and he shivered slightly. The rays of\n the Sun were just striking the far rim of the crater and long shadows\n shot across the crater floor. The rest of it was still blanketed in\n a dark jumble of powdery pumice and jagged peaks that would make the\n Black Hills of Dakota look like paradise.", "Dahl took the plunge. \"Well, you see,\" he started eagerly, too far gone\n to remember such a thing as pride, \"you know my father's pretty well\n fixed. We would make it worth your while, Chap.\" He was feverish. \"It\n would mean eighteen more months, Chap, but they'd be well-paid months!\"\n\n\n Chapman felt tired. The good feeling he had about going home was slowly\n evaporating.\n\n\n \"If you have any report to make, I think you had better get at it,\"\n he cut in, keeping all the harshness he felt out of his voice. \"It'll\n be too late after the relief ship leaves. It'll be easier to give the\n captain your report than try to radio it back to Earth from here.\"\n\n\n He felt sorrier for Dahl than he could ever remember having felt for\n anybody. Long after going home, Dahl would remember this.\n\n\n It would eat at him like a cancer.", "Three years on the Moon and they didn't want him to come back.\n\n\n Three years on the Moon and they thought he'd be glad to stay for more.\n Just raise his salary or give him a bonus, the every-man-has-his-price\n idea. They probably thought he liked it there.\n\n\n Oh, sure, he loved it. Canned coffee, canned beans, canned pills,\n and canned air until your insides felt as though they were plated\n with tin. Life in a cramped, smelly little hut where you could take\n only ten steps in any one direction. Their little scientific home of\n tomorrow with none of the modern conveniences, a charming place where\n you couldn't take a shower, couldn't brush your teeth, and your kidneys\n didn't work right.\n\n\n And for double his salary they thought he'd be glad to stay for another\n year and a half. Or maybe three. He should probably be glad he had the\n opportunity.", "He had just locked the bag when he heard the rumble of the airlock and\n the soft hiss of air. Somebody had come back earlier than expected. He\n watched the inner door swing open and the spacesuited figure clump in\n and unscrew its helmet.\n\n\n Dahl. He had gone out to help Dowden on the Schmidt telescope. Maybe\n Dowden hadn't needed any help, with Bening along. Or more likely,\n considering the circumstances, Dahl wasn't much good at helping anybody\n today.\n\n\n Dahl stripped off his suit. His face was covered with light beads of\n sweat and his eyes were frightened.\n\n\n He moistened his lips slightly. \"Do—do you think they'll ever have\n relief ships up here more often than every eighteen months, Chap? I\n mean, considering the advance of—\"", "He stopped, feeling embarrassed. Klein's expression was encouraging.\n \"And then I think I'd like to go downtown and just watch the shoppers\n on the sidewalks. Or maybe go to a burlesque house and smell the cheap\n perfume and the popcorn and the people sweating in the dark.\"\n\n\n He studied his hands. \"I think what I miss most is people—all kinds\n of people. Bad people and good people and fat people and thin people,\n and people I can't understand. People who wouldn't know an atom from an\n artichoke. And people who wouldn't give a damn. We're a quarter of a\n million miles from nowhere, Julius, and to make it literary, I think I\n miss my fellow man more than anything.\"\n\n\n \"Got a girl back home?\" Klein asked almost casually.\n\n\n \"Yes.\"\n\n\n \"You're not like Dahl. You've never mentioned it.\"", "The others chimed in and Chapman grinned. Yesterday or a week ago they\n couldn't have done it. He had been there too long and he had hated it\n too much.\n\n\n The party quieted down after a while and Dowden and Bening finished\n getting into their suits. They still had a section of the sky to map\n before they left. Donley was right after them. There was an outcropping\n of rock that he wanted a sample of and some strata he wished to\n investigate.\n\n\n And the time went faster when you kept busy.\nChapman stopped them at the lock. \"Remember to check your suits for\n leaks,\" he warned. \"And check the valves of your oxygen tanks.\"\n\n\n Donley looked sour. \"I've gone out at least five hundred times,\" he\n said, \"and you check me each time.\"", "\"No, you should know that. I came as the pilot of the first ship. We\n made the bunker out of parts of the ship so there wasn't anything to\n go back on. I'm a good mechanic and I made myself useful with the\n machinery. When it occurred to us that somebody was going to have to\n stay over, I volunteered. I thought the others were so important that\n it was better they should take their samples and data back to Earth\n when the first relief ship came.\"\n\n\n \"You wouldn't do it again, though, would you?\"\n\n\n \"No, I wouldn't.\"\n\n\n \"Do you think Dahl will do as good a job as you've done here?\"", "\"Think we ought to radio the space station and see if they've left\n there yet?\" Klein asked.\n\n\n \"I talked to them on the last call,\" Chapman said. \"The relief ship\n left there twelve hours ago. They should get here\"—he looked at his\n watch—\"in about six and a half hours.\"\n\n\n \"Chap, you know, I've been thinking,\" Donley said quietly. \"You've\n been here just twice as long as the rest of us. What's the first thing\n you're going to do once you get back?\"\n\n\n It hit them, then. Dowden and Bening looked blank for a minute and\n blindly found packing cases to sit on. The top halves of their suits\n were still hanging on the bulkhead. Klein lowered his coffee cup and\n looked grave. Even Dahl glanced up expectantly.", "They laughed. Somebody said: \"Go play your record, Chap. Today's the\n day for it.\"\n\n\n The phonograph was a small, wind-up model that Chapman had smuggled in\n when he had landed with the First group. The record was old and the\n shellac was nearly worn off, but the music was good.\n\n\n Way Back Home by Al Lewis.\nThey ran through it twice. They were beginning to feel it now, Chapman\n thought. They were going to go home in a little while and the idea was\n just starting to sink in.\n\n\n \"You know, Chap,\" Donley said, \"it won't seem like the same old Moon\n without you on it. Why, we'll look at it when we're out spooning or\n something and it just won't have the same old appeal.\"\n\n\n \"Like they say in the army,\" Bening said, \"you never had it so good.\n You found a home here.\"", "\"I like the feel of it,\" he said simply.\n\n\n Chapman cut off a single blade with his fingernail and put it between\n his lips. It had been years since he had seen grass and had the luxury\n of walking on it and lying on its cool thickness during those sultry\n summer nights when it was too hot to sleep indoors.\n\n\n Williams blushed. \"I thought we could spare a little water for it and\n maybe use the ultraviolet lamp on it some of the time. Couldn't help\n but bring it along; it seemed sort of like a symbol....\" He looked\n embarrassed.\n\n\n Chapman sympathized. If he had had any sense, he'd have tried to\n smuggle something like that up to the Moon instead of his phonograph.\n\n\n \"That's valuable grass,\" Dahl said sharply. \"Do you realize that at\n current freight rates up here, it's worth about ten dollars a blade?\"", "He hadn't actually needed to pack, of course. In less than twenty-four\n hours he'd be back on Earth where he could drown himself in toothpaste\n and buy more tee shirts than he could wear in a lifetime. He could\n leave behind his shorts and socks and the outsize shirts he had\n inherited from—who was it? Driesbach?—of the First group. Dahl could\n probably use them or maybe one of the boys in the Third.\nBut it wasn't like going home unless you packed. It was part of the\n ritual, like marking off the last three weeks in pencil on the gray\n steel of the bulkhead beside his hammock. Just a few hours ago, when he\n woke up, he had made the last check mark and signed his name and the\n date. His signature was right beneath Dixon's.\n\n\n He frowned when he thought of Dixon and slid back the catch on the top\n of the bag and locked it. They should never have sent a kid like Dixon\n to the Moon.", "\"No,\" Chapman interrupted bluntly. \"I don't. Not at least for ten\n years. The fuel's too expensive and the trip's too hazardous. On\n freight charges alone you're worth your weight in platinum when they\n send you here. Even if it becomes cheaper, Bob, it won't come about\n so it will shorten stopover right away.\" He stopped, feeling a little\n sorry for Dahl. \"It won't be too bad. There'll be new men up here and\n you'll pass a lot of time getting to know them.\"", "\"He died,\" Chapman said. \"He was a good kid, all wrapped up in science.\n Being on the Moon was the opportunity of a lifetime. He thought so much\n about it that he forgot a lot of little things—like how to stay alive.\n The day before the Second group came, he went out to finish some work\n he was interested in. He forgot to check for leaks and whether or not\n the valve on his tank was all the way closed. We couldn't get to him in\n time.\"\n\n\n \"He had his walkie-talkie with him?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. It worked fine, too. We heard everything that went through his\n mind at the end.\"\n\n\n Klein's face was blank. \"What's your real job here, Chap? Why does\n somebody have to stay for stopover?\"", "Chapman and Klein watched them dash across the pumice, making the\n tremendous leaps they used to read about in the Sunday supplements. The\n port of the rocket had opened and tiny figures were climbing down the\n ladder. The small figures from the bunker reached them and did a short\n jig of welcome. Then the figures linked arms and started back. Chapman\n noticed one—it was probably Donley—pat the ship affectionately before\n he started back.\nThey were in the lock and the air pumped in and then they were in\n the bunker, taking off their suits. The newcomers were impressed and\n solemn, very much aware of the tremendous responsibility that rested on\n their shoulders. Like Donley and Klein and the members of the Second\n group had been when they had landed. Like Chapman had been in the First.\n\n\n Donley and the others were all over them.\nHow was it back on Earth? Who had won the series? Was so-and-so still\n teaching at the university? What was the international situation?", "\"Is that all?\"\n\n\n Eberlein was ill at ease. \"Naturally you'd be paid well. I don't\n imagine any man would like being here all the time. They're prepared to\n double your salary—maybe even a bonus in addition—and let you have\n full charge. You'd be Director of the Luna Laboratories.\"\n\n\n All this and a title too, Chapman thought.\n\n\n \"That's it?\" Chapman asked.\n\n\n Eberlein frowned. \"Well, the Commission said they'd be willing to\n consider anything else you had in mind, if it was more money or....\"\n\n\n \"The answer is no,\" Chapman said. \"I'm not interested in more money\n for staying because I'm not interested in staying. Money can't buy it,\n captain. I'm sorry, but I'm afraid that you'd have to stay up here to\n appreciate that.", "They walked over to one corner of the bunker. \"This is about as private\n as we can get, captain,\" Chapman said. \"What's on your mind?\"\nEberlein found a packing crate and made himself comfortable. He looked\n at Chapman.\n\n\n \"I've always wanted to meet the man who's spent more time here than\n anybody else,\" he began.\n\n\n \"I'm sure you wanted to see me for more reasons than just curiosity.\"\n\n\n Eberlein took out a pack of cigarets. \"Mind if I smoke?\"\n\n\n Chapman jerked a thumb toward Dahl. \"Ask him. He's in charge now.\"\n\n\n The captain didn't bother. He put the pack away. \"You know we have big\n plans for the station,\" he said.\n\n\n \"I hadn't heard of them.\"", "\"And I'd check you five hundred more,\" Chapman said. \"It takes only\n one mistake. And watch out for blisters under the pumice crust. You go\n through one of those and that's it, brother.\"\n\n\n Donley sighed. \"Chap, you watch us like an old mother hen. You see we\n check our suits, you settle our arguments, you see that we're not bored\n and that we stay healthy and happy. I think you'd blow our noses for us\n if we caught cold. But some day, Chap old man, you're gonna find out\n that your little boys can watch out for themselves!\"\n\n\n But he checked his suit for leaks and tested the valve of his tank\n before he left.\nOnly Klein and Chapman were left in the bunker. Klein was at the work\n table, carefully labeling some lichen specimens.\n\n\n \"I never knew you were married,\" Chapman said.", "Lord, Chapman thought, I'll be happy when I can see some other faces.\n\n\n \"What'd they want?\" Klein had one eyelid open and a questioning look on\n his face.\n\n\n \"They wanted me to stay until the next relief ship lands,\" Chapman\n whispered back.\n\n\n \"What did you say?\"\n\n\n He shrugged. \"No.\"\n\n\n \"You kept it short,\" somebody else whispered. It was Donley, up and\n sitting on the side of his hammock. \"If it had been me, I would have\n told them just what they could do about it.\"\nThe others were awake now, with the exception of Dahl who had his face\n to the bulkhead and a pillow over his head.\n\n\n Dowden rubbed his eyes sleepily. \"Sore, aren't you?\"\n\n\n \"Kind of. Who wouldn't be?\"" ], [ "Dahl took the plunge. \"Well, you see,\" he started eagerly, too far gone\n to remember such a thing as pride, \"you know my father's pretty well\n fixed. We would make it worth your while, Chap.\" He was feverish. \"It\n would mean eighteen more months, Chap, but they'd be well-paid months!\"\n\n\n Chapman felt tired. The good feeling he had about going home was slowly\n evaporating.\n\n\n \"If you have any report to make, I think you had better get at it,\"\n he cut in, keeping all the harshness he felt out of his voice. \"It'll\n be too late after the relief ship leaves. It'll be easier to give the\n captain your report than try to radio it back to Earth from here.\"\n\n\n He felt sorrier for Dahl than he could ever remember having felt for\n anybody. Long after going home, Dahl would remember this.\n\n\n It would eat at him like a cancer.", "They laughed. Somebody said: \"Go play your record, Chap. Today's the\n day for it.\"\n\n\n The phonograph was a small, wind-up model that Chapman had smuggled in\n when he had landed with the First group. The record was old and the\n shellac was nearly worn off, but the music was good.\n\n\n Way Back Home by Al Lewis.\nThey ran through it twice. They were beginning to feel it now, Chapman\n thought. They were going to go home in a little while and the idea was\n just starting to sink in.\n\n\n \"You know, Chap,\" Donley said, \"it won't seem like the same old Moon\n without you on it. Why, we'll look at it when we're out spooning or\n something and it just won't have the same old appeal.\"\n\n\n \"Like they say in the army,\" Bening said, \"you never had it so good.\n You found a home here.\"", "\"Is that all?\"\n\n\n Eberlein was ill at ease. \"Naturally you'd be paid well. I don't\n imagine any man would like being here all the time. They're prepared to\n double your salary—maybe even a bonus in addition—and let you have\n full charge. You'd be Director of the Luna Laboratories.\"\n\n\n All this and a title too, Chapman thought.\n\n\n \"That's it?\" Chapman asked.\n\n\n Eberlein frowned. \"Well, the Commission said they'd be willing to\n consider anything else you had in mind, if it was more money or....\"\n\n\n \"The answer is no,\" Chapman said. \"I'm not interested in more money\n for staying because I'm not interested in staying. Money can't buy it,\n captain. I'm sorry, but I'm afraid that you'd have to stay up here to\n appreciate that.", "\"Well, don't let it throw you. They've never been here on the Moon.\n They don't know what it's like. All they're trying to do is get a good\n man to stay on the job a while longer.\"\n\n\n \"\nAll\nthey're trying to do,\" Chapman said sarcastically. \"They've got\n a fat chance.\"\n\n\n \"They think you've found a home here,\" Donley said.\n\n\n \"Why the hell don't you guys shut up until morning?\" Dahl was awake,\n looking bitter. \"Some of us still have to stay here, you know. Some of\n us aren't going back today.\"\n\n\n No, Chapman thought, some of us aren't going back. You aren't. And\n Dixon's staying, too. Only Dixon isn't ever going back.", "Lord, Chapman thought, I'll be happy when I can see some other faces.\n\n\n \"What'd they want?\" Klein had one eyelid open and a questioning look on\n his face.\n\n\n \"They wanted me to stay until the next relief ship lands,\" Chapman\n whispered back.\n\n\n \"What did you say?\"\n\n\n He shrugged. \"No.\"\n\n\n \"You kept it short,\" somebody else whispered. It was Donley, up and\n sitting on the side of his hammock. \"If it had been me, I would have\n told them just what they could do about it.\"\nThe others were awake now, with the exception of Dahl who had his face\n to the bulkhead and a pillow over his head.\n\n\n Dowden rubbed his eyes sleepily. \"Sore, aren't you?\"\n\n\n \"Kind of. Who wouldn't be?\"", "The others chimed in and Chapman grinned. Yesterday or a week ago they\n couldn't have done it. He had been there too long and he had hated it\n too much.\n\n\n The party quieted down after a while and Dowden and Bening finished\n getting into their suits. They still had a section of the sky to map\n before they left. Donley was right after them. There was an outcropping\n of rock that he wanted a sample of and some strata he wished to\n investigate.\n\n\n And the time went faster when you kept busy.\nChapman stopped them at the lock. \"Remember to check your suits for\n leaks,\" he warned. \"And check the valves of your oxygen tanks.\"\n\n\n Donley looked sour. \"I've gone out at least five hundred times,\" he\n said, \"and you check me each time.\"", "Klein held up his hands. \"Look, Chap, I didn't mean you should stay. I\n know how much you hate it and the time you put in up here. It's just—\"\n His voice trailed away. \"It's just that I think it's such a damn\n important job.\"\n\n\n Klein had gone out in a last search for rock lichens and Chapman\n enjoyed one of his relatively few moments of privacy. He wandered over\n to his bunk and opened his barracks bag. He checked the underwear and\n his toothbrush and shaving kit for maybe the hundredth time and pushed\n the clothing down farther in the canvas. It was foolish because the\n bag was already packed and had been for a week. He remembered stalling\n it off for as long as he could and then the quiet satisfaction about a\n week before, when he had opened his small gear locker and transferred\n its meager belongings to the bag.", "\"I don't know,\" Chapman said slowly. \"I guess I was trying not to think\n of that. I suppose none of us have. We've been like little kids who\n have waited so long for Christmas that they just can't believe it when\n it's finally Christmas Eve.\"\n\n\n Klein nodded in agreement. \"I haven't been here three years like you\n have, but I think I know what you mean.\" He warmed up to it as the idea\n sank in. \"Just what the hell\nare\nyou going to do?\"\n\n\n \"Nothing very spectacular,\" Chapman said, smiling. \"I'm going to rent\n a room over Times Square, get a recording of a rikky-tik piano, and\n drink and listen to the music and watch the people on the street below.\n Then I think I'll see somebody.\"\n\n\n \"Who's the somebody?\" Donley asked.\n\n\n Chapman grinned. \"Oh, just somebody. What are you going to do, Dick?\"", "\"And I'd check you five hundred more,\" Chapman said. \"It takes only\n one mistake. And watch out for blisters under the pumice crust. You go\n through one of those and that's it, brother.\"\n\n\n Donley sighed. \"Chap, you watch us like an old mother hen. You see we\n check our suits, you settle our arguments, you see that we're not bored\n and that we stay healthy and happy. I think you'd blow our noses for us\n if we caught cold. But some day, Chap old man, you're gonna find out\n that your little boys can watch out for themselves!\"\n\n\n But he checked his suit for leaks and tested the valve of his tank\n before he left.\nOnly Klein and Chapman were left in the bunker. Klein was at the work\n table, carefully labeling some lichen specimens.\n\n\n \"I never knew you were married,\" Chapman said.", "He stopped, feeling embarrassed. Klein's expression was encouraging.\n \"And then I think I'd like to go downtown and just watch the shoppers\n on the sidewalks. Or maybe go to a burlesque house and smell the cheap\n perfume and the popcorn and the people sweating in the dark.\"\n\n\n He studied his hands. \"I think what I miss most is people—all kinds\n of people. Bad people and good people and fat people and thin people,\n and people I can't understand. People who wouldn't know an atom from an\n artichoke. And people who wouldn't give a damn. We're a quarter of a\n million miles from nowhere, Julius, and to make it literary, I think I\n miss my fellow man more than anything.\"\n\n\n \"Got a girl back home?\" Klein asked almost casually.\n\n\n \"Yes.\"\n\n\n \"You're not like Dahl. You've never mentioned it.\"", "Klein didn't look up. \"There wasn't much sense in talking about it. You\n just get to thinking and wanting—and there's nothing you can do about\n it. You talk about it and it just makes it worse.\"\n\n\n \"She let you go without any fuss, huh?\"\n\n\n \"No, she didn't make any fuss. But I don't think she liked to see me\n go, either.\" He laughed a little. \"At least I hope she didn't.\"\nThey were silent for a while. \"What do you miss most, Chap?\" Klein\n asked. \"Oh, I know what we said a little while ago, but I mean\n seriously.\"\n\n\n Chapman thought a minute. \"I think I miss the sky,\" he said quietly.\n \"The blue sky and the green grass and trees with leaves on them that\n turn color in the Fall. I think, when I go back, that I'd like to go\n out in a rain storm and strip and feel the rain on my skin.\"", "\"Think we ought to radio the space station and see if they've left\n there yet?\" Klein asked.\n\n\n \"I talked to them on the last call,\" Chapman said. \"The relief ship\n left there twelve hours ago. They should get here\"—he looked at his\n watch—\"in about six and a half hours.\"\n\n\n \"Chap, you know, I've been thinking,\" Donley said quietly. \"You've\n been here just twice as long as the rest of us. What's the first thing\n you're going to do once you get back?\"\n\n\n It hit them, then. Dowden and Bening looked blank for a minute and\n blindly found packing cases to sit on. The top halves of their suits\n were still hanging on the bulkhead. Klein lowered his coffee cup and\n looked grave. Even Dahl glanced up expectantly.", "\"No,\" Chapman interrupted bluntly. \"I don't. Not at least for ten\n years. The fuel's too expensive and the trip's too hazardous. On\n freight charges alone you're worth your weight in platinum when they\n send you here. Even if it becomes cheaper, Bob, it won't come about\n so it will shorten stopover right away.\" He stopped, feeling a little\n sorry for Dahl. \"It won't be too bad. There'll be new men up here and\n you'll pass a lot of time getting to know them.\"", "\"Oh, yes,\nbig plans\n. They're working on unmanned, open-side rockets\n now that could carry cargo and sheet steel for more bunkers like this.\n Enable us to enlarge the unit, have a series of bunkers all linked\n together. Make good laboratories and living quarters for you people.\"\n His eyes swept the room. \"Have a little privacy for a change.\"\n\n\n Chapman nodded. \"They could use a little privacy up here.\"\n\n\n The captain noticed the pronoun. \"Well, that's one of the reasons why\n I wanted to talk to you, Chapman. The Commission talked it over and\n they'd like to see you stay. They feel if they're going to enlarge it,\n add more bunkers and have more men up here, that a man of practical\n experience should be running things. They figure that you're the only\n man who's capable and who's had the experience.\"\n\n\n The captain vaguely felt the approach was all wrong.", "It hurt to look in Dahl's eyes. They were the eyes of a man who was\n trying desperately to stop what he was about to do, but just couldn't\n help himself.\n\n\n \"Well, yes, more or less. Oh, God, Chap, I know you want to go home!\n But I couldn't ask any of the others; you were the only one who could,\n the only one who was qualified!\"\nDahl looked as though he was going to be sick. Chapman tried to recall\n all he knew about him. Dahl, Robert. Good mathematician. Graduate from\n one of the Ivy League schools. Father was a manufacturer of stoves or\n something.\n\n\n It still didn't add, not quite. \"You know I don't like it here any more\n than you do,\" Chapman said slowly. \"I may have commitments at home,\n too. What made you think I would change my mind?\"", "Klein jerked his thumb toward Dahl's bunk, held a finger to his lips,\n and walked noiselessly over to the small electric stove. It was his day\n for breakfast duty.\n\n\n The others started lacing up their bunks, getting ready for their last\n day of work on the Moon. In a few hours they'd be relieved by members\n of the Third research group and they'd be on their way back to Earth.\n\n\n And that includes me, Chapman thought. I'm going home. I'm finally\n going home.\n\n\n He walked silently to the one small, quartz window in the room. It was\n morning—the Moon's \"morning\"—and he shivered slightly. The rays of\n the Sun were just striking the far rim of the crater and long shadows\n shot across the crater floor. The rest of it was still blanketed in\n a dark jumble of powdery pumice and jagged peaks that would make the\n Black Hills of Dakota look like paradise.", "\"He died,\" Chapman said. \"He was a good kid, all wrapped up in science.\n Being on the Moon was the opportunity of a lifetime. He thought so much\n about it that he forgot a lot of little things—like how to stay alive.\n The day before the Second group came, he went out to finish some work\n he was interested in. He forgot to check for leaks and whether or not\n the valve on his tank was all the way closed. We couldn't get to him in\n time.\"\n\n\n \"He had his walkie-talkie with him?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. It worked fine, too. We heard everything that went through his\n mind at the end.\"\n\n\n Klein's face was blank. \"What's your real job here, Chap? Why does\n somebody have to stay for stopover?\"", "They walked over to one corner of the bunker. \"This is about as private\n as we can get, captain,\" Chapman said. \"What's on your mind?\"\nEberlein found a packing crate and made himself comfortable. He looked\n at Chapman.\n\n\n \"I've always wanted to meet the man who's spent more time here than\n anybody else,\" he began.\n\n\n \"I'm sure you wanted to see me for more reasons than just curiosity.\"\n\n\n Eberlein took out a pack of cigarets. \"Mind if I smoke?\"\n\n\n Chapman jerked a thumb toward Dahl. \"Ask him. He's in charge now.\"\n\n\n The captain didn't bother. He put the pack away. \"You know we have big\n plans for the station,\" he said.\n\n\n \"I hadn't heard of them.\"", "Chapman and Klein watched them dash across the pumice, making the\n tremendous leaps they used to read about in the Sunday supplements. The\n port of the rocket had opened and tiny figures were climbing down the\n ladder. The small figures from the bunker reached them and did a short\n jig of welcome. Then the figures linked arms and started back. Chapman\n noticed one—it was probably Donley—pat the ship affectionately before\n he started back.\nThey were in the lock and the air pumped in and then they were in\n the bunker, taking off their suits. The newcomers were impressed and\n solemn, very much aware of the tremendous responsibility that rested on\n their shoulders. Like Donley and Klein and the members of the Second\n group had been when they had landed. Like Chapman had been in the First.\n\n\n Donley and the others were all over them.\nHow was it back on Earth? Who had won the series? Was so-and-so still\n teaching at the university? What was the international situation?", "\"Well, you see,\" Dahl started, \"that's why I came back early. I wanted\n to see you about stopover. It's that—well, I'll put it this way.\" He\n seemed to be groping for an easy way to say what he wanted to. \"I'm\n engaged back home. Really nice girl, Chap, you'd like her if you knew\n her.\" He fumbled in his pocket and found a photograph and put it on\n the desk. \"That's a picture of Alice, taken at a picnic we were on\n together.\" Chapman didn't look. \"She—we—expected to be married when\n I got back. I never told her about stopover, Chap. She thinks I'll be\n home tomorrow. I kept thinking, hoping, that maybe somehow—\"\n\n\n He was fumbling it badly, Chapman thought.\n\n\n \"You wanted to trade places with me, didn't you, Bob? You thought I\n might stay for stopover again, in your place?\"" ], [ "Klein held up his hands. \"Look, Chap, I didn't mean you should stay. I\n know how much you hate it and the time you put in up here. It's just—\"\n His voice trailed away. \"It's just that I think it's such a damn\n important job.\"\n\n\n Klein had gone out in a last search for rock lichens and Chapman\n enjoyed one of his relatively few moments of privacy. He wandered over\n to his bunk and opened his barracks bag. He checked the underwear and\n his toothbrush and shaving kit for maybe the hundredth time and pushed\n the clothing down farther in the canvas. It was foolish because the\n bag was already packed and had been for a week. He remembered stalling\n it off for as long as he could and then the quiet satisfaction about a\n week before, when he had opened his small gear locker and transferred\n its meager belongings to the bag.", "\"And I'd check you five hundred more,\" Chapman said. \"It takes only\n one mistake. And watch out for blisters under the pumice crust. You go\n through one of those and that's it, brother.\"\n\n\n Donley sighed. \"Chap, you watch us like an old mother hen. You see we\n check our suits, you settle our arguments, you see that we're not bored\n and that we stay healthy and happy. I think you'd blow our noses for us\n if we caught cold. But some day, Chap old man, you're gonna find out\n that your little boys can watch out for themselves!\"\n\n\n But he checked his suit for leaks and tested the valve of his tank\n before he left.\nOnly Klein and Chapman were left in the bunker. Klein was at the work\n table, carefully labeling some lichen specimens.\n\n\n \"I never knew you were married,\" Chapman said.", "He stopped, feeling embarrassed. Klein's expression was encouraging.\n \"And then I think I'd like to go downtown and just watch the shoppers\n on the sidewalks. Or maybe go to a burlesque house and smell the cheap\n perfume and the popcorn and the people sweating in the dark.\"\n\n\n He studied his hands. \"I think what I miss most is people—all kinds\n of people. Bad people and good people and fat people and thin people,\n and people I can't understand. People who wouldn't know an atom from an\n artichoke. And people who wouldn't give a damn. We're a quarter of a\n million miles from nowhere, Julius, and to make it literary, I think I\n miss my fellow man more than anything.\"\n\n\n \"Got a girl back home?\" Klein asked almost casually.\n\n\n \"Yes.\"\n\n\n \"You're not like Dahl. You've never mentioned it.\"", "\"Think we ought to radio the space station and see if they've left\n there yet?\" Klein asked.\n\n\n \"I talked to them on the last call,\" Chapman said. \"The relief ship\n left there twelve hours ago. They should get here\"—he looked at his\n watch—\"in about six and a half hours.\"\n\n\n \"Chap, you know, I've been thinking,\" Donley said quietly. \"You've\n been here just twice as long as the rest of us. What's the first thing\n you're going to do once you get back?\"\n\n\n It hit them, then. Dowden and Bening looked blank for a minute and\n blindly found packing cases to sit on. The top halves of their suits\n were still hanging on the bulkhead. Klein lowered his coffee cup and\n looked grave. Even Dahl glanced up expectantly.", "\"He died,\" Chapman said. \"He was a good kid, all wrapped up in science.\n Being on the Moon was the opportunity of a lifetime. He thought so much\n about it that he forgot a lot of little things—like how to stay alive.\n The day before the Second group came, he went out to finish some work\n he was interested in. He forgot to check for leaks and whether or not\n the valve on his tank was all the way closed. We couldn't get to him in\n time.\"\n\n\n \"He had his walkie-talkie with him?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. It worked fine, too. We heard everything that went through his\n mind at the end.\"\n\n\n Klein's face was blank. \"What's your real job here, Chap? Why does\n somebody have to stay for stopover?\"", "Klein jerked his thumb toward Dahl's bunk, held a finger to his lips,\n and walked noiselessly over to the small electric stove. It was his day\n for breakfast duty.\n\n\n The others started lacing up their bunks, getting ready for their last\n day of work on the Moon. In a few hours they'd be relieved by members\n of the Third research group and they'd be on their way back to Earth.\n\n\n And that includes me, Chapman thought. I'm going home. I'm finally\n going home.\n\n\n He walked silently to the one small, quartz window in the room. It was\n morning—the Moon's \"morning\"—and he shivered slightly. The rays of\n the Sun were just striking the far rim of the crater and long shadows\n shot across the crater floor. The rest of it was still blanketed in\n a dark jumble of powdery pumice and jagged peaks that would make the\n Black Hills of Dakota look like paradise.", "Three years on the Moon and they didn't want him to come back.\n\n\n Three years on the Moon and they thought he'd be glad to stay for more.\n Just raise his salary or give him a bonus, the every-man-has-his-price\n idea. They probably thought he liked it there.\n\n\n Oh, sure, he loved it. Canned coffee, canned beans, canned pills,\n and canned air until your insides felt as though they were plated\n with tin. Life in a cramped, smelly little hut where you could take\n only ten steps in any one direction. Their little scientific home of\n tomorrow with none of the modern conveniences, a charming place where\n you couldn't take a shower, couldn't brush your teeth, and your kidneys\n didn't work right.\n\n\n And for double his salary they thought he'd be glad to stay for another\n year and a half. Or maybe three. He should probably be glad he had the\n opportunity.", "They laughed. Somebody said: \"Go play your record, Chap. Today's the\n day for it.\"\n\n\n The phonograph was a small, wind-up model that Chapman had smuggled in\n when he had landed with the First group. The record was old and the\n shellac was nearly worn off, but the music was good.\n\n\n Way Back Home by Al Lewis.\nThey ran through it twice. They were beginning to feel it now, Chapman\n thought. They were going to go home in a little while and the idea was\n just starting to sink in.\n\n\n \"You know, Chap,\" Donley said, \"it won't seem like the same old Moon\n without you on it. Why, we'll look at it when we're out spooning or\n something and it just won't have the same old appeal.\"\n\n\n \"Like they say in the army,\" Bening said, \"you never had it so good.\n You found a home here.\"", "\"Well, don't let it throw you. They've never been here on the Moon.\n They don't know what it's like. All they're trying to do is get a good\n man to stay on the job a while longer.\"\n\n\n \"\nAll\nthey're trying to do,\" Chapman said sarcastically. \"They've got\n a fat chance.\"\n\n\n \"They think you've found a home here,\" Donley said.\n\n\n \"Why the hell don't you guys shut up until morning?\" Dahl was awake,\n looking bitter. \"Some of us still have to stay here, you know. Some of\n us aren't going back today.\"\n\n\n No, Chapman thought, some of us aren't going back. You aren't. And\n Dixon's staying, too. Only Dixon isn't ever going back.", "\"Hell, lots of reasons, Julius. You can't get a whole relief crew and\n let them take over cold. They have to know where you left off. They\n have to know where things are, how things work, what to watch out for.\n And then, because you've been here a year and a half and know the\n ropes, you have to watch them to see that they stay alive in spite of\n themselves. The Moon's a new environment and you have to learn how to\n live in it. There's a lot of things to learn—and some people just\n never learn.\"\n\n\n \"You're nursemaid, then.\"\n\n\n \"I suppose you could call it that.\"\nKlein said, \"You're not a scientist, are you?\"", "A hundred yards from the research bunker he could make out the small\n mound of stones and the forlorn homemade cross, jury-rigged out of\n small condensed milk tins slid over crossed iron bars. You could still\n see the footprints in the powdery soil where the group had gathered\n about the grave. It had been more than eighteen months ago, but there\n was no wind to wear those tracks away. They'd be there forever.\n\n\n That's what happened to guys like Dixon, Chapman thought. On the Moon,\n one mistake could use up your whole quota of chances.\n\n\n Klein came back with the coffee. Chapman took a cup, gagged, and forced\n himself to swallow the rest of it. It had been in the can for so long\n you could almost taste the glue on the label.\nDonley was warming himself over his cup, looking thoughtful. Dowden and\n Bening were struggling into their suits, getting ready to go outside.\n Dahl was still sitting on his hammock, trying to ignore them.", "\"Is that all?\"\n\n\n Eberlein was ill at ease. \"Naturally you'd be paid well. I don't\n imagine any man would like being here all the time. They're prepared to\n double your salary—maybe even a bonus in addition—and let you have\n full charge. You'd be Director of the Luna Laboratories.\"\n\n\n All this and a title too, Chapman thought.\n\n\n \"That's it?\" Chapman asked.\n\n\n Eberlein frowned. \"Well, the Commission said they'd be willing to\n consider anything else you had in mind, if it was more money or....\"\n\n\n \"The answer is no,\" Chapman said. \"I'm not interested in more money\n for staying because I'm not interested in staying. Money can't buy it,\n captain. I'm sorry, but I'm afraid that you'd have to stay up here to\n appreciate that.", "The others chimed in and Chapman grinned. Yesterday or a week ago they\n couldn't have done it. He had been there too long and he had hated it\n too much.\n\n\n The party quieted down after a while and Dowden and Bening finished\n getting into their suits. They still had a section of the sky to map\n before they left. Donley was right after them. There was an outcropping\n of rock that he wanted a sample of and some strata he wished to\n investigate.\n\n\n And the time went faster when you kept busy.\nChapman stopped them at the lock. \"Remember to check your suits for\n leaks,\" he warned. \"And check the valves of your oxygen tanks.\"\n\n\n Donley looked sour. \"I've gone out at least five hundred times,\" he\n said, \"and you check me each time.\"", "Dahl took the plunge. \"Well, you see,\" he started eagerly, too far gone\n to remember such a thing as pride, \"you know my father's pretty well\n fixed. We would make it worth your while, Chap.\" He was feverish. \"It\n would mean eighteen more months, Chap, but they'd be well-paid months!\"\n\n\n Chapman felt tired. The good feeling he had about going home was slowly\n evaporating.\n\n\n \"If you have any report to make, I think you had better get at it,\"\n he cut in, keeping all the harshness he felt out of his voice. \"It'll\n be too late after the relief ship leaves. It'll be easier to give the\n captain your report than try to radio it back to Earth from here.\"\n\n\n He felt sorrier for Dahl than he could ever remember having felt for\n anybody. Long after going home, Dahl would remember this.\n\n\n It would eat at him like a cancer.", "Chapman and Klein watched them dash across the pumice, making the\n tremendous leaps they used to read about in the Sunday supplements. The\n port of the rocket had opened and tiny figures were climbing down the\n ladder. The small figures from the bunker reached them and did a short\n jig of welcome. Then the figures linked arms and started back. Chapman\n noticed one—it was probably Donley—pat the ship affectionately before\n he started back.\nThey were in the lock and the air pumped in and then they were in\n the bunker, taking off their suits. The newcomers were impressed and\n solemn, very much aware of the tremendous responsibility that rested on\n their shoulders. Like Donley and Klein and the members of the Second\n group had been when they had landed. Like Chapman had been in the First.\n\n\n Donley and the others were all over them.\nHow was it back on Earth? Who had won the series? Was so-and-so still\n teaching at the university? What was the international situation?", "Klein didn't look up. \"There wasn't much sense in talking about it. You\n just get to thinking and wanting—and there's nothing you can do about\n it. You talk about it and it just makes it worse.\"\n\n\n \"She let you go without any fuss, huh?\"\n\n\n \"No, she didn't make any fuss. But I don't think she liked to see me\n go, either.\" He laughed a little. \"At least I hope she didn't.\"\nThey were silent for a while. \"What do you miss most, Chap?\" Klein\n asked. \"Oh, I know what we said a little while ago, but I mean\n seriously.\"\n\n\n Chapman thought a minute. \"I think I miss the sky,\" he said quietly.\n \"The blue sky and the green grass and trees with leaves on them that\n turn color in the Fall. I think, when I go back, that I'd like to go\n out in a rain storm and strip and feel the rain on my skin.\"", "He hadn't actually needed to pack, of course. In less than twenty-four\n hours he'd be back on Earth where he could drown himself in toothpaste\n and buy more tee shirts than he could wear in a lifetime. He could\n leave behind his shorts and socks and the outsize shirts he had\n inherited from—who was it? Driesbach?—of the First group. Dahl could\n probably use them or maybe one of the boys in the Third.\nBut it wasn't like going home unless you packed. It was part of the\n ritual, like marking off the last three weeks in pencil on the gray\n steel of the bulkhead beside his hammock. Just a few hours ago, when he\n woke up, he had made the last check mark and signed his name and the\n date. His signature was right beneath Dixon's.\n\n\n He frowned when he thought of Dixon and slid back the catch on the top\n of the bag and locked it. They should never have sent a kid like Dixon\n to the Moon.", "Lord, Chapman thought, I'll be happy when I can see some other faces.\n\n\n \"What'd they want?\" Klein had one eyelid open and a questioning look on\n his face.\n\n\n \"They wanted me to stay until the next relief ship lands,\" Chapman\n whispered back.\n\n\n \"What did you say?\"\n\n\n He shrugged. \"No.\"\n\n\n \"You kept it short,\" somebody else whispered. It was Donley, up and\n sitting on the side of his hammock. \"If it had been me, I would have\n told them just what they could do about it.\"\nThe others were awake now, with the exception of Dahl who had his face\n to the bulkhead and a pillow over his head.\n\n\n Dowden rubbed his eyes sleepily. \"Sore, aren't you?\"\n\n\n \"Kind of. Who wouldn't be?\"", "The older man blew a smoke ring and watched it drift toward the air\n exhaust vent.\n\"You mean you would miss it here, the people you've known and grown\n up with, the little familiar things that have made up your life here.\n You're afraid the glamor would wear off and you would get to hate it on\n Venus.\"\nThe very young man nodded miserably. \"I guess that's it.\"\n\"Anything else?\"\nThe very young man found his fingernails extremely fascinating again\n and finally said, in a low voice, \"Yes, there is.\"\n\"A girl?\"\nA nod confirmed this.\nIt was the older man's turn to look thoughtful. \"You know, I'm sure,\n that psychologists and research men agree that research stations should", "Chapman frowned. \"Frankly, I hadn't thought of that. I don't believe\n I care. I've put in my time; it's somebody else's turn now. He\n volunteered for it. I think I was fair in explaining all about the job\n when you talked it over among yourselves.\"\n\n\n \"You did, but I don't think Dahl's the man for it. He's too young, too\n much of a kid. He volunteered because he thought it made him look like\n a hero. He doesn't have the judgment that an older man would have. That\n you have.\"\n\n\n Chapman turned slowly around and faced Klein.\n\n\n \"I'm not the indispensable man,\" he said slowly, \"and even if I was, it\n wouldn't make any difference to me. I'm sorry if Dahl is young. So was\n I. I've lost three years up here. And I don't intend to lose any more.\"" ], [ "Klein held up his hands. \"Look, Chap, I didn't mean you should stay. I\n know how much you hate it and the time you put in up here. It's just—\"\n His voice trailed away. \"It's just that I think it's such a damn\n important job.\"\n\n\n Klein had gone out in a last search for rock lichens and Chapman\n enjoyed one of his relatively few moments of privacy. He wandered over\n to his bunk and opened his barracks bag. He checked the underwear and\n his toothbrush and shaving kit for maybe the hundredth time and pushed\n the clothing down farther in the canvas. It was foolish because the\n bag was already packed and had been for a week. He remembered stalling\n it off for as long as he could and then the quiet satisfaction about a\n week before, when he had opened his small gear locker and transferred\n its meager belongings to the bag.", "\"And I'd check you five hundred more,\" Chapman said. \"It takes only\n one mistake. And watch out for blisters under the pumice crust. You go\n through one of those and that's it, brother.\"\n\n\n Donley sighed. \"Chap, you watch us like an old mother hen. You see we\n check our suits, you settle our arguments, you see that we're not bored\n and that we stay healthy and happy. I think you'd blow our noses for us\n if we caught cold. But some day, Chap old man, you're gonna find out\n that your little boys can watch out for themselves!\"\n\n\n But he checked his suit for leaks and tested the valve of his tank\n before he left.\nOnly Klein and Chapman were left in the bunker. Klein was at the work\n table, carefully labeling some lichen specimens.\n\n\n \"I never knew you were married,\" Chapman said.", "The others chimed in and Chapman grinned. Yesterday or a week ago they\n couldn't have done it. He had been there too long and he had hated it\n too much.\n\n\n The party quieted down after a while and Dowden and Bening finished\n getting into their suits. They still had a section of the sky to map\n before they left. Donley was right after them. There was an outcropping\n of rock that he wanted a sample of and some strata he wished to\n investigate.\n\n\n And the time went faster when you kept busy.\nChapman stopped them at the lock. \"Remember to check your suits for\n leaks,\" he warned. \"And check the valves of your oxygen tanks.\"\n\n\n Donley looked sour. \"I've gone out at least five hundred times,\" he\n said, \"and you check me each time.\"", "\"Oh, yes,\nbig plans\n. They're working on unmanned, open-side rockets\n now that could carry cargo and sheet steel for more bunkers like this.\n Enable us to enlarge the unit, have a series of bunkers all linked\n together. Make good laboratories and living quarters for you people.\"\n His eyes swept the room. \"Have a little privacy for a change.\"\n\n\n Chapman nodded. \"They could use a little privacy up here.\"\n\n\n The captain noticed the pronoun. \"Well, that's one of the reasons why\n I wanted to talk to you, Chapman. The Commission talked it over and\n they'd like to see you stay. They feel if they're going to enlarge it,\n add more bunkers and have more men up here, that a man of practical\n experience should be running things. They figure that you're the only\n man who's capable and who's had the experience.\"\n\n\n The captain vaguely felt the approach was all wrong.", "Chapman frowned. \"Frankly, I hadn't thought of that. I don't believe\n I care. I've put in my time; it's somebody else's turn now. He\n volunteered for it. I think I was fair in explaining all about the job\n when you talked it over among yourselves.\"\n\n\n \"You did, but I don't think Dahl's the man for it. He's too young, too\n much of a kid. He volunteered because he thought it made him look like\n a hero. He doesn't have the judgment that an older man would have. That\n you have.\"\n\n\n Chapman turned slowly around and faced Klein.\n\n\n \"I'm not the indispensable man,\" he said slowly, \"and even if I was, it\n wouldn't make any difference to me. I'm sorry if Dahl is young. So was\n I. I've lost three years up here. And I don't intend to lose any more.\"", "Cowardice is the one thing for which no man ever forgives himself.\nDonley was eating a sandwich and looking out the port, so, naturally,\n he saw the ship first. \"Well, whaddya know!\" he shouted. \"We got\n company!\" He dashed for his suit. Dowden and Bening piled after him and\n all three started for the lock.\n\n\n Chapman was standing in front of it. \"Check your suits,\" he said\n softly. \"Just be sure to check.\"\n\n\n \"Oh, what the hell, Chap!\" Donley started angrily. Then he shut up and\n went over his suit. He got to his tank and turned white. Empty. It was\n only half a mile to the relief rocket, so somebody would probably have\n got to him in time, but.... He bit his lips and got a full tank.", "The key started to stutter again, demanding an answer.\n\n\n He tapped out his reply: \"\nNo!\n\"\n\n\n There was a silence and then the key stammered once more in a sudden\n fit of bureaucratic rage. Chapman stuffed a rag under it and ignored\n it. He turned to the hammocks, strung against the bulkhead on the other\n side of the room.\n\n\n The chattering of the key hadn't awakened anybody; they were still\n asleep, making the animal noises that people usually make in slumber.\n Dowden, half in the bottom hammock and half on the floor, was snoring\n peacefully. Dahl, the poor kid who was due for stopover, was mumbling\n to himself. Julius Klein, with that look of ineffable happiness on his\n face, looked as if he had just squirmed under the tent to his personal\n idea of heaven. Donley and Bening were lying perfectly still, their\n covers not mussed, sleeping very lightly.", "A hundred yards from the research bunker he could make out the small\n mound of stones and the forlorn homemade cross, jury-rigged out of\n small condensed milk tins slid over crossed iron bars. You could still\n see the footprints in the powdery soil where the group had gathered\n about the grave. It had been more than eighteen months ago, but there\n was no wind to wear those tracks away. They'd be there forever.\n\n\n That's what happened to guys like Dixon, Chapman thought. On the Moon,\n one mistake could use up your whole quota of chances.\n\n\n Klein came back with the coffee. Chapman took a cup, gagged, and forced\n himself to swallow the rest of it. It had been in the can for so long\n you could almost taste the glue on the label.\nDonley was warming himself over his cup, looking thoughtful. Dowden and\n Bening were struggling into their suits, getting ready to go outside.\n Dahl was still sitting on his hammock, trying to ignore them.", "Lord, Chapman thought, I'll be happy when I can see some other faces.\n\n\n \"What'd they want?\" Klein had one eyelid open and a questioning look on\n his face.\n\n\n \"They wanted me to stay until the next relief ship lands,\" Chapman\n whispered back.\n\n\n \"What did you say?\"\n\n\n He shrugged. \"No.\"\n\n\n \"You kept it short,\" somebody else whispered. It was Donley, up and\n sitting on the side of his hammock. \"If it had been me, I would have\n told them just what they could do about it.\"\nThe others were awake now, with the exception of Dahl who had his face\n to the bulkhead and a pillow over his head.\n\n\n Dowden rubbed his eyes sleepily. \"Sore, aren't you?\"\n\n\n \"Kind of. Who wouldn't be?\"", "It hurt to look in Dahl's eyes. They were the eyes of a man who was\n trying desperately to stop what he was about to do, but just couldn't\n help himself.\n\n\n \"Well, yes, more or less. Oh, God, Chap, I know you want to go home!\n But I couldn't ask any of the others; you were the only one who could,\n the only one who was qualified!\"\nDahl looked as though he was going to be sick. Chapman tried to recall\n all he knew about him. Dahl, Robert. Good mathematician. Graduate from\n one of the Ivy League schools. Father was a manufacturer of stoves or\n something.\n\n\n It still didn't add, not quite. \"You know I don't like it here any more\n than you do,\" Chapman said slowly. \"I may have commitments at home,\n too. What made you think I would change my mind?\"", "Was the sky still blue, was the grass still green, did the leaves still\n turn color in the autumn, did people still love and cry and were there\n still people who didn't know what an atom was and didn't give a damn?\n\n\n Chapman had gone through it all before. But was Ginny still Ginny?\n\n\n Some of the men in the Third had their luggage with them. One of\n them—a husky, red-faced kid named Williams—was opening a box about a\n foot square and six inches deep. Chapman watched him curiously.\n\n\n \"Well, I'll be damned!\" Klein said. \"Hey, guys, look what we've got\n here!\"\n\n\n Chapman and the others crowded around and suddenly Donley leaned over\n and took a deep breath. In the box, covering a thick layer of ordinary\n dirt, was a plot of grass. They looked at it, awed. Klein put out his\n hand and laid it on top of the grass.", "They walked over to one corner of the bunker. \"This is about as private\n as we can get, captain,\" Chapman said. \"What's on your mind?\"\nEberlein found a packing crate and made himself comfortable. He looked\n at Chapman.\n\n\n \"I've always wanted to meet the man who's spent more time here than\n anybody else,\" he began.\n\n\n \"I'm sure you wanted to see me for more reasons than just curiosity.\"\n\n\n Eberlein took out a pack of cigarets. \"Mind if I smoke?\"\n\n\n Chapman jerked a thumb toward Dahl. \"Ask him. He's in charge now.\"\n\n\n The captain didn't bother. He put the pack away. \"You know we have big\n plans for the station,\" he said.\n\n\n \"I hadn't heard of them.\"", "Dahl took the plunge. \"Well, you see,\" he started eagerly, too far gone\n to remember such a thing as pride, \"you know my father's pretty well\n fixed. We would make it worth your while, Chap.\" He was feverish. \"It\n would mean eighteen more months, Chap, but they'd be well-paid months!\"\n\n\n Chapman felt tired. The good feeling he had about going home was slowly\n evaporating.\n\n\n \"If you have any report to make, I think you had better get at it,\"\n he cut in, keeping all the harshness he felt out of his voice. \"It'll\n be too late after the relief ship leaves. It'll be easier to give the\n captain your report than try to radio it back to Earth from here.\"\n\n\n He felt sorrier for Dahl than he could ever remember having felt for\n anybody. Long after going home, Dahl would remember this.\n\n\n It would eat at him like a cancer.", "\"He died,\" Chapman said. \"He was a good kid, all wrapped up in science.\n Being on the Moon was the opportunity of a lifetime. He thought so much\n about it that he forgot a lot of little things—like how to stay alive.\n The day before the Second group came, he went out to finish some work\n he was interested in. He forgot to check for leaks and whether or not\n the valve on his tank was all the way closed. We couldn't get to him in\n time.\"\n\n\n \"He had his walkie-talkie with him?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. It worked fine, too. We heard everything that went through his\n mind at the end.\"\n\n\n Klein's face was blank. \"What's your real job here, Chap? Why does\n somebody have to stay for stopover?\"", "\"Well, don't let it throw you. They've never been here on the Moon.\n They don't know what it's like. All they're trying to do is get a good\n man to stay on the job a while longer.\"\n\n\n \"\nAll\nthey're trying to do,\" Chapman said sarcastically. \"They've got\n a fat chance.\"\n\n\n \"They think you've found a home here,\" Donley said.\n\n\n \"Why the hell don't you guys shut up until morning?\" Dahl was awake,\n looking bitter. \"Some of us still have to stay here, you know. Some of\n us aren't going back today.\"\n\n\n No, Chapman thought, some of us aren't going back. You aren't. And\n Dixon's staying, too. Only Dixon isn't ever going back.", "Williams looked stricken and somebody said, \"Oh, shut up, Dahl.\"\n\n\n One of the men separated from the group and came over to Chapman. He\n held out his hand and said, \"My name's Eberlein. Captain of the relief\n ship. I understand you're in charge here?\"\n\n\n Chapman nodded and shook hands. They hadn't had a captain on the First\n ship. Just a pilot and crew. Eberlein looked every inch a captain, too.\n Craggy face, gray hair, the firm chin of a man who was sure of himself.\n\n\n \"You might say I'm in charge here,\" Chapman said.\n\n\n \"Well, look, Mr. Chapman, is there any place where we can talk together\n privately?\"", "\"Same reason you didn't mention your wife. You get to thinking about\n it.\"\n\n\n Klein flipped the lid on the specimen box. \"Going to get married when\n you get back?\"\n\n\n Chapman was at the port again, staring out at the bleak landscape. \"We\n hope to.\"\n\n\n \"Settle down in a small cottage and raise lots of little Chapmans, eh?\"\n\n\n Chapman nodded.\n\n\n \"That's the only future,\" Klein said.\n\n\n He put away the box and came over to the port. Chapman moved over so\n they both could look out.\n\n\n \"Chap.\" Klein hesitated a moment. \"What happened to Dixon?\"", "\"I don't know,\" Chapman said slowly. \"I guess I was trying not to think\n of that. I suppose none of us have. We've been like little kids who\n have waited so long for Christmas that they just can't believe it when\n it's finally Christmas Eve.\"\n\n\n Klein nodded in agreement. \"I haven't been here three years like you\n have, but I think I know what you mean.\" He warmed up to it as the idea\n sank in. \"Just what the hell\nare\nyou going to do?\"\n\n\n \"Nothing very spectacular,\" Chapman said, smiling. \"I'm going to rent\n a room over Times Square, get a recording of a rikky-tik piano, and\n drink and listen to the music and watch the people on the street below.\n Then I think I'll see somebody.\"\n\n\n \"Who's the somebody?\" Donley asked.\n\n\n Chapman grinned. \"Oh, just somebody. What are you going to do, Dick?\"", "They laughed. Somebody said: \"Go play your record, Chap. Today's the\n day for it.\"\n\n\n The phonograph was a small, wind-up model that Chapman had smuggled in\n when he had landed with the First group. The record was old and the\n shellac was nearly worn off, but the music was good.\n\n\n Way Back Home by Al Lewis.\nThey ran through it twice. They were beginning to feel it now, Chapman\n thought. They were going to go home in a little while and the idea was\n just starting to sink in.\n\n\n \"You know, Chap,\" Donley said, \"it won't seem like the same old Moon\n without you on it. Why, we'll look at it when we're out spooning or\n something and it just won't have the same old appeal.\"\n\n\n \"Like they say in the army,\" Bening said, \"you never had it so good.\n You found a home here.\"", "Chapman and Klein watched them dash across the pumice, making the\n tremendous leaps they used to read about in the Sunday supplements. The\n port of the rocket had opened and tiny figures were climbing down the\n ladder. The small figures from the bunker reached them and did a short\n jig of welcome. Then the figures linked arms and started back. Chapman\n noticed one—it was probably Donley—pat the ship affectionately before\n he started back.\nThey were in the lock and the air pumped in and then they were in\n the bunker, taking off their suits. The newcomers were impressed and\n solemn, very much aware of the tremendous responsibility that rested on\n their shoulders. Like Donley and Klein and the members of the Second\n group had been when they had landed. Like Chapman had been in the First.\n\n\n Donley and the others were all over them.\nHow was it back on Earth? Who had won the series? Was so-and-so still\n teaching at the university? What was the international situation?" ], [ "Klein held up his hands. \"Look, Chap, I didn't mean you should stay. I\n know how much you hate it and the time you put in up here. It's just—\"\n His voice trailed away. \"It's just that I think it's such a damn\n important job.\"\n\n\n Klein had gone out in a last search for rock lichens and Chapman\n enjoyed one of his relatively few moments of privacy. He wandered over\n to his bunk and opened his barracks bag. He checked the underwear and\n his toothbrush and shaving kit for maybe the hundredth time and pushed\n the clothing down farther in the canvas. It was foolish because the\n bag was already packed and had been for a week. He remembered stalling\n it off for as long as he could and then the quiet satisfaction about a\n week before, when he had opened his small gear locker and transferred\n its meager belongings to the bag.", "Dahl took the plunge. \"Well, you see,\" he started eagerly, too far gone\n to remember such a thing as pride, \"you know my father's pretty well\n fixed. We would make it worth your while, Chap.\" He was feverish. \"It\n would mean eighteen more months, Chap, but they'd be well-paid months!\"\n\n\n Chapman felt tired. The good feeling he had about going home was slowly\n evaporating.\n\n\n \"If you have any report to make, I think you had better get at it,\"\n he cut in, keeping all the harshness he felt out of his voice. \"It'll\n be too late after the relief ship leaves. It'll be easier to give the\n captain your report than try to radio it back to Earth from here.\"\n\n\n He felt sorrier for Dahl than he could ever remember having felt for\n anybody. Long after going home, Dahl would remember this.\n\n\n It would eat at him like a cancer.", "\"Well, you see,\" Dahl started, \"that's why I came back early. I wanted\n to see you about stopover. It's that—well, I'll put it this way.\" He\n seemed to be groping for an easy way to say what he wanted to. \"I'm\n engaged back home. Really nice girl, Chap, you'd like her if you knew\n her.\" He fumbled in his pocket and found a photograph and put it on\n the desk. \"That's a picture of Alice, taken at a picnic we were on\n together.\" Chapman didn't look. \"She—we—expected to be married when\n I got back. I never told her about stopover, Chap. She thinks I'll be\n home tomorrow. I kept thinking, hoping, that maybe somehow—\"\n\n\n He was fumbling it badly, Chapman thought.\n\n\n \"You wanted to trade places with me, didn't you, Bob? You thought I\n might stay for stopover again, in your place?\"", "\"Oh, yes,\nbig plans\n. They're working on unmanned, open-side rockets\n now that could carry cargo and sheet steel for more bunkers like this.\n Enable us to enlarge the unit, have a series of bunkers all linked\n together. Make good laboratories and living quarters for you people.\"\n His eyes swept the room. \"Have a little privacy for a change.\"\n\n\n Chapman nodded. \"They could use a little privacy up here.\"\n\n\n The captain noticed the pronoun. \"Well, that's one of the reasons why\n I wanted to talk to you, Chapman. The Commission talked it over and\n they'd like to see you stay. They feel if they're going to enlarge it,\n add more bunkers and have more men up here, that a man of practical\n experience should be running things. They figure that you're the only\n man who's capable and who's had the experience.\"\n\n\n The captain vaguely felt the approach was all wrong.", "It hurt to look in Dahl's eyes. They were the eyes of a man who was\n trying desperately to stop what he was about to do, but just couldn't\n help himself.\n\n\n \"Well, yes, more or less. Oh, God, Chap, I know you want to go home!\n But I couldn't ask any of the others; you were the only one who could,\n the only one who was qualified!\"\nDahl looked as though he was going to be sick. Chapman tried to recall\n all he knew about him. Dahl, Robert. Good mathematician. Graduate from\n one of the Ivy League schools. Father was a manufacturer of stoves or\n something.\n\n\n It still didn't add, not quite. \"You know I don't like it here any more\n than you do,\" Chapman said slowly. \"I may have commitments at home,\n too. What made you think I would change my mind?\"", "Chapman frowned. \"Frankly, I hadn't thought of that. I don't believe\n I care. I've put in my time; it's somebody else's turn now. He\n volunteered for it. I think I was fair in explaining all about the job\n when you talked it over among yourselves.\"\n\n\n \"You did, but I don't think Dahl's the man for it. He's too young, too\n much of a kid. He volunteered because he thought it made him look like\n a hero. He doesn't have the judgment that an older man would have. That\n you have.\"\n\n\n Chapman turned slowly around and faced Klein.\n\n\n \"I'm not the indispensable man,\" he said slowly, \"and even if I was, it\n wouldn't make any difference to me. I'm sorry if Dahl is young. So was\n I. I've lost three years up here. And I don't intend to lose any more.\"", "\"I don't know,\" Chapman said slowly. \"I guess I was trying not to think\n of that. I suppose none of us have. We've been like little kids who\n have waited so long for Christmas that they just can't believe it when\n it's finally Christmas Eve.\"\n\n\n Klein nodded in agreement. \"I haven't been here three years like you\n have, but I think I know what you mean.\" He warmed up to it as the idea\n sank in. \"Just what the hell\nare\nyou going to do?\"\n\n\n \"Nothing very spectacular,\" Chapman said, smiling. \"I'm going to rent\n a room over Times Square, get a recording of a rikky-tik piano, and\n drink and listen to the music and watch the people on the street below.\n Then I think I'll see somebody.\"\n\n\n \"Who's the somebody?\" Donley asked.\n\n\n Chapman grinned. \"Oh, just somebody. What are you going to do, Dick?\"", "Williams looked stricken and somebody said, \"Oh, shut up, Dahl.\"\n\n\n One of the men separated from the group and came over to Chapman. He\n held out his hand and said, \"My name's Eberlein. Captain of the relief\n ship. I understand you're in charge here?\"\n\n\n Chapman nodded and shook hands. They hadn't had a captain on the First\n ship. Just a pilot and crew. Eberlein looked every inch a captain, too.\n Craggy face, gray hair, the firm chin of a man who was sure of himself.\n\n\n \"You might say I'm in charge here,\" Chapman said.\n\n\n \"Well, look, Mr. Chapman, is there any place where we can talk together\n privately?\"", "\"Same reason you didn't mention your wife. You get to thinking about\n it.\"\n\n\n Klein flipped the lid on the specimen box. \"Going to get married when\n you get back?\"\n\n\n Chapman was at the port again, staring out at the bleak landscape. \"We\n hope to.\"\n\n\n \"Settle down in a small cottage and raise lots of little Chapmans, eh?\"\n\n\n Chapman nodded.\n\n\n \"That's the only future,\" Klein said.\n\n\n He put away the box and came over to the port. Chapman moved over so\n they both could look out.\n\n\n \"Chap.\" Klein hesitated a moment. \"What happened to Dixon?\"", "Lord, Chapman thought, I'll be happy when I can see some other faces.\n\n\n \"What'd they want?\" Klein had one eyelid open and a questioning look on\n his face.\n\n\n \"They wanted me to stay until the next relief ship lands,\" Chapman\n whispered back.\n\n\n \"What did you say?\"\n\n\n He shrugged. \"No.\"\n\n\n \"You kept it short,\" somebody else whispered. It was Donley, up and\n sitting on the side of his hammock. \"If it had been me, I would have\n told them just what they could do about it.\"\nThe others were awake now, with the exception of Dahl who had his face\n to the bulkhead and a pillow over his head.\n\n\n Dowden rubbed his eyes sleepily. \"Sore, aren't you?\"\n\n\n \"Kind of. Who wouldn't be?\"", "Klein didn't look up. \"There wasn't much sense in talking about it. You\n just get to thinking and wanting—and there's nothing you can do about\n it. You talk about it and it just makes it worse.\"\n\n\n \"She let you go without any fuss, huh?\"\n\n\n \"No, she didn't make any fuss. But I don't think she liked to see me\n go, either.\" He laughed a little. \"At least I hope she didn't.\"\nThey were silent for a while. \"What do you miss most, Chap?\" Klein\n asked. \"Oh, I know what we said a little while ago, but I mean\n seriously.\"\n\n\n Chapman thought a minute. \"I think I miss the sky,\" he said quietly.\n \"The blue sky and the green grass and trees with leaves on them that\n turn color in the Fall. I think, when I go back, that I'd like to go\n out in a rain storm and strip and feel the rain on my skin.\"", "The others chimed in and Chapman grinned. Yesterday or a week ago they\n couldn't have done it. He had been there too long and he had hated it\n too much.\n\n\n The party quieted down after a while and Dowden and Bening finished\n getting into their suits. They still had a section of the sky to map\n before they left. Donley was right after them. There was an outcropping\n of rock that he wanted a sample of and some strata he wished to\n investigate.\n\n\n And the time went faster when you kept busy.\nChapman stopped them at the lock. \"Remember to check your suits for\n leaks,\" he warned. \"And check the valves of your oxygen tanks.\"\n\n\n Donley looked sour. \"I've gone out at least five hundred times,\" he\n said, \"and you check me each time.\"", "Cowardice is the one thing for which no man ever forgives himself.\nDonley was eating a sandwich and looking out the port, so, naturally,\n he saw the ship first. \"Well, whaddya know!\" he shouted. \"We got\n company!\" He dashed for his suit. Dowden and Bening piled after him and\n all three started for the lock.\n\n\n Chapman was standing in front of it. \"Check your suits,\" he said\n softly. \"Just be sure to check.\"\n\n\n \"Oh, what the hell, Chap!\" Donley started angrily. Then he shut up and\n went over his suit. He got to his tank and turned white. Empty. It was\n only half a mile to the relief rocket, so somebody would probably have\n got to him in time, but.... He bit his lips and got a full tank.", "They laughed. Somebody said: \"Go play your record, Chap. Today's the\n day for it.\"\n\n\n The phonograph was a small, wind-up model that Chapman had smuggled in\n when he had landed with the First group. The record was old and the\n shellac was nearly worn off, but the music was good.\n\n\n Way Back Home by Al Lewis.\nThey ran through it twice. They were beginning to feel it now, Chapman\n thought. They were going to go home in a little while and the idea was\n just starting to sink in.\n\n\n \"You know, Chap,\" Donley said, \"it won't seem like the same old Moon\n without you on it. Why, we'll look at it when we're out spooning or\n something and it just won't have the same old appeal.\"\n\n\n \"Like they say in the army,\" Bening said, \"you never had it so good.\n You found a home here.\"", "\"And I'd check you five hundred more,\" Chapman said. \"It takes only\n one mistake. And watch out for blisters under the pumice crust. You go\n through one of those and that's it, brother.\"\n\n\n Donley sighed. \"Chap, you watch us like an old mother hen. You see we\n check our suits, you settle our arguments, you see that we're not bored\n and that we stay healthy and happy. I think you'd blow our noses for us\n if we caught cold. But some day, Chap old man, you're gonna find out\n that your little boys can watch out for themselves!\"\n\n\n But he checked his suit for leaks and tested the valve of his tank\n before he left.\nOnly Klein and Chapman were left in the bunker. Klein was at the work\n table, carefully labeling some lichen specimens.\n\n\n \"I never knew you were married,\" Chapman said.", "The key started to stutter again, demanding an answer.\n\n\n He tapped out his reply: \"\nNo!\n\"\n\n\n There was a silence and then the key stammered once more in a sudden\n fit of bureaucratic rage. Chapman stuffed a rag under it and ignored\n it. He turned to the hammocks, strung against the bulkhead on the other\n side of the room.\n\n\n The chattering of the key hadn't awakened anybody; they were still\n asleep, making the animal noises that people usually make in slumber.\n Dowden, half in the bottom hammock and half on the floor, was snoring\n peacefully. Dahl, the poor kid who was due for stopover, was mumbling\n to himself. Julius Klein, with that look of ineffable happiness on his\n face, looked as if he had just squirmed under the tent to his personal\n idea of heaven. Donley and Bening were lying perfectly still, their\n covers not mussed, sleeping very lightly.", "He stopped, feeling embarrassed. Klein's expression was encouraging.\n \"And then I think I'd like to go downtown and just watch the shoppers\n on the sidewalks. Or maybe go to a burlesque house and smell the cheap\n perfume and the popcorn and the people sweating in the dark.\"\n\n\n He studied his hands. \"I think what I miss most is people—all kinds\n of people. Bad people and good people and fat people and thin people,\n and people I can't understand. People who wouldn't know an atom from an\n artichoke. And people who wouldn't give a damn. We're a quarter of a\n million miles from nowhere, Julius, and to make it literary, I think I\n miss my fellow man more than anything.\"\n\n\n \"Got a girl back home?\" Klein asked almost casually.\n\n\n \"Yes.\"\n\n\n \"You're not like Dahl. You've never mentioned it.\"", "be staffed by couples. That is, of course, as soon as it's practical.\"\n\"But that might be a long time!\" the very young man protested.\n\"It might be—but sometimes it's sooner than you think. And the goal\n is worth it.\"\n\"I suppose so, but—\"\nThe older man smiled. \"Still the reluctant heroes,\" he said, somewhat\n to himself.\nChapman stared at the radio key.", "\"Is that all?\"\n\n\n Eberlein was ill at ease. \"Naturally you'd be paid well. I don't\n imagine any man would like being here all the time. They're prepared to\n double your salary—maybe even a bonus in addition—and let you have\n full charge. You'd be Director of the Luna Laboratories.\"\n\n\n All this and a title too, Chapman thought.\n\n\n \"That's it?\" Chapman asked.\n\n\n Eberlein frowned. \"Well, the Commission said they'd be willing to\n consider anything else you had in mind, if it was more money or....\"\n\n\n \"The answer is no,\" Chapman said. \"I'm not interested in more money\n for staying because I'm not interested in staying. Money can't buy it,\n captain. I'm sorry, but I'm afraid that you'd have to stay up here to\n appreciate that.", "Was the sky still blue, was the grass still green, did the leaves still\n turn color in the autumn, did people still love and cry and were there\n still people who didn't know what an atom was and didn't give a damn?\n\n\n Chapman had gone through it all before. But was Ginny still Ginny?\n\n\n Some of the men in the Third had their luggage with them. One of\n them—a husky, red-faced kid named Williams—was opening a box about a\n foot square and six inches deep. Chapman watched him curiously.\n\n\n \"Well, I'll be damned!\" Klein said. \"Hey, guys, look what we've got\n here!\"\n\n\n Chapman and the others crowded around and suddenly Donley leaned over\n and took a deep breath. In the box, covering a thick layer of ordinary\n dirt, was a plot of grass. They looked at it, awed. Klein put out his\n hand and laid it on top of the grass." ], [ "\"Well, don't let it throw you. They've never been here on the Moon.\n They don't know what it's like. All they're trying to do is get a good\n man to stay on the job a while longer.\"\n\n\n \"\nAll\nthey're trying to do,\" Chapman said sarcastically. \"They've got\n a fat chance.\"\n\n\n \"They think you've found a home here,\" Donley said.\n\n\n \"Why the hell don't you guys shut up until morning?\" Dahl was awake,\n looking bitter. \"Some of us still have to stay here, you know. Some of\n us aren't going back today.\"\n\n\n No, Chapman thought, some of us aren't going back. You aren't. And\n Dixon's staying, too. Only Dixon isn't ever going back.", "\"He died,\" Chapman said. \"He was a good kid, all wrapped up in science.\n Being on the Moon was the opportunity of a lifetime. He thought so much\n about it that he forgot a lot of little things—like how to stay alive.\n The day before the Second group came, he went out to finish some work\n he was interested in. He forgot to check for leaks and whether or not\n the valve on his tank was all the way closed. We couldn't get to him in\n time.\"\n\n\n \"He had his walkie-talkie with him?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. It worked fine, too. We heard everything that went through his\n mind at the end.\"\n\n\n Klein's face was blank. \"What's your real job here, Chap? Why does\n somebody have to stay for stopover?\"", "\"Is that all?\"\n\n\n Eberlein was ill at ease. \"Naturally you'd be paid well. I don't\n imagine any man would like being here all the time. They're prepared to\n double your salary—maybe even a bonus in addition—and let you have\n full charge. You'd be Director of the Luna Laboratories.\"\n\n\n All this and a title too, Chapman thought.\n\n\n \"That's it?\" Chapman asked.\n\n\n Eberlein frowned. \"Well, the Commission said they'd be willing to\n consider anything else you had in mind, if it was more money or....\"\n\n\n \"The answer is no,\" Chapman said. \"I'm not interested in more money\n for staying because I'm not interested in staying. Money can't buy it,\n captain. I'm sorry, but I'm afraid that you'd have to stay up here to\n appreciate that.", "They laughed. Somebody said: \"Go play your record, Chap. Today's the\n day for it.\"\n\n\n The phonograph was a small, wind-up model that Chapman had smuggled in\n when he had landed with the First group. The record was old and the\n shellac was nearly worn off, but the music was good.\n\n\n Way Back Home by Al Lewis.\nThey ran through it twice. They were beginning to feel it now, Chapman\n thought. They were going to go home in a little while and the idea was\n just starting to sink in.\n\n\n \"You know, Chap,\" Donley said, \"it won't seem like the same old Moon\n without you on it. Why, we'll look at it when we're out spooning or\n something and it just won't have the same old appeal.\"\n\n\n \"Like they say in the army,\" Bening said, \"you never had it so good.\n You found a home here.\"", "The others chimed in and Chapman grinned. Yesterday or a week ago they\n couldn't have done it. He had been there too long and he had hated it\n too much.\n\n\n The party quieted down after a while and Dowden and Bening finished\n getting into their suits. They still had a section of the sky to map\n before they left. Donley was right after them. There was an outcropping\n of rock that he wanted a sample of and some strata he wished to\n investigate.\n\n\n And the time went faster when you kept busy.\nChapman stopped them at the lock. \"Remember to check your suits for\n leaks,\" he warned. \"And check the valves of your oxygen tanks.\"\n\n\n Donley looked sour. \"I've gone out at least five hundred times,\" he\n said, \"and you check me each time.\"", "\"And I'd check you five hundred more,\" Chapman said. \"It takes only\n one mistake. And watch out for blisters under the pumice crust. You go\n through one of those and that's it, brother.\"\n\n\n Donley sighed. \"Chap, you watch us like an old mother hen. You see we\n check our suits, you settle our arguments, you see that we're not bored\n and that we stay healthy and happy. I think you'd blow our noses for us\n if we caught cold. But some day, Chap old man, you're gonna find out\n that your little boys can watch out for themselves!\"\n\n\n But he checked his suit for leaks and tested the valve of his tank\n before he left.\nOnly Klein and Chapman were left in the bunker. Klein was at the work\n table, carefully labeling some lichen specimens.\n\n\n \"I never knew you were married,\" Chapman said.", "Lord, Chapman thought, I'll be happy when I can see some other faces.\n\n\n \"What'd they want?\" Klein had one eyelid open and a questioning look on\n his face.\n\n\n \"They wanted me to stay until the next relief ship lands,\" Chapman\n whispered back.\n\n\n \"What did you say?\"\n\n\n He shrugged. \"No.\"\n\n\n \"You kept it short,\" somebody else whispered. It was Donley, up and\n sitting on the side of his hammock. \"If it had been me, I would have\n told them just what they could do about it.\"\nThe others were awake now, with the exception of Dahl who had his face\n to the bulkhead and a pillow over his head.\n\n\n Dowden rubbed his eyes sleepily. \"Sore, aren't you?\"\n\n\n \"Kind of. Who wouldn't be?\"", "\"Think we ought to radio the space station and see if they've left\n there yet?\" Klein asked.\n\n\n \"I talked to them on the last call,\" Chapman said. \"The relief ship\n left there twelve hours ago. They should get here\"—he looked at his\n watch—\"in about six and a half hours.\"\n\n\n \"Chap, you know, I've been thinking,\" Donley said quietly. \"You've\n been here just twice as long as the rest of us. What's the first thing\n you're going to do once you get back?\"\n\n\n It hit them, then. Dowden and Bening looked blank for a minute and\n blindly found packing cases to sit on. The top halves of their suits\n were still hanging on the bulkhead. Klein lowered his coffee cup and\n looked grave. Even Dahl glanced up expectantly.", "Dahl took the plunge. \"Well, you see,\" he started eagerly, too far gone\n to remember such a thing as pride, \"you know my father's pretty well\n fixed. We would make it worth your while, Chap.\" He was feverish. \"It\n would mean eighteen more months, Chap, but they'd be well-paid months!\"\n\n\n Chapman felt tired. The good feeling he had about going home was slowly\n evaporating.\n\n\n \"If you have any report to make, I think you had better get at it,\"\n he cut in, keeping all the harshness he felt out of his voice. \"It'll\n be too late after the relief ship leaves. It'll be easier to give the\n captain your report than try to radio it back to Earth from here.\"\n\n\n He felt sorrier for Dahl than he could ever remember having felt for\n anybody. Long after going home, Dahl would remember this.\n\n\n It would eat at him like a cancer.", "\"Oh, yes,\nbig plans\n. They're working on unmanned, open-side rockets\n now that could carry cargo and sheet steel for more bunkers like this.\n Enable us to enlarge the unit, have a series of bunkers all linked\n together. Make good laboratories and living quarters for you people.\"\n His eyes swept the room. \"Have a little privacy for a change.\"\n\n\n Chapman nodded. \"They could use a little privacy up here.\"\n\n\n The captain noticed the pronoun. \"Well, that's one of the reasons why\n I wanted to talk to you, Chapman. The Commission talked it over and\n they'd like to see you stay. They feel if they're going to enlarge it,\n add more bunkers and have more men up here, that a man of practical\n experience should be running things. They figure that you're the only\n man who's capable and who's had the experience.\"\n\n\n The captain vaguely felt the approach was all wrong.", "A hundred yards from the research bunker he could make out the small\n mound of stones and the forlorn homemade cross, jury-rigged out of\n small condensed milk tins slid over crossed iron bars. You could still\n see the footprints in the powdery soil where the group had gathered\n about the grave. It had been more than eighteen months ago, but there\n was no wind to wear those tracks away. They'd be there forever.\n\n\n That's what happened to guys like Dixon, Chapman thought. On the Moon,\n one mistake could use up your whole quota of chances.\n\n\n Klein came back with the coffee. Chapman took a cup, gagged, and forced\n himself to swallow the rest of it. It had been in the can for so long\n you could almost taste the glue on the label.\nDonley was warming himself over his cup, looking thoughtful. Dowden and\n Bening were struggling into their suits, getting ready to go outside.\n Dahl was still sitting on his hammock, trying to ignore them.", "Chapman and Klein watched them dash across the pumice, making the\n tremendous leaps they used to read about in the Sunday supplements. The\n port of the rocket had opened and tiny figures were climbing down the\n ladder. The small figures from the bunker reached them and did a short\n jig of welcome. Then the figures linked arms and started back. Chapman\n noticed one—it was probably Donley—pat the ship affectionately before\n he started back.\nThey were in the lock and the air pumped in and then they were in\n the bunker, taking off their suits. The newcomers were impressed and\n solemn, very much aware of the tremendous responsibility that rested on\n their shoulders. Like Donley and Klein and the members of the Second\n group had been when they had landed. Like Chapman had been in the First.\n\n\n Donley and the others were all over them.\nHow was it back on Earth? Who had won the series? Was so-and-so still\n teaching at the university? What was the international situation?", "Three years on the Moon and they didn't want him to come back.\n\n\n Three years on the Moon and they thought he'd be glad to stay for more.\n Just raise his salary or give him a bonus, the every-man-has-his-price\n idea. They probably thought he liked it there.\n\n\n Oh, sure, he loved it. Canned coffee, canned beans, canned pills,\n and canned air until your insides felt as though they were plated\n with tin. Life in a cramped, smelly little hut where you could take\n only ten steps in any one direction. Their little scientific home of\n tomorrow with none of the modern conveniences, a charming place where\n you couldn't take a shower, couldn't brush your teeth, and your kidneys\n didn't work right.\n\n\n And for double his salary they thought he'd be glad to stay for another\n year and a half. Or maybe three. He should probably be glad he had the\n opportunity.", "Klein jerked his thumb toward Dahl's bunk, held a finger to his lips,\n and walked noiselessly over to the small electric stove. It was his day\n for breakfast duty.\n\n\n The others started lacing up their bunks, getting ready for their last\n day of work on the Moon. In a few hours they'd be relieved by members\n of the Third research group and they'd be on their way back to Earth.\n\n\n And that includes me, Chapman thought. I'm going home. I'm finally\n going home.\n\n\n He walked silently to the one small, quartz window in the room. It was\n morning—the Moon's \"morning\"—and he shivered slightly. The rays of\n the Sun were just striking the far rim of the crater and long shadows\n shot across the crater floor. The rest of it was still blanketed in\n a dark jumble of powdery pumice and jagged peaks that would make the\n Black Hills of Dakota look like paradise.", "\"No,\" Chapman interrupted bluntly. \"I don't. Not at least for ten\n years. The fuel's too expensive and the trip's too hazardous. On\n freight charges alone you're worth your weight in platinum when they\n send you here. Even if it becomes cheaper, Bob, it won't come about\n so it will shorten stopover right away.\" He stopped, feeling a little\n sorry for Dahl. \"It won't be too bad. There'll be new men up here and\n you'll pass a lot of time getting to know them.\"", "It hurt to look in Dahl's eyes. They were the eyes of a man who was\n trying desperately to stop what he was about to do, but just couldn't\n help himself.\n\n\n \"Well, yes, more or less. Oh, God, Chap, I know you want to go home!\n But I couldn't ask any of the others; you were the only one who could,\n the only one who was qualified!\"\nDahl looked as though he was going to be sick. Chapman tried to recall\n all he knew about him. Dahl, Robert. Good mathematician. Graduate from\n one of the Ivy League schools. Father was a manufacturer of stoves or\n something.\n\n\n It still didn't add, not quite. \"You know I don't like it here any more\n than you do,\" Chapman said slowly. \"I may have commitments at home,\n too. What made you think I would change my mind?\"", "Chapman frowned. \"Frankly, I hadn't thought of that. I don't believe\n I care. I've put in my time; it's somebody else's turn now. He\n volunteered for it. I think I was fair in explaining all about the job\n when you talked it over among yourselves.\"\n\n\n \"You did, but I don't think Dahl's the man for it. He's too young, too\n much of a kid. He volunteered because he thought it made him look like\n a hero. He doesn't have the judgment that an older man would have. That\n you have.\"\n\n\n Chapman turned slowly around and faced Klein.\n\n\n \"I'm not the indispensable man,\" he said slowly, \"and even if I was, it\n wouldn't make any difference to me. I'm sorry if Dahl is young. So was\n I. I've lost three years up here. And I don't intend to lose any more.\"", "Williams looked stricken and somebody said, \"Oh, shut up, Dahl.\"\n\n\n One of the men separated from the group and came over to Chapman. He\n held out his hand and said, \"My name's Eberlein. Captain of the relief\n ship. I understand you're in charge here?\"\n\n\n Chapman nodded and shook hands. They hadn't had a captain on the First\n ship. Just a pilot and crew. Eberlein looked every inch a captain, too.\n Craggy face, gray hair, the firm chin of a man who was sure of himself.\n\n\n \"You might say I'm in charge here,\" Chapman said.\n\n\n \"Well, look, Mr. Chapman, is there any place where we can talk together\n privately?\"", "Klein held up his hands. \"Look, Chap, I didn't mean you should stay. I\n know how much you hate it and the time you put in up here. It's just—\"\n His voice trailed away. \"It's just that I think it's such a damn\n important job.\"\n\n\n Klein had gone out in a last search for rock lichens and Chapman\n enjoyed one of his relatively few moments of privacy. He wandered over\n to his bunk and opened his barracks bag. He checked the underwear and\n his toothbrush and shaving kit for maybe the hundredth time and pushed\n the clothing down farther in the canvas. It was foolish because the\n bag was already packed and had been for a week. He remembered stalling\n it off for as long as he could and then the quiet satisfaction about a\n week before, when he had opened his small gear locker and transferred\n its meager belongings to the bag.", "They walked over to one corner of the bunker. \"This is about as private\n as we can get, captain,\" Chapman said. \"What's on your mind?\"\nEberlein found a packing crate and made himself comfortable. He looked\n at Chapman.\n\n\n \"I've always wanted to meet the man who's spent more time here than\n anybody else,\" he began.\n\n\n \"I'm sure you wanted to see me for more reasons than just curiosity.\"\n\n\n Eberlein took out a pack of cigarets. \"Mind if I smoke?\"\n\n\n Chapman jerked a thumb toward Dahl. \"Ask him. He's in charge now.\"\n\n\n The captain didn't bother. He put the pack away. \"You know we have big\n plans for the station,\" he said.\n\n\n \"I hadn't heard of them.\"" ], [ "\"Well, don't let it throw you. They've never been here on the Moon.\n They don't know what it's like. All they're trying to do is get a good\n man to stay on the job a while longer.\"\n\n\n \"\nAll\nthey're trying to do,\" Chapman said sarcastically. \"They've got\n a fat chance.\"\n\n\n \"They think you've found a home here,\" Donley said.\n\n\n \"Why the hell don't you guys shut up until morning?\" Dahl was awake,\n looking bitter. \"Some of us still have to stay here, you know. Some of\n us aren't going back today.\"\n\n\n No, Chapman thought, some of us aren't going back. You aren't. And\n Dixon's staying, too. Only Dixon isn't ever going back.", "\"Is that all?\"\n\n\n Eberlein was ill at ease. \"Naturally you'd be paid well. I don't\n imagine any man would like being here all the time. They're prepared to\n double your salary—maybe even a bonus in addition—and let you have\n full charge. You'd be Director of the Luna Laboratories.\"\n\n\n All this and a title too, Chapman thought.\n\n\n \"That's it?\" Chapman asked.\n\n\n Eberlein frowned. \"Well, the Commission said they'd be willing to\n consider anything else you had in mind, if it was more money or....\"\n\n\n \"The answer is no,\" Chapman said. \"I'm not interested in more money\n for staying because I'm not interested in staying. Money can't buy it,\n captain. I'm sorry, but I'm afraid that you'd have to stay up here to\n appreciate that.", "\"He died,\" Chapman said. \"He was a good kid, all wrapped up in science.\n Being on the Moon was the opportunity of a lifetime. He thought so much\n about it that he forgot a lot of little things—like how to stay alive.\n The day before the Second group came, he went out to finish some work\n he was interested in. He forgot to check for leaks and whether or not\n the valve on his tank was all the way closed. We couldn't get to him in\n time.\"\n\n\n \"He had his walkie-talkie with him?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. It worked fine, too. We heard everything that went through his\n mind at the end.\"\n\n\n Klein's face was blank. \"What's your real job here, Chap? Why does\n somebody have to stay for stopover?\"", "The others chimed in and Chapman grinned. Yesterday or a week ago they\n couldn't have done it. He had been there too long and he had hated it\n too much.\n\n\n The party quieted down after a while and Dowden and Bening finished\n getting into their suits. They still had a section of the sky to map\n before they left. Donley was right after them. There was an outcropping\n of rock that he wanted a sample of and some strata he wished to\n investigate.\n\n\n And the time went faster when you kept busy.\nChapman stopped them at the lock. \"Remember to check your suits for\n leaks,\" he warned. \"And check the valves of your oxygen tanks.\"\n\n\n Donley looked sour. \"I've gone out at least five hundred times,\" he\n said, \"and you check me each time.\"", "\"Oh, yes,\nbig plans\n. They're working on unmanned, open-side rockets\n now that could carry cargo and sheet steel for more bunkers like this.\n Enable us to enlarge the unit, have a series of bunkers all linked\n together. Make good laboratories and living quarters for you people.\"\n His eyes swept the room. \"Have a little privacy for a change.\"\n\n\n Chapman nodded. \"They could use a little privacy up here.\"\n\n\n The captain noticed the pronoun. \"Well, that's one of the reasons why\n I wanted to talk to you, Chapman. The Commission talked it over and\n they'd like to see you stay. They feel if they're going to enlarge it,\n add more bunkers and have more men up here, that a man of practical\n experience should be running things. They figure that you're the only\n man who's capable and who's had the experience.\"\n\n\n The captain vaguely felt the approach was all wrong.", "Dahl took the plunge. \"Well, you see,\" he started eagerly, too far gone\n to remember such a thing as pride, \"you know my father's pretty well\n fixed. We would make it worth your while, Chap.\" He was feverish. \"It\n would mean eighteen more months, Chap, but they'd be well-paid months!\"\n\n\n Chapman felt tired. The good feeling he had about going home was slowly\n evaporating.\n\n\n \"If you have any report to make, I think you had better get at it,\"\n he cut in, keeping all the harshness he felt out of his voice. \"It'll\n be too late after the relief ship leaves. It'll be easier to give the\n captain your report than try to radio it back to Earth from here.\"\n\n\n He felt sorrier for Dahl than he could ever remember having felt for\n anybody. Long after going home, Dahl would remember this.\n\n\n It would eat at him like a cancer.", "They laughed. Somebody said: \"Go play your record, Chap. Today's the\n day for it.\"\n\n\n The phonograph was a small, wind-up model that Chapman had smuggled in\n when he had landed with the First group. The record was old and the\n shellac was nearly worn off, but the music was good.\n\n\n Way Back Home by Al Lewis.\nThey ran through it twice. They were beginning to feel it now, Chapman\n thought. They were going to go home in a little while and the idea was\n just starting to sink in.\n\n\n \"You know, Chap,\" Donley said, \"it won't seem like the same old Moon\n without you on it. Why, we'll look at it when we're out spooning or\n something and it just won't have the same old appeal.\"\n\n\n \"Like they say in the army,\" Bening said, \"you never had it so good.\n You found a home here.\"", "Three years on the Moon and they didn't want him to come back.\n\n\n Three years on the Moon and they thought he'd be glad to stay for more.\n Just raise his salary or give him a bonus, the every-man-has-his-price\n idea. They probably thought he liked it there.\n\n\n Oh, sure, he loved it. Canned coffee, canned beans, canned pills,\n and canned air until your insides felt as though they were plated\n with tin. Life in a cramped, smelly little hut where you could take\n only ten steps in any one direction. Their little scientific home of\n tomorrow with none of the modern conveniences, a charming place where\n you couldn't take a shower, couldn't brush your teeth, and your kidneys\n didn't work right.\n\n\n And for double his salary they thought he'd be glad to stay for another\n year and a half. Or maybe three. He should probably be glad he had the\n opportunity.", "Lord, Chapman thought, I'll be happy when I can see some other faces.\n\n\n \"What'd they want?\" Klein had one eyelid open and a questioning look on\n his face.\n\n\n \"They wanted me to stay until the next relief ship lands,\" Chapman\n whispered back.\n\n\n \"What did you say?\"\n\n\n He shrugged. \"No.\"\n\n\n \"You kept it short,\" somebody else whispered. It was Donley, up and\n sitting on the side of his hammock. \"If it had been me, I would have\n told them just what they could do about it.\"\nThe others were awake now, with the exception of Dahl who had his face\n to the bulkhead and a pillow over his head.\n\n\n Dowden rubbed his eyes sleepily. \"Sore, aren't you?\"\n\n\n \"Kind of. Who wouldn't be?\"", "\"Think we ought to radio the space station and see if they've left\n there yet?\" Klein asked.\n\n\n \"I talked to them on the last call,\" Chapman said. \"The relief ship\n left there twelve hours ago. They should get here\"—he looked at his\n watch—\"in about six and a half hours.\"\n\n\n \"Chap, you know, I've been thinking,\" Donley said quietly. \"You've\n been here just twice as long as the rest of us. What's the first thing\n you're going to do once you get back?\"\n\n\n It hit them, then. Dowden and Bening looked blank for a minute and\n blindly found packing cases to sit on. The top halves of their suits\n were still hanging on the bulkhead. Klein lowered his coffee cup and\n looked grave. Even Dahl glanced up expectantly.", "\"And I'd check you five hundred more,\" Chapman said. \"It takes only\n one mistake. And watch out for blisters under the pumice crust. You go\n through one of those and that's it, brother.\"\n\n\n Donley sighed. \"Chap, you watch us like an old mother hen. You see we\n check our suits, you settle our arguments, you see that we're not bored\n and that we stay healthy and happy. I think you'd blow our noses for us\n if we caught cold. But some day, Chap old man, you're gonna find out\n that your little boys can watch out for themselves!\"\n\n\n But he checked his suit for leaks and tested the valve of his tank\n before he left.\nOnly Klein and Chapman were left in the bunker. Klein was at the work\n table, carefully labeling some lichen specimens.\n\n\n \"I never knew you were married,\" Chapman said.", "\"No,\" Chapman interrupted bluntly. \"I don't. Not at least for ten\n years. The fuel's too expensive and the trip's too hazardous. On\n freight charges alone you're worth your weight in platinum when they\n send you here. Even if it becomes cheaper, Bob, it won't come about\n so it will shorten stopover right away.\" He stopped, feeling a little\n sorry for Dahl. \"It won't be too bad. There'll be new men up here and\n you'll pass a lot of time getting to know them.\"", "A hundred yards from the research bunker he could make out the small\n mound of stones and the forlorn homemade cross, jury-rigged out of\n small condensed milk tins slid over crossed iron bars. You could still\n see the footprints in the powdery soil where the group had gathered\n about the grave. It had been more than eighteen months ago, but there\n was no wind to wear those tracks away. They'd be there forever.\n\n\n That's what happened to guys like Dixon, Chapman thought. On the Moon,\n one mistake could use up your whole quota of chances.\n\n\n Klein came back with the coffee. Chapman took a cup, gagged, and forced\n himself to swallow the rest of it. It had been in the can for so long\n you could almost taste the glue on the label.\nDonley was warming himself over his cup, looking thoughtful. Dowden and\n Bening were struggling into their suits, getting ready to go outside.\n Dahl was still sitting on his hammock, trying to ignore them.", "They walked over to one corner of the bunker. \"This is about as private\n as we can get, captain,\" Chapman said. \"What's on your mind?\"\nEberlein found a packing crate and made himself comfortable. He looked\n at Chapman.\n\n\n \"I've always wanted to meet the man who's spent more time here than\n anybody else,\" he began.\n\n\n \"I'm sure you wanted to see me for more reasons than just curiosity.\"\n\n\n Eberlein took out a pack of cigarets. \"Mind if I smoke?\"\n\n\n Chapman jerked a thumb toward Dahl. \"Ask him. He's in charge now.\"\n\n\n The captain didn't bother. He put the pack away. \"You know we have big\n plans for the station,\" he said.\n\n\n \"I hadn't heard of them.\"", "Klein jerked his thumb toward Dahl's bunk, held a finger to his lips,\n and walked noiselessly over to the small electric stove. It was his day\n for breakfast duty.\n\n\n The others started lacing up their bunks, getting ready for their last\n day of work on the Moon. In a few hours they'd be relieved by members\n of the Third research group and they'd be on their way back to Earth.\n\n\n And that includes me, Chapman thought. I'm going home. I'm finally\n going home.\n\n\n He walked silently to the one small, quartz window in the room. It was\n morning—the Moon's \"morning\"—and he shivered slightly. The rays of\n the Sun were just striking the far rim of the crater and long shadows\n shot across the crater floor. The rest of it was still blanketed in\n a dark jumble of powdery pumice and jagged peaks that would make the\n Black Hills of Dakota look like paradise.", "Klein held up his hands. \"Look, Chap, I didn't mean you should stay. I\n know how much you hate it and the time you put in up here. It's just—\"\n His voice trailed away. \"It's just that I think it's such a damn\n important job.\"\n\n\n Klein had gone out in a last search for rock lichens and Chapman\n enjoyed one of his relatively few moments of privacy. He wandered over\n to his bunk and opened his barracks bag. He checked the underwear and\n his toothbrush and shaving kit for maybe the hundredth time and pushed\n the clothing down farther in the canvas. It was foolish because the\n bag was already packed and had been for a week. He remembered stalling\n it off for as long as he could and then the quiet satisfaction about a\n week before, when he had opened his small gear locker and transferred\n its meager belongings to the bag.", "Chapman frowned. \"Frankly, I hadn't thought of that. I don't believe\n I care. I've put in my time; it's somebody else's turn now. He\n volunteered for it. I think I was fair in explaining all about the job\n when you talked it over among yourselves.\"\n\n\n \"You did, but I don't think Dahl's the man for it. He's too young, too\n much of a kid. He volunteered because he thought it made him look like\n a hero. He doesn't have the judgment that an older man would have. That\n you have.\"\n\n\n Chapman turned slowly around and faced Klein.\n\n\n \"I'm not the indispensable man,\" he said slowly, \"and even if I was, it\n wouldn't make any difference to me. I'm sorry if Dahl is young. So was\n I. I've lost three years up here. And I don't intend to lose any more.\"", "Chapman and Klein watched them dash across the pumice, making the\n tremendous leaps they used to read about in the Sunday supplements. The\n port of the rocket had opened and tiny figures were climbing down the\n ladder. The small figures from the bunker reached them and did a short\n jig of welcome. Then the figures linked arms and started back. Chapman\n noticed one—it was probably Donley—pat the ship affectionately before\n he started back.\nThey were in the lock and the air pumped in and then they were in\n the bunker, taking off their suits. The newcomers were impressed and\n solemn, very much aware of the tremendous responsibility that rested on\n their shoulders. Like Donley and Klein and the members of the Second\n group had been when they had landed. Like Chapman had been in the First.\n\n\n Donley and the others were all over them.\nHow was it back on Earth? Who had won the series? Was so-and-so still\n teaching at the university? What was the international situation?", "He had just locked the bag when he heard the rumble of the airlock and\n the soft hiss of air. Somebody had come back earlier than expected. He\n watched the inner door swing open and the spacesuited figure clump in\n and unscrew its helmet.\n\n\n Dahl. He had gone out to help Dowden on the Schmidt telescope. Maybe\n Dowden hadn't needed any help, with Bening along. Or more likely,\n considering the circumstances, Dahl wasn't much good at helping anybody\n today.\n\n\n Dahl stripped off his suit. His face was covered with light beads of\n sweat and his eyes were frightened.\n\n\n He moistened his lips slightly. \"Do—do you think they'll ever have\n relief ships up here more often than every eighteen months, Chap? I\n mean, considering the advance of—\"", "It hurt to look in Dahl's eyes. They were the eyes of a man who was\n trying desperately to stop what he was about to do, but just couldn't\n help himself.\n\n\n \"Well, yes, more or less. Oh, God, Chap, I know you want to go home!\n But I couldn't ask any of the others; you were the only one who could,\n the only one who was qualified!\"\nDahl looked as though he was going to be sick. Chapman tried to recall\n all he knew about him. Dahl, Robert. Good mathematician. Graduate from\n one of the Ivy League schools. Father was a manufacturer of stoves or\n something.\n\n\n It still didn't add, not quite. \"You know I don't like it here any more\n than you do,\" Chapman said slowly. \"I may have commitments at home,\n too. What made you think I would change my mind?\"" ] ]
valid	20044	[ "How many of the golden era ballparks had already been torn down?", "How did the golden age parks compare to the older parks?", "What makes the new ballparks intimate?", "Which is true?", "Choose the one best statement.", "Which is not true?", "What is something new parks have that old parks did not?", "Why do owners want to build large ballparks?", "What is the relationship between team and fan desires?" ]	[ [ "13", "3", "1", "10" ], [ "The older ones were larger", "The newer ones were less hazardous", "The older ones were more intimate", "The newer ones had more character" ], [ "The size of the land on which they are built", "Wood construction", "Architectural design", "Better amenities" ], [ "All newer ballparks have top-level seating closer to the field than ever", "Newer ballparks do not have upper deck seating", "All newer ballparks have top-level seating further away from the field than ever", "Some newer ballparks have top-level seating further away from the field than ever" ], [ "A majority of teams either built new ballparks in the last decade or plan to build soon", "Almost no teams either built new ballparks in the last decade or plan to build soon", "All teams either built new ballparks in the last decade or plan to build soon", "Some teams either built new ballparks in the last decade or plan to build soon" ], [ "Some ballparks are subsidized by taxpayers", "People get more affordable tickets because the ballpark is subsidized", "Some ballparks are built in urban locations", "Some team owners pay to build their own ballparks" ], [ "food for purchase", "luxurious accommodations", "better location", "inexpensive seats" ], [ "they want to increase the total number of seats", "they can afford it and don't need to budget", "they want to sell more expensive tickets to the rich", "they want to help bring an economic boom to the area" ], [ "Teams and fans both prefer urban ballpark locations", "Teams prefer urban ballpark locations while fans prefer more remote locations", "Teams and fans both prefer more remote ballpark locations", "Fans prefer urban ballpark locations while teams prefer more remote locations" ] ]	[ 4, 3, 3, 4, 1, 2, 2, 3, 4 ]	[ 0, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0 ]	[ [ "Diamonds in the Rough \n\n Fourscore and seven years ago, the first steel and concrete baseball palace opened for business. Philadelphia's Shibe Park, home to the Athletics and later the Phillies, was one of 13 urban ballparks built in the seven-year period now regarded as the golden age of ballpark architecture. All but three (Wrigley Field, Fenway Park, and Tiger Stadium) have since been razed. \n\n Replacing parks built of wood, these ballyards set new standards for size, fire safety, intimacy, and convenience. As places to watch ballgames, they were vastly superior to the post-World War II parks, especially the facilities designed in the late '60s and '70s that doubled as football stadiums. But these concrete monsters, plopped into vast parking lots in Houston, Pittsburgh, Cincinnati, Philadelphia, and elsewhere, lack the character of the classic parks.", "Design references to golden-age ballparks are only one parallel between that period and ours. We are also matching that era's frenzied pace of construction: Twenty-six of Major League Baseball's 32 franchises occupy a park that is less than 10 years old; has been, or will be, extensively remodeled; or hope to move into a new one soon. \n\n One of the classic parks' merits was that they were unsubsidized. Team owners bought land and paid for stadium construction--some even built trolley lines to transport fans to the games. In all but two cases during the last 65 years, taxpayers have covered most or all of the costs of stadium building.", "A year later, a new--yet more genuinely old--ballpark arrived to dispel the gloom. Baltimore's Oriole Park at Camden Yards revived the idea of a quirkily asymmetrical, relatively intimate, steel-structured, city-friendly ballpark. \"Once this opens,\" predicted Commissioner of Baseball Bart Giamatti, \"everyone will want one like it.\" And so it came to be: Camden Yards' successors in Cleveland, Arlington (Texas), and Denver, and those designed for Milwaukee, Seattle, and San Francisco, take their cues from Baltimore's conceptual breakthrough. Even totally nontraditional parks, like those in Phoenix, Miami, and Tampa Bay, emulate the asymmetry of the Camden Yards outfield. It's almost as though a disembodied voice intoned, \"If you build it, they will copy.\"", "Modern conveniences aside, the new baseball shrines are a mixed bag. Most are visually impressive, boast interestingly shaped playing fields, and start off as box-office hits. But too many of them are large and expensive, tend to live on the dole, and are hampered by seat layouts that create a caste system among fans. At their best, they strengthen their cities; at their worst, they exploit them. \n\n The decision-making process behind the financing and building of new ballparks has become predictable, as have the designs. But the good news is that our stadium boom is far from over. If owners and public agencies can be persuaded to take a longer view of stadium economics and community concerns, we may yet see parks that better unite traditional character with modern convenience.", "For the new parks' charms, we should be thankful. But in actual size, the new ballyards are not intimate. All their amenities--elevators, wider concourses, abundant toilets (especially for women), bathrooms, escalators, plentiful food stands, and luxury suites--make them far larger than the parks they claim to emulate. These parks are larger than even the multipurpose hulks we all love to hate. Compare, for instance, the spanking new Ballpark at Arlington (49,100 seats), which rests on 13.6 acres, to Seattle's Kingdome, a 58,000-seat multipurpose stadium that opened in 1976 and covers 9.3 acres. (Ebbets Field, home to the Brooklyn Dodgers, occupied a mere 5.7 acres and seated 32,000.)", "Chicago's New Comiskey Park, which opened in 1991, attempted to address the character question with a superficial postmodern facade that in some ways resembled the exterior of the golden-era park it replaced. New Comiskey was marketed as an old-fashioned park with all the modern conveniences. But inside, it was still a symmetrical concrete monster, and it sat in the middle of a 7,000-car parking lot rather than in an urban neighborhood.", "The San Francisco Giants are planning a similar arrangement for their bayfront stadium, assembling about $240 million in private funds and persuading the city to pay for some of the infrastructure. The Giants say that other team owners are rooting against their scheme, because it calls into question the profligate public subsidies. Some of the subsidies exceed capital and maintenance costs: If the White Sox fail to draw 1.5 million annual fans at New Comiskey Park in the 11th through 20th years of their lease, the state of Illinois is contractually obliged to cover the shortfall at the gate by buying upto 300,000 tickets. \n\n You'd expect that the public would get something, perhaps affordable seats, in return for subsidizing stadiums. Instead, the cheap seats in the new parks are scarcer. The Seattle Mariners' proposed park, for instance, will contain about one-fourth as many general-admission seats as the present location. This erosion of low-cost seats is a long-running trend.", "So too is the dramatic increase in luxury seating, which is the primary real reason for the ballpark-building boom. The real gold mines are the posh luxury suites that lease for between $30,000 and $200,000 a year (payable in advance). A comparable moneymaker is the club deck, just above the first-tier seating. These pricey sections are occupied usually on a season-ticket basis, and offer the best sightlines, roomier seats, and wait staff who peddle gourmet fare. \n\n The gilding doesn't end there: New parks also include members-only stadium clubs and on-premises bars and restaurants.", "Naturally, owners don't advertise their new parks as a means of making life better for elite ticketholders. They say that only a new stadium will allow them to make enough money to stay in town or to field a competitive team and to allow fans to savor that old-time baseball flavor in greater comfort and convenience. Local taxpayers tend to lay off this pitch--they have voted these measures down in Illinois, Washington state, California, Wisconsin, and Michigan. Politically savvy owners usually bypass the voters and tap state governments directly for the money.", "In the old parks, the structural columns stood within the seating areas, placing the upper-deck seats closer to the game. The trade-off was that these columns obstructed the view of some fans. Today's architects \"remedy\" the problem by placing the columns behind the seating areas, thus moving the upper decks back from the field. (It should be noted that the new parks' claim that they have no impaired-view seats is an overstatement.) \n\n Added tiers devoted to luxury seating at the new parks also push the upper deck away from the field. The retreat of that deck is a century-long process, but it can be stemmed. The Orioles pressed for several design changes that lowered Camden Yards' top deck and produced a middle-row viewing distance of 199 feet, about eight rows closer than Arlington's.", "\"If you put them in the wrong place, it's a colossal waste of money,\" says the planning director of the city of Cleveland. \"But if you put them in the right place, the benefits are phenomenal,\" \n\n Recent attendance patterns show that urban parks generate much better patronage than suburban ones or those in neither/nor locations. There are also strong indicators that suggest new urban parks have \"legs,\" retaining more of their patrons after the novelty wears off. But some teams deliberately seek isolated locations, where they can better monopolize parking revenues and game-related food, drink, and souvenir business. This is why the White Sox moated their park with 100 acres of parking, why the Milwaukee Brewers refuse to build downtown, and why the Mariners insisted on the most remote of Seattle's three ballpark-siting options.", "While Camden Yards and its offspring are almost universally praised, some of them don't deserve the hype. The most annoying hype is that all the new parks are intimate, and that every seat is better at the new place than the old. Intimacy has two aspects--actual size and the subjective perception of size and scale. A good architect can ace the second part of the test through convincing forms, good proportions, and attractive materials. The exposed steelwork, brick, stone, tile, and well-placed wall openings of the new parks beat the cold and sterile stadiums of a generation ago.", "Or compare heights: New Comiskey Park's roof is 146 feet above field level; old Comiskey Park was about 75 feet high. This is not ballpark trivia, but an indicator of fan experience: Upper-deck seats in the new, taller stadiums are farther away from the action. At Arlington, the fan sitting in the middle-row, upper-deck seat closest to home plate is 224 feet from the batter, compared to 125 feet at Tiger Stadium, a park with 4,300 more seats. \n\n Why are upper-deck seats in the new parks so far from the game? Two reasons: column placement and luxury seating.", "Larger and more lavish stadiums translate into greater land and construction costs. Operable roofs, such as those in Toronto's SkyDome, Phoenix's BankOne Ballpark, and those proposed for Seattle and Milwaukee, are budget-busters. Since most teams put up little (if any) of their own money, they have scant incentive to economize on the parks. In Seattle, Mariner management has demanded an operable roof even though the city has the driest weather in MLB outside California. The real problem with the Seattle climate is cold weather in spring and fall, but the unsealed roof won't make the park warmer or totally free of wind.", "Lately, the cost of stadiums has ranged from about $300 million to $500 million. The multipurpose stadium that the Yankees want built on Manhattan's lower west side tentatively carries a $1 billion price tag. Add the financing and maintenance costs, and even a midpriced project goes through the retractable roof. At one point, the cost of the Brewers' proposed stadium grew from $250 million to $845 million, and that's not counting the value of the land. \n\n The good news is that not every owner is demanding a castle for his team. All Pittsburgh Pirates owner Kevin McClatchy wants is a \"35,000-to-37,000-seat park with natural grass and no roof, bells, or whistles.\" Though his attitude is commendable, the proposed park will still cost about $200 million, and perhaps an equal amount in interest.", "Why should the public chip in? Taxpayer subsidies don't produce cheaper tickets--they produce more expensive tickets. The average admission price (not counting club seats and suites) rises about 35 percent when a team moves into new digs. And independent economists (i.e., those not hired by stadium proponents) discount the claim that new stadiums spur regional economic growth. \n\n But one compelling argument for subsidies is that new stadiums can pull their cities together when properly designed and sited. This requires a downtown or neighborhood location where lots of fans can take the bus or the train to the game; where they can walk to the stadium from work, hotels, restaurants, or bars; and where getting to the game is a communal event that is part of a broader urban experience. This is the case with older parks such as Wrigley Field and Fenway Park, and the new ones in Toronto, Baltimore, Cleveland, and Denver." ], [ "Design references to golden-age ballparks are only one parallel between that period and ours. We are also matching that era's frenzied pace of construction: Twenty-six of Major League Baseball's 32 franchises occupy a park that is less than 10 years old; has been, or will be, extensively remodeled; or hope to move into a new one soon. \n\n One of the classic parks' merits was that they were unsubsidized. Team owners bought land and paid for stadium construction--some even built trolley lines to transport fans to the games. In all but two cases during the last 65 years, taxpayers have covered most or all of the costs of stadium building.", "Diamonds in the Rough \n\n Fourscore and seven years ago, the first steel and concrete baseball palace opened for business. Philadelphia's Shibe Park, home to the Athletics and later the Phillies, was one of 13 urban ballparks built in the seven-year period now regarded as the golden age of ballpark architecture. All but three (Wrigley Field, Fenway Park, and Tiger Stadium) have since been razed. \n\n Replacing parks built of wood, these ballyards set new standards for size, fire safety, intimacy, and convenience. As places to watch ballgames, they were vastly superior to the post-World War II parks, especially the facilities designed in the late '60s and '70s that doubled as football stadiums. But these concrete monsters, plopped into vast parking lots in Houston, Pittsburgh, Cincinnati, Philadelphia, and elsewhere, lack the character of the classic parks.", "For the new parks' charms, we should be thankful. But in actual size, the new ballyards are not intimate. All their amenities--elevators, wider concourses, abundant toilets (especially for women), bathrooms, escalators, plentiful food stands, and luxury suites--make them far larger than the parks they claim to emulate. These parks are larger than even the multipurpose hulks we all love to hate. Compare, for instance, the spanking new Ballpark at Arlington (49,100 seats), which rests on 13.6 acres, to Seattle's Kingdome, a 58,000-seat multipurpose stadium that opened in 1976 and covers 9.3 acres. (Ebbets Field, home to the Brooklyn Dodgers, occupied a mere 5.7 acres and seated 32,000.)", "Chicago's New Comiskey Park, which opened in 1991, attempted to address the character question with a superficial postmodern facade that in some ways resembled the exterior of the golden-era park it replaced. New Comiskey was marketed as an old-fashioned park with all the modern conveniences. But inside, it was still a symmetrical concrete monster, and it sat in the middle of a 7,000-car parking lot rather than in an urban neighborhood.", "A year later, a new--yet more genuinely old--ballpark arrived to dispel the gloom. Baltimore's Oriole Park at Camden Yards revived the idea of a quirkily asymmetrical, relatively intimate, steel-structured, city-friendly ballpark. \"Once this opens,\" predicted Commissioner of Baseball Bart Giamatti, \"everyone will want one like it.\" And so it came to be: Camden Yards' successors in Cleveland, Arlington (Texas), and Denver, and those designed for Milwaukee, Seattle, and San Francisco, take their cues from Baltimore's conceptual breakthrough. Even totally nontraditional parks, like those in Phoenix, Miami, and Tampa Bay, emulate the asymmetry of the Camden Yards outfield. It's almost as though a disembodied voice intoned, \"If you build it, they will copy.\"", "Modern conveniences aside, the new baseball shrines are a mixed bag. Most are visually impressive, boast interestingly shaped playing fields, and start off as box-office hits. But too many of them are large and expensive, tend to live on the dole, and are hampered by seat layouts that create a caste system among fans. At their best, they strengthen their cities; at their worst, they exploit them. \n\n The decision-making process behind the financing and building of new ballparks has become predictable, as have the designs. But the good news is that our stadium boom is far from over. If owners and public agencies can be persuaded to take a longer view of stadium economics and community concerns, we may yet see parks that better unite traditional character with modern convenience.", "In the old parks, the structural columns stood within the seating areas, placing the upper-deck seats closer to the game. The trade-off was that these columns obstructed the view of some fans. Today's architects \"remedy\" the problem by placing the columns behind the seating areas, thus moving the upper decks back from the field. (It should be noted that the new parks' claim that they have no impaired-view seats is an overstatement.) \n\n Added tiers devoted to luxury seating at the new parks also push the upper deck away from the field. The retreat of that deck is a century-long process, but it can be stemmed. The Orioles pressed for several design changes that lowered Camden Yards' top deck and produced a middle-row viewing distance of 199 feet, about eight rows closer than Arlington's.", "So too is the dramatic increase in luxury seating, which is the primary real reason for the ballpark-building boom. The real gold mines are the posh luxury suites that lease for between $30,000 and $200,000 a year (payable in advance). A comparable moneymaker is the club deck, just above the first-tier seating. These pricey sections are occupied usually on a season-ticket basis, and offer the best sightlines, roomier seats, and wait staff who peddle gourmet fare. \n\n The gilding doesn't end there: New parks also include members-only stadium clubs and on-premises bars and restaurants.", "\"If you put them in the wrong place, it's a colossal waste of money,\" says the planning director of the city of Cleveland. \"But if you put them in the right place, the benefits are phenomenal,\" \n\n Recent attendance patterns show that urban parks generate much better patronage than suburban ones or those in neither/nor locations. There are also strong indicators that suggest new urban parks have \"legs,\" retaining more of their patrons after the novelty wears off. But some teams deliberately seek isolated locations, where they can better monopolize parking revenues and game-related food, drink, and souvenir business. This is why the White Sox moated their park with 100 acres of parking, why the Milwaukee Brewers refuse to build downtown, and why the Mariners insisted on the most remote of Seattle's three ballpark-siting options.", "While Camden Yards and its offspring are almost universally praised, some of them don't deserve the hype. The most annoying hype is that all the new parks are intimate, and that every seat is better at the new place than the old. Intimacy has two aspects--actual size and the subjective perception of size and scale. A good architect can ace the second part of the test through convincing forms, good proportions, and attractive materials. The exposed steelwork, brick, stone, tile, and well-placed wall openings of the new parks beat the cold and sterile stadiums of a generation ago.", "Or compare heights: New Comiskey Park's roof is 146 feet above field level; old Comiskey Park was about 75 feet high. This is not ballpark trivia, but an indicator of fan experience: Upper-deck seats in the new, taller stadiums are farther away from the action. At Arlington, the fan sitting in the middle-row, upper-deck seat closest to home plate is 224 feet from the batter, compared to 125 feet at Tiger Stadium, a park with 4,300 more seats. \n\n Why are upper-deck seats in the new parks so far from the game? Two reasons: column placement and luxury seating.", "Naturally, owners don't advertise their new parks as a means of making life better for elite ticketholders. They say that only a new stadium will allow them to make enough money to stay in town or to field a competitive team and to allow fans to savor that old-time baseball flavor in greater comfort and convenience. Local taxpayers tend to lay off this pitch--they have voted these measures down in Illinois, Washington state, California, Wisconsin, and Michigan. Politically savvy owners usually bypass the voters and tap state governments directly for the money.", "The San Francisco Giants are planning a similar arrangement for their bayfront stadium, assembling about $240 million in private funds and persuading the city to pay for some of the infrastructure. The Giants say that other team owners are rooting against their scheme, because it calls into question the profligate public subsidies. Some of the subsidies exceed capital and maintenance costs: If the White Sox fail to draw 1.5 million annual fans at New Comiskey Park in the 11th through 20th years of their lease, the state of Illinois is contractually obliged to cover the shortfall at the gate by buying upto 300,000 tickets. \n\n You'd expect that the public would get something, perhaps affordable seats, in return for subsidizing stadiums. Instead, the cheap seats in the new parks are scarcer. The Seattle Mariners' proposed park, for instance, will contain about one-fourth as many general-admission seats as the present location. This erosion of low-cost seats is a long-running trend.", "Larger and more lavish stadiums translate into greater land and construction costs. Operable roofs, such as those in Toronto's SkyDome, Phoenix's BankOne Ballpark, and those proposed for Seattle and Milwaukee, are budget-busters. Since most teams put up little (if any) of their own money, they have scant incentive to economize on the parks. In Seattle, Mariner management has demanded an operable roof even though the city has the driest weather in MLB outside California. The real problem with the Seattle climate is cold weather in spring and fall, but the unsealed roof won't make the park warmer or totally free of wind.", "Why should the public chip in? Taxpayer subsidies don't produce cheaper tickets--they produce more expensive tickets. The average admission price (not counting club seats and suites) rises about 35 percent when a team moves into new digs. And independent economists (i.e., those not hired by stadium proponents) discount the claim that new stadiums spur regional economic growth. \n\n But one compelling argument for subsidies is that new stadiums can pull their cities together when properly designed and sited. This requires a downtown or neighborhood location where lots of fans can take the bus or the train to the game; where they can walk to the stadium from work, hotels, restaurants, or bars; and where getting to the game is a communal event that is part of a broader urban experience. This is the case with older parks such as Wrigley Field and Fenway Park, and the new ones in Toronto, Baltimore, Cleveland, and Denver.", "Lately, the cost of stadiums has ranged from about $300 million to $500 million. The multipurpose stadium that the Yankees want built on Manhattan's lower west side tentatively carries a $1 billion price tag. Add the financing and maintenance costs, and even a midpriced project goes through the retractable roof. At one point, the cost of the Brewers' proposed stadium grew from $250 million to $845 million, and that's not counting the value of the land. \n\n The good news is that not every owner is demanding a castle for his team. All Pittsburgh Pirates owner Kevin McClatchy wants is a \"35,000-to-37,000-seat park with natural grass and no roof, bells, or whistles.\" Though his attitude is commendable, the proposed park will still cost about $200 million, and perhaps an equal amount in interest." ], [ "For the new parks' charms, we should be thankful. But in actual size, the new ballyards are not intimate. All their amenities--elevators, wider concourses, abundant toilets (especially for women), bathrooms, escalators, plentiful food stands, and luxury suites--make them far larger than the parks they claim to emulate. These parks are larger than even the multipurpose hulks we all love to hate. Compare, for instance, the spanking new Ballpark at Arlington (49,100 seats), which rests on 13.6 acres, to Seattle's Kingdome, a 58,000-seat multipurpose stadium that opened in 1976 and covers 9.3 acres. (Ebbets Field, home to the Brooklyn Dodgers, occupied a mere 5.7 acres and seated 32,000.)", "While Camden Yards and its offspring are almost universally praised, some of them don't deserve the hype. The most annoying hype is that all the new parks are intimate, and that every seat is better at the new place than the old. Intimacy has two aspects--actual size and the subjective perception of size and scale. A good architect can ace the second part of the test through convincing forms, good proportions, and attractive materials. The exposed steelwork, brick, stone, tile, and well-placed wall openings of the new parks beat the cold and sterile stadiums of a generation ago.", "A year later, a new--yet more genuinely old--ballpark arrived to dispel the gloom. Baltimore's Oriole Park at Camden Yards revived the idea of a quirkily asymmetrical, relatively intimate, steel-structured, city-friendly ballpark. \"Once this opens,\" predicted Commissioner of Baseball Bart Giamatti, \"everyone will want one like it.\" And so it came to be: Camden Yards' successors in Cleveland, Arlington (Texas), and Denver, and those designed for Milwaukee, Seattle, and San Francisco, take their cues from Baltimore's conceptual breakthrough. Even totally nontraditional parks, like those in Phoenix, Miami, and Tampa Bay, emulate the asymmetry of the Camden Yards outfield. It's almost as though a disembodied voice intoned, \"If you build it, they will copy.\"", "Modern conveniences aside, the new baseball shrines are a mixed bag. Most are visually impressive, boast interestingly shaped playing fields, and start off as box-office hits. But too many of them are large and expensive, tend to live on the dole, and are hampered by seat layouts that create a caste system among fans. At their best, they strengthen their cities; at their worst, they exploit them. \n\n The decision-making process behind the financing and building of new ballparks has become predictable, as have the designs. But the good news is that our stadium boom is far from over. If owners and public agencies can be persuaded to take a longer view of stadium economics and community concerns, we may yet see parks that better unite traditional character with modern convenience.", "In the old parks, the structural columns stood within the seating areas, placing the upper-deck seats closer to the game. The trade-off was that these columns obstructed the view of some fans. Today's architects \"remedy\" the problem by placing the columns behind the seating areas, thus moving the upper decks back from the field. (It should be noted that the new parks' claim that they have no impaired-view seats is an overstatement.) \n\n Added tiers devoted to luxury seating at the new parks also push the upper deck away from the field. The retreat of that deck is a century-long process, but it can be stemmed. The Orioles pressed for several design changes that lowered Camden Yards' top deck and produced a middle-row viewing distance of 199 feet, about eight rows closer than Arlington's.", "Diamonds in the Rough \n\n Fourscore and seven years ago, the first steel and concrete baseball palace opened for business. Philadelphia's Shibe Park, home to the Athletics and later the Phillies, was one of 13 urban ballparks built in the seven-year period now regarded as the golden age of ballpark architecture. All but three (Wrigley Field, Fenway Park, and Tiger Stadium) have since been razed. \n\n Replacing parks built of wood, these ballyards set new standards for size, fire safety, intimacy, and convenience. As places to watch ballgames, they were vastly superior to the post-World War II parks, especially the facilities designed in the late '60s and '70s that doubled as football stadiums. But these concrete monsters, plopped into vast parking lots in Houston, Pittsburgh, Cincinnati, Philadelphia, and elsewhere, lack the character of the classic parks.", "Or compare heights: New Comiskey Park's roof is 146 feet above field level; old Comiskey Park was about 75 feet high. This is not ballpark trivia, but an indicator of fan experience: Upper-deck seats in the new, taller stadiums are farther away from the action. At Arlington, the fan sitting in the middle-row, upper-deck seat closest to home plate is 224 feet from the batter, compared to 125 feet at Tiger Stadium, a park with 4,300 more seats. \n\n Why are upper-deck seats in the new parks so far from the game? Two reasons: column placement and luxury seating.", "Design references to golden-age ballparks are only one parallel between that period and ours. We are also matching that era's frenzied pace of construction: Twenty-six of Major League Baseball's 32 franchises occupy a park that is less than 10 years old; has been, or will be, extensively remodeled; or hope to move into a new one soon. \n\n One of the classic parks' merits was that they were unsubsidized. Team owners bought land and paid for stadium construction--some even built trolley lines to transport fans to the games. In all but two cases during the last 65 years, taxpayers have covered most or all of the costs of stadium building.", "So too is the dramatic increase in luxury seating, which is the primary real reason for the ballpark-building boom. The real gold mines are the posh luxury suites that lease for between $30,000 and $200,000 a year (payable in advance). A comparable moneymaker is the club deck, just above the first-tier seating. These pricey sections are occupied usually on a season-ticket basis, and offer the best sightlines, roomier seats, and wait staff who peddle gourmet fare. \n\n The gilding doesn't end there: New parks also include members-only stadium clubs and on-premises bars and restaurants.", "The San Francisco Giants are planning a similar arrangement for their bayfront stadium, assembling about $240 million in private funds and persuading the city to pay for some of the infrastructure. The Giants say that other team owners are rooting against their scheme, because it calls into question the profligate public subsidies. Some of the subsidies exceed capital and maintenance costs: If the White Sox fail to draw 1.5 million annual fans at New Comiskey Park in the 11th through 20th years of their lease, the state of Illinois is contractually obliged to cover the shortfall at the gate by buying upto 300,000 tickets. \n\n You'd expect that the public would get something, perhaps affordable seats, in return for subsidizing stadiums. Instead, the cheap seats in the new parks are scarcer. The Seattle Mariners' proposed park, for instance, will contain about one-fourth as many general-admission seats as the present location. This erosion of low-cost seats is a long-running trend.", "Chicago's New Comiskey Park, which opened in 1991, attempted to address the character question with a superficial postmodern facade that in some ways resembled the exterior of the golden-era park it replaced. New Comiskey was marketed as an old-fashioned park with all the modern conveniences. But inside, it was still a symmetrical concrete monster, and it sat in the middle of a 7,000-car parking lot rather than in an urban neighborhood.", "Naturally, owners don't advertise their new parks as a means of making life better for elite ticketholders. They say that only a new stadium will allow them to make enough money to stay in town or to field a competitive team and to allow fans to savor that old-time baseball flavor in greater comfort and convenience. Local taxpayers tend to lay off this pitch--they have voted these measures down in Illinois, Washington state, California, Wisconsin, and Michigan. Politically savvy owners usually bypass the voters and tap state governments directly for the money.", "\"If you put them in the wrong place, it's a colossal waste of money,\" says the planning director of the city of Cleveland. \"But if you put them in the right place, the benefits are phenomenal,\" \n\n Recent attendance patterns show that urban parks generate much better patronage than suburban ones or those in neither/nor locations. There are also strong indicators that suggest new urban parks have \"legs,\" retaining more of their patrons after the novelty wears off. But some teams deliberately seek isolated locations, where they can better monopolize parking revenues and game-related food, drink, and souvenir business. This is why the White Sox moated their park with 100 acres of parking, why the Milwaukee Brewers refuse to build downtown, and why the Mariners insisted on the most remote of Seattle's three ballpark-siting options.", "Larger and more lavish stadiums translate into greater land and construction costs. Operable roofs, such as those in Toronto's SkyDome, Phoenix's BankOne Ballpark, and those proposed for Seattle and Milwaukee, are budget-busters. Since most teams put up little (if any) of their own money, they have scant incentive to economize on the parks. In Seattle, Mariner management has demanded an operable roof even though the city has the driest weather in MLB outside California. The real problem with the Seattle climate is cold weather in spring and fall, but the unsealed roof won't make the park warmer or totally free of wind.", "Why should the public chip in? Taxpayer subsidies don't produce cheaper tickets--they produce more expensive tickets. The average admission price (not counting club seats and suites) rises about 35 percent when a team moves into new digs. And independent economists (i.e., those not hired by stadium proponents) discount the claim that new stadiums spur regional economic growth. \n\n But one compelling argument for subsidies is that new stadiums can pull their cities together when properly designed and sited. This requires a downtown or neighborhood location where lots of fans can take the bus or the train to the game; where they can walk to the stadium from work, hotels, restaurants, or bars; and where getting to the game is a communal event that is part of a broader urban experience. This is the case with older parks such as Wrigley Field and Fenway Park, and the new ones in Toronto, Baltimore, Cleveland, and Denver.", "Lately, the cost of stadiums has ranged from about $300 million to $500 million. The multipurpose stadium that the Yankees want built on Manhattan's lower west side tentatively carries a $1 billion price tag. Add the financing and maintenance costs, and even a midpriced project goes through the retractable roof. At one point, the cost of the Brewers' proposed stadium grew from $250 million to $845 million, and that's not counting the value of the land. \n\n The good news is that not every owner is demanding a castle for his team. All Pittsburgh Pirates owner Kevin McClatchy wants is a \"35,000-to-37,000-seat park with natural grass and no roof, bells, or whistles.\" Though his attitude is commendable, the proposed park will still cost about $200 million, and perhaps an equal amount in interest." ], [ "For the new parks' charms, we should be thankful. But in actual size, the new ballyards are not intimate. All their amenities--elevators, wider concourses, abundant toilets (especially for women), bathrooms, escalators, plentiful food stands, and luxury suites--make them far larger than the parks they claim to emulate. These parks are larger than even the multipurpose hulks we all love to hate. Compare, for instance, the spanking new Ballpark at Arlington (49,100 seats), which rests on 13.6 acres, to Seattle's Kingdome, a 58,000-seat multipurpose stadium that opened in 1976 and covers 9.3 acres. (Ebbets Field, home to the Brooklyn Dodgers, occupied a mere 5.7 acres and seated 32,000.)", "So too is the dramatic increase in luxury seating, which is the primary real reason for the ballpark-building boom. The real gold mines are the posh luxury suites that lease for between $30,000 and $200,000 a year (payable in advance). A comparable moneymaker is the club deck, just above the first-tier seating. These pricey sections are occupied usually on a season-ticket basis, and offer the best sightlines, roomier seats, and wait staff who peddle gourmet fare. \n\n The gilding doesn't end there: New parks also include members-only stadium clubs and on-premises bars and restaurants.", "A year later, a new--yet more genuinely old--ballpark arrived to dispel the gloom. Baltimore's Oriole Park at Camden Yards revived the idea of a quirkily asymmetrical, relatively intimate, steel-structured, city-friendly ballpark. \"Once this opens,\" predicted Commissioner of Baseball Bart Giamatti, \"everyone will want one like it.\" And so it came to be: Camden Yards' successors in Cleveland, Arlington (Texas), and Denver, and those designed for Milwaukee, Seattle, and San Francisco, take their cues from Baltimore's conceptual breakthrough. Even totally nontraditional parks, like those in Phoenix, Miami, and Tampa Bay, emulate the asymmetry of the Camden Yards outfield. It's almost as though a disembodied voice intoned, \"If you build it, they will copy.\"", "In the old parks, the structural columns stood within the seating areas, placing the upper-deck seats closer to the game. The trade-off was that these columns obstructed the view of some fans. Today's architects \"remedy\" the problem by placing the columns behind the seating areas, thus moving the upper decks back from the field. (It should be noted that the new parks' claim that they have no impaired-view seats is an overstatement.) \n\n Added tiers devoted to luxury seating at the new parks also push the upper deck away from the field. The retreat of that deck is a century-long process, but it can be stemmed. The Orioles pressed for several design changes that lowered Camden Yards' top deck and produced a middle-row viewing distance of 199 feet, about eight rows closer than Arlington's.", "While Camden Yards and its offspring are almost universally praised, some of them don't deserve the hype. The most annoying hype is that all the new parks are intimate, and that every seat is better at the new place than the old. Intimacy has two aspects--actual size and the subjective perception of size and scale. A good architect can ace the second part of the test through convincing forms, good proportions, and attractive materials. The exposed steelwork, brick, stone, tile, and well-placed wall openings of the new parks beat the cold and sterile stadiums of a generation ago.", "\"If you put them in the wrong place, it's a colossal waste of money,\" says the planning director of the city of Cleveland. \"But if you put them in the right place, the benefits are phenomenal,\" \n\n Recent attendance patterns show that urban parks generate much better patronage than suburban ones or those in neither/nor locations. There are also strong indicators that suggest new urban parks have \"legs,\" retaining more of their patrons after the novelty wears off. But some teams deliberately seek isolated locations, where they can better monopolize parking revenues and game-related food, drink, and souvenir business. This is why the White Sox moated their park with 100 acres of parking, why the Milwaukee Brewers refuse to build downtown, and why the Mariners insisted on the most remote of Seattle's three ballpark-siting options.", "Or compare heights: New Comiskey Park's roof is 146 feet above field level; old Comiskey Park was about 75 feet high. This is not ballpark trivia, but an indicator of fan experience: Upper-deck seats in the new, taller stadiums are farther away from the action. At Arlington, the fan sitting in the middle-row, upper-deck seat closest to home plate is 224 feet from the batter, compared to 125 feet at Tiger Stadium, a park with 4,300 more seats. \n\n Why are upper-deck seats in the new parks so far from the game? Two reasons: column placement and luxury seating.", "Chicago's New Comiskey Park, which opened in 1991, attempted to address the character question with a superficial postmodern facade that in some ways resembled the exterior of the golden-era park it replaced. New Comiskey was marketed as an old-fashioned park with all the modern conveniences. But inside, it was still a symmetrical concrete monster, and it sat in the middle of a 7,000-car parking lot rather than in an urban neighborhood.", "Modern conveniences aside, the new baseball shrines are a mixed bag. Most are visually impressive, boast interestingly shaped playing fields, and start off as box-office hits. But too many of them are large and expensive, tend to live on the dole, and are hampered by seat layouts that create a caste system among fans. At their best, they strengthen their cities; at their worst, they exploit them. \n\n The decision-making process behind the financing and building of new ballparks has become predictable, as have the designs. But the good news is that our stadium boom is far from over. If owners and public agencies can be persuaded to take a longer view of stadium economics and community concerns, we may yet see parks that better unite traditional character with modern convenience.", "Design references to golden-age ballparks are only one parallel between that period and ours. We are also matching that era's frenzied pace of construction: Twenty-six of Major League Baseball's 32 franchises occupy a park that is less than 10 years old; has been, or will be, extensively remodeled; or hope to move into a new one soon. \n\n One of the classic parks' merits was that they were unsubsidized. Team owners bought land and paid for stadium construction--some even built trolley lines to transport fans to the games. In all but two cases during the last 65 years, taxpayers have covered most or all of the costs of stadium building.", "Naturally, owners don't advertise their new parks as a means of making life better for elite ticketholders. They say that only a new stadium will allow them to make enough money to stay in town or to field a competitive team and to allow fans to savor that old-time baseball flavor in greater comfort and convenience. Local taxpayers tend to lay off this pitch--they have voted these measures down in Illinois, Washington state, California, Wisconsin, and Michigan. Politically savvy owners usually bypass the voters and tap state governments directly for the money.", "Diamonds in the Rough \n\n Fourscore and seven years ago, the first steel and concrete baseball palace opened for business. Philadelphia's Shibe Park, home to the Athletics and later the Phillies, was one of 13 urban ballparks built in the seven-year period now regarded as the golden age of ballpark architecture. All but three (Wrigley Field, Fenway Park, and Tiger Stadium) have since been razed. \n\n Replacing parks built of wood, these ballyards set new standards for size, fire safety, intimacy, and convenience. As places to watch ballgames, they were vastly superior to the post-World War II parks, especially the facilities designed in the late '60s and '70s that doubled as football stadiums. But these concrete monsters, plopped into vast parking lots in Houston, Pittsburgh, Cincinnati, Philadelphia, and elsewhere, lack the character of the classic parks.", "The San Francisco Giants are planning a similar arrangement for their bayfront stadium, assembling about $240 million in private funds and persuading the city to pay for some of the infrastructure. The Giants say that other team owners are rooting against their scheme, because it calls into question the profligate public subsidies. Some of the subsidies exceed capital and maintenance costs: If the White Sox fail to draw 1.5 million annual fans at New Comiskey Park in the 11th through 20th years of their lease, the state of Illinois is contractually obliged to cover the shortfall at the gate by buying upto 300,000 tickets. \n\n You'd expect that the public would get something, perhaps affordable seats, in return for subsidizing stadiums. Instead, the cheap seats in the new parks are scarcer. The Seattle Mariners' proposed park, for instance, will contain about one-fourth as many general-admission seats as the present location. This erosion of low-cost seats is a long-running trend.", "Lately, the cost of stadiums has ranged from about $300 million to $500 million. The multipurpose stadium that the Yankees want built on Manhattan's lower west side tentatively carries a $1 billion price tag. Add the financing and maintenance costs, and even a midpriced project goes through the retractable roof. At one point, the cost of the Brewers' proposed stadium grew from $250 million to $845 million, and that's not counting the value of the land. \n\n The good news is that not every owner is demanding a castle for his team. All Pittsburgh Pirates owner Kevin McClatchy wants is a \"35,000-to-37,000-seat park with natural grass and no roof, bells, or whistles.\" Though his attitude is commendable, the proposed park will still cost about $200 million, and perhaps an equal amount in interest.", "Larger and more lavish stadiums translate into greater land and construction costs. Operable roofs, such as those in Toronto's SkyDome, Phoenix's BankOne Ballpark, and those proposed for Seattle and Milwaukee, are budget-busters. Since most teams put up little (if any) of their own money, they have scant incentive to economize on the parks. In Seattle, Mariner management has demanded an operable roof even though the city has the driest weather in MLB outside California. The real problem with the Seattle climate is cold weather in spring and fall, but the unsealed roof won't make the park warmer or totally free of wind.", "Why should the public chip in? Taxpayer subsidies don't produce cheaper tickets--they produce more expensive tickets. The average admission price (not counting club seats and suites) rises about 35 percent when a team moves into new digs. And independent economists (i.e., those not hired by stadium proponents) discount the claim that new stadiums spur regional economic growth. \n\n But one compelling argument for subsidies is that new stadiums can pull their cities together when properly designed and sited. This requires a downtown or neighborhood location where lots of fans can take the bus or the train to the game; where they can walk to the stadium from work, hotels, restaurants, or bars; and where getting to the game is a communal event that is part of a broader urban experience. This is the case with older parks such as Wrigley Field and Fenway Park, and the new ones in Toronto, Baltimore, Cleveland, and Denver." ], [ "\"If you put them in the wrong place, it's a colossal waste of money,\" says the planning director of the city of Cleveland. \"But if you put them in the right place, the benefits are phenomenal,\" \n\n Recent attendance patterns show that urban parks generate much better patronage than suburban ones or those in neither/nor locations. There are also strong indicators that suggest new urban parks have \"legs,\" retaining more of their patrons after the novelty wears off. But some teams deliberately seek isolated locations, where they can better monopolize parking revenues and game-related food, drink, and souvenir business. This is why the White Sox moated their park with 100 acres of parking, why the Milwaukee Brewers refuse to build downtown, and why the Mariners insisted on the most remote of Seattle's three ballpark-siting options.", "A year later, a new--yet more genuinely old--ballpark arrived to dispel the gloom. Baltimore's Oriole Park at Camden Yards revived the idea of a quirkily asymmetrical, relatively intimate, steel-structured, city-friendly ballpark. \"Once this opens,\" predicted Commissioner of Baseball Bart Giamatti, \"everyone will want one like it.\" And so it came to be: Camden Yards' successors in Cleveland, Arlington (Texas), and Denver, and those designed for Milwaukee, Seattle, and San Francisco, take their cues from Baltimore's conceptual breakthrough. Even totally nontraditional parks, like those in Phoenix, Miami, and Tampa Bay, emulate the asymmetry of the Camden Yards outfield. It's almost as though a disembodied voice intoned, \"If you build it, they will copy.\"", "Modern conveniences aside, the new baseball shrines are a mixed bag. Most are visually impressive, boast interestingly shaped playing fields, and start off as box-office hits. But too many of them are large and expensive, tend to live on the dole, and are hampered by seat layouts that create a caste system among fans. At their best, they strengthen their cities; at their worst, they exploit them. \n\n The decision-making process behind the financing and building of new ballparks has become predictable, as have the designs. But the good news is that our stadium boom is far from over. If owners and public agencies can be persuaded to take a longer view of stadium economics and community concerns, we may yet see parks that better unite traditional character with modern convenience.", "While Camden Yards and its offspring are almost universally praised, some of them don't deserve the hype. The most annoying hype is that all the new parks are intimate, and that every seat is better at the new place than the old. Intimacy has two aspects--actual size and the subjective perception of size and scale. A good architect can ace the second part of the test through convincing forms, good proportions, and attractive materials. The exposed steelwork, brick, stone, tile, and well-placed wall openings of the new parks beat the cold and sterile stadiums of a generation ago.", "Naturally, owners don't advertise their new parks as a means of making life better for elite ticketholders. They say that only a new stadium will allow them to make enough money to stay in town or to field a competitive team and to allow fans to savor that old-time baseball flavor in greater comfort and convenience. Local taxpayers tend to lay off this pitch--they have voted these measures down in Illinois, Washington state, California, Wisconsin, and Michigan. Politically savvy owners usually bypass the voters and tap state governments directly for the money.", "For the new parks' charms, we should be thankful. But in actual size, the new ballyards are not intimate. All their amenities--elevators, wider concourses, abundant toilets (especially for women), bathrooms, escalators, plentiful food stands, and luxury suites--make them far larger than the parks they claim to emulate. These parks are larger than even the multipurpose hulks we all love to hate. Compare, for instance, the spanking new Ballpark at Arlington (49,100 seats), which rests on 13.6 acres, to Seattle's Kingdome, a 58,000-seat multipurpose stadium that opened in 1976 and covers 9.3 acres. (Ebbets Field, home to the Brooklyn Dodgers, occupied a mere 5.7 acres and seated 32,000.)", "In the old parks, the structural columns stood within the seating areas, placing the upper-deck seats closer to the game. The trade-off was that these columns obstructed the view of some fans. Today's architects \"remedy\" the problem by placing the columns behind the seating areas, thus moving the upper decks back from the field. (It should be noted that the new parks' claim that they have no impaired-view seats is an overstatement.) \n\n Added tiers devoted to luxury seating at the new parks also push the upper deck away from the field. The retreat of that deck is a century-long process, but it can be stemmed. The Orioles pressed for several design changes that lowered Camden Yards' top deck and produced a middle-row viewing distance of 199 feet, about eight rows closer than Arlington's.", "Or compare heights: New Comiskey Park's roof is 146 feet above field level; old Comiskey Park was about 75 feet high. This is not ballpark trivia, but an indicator of fan experience: Upper-deck seats in the new, taller stadiums are farther away from the action. At Arlington, the fan sitting in the middle-row, upper-deck seat closest to home plate is 224 feet from the batter, compared to 125 feet at Tiger Stadium, a park with 4,300 more seats. \n\n Why are upper-deck seats in the new parks so far from the game? Two reasons: column placement and luxury seating.", "Chicago's New Comiskey Park, which opened in 1991, attempted to address the character question with a superficial postmodern facade that in some ways resembled the exterior of the golden-era park it replaced. New Comiskey was marketed as an old-fashioned park with all the modern conveniences. But inside, it was still a symmetrical concrete monster, and it sat in the middle of a 7,000-car parking lot rather than in an urban neighborhood.", "Diamonds in the Rough \n\n Fourscore and seven years ago, the first steel and concrete baseball palace opened for business. Philadelphia's Shibe Park, home to the Athletics and later the Phillies, was one of 13 urban ballparks built in the seven-year period now regarded as the golden age of ballpark architecture. All but three (Wrigley Field, Fenway Park, and Tiger Stadium) have since been razed. \n\n Replacing parks built of wood, these ballyards set new standards for size, fire safety, intimacy, and convenience. As places to watch ballgames, they were vastly superior to the post-World War II parks, especially the facilities designed in the late '60s and '70s that doubled as football stadiums. But these concrete monsters, plopped into vast parking lots in Houston, Pittsburgh, Cincinnati, Philadelphia, and elsewhere, lack the character of the classic parks.", "So too is the dramatic increase in luxury seating, which is the primary real reason for the ballpark-building boom. The real gold mines are the posh luxury suites that lease for between $30,000 and $200,000 a year (payable in advance). A comparable moneymaker is the club deck, just above the first-tier seating. These pricey sections are occupied usually on a season-ticket basis, and offer the best sightlines, roomier seats, and wait staff who peddle gourmet fare. \n\n The gilding doesn't end there: New parks also include members-only stadium clubs and on-premises bars and restaurants.", "Larger and more lavish stadiums translate into greater land and construction costs. Operable roofs, such as those in Toronto's SkyDome, Phoenix's BankOne Ballpark, and those proposed for Seattle and Milwaukee, are budget-busters. Since most teams put up little (if any) of their own money, they have scant incentive to economize on the parks. In Seattle, Mariner management has demanded an operable roof even though the city has the driest weather in MLB outside California. The real problem with the Seattle climate is cold weather in spring and fall, but the unsealed roof won't make the park warmer or totally free of wind.", "Design references to golden-age ballparks are only one parallel between that period and ours. We are also matching that era's frenzied pace of construction: Twenty-six of Major League Baseball's 32 franchises occupy a park that is less than 10 years old; has been, or will be, extensively remodeled; or hope to move into a new one soon. \n\n One of the classic parks' merits was that they were unsubsidized. Team owners bought land and paid for stadium construction--some even built trolley lines to transport fans to the games. In all but two cases during the last 65 years, taxpayers have covered most or all of the costs of stadium building.", "The San Francisco Giants are planning a similar arrangement for their bayfront stadium, assembling about $240 million in private funds and persuading the city to pay for some of the infrastructure. The Giants say that other team owners are rooting against their scheme, because it calls into question the profligate public subsidies. Some of the subsidies exceed capital and maintenance costs: If the White Sox fail to draw 1.5 million annual fans at New Comiskey Park in the 11th through 20th years of their lease, the state of Illinois is contractually obliged to cover the shortfall at the gate by buying upto 300,000 tickets. \n\n You'd expect that the public would get something, perhaps affordable seats, in return for subsidizing stadiums. Instead, the cheap seats in the new parks are scarcer. The Seattle Mariners' proposed park, for instance, will contain about one-fourth as many general-admission seats as the present location. This erosion of low-cost seats is a long-running trend.", "Why should the public chip in? Taxpayer subsidies don't produce cheaper tickets--they produce more expensive tickets. The average admission price (not counting club seats and suites) rises about 35 percent when a team moves into new digs. And independent economists (i.e., those not hired by stadium proponents) discount the claim that new stadiums spur regional economic growth. \n\n But one compelling argument for subsidies is that new stadiums can pull their cities together when properly designed and sited. This requires a downtown or neighborhood location where lots of fans can take the bus or the train to the game; where they can walk to the stadium from work, hotels, restaurants, or bars; and where getting to the game is a communal event that is part of a broader urban experience. This is the case with older parks such as Wrigley Field and Fenway Park, and the new ones in Toronto, Baltimore, Cleveland, and Denver.", "Lately, the cost of stadiums has ranged from about $300 million to $500 million. The multipurpose stadium that the Yankees want built on Manhattan's lower west side tentatively carries a $1 billion price tag. Add the financing and maintenance costs, and even a midpriced project goes through the retractable roof. At one point, the cost of the Brewers' proposed stadium grew from $250 million to $845 million, and that's not counting the value of the land. \n\n The good news is that not every owner is demanding a castle for his team. All Pittsburgh Pirates owner Kevin McClatchy wants is a \"35,000-to-37,000-seat park with natural grass and no roof, bells, or whistles.\" Though his attitude is commendable, the proposed park will still cost about $200 million, and perhaps an equal amount in interest." ], [ "For the new parks' charms, we should be thankful. But in actual size, the new ballyards are not intimate. All their amenities--elevators, wider concourses, abundant toilets (especially for women), bathrooms, escalators, plentiful food stands, and luxury suites--make them far larger than the parks they claim to emulate. These parks are larger than even the multipurpose hulks we all love to hate. Compare, for instance, the spanking new Ballpark at Arlington (49,100 seats), which rests on 13.6 acres, to Seattle's Kingdome, a 58,000-seat multipurpose stadium that opened in 1976 and covers 9.3 acres. (Ebbets Field, home to the Brooklyn Dodgers, occupied a mere 5.7 acres and seated 32,000.)", "While Camden Yards and its offspring are almost universally praised, some of them don't deserve the hype. The most annoying hype is that all the new parks are intimate, and that every seat is better at the new place than the old. Intimacy has two aspects--actual size and the subjective perception of size and scale. A good architect can ace the second part of the test through convincing forms, good proportions, and attractive materials. The exposed steelwork, brick, stone, tile, and well-placed wall openings of the new parks beat the cold and sterile stadiums of a generation ago.", "So too is the dramatic increase in luxury seating, which is the primary real reason for the ballpark-building boom. The real gold mines are the posh luxury suites that lease for between $30,000 and $200,000 a year (payable in advance). A comparable moneymaker is the club deck, just above the first-tier seating. These pricey sections are occupied usually on a season-ticket basis, and offer the best sightlines, roomier seats, and wait staff who peddle gourmet fare. \n\n The gilding doesn't end there: New parks also include members-only stadium clubs and on-premises bars and restaurants.", "In the old parks, the structural columns stood within the seating areas, placing the upper-deck seats closer to the game. The trade-off was that these columns obstructed the view of some fans. Today's architects \"remedy\" the problem by placing the columns behind the seating areas, thus moving the upper decks back from the field. (It should be noted that the new parks' claim that they have no impaired-view seats is an overstatement.) \n\n Added tiers devoted to luxury seating at the new parks also push the upper deck away from the field. The retreat of that deck is a century-long process, but it can be stemmed. The Orioles pressed for several design changes that lowered Camden Yards' top deck and produced a middle-row viewing distance of 199 feet, about eight rows closer than Arlington's.", "A year later, a new--yet more genuinely old--ballpark arrived to dispel the gloom. Baltimore's Oriole Park at Camden Yards revived the idea of a quirkily asymmetrical, relatively intimate, steel-structured, city-friendly ballpark. \"Once this opens,\" predicted Commissioner of Baseball Bart Giamatti, \"everyone will want one like it.\" And so it came to be: Camden Yards' successors in Cleveland, Arlington (Texas), and Denver, and those designed for Milwaukee, Seattle, and San Francisco, take their cues from Baltimore's conceptual breakthrough. Even totally nontraditional parks, like those in Phoenix, Miami, and Tampa Bay, emulate the asymmetry of the Camden Yards outfield. It's almost as though a disembodied voice intoned, \"If you build it, they will copy.\"", "\"If you put them in the wrong place, it's a colossal waste of money,\" says the planning director of the city of Cleveland. \"But if you put them in the right place, the benefits are phenomenal,\" \n\n Recent attendance patterns show that urban parks generate much better patronage than suburban ones or those in neither/nor locations. There are also strong indicators that suggest new urban parks have \"legs,\" retaining more of their patrons after the novelty wears off. But some teams deliberately seek isolated locations, where they can better monopolize parking revenues and game-related food, drink, and souvenir business. This is why the White Sox moated their park with 100 acres of parking, why the Milwaukee Brewers refuse to build downtown, and why the Mariners insisted on the most remote of Seattle's three ballpark-siting options.", "Chicago's New Comiskey Park, which opened in 1991, attempted to address the character question with a superficial postmodern facade that in some ways resembled the exterior of the golden-era park it replaced. New Comiskey was marketed as an old-fashioned park with all the modern conveniences. But inside, it was still a symmetrical concrete monster, and it sat in the middle of a 7,000-car parking lot rather than in an urban neighborhood.", "Design references to golden-age ballparks are only one parallel between that period and ours. We are also matching that era's frenzied pace of construction: Twenty-six of Major League Baseball's 32 franchises occupy a park that is less than 10 years old; has been, or will be, extensively remodeled; or hope to move into a new one soon. \n\n One of the classic parks' merits was that they were unsubsidized. Team owners bought land and paid for stadium construction--some even built trolley lines to transport fans to the games. In all but two cases during the last 65 years, taxpayers have covered most or all of the costs of stadium building.", "Or compare heights: New Comiskey Park's roof is 146 feet above field level; old Comiskey Park was about 75 feet high. This is not ballpark trivia, but an indicator of fan experience: Upper-deck seats in the new, taller stadiums are farther away from the action. At Arlington, the fan sitting in the middle-row, upper-deck seat closest to home plate is 224 feet from the batter, compared to 125 feet at Tiger Stadium, a park with 4,300 more seats. \n\n Why are upper-deck seats in the new parks so far from the game? Two reasons: column placement and luxury seating.", "Naturally, owners don't advertise their new parks as a means of making life better for elite ticketholders. They say that only a new stadium will allow them to make enough money to stay in town or to field a competitive team and to allow fans to savor that old-time baseball flavor in greater comfort and convenience. Local taxpayers tend to lay off this pitch--they have voted these measures down in Illinois, Washington state, California, Wisconsin, and Michigan. Politically savvy owners usually bypass the voters and tap state governments directly for the money.", "Modern conveniences aside, the new baseball shrines are a mixed bag. Most are visually impressive, boast interestingly shaped playing fields, and start off as box-office hits. But too many of them are large and expensive, tend to live on the dole, and are hampered by seat layouts that create a caste system among fans. At their best, they strengthen their cities; at their worst, they exploit them. \n\n The decision-making process behind the financing and building of new ballparks has become predictable, as have the designs. But the good news is that our stadium boom is far from over. If owners and public agencies can be persuaded to take a longer view of stadium economics and community concerns, we may yet see parks that better unite traditional character with modern convenience.", "Diamonds in the Rough \n\n Fourscore and seven years ago, the first steel and concrete baseball palace opened for business. Philadelphia's Shibe Park, home to the Athletics and later the Phillies, was one of 13 urban ballparks built in the seven-year period now regarded as the golden age of ballpark architecture. All but three (Wrigley Field, Fenway Park, and Tiger Stadium) have since been razed. \n\n Replacing parks built of wood, these ballyards set new standards for size, fire safety, intimacy, and convenience. As places to watch ballgames, they were vastly superior to the post-World War II parks, especially the facilities designed in the late '60s and '70s that doubled as football stadiums. But these concrete monsters, plopped into vast parking lots in Houston, Pittsburgh, Cincinnati, Philadelphia, and elsewhere, lack the character of the classic parks.", "Larger and more lavish stadiums translate into greater land and construction costs. Operable roofs, such as those in Toronto's SkyDome, Phoenix's BankOne Ballpark, and those proposed for Seattle and Milwaukee, are budget-busters. Since most teams put up little (if any) of their own money, they have scant incentive to economize on the parks. In Seattle, Mariner management has demanded an operable roof even though the city has the driest weather in MLB outside California. The real problem with the Seattle climate is cold weather in spring and fall, but the unsealed roof won't make the park warmer or totally free of wind.", "The San Francisco Giants are planning a similar arrangement for their bayfront stadium, assembling about $240 million in private funds and persuading the city to pay for some of the infrastructure. The Giants say that other team owners are rooting against their scheme, because it calls into question the profligate public subsidies. Some of the subsidies exceed capital and maintenance costs: If the White Sox fail to draw 1.5 million annual fans at New Comiskey Park in the 11th through 20th years of their lease, the state of Illinois is contractually obliged to cover the shortfall at the gate by buying upto 300,000 tickets. \n\n You'd expect that the public would get something, perhaps affordable seats, in return for subsidizing stadiums. Instead, the cheap seats in the new parks are scarcer. The Seattle Mariners' proposed park, for instance, will contain about one-fourth as many general-admission seats as the present location. This erosion of low-cost seats is a long-running trend.", "Lately, the cost of stadiums has ranged from about $300 million to $500 million. The multipurpose stadium that the Yankees want built on Manhattan's lower west side tentatively carries a $1 billion price tag. Add the financing and maintenance costs, and even a midpriced project goes through the retractable roof. At one point, the cost of the Brewers' proposed stadium grew from $250 million to $845 million, and that's not counting the value of the land. \n\n The good news is that not every owner is demanding a castle for his team. All Pittsburgh Pirates owner Kevin McClatchy wants is a \"35,000-to-37,000-seat park with natural grass and no roof, bells, or whistles.\" Though his attitude is commendable, the proposed park will still cost about $200 million, and perhaps an equal amount in interest.", "Why should the public chip in? Taxpayer subsidies don't produce cheaper tickets--they produce more expensive tickets. The average admission price (not counting club seats and suites) rises about 35 percent when a team moves into new digs. And independent economists (i.e., those not hired by stadium proponents) discount the claim that new stadiums spur regional economic growth. \n\n But one compelling argument for subsidies is that new stadiums can pull their cities together when properly designed and sited. This requires a downtown or neighborhood location where lots of fans can take the bus or the train to the game; where they can walk to the stadium from work, hotels, restaurants, or bars; and where getting to the game is a communal event that is part of a broader urban experience. This is the case with older parks such as Wrigley Field and Fenway Park, and the new ones in Toronto, Baltimore, Cleveland, and Denver." ], [ "For the new parks' charms, we should be thankful. But in actual size, the new ballyards are not intimate. All their amenities--elevators, wider concourses, abundant toilets (especially for women), bathrooms, escalators, plentiful food stands, and luxury suites--make them far larger than the parks they claim to emulate. These parks are larger than even the multipurpose hulks we all love to hate. Compare, for instance, the spanking new Ballpark at Arlington (49,100 seats), which rests on 13.6 acres, to Seattle's Kingdome, a 58,000-seat multipurpose stadium that opened in 1976 and covers 9.3 acres. (Ebbets Field, home to the Brooklyn Dodgers, occupied a mere 5.7 acres and seated 32,000.)", "Chicago's New Comiskey Park, which opened in 1991, attempted to address the character question with a superficial postmodern facade that in some ways resembled the exterior of the golden-era park it replaced. New Comiskey was marketed as an old-fashioned park with all the modern conveniences. But inside, it was still a symmetrical concrete monster, and it sat in the middle of a 7,000-car parking lot rather than in an urban neighborhood.", "Modern conveniences aside, the new baseball shrines are a mixed bag. Most are visually impressive, boast interestingly shaped playing fields, and start off as box-office hits. But too many of them are large and expensive, tend to live on the dole, and are hampered by seat layouts that create a caste system among fans. At their best, they strengthen their cities; at their worst, they exploit them. \n\n The decision-making process behind the financing and building of new ballparks has become predictable, as have the designs. But the good news is that our stadium boom is far from over. If owners and public agencies can be persuaded to take a longer view of stadium economics and community concerns, we may yet see parks that better unite traditional character with modern convenience.", "In the old parks, the structural columns stood within the seating areas, placing the upper-deck seats closer to the game. The trade-off was that these columns obstructed the view of some fans. Today's architects \"remedy\" the problem by placing the columns behind the seating areas, thus moving the upper decks back from the field. (It should be noted that the new parks' claim that they have no impaired-view seats is an overstatement.) \n\n Added tiers devoted to luxury seating at the new parks also push the upper deck away from the field. The retreat of that deck is a century-long process, but it can be stemmed. The Orioles pressed for several design changes that lowered Camden Yards' top deck and produced a middle-row viewing distance of 199 feet, about eight rows closer than Arlington's.", "Design references to golden-age ballparks are only one parallel between that period and ours. We are also matching that era's frenzied pace of construction: Twenty-six of Major League Baseball's 32 franchises occupy a park that is less than 10 years old; has been, or will be, extensively remodeled; or hope to move into a new one soon. \n\n One of the classic parks' merits was that they were unsubsidized. Team owners bought land and paid for stadium construction--some even built trolley lines to transport fans to the games. In all but two cases during the last 65 years, taxpayers have covered most or all of the costs of stadium building.", "Diamonds in the Rough \n\n Fourscore and seven years ago, the first steel and concrete baseball palace opened for business. Philadelphia's Shibe Park, home to the Athletics and later the Phillies, was one of 13 urban ballparks built in the seven-year period now regarded as the golden age of ballpark architecture. All but three (Wrigley Field, Fenway Park, and Tiger Stadium) have since been razed. \n\n Replacing parks built of wood, these ballyards set new standards for size, fire safety, intimacy, and convenience. As places to watch ballgames, they were vastly superior to the post-World War II parks, especially the facilities designed in the late '60s and '70s that doubled as football stadiums. But these concrete monsters, plopped into vast parking lots in Houston, Pittsburgh, Cincinnati, Philadelphia, and elsewhere, lack the character of the classic parks.", "A year later, a new--yet more genuinely old--ballpark arrived to dispel the gloom. Baltimore's Oriole Park at Camden Yards revived the idea of a quirkily asymmetrical, relatively intimate, steel-structured, city-friendly ballpark. \"Once this opens,\" predicted Commissioner of Baseball Bart Giamatti, \"everyone will want one like it.\" And so it came to be: Camden Yards' successors in Cleveland, Arlington (Texas), and Denver, and those designed for Milwaukee, Seattle, and San Francisco, take their cues from Baltimore's conceptual breakthrough. Even totally nontraditional parks, like those in Phoenix, Miami, and Tampa Bay, emulate the asymmetry of the Camden Yards outfield. It's almost as though a disembodied voice intoned, \"If you build it, they will copy.\"", "While Camden Yards and its offspring are almost universally praised, some of them don't deserve the hype. The most annoying hype is that all the new parks are intimate, and that every seat is better at the new place than the old. Intimacy has two aspects--actual size and the subjective perception of size and scale. A good architect can ace the second part of the test through convincing forms, good proportions, and attractive materials. The exposed steelwork, brick, stone, tile, and well-placed wall openings of the new parks beat the cold and sterile stadiums of a generation ago.", "\"If you put them in the wrong place, it's a colossal waste of money,\" says the planning director of the city of Cleveland. \"But if you put them in the right place, the benefits are phenomenal,\" \n\n Recent attendance patterns show that urban parks generate much better patronage than suburban ones or those in neither/nor locations. There are also strong indicators that suggest new urban parks have \"legs,\" retaining more of their patrons after the novelty wears off. But some teams deliberately seek isolated locations, where they can better monopolize parking revenues and game-related food, drink, and souvenir business. This is why the White Sox moated their park with 100 acres of parking, why the Milwaukee Brewers refuse to build downtown, and why the Mariners insisted on the most remote of Seattle's three ballpark-siting options.", "Or compare heights: New Comiskey Park's roof is 146 feet above field level; old Comiskey Park was about 75 feet high. This is not ballpark trivia, but an indicator of fan experience: Upper-deck seats in the new, taller stadiums are farther away from the action. At Arlington, the fan sitting in the middle-row, upper-deck seat closest to home plate is 224 feet from the batter, compared to 125 feet at Tiger Stadium, a park with 4,300 more seats. \n\n Why are upper-deck seats in the new parks so far from the game? Two reasons: column placement and luxury seating.", "So too is the dramatic increase in luxury seating, which is the primary real reason for the ballpark-building boom. The real gold mines are the posh luxury suites that lease for between $30,000 and $200,000 a year (payable in advance). A comparable moneymaker is the club deck, just above the first-tier seating. These pricey sections are occupied usually on a season-ticket basis, and offer the best sightlines, roomier seats, and wait staff who peddle gourmet fare. \n\n The gilding doesn't end there: New parks also include members-only stadium clubs and on-premises bars and restaurants.", "Naturally, owners don't advertise their new parks as a means of making life better for elite ticketholders. They say that only a new stadium will allow them to make enough money to stay in town or to field a competitive team and to allow fans to savor that old-time baseball flavor in greater comfort and convenience. Local taxpayers tend to lay off this pitch--they have voted these measures down in Illinois, Washington state, California, Wisconsin, and Michigan. Politically savvy owners usually bypass the voters and tap state governments directly for the money.", "The San Francisco Giants are planning a similar arrangement for their bayfront stadium, assembling about $240 million in private funds and persuading the city to pay for some of the infrastructure. The Giants say that other team owners are rooting against their scheme, because it calls into question the profligate public subsidies. Some of the subsidies exceed capital and maintenance costs: If the White Sox fail to draw 1.5 million annual fans at New Comiskey Park in the 11th through 20th years of their lease, the state of Illinois is contractually obliged to cover the shortfall at the gate by buying upto 300,000 tickets. \n\n You'd expect that the public would get something, perhaps affordable seats, in return for subsidizing stadiums. Instead, the cheap seats in the new parks are scarcer. The Seattle Mariners' proposed park, for instance, will contain about one-fourth as many general-admission seats as the present location. This erosion of low-cost seats is a long-running trend.", "Why should the public chip in? Taxpayer subsidies don't produce cheaper tickets--they produce more expensive tickets. The average admission price (not counting club seats and suites) rises about 35 percent when a team moves into new digs. And independent economists (i.e., those not hired by stadium proponents) discount the claim that new stadiums spur regional economic growth. \n\n But one compelling argument for subsidies is that new stadiums can pull their cities together when properly designed and sited. This requires a downtown or neighborhood location where lots of fans can take the bus or the train to the game; where they can walk to the stadium from work, hotels, restaurants, or bars; and where getting to the game is a communal event that is part of a broader urban experience. This is the case with older parks such as Wrigley Field and Fenway Park, and the new ones in Toronto, Baltimore, Cleveland, and Denver.", "Larger and more lavish stadiums translate into greater land and construction costs. Operable roofs, such as those in Toronto's SkyDome, Phoenix's BankOne Ballpark, and those proposed for Seattle and Milwaukee, are budget-busters. Since most teams put up little (if any) of their own money, they have scant incentive to economize on the parks. In Seattle, Mariner management has demanded an operable roof even though the city has the driest weather in MLB outside California. The real problem with the Seattle climate is cold weather in spring and fall, but the unsealed roof won't make the park warmer or totally free of wind.", "Lately, the cost of stadiums has ranged from about $300 million to $500 million. The multipurpose stadium that the Yankees want built on Manhattan's lower west side tentatively carries a $1 billion price tag. Add the financing and maintenance costs, and even a midpriced project goes through the retractable roof. At one point, the cost of the Brewers' proposed stadium grew from $250 million to $845 million, and that's not counting the value of the land. \n\n The good news is that not every owner is demanding a castle for his team. All Pittsburgh Pirates owner Kevin McClatchy wants is a \"35,000-to-37,000-seat park with natural grass and no roof, bells, or whistles.\" Though his attitude is commendable, the proposed park will still cost about $200 million, and perhaps an equal amount in interest." ], [ "For the new parks' charms, we should be thankful. But in actual size, the new ballyards are not intimate. All their amenities--elevators, wider concourses, abundant toilets (especially for women), bathrooms, escalators, plentiful food stands, and luxury suites--make them far larger than the parks they claim to emulate. These parks are larger than even the multipurpose hulks we all love to hate. Compare, for instance, the spanking new Ballpark at Arlington (49,100 seats), which rests on 13.6 acres, to Seattle's Kingdome, a 58,000-seat multipurpose stadium that opened in 1976 and covers 9.3 acres. (Ebbets Field, home to the Brooklyn Dodgers, occupied a mere 5.7 acres and seated 32,000.)", "Naturally, owners don't advertise their new parks as a means of making life better for elite ticketholders. They say that only a new stadium will allow them to make enough money to stay in town or to field a competitive team and to allow fans to savor that old-time baseball flavor in greater comfort and convenience. Local taxpayers tend to lay off this pitch--they have voted these measures down in Illinois, Washington state, California, Wisconsin, and Michigan. Politically savvy owners usually bypass the voters and tap state governments directly for the money.", "Modern conveniences aside, the new baseball shrines are a mixed bag. Most are visually impressive, boast interestingly shaped playing fields, and start off as box-office hits. But too many of them are large and expensive, tend to live on the dole, and are hampered by seat layouts that create a caste system among fans. At their best, they strengthen their cities; at their worst, they exploit them. \n\n The decision-making process behind the financing and building of new ballparks has become predictable, as have the designs. But the good news is that our stadium boom is far from over. If owners and public agencies can be persuaded to take a longer view of stadium economics and community concerns, we may yet see parks that better unite traditional character with modern convenience.", "Larger and more lavish stadiums translate into greater land and construction costs. Operable roofs, such as those in Toronto's SkyDome, Phoenix's BankOne Ballpark, and those proposed for Seattle and Milwaukee, are budget-busters. Since most teams put up little (if any) of their own money, they have scant incentive to economize on the parks. In Seattle, Mariner management has demanded an operable roof even though the city has the driest weather in MLB outside California. The real problem with the Seattle climate is cold weather in spring and fall, but the unsealed roof won't make the park warmer or totally free of wind.", "So too is the dramatic increase in luxury seating, which is the primary real reason for the ballpark-building boom. The real gold mines are the posh luxury suites that lease for between $30,000 and $200,000 a year (payable in advance). A comparable moneymaker is the club deck, just above the first-tier seating. These pricey sections are occupied usually on a season-ticket basis, and offer the best sightlines, roomier seats, and wait staff who peddle gourmet fare. \n\n The gilding doesn't end there: New parks also include members-only stadium clubs and on-premises bars and restaurants.", "The San Francisco Giants are planning a similar arrangement for their bayfront stadium, assembling about $240 million in private funds and persuading the city to pay for some of the infrastructure. The Giants say that other team owners are rooting against their scheme, because it calls into question the profligate public subsidies. Some of the subsidies exceed capital and maintenance costs: If the White Sox fail to draw 1.5 million annual fans at New Comiskey Park in the 11th through 20th years of their lease, the state of Illinois is contractually obliged to cover the shortfall at the gate by buying upto 300,000 tickets. \n\n You'd expect that the public would get something, perhaps affordable seats, in return for subsidizing stadiums. Instead, the cheap seats in the new parks are scarcer. The Seattle Mariners' proposed park, for instance, will contain about one-fourth as many general-admission seats as the present location. This erosion of low-cost seats is a long-running trend.", "Lately, the cost of stadiums has ranged from about $300 million to $500 million. The multipurpose stadium that the Yankees want built on Manhattan's lower west side tentatively carries a $1 billion price tag. Add the financing and maintenance costs, and even a midpriced project goes through the retractable roof. At one point, the cost of the Brewers' proposed stadium grew from $250 million to $845 million, and that's not counting the value of the land. \n\n The good news is that not every owner is demanding a castle for his team. All Pittsburgh Pirates owner Kevin McClatchy wants is a \"35,000-to-37,000-seat park with natural grass and no roof, bells, or whistles.\" Though his attitude is commendable, the proposed park will still cost about $200 million, and perhaps an equal amount in interest.", "Design references to golden-age ballparks are only one parallel between that period and ours. We are also matching that era's frenzied pace of construction: Twenty-six of Major League Baseball's 32 franchises occupy a park that is less than 10 years old; has been, or will be, extensively remodeled; or hope to move into a new one soon. \n\n One of the classic parks' merits was that they were unsubsidized. Team owners bought land and paid for stadium construction--some even built trolley lines to transport fans to the games. In all but two cases during the last 65 years, taxpayers have covered most or all of the costs of stadium building.", "\"If you put them in the wrong place, it's a colossal waste of money,\" says the planning director of the city of Cleveland. \"But if you put them in the right place, the benefits are phenomenal,\" \n\n Recent attendance patterns show that urban parks generate much better patronage than suburban ones or those in neither/nor locations. There are also strong indicators that suggest new urban parks have \"legs,\" retaining more of their patrons after the novelty wears off. But some teams deliberately seek isolated locations, where they can better monopolize parking revenues and game-related food, drink, and souvenir business. This is why the White Sox moated their park with 100 acres of parking, why the Milwaukee Brewers refuse to build downtown, and why the Mariners insisted on the most remote of Seattle's three ballpark-siting options.", "A year later, a new--yet more genuinely old--ballpark arrived to dispel the gloom. Baltimore's Oriole Park at Camden Yards revived the idea of a quirkily asymmetrical, relatively intimate, steel-structured, city-friendly ballpark. \"Once this opens,\" predicted Commissioner of Baseball Bart Giamatti, \"everyone will want one like it.\" And so it came to be: Camden Yards' successors in Cleveland, Arlington (Texas), and Denver, and those designed for Milwaukee, Seattle, and San Francisco, take their cues from Baltimore's conceptual breakthrough. Even totally nontraditional parks, like those in Phoenix, Miami, and Tampa Bay, emulate the asymmetry of the Camden Yards outfield. It's almost as though a disembodied voice intoned, \"If you build it, they will copy.\"", "Or compare heights: New Comiskey Park's roof is 146 feet above field level; old Comiskey Park was about 75 feet high. This is not ballpark trivia, but an indicator of fan experience: Upper-deck seats in the new, taller stadiums are farther away from the action. At Arlington, the fan sitting in the middle-row, upper-deck seat closest to home plate is 224 feet from the batter, compared to 125 feet at Tiger Stadium, a park with 4,300 more seats. \n\n Why are upper-deck seats in the new parks so far from the game? Two reasons: column placement and luxury seating.", "While Camden Yards and its offspring are almost universally praised, some of them don't deserve the hype. The most annoying hype is that all the new parks are intimate, and that every seat is better at the new place than the old. Intimacy has two aspects--actual size and the subjective perception of size and scale. A good architect can ace the second part of the test through convincing forms, good proportions, and attractive materials. The exposed steelwork, brick, stone, tile, and well-placed wall openings of the new parks beat the cold and sterile stadiums of a generation ago.", "In the old parks, the structural columns stood within the seating areas, placing the upper-deck seats closer to the game. The trade-off was that these columns obstructed the view of some fans. Today's architects \"remedy\" the problem by placing the columns behind the seating areas, thus moving the upper decks back from the field. (It should be noted that the new parks' claim that they have no impaired-view seats is an overstatement.) \n\n Added tiers devoted to luxury seating at the new parks also push the upper deck away from the field. The retreat of that deck is a century-long process, but it can be stemmed. The Orioles pressed for several design changes that lowered Camden Yards' top deck and produced a middle-row viewing distance of 199 feet, about eight rows closer than Arlington's.", "Diamonds in the Rough \n\n Fourscore and seven years ago, the first steel and concrete baseball palace opened for business. Philadelphia's Shibe Park, home to the Athletics and later the Phillies, was one of 13 urban ballparks built in the seven-year period now regarded as the golden age of ballpark architecture. All but three (Wrigley Field, Fenway Park, and Tiger Stadium) have since been razed. \n\n Replacing parks built of wood, these ballyards set new standards for size, fire safety, intimacy, and convenience. As places to watch ballgames, they were vastly superior to the post-World War II parks, especially the facilities designed in the late '60s and '70s that doubled as football stadiums. But these concrete monsters, plopped into vast parking lots in Houston, Pittsburgh, Cincinnati, Philadelphia, and elsewhere, lack the character of the classic parks.", "Why should the public chip in? Taxpayer subsidies don't produce cheaper tickets--they produce more expensive tickets. The average admission price (not counting club seats and suites) rises about 35 percent when a team moves into new digs. And independent economists (i.e., those not hired by stadium proponents) discount the claim that new stadiums spur regional economic growth. \n\n But one compelling argument for subsidies is that new stadiums can pull their cities together when properly designed and sited. This requires a downtown or neighborhood location where lots of fans can take the bus or the train to the game; where they can walk to the stadium from work, hotels, restaurants, or bars; and where getting to the game is a communal event that is part of a broader urban experience. This is the case with older parks such as Wrigley Field and Fenway Park, and the new ones in Toronto, Baltimore, Cleveland, and Denver.", "Chicago's New Comiskey Park, which opened in 1991, attempted to address the character question with a superficial postmodern facade that in some ways resembled the exterior of the golden-era park it replaced. New Comiskey was marketed as an old-fashioned park with all the modern conveniences. But inside, it was still a symmetrical concrete monster, and it sat in the middle of a 7,000-car parking lot rather than in an urban neighborhood." ], [ "The San Francisco Giants are planning a similar arrangement for their bayfront stadium, assembling about $240 million in private funds and persuading the city to pay for some of the infrastructure. The Giants say that other team owners are rooting against their scheme, because it calls into question the profligate public subsidies. Some of the subsidies exceed capital and maintenance costs: If the White Sox fail to draw 1.5 million annual fans at New Comiskey Park in the 11th through 20th years of their lease, the state of Illinois is contractually obliged to cover the shortfall at the gate by buying upto 300,000 tickets. \n\n You'd expect that the public would get something, perhaps affordable seats, in return for subsidizing stadiums. Instead, the cheap seats in the new parks are scarcer. The Seattle Mariners' proposed park, for instance, will contain about one-fourth as many general-admission seats as the present location. This erosion of low-cost seats is a long-running trend.", "\"If you put them in the wrong place, it's a colossal waste of money,\" says the planning director of the city of Cleveland. \"But if you put them in the right place, the benefits are phenomenal,\" \n\n Recent attendance patterns show that urban parks generate much better patronage than suburban ones or those in neither/nor locations. There are also strong indicators that suggest new urban parks have \"legs,\" retaining more of their patrons after the novelty wears off. But some teams deliberately seek isolated locations, where they can better monopolize parking revenues and game-related food, drink, and souvenir business. This is why the White Sox moated their park with 100 acres of parking, why the Milwaukee Brewers refuse to build downtown, and why the Mariners insisted on the most remote of Seattle's three ballpark-siting options.", "Modern conveniences aside, the new baseball shrines are a mixed bag. Most are visually impressive, boast interestingly shaped playing fields, and start off as box-office hits. But too many of them are large and expensive, tend to live on the dole, and are hampered by seat layouts that create a caste system among fans. At their best, they strengthen their cities; at their worst, they exploit them. \n\n The decision-making process behind the financing and building of new ballparks has become predictable, as have the designs. But the good news is that our stadium boom is far from over. If owners and public agencies can be persuaded to take a longer view of stadium economics and community concerns, we may yet see parks that better unite traditional character with modern convenience.", "Design references to golden-age ballparks are only one parallel between that period and ours. We are also matching that era's frenzied pace of construction: Twenty-six of Major League Baseball's 32 franchises occupy a park that is less than 10 years old; has been, or will be, extensively remodeled; or hope to move into a new one soon. \n\n One of the classic parks' merits was that they were unsubsidized. Team owners bought land and paid for stadium construction--some even built trolley lines to transport fans to the games. In all but two cases during the last 65 years, taxpayers have covered most or all of the costs of stadium building.", "Naturally, owners don't advertise their new parks as a means of making life better for elite ticketholders. They say that only a new stadium will allow them to make enough money to stay in town or to field a competitive team and to allow fans to savor that old-time baseball flavor in greater comfort and convenience. Local taxpayers tend to lay off this pitch--they have voted these measures down in Illinois, Washington state, California, Wisconsin, and Michigan. Politically savvy owners usually bypass the voters and tap state governments directly for the money.", "Why should the public chip in? Taxpayer subsidies don't produce cheaper tickets--they produce more expensive tickets. The average admission price (not counting club seats and suites) rises about 35 percent when a team moves into new digs. And independent economists (i.e., those not hired by stadium proponents) discount the claim that new stadiums spur regional economic growth. \n\n But one compelling argument for subsidies is that new stadiums can pull their cities together when properly designed and sited. This requires a downtown or neighborhood location where lots of fans can take the bus or the train to the game; where they can walk to the stadium from work, hotels, restaurants, or bars; and where getting to the game is a communal event that is part of a broader urban experience. This is the case with older parks such as Wrigley Field and Fenway Park, and the new ones in Toronto, Baltimore, Cleveland, and Denver.", "So too is the dramatic increase in luxury seating, which is the primary real reason for the ballpark-building boom. The real gold mines are the posh luxury suites that lease for between $30,000 and $200,000 a year (payable in advance). A comparable moneymaker is the club deck, just above the first-tier seating. These pricey sections are occupied usually on a season-ticket basis, and offer the best sightlines, roomier seats, and wait staff who peddle gourmet fare. \n\n The gilding doesn't end there: New parks also include members-only stadium clubs and on-premises bars and restaurants.", "Lately, the cost of stadiums has ranged from about $300 million to $500 million. The multipurpose stadium that the Yankees want built on Manhattan's lower west side tentatively carries a $1 billion price tag. Add the financing and maintenance costs, and even a midpriced project goes through the retractable roof. At one point, the cost of the Brewers' proposed stadium grew from $250 million to $845 million, and that's not counting the value of the land. \n\n The good news is that not every owner is demanding a castle for his team. All Pittsburgh Pirates owner Kevin McClatchy wants is a \"35,000-to-37,000-seat park with natural grass and no roof, bells, or whistles.\" Though his attitude is commendable, the proposed park will still cost about $200 million, and perhaps an equal amount in interest.", "Or compare heights: New Comiskey Park's roof is 146 feet above field level; old Comiskey Park was about 75 feet high. This is not ballpark trivia, but an indicator of fan experience: Upper-deck seats in the new, taller stadiums are farther away from the action. At Arlington, the fan sitting in the middle-row, upper-deck seat closest to home plate is 224 feet from the batter, compared to 125 feet at Tiger Stadium, a park with 4,300 more seats. \n\n Why are upper-deck seats in the new parks so far from the game? Two reasons: column placement and luxury seating.", "In the old parks, the structural columns stood within the seating areas, placing the upper-deck seats closer to the game. The trade-off was that these columns obstructed the view of some fans. Today's architects \"remedy\" the problem by placing the columns behind the seating areas, thus moving the upper decks back from the field. (It should be noted that the new parks' claim that they have no impaired-view seats is an overstatement.) \n\n Added tiers devoted to luxury seating at the new parks also push the upper deck away from the field. The retreat of that deck is a century-long process, but it can be stemmed. The Orioles pressed for several design changes that lowered Camden Yards' top deck and produced a middle-row viewing distance of 199 feet, about eight rows closer than Arlington's.", "While Camden Yards and its offspring are almost universally praised, some of them don't deserve the hype. The most annoying hype is that all the new parks are intimate, and that every seat is better at the new place than the old. Intimacy has two aspects--actual size and the subjective perception of size and scale. A good architect can ace the second part of the test through convincing forms, good proportions, and attractive materials. The exposed steelwork, brick, stone, tile, and well-placed wall openings of the new parks beat the cold and sterile stadiums of a generation ago.", "A year later, a new--yet more genuinely old--ballpark arrived to dispel the gloom. Baltimore's Oriole Park at Camden Yards revived the idea of a quirkily asymmetrical, relatively intimate, steel-structured, city-friendly ballpark. \"Once this opens,\" predicted Commissioner of Baseball Bart Giamatti, \"everyone will want one like it.\" And so it came to be: Camden Yards' successors in Cleveland, Arlington (Texas), and Denver, and those designed for Milwaukee, Seattle, and San Francisco, take their cues from Baltimore's conceptual breakthrough. Even totally nontraditional parks, like those in Phoenix, Miami, and Tampa Bay, emulate the asymmetry of the Camden Yards outfield. It's almost as though a disembodied voice intoned, \"If you build it, they will copy.\"", "Larger and more lavish stadiums translate into greater land and construction costs. Operable roofs, such as those in Toronto's SkyDome, Phoenix's BankOne Ballpark, and those proposed for Seattle and Milwaukee, are budget-busters. Since most teams put up little (if any) of their own money, they have scant incentive to economize on the parks. In Seattle, Mariner management has demanded an operable roof even though the city has the driest weather in MLB outside California. The real problem with the Seattle climate is cold weather in spring and fall, but the unsealed roof won't make the park warmer or totally free of wind.", "For the new parks' charms, we should be thankful. But in actual size, the new ballyards are not intimate. All their amenities--elevators, wider concourses, abundant toilets (especially for women), bathrooms, escalators, plentiful food stands, and luxury suites--make them far larger than the parks they claim to emulate. These parks are larger than even the multipurpose hulks we all love to hate. Compare, for instance, the spanking new Ballpark at Arlington (49,100 seats), which rests on 13.6 acres, to Seattle's Kingdome, a 58,000-seat multipurpose stadium that opened in 1976 and covers 9.3 acres. (Ebbets Field, home to the Brooklyn Dodgers, occupied a mere 5.7 acres and seated 32,000.)", "Diamonds in the Rough \n\n Fourscore and seven years ago, the first steel and concrete baseball palace opened for business. Philadelphia's Shibe Park, home to the Athletics and later the Phillies, was one of 13 urban ballparks built in the seven-year period now regarded as the golden age of ballpark architecture. All but three (Wrigley Field, Fenway Park, and Tiger Stadium) have since been razed. \n\n Replacing parks built of wood, these ballyards set new standards for size, fire safety, intimacy, and convenience. As places to watch ballgames, they were vastly superior to the post-World War II parks, especially the facilities designed in the late '60s and '70s that doubled as football stadiums. But these concrete monsters, plopped into vast parking lots in Houston, Pittsburgh, Cincinnati, Philadelphia, and elsewhere, lack the character of the classic parks.", "Chicago's New Comiskey Park, which opened in 1991, attempted to address the character question with a superficial postmodern facade that in some ways resembled the exterior of the golden-era park it replaced. New Comiskey was marketed as an old-fashioned park with all the modern conveniences. But inside, it was still a symmetrical concrete monster, and it sat in the middle of a 7,000-car parking lot rather than in an urban neighborhood." ] ]
valid	51413	[ "What measures did the Snaddra creatures take for the arrival of the Earth visitors?", "What did Skkiru come to think about his beggar role?", "Why are the people of Earth interested in visiting Snaddra?", "How did Skkiru treat the role of beggar in the presence of the Terran visitors?", "What is the relationship like between Skkiru and Larhgan?", "How is Earth entangled with Skkiru’s planet?", "How are the governing decisions made on the planet?", "What is Larhgan’s relationship like with Skkiru and Bbulas?", "What was the relationship like between Bbulas and Skkiru?" ]	[ [ "Creating great rain on the surface to appear as a primitive mud-based architectural beings, dressing in jeweled robes to show their opulence", "Destroying their underground cities, returning to the existing surface huts, acting from Earth’s culture so as to be accepted by them", "Hiding their spaceships, speaking in Earth’s language, constructing primitive accommodations", "Pretending to live on the surface, constructing primitive accommodations, acting as though they had no influences from Earth’s culture" ], [ "He would be able to collect riches like chocolate as a beggar and that it might not actually be as horrible as he originally thought", "It was orchestrated by Larhgan to break off their engagement", "It was a highly valued role since he could act as a spy", "It was a unsustainable fallacy since no one on the planet would actually support him, though he may be able to achieve his goals in the end" ], [ "Understanding how to live in so much rain", "Social studies of the creatures", "Their architectural advances", "Missionary deployments" ], [ "He thought he was above the role, acting as a high priest instead", "He was unsure of how to act as a beggar and refrained from engaging with the Terrans", "He played it convincingly and truthfully", "He undermined the role and gave away the plan" ], [ "They were once married, but it did not work out between them. Skkiru would do anything to regain Larhgan’s love", "Larhgan betrayed Skkiru’s love and she cannot forgive herself for that. She decides to refrain from every marrying again as a punishment for her mistakes", "They were engaged to be married, but circumstances dictated otherwise. They remain in love and think there will never be another for them", "Skkiru created an elaborate scheme for them to marry as high priest and priestess, and Larhgan is unaware of his scheming" ], [ "His planet has been developing in the ways of Earth, but is now trying to appear primitive", "Earth evaluates planets across the galaxy for their resources, and his planet is of particular interest", "Earth appears to be informing a cultural shift as their technologies reach his planet", "Earth provided technologies to his planet early on and is checking back in on the status of their progress" ], [ "There is a branch of Earth’s government that oversees all decisions", "There is a planetary disagreement about decision-making", "They appear to be made by the will of someone greater than the characters in the story", "The decisions are made by high officials, in this case the control was given to Bbulas" ], [ "Skkiru and Bbulas are both trying to gain access to her fortune, but Skkiru is the only one with her true love", "She resents them both for entangling her in this plan", "She was previously involved with Skkiru, but the new way of their world required her to now be with Bbulas", "She would like to be married to Bbulas, but does not know how to communicate this to Skkiru" ], [ "Bbulas and Skkiru went to other planets for their education together and know each other well, but they had a falling out", "They compete for the love of Larhgan, and both have an equal chance at achieving it", "Bbulas recently came upon a position of power and Skkiru resented him for it", "Skkiru thinks that Bbulas will be a fitting ruler for the planet and reluctantly accepts his new role" ] ]	[ 4, 4, 2, 3, 3, 1, 4, 3, 3 ]	[ 1, 1, 0, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 1 ]	[ [ "\"... and so you are most welcome to Snaddra, men of Earth,\" she was\n saying in her melodious voice. \"Our resources may be small but our\n hearts are large, and what little we have, we offer with humility and\n with love. We hope that you will enjoy as long and as happy a stay here\n as you did on Nemeth....\"\n\n\n Cyril looked at Raoul, who, however, seemed too absorbed in\n contemplating Larhgan's apparently universal charms to pay much\n attention to the expression on his companion's face.\n\n\n \"... and that you will carry our affection back to all the peoples of\n the Galaxy.\"\nShe had finished. And now Cyril cleared his throat. \"Dear friends, we\n were honored by your gracious invitation to visit this fair planet, and\n we are honored now by the cordial reception you have given to us.\"\n\n\n The crowd yoomped politely. After a slight start, Cyril went on,\n apparently deciding that applause was all that had been intended.", "The outside was no place for a civilized human being, particularly\n in the wet season or—more properly speaking on Snaddra—the wetter\n season. Skkiru's feet were soaked with mud; not that the light sandals\n worn by the members of the procession appeared to be doing them much\n good, either. It gave him a kind of melancholy pleasure to see that the\n privileged ones were likewise trying to repress shivers. Though their\n costumes were rich, they were also scanty, particularly in the case\n of the females, for Earthmen had been reported by tape and tale to be\n humanoid.", "It wasn't that Skkiru didn't understand well enough that Snaddra had\n been forced into making such a drastic change in its way of life.\n What resources it once possessed had been depleted and—aside from\n minerals—they had never been very extensive to begin with. All\n life-forms on the planet were on the point of extinction, save fish and\n rice—the only vegetable that would grow on Snaddra, and originally a\n Terran import at that. So food and fiber had to be brought from the\n other planets, at fabulous expense, for Snaddra was not on any of\n the direct trade routes and was too unattractive to lure the tourist\n business.", "Bbulas couldn't really object, Skkiru stilled the nagging quiver in\n his toe, because what could be more primitive than any form of land\n transport? And even though it took time to get the things, they worked\n so well that, in spite of the procession's head start, he was at the\n Earth ship long before the official greeters had reached it.\nThe newcomers were indeed humanoid, he saw. Only the peculiarly\n pasty color of their skins and their embarrassing lack of antennae\n distinguished them visibly from the Snaddrath. They were dressed much\n as the Snaddrath had been before they had adopted primitive garb.", "Bbulas sniffed. The three of them floated up to ground level in a\n triple silence.\n\"Alms, for the love of Ipsnadd,\" Skkiru chanted, as the two Terrans\n descended from the ship and plowed their way through the mud to meet a\n procession of young Snaddrath dressed in elaborate ceremonial costumes,\n and singing a popular ballad—to which less ribald, as well as less\n inspiring, words than the originals had been fitted by Bbulas, just\n in case, by some extremely remote chance, the Terrans had acquired a\n smattering of Snadd somewhere. Since neither party was accustomed to\n navigating mud, their progress was almost imperceptible.", "\"For Snaddra,\" Larhgan said, placing her hand over her anterior heart\n in a gesture which, though devout on Earth—or so the fictapes seemed\n to indicate—was obscene on Snaddra, owing to the fact that certain\n essential organs were located in different areas in the Snaddrath than\n in the corresponding Terrestrial life-form. Already the Terrestrial\n influence was corrupting her, Skkiru thought mournfully. She had been\n such a nice girl, too.\n\n\n \"We may never meet on equal terms again, Skkiru,\" she told him, with a\n long, soulful glance that made his hearts sink down to his quivering\n toes, \"but I promise you there will never be anyone else for me—and\n I hope that knowledge will inspire you to complete cooperation with\n Bbulas.\"\n\n\n \"If that doesn't,\" Bbulas said, \"I have other methods of inspiration.\"", "\"Look, Raoul,\" the older of the two Earthmen said in Terran—which\n the Snaddrath were not, according to the master plan, supposed to\n understand, but which most of them did, for it was the fashionable\n third language on most of the outer planets. \"A beggar. Haven't seen\n one since some other chaps and I were doing a spot of field work on\n that little planet in the Arcturus system—what was its name? Glotch,\n that's it. Very short study, it turned out to be. Couldn't get more\n than a pamphlet out of it, as we were unable to stay long enough to\n amass enough material for a really definitive work. The natives tried\n to eat us, so we had to leave in somewhat of a hurry.\"\n\n\n \"Oh, they were cannibals?\" the other Earthman asked, so respectfully\n that it was easy to deduce he was the subordinate of the two. \"How\n horrible!\"", "On Earth, he had heard, where people lived exposed to weather, they\n often sickened of it and passed on—which helped to solve the problem\n of birth control on so vulgarly fecund a planet. Snaddra, alas, needed\n no such measures, for its population—like its natural resources—was\n dwindling rapidly. Still, Skkiru thought, as he moodily munched on the\n chocolate, it would have been better to flicker out on their own than\n to descend to a subterfuge like this for nothing more than survival.\nBeing a beggar, Skkiru discovered, did give him certain small,\n momentary advantages over those who had been alloted higher ranks.\n For one thing, it was quite in character for him to tread curiously\n upon the strangers' heels all the way to the temple—a ramshackle", "Skkiru swallowed the last of the chocolate and regarded the \"high\n priest\" with a simple-minded mendicant's grin. However, there were\n volcanic passions within him that surged up from his toes when, as the\n wind and rain whipped through his scanty coverings, he remembered the\n snug underskirts Bbulas was wearing beneath his warm gown. They were\n metal, but they were solid. All the garments visible or potentially\n visible were of woven metal, because, although there was cloth on the\n planet, it was not politic for the Earthmen to discover how heavily the\n Snaddrath depended upon imports.", "The Ignoble Savages\nBy EVELYN E. SMITH\n\n\n Illustrated by DILLON\n\n\n [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Galaxy Science Fiction March 1957.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nSnaddra had but one choice in its fight\n \nto afford to live belowground—underhandedly\n \npretend theirs was an aboveboard society!\n\"Go Away from me, Skkiru,\" Larhgan said, pushing his hand off her arm.\n \"A beggar does not associate with the high priestess of Snaddra.\"\n\n\n \"But the Earthmen aren't due for another fifteen minutes,\" Skkiru\n protested.", "\"I've told you a thousand times that our old culture was too much like\n the Terrans' own to be of interest to them,\" he said, with affected\n weariness. \"After all, most civilized societies are basically similar;\n it is only primitive societies that differ sharply, one from the\n other—and we have to be different to attract Earthmen. They're pretty\n choosy. You've got to give them what they want, and that's what they\n want. Now take up your post on the edge of the field, try to look\n hungry, and remember this isn't for you or for me, but for Snaddra.\"", "\"I hope these creatures are not man-eaters,\" Raoul commented, with\n a polite smile at Cyril and an apprehensive glance at the oncoming\n procession—\ncreatures indeed\n! Skkiru thought, with a mental sniff.\n \"We have come such a long and expensive way to study them that it would\n be indeed a pity if we also were forced to depart in haste. Especially\n since this is my first field trip and I would like to make good at it.\"\n\n\n \"Oh, you will, my boy, you will.\" Cyril clapped the younger man on the\n shoulder. \"I have every confidence in your ability.\"\n\n\n Either he was stupid, Skkiru thought, or he was lying, in spite of\n Bbulas' asseverations that untruth was unknown to Terrestrials—which\n had always seemed highly improbable, anyway. How could any intelligent\n life-form possibly stick to the truth all the time? It wasn't human; it\n wasn't even humanoid; it wasn't even polite.", "\"And I have already explained to you, Skkiru,\" Bbulas said, with a\n patience much more infuriating than the girl's anger, \"that I had no\n idea of who was to become my high priestess. The lots chose Larhgan. It\n is, as the Earthmen say, kismet.\"\nHe adjusted the fall of his glittering robe before the great polished\n four-dimensional reflector that formed one wall of the chamber.\nKismet\n, Skkiru muttered to himself,\nand a little sleight of hand.\nBut he didn't dare offer this conclusion aloud; the libel laws of\n Snaddra were very severe. So he had to fall back on a weak, \"And I\n suppose it is kismet that makes us all have to go live out on the\n ground during the day, like—like savages.\"\n\n\n \"It is necessary,\" Bbulas replied without turning.\n\n\n \"Pooh,\" Skkiru said. \"Pooh,\npooh\n, POOH!\"", "\"We feel quite sure that we are going to derive both pleasure and\n profit from our stay here, and we promise to make our intensive\n analysis of your culture as painless as possible. We wish only to study\n your society, not to tamper with it in any way.\"\nHa, ha\n, Skkiru said to himself.\nHa, ha, ha!\n\"But why is it,\" Raoul whispered in Terran as he glanced around out of\n the corners of his eyes, \"that only the beggar wears mudshoes?\"\n\n\n \"Shhh,\" Cyril hissed back. \"We'll find out later, when we've\n established rapport. Don't be so impatient!\"\n\n\n Bbulas gave a sickly smile. Skkiru could almost find it in his hearts\n to feel sorry for the man.", "\"Alms, for the love of Ipsnadd,\" chanted Skkiru the beggar.\n His teeth chattered as he spoke, for the rags he wore had been\n custom-weatherbeaten for him by the planet's best tailor—now a pariah,\n of course, because Snadd tailors were, naturally, metal-workers—and\n the wind and the rain were joyously making their way through the\n demolished wires. Never before had Skkiru been on the surface of the\n planet, except to pass over, and he had actually touched it only when\n taking off and landing. The Snaddrath had no means of land transport,\n having previously found it unnecessary—but now both air-cars and\n self-levitation were on the prohibited list as being insufficiently\n primitive.", "In fact, the Terrestrials were quite decent-looking life-forms,\n entirely different from the foppish monsters Skkiru had somehow\n expected to represent the cultural ruling race. Of course, he had\n frequently seen pictures of them, but everyone knew how easily those\n could be retouched. Why, it was the Terrestrials themselves, he had\n always understood, who had invented the art of retouching—thus proving\n beyond a doubt that they had something to hide.", "Skkiru turned to the third person present in the council chamber.\n \"Bbulas, this is your fault! It was all your idea!\"\n\n\n There was regret on the Dilettante's thin face—an obviously insincere\n regret, the younger man knew, since he was well aware how Bbulas had\n always felt about the girl.\n\n\n \"I am sorry, Skkiru,\" Bbulas intoned. \"I had fancied you understood.\n This is not a game we are playing, but a new way of life we are\n adopting. A necessary way of life, if we of Snaddra are to keep on\n living at all.\"\n\n\n \"It's not that I don't love you, Skkiru,\" Larhgan put in gently, \"but\n the welfare of our planet comes first.\"\nShe had been seeing too many of the Terrestrial fictapes from the\n library, Skkiru thought resentfully. There was too damn much Terran\n influence on this planet. And this new project was the last straw.", "\"The natives certainly appear to be human enough,\" Raoul added, with\n an appreciative glance at the females, who had been selected for the\n processional honor with a view to reported Terrestrial tastes. \"Some\n slight differences, of course—but, if two eyes are beautiful, three\n eyes can be fifty per cent lovelier, and chartreuse has always been my\n favorite color.\"\nIf they stand out here in the cold much longer, they are going to turn\n bright yellow.\nHis own skin, Skkiru knew, had faded from its normal\n healthy emerald to a sickly celadon.\nCyril frowned and his companion's smile vanished, as if the contortion\n of his superior's face had activated a circuit somewhere.\nMaybe the\n little one's a robot!\nHowever, it couldn't be—a robot would be better\n constructed and less interested in females than Raoul.\n\n\n \"Remember,\" Cyril said sternly, \"we must not establish undue rapport\n with the native females. It tends to detract from true objectivity.\"", "The winner was sent to Gambrell, the nearest planet with a Terran\n League University, to be given a thorough Terran-type education. No\n individual on Snaddra could afford such schooling, no matter how\n great his personal fortune, because the transportation costs were so\n immense that only a government could afford them. That was the reason\n why only one person in each generation could be chosen to go abroad at\n the planet's expense and acquire enough finish to cover the rest of the\n population.\n\n\n The Dilettante's official function had always been, in theory, to serve\n the planet when an emergency came—and this, old Luccar, the former\n President, had decided, when he and the Parliament had awakened to the\n fact that Snaddra was falling into ruin, was an emergency. So he had,\n after considerable soul-searching, called upon Bbulas to plan a method\n of saving Snaddra—and Bbulas, happy to be in the limelight at last,\n had come up with this program.", "The smile did not leave Bbulas' smooth face. \"Yes, of course, honorable\n Terrestrials. That is why we are holding this ceremony. It is not a\n dance to bring on rain. It is a dance to\nstop\nrain.\"\n\n\n He was pretty quick on the uptake, Skkiru had to concede. However,\n that was not enough. The man had no genuine organizational ability.\n In the time he'd had in which to plan and carry out a scheme for\n the improvement of Snaddra, surely he could have done better than\n this high-school theocracy. For one thing, he could have apportioned\n the various roles so that each person would be making a definite\n contribution to the society, instead of creating some positions plums,\n like the priesthood, and others prunes, like the beggarship." ], [ "Nonetheless, Skkiru could not reconcile himself to his beggarhood, no\n matter how much he tried to comfort himself by thinking at least he\n wasn't a pariah like the unfortunate metal-workers who had to stand\n segregated from the rest by a chain of their own devising—a poetic\n thought, that was, but well in keeping with his beggarhood. Beggars\n were often poets, he believed, and poets almost always beggars. Since\n metal-working was the chief industry of Snaddra, this had provided the\n planet automatically with a large lowest caste. Bbulas had taken the\n easy way out.", "What kind of life was that for an active, ambitious young man, standing\n around begging? And, moreover, from whom was Skkiru going to beg?\n Only the Earthmen, for the Snaddrath, no matter how much they threw\n themselves into the spirit of their roles, could not be so carried\n away that they would give handouts to a young man whom they had been\n accustomed to see basking in the bosom of luxury.\nUnfortunately, the fees that he'd received in the past had not enabled\n him both to live well and to save, and now that his fortunes had been\n so drastically reduced, he seemed in a fair way of starving to death.\n It gave him a gentle, moody pleasure to envisage his own funeral,\n although, at the same time, he realized that Bbulas would probably have", "It was not one Skkiru himself would have chosen. It was not one, he\n felt, that any reasonable person would have chosen. Nevertheless, the\n Bbulas Plan had been adopted by a majority vote of the Snaddrath,\n largely because no one had come up with a feasible alternative and,\n as a patriotic citizen, Skkiru would abide by it. He would accept the\n status of beggar; it was his duty to do so. Moreover, as in the case of\n the planet, there was no choice.", "\"Skkiru!\" the girl exclaimed, rotating gently, for she, like her\n fiance—her erstwhile fiance, that was, for the new regime had caused\n all such ties to be severed—and every other literate person on the\n planet, had received her education at the local university. Although\n sound, the school was admittedly provincial in outlook and very poor\n in the emotional department. \"One would almost think that the lots had\n some sort of divine intelligence behind them, because you certainly are\n behaving in a beggarly manner!\"", "It was only at that moment that Skkiru realized just how outrageous the\n whole thing really was. There must be another solution to the planet's\n problem. \"Listen—\" he began, but just then excited noises filtered\n down from overhead. It was too late.\n\n\n \"Earth ship in view!\" a squeaky voice called through the intercom.\n \"Everybody topside and don't forget your shoes.\"\n\n\n Except the beggar. Beggars went barefoot. Beggars suffered. Bbulas had\n made him beggar purposely, and the lots were a lot of slibwash.", "But all was not necessarily lost, he told himself. Had he not, in his\n anthropological viewings—though Bbulas might have been the only one\n privileged to go on ethnological field trips to other planets, he was\n not the only one who could use a library—seen accounts of societies\n where beggarhood could be a rewarding and even responsible station in\n life? There was no reason why, within the framework of the primitive\n society Bbulas had created to allure Terran anthropologists, Skkiru\n should not make something of himself and show that a beggar was worthy\n of the high priestess's hand—which would be entirely in the Terran\n primitive tradition of romance.\n\n\n \"Skkiru!\" Bbulas was screaming, as he spun, now that the Terrans were\n out of ear- and eye-shot \"Skkiru, you idiot, listen to me! What are\n those ridiculous things you are wearing on your silly feet?\"", "As the Earthmen reached the temple, Larhgan now appeared to join Bbulas\n at the head of the long flight of stairs that led to it. Although\n Skkiru had seen her in her priestly apparel before, it had not made\n the emotional impression upon him then that it did now, when, standing\n there, clad in beauty, dignity and warm clothes, she bade the newcomers\n welcome in several thousand words not too well chosen for her by\n Bbulas—who fancied himself a speech-writer as well as a speech-maker,\n for there was no end to the man's conceit.\n\n\n The difference between her magnificent garments and his own miserable\n rags had their full impact upon Skkiru at this moment. He saw the gulf\n that had been dug between them and, for the first time in his short\n life, he felt the tormenting pangs of caste distinction. She looked so\n lovely and so remote.", "\"All right,\" Skkiru answered sulkily. \"I'll go to the edge of the\n field, and I'll speak broken Inter-galactic, and I'll forsake my normal\n habits and customs, and I'll even\nbeg\n. But I don't have to like doing\n it, and I don't intend to like doing it.\"\n\n\n All three of Larhgan's eyes fuzzed with emotion. \"I'm proud of you,\n Skkiru,\" she said brokenly.", "No longer able to control his rage and grief, he turned a triple\n somersault in the air with rage. \"Then why was I made a beggar and she\n the high priestess? You arranged that purposely, Bbulas. You—\"\n\n\n \"Now, Skkiru,\" Bbulas said wearily, for they had been through all this\n before, \"you know that all the ranks and positions were distributed\n by impartial lot, except for mine, and, of course, such jobs as could\n carry over from the civilized into the primitive.\"\n\n\n Bbulas breathed on the spectacles he was wearing, as contact lenses\n were not considered backward enough for the kind of planet Snaddra\n was now supposed to be, and attempted to wipe them dry on his robe.\n However, the thick, jewel-studded embroidery got in his way and so he\n was forced to lift the robe and wipe all three of the lenses on the\n smooth, soft, spun metal of his top underskirt.", "to arrange some sort of pension for him; he could not expect Skkiru's\n patriotism to extend to abnormal limits. A man might be willing to die\n for his planet in many ways—but wantonly starving to death as the\n result of a primitive affectation was hardly one of them.", "\"I don't want to give my grimpatch to some nice beggar girl!\" Skkiru\n yelled, twirling madly in the air.\n\n\n \"As for me,\" she sighed, standing soulfully on her head, \"I do not\n think I shall ever marry. I shall make the religious life my career.\n Are there going to be any saints in your mythos, Bbulas?\"\n\n\n \"Even if there will be,\" Bbulas said, \"you certainly won't qualify if\n you keep putting yourself into a position which not only represents a\n trait wholly out of keeping with the new culture, but is most unseemly\n with the high priestess's robes.\"\n\n\n Larhgan ignored his unfeeling observations. \"I shall set myself apart\n from mundane affairs,\" she vowed, \"and I shall pretend to be happy,\n even though my heart will be breaking.\"", "On Earth, he had heard, where people lived exposed to weather, they\n often sickened of it and passed on—which helped to solve the problem\n of birth control on so vulgarly fecund a planet. Snaddra, alas, needed\n no such measures, for its population—like its natural resources—was\n dwindling rapidly. Still, Skkiru thought, as he moodily munched on the\n chocolate, it would have been better to flicker out on their own than\n to descend to a subterfuge like this for nothing more than survival.\nBeing a beggar, Skkiru discovered, did give him certain small,\n momentary advantages over those who had been alloted higher ranks.\n For one thing, it was quite in character for him to tread curiously\n upon the strangers' heels all the way to the temple—a ramshackle", "Skkiru protruded all of his eyes in innocent surprise. \"Just some\n old pontoons I took from a wrecked air-car once. I have a habit of\n collecting junk and I thought—\"\n\n\n Bbulas twirled madly in the air. \"You are not supposed to think. Leave\n all the thinking to me!\"\n\n\n \"Yes, Bbulas,\" Skkiru said meekly.", "The smile did not leave Bbulas' smooth face. \"Yes, of course, honorable\n Terrestrials. That is why we are holding this ceremony. It is not a\n dance to bring on rain. It is a dance to\nstop\nrain.\"\n\n\n He was pretty quick on the uptake, Skkiru had to concede. However,\n that was not enough. The man had no genuine organizational ability.\n In the time he'd had in which to plan and carry out a scheme for\n the improvement of Snaddra, surely he could have done better than\n this high-school theocracy. For one thing, he could have apportioned\n the various roles so that each person would be making a definite\n contribution to the society, instead of creating some positions plums,\n like the priesthood, and others prunes, like the beggarship.", "\"And I have already explained to you, Skkiru,\" Bbulas said, with a\n patience much more infuriating than the girl's anger, \"that I had no\n idea of who was to become my high priestess. The lots chose Larhgan. It\n is, as the Earthmen say, kismet.\"\nHe adjusted the fall of his glittering robe before the great polished\n four-dimensional reflector that formed one wall of the chamber.\nKismet\n, Skkiru muttered to himself,\nand a little sleight of hand.\nBut he didn't dare offer this conclusion aloud; the libel laws of\n Snaddra were very severe. So he had to fall back on a weak, \"And I\n suppose it is kismet that makes us all have to go live out on the\n ground during the day, like—like savages.\"\n\n\n \"It is necessary,\" Bbulas replied without turning.\n\n\n \"Pooh,\" Skkiru said. \"Pooh,\npooh\n, POOH!\"", "Skkiru accepted the candy with suitable—and entirely genuine—murmurs\n of gratitude. Chocolate was found only in the most expensive of the\n planet's delicacy shops—and now neither delicacy shops nor chocolate\n were to be found, so, if Bbulas thought he was going to save the gift\n to contribute it later to the Treasury, the \"high priest\" was off his\n rocker.\n\n\n To make sure there would be no subsequent dispute about possession,\n Skkiru ate the candy then and there. Chocolate increased the body's\n resistance to weather, and never before had he had to endure so much\n weather all at once.", "Skkiru swallowed the last of the chocolate and regarded the \"high\n priest\" with a simple-minded mendicant's grin. However, there were\n volcanic passions within him that surged up from his toes when, as the\n wind and rain whipped through his scanty coverings, he remembered the\n snug underskirts Bbulas was wearing beneath his warm gown. They were\n metal, but they were solid. All the garments visible or potentially\n visible were of woven metal, because, although there was cloth on the\n planet, it was not politic for the Earthmen to discover how heavily the\n Snaddrath depended upon imports.", "\"Alms, for the love of Ipsnadd,\" chanted Skkiru the beggar.\n His teeth chattered as he spoke, for the rags he wore had been\n custom-weatherbeaten for him by the planet's best tailor—now a pariah,\n of course, because Snadd tailors were, naturally, metal-workers—and\n the wind and the rain were joyously making their way through the\n demolished wires. Never before had Skkiru been on the surface of the\n planet, except to pass over, and he had actually touched it only when\n taking off and landing. The Snaddrath had no means of land transport,\n having previously found it unnecessary—but now both air-cars and\n self-levitation were on the prohibited list as being insufficiently\n primitive.", "Larhgan's dainty earflaps closed. \"Skkiru! Such language!\"\n\n\n \"As you said,\" Bbulas murmured, contemptuously coiling one antenna at\n Skkiru, \"the lots chose well and if you touch me, Skkiru, we shall have\n another drawing for beggar and you will be made a metal-worker.\"\n\n\n \"But I can't work metal!\"\n\n\n \"Then that will make it much worse for you than for the other\n outcasts,\" Bbulas said smugly, \"because you will be a pariah without a\n trade.\"\n\n\n \"Speaking of pariahs, that reminds me, Skkiru, before I forget, I'd\n better give you back your grimpatch—\" Larhgan handed the glittering\n bauble to him—\"and you give me mine. Since we can't be betrothed any\n longer, you might want to give yours to some nice beggar girl.\"", "Skkiru coiled his antennae at Bbulas, hoping the insult would provoke\n him into an unbecoming whirl, but the Dilettante remained calm. One of\n the chief outward signs of Terran-type training was self-control and\n Bbulas had been thoroughly terranized.\nI hate Terrestrials\n, Skkiru said to himself.\nI hate Terra.\nThe\n quiver of anxiety had risen up his leg and was coiling and uncoiling\n in his stomach. He hoped it wouldn't reach his antennae—if he were\n to break down and psonk in front of Larhgan, it would be the final\n humiliation." ], [ "\"... and so you are most welcome to Snaddra, men of Earth,\" she was\n saying in her melodious voice. \"Our resources may be small but our\n hearts are large, and what little we have, we offer with humility and\n with love. We hope that you will enjoy as long and as happy a stay here\n as you did on Nemeth....\"\n\n\n Cyril looked at Raoul, who, however, seemed too absorbed in\n contemplating Larhgan's apparently universal charms to pay much\n attention to the expression on his companion's face.\n\n\n \"... and that you will carry our affection back to all the peoples of\n the Galaxy.\"\nShe had finished. And now Cyril cleared his throat. \"Dear friends, we\n were honored by your gracious invitation to visit this fair planet, and\n we are honored now by the cordial reception you have given to us.\"\n\n\n The crowd yoomped politely. After a slight start, Cyril went on,\n apparently deciding that applause was all that had been intended.", "\"I've told you a thousand times that our old culture was too much like\n the Terrans' own to be of interest to them,\" he said, with affected\n weariness. \"After all, most civilized societies are basically similar;\n it is only primitive societies that differ sharply, one from the\n other—and we have to be different to attract Earthmen. They're pretty\n choosy. You've got to give them what they want, and that's what they\n want. Now take up your post on the edge of the field, try to look\n hungry, and remember this isn't for you or for me, but for Snaddra.\"", "It wasn't that Skkiru didn't understand well enough that Snaddra had\n been forced into making such a drastic change in its way of life.\n What resources it once possessed had been depleted and—aside from\n minerals—they had never been very extensive to begin with. All\n life-forms on the planet were on the point of extinction, save fish and\n rice—the only vegetable that would grow on Snaddra, and originally a\n Terran import at that. So food and fiber had to be brought from the\n other planets, at fabulous expense, for Snaddra was not on any of\n the direct trade routes and was too unattractive to lure the tourist\n business.", "On Earth, he had heard, where people lived exposed to weather, they\n often sickened of it and passed on—which helped to solve the problem\n of birth control on so vulgarly fecund a planet. Snaddra, alas, needed\n no such measures, for its population—like its natural resources—was\n dwindling rapidly. Still, Skkiru thought, as he moodily munched on the\n chocolate, it would have been better to flicker out on their own than\n to descend to a subterfuge like this for nothing more than survival.\nBeing a beggar, Skkiru discovered, did give him certain small,\n momentary advantages over those who had been alloted higher ranks.\n For one thing, it was quite in character for him to tread curiously\n upon the strangers' heels all the way to the temple—a ramshackle", "\"Look, Raoul,\" the older of the two Earthmen said in Terran—which\n the Snaddrath were not, according to the master plan, supposed to\n understand, but which most of them did, for it was the fashionable\n third language on most of the outer planets. \"A beggar. Haven't seen\n one since some other chaps and I were doing a spot of field work on\n that little planet in the Arcturus system—what was its name? Glotch,\n that's it. Very short study, it turned out to be. Couldn't get more\n than a pamphlet out of it, as we were unable to stay long enough to\n amass enough material for a really definitive work. The natives tried\n to eat us, so we had to leave in somewhat of a hurry.\"\n\n\n \"Oh, they were cannibals?\" the other Earthman asked, so respectfully\n that it was easy to deduce he was the subordinate of the two. \"How\n horrible!\"", "\"For Snaddra,\" Larhgan said, placing her hand over her anterior heart\n in a gesture which, though devout on Earth—or so the fictapes seemed\n to indicate—was obscene on Snaddra, owing to the fact that certain\n essential organs were located in different areas in the Snaddrath than\n in the corresponding Terrestrial life-form. Already the Terrestrial\n influence was corrupting her, Skkiru thought mournfully. She had been\n such a nice girl, too.\n\n\n \"We may never meet on equal terms again, Skkiru,\" she told him, with a\n long, soulful glance that made his hearts sink down to his quivering\n toes, \"but I promise you there will never be anyone else for me—and\n I hope that knowledge will inspire you to complete cooperation with\n Bbulas.\"\n\n\n \"If that doesn't,\" Bbulas said, \"I have other methods of inspiration.\"", "The outside was no place for a civilized human being, particularly\n in the wet season or—more properly speaking on Snaddra—the wetter\n season. Skkiru's feet were soaked with mud; not that the light sandals\n worn by the members of the procession appeared to be doing them much\n good, either. It gave him a kind of melancholy pleasure to see that the\n privileged ones were likewise trying to repress shivers. Though their\n costumes were rich, they were also scanty, particularly in the case\n of the females, for Earthmen had been reported by tape and tale to be\n humanoid.", "Bbulas couldn't really object, Skkiru stilled the nagging quiver in\n his toe, because what could be more primitive than any form of land\n transport? And even though it took time to get the things, they worked\n so well that, in spite of the procession's head start, he was at the\n Earth ship long before the official greeters had reached it.\nThe newcomers were indeed humanoid, he saw. Only the peculiarly\n pasty color of their skins and their embarrassing lack of antennae\n distinguished them visibly from the Snaddrath. They were dressed much\n as the Snaddrath had been before they had adopted primitive garb.", "The winner was sent to Gambrell, the nearest planet with a Terran\n League University, to be given a thorough Terran-type education. No\n individual on Snaddra could afford such schooling, no matter how\n great his personal fortune, because the transportation costs were so\n immense that only a government could afford them. That was the reason\n why only one person in each generation could be chosen to go abroad at\n the planet's expense and acquire enough finish to cover the rest of the\n population.\n\n\n The Dilettante's official function had always been, in theory, to serve\n the planet when an emergency came—and this, old Luccar, the former\n President, had decided, when he and the Parliament had awakened to the\n fact that Snaddra was falling into ruin, was an emergency. So he had,\n after considerable soul-searching, called upon Bbulas to plan a method\n of saving Snaddra—and Bbulas, happy to be in the limelight at last,\n had come up with this program.", "Bbulas sniffed. The three of them floated up to ground level in a\n triple silence.\n\"Alms, for the love of Ipsnadd,\" Skkiru chanted, as the two Terrans\n descended from the ship and plowed their way through the mud to meet a\n procession of young Snaddrath dressed in elaborate ceremonial costumes,\n and singing a popular ballad—to which less ribald, as well as less\n inspiring, words than the originals had been fitted by Bbulas, just\n in case, by some extremely remote chance, the Terrans had acquired a\n smattering of Snadd somewhere. Since neither party was accustomed to\n navigating mud, their progress was almost imperceptible.", "The Ignoble Savages\nBy EVELYN E. SMITH\n\n\n Illustrated by DILLON\n\n\n [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Galaxy Science Fiction March 1957.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nSnaddra had but one choice in its fight\n \nto afford to live belowground—underhandedly\n \npretend theirs was an aboveboard society!\n\"Go Away from me, Skkiru,\" Larhgan said, pushing his hand off her arm.\n \"A beggar does not associate with the high priestess of Snaddra.\"\n\n\n \"But the Earthmen aren't due for another fifteen minutes,\" Skkiru\n protested.", "\"And I have already explained to you, Skkiru,\" Bbulas said, with a\n patience much more infuriating than the girl's anger, \"that I had no\n idea of who was to become my high priestess. The lots chose Larhgan. It\n is, as the Earthmen say, kismet.\"\nHe adjusted the fall of his glittering robe before the great polished\n four-dimensional reflector that formed one wall of the chamber.\nKismet\n, Skkiru muttered to himself,\nand a little sleight of hand.\nBut he didn't dare offer this conclusion aloud; the libel laws of\n Snaddra were very severe. So he had to fall back on a weak, \"And I\n suppose it is kismet that makes us all have to go live out on the\n ground during the day, like—like savages.\"\n\n\n \"It is necessary,\" Bbulas replied without turning.\n\n\n \"Pooh,\" Skkiru said. \"Pooh,\npooh\n, POOH!\"", "Skkiru swallowed the last of the chocolate and regarded the \"high\n priest\" with a simple-minded mendicant's grin. However, there were\n volcanic passions within him that surged up from his toes when, as the\n wind and rain whipped through his scanty coverings, he remembered the\n snug underskirts Bbulas was wearing beneath his warm gown. They were\n metal, but they were solid. All the garments visible or potentially\n visible were of woven metal, because, although there was cloth on the\n planet, it was not politic for the Earthmen to discover how heavily the\n Snaddrath depended upon imports.", "Skkiru turned to the third person present in the council chamber.\n \"Bbulas, this is your fault! It was all your idea!\"\n\n\n There was regret on the Dilettante's thin face—an obviously insincere\n regret, the younger man knew, since he was well aware how Bbulas had\n always felt about the girl.\n\n\n \"I am sorry, Skkiru,\" Bbulas intoned. \"I had fancied you understood.\n This is not a game we are playing, but a new way of life we are\n adopting. A necessary way of life, if we of Snaddra are to keep on\n living at all.\"\n\n\n \"It's not that I don't love you, Skkiru,\" Larhgan put in gently, \"but\n the welfare of our planet comes first.\"\nShe had been seeing too many of the Terrestrial fictapes from the\n library, Skkiru thought resentfully. There was too damn much Terran\n influence on this planet. And this new project was the last straw.", "\"We feel quite sure that we are going to derive both pleasure and\n profit from our stay here, and we promise to make our intensive\n analysis of your culture as painless as possible. We wish only to study\n your society, not to tamper with it in any way.\"\nHa, ha\n, Skkiru said to himself.\nHa, ha, ha!\n\"But why is it,\" Raoul whispered in Terran as he glanced around out of\n the corners of his eyes, \"that only the beggar wears mudshoes?\"\n\n\n \"Shhh,\" Cyril hissed back. \"We'll find out later, when we've\n established rapport. Don't be so impatient!\"\n\n\n Bbulas gave a sickly smile. Skkiru could almost find it in his hearts\n to feel sorry for the man.", "\"Alms, for the love of Ipsnadd,\" chanted Skkiru the beggar.\n His teeth chattered as he spoke, for the rags he wore had been\n custom-weatherbeaten for him by the planet's best tailor—now a pariah,\n of course, because Snadd tailors were, naturally, metal-workers—and\n the wind and the rain were joyously making their way through the\n demolished wires. Never before had Skkiru been on the surface of the\n planet, except to pass over, and he had actually touched it only when\n taking off and landing. The Snaddrath had no means of land transport,\n having previously found it unnecessary—but now both air-cars and\n self-levitation were on the prohibited list as being insufficiently\n primitive.", "It was not one Skkiru himself would have chosen. It was not one, he\n felt, that any reasonable person would have chosen. Nevertheless, the\n Bbulas Plan had been adopted by a majority vote of the Snaddrath,\n largely because no one had come up with a feasible alternative and,\n as a patriotic citizen, Skkiru would abide by it. He would accept the\n status of beggar; it was his duty to do so. Moreover, as in the case of\n the planet, there was no choice.", "What kind of life was that for an active, ambitious young man, standing\n around begging? And, moreover, from whom was Skkiru going to beg?\n Only the Earthmen, for the Snaddrath, no matter how much they threw\n themselves into the spirit of their roles, could not be so carried\n away that they would give handouts to a young man whom they had been\n accustomed to see basking in the bosom of luxury.\nUnfortunately, the fees that he'd received in the past had not enabled\n him both to live well and to save, and now that his fortunes had been\n so drastically reduced, he seemed in a fair way of starving to death.\n It gave him a gentle, moody pleasure to envisage his own funeral,\n although, at the same time, he realized that Bbulas would probably have", "\"The natives certainly appear to be human enough,\" Raoul added, with\n an appreciative glance at the females, who had been selected for the\n processional honor with a view to reported Terrestrial tastes. \"Some\n slight differences, of course—but, if two eyes are beautiful, three\n eyes can be fifty per cent lovelier, and chartreuse has always been my\n favorite color.\"\nIf they stand out here in the cold much longer, they are going to turn\n bright yellow.\nHis own skin, Skkiru knew, had faded from its normal\n healthy emerald to a sickly celadon.\nCyril frowned and his companion's smile vanished, as if the contortion\n of his superior's face had activated a circuit somewhere.\nMaybe the\n little one's a robot!\nHowever, it couldn't be—a robot would be better\n constructed and less interested in females than Raoul.\n\n\n \"Remember,\" Cyril said sternly, \"we must not establish undue rapport\n with the native females. It tends to detract from true objectivity.\"", "No longer able to control his rage and grief, he turned a triple\n somersault in the air with rage. \"Then why was I made a beggar and she\n the high priestess? You arranged that purposely, Bbulas. You—\"\n\n\n \"Now, Skkiru,\" Bbulas said wearily, for they had been through all this\n before, \"you know that all the ranks and positions were distributed\n by impartial lot, except for mine, and, of course, such jobs as could\n carry over from the civilized into the primitive.\"\n\n\n Bbulas breathed on the spectacles he was wearing, as contact lenses\n were not considered backward enough for the kind of planet Snaddra\n was now supposed to be, and attempted to wipe them dry on his robe.\n However, the thick, jewel-studded embroidery got in his way and so he\n was forced to lift the robe and wipe all three of the lenses on the\n smooth, soft, spun metal of his top underskirt." ], [ "What kind of life was that for an active, ambitious young man, standing\n around begging? And, moreover, from whom was Skkiru going to beg?\n Only the Earthmen, for the Snaddrath, no matter how much they threw\n themselves into the spirit of their roles, could not be so carried\n away that they would give handouts to a young man whom they had been\n accustomed to see basking in the bosom of luxury.\nUnfortunately, the fees that he'd received in the past had not enabled\n him both to live well and to save, and now that his fortunes had been\n so drastically reduced, he seemed in a fair way of starving to death.\n It gave him a gentle, moody pleasure to envisage his own funeral,\n although, at the same time, he realized that Bbulas would probably have", "Nonetheless, Skkiru could not reconcile himself to his beggarhood, no\n matter how much he tried to comfort himself by thinking at least he\n wasn't a pariah like the unfortunate metal-workers who had to stand\n segregated from the rest by a chain of their own devising—a poetic\n thought, that was, but well in keeping with his beggarhood. Beggars\n were often poets, he believed, and poets almost always beggars. Since\n metal-working was the chief industry of Snaddra, this had provided the\n planet automatically with a large lowest caste. Bbulas had taken the\n easy way out.", "But all was not necessarily lost, he told himself. Had he not, in his\n anthropological viewings—though Bbulas might have been the only one\n privileged to go on ethnological field trips to other planets, he was\n not the only one who could use a library—seen accounts of societies\n where beggarhood could be a rewarding and even responsible station in\n life? There was no reason why, within the framework of the primitive\n society Bbulas had created to allure Terran anthropologists, Skkiru\n should not make something of himself and show that a beggar was worthy\n of the high priestess's hand—which would be entirely in the Terran\n primitive tradition of romance.\n\n\n \"Skkiru!\" Bbulas was screaming, as he spun, now that the Terrans were\n out of ear- and eye-shot \"Skkiru, you idiot, listen to me! What are\n those ridiculous things you are wearing on your silly feet?\"", "It was not one Skkiru himself would have chosen. It was not one, he\n felt, that any reasonable person would have chosen. Nevertheless, the\n Bbulas Plan had been adopted by a majority vote of the Snaddrath,\n largely because no one had come up with a feasible alternative and,\n as a patriotic citizen, Skkiru would abide by it. He would accept the\n status of beggar; it was his duty to do so. Moreover, as in the case of\n the planet, there was no choice.", "It was only at that moment that Skkiru realized just how outrageous the\n whole thing really was. There must be another solution to the planet's\n problem. \"Listen—\" he began, but just then excited noises filtered\n down from overhead. It was too late.\n\n\n \"Earth ship in view!\" a squeaky voice called through the intercom.\n \"Everybody topside and don't forget your shoes.\"\n\n\n Except the beggar. Beggars went barefoot. Beggars suffered. Bbulas had\n made him beggar purposely, and the lots were a lot of slibwash.", "\"All right,\" Skkiru answered sulkily. \"I'll go to the edge of the\n field, and I'll speak broken Inter-galactic, and I'll forsake my normal\n habits and customs, and I'll even\nbeg\n. But I don't have to like doing\n it, and I don't intend to like doing it.\"\n\n\n All three of Larhgan's eyes fuzzed with emotion. \"I'm proud of you,\n Skkiru,\" she said brokenly.", "\"Skkiru!\" the girl exclaimed, rotating gently, for she, like her\n fiance—her erstwhile fiance, that was, for the new regime had caused\n all such ties to be severed—and every other literate person on the\n planet, had received her education at the local university. Although\n sound, the school was admittedly provincial in outlook and very poor\n in the emotional department. \"One would almost think that the lots had\n some sort of divine intelligence behind them, because you certainly are\n behaving in a beggarly manner!\"", "On Earth, he had heard, where people lived exposed to weather, they\n often sickened of it and passed on—which helped to solve the problem\n of birth control on so vulgarly fecund a planet. Snaddra, alas, needed\n no such measures, for its population—like its natural resources—was\n dwindling rapidly. Still, Skkiru thought, as he moodily munched on the\n chocolate, it would have been better to flicker out on their own than\n to descend to a subterfuge like this for nothing more than survival.\nBeing a beggar, Skkiru discovered, did give him certain small,\n momentary advantages over those who had been alloted higher ranks.\n For one thing, it was quite in character for him to tread curiously\n upon the strangers' heels all the way to the temple—a ramshackle", "Skkiru coiled his antennae at Bbulas, hoping the insult would provoke\n him into an unbecoming whirl, but the Dilettante remained calm. One of\n the chief outward signs of Terran-type training was self-control and\n Bbulas had been thoroughly terranized.\nI hate Terrestrials\n, Skkiru said to himself.\nI hate Terra.\nThe\n quiver of anxiety had risen up his leg and was coiling and uncoiling\n in his stomach. He hoped it wouldn't reach his antennae—if he were\n to break down and psonk in front of Larhgan, it would be the final\n humiliation.", "\"And I have already explained to you, Skkiru,\" Bbulas said, with a\n patience much more infuriating than the girl's anger, \"that I had no\n idea of who was to become my high priestess. The lots chose Larhgan. It\n is, as the Earthmen say, kismet.\"\nHe adjusted the fall of his glittering robe before the great polished\n four-dimensional reflector that formed one wall of the chamber.\nKismet\n, Skkiru muttered to himself,\nand a little sleight of hand.\nBut he didn't dare offer this conclusion aloud; the libel laws of\n Snaddra were very severe. So he had to fall back on a weak, \"And I\n suppose it is kismet that makes us all have to go live out on the\n ground during the day, like—like savages.\"\n\n\n \"It is necessary,\" Bbulas replied without turning.\n\n\n \"Pooh,\" Skkiru said. \"Pooh,\npooh\n, POOH!\"", "Skkiru turned to the third person present in the council chamber.\n \"Bbulas, this is your fault! It was all your idea!\"\n\n\n There was regret on the Dilettante's thin face—an obviously insincere\n regret, the younger man knew, since he was well aware how Bbulas had\n always felt about the girl.\n\n\n \"I am sorry, Skkiru,\" Bbulas intoned. \"I had fancied you understood.\n This is not a game we are playing, but a new way of life we are\n adopting. A necessary way of life, if we of Snaddra are to keep on\n living at all.\"\n\n\n \"It's not that I don't love you, Skkiru,\" Larhgan put in gently, \"but\n the welfare of our planet comes first.\"\nShe had been seeing too many of the Terrestrial fictapes from the\n library, Skkiru thought resentfully. There was too damn much Terran\n influence on this planet. And this new project was the last straw.", "As the Earthmen reached the temple, Larhgan now appeared to join Bbulas\n at the head of the long flight of stairs that led to it. Although\n Skkiru had seen her in her priestly apparel before, it had not made\n the emotional impression upon him then that it did now, when, standing\n there, clad in beauty, dignity and warm clothes, she bade the newcomers\n welcome in several thousand words not too well chosen for her by\n Bbulas—who fancied himself a speech-writer as well as a speech-maker,\n for there was no end to the man's conceit.\n\n\n The difference between her magnificent garments and his own miserable\n rags had their full impact upon Skkiru at this moment. He saw the gulf\n that had been dug between them and, for the first time in his short\n life, he felt the tormenting pangs of caste distinction. She looked so\n lovely and so remote.", "No longer able to control his rage and grief, he turned a triple\n somersault in the air with rage. \"Then why was I made a beggar and she\n the high priestess? You arranged that purposely, Bbulas. You—\"\n\n\n \"Now, Skkiru,\" Bbulas said wearily, for they had been through all this\n before, \"you know that all the ranks and positions were distributed\n by impartial lot, except for mine, and, of course, such jobs as could\n carry over from the civilized into the primitive.\"\n\n\n Bbulas breathed on the spectacles he was wearing, as contact lenses\n were not considered backward enough for the kind of planet Snaddra\n was now supposed to be, and attempted to wipe them dry on his robe.\n However, the thick, jewel-studded embroidery got in his way and so he\n was forced to lift the robe and wipe all three of the lenses on the\n smooth, soft, spun metal of his top underskirt.", "\"We feel quite sure that we are going to derive both pleasure and\n profit from our stay here, and we promise to make our intensive\n analysis of your culture as painless as possible. We wish only to study\n your society, not to tamper with it in any way.\"\nHa, ha\n, Skkiru said to himself.\nHa, ha, ha!\n\"But why is it,\" Raoul whispered in Terran as he glanced around out of\n the corners of his eyes, \"that only the beggar wears mudshoes?\"\n\n\n \"Shhh,\" Cyril hissed back. \"We'll find out later, when we've\n established rapport. Don't be so impatient!\"\n\n\n Bbulas gave a sickly smile. Skkiru could almost find it in his hearts\n to feel sorry for the man.", "to arrange some sort of pension for him; he could not expect Skkiru's\n patriotism to extend to abnormal limits. A man might be willing to die\n for his planet in many ways—but wantonly starving to death as the\n result of a primitive affectation was hardly one of them.", "In fact, the Terrestrials were quite decent-looking life-forms,\n entirely different from the foppish monsters Skkiru had somehow\n expected to represent the cultural ruling race. Of course, he had\n frequently seen pictures of them, but everyone knew how easily those\n could be retouched. Why, it was the Terrestrials themselves, he had\n always understood, who had invented the art of retouching—thus proving\n beyond a doubt that they had something to hide.", "\"I hope these creatures are not man-eaters,\" Raoul commented, with\n a polite smile at Cyril and an apprehensive glance at the oncoming\n procession—\ncreatures indeed\n! Skkiru thought, with a mental sniff.\n \"We have come such a long and expensive way to study them that it would\n be indeed a pity if we also were forced to depart in haste. Especially\n since this is my first field trip and I would like to make good at it.\"\n\n\n \"Oh, you will, my boy, you will.\" Cyril clapped the younger man on the\n shoulder. \"I have every confidence in your ability.\"\n\n\n Either he was stupid, Skkiru thought, or he was lying, in spite of\n Bbulas' asseverations that untruth was unknown to Terrestrials—which\n had always seemed highly improbable, anyway. How could any intelligent\n life-form possibly stick to the truth all the time? It wasn't human; it\n wasn't even humanoid; it wasn't even polite.", "\"Look, Raoul,\" the older of the two Earthmen said in Terran—which\n the Snaddrath were not, according to the master plan, supposed to\n understand, but which most of them did, for it was the fashionable\n third language on most of the outer planets. \"A beggar. Haven't seen\n one since some other chaps and I were doing a spot of field work on\n that little planet in the Arcturus system—what was its name? Glotch,\n that's it. Very short study, it turned out to be. Couldn't get more\n than a pamphlet out of it, as we were unable to stay long enough to\n amass enough material for a really definitive work. The natives tried\n to eat us, so we had to leave in somewhat of a hurry.\"\n\n\n \"Oh, they were cannibals?\" the other Earthman asked, so respectfully\n that it was easy to deduce he was the subordinate of the two. \"How\n horrible!\"", "Skkiru protruded all of his eyes in innocent surprise. \"Just some\n old pontoons I took from a wrecked air-car once. I have a habit of\n collecting junk and I thought—\"\n\n\n Bbulas twirled madly in the air. \"You are not supposed to think. Leave\n all the thinking to me!\"\n\n\n \"Yes, Bbulas,\" Skkiru said meekly.", "It wasn't that Skkiru didn't understand well enough that Snaddra had\n been forced into making such a drastic change in its way of life.\n What resources it once possessed had been depleted and—aside from\n minerals—they had never been very extensive to begin with. All\n life-forms on the planet were on the point of extinction, save fish and\n rice—the only vegetable that would grow on Snaddra, and originally a\n Terran import at that. So food and fiber had to be brought from the\n other planets, at fabulous expense, for Snaddra was not on any of\n the direct trade routes and was too unattractive to lure the tourist\n business." ], [ "\"All right,\" Skkiru answered sulkily. \"I'll go to the edge of the\n field, and I'll speak broken Inter-galactic, and I'll forsake my normal\n habits and customs, and I'll even\nbeg\n. But I don't have to like doing\n it, and I don't intend to like doing it.\"\n\n\n All three of Larhgan's eyes fuzzed with emotion. \"I'm proud of you,\n Skkiru,\" she said brokenly.", "As the Earthmen reached the temple, Larhgan now appeared to join Bbulas\n at the head of the long flight of stairs that led to it. Although\n Skkiru had seen her in her priestly apparel before, it had not made\n the emotional impression upon him then that it did now, when, standing\n there, clad in beauty, dignity and warm clothes, she bade the newcomers\n welcome in several thousand words not too well chosen for her by\n Bbulas—who fancied himself a speech-writer as well as a speech-maker,\n for there was no end to the man's conceit.\n\n\n The difference between her magnificent garments and his own miserable\n rags had their full impact upon Skkiru at this moment. He saw the gulf\n that had been dug between them and, for the first time in his short\n life, he felt the tormenting pangs of caste distinction. She looked so\n lovely and so remote.", "Larhgan's dainty earflaps closed. \"Skkiru! Such language!\"\n\n\n \"As you said,\" Bbulas murmured, contemptuously coiling one antenna at\n Skkiru, \"the lots chose well and if you touch me, Skkiru, we shall have\n another drawing for beggar and you will be made a metal-worker.\"\n\n\n \"But I can't work metal!\"\n\n\n \"Then that will make it much worse for you than for the other\n outcasts,\" Bbulas said smugly, \"because you will be a pariah without a\n trade.\"\n\n\n \"Speaking of pariahs, that reminds me, Skkiru, before I forget, I'd\n better give you back your grimpatch—\" Larhgan handed the glittering\n bauble to him—\"and you give me mine. Since we can't be betrothed any\n longer, you might want to give yours to some nice beggar girl.\"", "Skkiru turned to the third person present in the council chamber.\n \"Bbulas, this is your fault! It was all your idea!\"\n\n\n There was regret on the Dilettante's thin face—an obviously insincere\n regret, the younger man knew, since he was well aware how Bbulas had\n always felt about the girl.\n\n\n \"I am sorry, Skkiru,\" Bbulas intoned. \"I had fancied you understood.\n This is not a game we are playing, but a new way of life we are\n adopting. A necessary way of life, if we of Snaddra are to keep on\n living at all.\"\n\n\n \"It's not that I don't love you, Skkiru,\" Larhgan put in gently, \"but\n the welfare of our planet comes first.\"\nShe had been seeing too many of the Terrestrial fictapes from the\n library, Skkiru thought resentfully. There was too damn much Terran\n influence on this planet. And this new project was the last straw.", "\"And I have already explained to you, Skkiru,\" Bbulas said, with a\n patience much more infuriating than the girl's anger, \"that I had no\n idea of who was to become my high priestess. The lots chose Larhgan. It\n is, as the Earthmen say, kismet.\"\nHe adjusted the fall of his glittering robe before the great polished\n four-dimensional reflector that formed one wall of the chamber.\nKismet\n, Skkiru muttered to himself,\nand a little sleight of hand.\nBut he didn't dare offer this conclusion aloud; the libel laws of\n Snaddra were very severe. So he had to fall back on a weak, \"And I\n suppose it is kismet that makes us all have to go live out on the\n ground during the day, like—like savages.\"\n\n\n \"It is necessary,\" Bbulas replied without turning.\n\n\n \"Pooh,\" Skkiru said. \"Pooh,\npooh\n, POOH!\"", "\"After all,\" he went on speaking as he wiped, \"I have to be high\n priest, since I organized this culture and am the only one here\n qualified to administer it. And, as the president himself concurred in\n these arrangements, I hardly think you—a mere private citizen—have\n the right to question them.\"\n\n\n \"Just because you went to school in another solar system,\" Skkiru said,\n whirling with anger, \"you think you're so smart!\"\n\n\n \"I won't deny that I do have educational and cultural advantages\n which were, unfortunately, not available to the general populace of\n this planet. However, even under the old system, I was always glad to\n utilize my superior attainments as Official Dilettante for the good of\n all and now—\"\n\n\n \"Sure, glad to have a chance to rig this whole setup so you could break\n up things between Larhgan and me. You've had your eye on her for some\n time.\"", "All the same, Skkiru reflected as he watched the visitors being led off\n to the native hut prepared for them, how ignominious it would be for\n one of the brightest young architects on the planet to have to subsist\n miserably on the dole just because the world had gone aboveground. The\n capital had risen to the surface and the other cities would soon follow\n suit. Meanwhile, a careful system of tabus had been designed to keep\n the Earthmen from discovering the existence of those other cities.\n\n\n He could, of course, emigrate to another part of the planet, to one of\n them, and stave off his doom for a while—but that would not be playing\n the game. Besides, in such a case, he wouldn't be able to see Larhgan.", "\"Skkiru!\" the girl exclaimed, rotating gently, for she, like her\n fiance—her erstwhile fiance, that was, for the new regime had caused\n all such ties to be severed—and every other literate person on the\n planet, had received her education at the local university. Although\n sound, the school was admittedly provincial in outlook and very poor\n in the emotional department. \"One would almost think that the lots had\n some sort of divine intelligence behind them, because you certainly are\n behaving in a beggarly manner!\"", "Skkiru coiled his antennae at Bbulas, hoping the insult would provoke\n him into an unbecoming whirl, but the Dilettante remained calm. One of\n the chief outward signs of Terran-type training was self-control and\n Bbulas had been thoroughly terranized.\nI hate Terrestrials\n, Skkiru said to himself.\nI hate Terra.\nThe\n quiver of anxiety had risen up his leg and was coiling and uncoiling\n in his stomach. He hoped it wouldn't reach his antennae—if he were\n to break down and psonk in front of Larhgan, it would be the final\n humiliation.", "\"I don't want to give my grimpatch to some nice beggar girl!\" Skkiru\n yelled, twirling madly in the air.\n\n\n \"As for me,\" she sighed, standing soulfully on her head, \"I do not\n think I shall ever marry. I shall make the religious life my career.\n Are there going to be any saints in your mythos, Bbulas?\"\n\n\n \"Even if there will be,\" Bbulas said, \"you certainly won't qualify if\n you keep putting yourself into a position which not only represents a\n trait wholly out of keeping with the new culture, but is most unseemly\n with the high priestess's robes.\"\n\n\n Larhgan ignored his unfeeling observations. \"I shall set myself apart\n from mundane affairs,\" she vowed, \"and I shall pretend to be happy,\n even though my heart will be breaking.\"", "What kind of life was that for an active, ambitious young man, standing\n around begging? And, moreover, from whom was Skkiru going to beg?\n Only the Earthmen, for the Snaddrath, no matter how much they threw\n themselves into the spirit of their roles, could not be so carried\n away that they would give handouts to a young man whom they had been\n accustomed to see basking in the bosom of luxury.\nUnfortunately, the fees that he'd received in the past had not enabled\n him both to live well and to save, and now that his fortunes had been\n so drastically reduced, he seemed in a fair way of starving to death.\n It gave him a gentle, moody pleasure to envisage his own funeral,\n although, at the same time, he realized that Bbulas would probably have", "Nonetheless, Skkiru could not reconcile himself to his beggarhood, no\n matter how much he tried to comfort himself by thinking at least he\n wasn't a pariah like the unfortunate metal-workers who had to stand\n segregated from the rest by a chain of their own devising—a poetic\n thought, that was, but well in keeping with his beggarhood. Beggars\n were often poets, he believed, and poets almost always beggars. Since\n metal-working was the chief industry of Snaddra, this had provided the\n planet automatically with a large lowest caste. Bbulas had taken the\n easy way out.", "\"Of what importance are fifteen minutes compared to eternity!\" she\n exclaimed. Her lovely eyes fuzzed softly with emotion. \"You don't seem\n to realize, Skkiru, that this isn't just a matter of minutes or hours.\n It's forever.\"\n\"Forever!\" He looked at her incredulously. \"You mean we're going to\n keep this up as a permanent thing? You're joking!\"\n\n\n Bbulas groaned, but Skkiru didn't care about that. The sad, sweet way\n Larhgan shook her beautiful head disturbed him much more, and when\n she said, \"No, Skkiru, I am not joking,\" a tiny pang of doubt and\n apprehension began to quiver in his second smallest left toe.\n\n\n \"This is, in effect, good-by,\" she continued. \"We shall see each other\n again, of course, but only from a distance. On feast days, perhaps you\n may be permitted to kiss the hem of my robe ... but that will be all.\"", "Skkiru swallowed the last of the chocolate and regarded the \"high\n priest\" with a simple-minded mendicant's grin. However, there were\n volcanic passions within him that surged up from his toes when, as the\n wind and rain whipped through his scanty coverings, he remembered the\n snug underskirts Bbulas was wearing beneath his warm gown. They were\n metal, but they were solid. All the garments visible or potentially\n visible were of woven metal, because, although there was cloth on the\n planet, it was not politic for the Earthmen to discover how heavily the\n Snaddrath depended upon imports.", "Skkiru protruded all of his eyes in innocent surprise. \"Just some\n old pontoons I took from a wrecked air-car once. I have a habit of\n collecting junk and I thought—\"\n\n\n Bbulas twirled madly in the air. \"You are not supposed to think. Leave\n all the thinking to me!\"\n\n\n \"Yes, Bbulas,\" Skkiru said meekly.", "It was only at that moment that Skkiru realized just how outrageous the\n whole thing really was. There must be another solution to the planet's\n problem. \"Listen—\" he began, but just then excited noises filtered\n down from overhead. It was too late.\n\n\n \"Earth ship in view!\" a squeaky voice called through the intercom.\n \"Everybody topside and don't forget your shoes.\"\n\n\n Except the beggar. Beggars went barefoot. Beggars suffered. Bbulas had\n made him beggar purposely, and the lots were a lot of slibwash.", "It was not one Skkiru himself would have chosen. It was not one, he\n felt, that any reasonable person would have chosen. Nevertheless, the\n Bbulas Plan had been adopted by a majority vote of the Snaddrath,\n largely because no one had come up with a feasible alternative and,\n as a patriotic citizen, Skkiru would abide by it. He would accept the\n status of beggar; it was his duty to do so. Moreover, as in the case of\n the planet, there was no choice.", "to arrange some sort of pension for him; he could not expect Skkiru's\n patriotism to extend to abnormal limits. A man might be willing to die\n for his planet in many ways—but wantonly starving to death as the\n result of a primitive affectation was hardly one of them.", "Skkiru accepted the candy with suitable—and entirely genuine—murmurs\n of gratitude. Chocolate was found only in the most expensive of the\n planet's delicacy shops—and now neither delicacy shops nor chocolate\n were to be found, so, if Bbulas thought he was going to save the gift\n to contribute it later to the Treasury, the \"high priest\" was off his\n rocker.\n\n\n To make sure there would be no subsequent dispute about possession,\n Skkiru ate the candy then and there. Chocolate increased the body's\n resistance to weather, and never before had he had to endure so much\n weather all at once.", "As the mud clutched his toes, Skkiru remembered an idea he had once\n gotten from an old sporting fictape of Terrestrial origin and had\n always planned to experiment with, but had never gotten around to—the\n weather had always been so weathery, there were so many other more\n comfortable sports, Larhgan had wanted him to spend more of his leisure\n hours with her, and so on. However, he still had the equipment, which\n he'd salvaged from a wrecked air-car, in his apartment—and it was the\n matter of a moment to run down, while Bbulas was looking the other way,\n and get it." ], [ "It was only at that moment that Skkiru realized just how outrageous the\n whole thing really was. There must be another solution to the planet's\n problem. \"Listen—\" he began, but just then excited noises filtered\n down from overhead. It was too late.\n\n\n \"Earth ship in view!\" a squeaky voice called through the intercom.\n \"Everybody topside and don't forget your shoes.\"\n\n\n Except the beggar. Beggars went barefoot. Beggars suffered. Bbulas had\n made him beggar purposely, and the lots were a lot of slibwash.", "Skkiru swallowed the last of the chocolate and regarded the \"high\n priest\" with a simple-minded mendicant's grin. However, there were\n volcanic passions within him that surged up from his toes when, as the\n wind and rain whipped through his scanty coverings, he remembered the\n snug underskirts Bbulas was wearing beneath his warm gown. They were\n metal, but they were solid. All the garments visible or potentially\n visible were of woven metal, because, although there was cloth on the\n planet, it was not politic for the Earthmen to discover how heavily the\n Snaddrath depended upon imports.", "It was not one Skkiru himself would have chosen. It was not one, he\n felt, that any reasonable person would have chosen. Nevertheless, the\n Bbulas Plan had been adopted by a majority vote of the Snaddrath,\n largely because no one had come up with a feasible alternative and,\n as a patriotic citizen, Skkiru would abide by it. He would accept the\n status of beggar; it was his duty to do so. Moreover, as in the case of\n the planet, there was no choice.", "Skkiru turned to the third person present in the council chamber.\n \"Bbulas, this is your fault! It was all your idea!\"\n\n\n There was regret on the Dilettante's thin face—an obviously insincere\n regret, the younger man knew, since he was well aware how Bbulas had\n always felt about the girl.\n\n\n \"I am sorry, Skkiru,\" Bbulas intoned. \"I had fancied you understood.\n This is not a game we are playing, but a new way of life we are\n adopting. A necessary way of life, if we of Snaddra are to keep on\n living at all.\"\n\n\n \"It's not that I don't love you, Skkiru,\" Larhgan put in gently, \"but\n the welfare of our planet comes first.\"\nShe had been seeing too many of the Terrestrial fictapes from the\n library, Skkiru thought resentfully. There was too damn much Terran\n influence on this planet. And this new project was the last straw.", "\"And I have already explained to you, Skkiru,\" Bbulas said, with a\n patience much more infuriating than the girl's anger, \"that I had no\n idea of who was to become my high priestess. The lots chose Larhgan. It\n is, as the Earthmen say, kismet.\"\nHe adjusted the fall of his glittering robe before the great polished\n four-dimensional reflector that formed one wall of the chamber.\nKismet\n, Skkiru muttered to himself,\nand a little sleight of hand.\nBut he didn't dare offer this conclusion aloud; the libel laws of\n Snaddra were very severe. So he had to fall back on a weak, \"And I\n suppose it is kismet that makes us all have to go live out on the\n ground during the day, like—like savages.\"\n\n\n \"It is necessary,\" Bbulas replied without turning.\n\n\n \"Pooh,\" Skkiru said. \"Pooh,\npooh\n, POOH!\"", "On Earth, he had heard, where people lived exposed to weather, they\n often sickened of it and passed on—which helped to solve the problem\n of birth control on so vulgarly fecund a planet. Snaddra, alas, needed\n no such measures, for its population—like its natural resources—was\n dwindling rapidly. Still, Skkiru thought, as he moodily munched on the\n chocolate, it would have been better to flicker out on their own than\n to descend to a subterfuge like this for nothing more than survival.\nBeing a beggar, Skkiru discovered, did give him certain small,\n momentary advantages over those who had been alloted higher ranks.\n For one thing, it was quite in character for him to tread curiously\n upon the strangers' heels all the way to the temple—a ramshackle", "It wasn't that Skkiru didn't understand well enough that Snaddra had\n been forced into making such a drastic change in its way of life.\n What resources it once possessed had been depleted and—aside from\n minerals—they had never been very extensive to begin with. All\n life-forms on the planet were on the point of extinction, save fish and\n rice—the only vegetable that would grow on Snaddra, and originally a\n Terran import at that. So food and fiber had to be brought from the\n other planets, at fabulous expense, for Snaddra was not on any of\n the direct trade routes and was too unattractive to lure the tourist\n business.", "\"Skkiru!\" the girl exclaimed, rotating gently, for she, like her\n fiance—her erstwhile fiance, that was, for the new regime had caused\n all such ties to be severed—and every other literate person on the\n planet, had received her education at the local university. Although\n sound, the school was admittedly provincial in outlook and very poor\n in the emotional department. \"One would almost think that the lots had\n some sort of divine intelligence behind them, because you certainly are\n behaving in a beggarly manner!\"", "\"All right,\" Skkiru answered sulkily. \"I'll go to the edge of the\n field, and I'll speak broken Inter-galactic, and I'll forsake my normal\n habits and customs, and I'll even\nbeg\n. But I don't have to like doing\n it, and I don't intend to like doing it.\"\n\n\n All three of Larhgan's eyes fuzzed with emotion. \"I'm proud of you,\n Skkiru,\" she said brokenly.", "Bbulas couldn't really object, Skkiru stilled the nagging quiver in\n his toe, because what could be more primitive than any form of land\n transport? And even though it took time to get the things, they worked\n so well that, in spite of the procession's head start, he was at the\n Earth ship long before the official greeters had reached it.\nThe newcomers were indeed humanoid, he saw. Only the peculiarly\n pasty color of their skins and their embarrassing lack of antennae\n distinguished them visibly from the Snaddrath. They were dressed much\n as the Snaddrath had been before they had adopted primitive garb.", "As the Earthmen reached the temple, Larhgan now appeared to join Bbulas\n at the head of the long flight of stairs that led to it. Although\n Skkiru had seen her in her priestly apparel before, it had not made\n the emotional impression upon him then that it did now, when, standing\n there, clad in beauty, dignity and warm clothes, she bade the newcomers\n welcome in several thousand words not too well chosen for her by\n Bbulas—who fancied himself a speech-writer as well as a speech-maker,\n for there was no end to the man's conceit.\n\n\n The difference between her magnificent garments and his own miserable\n rags had their full impact upon Skkiru at this moment. He saw the gulf\n that had been dug between them and, for the first time in his short\n life, he felt the tormenting pangs of caste distinction. She looked so\n lovely and so remote.", "All the same, Skkiru reflected as he watched the visitors being led off\n to the native hut prepared for them, how ignominious it would be for\n one of the brightest young architects on the planet to have to subsist\n miserably on the dole just because the world had gone aboveground. The\n capital had risen to the surface and the other cities would soon follow\n suit. Meanwhile, a careful system of tabus had been designed to keep\n the Earthmen from discovering the existence of those other cities.\n\n\n He could, of course, emigrate to another part of the planet, to one of\n them, and stave off his doom for a while—but that would not be playing\n the game. Besides, in such a case, he wouldn't be able to see Larhgan.", "But all was not necessarily lost, he told himself. Had he not, in his\n anthropological viewings—though Bbulas might have been the only one\n privileged to go on ethnological field trips to other planets, he was\n not the only one who could use a library—seen accounts of societies\n where beggarhood could be a rewarding and even responsible station in\n life? There was no reason why, within the framework of the primitive\n society Bbulas had created to allure Terran anthropologists, Skkiru\n should not make something of himself and show that a beggar was worthy\n of the high priestess's hand—which would be entirely in the Terran\n primitive tradition of romance.\n\n\n \"Skkiru!\" Bbulas was screaming, as he spun, now that the Terrans were\n out of ear- and eye-shot \"Skkiru, you idiot, listen to me! What are\n those ridiculous things you are wearing on your silly feet?\"", "Skkiru coiled his antennae at Bbulas, hoping the insult would provoke\n him into an unbecoming whirl, but the Dilettante remained calm. One of\n the chief outward signs of Terran-type training was self-control and\n Bbulas had been thoroughly terranized.\nI hate Terrestrials\n, Skkiru said to himself.\nI hate Terra.\nThe\n quiver of anxiety had risen up his leg and was coiling and uncoiling\n in his stomach. He hoped it wouldn't reach his antennae—if he were\n to break down and psonk in front of Larhgan, it would be the final\n humiliation.", "Skkiru accepted the candy with suitable—and entirely genuine—murmurs\n of gratitude. Chocolate was found only in the most expensive of the\n planet's delicacy shops—and now neither delicacy shops nor chocolate\n were to be found, so, if Bbulas thought he was going to save the gift\n to contribute it later to the Treasury, the \"high priest\" was off his\n rocker.\n\n\n To make sure there would be no subsequent dispute about possession,\n Skkiru ate the candy then and there. Chocolate increased the body's\n resistance to weather, and never before had he had to endure so much\n weather all at once.", "In fact, the Terrestrials were quite decent-looking life-forms,\n entirely different from the foppish monsters Skkiru had somehow\n expected to represent the cultural ruling race. Of course, he had\n frequently seen pictures of them, but everyone knew how easily those\n could be retouched. Why, it was the Terrestrials themselves, he had\n always understood, who had invented the art of retouching—thus proving\n beyond a doubt that they had something to hide.", "What kind of life was that for an active, ambitious young man, standing\n around begging? And, moreover, from whom was Skkiru going to beg?\n Only the Earthmen, for the Snaddrath, no matter how much they threw\n themselves into the spirit of their roles, could not be so carried\n away that they would give handouts to a young man whom they had been\n accustomed to see basking in the bosom of luxury.\nUnfortunately, the fees that he'd received in the past had not enabled\n him both to live well and to save, and now that his fortunes had been\n so drastically reduced, he seemed in a fair way of starving to death.\n It gave him a gentle, moody pleasure to envisage his own funeral,\n although, at the same time, he realized that Bbulas would probably have", "\"For Snaddra,\" Larhgan said, placing her hand over her anterior heart\n in a gesture which, though devout on Earth—or so the fictapes seemed\n to indicate—was obscene on Snaddra, owing to the fact that certain\n essential organs were located in different areas in the Snaddrath than\n in the corresponding Terrestrial life-form. Already the Terrestrial\n influence was corrupting her, Skkiru thought mournfully. She had been\n such a nice girl, too.\n\n\n \"We may never meet on equal terms again, Skkiru,\" she told him, with a\n long, soulful glance that made his hearts sink down to his quivering\n toes, \"but I promise you there will never be anyone else for me—and\n I hope that knowledge will inspire you to complete cooperation with\n Bbulas.\"\n\n\n \"If that doesn't,\" Bbulas said, \"I have other methods of inspiration.\"", "\"Hurry up, Skkiru.\"\nBbulas slid the ornate headdress over his antennae, which, already\n gilded and jeweled, at once seemed to become a part of it. He looked\n pretty damn silly, Skkiru thought, at the same time conscious of his\n own appearance—which was, although picturesque enough to delight\n romantic Terrestrial hearts, sufficiently wretched to charm the most\n hardened sadist.\n\n\n \"Hurry up, Skkiru,\" Bbulas said. \"They mustn't suspect the existence of\n the city underground or we're finished before we've started.\"\n\n\n \"For my part, I wish we'd never started,\" Skkiru grumbled. \"What was\n wrong with our old culture, anyway?\"\n\n\n That was intended as a rhetorical question, but Bbulas answered it\n anyway. He always answered questions; it had never seemed to penetrate\n his mind that school-days were long since over.", "Nonetheless, Skkiru could not reconcile himself to his beggarhood, no\n matter how much he tried to comfort himself by thinking at least he\n wasn't a pariah like the unfortunate metal-workers who had to stand\n segregated from the rest by a chain of their own devising—a poetic\n thought, that was, but well in keeping with his beggarhood. Beggars\n were often poets, he believed, and poets almost always beggars. Since\n metal-working was the chief industry of Snaddra, this had provided the\n planet automatically with a large lowest caste. Bbulas had taken the\n easy way out." ], [ "It was not one Skkiru himself would have chosen. It was not one, he\n felt, that any reasonable person would have chosen. Nevertheless, the\n Bbulas Plan had been adopted by a majority vote of the Snaddrath,\n largely because no one had come up with a feasible alternative and,\n as a patriotic citizen, Skkiru would abide by it. He would accept the\n status of beggar; it was his duty to do so. Moreover, as in the case of\n the planet, there was no choice.", "Something definitely had to be done, if it were not to decay\n altogether. And that was where the Planetary Dilettante came in.\nThe traditional office of Planetary Dilettante was a civil-service\n job, awarded by competitive examination whenever it fell vacant to\n the person who scored highest in intelligence, character and general\n gloonatz. However, the tests were inadequate when it came to measuring\n sense of proportion, adaptiveness and charm—and there, Skkiru felt,\n was where the essential flaw lay. After all, no really effective test\n would have let a person like Bbulas come out on top.", "It was only at that moment that Skkiru realized just how outrageous the\n whole thing really was. There must be another solution to the planet's\n problem. \"Listen—\" he began, but just then excited noises filtered\n down from overhead. It was too late.\n\n\n \"Earth ship in view!\" a squeaky voice called through the intercom.\n \"Everybody topside and don't forget your shoes.\"\n\n\n Except the beggar. Beggars went barefoot. Beggars suffered. Bbulas had\n made him beggar purposely, and the lots were a lot of slibwash.", "The winner was sent to Gambrell, the nearest planet with a Terran\n League University, to be given a thorough Terran-type education. No\n individual on Snaddra could afford such schooling, no matter how\n great his personal fortune, because the transportation costs were so\n immense that only a government could afford them. That was the reason\n why only one person in each generation could be chosen to go abroad at\n the planet's expense and acquire enough finish to cover the rest of the\n population.\n\n\n The Dilettante's official function had always been, in theory, to serve\n the planet when an emergency came—and this, old Luccar, the former\n President, had decided, when he and the Parliament had awakened to the\n fact that Snaddra was falling into ruin, was an emergency. So he had,\n after considerable soul-searching, called upon Bbulas to plan a method\n of saving Snaddra—and Bbulas, happy to be in the limelight at last,\n had come up with this program.", "\"After all,\" he went on speaking as he wiped, \"I have to be high\n priest, since I organized this culture and am the only one here\n qualified to administer it. And, as the president himself concurred in\n these arrangements, I hardly think you—a mere private citizen—have\n the right to question them.\"\n\n\n \"Just because you went to school in another solar system,\" Skkiru said,\n whirling with anger, \"you think you're so smart!\"\n\n\n \"I won't deny that I do have educational and cultural advantages\n which were, unfortunately, not available to the general populace of\n this planet. However, even under the old system, I was always glad to\n utilize my superior attainments as Official Dilettante for the good of\n all and now—\"\n\n\n \"Sure, glad to have a chance to rig this whole setup so you could break\n up things between Larhgan and me. You've had your eye on her for some\n time.\"", "Skkiru turned to the third person present in the council chamber.\n \"Bbulas, this is your fault! It was all your idea!\"\n\n\n There was regret on the Dilettante's thin face—an obviously insincere\n regret, the younger man knew, since he was well aware how Bbulas had\n always felt about the girl.\n\n\n \"I am sorry, Skkiru,\" Bbulas intoned. \"I had fancied you understood.\n This is not a game we are playing, but a new way of life we are\n adopting. A necessary way of life, if we of Snaddra are to keep on\n living at all.\"\n\n\n \"It's not that I don't love you, Skkiru,\" Larhgan put in gently, \"but\n the welfare of our planet comes first.\"\nShe had been seeing too many of the Terrestrial fictapes from the\n library, Skkiru thought resentfully. There was too damn much Terran\n influence on this planet. And this new project was the last straw.", "\"And I have already explained to you, Skkiru,\" Bbulas said, with a\n patience much more infuriating than the girl's anger, \"that I had no\n idea of who was to become my high priestess. The lots chose Larhgan. It\n is, as the Earthmen say, kismet.\"\nHe adjusted the fall of his glittering robe before the great polished\n four-dimensional reflector that formed one wall of the chamber.\nKismet\n, Skkiru muttered to himself,\nand a little sleight of hand.\nBut he didn't dare offer this conclusion aloud; the libel laws of\n Snaddra were very severe. So he had to fall back on a weak, \"And I\n suppose it is kismet that makes us all have to go live out on the\n ground during the day, like—like savages.\"\n\n\n \"It is necessary,\" Bbulas replied without turning.\n\n\n \"Pooh,\" Skkiru said. \"Pooh,\npooh\n, POOH!\"", "In fact, the Terrestrials were quite decent-looking life-forms,\n entirely different from the foppish monsters Skkiru had somehow\n expected to represent the cultural ruling race. Of course, he had\n frequently seen pictures of them, but everyone knew how easily those\n could be retouched. Why, it was the Terrestrials themselves, he had\n always understood, who had invented the art of retouching—thus proving\n beyond a doubt that they had something to hide.", "No longer able to control his rage and grief, he turned a triple\n somersault in the air with rage. \"Then why was I made a beggar and she\n the high priestess? You arranged that purposely, Bbulas. You—\"\n\n\n \"Now, Skkiru,\" Bbulas said wearily, for they had been through all this\n before, \"you know that all the ranks and positions were distributed\n by impartial lot, except for mine, and, of course, such jobs as could\n carry over from the civilized into the primitive.\"\n\n\n Bbulas breathed on the spectacles he was wearing, as contact lenses\n were not considered backward enough for the kind of planet Snaddra\n was now supposed to be, and attempted to wipe them dry on his robe.\n However, the thick, jewel-studded embroidery got in his way and so he\n was forced to lift the robe and wipe all three of the lenses on the\n smooth, soft, spun metal of his top underskirt.", "On Earth, he had heard, where people lived exposed to weather, they\n often sickened of it and passed on—which helped to solve the problem\n of birth control on so vulgarly fecund a planet. Snaddra, alas, needed\n no such measures, for its population—like its natural resources—was\n dwindling rapidly. Still, Skkiru thought, as he moodily munched on the\n chocolate, it would have been better to flicker out on their own than\n to descend to a subterfuge like this for nothing more than survival.\nBeing a beggar, Skkiru discovered, did give him certain small,\n momentary advantages over those who had been alloted higher ranks.\n For one thing, it was quite in character for him to tread curiously\n upon the strangers' heels all the way to the temple—a ramshackle", "It wasn't that Skkiru didn't understand well enough that Snaddra had\n been forced into making such a drastic change in its way of life.\n What resources it once possessed had been depleted and—aside from\n minerals—they had never been very extensive to begin with. All\n life-forms on the planet were on the point of extinction, save fish and\n rice—the only vegetable that would grow on Snaddra, and originally a\n Terran import at that. So food and fiber had to be brought from the\n other planets, at fabulous expense, for Snaddra was not on any of\n the direct trade routes and was too unattractive to lure the tourist\n business.", "\"Look, Raoul,\" the older of the two Earthmen said in Terran—which\n the Snaddrath were not, according to the master plan, supposed to\n understand, but which most of them did, for it was the fashionable\n third language on most of the outer planets. \"A beggar. Haven't seen\n one since some other chaps and I were doing a spot of field work on\n that little planet in the Arcturus system—what was its name? Glotch,\n that's it. Very short study, it turned out to be. Couldn't get more\n than a pamphlet out of it, as we were unable to stay long enough to\n amass enough material for a really definitive work. The natives tried\n to eat us, so we had to leave in somewhat of a hurry.\"\n\n\n \"Oh, they were cannibals?\" the other Earthman asked, so respectfully\n that it was easy to deduce he was the subordinate of the two. \"How\n horrible!\"", "\"For Snaddra,\" Larhgan said, placing her hand over her anterior heart\n in a gesture which, though devout on Earth—or so the fictapes seemed\n to indicate—was obscene on Snaddra, owing to the fact that certain\n essential organs were located in different areas in the Snaddrath than\n in the corresponding Terrestrial life-form. Already the Terrestrial\n influence was corrupting her, Skkiru thought mournfully. She had been\n such a nice girl, too.\n\n\n \"We may never meet on equal terms again, Skkiru,\" she told him, with a\n long, soulful glance that made his hearts sink down to his quivering\n toes, \"but I promise you there will never be anyone else for me—and\n I hope that knowledge will inspire you to complete cooperation with\n Bbulas.\"\n\n\n \"If that doesn't,\" Bbulas said, \"I have other methods of inspiration.\"", "\"We have prepared our best hut for you, noble sirs,\" Bbulas said with\n great self-control, \"and, by happy chance, this very evening a small\n but unusually interesting ceremony will be held outside the temple. We\n hope you will be able to attend. It is to be a rain dance.\"\n\n\n \"Rain dance!\" Raoul pulled his macintosh together more tightly at the\n throat. \"But why do you want rain? My faith, not only does it rain now,\n but the planet seems to be a veritable sea of mud. Not, of course,\" he\n added hurriedly as Cyril's reproachful eye caught his, \"that it is not\n attractive mud. Finest mud I have ever seen. Such texture, such color,\n such aroma!\"\n\n\n Cyril nodded three times and gave an appreciative sniff.\n\n\n \"But,\" Raoul went on, \"one can have too much of even such a good thing\n as mud....\"", "Skkiru swallowed the last of the chocolate and regarded the \"high\n priest\" with a simple-minded mendicant's grin. However, there were\n volcanic passions within him that surged up from his toes when, as the\n wind and rain whipped through his scanty coverings, he remembered the\n snug underskirts Bbulas was wearing beneath his warm gown. They were\n metal, but they were solid. All the garments visible or potentially\n visible were of woven metal, because, although there was cloth on the\n planet, it was not politic for the Earthmen to discover how heavily the\n Snaddrath depended upon imports.", "\"Alms, for the love of Ipsnadd,\" chanted Skkiru the beggar.\n His teeth chattered as he spoke, for the rags he wore had been\n custom-weatherbeaten for him by the planet's best tailor—now a pariah,\n of course, because Snadd tailors were, naturally, metal-workers—and\n the wind and the rain were joyously making their way through the\n demolished wires. Never before had Skkiru been on the surface of the\n planet, except to pass over, and he had actually touched it only when\n taking off and landing. The Snaddrath had no means of land transport,\n having previously found it unnecessary—but now both air-cars and\n self-levitation were on the prohibited list as being insufficiently\n primitive.", "\"I've told you a thousand times that our old culture was too much like\n the Terrans' own to be of interest to them,\" he said, with affected\n weariness. \"After all, most civilized societies are basically similar;\n it is only primitive societies that differ sharply, one from the\n other—and we have to be different to attract Earthmen. They're pretty\n choosy. You've got to give them what they want, and that's what they\n want. Now take up your post on the edge of the field, try to look\n hungry, and remember this isn't for you or for me, but for Snaddra.\"", "\"We feel quite sure that we are going to derive both pleasure and\n profit from our stay here, and we promise to make our intensive\n analysis of your culture as painless as possible. We wish only to study\n your society, not to tamper with it in any way.\"\nHa, ha\n, Skkiru said to himself.\nHa, ha, ha!\n\"But why is it,\" Raoul whispered in Terran as he glanced around out of\n the corners of his eyes, \"that only the beggar wears mudshoes?\"\n\n\n \"Shhh,\" Cyril hissed back. \"We'll find out later, when we've\n established rapport. Don't be so impatient!\"\n\n\n Bbulas gave a sickly smile. Skkiru could almost find it in his hearts\n to feel sorry for the man.", "\"Skkiru!\" the girl exclaimed, rotating gently, for she, like her\n fiance—her erstwhile fiance, that was, for the new regime had caused\n all such ties to be severed—and every other literate person on the\n planet, had received her education at the local university. Although\n sound, the school was admittedly provincial in outlook and very poor\n in the emotional department. \"One would almost think that the lots had\n some sort of divine intelligence behind them, because you certainly are\n behaving in a beggarly manner!\"", "All the same, Skkiru reflected as he watched the visitors being led off\n to the native hut prepared for them, how ignominious it would be for\n one of the brightest young architects on the planet to have to subsist\n miserably on the dole just because the world had gone aboveground. The\n capital had risen to the surface and the other cities would soon follow\n suit. Meanwhile, a careful system of tabus had been designed to keep\n the Earthmen from discovering the existence of those other cities.\n\n\n He could, of course, emigrate to another part of the planet, to one of\n them, and stave off his doom for a while—but that would not be playing\n the game. Besides, in such a case, he wouldn't be able to see Larhgan." ], [ "As the Earthmen reached the temple, Larhgan now appeared to join Bbulas\n at the head of the long flight of stairs that led to it. Although\n Skkiru had seen her in her priestly apparel before, it had not made\n the emotional impression upon him then that it did now, when, standing\n there, clad in beauty, dignity and warm clothes, she bade the newcomers\n welcome in several thousand words not too well chosen for her by\n Bbulas—who fancied himself a speech-writer as well as a speech-maker,\n for there was no end to the man's conceit.\n\n\n The difference between her magnificent garments and his own miserable\n rags had their full impact upon Skkiru at this moment. He saw the gulf\n that had been dug between them and, for the first time in his short\n life, he felt the tormenting pangs of caste distinction. She looked so\n lovely and so remote.", "\"And I have already explained to you, Skkiru,\" Bbulas said, with a\n patience much more infuriating than the girl's anger, \"that I had no\n idea of who was to become my high priestess. The lots chose Larhgan. It\n is, as the Earthmen say, kismet.\"\nHe adjusted the fall of his glittering robe before the great polished\n four-dimensional reflector that formed one wall of the chamber.\nKismet\n, Skkiru muttered to himself,\nand a little sleight of hand.\nBut he didn't dare offer this conclusion aloud; the libel laws of\n Snaddra were very severe. So he had to fall back on a weak, \"And I\n suppose it is kismet that makes us all have to go live out on the\n ground during the day, like—like savages.\"\n\n\n \"It is necessary,\" Bbulas replied without turning.\n\n\n \"Pooh,\" Skkiru said. \"Pooh,\npooh\n, POOH!\"", "\"All right,\" Skkiru answered sulkily. \"I'll go to the edge of the\n field, and I'll speak broken Inter-galactic, and I'll forsake my normal\n habits and customs, and I'll even\nbeg\n. But I don't have to like doing\n it, and I don't intend to like doing it.\"\n\n\n All three of Larhgan's eyes fuzzed with emotion. \"I'm proud of you,\n Skkiru,\" she said brokenly.", "Skkiru turned to the third person present in the council chamber.\n \"Bbulas, this is your fault! It was all your idea!\"\n\n\n There was regret on the Dilettante's thin face—an obviously insincere\n regret, the younger man knew, since he was well aware how Bbulas had\n always felt about the girl.\n\n\n \"I am sorry, Skkiru,\" Bbulas intoned. \"I had fancied you understood.\n This is not a game we are playing, but a new way of life we are\n adopting. A necessary way of life, if we of Snaddra are to keep on\n living at all.\"\n\n\n \"It's not that I don't love you, Skkiru,\" Larhgan put in gently, \"but\n the welfare of our planet comes first.\"\nShe had been seeing too many of the Terrestrial fictapes from the\n library, Skkiru thought resentfully. There was too damn much Terran\n influence on this planet. And this new project was the last straw.", "Larhgan's dainty earflaps closed. \"Skkiru! Such language!\"\n\n\n \"As you said,\" Bbulas murmured, contemptuously coiling one antenna at\n Skkiru, \"the lots chose well and if you touch me, Skkiru, we shall have\n another drawing for beggar and you will be made a metal-worker.\"\n\n\n \"But I can't work metal!\"\n\n\n \"Then that will make it much worse for you than for the other\n outcasts,\" Bbulas said smugly, \"because you will be a pariah without a\n trade.\"\n\n\n \"Speaking of pariahs, that reminds me, Skkiru, before I forget, I'd\n better give you back your grimpatch—\" Larhgan handed the glittering\n bauble to him—\"and you give me mine. Since we can't be betrothed any\n longer, you might want to give yours to some nice beggar girl.\"", "Skkiru coiled his antennae at Bbulas, hoping the insult would provoke\n him into an unbecoming whirl, but the Dilettante remained calm. One of\n the chief outward signs of Terran-type training was self-control and\n Bbulas had been thoroughly terranized.\nI hate Terrestrials\n, Skkiru said to himself.\nI hate Terra.\nThe\n quiver of anxiety had risen up his leg and was coiling and uncoiling\n in his stomach. He hoped it wouldn't reach his antennae—if he were\n to break down and psonk in front of Larhgan, it would be the final\n humiliation.", "Skkiru protruded all of his eyes in innocent surprise. \"Just some\n old pontoons I took from a wrecked air-car once. I have a habit of\n collecting junk and I thought—\"\n\n\n Bbulas twirled madly in the air. \"You are not supposed to think. Leave\n all the thinking to me!\"\n\n\n \"Yes, Bbulas,\" Skkiru said meekly.", "Skkiru swallowed the last of the chocolate and regarded the \"high\n priest\" with a simple-minded mendicant's grin. However, there were\n volcanic passions within him that surged up from his toes when, as the\n wind and rain whipped through his scanty coverings, he remembered the\n snug underskirts Bbulas was wearing beneath his warm gown. They were\n metal, but they were solid. All the garments visible or potentially\n visible were of woven metal, because, although there was cloth on the\n planet, it was not politic for the Earthmen to discover how heavily the\n Snaddrath depended upon imports.", "Nonetheless, Skkiru could not reconcile himself to his beggarhood, no\n matter how much he tried to comfort himself by thinking at least he\n wasn't a pariah like the unfortunate metal-workers who had to stand\n segregated from the rest by a chain of their own devising—a poetic\n thought, that was, but well in keeping with his beggarhood. Beggars\n were often poets, he believed, and poets almost always beggars. Since\n metal-working was the chief industry of Snaddra, this had provided the\n planet automatically with a large lowest caste. Bbulas had taken the\n easy way out.", "It was not one Skkiru himself would have chosen. It was not one, he\n felt, that any reasonable person would have chosen. Nevertheless, the\n Bbulas Plan had been adopted by a majority vote of the Snaddrath,\n largely because no one had come up with a feasible alternative and,\n as a patriotic citizen, Skkiru would abide by it. He would accept the\n status of beggar; it was his duty to do so. Moreover, as in the case of\n the planet, there was no choice.", "affair, but then it had been run up in only three days—where the\n official reception was to be held. The principal difficulty was that,\n because of his equipment, he had a little trouble keeping himself from\n overshooting the strangers. And though Bbulas might frown menacingly at\n him—and not only for his forwardness—that was in character on both\n sides, too.", "\"I don't want to give my grimpatch to some nice beggar girl!\" Skkiru\n yelled, twirling madly in the air.\n\n\n \"As for me,\" she sighed, standing soulfully on her head, \"I do not\n think I shall ever marry. I shall make the religious life my career.\n Are there going to be any saints in your mythos, Bbulas?\"\n\n\n \"Even if there will be,\" Bbulas said, \"you certainly won't qualify if\n you keep putting yourself into a position which not only represents a\n trait wholly out of keeping with the new culture, but is most unseemly\n with the high priestess's robes.\"\n\n\n Larhgan ignored his unfeeling observations. \"I shall set myself apart\n from mundane affairs,\" she vowed, \"and I shall pretend to be happy,\n even though my heart will be breaking.\"", "\"Of what importance are fifteen minutes compared to eternity!\" she\n exclaimed. Her lovely eyes fuzzed softly with emotion. \"You don't seem\n to realize, Skkiru, that this isn't just a matter of minutes or hours.\n It's forever.\"\n\"Forever!\" He looked at her incredulously. \"You mean we're going to\n keep this up as a permanent thing? You're joking!\"\n\n\n Bbulas groaned, but Skkiru didn't care about that. The sad, sweet way\n Larhgan shook her beautiful head disturbed him much more, and when\n she said, \"No, Skkiru, I am not joking,\" a tiny pang of doubt and\n apprehension began to quiver in his second smallest left toe.\n\n\n \"This is, in effect, good-by,\" she continued. \"We shall see each other\n again, of course, but only from a distance. On feast days, perhaps you\n may be permitted to kiss the hem of my robe ... but that will be all.\"", "What kind of life was that for an active, ambitious young man, standing\n around begging? And, moreover, from whom was Skkiru going to beg?\n Only the Earthmen, for the Snaddrath, no matter how much they threw\n themselves into the spirit of their roles, could not be so carried\n away that they would give handouts to a young man whom they had been\n accustomed to see basking in the bosom of luxury.\nUnfortunately, the fees that he'd received in the past had not enabled\n him both to live well and to save, and now that his fortunes had been\n so drastically reduced, he seemed in a fair way of starving to death.\n It gave him a gentle, moody pleasure to envisage his own funeral,\n although, at the same time, he realized that Bbulas would probably have", "\"I hope these creatures are not man-eaters,\" Raoul commented, with\n a polite smile at Cyril and an apprehensive glance at the oncoming\n procession—\ncreatures indeed\n! Skkiru thought, with a mental sniff.\n \"We have come such a long and expensive way to study them that it would\n be indeed a pity if we also were forced to depart in haste. Especially\n since this is my first field trip and I would like to make good at it.\"\n\n\n \"Oh, you will, my boy, you will.\" Cyril clapped the younger man on the\n shoulder. \"I have every confidence in your ability.\"\n\n\n Either he was stupid, Skkiru thought, or he was lying, in spite of\n Bbulas' asseverations that untruth was unknown to Terrestrials—which\n had always seemed highly improbable, anyway. How could any intelligent\n life-form possibly stick to the truth all the time? It wasn't human; it\n wasn't even humanoid; it wasn't even polite.", "Skkiru accepted the candy with suitable—and entirely genuine—murmurs\n of gratitude. Chocolate was found only in the most expensive of the\n planet's delicacy shops—and now neither delicacy shops nor chocolate\n were to be found, so, if Bbulas thought he was going to save the gift\n to contribute it later to the Treasury, the \"high priest\" was off his\n rocker.\n\n\n To make sure there would be no subsequent dispute about possession,\n Skkiru ate the candy then and there. Chocolate increased the body's\n resistance to weather, and never before had he had to endure so much\n weather all at once.", "\"Hurry up, Skkiru.\"\nBbulas slid the ornate headdress over his antennae, which, already\n gilded and jeweled, at once seemed to become a part of it. He looked\n pretty damn silly, Skkiru thought, at the same time conscious of his\n own appearance—which was, although picturesque enough to delight\n romantic Terrestrial hearts, sufficiently wretched to charm the most\n hardened sadist.\n\n\n \"Hurry up, Skkiru,\" Bbulas said. \"They mustn't suspect the existence of\n the city underground or we're finished before we've started.\"\n\n\n \"For my part, I wish we'd never started,\" Skkiru grumbled. \"What was\n wrong with our old culture, anyway?\"\n\n\n That was intended as a rhetorical question, but Bbulas answered it\n anyway. He always answered questions; it had never seemed to penetrate\n his mind that school-days were long since over.", "The smile did not leave Bbulas' smooth face. \"Yes, of course, honorable\n Terrestrials. That is why we are holding this ceremony. It is not a\n dance to bring on rain. It is a dance to\nstop\nrain.\"\n\n\n He was pretty quick on the uptake, Skkiru had to concede. However,\n that was not enough. The man had no genuine organizational ability.\n In the time he'd had in which to plan and carry out a scheme for\n the improvement of Snaddra, surely he could have done better than\n this high-school theocracy. For one thing, he could have apportioned\n the various roles so that each person would be making a definite\n contribution to the society, instead of creating some positions plums,\n like the priesthood, and others prunes, like the beggarship.", "It was only at that moment that Skkiru realized just how outrageous the\n whole thing really was. There must be another solution to the planet's\n problem. \"Listen—\" he began, but just then excited noises filtered\n down from overhead. It was too late.\n\n\n \"Earth ship in view!\" a squeaky voice called through the intercom.\n \"Everybody topside and don't forget your shoes.\"\n\n\n Except the beggar. Beggars went barefoot. Beggars suffered. Bbulas had\n made him beggar purposely, and the lots were a lot of slibwash.", "Something definitely had to be done, if it were not to decay\n altogether. And that was where the Planetary Dilettante came in.\nThe traditional office of Planetary Dilettante was a civil-service\n job, awarded by competitive examination whenever it fell vacant to\n the person who scored highest in intelligence, character and general\n gloonatz. However, the tests were inadequate when it came to measuring\n sense of proportion, adaptiveness and charm—and there, Skkiru felt,\n was where the essential flaw lay. After all, no really effective test\n would have let a person like Bbulas come out on top." ], [ "Skkiru protruded all of his eyes in innocent surprise. \"Just some\n old pontoons I took from a wrecked air-car once. I have a habit of\n collecting junk and I thought—\"\n\n\n Bbulas twirled madly in the air. \"You are not supposed to think. Leave\n all the thinking to me!\"\n\n\n \"Yes, Bbulas,\" Skkiru said meekly.", "It was not one Skkiru himself would have chosen. It was not one, he\n felt, that any reasonable person would have chosen. Nevertheless, the\n Bbulas Plan had been adopted by a majority vote of the Snaddrath,\n largely because no one had come up with a feasible alternative and,\n as a patriotic citizen, Skkiru would abide by it. He would accept the\n status of beggar; it was his duty to do so. Moreover, as in the case of\n the planet, there was no choice.", "Skkiru swallowed the last of the chocolate and regarded the \"high\n priest\" with a simple-minded mendicant's grin. However, there were\n volcanic passions within him that surged up from his toes when, as the\n wind and rain whipped through his scanty coverings, he remembered the\n snug underskirts Bbulas was wearing beneath his warm gown. They were\n metal, but they were solid. All the garments visible or potentially\n visible were of woven metal, because, although there was cloth on the\n planet, it was not politic for the Earthmen to discover how heavily the\n Snaddrath depended upon imports.", "Nonetheless, Skkiru could not reconcile himself to his beggarhood, no\n matter how much he tried to comfort himself by thinking at least he\n wasn't a pariah like the unfortunate metal-workers who had to stand\n segregated from the rest by a chain of their own devising—a poetic\n thought, that was, but well in keeping with his beggarhood. Beggars\n were often poets, he believed, and poets almost always beggars. Since\n metal-working was the chief industry of Snaddra, this had provided the\n planet automatically with a large lowest caste. Bbulas had taken the\n easy way out.", "As the Earthmen reached the temple, Larhgan now appeared to join Bbulas\n at the head of the long flight of stairs that led to it. Although\n Skkiru had seen her in her priestly apparel before, it had not made\n the emotional impression upon him then that it did now, when, standing\n there, clad in beauty, dignity and warm clothes, she bade the newcomers\n welcome in several thousand words not too well chosen for her by\n Bbulas—who fancied himself a speech-writer as well as a speech-maker,\n for there was no end to the man's conceit.\n\n\n The difference between her magnificent garments and his own miserable\n rags had their full impact upon Skkiru at this moment. He saw the gulf\n that had been dug between them and, for the first time in his short\n life, he felt the tormenting pangs of caste distinction. She looked so\n lovely and so remote.", "\"And I have already explained to you, Skkiru,\" Bbulas said, with a\n patience much more infuriating than the girl's anger, \"that I had no\n idea of who was to become my high priestess. The lots chose Larhgan. It\n is, as the Earthmen say, kismet.\"\nHe adjusted the fall of his glittering robe before the great polished\n four-dimensional reflector that formed one wall of the chamber.\nKismet\n, Skkiru muttered to himself,\nand a little sleight of hand.\nBut he didn't dare offer this conclusion aloud; the libel laws of\n Snaddra were very severe. So he had to fall back on a weak, \"And I\n suppose it is kismet that makes us all have to go live out on the\n ground during the day, like—like savages.\"\n\n\n \"It is necessary,\" Bbulas replied without turning.\n\n\n \"Pooh,\" Skkiru said. \"Pooh,\npooh\n, POOH!\"", "What kind of life was that for an active, ambitious young man, standing\n around begging? And, moreover, from whom was Skkiru going to beg?\n Only the Earthmen, for the Snaddrath, no matter how much they threw\n themselves into the spirit of their roles, could not be so carried\n away that they would give handouts to a young man whom they had been\n accustomed to see basking in the bosom of luxury.\nUnfortunately, the fees that he'd received in the past had not enabled\n him both to live well and to save, and now that his fortunes had been\n so drastically reduced, he seemed in a fair way of starving to death.\n It gave him a gentle, moody pleasure to envisage his own funeral,\n although, at the same time, he realized that Bbulas would probably have", "affair, but then it had been run up in only three days—where the\n official reception was to be held. The principal difficulty was that,\n because of his equipment, he had a little trouble keeping himself from\n overshooting the strangers. And though Bbulas might frown menacingly at\n him—and not only for his forwardness—that was in character on both\n sides, too.", "Skkiru coiled his antennae at Bbulas, hoping the insult would provoke\n him into an unbecoming whirl, but the Dilettante remained calm. One of\n the chief outward signs of Terran-type training was self-control and\n Bbulas had been thoroughly terranized.\nI hate Terrestrials\n, Skkiru said to himself.\nI hate Terra.\nThe\n quiver of anxiety had risen up his leg and was coiling and uncoiling\n in his stomach. He hoped it wouldn't reach his antennae—if he were\n to break down and psonk in front of Larhgan, it would be the final\n humiliation.", "\"Hurry up, Skkiru.\"\nBbulas slid the ornate headdress over his antennae, which, already\n gilded and jeweled, at once seemed to become a part of it. He looked\n pretty damn silly, Skkiru thought, at the same time conscious of his\n own appearance—which was, although picturesque enough to delight\n romantic Terrestrial hearts, sufficiently wretched to charm the most\n hardened sadist.\n\n\n \"Hurry up, Skkiru,\" Bbulas said. \"They mustn't suspect the existence of\n the city underground or we're finished before we've started.\"\n\n\n \"For my part, I wish we'd never started,\" Skkiru grumbled. \"What was\n wrong with our old culture, anyway?\"\n\n\n That was intended as a rhetorical question, but Bbulas answered it\n anyway. He always answered questions; it had never seemed to penetrate\n his mind that school-days were long since over.", "Something definitely had to be done, if it were not to decay\n altogether. And that was where the Planetary Dilettante came in.\nThe traditional office of Planetary Dilettante was a civil-service\n job, awarded by competitive examination whenever it fell vacant to\n the person who scored highest in intelligence, character and general\n gloonatz. However, the tests were inadequate when it came to measuring\n sense of proportion, adaptiveness and charm—and there, Skkiru felt,\n was where the essential flaw lay. After all, no really effective test\n would have let a person like Bbulas come out on top.", "Skkiru accepted the candy with suitable—and entirely genuine—murmurs\n of gratitude. Chocolate was found only in the most expensive of the\n planet's delicacy shops—and now neither delicacy shops nor chocolate\n were to be found, so, if Bbulas thought he was going to save the gift\n to contribute it later to the Treasury, the \"high priest\" was off his\n rocker.\n\n\n To make sure there would be no subsequent dispute about possession,\n Skkiru ate the candy then and there. Chocolate increased the body's\n resistance to weather, and never before had he had to endure so much\n weather all at once.", "Skkiru turned to the third person present in the council chamber.\n \"Bbulas, this is your fault! It was all your idea!\"\n\n\n There was regret on the Dilettante's thin face—an obviously insincere\n regret, the younger man knew, since he was well aware how Bbulas had\n always felt about the girl.\n\n\n \"I am sorry, Skkiru,\" Bbulas intoned. \"I had fancied you understood.\n This is not a game we are playing, but a new way of life we are\n adopting. A necessary way of life, if we of Snaddra are to keep on\n living at all.\"\n\n\n \"It's not that I don't love you, Skkiru,\" Larhgan put in gently, \"but\n the welfare of our planet comes first.\"\nShe had been seeing too many of the Terrestrial fictapes from the\n library, Skkiru thought resentfully. There was too damn much Terran\n influence on this planet. And this new project was the last straw.", "The smile did not leave Bbulas' smooth face. \"Yes, of course, honorable\n Terrestrials. That is why we are holding this ceremony. It is not a\n dance to bring on rain. It is a dance to\nstop\nrain.\"\n\n\n He was pretty quick on the uptake, Skkiru had to concede. However,\n that was not enough. The man had no genuine organizational ability.\n In the time he'd had in which to plan and carry out a scheme for\n the improvement of Snaddra, surely he could have done better than\n this high-school theocracy. For one thing, he could have apportioned\n the various roles so that each person would be making a definite\n contribution to the society, instead of creating some positions plums,\n like the priesthood, and others prunes, like the beggarship.", "\"Skkiru!\" the girl exclaimed, rotating gently, for she, like her\n fiance—her erstwhile fiance, that was, for the new regime had caused\n all such ties to be severed—and every other literate person on the\n planet, had received her education at the local university. Although\n sound, the school was admittedly provincial in outlook and very poor\n in the emotional department. \"One would almost think that the lots had\n some sort of divine intelligence behind them, because you certainly are\n behaving in a beggarly manner!\"", "But all was not necessarily lost, he told himself. Had he not, in his\n anthropological viewings—though Bbulas might have been the only one\n privileged to go on ethnological field trips to other planets, he was\n not the only one who could use a library—seen accounts of societies\n where beggarhood could be a rewarding and even responsible station in\n life? There was no reason why, within the framework of the primitive\n society Bbulas had created to allure Terran anthropologists, Skkiru\n should not make something of himself and show that a beggar was worthy\n of the high priestess's hand—which would be entirely in the Terran\n primitive tradition of romance.\n\n\n \"Skkiru!\" Bbulas was screaming, as he spun, now that the Terrans were\n out of ear- and eye-shot \"Skkiru, you idiot, listen to me! What are\n those ridiculous things you are wearing on your silly feet?\"", "It was only at that moment that Skkiru realized just how outrageous the\n whole thing really was. There must be another solution to the planet's\n problem. \"Listen—\" he began, but just then excited noises filtered\n down from overhead. It was too late.\n\n\n \"Earth ship in view!\" a squeaky voice called through the intercom.\n \"Everybody topside and don't forget your shoes.\"\n\n\n Except the beggar. Beggars went barefoot. Beggars suffered. Bbulas had\n made him beggar purposely, and the lots were a lot of slibwash.", "Bbulas couldn't really object, Skkiru stilled the nagging quiver in\n his toe, because what could be more primitive than any form of land\n transport? And even though it took time to get the things, they worked\n so well that, in spite of the procession's head start, he was at the\n Earth ship long before the official greeters had reached it.\nThe newcomers were indeed humanoid, he saw. Only the peculiarly\n pasty color of their skins and their embarrassing lack of antennae\n distinguished them visibly from the Snaddrath. They were dressed much\n as the Snaddrath had been before they had adopted primitive garb.", "\"All right,\" Skkiru answered sulkily. \"I'll go to the edge of the\n field, and I'll speak broken Inter-galactic, and I'll forsake my normal\n habits and customs, and I'll even\nbeg\n. But I don't have to like doing\n it, and I don't intend to like doing it.\"\n\n\n All three of Larhgan's eyes fuzzed with emotion. \"I'm proud of you,\n Skkiru,\" she said brokenly.", "As if all this weren't bad enough, he had been done an injury which\n struck directly at his professional pride. He hadn't even been allowed\n to help in planning the huts. Bbulas and some workmen had done all that\n themselves with the aid of some antique blueprints that had been put\n out centuries before by a Terrestrial magazine and had been acquired\n from a rare tape-and-book dealer on Gambrell, for, Skkiru thought, far\n too high a price. He could have designed them himself just as badly and\n much more cheaply." ] ]
valid	20064	[ "Does the author want his audience to dislike The Phantom Menace?", "What does the critic likely view as the best part of the movie?", "How did the critic likely feel about the email from his wife's relative?", "What problem does The Phantom Menace create for Darth Vader's character?", "Which of the following was a problem with the movie identified by the critic?", "Who does the critic blame for the quality of this movie?", "If the critic had to use one word to describe the movie, which of the following would he likely choose?", "Why does the critic believe that some people will like The Phantom Menace?", "What change does the critic think would have the biggest impact on the quality of the film?", "What missing component of the movie does the critic reference throughout the entire review?" ]	[ [ "Yes, he is building an argument for why people should not like the movie", "Yes, George Lucas does not deserve for people to like the movie", "No, he is only stating why he thinks movie is bad", "No, he does not want to ruin the excitement of movie-goers" ], [ "Pod racing", "Darth Maul", "Special effects", "R2-D2" ], [ "Angry", "Pity", "Frustration", "Happy" ], [ "\"Metachorians\" change his backstory", "Young Anakin building C-3PO", "Young Anakin pod races", "Young Anakin has fear" ], [ "The acting", "The actors", "The effects", "The setting" ], [ "The actors", "The audience", "The director", "The plot" ], [ "Inaccurate", "Boring", "Irrelevant", "Long" ], [ "He does not believe anyone will like it", "Pod racing", "The effects", "Delusion" ], [ "Change the setting", "More writers should have worked on the script", "The acting should be better", "Change the primary villain" ], [ "Emotion", "Action", "Plot", "The Force" ] ]	[ 3, 3, 2, 2, 1, 3, 2, 4, 2, 1 ]	[ 1, 0, 0, 1, 0, 1, 0, 1, 0, 1 ]	[ [ "Look, I wanted to love The Phantom Menace , too. I was an adolescent boy and would enjoy being one again for a couple of hours. But the movie has a way of deflating all but the most delusional of hopes. If someone had given Ed Wood $115 million to remake Plan Nine From Outer Space it might have looked like this, although Wood's dialogue would surely have been more memorable.", "The first thing that will strike you is that George Lucas, who wrote and directed the movie, has forgotten how to write and direct a movie. Having spent the two decades since the original Star Wars (1977) concocting skeletons of screenplays that other people flesh out, and overseeing productions that other people storyboard and stage, he has come to lack what one might Michelangelistically term \"the spark of life.\" If the first Star Wars was a box of Cracker Jacks that was all prizes, The Phantom Menace is a box of Cracker Jacks that's all diagrams of prizes. It's there on paper, but it's waiting to be filled in and jazzed up.", "Still, it's worth reprinting a blistering e-mail sent to my wife by a relative, after she'd let him know that I hated The Phantom Menace : \n\n Surprise, Surprise. Star Wars was never reviewed well by critics. Sometimes a basic story that rests on great special effects and stupid dialogue can be very entertaining--it's called a cult movie, and no critic can have an effect on the obvious outcome that this is going to be the highest grossing movie ever. I myself stood in line for five hours and already have tickets to see it three times, and I know I'll enjoy it. Why? Because it plays on my childhood imagination. And I'm sure it's not as bad as Return of the Jedi , which was the weakest one--but I still liked it and saw it a dozen times. I get tired of being told I'm not going to like it because it doesn't adhere to certain basic critic criteria. I say bpthhhh (sticking my tongue out to review)--don't be sending me anything dissing my movie:):):)", "I'll be curious to know whether he sees The Phantom Menace a dozen times, or even the three for which he has paid. (I could imagine seeing it three times only if they sold adrenaline shots at the concession stand.) Or maybe he'll come out of the movie and say: \"No, you didn't get it, Mr. Snot-Nosed-Criteria Critic Person. It's not supposed to be exciting. It's laying the foundation for the next chapter, when Anakin and Obi-Wan defeat the Mandalorian warriors in the Clone Wars and Anakin marries Queen Amidala. And listen, I'm getting in line even earlier for tickets to Episode 2 . The Force is with me, butt-head.\"", "Dark Side Lite \n\n Those poor souls who've been camping out in front of theaters for six weeks: Who can blame them for saying, \"To hell with the critics, we know it will be great!\"? The doors will open, and they'll race to grab the best seats and feel a surge of triumph as their butts sink down. We've made it: Yeeehaww!! They'll cheer when the familiar John Williams fanfare erupts and the title-- Star Wars Episode 1: The Phantom Menace --rises out of the screen and the backward-slanted opening \"crawl\" begins: \"A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away ...\" Yaaahhhhhhh!!! Then, their hearts pounding, they'll settle back to read the rest of the titles: \"Turmoil has engulfed the Galactic Republic. The taxation of trade routes to outlying star systems is in dispute.\" Taxation of trade routes: Waaahoooo!!!!", "he conceived The Phantom Menace as a Japanese No pageant and has purposely deadened his actors, directing them to stand stiffly in the dead center of the screen against matte paintings of space or some futuristic metropolis and deliver lines", "How long will they go with it? At what point will they realize that what they've heard is, alas, true, that the picture really is a stiff? Maybe they never will. Maybe they'll want to love The \n\n Phantom Menace so much--because they have so much emotional energy invested in loving it, and in buying the books, magazines, dolls, cards, clothes, soap, fast food, etc.--that the realization will never sink in. In successful hypnosis, the subject works to enter a state of heightened susceptibility, to surrender to a higher power. Maybe they'll conclude that common sense is the enemy of the Force and fight it to the death.", "A hologram of Darth Sidious, Dark Lord of the \"Sith,\" commands the Federation to sic its battle droids on the Jedi ambassadors before they can apprise Queen Amidala (Portman) of the imminent invasion of the peaceful planet of Naboo. In come the battle droids and out come the light sabers, which still hum like faulty fluorescents. Clack, clack, clack. Lucas can't edit fight scenes so that they're fluid--he cuts on the clack. You get the gist, though. The Jedi make their getaway, but with gas and tolls and droid destroyers, it takes them over an hour to land on Naboo, by which time the queen and the Galactic Senate have already got the grim message. For one thing, communications have been disrupted: \"A communications disruption can mean only one thing,\" says someone. \"Invasion.\"", "the saga for so many years, the audience was prepared to set aside some of its narrative expectations here to plumb the origins of Lucas' universe. In The Phantom Menace , however, the Jedi already exist and the Force is taken", "The Phantom Menace didn't need to be barren of feeling, but it took a real writer, Lawrence Kasdan ( The", "on the verge of actually thrilling you. The chief villain, bombastically named Darth Maul, is a horned, red, Kabuki-style snake demon with orange pingpong-ball eyes who challenges the Jedi to a couple of clackety light-saber battles. His appearances", "are underscored by demonic chants; he might as well wear a neon beanie that flashes \"Bad Guy.\" Like all revisionist historians, Lucas cheats like mad. If Darth Vader had built C-3PO as a young man, how come he never", "Later in the film, when Anakin goes before something called the Jedi Council and meets Yoda and Samuel L. Jackson (together again!), Lucas dramatizes the interrogation so ineptly that you either have", "unruffled. \"The Force will guide us,\" says Neeson blandly, and the director seems to share his lack of urgency. There's Zen detachment and there's Quaalude detachment, and The Phantom", "for granted--we're still in the middle of the damn story. The only dramatic interest comes from a young Tatooine slave named Anakin Skywalker (Jake Lloyd), whom we know will grow up to father Luke Skywalker (Mark Hamill) and Princess", "been engaged to rewrite him and make the movie halfway human. A buddy specialist would have punched up the Qui-Gon Jinn/Obi-Wan Kenobi badinage, and a black dialogue specialist would have given the comic-relief character, Jar Jar Binks, a", "alternately formal or bemusing. (\"This is an odd move for the Trade Federation.\") Lucas considers himself an \"independent\" filmmaker and an artist of integrity. Had he not been such a pretentious overlord, a platoon of screenwriters would doubtless have", "Menace falls into the second camp: It really does take place a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away. When R2-D2 showed up, I thought: At last, a character with the potential for intimacy!", "in later by computers. \"I don't sense anything,\" he tells his uneasy young apprentice, Obi-Wan Kenobi (McGregor), as the two sit waiting to conduct trade negotiations with a bunch of gray, fish-faced Federation officers who talk like extras in", "Yoda will enlarge his definition of fear in subsequent episodes). There's also some quasireligious, quasiscientific blather to the effect that the boy was conceived without a father by \"metachorians\"--symbiont, microscopic life forms that will speak to you if" ], [ "Yes, the effects are first-rate, occasionally breathtaking. But the floating platforms in the Galactic Senate do little to distract you from parliamentary machinations that play like an especially dull day on Star Trek:", "The first thing that will strike you is that George Lucas, who wrote and directed the movie, has forgotten how to write and direct a movie. Having spent the two decades since the original Star Wars (1977) concocting skeletons of screenplays that other people flesh out, and overseeing productions that other people storyboard and stage, he has come to lack what one might Michelangelistically term \"the spark of life.\" If the first Star Wars was a box of Cracker Jacks that was all prizes, The Phantom Menace is a box of Cracker Jacks that's all diagrams of prizes. It's there on paper, but it's waiting to be filled in and jazzed up.", "Still, it's worth reprinting a blistering e-mail sent to my wife by a relative, after she'd let him know that I hated The Phantom Menace : \n\n Surprise, Surprise. Star Wars was never reviewed well by critics. Sometimes a basic story that rests on great special effects and stupid dialogue can be very entertaining--it's called a cult movie, and no critic can have an effect on the obvious outcome that this is going to be the highest grossing movie ever. I myself stood in line for five hours and already have tickets to see it three times, and I know I'll enjoy it. Why? Because it plays on my childhood imagination. And I'm sure it's not as bad as Return of the Jedi , which was the weakest one--but I still liked it and saw it a dozen times. I get tired of being told I'm not going to like it because it doesn't adhere to certain basic critic criteria. I say bpthhhh (sticking my tongue out to review)--don't be sending me anything dissing my movie:):):)", "I'll be curious to know whether he sees The Phantom Menace a dozen times, or even the three for which he has paid. (I could imagine seeing it three times only if they sold adrenaline shots at the concession stand.) Or maybe he'll come out of the movie and say: \"No, you didn't get it, Mr. Snot-Nosed-Criteria Critic Person. It's not supposed to be exciting. It's laying the foundation for the next chapter, when Anakin and Obi-Wan defeat the Mandalorian warriors in the Clone Wars and Anakin marries Queen Amidala. And listen, I'm getting in line even earlier for tickets to Episode 2 . The Force is with me, butt-head.\"", "Look, I wanted to love The Phantom Menace , too. I was an adolescent boy and would enjoy being one again for a couple of hours. But the movie has a way of deflating all but the most delusional of hopes. If someone had given Ed Wood $115 million to remake Plan Nine From Outer Space it might have looked like this, although Wood's dialogue would surely have been more memorable.", "on the verge of actually thrilling you. The chief villain, bombastically named Darth Maul, is a horned, red, Kabuki-style snake demon with orange pingpong-ball eyes who challenges the Jedi to a couple of clackety light-saber battles. His appearances", "Dark Side Lite \n\n Those poor souls who've been camping out in front of theaters for six weeks: Who can blame them for saying, \"To hell with the critics, we know it will be great!\"? The doors will open, and they'll race to grab the best seats and feel a surge of triumph as their butts sink down. We've made it: Yeeehaww!! They'll cheer when the familiar John Williams fanfare erupts and the title-- Star Wars Episode 1: The Phantom Menace --rises out of the screen and the backward-slanted opening \"crawl\" begins: \"A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away ...\" Yaaahhhhhhh!!! Then, their hearts pounding, they'll settle back to read the rest of the titles: \"Turmoil has engulfed the Galactic Republic. The taxation of trade routes to outlying star systems is in dispute.\" Taxation of trade routes: Waaahoooo!!!!", "a samurai movie. McGregor furrows his brow. \"There's something ... elusive,\" he says, working to enunciate like a young Alec Guinness but succeeding only in nullifying his natural Scots charm. \"Master,\" he adds, \"you said I should be", "from scratch and \"pod racing\"--an activity that he demonstrates in one of the movie's most impressive but irrelevant special effects set pieces, a whiplash hyperdrive permutation of the chariot race in Ben-Hur (1959).", "Big Chill , 1983), to draft the best and most inspiring of the Star Wars movies, The Empire Strikes Back (1980), and a real director, Irvin Kershner, to breathe Wagnerian grandeur into Lucas' cartoonish fantasies. Having lived with", "Say this for Lucas, he doesn't whip up a lot of bogus energy, the way the makers of such blockbusters as The Mummy (1999) and Armageddon (1998) do. It's as if", "How long will they go with it? At what point will they realize that what they've heard is, alas, true, that the picture really is a stiff? Maybe they never will. Maybe they'll want to love The \n\n Phantom Menace so much--because they have so much emotional energy invested in loving it, and in buying the books, magazines, dolls, cards, clothes, soap, fast food, etc.--that the realization will never sink in. In successful hypnosis, the subject works to enter a state of heightened susceptibility, to surrender to a higher power. Maybe they'll conclude that common sense is the enemy of the Force and fight it to the death.", "Later in the film, when Anakin goes before something called the Jedi Council and meets Yoda and Samuel L. Jackson (together again!), Lucas dramatizes the interrogation so ineptly that you either have", "drones. Meanwhile, the Jedi whiz through the underwater core of a planet in a man-of-warlike submersible pursued by 3-D dragony beasties and a giant catfish with extra movable parts. Potentially thrilling stuff, but Neeson and McGregor remain peculiarly", "been engaged to rewrite him and make the movie halfway human. A buddy specialist would have punched up the Qui-Gon Jinn/Obi-Wan Kenobi badinage, and a black dialogue specialist would have given the comic-relief character, Jar Jar Binks, a", "alternately formal or bemusing. (\"This is an odd move for the Trade Federation.\") Lucas considers himself an \"independent\" filmmaker and an artist of integrity. Had he not been such a pretentious overlord, a platoon of screenwriters would doubtless have", "A hologram of Darth Sidious, Dark Lord of the \"Sith,\" commands the Federation to sic its battle droids on the Jedi ambassadors before they can apprise Queen Amidala (Portman) of the imminent invasion of the peaceful planet of Naboo. In come the battle droids and out come the light sabers, which still hum like faulty fluorescents. Clack, clack, clack. Lucas can't edit fight scenes so that they're fluid--he cuts on the clack. You get the gist, though. The Jedi make their getaway, but with gas and tolls and droid destroyers, it takes them over an hour to land on Naboo, by which time the queen and the Galactic Senate have already got the grim message. For one thing, communications have been disrupted: \"A communications disruption can mean only one thing,\" says someone. \"Invasion.\"", "he conceived The Phantom Menace as a Japanese No pageant and has purposely deadened his actors, directing them to stand stiffly in the dead center of the screen against matte paintings of space or some futuristic metropolis and deliver lines", "unruffled. \"The Force will guide us,\" says Neeson blandly, and the director seems to share his lack of urgency. There's Zen detachment and there's Quaalude detachment, and The Phantom", "man-size dinosaur with pop eyes and a vaguely West Indian patois, something fresher than \"Ex-squeeze me!\" and a lot of Butterfly McQueen-style simpering and running away from battles. Those of us who complain about the assembly-line production of" ], [ "Still, it's worth reprinting a blistering e-mail sent to my wife by a relative, after she'd let him know that I hated The Phantom Menace : \n\n Surprise, Surprise. Star Wars was never reviewed well by critics. Sometimes a basic story that rests on great special effects and stupid dialogue can be very entertaining--it's called a cult movie, and no critic can have an effect on the obvious outcome that this is going to be the highest grossing movie ever. I myself stood in line for five hours and already have tickets to see it three times, and I know I'll enjoy it. Why? Because it plays on my childhood imagination. And I'm sure it's not as bad as Return of the Jedi , which was the weakest one--but I still liked it and saw it a dozen times. I get tired of being told I'm not going to like it because it doesn't adhere to certain basic critic criteria. I say bpthhhh (sticking my tongue out to review)--don't be sending me anything dissing my movie:):):)", "mindful of the future.\" Neeson thinks a bit. \"I do sense an unusual amount of fear for something as trivial as this trade dispute.\"", "I'll be curious to know whether he sees The Phantom Menace a dozen times, or even the three for which he has paid. (I could imagine seeing it three times only if they sold adrenaline shots at the concession stand.) Or maybe he'll come out of the movie and say: \"No, you didn't get it, Mr. Snot-Nosed-Criteria Critic Person. It's not supposed to be exciting. It's laying the foundation for the next chapter, when Anakin and Obi-Wan defeat the Mandalorian warriors in the Clone Wars and Anakin marries Queen Amidala. And listen, I'm getting in line even earlier for tickets to Episode 2 . The Force is with me, butt-head.\"", "alternately formal or bemusing. (\"This is an odd move for the Trade Federation.\") Lucas considers himself an \"independent\" filmmaker and an artist of integrity. Had he not been such a pretentious overlord, a platoon of screenwriters would doubtless have", "Dark Side Lite \n\n Those poor souls who've been camping out in front of theaters for six weeks: Who can blame them for saying, \"To hell with the critics, we know it will be great!\"? The doors will open, and they'll race to grab the best seats and feel a surge of triumph as their butts sink down. We've made it: Yeeehaww!! They'll cheer when the familiar John Williams fanfare erupts and the title-- Star Wars Episode 1: The Phantom Menace --rises out of the screen and the backward-slanted opening \"crawl\" begins: \"A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away ...\" Yaaahhhhhhh!!! Then, their hearts pounding, they'll settle back to read the rest of the titles: \"Turmoil has engulfed the Galactic Republic. The taxation of trade routes to outlying star systems is in dispute.\" Taxation of trade routes: Waaahoooo!!!!", "in later by computers. \"I don't sense anything,\" he tells his uneasy young apprentice, Obi-Wan Kenobi (McGregor), as the two sit waiting to conduct trade negotiations with a bunch of gray, fish-faced Federation officers who talk like extras in", "How long will they go with it? At what point will they realize that what they've heard is, alas, true, that the picture really is a stiff? Maybe they never will. Maybe they'll want to love The \n\n Phantom Menace so much--because they have so much emotional energy invested in loving it, and in buying the books, magazines, dolls, cards, clothes, soap, fast food, etc.--that the realization will never sink in. In successful hypnosis, the subject works to enter a state of heightened susceptibility, to surrender to a higher power. Maybe they'll conclude that common sense is the enemy of the Force and fight it to the death.", "are underscored by demonic chants; he might as well wear a neon beanie that flashes \"Bad Guy.\" Like all revisionist historians, Lucas cheats like mad. If Darth Vader had built C-3PO as a young man, how come he never", "on the verge of actually thrilling you. The chief villain, bombastically named Darth Maul, is a horned, red, Kabuki-style snake demon with orange pingpong-ball eyes who challenges the Jedi to a couple of clackety light-saber battles. His appearances", "man-size dinosaur with pop eyes and a vaguely West Indian patois, something fresher than \"Ex-squeeze me!\" and a lot of Butterfly McQueen-style simpering and running away from battles. Those of us who complain about the assembly-line production of", "Menace falls into the second camp: It really does take place a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away. When R2-D2 showed up, I thought: At last, a character with the potential for intimacy!", "A hologram of Darth Sidious, Dark Lord of the \"Sith,\" commands the Federation to sic its battle droids on the Jedi ambassadors before they can apprise Queen Amidala (Portman) of the imminent invasion of the peaceful planet of Naboo. In come the battle droids and out come the light sabers, which still hum like faulty fluorescents. Clack, clack, clack. Lucas can't edit fight scenes so that they're fluid--he cuts on the clack. You get the gist, though. The Jedi make their getaway, but with gas and tolls and droid destroyers, it takes them over an hour to land on Naboo, by which time the queen and the Galactic Senate have already got the grim message. For one thing, communications have been disrupted: \"A communications disruption can mean only one thing,\" says someone. \"Invasion.\"", "unruffled. \"The Force will guide us,\" says Neeson blandly, and the director seems to share his lack of urgency. There's Zen detachment and there's Quaalude detachment, and The Phantom", "for granted--we're still in the middle of the damn story. The only dramatic interest comes from a young Tatooine slave named Anakin Skywalker (Jake Lloyd), whom we know will grow up to father Luke Skywalker (Mark Hamill) and Princess", "smugly, has fear in him, and fear leads to anger and anger to the dark side--which would mean, as I interpret it, that only people without fear (i.e., people who don't exist) are suitable candidates for Jedi knighthood (perhaps", "The first thing that will strike you is that George Lucas, who wrote and directed the movie, has forgotten how to write and direct a movie. Having spent the two decades since the original Star Wars (1977) concocting skeletons of screenplays that other people flesh out, and overseeing productions that other people storyboard and stage, he has come to lack what one might Michelangelistically term \"the spark of life.\" If the first Star Wars was a box of Cracker Jacks that was all prizes, The Phantom Menace is a box of Cracker Jacks that's all diagrams of prizes. It's there on paper, but it's waiting to be filled in and jazzed up.", "Later in the film, when Anakin goes before something called the Jedi Council and meets Yoda and Samuel L. Jackson (together again!), Lucas dramatizes the interrogation so ineptly that you either have", "theory that subjects won't argue with a ruler who puts them to sleep: \"I ... will ... not ... condone ... a ... course ... of ... action ... that ... will ... lead ... us ... to ... war,\" she", "been engaged to rewrite him and make the movie halfway human. A buddy specialist would have punched up the Qui-Gon Jinn/Obi-Wan Kenobi badinage, and a black dialogue specialist would have given the comic-relief character, Jar Jar Binks, a", "he conceived The Phantom Menace as a Japanese No pageant and has purposely deadened his actors, directing them to stand stiffly in the dead center of the screen against matte paintings of space or some futuristic metropolis and deliver lines" ], [ "A hologram of Darth Sidious, Dark Lord of the \"Sith,\" commands the Federation to sic its battle droids on the Jedi ambassadors before they can apprise Queen Amidala (Portman) of the imminent invasion of the peaceful planet of Naboo. In come the battle droids and out come the light sabers, which still hum like faulty fluorescents. Clack, clack, clack. Lucas can't edit fight scenes so that they're fluid--he cuts on the clack. You get the gist, though. The Jedi make their getaway, but with gas and tolls and droid destroyers, it takes them over an hour to land on Naboo, by which time the queen and the Galactic Senate have already got the grim message. For one thing, communications have been disrupted: \"A communications disruption can mean only one thing,\" says someone. \"Invasion.\"", "The first thing that will strike you is that George Lucas, who wrote and directed the movie, has forgotten how to write and direct a movie. Having spent the two decades since the original Star Wars (1977) concocting skeletons of screenplays that other people flesh out, and overseeing productions that other people storyboard and stage, he has come to lack what one might Michelangelistically term \"the spark of life.\" If the first Star Wars was a box of Cracker Jacks that was all prizes, The Phantom Menace is a box of Cracker Jacks that's all diagrams of prizes. It's there on paper, but it's waiting to be filled in and jazzed up.", "the saga for so many years, the audience was prepared to set aside some of its narrative expectations here to plumb the origins of Lucas' universe. In The Phantom Menace , however, the Jedi already exist and the Force is taken", "Leia (Carrie Fisher) and then surrender to the dark side of the Force and become Darth Vader. But that transformation won't happen until the third episode; meanwhile, Anakin is a conventionally industrious juvenile with a penchant for building droids", "are underscored by demonic chants; he might as well wear a neon beanie that flashes \"Bad Guy.\" Like all revisionist historians, Lucas cheats like mad. If Darth Vader had built C-3PO as a young man, how come he never", "on the verge of actually thrilling you. The chief villain, bombastically named Darth Maul, is a horned, red, Kabuki-style snake demon with orange pingpong-ball eyes who challenges the Jedi to a couple of clackety light-saber battles. His appearances", "The Phantom Menace didn't need to be barren of feeling, but it took a real writer, Lawrence Kasdan ( The", "for granted--we're still in the middle of the damn story. The only dramatic interest comes from a young Tatooine slave named Anakin Skywalker (Jake Lloyd), whom we know will grow up to father Luke Skywalker (Mark Hamill) and Princess", "Look, I wanted to love The Phantom Menace , too. I was an adolescent boy and would enjoy being one again for a couple of hours. But the movie has a way of deflating all but the most delusional of hopes. If someone had given Ed Wood $115 million to remake Plan Nine From Outer Space it might have looked like this, although Wood's dialogue would surely have been more memorable.", "he conceived The Phantom Menace as a Japanese No pageant and has purposely deadened his actors, directing them to stand stiffly in the dead center of the screen against matte paintings of space or some futuristic metropolis and deliver lines", "Menace falls into the second camp: It really does take place a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away. When R2-D2 showed up, I thought: At last, a character with the potential for intimacy!", "Later in the film, when Anakin goes before something called the Jedi Council and meets Yoda and Samuel L. Jackson (together again!), Lucas dramatizes the interrogation so ineptly that you either have", "Yoda will enlarge his definition of fear in subsequent episodes). There's also some quasireligious, quasiscientific blather to the effect that the boy was conceived without a father by \"metachorians\"--symbiont, microscopic life forms that will speak to you if", "I'll be curious to know whether he sees The Phantom Menace a dozen times, or even the three for which he has paid. (I could imagine seeing it three times only if they sold adrenaline shots at the concession stand.) Or maybe he'll come out of the movie and say: \"No, you didn't get it, Mr. Snot-Nosed-Criteria Critic Person. It's not supposed to be exciting. It's laying the foundation for the next chapter, when Anakin and Obi-Wan defeat the Mandalorian warriors in the Clone Wars and Anakin marries Queen Amidala. And listen, I'm getting in line even earlier for tickets to Episode 2 . The Force is with me, butt-head.\"", "Dark Side Lite \n\n Those poor souls who've been camping out in front of theaters for six weeks: Who can blame them for saying, \"To hell with the critics, we know it will be great!\"? The doors will open, and they'll race to grab the best seats and feel a surge of triumph as their butts sink down. We've made it: Yeeehaww!! They'll cheer when the familiar John Williams fanfare erupts and the title-- Star Wars Episode 1: The Phantom Menace --rises out of the screen and the backward-slanted opening \"crawl\" begins: \"A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away ...\" Yaaahhhhhhh!!! Then, their hearts pounding, they'll settle back to read the rest of the titles: \"Turmoil has engulfed the Galactic Republic. The taxation of trade routes to outlying star systems is in dispute.\" Taxation of trade routes: Waaahoooo!!!!", "How long will they go with it? At what point will they realize that what they've heard is, alas, true, that the picture really is a stiff? Maybe they never will. Maybe they'll want to love The \n\n Phantom Menace so much--because they have so much emotional energy invested in loving it, and in buying the books, magazines, dolls, cards, clothes, soap, fast food, etc.--that the realization will never sink in. In successful hypnosis, the subject works to enter a state of heightened susceptibility, to surrender to a higher power. Maybe they'll conclude that common sense is the enemy of the Force and fight it to the death.", "in later by computers. \"I don't sense anything,\" he tells his uneasy young apprentice, Obi-Wan Kenobi (McGregor), as the two sit waiting to conduct trade negotiations with a bunch of gray, fish-faced Federation officers who talk like extras in", "to take Yoda's word that there's something wrong with the boy (\"Clouded this boy's future is\") or to conclude that Yoda, like us, is moving backward through time and has already seen Episodes 4 through 6. Anakin, he says", "been engaged to rewrite him and make the movie halfway human. A buddy specialist would have punched up the Qui-Gon Jinn/Obi-Wan Kenobi badinage, and a black dialogue specialist would have given the comic-relief character, Jar Jar Binks, a", "smugly, has fear in him, and fear leads to anger and anger to the dark side--which would mean, as I interpret it, that only people without fear (i.e., people who don't exist) are suitable candidates for Jedi knighthood (perhaps" ], [ "The first thing that will strike you is that George Lucas, who wrote and directed the movie, has forgotten how to write and direct a movie. Having spent the two decades since the original Star Wars (1977) concocting skeletons of screenplays that other people flesh out, and overseeing productions that other people storyboard and stage, he has come to lack what one might Michelangelistically term \"the spark of life.\" If the first Star Wars was a box of Cracker Jacks that was all prizes, The Phantom Menace is a box of Cracker Jacks that's all diagrams of prizes. It's there on paper, but it's waiting to be filled in and jazzed up.", "a samurai movie. McGregor furrows his brow. \"There's something ... elusive,\" he says, working to enunciate like a young Alec Guinness but succeeding only in nullifying his natural Scots charm. \"Master,\" he adds, \"you said I should be", "Still, it's worth reprinting a blistering e-mail sent to my wife by a relative, after she'd let him know that I hated The Phantom Menace : \n\n Surprise, Surprise. Star Wars was never reviewed well by critics. Sometimes a basic story that rests on great special effects and stupid dialogue can be very entertaining--it's called a cult movie, and no critic can have an effect on the obvious outcome that this is going to be the highest grossing movie ever. I myself stood in line for five hours and already have tickets to see it three times, and I know I'll enjoy it. Why? Because it plays on my childhood imagination. And I'm sure it's not as bad as Return of the Jedi , which was the weakest one--but I still liked it and saw it a dozen times. I get tired of being told I'm not going to like it because it doesn't adhere to certain basic critic criteria. I say bpthhhh (sticking my tongue out to review)--don't be sending me anything dissing my movie:):):)", "Look, I wanted to love The Phantom Menace , too. I was an adolescent boy and would enjoy being one again for a couple of hours. But the movie has a way of deflating all but the most delusional of hopes. If someone had given Ed Wood $115 million to remake Plan Nine From Outer Space it might have looked like this, although Wood's dialogue would surely have been more memorable.", "been engaged to rewrite him and make the movie halfway human. A buddy specialist would have punched up the Qui-Gon Jinn/Obi-Wan Kenobi badinage, and a black dialogue specialist would have given the comic-relief character, Jar Jar Binks, a", "man-size dinosaur with pop eyes and a vaguely West Indian patois, something fresher than \"Ex-squeeze me!\" and a lot of Butterfly McQueen-style simpering and running away from battles. Those of us who complain about the assembly-line production of", "on the verge of actually thrilling you. The chief villain, bombastically named Darth Maul, is a horned, red, Kabuki-style snake demon with orange pingpong-ball eyes who challenges the Jedi to a couple of clackety light-saber battles. His appearances", "I'll be curious to know whether he sees The Phantom Menace a dozen times, or even the three for which he has paid. (I could imagine seeing it three times only if they sold adrenaline shots at the concession stand.) Or maybe he'll come out of the movie and say: \"No, you didn't get it, Mr. Snot-Nosed-Criteria Critic Person. It's not supposed to be exciting. It's laying the foundation for the next chapter, when Anakin and Obi-Wan defeat the Mandalorian warriors in the Clone Wars and Anakin marries Queen Amidala. And listen, I'm getting in line even earlier for tickets to Episode 2 . The Force is with me, butt-head.\"", "Later in the film, when Anakin goes before something called the Jedi Council and meets Yoda and Samuel L. Jackson (together again!), Lucas dramatizes the interrogation so ineptly that you either have", "he conceived The Phantom Menace as a Japanese No pageant and has purposely deadened his actors, directing them to stand stiffly in the dead center of the screen against matte paintings of space or some futuristic metropolis and deliver lines", "unruffled. \"The Force will guide us,\" says Neeson blandly, and the director seems to share his lack of urgency. There's Zen detachment and there's Quaalude detachment, and The Phantom", "A hologram of Darth Sidious, Dark Lord of the \"Sith,\" commands the Federation to sic its battle droids on the Jedi ambassadors before they can apprise Queen Amidala (Portman) of the imminent invasion of the peaceful planet of Naboo. In come the battle droids and out come the light sabers, which still hum like faulty fluorescents. Clack, clack, clack. Lucas can't edit fight scenes so that they're fluid--he cuts on the clack. You get the gist, though. The Jedi make their getaway, but with gas and tolls and droid destroyers, it takes them over an hour to land on Naboo, by which time the queen and the Galactic Senate have already got the grim message. For one thing, communications have been disrupted: \"A communications disruption can mean only one thing,\" says someone. \"Invasion.\"", "Yes, the effects are first-rate, occasionally breathtaking. But the floating platforms in the Galactic Senate do little to distract you from parliamentary machinations that play like an especially dull day on Star Trek:", "Dark Side Lite \n\n Those poor souls who've been camping out in front of theaters for six weeks: Who can blame them for saying, \"To hell with the critics, we know it will be great!\"? The doors will open, and they'll race to grab the best seats and feel a surge of triumph as their butts sink down. We've made it: Yeeehaww!! They'll cheer when the familiar John Williams fanfare erupts and the title-- Star Wars Episode 1: The Phantom Menace --rises out of the screen and the backward-slanted opening \"crawl\" begins: \"A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away ...\" Yaaahhhhhhh!!! Then, their hearts pounding, they'll settle back to read the rest of the titles: \"Turmoil has engulfed the Galactic Republic. The taxation of trade routes to outlying star systems is in dispute.\" Taxation of trade routes: Waaahoooo!!!!", "from scratch and \"pod racing\"--an activity that he demonstrates in one of the movie's most impressive but irrelevant special effects set pieces, a whiplash hyperdrive permutation of the chariot race in Ben-Hur (1959).", "How long will they go with it? At what point will they realize that what they've heard is, alas, true, that the picture really is a stiff? Maybe they never will. Maybe they'll want to love The \n\n Phantom Menace so much--because they have so much emotional energy invested in loving it, and in buying the books, magazines, dolls, cards, clothes, soap, fast food, etc.--that the realization will never sink in. In successful hypnosis, the subject works to enter a state of heightened susceptibility, to surrender to a higher power. Maybe they'll conclude that common sense is the enemy of the Force and fight it to the death.", "Advance word has been cruel to the actors, but advance word has it only half right. Yes, they're terrible, but Liam Neeson, Ewan McGregor, and Natalie Portman are not terrible actors, they've", "The Phantom Menace didn't need to be barren of feeling, but it took a real writer, Lawrence Kasdan ( The", "alternately formal or bemusing. (\"This is an odd move for the Trade Federation.\") Lucas considers himself an \"independent\" filmmaker and an artist of integrity. Had he not been such a pretentious overlord, a platoon of screenwriters would doubtless have", "Say this for Lucas, he doesn't whip up a lot of bogus energy, the way the makers of such blockbusters as The Mummy (1999) and Armageddon (1998) do. It's as if" ], [ "The first thing that will strike you is that George Lucas, who wrote and directed the movie, has forgotten how to write and direct a movie. Having spent the two decades since the original Star Wars (1977) concocting skeletons of screenplays that other people flesh out, and overseeing productions that other people storyboard and stage, he has come to lack what one might Michelangelistically term \"the spark of life.\" If the first Star Wars was a box of Cracker Jacks that was all prizes, The Phantom Menace is a box of Cracker Jacks that's all diagrams of prizes. It's there on paper, but it's waiting to be filled in and jazzed up.", "Still, it's worth reprinting a blistering e-mail sent to my wife by a relative, after she'd let him know that I hated The Phantom Menace : \n\n Surprise, Surprise. Star Wars was never reviewed well by critics. Sometimes a basic story that rests on great special effects and stupid dialogue can be very entertaining--it's called a cult movie, and no critic can have an effect on the obvious outcome that this is going to be the highest grossing movie ever. I myself stood in line for five hours and already have tickets to see it three times, and I know I'll enjoy it. Why? Because it plays on my childhood imagination. And I'm sure it's not as bad as Return of the Jedi , which was the weakest one--but I still liked it and saw it a dozen times. I get tired of being told I'm not going to like it because it doesn't adhere to certain basic critic criteria. I say bpthhhh (sticking my tongue out to review)--don't be sending me anything dissing my movie:):):)", "Look, I wanted to love The Phantom Menace , too. I was an adolescent boy and would enjoy being one again for a couple of hours. But the movie has a way of deflating all but the most delusional of hopes. If someone had given Ed Wood $115 million to remake Plan Nine From Outer Space it might have looked like this, although Wood's dialogue would surely have been more memorable.", "Advance word has been cruel to the actors, but advance word has it only half right. Yes, they're terrible, but Liam Neeson, Ewan McGregor, and Natalie Portman are not terrible actors, they've", "I'll be curious to know whether he sees The Phantom Menace a dozen times, or even the three for which he has paid. (I could imagine seeing it three times only if they sold adrenaline shots at the concession stand.) Or maybe he'll come out of the movie and say: \"No, you didn't get it, Mr. Snot-Nosed-Criteria Critic Person. It's not supposed to be exciting. It's laying the foundation for the next chapter, when Anakin and Obi-Wan defeat the Mandalorian warriors in the Clone Wars and Anakin marries Queen Amidala. And listen, I'm getting in line even earlier for tickets to Episode 2 . The Force is with me, butt-head.\"", "Later in the film, when Anakin goes before something called the Jedi Council and meets Yoda and Samuel L. Jackson (together again!), Lucas dramatizes the interrogation so ineptly that you either have", "Dark Side Lite \n\n Those poor souls who've been camping out in front of theaters for six weeks: Who can blame them for saying, \"To hell with the critics, we know it will be great!\"? The doors will open, and they'll race to grab the best seats and feel a surge of triumph as their butts sink down. We've made it: Yeeehaww!! They'll cheer when the familiar John Williams fanfare erupts and the title-- Star Wars Episode 1: The Phantom Menace --rises out of the screen and the backward-slanted opening \"crawl\" begins: \"A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away ...\" Yaaahhhhhhh!!! Then, their hearts pounding, they'll settle back to read the rest of the titles: \"Turmoil has engulfed the Galactic Republic. The taxation of trade routes to outlying star systems is in dispute.\" Taxation of trade routes: Waaahoooo!!!!", "Say this for Lucas, he doesn't whip up a lot of bogus energy, the way the makers of such blockbusters as The Mummy (1999) and Armageddon (1998) do. It's as if", "alternately formal or bemusing. (\"This is an odd move for the Trade Federation.\") Lucas considers himself an \"independent\" filmmaker and an artist of integrity. Had he not been such a pretentious overlord, a platoon of screenwriters would doubtless have", "How long will they go with it? At what point will they realize that what they've heard is, alas, true, that the picture really is a stiff? Maybe they never will. Maybe they'll want to love The \n\n Phantom Menace so much--because they have so much emotional energy invested in loving it, and in buying the books, magazines, dolls, cards, clothes, soap, fast food, etc.--that the realization will never sink in. In successful hypnosis, the subject works to enter a state of heightened susceptibility, to surrender to a higher power. Maybe they'll conclude that common sense is the enemy of the Force and fight it to the death.", "A hologram of Darth Sidious, Dark Lord of the \"Sith,\" commands the Federation to sic its battle droids on the Jedi ambassadors before they can apprise Queen Amidala (Portman) of the imminent invasion of the peaceful planet of Naboo. In come the battle droids and out come the light sabers, which still hum like faulty fluorescents. Clack, clack, clack. Lucas can't edit fight scenes so that they're fluid--he cuts on the clack. You get the gist, though. The Jedi make their getaway, but with gas and tolls and droid destroyers, it takes them over an hour to land on Naboo, by which time the queen and the Galactic Senate have already got the grim message. For one thing, communications have been disrupted: \"A communications disruption can mean only one thing,\" says someone. \"Invasion.\"", "he conceived The Phantom Menace as a Japanese No pageant and has purposely deadened his actors, directing them to stand stiffly in the dead center of the screen against matte paintings of space or some futuristic metropolis and deliver lines", "been engaged to rewrite him and make the movie halfway human. A buddy specialist would have punched up the Qui-Gon Jinn/Obi-Wan Kenobi badinage, and a black dialogue specialist would have given the comic-relief character, Jar Jar Binks, a", "Yes, the effects are first-rate, occasionally breathtaking. But the floating platforms in the Galactic Senate do little to distract you from parliamentary machinations that play like an especially dull day on Star Trek:", "a samurai movie. McGregor furrows his brow. \"There's something ... elusive,\" he says, working to enunciate like a young Alec Guinness but succeeding only in nullifying his natural Scots charm. \"Master,\" he adds, \"you said I should be", "unruffled. \"The Force will guide us,\" says Neeson blandly, and the director seems to share his lack of urgency. There's Zen detachment and there's Quaalude detachment, and The Phantom", "man-size dinosaur with pop eyes and a vaguely West Indian patois, something fresher than \"Ex-squeeze me!\" and a lot of Butterfly McQueen-style simpering and running away from battles. Those of us who complain about the assembly-line production of", "on the verge of actually thrilling you. The chief villain, bombastically named Darth Maul, is a horned, red, Kabuki-style snake demon with orange pingpong-ball eyes who challenges the Jedi to a couple of clackety light-saber battles. His appearances", "are underscored by demonic chants; he might as well wear a neon beanie that flashes \"Bad Guy.\" Like all revisionist historians, Lucas cheats like mad. If Darth Vader had built C-3PO as a young man, how come he never", "Big Chill , 1983), to draft the best and most inspiring of the Star Wars movies, The Empire Strikes Back (1980), and a real director, Irvin Kershner, to breathe Wagnerian grandeur into Lucas' cartoonish fantasies. Having lived with" ], [ "alternately formal or bemusing. (\"This is an odd move for the Trade Federation.\") Lucas considers himself an \"independent\" filmmaker and an artist of integrity. Had he not been such a pretentious overlord, a platoon of screenwriters would doubtless have", "a samurai movie. McGregor furrows his brow. \"There's something ... elusive,\" he says, working to enunciate like a young Alec Guinness but succeeding only in nullifying his natural Scots charm. \"Master,\" he adds, \"you said I should be", "The first thing that will strike you is that George Lucas, who wrote and directed the movie, has forgotten how to write and direct a movie. Having spent the two decades since the original Star Wars (1977) concocting skeletons of screenplays that other people flesh out, and overseeing productions that other people storyboard and stage, he has come to lack what one might Michelangelistically term \"the spark of life.\" If the first Star Wars was a box of Cracker Jacks that was all prizes, The Phantom Menace is a box of Cracker Jacks that's all diagrams of prizes. It's there on paper, but it's waiting to be filled in and jazzed up.", "I'll be curious to know whether he sees The Phantom Menace a dozen times, or even the three for which he has paid. (I could imagine seeing it three times only if they sold adrenaline shots at the concession stand.) Or maybe he'll come out of the movie and say: \"No, you didn't get it, Mr. Snot-Nosed-Criteria Critic Person. It's not supposed to be exciting. It's laying the foundation for the next chapter, when Anakin and Obi-Wan defeat the Mandalorian warriors in the Clone Wars and Anakin marries Queen Amidala. And listen, I'm getting in line even earlier for tickets to Episode 2 . The Force is with me, butt-head.\"", "on the verge of actually thrilling you. The chief villain, bombastically named Darth Maul, is a horned, red, Kabuki-style snake demon with orange pingpong-ball eyes who challenges the Jedi to a couple of clackety light-saber battles. His appearances", "Still, it's worth reprinting a blistering e-mail sent to my wife by a relative, after she'd let him know that I hated The Phantom Menace : \n\n Surprise, Surprise. Star Wars was never reviewed well by critics. Sometimes a basic story that rests on great special effects and stupid dialogue can be very entertaining--it's called a cult movie, and no critic can have an effect on the obvious outcome that this is going to be the highest grossing movie ever. I myself stood in line for five hours and already have tickets to see it three times, and I know I'll enjoy it. Why? Because it plays on my childhood imagination. And I'm sure it's not as bad as Return of the Jedi , which was the weakest one--but I still liked it and saw it a dozen times. I get tired of being told I'm not going to like it because it doesn't adhere to certain basic critic criteria. I say bpthhhh (sticking my tongue out to review)--don't be sending me anything dissing my movie:):):)", "Look, I wanted to love The Phantom Menace , too. I was an adolescent boy and would enjoy being one again for a couple of hours. But the movie has a way of deflating all but the most delusional of hopes. If someone had given Ed Wood $115 million to remake Plan Nine From Outer Space it might have looked like this, although Wood's dialogue would surely have been more memorable.", "Dark Side Lite \n\n Those poor souls who've been camping out in front of theaters for six weeks: Who can blame them for saying, \"To hell with the critics, we know it will be great!\"? The doors will open, and they'll race to grab the best seats and feel a surge of triumph as their butts sink down. We've made it: Yeeehaww!! They'll cheer when the familiar John Williams fanfare erupts and the title-- Star Wars Episode 1: The Phantom Menace --rises out of the screen and the backward-slanted opening \"crawl\" begins: \"A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away ...\" Yaaahhhhhhh!!! Then, their hearts pounding, they'll settle back to read the rest of the titles: \"Turmoil has engulfed the Galactic Republic. The taxation of trade routes to outlying star systems is in dispute.\" Taxation of trade routes: Waaahoooo!!!!", "man-size dinosaur with pop eyes and a vaguely West Indian patois, something fresher than \"Ex-squeeze me!\" and a lot of Butterfly McQueen-style simpering and running away from battles. Those of us who complain about the assembly-line production of", "unruffled. \"The Force will guide us,\" says Neeson blandly, and the director seems to share his lack of urgency. There's Zen detachment and there's Quaalude detachment, and The Phantom", "he conceived The Phantom Menace as a Japanese No pageant and has purposely deadened his actors, directing them to stand stiffly in the dead center of the screen against matte paintings of space or some futuristic metropolis and deliver lines", "How long will they go with it? At what point will they realize that what they've heard is, alas, true, that the picture really is a stiff? Maybe they never will. Maybe they'll want to love The \n\n Phantom Menace so much--because they have so much emotional energy invested in loving it, and in buying the books, magazines, dolls, cards, clothes, soap, fast food, etc.--that the realization will never sink in. In successful hypnosis, the subject works to enter a state of heightened susceptibility, to surrender to a higher power. Maybe they'll conclude that common sense is the enemy of the Force and fight it to the death.", "been engaged to rewrite him and make the movie halfway human. A buddy specialist would have punched up the Qui-Gon Jinn/Obi-Wan Kenobi badinage, and a black dialogue specialist would have given the comic-relief character, Jar Jar Binks, a", "Yes, the effects are first-rate, occasionally breathtaking. But the floating platforms in the Galactic Senate do little to distract you from parliamentary machinations that play like an especially dull day on Star Trek:", "from scratch and \"pod racing\"--an activity that he demonstrates in one of the movie's most impressive but irrelevant special effects set pieces, a whiplash hyperdrive permutation of the chariot race in Ben-Hur (1959).", "A hologram of Darth Sidious, Dark Lord of the \"Sith,\" commands the Federation to sic its battle droids on the Jedi ambassadors before they can apprise Queen Amidala (Portman) of the imminent invasion of the peaceful planet of Naboo. In come the battle droids and out come the light sabers, which still hum like faulty fluorescents. Clack, clack, clack. Lucas can't edit fight scenes so that they're fluid--he cuts on the clack. You get the gist, though. The Jedi make their getaway, but with gas and tolls and droid destroyers, it takes them over an hour to land on Naboo, by which time the queen and the Galactic Senate have already got the grim message. For one thing, communications have been disrupted: \"A communications disruption can mean only one thing,\" says someone. \"Invasion.\"", "Advance word has been cruel to the actors, but advance word has it only half right. Yes, they're terrible, but Liam Neeson, Ewan McGregor, and Natalie Portman are not terrible actors, they've", "Say this for Lucas, he doesn't whip up a lot of bogus energy, the way the makers of such blockbusters as The Mummy (1999) and Armageddon (1998) do. It's as if", "are underscored by demonic chants; he might as well wear a neon beanie that flashes \"Bad Guy.\" Like all revisionist historians, Lucas cheats like mad. If Darth Vader had built C-3PO as a young man, how come he never", "Later in the film, when Anakin goes before something called the Jedi Council and meets Yoda and Samuel L. Jackson (together again!), Lucas dramatizes the interrogation so ineptly that you either have" ], [ "I'll be curious to know whether he sees The Phantom Menace a dozen times, or even the three for which he has paid. (I could imagine seeing it three times only if they sold adrenaline shots at the concession stand.) Or maybe he'll come out of the movie and say: \"No, you didn't get it, Mr. Snot-Nosed-Criteria Critic Person. It's not supposed to be exciting. It's laying the foundation for the next chapter, when Anakin and Obi-Wan defeat the Mandalorian warriors in the Clone Wars and Anakin marries Queen Amidala. And listen, I'm getting in line even earlier for tickets to Episode 2 . The Force is with me, butt-head.\"", "Still, it's worth reprinting a blistering e-mail sent to my wife by a relative, after she'd let him know that I hated The Phantom Menace : \n\n Surprise, Surprise. Star Wars was never reviewed well by critics. Sometimes a basic story that rests on great special effects and stupid dialogue can be very entertaining--it's called a cult movie, and no critic can have an effect on the obvious outcome that this is going to be the highest grossing movie ever. I myself stood in line for five hours and already have tickets to see it three times, and I know I'll enjoy it. Why? Because it plays on my childhood imagination. And I'm sure it's not as bad as Return of the Jedi , which was the weakest one--but I still liked it and saw it a dozen times. I get tired of being told I'm not going to like it because it doesn't adhere to certain basic critic criteria. I say bpthhhh (sticking my tongue out to review)--don't be sending me anything dissing my movie:):):)", "How long will they go with it? At what point will they realize that what they've heard is, alas, true, that the picture really is a stiff? Maybe they never will. Maybe they'll want to love The \n\n Phantom Menace so much--because they have so much emotional energy invested in loving it, and in buying the books, magazines, dolls, cards, clothes, soap, fast food, etc.--that the realization will never sink in. In successful hypnosis, the subject works to enter a state of heightened susceptibility, to surrender to a higher power. Maybe they'll conclude that common sense is the enemy of the Force and fight it to the death.", "The first thing that will strike you is that George Lucas, who wrote and directed the movie, has forgotten how to write and direct a movie. Having spent the two decades since the original Star Wars (1977) concocting skeletons of screenplays that other people flesh out, and overseeing productions that other people storyboard and stage, he has come to lack what one might Michelangelistically term \"the spark of life.\" If the first Star Wars was a box of Cracker Jacks that was all prizes, The Phantom Menace is a box of Cracker Jacks that's all diagrams of prizes. It's there on paper, but it's waiting to be filled in and jazzed up.", "Look, I wanted to love The Phantom Menace , too. I was an adolescent boy and would enjoy being one again for a couple of hours. But the movie has a way of deflating all but the most delusional of hopes. If someone had given Ed Wood $115 million to remake Plan Nine From Outer Space it might have looked like this, although Wood's dialogue would surely have been more memorable.", "Dark Side Lite \n\n Those poor souls who've been camping out in front of theaters for six weeks: Who can blame them for saying, \"To hell with the critics, we know it will be great!\"? The doors will open, and they'll race to grab the best seats and feel a surge of triumph as their butts sink down. We've made it: Yeeehaww!! They'll cheer when the familiar John Williams fanfare erupts and the title-- Star Wars Episode 1: The Phantom Menace --rises out of the screen and the backward-slanted opening \"crawl\" begins: \"A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away ...\" Yaaahhhhhhh!!! Then, their hearts pounding, they'll settle back to read the rest of the titles: \"Turmoil has engulfed the Galactic Republic. The taxation of trade routes to outlying star systems is in dispute.\" Taxation of trade routes: Waaahoooo!!!!", "the saga for so many years, the audience was prepared to set aside some of its narrative expectations here to plumb the origins of Lucas' universe. In The Phantom Menace , however, the Jedi already exist and the Force is taken", "on the verge of actually thrilling you. The chief villain, bombastically named Darth Maul, is a horned, red, Kabuki-style snake demon with orange pingpong-ball eyes who challenges the Jedi to a couple of clackety light-saber battles. His appearances", "The Phantom Menace didn't need to be barren of feeling, but it took a real writer, Lawrence Kasdan ( The", "he conceived The Phantom Menace as a Japanese No pageant and has purposely deadened his actors, directing them to stand stiffly in the dead center of the screen against matte paintings of space or some futuristic metropolis and deliver lines", "A hologram of Darth Sidious, Dark Lord of the \"Sith,\" commands the Federation to sic its battle droids on the Jedi ambassadors before they can apprise Queen Amidala (Portman) of the imminent invasion of the peaceful planet of Naboo. In come the battle droids and out come the light sabers, which still hum like faulty fluorescents. Clack, clack, clack. Lucas can't edit fight scenes so that they're fluid--he cuts on the clack. You get the gist, though. The Jedi make their getaway, but with gas and tolls and droid destroyers, it takes them over an hour to land on Naboo, by which time the queen and the Galactic Senate have already got the grim message. For one thing, communications have been disrupted: \"A communications disruption can mean only one thing,\" says someone. \"Invasion.\"", "for granted--we're still in the middle of the damn story. The only dramatic interest comes from a young Tatooine slave named Anakin Skywalker (Jake Lloyd), whom we know will grow up to father Luke Skywalker (Mark Hamill) and Princess", "unruffled. \"The Force will guide us,\" says Neeson blandly, and the director seems to share his lack of urgency. There's Zen detachment and there's Quaalude detachment, and The Phantom", "Yes, the effects are first-rate, occasionally breathtaking. But the floating platforms in the Galactic Senate do little to distract you from parliamentary machinations that play like an especially dull day on Star Trek:", "been engaged to rewrite him and make the movie halfway human. A buddy specialist would have punched up the Qui-Gon Jinn/Obi-Wan Kenobi badinage, and a black dialogue specialist would have given the comic-relief character, Jar Jar Binks, a", "Say this for Lucas, he doesn't whip up a lot of bogus energy, the way the makers of such blockbusters as The Mummy (1999) and Armageddon (1998) do. It's as if", "alternately formal or bemusing. (\"This is an odd move for the Trade Federation.\") Lucas considers himself an \"independent\" filmmaker and an artist of integrity. Had he not been such a pretentious overlord, a platoon of screenwriters would doubtless have", "Later in the film, when Anakin goes before something called the Jedi Council and meets Yoda and Samuel L. Jackson (together again!), Lucas dramatizes the interrogation so ineptly that you either have", "Menace falls into the second camp: It really does take place a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away. When R2-D2 showed up, I thought: At last, a character with the potential for intimacy!", "are underscored by demonic chants; he might as well wear a neon beanie that flashes \"Bad Guy.\" Like all revisionist historians, Lucas cheats like mad. If Darth Vader had built C-3PO as a young man, how come he never" ], [ "been engaged to rewrite him and make the movie halfway human. A buddy specialist would have punched up the Qui-Gon Jinn/Obi-Wan Kenobi badinage, and a black dialogue specialist would have given the comic-relief character, Jar Jar Binks, a", "The first thing that will strike you is that George Lucas, who wrote and directed the movie, has forgotten how to write and direct a movie. Having spent the two decades since the original Star Wars (1977) concocting skeletons of screenplays that other people flesh out, and overseeing productions that other people storyboard and stage, he has come to lack what one might Michelangelistically term \"the spark of life.\" If the first Star Wars was a box of Cracker Jacks that was all prizes, The Phantom Menace is a box of Cracker Jacks that's all diagrams of prizes. It's there on paper, but it's waiting to be filled in and jazzed up.", "man-size dinosaur with pop eyes and a vaguely West Indian patois, something fresher than \"Ex-squeeze me!\" and a lot of Butterfly McQueen-style simpering and running away from battles. Those of us who complain about the assembly-line production of", "Big Chill , 1983), to draft the best and most inspiring of the Star Wars movies, The Empire Strikes Back (1980), and a real director, Irvin Kershner, to breathe Wagnerian grandeur into Lucas' cartoonish fantasies. Having lived with", "alternately formal or bemusing. (\"This is an odd move for the Trade Federation.\") Lucas considers himself an \"independent\" filmmaker and an artist of integrity. Had he not been such a pretentious overlord, a platoon of screenwriters would doubtless have", "I'll be curious to know whether he sees The Phantom Menace a dozen times, or even the three for which he has paid. (I could imagine seeing it three times only if they sold adrenaline shots at the concession stand.) Or maybe he'll come out of the movie and say: \"No, you didn't get it, Mr. Snot-Nosed-Criteria Critic Person. It's not supposed to be exciting. It's laying the foundation for the next chapter, when Anakin and Obi-Wan defeat the Mandalorian warriors in the Clone Wars and Anakin marries Queen Amidala. And listen, I'm getting in line even earlier for tickets to Episode 2 . The Force is with me, butt-head.\"", "Look, I wanted to love The Phantom Menace , too. I was an adolescent boy and would enjoy being one again for a couple of hours. But the movie has a way of deflating all but the most delusional of hopes. If someone had given Ed Wood $115 million to remake Plan Nine From Outer Space it might have looked like this, although Wood's dialogue would surely have been more memorable.", "Still, it's worth reprinting a blistering e-mail sent to my wife by a relative, after she'd let him know that I hated The Phantom Menace : \n\n Surprise, Surprise. Star Wars was never reviewed well by critics. Sometimes a basic story that rests on great special effects and stupid dialogue can be very entertaining--it's called a cult movie, and no critic can have an effect on the obvious outcome that this is going to be the highest grossing movie ever. I myself stood in line for five hours and already have tickets to see it three times, and I know I'll enjoy it. Why? Because it plays on my childhood imagination. And I'm sure it's not as bad as Return of the Jedi , which was the weakest one--but I still liked it and saw it a dozen times. I get tired of being told I'm not going to like it because it doesn't adhere to certain basic critic criteria. I say bpthhhh (sticking my tongue out to review)--don't be sending me anything dissing my movie:):):)", "The Phantom Menace didn't need to be barren of feeling, but it took a real writer, Lawrence Kasdan ( The", "How long will they go with it? At what point will they realize that what they've heard is, alas, true, that the picture really is a stiff? Maybe they never will. Maybe they'll want to love The \n\n Phantom Menace so much--because they have so much emotional energy invested in loving it, and in buying the books, magazines, dolls, cards, clothes, soap, fast food, etc.--that the realization will never sink in. In successful hypnosis, the subject works to enter a state of heightened susceptibility, to surrender to a higher power. Maybe they'll conclude that common sense is the enemy of the Force and fight it to the death.", "a samurai movie. McGregor furrows his brow. \"There's something ... elusive,\" he says, working to enunciate like a young Alec Guinness but succeeding only in nullifying his natural Scots charm. \"Master,\" he adds, \"you said I should be", "Later in the film, when Anakin goes before something called the Jedi Council and meets Yoda and Samuel L. Jackson (together again!), Lucas dramatizes the interrogation so ineptly that you either have", "Yes, the effects are first-rate, occasionally breathtaking. But the floating platforms in the Galactic Senate do little to distract you from parliamentary machinations that play like an especially dull day on Star Trek:", "he conceived The Phantom Menace as a Japanese No pageant and has purposely deadened his actors, directing them to stand stiffly in the dead center of the screen against matte paintings of space or some futuristic metropolis and deliver lines", "Dark Side Lite \n\n Those poor souls who've been camping out in front of theaters for six weeks: Who can blame them for saying, \"To hell with the critics, we know it will be great!\"? The doors will open, and they'll race to grab the best seats and feel a surge of triumph as their butts sink down. We've made it: Yeeehaww!! They'll cheer when the familiar John Williams fanfare erupts and the title-- Star Wars Episode 1: The Phantom Menace --rises out of the screen and the backward-slanted opening \"crawl\" begins: \"A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away ...\" Yaaahhhhhhh!!! Then, their hearts pounding, they'll settle back to read the rest of the titles: \"Turmoil has engulfed the Galactic Republic. The taxation of trade routes to outlying star systems is in dispute.\" Taxation of trade routes: Waaahoooo!!!!", "unruffled. \"The Force will guide us,\" says Neeson blandly, and the director seems to share his lack of urgency. There's Zen detachment and there's Quaalude detachment, and The Phantom", "on the verge of actually thrilling you. The chief villain, bombastically named Darth Maul, is a horned, red, Kabuki-style snake demon with orange pingpong-ball eyes who challenges the Jedi to a couple of clackety light-saber battles. His appearances", "Say this for Lucas, he doesn't whip up a lot of bogus energy, the way the makers of such blockbusters as The Mummy (1999) and Armageddon (1998) do. It's as if", "just been given scenes that no human could be expected to play. As a sage Jedi Master called Qui-Gon Jinn, Neeson must maintain a Zen-like detachment from the universe around him--probably not a challenge when that universe will be added", "are underscored by demonic chants; he might as well wear a neon beanie that flashes \"Bad Guy.\" Like all revisionist historians, Lucas cheats like mad. If Darth Vader had built C-3PO as a young man, how come he never" ], [ "The first thing that will strike you is that George Lucas, who wrote and directed the movie, has forgotten how to write and direct a movie. Having spent the two decades since the original Star Wars (1977) concocting skeletons of screenplays that other people flesh out, and overseeing productions that other people storyboard and stage, he has come to lack what one might Michelangelistically term \"the spark of life.\" If the first Star Wars was a box of Cracker Jacks that was all prizes, The Phantom Menace is a box of Cracker Jacks that's all diagrams of prizes. It's there on paper, but it's waiting to be filled in and jazzed up.", "a samurai movie. McGregor furrows his brow. \"There's something ... elusive,\" he says, working to enunciate like a young Alec Guinness but succeeding only in nullifying his natural Scots charm. \"Master,\" he adds, \"you said I should be", "I'll be curious to know whether he sees The Phantom Menace a dozen times, or even the three for which he has paid. (I could imagine seeing it three times only if they sold adrenaline shots at the concession stand.) Or maybe he'll come out of the movie and say: \"No, you didn't get it, Mr. Snot-Nosed-Criteria Critic Person. It's not supposed to be exciting. It's laying the foundation for the next chapter, when Anakin and Obi-Wan defeat the Mandalorian warriors in the Clone Wars and Anakin marries Queen Amidala. And listen, I'm getting in line even earlier for tickets to Episode 2 . The Force is with me, butt-head.\"", "man-size dinosaur with pop eyes and a vaguely West Indian patois, something fresher than \"Ex-squeeze me!\" and a lot of Butterfly McQueen-style simpering and running away from battles. Those of us who complain about the assembly-line production of", "Yes, the effects are first-rate, occasionally breathtaking. But the floating platforms in the Galactic Senate do little to distract you from parliamentary machinations that play like an especially dull day on Star Trek:", "he conceived The Phantom Menace as a Japanese No pageant and has purposely deadened his actors, directing them to stand stiffly in the dead center of the screen against matte paintings of space or some futuristic metropolis and deliver lines", "Later in the film, when Anakin goes before something called the Jedi Council and meets Yoda and Samuel L. Jackson (together again!), Lucas dramatizes the interrogation so ineptly that you either have", "Dark Side Lite \n\n Those poor souls who've been camping out in front of theaters for six weeks: Who can blame them for saying, \"To hell with the critics, we know it will be great!\"? The doors will open, and they'll race to grab the best seats and feel a surge of triumph as their butts sink down. We've made it: Yeeehaww!! They'll cheer when the familiar John Williams fanfare erupts and the title-- Star Wars Episode 1: The Phantom Menace --rises out of the screen and the backward-slanted opening \"crawl\" begins: \"A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away ...\" Yaaahhhhhhh!!! Then, their hearts pounding, they'll settle back to read the rest of the titles: \"Turmoil has engulfed the Galactic Republic. The taxation of trade routes to outlying star systems is in dispute.\" Taxation of trade routes: Waaahoooo!!!!", "Still, it's worth reprinting a blistering e-mail sent to my wife by a relative, after she'd let him know that I hated The Phantom Menace : \n\n Surprise, Surprise. Star Wars was never reviewed well by critics. Sometimes a basic story that rests on great special effects and stupid dialogue can be very entertaining--it's called a cult movie, and no critic can have an effect on the obvious outcome that this is going to be the highest grossing movie ever. I myself stood in line for five hours and already have tickets to see it three times, and I know I'll enjoy it. Why? Because it plays on my childhood imagination. And I'm sure it's not as bad as Return of the Jedi , which was the weakest one--but I still liked it and saw it a dozen times. I get tired of being told I'm not going to like it because it doesn't adhere to certain basic critic criteria. I say bpthhhh (sticking my tongue out to review)--don't be sending me anything dissing my movie:):):)", "on the verge of actually thrilling you. The chief villain, bombastically named Darth Maul, is a horned, red, Kabuki-style snake demon with orange pingpong-ball eyes who challenges the Jedi to a couple of clackety light-saber battles. His appearances", "Look, I wanted to love The Phantom Menace , too. I was an adolescent boy and would enjoy being one again for a couple of hours. But the movie has a way of deflating all but the most delusional of hopes. If someone had given Ed Wood $115 million to remake Plan Nine From Outer Space it might have looked like this, although Wood's dialogue would surely have been more memorable.", "for granted--we're still in the middle of the damn story. The only dramatic interest comes from a young Tatooine slave named Anakin Skywalker (Jake Lloyd), whom we know will grow up to father Luke Skywalker (Mark Hamill) and Princess", "A hologram of Darth Sidious, Dark Lord of the \"Sith,\" commands the Federation to sic its battle droids on the Jedi ambassadors before they can apprise Queen Amidala (Portman) of the imminent invasion of the peaceful planet of Naboo. In come the battle droids and out come the light sabers, which still hum like faulty fluorescents. Clack, clack, clack. Lucas can't edit fight scenes so that they're fluid--he cuts on the clack. You get the gist, though. The Jedi make their getaway, but with gas and tolls and droid destroyers, it takes them over an hour to land on Naboo, by which time the queen and the Galactic Senate have already got the grim message. For one thing, communications have been disrupted: \"A communications disruption can mean only one thing,\" says someone. \"Invasion.\"", "been engaged to rewrite him and make the movie halfway human. A buddy specialist would have punched up the Qui-Gon Jinn/Obi-Wan Kenobi badinage, and a black dialogue specialist would have given the comic-relief character, Jar Jar Binks, a", "unruffled. \"The Force will guide us,\" says Neeson blandly, and the director seems to share his lack of urgency. There's Zen detachment and there's Quaalude detachment, and The Phantom", "The Phantom Menace didn't need to be barren of feeling, but it took a real writer, Lawrence Kasdan ( The", "Menace falls into the second camp: It really does take place a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away. When R2-D2 showed up, I thought: At last, a character with the potential for intimacy!", "alternately formal or bemusing. (\"This is an odd move for the Trade Federation.\") Lucas considers himself an \"independent\" filmmaker and an artist of integrity. Had he not been such a pretentious overlord, a platoon of screenwriters would doubtless have", "from scratch and \"pod racing\"--an activity that he demonstrates in one of the movie's most impressive but irrelevant special effects set pieces, a whiplash hyperdrive permutation of the chariot race in Ben-Hur (1959).", "How long will they go with it? At what point will they realize that what they've heard is, alas, true, that the picture really is a stiff? Maybe they never will. Maybe they'll want to love The \n\n Phantom Menace so much--because they have so much emotional energy invested in loving it, and in buying the books, magazines, dolls, cards, clothes, soap, fast food, etc.--that the realization will never sink in. In successful hypnosis, the subject works to enter a state of heightened susceptibility, to surrender to a higher power. Maybe they'll conclude that common sense is the enemy of the Force and fight it to the death." ] ]
valid	22875	[ "Describe Parks’ situation.", "Why is it significant that Parks is so ordinary?", "Why does Parks think Morgan can help him?", "Why would Morgan be “worse than no help at all”?", "Why does Morgan believe Parks?", "What is ironic about the story?", "What will likely happen to Parks if no one believes him?", "What is setting?", "What is a theme of the story?", "What is the relationship between Parks and Morgan?" ]	[ [ "He is from another planet but does not have a way to get back home. ", "He is a writer but no one will buy his work. ", "He is lost and no one will help him get home.", "He is having a psychotic episode. " ], [ "He does not look like a stereotypical criminal, which makes him more credible. ", "He appears to be mentally stable, proving that anyone can have a mental illness. ", "He appears to be a regular human, which makes his story more unbelievable. ", "Writers often find ordinary things to be interesting. " ], [ "He works for NASA and can construct a rocket ship for Parks. ", "He is a writer and can share Parks' story. ", "He is the mayor. ", "He is a doctor." ], [ "He writes fiction, so people will think he made up Parks' story. ", "He is against space exploration. ", "He lost his credibility by writing a fact story. ", "He is also lost and homeless. " ], [ "He noticed that there was something odd about him right away. ", "He met someone like Parks before. ", "He wrote a story that predicted Parks' predicament. ", "He doesn't believe him, but plays along to keep Parks calm. " ], [ "Parks ends up helping Morgan. ", "The one and only person who believes Parks cannot help him. ", "Morgan is famous for preaching that there is no life on other planets. ", "Morgan is Parks' twin from a parallel universe. " ], [ "He will continue having hallucinations. ", "The government will use him for experiments. ", "He will be stuck on Earth in a mental hospital. ", "He will get arrested. " ], [ "A restaurant in New York City. ", "A restaurant on a parallel planet to Earth. ", "A doctor's office in New York City. ", "A restaurant on Mars. " ], [ "People who tell lies often will eventually get themselves into trouble. ", "The truth does not matter if no one believes it. ", "Space travel is dangerous. ", "There are aliens walking among us. " ], [ "They are old friends. ", "Parks is a customer of Morgan. ", "They are strangers who just met. ", "They were born in the same city. " ] ]	[ 1, 3, 2, 1, 3, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3 ]	[ 0, 0, 0, 0, 1, 0, 0, 1, 0, 0 ]	[ [ "Parks shrugged tiredly. \"Not really. He examined me. He\n practically took me apart. I carefully refrained from saying\n anything about who I was or where I came from; just said\n I wanted a complete physical examination, and let him go\n to it. He was thorough, and when he finished he patted me\n on the back and said, 'Parks, you've got nothing to worry\n about. You're as fine, strapping a specimen of a healthy human\n being as I've ever seen.' And that was that.\" Parks laughed\n bitterly. \"I guess I was supposed to be happy with the verdict,\n and instead I was ready to knock him down. It was idiotic, it\n defied reason, it was infuriating.\"\n\n\n Morgan nodded sourly. \"Because you're not a human\n being,\" he said.", "Jefferson Parks finished his last bite of pie and pushed the\n plate away. \"By then I didn't know quite what to do. I'd been\n prepared for almost anything excepting this. It was frightening.\n I tried to rationalize it, and then I quit trying. It wasn't\n that I attracted attention, or anything like that, quite the contrary.\n Nobody even looked at me, unless I said something to\n them. I began to look for things that were\ndifferent\n, things that\n I could show them, and say, see, this proves that I'm telling\n the truth, look at it—\" He looked up helplessly.\n\n\n \"And what did you find?\"", "\"I know that now. I didn't then. Naturally, I assumed that\n with everything else so similar, principles of business would\n also be similar.\"\n\n\n Morgan sighed and leaned back in his chair. \"Well, then\n what?\"\n\n\n Parks poured some more coffee. His face was very pale,\n Morgan thought, and his hands trembled as he raised the cup\n to his lips. Fright? Maybe. Hard to tell. The man put down\n the cup and rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand.\n \"First, I went to the mayor's office,\" he said. \"I kept trying to\n think what anyone at home would do in my place. That seemed\n a good bet. I asked a policeman where it was, and then I went\n there.\"\n\n\n \"But you didn't get to see him.\"", "Parks unbuttoned his collar and rubbed his stubbled chin\n unhappily. \"I didn't make the choice. Neither did anyone else.\n Travel by warp is a little different from travel by the rocket\n you fiction writers make so much of. With a rocket vehicle you\n pick your destination, make your calculations, and off you go.\n The warp is blind flying, strictly blind. We send an unmanned\n scanner ahead. It probes around more or less hit-or-miss until\n it locates something, somewhere, that looks habitable. When\n it spots a likely looking place, we keep a tight beam on it\n and send through a manned scout.\" He grinned sourly. \"Like\n me. If it looks good to the scout, he signals back, and they", "\"I'm afraid not.\"\n\n\n \"Why not?\"\n\n\n \"Because I'd be worse than no help at all.\"\n\n\n Jefferson Parks gripped the table, his knuckles white.\n \"Why?\" he cried hoarsely. \"If you believe me, why can't you\n help me?\"\n\n\n Morgan pointed to the magazine lying on the table. \"I write,\n yes,\" he said sadly. \"Ever read stories like this before?\"\n\n\n Parks picked up the magazine, glanced at the bright cover.\n \"I barely looked at it.\"\n\n\n \"You should look more closely. I have a story in this issue.\n The readers thought it was very interesting,\" Morgan grinned.\n \"Go ahead, look at it.\"", "\"All right, let's start from the beginning again,\" Morgan\n said. \"Maybe we can pin something down a little better. You\n say your name is Parks—right?\"\n\n\n The man nodded. \"Jefferson Haldeman Parks, if that helps\n any. Haldeman was my mother's maiden name.\"\n\n\n \"All right. And you got into town on Friday—right?\"\n\n\n Parks nodded.\n\n\n \"Fine. Now go through the whole story again. What happened\n first?\"\n\n\n The man thought for a minute. \"As I said, first there was\n a fall. About twenty feet. I didn't break any bones, but I was\n shaken up and limping. The fall was near the highway going\n to the George Washington Bridge. I got over to the highway\n and tried to flag down a ride.\"\n\n\n \"How did you feel? I mean, was there anything strange that\n you noticed?\"", "Morgan shrugged. \"So it's true. I won't argue with you. But\n as I asked before, even if I\ndid\nbelieve you, what do you\n expect\nme\nto do about it? Why pick\nme\n, of all the people you've\n seen?\"\n\n\n There was a desperate light in Parks' eyes. \"I was tired, tired\n of being laughed at, tired of having people looking at me as\n though I'd lost my wits when I tried to tell them the truth.\n You were here, you were alone, so I started talking. And then\n I found out you wrote stories.\" He looked up eagerly. \"I've\n got to get back, Morgan, somehow. My life is there, my family.\n And think what it would mean to both of our worlds—contact\n with another intelligent race! Combine our knowledges,\n our technologies, and we could explore the galaxy!\"", "\"\nStrange!\n\" Parks' eyes widened. \"I—I was speechless. At\n first I hadn't noticed too much—I was concerned with the fall,\n and whether I was hurt or not. I didn't really think about much\n else until I hobbled up to that highway and saw those cars\n coming. Then I could hardly believe my eyes. I thought I was\n crazy. But a car stopped and asked me if I was going into the\n city, and I knew I wasn't crazy.\"\n\n\n Morgan's mouth took a grim line. \"You understood the\n language?\"\n\n\n \"Oh, yes. I don't see how I could have, but I did. We talked\n all the way into New York—nothing very important, but we\n understood each other. His speech had an odd sound, but—\"\n\n\n Morgan nodded. \"I know, I noticed. What did you do when\n you got to New York?\"", "Finally the man looked up. His eyes were dark, with a\n hunted look in their depths that chilled Morgan a little. \"Where\n do we go? I don't know. I've tried to think it out, and I get\n nowhere. But you've\ngot\nto believe me, Morgan. I'm lost,\n I mean it. If I can't get help, I don't know where it's going to\n end.\"\n\n\n \"I'll tell you where it's going to end,\" said Morgan. \"It's\n going to end in a hospital. A mental hospital. They'll lock you\n up and they'll lose the key somewhere.\" He poured himself\n another cup of coffee and sipped it, scalding hot. \"And that,\"\n he added, \"will be that.\"\nThe place was dark and almost empty. Overhead, a rotary\n fan swished patiently. The man across from Morgan ran a hand\n through his dark hair. \"There must be some other way,\" he\n said. \"There has to be.\"", "\"No. I saw a secretary. She said the mayor was in conference,\n and that I would have to have an appointment. She let\n me speak to another man, one of the mayor's assistants.\"\n\n\n \"And you told him?\"\n\n\n \"No. I wanted to see the mayor himself. I thought that was\n the best thing to do. I waited for a couple of hours, until\n another assistant came along and told me flatly that the mayor\n wouldn't see me unless I stated my business first.\" He drew in\n a deep breath. \"So I stated it. And then I was gently but firmly\n ushered back into the street again.\"\n\n\n \"They didn't believe you,\" said Morgan.\n\n\n \"Not for a minute. They laughed in my face.\"\n\n\n Morgan nodded. \"I'm beginning to get the pattern. So what\n did you do next?\"", "\"Well, obviously, I needed money. I had gold coin. There\n had been no way of knowing if it would be useful, but I'd\n taken it on chance. I tried to use it at a newsstand first, and the\n man wouldn't touch it. Asked me if I thought I was the U.S.\n Treasury or something. When he saw that I was serious, he\n sent me to a money lender, a hock shop, I think he called it.\n So I found a place—\"\n\n\n \"Let me see the coins.\"\n\n\n Parks dropped two small gold discs on the table. They were\n perfectly smooth and perfectly round, tapered by wear to a\n thin blunt edge. There was no design on them, and no printing.\n Morgan looked up at the man sharply. \"What did you get for\n these?\"\n\n\n Parks shrugged. \"Too little, I suspect. Two dollars for the\n small one, five for the larger.\"\n\n\n \"You should have gone to a bank.\"", "\"Next I tried the police. I got the same treatment there,\n only they weren't so gentle. They wouldn't listen either. They\n muttered something about cranks and their crazy notions, and\n when they asked me where I lived, they thought I was—what\n did they call it?—a wise guy! Told me to get out and not come\n back with any more wild stories.\"\n\n\n \"I see,\" said Morgan.", "The stranger from the stars leafed through the magazine,\n stopped at a page that carried Roger Morgan's name. His eyes\n caught the first paragraph and he turned white. He set the\n magazine down with a trembling hand. \"I see,\" he said, and\n the life was gone out of his voice. He spread the pages viciously,\n read the lines again.\n\n\n The paragraph said:\n\n\n \"Just suppose,\" said Martin, \"that I\ndid\nbelieve you. Just\n for argument.\" He glanced up at the man across the table.\n \"Where do we go from here?\"", "Transcriber's Note:\nThis etext was produced from\nThe Counterfeit Man More Science Fiction\n Stories by Alan E. Nourse\npublished in 1963. Extensive research did\n not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was\n renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected\n without note.\nCircus\n\"Just\n suppose,\" said Morgan, \"that I\ndid\nbelieve you. Just\n for argument.\" He glanced up at the man across the restaurant\n table. \"Where would we go from here?\"\n\n\n The man shifted uneasily in his seat. He was silent, staring\n down at his plate. Not a strange-looking man, Morgan thought.\n Rather ordinary, in fact. A plain face, nose a little too long,\n fingers a little too dainty, a suit that doesn't quite seem to fit,\n but all in all, a perfectly ordinary looking man.\n\n\n Maybe\ntoo\nordinary, Morgan thought.", "Morgan didn't move. He just stared. \"How many people\n have you talked to?\" he asked.\n\n\n \"A dozen, a hundred, maybe a thousand.\"\n\n\n \"And how many believed you?\"\n\n\n \"None.\"\n\n\n \"You mean\nnobody\nwould believe you?\"\n\n\n \"\nNot one soul.\nUntil I talked to you.\"\n\n\n And then Morgan was laughing, laughing bitterly, tears\n rolling down his cheeks. \"And I'm the one man who couldn't\n help you if my life depended on it,\" he gasped.\n\n\n \"You believe me?\"\n\n\n Morgan nodded sadly. \"I believe you. Yes. I think your\n warp brought you through to a parallel universe of your own\n planet, not to another star, but I think you're telling the truth.\"\n\n\n \"Then you\ncan\nhelp me.\"", "He leaned forward, his thin face intense. \"I need money and\n I need help. I know some of the mathematics of the warp principle,\n know some of the design, some of the power and wiring\n principles. You have engineers here, technologists, physicists.\n They could fill in what I don't know and build a guide beam.\n But they won't do it if they don't believe me. Your government\n won't listen to me, they won't appropriate any money.\"\n\n\n \"Of course they won't. They've got a war or two on their\n hands, they have public welfare, and atomic bombs, and\n rockets to the moon to sink their money into.\" Morgan stared\n at the man. \"But what can\nI\ndo?\"\n\n\n \"You can\nwrite\n! That's what you can do. You can tell the\n world about me, you can tell exactly what has happened. I\n know how public interest can be aroused in my world. It must\n be the same in yours.\"", "\"Nothing. Oh, little things, insignificant little things. Your\n calendars, for instance. Naturally, I couldn't understand your\n frame of reference. And the coinage, you stamp your coins; we\n don't. And cigarettes. We don't have any such thing as tobacco.\"\n The man gave a short laugh. \"And your house dogs!\n We have little animals that look more like rabbits than poodles.\n But there was nothing any more significant than that. Absolutely\n nothing.\"\n\n\n \"Except yourself,\" Morgan said.\n\n\n \"Ah, yes. I thought that over carefully. I looked for differences,\n obvious ones. I couldn't find any. You can see that, just\n looking at me. So I searched for more subtle things. Skin texture,\n fingerprints, bone structure, body proportion. I still\n couldn't find anything. Then I went to a doctor.\"\n\n\n Morgan's eyebrows lifted. \"Good,\" he said.", "He shook his head wearily. \"We're new at it, Morgan. We've\n only tried a few dozen runs. We're not too far ahead of you in\n technology. We've been using rocket vehicles just like yours for\n over a century. That's fine for a solar system, but it's not much\n good for the stars. When the warp principle was discovered, it\n looked like the answer. But something went wrong, the scanner\n picked up this planet, and I was coming through, and then\n something blew. Next thing I knew I was falling. When I tried\n to make contact again, the scanner was gone!\"\n\n\n \"And you found things here the same as back home,\" said\n Morgan.", "\"The same! Your planet and mine are practically twins.\n Similar cities, similar technology, everything. The people are\n the same, with precisely the same anatomy and physiology, the\n same sort of laws, the same institutions, even compatible languages.\n Can't you see the importance of it? This planet is on\n the other side of the universe from mine, with the first intelligent\n life we've yet encountered anywhere. But when I try to\n tell your people that I'm a native of another star system,\nthey\n won't believe me\n!\"\n\n\n \"Why should they?\" asked Morgan. \"You look like a human\n being. You talk like one. You eat like one. You act like one.\n What you're asking them to believe is utterly incredible.\"\n\n\n \"\nBut it's true.\n\"", "\"That's right. I'm not a human being at all.\"\n\"How did you happen to pick this planet, or this sun?\"\n Morgan asked curiously. \"There must have been a million\n others to choose from.\"" ], [ "Parks shrugged tiredly. \"Not really. He examined me. He\n practically took me apart. I carefully refrained from saying\n anything about who I was or where I came from; just said\n I wanted a complete physical examination, and let him go\n to it. He was thorough, and when he finished he patted me\n on the back and said, 'Parks, you've got nothing to worry\n about. You're as fine, strapping a specimen of a healthy human\n being as I've ever seen.' And that was that.\" Parks laughed\n bitterly. \"I guess I was supposed to be happy with the verdict,\n and instead I was ready to knock him down. It was idiotic, it\n defied reason, it was infuriating.\"\n\n\n Morgan nodded sourly. \"Because you're not a human\n being,\" he said.", "Jefferson Parks finished his last bite of pie and pushed the\n plate away. \"By then I didn't know quite what to do. I'd been\n prepared for almost anything excepting this. It was frightening.\n I tried to rationalize it, and then I quit trying. It wasn't\n that I attracted attention, or anything like that, quite the contrary.\n Nobody even looked at me, unless I said something to\n them. I began to look for things that were\ndifferent\n, things that\n I could show them, and say, see, this proves that I'm telling\n the truth, look at it—\" He looked up helplessly.\n\n\n \"And what did you find?\"", "\"I know that now. I didn't then. Naturally, I assumed that\n with everything else so similar, principles of business would\n also be similar.\"\n\n\n Morgan sighed and leaned back in his chair. \"Well, then\n what?\"\n\n\n Parks poured some more coffee. His face was very pale,\n Morgan thought, and his hands trembled as he raised the cup\n to his lips. Fright? Maybe. Hard to tell. The man put down\n the cup and rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand.\n \"First, I went to the mayor's office,\" he said. \"I kept trying to\n think what anyone at home would do in my place. That seemed\n a good bet. I asked a policeman where it was, and then I went\n there.\"\n\n\n \"But you didn't get to see him.\"", "Morgan shrugged. \"So it's true. I won't argue with you. But\n as I asked before, even if I\ndid\nbelieve you, what do you\n expect\nme\nto do about it? Why pick\nme\n, of all the people you've\n seen?\"\n\n\n There was a desperate light in Parks' eyes. \"I was tired, tired\n of being laughed at, tired of having people looking at me as\n though I'd lost my wits when I tried to tell them the truth.\n You were here, you were alone, so I started talking. And then\n I found out you wrote stories.\" He looked up eagerly. \"I've\n got to get back, Morgan, somehow. My life is there, my family.\n And think what it would mean to both of our worlds—contact\n with another intelligent race! Combine our knowledges,\n our technologies, and we could explore the galaxy!\"", "\"I'm afraid not.\"\n\n\n \"Why not?\"\n\n\n \"Because I'd be worse than no help at all.\"\n\n\n Jefferson Parks gripped the table, his knuckles white.\n \"Why?\" he cried hoarsely. \"If you believe me, why can't you\n help me?\"\n\n\n Morgan pointed to the magazine lying on the table. \"I write,\n yes,\" he said sadly. \"Ever read stories like this before?\"\n\n\n Parks picked up the magazine, glanced at the bright cover.\n \"I barely looked at it.\"\n\n\n \"You should look more closely. I have a story in this issue.\n The readers thought it was very interesting,\" Morgan grinned.\n \"Go ahead, look at it.\"", "\"All right, let's start from the beginning again,\" Morgan\n said. \"Maybe we can pin something down a little better. You\n say your name is Parks—right?\"\n\n\n The man nodded. \"Jefferson Haldeman Parks, if that helps\n any. Haldeman was my mother's maiden name.\"\n\n\n \"All right. And you got into town on Friday—right?\"\n\n\n Parks nodded.\n\n\n \"Fine. Now go through the whole story again. What happened\n first?\"\n\n\n The man thought for a minute. \"As I said, first there was\n a fall. About twenty feet. I didn't break any bones, but I was\n shaken up and limping. The fall was near the highway going\n to the George Washington Bridge. I got over to the highway\n and tried to flag down a ride.\"\n\n\n \"How did you feel? I mean, was there anything strange that\n you noticed?\"", "Parks unbuttoned his collar and rubbed his stubbled chin\n unhappily. \"I didn't make the choice. Neither did anyone else.\n Travel by warp is a little different from travel by the rocket\n you fiction writers make so much of. With a rocket vehicle you\n pick your destination, make your calculations, and off you go.\n The warp is blind flying, strictly blind. We send an unmanned\n scanner ahead. It probes around more or less hit-or-miss until\n it locates something, somewhere, that looks habitable. When\n it spots a likely looking place, we keep a tight beam on it\n and send through a manned scout.\" He grinned sourly. \"Like\n me. If it looks good to the scout, he signals back, and they", "\"Nothing. Oh, little things, insignificant little things. Your\n calendars, for instance. Naturally, I couldn't understand your\n frame of reference. And the coinage, you stamp your coins; we\n don't. And cigarettes. We don't have any such thing as tobacco.\"\n The man gave a short laugh. \"And your house dogs!\n We have little animals that look more like rabbits than poodles.\n But there was nothing any more significant than that. Absolutely\n nothing.\"\n\n\n \"Except yourself,\" Morgan said.\n\n\n \"Ah, yes. I thought that over carefully. I looked for differences,\n obvious ones. I couldn't find any. You can see that, just\n looking at me. So I searched for more subtle things. Skin texture,\n fingerprints, bone structure, body proportion. I still\n couldn't find anything. Then I went to a doctor.\"\n\n\n Morgan's eyebrows lifted. \"Good,\" he said.", "\"\nStrange!\n\" Parks' eyes widened. \"I—I was speechless. At\n first I hadn't noticed too much—I was concerned with the fall,\n and whether I was hurt or not. I didn't really think about much\n else until I hobbled up to that highway and saw those cars\n coming. Then I could hardly believe my eyes. I thought I was\n crazy. But a car stopped and asked me if I was going into the\n city, and I knew I wasn't crazy.\"\n\n\n Morgan's mouth took a grim line. \"You understood the\n language?\"\n\n\n \"Oh, yes. I don't see how I could have, but I did. We talked\n all the way into New York—nothing very important, but we\n understood each other. His speech had an odd sound, but—\"\n\n\n Morgan nodded. \"I know, I noticed. What did you do when\n you got to New York?\"", "Transcriber's Note:\nThis etext was produced from\nThe Counterfeit Man More Science Fiction\n Stories by Alan E. Nourse\npublished in 1963. Extensive research did\n not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was\n renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected\n without note.\nCircus\n\"Just\n suppose,\" said Morgan, \"that I\ndid\nbelieve you. Just\n for argument.\" He glanced up at the man across the restaurant\n table. \"Where would we go from here?\"\n\n\n The man shifted uneasily in his seat. He was silent, staring\n down at his plate. Not a strange-looking man, Morgan thought.\n Rather ordinary, in fact. A plain face, nose a little too long,\n fingers a little too dainty, a suit that doesn't quite seem to fit,\n but all in all, a perfectly ordinary looking man.\n\n\n Maybe\ntoo\nordinary, Morgan thought.", "\"The same! Your planet and mine are practically twins.\n Similar cities, similar technology, everything. The people are\n the same, with precisely the same anatomy and physiology, the\n same sort of laws, the same institutions, even compatible languages.\n Can't you see the importance of it? This planet is on\n the other side of the universe from mine, with the first intelligent\n life we've yet encountered anywhere. But when I try to\n tell your people that I'm a native of another star system,\nthey\n won't believe me\n!\"\n\n\n \"Why should they?\" asked Morgan. \"You look like a human\n being. You talk like one. You eat like one. You act like one.\n What you're asking them to believe is utterly incredible.\"\n\n\n \"\nBut it's true.\n\"", "\"No. I saw a secretary. She said the mayor was in conference,\n and that I would have to have an appointment. She let\n me speak to another man, one of the mayor's assistants.\"\n\n\n \"And you told him?\"\n\n\n \"No. I wanted to see the mayor himself. I thought that was\n the best thing to do. I waited for a couple of hours, until\n another assistant came along and told me flatly that the mayor\n wouldn't see me unless I stated my business first.\" He drew in\n a deep breath. \"So I stated it. And then I was gently but firmly\n ushered back into the street again.\"\n\n\n \"They didn't believe you,\" said Morgan.\n\n\n \"Not for a minute. They laughed in my face.\"\n\n\n Morgan nodded. \"I'm beginning to get the pattern. So what\n did you do next?\"", "The stranger from the stars leafed through the magazine,\n stopped at a page that carried Roger Morgan's name. His eyes\n caught the first paragraph and he turned white. He set the\n magazine down with a trembling hand. \"I see,\" he said, and\n the life was gone out of his voice. He spread the pages viciously,\n read the lines again.\n\n\n The paragraph said:\n\n\n \"Just suppose,\" said Martin, \"that I\ndid\nbelieve you. Just\n for argument.\" He glanced up at the man across the table.\n \"Where do we go from here?\"", "\"Well, obviously, I needed money. I had gold coin. There\n had been no way of knowing if it would be useful, but I'd\n taken it on chance. I tried to use it at a newsstand first, and the\n man wouldn't touch it. Asked me if I thought I was the U.S.\n Treasury or something. When he saw that I was serious, he\n sent me to a money lender, a hock shop, I think he called it.\n So I found a place—\"\n\n\n \"Let me see the coins.\"\n\n\n Parks dropped two small gold discs on the table. They were\n perfectly smooth and perfectly round, tapered by wear to a\n thin blunt edge. There was no design on them, and no printing.\n Morgan looked up at the man sharply. \"What did you get for\n these?\"\n\n\n Parks shrugged. \"Too little, I suspect. Two dollars for the\n small one, five for the larger.\"\n\n\n \"You should have gone to a bank.\"", "Finally the man looked up. His eyes were dark, with a\n hunted look in their depths that chilled Morgan a little. \"Where\n do we go? I don't know. I've tried to think it out, and I get\n nowhere. But you've\ngot\nto believe me, Morgan. I'm lost,\n I mean it. If I can't get help, I don't know where it's going to\n end.\"\n\n\n \"I'll tell you where it's going to end,\" said Morgan. \"It's\n going to end in a hospital. A mental hospital. They'll lock you\n up and they'll lose the key somewhere.\" He poured himself\n another cup of coffee and sipped it, scalding hot. \"And that,\"\n he added, \"will be that.\"\nThe place was dark and almost empty. Overhead, a rotary\n fan swished patiently. The man across from Morgan ran a hand\n through his dark hair. \"There must be some other way,\" he\n said. \"There has to be.\"", "\"Next I tried the police. I got the same treatment there,\n only they weren't so gentle. They wouldn't listen either. They\n muttered something about cranks and their crazy notions, and\n when they asked me where I lived, they thought I was—what\n did they call it?—a wise guy! Told me to get out and not come\n back with any more wild stories.\"\n\n\n \"I see,\" said Morgan.", "\"That's right. I'm not a human being at all.\"\n\"How did you happen to pick this planet, or this sun?\"\n Morgan asked curiously. \"There must have been a million\n others to choose from.\"", "He leaned forward, his thin face intense. \"I need money and\n I need help. I know some of the mathematics of the warp principle,\n know some of the design, some of the power and wiring\n principles. You have engineers here, technologists, physicists.\n They could fill in what I don't know and build a guide beam.\n But they won't do it if they don't believe me. Your government\n won't listen to me, they won't appropriate any money.\"\n\n\n \"Of course they won't. They've got a war or two on their\n hands, they have public welfare, and atomic bombs, and\n rockets to the moon to sink their money into.\" Morgan stared\n at the man. \"But what can\nI\ndo?\"\n\n\n \"You can\nwrite\n! That's what you can do. You can tell the\n world about me, you can tell exactly what has happened. I\n know how public interest can be aroused in my world. It must\n be the same in yours.\"", "Morgan didn't move. He just stared. \"How many people\n have you talked to?\" he asked.\n\n\n \"A dozen, a hundred, maybe a thousand.\"\n\n\n \"And how many believed you?\"\n\n\n \"None.\"\n\n\n \"You mean\nnobody\nwould believe you?\"\n\n\n \"\nNot one soul.\nUntil I talked to you.\"\n\n\n And then Morgan was laughing, laughing bitterly, tears\n rolling down his cheeks. \"And I'm the one man who couldn't\n help you if my life depended on it,\" he gasped.\n\n\n \"You believe me?\"\n\n\n Morgan nodded sadly. \"I believe you. Yes. I think your\n warp brought you through to a parallel universe of your own\n planet, not to another star, but I think you're telling the truth.\"\n\n\n \"Then you\ncan\nhelp me.\"", "He shook his head wearily. \"We're new at it, Morgan. We've\n only tried a few dozen runs. We're not too far ahead of you in\n technology. We've been using rocket vehicles just like yours for\n over a century. That's fine for a solar system, but it's not much\n good for the stars. When the warp principle was discovered, it\n looked like the answer. But something went wrong, the scanner\n picked up this planet, and I was coming through, and then\n something blew. Next thing I knew I was falling. When I tried\n to make contact again, the scanner was gone!\"\n\n\n \"And you found things here the same as back home,\" said\n Morgan." ], [ "Parks shrugged tiredly. \"Not really. He examined me. He\n practically took me apart. I carefully refrained from saying\n anything about who I was or where I came from; just said\n I wanted a complete physical examination, and let him go\n to it. He was thorough, and when he finished he patted me\n on the back and said, 'Parks, you've got nothing to worry\n about. You're as fine, strapping a specimen of a healthy human\n being as I've ever seen.' And that was that.\" Parks laughed\n bitterly. \"I guess I was supposed to be happy with the verdict,\n and instead I was ready to knock him down. It was idiotic, it\n defied reason, it was infuriating.\"\n\n\n Morgan nodded sourly. \"Because you're not a human\n being,\" he said.", "Morgan shrugged. \"So it's true. I won't argue with you. But\n as I asked before, even if I\ndid\nbelieve you, what do you\n expect\nme\nto do about it? Why pick\nme\n, of all the people you've\n seen?\"\n\n\n There was a desperate light in Parks' eyes. \"I was tired, tired\n of being laughed at, tired of having people looking at me as\n though I'd lost my wits when I tried to tell them the truth.\n You were here, you were alone, so I started talking. And then\n I found out you wrote stories.\" He looked up eagerly. \"I've\n got to get back, Morgan, somehow. My life is there, my family.\n And think what it would mean to both of our worlds—contact\n with another intelligent race! Combine our knowledges,\n our technologies, and we could explore the galaxy!\"", "\"I'm afraid not.\"\n\n\n \"Why not?\"\n\n\n \"Because I'd be worse than no help at all.\"\n\n\n Jefferson Parks gripped the table, his knuckles white.\n \"Why?\" he cried hoarsely. \"If you believe me, why can't you\n help me?\"\n\n\n Morgan pointed to the magazine lying on the table. \"I write,\n yes,\" he said sadly. \"Ever read stories like this before?\"\n\n\n Parks picked up the magazine, glanced at the bright cover.\n \"I barely looked at it.\"\n\n\n \"You should look more closely. I have a story in this issue.\n The readers thought it was very interesting,\" Morgan grinned.\n \"Go ahead, look at it.\"", "\"I know that now. I didn't then. Naturally, I assumed that\n with everything else so similar, principles of business would\n also be similar.\"\n\n\n Morgan sighed and leaned back in his chair. \"Well, then\n what?\"\n\n\n Parks poured some more coffee. His face was very pale,\n Morgan thought, and his hands trembled as he raised the cup\n to his lips. Fright? Maybe. Hard to tell. The man put down\n the cup and rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand.\n \"First, I went to the mayor's office,\" he said. \"I kept trying to\n think what anyone at home would do in my place. That seemed\n a good bet. I asked a policeman where it was, and then I went\n there.\"\n\n\n \"But you didn't get to see him.\"", "Finally the man looked up. His eyes were dark, with a\n hunted look in their depths that chilled Morgan a little. \"Where\n do we go? I don't know. I've tried to think it out, and I get\n nowhere. But you've\ngot\nto believe me, Morgan. I'm lost,\n I mean it. If I can't get help, I don't know where it's going to\n end.\"\n\n\n \"I'll tell you where it's going to end,\" said Morgan. \"It's\n going to end in a hospital. A mental hospital. They'll lock you\n up and they'll lose the key somewhere.\" He poured himself\n another cup of coffee and sipped it, scalding hot. \"And that,\"\n he added, \"will be that.\"\nThe place was dark and almost empty. Overhead, a rotary\n fan swished patiently. The man across from Morgan ran a hand\n through his dark hair. \"There must be some other way,\" he\n said. \"There has to be.\"", "Morgan didn't move. He just stared. \"How many people\n have you talked to?\" he asked.\n\n\n \"A dozen, a hundred, maybe a thousand.\"\n\n\n \"And how many believed you?\"\n\n\n \"None.\"\n\n\n \"You mean\nnobody\nwould believe you?\"\n\n\n \"\nNot one soul.\nUntil I talked to you.\"\n\n\n And then Morgan was laughing, laughing bitterly, tears\n rolling down his cheeks. \"And I'm the one man who couldn't\n help you if my life depended on it,\" he gasped.\n\n\n \"You believe me?\"\n\n\n Morgan nodded sadly. \"I believe you. Yes. I think your\n warp brought you through to a parallel universe of your own\n planet, not to another star, but I think you're telling the truth.\"\n\n\n \"Then you\ncan\nhelp me.\"", "\"All right, let's start from the beginning again,\" Morgan\n said. \"Maybe we can pin something down a little better. You\n say your name is Parks—right?\"\n\n\n The man nodded. \"Jefferson Haldeman Parks, if that helps\n any. Haldeman was my mother's maiden name.\"\n\n\n \"All right. And you got into town on Friday—right?\"\n\n\n Parks nodded.\n\n\n \"Fine. Now go through the whole story again. What happened\n first?\"\n\n\n The man thought for a minute. \"As I said, first there was\n a fall. About twenty feet. I didn't break any bones, but I was\n shaken up and limping. The fall was near the highway going\n to the George Washington Bridge. I got over to the highway\n and tried to flag down a ride.\"\n\n\n \"How did you feel? I mean, was there anything strange that\n you noticed?\"", "\"\nStrange!\n\" Parks' eyes widened. \"I—I was speechless. At\n first I hadn't noticed too much—I was concerned with the fall,\n and whether I was hurt or not. I didn't really think about much\n else until I hobbled up to that highway and saw those cars\n coming. Then I could hardly believe my eyes. I thought I was\n crazy. But a car stopped and asked me if I was going into the\n city, and I knew I wasn't crazy.\"\n\n\n Morgan's mouth took a grim line. \"You understood the\n language?\"\n\n\n \"Oh, yes. I don't see how I could have, but I did. We talked\n all the way into New York—nothing very important, but we\n understood each other. His speech had an odd sound, but—\"\n\n\n Morgan nodded. \"I know, I noticed. What did you do when\n you got to New York?\"", "He leaned forward, his thin face intense. \"I need money and\n I need help. I know some of the mathematics of the warp principle,\n know some of the design, some of the power and wiring\n principles. You have engineers here, technologists, physicists.\n They could fill in what I don't know and build a guide beam.\n But they won't do it if they don't believe me. Your government\n won't listen to me, they won't appropriate any money.\"\n\n\n \"Of course they won't. They've got a war or two on their\n hands, they have public welfare, and atomic bombs, and\n rockets to the moon to sink their money into.\" Morgan stared\n at the man. \"But what can\nI\ndo?\"\n\n\n \"You can\nwrite\n! That's what you can do. You can tell the\n world about me, you can tell exactly what has happened. I\n know how public interest can be aroused in my world. It must\n be the same in yours.\"", "\"Next I tried the police. I got the same treatment there,\n only they weren't so gentle. They wouldn't listen either. They\n muttered something about cranks and their crazy notions, and\n when they asked me where I lived, they thought I was—what\n did they call it?—a wise guy! Told me to get out and not come\n back with any more wild stories.\"\n\n\n \"I see,\" said Morgan.", "Jefferson Parks finished his last bite of pie and pushed the\n plate away. \"By then I didn't know quite what to do. I'd been\n prepared for almost anything excepting this. It was frightening.\n I tried to rationalize it, and then I quit trying. It wasn't\n that I attracted attention, or anything like that, quite the contrary.\n Nobody even looked at me, unless I said something to\n them. I began to look for things that were\ndifferent\n, things that\n I could show them, and say, see, this proves that I'm telling\n the truth, look at it—\" He looked up helplessly.\n\n\n \"And what did you find?\"", "\"No. I saw a secretary. She said the mayor was in conference,\n and that I would have to have an appointment. She let\n me speak to another man, one of the mayor's assistants.\"\n\n\n \"And you told him?\"\n\n\n \"No. I wanted to see the mayor himself. I thought that was\n the best thing to do. I waited for a couple of hours, until\n another assistant came along and told me flatly that the mayor\n wouldn't see me unless I stated my business first.\" He drew in\n a deep breath. \"So I stated it. And then I was gently but firmly\n ushered back into the street again.\"\n\n\n \"They didn't believe you,\" said Morgan.\n\n\n \"Not for a minute. They laughed in my face.\"\n\n\n Morgan nodded. \"I'm beginning to get the pattern. So what\n did you do next?\"", "The stranger from the stars leafed through the magazine,\n stopped at a page that carried Roger Morgan's name. His eyes\n caught the first paragraph and he turned white. He set the\n magazine down with a trembling hand. \"I see,\" he said, and\n the life was gone out of his voice. He spread the pages viciously,\n read the lines again.\n\n\n The paragraph said:\n\n\n \"Just suppose,\" said Martin, \"that I\ndid\nbelieve you. Just\n for argument.\" He glanced up at the man across the table.\n \"Where do we go from here?\"", "\"Well, obviously, I needed money. I had gold coin. There\n had been no way of knowing if it would be useful, but I'd\n taken it on chance. I tried to use it at a newsstand first, and the\n man wouldn't touch it. Asked me if I thought I was the U.S.\n Treasury or something. When he saw that I was serious, he\n sent me to a money lender, a hock shop, I think he called it.\n So I found a place—\"\n\n\n \"Let me see the coins.\"\n\n\n Parks dropped two small gold discs on the table. They were\n perfectly smooth and perfectly round, tapered by wear to a\n thin blunt edge. There was no design on them, and no printing.\n Morgan looked up at the man sharply. \"What did you get for\n these?\"\n\n\n Parks shrugged. \"Too little, I suspect. Two dollars for the\n small one, five for the larger.\"\n\n\n \"You should have gone to a bank.\"", "Transcriber's Note:\nThis etext was produced from\nThe Counterfeit Man More Science Fiction\n Stories by Alan E. Nourse\npublished in 1963. Extensive research did\n not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was\n renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected\n without note.\nCircus\n\"Just\n suppose,\" said Morgan, \"that I\ndid\nbelieve you. Just\n for argument.\" He glanced up at the man across the restaurant\n table. \"Where would we go from here?\"\n\n\n The man shifted uneasily in his seat. He was silent, staring\n down at his plate. Not a strange-looking man, Morgan thought.\n Rather ordinary, in fact. A plain face, nose a little too long,\n fingers a little too dainty, a suit that doesn't quite seem to fit,\n but all in all, a perfectly ordinary looking man.\n\n\n Maybe\ntoo\nordinary, Morgan thought.", "\"The same! Your planet and mine are practically twins.\n Similar cities, similar technology, everything. The people are\n the same, with precisely the same anatomy and physiology, the\n same sort of laws, the same institutions, even compatible languages.\n Can't you see the importance of it? This planet is on\n the other side of the universe from mine, with the first intelligent\n life we've yet encountered anywhere. But when I try to\n tell your people that I'm a native of another star system,\nthey\n won't believe me\n!\"\n\n\n \"Why should they?\" asked Morgan. \"You look like a human\n being. You talk like one. You eat like one. You act like one.\n What you're asking them to believe is utterly incredible.\"\n\n\n \"\nBut it's true.\n\"", "\"Nothing. Oh, little things, insignificant little things. Your\n calendars, for instance. Naturally, I couldn't understand your\n frame of reference. And the coinage, you stamp your coins; we\n don't. And cigarettes. We don't have any such thing as tobacco.\"\n The man gave a short laugh. \"And your house dogs!\n We have little animals that look more like rabbits than poodles.\n But there was nothing any more significant than that. Absolutely\n nothing.\"\n\n\n \"Except yourself,\" Morgan said.\n\n\n \"Ah, yes. I thought that over carefully. I looked for differences,\n obvious ones. I couldn't find any. You can see that, just\n looking at me. So I searched for more subtle things. Skin texture,\n fingerprints, bone structure, body proportion. I still\n couldn't find anything. Then I went to a doctor.\"\n\n\n Morgan's eyebrows lifted. \"Good,\" he said.", "\"That's right. I'm not a human being at all.\"\n\"How did you happen to pick this planet, or this sun?\"\n Morgan asked curiously. \"There must have been a million\n others to choose from.\"", "He shook his head wearily. \"We're new at it, Morgan. We've\n only tried a few dozen runs. We're not too far ahead of you in\n technology. We've been using rocket vehicles just like yours for\n over a century. That's fine for a solar system, but it's not much\n good for the stars. When the warp principle was discovered, it\n looked like the answer. But something went wrong, the scanner\n picked up this planet, and I was coming through, and then\n something blew. Next thing I knew I was falling. When I tried\n to make contact again, the scanner was gone!\"\n\n\n \"And you found things here the same as back home,\" said\n Morgan.", "Parks unbuttoned his collar and rubbed his stubbled chin\n unhappily. \"I didn't make the choice. Neither did anyone else.\n Travel by warp is a little different from travel by the rocket\n you fiction writers make so much of. With a rocket vehicle you\n pick your destination, make your calculations, and off you go.\n The warp is blind flying, strictly blind. We send an unmanned\n scanner ahead. It probes around more or less hit-or-miss until\n it locates something, somewhere, that looks habitable. When\n it spots a likely looking place, we keep a tight beam on it\n and send through a manned scout.\" He grinned sourly. \"Like\n me. If it looks good to the scout, he signals back, and they" ], [ "\"I'm afraid not.\"\n\n\n \"Why not?\"\n\n\n \"Because I'd be worse than no help at all.\"\n\n\n Jefferson Parks gripped the table, his knuckles white.\n \"Why?\" he cried hoarsely. \"If you believe me, why can't you\n help me?\"\n\n\n Morgan pointed to the magazine lying on the table. \"I write,\n yes,\" he said sadly. \"Ever read stories like this before?\"\n\n\n Parks picked up the magazine, glanced at the bright cover.\n \"I barely looked at it.\"\n\n\n \"You should look more closely. I have a story in this issue.\n The readers thought it was very interesting,\" Morgan grinned.\n \"Go ahead, look at it.\"", "Finally the man looked up. His eyes were dark, with a\n hunted look in their depths that chilled Morgan a little. \"Where\n do we go? I don't know. I've tried to think it out, and I get\n nowhere. But you've\ngot\nto believe me, Morgan. I'm lost,\n I mean it. If I can't get help, I don't know where it's going to\n end.\"\n\n\n \"I'll tell you where it's going to end,\" said Morgan. \"It's\n going to end in a hospital. A mental hospital. They'll lock you\n up and they'll lose the key somewhere.\" He poured himself\n another cup of coffee and sipped it, scalding hot. \"And that,\"\n he added, \"will be that.\"\nThe place was dark and almost empty. Overhead, a rotary\n fan swished patiently. The man across from Morgan ran a hand\n through his dark hair. \"There must be some other way,\" he\n said. \"There has to be.\"", "\"Next I tried the police. I got the same treatment there,\n only they weren't so gentle. They wouldn't listen either. They\n muttered something about cranks and their crazy notions, and\n when they asked me where I lived, they thought I was—what\n did they call it?—a wise guy! Told me to get out and not come\n back with any more wild stories.\"\n\n\n \"I see,\" said Morgan.", "Parks shrugged tiredly. \"Not really. He examined me. He\n practically took me apart. I carefully refrained from saying\n anything about who I was or where I came from; just said\n I wanted a complete physical examination, and let him go\n to it. He was thorough, and when he finished he patted me\n on the back and said, 'Parks, you've got nothing to worry\n about. You're as fine, strapping a specimen of a healthy human\n being as I've ever seen.' And that was that.\" Parks laughed\n bitterly. \"I guess I was supposed to be happy with the verdict,\n and instead I was ready to knock him down. It was idiotic, it\n defied reason, it was infuriating.\"\n\n\n Morgan nodded sourly. \"Because you're not a human\n being,\" he said.", "Morgan shrugged. \"So it's true. I won't argue with you. But\n as I asked before, even if I\ndid\nbelieve you, what do you\n expect\nme\nto do about it? Why pick\nme\n, of all the people you've\n seen?\"\n\n\n There was a desperate light in Parks' eyes. \"I was tired, tired\n of being laughed at, tired of having people looking at me as\n though I'd lost my wits when I tried to tell them the truth.\n You were here, you were alone, so I started talking. And then\n I found out you wrote stories.\" He looked up eagerly. \"I've\n got to get back, Morgan, somehow. My life is there, my family.\n And think what it would mean to both of our worlds—contact\n with another intelligent race! Combine our knowledges,\n our technologies, and we could explore the galaxy!\"", "Morgan didn't move. He just stared. \"How many people\n have you talked to?\" he asked.\n\n\n \"A dozen, a hundred, maybe a thousand.\"\n\n\n \"And how many believed you?\"\n\n\n \"None.\"\n\n\n \"You mean\nnobody\nwould believe you?\"\n\n\n \"\nNot one soul.\nUntil I talked to you.\"\n\n\n And then Morgan was laughing, laughing bitterly, tears\n rolling down his cheeks. \"And I'm the one man who couldn't\n help you if my life depended on it,\" he gasped.\n\n\n \"You believe me?\"\n\n\n Morgan nodded sadly. \"I believe you. Yes. I think your\n warp brought you through to a parallel universe of your own\n planet, not to another star, but I think you're telling the truth.\"\n\n\n \"Then you\ncan\nhelp me.\"", "\"No. I saw a secretary. She said the mayor was in conference,\n and that I would have to have an appointment. She let\n me speak to another man, one of the mayor's assistants.\"\n\n\n \"And you told him?\"\n\n\n \"No. I wanted to see the mayor himself. I thought that was\n the best thing to do. I waited for a couple of hours, until\n another assistant came along and told me flatly that the mayor\n wouldn't see me unless I stated my business first.\" He drew in\n a deep breath. \"So I stated it. And then I was gently but firmly\n ushered back into the street again.\"\n\n\n \"They didn't believe you,\" said Morgan.\n\n\n \"Not for a minute. They laughed in my face.\"\n\n\n Morgan nodded. \"I'm beginning to get the pattern. So what\n did you do next?\"", "\"I know that now. I didn't then. Naturally, I assumed that\n with everything else so similar, principles of business would\n also be similar.\"\n\n\n Morgan sighed and leaned back in his chair. \"Well, then\n what?\"\n\n\n Parks poured some more coffee. His face was very pale,\n Morgan thought, and his hands trembled as he raised the cup\n to his lips. Fright? Maybe. Hard to tell. The man put down\n the cup and rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand.\n \"First, I went to the mayor's office,\" he said. \"I kept trying to\n think what anyone at home would do in my place. That seemed\n a good bet. I asked a policeman where it was, and then I went\n there.\"\n\n\n \"But you didn't get to see him.\"", "\"Nothing. Oh, little things, insignificant little things. Your\n calendars, for instance. Naturally, I couldn't understand your\n frame of reference. And the coinage, you stamp your coins; we\n don't. And cigarettes. We don't have any such thing as tobacco.\"\n The man gave a short laugh. \"And your house dogs!\n We have little animals that look more like rabbits than poodles.\n But there was nothing any more significant than that. Absolutely\n nothing.\"\n\n\n \"Except yourself,\" Morgan said.\n\n\n \"Ah, yes. I thought that over carefully. I looked for differences,\n obvious ones. I couldn't find any. You can see that, just\n looking at me. So I searched for more subtle things. Skin texture,\n fingerprints, bone structure, body proportion. I still\n couldn't find anything. Then I went to a doctor.\"\n\n\n Morgan's eyebrows lifted. \"Good,\" he said.", "He shook his head wearily. \"We're new at it, Morgan. We've\n only tried a few dozen runs. We're not too far ahead of you in\n technology. We've been using rocket vehicles just like yours for\n over a century. That's fine for a solar system, but it's not much\n good for the stars. When the warp principle was discovered, it\n looked like the answer. But something went wrong, the scanner\n picked up this planet, and I was coming through, and then\n something blew. Next thing I knew I was falling. When I tried\n to make contact again, the scanner was gone!\"\n\n\n \"And you found things here the same as back home,\" said\n Morgan.", "\"All right, let's start from the beginning again,\" Morgan\n said. \"Maybe we can pin something down a little better. You\n say your name is Parks—right?\"\n\n\n The man nodded. \"Jefferson Haldeman Parks, if that helps\n any. Haldeman was my mother's maiden name.\"\n\n\n \"All right. And you got into town on Friday—right?\"\n\n\n Parks nodded.\n\n\n \"Fine. Now go through the whole story again. What happened\n first?\"\n\n\n The man thought for a minute. \"As I said, first there was\n a fall. About twenty feet. I didn't break any bones, but I was\n shaken up and limping. The fall was near the highway going\n to the George Washington Bridge. I got over to the highway\n and tried to flag down a ride.\"\n\n\n \"How did you feel? I mean, was there anything strange that\n you noticed?\"", "The stranger from the stars leafed through the magazine,\n stopped at a page that carried Roger Morgan's name. His eyes\n caught the first paragraph and he turned white. He set the\n magazine down with a trembling hand. \"I see,\" he said, and\n the life was gone out of his voice. He spread the pages viciously,\n read the lines again.\n\n\n The paragraph said:\n\n\n \"Just suppose,\" said Martin, \"that I\ndid\nbelieve you. Just\n for argument.\" He glanced up at the man across the table.\n \"Where do we go from here?\"", "Transcriber's Note:\nThis etext was produced from\nThe Counterfeit Man More Science Fiction\n Stories by Alan E. Nourse\npublished in 1963. Extensive research did\n not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was\n renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected\n without note.\nCircus\n\"Just\n suppose,\" said Morgan, \"that I\ndid\nbelieve you. Just\n for argument.\" He glanced up at the man across the restaurant\n table. \"Where would we go from here?\"\n\n\n The man shifted uneasily in his seat. He was silent, staring\n down at his plate. Not a strange-looking man, Morgan thought.\n Rather ordinary, in fact. A plain face, nose a little too long,\n fingers a little too dainty, a suit that doesn't quite seem to fit,\n but all in all, a perfectly ordinary looking man.\n\n\n Maybe\ntoo\nordinary, Morgan thought.", "He leaned forward, his thin face intense. \"I need money and\n I need help. I know some of the mathematics of the warp principle,\n know some of the design, some of the power and wiring\n principles. You have engineers here, technologists, physicists.\n They could fill in what I don't know and build a guide beam.\n But they won't do it if they don't believe me. Your government\n won't listen to me, they won't appropriate any money.\"\n\n\n \"Of course they won't. They've got a war or two on their\n hands, they have public welfare, and atomic bombs, and\n rockets to the moon to sink their money into.\" Morgan stared\n at the man. \"But what can\nI\ndo?\"\n\n\n \"You can\nwrite\n! That's what you can do. You can tell the\n world about me, you can tell exactly what has happened. I\n know how public interest can be aroused in my world. It must\n be the same in yours.\"", "\"\nStrange!\n\" Parks' eyes widened. \"I—I was speechless. At\n first I hadn't noticed too much—I was concerned with the fall,\n and whether I was hurt or not. I didn't really think about much\n else until I hobbled up to that highway and saw those cars\n coming. Then I could hardly believe my eyes. I thought I was\n crazy. But a car stopped and asked me if I was going into the\n city, and I knew I wasn't crazy.\"\n\n\n Morgan's mouth took a grim line. \"You understood the\n language?\"\n\n\n \"Oh, yes. I don't see how I could have, but I did. We talked\n all the way into New York—nothing very important, but we\n understood each other. His speech had an odd sound, but—\"\n\n\n Morgan nodded. \"I know, I noticed. What did you do when\n you got to New York?\"", "\"That's right. I'm not a human being at all.\"\n\"How did you happen to pick this planet, or this sun?\"\n Morgan asked curiously. \"There must have been a million\n others to choose from.\"", "\"Well, obviously, I needed money. I had gold coin. There\n had been no way of knowing if it would be useful, but I'd\n taken it on chance. I tried to use it at a newsstand first, and the\n man wouldn't touch it. Asked me if I thought I was the U.S.\n Treasury or something. When he saw that I was serious, he\n sent me to a money lender, a hock shop, I think he called it.\n So I found a place—\"\n\n\n \"Let me see the coins.\"\n\n\n Parks dropped two small gold discs on the table. They were\n perfectly smooth and perfectly round, tapered by wear to a\n thin blunt edge. There was no design on them, and no printing.\n Morgan looked up at the man sharply. \"What did you get for\n these?\"\n\n\n Parks shrugged. \"Too little, I suspect. Two dollars for the\n small one, five for the larger.\"\n\n\n \"You should have gone to a bank.\"", "\"The same! Your planet and mine are practically twins.\n Similar cities, similar technology, everything. The people are\n the same, with precisely the same anatomy and physiology, the\n same sort of laws, the same institutions, even compatible languages.\n Can't you see the importance of it? This planet is on\n the other side of the universe from mine, with the first intelligent\n life we've yet encountered anywhere. But when I try to\n tell your people that I'm a native of another star system,\nthey\n won't believe me\n!\"\n\n\n \"Why should they?\" asked Morgan. \"You look like a human\n being. You talk like one. You eat like one. You act like one.\n What you're asking them to believe is utterly incredible.\"\n\n\n \"\nBut it's true.\n\"", "Jefferson Parks finished his last bite of pie and pushed the\n plate away. \"By then I didn't know quite what to do. I'd been\n prepared for almost anything excepting this. It was frightening.\n I tried to rationalize it, and then I quit trying. It wasn't\n that I attracted attention, or anything like that, quite the contrary.\n Nobody even looked at me, unless I said something to\n them. I began to look for things that were\ndifferent\n, things that\n I could show them, and say, see, this proves that I'm telling\n the truth, look at it—\" He looked up helplessly.\n\n\n \"And what did you find?\"", "Parks unbuttoned his collar and rubbed his stubbled chin\n unhappily. \"I didn't make the choice. Neither did anyone else.\n Travel by warp is a little different from travel by the rocket\n you fiction writers make so much of. With a rocket vehicle you\n pick your destination, make your calculations, and off you go.\n The warp is blind flying, strictly blind. We send an unmanned\n scanner ahead. It probes around more or less hit-or-miss until\n it locates something, somewhere, that looks habitable. When\n it spots a likely looking place, we keep a tight beam on it\n and send through a manned scout.\" He grinned sourly. \"Like\n me. If it looks good to the scout, he signals back, and they" ], [ "Parks shrugged tiredly. \"Not really. He examined me. He\n practically took me apart. I carefully refrained from saying\n anything about who I was or where I came from; just said\n I wanted a complete physical examination, and let him go\n to it. He was thorough, and when he finished he patted me\n on the back and said, 'Parks, you've got nothing to worry\n about. You're as fine, strapping a specimen of a healthy human\n being as I've ever seen.' And that was that.\" Parks laughed\n bitterly. \"I guess I was supposed to be happy with the verdict,\n and instead I was ready to knock him down. It was idiotic, it\n defied reason, it was infuriating.\"\n\n\n Morgan nodded sourly. \"Because you're not a human\n being,\" he said.", "Morgan shrugged. \"So it's true. I won't argue with you. But\n as I asked before, even if I\ndid\nbelieve you, what do you\n expect\nme\nto do about it? Why pick\nme\n, of all the people you've\n seen?\"\n\n\n There was a desperate light in Parks' eyes. \"I was tired, tired\n of being laughed at, tired of having people looking at me as\n though I'd lost my wits when I tried to tell them the truth.\n You were here, you were alone, so I started talking. And then\n I found out you wrote stories.\" He looked up eagerly. \"I've\n got to get back, Morgan, somehow. My life is there, my family.\n And think what it would mean to both of our worlds—contact\n with another intelligent race! Combine our knowledges,\n our technologies, and we could explore the galaxy!\"", "\"I'm afraid not.\"\n\n\n \"Why not?\"\n\n\n \"Because I'd be worse than no help at all.\"\n\n\n Jefferson Parks gripped the table, his knuckles white.\n \"Why?\" he cried hoarsely. \"If you believe me, why can't you\n help me?\"\n\n\n Morgan pointed to the magazine lying on the table. \"I write,\n yes,\" he said sadly. \"Ever read stories like this before?\"\n\n\n Parks picked up the magazine, glanced at the bright cover.\n \"I barely looked at it.\"\n\n\n \"You should look more closely. I have a story in this issue.\n The readers thought it was very interesting,\" Morgan grinned.\n \"Go ahead, look at it.\"", "\"I know that now. I didn't then. Naturally, I assumed that\n with everything else so similar, principles of business would\n also be similar.\"\n\n\n Morgan sighed and leaned back in his chair. \"Well, then\n what?\"\n\n\n Parks poured some more coffee. His face was very pale,\n Morgan thought, and his hands trembled as he raised the cup\n to his lips. Fright? Maybe. Hard to tell. The man put down\n the cup and rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand.\n \"First, I went to the mayor's office,\" he said. \"I kept trying to\n think what anyone at home would do in my place. That seemed\n a good bet. I asked a policeman where it was, and then I went\n there.\"\n\n\n \"But you didn't get to see him.\"", "\"All right, let's start from the beginning again,\" Morgan\n said. \"Maybe we can pin something down a little better. You\n say your name is Parks—right?\"\n\n\n The man nodded. \"Jefferson Haldeman Parks, if that helps\n any. Haldeman was my mother's maiden name.\"\n\n\n \"All right. And you got into town on Friday—right?\"\n\n\n Parks nodded.\n\n\n \"Fine. Now go through the whole story again. What happened\n first?\"\n\n\n The man thought for a minute. \"As I said, first there was\n a fall. About twenty feet. I didn't break any bones, but I was\n shaken up and limping. The fall was near the highway going\n to the George Washington Bridge. I got over to the highway\n and tried to flag down a ride.\"\n\n\n \"How did you feel? I mean, was there anything strange that\n you noticed?\"", "\"\nStrange!\n\" Parks' eyes widened. \"I—I was speechless. At\n first I hadn't noticed too much—I was concerned with the fall,\n and whether I was hurt or not. I didn't really think about much\n else until I hobbled up to that highway and saw those cars\n coming. Then I could hardly believe my eyes. I thought I was\n crazy. But a car stopped and asked me if I was going into the\n city, and I knew I wasn't crazy.\"\n\n\n Morgan's mouth took a grim line. \"You understood the\n language?\"\n\n\n \"Oh, yes. I don't see how I could have, but I did. We talked\n all the way into New York—nothing very important, but we\n understood each other. His speech had an odd sound, but—\"\n\n\n Morgan nodded. \"I know, I noticed. What did you do when\n you got to New York?\"", "\"Next I tried the police. I got the same treatment there,\n only they weren't so gentle. They wouldn't listen either. They\n muttered something about cranks and their crazy notions, and\n when they asked me where I lived, they thought I was—what\n did they call it?—a wise guy! Told me to get out and not come\n back with any more wild stories.\"\n\n\n \"I see,\" said Morgan.", "Morgan didn't move. He just stared. \"How many people\n have you talked to?\" he asked.\n\n\n \"A dozen, a hundred, maybe a thousand.\"\n\n\n \"And how many believed you?\"\n\n\n \"None.\"\n\n\n \"You mean\nnobody\nwould believe you?\"\n\n\n \"\nNot one soul.\nUntil I talked to you.\"\n\n\n And then Morgan was laughing, laughing bitterly, tears\n rolling down his cheeks. \"And I'm the one man who couldn't\n help you if my life depended on it,\" he gasped.\n\n\n \"You believe me?\"\n\n\n Morgan nodded sadly. \"I believe you. Yes. I think your\n warp brought you through to a parallel universe of your own\n planet, not to another star, but I think you're telling the truth.\"\n\n\n \"Then you\ncan\nhelp me.\"", "Jefferson Parks finished his last bite of pie and pushed the\n plate away. \"By then I didn't know quite what to do. I'd been\n prepared for almost anything excepting this. It was frightening.\n I tried to rationalize it, and then I quit trying. It wasn't\n that I attracted attention, or anything like that, quite the contrary.\n Nobody even looked at me, unless I said something to\n them. I began to look for things that were\ndifferent\n, things that\n I could show them, and say, see, this proves that I'm telling\n the truth, look at it—\" He looked up helplessly.\n\n\n \"And what did you find?\"", "Finally the man looked up. His eyes were dark, with a\n hunted look in their depths that chilled Morgan a little. \"Where\n do we go? I don't know. I've tried to think it out, and I get\n nowhere. But you've\ngot\nto believe me, Morgan. I'm lost,\n I mean it. If I can't get help, I don't know where it's going to\n end.\"\n\n\n \"I'll tell you where it's going to end,\" said Morgan. \"It's\n going to end in a hospital. A mental hospital. They'll lock you\n up and they'll lose the key somewhere.\" He poured himself\n another cup of coffee and sipped it, scalding hot. \"And that,\"\n he added, \"will be that.\"\nThe place was dark and almost empty. Overhead, a rotary\n fan swished patiently. The man across from Morgan ran a hand\n through his dark hair. \"There must be some other way,\" he\n said. \"There has to be.\"", "The stranger from the stars leafed through the magazine,\n stopped at a page that carried Roger Morgan's name. His eyes\n caught the first paragraph and he turned white. He set the\n magazine down with a trembling hand. \"I see,\" he said, and\n the life was gone out of his voice. He spread the pages viciously,\n read the lines again.\n\n\n The paragraph said:\n\n\n \"Just suppose,\" said Martin, \"that I\ndid\nbelieve you. Just\n for argument.\" He glanced up at the man across the table.\n \"Where do we go from here?\"", "\"The same! Your planet and mine are practically twins.\n Similar cities, similar technology, everything. The people are\n the same, with precisely the same anatomy and physiology, the\n same sort of laws, the same institutions, even compatible languages.\n Can't you see the importance of it? This planet is on\n the other side of the universe from mine, with the first intelligent\n life we've yet encountered anywhere. But when I try to\n tell your people that I'm a native of another star system,\nthey\n won't believe me\n!\"\n\n\n \"Why should they?\" asked Morgan. \"You look like a human\n being. You talk like one. You eat like one. You act like one.\n What you're asking them to believe is utterly incredible.\"\n\n\n \"\nBut it's true.\n\"", "\"No. I saw a secretary. She said the mayor was in conference,\n and that I would have to have an appointment. She let\n me speak to another man, one of the mayor's assistants.\"\n\n\n \"And you told him?\"\n\n\n \"No. I wanted to see the mayor himself. I thought that was\n the best thing to do. I waited for a couple of hours, until\n another assistant came along and told me flatly that the mayor\n wouldn't see me unless I stated my business first.\" He drew in\n a deep breath. \"So I stated it. And then I was gently but firmly\n ushered back into the street again.\"\n\n\n \"They didn't believe you,\" said Morgan.\n\n\n \"Not for a minute. They laughed in my face.\"\n\n\n Morgan nodded. \"I'm beginning to get the pattern. So what\n did you do next?\"", "Transcriber's Note:\nThis etext was produced from\nThe Counterfeit Man More Science Fiction\n Stories by Alan E. Nourse\npublished in 1963. Extensive research did\n not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was\n renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected\n without note.\nCircus\n\"Just\n suppose,\" said Morgan, \"that I\ndid\nbelieve you. Just\n for argument.\" He glanced up at the man across the restaurant\n table. \"Where would we go from here?\"\n\n\n The man shifted uneasily in his seat. He was silent, staring\n down at his plate. Not a strange-looking man, Morgan thought.\n Rather ordinary, in fact. A plain face, nose a little too long,\n fingers a little too dainty, a suit that doesn't quite seem to fit,\n but all in all, a perfectly ordinary looking man.\n\n\n Maybe\ntoo\nordinary, Morgan thought.", "He leaned forward, his thin face intense. \"I need money and\n I need help. I know some of the mathematics of the warp principle,\n know some of the design, some of the power and wiring\n principles. You have engineers here, technologists, physicists.\n They could fill in what I don't know and build a guide beam.\n But they won't do it if they don't believe me. Your government\n won't listen to me, they won't appropriate any money.\"\n\n\n \"Of course they won't. They've got a war or two on their\n hands, they have public welfare, and atomic bombs, and\n rockets to the moon to sink their money into.\" Morgan stared\n at the man. \"But what can\nI\ndo?\"\n\n\n \"You can\nwrite\n! That's what you can do. You can tell the\n world about me, you can tell exactly what has happened. I\n know how public interest can be aroused in my world. It must\n be the same in yours.\"", "\"Nothing. Oh, little things, insignificant little things. Your\n calendars, for instance. Naturally, I couldn't understand your\n frame of reference. And the coinage, you stamp your coins; we\n don't. And cigarettes. We don't have any such thing as tobacco.\"\n The man gave a short laugh. \"And your house dogs!\n We have little animals that look more like rabbits than poodles.\n But there was nothing any more significant than that. Absolutely\n nothing.\"\n\n\n \"Except yourself,\" Morgan said.\n\n\n \"Ah, yes. I thought that over carefully. I looked for differences,\n obvious ones. I couldn't find any. You can see that, just\n looking at me. So I searched for more subtle things. Skin texture,\n fingerprints, bone structure, body proportion. I still\n couldn't find anything. Then I went to a doctor.\"\n\n\n Morgan's eyebrows lifted. \"Good,\" he said.", "\"Well, obviously, I needed money. I had gold coin. There\n had been no way of knowing if it would be useful, but I'd\n taken it on chance. I tried to use it at a newsstand first, and the\n man wouldn't touch it. Asked me if I thought I was the U.S.\n Treasury or something. When he saw that I was serious, he\n sent me to a money lender, a hock shop, I think he called it.\n So I found a place—\"\n\n\n \"Let me see the coins.\"\n\n\n Parks dropped two small gold discs on the table. They were\n perfectly smooth and perfectly round, tapered by wear to a\n thin blunt edge. There was no design on them, and no printing.\n Morgan looked up at the man sharply. \"What did you get for\n these?\"\n\n\n Parks shrugged. \"Too little, I suspect. Two dollars for the\n small one, five for the larger.\"\n\n\n \"You should have gone to a bank.\"", "\"That's right. I'm not a human being at all.\"\n\"How did you happen to pick this planet, or this sun?\"\n Morgan asked curiously. \"There must have been a million\n others to choose from.\"", "He shook his head wearily. \"We're new at it, Morgan. We've\n only tried a few dozen runs. We're not too far ahead of you in\n technology. We've been using rocket vehicles just like yours for\n over a century. That's fine for a solar system, but it's not much\n good for the stars. When the warp principle was discovered, it\n looked like the answer. But something went wrong, the scanner\n picked up this planet, and I was coming through, and then\n something blew. Next thing I knew I was falling. When I tried\n to make contact again, the scanner was gone!\"\n\n\n \"And you found things here the same as back home,\" said\n Morgan.", "Parks unbuttoned his collar and rubbed his stubbled chin\n unhappily. \"I didn't make the choice. Neither did anyone else.\n Travel by warp is a little different from travel by the rocket\n you fiction writers make so much of. With a rocket vehicle you\n pick your destination, make your calculations, and off you go.\n The warp is blind flying, strictly blind. We send an unmanned\n scanner ahead. It probes around more or less hit-or-miss until\n it locates something, somewhere, that looks habitable. When\n it spots a likely looking place, we keep a tight beam on it\n and send through a manned scout.\" He grinned sourly. \"Like\n me. If it looks good to the scout, he signals back, and they" ], [ "\"I'm afraid not.\"\n\n\n \"Why not?\"\n\n\n \"Because I'd be worse than no help at all.\"\n\n\n Jefferson Parks gripped the table, his knuckles white.\n \"Why?\" he cried hoarsely. \"If you believe me, why can't you\n help me?\"\n\n\n Morgan pointed to the magazine lying on the table. \"I write,\n yes,\" he said sadly. \"Ever read stories like this before?\"\n\n\n Parks picked up the magazine, glanced at the bright cover.\n \"I barely looked at it.\"\n\n\n \"You should look more closely. I have a story in this issue.\n The readers thought it was very interesting,\" Morgan grinned.\n \"Go ahead, look at it.\"", "The stranger from the stars leafed through the magazine,\n stopped at a page that carried Roger Morgan's name. His eyes\n caught the first paragraph and he turned white. He set the\n magazine down with a trembling hand. \"I see,\" he said, and\n the life was gone out of his voice. He spread the pages viciously,\n read the lines again.\n\n\n The paragraph said:\n\n\n \"Just suppose,\" said Martin, \"that I\ndid\nbelieve you. Just\n for argument.\" He glanced up at the man across the table.\n \"Where do we go from here?\"", "\"All right, let's start from the beginning again,\" Morgan\n said. \"Maybe we can pin something down a little better. You\n say your name is Parks—right?\"\n\n\n The man nodded. \"Jefferson Haldeman Parks, if that helps\n any. Haldeman was my mother's maiden name.\"\n\n\n \"All right. And you got into town on Friday—right?\"\n\n\n Parks nodded.\n\n\n \"Fine. Now go through the whole story again. What happened\n first?\"\n\n\n The man thought for a minute. \"As I said, first there was\n a fall. About twenty feet. I didn't break any bones, but I was\n shaken up and limping. The fall was near the highway going\n to the George Washington Bridge. I got over to the highway\n and tried to flag down a ride.\"\n\n\n \"How did you feel? I mean, was there anything strange that\n you noticed?\"", "\"Next I tried the police. I got the same treatment there,\n only they weren't so gentle. They wouldn't listen either. They\n muttered something about cranks and their crazy notions, and\n when they asked me where I lived, they thought I was—what\n did they call it?—a wise guy! Told me to get out and not come\n back with any more wild stories.\"\n\n\n \"I see,\" said Morgan.", "Jefferson Parks finished his last bite of pie and pushed the\n plate away. \"By then I didn't know quite what to do. I'd been\n prepared for almost anything excepting this. It was frightening.\n I tried to rationalize it, and then I quit trying. It wasn't\n that I attracted attention, or anything like that, quite the contrary.\n Nobody even looked at me, unless I said something to\n them. I began to look for things that were\ndifferent\n, things that\n I could show them, and say, see, this proves that I'm telling\n the truth, look at it—\" He looked up helplessly.\n\n\n \"And what did you find?\"", "\"No. I saw a secretary. She said the mayor was in conference,\n and that I would have to have an appointment. She let\n me speak to another man, one of the mayor's assistants.\"\n\n\n \"And you told him?\"\n\n\n \"No. I wanted to see the mayor himself. I thought that was\n the best thing to do. I waited for a couple of hours, until\n another assistant came along and told me flatly that the mayor\n wouldn't see me unless I stated my business first.\" He drew in\n a deep breath. \"So I stated it. And then I was gently but firmly\n ushered back into the street again.\"\n\n\n \"They didn't believe you,\" said Morgan.\n\n\n \"Not for a minute. They laughed in my face.\"\n\n\n Morgan nodded. \"I'm beginning to get the pattern. So what\n did you do next?\"", "Parks shrugged tiredly. \"Not really. He examined me. He\n practically took me apart. I carefully refrained from saying\n anything about who I was or where I came from; just said\n I wanted a complete physical examination, and let him go\n to it. He was thorough, and when he finished he patted me\n on the back and said, 'Parks, you've got nothing to worry\n about. You're as fine, strapping a specimen of a healthy human\n being as I've ever seen.' And that was that.\" Parks laughed\n bitterly. \"I guess I was supposed to be happy with the verdict,\n and instead I was ready to knock him down. It was idiotic, it\n defied reason, it was infuriating.\"\n\n\n Morgan nodded sourly. \"Because you're not a human\n being,\" he said.", "\"Nothing. Oh, little things, insignificant little things. Your\n calendars, for instance. Naturally, I couldn't understand your\n frame of reference. And the coinage, you stamp your coins; we\n don't. And cigarettes. We don't have any such thing as tobacco.\"\n The man gave a short laugh. \"And your house dogs!\n We have little animals that look more like rabbits than poodles.\n But there was nothing any more significant than that. Absolutely\n nothing.\"\n\n\n \"Except yourself,\" Morgan said.\n\n\n \"Ah, yes. I thought that over carefully. I looked for differences,\n obvious ones. I couldn't find any. You can see that, just\n looking at me. So I searched for more subtle things. Skin texture,\n fingerprints, bone structure, body proportion. I still\n couldn't find anything. Then I went to a doctor.\"\n\n\n Morgan's eyebrows lifted. \"Good,\" he said.", "Transcriber's Note:\nThis etext was produced from\nThe Counterfeit Man More Science Fiction\n Stories by Alan E. Nourse\npublished in 1963. Extensive research did\n not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was\n renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected\n without note.\nCircus\n\"Just\n suppose,\" said Morgan, \"that I\ndid\nbelieve you. Just\n for argument.\" He glanced up at the man across the restaurant\n table. \"Where would we go from here?\"\n\n\n The man shifted uneasily in his seat. He was silent, staring\n down at his plate. Not a strange-looking man, Morgan thought.\n Rather ordinary, in fact. A plain face, nose a little too long,\n fingers a little too dainty, a suit that doesn't quite seem to fit,\n but all in all, a perfectly ordinary looking man.\n\n\n Maybe\ntoo\nordinary, Morgan thought.", "Finally the man looked up. His eyes were dark, with a\n hunted look in their depths that chilled Morgan a little. \"Where\n do we go? I don't know. I've tried to think it out, and I get\n nowhere. But you've\ngot\nto believe me, Morgan. I'm lost,\n I mean it. If I can't get help, I don't know where it's going to\n end.\"\n\n\n \"I'll tell you where it's going to end,\" said Morgan. \"It's\n going to end in a hospital. A mental hospital. They'll lock you\n up and they'll lose the key somewhere.\" He poured himself\n another cup of coffee and sipped it, scalding hot. \"And that,\"\n he added, \"will be that.\"\nThe place was dark and almost empty. Overhead, a rotary\n fan swished patiently. The man across from Morgan ran a hand\n through his dark hair. \"There must be some other way,\" he\n said. \"There has to be.\"", "Morgan shrugged. \"So it's true. I won't argue with you. But\n as I asked before, even if I\ndid\nbelieve you, what do you\n expect\nme\nto do about it? Why pick\nme\n, of all the people you've\n seen?\"\n\n\n There was a desperate light in Parks' eyes. \"I was tired, tired\n of being laughed at, tired of having people looking at me as\n though I'd lost my wits when I tried to tell them the truth.\n You were here, you were alone, so I started talking. And then\n I found out you wrote stories.\" He looked up eagerly. \"I've\n got to get back, Morgan, somehow. My life is there, my family.\n And think what it would mean to both of our worlds—contact\n with another intelligent race! Combine our knowledges,\n our technologies, and we could explore the galaxy!\"", "\"I know that now. I didn't then. Naturally, I assumed that\n with everything else so similar, principles of business would\n also be similar.\"\n\n\n Morgan sighed and leaned back in his chair. \"Well, then\n what?\"\n\n\n Parks poured some more coffee. His face was very pale,\n Morgan thought, and his hands trembled as he raised the cup\n to his lips. Fright? Maybe. Hard to tell. The man put down\n the cup and rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand.\n \"First, I went to the mayor's office,\" he said. \"I kept trying to\n think what anyone at home would do in my place. That seemed\n a good bet. I asked a policeman where it was, and then I went\n there.\"\n\n\n \"But you didn't get to see him.\"", "Morgan didn't move. He just stared. \"How many people\n have you talked to?\" he asked.\n\n\n \"A dozen, a hundred, maybe a thousand.\"\n\n\n \"And how many believed you?\"\n\n\n \"None.\"\n\n\n \"You mean\nnobody\nwould believe you?\"\n\n\n \"\nNot one soul.\nUntil I talked to you.\"\n\n\n And then Morgan was laughing, laughing bitterly, tears\n rolling down his cheeks. \"And I'm the one man who couldn't\n help you if my life depended on it,\" he gasped.\n\n\n \"You believe me?\"\n\n\n Morgan nodded sadly. \"I believe you. Yes. I think your\n warp brought you through to a parallel universe of your own\n planet, not to another star, but I think you're telling the truth.\"\n\n\n \"Then you\ncan\nhelp me.\"", "\"\nStrange!\n\" Parks' eyes widened. \"I—I was speechless. At\n first I hadn't noticed too much—I was concerned with the fall,\n and whether I was hurt or not. I didn't really think about much\n else until I hobbled up to that highway and saw those cars\n coming. Then I could hardly believe my eyes. I thought I was\n crazy. But a car stopped and asked me if I was going into the\n city, and I knew I wasn't crazy.\"\n\n\n Morgan's mouth took a grim line. \"You understood the\n language?\"\n\n\n \"Oh, yes. I don't see how I could have, but I did. We talked\n all the way into New York—nothing very important, but we\n understood each other. His speech had an odd sound, but—\"\n\n\n Morgan nodded. \"I know, I noticed. What did you do when\n you got to New York?\"", "\"The same! Your planet and mine are practically twins.\n Similar cities, similar technology, everything. The people are\n the same, with precisely the same anatomy and physiology, the\n same sort of laws, the same institutions, even compatible languages.\n Can't you see the importance of it? This planet is on\n the other side of the universe from mine, with the first intelligent\n life we've yet encountered anywhere. But when I try to\n tell your people that I'm a native of another star system,\nthey\n won't believe me\n!\"\n\n\n \"Why should they?\" asked Morgan. \"You look like a human\n being. You talk like one. You eat like one. You act like one.\n What you're asking them to believe is utterly incredible.\"\n\n\n \"\nBut it's true.\n\"", "\"That's right. I'm not a human being at all.\"\n\"How did you happen to pick this planet, or this sun?\"\n Morgan asked curiously. \"There must have been a million\n others to choose from.\"", "Parks unbuttoned his collar and rubbed his stubbled chin\n unhappily. \"I didn't make the choice. Neither did anyone else.\n Travel by warp is a little different from travel by the rocket\n you fiction writers make so much of. With a rocket vehicle you\n pick your destination, make your calculations, and off you go.\n The warp is blind flying, strictly blind. We send an unmanned\n scanner ahead. It probes around more or less hit-or-miss until\n it locates something, somewhere, that looks habitable. When\n it spots a likely looking place, we keep a tight beam on it\n and send through a manned scout.\" He grinned sourly. \"Like\n me. If it looks good to the scout, he signals back, and they", "\"Well, obviously, I needed money. I had gold coin. There\n had been no way of knowing if it would be useful, but I'd\n taken it on chance. I tried to use it at a newsstand first, and the\n man wouldn't touch it. Asked me if I thought I was the U.S.\n Treasury or something. When he saw that I was serious, he\n sent me to a money lender, a hock shop, I think he called it.\n So I found a place—\"\n\n\n \"Let me see the coins.\"\n\n\n Parks dropped two small gold discs on the table. They were\n perfectly smooth and perfectly round, tapered by wear to a\n thin blunt edge. There was no design on them, and no printing.\n Morgan looked up at the man sharply. \"What did you get for\n these?\"\n\n\n Parks shrugged. \"Too little, I suspect. Two dollars for the\n small one, five for the larger.\"\n\n\n \"You should have gone to a bank.\"", "He leaned forward, his thin face intense. \"I need money and\n I need help. I know some of the mathematics of the warp principle,\n know some of the design, some of the power and wiring\n principles. You have engineers here, technologists, physicists.\n They could fill in what I don't know and build a guide beam.\n But they won't do it if they don't believe me. Your government\n won't listen to me, they won't appropriate any money.\"\n\n\n \"Of course they won't. They've got a war or two on their\n hands, they have public welfare, and atomic bombs, and\n rockets to the moon to sink their money into.\" Morgan stared\n at the man. \"But what can\nI\ndo?\"\n\n\n \"You can\nwrite\n! That's what you can do. You can tell the\n world about me, you can tell exactly what has happened. I\n know how public interest can be aroused in my world. It must\n be the same in yours.\"", "He shook his head wearily. \"We're new at it, Morgan. We've\n only tried a few dozen runs. We're not too far ahead of you in\n technology. We've been using rocket vehicles just like yours for\n over a century. That's fine for a solar system, but it's not much\n good for the stars. When the warp principle was discovered, it\n looked like the answer. But something went wrong, the scanner\n picked up this planet, and I was coming through, and then\n something blew. Next thing I knew I was falling. When I tried\n to make contact again, the scanner was gone!\"\n\n\n \"And you found things here the same as back home,\" said\n Morgan." ], [ "Parks shrugged tiredly. \"Not really. He examined me. He\n practically took me apart. I carefully refrained from saying\n anything about who I was or where I came from; just said\n I wanted a complete physical examination, and let him go\n to it. He was thorough, and when he finished he patted me\n on the back and said, 'Parks, you've got nothing to worry\n about. You're as fine, strapping a specimen of a healthy human\n being as I've ever seen.' And that was that.\" Parks laughed\n bitterly. \"I guess I was supposed to be happy with the verdict,\n and instead I was ready to knock him down. It was idiotic, it\n defied reason, it was infuriating.\"\n\n\n Morgan nodded sourly. \"Because you're not a human\n being,\" he said.", "\"I'm afraid not.\"\n\n\n \"Why not?\"\n\n\n \"Because I'd be worse than no help at all.\"\n\n\n Jefferson Parks gripped the table, his knuckles white.\n \"Why?\" he cried hoarsely. \"If you believe me, why can't you\n help me?\"\n\n\n Morgan pointed to the magazine lying on the table. \"I write,\n yes,\" he said sadly. \"Ever read stories like this before?\"\n\n\n Parks picked up the magazine, glanced at the bright cover.\n \"I barely looked at it.\"\n\n\n \"You should look more closely. I have a story in this issue.\n The readers thought it was very interesting,\" Morgan grinned.\n \"Go ahead, look at it.\"", "Jefferson Parks finished his last bite of pie and pushed the\n plate away. \"By then I didn't know quite what to do. I'd been\n prepared for almost anything excepting this. It was frightening.\n I tried to rationalize it, and then I quit trying. It wasn't\n that I attracted attention, or anything like that, quite the contrary.\n Nobody even looked at me, unless I said something to\n them. I began to look for things that were\ndifferent\n, things that\n I could show them, and say, see, this proves that I'm telling\n the truth, look at it—\" He looked up helplessly.\n\n\n \"And what did you find?\"", "Morgan shrugged. \"So it's true. I won't argue with you. But\n as I asked before, even if I\ndid\nbelieve you, what do you\n expect\nme\nto do about it? Why pick\nme\n, of all the people you've\n seen?\"\n\n\n There was a desperate light in Parks' eyes. \"I was tired, tired\n of being laughed at, tired of having people looking at me as\n though I'd lost my wits when I tried to tell them the truth.\n You were here, you were alone, so I started talking. And then\n I found out you wrote stories.\" He looked up eagerly. \"I've\n got to get back, Morgan, somehow. My life is there, my family.\n And think what it would mean to both of our worlds—contact\n with another intelligent race! Combine our knowledges,\n our technologies, and we could explore the galaxy!\"", "\"I know that now. I didn't then. Naturally, I assumed that\n with everything else so similar, principles of business would\n also be similar.\"\n\n\n Morgan sighed and leaned back in his chair. \"Well, then\n what?\"\n\n\n Parks poured some more coffee. His face was very pale,\n Morgan thought, and his hands trembled as he raised the cup\n to his lips. Fright? Maybe. Hard to tell. The man put down\n the cup and rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand.\n \"First, I went to the mayor's office,\" he said. \"I kept trying to\n think what anyone at home would do in my place. That seemed\n a good bet. I asked a policeman where it was, and then I went\n there.\"\n\n\n \"But you didn't get to see him.\"", "\"All right, let's start from the beginning again,\" Morgan\n said. \"Maybe we can pin something down a little better. You\n say your name is Parks—right?\"\n\n\n The man nodded. \"Jefferson Haldeman Parks, if that helps\n any. Haldeman was my mother's maiden name.\"\n\n\n \"All right. And you got into town on Friday—right?\"\n\n\n Parks nodded.\n\n\n \"Fine. Now go through the whole story again. What happened\n first?\"\n\n\n The man thought for a minute. \"As I said, first there was\n a fall. About twenty feet. I didn't break any bones, but I was\n shaken up and limping. The fall was near the highway going\n to the George Washington Bridge. I got over to the highway\n and tried to flag down a ride.\"\n\n\n \"How did you feel? I mean, was there anything strange that\n you noticed?\"", "Finally the man looked up. His eyes were dark, with a\n hunted look in their depths that chilled Morgan a little. \"Where\n do we go? I don't know. I've tried to think it out, and I get\n nowhere. But you've\ngot\nto believe me, Morgan. I'm lost,\n I mean it. If I can't get help, I don't know where it's going to\n end.\"\n\n\n \"I'll tell you where it's going to end,\" said Morgan. \"It's\n going to end in a hospital. A mental hospital. They'll lock you\n up and they'll lose the key somewhere.\" He poured himself\n another cup of coffee and sipped it, scalding hot. \"And that,\"\n he added, \"will be that.\"\nThe place was dark and almost empty. Overhead, a rotary\n fan swished patiently. The man across from Morgan ran a hand\n through his dark hair. \"There must be some other way,\" he\n said. \"There has to be.\"", "\"No. I saw a secretary. She said the mayor was in conference,\n and that I would have to have an appointment. She let\n me speak to another man, one of the mayor's assistants.\"\n\n\n \"And you told him?\"\n\n\n \"No. I wanted to see the mayor himself. I thought that was\n the best thing to do. I waited for a couple of hours, until\n another assistant came along and told me flatly that the mayor\n wouldn't see me unless I stated my business first.\" He drew in\n a deep breath. \"So I stated it. And then I was gently but firmly\n ushered back into the street again.\"\n\n\n \"They didn't believe you,\" said Morgan.\n\n\n \"Not for a minute. They laughed in my face.\"\n\n\n Morgan nodded. \"I'm beginning to get the pattern. So what\n did you do next?\"", "\"Next I tried the police. I got the same treatment there,\n only they weren't so gentle. They wouldn't listen either. They\n muttered something about cranks and their crazy notions, and\n when they asked me where I lived, they thought I was—what\n did they call it?—a wise guy! Told me to get out and not come\n back with any more wild stories.\"\n\n\n \"I see,\" said Morgan.", "\"\nStrange!\n\" Parks' eyes widened. \"I—I was speechless. At\n first I hadn't noticed too much—I was concerned with the fall,\n and whether I was hurt or not. I didn't really think about much\n else until I hobbled up to that highway and saw those cars\n coming. Then I could hardly believe my eyes. I thought I was\n crazy. But a car stopped and asked me if I was going into the\n city, and I knew I wasn't crazy.\"\n\n\n Morgan's mouth took a grim line. \"You understood the\n language?\"\n\n\n \"Oh, yes. I don't see how I could have, but I did. We talked\n all the way into New York—nothing very important, but we\n understood each other. His speech had an odd sound, but—\"\n\n\n Morgan nodded. \"I know, I noticed. What did you do when\n you got to New York?\"", "Morgan didn't move. He just stared. \"How many people\n have you talked to?\" he asked.\n\n\n \"A dozen, a hundred, maybe a thousand.\"\n\n\n \"And how many believed you?\"\n\n\n \"None.\"\n\n\n \"You mean\nnobody\nwould believe you?\"\n\n\n \"\nNot one soul.\nUntil I talked to you.\"\n\n\n And then Morgan was laughing, laughing bitterly, tears\n rolling down his cheeks. \"And I'm the one man who couldn't\n help you if my life depended on it,\" he gasped.\n\n\n \"You believe me?\"\n\n\n Morgan nodded sadly. \"I believe you. Yes. I think your\n warp brought you through to a parallel universe of your own\n planet, not to another star, but I think you're telling the truth.\"\n\n\n \"Then you\ncan\nhelp me.\"", "Parks unbuttoned his collar and rubbed his stubbled chin\n unhappily. \"I didn't make the choice. Neither did anyone else.\n Travel by warp is a little different from travel by the rocket\n you fiction writers make so much of. With a rocket vehicle you\n pick your destination, make your calculations, and off you go.\n The warp is blind flying, strictly blind. We send an unmanned\n scanner ahead. It probes around more or less hit-or-miss until\n it locates something, somewhere, that looks habitable. When\n it spots a likely looking place, we keep a tight beam on it\n and send through a manned scout.\" He grinned sourly. \"Like\n me. If it looks good to the scout, he signals back, and they", "The stranger from the stars leafed through the magazine,\n stopped at a page that carried Roger Morgan's name. His eyes\n caught the first paragraph and he turned white. He set the\n magazine down with a trembling hand. \"I see,\" he said, and\n the life was gone out of his voice. He spread the pages viciously,\n read the lines again.\n\n\n The paragraph said:\n\n\n \"Just suppose,\" said Martin, \"that I\ndid\nbelieve you. Just\n for argument.\" He glanced up at the man across the table.\n \"Where do we go from here?\"", "He leaned forward, his thin face intense. \"I need money and\n I need help. I know some of the mathematics of the warp principle,\n know some of the design, some of the power and wiring\n principles. You have engineers here, technologists, physicists.\n They could fill in what I don't know and build a guide beam.\n But they won't do it if they don't believe me. Your government\n won't listen to me, they won't appropriate any money.\"\n\n\n \"Of course they won't. They've got a war or two on their\n hands, they have public welfare, and atomic bombs, and\n rockets to the moon to sink their money into.\" Morgan stared\n at the man. \"But what can\nI\ndo?\"\n\n\n \"You can\nwrite\n! That's what you can do. You can tell the\n world about me, you can tell exactly what has happened. I\n know how public interest can be aroused in my world. It must\n be the same in yours.\"", "\"The same! Your planet and mine are practically twins.\n Similar cities, similar technology, everything. The people are\n the same, with precisely the same anatomy and physiology, the\n same sort of laws, the same institutions, even compatible languages.\n Can't you see the importance of it? This planet is on\n the other side of the universe from mine, with the first intelligent\n life we've yet encountered anywhere. But when I try to\n tell your people that I'm a native of another star system,\nthey\n won't believe me\n!\"\n\n\n \"Why should they?\" asked Morgan. \"You look like a human\n being. You talk like one. You eat like one. You act like one.\n What you're asking them to believe is utterly incredible.\"\n\n\n \"\nBut it's true.\n\"", "Transcriber's Note:\nThis etext was produced from\nThe Counterfeit Man More Science Fiction\n Stories by Alan E. Nourse\npublished in 1963. Extensive research did\n not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was\n renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected\n without note.\nCircus\n\"Just\n suppose,\" said Morgan, \"that I\ndid\nbelieve you. Just\n for argument.\" He glanced up at the man across the restaurant\n table. \"Where would we go from here?\"\n\n\n The man shifted uneasily in his seat. He was silent, staring\n down at his plate. Not a strange-looking man, Morgan thought.\n Rather ordinary, in fact. A plain face, nose a little too long,\n fingers a little too dainty, a suit that doesn't quite seem to fit,\n but all in all, a perfectly ordinary looking man.\n\n\n Maybe\ntoo\nordinary, Morgan thought.", "\"Well, obviously, I needed money. I had gold coin. There\n had been no way of knowing if it would be useful, but I'd\n taken it on chance. I tried to use it at a newsstand first, and the\n man wouldn't touch it. Asked me if I thought I was the U.S.\n Treasury or something. When he saw that I was serious, he\n sent me to a money lender, a hock shop, I think he called it.\n So I found a place—\"\n\n\n \"Let me see the coins.\"\n\n\n Parks dropped two small gold discs on the table. They were\n perfectly smooth and perfectly round, tapered by wear to a\n thin blunt edge. There was no design on them, and no printing.\n Morgan looked up at the man sharply. \"What did you get for\n these?\"\n\n\n Parks shrugged. \"Too little, I suspect. Two dollars for the\n small one, five for the larger.\"\n\n\n \"You should have gone to a bank.\"", "\"Nothing. Oh, little things, insignificant little things. Your\n calendars, for instance. Naturally, I couldn't understand your\n frame of reference. And the coinage, you stamp your coins; we\n don't. And cigarettes. We don't have any such thing as tobacco.\"\n The man gave a short laugh. \"And your house dogs!\n We have little animals that look more like rabbits than poodles.\n But there was nothing any more significant than that. Absolutely\n nothing.\"\n\n\n \"Except yourself,\" Morgan said.\n\n\n \"Ah, yes. I thought that over carefully. I looked for differences,\n obvious ones. I couldn't find any. You can see that, just\n looking at me. So I searched for more subtle things. Skin texture,\n fingerprints, bone structure, body proportion. I still\n couldn't find anything. Then I went to a doctor.\"\n\n\n Morgan's eyebrows lifted. \"Good,\" he said.", "He shook his head wearily. \"We're new at it, Morgan. We've\n only tried a few dozen runs. We're not too far ahead of you in\n technology. We've been using rocket vehicles just like yours for\n over a century. That's fine for a solar system, but it's not much\n good for the stars. When the warp principle was discovered, it\n looked like the answer. But something went wrong, the scanner\n picked up this planet, and I was coming through, and then\n something blew. Next thing I knew I was falling. When I tried\n to make contact again, the scanner was gone!\"\n\n\n \"And you found things here the same as back home,\" said\n Morgan.", "\"That's right. I'm not a human being at all.\"\n\"How did you happen to pick this planet, or this sun?\"\n Morgan asked curiously. \"There must have been a million\n others to choose from.\"" ], [ "\"No. I saw a secretary. She said the mayor was in conference,\n and that I would have to have an appointment. She let\n me speak to another man, one of the mayor's assistants.\"\n\n\n \"And you told him?\"\n\n\n \"No. I wanted to see the mayor himself. I thought that was\n the best thing to do. I waited for a couple of hours, until\n another assistant came along and told me flatly that the mayor\n wouldn't see me unless I stated my business first.\" He drew in\n a deep breath. \"So I stated it. And then I was gently but firmly\n ushered back into the street again.\"\n\n\n \"They didn't believe you,\" said Morgan.\n\n\n \"Not for a minute. They laughed in my face.\"\n\n\n Morgan nodded. \"I'm beginning to get the pattern. So what\n did you do next?\"", "\"All right, let's start from the beginning again,\" Morgan\n said. \"Maybe we can pin something down a little better. You\n say your name is Parks—right?\"\n\n\n The man nodded. \"Jefferson Haldeman Parks, if that helps\n any. Haldeman was my mother's maiden name.\"\n\n\n \"All right. And you got into town on Friday—right?\"\n\n\n Parks nodded.\n\n\n \"Fine. Now go through the whole story again. What happened\n first?\"\n\n\n The man thought for a minute. \"As I said, first there was\n a fall. About twenty feet. I didn't break any bones, but I was\n shaken up and limping. The fall was near the highway going\n to the George Washington Bridge. I got over to the highway\n and tried to flag down a ride.\"\n\n\n \"How did you feel? I mean, was there anything strange that\n you noticed?\"", "\"I know that now. I didn't then. Naturally, I assumed that\n with everything else so similar, principles of business would\n also be similar.\"\n\n\n Morgan sighed and leaned back in his chair. \"Well, then\n what?\"\n\n\n Parks poured some more coffee. His face was very pale,\n Morgan thought, and his hands trembled as he raised the cup\n to his lips. Fright? Maybe. Hard to tell. The man put down\n the cup and rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand.\n \"First, I went to the mayor's office,\" he said. \"I kept trying to\n think what anyone at home would do in my place. That seemed\n a good bet. I asked a policeman where it was, and then I went\n there.\"\n\n\n \"But you didn't get to see him.\"", "Finally the man looked up. His eyes were dark, with a\n hunted look in their depths that chilled Morgan a little. \"Where\n do we go? I don't know. I've tried to think it out, and I get\n nowhere. But you've\ngot\nto believe me, Morgan. I'm lost,\n I mean it. If I can't get help, I don't know where it's going to\n end.\"\n\n\n \"I'll tell you where it's going to end,\" said Morgan. \"It's\n going to end in a hospital. A mental hospital. They'll lock you\n up and they'll lose the key somewhere.\" He poured himself\n another cup of coffee and sipped it, scalding hot. \"And that,\"\n he added, \"will be that.\"\nThe place was dark and almost empty. Overhead, a rotary\n fan swished patiently. The man across from Morgan ran a hand\n through his dark hair. \"There must be some other way,\" he\n said. \"There has to be.\"", "Parks unbuttoned his collar and rubbed his stubbled chin\n unhappily. \"I didn't make the choice. Neither did anyone else.\n Travel by warp is a little different from travel by the rocket\n you fiction writers make so much of. With a rocket vehicle you\n pick your destination, make your calculations, and off you go.\n The warp is blind flying, strictly blind. We send an unmanned\n scanner ahead. It probes around more or less hit-or-miss until\n it locates something, somewhere, that looks habitable. When\n it spots a likely looking place, we keep a tight beam on it\n and send through a manned scout.\" He grinned sourly. \"Like\n me. If it looks good to the scout, he signals back, and they", "The stranger from the stars leafed through the magazine,\n stopped at a page that carried Roger Morgan's name. His eyes\n caught the first paragraph and he turned white. He set the\n magazine down with a trembling hand. \"I see,\" he said, and\n the life was gone out of his voice. He spread the pages viciously,\n read the lines again.\n\n\n The paragraph said:\n\n\n \"Just suppose,\" said Martin, \"that I\ndid\nbelieve you. Just\n for argument.\" He glanced up at the man across the table.\n \"Where do we go from here?\"", "\"That's right. I'm not a human being at all.\"\n\"How did you happen to pick this planet, or this sun?\"\n Morgan asked curiously. \"There must have been a million\n others to choose from.\"", "\"\nStrange!\n\" Parks' eyes widened. \"I—I was speechless. At\n first I hadn't noticed too much—I was concerned with the fall,\n and whether I was hurt or not. I didn't really think about much\n else until I hobbled up to that highway and saw those cars\n coming. Then I could hardly believe my eyes. I thought I was\n crazy. But a car stopped and asked me if I was going into the\n city, and I knew I wasn't crazy.\"\n\n\n Morgan's mouth took a grim line. \"You understood the\n language?\"\n\n\n \"Oh, yes. I don't see how I could have, but I did. We talked\n all the way into New York—nothing very important, but we\n understood each other. His speech had an odd sound, but—\"\n\n\n Morgan nodded. \"I know, I noticed. What did you do when\n you got to New York?\"", "\"Next I tried the police. I got the same treatment there,\n only they weren't so gentle. They wouldn't listen either. They\n muttered something about cranks and their crazy notions, and\n when they asked me where I lived, they thought I was—what\n did they call it?—a wise guy! Told me to get out and not come\n back with any more wild stories.\"\n\n\n \"I see,\" said Morgan.", "Parks shrugged tiredly. \"Not really. He examined me. He\n practically took me apart. I carefully refrained from saying\n anything about who I was or where I came from; just said\n I wanted a complete physical examination, and let him go\n to it. He was thorough, and when he finished he patted me\n on the back and said, 'Parks, you've got nothing to worry\n about. You're as fine, strapping a specimen of a healthy human\n being as I've ever seen.' And that was that.\" Parks laughed\n bitterly. \"I guess I was supposed to be happy with the verdict,\n and instead I was ready to knock him down. It was idiotic, it\n defied reason, it was infuriating.\"\n\n\n Morgan nodded sourly. \"Because you're not a human\n being,\" he said.", "Jefferson Parks finished his last bite of pie and pushed the\n plate away. \"By then I didn't know quite what to do. I'd been\n prepared for almost anything excepting this. It was frightening.\n I tried to rationalize it, and then I quit trying. It wasn't\n that I attracted attention, or anything like that, quite the contrary.\n Nobody even looked at me, unless I said something to\n them. I began to look for things that were\ndifferent\n, things that\n I could show them, and say, see, this proves that I'm telling\n the truth, look at it—\" He looked up helplessly.\n\n\n \"And what did you find?\"", "\"The same! Your planet and mine are practically twins.\n Similar cities, similar technology, everything. The people are\n the same, with precisely the same anatomy and physiology, the\n same sort of laws, the same institutions, even compatible languages.\n Can't you see the importance of it? This planet is on\n the other side of the universe from mine, with the first intelligent\n life we've yet encountered anywhere. But when I try to\n tell your people that I'm a native of another star system,\nthey\n won't believe me\n!\"\n\n\n \"Why should they?\" asked Morgan. \"You look like a human\n being. You talk like one. You eat like one. You act like one.\n What you're asking them to believe is utterly incredible.\"\n\n\n \"\nBut it's true.\n\"", "\"Nothing. Oh, little things, insignificant little things. Your\n calendars, for instance. Naturally, I couldn't understand your\n frame of reference. And the coinage, you stamp your coins; we\n don't. And cigarettes. We don't have any such thing as tobacco.\"\n The man gave a short laugh. \"And your house dogs!\n We have little animals that look more like rabbits than poodles.\n But there was nothing any more significant than that. Absolutely\n nothing.\"\n\n\n \"Except yourself,\" Morgan said.\n\n\n \"Ah, yes. I thought that over carefully. I looked for differences,\n obvious ones. I couldn't find any. You can see that, just\n looking at me. So I searched for more subtle things. Skin texture,\n fingerprints, bone structure, body proportion. I still\n couldn't find anything. Then I went to a doctor.\"\n\n\n Morgan's eyebrows lifted. \"Good,\" he said.", "\"I'm afraid not.\"\n\n\n \"Why not?\"\n\n\n \"Because I'd be worse than no help at all.\"\n\n\n Jefferson Parks gripped the table, his knuckles white.\n \"Why?\" he cried hoarsely. \"If you believe me, why can't you\n help me?\"\n\n\n Morgan pointed to the magazine lying on the table. \"I write,\n yes,\" he said sadly. \"Ever read stories like this before?\"\n\n\n Parks picked up the magazine, glanced at the bright cover.\n \"I barely looked at it.\"\n\n\n \"You should look more closely. I have a story in this issue.\n The readers thought it was very interesting,\" Morgan grinned.\n \"Go ahead, look at it.\"", "Transcriber's Note:\nThis etext was produced from\nThe Counterfeit Man More Science Fiction\n Stories by Alan E. Nourse\npublished in 1963. Extensive research did\n not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was\n renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected\n without note.\nCircus\n\"Just\n suppose,\" said Morgan, \"that I\ndid\nbelieve you. Just\n for argument.\" He glanced up at the man across the restaurant\n table. \"Where would we go from here?\"\n\n\n The man shifted uneasily in his seat. He was silent, staring\n down at his plate. Not a strange-looking man, Morgan thought.\n Rather ordinary, in fact. A plain face, nose a little too long,\n fingers a little too dainty, a suit that doesn't quite seem to fit,\n but all in all, a perfectly ordinary looking man.\n\n\n Maybe\ntoo\nordinary, Morgan thought.", "Morgan shrugged. \"So it's true. I won't argue with you. But\n as I asked before, even if I\ndid\nbelieve you, what do you\n expect\nme\nto do about it? Why pick\nme\n, of all the people you've\n seen?\"\n\n\n There was a desperate light in Parks' eyes. \"I was tired, tired\n of being laughed at, tired of having people looking at me as\n though I'd lost my wits when I tried to tell them the truth.\n You were here, you were alone, so I started talking. And then\n I found out you wrote stories.\" He looked up eagerly. \"I've\n got to get back, Morgan, somehow. My life is there, my family.\n And think what it would mean to both of our worlds—contact\n with another intelligent race! Combine our knowledges,\n our technologies, and we could explore the galaxy!\"", "Morgan didn't move. He just stared. \"How many people\n have you talked to?\" he asked.\n\n\n \"A dozen, a hundred, maybe a thousand.\"\n\n\n \"And how many believed you?\"\n\n\n \"None.\"\n\n\n \"You mean\nnobody\nwould believe you?\"\n\n\n \"\nNot one soul.\nUntil I talked to you.\"\n\n\n And then Morgan was laughing, laughing bitterly, tears\n rolling down his cheeks. \"And I'm the one man who couldn't\n help you if my life depended on it,\" he gasped.\n\n\n \"You believe me?\"\n\n\n Morgan nodded sadly. \"I believe you. Yes. I think your\n warp brought you through to a parallel universe of your own\n planet, not to another star, but I think you're telling the truth.\"\n\n\n \"Then you\ncan\nhelp me.\"", "\"Well, obviously, I needed money. I had gold coin. There\n had been no way of knowing if it would be useful, but I'd\n taken it on chance. I tried to use it at a newsstand first, and the\n man wouldn't touch it. Asked me if I thought I was the U.S.\n Treasury or something. When he saw that I was serious, he\n sent me to a money lender, a hock shop, I think he called it.\n So I found a place—\"\n\n\n \"Let me see the coins.\"\n\n\n Parks dropped two small gold discs on the table. They were\n perfectly smooth and perfectly round, tapered by wear to a\n thin blunt edge. There was no design on them, and no printing.\n Morgan looked up at the man sharply. \"What did you get for\n these?\"\n\n\n Parks shrugged. \"Too little, I suspect. Two dollars for the\n small one, five for the larger.\"\n\n\n \"You should have gone to a bank.\"", "He shook his head wearily. \"We're new at it, Morgan. We've\n only tried a few dozen runs. We're not too far ahead of you in\n technology. We've been using rocket vehicles just like yours for\n over a century. That's fine for a solar system, but it's not much\n good for the stars. When the warp principle was discovered, it\n looked like the answer. But something went wrong, the scanner\n picked up this planet, and I was coming through, and then\n something blew. Next thing I knew I was falling. When I tried\n to make contact again, the scanner was gone!\"\n\n\n \"And you found things here the same as back home,\" said\n Morgan.", "He leaned forward, his thin face intense. \"I need money and\n I need help. I know some of the mathematics of the warp principle,\n know some of the design, some of the power and wiring\n principles. You have engineers here, technologists, physicists.\n They could fill in what I don't know and build a guide beam.\n But they won't do it if they don't believe me. Your government\n won't listen to me, they won't appropriate any money.\"\n\n\n \"Of course they won't. They've got a war or two on their\n hands, they have public welfare, and atomic bombs, and\n rockets to the moon to sink their money into.\" Morgan stared\n at the man. \"But what can\nI\ndo?\"\n\n\n \"You can\nwrite\n! That's what you can do. You can tell the\n world about me, you can tell exactly what has happened. I\n know how public interest can be aroused in my world. It must\n be the same in yours.\"" ], [ "\"I'm afraid not.\"\n\n\n \"Why not?\"\n\n\n \"Because I'd be worse than no help at all.\"\n\n\n Jefferson Parks gripped the table, his knuckles white.\n \"Why?\" he cried hoarsely. \"If you believe me, why can't you\n help me?\"\n\n\n Morgan pointed to the magazine lying on the table. \"I write,\n yes,\" he said sadly. \"Ever read stories like this before?\"\n\n\n Parks picked up the magazine, glanced at the bright cover.\n \"I barely looked at it.\"\n\n\n \"You should look more closely. I have a story in this issue.\n The readers thought it was very interesting,\" Morgan grinned.\n \"Go ahead, look at it.\"", "\"No. I saw a secretary. She said the mayor was in conference,\n and that I would have to have an appointment. She let\n me speak to another man, one of the mayor's assistants.\"\n\n\n \"And you told him?\"\n\n\n \"No. I wanted to see the mayor himself. I thought that was\n the best thing to do. I waited for a couple of hours, until\n another assistant came along and told me flatly that the mayor\n wouldn't see me unless I stated my business first.\" He drew in\n a deep breath. \"So I stated it. And then I was gently but firmly\n ushered back into the street again.\"\n\n\n \"They didn't believe you,\" said Morgan.\n\n\n \"Not for a minute. They laughed in my face.\"\n\n\n Morgan nodded. \"I'm beginning to get the pattern. So what\n did you do next?\"", "The stranger from the stars leafed through the magazine,\n stopped at a page that carried Roger Morgan's name. His eyes\n caught the first paragraph and he turned white. He set the\n magazine down with a trembling hand. \"I see,\" he said, and\n the life was gone out of his voice. He spread the pages viciously,\n read the lines again.\n\n\n The paragraph said:\n\n\n \"Just suppose,\" said Martin, \"that I\ndid\nbelieve you. Just\n for argument.\" He glanced up at the man across the table.\n \"Where do we go from here?\"", "\"All right, let's start from the beginning again,\" Morgan\n said. \"Maybe we can pin something down a little better. You\n say your name is Parks—right?\"\n\n\n The man nodded. \"Jefferson Haldeman Parks, if that helps\n any. Haldeman was my mother's maiden name.\"\n\n\n \"All right. And you got into town on Friday—right?\"\n\n\n Parks nodded.\n\n\n \"Fine. Now go through the whole story again. What happened\n first?\"\n\n\n The man thought for a minute. \"As I said, first there was\n a fall. About twenty feet. I didn't break any bones, but I was\n shaken up and limping. The fall was near the highway going\n to the George Washington Bridge. I got over to the highway\n and tried to flag down a ride.\"\n\n\n \"How did you feel? I mean, was there anything strange that\n you noticed?\"", "Finally the man looked up. His eyes were dark, with a\n hunted look in their depths that chilled Morgan a little. \"Where\n do we go? I don't know. I've tried to think it out, and I get\n nowhere. But you've\ngot\nto believe me, Morgan. I'm lost,\n I mean it. If I can't get help, I don't know where it's going to\n end.\"\n\n\n \"I'll tell you where it's going to end,\" said Morgan. \"It's\n going to end in a hospital. A mental hospital. They'll lock you\n up and they'll lose the key somewhere.\" He poured himself\n another cup of coffee and sipped it, scalding hot. \"And that,\"\n he added, \"will be that.\"\nThe place was dark and almost empty. Overhead, a rotary\n fan swished patiently. The man across from Morgan ran a hand\n through his dark hair. \"There must be some other way,\" he\n said. \"There has to be.\"", "\"Next I tried the police. I got the same treatment there,\n only they weren't so gentle. They wouldn't listen either. They\n muttered something about cranks and their crazy notions, and\n when they asked me where I lived, they thought I was—what\n did they call it?—a wise guy! Told me to get out and not come\n back with any more wild stories.\"\n\n\n \"I see,\" said Morgan.", "Parks shrugged tiredly. \"Not really. He examined me. He\n practically took me apart. I carefully refrained from saying\n anything about who I was or where I came from; just said\n I wanted a complete physical examination, and let him go\n to it. He was thorough, and when he finished he patted me\n on the back and said, 'Parks, you've got nothing to worry\n about. You're as fine, strapping a specimen of a healthy human\n being as I've ever seen.' And that was that.\" Parks laughed\n bitterly. \"I guess I was supposed to be happy with the verdict,\n and instead I was ready to knock him down. It was idiotic, it\n defied reason, it was infuriating.\"\n\n\n Morgan nodded sourly. \"Because you're not a human\n being,\" he said.", "Jefferson Parks finished his last bite of pie and pushed the\n plate away. \"By then I didn't know quite what to do. I'd been\n prepared for almost anything excepting this. It was frightening.\n I tried to rationalize it, and then I quit trying. It wasn't\n that I attracted attention, or anything like that, quite the contrary.\n Nobody even looked at me, unless I said something to\n them. I began to look for things that were\ndifferent\n, things that\n I could show them, and say, see, this proves that I'm telling\n the truth, look at it—\" He looked up helplessly.\n\n\n \"And what did you find?\"", "Morgan shrugged. \"So it's true. I won't argue with you. But\n as I asked before, even if I\ndid\nbelieve you, what do you\n expect\nme\nto do about it? Why pick\nme\n, of all the people you've\n seen?\"\n\n\n There was a desperate light in Parks' eyes. \"I was tired, tired\n of being laughed at, tired of having people looking at me as\n though I'd lost my wits when I tried to tell them the truth.\n You were here, you were alone, so I started talking. And then\n I found out you wrote stories.\" He looked up eagerly. \"I've\n got to get back, Morgan, somehow. My life is there, my family.\n And think what it would mean to both of our worlds—contact\n with another intelligent race! Combine our knowledges,\n our technologies, and we could explore the galaxy!\"", "\"Nothing. Oh, little things, insignificant little things. Your\n calendars, for instance. Naturally, I couldn't understand your\n frame of reference. And the coinage, you stamp your coins; we\n don't. And cigarettes. We don't have any such thing as tobacco.\"\n The man gave a short laugh. \"And your house dogs!\n We have little animals that look more like rabbits than poodles.\n But there was nothing any more significant than that. Absolutely\n nothing.\"\n\n\n \"Except yourself,\" Morgan said.\n\n\n \"Ah, yes. I thought that over carefully. I looked for differences,\n obvious ones. I couldn't find any. You can see that, just\n looking at me. So I searched for more subtle things. Skin texture,\n fingerprints, bone structure, body proportion. I still\n couldn't find anything. Then I went to a doctor.\"\n\n\n Morgan's eyebrows lifted. \"Good,\" he said.", "Morgan didn't move. He just stared. \"How many people\n have you talked to?\" he asked.\n\n\n \"A dozen, a hundred, maybe a thousand.\"\n\n\n \"And how many believed you?\"\n\n\n \"None.\"\n\n\n \"You mean\nnobody\nwould believe you?\"\n\n\n \"\nNot one soul.\nUntil I talked to you.\"\n\n\n And then Morgan was laughing, laughing bitterly, tears\n rolling down his cheeks. \"And I'm the one man who couldn't\n help you if my life depended on it,\" he gasped.\n\n\n \"You believe me?\"\n\n\n Morgan nodded sadly. \"I believe you. Yes. I think your\n warp brought you through to a parallel universe of your own\n planet, not to another star, but I think you're telling the truth.\"\n\n\n \"Then you\ncan\nhelp me.\"", "\"I know that now. I didn't then. Naturally, I assumed that\n with everything else so similar, principles of business would\n also be similar.\"\n\n\n Morgan sighed and leaned back in his chair. \"Well, then\n what?\"\n\n\n Parks poured some more coffee. His face was very pale,\n Morgan thought, and his hands trembled as he raised the cup\n to his lips. Fright? Maybe. Hard to tell. The man put down\n the cup and rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand.\n \"First, I went to the mayor's office,\" he said. \"I kept trying to\n think what anyone at home would do in my place. That seemed\n a good bet. I asked a policeman where it was, and then I went\n there.\"\n\n\n \"But you didn't get to see him.\"", "Transcriber's Note:\nThis etext was produced from\nThe Counterfeit Man More Science Fiction\n Stories by Alan E. Nourse\npublished in 1963. Extensive research did\n not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was\n renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected\n without note.\nCircus\n\"Just\n suppose,\" said Morgan, \"that I\ndid\nbelieve you. Just\n for argument.\" He glanced up at the man across the restaurant\n table. \"Where would we go from here?\"\n\n\n The man shifted uneasily in his seat. He was silent, staring\n down at his plate. Not a strange-looking man, Morgan thought.\n Rather ordinary, in fact. A plain face, nose a little too long,\n fingers a little too dainty, a suit that doesn't quite seem to fit,\n but all in all, a perfectly ordinary looking man.\n\n\n Maybe\ntoo\nordinary, Morgan thought.", "\"The same! Your planet and mine are practically twins.\n Similar cities, similar technology, everything. The people are\n the same, with precisely the same anatomy and physiology, the\n same sort of laws, the same institutions, even compatible languages.\n Can't you see the importance of it? This planet is on\n the other side of the universe from mine, with the first intelligent\n life we've yet encountered anywhere. But when I try to\n tell your people that I'm a native of another star system,\nthey\n won't believe me\n!\"\n\n\n \"Why should they?\" asked Morgan. \"You look like a human\n being. You talk like one. You eat like one. You act like one.\n What you're asking them to believe is utterly incredible.\"\n\n\n \"\nBut it's true.\n\"", "Parks unbuttoned his collar and rubbed his stubbled chin\n unhappily. \"I didn't make the choice. Neither did anyone else.\n Travel by warp is a little different from travel by the rocket\n you fiction writers make so much of. With a rocket vehicle you\n pick your destination, make your calculations, and off you go.\n The warp is blind flying, strictly blind. We send an unmanned\n scanner ahead. It probes around more or less hit-or-miss until\n it locates something, somewhere, that looks habitable. When\n it spots a likely looking place, we keep a tight beam on it\n and send through a manned scout.\" He grinned sourly. \"Like\n me. If it looks good to the scout, he signals back, and they", "He leaned forward, his thin face intense. \"I need money and\n I need help. I know some of the mathematics of the warp principle,\n know some of the design, some of the power and wiring\n principles. You have engineers here, technologists, physicists.\n They could fill in what I don't know and build a guide beam.\n But they won't do it if they don't believe me. Your government\n won't listen to me, they won't appropriate any money.\"\n\n\n \"Of course they won't. They've got a war or two on their\n hands, they have public welfare, and atomic bombs, and\n rockets to the moon to sink their money into.\" Morgan stared\n at the man. \"But what can\nI\ndo?\"\n\n\n \"You can\nwrite\n! That's what you can do. You can tell the\n world about me, you can tell exactly what has happened. I\n know how public interest can be aroused in my world. It must\n be the same in yours.\"", "\"\nStrange!\n\" Parks' eyes widened. \"I—I was speechless. At\n first I hadn't noticed too much—I was concerned with the fall,\n and whether I was hurt or not. I didn't really think about much\n else until I hobbled up to that highway and saw those cars\n coming. Then I could hardly believe my eyes. I thought I was\n crazy. But a car stopped and asked me if I was going into the\n city, and I knew I wasn't crazy.\"\n\n\n Morgan's mouth took a grim line. \"You understood the\n language?\"\n\n\n \"Oh, yes. I don't see how I could have, but I did. We talked\n all the way into New York—nothing very important, but we\n understood each other. His speech had an odd sound, but—\"\n\n\n Morgan nodded. \"I know, I noticed. What did you do when\n you got to New York?\"", "\"That's right. I'm not a human being at all.\"\n\"How did you happen to pick this planet, or this sun?\"\n Morgan asked curiously. \"There must have been a million\n others to choose from.\"", "\"Well, obviously, I needed money. I had gold coin. There\n had been no way of knowing if it would be useful, but I'd\n taken it on chance. I tried to use it at a newsstand first, and the\n man wouldn't touch it. Asked me if I thought I was the U.S.\n Treasury or something. When he saw that I was serious, he\n sent me to a money lender, a hock shop, I think he called it.\n So I found a place—\"\n\n\n \"Let me see the coins.\"\n\n\n Parks dropped two small gold discs on the table. They were\n perfectly smooth and perfectly round, tapered by wear to a\n thin blunt edge. There was no design on them, and no printing.\n Morgan looked up at the man sharply. \"What did you get for\n these?\"\n\n\n Parks shrugged. \"Too little, I suspect. Two dollars for the\n small one, five for the larger.\"\n\n\n \"You should have gone to a bank.\"", "He shook his head wearily. \"We're new at it, Morgan. We've\n only tried a few dozen runs. We're not too far ahead of you in\n technology. We've been using rocket vehicles just like yours for\n over a century. That's fine for a solar system, but it's not much\n good for the stars. When the warp principle was discovered, it\n looked like the answer. But something went wrong, the scanner\n picked up this planet, and I was coming through, and then\n something blew. Next thing I knew I was falling. When I tried\n to make contact again, the scanner was gone!\"\n\n\n \"And you found things here the same as back home,\" said\n Morgan." ], [ "Parks shrugged tiredly. \"Not really. He examined me. He\n practically took me apart. I carefully refrained from saying\n anything about who I was or where I came from; just said\n I wanted a complete physical examination, and let him go\n to it. He was thorough, and when he finished he patted me\n on the back and said, 'Parks, you've got nothing to worry\n about. You're as fine, strapping a specimen of a healthy human\n being as I've ever seen.' And that was that.\" Parks laughed\n bitterly. \"I guess I was supposed to be happy with the verdict,\n and instead I was ready to knock him down. It was idiotic, it\n defied reason, it was infuriating.\"\n\n\n Morgan nodded sourly. \"Because you're not a human\n being,\" he said.", "Morgan shrugged. \"So it's true. I won't argue with you. But\n as I asked before, even if I\ndid\nbelieve you, what do you\n expect\nme\nto do about it? Why pick\nme\n, of all the people you've\n seen?\"\n\n\n There was a desperate light in Parks' eyes. \"I was tired, tired\n of being laughed at, tired of having people looking at me as\n though I'd lost my wits when I tried to tell them the truth.\n You were here, you were alone, so I started talking. And then\n I found out you wrote stories.\" He looked up eagerly. \"I've\n got to get back, Morgan, somehow. My life is there, my family.\n And think what it would mean to both of our worlds—contact\n with another intelligent race! Combine our knowledges,\n our technologies, and we could explore the galaxy!\"", "\"I know that now. I didn't then. Naturally, I assumed that\n with everything else so similar, principles of business would\n also be similar.\"\n\n\n Morgan sighed and leaned back in his chair. \"Well, then\n what?\"\n\n\n Parks poured some more coffee. His face was very pale,\n Morgan thought, and his hands trembled as he raised the cup\n to his lips. Fright? Maybe. Hard to tell. The man put down\n the cup and rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand.\n \"First, I went to the mayor's office,\" he said. \"I kept trying to\n think what anyone at home would do in my place. That seemed\n a good bet. I asked a policeman where it was, and then I went\n there.\"\n\n\n \"But you didn't get to see him.\"", "\"I'm afraid not.\"\n\n\n \"Why not?\"\n\n\n \"Because I'd be worse than no help at all.\"\n\n\n Jefferson Parks gripped the table, his knuckles white.\n \"Why?\" he cried hoarsely. \"If you believe me, why can't you\n help me?\"\n\n\n Morgan pointed to the magazine lying on the table. \"I write,\n yes,\" he said sadly. \"Ever read stories like this before?\"\n\n\n Parks picked up the magazine, glanced at the bright cover.\n \"I barely looked at it.\"\n\n\n \"You should look more closely. I have a story in this issue.\n The readers thought it was very interesting,\" Morgan grinned.\n \"Go ahead, look at it.\"", "\"\nStrange!\n\" Parks' eyes widened. \"I—I was speechless. At\n first I hadn't noticed too much—I was concerned with the fall,\n and whether I was hurt or not. I didn't really think about much\n else until I hobbled up to that highway and saw those cars\n coming. Then I could hardly believe my eyes. I thought I was\n crazy. But a car stopped and asked me if I was going into the\n city, and I knew I wasn't crazy.\"\n\n\n Morgan's mouth took a grim line. \"You understood the\n language?\"\n\n\n \"Oh, yes. I don't see how I could have, but I did. We talked\n all the way into New York—nothing very important, but we\n understood each other. His speech had an odd sound, but—\"\n\n\n Morgan nodded. \"I know, I noticed. What did you do when\n you got to New York?\"", "\"All right, let's start from the beginning again,\" Morgan\n said. \"Maybe we can pin something down a little better. You\n say your name is Parks—right?\"\n\n\n The man nodded. \"Jefferson Haldeman Parks, if that helps\n any. Haldeman was my mother's maiden name.\"\n\n\n \"All right. And you got into town on Friday—right?\"\n\n\n Parks nodded.\n\n\n \"Fine. Now go through the whole story again. What happened\n first?\"\n\n\n The man thought for a minute. \"As I said, first there was\n a fall. About twenty feet. I didn't break any bones, but I was\n shaken up and limping. The fall was near the highway going\n to the George Washington Bridge. I got over to the highway\n and tried to flag down a ride.\"\n\n\n \"How did you feel? I mean, was there anything strange that\n you noticed?\"", "\"Next I tried the police. I got the same treatment there,\n only they weren't so gentle. They wouldn't listen either. They\n muttered something about cranks and their crazy notions, and\n when they asked me where I lived, they thought I was—what\n did they call it?—a wise guy! Told me to get out and not come\n back with any more wild stories.\"\n\n\n \"I see,\" said Morgan.", "Finally the man looked up. His eyes were dark, with a\n hunted look in their depths that chilled Morgan a little. \"Where\n do we go? I don't know. I've tried to think it out, and I get\n nowhere. But you've\ngot\nto believe me, Morgan. I'm lost,\n I mean it. If I can't get help, I don't know where it's going to\n end.\"\n\n\n \"I'll tell you where it's going to end,\" said Morgan. \"It's\n going to end in a hospital. A mental hospital. They'll lock you\n up and they'll lose the key somewhere.\" He poured himself\n another cup of coffee and sipped it, scalding hot. \"And that,\"\n he added, \"will be that.\"\nThe place was dark and almost empty. Overhead, a rotary\n fan swished patiently. The man across from Morgan ran a hand\n through his dark hair. \"There must be some other way,\" he\n said. \"There has to be.\"", "Jefferson Parks finished his last bite of pie and pushed the\n plate away. \"By then I didn't know quite what to do. I'd been\n prepared for almost anything excepting this. It was frightening.\n I tried to rationalize it, and then I quit trying. It wasn't\n that I attracted attention, or anything like that, quite the contrary.\n Nobody even looked at me, unless I said something to\n them. I began to look for things that were\ndifferent\n, things that\n I could show them, and say, see, this proves that I'm telling\n the truth, look at it—\" He looked up helplessly.\n\n\n \"And what did you find?\"", "The stranger from the stars leafed through the magazine,\n stopped at a page that carried Roger Morgan's name. His eyes\n caught the first paragraph and he turned white. He set the\n magazine down with a trembling hand. \"I see,\" he said, and\n the life was gone out of his voice. He spread the pages viciously,\n read the lines again.\n\n\n The paragraph said:\n\n\n \"Just suppose,\" said Martin, \"that I\ndid\nbelieve you. Just\n for argument.\" He glanced up at the man across the table.\n \"Where do we go from here?\"", "Morgan didn't move. He just stared. \"How many people\n have you talked to?\" he asked.\n\n\n \"A dozen, a hundred, maybe a thousand.\"\n\n\n \"And how many believed you?\"\n\n\n \"None.\"\n\n\n \"You mean\nnobody\nwould believe you?\"\n\n\n \"\nNot one soul.\nUntil I talked to you.\"\n\n\n And then Morgan was laughing, laughing bitterly, tears\n rolling down his cheeks. \"And I'm the one man who couldn't\n help you if my life depended on it,\" he gasped.\n\n\n \"You believe me?\"\n\n\n Morgan nodded sadly. \"I believe you. Yes. I think your\n warp brought you through to a parallel universe of your own\n planet, not to another star, but I think you're telling the truth.\"\n\n\n \"Then you\ncan\nhelp me.\"", "\"No. I saw a secretary. She said the mayor was in conference,\n and that I would have to have an appointment. She let\n me speak to another man, one of the mayor's assistants.\"\n\n\n \"And you told him?\"\n\n\n \"No. I wanted to see the mayor himself. I thought that was\n the best thing to do. I waited for a couple of hours, until\n another assistant came along and told me flatly that the mayor\n wouldn't see me unless I stated my business first.\" He drew in\n a deep breath. \"So I stated it. And then I was gently but firmly\n ushered back into the street again.\"\n\n\n \"They didn't believe you,\" said Morgan.\n\n\n \"Not for a minute. They laughed in my face.\"\n\n\n Morgan nodded. \"I'm beginning to get the pattern. So what\n did you do next?\"", "Transcriber's Note:\nThis etext was produced from\nThe Counterfeit Man More Science Fiction\n Stories by Alan E. Nourse\npublished in 1963. Extensive research did\n not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was\n renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected\n without note.\nCircus\n\"Just\n suppose,\" said Morgan, \"that I\ndid\nbelieve you. Just\n for argument.\" He glanced up at the man across the restaurant\n table. \"Where would we go from here?\"\n\n\n The man shifted uneasily in his seat. He was silent, staring\n down at his plate. Not a strange-looking man, Morgan thought.\n Rather ordinary, in fact. A plain face, nose a little too long,\n fingers a little too dainty, a suit that doesn't quite seem to fit,\n but all in all, a perfectly ordinary looking man.\n\n\n Maybe\ntoo\nordinary, Morgan thought.", "\"Well, obviously, I needed money. I had gold coin. There\n had been no way of knowing if it would be useful, but I'd\n taken it on chance. I tried to use it at a newsstand first, and the\n man wouldn't touch it. Asked me if I thought I was the U.S.\n Treasury or something. When he saw that I was serious, he\n sent me to a money lender, a hock shop, I think he called it.\n So I found a place—\"\n\n\n \"Let me see the coins.\"\n\n\n Parks dropped two small gold discs on the table. They were\n perfectly smooth and perfectly round, tapered by wear to a\n thin blunt edge. There was no design on them, and no printing.\n Morgan looked up at the man sharply. \"What did you get for\n these?\"\n\n\n Parks shrugged. \"Too little, I suspect. Two dollars for the\n small one, five for the larger.\"\n\n\n \"You should have gone to a bank.\"", "\"Nothing. Oh, little things, insignificant little things. Your\n calendars, for instance. Naturally, I couldn't understand your\n frame of reference. And the coinage, you stamp your coins; we\n don't. And cigarettes. We don't have any such thing as tobacco.\"\n The man gave a short laugh. \"And your house dogs!\n We have little animals that look more like rabbits than poodles.\n But there was nothing any more significant than that. Absolutely\n nothing.\"\n\n\n \"Except yourself,\" Morgan said.\n\n\n \"Ah, yes. I thought that over carefully. I looked for differences,\n obvious ones. I couldn't find any. You can see that, just\n looking at me. So I searched for more subtle things. Skin texture,\n fingerprints, bone structure, body proportion. I still\n couldn't find anything. Then I went to a doctor.\"\n\n\n Morgan's eyebrows lifted. \"Good,\" he said.", "\"That's right. I'm not a human being at all.\"\n\"How did you happen to pick this planet, or this sun?\"\n Morgan asked curiously. \"There must have been a million\n others to choose from.\"", "Parks unbuttoned his collar and rubbed his stubbled chin\n unhappily. \"I didn't make the choice. Neither did anyone else.\n Travel by warp is a little different from travel by the rocket\n you fiction writers make so much of. With a rocket vehicle you\n pick your destination, make your calculations, and off you go.\n The warp is blind flying, strictly blind. We send an unmanned\n scanner ahead. It probes around more or less hit-or-miss until\n it locates something, somewhere, that looks habitable. When\n it spots a likely looking place, we keep a tight beam on it\n and send through a manned scout.\" He grinned sourly. \"Like\n me. If it looks good to the scout, he signals back, and they", "He leaned forward, his thin face intense. \"I need money and\n I need help. I know some of the mathematics of the warp principle,\n know some of the design, some of the power and wiring\n principles. You have engineers here, technologists, physicists.\n They could fill in what I don't know and build a guide beam.\n But they won't do it if they don't believe me. Your government\n won't listen to me, they won't appropriate any money.\"\n\n\n \"Of course they won't. They've got a war or two on their\n hands, they have public welfare, and atomic bombs, and\n rockets to the moon to sink their money into.\" Morgan stared\n at the man. \"But what can\nI\ndo?\"\n\n\n \"You can\nwrite\n! That's what you can do. You can tell the\n world about me, you can tell exactly what has happened. I\n know how public interest can be aroused in my world. It must\n be the same in yours.\"", "He shook his head wearily. \"We're new at it, Morgan. We've\n only tried a few dozen runs. We're not too far ahead of you in\n technology. We've been using rocket vehicles just like yours for\n over a century. That's fine for a solar system, but it's not much\n good for the stars. When the warp principle was discovered, it\n looked like the answer. But something went wrong, the scanner\n picked up this planet, and I was coming through, and then\n something blew. Next thing I knew I was falling. When I tried\n to make contact again, the scanner was gone!\"\n\n\n \"And you found things here the same as back home,\" said\n Morgan.", "\"The same! Your planet and mine are practically twins.\n Similar cities, similar technology, everything. The people are\n the same, with precisely the same anatomy and physiology, the\n same sort of laws, the same institutions, even compatible languages.\n Can't you see the importance of it? This planet is on\n the other side of the universe from mine, with the first intelligent\n life we've yet encountered anywhere. But when I try to\n tell your people that I'm a native of another star system,\nthey\n won't believe me\n!\"\n\n\n \"Why should they?\" asked Morgan. \"You look like a human\n being. You talk like one. You eat like one. You act like one.\n What you're asking them to believe is utterly incredible.\"\n\n\n \"\nBut it's true.\n\"" ] ]
valid	99922	[ "What does the author think that social media has the power to amplify?", "What does the author argue is central to human evolution?", "What was the earliest by date digital social communities mentioned by the Author?", "What makes digital social communities useful for scientific study?", "Why does the author think the technical design of online communities important?", "What does the author find perplexing about many online communities?", "What does the author imply is the biggest factor in humans collaborating with one another?", "What type of media does the author believe will be the most influential on the immediate future?", "How does the author define participatory media?" ]	[ [ "Both Positive and Negative Social Behaviors", "Negative Social Interactions", "Antisocial Behaviors", "Positive Altruistic Behavior" ], [ "Social invention", "Curiosity", "Self-interest", "Abstract thinking" ], [ "LINUX", "Electronic Networking Association", "Freesouls", "Wikipedia" ], [ "It costs less money to use participants of studies online", "There are fewer laws and regulations surrounding them", "There are large quantities of data associated with them", "They were recently invented and remain relatively unknown" ], [ "It can dictate how much money there is to be made from certain communities ", "It's important to always make progress when changing the designs", "It can dictate whether or not users have positive or negative experiences", "Older social medias had much better designs that modern ones" ], [ "Why everyone doesn't use various online communities", "The governmental regulations surrounding online communities", "Why people help one another without compensation", "The technical happenings that allow the communities to work" ], [ "Teaching people to speak and write the same language", "Financially incentivizing people", "Making communities more accessible", "Spending more time in smaller communities" ], [ "Government-approved media", "Visual media", "Participatory media", "Print media" ], [ "When the media allows for audience response", "When the media consumers are also content creators", "When the media is broadcast by a small group of people for a large group", "Print, radio, and television" ] ]	[ 1, 1, 2, 3, 3, 3, 3, 3, 2 ]	[ 0, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0 ]	[ [ "to the network to broadcast as well as receive text, images,\n audio, video, software, data, discussions, transactions,\n computations, tags, or links to and from every other person. The\n asymmetry between broadcaster and audience that was dictated by\n the structure of pre-digital technologies has changed radically.\n This is a technical- structural characteristic.\nParticipatory media are social media whose value and power derives\n from the active participation of many people. Value derives not\n just from the size of the audience, but from their power to link\n to each other, to form a public as well as a market. This is a\n psychological and social characteristic.\nSocial networks, when amplified by information and communication\n networks, enable broader, faster, and lower cost coordination\n of activities. This is an economic and political characteristic.", "sociality, and those parts of human behavior can be amplified, too. But\n altruism, fun, community and curiosity are also parts of human\n sociality−and I propose that the Web is an existence proof that these\n capabilities can be amplified, as well. Indeed, our species’ social\n inventiveness is central to what it is to be human. The parts of the\n human brain that evolved most recently, and which are connected to what\n we consider to be our “higher” faculties of reason and forethought, are\n also essential to social life. The neural information-processing\n required for recognizing people, remembering their reputations, learning\n the rituals that remove boundaries of mistrust and bind groups together,\n from bands to communities to civilizations, may have been enabled by\n (and may have driven the rapid evolution of) that uniquely human brain", "many-to-many, multimedia network of a billion people. We started to\n dream about future cybersocial possibilities only after personally\n experiencing something new, moving and authentic in our webs of budding\n friendship and collaboration. In recent years, cyberculture studies has\n grown into a discipline−more properly, an interdiscipline involving\n sociologists, anthropologists, historians, psychologists, economists,\n programmers and political scientists. Back when people online argued in\n 1200 baud text about whether one could properly call what we were doing\n a form of community, there was no body of empirical evidence to serve as\n a foundation for scientific argument−all theory was anecdotal. By now,\n however, there is plenty of data.\nOne particularly useful affordance of online sociality is that a great", "normative design? How should designers think about the principles of\n beneficial social software? Can inhumane or dehumanizing effects of\n digital socializing be mitigated or eliminated by better media design?\n In what ways does the design of social media enable or prevent heartfelt\n communitas, organized collective action, social capital, cultural and\n economic production? I’ve continued to make a direct experience of my\n life online−from lifelong friends like Joi Ito to the other people\n around the world I’ve come to know, because online media made it\n possible to connect with people who shared my interests, even if I had\n never heard of them before, even if they lived on the other side of the\n world. But in parallel with my direct experience of the blogosphere,\n vlogosphere, twitterverse and other realms of digital discourse, I’ve", "Participative Pedagogy for a Literacy of Literacies\nPeople act and learn together for a rich mixture of reasons. The current\n story that most of us tell ourselves about how humans get things done is\n focused on the well-known flavors of self-interest, which make for great\n drama−survival, power, wealth, sex, glory. People also do things\n together for fun, for the love of a challenge, and because we sometimes\n enjoy working together to make something beneficial to everybody. If I\n had to reduce the essence of Homo sapiens to five words, “people do\n complicated things together” would do. Online social networks can be\n powerful amplifiers of collective action precisely because they augment\n and extend the power of ever-complexifying human sociality. To be sure,\n gossip, conflict, slander, fraud, greed and bigotry are part of human", "train each other to partake of and contribute to culture, and to\n humanize the use of instruments that might otherwise enable\n commodification, mechanization and dehumanization. By literacy, I mean,\n following on Neil Postman and others, the set of skills that enable\n individuals to encode and decode knowledge and power via speech,\n writing, printing and collective action, and which, when learned,\n introduce the individual to a community. Literacy links technology and\n sociality. The alphabet did not cause the Roman Empire, but made it\n possible. Printing did not cause democracy or science, but literate\n populations, enabled by the printing press, devised systems for citizen\n governance and collective knowledge creation. The Internet did not cause\n open source production, Wikipedia or emergent collective responses to\n natural disasters, but it made it possible for people to act together in", "structure, the neocortex.\nBut I didn’t start out by thinking about the evolutionary dynamics of\n sociality and the amplification of collective action. Like all of the\n others in this book, I started out by experiencing the new ways of being\n that Internet social media have made possible. And like the other\n Freesouls, Joi Ito has played a catalytic, communitarian,\n Mephistophelian, Pied-Piper-esque, authority-challenging, fun-loving\n role in my experiences of the possibilities of life online.\nFriends and Enthusiasts\nTo me, direct experience of what I later came to call virtual\n communities preceded theories about the ways people\n do things together online. I met Joi Ito in the 1980s as part of what we", "deal of public behavior is recorded and structured in a way that makes\n it suitable for systematic study. One effect of the digital Panopticon\n is the loss of privacy and the threat of tyrannical social control;\n another effect is a rich body of data about online behavior. Every one\n of Wikipedia’s millions of edits, and all the discussion and talk pages\n associated with those edits, is available for inspection−along with\n billions of Usenet messages. Patterns are beginning to emerge. We’re\n beginning to know something about what works and what doesn’t work with\n people online, and why.\nDoes knowing something about the way technical architecture influences\n behavior mean that we can put that knowledge to use? Now that we are\n beginning to learn a little about the specific sociotechnical\n affordances of online social networks, is it possible to derive a", "more powerful on what already exists. Is it possible to understand\n exactly what it is about the web that makes Wikipedia, Linux,\n FightAIDS@Home, the Gutenberg Project and Creative Commons possible? And\n if so, can this theoretical knowledge be put to practical use? I am\n struck by a phrase of Benkler’s from his essay in this book: “We must\n now turn our attention to building systems that support human\n sociality.” That sounds right. But how would it be done? It’s easy to\n say and not as easy to see the ways in which social codes and power\n structures mold the design of communication media. We must develop a\n participative pedagogy, assisted by digital media and networked publics,\n that focuses on catalyzing, inspiring, nourishing, facilitating, and\n guiding literacies essential to individual and collective life.", "A Participative Pedagogy\nTo accomplish this attention-turning, we must develop a participative\n pedagogy, assisted by digital media and networked publics, that focuses\n on catalyzing, inspiring, nourishing, facilitating, and guiding\n literacies essential to individual and collective life in the 21st\n century. Literacies are where the human brain, human sociality and\n communication technologies meet. We’re accustomed to thinking about the\n tangible parts of communication media−the devices and networks−but the\n less visible social practices and social affordances, from the alphabet\n to TCP/IP, are where human social genius can meet the augmenting power\n of technological networks. Literacy is the most important method Homo\n sapiens has used to introduce systems and tools to other humans, to", "participatory culture in which most of the population see themselves as\n creators as well as consumers of culture is far more likely to generate\n freedom and wealth for more people than one in which a small portion of\n the population produces culture that the majority passively consume. The\n technological infrastructure for participatory media has grown rapidly,\n piggybacking on Moore’s Law, globalization, the telecom bubble and the\n innovations of Swiss physicists and computer science\n students. Increasingly, access to that infrastructure−the ability to\n upload a Macaca video or uncover a threat to democracy−has become\n economically accessible. Literacy−access to the codes and communities of\n vernacular video, microblogging, social bookmarking, wiki\n collaboration−is what is required to use that infrastructure to create a\n participatory culture. A population with broadband infrastructure and", "new ways, with people they weren’t able to organize action with before,\n in places and at paces for which collective action had never been\n possible. Literacies are the prerequisite for the human agency that used\n alphabets, presses and digital networks to create wealth, alleviate\n suffering and invent new institutions. If the humans currently alive are\n to take advantage of digital technologies to address the most severe\n problems that face our species and the biosphere, computers, telephones\n and digital networks are not enough. We need new literacies around\n participatory media, the dynamics of cooperation and collective action,\n the effective deployment of attention and the relatively rational and\n critical discourse necessary for a healthy public sphere.\nMedia Literacies\nIn Using Participatory Media and Public Voice to Encourage Civic\n Engagement, I wrote:", "If print culture shaped the environment in which the Enlightenment\n blossomed and set the scene for the Industrial Revolution,\n participatory media might similarly shape the cognitive and social\n environments in which twenty first century life will take place (a\n shift in the way our culture operates). For this reason, participatory\n media literacy is not another subject to be shoehorned into the\n curriculum as job training for knowledge workers.\nParticipatory media include (but aren’t limited to) blogs, wikis, RSS,\n tagging and social bookmarking, music-photo-video sharing, mashups,\n podcasts, digital storytelling, virtual communities, social network\n services, virtual environments, and videoblogs. These distinctly\n different media share three common, interrelated characteristics:\nMany-to-many media now make it possible for every person connected", "Like the early days of print, radio, and television, the present\n structure of the participatory media regime−the political, economic,\n social and cultural institutions that constrain and empower the way\n the new medium can be used, and which impose structures on flows of\n information and capital−is still unsettled. As legislative and\n regulatory battles, business competition, and social institutions vie\n to control the new regime, a potentially decisive and presently\n unknown variable is the degree and kind of public participation.\n Because the unique power of the new media regime is precisely its\n participatory potential, the number of people who participate in using\n it during its formative years, and the skill with which they attempt\n to take advantage of this potential, is particularly salient.\nLike Yochai Benkler and Henry Jenkins, I believe that a", "continued to track new research and theory about what cyberculture might\n mean and the ways in which online communication media influence and are\n shaped by social forces.\nThe Values of Volunteers\nOne of the first questions that arose from my earliest experiences\n online was the question of why people in online communities should spend\n so much time answering each other’s questions, solving each other’s\n problems, without financial compensation. I first encountered Yochai\n Benkler in pursuit of my curiosity about the reason people would work\n together with strangers, without pay, to create something nobody\n owns−free and open source software. First in Coase’s Penguin, and\n then in The Wealth of Networks, Benkler contributed to important\n theoretical foundations for a new way of thinking about online\n activity−”commons based peer production,” technically made possible by a", "ubiquitous computing could be a captive audience for a cultural\n monopoly, given enough bad laws and judicial rulings. A population that\n knows what to do with the tools at hand stands a better chance of\n resisting enclosure. The more people who know how to use participatory\n media to learn, inform, persuade, investigate, reveal, advocate and\n organize, the more likely the future infosphere will allow, enable and\n encourage liberty and participation. Such literacy can only make action\n possible, however−it is not in the technology, or even in the knowledge\n of how to use it, but in the ways people use knowledge and technology to\n create wealth, secure freedom, resist tyranny.", "called “the Electronic Networking Association,” a small group of\n enthusiasts who thought that sending black and white text to BBSs with\n 1200 baud modems was fun. Joi, like Stewart Brand, was and is what Fred\n Turner calls a network entrepreneur, who\n occupies what Ronald Burt would call key structural roles−what\n Malcolm Gladwell called a connector. Joi was also a\n believer in going out and doing things and not just talking about it.\nJoi was one of the founders of a multicultural BBS in Tokyo, and in the\n early 1990s I had begun to branch out from BBSs and the WELL to\n make connections in many different parts of the world. The fun of\n talking, planning, debating and helping each other online came before\n the notion that our tiny subculture might grow into a worldwide,", "altruism is now a byproduct of daily life online. So much of what we\n take for granted as part of daily life online, from the BIND software\n that makes domain names work, to the Apache webserver that powers a\n sizable chunk of the world’s websites, to the cheap Linux servers that\n Google stacks into its global datacloud, was created by volunteers who\n gave their creations away to make possible something larger−the Web as\n we know it.\nTo some degree, the explosion of creativity that followed the debut of\n the Web in 1993 was made possible by deliberate design decisions on the\n part of the Internet’s architects−the end-to-end principle, built into\n the TCP/IP protocols that make the Internet possible, which deliberately\n decentralizes the power to innovate, to build something new and even", "billion PCs and Internet connections−as a new form of organizing\n economic production, together with the market and the firm. If Benkler\n is right, the new story about how humans get things done includes an\n important corollary−if tools like the PC and the Internet make it easy\n enough, people are willing to work together for non-market incentives to\n create software, encyclopedias and archives of public domain literature.\n While the old story is that people are highly unlikely to\n cooperate with strangers to voluntarily create public goods, the new\n story seems to be that people will indeed create significant common\n value voluntarily, if it is easy enough for anybody to add what they\n want, whenever they want to add it (“self election”). There is plenty of\n evidence to support the hypothesis that what used to be considered" ], [ "sociality, and those parts of human behavior can be amplified, too. But\n altruism, fun, community and curiosity are also parts of human\n sociality−and I propose that the Web is an existence proof that these\n capabilities can be amplified, as well. Indeed, our species’ social\n inventiveness is central to what it is to be human. The parts of the\n human brain that evolved most recently, and which are connected to what\n we consider to be our “higher” faculties of reason and forethought, are\n also essential to social life. The neural information-processing\n required for recognizing people, remembering their reputations, learning\n the rituals that remove boundaries of mistrust and bind groups together,\n from bands to communities to civilizations, may have been enabled by\n (and may have driven the rapid evolution of) that uniquely human brain", "A Participative Pedagogy\nTo accomplish this attention-turning, we must develop a participative\n pedagogy, assisted by digital media and networked publics, that focuses\n on catalyzing, inspiring, nourishing, facilitating, and guiding\n literacies essential to individual and collective life in the 21st\n century. Literacies are where the human brain, human sociality and\n communication technologies meet. We’re accustomed to thinking about the\n tangible parts of communication media−the devices and networks−but the\n less visible social practices and social affordances, from the alphabet\n to TCP/IP, are where human social genius can meet the augmenting power\n of technological networks. Literacy is the most important method Homo\n sapiens has used to introduce systems and tools to other humans, to", "train each other to partake of and contribute to culture, and to\n humanize the use of instruments that might otherwise enable\n commodification, mechanization and dehumanization. By literacy, I mean,\n following on Neil Postman and others, the set of skills that enable\n individuals to encode and decode knowledge and power via speech,\n writing, printing and collective action, and which, when learned,\n introduce the individual to a community. Literacy links technology and\n sociality. The alphabet did not cause the Roman Empire, but made it\n possible. Printing did not cause democracy or science, but literate\n populations, enabled by the printing press, devised systems for citizen\n governance and collective knowledge creation. The Internet did not cause\n open source production, Wikipedia or emergent collective responses to\n natural disasters, but it made it possible for people to act together in", "Participative Pedagogy for a Literacy of Literacies\nPeople act and learn together for a rich mixture of reasons. The current\n story that most of us tell ourselves about how humans get things done is\n focused on the well-known flavors of self-interest, which make for great\n drama−survival, power, wealth, sex, glory. People also do things\n together for fun, for the love of a challenge, and because we sometimes\n enjoy working together to make something beneficial to everybody. If I\n had to reduce the essence of Homo sapiens to five words, “people do\n complicated things together” would do. Online social networks can be\n powerful amplifiers of collective action precisely because they augment\n and extend the power of ever-complexifying human sociality. To be sure,\n gossip, conflict, slander, fraud, greed and bigotry are part of human", "structure, the neocortex.\nBut I didn’t start out by thinking about the evolutionary dynamics of\n sociality and the amplification of collective action. Like all of the\n others in this book, I started out by experiencing the new ways of being\n that Internet social media have made possible. And like the other\n Freesouls, Joi Ito has played a catalytic, communitarian,\n Mephistophelian, Pied-Piper-esque, authority-challenging, fun-loving\n role in my experiences of the possibilities of life online.\nFriends and Enthusiasts\nTo me, direct experience of what I later came to call virtual\n communities preceded theories about the ways people\n do things together online. I met Joi Ito in the 1980s as part of what we", "many-to-many, multimedia network of a billion people. We started to\n dream about future cybersocial possibilities only after personally\n experiencing something new, moving and authentic in our webs of budding\n friendship and collaboration. In recent years, cyberculture studies has\n grown into a discipline−more properly, an interdiscipline involving\n sociologists, anthropologists, historians, psychologists, economists,\n programmers and political scientists. Back when people online argued in\n 1200 baud text about whether one could properly call what we were doing\n a form of community, there was no body of empirical evidence to serve as\n a foundation for scientific argument−all theory was anecdotal. By now,\n however, there is plenty of data.\nOne particularly useful affordance of online sociality is that a great", "altruism is now a byproduct of daily life online. So much of what we\n take for granted as part of daily life online, from the BIND software\n that makes domain names work, to the Apache webserver that powers a\n sizable chunk of the world’s websites, to the cheap Linux servers that\n Google stacks into its global datacloud, was created by volunteers who\n gave their creations away to make possible something larger−the Web as\n we know it.\nTo some degree, the explosion of creativity that followed the debut of\n the Web in 1993 was made possible by deliberate design decisions on the\n part of the Internet’s architects−the end-to-end principle, built into\n the TCP/IP protocols that make the Internet possible, which deliberately\n decentralizes the power to innovate, to build something new and even", "ubiquitous computing could be a captive audience for a cultural\n monopoly, given enough bad laws and judicial rulings. A population that\n knows what to do with the tools at hand stands a better chance of\n resisting enclosure. The more people who know how to use participatory\n media to learn, inform, persuade, investigate, reveal, advocate and\n organize, the more likely the future infosphere will allow, enable and\n encourage liberty and participation. Such literacy can only make action\n possible, however−it is not in the technology, or even in the knowledge\n of how to use it, but in the ways people use knowledge and technology to\n create wealth, secure freedom, resist tyranny.", "continued to track new research and theory about what cyberculture might\n mean and the ways in which online communication media influence and are\n shaped by social forces.\nThe Values of Volunteers\nOne of the first questions that arose from my earliest experiences\n online was the question of why people in online communities should spend\n so much time answering each other’s questions, solving each other’s\n problems, without financial compensation. I first encountered Yochai\n Benkler in pursuit of my curiosity about the reason people would work\n together with strangers, without pay, to create something nobody\n owns−free and open source software. First in Coase’s Penguin, and\n then in The Wealth of Networks, Benkler contributed to important\n theoretical foundations for a new way of thinking about online\n activity−”commons based peer production,” technically made possible by a", "participatory culture in which most of the population see themselves as\n creators as well as consumers of culture is far more likely to generate\n freedom and wealth for more people than one in which a small portion of\n the population produces culture that the majority passively consume. The\n technological infrastructure for participatory media has grown rapidly,\n piggybacking on Moore’s Law, globalization, the telecom bubble and the\n innovations of Swiss physicists and computer science\n students. Increasingly, access to that infrastructure−the ability to\n upload a Macaca video or uncover a threat to democracy−has become\n economically accessible. Literacy−access to the codes and communities of\n vernacular video, microblogging, social bookmarking, wiki\n collaboration−is what is required to use that infrastructure to create a\n participatory culture. A population with broadband infrastructure and", "new ways, with people they weren’t able to organize action with before,\n in places and at paces for which collective action had never been\n possible. Literacies are the prerequisite for the human agency that used\n alphabets, presses and digital networks to create wealth, alleviate\n suffering and invent new institutions. If the humans currently alive are\n to take advantage of digital technologies to address the most severe\n problems that face our species and the biosphere, computers, telephones\n and digital networks are not enough. We need new literacies around\n participatory media, the dynamics of cooperation and collective action,\n the effective deployment of attention and the relatively rational and\n critical discourse necessary for a healthy public sphere.\nMedia Literacies\nIn Using Participatory Media and Public Voice to Encourage Civic\n Engagement, I wrote:", "more powerful on what already exists. Is it possible to understand\n exactly what it is about the web that makes Wikipedia, Linux,\n FightAIDS@Home, the Gutenberg Project and Creative Commons possible? And\n if so, can this theoretical knowledge be put to practical use? I am\n struck by a phrase of Benkler’s from his essay in this book: “We must\n now turn our attention to building systems that support human\n sociality.” That sounds right. But how would it be done? It’s easy to\n say and not as easy to see the ways in which social codes and power\n structures mold the design of communication media. We must develop a\n participative pedagogy, assisted by digital media and networked publics,\n that focuses on catalyzing, inspiring, nourishing, facilitating, and\n guiding literacies essential to individual and collective life.", "billion PCs and Internet connections−as a new form of organizing\n economic production, together with the market and the firm. If Benkler\n is right, the new story about how humans get things done includes an\n important corollary−if tools like the PC and the Internet make it easy\n enough, people are willing to work together for non-market incentives to\n create software, encyclopedias and archives of public domain literature.\n While the old story is that people are highly unlikely to\n cooperate with strangers to voluntarily create public goods, the new\n story seems to be that people will indeed create significant common\n value voluntarily, if it is easy enough for anybody to add what they\n want, whenever they want to add it (“self election”). There is plenty of\n evidence to support the hypothesis that what used to be considered", "deal of public behavior is recorded and structured in a way that makes\n it suitable for systematic study. One effect of the digital Panopticon\n is the loss of privacy and the threat of tyrannical social control;\n another effect is a rich body of data about online behavior. Every one\n of Wikipedia’s millions of edits, and all the discussion and talk pages\n associated with those edits, is available for inspection−along with\n billions of Usenet messages. Patterns are beginning to emerge. We’re\n beginning to know something about what works and what doesn’t work with\n people online, and why.\nDoes knowing something about the way technical architecture influences\n behavior mean that we can put that knowledge to use? Now that we are\n beginning to learn a little about the specific sociotechnical\n affordances of online social networks, is it possible to derive a", "If print culture shaped the environment in which the Enlightenment\n blossomed and set the scene for the Industrial Revolution,\n participatory media might similarly shape the cognitive and social\n environments in which twenty first century life will take place (a\n shift in the way our culture operates). For this reason, participatory\n media literacy is not another subject to be shoehorned into the\n curriculum as job training for knowledge workers.\nParticipatory media include (but aren’t limited to) blogs, wikis, RSS,\n tagging and social bookmarking, music-photo-video sharing, mashups,\n podcasts, digital storytelling, virtual communities, social network\n services, virtual environments, and videoblogs. These distinctly\n different media share three common, interrelated characteristics:\nMany-to-many media now make it possible for every person connected", "called “the Electronic Networking Association,” a small group of\n enthusiasts who thought that sending black and white text to BBSs with\n 1200 baud modems was fun. Joi, like Stewart Brand, was and is what Fred\n Turner calls a network entrepreneur, who\n occupies what Ronald Burt would call key structural roles−what\n Malcolm Gladwell called a connector. Joi was also a\n believer in going out and doing things and not just talking about it.\nJoi was one of the founders of a multicultural BBS in Tokyo, and in the\n early 1990s I had begun to branch out from BBSs and the WELL to\n make connections in many different parts of the world. The fun of\n talking, planning, debating and helping each other online came before\n the notion that our tiny subculture might grow into a worldwide,", "normative design? How should designers think about the principles of\n beneficial social software? Can inhumane or dehumanizing effects of\n digital socializing be mitigated or eliminated by better media design?\n In what ways does the design of social media enable or prevent heartfelt\n communitas, organized collective action, social capital, cultural and\n economic production? I’ve continued to make a direct experience of my\n life online−from lifelong friends like Joi Ito to the other people\n around the world I’ve come to know, because online media made it\n possible to connect with people who shared my interests, even if I had\n never heard of them before, even if they lived on the other side of the\n world. But in parallel with my direct experience of the blogosphere,\n vlogosphere, twitterverse and other realms of digital discourse, I’ve", "to the network to broadcast as well as receive text, images,\n audio, video, software, data, discussions, transactions,\n computations, tags, or links to and from every other person. The\n asymmetry between broadcaster and audience that was dictated by\n the structure of pre-digital technologies has changed radically.\n This is a technical- structural characteristic.\nParticipatory media are social media whose value and power derives\n from the active participation of many people. Value derives not\n just from the size of the audience, but from their power to link\n to each other, to form a public as well as a market. This is a\n psychological and social characteristic.\nSocial networks, when amplified by information and communication\n networks, enable broader, faster, and lower cost coordination\n of activities. This is an economic and political characteristic.", "Like the early days of print, radio, and television, the present\n structure of the participatory media regime−the political, economic,\n social and cultural institutions that constrain and empower the way\n the new medium can be used, and which impose structures on flows of\n information and capital−is still unsettled. As legislative and\n regulatory battles, business competition, and social institutions vie\n to control the new regime, a potentially decisive and presently\n unknown variable is the degree and kind of public participation.\n Because the unique power of the new media regime is precisely its\n participatory potential, the number of people who participate in using\n it during its formative years, and the skill with which they attempt\n to take advantage of this potential, is particularly salient.\nLike Yochai Benkler and Henry Jenkins, I believe that a" ], [ "structure, the neocortex.\nBut I didn’t start out by thinking about the evolutionary dynamics of\n sociality and the amplification of collective action. Like all of the\n others in this book, I started out by experiencing the new ways of being\n that Internet social media have made possible. And like the other\n Freesouls, Joi Ito has played a catalytic, communitarian,\n Mephistophelian, Pied-Piper-esque, authority-challenging, fun-loving\n role in my experiences of the possibilities of life online.\nFriends and Enthusiasts\nTo me, direct experience of what I later came to call virtual\n communities preceded theories about the ways people\n do things together online. I met Joi Ito in the 1980s as part of what we", "continued to track new research and theory about what cyberculture might\n mean and the ways in which online communication media influence and are\n shaped by social forces.\nThe Values of Volunteers\nOne of the first questions that arose from my earliest experiences\n online was the question of why people in online communities should spend\n so much time answering each other’s questions, solving each other’s\n problems, without financial compensation. I first encountered Yochai\n Benkler in pursuit of my curiosity about the reason people would work\n together with strangers, without pay, to create something nobody\n owns−free and open source software. First in Coase’s Penguin, and\n then in The Wealth of Networks, Benkler contributed to important\n theoretical foundations for a new way of thinking about online\n activity−”commons based peer production,” technically made possible by a", "many-to-many, multimedia network of a billion people. We started to\n dream about future cybersocial possibilities only after personally\n experiencing something new, moving and authentic in our webs of budding\n friendship and collaboration. In recent years, cyberculture studies has\n grown into a discipline−more properly, an interdiscipline involving\n sociologists, anthropologists, historians, psychologists, economists,\n programmers and political scientists. Back when people online argued in\n 1200 baud text about whether one could properly call what we were doing\n a form of community, there was no body of empirical evidence to serve as\n a foundation for scientific argument−all theory was anecdotal. By now,\n however, there is plenty of data.\nOne particularly useful affordance of online sociality is that a great", "called “the Electronic Networking Association,” a small group of\n enthusiasts who thought that sending black and white text to BBSs with\n 1200 baud modems was fun. Joi, like Stewart Brand, was and is what Fred\n Turner calls a network entrepreneur, who\n occupies what Ronald Burt would call key structural roles−what\n Malcolm Gladwell called a connector. Joi was also a\n believer in going out and doing things and not just talking about it.\nJoi was one of the founders of a multicultural BBS in Tokyo, and in the\n early 1990s I had begun to branch out from BBSs and the WELL to\n make connections in many different parts of the world. The fun of\n talking, planning, debating and helping each other online came before\n the notion that our tiny subculture might grow into a worldwide,", "deal of public behavior is recorded and structured in a way that makes\n it suitable for systematic study. One effect of the digital Panopticon\n is the loss of privacy and the threat of tyrannical social control;\n another effect is a rich body of data about online behavior. Every one\n of Wikipedia’s millions of edits, and all the discussion and talk pages\n associated with those edits, is available for inspection−along with\n billions of Usenet messages. Patterns are beginning to emerge. We’re\n beginning to know something about what works and what doesn’t work with\n people online, and why.\nDoes knowing something about the way technical architecture influences\n behavior mean that we can put that knowledge to use? Now that we are\n beginning to learn a little about the specific sociotechnical\n affordances of online social networks, is it possible to derive a", "sociality, and those parts of human behavior can be amplified, too. But\n altruism, fun, community and curiosity are also parts of human\n sociality−and I propose that the Web is an existence proof that these\n capabilities can be amplified, as well. Indeed, our species’ social\n inventiveness is central to what it is to be human. The parts of the\n human brain that evolved most recently, and which are connected to what\n we consider to be our “higher” faculties of reason and forethought, are\n also essential to social life. The neural information-processing\n required for recognizing people, remembering their reputations, learning\n the rituals that remove boundaries of mistrust and bind groups together,\n from bands to communities to civilizations, may have been enabled by\n (and may have driven the rapid evolution of) that uniquely human brain", "normative design? How should designers think about the principles of\n beneficial social software? Can inhumane or dehumanizing effects of\n digital socializing be mitigated or eliminated by better media design?\n In what ways does the design of social media enable or prevent heartfelt\n communitas, organized collective action, social capital, cultural and\n economic production? I’ve continued to make a direct experience of my\n life online−from lifelong friends like Joi Ito to the other people\n around the world I’ve come to know, because online media made it\n possible to connect with people who shared my interests, even if I had\n never heard of them before, even if they lived on the other side of the\n world. But in parallel with my direct experience of the blogosphere,\n vlogosphere, twitterverse and other realms of digital discourse, I’ve", "to the network to broadcast as well as receive text, images,\n audio, video, software, data, discussions, transactions,\n computations, tags, or links to and from every other person. The\n asymmetry between broadcaster and audience that was dictated by\n the structure of pre-digital technologies has changed radically.\n This is a technical- structural characteristic.\nParticipatory media are social media whose value and power derives\n from the active participation of many people. Value derives not\n just from the size of the audience, but from their power to link\n to each other, to form a public as well as a market. This is a\n psychological and social characteristic.\nSocial networks, when amplified by information and communication\n networks, enable broader, faster, and lower cost coordination\n of activities. This is an economic and political characteristic.", "train each other to partake of and contribute to culture, and to\n humanize the use of instruments that might otherwise enable\n commodification, mechanization and dehumanization. By literacy, I mean,\n following on Neil Postman and others, the set of skills that enable\n individuals to encode and decode knowledge and power via speech,\n writing, printing and collective action, and which, when learned,\n introduce the individual to a community. Literacy links technology and\n sociality. The alphabet did not cause the Roman Empire, but made it\n possible. Printing did not cause democracy or science, but literate\n populations, enabled by the printing press, devised systems for citizen\n governance and collective knowledge creation. The Internet did not cause\n open source production, Wikipedia or emergent collective responses to\n natural disasters, but it made it possible for people to act together in", "new ways, with people they weren’t able to organize action with before,\n in places and at paces for which collective action had never been\n possible. Literacies are the prerequisite for the human agency that used\n alphabets, presses and digital networks to create wealth, alleviate\n suffering and invent new institutions. If the humans currently alive are\n to take advantage of digital technologies to address the most severe\n problems that face our species and the biosphere, computers, telephones\n and digital networks are not enough. We need new literacies around\n participatory media, the dynamics of cooperation and collective action,\n the effective deployment of attention and the relatively rational and\n critical discourse necessary for a healthy public sphere.\nMedia Literacies\nIn Using Participatory Media and Public Voice to Encourage Civic\n Engagement, I wrote:", "A Participative Pedagogy\nTo accomplish this attention-turning, we must develop a participative\n pedagogy, assisted by digital media and networked publics, that focuses\n on catalyzing, inspiring, nourishing, facilitating, and guiding\n literacies essential to individual and collective life in the 21st\n century. Literacies are where the human brain, human sociality and\n communication technologies meet. We’re accustomed to thinking about the\n tangible parts of communication media−the devices and networks−but the\n less visible social practices and social affordances, from the alphabet\n to TCP/IP, are where human social genius can meet the augmenting power\n of technological networks. Literacy is the most important method Homo\n sapiens has used to introduce systems and tools to other humans, to", "If print culture shaped the environment in which the Enlightenment\n blossomed and set the scene for the Industrial Revolution,\n participatory media might similarly shape the cognitive and social\n environments in which twenty first century life will take place (a\n shift in the way our culture operates). For this reason, participatory\n media literacy is not another subject to be shoehorned into the\n curriculum as job training for knowledge workers.\nParticipatory media include (but aren’t limited to) blogs, wikis, RSS,\n tagging and social bookmarking, music-photo-video sharing, mashups,\n podcasts, digital storytelling, virtual communities, social network\n services, virtual environments, and videoblogs. These distinctly\n different media share three common, interrelated characteristics:\nMany-to-many media now make it possible for every person connected", "more powerful on what already exists. Is it possible to understand\n exactly what it is about the web that makes Wikipedia, Linux,\n FightAIDS@Home, the Gutenberg Project and Creative Commons possible? And\n if so, can this theoretical knowledge be put to practical use? I am\n struck by a phrase of Benkler’s from his essay in this book: “We must\n now turn our attention to building systems that support human\n sociality.” That sounds right. But how would it be done? It’s easy to\n say and not as easy to see the ways in which social codes and power\n structures mold the design of communication media. We must develop a\n participative pedagogy, assisted by digital media and networked publics,\n that focuses on catalyzing, inspiring, nourishing, facilitating, and\n guiding literacies essential to individual and collective life.", "participatory culture in which most of the population see themselves as\n creators as well as consumers of culture is far more likely to generate\n freedom and wealth for more people than one in which a small portion of\n the population produces culture that the majority passively consume. The\n technological infrastructure for participatory media has grown rapidly,\n piggybacking on Moore’s Law, globalization, the telecom bubble and the\n innovations of Swiss physicists and computer science\n students. Increasingly, access to that infrastructure−the ability to\n upload a Macaca video or uncover a threat to democracy−has become\n economically accessible. Literacy−access to the codes and communities of\n vernacular video, microblogging, social bookmarking, wiki\n collaboration−is what is required to use that infrastructure to create a\n participatory culture. A population with broadband infrastructure and", "Like the early days of print, radio, and television, the present\n structure of the participatory media regime−the political, economic,\n social and cultural institutions that constrain and empower the way\n the new medium can be used, and which impose structures on flows of\n information and capital−is still unsettled. As legislative and\n regulatory battles, business competition, and social institutions vie\n to control the new regime, a potentially decisive and presently\n unknown variable is the degree and kind of public participation.\n Because the unique power of the new media regime is precisely its\n participatory potential, the number of people who participate in using\n it during its formative years, and the skill with which they attempt\n to take advantage of this potential, is particularly salient.\nLike Yochai Benkler and Henry Jenkins, I believe that a", "Participative Pedagogy for a Literacy of Literacies\nPeople act and learn together for a rich mixture of reasons. The current\n story that most of us tell ourselves about how humans get things done is\n focused on the well-known flavors of self-interest, which make for great\n drama−survival, power, wealth, sex, glory. People also do things\n together for fun, for the love of a challenge, and because we sometimes\n enjoy working together to make something beneficial to everybody. If I\n had to reduce the essence of Homo sapiens to five words, “people do\n complicated things together” would do. Online social networks can be\n powerful amplifiers of collective action precisely because they augment\n and extend the power of ever-complexifying human sociality. To be sure,\n gossip, conflict, slander, fraud, greed and bigotry are part of human", "billion PCs and Internet connections−as a new form of organizing\n economic production, together with the market and the firm. If Benkler\n is right, the new story about how humans get things done includes an\n important corollary−if tools like the PC and the Internet make it easy\n enough, people are willing to work together for non-market incentives to\n create software, encyclopedias and archives of public domain literature.\n While the old story is that people are highly unlikely to\n cooperate with strangers to voluntarily create public goods, the new\n story seems to be that people will indeed create significant common\n value voluntarily, if it is easy enough for anybody to add what they\n want, whenever they want to add it (“self election”). There is plenty of\n evidence to support the hypothesis that what used to be considered", "altruism is now a byproduct of daily life online. So much of what we\n take for granted as part of daily life online, from the BIND software\n that makes domain names work, to the Apache webserver that powers a\n sizable chunk of the world’s websites, to the cheap Linux servers that\n Google stacks into its global datacloud, was created by volunteers who\n gave their creations away to make possible something larger−the Web as\n we know it.\nTo some degree, the explosion of creativity that followed the debut of\n the Web in 1993 was made possible by deliberate design decisions on the\n part of the Internet’s architects−the end-to-end principle, built into\n the TCP/IP protocols that make the Internet possible, which deliberately\n decentralizes the power to innovate, to build something new and even", "ubiquitous computing could be a captive audience for a cultural\n monopoly, given enough bad laws and judicial rulings. A population that\n knows what to do with the tools at hand stands a better chance of\n resisting enclosure. The more people who know how to use participatory\n media to learn, inform, persuade, investigate, reveal, advocate and\n organize, the more likely the future infosphere will allow, enable and\n encourage liberty and participation. Such literacy can only make action\n possible, however−it is not in the technology, or even in the knowledge\n of how to use it, but in the ways people use knowledge and technology to\n create wealth, secure freedom, resist tyranny." ], [ "many-to-many, multimedia network of a billion people. We started to\n dream about future cybersocial possibilities only after personally\n experiencing something new, moving and authentic in our webs of budding\n friendship and collaboration. In recent years, cyberculture studies has\n grown into a discipline−more properly, an interdiscipline involving\n sociologists, anthropologists, historians, psychologists, economists,\n programmers and political scientists. Back when people online argued in\n 1200 baud text about whether one could properly call what we were doing\n a form of community, there was no body of empirical evidence to serve as\n a foundation for scientific argument−all theory was anecdotal. By now,\n however, there is plenty of data.\nOne particularly useful affordance of online sociality is that a great", "deal of public behavior is recorded and structured in a way that makes\n it suitable for systematic study. One effect of the digital Panopticon\n is the loss of privacy and the threat of tyrannical social control;\n another effect is a rich body of data about online behavior. Every one\n of Wikipedia’s millions of edits, and all the discussion and talk pages\n associated with those edits, is available for inspection−along with\n billions of Usenet messages. Patterns are beginning to emerge. We’re\n beginning to know something about what works and what doesn’t work with\n people online, and why.\nDoes knowing something about the way technical architecture influences\n behavior mean that we can put that knowledge to use? Now that we are\n beginning to learn a little about the specific sociotechnical\n affordances of online social networks, is it possible to derive a", "sociality, and those parts of human behavior can be amplified, too. But\n altruism, fun, community and curiosity are also parts of human\n sociality−and I propose that the Web is an existence proof that these\n capabilities can be amplified, as well. Indeed, our species’ social\n inventiveness is central to what it is to be human. The parts of the\n human brain that evolved most recently, and which are connected to what\n we consider to be our “higher” faculties of reason and forethought, are\n also essential to social life. The neural information-processing\n required for recognizing people, remembering their reputations, learning\n the rituals that remove boundaries of mistrust and bind groups together,\n from bands to communities to civilizations, may have been enabled by\n (and may have driven the rapid evolution of) that uniquely human brain", "continued to track new research and theory about what cyberculture might\n mean and the ways in which online communication media influence and are\n shaped by social forces.\nThe Values of Volunteers\nOne of the first questions that arose from my earliest experiences\n online was the question of why people in online communities should spend\n so much time answering each other’s questions, solving each other’s\n problems, without financial compensation. I first encountered Yochai\n Benkler in pursuit of my curiosity about the reason people would work\n together with strangers, without pay, to create something nobody\n owns−free and open source software. First in Coase’s Penguin, and\n then in The Wealth of Networks, Benkler contributed to important\n theoretical foundations for a new way of thinking about online\n activity−”commons based peer production,” technically made possible by a", "normative design? How should designers think about the principles of\n beneficial social software? Can inhumane or dehumanizing effects of\n digital socializing be mitigated or eliminated by better media design?\n In what ways does the design of social media enable or prevent heartfelt\n communitas, organized collective action, social capital, cultural and\n economic production? I’ve continued to make a direct experience of my\n life online−from lifelong friends like Joi Ito to the other people\n around the world I’ve come to know, because online media made it\n possible to connect with people who shared my interests, even if I had\n never heard of them before, even if they lived on the other side of the\n world. But in parallel with my direct experience of the blogosphere,\n vlogosphere, twitterverse and other realms of digital discourse, I’ve", "structure, the neocortex.\nBut I didn’t start out by thinking about the evolutionary dynamics of\n sociality and the amplification of collective action. Like all of the\n others in this book, I started out by experiencing the new ways of being\n that Internet social media have made possible. And like the other\n Freesouls, Joi Ito has played a catalytic, communitarian,\n Mephistophelian, Pied-Piper-esque, authority-challenging, fun-loving\n role in my experiences of the possibilities of life online.\nFriends and Enthusiasts\nTo me, direct experience of what I later came to call virtual\n communities preceded theories about the ways people\n do things together online. I met Joi Ito in the 1980s as part of what we", "to the network to broadcast as well as receive text, images,\n audio, video, software, data, discussions, transactions,\n computations, tags, or links to and from every other person. The\n asymmetry between broadcaster and audience that was dictated by\n the structure of pre-digital technologies has changed radically.\n This is a technical- structural characteristic.\nParticipatory media are social media whose value and power derives\n from the active participation of many people. Value derives not\n just from the size of the audience, but from their power to link\n to each other, to form a public as well as a market. This is a\n psychological and social characteristic.\nSocial networks, when amplified by information and communication\n networks, enable broader, faster, and lower cost coordination\n of activities. This is an economic and political characteristic.", "train each other to partake of and contribute to culture, and to\n humanize the use of instruments that might otherwise enable\n commodification, mechanization and dehumanization. By literacy, I mean,\n following on Neil Postman and others, the set of skills that enable\n individuals to encode and decode knowledge and power via speech,\n writing, printing and collective action, and which, when learned,\n introduce the individual to a community. Literacy links technology and\n sociality. The alphabet did not cause the Roman Empire, but made it\n possible. Printing did not cause democracy or science, but literate\n populations, enabled by the printing press, devised systems for citizen\n governance and collective knowledge creation. The Internet did not cause\n open source production, Wikipedia or emergent collective responses to\n natural disasters, but it made it possible for people to act together in", "Participative Pedagogy for a Literacy of Literacies\nPeople act and learn together for a rich mixture of reasons. The current\n story that most of us tell ourselves about how humans get things done is\n focused on the well-known flavors of self-interest, which make for great\n drama−survival, power, wealth, sex, glory. People also do things\n together for fun, for the love of a challenge, and because we sometimes\n enjoy working together to make something beneficial to everybody. If I\n had to reduce the essence of Homo sapiens to five words, “people do\n complicated things together” would do. Online social networks can be\n powerful amplifiers of collective action precisely because they augment\n and extend the power of ever-complexifying human sociality. To be sure,\n gossip, conflict, slander, fraud, greed and bigotry are part of human", "A Participative Pedagogy\nTo accomplish this attention-turning, we must develop a participative\n pedagogy, assisted by digital media and networked publics, that focuses\n on catalyzing, inspiring, nourishing, facilitating, and guiding\n literacies essential to individual and collective life in the 21st\n century. Literacies are where the human brain, human sociality and\n communication technologies meet. We’re accustomed to thinking about the\n tangible parts of communication media−the devices and networks−but the\n less visible social practices and social affordances, from the alphabet\n to TCP/IP, are where human social genius can meet the augmenting power\n of technological networks. Literacy is the most important method Homo\n sapiens has used to introduce systems and tools to other humans, to", "new ways, with people they weren’t able to organize action with before,\n in places and at paces for which collective action had never been\n possible. Literacies are the prerequisite for the human agency that used\n alphabets, presses and digital networks to create wealth, alleviate\n suffering and invent new institutions. If the humans currently alive are\n to take advantage of digital technologies to address the most severe\n problems that face our species and the biosphere, computers, telephones\n and digital networks are not enough. We need new literacies around\n participatory media, the dynamics of cooperation and collective action,\n the effective deployment of attention and the relatively rational and\n critical discourse necessary for a healthy public sphere.\nMedia Literacies\nIn Using Participatory Media and Public Voice to Encourage Civic\n Engagement, I wrote:", "more powerful on what already exists. Is it possible to understand\n exactly what it is about the web that makes Wikipedia, Linux,\n FightAIDS@Home, the Gutenberg Project and Creative Commons possible? And\n if so, can this theoretical knowledge be put to practical use? I am\n struck by a phrase of Benkler’s from his essay in this book: “We must\n now turn our attention to building systems that support human\n sociality.” That sounds right. But how would it be done? It’s easy to\n say and not as easy to see the ways in which social codes and power\n structures mold the design of communication media. We must develop a\n participative pedagogy, assisted by digital media and networked publics,\n that focuses on catalyzing, inspiring, nourishing, facilitating, and\n guiding literacies essential to individual and collective life.", "billion PCs and Internet connections−as a new form of organizing\n economic production, together with the market and the firm. If Benkler\n is right, the new story about how humans get things done includes an\n important corollary−if tools like the PC and the Internet make it easy\n enough, people are willing to work together for non-market incentives to\n create software, encyclopedias and archives of public domain literature.\n While the old story is that people are highly unlikely to\n cooperate with strangers to voluntarily create public goods, the new\n story seems to be that people will indeed create significant common\n value voluntarily, if it is easy enough for anybody to add what they\n want, whenever they want to add it (“self election”). There is plenty of\n evidence to support the hypothesis that what used to be considered", "participatory culture in which most of the population see themselves as\n creators as well as consumers of culture is far more likely to generate\n freedom and wealth for more people than one in which a small portion of\n the population produces culture that the majority passively consume. The\n technological infrastructure for participatory media has grown rapidly,\n piggybacking on Moore’s Law, globalization, the telecom bubble and the\n innovations of Swiss physicists and computer science\n students. Increasingly, access to that infrastructure−the ability to\n upload a Macaca video or uncover a threat to democracy−has become\n economically accessible. Literacy−access to the codes and communities of\n vernacular video, microblogging, social bookmarking, wiki\n collaboration−is what is required to use that infrastructure to create a\n participatory culture. A population with broadband infrastructure and", "altruism is now a byproduct of daily life online. So much of what we\n take for granted as part of daily life online, from the BIND software\n that makes domain names work, to the Apache webserver that powers a\n sizable chunk of the world’s websites, to the cheap Linux servers that\n Google stacks into its global datacloud, was created by volunteers who\n gave their creations away to make possible something larger−the Web as\n we know it.\nTo some degree, the explosion of creativity that followed the debut of\n the Web in 1993 was made possible by deliberate design decisions on the\n part of the Internet’s architects−the end-to-end principle, built into\n the TCP/IP protocols that make the Internet possible, which deliberately\n decentralizes the power to innovate, to build something new and even", "called “the Electronic Networking Association,” a small group of\n enthusiasts who thought that sending black and white text to BBSs with\n 1200 baud modems was fun. Joi, like Stewart Brand, was and is what Fred\n Turner calls a network entrepreneur, who\n occupies what Ronald Burt would call key structural roles−what\n Malcolm Gladwell called a connector. Joi was also a\n believer in going out and doing things and not just talking about it.\nJoi was one of the founders of a multicultural BBS in Tokyo, and in the\n early 1990s I had begun to branch out from BBSs and the WELL to\n make connections in many different parts of the world. The fun of\n talking, planning, debating and helping each other online came before\n the notion that our tiny subculture might grow into a worldwide,", "If print culture shaped the environment in which the Enlightenment\n blossomed and set the scene for the Industrial Revolution,\n participatory media might similarly shape the cognitive and social\n environments in which twenty first century life will take place (a\n shift in the way our culture operates). For this reason, participatory\n media literacy is not another subject to be shoehorned into the\n curriculum as job training for knowledge workers.\nParticipatory media include (but aren’t limited to) blogs, wikis, RSS,\n tagging and social bookmarking, music-photo-video sharing, mashups,\n podcasts, digital storytelling, virtual communities, social network\n services, virtual environments, and videoblogs. These distinctly\n different media share three common, interrelated characteristics:\nMany-to-many media now make it possible for every person connected", "ubiquitous computing could be a captive audience for a cultural\n monopoly, given enough bad laws and judicial rulings. A population that\n knows what to do with the tools at hand stands a better chance of\n resisting enclosure. The more people who know how to use participatory\n media to learn, inform, persuade, investigate, reveal, advocate and\n organize, the more likely the future infosphere will allow, enable and\n encourage liberty and participation. Such literacy can only make action\n possible, however−it is not in the technology, or even in the knowledge\n of how to use it, but in the ways people use knowledge and technology to\n create wealth, secure freedom, resist tyranny.", "Like the early days of print, radio, and television, the present\n structure of the participatory media regime−the political, economic,\n social and cultural institutions that constrain and empower the way\n the new medium can be used, and which impose structures on flows of\n information and capital−is still unsettled. As legislative and\n regulatory battles, business competition, and social institutions vie\n to control the new regime, a potentially decisive and presently\n unknown variable is the degree and kind of public participation.\n Because the unique power of the new media regime is precisely its\n participatory potential, the number of people who participate in using\n it during its formative years, and the skill with which they attempt\n to take advantage of this potential, is particularly salient.\nLike Yochai Benkler and Henry Jenkins, I believe that a" ], [ "deal of public behavior is recorded and structured in a way that makes\n it suitable for systematic study. One effect of the digital Panopticon\n is the loss of privacy and the threat of tyrannical social control;\n another effect is a rich body of data about online behavior. Every one\n of Wikipedia’s millions of edits, and all the discussion and talk pages\n associated with those edits, is available for inspection−along with\n billions of Usenet messages. Patterns are beginning to emerge. We’re\n beginning to know something about what works and what doesn’t work with\n people online, and why.\nDoes knowing something about the way technical architecture influences\n behavior mean that we can put that knowledge to use? Now that we are\n beginning to learn a little about the specific sociotechnical\n affordances of online social networks, is it possible to derive a", "continued to track new research and theory about what cyberculture might\n mean and the ways in which online communication media influence and are\n shaped by social forces.\nThe Values of Volunteers\nOne of the first questions that arose from my earliest experiences\n online was the question of why people in online communities should spend\n so much time answering each other’s questions, solving each other’s\n problems, without financial compensation. I first encountered Yochai\n Benkler in pursuit of my curiosity about the reason people would work\n together with strangers, without pay, to create something nobody\n owns−free and open source software. First in Coase’s Penguin, and\n then in The Wealth of Networks, Benkler contributed to important\n theoretical foundations for a new way of thinking about online\n activity−”commons based peer production,” technically made possible by a", "normative design? How should designers think about the principles of\n beneficial social software? Can inhumane or dehumanizing effects of\n digital socializing be mitigated or eliminated by better media design?\n In what ways does the design of social media enable or prevent heartfelt\n communitas, organized collective action, social capital, cultural and\n economic production? I’ve continued to make a direct experience of my\n life online−from lifelong friends like Joi Ito to the other people\n around the world I’ve come to know, because online media made it\n possible to connect with people who shared my interests, even if I had\n never heard of them before, even if they lived on the other side of the\n world. But in parallel with my direct experience of the blogosphere,\n vlogosphere, twitterverse and other realms of digital discourse, I’ve", "many-to-many, multimedia network of a billion people. We started to\n dream about future cybersocial possibilities only after personally\n experiencing something new, moving and authentic in our webs of budding\n friendship and collaboration. In recent years, cyberculture studies has\n grown into a discipline−more properly, an interdiscipline involving\n sociologists, anthropologists, historians, psychologists, economists,\n programmers and political scientists. Back when people online argued in\n 1200 baud text about whether one could properly call what we were doing\n a form of community, there was no body of empirical evidence to serve as\n a foundation for scientific argument−all theory was anecdotal. By now,\n however, there is plenty of data.\nOne particularly useful affordance of online sociality is that a great", "structure, the neocortex.\nBut I didn’t start out by thinking about the evolutionary dynamics of\n sociality and the amplification of collective action. Like all of the\n others in this book, I started out by experiencing the new ways of being\n that Internet social media have made possible. And like the other\n Freesouls, Joi Ito has played a catalytic, communitarian,\n Mephistophelian, Pied-Piper-esque, authority-challenging, fun-loving\n role in my experiences of the possibilities of life online.\nFriends and Enthusiasts\nTo me, direct experience of what I later came to call virtual\n communities preceded theories about the ways people\n do things together online. I met Joi Ito in the 1980s as part of what we", "sociality, and those parts of human behavior can be amplified, too. But\n altruism, fun, community and curiosity are also parts of human\n sociality−and I propose that the Web is an existence proof that these\n capabilities can be amplified, as well. Indeed, our species’ social\n inventiveness is central to what it is to be human. The parts of the\n human brain that evolved most recently, and which are connected to what\n we consider to be our “higher” faculties of reason and forethought, are\n also essential to social life. The neural information-processing\n required for recognizing people, remembering their reputations, learning\n the rituals that remove boundaries of mistrust and bind groups together,\n from bands to communities to civilizations, may have been enabled by\n (and may have driven the rapid evolution of) that uniquely human brain", "more powerful on what already exists. Is it possible to understand\n exactly what it is about the web that makes Wikipedia, Linux,\n FightAIDS@Home, the Gutenberg Project and Creative Commons possible? And\n if so, can this theoretical knowledge be put to practical use? I am\n struck by a phrase of Benkler’s from his essay in this book: “We must\n now turn our attention to building systems that support human\n sociality.” That sounds right. But how would it be done? It’s easy to\n say and not as easy to see the ways in which social codes and power\n structures mold the design of communication media. We must develop a\n participative pedagogy, assisted by digital media and networked publics,\n that focuses on catalyzing, inspiring, nourishing, facilitating, and\n guiding literacies essential to individual and collective life.", "Participative Pedagogy for a Literacy of Literacies\nPeople act and learn together for a rich mixture of reasons. The current\n story that most of us tell ourselves about how humans get things done is\n focused on the well-known flavors of self-interest, which make for great\n drama−survival, power, wealth, sex, glory. People also do things\n together for fun, for the love of a challenge, and because we sometimes\n enjoy working together to make something beneficial to everybody. If I\n had to reduce the essence of Homo sapiens to five words, “people do\n complicated things together” would do. Online social networks can be\n powerful amplifiers of collective action precisely because they augment\n and extend the power of ever-complexifying human sociality. To be sure,\n gossip, conflict, slander, fraud, greed and bigotry are part of human", "train each other to partake of and contribute to culture, and to\n humanize the use of instruments that might otherwise enable\n commodification, mechanization and dehumanization. By literacy, I mean,\n following on Neil Postman and others, the set of skills that enable\n individuals to encode and decode knowledge and power via speech,\n writing, printing and collective action, and which, when learned,\n introduce the individual to a community. Literacy links technology and\n sociality. The alphabet did not cause the Roman Empire, but made it\n possible. Printing did not cause democracy or science, but literate\n populations, enabled by the printing press, devised systems for citizen\n governance and collective knowledge creation. The Internet did not cause\n open source production, Wikipedia or emergent collective responses to\n natural disasters, but it made it possible for people to act together in", "called “the Electronic Networking Association,” a small group of\n enthusiasts who thought that sending black and white text to BBSs with\n 1200 baud modems was fun. Joi, like Stewart Brand, was and is what Fred\n Turner calls a network entrepreneur, who\n occupies what Ronald Burt would call key structural roles−what\n Malcolm Gladwell called a connector. Joi was also a\n believer in going out and doing things and not just talking about it.\nJoi was one of the founders of a multicultural BBS in Tokyo, and in the\n early 1990s I had begun to branch out from BBSs and the WELL to\n make connections in many different parts of the world. The fun of\n talking, planning, debating and helping each other online came before\n the notion that our tiny subculture might grow into a worldwide,", "to the network to broadcast as well as receive text, images,\n audio, video, software, data, discussions, transactions,\n computations, tags, or links to and from every other person. The\n asymmetry between broadcaster and audience that was dictated by\n the structure of pre-digital technologies has changed radically.\n This is a technical- structural characteristic.\nParticipatory media are social media whose value and power derives\n from the active participation of many people. Value derives not\n just from the size of the audience, but from their power to link\n to each other, to form a public as well as a market. This is a\n psychological and social characteristic.\nSocial networks, when amplified by information and communication\n networks, enable broader, faster, and lower cost coordination\n of activities. This is an economic and political characteristic.", "altruism is now a byproduct of daily life online. So much of what we\n take for granted as part of daily life online, from the BIND software\n that makes domain names work, to the Apache webserver that powers a\n sizable chunk of the world’s websites, to the cheap Linux servers that\n Google stacks into its global datacloud, was created by volunteers who\n gave their creations away to make possible something larger−the Web as\n we know it.\nTo some degree, the explosion of creativity that followed the debut of\n the Web in 1993 was made possible by deliberate design decisions on the\n part of the Internet’s architects−the end-to-end principle, built into\n the TCP/IP protocols that make the Internet possible, which deliberately\n decentralizes the power to innovate, to build something new and even", "participatory culture in which most of the population see themselves as\n creators as well as consumers of culture is far more likely to generate\n freedom and wealth for more people than one in which a small portion of\n the population produces culture that the majority passively consume. The\n technological infrastructure for participatory media has grown rapidly,\n piggybacking on Moore’s Law, globalization, the telecom bubble and the\n innovations of Swiss physicists and computer science\n students. Increasingly, access to that infrastructure−the ability to\n upload a Macaca video or uncover a threat to democracy−has become\n economically accessible. Literacy−access to the codes and communities of\n vernacular video, microblogging, social bookmarking, wiki\n collaboration−is what is required to use that infrastructure to create a\n participatory culture. A population with broadband infrastructure and", "billion PCs and Internet connections−as a new form of organizing\n economic production, together with the market and the firm. If Benkler\n is right, the new story about how humans get things done includes an\n important corollary−if tools like the PC and the Internet make it easy\n enough, people are willing to work together for non-market incentives to\n create software, encyclopedias and archives of public domain literature.\n While the old story is that people are highly unlikely to\n cooperate with strangers to voluntarily create public goods, the new\n story seems to be that people will indeed create significant common\n value voluntarily, if it is easy enough for anybody to add what they\n want, whenever they want to add it (“self election”). There is plenty of\n evidence to support the hypothesis that what used to be considered", "Like the early days of print, radio, and television, the present\n structure of the participatory media regime−the political, economic,\n social and cultural institutions that constrain and empower the way\n the new medium can be used, and which impose structures on flows of\n information and capital−is still unsettled. As legislative and\n regulatory battles, business competition, and social institutions vie\n to control the new regime, a potentially decisive and presently\n unknown variable is the degree and kind of public participation.\n Because the unique power of the new media regime is precisely its\n participatory potential, the number of people who participate in using\n it during its formative years, and the skill with which they attempt\n to take advantage of this potential, is particularly salient.\nLike Yochai Benkler and Henry Jenkins, I believe that a", "A Participative Pedagogy\nTo accomplish this attention-turning, we must develop a participative\n pedagogy, assisted by digital media and networked publics, that focuses\n on catalyzing, inspiring, nourishing, facilitating, and guiding\n literacies essential to individual and collective life in the 21st\n century. Literacies are where the human brain, human sociality and\n communication technologies meet. We’re accustomed to thinking about the\n tangible parts of communication media−the devices and networks−but the\n less visible social practices and social affordances, from the alphabet\n to TCP/IP, are where human social genius can meet the augmenting power\n of technological networks. Literacy is the most important method Homo\n sapiens has used to introduce systems and tools to other humans, to", "new ways, with people they weren’t able to organize action with before,\n in places and at paces for which collective action had never been\n possible. Literacies are the prerequisite for the human agency that used\n alphabets, presses and digital networks to create wealth, alleviate\n suffering and invent new institutions. If the humans currently alive are\n to take advantage of digital technologies to address the most severe\n problems that face our species and the biosphere, computers, telephones\n and digital networks are not enough. We need new literacies around\n participatory media, the dynamics of cooperation and collective action,\n the effective deployment of attention and the relatively rational and\n critical discourse necessary for a healthy public sphere.\nMedia Literacies\nIn Using Participatory Media and Public Voice to Encourage Civic\n Engagement, I wrote:", "ubiquitous computing could be a captive audience for a cultural\n monopoly, given enough bad laws and judicial rulings. A population that\n knows what to do with the tools at hand stands a better chance of\n resisting enclosure. The more people who know how to use participatory\n media to learn, inform, persuade, investigate, reveal, advocate and\n organize, the more likely the future infosphere will allow, enable and\n encourage liberty and participation. Such literacy can only make action\n possible, however−it is not in the technology, or even in the knowledge\n of how to use it, but in the ways people use knowledge and technology to\n create wealth, secure freedom, resist tyranny.", "If print culture shaped the environment in which the Enlightenment\n blossomed and set the scene for the Industrial Revolution,\n participatory media might similarly shape the cognitive and social\n environments in which twenty first century life will take place (a\n shift in the way our culture operates). For this reason, participatory\n media literacy is not another subject to be shoehorned into the\n curriculum as job training for knowledge workers.\nParticipatory media include (but aren’t limited to) blogs, wikis, RSS,\n tagging and social bookmarking, music-photo-video sharing, mashups,\n podcasts, digital storytelling, virtual communities, social network\n services, virtual environments, and videoblogs. These distinctly\n different media share three common, interrelated characteristics:\nMany-to-many media now make it possible for every person connected" ], [ "many-to-many, multimedia network of a billion people. We started to\n dream about future cybersocial possibilities only after personally\n experiencing something new, moving and authentic in our webs of budding\n friendship and collaboration. In recent years, cyberculture studies has\n grown into a discipline−more properly, an interdiscipline involving\n sociologists, anthropologists, historians, psychologists, economists,\n programmers and political scientists. Back when people online argued in\n 1200 baud text about whether one could properly call what we were doing\n a form of community, there was no body of empirical evidence to serve as\n a foundation for scientific argument−all theory was anecdotal. By now,\n however, there is plenty of data.\nOne particularly useful affordance of online sociality is that a great", "continued to track new research and theory about what cyberculture might\n mean and the ways in which online communication media influence and are\n shaped by social forces.\nThe Values of Volunteers\nOne of the first questions that arose from my earliest experiences\n online was the question of why people in online communities should spend\n so much time answering each other’s questions, solving each other’s\n problems, without financial compensation. I first encountered Yochai\n Benkler in pursuit of my curiosity about the reason people would work\n together with strangers, without pay, to create something nobody\n owns−free and open source software. First in Coase’s Penguin, and\n then in The Wealth of Networks, Benkler contributed to important\n theoretical foundations for a new way of thinking about online\n activity−”commons based peer production,” technically made possible by a", "structure, the neocortex.\nBut I didn’t start out by thinking about the evolutionary dynamics of\n sociality and the amplification of collective action. Like all of the\n others in this book, I started out by experiencing the new ways of being\n that Internet social media have made possible. And like the other\n Freesouls, Joi Ito has played a catalytic, communitarian,\n Mephistophelian, Pied-Piper-esque, authority-challenging, fun-loving\n role in my experiences of the possibilities of life online.\nFriends and Enthusiasts\nTo me, direct experience of what I later came to call virtual\n communities preceded theories about the ways people\n do things together online. I met Joi Ito in the 1980s as part of what we", "deal of public behavior is recorded and structured in a way that makes\n it suitable for systematic study. One effect of the digital Panopticon\n is the loss of privacy and the threat of tyrannical social control;\n another effect is a rich body of data about online behavior. Every one\n of Wikipedia’s millions of edits, and all the discussion and talk pages\n associated with those edits, is available for inspection−along with\n billions of Usenet messages. Patterns are beginning to emerge. We’re\n beginning to know something about what works and what doesn’t work with\n people online, and why.\nDoes knowing something about the way technical architecture influences\n behavior mean that we can put that knowledge to use? Now that we are\n beginning to learn a little about the specific sociotechnical\n affordances of online social networks, is it possible to derive a", "sociality, and those parts of human behavior can be amplified, too. But\n altruism, fun, community and curiosity are also parts of human\n sociality−and I propose that the Web is an existence proof that these\n capabilities can be amplified, as well. Indeed, our species’ social\n inventiveness is central to what it is to be human. The parts of the\n human brain that evolved most recently, and which are connected to what\n we consider to be our “higher” faculties of reason and forethought, are\n also essential to social life. The neural information-processing\n required for recognizing people, remembering their reputations, learning\n the rituals that remove boundaries of mistrust and bind groups together,\n from bands to communities to civilizations, may have been enabled by\n (and may have driven the rapid evolution of) that uniquely human brain", "Participative Pedagogy for a Literacy of Literacies\nPeople act and learn together for a rich mixture of reasons. The current\n story that most of us tell ourselves about how humans get things done is\n focused on the well-known flavors of self-interest, which make for great\n drama−survival, power, wealth, sex, glory. People also do things\n together for fun, for the love of a challenge, and because we sometimes\n enjoy working together to make something beneficial to everybody. If I\n had to reduce the essence of Homo sapiens to five words, “people do\n complicated things together” would do. Online social networks can be\n powerful amplifiers of collective action precisely because they augment\n and extend the power of ever-complexifying human sociality. To be sure,\n gossip, conflict, slander, fraud, greed and bigotry are part of human", "normative design? How should designers think about the principles of\n beneficial social software? Can inhumane or dehumanizing effects of\n digital socializing be mitigated or eliminated by better media design?\n In what ways does the design of social media enable or prevent heartfelt\n communitas, organized collective action, social capital, cultural and\n economic production? I’ve continued to make a direct experience of my\n life online−from lifelong friends like Joi Ito to the other people\n around the world I’ve come to know, because online media made it\n possible to connect with people who shared my interests, even if I had\n never heard of them before, even if they lived on the other side of the\n world. But in parallel with my direct experience of the blogosphere,\n vlogosphere, twitterverse and other realms of digital discourse, I’ve", "called “the Electronic Networking Association,” a small group of\n enthusiasts who thought that sending black and white text to BBSs with\n 1200 baud modems was fun. Joi, like Stewart Brand, was and is what Fred\n Turner calls a network entrepreneur, who\n occupies what Ronald Burt would call key structural roles−what\n Malcolm Gladwell called a connector. Joi was also a\n believer in going out and doing things and not just talking about it.\nJoi was one of the founders of a multicultural BBS in Tokyo, and in the\n early 1990s I had begun to branch out from BBSs and the WELL to\n make connections in many different parts of the world. The fun of\n talking, planning, debating and helping each other online came before\n the notion that our tiny subculture might grow into a worldwide,", "more powerful on what already exists. Is it possible to understand\n exactly what it is about the web that makes Wikipedia, Linux,\n FightAIDS@Home, the Gutenberg Project and Creative Commons possible? And\n if so, can this theoretical knowledge be put to practical use? I am\n struck by a phrase of Benkler’s from his essay in this book: “We must\n now turn our attention to building systems that support human\n sociality.” That sounds right. But how would it be done? It’s easy to\n say and not as easy to see the ways in which social codes and power\n structures mold the design of communication media. We must develop a\n participative pedagogy, assisted by digital media and networked publics,\n that focuses on catalyzing, inspiring, nourishing, facilitating, and\n guiding literacies essential to individual and collective life.", "train each other to partake of and contribute to culture, and to\n humanize the use of instruments that might otherwise enable\n commodification, mechanization and dehumanization. By literacy, I mean,\n following on Neil Postman and others, the set of skills that enable\n individuals to encode and decode knowledge and power via speech,\n writing, printing and collective action, and which, when learned,\n introduce the individual to a community. Literacy links technology and\n sociality. The alphabet did not cause the Roman Empire, but made it\n possible. Printing did not cause democracy or science, but literate\n populations, enabled by the printing press, devised systems for citizen\n governance and collective knowledge creation. The Internet did not cause\n open source production, Wikipedia or emergent collective responses to\n natural disasters, but it made it possible for people to act together in", "altruism is now a byproduct of daily life online. So much of what we\n take for granted as part of daily life online, from the BIND software\n that makes domain names work, to the Apache webserver that powers a\n sizable chunk of the world’s websites, to the cheap Linux servers that\n Google stacks into its global datacloud, was created by volunteers who\n gave their creations away to make possible something larger−the Web as\n we know it.\nTo some degree, the explosion of creativity that followed the debut of\n the Web in 1993 was made possible by deliberate design decisions on the\n part of the Internet’s architects−the end-to-end principle, built into\n the TCP/IP protocols that make the Internet possible, which deliberately\n decentralizes the power to innovate, to build something new and even", "billion PCs and Internet connections−as a new form of organizing\n economic production, together with the market and the firm. If Benkler\n is right, the new story about how humans get things done includes an\n important corollary−if tools like the PC and the Internet make it easy\n enough, people are willing to work together for non-market incentives to\n create software, encyclopedias and archives of public domain literature.\n While the old story is that people are highly unlikely to\n cooperate with strangers to voluntarily create public goods, the new\n story seems to be that people will indeed create significant common\n value voluntarily, if it is easy enough for anybody to add what they\n want, whenever they want to add it (“self election”). There is plenty of\n evidence to support the hypothesis that what used to be considered", "participatory culture in which most of the population see themselves as\n creators as well as consumers of culture is far more likely to generate\n freedom and wealth for more people than one in which a small portion of\n the population produces culture that the majority passively consume. The\n technological infrastructure for participatory media has grown rapidly,\n piggybacking on Moore’s Law, globalization, the telecom bubble and the\n innovations of Swiss physicists and computer science\n students. Increasingly, access to that infrastructure−the ability to\n upload a Macaca video or uncover a threat to democracy−has become\n economically accessible. Literacy−access to the codes and communities of\n vernacular video, microblogging, social bookmarking, wiki\n collaboration−is what is required to use that infrastructure to create a\n participatory culture. A population with broadband infrastructure and", "new ways, with people they weren’t able to organize action with before,\n in places and at paces for which collective action had never been\n possible. Literacies are the prerequisite for the human agency that used\n alphabets, presses and digital networks to create wealth, alleviate\n suffering and invent new institutions. If the humans currently alive are\n to take advantage of digital technologies to address the most severe\n problems that face our species and the biosphere, computers, telephones\n and digital networks are not enough. We need new literacies around\n participatory media, the dynamics of cooperation and collective action,\n the effective deployment of attention and the relatively rational and\n critical discourse necessary for a healthy public sphere.\nMedia Literacies\nIn Using Participatory Media and Public Voice to Encourage Civic\n Engagement, I wrote:", "Like the early days of print, radio, and television, the present\n structure of the participatory media regime−the political, economic,\n social and cultural institutions that constrain and empower the way\n the new medium can be used, and which impose structures on flows of\n information and capital−is still unsettled. As legislative and\n regulatory battles, business competition, and social institutions vie\n to control the new regime, a potentially decisive and presently\n unknown variable is the degree and kind of public participation.\n Because the unique power of the new media regime is precisely its\n participatory potential, the number of people who participate in using\n it during its formative years, and the skill with which they attempt\n to take advantage of this potential, is particularly salient.\nLike Yochai Benkler and Henry Jenkins, I believe that a", "If print culture shaped the environment in which the Enlightenment\n blossomed and set the scene for the Industrial Revolution,\n participatory media might similarly shape the cognitive and social\n environments in which twenty first century life will take place (a\n shift in the way our culture operates). For this reason, participatory\n media literacy is not another subject to be shoehorned into the\n curriculum as job training for knowledge workers.\nParticipatory media include (but aren’t limited to) blogs, wikis, RSS,\n tagging and social bookmarking, music-photo-video sharing, mashups,\n podcasts, digital storytelling, virtual communities, social network\n services, virtual environments, and videoblogs. These distinctly\n different media share three common, interrelated characteristics:\nMany-to-many media now make it possible for every person connected", "to the network to broadcast as well as receive text, images,\n audio, video, software, data, discussions, transactions,\n computations, tags, or links to and from every other person. The\n asymmetry between broadcaster and audience that was dictated by\n the structure of pre-digital technologies has changed radically.\n This is a technical- structural characteristic.\nParticipatory media are social media whose value and power derives\n from the active participation of many people. Value derives not\n just from the size of the audience, but from their power to link\n to each other, to form a public as well as a market. This is a\n psychological and social characteristic.\nSocial networks, when amplified by information and communication\n networks, enable broader, faster, and lower cost coordination\n of activities. This is an economic and political characteristic.", "A Participative Pedagogy\nTo accomplish this attention-turning, we must develop a participative\n pedagogy, assisted by digital media and networked publics, that focuses\n on catalyzing, inspiring, nourishing, facilitating, and guiding\n literacies essential to individual and collective life in the 21st\n century. Literacies are where the human brain, human sociality and\n communication technologies meet. We’re accustomed to thinking about the\n tangible parts of communication media−the devices and networks−but the\n less visible social practices and social affordances, from the alphabet\n to TCP/IP, are where human social genius can meet the augmenting power\n of technological networks. Literacy is the most important method Homo\n sapiens has used to introduce systems and tools to other humans, to", "ubiquitous computing could be a captive audience for a cultural\n monopoly, given enough bad laws and judicial rulings. A population that\n knows what to do with the tools at hand stands a better chance of\n resisting enclosure. The more people who know how to use participatory\n media to learn, inform, persuade, investigate, reveal, advocate and\n organize, the more likely the future infosphere will allow, enable and\n encourage liberty and participation. Such literacy can only make action\n possible, however−it is not in the technology, or even in the knowledge\n of how to use it, but in the ways people use knowledge and technology to\n create wealth, secure freedom, resist tyranny." ], [ "sociality, and those parts of human behavior can be amplified, too. But\n altruism, fun, community and curiosity are also parts of human\n sociality−and I propose that the Web is an existence proof that these\n capabilities can be amplified, as well. Indeed, our species’ social\n inventiveness is central to what it is to be human. The parts of the\n human brain that evolved most recently, and which are connected to what\n we consider to be our “higher” faculties of reason and forethought, are\n also essential to social life. The neural information-processing\n required for recognizing people, remembering their reputations, learning\n the rituals that remove boundaries of mistrust and bind groups together,\n from bands to communities to civilizations, may have been enabled by\n (and may have driven the rapid evolution of) that uniquely human brain", "Participative Pedagogy for a Literacy of Literacies\nPeople act and learn together for a rich mixture of reasons. The current\n story that most of us tell ourselves about how humans get things done is\n focused on the well-known flavors of self-interest, which make for great\n drama−survival, power, wealth, sex, glory. People also do things\n together for fun, for the love of a challenge, and because we sometimes\n enjoy working together to make something beneficial to everybody. If I\n had to reduce the essence of Homo sapiens to five words, “people do\n complicated things together” would do. Online social networks can be\n powerful amplifiers of collective action precisely because they augment\n and extend the power of ever-complexifying human sociality. To be sure,\n gossip, conflict, slander, fraud, greed and bigotry are part of human", "billion PCs and Internet connections−as a new form of organizing\n economic production, together with the market and the firm. If Benkler\n is right, the new story about how humans get things done includes an\n important corollary−if tools like the PC and the Internet make it easy\n enough, people are willing to work together for non-market incentives to\n create software, encyclopedias and archives of public domain literature.\n While the old story is that people are highly unlikely to\n cooperate with strangers to voluntarily create public goods, the new\n story seems to be that people will indeed create significant common\n value voluntarily, if it is easy enough for anybody to add what they\n want, whenever they want to add it (“self election”). There is plenty of\n evidence to support the hypothesis that what used to be considered", "train each other to partake of and contribute to culture, and to\n humanize the use of instruments that might otherwise enable\n commodification, mechanization and dehumanization. By literacy, I mean,\n following on Neil Postman and others, the set of skills that enable\n individuals to encode and decode knowledge and power via speech,\n writing, printing and collective action, and which, when learned,\n introduce the individual to a community. Literacy links technology and\n sociality. The alphabet did not cause the Roman Empire, but made it\n possible. Printing did not cause democracy or science, but literate\n populations, enabled by the printing press, devised systems for citizen\n governance and collective knowledge creation. The Internet did not cause\n open source production, Wikipedia or emergent collective responses to\n natural disasters, but it made it possible for people to act together in", "altruism is now a byproduct of daily life online. So much of what we\n take for granted as part of daily life online, from the BIND software\n that makes domain names work, to the Apache webserver that powers a\n sizable chunk of the world’s websites, to the cheap Linux servers that\n Google stacks into its global datacloud, was created by volunteers who\n gave their creations away to make possible something larger−the Web as\n we know it.\nTo some degree, the explosion of creativity that followed the debut of\n the Web in 1993 was made possible by deliberate design decisions on the\n part of the Internet’s architects−the end-to-end principle, built into\n the TCP/IP protocols that make the Internet possible, which deliberately\n decentralizes the power to innovate, to build something new and even", "structure, the neocortex.\nBut I didn’t start out by thinking about the evolutionary dynamics of\n sociality and the amplification of collective action. Like all of the\n others in this book, I started out by experiencing the new ways of being\n that Internet social media have made possible. And like the other\n Freesouls, Joi Ito has played a catalytic, communitarian,\n Mephistophelian, Pied-Piper-esque, authority-challenging, fun-loving\n role in my experiences of the possibilities of life online.\nFriends and Enthusiasts\nTo me, direct experience of what I later came to call virtual\n communities preceded theories about the ways people\n do things together online. I met Joi Ito in the 1980s as part of what we", "many-to-many, multimedia network of a billion people. We started to\n dream about future cybersocial possibilities only after personally\n experiencing something new, moving and authentic in our webs of budding\n friendship and collaboration. In recent years, cyberculture studies has\n grown into a discipline−more properly, an interdiscipline involving\n sociologists, anthropologists, historians, psychologists, economists,\n programmers and political scientists. Back when people online argued in\n 1200 baud text about whether one could properly call what we were doing\n a form of community, there was no body of empirical evidence to serve as\n a foundation for scientific argument−all theory was anecdotal. By now,\n however, there is plenty of data.\nOne particularly useful affordance of online sociality is that a great", "more powerful on what already exists. Is it possible to understand\n exactly what it is about the web that makes Wikipedia, Linux,\n FightAIDS@Home, the Gutenberg Project and Creative Commons possible? And\n if so, can this theoretical knowledge be put to practical use? I am\n struck by a phrase of Benkler’s from his essay in this book: “We must\n now turn our attention to building systems that support human\n sociality.” That sounds right. But how would it be done? It’s easy to\n say and not as easy to see the ways in which social codes and power\n structures mold the design of communication media. We must develop a\n participative pedagogy, assisted by digital media and networked publics,\n that focuses on catalyzing, inspiring, nourishing, facilitating, and\n guiding literacies essential to individual and collective life.", "continued to track new research and theory about what cyberculture might\n mean and the ways in which online communication media influence and are\n shaped by social forces.\nThe Values of Volunteers\nOne of the first questions that arose from my earliest experiences\n online was the question of why people in online communities should spend\n so much time answering each other’s questions, solving each other’s\n problems, without financial compensation. I first encountered Yochai\n Benkler in pursuit of my curiosity about the reason people would work\n together with strangers, without pay, to create something nobody\n owns−free and open source software. First in Coase’s Penguin, and\n then in The Wealth of Networks, Benkler contributed to important\n theoretical foundations for a new way of thinking about online\n activity−”commons based peer production,” technically made possible by a", "deal of public behavior is recorded and structured in a way that makes\n it suitable for systematic study. One effect of the digital Panopticon\n is the loss of privacy and the threat of tyrannical social control;\n another effect is a rich body of data about online behavior. Every one\n of Wikipedia’s millions of edits, and all the discussion and talk pages\n associated with those edits, is available for inspection−along with\n billions of Usenet messages. Patterns are beginning to emerge. We’re\n beginning to know something about what works and what doesn’t work with\n people online, and why.\nDoes knowing something about the way technical architecture influences\n behavior mean that we can put that knowledge to use? Now that we are\n beginning to learn a little about the specific sociotechnical\n affordances of online social networks, is it possible to derive a", "A Participative Pedagogy\nTo accomplish this attention-turning, we must develop a participative\n pedagogy, assisted by digital media and networked publics, that focuses\n on catalyzing, inspiring, nourishing, facilitating, and guiding\n literacies essential to individual and collective life in the 21st\n century. Literacies are where the human brain, human sociality and\n communication technologies meet. We’re accustomed to thinking about the\n tangible parts of communication media−the devices and networks−but the\n less visible social practices and social affordances, from the alphabet\n to TCP/IP, are where human social genius can meet the augmenting power\n of technological networks. Literacy is the most important method Homo\n sapiens has used to introduce systems and tools to other humans, to", "participatory culture in which most of the population see themselves as\n creators as well as consumers of culture is far more likely to generate\n freedom and wealth for more people than one in which a small portion of\n the population produces culture that the majority passively consume. The\n technological infrastructure for participatory media has grown rapidly,\n piggybacking on Moore’s Law, globalization, the telecom bubble and the\n innovations of Swiss physicists and computer science\n students. Increasingly, access to that infrastructure−the ability to\n upload a Macaca video or uncover a threat to democracy−has become\n economically accessible. Literacy−access to the codes and communities of\n vernacular video, microblogging, social bookmarking, wiki\n collaboration−is what is required to use that infrastructure to create a\n participatory culture. A population with broadband infrastructure and", "ubiquitous computing could be a captive audience for a cultural\n monopoly, given enough bad laws and judicial rulings. A population that\n knows what to do with the tools at hand stands a better chance of\n resisting enclosure. The more people who know how to use participatory\n media to learn, inform, persuade, investigate, reveal, advocate and\n organize, the more likely the future infosphere will allow, enable and\n encourage liberty and participation. Such literacy can only make action\n possible, however−it is not in the technology, or even in the knowledge\n of how to use it, but in the ways people use knowledge and technology to\n create wealth, secure freedom, resist tyranny.", "new ways, with people they weren’t able to organize action with before,\n in places and at paces for which collective action had never been\n possible. Literacies are the prerequisite for the human agency that used\n alphabets, presses and digital networks to create wealth, alleviate\n suffering and invent new institutions. If the humans currently alive are\n to take advantage of digital technologies to address the most severe\n problems that face our species and the biosphere, computers, telephones\n and digital networks are not enough. We need new literacies around\n participatory media, the dynamics of cooperation and collective action,\n the effective deployment of attention and the relatively rational and\n critical discourse necessary for a healthy public sphere.\nMedia Literacies\nIn Using Participatory Media and Public Voice to Encourage Civic\n Engagement, I wrote:", "called “the Electronic Networking Association,” a small group of\n enthusiasts who thought that sending black and white text to BBSs with\n 1200 baud modems was fun. Joi, like Stewart Brand, was and is what Fred\n Turner calls a network entrepreneur, who\n occupies what Ronald Burt would call key structural roles−what\n Malcolm Gladwell called a connector. Joi was also a\n believer in going out and doing things and not just talking about it.\nJoi was one of the founders of a multicultural BBS in Tokyo, and in the\n early 1990s I had begun to branch out from BBSs and the WELL to\n make connections in many different parts of the world. The fun of\n talking, planning, debating and helping each other online came before\n the notion that our tiny subculture might grow into a worldwide,", "to the network to broadcast as well as receive text, images,\n audio, video, software, data, discussions, transactions,\n computations, tags, or links to and from every other person. The\n asymmetry between broadcaster and audience that was dictated by\n the structure of pre-digital technologies has changed radically.\n This is a technical- structural characteristic.\nParticipatory media are social media whose value and power derives\n from the active participation of many people. Value derives not\n just from the size of the audience, but from their power to link\n to each other, to form a public as well as a market. This is a\n psychological and social characteristic.\nSocial networks, when amplified by information and communication\n networks, enable broader, faster, and lower cost coordination\n of activities. This is an economic and political characteristic.", "normative design? How should designers think about the principles of\n beneficial social software? Can inhumane or dehumanizing effects of\n digital socializing be mitigated or eliminated by better media design?\n In what ways does the design of social media enable or prevent heartfelt\n communitas, organized collective action, social capital, cultural and\n economic production? I’ve continued to make a direct experience of my\n life online−from lifelong friends like Joi Ito to the other people\n around the world I’ve come to know, because online media made it\n possible to connect with people who shared my interests, even if I had\n never heard of them before, even if they lived on the other side of the\n world. But in parallel with my direct experience of the blogosphere,\n vlogosphere, twitterverse and other realms of digital discourse, I’ve", "If print culture shaped the environment in which the Enlightenment\n blossomed and set the scene for the Industrial Revolution,\n participatory media might similarly shape the cognitive and social\n environments in which twenty first century life will take place (a\n shift in the way our culture operates). For this reason, participatory\n media literacy is not another subject to be shoehorned into the\n curriculum as job training for knowledge workers.\nParticipatory media include (but aren’t limited to) blogs, wikis, RSS,\n tagging and social bookmarking, music-photo-video sharing, mashups,\n podcasts, digital storytelling, virtual communities, social network\n services, virtual environments, and videoblogs. These distinctly\n different media share three common, interrelated characteristics:\nMany-to-many media now make it possible for every person connected", "Like the early days of print, radio, and television, the present\n structure of the participatory media regime−the political, economic,\n social and cultural institutions that constrain and empower the way\n the new medium can be used, and which impose structures on flows of\n information and capital−is still unsettled. As legislative and\n regulatory battles, business competition, and social institutions vie\n to control the new regime, a potentially decisive and presently\n unknown variable is the degree and kind of public participation.\n Because the unique power of the new media regime is precisely its\n participatory potential, the number of people who participate in using\n it during its formative years, and the skill with which they attempt\n to take advantage of this potential, is particularly salient.\nLike Yochai Benkler and Henry Jenkins, I believe that a" ], [ "If print culture shaped the environment in which the Enlightenment\n blossomed and set the scene for the Industrial Revolution,\n participatory media might similarly shape the cognitive and social\n environments in which twenty first century life will take place (a\n shift in the way our culture operates). For this reason, participatory\n media literacy is not another subject to be shoehorned into the\n curriculum as job training for knowledge workers.\nParticipatory media include (but aren’t limited to) blogs, wikis, RSS,\n tagging and social bookmarking, music-photo-video sharing, mashups,\n podcasts, digital storytelling, virtual communities, social network\n services, virtual environments, and videoblogs. These distinctly\n different media share three common, interrelated characteristics:\nMany-to-many media now make it possible for every person connected", "Like the early days of print, radio, and television, the present\n structure of the participatory media regime−the political, economic,\n social and cultural institutions that constrain and empower the way\n the new medium can be used, and which impose structures on flows of\n information and capital−is still unsettled. As legislative and\n regulatory battles, business competition, and social institutions vie\n to control the new regime, a potentially decisive and presently\n unknown variable is the degree and kind of public participation.\n Because the unique power of the new media regime is precisely its\n participatory potential, the number of people who participate in using\n it during its formative years, and the skill with which they attempt\n to take advantage of this potential, is particularly salient.\nLike Yochai Benkler and Henry Jenkins, I believe that a", "new ways, with people they weren’t able to organize action with before,\n in places and at paces for which collective action had never been\n possible. Literacies are the prerequisite for the human agency that used\n alphabets, presses and digital networks to create wealth, alleviate\n suffering and invent new institutions. If the humans currently alive are\n to take advantage of digital technologies to address the most severe\n problems that face our species and the biosphere, computers, telephones\n and digital networks are not enough. We need new literacies around\n participatory media, the dynamics of cooperation and collective action,\n the effective deployment of attention and the relatively rational and\n critical discourse necessary for a healthy public sphere.\nMedia Literacies\nIn Using Participatory Media and Public Voice to Encourage Civic\n Engagement, I wrote:", "ubiquitous computing could be a captive audience for a cultural\n monopoly, given enough bad laws and judicial rulings. A population that\n knows what to do with the tools at hand stands a better chance of\n resisting enclosure. The more people who know how to use participatory\n media to learn, inform, persuade, investigate, reveal, advocate and\n organize, the more likely the future infosphere will allow, enable and\n encourage liberty and participation. Such literacy can only make action\n possible, however−it is not in the technology, or even in the knowledge\n of how to use it, but in the ways people use knowledge and technology to\n create wealth, secure freedom, resist tyranny.", "to the network to broadcast as well as receive text, images,\n audio, video, software, data, discussions, transactions,\n computations, tags, or links to and from every other person. The\n asymmetry between broadcaster and audience that was dictated by\n the structure of pre-digital technologies has changed radically.\n This is a technical- structural characteristic.\nParticipatory media are social media whose value and power derives\n from the active participation of many people. Value derives not\n just from the size of the audience, but from their power to link\n to each other, to form a public as well as a market. This is a\n psychological and social characteristic.\nSocial networks, when amplified by information and communication\n networks, enable broader, faster, and lower cost coordination\n of activities. This is an economic and political characteristic.", "participatory culture in which most of the population see themselves as\n creators as well as consumers of culture is far more likely to generate\n freedom and wealth for more people than one in which a small portion of\n the population produces culture that the majority passively consume. The\n technological infrastructure for participatory media has grown rapidly,\n piggybacking on Moore’s Law, globalization, the telecom bubble and the\n innovations of Swiss physicists and computer science\n students. Increasingly, access to that infrastructure−the ability to\n upload a Macaca video or uncover a threat to democracy−has become\n economically accessible. Literacy−access to the codes and communities of\n vernacular video, microblogging, social bookmarking, wiki\n collaboration−is what is required to use that infrastructure to create a\n participatory culture. A population with broadband infrastructure and", "A Participative Pedagogy\nTo accomplish this attention-turning, we must develop a participative\n pedagogy, assisted by digital media and networked publics, that focuses\n on catalyzing, inspiring, nourishing, facilitating, and guiding\n literacies essential to individual and collective life in the 21st\n century. Literacies are where the human brain, human sociality and\n communication technologies meet. We’re accustomed to thinking about the\n tangible parts of communication media−the devices and networks−but the\n less visible social practices and social affordances, from the alphabet\n to TCP/IP, are where human social genius can meet the augmenting power\n of technological networks. Literacy is the most important method Homo\n sapiens has used to introduce systems and tools to other humans, to", "train each other to partake of and contribute to culture, and to\n humanize the use of instruments that might otherwise enable\n commodification, mechanization and dehumanization. By literacy, I mean,\n following on Neil Postman and others, the set of skills that enable\n individuals to encode and decode knowledge and power via speech,\n writing, printing and collective action, and which, when learned,\n introduce the individual to a community. Literacy links technology and\n sociality. The alphabet did not cause the Roman Empire, but made it\n possible. Printing did not cause democracy or science, but literate\n populations, enabled by the printing press, devised systems for citizen\n governance and collective knowledge creation. The Internet did not cause\n open source production, Wikipedia or emergent collective responses to\n natural disasters, but it made it possible for people to act together in", "more powerful on what already exists. Is it possible to understand\n exactly what it is about the web that makes Wikipedia, Linux,\n FightAIDS@Home, the Gutenberg Project and Creative Commons possible? And\n if so, can this theoretical knowledge be put to practical use? I am\n struck by a phrase of Benkler’s from his essay in this book: “We must\n now turn our attention to building systems that support human\n sociality.” That sounds right. But how would it be done? It’s easy to\n say and not as easy to see the ways in which social codes and power\n structures mold the design of communication media. We must develop a\n participative pedagogy, assisted by digital media and networked publics,\n that focuses on catalyzing, inspiring, nourishing, facilitating, and\n guiding literacies essential to individual and collective life.", "many-to-many, multimedia network of a billion people. We started to\n dream about future cybersocial possibilities only after personally\n experiencing something new, moving and authentic in our webs of budding\n friendship and collaboration. In recent years, cyberculture studies has\n grown into a discipline−more properly, an interdiscipline involving\n sociologists, anthropologists, historians, psychologists, economists,\n programmers and political scientists. Back when people online argued in\n 1200 baud text about whether one could properly call what we were doing\n a form of community, there was no body of empirical evidence to serve as\n a foundation for scientific argument−all theory was anecdotal. By now,\n however, there is plenty of data.\nOne particularly useful affordance of online sociality is that a great", "continued to track new research and theory about what cyberculture might\n mean and the ways in which online communication media influence and are\n shaped by social forces.\nThe Values of Volunteers\nOne of the first questions that arose from my earliest experiences\n online was the question of why people in online communities should spend\n so much time answering each other’s questions, solving each other’s\n problems, without financial compensation. I first encountered Yochai\n Benkler in pursuit of my curiosity about the reason people would work\n together with strangers, without pay, to create something nobody\n owns−free and open source software. First in Coase’s Penguin, and\n then in The Wealth of Networks, Benkler contributed to important\n theoretical foundations for a new way of thinking about online\n activity−”commons based peer production,” technically made possible by a", "called “the Electronic Networking Association,” a small group of\n enthusiasts who thought that sending black and white text to BBSs with\n 1200 baud modems was fun. Joi, like Stewart Brand, was and is what Fred\n Turner calls a network entrepreneur, who\n occupies what Ronald Burt would call key structural roles−what\n Malcolm Gladwell called a connector. Joi was also a\n believer in going out and doing things and not just talking about it.\nJoi was one of the founders of a multicultural BBS in Tokyo, and in the\n early 1990s I had begun to branch out from BBSs and the WELL to\n make connections in many different parts of the world. The fun of\n talking, planning, debating and helping each other online came before\n the notion that our tiny subculture might grow into a worldwide,", "deal of public behavior is recorded and structured in a way that makes\n it suitable for systematic study. One effect of the digital Panopticon\n is the loss of privacy and the threat of tyrannical social control;\n another effect is a rich body of data about online behavior. Every one\n of Wikipedia’s millions of edits, and all the discussion and talk pages\n associated with those edits, is available for inspection−along with\n billions of Usenet messages. Patterns are beginning to emerge. We’re\n beginning to know something about what works and what doesn’t work with\n people online, and why.\nDoes knowing something about the way technical architecture influences\n behavior mean that we can put that knowledge to use? Now that we are\n beginning to learn a little about the specific sociotechnical\n affordances of online social networks, is it possible to derive a", "normative design? How should designers think about the principles of\n beneficial social software? Can inhumane or dehumanizing effects of\n digital socializing be mitigated or eliminated by better media design?\n In what ways does the design of social media enable or prevent heartfelt\n communitas, organized collective action, social capital, cultural and\n economic production? I’ve continued to make a direct experience of my\n life online−from lifelong friends like Joi Ito to the other people\n around the world I’ve come to know, because online media made it\n possible to connect with people who shared my interests, even if I had\n never heard of them before, even if they lived on the other side of the\n world. But in parallel with my direct experience of the blogosphere,\n vlogosphere, twitterverse and other realms of digital discourse, I’ve", "sociality, and those parts of human behavior can be amplified, too. But\n altruism, fun, community and curiosity are also parts of human\n sociality−and I propose that the Web is an existence proof that these\n capabilities can be amplified, as well. Indeed, our species’ social\n inventiveness is central to what it is to be human. The parts of the\n human brain that evolved most recently, and which are connected to what\n we consider to be our “higher” faculties of reason and forethought, are\n also essential to social life. The neural information-processing\n required for recognizing people, remembering their reputations, learning\n the rituals that remove boundaries of mistrust and bind groups together,\n from bands to communities to civilizations, may have been enabled by\n (and may have driven the rapid evolution of) that uniquely human brain", "Participative Pedagogy for a Literacy of Literacies\nPeople act and learn together for a rich mixture of reasons. The current\n story that most of us tell ourselves about how humans get things done is\n focused on the well-known flavors of self-interest, which make for great\n drama−survival, power, wealth, sex, glory. People also do things\n together for fun, for the love of a challenge, and because we sometimes\n enjoy working together to make something beneficial to everybody. If I\n had to reduce the essence of Homo sapiens to five words, “people do\n complicated things together” would do. Online social networks can be\n powerful amplifiers of collective action precisely because they augment\n and extend the power of ever-complexifying human sociality. To be sure,\n gossip, conflict, slander, fraud, greed and bigotry are part of human", "structure, the neocortex.\nBut I didn’t start out by thinking about the evolutionary dynamics of\n sociality and the amplification of collective action. Like all of the\n others in this book, I started out by experiencing the new ways of being\n that Internet social media have made possible. And like the other\n Freesouls, Joi Ito has played a catalytic, communitarian,\n Mephistophelian, Pied-Piper-esque, authority-challenging, fun-loving\n role in my experiences of the possibilities of life online.\nFriends and Enthusiasts\nTo me, direct experience of what I later came to call virtual\n communities preceded theories about the ways people\n do things together online. I met Joi Ito in the 1980s as part of what we", "billion PCs and Internet connections−as a new form of organizing\n economic production, together with the market and the firm. If Benkler\n is right, the new story about how humans get things done includes an\n important corollary−if tools like the PC and the Internet make it easy\n enough, people are willing to work together for non-market incentives to\n create software, encyclopedias and archives of public domain literature.\n While the old story is that people are highly unlikely to\n cooperate with strangers to voluntarily create public goods, the new\n story seems to be that people will indeed create significant common\n value voluntarily, if it is easy enough for anybody to add what they\n want, whenever they want to add it (“self election”). There is plenty of\n evidence to support the hypothesis that what used to be considered", "altruism is now a byproduct of daily life online. So much of what we\n take for granted as part of daily life online, from the BIND software\n that makes domain names work, to the Apache webserver that powers a\n sizable chunk of the world’s websites, to the cheap Linux servers that\n Google stacks into its global datacloud, was created by volunteers who\n gave their creations away to make possible something larger−the Web as\n we know it.\nTo some degree, the explosion of creativity that followed the debut of\n the Web in 1993 was made possible by deliberate design decisions on the\n part of the Internet’s architects−the end-to-end principle, built into\n the TCP/IP protocols that make the Internet possible, which deliberately\n decentralizes the power to innovate, to build something new and even" ], [ "If print culture shaped the environment in which the Enlightenment\n blossomed and set the scene for the Industrial Revolution,\n participatory media might similarly shape the cognitive and social\n environments in which twenty first century life will take place (a\n shift in the way our culture operates). For this reason, participatory\n media literacy is not another subject to be shoehorned into the\n curriculum as job training for knowledge workers.\nParticipatory media include (but aren’t limited to) blogs, wikis, RSS,\n tagging and social bookmarking, music-photo-video sharing, mashups,\n podcasts, digital storytelling, virtual communities, social network\n services, virtual environments, and videoblogs. These distinctly\n different media share three common, interrelated characteristics:\nMany-to-many media now make it possible for every person connected", "to the network to broadcast as well as receive text, images,\n audio, video, software, data, discussions, transactions,\n computations, tags, or links to and from every other person. The\n asymmetry between broadcaster and audience that was dictated by\n the structure of pre-digital technologies has changed radically.\n This is a technical- structural characteristic.\nParticipatory media are social media whose value and power derives\n from the active participation of many people. Value derives not\n just from the size of the audience, but from their power to link\n to each other, to form a public as well as a market. This is a\n psychological and social characteristic.\nSocial networks, when amplified by information and communication\n networks, enable broader, faster, and lower cost coordination\n of activities. This is an economic and political characteristic.", "participatory culture in which most of the population see themselves as\n creators as well as consumers of culture is far more likely to generate\n freedom and wealth for more people than one in which a small portion of\n the population produces culture that the majority passively consume. The\n technological infrastructure for participatory media has grown rapidly,\n piggybacking on Moore’s Law, globalization, the telecom bubble and the\n innovations of Swiss physicists and computer science\n students. Increasingly, access to that infrastructure−the ability to\n upload a Macaca video or uncover a threat to democracy−has become\n economically accessible. Literacy−access to the codes and communities of\n vernacular video, microblogging, social bookmarking, wiki\n collaboration−is what is required to use that infrastructure to create a\n participatory culture. A population with broadband infrastructure and", "Like the early days of print, radio, and television, the present\n structure of the participatory media regime−the political, economic,\n social and cultural institutions that constrain and empower the way\n the new medium can be used, and which impose structures on flows of\n information and capital−is still unsettled. As legislative and\n regulatory battles, business competition, and social institutions vie\n to control the new regime, a potentially decisive and presently\n unknown variable is the degree and kind of public participation.\n Because the unique power of the new media regime is precisely its\n participatory potential, the number of people who participate in using\n it during its formative years, and the skill with which they attempt\n to take advantage of this potential, is particularly salient.\nLike Yochai Benkler and Henry Jenkins, I believe that a", "A Participative Pedagogy\nTo accomplish this attention-turning, we must develop a participative\n pedagogy, assisted by digital media and networked publics, that focuses\n on catalyzing, inspiring, nourishing, facilitating, and guiding\n literacies essential to individual and collective life in the 21st\n century. Literacies are where the human brain, human sociality and\n communication technologies meet. We’re accustomed to thinking about the\n tangible parts of communication media−the devices and networks−but the\n less visible social practices and social affordances, from the alphabet\n to TCP/IP, are where human social genius can meet the augmenting power\n of technological networks. Literacy is the most important method Homo\n sapiens has used to introduce systems and tools to other humans, to", "new ways, with people they weren’t able to organize action with before,\n in places and at paces for which collective action had never been\n possible. Literacies are the prerequisite for the human agency that used\n alphabets, presses and digital networks to create wealth, alleviate\n suffering and invent new institutions. If the humans currently alive are\n to take advantage of digital technologies to address the most severe\n problems that face our species and the biosphere, computers, telephones\n and digital networks are not enough. We need new literacies around\n participatory media, the dynamics of cooperation and collective action,\n the effective deployment of attention and the relatively rational and\n critical discourse necessary for a healthy public sphere.\nMedia Literacies\nIn Using Participatory Media and Public Voice to Encourage Civic\n Engagement, I wrote:", "Participative Pedagogy for a Literacy of Literacies\nPeople act and learn together for a rich mixture of reasons. The current\n story that most of us tell ourselves about how humans get things done is\n focused on the well-known flavors of self-interest, which make for great\n drama−survival, power, wealth, sex, glory. People also do things\n together for fun, for the love of a challenge, and because we sometimes\n enjoy working together to make something beneficial to everybody. If I\n had to reduce the essence of Homo sapiens to five words, “people do\n complicated things together” would do. Online social networks can be\n powerful amplifiers of collective action precisely because they augment\n and extend the power of ever-complexifying human sociality. To be sure,\n gossip, conflict, slander, fraud, greed and bigotry are part of human", "more powerful on what already exists. Is it possible to understand\n exactly what it is about the web that makes Wikipedia, Linux,\n FightAIDS@Home, the Gutenberg Project and Creative Commons possible? And\n if so, can this theoretical knowledge be put to practical use? I am\n struck by a phrase of Benkler’s from his essay in this book: “We must\n now turn our attention to building systems that support human\n sociality.” That sounds right. But how would it be done? It’s easy to\n say and not as easy to see the ways in which social codes and power\n structures mold the design of communication media. We must develop a\n participative pedagogy, assisted by digital media and networked publics,\n that focuses on catalyzing, inspiring, nourishing, facilitating, and\n guiding literacies essential to individual and collective life.", "train each other to partake of and contribute to culture, and to\n humanize the use of instruments that might otherwise enable\n commodification, mechanization and dehumanization. By literacy, I mean,\n following on Neil Postman and others, the set of skills that enable\n individuals to encode and decode knowledge and power via speech,\n writing, printing and collective action, and which, when learned,\n introduce the individual to a community. Literacy links technology and\n sociality. The alphabet did not cause the Roman Empire, but made it\n possible. Printing did not cause democracy or science, but literate\n populations, enabled by the printing press, devised systems for citizen\n governance and collective knowledge creation. The Internet did not cause\n open source production, Wikipedia or emergent collective responses to\n natural disasters, but it made it possible for people to act together in", "ubiquitous computing could be a captive audience for a cultural\n monopoly, given enough bad laws and judicial rulings. A population that\n knows what to do with the tools at hand stands a better chance of\n resisting enclosure. The more people who know how to use participatory\n media to learn, inform, persuade, investigate, reveal, advocate and\n organize, the more likely the future infosphere will allow, enable and\n encourage liberty and participation. Such literacy can only make action\n possible, however−it is not in the technology, or even in the knowledge\n of how to use it, but in the ways people use knowledge and technology to\n create wealth, secure freedom, resist tyranny.", "many-to-many, multimedia network of a billion people. We started to\n dream about future cybersocial possibilities only after personally\n experiencing something new, moving and authentic in our webs of budding\n friendship and collaboration. In recent years, cyberculture studies has\n grown into a discipline−more properly, an interdiscipline involving\n sociologists, anthropologists, historians, psychologists, economists,\n programmers and political scientists. Back when people online argued in\n 1200 baud text about whether one could properly call what we were doing\n a form of community, there was no body of empirical evidence to serve as\n a foundation for scientific argument−all theory was anecdotal. By now,\n however, there is plenty of data.\nOne particularly useful affordance of online sociality is that a great", "continued to track new research and theory about what cyberculture might\n mean and the ways in which online communication media influence and are\n shaped by social forces.\nThe Values of Volunteers\nOne of the first questions that arose from my earliest experiences\n online was the question of why people in online communities should spend\n so much time answering each other’s questions, solving each other’s\n problems, without financial compensation. I first encountered Yochai\n Benkler in pursuit of my curiosity about the reason people would work\n together with strangers, without pay, to create something nobody\n owns−free and open source software. First in Coase’s Penguin, and\n then in The Wealth of Networks, Benkler contributed to important\n theoretical foundations for a new way of thinking about online\n activity−”commons based peer production,” technically made possible by a", "structure, the neocortex.\nBut I didn’t start out by thinking about the evolutionary dynamics of\n sociality and the amplification of collective action. Like all of the\n others in this book, I started out by experiencing the new ways of being\n that Internet social media have made possible. And like the other\n Freesouls, Joi Ito has played a catalytic, communitarian,\n Mephistophelian, Pied-Piper-esque, authority-challenging, fun-loving\n role in my experiences of the possibilities of life online.\nFriends and Enthusiasts\nTo me, direct experience of what I later came to call virtual\n communities preceded theories about the ways people\n do things together online. I met Joi Ito in the 1980s as part of what we", "normative design? How should designers think about the principles of\n beneficial social software? Can inhumane or dehumanizing effects of\n digital socializing be mitigated or eliminated by better media design?\n In what ways does the design of social media enable or prevent heartfelt\n communitas, organized collective action, social capital, cultural and\n economic production? I’ve continued to make a direct experience of my\n life online−from lifelong friends like Joi Ito to the other people\n around the world I’ve come to know, because online media made it\n possible to connect with people who shared my interests, even if I had\n never heard of them before, even if they lived on the other side of the\n world. But in parallel with my direct experience of the blogosphere,\n vlogosphere, twitterverse and other realms of digital discourse, I’ve", "billion PCs and Internet connections−as a new form of organizing\n economic production, together with the market and the firm. If Benkler\n is right, the new story about how humans get things done includes an\n important corollary−if tools like the PC and the Internet make it easy\n enough, people are willing to work together for non-market incentives to\n create software, encyclopedias and archives of public domain literature.\n While the old story is that people are highly unlikely to\n cooperate with strangers to voluntarily create public goods, the new\n story seems to be that people will indeed create significant common\n value voluntarily, if it is easy enough for anybody to add what they\n want, whenever they want to add it (“self election”). There is plenty of\n evidence to support the hypothesis that what used to be considered", "deal of public behavior is recorded and structured in a way that makes\n it suitable for systematic study. One effect of the digital Panopticon\n is the loss of privacy and the threat of tyrannical social control;\n another effect is a rich body of data about online behavior. Every one\n of Wikipedia’s millions of edits, and all the discussion and talk pages\n associated with those edits, is available for inspection−along with\n billions of Usenet messages. Patterns are beginning to emerge. We’re\n beginning to know something about what works and what doesn’t work with\n people online, and why.\nDoes knowing something about the way technical architecture influences\n behavior mean that we can put that knowledge to use? Now that we are\n beginning to learn a little about the specific sociotechnical\n affordances of online social networks, is it possible to derive a", "called “the Electronic Networking Association,” a small group of\n enthusiasts who thought that sending black and white text to BBSs with\n 1200 baud modems was fun. Joi, like Stewart Brand, was and is what Fred\n Turner calls a network entrepreneur, who\n occupies what Ronald Burt would call key structural roles−what\n Malcolm Gladwell called a connector. Joi was also a\n believer in going out and doing things and not just talking about it.\nJoi was one of the founders of a multicultural BBS in Tokyo, and in the\n early 1990s I had begun to branch out from BBSs and the WELL to\n make connections in many different parts of the world. The fun of\n talking, planning, debating and helping each other online came before\n the notion that our tiny subculture might grow into a worldwide,", "sociality, and those parts of human behavior can be amplified, too. But\n altruism, fun, community and curiosity are also parts of human\n sociality−and I propose that the Web is an existence proof that these\n capabilities can be amplified, as well. Indeed, our species’ social\n inventiveness is central to what it is to be human. The parts of the\n human brain that evolved most recently, and which are connected to what\n we consider to be our “higher” faculties of reason and forethought, are\n also essential to social life. The neural information-processing\n required for recognizing people, remembering their reputations, learning\n the rituals that remove boundaries of mistrust and bind groups together,\n from bands to communities to civilizations, may have been enabled by\n (and may have driven the rapid evolution of) that uniquely human brain", "altruism is now a byproduct of daily life online. So much of what we\n take for granted as part of daily life online, from the BIND software\n that makes domain names work, to the Apache webserver that powers a\n sizable chunk of the world’s websites, to the cheap Linux servers that\n Google stacks into its global datacloud, was created by volunteers who\n gave their creations away to make possible something larger−the Web as\n we know it.\nTo some degree, the explosion of creativity that followed the debut of\n the Web in 1993 was made possible by deliberate design decisions on the\n part of the Internet’s architects−the end-to-end principle, built into\n the TCP/IP protocols that make the Internet possible, which deliberately\n decentralizes the power to innovate, to build something new and even" ] ]
valid	99929	[ "An economic study on the impact of OA policies shows that", "One determining factor in the cost-effectiveness of OA is", "Overall researchers seem to believe", "Many authors", "In relation to peer-review journals, ", "OA journals", "Redirection of funds in relation to OA journals", "When funds are freed up", "Whose opinion should be avoided when it comes to OA journals" ]	[ [ "researchers will not be allowed to continue their works.", "the economy will lose money.", "publishers will close.", "OA actually costs less in the long run." ], [ "how long it will take to get universal OA policies in place.", "how much universities charge for their services.", "how repositories will be used.", "how much researchers are allotted to conduct their studies." ], [ "OA is going to be a detriment to them.", "OA will have no effect on them at all.", "feel that there will be long-reaching benefits for their field because of OA.", "don't care about OA one way or the other." ], [ "believe that they should be profiting off of OA just as much as the publishers.", "believe that universities and publishers should have to deal with OA.", "don't seem to care about OA at all.", "support OA because they will make more money that way." ], [ "the use of software will in no way improve their costs.", "the majority of the costs come from the reviewing process.", "they stand to benefit the most from hybrid OA.", "incur most of their costs through facilitation." ], [ "cost more to produce.", "cost less than other journals to produce.", "do not contain quality, reliable information.", " are too hard to access." ], [ "weaken the levels of research that is done because the funds will not be there.", "cause publishers to have an increase in funds.", "could promote an overall improvement in the publications.", "cause publishers to be put out of business." ], [ "they should go to the publishers", "they should go to the universites.", "they should be put back into the OA journals themselves.", "they should be given to the researchers." ], [ "researchers who are indifferent.", "libraries who do not want to convert.", "publishers who speak out against them.", "universities who do nothing but advocate them" ] ]	[ 4, 3, 3, 2, 4, 2, 3, 3, 3 ]	[ 0, 0, 0, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0 ]	[ [ "Open Access: Economics\nMany publishers who oppose OA concede that OA is better for research and researchers than toll access.\n \n They merely object that we can’t pay for it. But we can pay for it.\nThe first major study of the economic impact of OA policies was conducted by John Houghton and Peter Sheehan in 2006. Using conservative estimates that a nation’s gross expenditure on research and development (GERD) brings social returns of 50 percent, and that OA increases access and efficiency by 5 percent, Houghton and Sheehan calculated that a transition to OA would not only pay for itself, but add $1.7 billion/year to the UK economy and $16 billion/year to the U.S. economy. A later study focusing on Australia used the more conservative estimate that GERD brings social returns of only 25 percent, but still found that the bottom-line economic benefits of OA for publicly funded research were 51 times greater than the costs.", "Independent confirmation of Houghton’s results came in a major study released in April 2011, commissioned by the UK Joint Information Systems Committee, Publishing Research Consortium, Research Information Network, Research Libraries UK, and the Wellcome Trust. After studying five scenarios for improving research access, it concluded that green and gold OA “offer the greatest potential to policy-makers in promoting access. Both have positive, and potentially high, BCRs [benefit-cost ratios]. . . .”\nThe same study noted that “the infrastructure for Green [OA] has largely already been built” and therefore that “increasing access by this route is especially cost-effective. . . .” I can add that repositories scale up more easily than journals to capture unmet demand, and that depositing in a repository costs the depositor nothing. For all these reasons, I’ll focus in this chapter on how to pay for gold OA (journals), not how to pay for green OA (repositories).", "Green OA may suffer from invisibility, but gold OA does not. On the contrary, researchers who don’t know about OA repositories still understand that there are OA journals. Sometimes the visibility gap is so large that researchers, journalists, and policy-makers conclude that all OA is gold OA (see section 3.1 on green and gold OA). As a result, most researchers who think about the benefits of OA think about the benefits of gold OA. Here, at least, the news is good. The most comprehensive survey to date shows that an overwhelming 89 percent of researchers from all fields believe that OA journals are beneficial to their fields.", "We should be suspicious when large, venerable, conventional publishers say that in their experience the economics of OA publishing don’t work. Print-era publishers retooling for digital, and toll-access publishers retooling for OA, will inevitably realize smaller savings from OA than lean, mean OA start-ups without legacy equipment, personnel, or overhead from the age of print and subscriptions.\nAbout one-quarter of all peer-reviewed journals today are OA. Like toll-access journals, some are in the black and thriving and some are in the red and struggling. However, the full range of OA journals begins to look like a success story when we consider that the vast majority of the money needed to support peer-reviewed journals is currently tied up in subscriptions to conventional journals. OA journals have reached their current numbers and quality despite the extraordinary squeeze on budgets devoted to the support of peer-reviewed journals.", "The false belief that most OA journals charge author-side fees also infects studies in which authors misinform survey subjects before surveying them. In effect: “At OA journals, authors pay to be published; now let me ask you a series of questions about your attitude toward OA journals.”\nFinally, this false belief undermines calculations about who would bear the financial brunt if we made a general transition from toll-access journals to OA journals. A handful of studies have calculated that after a general conversion of peer-reviewed journals to OA, high-output universities would pay more in author-side fees than they pay now in subscriptions. These calculations make at least two assumptions unjustified by present facts or trends: that all OA journals would charge fees, and that all fees would be paid by universities.", "OA journals that charge publication fees tend to waive them in cases of economic hardship, and journals with institutional subsidies tend not to charge publication fees. OA journals can diversify their funding and get by on lower subsidies, or lower fees, if they also have revenue from print editions, advertising, priced add-ons, or auxiliary services. Some institutions and consortia arrange fee discounts, or purchase annual memberships that include fee waivers or discounts for all affiliated researchers.\nModels that work well in some fields and nations may not work as well in others. No one claims that one size fits all. There’s still room for creativity in finding ways to pay the costs of a peer-reviewed OA journal, and many smart and motivated people are exploring different possibilities. Journals announce new variations almost every week, and we’re far from exhausting our cleverness and imagination.", "There are reasons to think that OA journals cost less to produce than toll-access journals of the same quality. OA journals dispense with subscription management (soliciting, negotiating, tracking, renewing subscribers), dispense with digital rights management (authenticating users, distinguishing authorized from unauthorized, blocking access to unauthorized), eliminate legal fees for licensing (drafting, negotiating, monitoring, and enforcing restrictive licenses), and reduce or eliminate marketing. In their place they add back little more than the cost of collecting publication fees or institutional subsidies. Several studies and OA publishers have testified to these lower costs.\nWe shouldn’t count the savings from dropping print, since most toll-access journals in the sciences have already dropped their print editions and those in the humanities are moving in the same direction.", "These false beliefs also support the insinuation that OA journals are more likely than non-OA journals to compromise on peer review. But if charging author-side fees for accepted papers really creates an incentive to lower standards, in order to rake in more fees, then most toll-access journals are guilty and most OA journals are not. In fact, however, when OA journals do charge author-side fees, they create firewalls between their financial and editorial operations. For example, most fee-based OA journals will waive their fees in cases of economic hardship, and take pains to prevent editors and referees engaged in peer review from knowing whether or not an author has requested a fee waiver. By contrast, at toll-access journals levying author-side page or color charges, editors generally know that accepted papers will entail revenue.", "OA journals pay their bills the way broadcast television and radio stations do—not through advertising or pledge drives, but through a simple generalization on advertising and pledge drives. Those with an interest in disseminating the content pay the production costs upfront so that access can be free of charge for everyone with the right equipment. Elsewhere I’ve called this the “some pay for all” model.\nSome OA journals have a subsidy from a university, library, foundation, society, museum, or government agency. Other OA journals charge a publication fee on accepted articles, to be paid by the author or the author’s sponsor (employer or funder). The party paying the subsidy or fee covers the journal’s expenses and readers pay nothing.", "There are many kinds of redirection. One is the voluntary conversion of toll-access journals to OA. Conversion could be a journal’s grudging response to declining library budgets for toll-access journals and exclusion from the big deals that take the lion’s share of library budgets. It could be a grudging response to its own past price increases and rising levels of green OA (see chapter 8 on casualties). Or it could be a hopeful and enthusiastic desire to achieve the benefits of OA for authors (greater audience and impact), readers (freedom from price and permission barriers), and publishers themselves (increased readership, citations, submissions, and quality).\nAnother kind of redirection is the rise of OA journal funds at universities. Even during times of declining budgets, libraries are setting aside money to pay publication fees at fee-based OA journals. The funds help faculty choose OA journals for their new work and help build a sustainable alternative to toll-access journals.", "The chief virtue of hybrid OA journals is that they give publishers some firsthand experience with the economics and logistics of OA publishing. But the economics are artificial, since hybrid OA publishers have no incentive to increase author uptake and make the model succeed. The publishers always have subscriptions to fall back on. Moreover, an overwhelming majority of full-OA journals charge no publication fees and the overwhelming majority of hybrid-OA journals never gain firsthand experience with no-fee business models.\nA growing number of for-profit OA publishers are making profits, and a growing number of nonprofit OA publishers are breaking even or making surpluses. Two different business models drive these sustainable publishing programs. BioMed Central makes profits and the Public Library of Science makes surpluses by charging publication fees. MedKnow makes profits without charging publication fees by selling priced print editions of its OA journals.", "There are two kinds of OA journals, full and hybrid. Full OA journals provide OA to all their research articles. Hybrid OA journals provide OA to some and toll-access to others, when the choice is the author’s rather than the editor’s. Most hybrid OA journals charge a publication fee for the OA option. Authors who can find the money get immediate OA, and those who can’t or prefer not to, get toll access. (Many hybrid OA journals provide OA to all their articles after some time period, such as a year.) Some hybrid OA journals promise to reduce subscription prices in proportion to author uptake of the OA option, that is, to charge subscribers only for the toll-access articles. But most hybrid journal publishers don’t make this promise and “double dip” by charging subscription fees and publication fees for the same OA articles.", "Even if OA journals had the same production costs as toll-access journals, there’s enough money in the system to pay for peer-reviewed OA journals in every niche where we currently have peer-reviewed toll-access journals, and at the same level of quality. In fact, there’s more than enough, since we wouldn’t have to pay publisher profit margins surpassing those at ExxonMobil. Jan Velterop, the former publisher of BioMed Central, once said that OA publishing can be profitable but will “bring profit margins more in line with the added value.”\nTo support a full range of high-quality OA journals, we don’t need new money. We only need to redirect money we’re currently spending on peer-reviewed journals.", "Fee-based OA journals tend to work best in fields where most research is funded, and no-fee journals tend to work best in fields and countries where comparatively little research is funded. The successes of these two business models give hope that gold OA can be sustainable in every discipline.\nEvery kind of peer-reviewed journal can become more sustainable by reducing costs. Although peer review is generally performed by unpaid volunteers, organizing or facilitating peer review is an expense. The journal must select referees, distribute files to referees, monitor who has what, track progress, nag dawdlers, collect comments and share them with the right people, facilitate communication, distinguish versions, and collect data on acceptances and rejections. One powerful way to reduce costs without reducing quality is to use free and open-source journal management software to automate the clerical tasks on this list.", "Hybrid OA is very low-risk for publishers. If the OA option has low uptake, the publisher loses nothing and still has subscription revenue. If it has high uptake, the publisher has subscription revenue for the conventional articles, publication fees for the OA articles, and sometimes both at once for the OA articles. Hence, the model has spread far and fast. The Professional/Scholarly Publishing division of the Association of American Publishers reported in 2011 that 74 percent of surveyed journals offering some form of OA in 2009 offered hybrid OA. At the same time, SHERPA listed more than 90 publishers offering hybrid OA options, including all of the largest publishers. Despite its spread, hybrid OA journals do little or nothing to help researchers, libraries, or publishers. The average rate of uptake for the OA option at hybrid journals is just 2 percent.", "The terms “author fees” and “author pays” are specious and damaging. They’re false for the majority of OA journals, which charge no fees. They’re also misleading even for fee-based OA journals, where nearly nine times out of ten the fees are not paid by authors themselves. It’s more accurate to speak of “publication fees,” “processing fees,” or “author-side fees.” The first two don’t specify the payor, and the third merely specifies that the payment comes from the author side of the transaction, rather than the reader side, without implying that it must come from authors themselves.\nThe false beliefs that most OA journals charge author-side fees and that most toll-access journals don’t have caused several kinds of harm. They scare authors away from OA journals. They support the misconception that gold OA excludes indigent authors. When we add in the background myth that all OA is gold OA, this misconception suggests that OA as such—and not just gold OA—excludes indigent authors.", "Redirection is also taking place on a large scale, primarily through CERN’s SCOAP3 project (Sponsoring Consortium for Open Access Publishing in Particle Physics). SCOAP3 is an ambitious plan to convert all the major toll-access journals in particle physics to OA, redirect the money formerly spent on reader-side subscription fees to author-side publication fees, and reduce the overall price to the journal-supporting institutions. It’s a peaceful revolution based on negotiation, consent, and self-interest. After four years of patiently building up budget pledges from libraries around the world, SCOAP3 entered its implementation phase in in April 2011.", "The leader in this field is Open Journal Systems from the Public Knowledge Project, but there are more than a dozen other open-source packages. While OJS or other open-source software could benefit even toll-access journals, their use is concentrated among OA journals. OJS alone is has more than 9,000 installations (though not all are used for managing journals). This is not merely an example of how one openness movement can help another but also of how fearing openness can lead conventional publishers to forgo financial benefits and leave money on the table.", "Apart from the myth that all OA is gold OA, the most common myth about gold OA is that all OA journals charge “author fees” or use an “author-pays” business model. There are three mistakes here. The first is to assume that there is only one business model for OA journals, when there are many. The second is to assume that charging an upfront fee means authors are the ones expected to pay it. The third is to assume that all or even most OA journals charge upfront fees. In fact, most OA journals (70 percent) charge no upfront or author-side fees at all. By contrast, most toll-access journals (75 percent) do charge author-side fees. Moreover, even within the minority of fee-based OA journals, only 12 percent of those authors end up paying the fees out of pocket. Almost 90 percent of the time, the fees at fee-based journals are waived or paid by sponsors on behalf of authors.\nTerminology", "Before turning to gold OA, however, I should note that there are widely varying estimates in the literature on what it costs a university to run an institutional repository. The divergence reflects the fact that repositories can serve many different purposes, and that some repositories serve more of them than others. If the minimum purpose is to host OA copies of faculty articles, and if faculty deposit their own articles, then the cost is minimal. But a repository is a general-purpose tool, and once launched there are good reasons for it to take on other responsibilities, such as long-term preservation, assisting faculty with digitization, permissions, and deposits, and hosting many other sorts of content, such as theses and dissertations, books or book chapters, conference proceedings, courseware, campus publications, digitized special collections, and administrative records. If the average repository is a significant expense today, the reason is that the average repository is doing significantly more than the minimum." ], [ "There are reasons to think that OA journals cost less to produce than toll-access journals of the same quality. OA journals dispense with subscription management (soliciting, negotiating, tracking, renewing subscribers), dispense with digital rights management (authenticating users, distinguishing authorized from unauthorized, blocking access to unauthorized), eliminate legal fees for licensing (drafting, negotiating, monitoring, and enforcing restrictive licenses), and reduce or eliminate marketing. In their place they add back little more than the cost of collecting publication fees or institutional subsidies. Several studies and OA publishers have testified to these lower costs.\nWe shouldn’t count the savings from dropping print, since most toll-access journals in the sciences have already dropped their print editions and those in the humanities are moving in the same direction.", "Independent confirmation of Houghton’s results came in a major study released in April 2011, commissioned by the UK Joint Information Systems Committee, Publishing Research Consortium, Research Information Network, Research Libraries UK, and the Wellcome Trust. After studying five scenarios for improving research access, it concluded that green and gold OA “offer the greatest potential to policy-makers in promoting access. Both have positive, and potentially high, BCRs [benefit-cost ratios]. . . .”\nThe same study noted that “the infrastructure for Green [OA] has largely already been built” and therefore that “increasing access by this route is especially cost-effective. . . .” I can add that repositories scale up more easily than journals to capture unmet demand, and that depositing in a repository costs the depositor nothing. For all these reasons, I’ll focus in this chapter on how to pay for gold OA (journals), not how to pay for green OA (repositories).", "Open Access: Economics\nMany publishers who oppose OA concede that OA is better for research and researchers than toll access.\n \n They merely object that we can’t pay for it. But we can pay for it.\nThe first major study of the economic impact of OA policies was conducted by John Houghton and Peter Sheehan in 2006. Using conservative estimates that a nation’s gross expenditure on research and development (GERD) brings social returns of 50 percent, and that OA increases access and efficiency by 5 percent, Houghton and Sheehan calculated that a transition to OA would not only pay for itself, but add $1.7 billion/year to the UK economy and $16 billion/year to the U.S. economy. A later study focusing on Australia used the more conservative estimate that GERD brings social returns of only 25 percent, but still found that the bottom-line economic benefits of OA for publicly funded research were 51 times greater than the costs.", "We should be suspicious when large, venerable, conventional publishers say that in their experience the economics of OA publishing don’t work. Print-era publishers retooling for digital, and toll-access publishers retooling for OA, will inevitably realize smaller savings from OA than lean, mean OA start-ups without legacy equipment, personnel, or overhead from the age of print and subscriptions.\nAbout one-quarter of all peer-reviewed journals today are OA. Like toll-access journals, some are in the black and thriving and some are in the red and struggling. However, the full range of OA journals begins to look like a success story when we consider that the vast majority of the money needed to support peer-reviewed journals is currently tied up in subscriptions to conventional journals. OA journals have reached their current numbers and quality despite the extraordinary squeeze on budgets devoted to the support of peer-reviewed journals.", "Even if OA journals had the same production costs as toll-access journals, there’s enough money in the system to pay for peer-reviewed OA journals in every niche where we currently have peer-reviewed toll-access journals, and at the same level of quality. In fact, there’s more than enough, since we wouldn’t have to pay publisher profit margins surpassing those at ExxonMobil. Jan Velterop, the former publisher of BioMed Central, once said that OA publishing can be profitable but will “bring profit margins more in line with the added value.”\nTo support a full range of high-quality OA journals, we don’t need new money. We only need to redirect money we’re currently spending on peer-reviewed journals.", "OA journals that charge publication fees tend to waive them in cases of economic hardship, and journals with institutional subsidies tend not to charge publication fees. OA journals can diversify their funding and get by on lower subsidies, or lower fees, if they also have revenue from print editions, advertising, priced add-ons, or auxiliary services. Some institutions and consortia arrange fee discounts, or purchase annual memberships that include fee waivers or discounts for all affiliated researchers.\nModels that work well in some fields and nations may not work as well in others. No one claims that one size fits all. There’s still room for creativity in finding ways to pay the costs of a peer-reviewed OA journal, and many smart and motivated people are exploring different possibilities. Journals announce new variations almost every week, and we’re far from exhausting our cleverness and imagination.", "OA journals pay their bills the way broadcast television and radio stations do—not through advertising or pledge drives, but through a simple generalization on advertising and pledge drives. Those with an interest in disseminating the content pay the production costs upfront so that access can be free of charge for everyone with the right equipment. Elsewhere I’ve called this the “some pay for all” model.\nSome OA journals have a subsidy from a university, library, foundation, society, museum, or government agency. Other OA journals charge a publication fee on accepted articles, to be paid by the author or the author’s sponsor (employer or funder). The party paying the subsidy or fee covers the journal’s expenses and readers pay nothing.", "Fee-based OA journals tend to work best in fields where most research is funded, and no-fee journals tend to work best in fields and countries where comparatively little research is funded. The successes of these two business models give hope that gold OA can be sustainable in every discipline.\nEvery kind of peer-reviewed journal can become more sustainable by reducing costs. Although peer review is generally performed by unpaid volunteers, organizing or facilitating peer review is an expense. The journal must select referees, distribute files to referees, monitor who has what, track progress, nag dawdlers, collect comments and share them with the right people, facilitate communication, distinguish versions, and collect data on acceptances and rejections. One powerful way to reduce costs without reducing quality is to use free and open-source journal management software to automate the clerical tasks on this list.", "Before turning to gold OA, however, I should note that there are widely varying estimates in the literature on what it costs a university to run an institutional repository. The divergence reflects the fact that repositories can serve many different purposes, and that some repositories serve more of them than others. If the minimum purpose is to host OA copies of faculty articles, and if faculty deposit their own articles, then the cost is minimal. But a repository is a general-purpose tool, and once launched there are good reasons for it to take on other responsibilities, such as long-term preservation, assisting faculty with digitization, permissions, and deposits, and hosting many other sorts of content, such as theses and dissertations, books or book chapters, conference proceedings, courseware, campus publications, digitized special collections, and administrative records. If the average repository is a significant expense today, the reason is that the average repository is doing significantly more than the minimum.", "Green OA may suffer from invisibility, but gold OA does not. On the contrary, researchers who don’t know about OA repositories still understand that there are OA journals. Sometimes the visibility gap is so large that researchers, journalists, and policy-makers conclude that all OA is gold OA (see section 3.1 on green and gold OA). As a result, most researchers who think about the benefits of OA think about the benefits of gold OA. Here, at least, the news is good. The most comprehensive survey to date shows that an overwhelming 89 percent of researchers from all fields believe that OA journals are beneficial to their fields.", "The chief virtue of hybrid OA journals is that they give publishers some firsthand experience with the economics and logistics of OA publishing. But the economics are artificial, since hybrid OA publishers have no incentive to increase author uptake and make the model succeed. The publishers always have subscriptions to fall back on. Moreover, an overwhelming majority of full-OA journals charge no publication fees and the overwhelming majority of hybrid-OA journals never gain firsthand experience with no-fee business models.\nA growing number of for-profit OA publishers are making profits, and a growing number of nonprofit OA publishers are breaking even or making surpluses. Two different business models drive these sustainable publishing programs. BioMed Central makes profits and the Public Library of Science makes surpluses by charging publication fees. MedKnow makes profits without charging publication fees by selling priced print editions of its OA journals.", "These false beliefs also support the insinuation that OA journals are more likely than non-OA journals to compromise on peer review. But if charging author-side fees for accepted papers really creates an incentive to lower standards, in order to rake in more fees, then most toll-access journals are guilty and most OA journals are not. In fact, however, when OA journals do charge author-side fees, they create firewalls between their financial and editorial operations. For example, most fee-based OA journals will waive their fees in cases of economic hardship, and take pains to prevent editors and referees engaged in peer review from knowing whether or not an author has requested a fee waiver. By contrast, at toll-access journals levying author-side page or color charges, editors generally know that accepted papers will entail revenue.", "There are many kinds of redirection. One is the voluntary conversion of toll-access journals to OA. Conversion could be a journal’s grudging response to declining library budgets for toll-access journals and exclusion from the big deals that take the lion’s share of library budgets. It could be a grudging response to its own past price increases and rising levels of green OA (see chapter 8 on casualties). Or it could be a hopeful and enthusiastic desire to achieve the benefits of OA for authors (greater audience and impact), readers (freedom from price and permission barriers), and publishers themselves (increased readership, citations, submissions, and quality).\nAnother kind of redirection is the rise of OA journal funds at universities. Even during times of declining budgets, libraries are setting aside money to pay publication fees at fee-based OA journals. The funds help faculty choose OA journals for their new work and help build a sustainable alternative to toll-access journals.", "There are two kinds of OA journals, full and hybrid. Full OA journals provide OA to all their research articles. Hybrid OA journals provide OA to some and toll-access to others, when the choice is the author’s rather than the editor’s. Most hybrid OA journals charge a publication fee for the OA option. Authors who can find the money get immediate OA, and those who can’t or prefer not to, get toll access. (Many hybrid OA journals provide OA to all their articles after some time period, such as a year.) Some hybrid OA journals promise to reduce subscription prices in proportion to author uptake of the OA option, that is, to charge subscribers only for the toll-access articles. But most hybrid journal publishers don’t make this promise and “double dip” by charging subscription fees and publication fees for the same OA articles.", "The terms “author fees” and “author pays” are specious and damaging. They’re false for the majority of OA journals, which charge no fees. They’re also misleading even for fee-based OA journals, where nearly nine times out of ten the fees are not paid by authors themselves. It’s more accurate to speak of “publication fees,” “processing fees,” or “author-side fees.” The first two don’t specify the payor, and the third merely specifies that the payment comes from the author side of the transaction, rather than the reader side, without implying that it must come from authors themselves.\nThe false beliefs that most OA journals charge author-side fees and that most toll-access journals don’t have caused several kinds of harm. They scare authors away from OA journals. They support the misconception that gold OA excludes indigent authors. When we add in the background myth that all OA is gold OA, this misconception suggests that OA as such—and not just gold OA—excludes indigent authors.", "The false belief that most OA journals charge author-side fees also infects studies in which authors misinform survey subjects before surveying them. In effect: “At OA journals, authors pay to be published; now let me ask you a series of questions about your attitude toward OA journals.”\nFinally, this false belief undermines calculations about who would bear the financial brunt if we made a general transition from toll-access journals to OA journals. A handful of studies have calculated that after a general conversion of peer-reviewed journals to OA, high-output universities would pay more in author-side fees than they pay now in subscriptions. These calculations make at least two assumptions unjustified by present facts or trends: that all OA journals would charge fees, and that all fees would be paid by universities.", "The leader in this field is Open Journal Systems from the Public Knowledge Project, but there are more than a dozen other open-source packages. While OJS or other open-source software could benefit even toll-access journals, their use is concentrated among OA journals. OJS alone is has more than 9,000 installations (though not all are used for managing journals). This is not merely an example of how one openness movement can help another but also of how fearing openness can lead conventional publishers to forgo financial benefits and leave money on the table.", "Apart from the myth that all OA is gold OA, the most common myth about gold OA is that all OA journals charge “author fees” or use an “author-pays” business model. There are three mistakes here. The first is to assume that there is only one business model for OA journals, when there are many. The second is to assume that charging an upfront fee means authors are the ones expected to pay it. The third is to assume that all or even most OA journals charge upfront fees. In fact, most OA journals (70 percent) charge no upfront or author-side fees at all. By contrast, most toll-access journals (75 percent) do charge author-side fees. Moreover, even within the minority of fee-based OA journals, only 12 percent of those authors end up paying the fees out of pocket. Almost 90 percent of the time, the fees at fee-based journals are waived or paid by sponsors on behalf of authors.\nTerminology", "Redirection is also taking place on a large scale, primarily through CERN’s SCOAP3 project (Sponsoring Consortium for Open Access Publishing in Particle Physics). SCOAP3 is an ambitious plan to convert all the major toll-access journals in particle physics to OA, redirect the money formerly spent on reader-side subscription fees to author-side publication fees, and reduce the overall price to the journal-supporting institutions. It’s a peaceful revolution based on negotiation, consent, and self-interest. After four years of patiently building up budget pledges from libraries around the world, SCOAP3 entered its implementation phase in in April 2011.", "Hybrid OA is very low-risk for publishers. If the OA option has low uptake, the publisher loses nothing and still has subscription revenue. If it has high uptake, the publisher has subscription revenue for the conventional articles, publication fees for the OA articles, and sometimes both at once for the OA articles. Hence, the model has spread far and fast. The Professional/Scholarly Publishing division of the Association of American Publishers reported in 2011 that 74 percent of surveyed journals offering some form of OA in 2009 offered hybrid OA. At the same time, SHERPA listed more than 90 publishers offering hybrid OA options, including all of the largest publishers. Despite its spread, hybrid OA journals do little or nothing to help researchers, libraries, or publishers. The average rate of uptake for the OA option at hybrid journals is just 2 percent." ], [ "Green OA may suffer from invisibility, but gold OA does not. On the contrary, researchers who don’t know about OA repositories still understand that there are OA journals. Sometimes the visibility gap is so large that researchers, journalists, and policy-makers conclude that all OA is gold OA (see section 3.1 on green and gold OA). As a result, most researchers who think about the benefits of OA think about the benefits of gold OA. Here, at least, the news is good. The most comprehensive survey to date shows that an overwhelming 89 percent of researchers from all fields believe that OA journals are beneficial to their fields.", "Independent confirmation of Houghton’s results came in a major study released in April 2011, commissioned by the UK Joint Information Systems Committee, Publishing Research Consortium, Research Information Network, Research Libraries UK, and the Wellcome Trust. After studying five scenarios for improving research access, it concluded that green and gold OA “offer the greatest potential to policy-makers in promoting access. Both have positive, and potentially high, BCRs [benefit-cost ratios]. . . .”\nThe same study noted that “the infrastructure for Green [OA] has largely already been built” and therefore that “increasing access by this route is especially cost-effective. . . .” I can add that repositories scale up more easily than journals to capture unmet demand, and that depositing in a repository costs the depositor nothing. For all these reasons, I’ll focus in this chapter on how to pay for gold OA (journals), not how to pay for green OA (repositories).", "The false belief that most OA journals charge author-side fees also infects studies in which authors misinform survey subjects before surveying them. In effect: “At OA journals, authors pay to be published; now let me ask you a series of questions about your attitude toward OA journals.”\nFinally, this false belief undermines calculations about who would bear the financial brunt if we made a general transition from toll-access journals to OA journals. A handful of studies have calculated that after a general conversion of peer-reviewed journals to OA, high-output universities would pay more in author-side fees than they pay now in subscriptions. These calculations make at least two assumptions unjustified by present facts or trends: that all OA journals would charge fees, and that all fees would be paid by universities.", "These false beliefs also support the insinuation that OA journals are more likely than non-OA journals to compromise on peer review. But if charging author-side fees for accepted papers really creates an incentive to lower standards, in order to rake in more fees, then most toll-access journals are guilty and most OA journals are not. In fact, however, when OA journals do charge author-side fees, they create firewalls between their financial and editorial operations. For example, most fee-based OA journals will waive their fees in cases of economic hardship, and take pains to prevent editors and referees engaged in peer review from knowing whether or not an author has requested a fee waiver. By contrast, at toll-access journals levying author-side page or color charges, editors generally know that accepted papers will entail revenue.", "Open Access: Economics\nMany publishers who oppose OA concede that OA is better for research and researchers than toll access.\n \n They merely object that we can’t pay for it. But we can pay for it.\nThe first major study of the economic impact of OA policies was conducted by John Houghton and Peter Sheehan in 2006. Using conservative estimates that a nation’s gross expenditure on research and development (GERD) brings social returns of 50 percent, and that OA increases access and efficiency by 5 percent, Houghton and Sheehan calculated that a transition to OA would not only pay for itself, but add $1.7 billion/year to the UK economy and $16 billion/year to the U.S. economy. A later study focusing on Australia used the more conservative estimate that GERD brings social returns of only 25 percent, but still found that the bottom-line economic benefits of OA for publicly funded research were 51 times greater than the costs.", "Fee-based OA journals tend to work best in fields where most research is funded, and no-fee journals tend to work best in fields and countries where comparatively little research is funded. The successes of these two business models give hope that gold OA can be sustainable in every discipline.\nEvery kind of peer-reviewed journal can become more sustainable by reducing costs. Although peer review is generally performed by unpaid volunteers, organizing or facilitating peer review is an expense. The journal must select referees, distribute files to referees, monitor who has what, track progress, nag dawdlers, collect comments and share them with the right people, facilitate communication, distinguish versions, and collect data on acceptances and rejections. One powerful way to reduce costs without reducing quality is to use free and open-source journal management software to automate the clerical tasks on this list.", "The terms “author fees” and “author pays” are specious and damaging. They’re false for the majority of OA journals, which charge no fees. They’re also misleading even for fee-based OA journals, where nearly nine times out of ten the fees are not paid by authors themselves. It’s more accurate to speak of “publication fees,” “processing fees,” or “author-side fees.” The first two don’t specify the payor, and the third merely specifies that the payment comes from the author side of the transaction, rather than the reader side, without implying that it must come from authors themselves.\nThe false beliefs that most OA journals charge author-side fees and that most toll-access journals don’t have caused several kinds of harm. They scare authors away from OA journals. They support the misconception that gold OA excludes indigent authors. When we add in the background myth that all OA is gold OA, this misconception suggests that OA as such—and not just gold OA—excludes indigent authors.", "If SCOAP3 succeeds, it won’t merely prove that CERN can pull off ambitious projects, which we already knew. It will prove that this particular ambitious project has an underlying win-win logic convincing to stakeholders. Some of the factors explaining the success of SCOAP3 to date are physics-specific, such as the small number of targeted journals, the green OA culture in physics embraced even by toll-access publishers, and the dominance of CERN. Other factors are not physics-specific, such as the evident benefits for research institutions, libraries, funders, and publishers. A success in particle physics would give hope that the model could be lifted and adapted to other fields without their own CERN-like institutions to pave the way. Other fields would not need CERN-like money or dominance so much as CERN-like convening power to bring the stakeholders to the table. Then the win-win logic would have a chance to take over from there.", "Hybrid OA is very low-risk for publishers. If the OA option has low uptake, the publisher loses nothing and still has subscription revenue. If it has high uptake, the publisher has subscription revenue for the conventional articles, publication fees for the OA articles, and sometimes both at once for the OA articles. Hence, the model has spread far and fast. The Professional/Scholarly Publishing division of the Association of American Publishers reported in 2011 that 74 percent of surveyed journals offering some form of OA in 2009 offered hybrid OA. At the same time, SHERPA listed more than 90 publishers offering hybrid OA options, including all of the largest publishers. Despite its spread, hybrid OA journals do little or nothing to help researchers, libraries, or publishers. The average rate of uptake for the OA option at hybrid journals is just 2 percent.", "Redirection is also taking place on a large scale, primarily through CERN’s SCOAP3 project (Sponsoring Consortium for Open Access Publishing in Particle Physics). SCOAP3 is an ambitious plan to convert all the major toll-access journals in particle physics to OA, redirect the money formerly spent on reader-side subscription fees to author-side publication fees, and reduce the overall price to the journal-supporting institutions. It’s a peaceful revolution based on negotiation, consent, and self-interest. After four years of patiently building up budget pledges from libraries around the world, SCOAP3 entered its implementation phase in in April 2011.", "Mark Rowse, former CEO of Ingenta, sketched another strategy for large-scale redirection in December 2003. A publisher could “flip” its toll-access journals to OA at one stroke by reinterpreting the payments it receives from university libraries as publication fees for a group of authors rather than subscription fees for a group of readers. One advantage over SCOAP3 is that the Rowsean flip can be tried one journal or one publisher at a time, and doesn’t require discipline-wide coordination. It could also scale up to the largest publishers or the largest coalitions of publishers.\nWe have to be imaginative but we don’t have to improvise. There are some principles we can try to follow. Money freed up by the cancellation or conversion of peer-reviewed TA journals should be spent first on peer-reviewed OA journals, to ensure the continuation of peer review. Large-scale redirection is more efficient than small-scale redirection. Peaceful revolution through negotiation and self-interest is more amicable and potentially more productive than adaptation forced by falling asteroids.", "We should be suspicious when large, venerable, conventional publishers say that in their experience the economics of OA publishing don’t work. Print-era publishers retooling for digital, and toll-access publishers retooling for OA, will inevitably realize smaller savings from OA than lean, mean OA start-ups without legacy equipment, personnel, or overhead from the age of print and subscriptions.\nAbout one-quarter of all peer-reviewed journals today are OA. Like toll-access journals, some are in the black and thriving and some are in the red and struggling. However, the full range of OA journals begins to look like a success story when we consider that the vast majority of the money needed to support peer-reviewed journals is currently tied up in subscriptions to conventional journals. OA journals have reached their current numbers and quality despite the extraordinary squeeze on budgets devoted to the support of peer-reviewed journals.", "The leader in this field is Open Journal Systems from the Public Knowledge Project, but there are more than a dozen other open-source packages. While OJS or other open-source software could benefit even toll-access journals, their use is concentrated among OA journals. OJS alone is has more than 9,000 installations (though not all are used for managing journals). This is not merely an example of how one openness movement can help another but also of how fearing openness can lead conventional publishers to forgo financial benefits and leave money on the table.", "There are many kinds of redirection. One is the voluntary conversion of toll-access journals to OA. Conversion could be a journal’s grudging response to declining library budgets for toll-access journals and exclusion from the big deals that take the lion’s share of library budgets. It could be a grudging response to its own past price increases and rising levels of green OA (see chapter 8 on casualties). Or it could be a hopeful and enthusiastic desire to achieve the benefits of OA for authors (greater audience and impact), readers (freedom from price and permission barriers), and publishers themselves (increased readership, citations, submissions, and quality).\nAnother kind of redirection is the rise of OA journal funds at universities. Even during times of declining budgets, libraries are setting aside money to pay publication fees at fee-based OA journals. The funds help faculty choose OA journals for their new work and help build a sustainable alternative to toll-access journals.", "Apart from the myth that all OA is gold OA, the most common myth about gold OA is that all OA journals charge “author fees” or use an “author-pays” business model. There are three mistakes here. The first is to assume that there is only one business model for OA journals, when there are many. The second is to assume that charging an upfront fee means authors are the ones expected to pay it. The third is to assume that all or even most OA journals charge upfront fees. In fact, most OA journals (70 percent) charge no upfront or author-side fees at all. By contrast, most toll-access journals (75 percent) do charge author-side fees. Moreover, even within the minority of fee-based OA journals, only 12 percent of those authors end up paying the fees out of pocket. Almost 90 percent of the time, the fees at fee-based journals are waived or paid by sponsors on behalf of authors.\nTerminology", "For the record, I advocate redirecting money freed up by cancellations or conversions, not canceling journals in order to free up money (except with SCOAP3 or Rowse-like consent and negotiation). This may look like hair-splitting, but the difference is neither small nor subtle. It’s roughly the difference between having great expectations and planning to kill your parents.", "OA journals pay their bills the way broadcast television and radio stations do—not through advertising or pledge drives, but through a simple generalization on advertising and pledge drives. Those with an interest in disseminating the content pay the production costs upfront so that access can be free of charge for everyone with the right equipment. Elsewhere I’ve called this the “some pay for all” model.\nSome OA journals have a subsidy from a university, library, foundation, society, museum, or government agency. Other OA journals charge a publication fee on accepted articles, to be paid by the author or the author’s sponsor (employer or funder). The party paying the subsidy or fee covers the journal’s expenses and readers pay nothing.", "There are reasons to think that OA journals cost less to produce than toll-access journals of the same quality. OA journals dispense with subscription management (soliciting, negotiating, tracking, renewing subscribers), dispense with digital rights management (authenticating users, distinguishing authorized from unauthorized, blocking access to unauthorized), eliminate legal fees for licensing (drafting, negotiating, monitoring, and enforcing restrictive licenses), and reduce or eliminate marketing. In their place they add back little more than the cost of collecting publication fees or institutional subsidies. Several studies and OA publishers have testified to these lower costs.\nWe shouldn’t count the savings from dropping print, since most toll-access journals in the sciences have already dropped their print editions and those in the humanities are moving in the same direction.", "OA journals that charge publication fees tend to waive them in cases of economic hardship, and journals with institutional subsidies tend not to charge publication fees. OA journals can diversify their funding and get by on lower subsidies, or lower fees, if they also have revenue from print editions, advertising, priced add-ons, or auxiliary services. Some institutions and consortia arrange fee discounts, or purchase annual memberships that include fee waivers or discounts for all affiliated researchers.\nModels that work well in some fields and nations may not work as well in others. No one claims that one size fits all. There’s still room for creativity in finding ways to pay the costs of a peer-reviewed OA journal, and many smart and motivated people are exploring different possibilities. Journals announce new variations almost every week, and we’re far from exhausting our cleverness and imagination.", "There are two kinds of OA journals, full and hybrid. Full OA journals provide OA to all their research articles. Hybrid OA journals provide OA to some and toll-access to others, when the choice is the author’s rather than the editor’s. Most hybrid OA journals charge a publication fee for the OA option. Authors who can find the money get immediate OA, and those who can’t or prefer not to, get toll access. (Many hybrid OA journals provide OA to all their articles after some time period, such as a year.) Some hybrid OA journals promise to reduce subscription prices in proportion to author uptake of the OA option, that is, to charge subscribers only for the toll-access articles. But most hybrid journal publishers don’t make this promise and “double dip” by charging subscription fees and publication fees for the same OA articles." ], [ "The terms “author fees” and “author pays” are specious and damaging. They’re false for the majority of OA journals, which charge no fees. They’re also misleading even for fee-based OA journals, where nearly nine times out of ten the fees are not paid by authors themselves. It’s more accurate to speak of “publication fees,” “processing fees,” or “author-side fees.” The first two don’t specify the payor, and the third merely specifies that the payment comes from the author side of the transaction, rather than the reader side, without implying that it must come from authors themselves.\nThe false beliefs that most OA journals charge author-side fees and that most toll-access journals don’t have caused several kinds of harm. They scare authors away from OA journals. They support the misconception that gold OA excludes indigent authors. When we add in the background myth that all OA is gold OA, this misconception suggests that OA as such—and not just gold OA—excludes indigent authors.", "There are many kinds of redirection. One is the voluntary conversion of toll-access journals to OA. Conversion could be a journal’s grudging response to declining library budgets for toll-access journals and exclusion from the big deals that take the lion’s share of library budgets. It could be a grudging response to its own past price increases and rising levels of green OA (see chapter 8 on casualties). Or it could be a hopeful and enthusiastic desire to achieve the benefits of OA for authors (greater audience and impact), readers (freedom from price and permission barriers), and publishers themselves (increased readership, citations, submissions, and quality).\nAnother kind of redirection is the rise of OA journal funds at universities. Even during times of declining budgets, libraries are setting aside money to pay publication fees at fee-based OA journals. The funds help faculty choose OA journals for their new work and help build a sustainable alternative to toll-access journals.", "Mark Rowse, former CEO of Ingenta, sketched another strategy for large-scale redirection in December 2003. A publisher could “flip” its toll-access journals to OA at one stroke by reinterpreting the payments it receives from university libraries as publication fees for a group of authors rather than subscription fees for a group of readers. One advantage over SCOAP3 is that the Rowsean flip can be tried one journal or one publisher at a time, and doesn’t require discipline-wide coordination. It could also scale up to the largest publishers or the largest coalitions of publishers.\nWe have to be imaginative but we don’t have to improvise. There are some principles we can try to follow. Money freed up by the cancellation or conversion of peer-reviewed TA journals should be spent first on peer-reviewed OA journals, to ensure the continuation of peer review. Large-scale redirection is more efficient than small-scale redirection. Peaceful revolution through negotiation and self-interest is more amicable and potentially more productive than adaptation forced by falling asteroids.", "These false beliefs also support the insinuation that OA journals are more likely than non-OA journals to compromise on peer review. But if charging author-side fees for accepted papers really creates an incentive to lower standards, in order to rake in more fees, then most toll-access journals are guilty and most OA journals are not. In fact, however, when OA journals do charge author-side fees, they create firewalls between their financial and editorial operations. For example, most fee-based OA journals will waive their fees in cases of economic hardship, and take pains to prevent editors and referees engaged in peer review from knowing whether or not an author has requested a fee waiver. By contrast, at toll-access journals levying author-side page or color charges, editors generally know that accepted papers will entail revenue.", "The leader in this field is Open Journal Systems from the Public Knowledge Project, but there are more than a dozen other open-source packages. While OJS or other open-source software could benefit even toll-access journals, their use is concentrated among OA journals. OJS alone is has more than 9,000 installations (though not all are used for managing journals). This is not merely an example of how one openness movement can help another but also of how fearing openness can lead conventional publishers to forgo financial benefits and leave money on the table.", "Apart from the myth that all OA is gold OA, the most common myth about gold OA is that all OA journals charge “author fees” or use an “author-pays” business model. There are three mistakes here. The first is to assume that there is only one business model for OA journals, when there are many. The second is to assume that charging an upfront fee means authors are the ones expected to pay it. The third is to assume that all or even most OA journals charge upfront fees. In fact, most OA journals (70 percent) charge no upfront or author-side fees at all. By contrast, most toll-access journals (75 percent) do charge author-side fees. Moreover, even within the minority of fee-based OA journals, only 12 percent of those authors end up paying the fees out of pocket. Almost 90 percent of the time, the fees at fee-based journals are waived or paid by sponsors on behalf of authors.\nTerminology", "OA journals pay their bills the way broadcast television and radio stations do—not through advertising or pledge drives, but through a simple generalization on advertising and pledge drives. Those with an interest in disseminating the content pay the production costs upfront so that access can be free of charge for everyone with the right equipment. Elsewhere I’ve called this the “some pay for all” model.\nSome OA journals have a subsidy from a university, library, foundation, society, museum, or government agency. Other OA journals charge a publication fee on accepted articles, to be paid by the author or the author’s sponsor (employer or funder). The party paying the subsidy or fee covers the journal’s expenses and readers pay nothing.", "The false belief that most OA journals charge author-side fees also infects studies in which authors misinform survey subjects before surveying them. In effect: “At OA journals, authors pay to be published; now let me ask you a series of questions about your attitude toward OA journals.”\nFinally, this false belief undermines calculations about who would bear the financial brunt if we made a general transition from toll-access journals to OA journals. A handful of studies have calculated that after a general conversion of peer-reviewed journals to OA, high-output universities would pay more in author-side fees than they pay now in subscriptions. These calculations make at least two assumptions unjustified by present facts or trends: that all OA journals would charge fees, and that all fees would be paid by universities.", "There are two kinds of OA journals, full and hybrid. Full OA journals provide OA to all their research articles. Hybrid OA journals provide OA to some and toll-access to others, when the choice is the author’s rather than the editor’s. Most hybrid OA journals charge a publication fee for the OA option. Authors who can find the money get immediate OA, and those who can’t or prefer not to, get toll access. (Many hybrid OA journals provide OA to all their articles after some time period, such as a year.) Some hybrid OA journals promise to reduce subscription prices in proportion to author uptake of the OA option, that is, to charge subscribers only for the toll-access articles. But most hybrid journal publishers don’t make this promise and “double dip” by charging subscription fees and publication fees for the same OA articles.", "OA journals that charge publication fees tend to waive them in cases of economic hardship, and journals with institutional subsidies tend not to charge publication fees. OA journals can diversify their funding and get by on lower subsidies, or lower fees, if they also have revenue from print editions, advertising, priced add-ons, or auxiliary services. Some institutions and consortia arrange fee discounts, or purchase annual memberships that include fee waivers or discounts for all affiliated researchers.\nModels that work well in some fields and nations may not work as well in others. No one claims that one size fits all. There’s still room for creativity in finding ways to pay the costs of a peer-reviewed OA journal, and many smart and motivated people are exploring different possibilities. Journals announce new variations almost every week, and we’re far from exhausting our cleverness and imagination.", "Redirection is also taking place on a large scale, primarily through CERN’s SCOAP3 project (Sponsoring Consortium for Open Access Publishing in Particle Physics). SCOAP3 is an ambitious plan to convert all the major toll-access journals in particle physics to OA, redirect the money formerly spent on reader-side subscription fees to author-side publication fees, and reduce the overall price to the journal-supporting institutions. It’s a peaceful revolution based on negotiation, consent, and self-interest. After four years of patiently building up budget pledges from libraries around the world, SCOAP3 entered its implementation phase in in April 2011.", "Open Access: Economics\nMany publishers who oppose OA concede that OA is better for research and researchers than toll access.\n \n They merely object that we can’t pay for it. But we can pay for it.\nThe first major study of the economic impact of OA policies was conducted by John Houghton and Peter Sheehan in 2006. Using conservative estimates that a nation’s gross expenditure on research and development (GERD) brings social returns of 50 percent, and that OA increases access and efficiency by 5 percent, Houghton and Sheehan calculated that a transition to OA would not only pay for itself, but add $1.7 billion/year to the UK economy and $16 billion/year to the U.S. economy. A later study focusing on Australia used the more conservative estimate that GERD brings social returns of only 25 percent, but still found that the bottom-line economic benefits of OA for publicly funded research were 51 times greater than the costs.", "There are reasons to think that OA journals cost less to produce than toll-access journals of the same quality. OA journals dispense with subscription management (soliciting, negotiating, tracking, renewing subscribers), dispense with digital rights management (authenticating users, distinguishing authorized from unauthorized, blocking access to unauthorized), eliminate legal fees for licensing (drafting, negotiating, monitoring, and enforcing restrictive licenses), and reduce or eliminate marketing. In their place they add back little more than the cost of collecting publication fees or institutional subsidies. Several studies and OA publishers have testified to these lower costs.\nWe shouldn’t count the savings from dropping print, since most toll-access journals in the sciences have already dropped their print editions and those in the humanities are moving in the same direction.", "Green OA may suffer from invisibility, but gold OA does not. On the contrary, researchers who don’t know about OA repositories still understand that there are OA journals. Sometimes the visibility gap is so large that researchers, journalists, and policy-makers conclude that all OA is gold OA (see section 3.1 on green and gold OA). As a result, most researchers who think about the benefits of OA think about the benefits of gold OA. Here, at least, the news is good. The most comprehensive survey to date shows that an overwhelming 89 percent of researchers from all fields believe that OA journals are beneficial to their fields.", "Independent confirmation of Houghton’s results came in a major study released in April 2011, commissioned by the UK Joint Information Systems Committee, Publishing Research Consortium, Research Information Network, Research Libraries UK, and the Wellcome Trust. After studying five scenarios for improving research access, it concluded that green and gold OA “offer the greatest potential to policy-makers in promoting access. Both have positive, and potentially high, BCRs [benefit-cost ratios]. . . .”\nThe same study noted that “the infrastructure for Green [OA] has largely already been built” and therefore that “increasing access by this route is especially cost-effective. . . .” I can add that repositories scale up more easily than journals to capture unmet demand, and that depositing in a repository costs the depositor nothing. For all these reasons, I’ll focus in this chapter on how to pay for gold OA (journals), not how to pay for green OA (repositories).", "Fee-based OA journals tend to work best in fields where most research is funded, and no-fee journals tend to work best in fields and countries where comparatively little research is funded. The successes of these two business models give hope that gold OA can be sustainable in every discipline.\nEvery kind of peer-reviewed journal can become more sustainable by reducing costs. Although peer review is generally performed by unpaid volunteers, organizing or facilitating peer review is an expense. The journal must select referees, distribute files to referees, monitor who has what, track progress, nag dawdlers, collect comments and share them with the right people, facilitate communication, distinguish versions, and collect data on acceptances and rejections. One powerful way to reduce costs without reducing quality is to use free and open-source journal management software to automate the clerical tasks on this list.", "If SCOAP3 succeeds, it won’t merely prove that CERN can pull off ambitious projects, which we already knew. It will prove that this particular ambitious project has an underlying win-win logic convincing to stakeholders. Some of the factors explaining the success of SCOAP3 to date are physics-specific, such as the small number of targeted journals, the green OA culture in physics embraced even by toll-access publishers, and the dominance of CERN. Other factors are not physics-specific, such as the evident benefits for research institutions, libraries, funders, and publishers. A success in particle physics would give hope that the model could be lifted and adapted to other fields without their own CERN-like institutions to pave the way. Other fields would not need CERN-like money or dominance so much as CERN-like convening power to bring the stakeholders to the table. Then the win-win logic would have a chance to take over from there.", "Hybrid OA is very low-risk for publishers. If the OA option has low uptake, the publisher loses nothing and still has subscription revenue. If it has high uptake, the publisher has subscription revenue for the conventional articles, publication fees for the OA articles, and sometimes both at once for the OA articles. Hence, the model has spread far and fast. The Professional/Scholarly Publishing division of the Association of American Publishers reported in 2011 that 74 percent of surveyed journals offering some form of OA in 2009 offered hybrid OA. At the same time, SHERPA listed more than 90 publishers offering hybrid OA options, including all of the largest publishers. Despite its spread, hybrid OA journals do little or nothing to help researchers, libraries, or publishers. The average rate of uptake for the OA option at hybrid journals is just 2 percent.", "The chief virtue of hybrid OA journals is that they give publishers some firsthand experience with the economics and logistics of OA publishing. But the economics are artificial, since hybrid OA publishers have no incentive to increase author uptake and make the model succeed. The publishers always have subscriptions to fall back on. Moreover, an overwhelming majority of full-OA journals charge no publication fees and the overwhelming majority of hybrid-OA journals never gain firsthand experience with no-fee business models.\nA growing number of for-profit OA publishers are making profits, and a growing number of nonprofit OA publishers are breaking even or making surpluses. Two different business models drive these sustainable publishing programs. BioMed Central makes profits and the Public Library of Science makes surpluses by charging publication fees. MedKnow makes profits without charging publication fees by selling priced print editions of its OA journals.", "We should be suspicious when large, venerable, conventional publishers say that in their experience the economics of OA publishing don’t work. Print-era publishers retooling for digital, and toll-access publishers retooling for OA, will inevitably realize smaller savings from OA than lean, mean OA start-ups without legacy equipment, personnel, or overhead from the age of print and subscriptions.\nAbout one-quarter of all peer-reviewed journals today are OA. Like toll-access journals, some are in the black and thriving and some are in the red and struggling. However, the full range of OA journals begins to look like a success story when we consider that the vast majority of the money needed to support peer-reviewed journals is currently tied up in subscriptions to conventional journals. OA journals have reached their current numbers and quality despite the extraordinary squeeze on budgets devoted to the support of peer-reviewed journals." ], [ "Fee-based OA journals tend to work best in fields where most research is funded, and no-fee journals tend to work best in fields and countries where comparatively little research is funded. The successes of these two business models give hope that gold OA can be sustainable in every discipline.\nEvery kind of peer-reviewed journal can become more sustainable by reducing costs. Although peer review is generally performed by unpaid volunteers, organizing or facilitating peer review is an expense. The journal must select referees, distribute files to referees, monitor who has what, track progress, nag dawdlers, collect comments and share them with the right people, facilitate communication, distinguish versions, and collect data on acceptances and rejections. One powerful way to reduce costs without reducing quality is to use free and open-source journal management software to automate the clerical tasks on this list.", "These false beliefs also support the insinuation that OA journals are more likely than non-OA journals to compromise on peer review. But if charging author-side fees for accepted papers really creates an incentive to lower standards, in order to rake in more fees, then most toll-access journals are guilty and most OA journals are not. In fact, however, when OA journals do charge author-side fees, they create firewalls between their financial and editorial operations. For example, most fee-based OA journals will waive their fees in cases of economic hardship, and take pains to prevent editors and referees engaged in peer review from knowing whether or not an author has requested a fee waiver. By contrast, at toll-access journals levying author-side page or color charges, editors generally know that accepted papers will entail revenue.", "The leader in this field is Open Journal Systems from the Public Knowledge Project, but there are more than a dozen other open-source packages. While OJS or other open-source software could benefit even toll-access journals, their use is concentrated among OA journals. OJS alone is has more than 9,000 installations (though not all are used for managing journals). This is not merely an example of how one openness movement can help another but also of how fearing openness can lead conventional publishers to forgo financial benefits and leave money on the table.", "We should be suspicious when large, venerable, conventional publishers say that in their experience the economics of OA publishing don’t work. Print-era publishers retooling for digital, and toll-access publishers retooling for OA, will inevitably realize smaller savings from OA than lean, mean OA start-ups without legacy equipment, personnel, or overhead from the age of print and subscriptions.\nAbout one-quarter of all peer-reviewed journals today are OA. Like toll-access journals, some are in the black and thriving and some are in the red and struggling. However, the full range of OA journals begins to look like a success story when we consider that the vast majority of the money needed to support peer-reviewed journals is currently tied up in subscriptions to conventional journals. OA journals have reached their current numbers and quality despite the extraordinary squeeze on budgets devoted to the support of peer-reviewed journals.", "OA journals pay their bills the way broadcast television and radio stations do—not through advertising or pledge drives, but through a simple generalization on advertising and pledge drives. Those with an interest in disseminating the content pay the production costs upfront so that access can be free of charge for everyone with the right equipment. Elsewhere I’ve called this the “some pay for all” model.\nSome OA journals have a subsidy from a university, library, foundation, society, museum, or government agency. Other OA journals charge a publication fee on accepted articles, to be paid by the author or the author’s sponsor (employer or funder). The party paying the subsidy or fee covers the journal’s expenses and readers pay nothing.", "Even if OA journals had the same production costs as toll-access journals, there’s enough money in the system to pay for peer-reviewed OA journals in every niche where we currently have peer-reviewed toll-access journals, and at the same level of quality. In fact, there’s more than enough, since we wouldn’t have to pay publisher profit margins surpassing those at ExxonMobil. Jan Velterop, the former publisher of BioMed Central, once said that OA publishing can be profitable but will “bring profit margins more in line with the added value.”\nTo support a full range of high-quality OA journals, we don’t need new money. We only need to redirect money we’re currently spending on peer-reviewed journals.", "OA journals that charge publication fees tend to waive them in cases of economic hardship, and journals with institutional subsidies tend not to charge publication fees. OA journals can diversify their funding and get by on lower subsidies, or lower fees, if they also have revenue from print editions, advertising, priced add-ons, or auxiliary services. Some institutions and consortia arrange fee discounts, or purchase annual memberships that include fee waivers or discounts for all affiliated researchers.\nModels that work well in some fields and nations may not work as well in others. No one claims that one size fits all. There’s still room for creativity in finding ways to pay the costs of a peer-reviewed OA journal, and many smart and motivated people are exploring different possibilities. Journals announce new variations almost every week, and we’re far from exhausting our cleverness and imagination.", "The false belief that most OA journals charge author-side fees also infects studies in which authors misinform survey subjects before surveying them. In effect: “At OA journals, authors pay to be published; now let me ask you a series of questions about your attitude toward OA journals.”\nFinally, this false belief undermines calculations about who would bear the financial brunt if we made a general transition from toll-access journals to OA journals. A handful of studies have calculated that after a general conversion of peer-reviewed journals to OA, high-output universities would pay more in author-side fees than they pay now in subscriptions. These calculations make at least two assumptions unjustified by present facts or trends: that all OA journals would charge fees, and that all fees would be paid by universities.", "Green OA may suffer from invisibility, but gold OA does not. On the contrary, researchers who don’t know about OA repositories still understand that there are OA journals. Sometimes the visibility gap is so large that researchers, journalists, and policy-makers conclude that all OA is gold OA (see section 3.1 on green and gold OA). As a result, most researchers who think about the benefits of OA think about the benefits of gold OA. Here, at least, the news is good. The most comprehensive survey to date shows that an overwhelming 89 percent of researchers from all fields believe that OA journals are beneficial to their fields.", "Independent confirmation of Houghton’s results came in a major study released in April 2011, commissioned by the UK Joint Information Systems Committee, Publishing Research Consortium, Research Information Network, Research Libraries UK, and the Wellcome Trust. After studying five scenarios for improving research access, it concluded that green and gold OA “offer the greatest potential to policy-makers in promoting access. Both have positive, and potentially high, BCRs [benefit-cost ratios]. . . .”\nThe same study noted that “the infrastructure for Green [OA] has largely already been built” and therefore that “increasing access by this route is especially cost-effective. . . .” I can add that repositories scale up more easily than journals to capture unmet demand, and that depositing in a repository costs the depositor nothing. For all these reasons, I’ll focus in this chapter on how to pay for gold OA (journals), not how to pay for green OA (repositories).", "There are two kinds of OA journals, full and hybrid. Full OA journals provide OA to all their research articles. Hybrid OA journals provide OA to some and toll-access to others, when the choice is the author’s rather than the editor’s. Most hybrid OA journals charge a publication fee for the OA option. Authors who can find the money get immediate OA, and those who can’t or prefer not to, get toll access. (Many hybrid OA journals provide OA to all their articles after some time period, such as a year.) Some hybrid OA journals promise to reduce subscription prices in proportion to author uptake of the OA option, that is, to charge subscribers only for the toll-access articles. But most hybrid journal publishers don’t make this promise and “double dip” by charging subscription fees and publication fees for the same OA articles.", "There are many kinds of redirection. One is the voluntary conversion of toll-access journals to OA. Conversion could be a journal’s grudging response to declining library budgets for toll-access journals and exclusion from the big deals that take the lion’s share of library budgets. It could be a grudging response to its own past price increases and rising levels of green OA (see chapter 8 on casualties). Or it could be a hopeful and enthusiastic desire to achieve the benefits of OA for authors (greater audience and impact), readers (freedom from price and permission barriers), and publishers themselves (increased readership, citations, submissions, and quality).\nAnother kind of redirection is the rise of OA journal funds at universities. Even during times of declining budgets, libraries are setting aside money to pay publication fees at fee-based OA journals. The funds help faculty choose OA journals for their new work and help build a sustainable alternative to toll-access journals.", "For the record, I advocate redirecting money freed up by cancellations or conversions, not canceling journals in order to free up money (except with SCOAP3 or Rowse-like consent and negotiation). This may look like hair-splitting, but the difference is neither small nor subtle. It’s roughly the difference between having great expectations and planning to kill your parents.", "Redirection is also taking place on a large scale, primarily through CERN’s SCOAP3 project (Sponsoring Consortium for Open Access Publishing in Particle Physics). SCOAP3 is an ambitious plan to convert all the major toll-access journals in particle physics to OA, redirect the money formerly spent on reader-side subscription fees to author-side publication fees, and reduce the overall price to the journal-supporting institutions. It’s a peaceful revolution based on negotiation, consent, and self-interest. After four years of patiently building up budget pledges from libraries around the world, SCOAP3 entered its implementation phase in in April 2011.", "The terms “author fees” and “author pays” are specious and damaging. They’re false for the majority of OA journals, which charge no fees. They’re also misleading even for fee-based OA journals, where nearly nine times out of ten the fees are not paid by authors themselves. It’s more accurate to speak of “publication fees,” “processing fees,” or “author-side fees.” The first two don’t specify the payor, and the third merely specifies that the payment comes from the author side of the transaction, rather than the reader side, without implying that it must come from authors themselves.\nThe false beliefs that most OA journals charge author-side fees and that most toll-access journals don’t have caused several kinds of harm. They scare authors away from OA journals. They support the misconception that gold OA excludes indigent authors. When we add in the background myth that all OA is gold OA, this misconception suggests that OA as such—and not just gold OA—excludes indigent authors.", "The chief virtue of hybrid OA journals is that they give publishers some firsthand experience with the economics and logistics of OA publishing. But the economics are artificial, since hybrid OA publishers have no incentive to increase author uptake and make the model succeed. The publishers always have subscriptions to fall back on. Moreover, an overwhelming majority of full-OA journals charge no publication fees and the overwhelming majority of hybrid-OA journals never gain firsthand experience with no-fee business models.\nA growing number of for-profit OA publishers are making profits, and a growing number of nonprofit OA publishers are breaking even or making surpluses. Two different business models drive these sustainable publishing programs. BioMed Central makes profits and the Public Library of Science makes surpluses by charging publication fees. MedKnow makes profits without charging publication fees by selling priced print editions of its OA journals.", "There are reasons to think that OA journals cost less to produce than toll-access journals of the same quality. OA journals dispense with subscription management (soliciting, negotiating, tracking, renewing subscribers), dispense with digital rights management (authenticating users, distinguishing authorized from unauthorized, blocking access to unauthorized), eliminate legal fees for licensing (drafting, negotiating, monitoring, and enforcing restrictive licenses), and reduce or eliminate marketing. In their place they add back little more than the cost of collecting publication fees or institutional subsidies. Several studies and OA publishers have testified to these lower costs.\nWe shouldn’t count the savings from dropping print, since most toll-access journals in the sciences have already dropped their print editions and those in the humanities are moving in the same direction.", "Mark Rowse, former CEO of Ingenta, sketched another strategy for large-scale redirection in December 2003. A publisher could “flip” its toll-access journals to OA at one stroke by reinterpreting the payments it receives from university libraries as publication fees for a group of authors rather than subscription fees for a group of readers. One advantage over SCOAP3 is that the Rowsean flip can be tried one journal or one publisher at a time, and doesn’t require discipline-wide coordination. It could also scale up to the largest publishers or the largest coalitions of publishers.\nWe have to be imaginative but we don’t have to improvise. There are some principles we can try to follow. Money freed up by the cancellation or conversion of peer-reviewed TA journals should be spent first on peer-reviewed OA journals, to ensure the continuation of peer review. Large-scale redirection is more efficient than small-scale redirection. Peaceful revolution through negotiation and self-interest is more amicable and potentially more productive than adaptation forced by falling asteroids.", "Hybrid OA is very low-risk for publishers. If the OA option has low uptake, the publisher loses nothing and still has subscription revenue. If it has high uptake, the publisher has subscription revenue for the conventional articles, publication fees for the OA articles, and sometimes both at once for the OA articles. Hence, the model has spread far and fast. The Professional/Scholarly Publishing division of the Association of American Publishers reported in 2011 that 74 percent of surveyed journals offering some form of OA in 2009 offered hybrid OA. At the same time, SHERPA listed more than 90 publishers offering hybrid OA options, including all of the largest publishers. Despite its spread, hybrid OA journals do little or nothing to help researchers, libraries, or publishers. The average rate of uptake for the OA option at hybrid journals is just 2 percent.", "Apart from the myth that all OA is gold OA, the most common myth about gold OA is that all OA journals charge “author fees” or use an “author-pays” business model. There are three mistakes here. The first is to assume that there is only one business model for OA journals, when there are many. The second is to assume that charging an upfront fee means authors are the ones expected to pay it. The third is to assume that all or even most OA journals charge upfront fees. In fact, most OA journals (70 percent) charge no upfront or author-side fees at all. By contrast, most toll-access journals (75 percent) do charge author-side fees. Moreover, even within the minority of fee-based OA journals, only 12 percent of those authors end up paying the fees out of pocket. Almost 90 percent of the time, the fees at fee-based journals are waived or paid by sponsors on behalf of authors.\nTerminology" ], [ "OA journals pay their bills the way broadcast television and radio stations do—not through advertising or pledge drives, but through a simple generalization on advertising and pledge drives. Those with an interest in disseminating the content pay the production costs upfront so that access can be free of charge for everyone with the right equipment. Elsewhere I’ve called this the “some pay for all” model.\nSome OA journals have a subsidy from a university, library, foundation, society, museum, or government agency. Other OA journals charge a publication fee on accepted articles, to be paid by the author or the author’s sponsor (employer or funder). The party paying the subsidy or fee covers the journal’s expenses and readers pay nothing.", "There are two kinds of OA journals, full and hybrid. Full OA journals provide OA to all their research articles. Hybrid OA journals provide OA to some and toll-access to others, when the choice is the author’s rather than the editor’s. Most hybrid OA journals charge a publication fee for the OA option. Authors who can find the money get immediate OA, and those who can’t or prefer not to, get toll access. (Many hybrid OA journals provide OA to all their articles after some time period, such as a year.) Some hybrid OA journals promise to reduce subscription prices in proportion to author uptake of the OA option, that is, to charge subscribers only for the toll-access articles. But most hybrid journal publishers don’t make this promise and “double dip” by charging subscription fees and publication fees for the same OA articles.", "The leader in this field is Open Journal Systems from the Public Knowledge Project, but there are more than a dozen other open-source packages. While OJS or other open-source software could benefit even toll-access journals, their use is concentrated among OA journals. OJS alone is has more than 9,000 installations (though not all are used for managing journals). This is not merely an example of how one openness movement can help another but also of how fearing openness can lead conventional publishers to forgo financial benefits and leave money on the table.", "OA journals that charge publication fees tend to waive them in cases of economic hardship, and journals with institutional subsidies tend not to charge publication fees. OA journals can diversify their funding and get by on lower subsidies, or lower fees, if they also have revenue from print editions, advertising, priced add-ons, or auxiliary services. Some institutions and consortia arrange fee discounts, or purchase annual memberships that include fee waivers or discounts for all affiliated researchers.\nModels that work well in some fields and nations may not work as well in others. No one claims that one size fits all. There’s still room for creativity in finding ways to pay the costs of a peer-reviewed OA journal, and many smart and motivated people are exploring different possibilities. Journals announce new variations almost every week, and we’re far from exhausting our cleverness and imagination.", "We should be suspicious when large, venerable, conventional publishers say that in their experience the economics of OA publishing don’t work. Print-era publishers retooling for digital, and toll-access publishers retooling for OA, will inevitably realize smaller savings from OA than lean, mean OA start-ups without legacy equipment, personnel, or overhead from the age of print and subscriptions.\nAbout one-quarter of all peer-reviewed journals today are OA. Like toll-access journals, some are in the black and thriving and some are in the red and struggling. However, the full range of OA journals begins to look like a success story when we consider that the vast majority of the money needed to support peer-reviewed journals is currently tied up in subscriptions to conventional journals. OA journals have reached their current numbers and quality despite the extraordinary squeeze on budgets devoted to the support of peer-reviewed journals.", "There are many kinds of redirection. One is the voluntary conversion of toll-access journals to OA. Conversion could be a journal’s grudging response to declining library budgets for toll-access journals and exclusion from the big deals that take the lion’s share of library budgets. It could be a grudging response to its own past price increases and rising levels of green OA (see chapter 8 on casualties). Or it could be a hopeful and enthusiastic desire to achieve the benefits of OA for authors (greater audience and impact), readers (freedom from price and permission barriers), and publishers themselves (increased readership, citations, submissions, and quality).\nAnother kind of redirection is the rise of OA journal funds at universities. Even during times of declining budgets, libraries are setting aside money to pay publication fees at fee-based OA journals. The funds help faculty choose OA journals for their new work and help build a sustainable alternative to toll-access journals.", "Fee-based OA journals tend to work best in fields where most research is funded, and no-fee journals tend to work best in fields and countries where comparatively little research is funded. The successes of these two business models give hope that gold OA can be sustainable in every discipline.\nEvery kind of peer-reviewed journal can become more sustainable by reducing costs. Although peer review is generally performed by unpaid volunteers, organizing or facilitating peer review is an expense. The journal must select referees, distribute files to referees, monitor who has what, track progress, nag dawdlers, collect comments and share them with the right people, facilitate communication, distinguish versions, and collect data on acceptances and rejections. One powerful way to reduce costs without reducing quality is to use free and open-source journal management software to automate the clerical tasks on this list.", "These false beliefs also support the insinuation that OA journals are more likely than non-OA journals to compromise on peer review. But if charging author-side fees for accepted papers really creates an incentive to lower standards, in order to rake in more fees, then most toll-access journals are guilty and most OA journals are not. In fact, however, when OA journals do charge author-side fees, they create firewalls between their financial and editorial operations. For example, most fee-based OA journals will waive their fees in cases of economic hardship, and take pains to prevent editors and referees engaged in peer review from knowing whether or not an author has requested a fee waiver. By contrast, at toll-access journals levying author-side page or color charges, editors generally know that accepted papers will entail revenue.", "The chief virtue of hybrid OA journals is that they give publishers some firsthand experience with the economics and logistics of OA publishing. But the economics are artificial, since hybrid OA publishers have no incentive to increase author uptake and make the model succeed. The publishers always have subscriptions to fall back on. Moreover, an overwhelming majority of full-OA journals charge no publication fees and the overwhelming majority of hybrid-OA journals never gain firsthand experience with no-fee business models.\nA growing number of for-profit OA publishers are making profits, and a growing number of nonprofit OA publishers are breaking even or making surpluses. Two different business models drive these sustainable publishing programs. BioMed Central makes profits and the Public Library of Science makes surpluses by charging publication fees. MedKnow makes profits without charging publication fees by selling priced print editions of its OA journals.", "Green OA may suffer from invisibility, but gold OA does not. On the contrary, researchers who don’t know about OA repositories still understand that there are OA journals. Sometimes the visibility gap is so large that researchers, journalists, and policy-makers conclude that all OA is gold OA (see section 3.1 on green and gold OA). As a result, most researchers who think about the benefits of OA think about the benefits of gold OA. Here, at least, the news is good. The most comprehensive survey to date shows that an overwhelming 89 percent of researchers from all fields believe that OA journals are beneficial to their fields.", "Even if OA journals had the same production costs as toll-access journals, there’s enough money in the system to pay for peer-reviewed OA journals in every niche where we currently have peer-reviewed toll-access journals, and at the same level of quality. In fact, there’s more than enough, since we wouldn’t have to pay publisher profit margins surpassing those at ExxonMobil. Jan Velterop, the former publisher of BioMed Central, once said that OA publishing can be profitable but will “bring profit margins more in line with the added value.”\nTo support a full range of high-quality OA journals, we don’t need new money. We only need to redirect money we’re currently spending on peer-reviewed journals.", "There are reasons to think that OA journals cost less to produce than toll-access journals of the same quality. OA journals dispense with subscription management (soliciting, negotiating, tracking, renewing subscribers), dispense with digital rights management (authenticating users, distinguishing authorized from unauthorized, blocking access to unauthorized), eliminate legal fees for licensing (drafting, negotiating, monitoring, and enforcing restrictive licenses), and reduce or eliminate marketing. In their place they add back little more than the cost of collecting publication fees or institutional subsidies. Several studies and OA publishers have testified to these lower costs.\nWe shouldn’t count the savings from dropping print, since most toll-access journals in the sciences have already dropped their print editions and those in the humanities are moving in the same direction.", "Independent confirmation of Houghton’s results came in a major study released in April 2011, commissioned by the UK Joint Information Systems Committee, Publishing Research Consortium, Research Information Network, Research Libraries UK, and the Wellcome Trust. After studying five scenarios for improving research access, it concluded that green and gold OA “offer the greatest potential to policy-makers in promoting access. Both have positive, and potentially high, BCRs [benefit-cost ratios]. . . .”\nThe same study noted that “the infrastructure for Green [OA] has largely already been built” and therefore that “increasing access by this route is especially cost-effective. . . .” I can add that repositories scale up more easily than journals to capture unmet demand, and that depositing in a repository costs the depositor nothing. For all these reasons, I’ll focus in this chapter on how to pay for gold OA (journals), not how to pay for green OA (repositories).", "The false belief that most OA journals charge author-side fees also infects studies in which authors misinform survey subjects before surveying them. In effect: “At OA journals, authors pay to be published; now let me ask you a series of questions about your attitude toward OA journals.”\nFinally, this false belief undermines calculations about who would bear the financial brunt if we made a general transition from toll-access journals to OA journals. A handful of studies have calculated that after a general conversion of peer-reviewed journals to OA, high-output universities would pay more in author-side fees than they pay now in subscriptions. These calculations make at least two assumptions unjustified by present facts or trends: that all OA journals would charge fees, and that all fees would be paid by universities.", "The terms “author fees” and “author pays” are specious and damaging. They’re false for the majority of OA journals, which charge no fees. They’re also misleading even for fee-based OA journals, where nearly nine times out of ten the fees are not paid by authors themselves. It’s more accurate to speak of “publication fees,” “processing fees,” or “author-side fees.” The first two don’t specify the payor, and the third merely specifies that the payment comes from the author side of the transaction, rather than the reader side, without implying that it must come from authors themselves.\nThe false beliefs that most OA journals charge author-side fees and that most toll-access journals don’t have caused several kinds of harm. They scare authors away from OA journals. They support the misconception that gold OA excludes indigent authors. When we add in the background myth that all OA is gold OA, this misconception suggests that OA as such—and not just gold OA—excludes indigent authors.", "Redirection is also taking place on a large scale, primarily through CERN’s SCOAP3 project (Sponsoring Consortium for Open Access Publishing in Particle Physics). SCOAP3 is an ambitious plan to convert all the major toll-access journals in particle physics to OA, redirect the money formerly spent on reader-side subscription fees to author-side publication fees, and reduce the overall price to the journal-supporting institutions. It’s a peaceful revolution based on negotiation, consent, and self-interest. After four years of patiently building up budget pledges from libraries around the world, SCOAP3 entered its implementation phase in in April 2011.", "Hybrid OA is very low-risk for publishers. If the OA option has low uptake, the publisher loses nothing and still has subscription revenue. If it has high uptake, the publisher has subscription revenue for the conventional articles, publication fees for the OA articles, and sometimes both at once for the OA articles. Hence, the model has spread far and fast. The Professional/Scholarly Publishing division of the Association of American Publishers reported in 2011 that 74 percent of surveyed journals offering some form of OA in 2009 offered hybrid OA. At the same time, SHERPA listed more than 90 publishers offering hybrid OA options, including all of the largest publishers. Despite its spread, hybrid OA journals do little or nothing to help researchers, libraries, or publishers. The average rate of uptake for the OA option at hybrid journals is just 2 percent.", "Apart from the myth that all OA is gold OA, the most common myth about gold OA is that all OA journals charge “author fees” or use an “author-pays” business model. There are three mistakes here. The first is to assume that there is only one business model for OA journals, when there are many. The second is to assume that charging an upfront fee means authors are the ones expected to pay it. The third is to assume that all or even most OA journals charge upfront fees. In fact, most OA journals (70 percent) charge no upfront or author-side fees at all. By contrast, most toll-access journals (75 percent) do charge author-side fees. Moreover, even within the minority of fee-based OA journals, only 12 percent of those authors end up paying the fees out of pocket. Almost 90 percent of the time, the fees at fee-based journals are waived or paid by sponsors on behalf of authors.\nTerminology", "Open Access: Economics\nMany publishers who oppose OA concede that OA is better for research and researchers than toll access.\n \n They merely object that we can’t pay for it. But we can pay for it.\nThe first major study of the economic impact of OA policies was conducted by John Houghton and Peter Sheehan in 2006. Using conservative estimates that a nation’s gross expenditure on research and development (GERD) brings social returns of 50 percent, and that OA increases access and efficiency by 5 percent, Houghton and Sheehan calculated that a transition to OA would not only pay for itself, but add $1.7 billion/year to the UK economy and $16 billion/year to the U.S. economy. A later study focusing on Australia used the more conservative estimate that GERD brings social returns of only 25 percent, but still found that the bottom-line economic benefits of OA for publicly funded research were 51 times greater than the costs.", "For the record, I advocate redirecting money freed up by cancellations or conversions, not canceling journals in order to free up money (except with SCOAP3 or Rowse-like consent and negotiation). This may look like hair-splitting, but the difference is neither small nor subtle. It’s roughly the difference between having great expectations and planning to kill your parents." ], [ "There are many kinds of redirection. One is the voluntary conversion of toll-access journals to OA. Conversion could be a journal’s grudging response to declining library budgets for toll-access journals and exclusion from the big deals that take the lion’s share of library budgets. It could be a grudging response to its own past price increases and rising levels of green OA (see chapter 8 on casualties). Or it could be a hopeful and enthusiastic desire to achieve the benefits of OA for authors (greater audience and impact), readers (freedom from price and permission barriers), and publishers themselves (increased readership, citations, submissions, and quality).\nAnother kind of redirection is the rise of OA journal funds at universities. Even during times of declining budgets, libraries are setting aside money to pay publication fees at fee-based OA journals. The funds help faculty choose OA journals for their new work and help build a sustainable alternative to toll-access journals.", "Redirection is also taking place on a large scale, primarily through CERN’s SCOAP3 project (Sponsoring Consortium for Open Access Publishing in Particle Physics). SCOAP3 is an ambitious plan to convert all the major toll-access journals in particle physics to OA, redirect the money formerly spent on reader-side subscription fees to author-side publication fees, and reduce the overall price to the journal-supporting institutions. It’s a peaceful revolution based on negotiation, consent, and self-interest. After four years of patiently building up budget pledges from libraries around the world, SCOAP3 entered its implementation phase in in April 2011.", "For the record, I advocate redirecting money freed up by cancellations or conversions, not canceling journals in order to free up money (except with SCOAP3 or Rowse-like consent and negotiation). This may look like hair-splitting, but the difference is neither small nor subtle. It’s roughly the difference between having great expectations and planning to kill your parents.", "Mark Rowse, former CEO of Ingenta, sketched another strategy for large-scale redirection in December 2003. A publisher could “flip” its toll-access journals to OA at one stroke by reinterpreting the payments it receives from university libraries as publication fees for a group of authors rather than subscription fees for a group of readers. One advantage over SCOAP3 is that the Rowsean flip can be tried one journal or one publisher at a time, and doesn’t require discipline-wide coordination. It could also scale up to the largest publishers or the largest coalitions of publishers.\nWe have to be imaginative but we don’t have to improvise. There are some principles we can try to follow. Money freed up by the cancellation or conversion of peer-reviewed TA journals should be spent first on peer-reviewed OA journals, to ensure the continuation of peer review. Large-scale redirection is more efficient than small-scale redirection. Peaceful revolution through negotiation and self-interest is more amicable and potentially more productive than adaptation forced by falling asteroids.", "OA journals pay their bills the way broadcast television and radio stations do—not through advertising or pledge drives, but through a simple generalization on advertising and pledge drives. Those with an interest in disseminating the content pay the production costs upfront so that access can be free of charge for everyone with the right equipment. Elsewhere I’ve called this the “some pay for all” model.\nSome OA journals have a subsidy from a university, library, foundation, society, museum, or government agency. Other OA journals charge a publication fee on accepted articles, to be paid by the author or the author’s sponsor (employer or funder). The party paying the subsidy or fee covers the journal’s expenses and readers pay nothing.", "Even if OA journals had the same production costs as toll-access journals, there’s enough money in the system to pay for peer-reviewed OA journals in every niche where we currently have peer-reviewed toll-access journals, and at the same level of quality. In fact, there’s more than enough, since we wouldn’t have to pay publisher profit margins surpassing those at ExxonMobil. Jan Velterop, the former publisher of BioMed Central, once said that OA publishing can be profitable but will “bring profit margins more in line with the added value.”\nTo support a full range of high-quality OA journals, we don’t need new money. We only need to redirect money we’re currently spending on peer-reviewed journals.", "Independent confirmation of Houghton’s results came in a major study released in April 2011, commissioned by the UK Joint Information Systems Committee, Publishing Research Consortium, Research Information Network, Research Libraries UK, and the Wellcome Trust. After studying five scenarios for improving research access, it concluded that green and gold OA “offer the greatest potential to policy-makers in promoting access. Both have positive, and potentially high, BCRs [benefit-cost ratios]. . . .”\nThe same study noted that “the infrastructure for Green [OA] has largely already been built” and therefore that “increasing access by this route is especially cost-effective. . . .” I can add that repositories scale up more easily than journals to capture unmet demand, and that depositing in a repository costs the depositor nothing. For all these reasons, I’ll focus in this chapter on how to pay for gold OA (journals), not how to pay for green OA (repositories).", "OA journals that charge publication fees tend to waive them in cases of economic hardship, and journals with institutional subsidies tend not to charge publication fees. OA journals can diversify their funding and get by on lower subsidies, or lower fees, if they also have revenue from print editions, advertising, priced add-ons, or auxiliary services. Some institutions and consortia arrange fee discounts, or purchase annual memberships that include fee waivers or discounts for all affiliated researchers.\nModels that work well in some fields and nations may not work as well in others. No one claims that one size fits all. There’s still room for creativity in finding ways to pay the costs of a peer-reviewed OA journal, and many smart and motivated people are exploring different possibilities. Journals announce new variations almost every week, and we’re far from exhausting our cleverness and imagination.", "There are two kinds of OA journals, full and hybrid. Full OA journals provide OA to all their research articles. Hybrid OA journals provide OA to some and toll-access to others, when the choice is the author’s rather than the editor’s. Most hybrid OA journals charge a publication fee for the OA option. Authors who can find the money get immediate OA, and those who can’t or prefer not to, get toll access. (Many hybrid OA journals provide OA to all their articles after some time period, such as a year.) Some hybrid OA journals promise to reduce subscription prices in proportion to author uptake of the OA option, that is, to charge subscribers only for the toll-access articles. But most hybrid journal publishers don’t make this promise and “double dip” by charging subscription fees and publication fees for the same OA articles.", "Fee-based OA journals tend to work best in fields where most research is funded, and no-fee journals tend to work best in fields and countries where comparatively little research is funded. The successes of these two business models give hope that gold OA can be sustainable in every discipline.\nEvery kind of peer-reviewed journal can become more sustainable by reducing costs. Although peer review is generally performed by unpaid volunteers, organizing or facilitating peer review is an expense. The journal must select referees, distribute files to referees, monitor who has what, track progress, nag dawdlers, collect comments and share them with the right people, facilitate communication, distinguish versions, and collect data on acceptances and rejections. One powerful way to reduce costs without reducing quality is to use free and open-source journal management software to automate the clerical tasks on this list.", "We should be suspicious when large, venerable, conventional publishers say that in their experience the economics of OA publishing don’t work. Print-era publishers retooling for digital, and toll-access publishers retooling for OA, will inevitably realize smaller savings from OA than lean, mean OA start-ups without legacy equipment, personnel, or overhead from the age of print and subscriptions.\nAbout one-quarter of all peer-reviewed journals today are OA. Like toll-access journals, some are in the black and thriving and some are in the red and struggling. However, the full range of OA journals begins to look like a success story when we consider that the vast majority of the money needed to support peer-reviewed journals is currently tied up in subscriptions to conventional journals. OA journals have reached their current numbers and quality despite the extraordinary squeeze on budgets devoted to the support of peer-reviewed journals.", "There are reasons to think that OA journals cost less to produce than toll-access journals of the same quality. OA journals dispense with subscription management (soliciting, negotiating, tracking, renewing subscribers), dispense with digital rights management (authenticating users, distinguishing authorized from unauthorized, blocking access to unauthorized), eliminate legal fees for licensing (drafting, negotiating, monitoring, and enforcing restrictive licenses), and reduce or eliminate marketing. In their place they add back little more than the cost of collecting publication fees or institutional subsidies. Several studies and OA publishers have testified to these lower costs.\nWe shouldn’t count the savings from dropping print, since most toll-access journals in the sciences have already dropped their print editions and those in the humanities are moving in the same direction.", "These false beliefs also support the insinuation that OA journals are more likely than non-OA journals to compromise on peer review. But if charging author-side fees for accepted papers really creates an incentive to lower standards, in order to rake in more fees, then most toll-access journals are guilty and most OA journals are not. In fact, however, when OA journals do charge author-side fees, they create firewalls between their financial and editorial operations. For example, most fee-based OA journals will waive their fees in cases of economic hardship, and take pains to prevent editors and referees engaged in peer review from knowing whether or not an author has requested a fee waiver. By contrast, at toll-access journals levying author-side page or color charges, editors generally know that accepted papers will entail revenue.", "The false belief that most OA journals charge author-side fees also infects studies in which authors misinform survey subjects before surveying them. In effect: “At OA journals, authors pay to be published; now let me ask you a series of questions about your attitude toward OA journals.”\nFinally, this false belief undermines calculations about who would bear the financial brunt if we made a general transition from toll-access journals to OA journals. A handful of studies have calculated that after a general conversion of peer-reviewed journals to OA, high-output universities would pay more in author-side fees than they pay now in subscriptions. These calculations make at least two assumptions unjustified by present facts or trends: that all OA journals would charge fees, and that all fees would be paid by universities.", "The terms “author fees” and “author pays” are specious and damaging. They’re false for the majority of OA journals, which charge no fees. They’re also misleading even for fee-based OA journals, where nearly nine times out of ten the fees are not paid by authors themselves. It’s more accurate to speak of “publication fees,” “processing fees,” or “author-side fees.” The first two don’t specify the payor, and the third merely specifies that the payment comes from the author side of the transaction, rather than the reader side, without implying that it must come from authors themselves.\nThe false beliefs that most OA journals charge author-side fees and that most toll-access journals don’t have caused several kinds of harm. They scare authors away from OA journals. They support the misconception that gold OA excludes indigent authors. When we add in the background myth that all OA is gold OA, this misconception suggests that OA as such—and not just gold OA—excludes indigent authors.", "The leader in this field is Open Journal Systems from the Public Knowledge Project, but there are more than a dozen other open-source packages. While OJS or other open-source software could benefit even toll-access journals, their use is concentrated among OA journals. OJS alone is has more than 9,000 installations (though not all are used for managing journals). This is not merely an example of how one openness movement can help another but also of how fearing openness can lead conventional publishers to forgo financial benefits and leave money on the table.", "The chief virtue of hybrid OA journals is that they give publishers some firsthand experience with the economics and logistics of OA publishing. But the economics are artificial, since hybrid OA publishers have no incentive to increase author uptake and make the model succeed. The publishers always have subscriptions to fall back on. Moreover, an overwhelming majority of full-OA journals charge no publication fees and the overwhelming majority of hybrid-OA journals never gain firsthand experience with no-fee business models.\nA growing number of for-profit OA publishers are making profits, and a growing number of nonprofit OA publishers are breaking even or making surpluses. Two different business models drive these sustainable publishing programs. BioMed Central makes profits and the Public Library of Science makes surpluses by charging publication fees. MedKnow makes profits without charging publication fees by selling priced print editions of its OA journals.", "Apart from the myth that all OA is gold OA, the most common myth about gold OA is that all OA journals charge “author fees” or use an “author-pays” business model. There are three mistakes here. The first is to assume that there is only one business model for OA journals, when there are many. The second is to assume that charging an upfront fee means authors are the ones expected to pay it. The third is to assume that all or even most OA journals charge upfront fees. In fact, most OA journals (70 percent) charge no upfront or author-side fees at all. By contrast, most toll-access journals (75 percent) do charge author-side fees. Moreover, even within the minority of fee-based OA journals, only 12 percent of those authors end up paying the fees out of pocket. Almost 90 percent of the time, the fees at fee-based journals are waived or paid by sponsors on behalf of authors.\nTerminology", "Green OA may suffer from invisibility, but gold OA does not. On the contrary, researchers who don’t know about OA repositories still understand that there are OA journals. Sometimes the visibility gap is so large that researchers, journalists, and policy-makers conclude that all OA is gold OA (see section 3.1 on green and gold OA). As a result, most researchers who think about the benefits of OA think about the benefits of gold OA. Here, at least, the news is good. The most comprehensive survey to date shows that an overwhelming 89 percent of researchers from all fields believe that OA journals are beneficial to their fields.", "Open Access: Economics\nMany publishers who oppose OA concede that OA is better for research and researchers than toll access.\n \n They merely object that we can’t pay for it. But we can pay for it.\nThe first major study of the economic impact of OA policies was conducted by John Houghton and Peter Sheehan in 2006. Using conservative estimates that a nation’s gross expenditure on research and development (GERD) brings social returns of 50 percent, and that OA increases access and efficiency by 5 percent, Houghton and Sheehan calculated that a transition to OA would not only pay for itself, but add $1.7 billion/year to the UK economy and $16 billion/year to the U.S. economy. A later study focusing on Australia used the more conservative estimate that GERD brings social returns of only 25 percent, but still found that the bottom-line economic benefits of OA for publicly funded research were 51 times greater than the costs." ], [ "There are many kinds of redirection. One is the voluntary conversion of toll-access journals to OA. Conversion could be a journal’s grudging response to declining library budgets for toll-access journals and exclusion from the big deals that take the lion’s share of library budgets. It could be a grudging response to its own past price increases and rising levels of green OA (see chapter 8 on casualties). Or it could be a hopeful and enthusiastic desire to achieve the benefits of OA for authors (greater audience and impact), readers (freedom from price and permission barriers), and publishers themselves (increased readership, citations, submissions, and quality).\nAnother kind of redirection is the rise of OA journal funds at universities. Even during times of declining budgets, libraries are setting aside money to pay publication fees at fee-based OA journals. The funds help faculty choose OA journals for their new work and help build a sustainable alternative to toll-access journals.", "Mark Rowse, former CEO of Ingenta, sketched another strategy for large-scale redirection in December 2003. A publisher could “flip” its toll-access journals to OA at one stroke by reinterpreting the payments it receives from university libraries as publication fees for a group of authors rather than subscription fees for a group of readers. One advantage over SCOAP3 is that the Rowsean flip can be tried one journal or one publisher at a time, and doesn’t require discipline-wide coordination. It could also scale up to the largest publishers or the largest coalitions of publishers.\nWe have to be imaginative but we don’t have to improvise. There are some principles we can try to follow. Money freed up by the cancellation or conversion of peer-reviewed TA journals should be spent first on peer-reviewed OA journals, to ensure the continuation of peer review. Large-scale redirection is more efficient than small-scale redirection. Peaceful revolution through negotiation and self-interest is more amicable and potentially more productive than adaptation forced by falling asteroids.", "For the record, I advocate redirecting money freed up by cancellations or conversions, not canceling journals in order to free up money (except with SCOAP3 or Rowse-like consent and negotiation). This may look like hair-splitting, but the difference is neither small nor subtle. It’s roughly the difference between having great expectations and planning to kill your parents.", "Redirection is also taking place on a large scale, primarily through CERN’s SCOAP3 project (Sponsoring Consortium for Open Access Publishing in Particle Physics). SCOAP3 is an ambitious plan to convert all the major toll-access journals in particle physics to OA, redirect the money formerly spent on reader-side subscription fees to author-side publication fees, and reduce the overall price to the journal-supporting institutions. It’s a peaceful revolution based on negotiation, consent, and self-interest. After four years of patiently building up budget pledges from libraries around the world, SCOAP3 entered its implementation phase in in April 2011.", "Independent confirmation of Houghton’s results came in a major study released in April 2011, commissioned by the UK Joint Information Systems Committee, Publishing Research Consortium, Research Information Network, Research Libraries UK, and the Wellcome Trust. After studying five scenarios for improving research access, it concluded that green and gold OA “offer the greatest potential to policy-makers in promoting access. Both have positive, and potentially high, BCRs [benefit-cost ratios]. . . .”\nThe same study noted that “the infrastructure for Green [OA] has largely already been built” and therefore that “increasing access by this route is especially cost-effective. . . .” I can add that repositories scale up more easily than journals to capture unmet demand, and that depositing in a repository costs the depositor nothing. For all these reasons, I’ll focus in this chapter on how to pay for gold OA (journals), not how to pay for green OA (repositories).", "OA journals pay their bills the way broadcast television and radio stations do—not through advertising or pledge drives, but through a simple generalization on advertising and pledge drives. Those with an interest in disseminating the content pay the production costs upfront so that access can be free of charge for everyone with the right equipment. Elsewhere I’ve called this the “some pay for all” model.\nSome OA journals have a subsidy from a university, library, foundation, society, museum, or government agency. Other OA journals charge a publication fee on accepted articles, to be paid by the author or the author’s sponsor (employer or funder). The party paying the subsidy or fee covers the journal’s expenses and readers pay nothing.", "Fee-based OA journals tend to work best in fields where most research is funded, and no-fee journals tend to work best in fields and countries where comparatively little research is funded. The successes of these two business models give hope that gold OA can be sustainable in every discipline.\nEvery kind of peer-reviewed journal can become more sustainable by reducing costs. Although peer review is generally performed by unpaid volunteers, organizing or facilitating peer review is an expense. The journal must select referees, distribute files to referees, monitor who has what, track progress, nag dawdlers, collect comments and share them with the right people, facilitate communication, distinguish versions, and collect data on acceptances and rejections. One powerful way to reduce costs without reducing quality is to use free and open-source journal management software to automate the clerical tasks on this list.", "OA journals that charge publication fees tend to waive them in cases of economic hardship, and journals with institutional subsidies tend not to charge publication fees. OA journals can diversify their funding and get by on lower subsidies, or lower fees, if they also have revenue from print editions, advertising, priced add-ons, or auxiliary services. Some institutions and consortia arrange fee discounts, or purchase annual memberships that include fee waivers or discounts for all affiliated researchers.\nModels that work well in some fields and nations may not work as well in others. No one claims that one size fits all. There’s still room for creativity in finding ways to pay the costs of a peer-reviewed OA journal, and many smart and motivated people are exploring different possibilities. Journals announce new variations almost every week, and we’re far from exhausting our cleverness and imagination.", "The terms “author fees” and “author pays” are specious and damaging. They’re false for the majority of OA journals, which charge no fees. They’re also misleading even for fee-based OA journals, where nearly nine times out of ten the fees are not paid by authors themselves. It’s more accurate to speak of “publication fees,” “processing fees,” or “author-side fees.” The first two don’t specify the payor, and the third merely specifies that the payment comes from the author side of the transaction, rather than the reader side, without implying that it must come from authors themselves.\nThe false beliefs that most OA journals charge author-side fees and that most toll-access journals don’t have caused several kinds of harm. They scare authors away from OA journals. They support the misconception that gold OA excludes indigent authors. When we add in the background myth that all OA is gold OA, this misconception suggests that OA as such—and not just gold OA—excludes indigent authors.", "Even if OA journals had the same production costs as toll-access journals, there’s enough money in the system to pay for peer-reviewed OA journals in every niche where we currently have peer-reviewed toll-access journals, and at the same level of quality. In fact, there’s more than enough, since we wouldn’t have to pay publisher profit margins surpassing those at ExxonMobil. Jan Velterop, the former publisher of BioMed Central, once said that OA publishing can be profitable but will “bring profit margins more in line with the added value.”\nTo support a full range of high-quality OA journals, we don’t need new money. We only need to redirect money we’re currently spending on peer-reviewed journals.", "Apart from the myth that all OA is gold OA, the most common myth about gold OA is that all OA journals charge “author fees” or use an “author-pays” business model. There are three mistakes here. The first is to assume that there is only one business model for OA journals, when there are many. The second is to assume that charging an upfront fee means authors are the ones expected to pay it. The third is to assume that all or even most OA journals charge upfront fees. In fact, most OA journals (70 percent) charge no upfront or author-side fees at all. By contrast, most toll-access journals (75 percent) do charge author-side fees. Moreover, even within the minority of fee-based OA journals, only 12 percent of those authors end up paying the fees out of pocket. Almost 90 percent of the time, the fees at fee-based journals are waived or paid by sponsors on behalf of authors.\nTerminology", "These false beliefs also support the insinuation that OA journals are more likely than non-OA journals to compromise on peer review. But if charging author-side fees for accepted papers really creates an incentive to lower standards, in order to rake in more fees, then most toll-access journals are guilty and most OA journals are not. In fact, however, when OA journals do charge author-side fees, they create firewalls between their financial and editorial operations. For example, most fee-based OA journals will waive their fees in cases of economic hardship, and take pains to prevent editors and referees engaged in peer review from knowing whether or not an author has requested a fee waiver. By contrast, at toll-access journals levying author-side page or color charges, editors generally know that accepted papers will entail revenue.", "We should be suspicious when large, venerable, conventional publishers say that in their experience the economics of OA publishing don’t work. Print-era publishers retooling for digital, and toll-access publishers retooling for OA, will inevitably realize smaller savings from OA than lean, mean OA start-ups without legacy equipment, personnel, or overhead from the age of print and subscriptions.\nAbout one-quarter of all peer-reviewed journals today are OA. Like toll-access journals, some are in the black and thriving and some are in the red and struggling. However, the full range of OA journals begins to look like a success story when we consider that the vast majority of the money needed to support peer-reviewed journals is currently tied up in subscriptions to conventional journals. OA journals have reached their current numbers and quality despite the extraordinary squeeze on budgets devoted to the support of peer-reviewed journals.", "Open Access: Economics\nMany publishers who oppose OA concede that OA is better for research and researchers than toll access.\n \n They merely object that we can’t pay for it. But we can pay for it.\nThe first major study of the economic impact of OA policies was conducted by John Houghton and Peter Sheehan in 2006. Using conservative estimates that a nation’s gross expenditure on research and development (GERD) brings social returns of 50 percent, and that OA increases access and efficiency by 5 percent, Houghton and Sheehan calculated that a transition to OA would not only pay for itself, but add $1.7 billion/year to the UK economy and $16 billion/year to the U.S. economy. A later study focusing on Australia used the more conservative estimate that GERD brings social returns of only 25 percent, but still found that the bottom-line economic benefits of OA for publicly funded research were 51 times greater than the costs.", "There are reasons to think that OA journals cost less to produce than toll-access journals of the same quality. OA journals dispense with subscription management (soliciting, negotiating, tracking, renewing subscribers), dispense with digital rights management (authenticating users, distinguishing authorized from unauthorized, blocking access to unauthorized), eliminate legal fees for licensing (drafting, negotiating, monitoring, and enforcing restrictive licenses), and reduce or eliminate marketing. In their place they add back little more than the cost of collecting publication fees or institutional subsidies. Several studies and OA publishers have testified to these lower costs.\nWe shouldn’t count the savings from dropping print, since most toll-access journals in the sciences have already dropped their print editions and those in the humanities are moving in the same direction.", "The leader in this field is Open Journal Systems from the Public Knowledge Project, but there are more than a dozen other open-source packages. While OJS or other open-source software could benefit even toll-access journals, their use is concentrated among OA journals. OJS alone is has more than 9,000 installations (though not all are used for managing journals). This is not merely an example of how one openness movement can help another but also of how fearing openness can lead conventional publishers to forgo financial benefits and leave money on the table.", "If SCOAP3 succeeds, it won’t merely prove that CERN can pull off ambitious projects, which we already knew. It will prove that this particular ambitious project has an underlying win-win logic convincing to stakeholders. Some of the factors explaining the success of SCOAP3 to date are physics-specific, such as the small number of targeted journals, the green OA culture in physics embraced even by toll-access publishers, and the dominance of CERN. Other factors are not physics-specific, such as the evident benefits for research institutions, libraries, funders, and publishers. A success in particle physics would give hope that the model could be lifted and adapted to other fields without their own CERN-like institutions to pave the way. Other fields would not need CERN-like money or dominance so much as CERN-like convening power to bring the stakeholders to the table. Then the win-win logic would have a chance to take over from there.", "Green OA may suffer from invisibility, but gold OA does not. On the contrary, researchers who don’t know about OA repositories still understand that there are OA journals. Sometimes the visibility gap is so large that researchers, journalists, and policy-makers conclude that all OA is gold OA (see section 3.1 on green and gold OA). As a result, most researchers who think about the benefits of OA think about the benefits of gold OA. Here, at least, the news is good. The most comprehensive survey to date shows that an overwhelming 89 percent of researchers from all fields believe that OA journals are beneficial to their fields.", "The false belief that most OA journals charge author-side fees also infects studies in which authors misinform survey subjects before surveying them. In effect: “At OA journals, authors pay to be published; now let me ask you a series of questions about your attitude toward OA journals.”\nFinally, this false belief undermines calculations about who would bear the financial brunt if we made a general transition from toll-access journals to OA journals. A handful of studies have calculated that after a general conversion of peer-reviewed journals to OA, high-output universities would pay more in author-side fees than they pay now in subscriptions. These calculations make at least two assumptions unjustified by present facts or trends: that all OA journals would charge fees, and that all fees would be paid by universities.", "There are two kinds of OA journals, full and hybrid. Full OA journals provide OA to all their research articles. Hybrid OA journals provide OA to some and toll-access to others, when the choice is the author’s rather than the editor’s. Most hybrid OA journals charge a publication fee for the OA option. Authors who can find the money get immediate OA, and those who can’t or prefer not to, get toll access. (Many hybrid OA journals provide OA to all their articles after some time period, such as a year.) Some hybrid OA journals promise to reduce subscription prices in proportion to author uptake of the OA option, that is, to charge subscribers only for the toll-access articles. But most hybrid journal publishers don’t make this promise and “double dip” by charging subscription fees and publication fees for the same OA articles." ], [ "These false beliefs also support the insinuation that OA journals are more likely than non-OA journals to compromise on peer review. But if charging author-side fees for accepted papers really creates an incentive to lower standards, in order to rake in more fees, then most toll-access journals are guilty and most OA journals are not. In fact, however, when OA journals do charge author-side fees, they create firewalls between their financial and editorial operations. For example, most fee-based OA journals will waive their fees in cases of economic hardship, and take pains to prevent editors and referees engaged in peer review from knowing whether or not an author has requested a fee waiver. By contrast, at toll-access journals levying author-side page or color charges, editors generally know that accepted papers will entail revenue.", "We should be suspicious when large, venerable, conventional publishers say that in their experience the economics of OA publishing don’t work. Print-era publishers retooling for digital, and toll-access publishers retooling for OA, will inevitably realize smaller savings from OA than lean, mean OA start-ups without legacy equipment, personnel, or overhead from the age of print and subscriptions.\nAbout one-quarter of all peer-reviewed journals today are OA. Like toll-access journals, some are in the black and thriving and some are in the red and struggling. However, the full range of OA journals begins to look like a success story when we consider that the vast majority of the money needed to support peer-reviewed journals is currently tied up in subscriptions to conventional journals. OA journals have reached their current numbers and quality despite the extraordinary squeeze on budgets devoted to the support of peer-reviewed journals.", "Green OA may suffer from invisibility, but gold OA does not. On the contrary, researchers who don’t know about OA repositories still understand that there are OA journals. Sometimes the visibility gap is so large that researchers, journalists, and policy-makers conclude that all OA is gold OA (see section 3.1 on green and gold OA). As a result, most researchers who think about the benefits of OA think about the benefits of gold OA. Here, at least, the news is good. The most comprehensive survey to date shows that an overwhelming 89 percent of researchers from all fields believe that OA journals are beneficial to their fields.", "The false belief that most OA journals charge author-side fees also infects studies in which authors misinform survey subjects before surveying them. In effect: “At OA journals, authors pay to be published; now let me ask you a series of questions about your attitude toward OA journals.”\nFinally, this false belief undermines calculations about who would bear the financial brunt if we made a general transition from toll-access journals to OA journals. A handful of studies have calculated that after a general conversion of peer-reviewed journals to OA, high-output universities would pay more in author-side fees than they pay now in subscriptions. These calculations make at least two assumptions unjustified by present facts or trends: that all OA journals would charge fees, and that all fees would be paid by universities.", "There are two kinds of OA journals, full and hybrid. Full OA journals provide OA to all their research articles. Hybrid OA journals provide OA to some and toll-access to others, when the choice is the author’s rather than the editor’s. Most hybrid OA journals charge a publication fee for the OA option. Authors who can find the money get immediate OA, and those who can’t or prefer not to, get toll access. (Many hybrid OA journals provide OA to all their articles after some time period, such as a year.) Some hybrid OA journals promise to reduce subscription prices in proportion to author uptake of the OA option, that is, to charge subscribers only for the toll-access articles. But most hybrid journal publishers don’t make this promise and “double dip” by charging subscription fees and publication fees for the same OA articles.", "The leader in this field is Open Journal Systems from the Public Knowledge Project, but there are more than a dozen other open-source packages. While OJS or other open-source software could benefit even toll-access journals, their use is concentrated among OA journals. OJS alone is has more than 9,000 installations (though not all are used for managing journals). This is not merely an example of how one openness movement can help another but also of how fearing openness can lead conventional publishers to forgo financial benefits and leave money on the table.", "The terms “author fees” and “author pays” are specious and damaging. They’re false for the majority of OA journals, which charge no fees. They’re also misleading even for fee-based OA journals, where nearly nine times out of ten the fees are not paid by authors themselves. It’s more accurate to speak of “publication fees,” “processing fees,” or “author-side fees.” The first two don’t specify the payor, and the third merely specifies that the payment comes from the author side of the transaction, rather than the reader side, without implying that it must come from authors themselves.\nThe false beliefs that most OA journals charge author-side fees and that most toll-access journals don’t have caused several kinds of harm. They scare authors away from OA journals. They support the misconception that gold OA excludes indigent authors. When we add in the background myth that all OA is gold OA, this misconception suggests that OA as such—and not just gold OA—excludes indigent authors.", "OA journals pay their bills the way broadcast television and radio stations do—not through advertising or pledge drives, but through a simple generalization on advertising and pledge drives. Those with an interest in disseminating the content pay the production costs upfront so that access can be free of charge for everyone with the right equipment. Elsewhere I’ve called this the “some pay for all” model.\nSome OA journals have a subsidy from a university, library, foundation, society, museum, or government agency. Other OA journals charge a publication fee on accepted articles, to be paid by the author or the author’s sponsor (employer or funder). The party paying the subsidy or fee covers the journal’s expenses and readers pay nothing.", "Even if OA journals had the same production costs as toll-access journals, there’s enough money in the system to pay for peer-reviewed OA journals in every niche where we currently have peer-reviewed toll-access journals, and at the same level of quality. In fact, there’s more than enough, since we wouldn’t have to pay publisher profit margins surpassing those at ExxonMobil. Jan Velterop, the former publisher of BioMed Central, once said that OA publishing can be profitable but will “bring profit margins more in line with the added value.”\nTo support a full range of high-quality OA journals, we don’t need new money. We only need to redirect money we’re currently spending on peer-reviewed journals.", "Fee-based OA journals tend to work best in fields where most research is funded, and no-fee journals tend to work best in fields and countries where comparatively little research is funded. The successes of these two business models give hope that gold OA can be sustainable in every discipline.\nEvery kind of peer-reviewed journal can become more sustainable by reducing costs. Although peer review is generally performed by unpaid volunteers, organizing or facilitating peer review is an expense. The journal must select referees, distribute files to referees, monitor who has what, track progress, nag dawdlers, collect comments and share them with the right people, facilitate communication, distinguish versions, and collect data on acceptances and rejections. One powerful way to reduce costs without reducing quality is to use free and open-source journal management software to automate the clerical tasks on this list.", "OA journals that charge publication fees tend to waive them in cases of economic hardship, and journals with institutional subsidies tend not to charge publication fees. OA journals can diversify their funding and get by on lower subsidies, or lower fees, if they also have revenue from print editions, advertising, priced add-ons, or auxiliary services. Some institutions and consortia arrange fee discounts, or purchase annual memberships that include fee waivers or discounts for all affiliated researchers.\nModels that work well in some fields and nations may not work as well in others. No one claims that one size fits all. There’s still room for creativity in finding ways to pay the costs of a peer-reviewed OA journal, and many smart and motivated people are exploring different possibilities. Journals announce new variations almost every week, and we’re far from exhausting our cleverness and imagination.", "There are many kinds of redirection. One is the voluntary conversion of toll-access journals to OA. Conversion could be a journal’s grudging response to declining library budgets for toll-access journals and exclusion from the big deals that take the lion’s share of library budgets. It could be a grudging response to its own past price increases and rising levels of green OA (see chapter 8 on casualties). Or it could be a hopeful and enthusiastic desire to achieve the benefits of OA for authors (greater audience and impact), readers (freedom from price and permission barriers), and publishers themselves (increased readership, citations, submissions, and quality).\nAnother kind of redirection is the rise of OA journal funds at universities. Even during times of declining budgets, libraries are setting aside money to pay publication fees at fee-based OA journals. The funds help faculty choose OA journals for their new work and help build a sustainable alternative to toll-access journals.", "Independent confirmation of Houghton’s results came in a major study released in April 2011, commissioned by the UK Joint Information Systems Committee, Publishing Research Consortium, Research Information Network, Research Libraries UK, and the Wellcome Trust. After studying five scenarios for improving research access, it concluded that green and gold OA “offer the greatest potential to policy-makers in promoting access. Both have positive, and potentially high, BCRs [benefit-cost ratios]. . . .”\nThe same study noted that “the infrastructure for Green [OA] has largely already been built” and therefore that “increasing access by this route is especially cost-effective. . . .” I can add that repositories scale up more easily than journals to capture unmet demand, and that depositing in a repository costs the depositor nothing. For all these reasons, I’ll focus in this chapter on how to pay for gold OA (journals), not how to pay for green OA (repositories).", "There are reasons to think that OA journals cost less to produce than toll-access journals of the same quality. OA journals dispense with subscription management (soliciting, negotiating, tracking, renewing subscribers), dispense with digital rights management (authenticating users, distinguishing authorized from unauthorized, blocking access to unauthorized), eliminate legal fees for licensing (drafting, negotiating, monitoring, and enforcing restrictive licenses), and reduce or eliminate marketing. In their place they add back little more than the cost of collecting publication fees or institutional subsidies. Several studies and OA publishers have testified to these lower costs.\nWe shouldn’t count the savings from dropping print, since most toll-access journals in the sciences have already dropped their print editions and those in the humanities are moving in the same direction.", "For the record, I advocate redirecting money freed up by cancellations or conversions, not canceling journals in order to free up money (except with SCOAP3 or Rowse-like consent and negotiation). This may look like hair-splitting, but the difference is neither small nor subtle. It’s roughly the difference between having great expectations and planning to kill your parents.", "The chief virtue of hybrid OA journals is that they give publishers some firsthand experience with the economics and logistics of OA publishing. But the economics are artificial, since hybrid OA publishers have no incentive to increase author uptake and make the model succeed. The publishers always have subscriptions to fall back on. Moreover, an overwhelming majority of full-OA journals charge no publication fees and the overwhelming majority of hybrid-OA journals never gain firsthand experience with no-fee business models.\nA growing number of for-profit OA publishers are making profits, and a growing number of nonprofit OA publishers are breaking even or making surpluses. Two different business models drive these sustainable publishing programs. BioMed Central makes profits and the Public Library of Science makes surpluses by charging publication fees. MedKnow makes profits without charging publication fees by selling priced print editions of its OA journals.", "Hybrid OA is very low-risk for publishers. If the OA option has low uptake, the publisher loses nothing and still has subscription revenue. If it has high uptake, the publisher has subscription revenue for the conventional articles, publication fees for the OA articles, and sometimes both at once for the OA articles. Hence, the model has spread far and fast. The Professional/Scholarly Publishing division of the Association of American Publishers reported in 2011 that 74 percent of surveyed journals offering some form of OA in 2009 offered hybrid OA. At the same time, SHERPA listed more than 90 publishers offering hybrid OA options, including all of the largest publishers. Despite its spread, hybrid OA journals do little or nothing to help researchers, libraries, or publishers. The average rate of uptake for the OA option at hybrid journals is just 2 percent.", "Apart from the myth that all OA is gold OA, the most common myth about gold OA is that all OA journals charge “author fees” or use an “author-pays” business model. There are three mistakes here. The first is to assume that there is only one business model for OA journals, when there are many. The second is to assume that charging an upfront fee means authors are the ones expected to pay it. The third is to assume that all or even most OA journals charge upfront fees. In fact, most OA journals (70 percent) charge no upfront or author-side fees at all. By contrast, most toll-access journals (75 percent) do charge author-side fees. Moreover, even within the minority of fee-based OA journals, only 12 percent of those authors end up paying the fees out of pocket. Almost 90 percent of the time, the fees at fee-based journals are waived or paid by sponsors on behalf of authors.\nTerminology", "Open Access: Economics\nMany publishers who oppose OA concede that OA is better for research and researchers than toll access.\n \n They merely object that we can’t pay for it. But we can pay for it.\nThe first major study of the economic impact of OA policies was conducted by John Houghton and Peter Sheehan in 2006. Using conservative estimates that a nation’s gross expenditure on research and development (GERD) brings social returns of 50 percent, and that OA increases access and efficiency by 5 percent, Houghton and Sheehan calculated that a transition to OA would not only pay for itself, but add $1.7 billion/year to the UK economy and $16 billion/year to the U.S. economy. A later study focusing on Australia used the more conservative estimate that GERD brings social returns of only 25 percent, but still found that the bottom-line economic benefits of OA for publicly funded research were 51 times greater than the costs.", "Redirection is also taking place on a large scale, primarily through CERN’s SCOAP3 project (Sponsoring Consortium for Open Access Publishing in Particle Physics). SCOAP3 is an ambitious plan to convert all the major toll-access journals in particle physics to OA, redirect the money formerly spent on reader-side subscription fees to author-side publication fees, and reduce the overall price to the journal-supporting institutions. It’s a peaceful revolution based on negotiation, consent, and self-interest. After four years of patiently building up budget pledges from libraries around the world, SCOAP3 entered its implementation phase in in April 2011." ] ]
test	61397	[ "Why is the water black in the tank when the narrator and Diane take refuge in the Cave?", "What is the tank most similar to?", "Who are the Faces the narrator sees in the view-ports?", "How were Diane and the narrator able to breathe underwater?", "How did The Voice speak to the narrator?", "Why did the beush kill himself?", "What happened to the Terrans?", "Why did the humanoids' plan involve placing the aquarium on Energa?", "What method did the narrator and his offspring employ to kill The Faces?" ]	[ [ "From a chemical inserted into the water.", "The squid has released its ink.", "It is heavily populated with dead fish.", "It is nighttime." ], [ "A research facility.", "A prison.", "A submarine.", "An aquarium." ], [ "Terrans.", "The humanoids.", "Energi.", "The beush." ], [ "They were given equipment that allowed them to do so.", "They held their breath and swam to the Cave when they needed air.", "They were humanoids.", "They were exposed to a special kind of radiation." ], [ "Over a loudspeaker.", "Through sound waves that could travel through water.", "Through a chip implanted into his head.", "Via the semi-intelligent Terran aqua-beings." ], [ "Millions of Faces were dead.", "He was afraid of Diane's eighteen children.", "He was afraid of war with the Energi.", "The Voice told him to." ], [ "They were bombed by the Energi.", "Their species had their memories wiped and all were placed in vast aquariums.", "Their species was exposed to radiation that caused mass mutations.", "They were destroyed by the humanoids." ], [ "It was a gift to the Energi.", "It was a strategic stronghold for war with the Terrans.", "To gain access to the Force Domes.", "So they could study the two mutated Terrans easier." ], [ "A disintegrator.", "Telepathy and willpower.", "The porpoises followed their bidding.", "A bomb." ] ]	[ -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1 ]	[ 0, 0, 1, 0, 1, 1, 0, 1, 1 ]	[ [ "I\ndo\nknow what the \"tank\" is. It is a very large thing filled with\n water, and having four \"corners\", one of which is the Cave where\n Diane and I sleep when the water is black like the ink of the squid\n and cold like dead fish. But we stay warm. There is the \"floor\" of\n the \"tank\", the \"floor\" being where all the rock and seaweed is, with\n all the crawling fish and crabs, where Diane and I walk and sleep.\n There are four \"sides\". \"Sides\" are smooth and blue walls, and have\n \"view-ports\"—round, transparent areas—on them. The Voice says that\n the things in the \"view-ports\" are Faces. I have a face, as does Diane.", "I have caught a porpoise by his top fin. He knows my wish, so he speeds\n toward Diane, circles her and butts her soft thighs with his snout. She\n laughs, but continues to stay in a ball, her black hair waving. She is\n very beautiful.\n\n\n I try to pry her arms from around her legs gently, but she resists. I\n must use force. Diane does not mind when I do; because she knows I love\n her.\n\n\n I pull her arms away, and slip my arms under hers, kissing her on the\n lips for a long time. Struggling to free herself, laughing again, she\n pokes me sharply with her elbow and escapes my arms. I am surprised.\n She quickly puts her arms around my neck, pulls herself to my back and\n links her slim legs around my middle. She is pretending that I am a\n porpoise. I laugh. She pinches me to go ahead. I swim upward, but her\n thoughts tell me she wants to go to the Cave.", "The fish are many, but the dangers are few. I have seen the sharks\n kill. But the shark does not come near me if I see it and am afraid.\n Sometimes I have caught it sneaking up behind me, but when I turn it\n leaves quickly. I have questioned the Voice about why the sharks leave.\n It does not know. It has no one to ask.\nToday the \"sun\" must be very large, or powerful, or bright, because the\n water is brighter than most days.\n\n\n When I awoke Diane was not beside me. The rock of the Cave is jagged,\n so as I make my way from our bed of cool and slick seaweed, toward the\n entrance, I scrape my leg on the fifth kick. Not much blood comes from\n the cut. That is fortunate, because when there is blood the sharks come.", "I grow to hate the Faces in the \"view-ports\". They are always watching,\n watching. The Voice says that they are enemies, and bad. The Faces have\n not tried to hurt me: but I must think of them as enemies because the\n Voice says so. I ask bad, like the shark? The Voice says, no, worse\n than the sharks and eels. It says that the Faces are evil.\n\n\n The \"tank\" must be high, because the water is high. I have gone once\n to the surface, and, although I could get used to it, the light was\n too much for my eyes. It took me two hundred and seventy kicks to the\n surface; it took me three thousand steps from our Cave to the opposite\n \"side\". The \"tank\" is very large, otherwise the whales would not be\n happy.", "The eldest boy says that we should leave the tank, that a greater\n \"tank\" is around us, and that it is easier to move around in that\n greater tank. He also says that we must guard ourselves against Faces\n outside. That is strange, but the boy is a good boy. Many times he\n knows that things will happen before they do. He is a good boy.\n\n\n He is almost as tall as I am. The eldest girl is pretty like Diane,\n her body very white and soft but, since I\nwanted\nit so, her hair is\n golden, instead of dark. The boy likes her very much, and I have seen\n them together, touching.", "Tomorrow we are leaving the tank. We will\nwant\nto leave it; it is\n getting crowded. The boy says that beyond the greater tank, which we\n will also leave, there is enough space for all the babies Diane could\n have if she lived forever.\n\n\n Forever, he said. It would be nice to live forever. I think I'll\nwant\n....", "Diane has grabbed the tail of a porpoise, and both are playing. Diane\n and I love the porpoises. Sometimes we can even hear their thoughts.\n They are different from the other fish; they are more like us. But they\n have babies and we do not.\n\n\n Diane sees me and, wanting to play, swims behind a rock and looks back,\n beckoning. I make a grab at her as I sneak around the rock. But she\n darts upward, toward the surface, where her body is a shadow of beauty\n against the lighter water above her. I follow her, but she ducks and I\n sail past her. Diane pulls up her legs, knees under her chin, and puts\n her arms around them. She then drops like a rock toward the \"floor\".", "The Voice then says that the Faces are watching us, as we sometimes\n watch the porpoises. It took a very long time to grow used to having\n the Faces watch us, as Diane and I came together, but we learned to do\n it as simply as we swim and sleep.\n\n\n But Diane does not have babies. I am very sad when I see the porpoises\n and whales with their young. Diane and I sleep together in the Cave;\n Diane is very warm and soft. We sleep in happiness, but when we are\n awake, we are lonely. I question the Voice about a baby for Diane, but\n the Voice is always silent.", "But the cracked, flat things with small lights circling about them\n are not pretty like Diane's face. The Voice says that the Faces have\n bodies, like myself, and Diane. No body could be like Diane's. I think\n I should be quite sick if I saw the bodies of the Faces.", "\"To what degree? What degree could produce reproduction when it is\n physically impossible?\" The\nbeush\nwas sarcastic. \"How far can they\n go?\"\n\n\n \"There is negatively great amount they can do. Negative danger, because\n we have studied their instincts and emotions and found that they will\n not leave the 'aquarium,' their 'home'. Unless someone tells them to,\n but there is no one to do so.\"\nToday I damned the Faces nine times and finally\nwanted\nthem to go\n away. The \"view-ports\" went black. It was like the sharks leaving when\n I wanted them to. I still do not understand.", "I must mate with her every day, when the water is brightest. The Voice\n says so. It also says that I am in a \"tank\", and that the water is\n brightest when the \"sun\" is over the \"tank\". I do not understand the\n meaning of \"sun\", but the Voice says that \"noon\" is when the \"Sun\" is\n over the \"tank\". I must mate with Diane every \"noon\".", "They entered the well-illuminated closet and immediately slipped\n into the unwieldy metallic suits. Once again they took their seats,\n the\nbeush\nreflecting and saying, \"As your memory relates, that\n explosion was a bomb-drop concussion from the Rebellers. We must now\n wear anti-radiation protection. For that reason, and the danger of\n the Energi, you\ndo\nsee why we need the formulae of the Force Domes,\nimmediately\n.\"\n\n\n There was menace in his voice. The assistant trembled violently. Using\n the rare smile of that humanoid race, the\nbeush\ncontinued, \"Do\n negatively self-preoccupy. Resume your information, if contented.\"", "THE FACES OUTSIDE\nBY BRUCE McALLISTER\nThey were all that was left of\n\n humanity—if they were still human!\n\n\n [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1963.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nI wanted to call her Soft Breast, because she is soft when I hold her\n to me. But the Voice told me to call her Diane. When I call her Diane,\n I have a pleasant feeling, and she seems closer to me. She likes the\n name \"Diane\". The Voice knew what was best, of course, as it always\n does.", "The sharks come today, because Diane is having another baby. Diane\n hurts, and there is more blood than last time. Her face is not pretty\n when she hurts, as it is pretty when she sleeps. So I\nwant\nher to\n sleep. Her face is pretty now with the smile on her lips.\n\"Fourteen thousand Energi ceased to exist, spheroid ceased to exist,\n and another reproduction. Warpspace! How far will they go?\"\nIt has been hundreds of days. Faces keep appearing, but I continue to\nwant\nthem to go away. Diane has had eighteen babies. The oldest are\n swimming around and playing with the porpoises. Diane and I spend most\n of the time teaching the children by showing them things, and by giving\n them our thoughts by touching them.\nToday I found that none of the children have Voices. I could\nwant\nthem to have Voices, but the children's thoughts tell me that it is not\n right to have a Voice.", "Tomorrow I will explain to him that if he\nwants\nsomething, he will\n get it. So he must\nwant\na baby.\n\"Query? The Energi will bomb-drop the 'aquarium'? War declared against\n us? War declared? Entities be wholly damned! Negative! Negativvv!\" The\n disintegrator was fired once more, this time into the orange eye of the\nbeush\nhimself, by himself, and for the good of himself.\nWhen, if I ever do\nwant\nthe Voice to come back, it will be very\n surprised to know that Diane has had twenty-four babies; that the three\n eldest boys have mated twice, once and twice, and have had four babies.\n The Voice will also be surprised to know that it took all twenty-nine\n of us to\nwant\nall the Faces around the tank to die, as the eldest boy\n said to do. We could not tell, but the boy said that six million Faces\n were dead. That seems impossible to me, but the boy is always right.", "There has been much useless noise and senseless talk from the Voice\n these days. It is annoying because I must concentrate on loving Diane\n and caring for the baby. So I\nwanted\nthe Voice to leave it. It left.\n\"Entities Be Simply Damned! The spheroid ceased to exist, assistant.\n How far can they go, assistant?\" The\nbeush\nrose, screamed\n hysterically for three seconds and then fired the hand weapon point\n blank at the neck of his assistant.", "\"Rest assured, peace,\nbeush\n.\n\n\n \"But his thoughts!\"\n\n\n \"Rest assured,\nhigher beush\n.\"\nThere is much blood in the water today. Diane is having a baby; sharks\n have come. I have never seen so many sharks, and as big as they are I\n have never seen. I am afraid, but still some sneak among us near Diane.\n\n\n We love the porpoises, so they help us now. They are chasing the\n sharks away, injuring and killing some.\n\"Entities, Warpspaced Entities! There has been reproduction.\"\n\n\n \"\nYorbeush\n,\" cried the assistant in defense. \"It is physically\n impossible. But they are mutants. It is negatively impossible that they\n possess Mind Force to a degree.\"", "Terran seas. But, as a warpspace message from the Terran Council\n indirectly proclaimed, the degenerate Terrans negatively possessed\n a ship of any Space type large or powerful enough to transport the\n 'aquarium' to Energa. Our ships being the largest of the Truce, we\n were petitioned by the Terrans to transport it. These events developed\n before the Terrans grew pestiferous to our cause. We obliged, but even\n our vastest ship was slow, because the physical power necessary to\n bring the weight of the cell through warpspace quickly was too great\n for the solitary four generators. It was imperative that the trip be on\n a longer trajectory arranged through norm-space. During the duration\n of the trip, feelings of suspicion arose inter Three Truce Races.\n As your memory also relates, the 'aquarium' was still in space when", "Diane and I have decided that we\nwant\na baby. Maybe the other fish\nwanted\nthem, so they got them. We\nwant\na baby.\n\"The two Terrans were so biologically mutated and are so nearly\n robotic, that it is physically impossible for reproduction on their\n part,\nbeush\n.\"\n\n\n The\nbeush\nignored the assistant's words and said, \"I have received\n copies of the thought-patterns and translations. There was something\n strange and very powerful about the meaning of the male's thought,\n 'want'. I query.\"\n\n\n \"Be assured without preoccupation that there exists negative danger of\n reproduction.\"\nThe name I wanted to call Diane was not good, because her breasts are\n hard and large, as is her stomach. I think she is sick.\nI do not think Diane is sick. I think she is going to have a baby.\n\"Entities, assistant! On your oath-body you proclaimed that there is\n negative danger of reproduction.\"", "The\nbeush\nnodded in approval. \"Continue, but negatively hesitate\n frequently or it will be necessary to discuss this subject\n post-present.\"\nHis assistant trembled slightly. \"Unequivocally affirmative.\nBeush\n,\n your memory relates that five periods ante-present, when there\n existed the Truce inter Energi, Terrans and ourselves, there was a\n certain period during which gifts of the three nucleus-planets were\n exchanged in friendship. The Terrans were self-contented to donate\n to the Energi an immense 'aquarium'—an 'aquarium' consisting of a\n partly transparent cell in which was placed a collection of Terran\n life-forms that breathed their oxygen from the dense atmosphere of" ], [ "I\ndo\nknow what the \"tank\" is. It is a very large thing filled with\n water, and having four \"corners\", one of which is the Cave where\n Diane and I sleep when the water is black like the ink of the squid\n and cold like dead fish. But we stay warm. There is the \"floor\" of\n the \"tank\", the \"floor\" being where all the rock and seaweed is, with\n all the crawling fish and crabs, where Diane and I walk and sleep.\n There are four \"sides\". \"Sides\" are smooth and blue walls, and have\n \"view-ports\"—round, transparent areas—on them. The Voice says that\n the things in the \"view-ports\" are Faces. I have a face, as does Diane.", "The eldest boy says that we should leave the tank, that a greater\n \"tank\" is around us, and that it is easier to move around in that\n greater tank. He also says that we must guard ourselves against Faces\n outside. That is strange, but the boy is a good boy. Many times he\n knows that things will happen before they do. He is a good boy.\n\n\n He is almost as tall as I am. The eldest girl is pretty like Diane,\n her body very white and soft but, since I\nwanted\nit so, her hair is\n golden, instead of dark. The boy likes her very much, and I have seen\n them together, touching.", "Tomorrow we are leaving the tank. We will\nwant\nto leave it; it is\n getting crowded. The boy says that beyond the greater tank, which we\n will also leave, there is enough space for all the babies Diane could\n have if she lived forever.\n\n\n Forever, he said. It would be nice to live forever. I think I'll\nwant\n....", "I grow to hate the Faces in the \"view-ports\". They are always watching,\n watching. The Voice says that they are enemies, and bad. The Faces have\n not tried to hurt me: but I must think of them as enemies because the\n Voice says so. I ask bad, like the shark? The Voice says, no, worse\n than the sharks and eels. It says that the Faces are evil.\n\n\n The \"tank\" must be high, because the water is high. I have gone once\n to the surface, and, although I could get used to it, the light was\n too much for my eyes. It took me two hundred and seventy kicks to the\n surface; it took me three thousand steps from our Cave to the opposite\n \"side\". The \"tank\" is very large, otherwise the whales would not be\n happy.", "I must mate with her every day, when the water is brightest. The Voice\n says so. It also says that I am in a \"tank\", and that the water is\n brightest when the \"sun\" is over the \"tank\". I do not understand the\n meaning of \"sun\", but the Voice says that \"noon\" is when the \"Sun\" is\n over the \"tank\". I must mate with Diane every \"noon\".", "Tomorrow I will explain to him that if he\nwants\nsomething, he will\n get it. So he must\nwant\na baby.\n\"Query? The Energi will bomb-drop the 'aquarium'? War declared against\n us? War declared? Entities be wholly damned! Negative! Negativvv!\" The\n disintegrator was fired once more, this time into the orange eye of the\nbeush\nhimself, by himself, and for the good of himself.\nWhen, if I ever do\nwant\nthe Voice to come back, it will be very\n surprised to know that Diane has had twenty-four babies; that the three\n eldest boys have mated twice, once and twice, and have had four babies.\n The Voice will also be surprised to know that it took all twenty-nine\n of us to\nwant\nall the Faces around the tank to die, as the eldest boy\n said to do. We could not tell, but the boy said that six million Faces\n were dead. That seems impossible to me, but the boy is always right.", "The\nbeush\nnodded in approval. \"Continue, but negatively hesitate\n frequently or it will be necessary to discuss this subject\n post-present.\"\nHis assistant trembled slightly. \"Unequivocally affirmative.\nBeush\n,\n your memory relates that five periods ante-present, when there\n existed the Truce inter Energi, Terrans and ourselves, there was a\n certain period during which gifts of the three nucleus-planets were\n exchanged in friendship. The Terrans were self-contented to donate\n to the Energi an immense 'aquarium'—an 'aquarium' consisting of a\n partly transparent cell in which was placed a collection of Terran\n life-forms that breathed their oxygen from the dense atmosphere of", "Terran seas. But, as a warpspace message from the Terran Council\n indirectly proclaimed, the degenerate Terrans negatively possessed\n a ship of any Space type large or powerful enough to transport the\n 'aquarium' to Energa. Our ships being the largest of the Truce, we\n were petitioned by the Terrans to transport it. These events developed\n before the Terrans grew pestiferous to our cause. We obliged, but even\n our vastest ship was slow, because the physical power necessary to\n bring the weight of the cell through warpspace quickly was too great\n for the solitary four generators. It was imperative that the trip be on\n a longer trajectory arranged through norm-space. During the duration\n of the trip, feelings of suspicion arose inter Three Truce Races.\n As your memory also relates, the 'aquarium' was still in space when", "Diane has grabbed the tail of a porpoise, and both are playing. Diane\n and I love the porpoises. Sometimes we can even hear their thoughts.\n They are different from the other fish; they are more like us. But they\n have babies and we do not.\n\n\n Diane sees me and, wanting to play, swims behind a rock and looks back,\n beckoning. I make a grab at her as I sneak around the rock. But she\n darts upward, toward the surface, where her body is a shadow of beauty\n against the lighter water above her. I follow her, but she ducks and I\n sail past her. Diane pulls up her legs, knees under her chin, and puts\n her arms around them. She then drops like a rock toward the \"floor\".", "\"Contented,\" came the automatic reply, and the assistant began, \"The\n two humans were perfect for the Plan, I repeat. Before the Energi\n received the message of the race destruction, it was imperative that we\n establish an agent on Energa, near the Force Domes. We assumed that the\n 'aquarium' would be placed on Energa, in the greatest center. That was\n correct, but negatively yet knowing for certainty, we perpetuated the\n Plan, with the 'aquarium' as the basis.", "The fish are many, but the dangers are few. I have seen the sharks\n kill. But the shark does not come near me if I see it and am afraid.\n Sometimes I have caught it sneaking up behind me, but when I turn it\n leaves quickly. I have questioned the Voice about why the sharks leave.\n It does not know. It has no one to ask.\nToday the \"sun\" must be very large, or powerful, or bright, because the\n water is brighter than most days.\n\n\n When I awoke Diane was not beside me. The rock of the Cave is jagged,\n so as I make my way from our bed of cool and slick seaweed, toward the\n entrance, I scrape my leg on the fifth kick. Not much blood comes from\n the cut. That is fortunate, because when there is blood the sharks come.", "But the cracked, flat things with small lights circling about them\n are not pretty like Diane's face. The Voice says that the Faces have\n bodies, like myself, and Diane. No body could be like Diane's. I think\n I should be quite sick if I saw the bodies of the Faces.", "They entered the well-illuminated closet and immediately slipped\n into the unwieldy metallic suits. Once again they took their seats,\n the\nbeush\nreflecting and saying, \"As your memory relates, that\n explosion was a bomb-drop concussion from the Rebellers. We must now\n wear anti-radiation protection. For that reason, and the danger of\n the Energi, you\ndo\nsee why we need the formulae of the Force Domes,\nimmediately\n.\"\n\n\n There was menace in his voice. The assistant trembled violently. Using\n the rare smile of that humanoid race, the\nbeush\ncontinued, \"Do\n negatively self-preoccupy. Resume your information, if contented.\"", "\"To what degree? What degree could produce reproduction when it is\n physically impossible?\" The\nbeush\nwas sarcastic. \"How far can they\n go?\"\n\n\n \"There is negatively great amount they can do. Negative danger, because\n we have studied their instincts and emotions and found that they will\n not leave the 'aquarium,' their 'home'. Unless someone tells them to,\n but there is no one to do so.\"\nToday I damned the Faces nine times and finally\nwanted\nthem to go\n away. The \"view-ports\" went black. It was like the sharks leaving when\n I wanted them to. I still do not understand.", "There has been much useless noise and senseless talk from the Voice\n these days. It is annoying because I must concentrate on loving Diane\n and caring for the baby. So I\nwanted\nthe Voice to leave it. It left.\n\"Entities Be Simply Damned! The spheroid ceased to exist, assistant.\n How far can they go, assistant?\" The\nbeush\nrose, screamed\n hysterically for three seconds and then fired the hand weapon point\n blank at the neck of his assistant.", "\"One of our most competent protoplasmic computers stabilized the final\n steps of the Plan. We were to subject the two Terrans to radiation\n and have as a result two Terrans who could breathe their normal oxygen\n form H2O—the atmosphere of the 'aquarium', I repeat. We were then\n to deprive them of memory, except of the inter-attracting emotions,\n to allow them to live in harmony. Thirdly, we were to place them\n in the 'aquarium' and have them forwarded under the reference of\n semi-intelligent aqua-beings from Terran seas. A simple, but quite\n effective plan, your opinion,\nbeush\n?\"\n\n\n \"Quite,\" was the reply. \"And concerning the method of\n info-interception?\"", "The sharks come today, because Diane is having another baby. Diane\n hurts, and there is more blood than last time. Her face is not pretty\n when she hurts, as it is pretty when she sleeps. So I\nwant\nher to\n sleep. Her face is pretty now with the smile on her lips.\n\"Fourteen thousand Energi ceased to exist, spheroid ceased to exist,\n and another reproduction. Warpspace! How far will they go?\"\nIt has been hundreds of days. Faces keep appearing, but I continue to\nwant\nthem to go away. Diane has had eighteen babies. The oldest are\n swimming around and playing with the porpoises. Diane and I spend most\n of the time teaching the children by showing them things, and by giving\n them our thoughts by touching them.\nToday I found that none of the children have Voices. I could\nwant\nthem to have Voices, but the children's thoughts tell me that it is not\n right to have a Voice.", "\"Unknown to you,\nbeush\n, or to the masses and highers, an\n insignificant pleasure craft was extracted from Terran Space and\n negatively consumed with a planet when the bombs were detonated. The\n ship accommodated two Terrans. Proper Terrans by birth, negatively\n by reference. One was male, other female. The two had been in\n their culture socially and religiously united in a ceremony called\n 'matrimony'. Emotions of sex, protection and an emotion we have\n negatively been able to analyze linked the two, and made them ideal for\n our purpose.\"\n\n\n The assistant looked at the\nbeush\n, picked up his partially full glass\n and, before he could sip it, was dashed to the floor beside the\nbeush\nhimself. The former helped the higher to his unstable legs, and was\n commented to by the same, \"Assistant, proceed to the protecroom.\"", "I have caught a porpoise by his top fin. He knows my wish, so he speeds\n toward Diane, circles her and butts her soft thighs with his snout. She\n laughs, but continues to stay in a ball, her black hair waving. She is\n very beautiful.\n\n\n I try to pry her arms from around her legs gently, but she resists. I\n must use force. Diane does not mind when I do; because she knows I love\n her.\n\n\n I pull her arms away, and slip my arms under hers, kissing her on the\n lips for a long time. Struggling to free herself, laughing again, she\n pokes me sharply with her elbow and escapes my arms. I am surprised.\n She quickly puts her arms around my neck, pulls herself to my back and\n links her slim legs around my middle. She is pretending that I am a\n porpoise. I laugh. She pinches me to go ahead. I swim upward, but her\n thoughts tell me she wants to go to the Cave.", "The room was hot, so the\nbeush\nlazily passed his hand over a faintly\n glowing panel.\n\n\n The room was cooled, and a large-eyed female with silky, ochrous\n fur—very desirable to the majority of humanoids—entered with two\n flared glasses of an odorless, transparent liquid—very desirable\n to the majority of humanoids. The lesser humanoid was being treated\n exceptionately well.\n\n\n The room was momentarily silent as the two sipped at their drinks with\n black lips. The\nbeush\n, as customary, spoke first. \"Inform me of the\n pre-espionage intelligence accomplishments contra-Energi. I have not\n been previously informed. Do not spare the details.\"" ], [ "I grow to hate the Faces in the \"view-ports\". They are always watching,\n watching. The Voice says that they are enemies, and bad. The Faces have\n not tried to hurt me: but I must think of them as enemies because the\n Voice says so. I ask bad, like the shark? The Voice says, no, worse\n than the sharks and eels. It says that the Faces are evil.\n\n\n The \"tank\" must be high, because the water is high. I have gone once\n to the surface, and, although I could get used to it, the light was\n too much for my eyes. It took me two hundred and seventy kicks to the\n surface; it took me three thousand steps from our Cave to the opposite\n \"side\". The \"tank\" is very large, otherwise the whales would not be\n happy.", "But the cracked, flat things with small lights circling about them\n are not pretty like Diane's face. The Voice says that the Faces have\n bodies, like myself, and Diane. No body could be like Diane's. I think\n I should be quite sick if I saw the bodies of the Faces.", "I\ndo\nknow what the \"tank\" is. It is a very large thing filled with\n water, and having four \"corners\", one of which is the Cave where\n Diane and I sleep when the water is black like the ink of the squid\n and cold like dead fish. But we stay warm. There is the \"floor\" of\n the \"tank\", the \"floor\" being where all the rock and seaweed is, with\n all the crawling fish and crabs, where Diane and I walk and sleep.\n There are four \"sides\". \"Sides\" are smooth and blue walls, and have\n \"view-ports\"—round, transparent areas—on them. The Voice says that\n the things in the \"view-ports\" are Faces. I have a face, as does Diane.", "THE FACES OUTSIDE\nBY BRUCE McALLISTER\nThey were all that was left of\n\n humanity—if they were still human!\n\n\n [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1963.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nI wanted to call her Soft Breast, because she is soft when I hold her\n to me. But the Voice told me to call her Diane. When I call her Diane,\n I have a pleasant feeling, and she seems closer to me. She likes the\n name \"Diane\". The Voice knew what was best, of course, as it always\n does.", "The Voice then says that the Faces are watching us, as we sometimes\n watch the porpoises. It took a very long time to grow used to having\n the Faces watch us, as Diane and I came together, but we learned to do\n it as simply as we swim and sleep.\n\n\n But Diane does not have babies. I am very sad when I see the porpoises\n and whales with their young. Diane and I sleep together in the Cave;\n Diane is very warm and soft. We sleep in happiness, but when we are\n awake, we are lonely. I question the Voice about a baby for Diane, but\n the Voice is always silent.", "The assistant continued without hesitation, embarrassed by his\n incompetency, \"A hyper-complex spheroid with radio interceptors,\n a-matter viewers and recorders and the general intelligence instruments\n of micro-size was placed in the cranium of the male mutant. The\n spheroid has negative direct control over the organism. Size was too\n scarce for use on trivialities. Then an agent was placed behind the\n larger controls at our end of the instruments.\"\n\n\n \"And you are the agent?\"\n\n\n \"Hyper-contentedly affirmative.\"\nI have done two things today. I have found the word for my hatred of\n the Faces. The Voice gave it to me. When I asked the Voice, it laughed\n and told me the word to use was \"damn\". So today I have thrice said,\n \"Damn the Faces. Damn them.\"", "The eldest boy says that we should leave the tank, that a greater\n \"tank\" is around us, and that it is easier to move around in that\n greater tank. He also says that we must guard ourselves against Faces\n outside. That is strange, but the boy is a good boy. Many times he\n knows that things will happen before they do. He is a good boy.\n\n\n He is almost as tall as I am. The eldest girl is pretty like Diane,\n her body very white and soft but, since I\nwanted\nit so, her hair is\n golden, instead of dark. The boy likes her very much, and I have seen\n them together, touching.", "I understand. I carry her through the water very slowly, feeling the\n warmth and nipples of her breasts pressed against my back as she rests\n her head on my shoulder and smiles.\n\n\n The Faces continue to stare. Many times I have searched for a word to\n show my hatred for them. I shall find it somehow, though. Sooner or\n later.\n\"What count of planets had the Terrans infested?\" The furry humanoid\n leaned over the desk and stared, unblinking, at the lesser humanoid in\n the only other chair in the room. His gaze was dropped as he scratched\n informally at the heavy fur at his wrist. He raised his gaze again.\n\n\n \"Forty-three is the count,\nbeush\n,\" replied the other.\n\n\n \"And the count of planets destroyed?\"\n\n\n \"Forty-three planetoid missiles were sent and detonated simultaneously\n without resistance or losses on our part,\nbeush\n,\" the assistant\nbeush\nanswered indirectly.", "Tomorrow I will explain to him that if he\nwants\nsomething, he will\n get it. So he must\nwant\na baby.\n\"Query? The Energi will bomb-drop the 'aquarium'? War declared against\n us? War declared? Entities be wholly damned! Negative! Negativvv!\" The\n disintegrator was fired once more, this time into the orange eye of the\nbeush\nhimself, by himself, and for the good of himself.\nWhen, if I ever do\nwant\nthe Voice to come back, it will be very\n surprised to know that Diane has had twenty-four babies; that the three\n eldest boys have mated twice, once and twice, and have had four babies.\n The Voice will also be surprised to know that it took all twenty-nine\n of us to\nwant\nall the Faces around the tank to die, as the eldest boy\n said to do. We could not tell, but the boy said that six million Faces\n were dead. That seems impossible to me, but the boy is always right.", "The sharks come today, because Diane is having another baby. Diane\n hurts, and there is more blood than last time. Her face is not pretty\n when she hurts, as it is pretty when she sleeps. So I\nwant\nher to\n sleep. Her face is pretty now with the smile on her lips.\n\"Fourteen thousand Energi ceased to exist, spheroid ceased to exist,\n and another reproduction. Warpspace! How far will they go?\"\nIt has been hundreds of days. Faces keep appearing, but I continue to\nwant\nthem to go away. Diane has had eighteen babies. The oldest are\n swimming around and playing with the porpoises. Diane and I spend most\n of the time teaching the children by showing them things, and by giving\n them our thoughts by touching them.\nToday I found that none of the children have Voices. I could\nwant\nthem to have Voices, but the children's thoughts tell me that it is not\n right to have a Voice.", "\"To what degree? What degree could produce reproduction when it is\n physically impossible?\" The\nbeush\nwas sarcastic. \"How far can they\n go?\"\n\n\n \"There is negatively great amount they can do. Negative danger, because\n we have studied their instincts and emotions and found that they will\n not leave the 'aquarium,' their 'home'. Unless someone tells them to,\n but there is no one to do so.\"\nToday I damned the Faces nine times and finally\nwanted\nthem to go\n away. The \"view-ports\" went black. It was like the sharks leaving when\n I wanted them to. I still do not understand.", "There has been much useless noise and senseless talk from the Voice\n these days. It is annoying because I must concentrate on loving Diane\n and caring for the baby. So I\nwanted\nthe Voice to leave it. It left.\n\"Entities Be Simply Damned! The spheroid ceased to exist, assistant.\n How far can they go, assistant?\" The\nbeush\nrose, screamed\n hysterically for three seconds and then fired the hand weapon point\n blank at the neck of his assistant.", "They entered the well-illuminated closet and immediately slipped\n into the unwieldy metallic suits. Once again they took their seats,\n the\nbeush\nreflecting and saying, \"As your memory relates, that\n explosion was a bomb-drop concussion from the Rebellers. We must now\n wear anti-radiation protection. For that reason, and the danger of\n the Energi, you\ndo\nsee why we need the formulae of the Force Domes,\nimmediately\n.\"\n\n\n There was menace in his voice. The assistant trembled violently. Using\n the rare smile of that humanoid race, the\nbeush\ncontinued, \"Do\n negatively self-preoccupy. Resume your information, if contented.\"", "Terran seas. But, as a warpspace message from the Terran Council\n indirectly proclaimed, the degenerate Terrans negatively possessed\n a ship of any Space type large or powerful enough to transport the\n 'aquarium' to Energa. Our ships being the largest of the Truce, we\n were petitioned by the Terrans to transport it. These events developed\n before the Terrans grew pestiferous to our cause. We obliged, but even\n our vastest ship was slow, because the physical power necessary to\n bring the weight of the cell through warpspace quickly was too great\n for the solitary four generators. It was imperative that the trip be on\n a longer trajectory arranged through norm-space. During the duration\n of the trip, feelings of suspicion arose inter Three Truce Races.\n As your memory also relates, the 'aquarium' was still in space when", "Tomorrow we are leaving the tank. We will\nwant\nto leave it; it is\n getting crowded. The boy says that beyond the greater tank, which we\n will also leave, there is enough space for all the babies Diane could\n have if she lived forever.\n\n\n Forever, he said. It would be nice to live forever. I think I'll\nwant\n....", "\"Of certainty,\nbeush\n,\" began the assistant with all the grace of an\n informer. \"The Light and Force Research of the Energi is executed in\n one center of one planet, the planet being Energa, as our intelligence\n service has conveniently listed it. The Energi have negative necessity\n for secrecy in their Light and Force Research, because, first, all\n centers are crusted and protected by Force Domes. Second, it is near\n impossibility that one could so self-disguise that he would negatively\n be detectable.\" He hesitated.\n\n\n \"And these Energi,\" queried the\nbeush\n, \"are semi-telepathic or\n empathic?\"\n\n\n \"Affirmative,\" the assistant mumbled.\n\n\n \"Then you have there a third reason,\" offered the\nbeush\n.\n\n\n \"Graces be given you,\nbeush\n.\"", "\"Rest assured, peace,\nbeush\n.\n\n\n \"But his thoughts!\"\n\n\n \"Rest assured,\nhigher beush\n.\"\nThere is much blood in the water today. Diane is having a baby; sharks\n have come. I have never seen so many sharks, and as big as they are I\n have never seen. I am afraid, but still some sneak among us near Diane.\n\n\n We love the porpoises, so they help us now. They are chasing the\n sharks away, injuring and killing some.\n\"Entities, Warpspaced Entities! There has been reproduction.\"\n\n\n \"\nYorbeush\n,\" cried the assistant in defense. \"It is physically\n impossible. But they are mutants. It is negatively impossible that they\n possess Mind Force to a degree.\"", "\"Contented,\" came the automatic reply, and the assistant began, \"The\n two humans were perfect for the Plan, I repeat. Before the Energi\n received the message of the race destruction, it was imperative that we\n establish an agent on Energa, near the Force Domes. We assumed that the\n 'aquarium' would be placed on Energa, in the greatest center. That was\n correct, but negatively yet knowing for certainty, we perpetuated the\n Plan, with the 'aquarium' as the basis.", "The\nbeush\nnodded in approval. \"Continue, but negatively hesitate\n frequently or it will be necessary to discuss this subject\n post-present.\"\nHis assistant trembled slightly. \"Unequivocally affirmative.\nBeush\n,\n your memory relates that five periods ante-present, when there\n existed the Truce inter Energi, Terrans and ourselves, there was a\n certain period during which gifts of the three nucleus-planets were\n exchanged in friendship. The Terrans were self-contented to donate\n to the Energi an immense 'aquarium'—an 'aquarium' consisting of a\n partly transparent cell in which was placed a collection of Terran\n life-forms that breathed their oxygen from the dense atmosphere of", "\"One of our most competent protoplasmic computers stabilized the final\n steps of the Plan. We were to subject the two Terrans to radiation\n and have as a result two Terrans who could breathe their normal oxygen\n form H2O—the atmosphere of the 'aquarium', I repeat. We were then\n to deprive them of memory, except of the inter-attracting emotions,\n to allow them to live in harmony. Thirdly, we were to place them\n in the 'aquarium' and have them forwarded under the reference of\n semi-intelligent aqua-beings from Terran seas. A simple, but quite\n effective plan, your opinion,\nbeush\n?\"\n\n\n \"Quite,\" was the reply. \"And concerning the method of\n info-interception?\"" ], [ "Diane has grabbed the tail of a porpoise, and both are playing. Diane\n and I love the porpoises. Sometimes we can even hear their thoughts.\n They are different from the other fish; they are more like us. But they\n have babies and we do not.\n\n\n Diane sees me and, wanting to play, swims behind a rock and looks back,\n beckoning. I make a grab at her as I sneak around the rock. But she\n darts upward, toward the surface, where her body is a shadow of beauty\n against the lighter water above her. I follow her, but she ducks and I\n sail past her. Diane pulls up her legs, knees under her chin, and puts\n her arms around them. She then drops like a rock toward the \"floor\".", "I have caught a porpoise by his top fin. He knows my wish, so he speeds\n toward Diane, circles her and butts her soft thighs with his snout. She\n laughs, but continues to stay in a ball, her black hair waving. She is\n very beautiful.\n\n\n I try to pry her arms from around her legs gently, but she resists. I\n must use force. Diane does not mind when I do; because she knows I love\n her.\n\n\n I pull her arms away, and slip my arms under hers, kissing her on the\n lips for a long time. Struggling to free herself, laughing again, she\n pokes me sharply with her elbow and escapes my arms. I am surprised.\n She quickly puts her arms around my neck, pulls herself to my back and\n links her slim legs around my middle. She is pretending that I am a\n porpoise. I laugh. She pinches me to go ahead. I swim upward, but her\n thoughts tell me she wants to go to the Cave.", "I\ndo\nknow what the \"tank\" is. It is a very large thing filled with\n water, and having four \"corners\", one of which is the Cave where\n Diane and I sleep when the water is black like the ink of the squid\n and cold like dead fish. But we stay warm. There is the \"floor\" of\n the \"tank\", the \"floor\" being where all the rock and seaweed is, with\n all the crawling fish and crabs, where Diane and I walk and sleep.\n There are four \"sides\". \"Sides\" are smooth and blue walls, and have\n \"view-ports\"—round, transparent areas—on them. The Voice says that\n the things in the \"view-ports\" are Faces. I have a face, as does Diane.", "The fish are many, but the dangers are few. I have seen the sharks\n kill. But the shark does not come near me if I see it and am afraid.\n Sometimes I have caught it sneaking up behind me, but when I turn it\n leaves quickly. I have questioned the Voice about why the sharks leave.\n It does not know. It has no one to ask.\nToday the \"sun\" must be very large, or powerful, or bright, because the\n water is brighter than most days.\n\n\n When I awoke Diane was not beside me. The rock of the Cave is jagged,\n so as I make my way from our bed of cool and slick seaweed, toward the\n entrance, I scrape my leg on the fifth kick. Not much blood comes from\n the cut. That is fortunate, because when there is blood the sharks come.", "The Voice then says that the Faces are watching us, as we sometimes\n watch the porpoises. It took a very long time to grow used to having\n the Faces watch us, as Diane and I came together, but we learned to do\n it as simply as we swim and sleep.\n\n\n But Diane does not have babies. I am very sad when I see the porpoises\n and whales with their young. Diane and I sleep together in the Cave;\n Diane is very warm and soft. We sleep in happiness, but when we are\n awake, we are lonely. I question the Voice about a baby for Diane, but\n the Voice is always silent.", "THE FACES OUTSIDE\nBY BRUCE McALLISTER\nThey were all that was left of\n\n humanity—if they were still human!\n\n\n [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1963.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nI wanted to call her Soft Breast, because she is soft when I hold her\n to me. But the Voice told me to call her Diane. When I call her Diane,\n I have a pleasant feeling, and she seems closer to me. She likes the\n name \"Diane\". The Voice knew what was best, of course, as it always\n does.", "Tomorrow we are leaving the tank. We will\nwant\nto leave it; it is\n getting crowded. The boy says that beyond the greater tank, which we\n will also leave, there is enough space for all the babies Diane could\n have if she lived forever.\n\n\n Forever, he said. It would be nice to live forever. I think I'll\nwant\n....", "I grow to hate the Faces in the \"view-ports\". They are always watching,\n watching. The Voice says that they are enemies, and bad. The Faces have\n not tried to hurt me: but I must think of them as enemies because the\n Voice says so. I ask bad, like the shark? The Voice says, no, worse\n than the sharks and eels. It says that the Faces are evil.\n\n\n The \"tank\" must be high, because the water is high. I have gone once\n to the surface, and, although I could get used to it, the light was\n too much for my eyes. It took me two hundred and seventy kicks to the\n surface; it took me three thousand steps from our Cave to the opposite\n \"side\". The \"tank\" is very large, otherwise the whales would not be\n happy.", "The eldest boy says that we should leave the tank, that a greater\n \"tank\" is around us, and that it is easier to move around in that\n greater tank. He also says that we must guard ourselves against Faces\n outside. That is strange, but the boy is a good boy. Many times he\n knows that things will happen before they do. He is a good boy.\n\n\n He is almost as tall as I am. The eldest girl is pretty like Diane,\n her body very white and soft but, since I\nwanted\nit so, her hair is\n golden, instead of dark. The boy likes her very much, and I have seen\n them together, touching.", "\"One of our most competent protoplasmic computers stabilized the final\n steps of the Plan. We were to subject the two Terrans to radiation\n and have as a result two Terrans who could breathe their normal oxygen\n form H2O—the atmosphere of the 'aquarium', I repeat. We were then\n to deprive them of memory, except of the inter-attracting emotions,\n to allow them to live in harmony. Thirdly, we were to place them\n in the 'aquarium' and have them forwarded under the reference of\n semi-intelligent aqua-beings from Terran seas. A simple, but quite\n effective plan, your opinion,\nbeush\n?\"\n\n\n \"Quite,\" was the reply. \"And concerning the method of\n info-interception?\"", "Diane and I have decided that we\nwant\na baby. Maybe the other fish\nwanted\nthem, so they got them. We\nwant\na baby.\n\"The two Terrans were so biologically mutated and are so nearly\n robotic, that it is physically impossible for reproduction on their\n part,\nbeush\n.\"\n\n\n The\nbeush\nignored the assistant's words and said, \"I have received\n copies of the thought-patterns and translations. There was something\n strange and very powerful about the meaning of the male's thought,\n 'want'. I query.\"\n\n\n \"Be assured without preoccupation that there exists negative danger of\n reproduction.\"\nThe name I wanted to call Diane was not good, because her breasts are\n hard and large, as is her stomach. I think she is sick.\nI do not think Diane is sick. I think she is going to have a baby.\n\"Entities, assistant! On your oath-body you proclaimed that there is\n negative danger of reproduction.\"", "The sharks come today, because Diane is having another baby. Diane\n hurts, and there is more blood than last time. Her face is not pretty\n when she hurts, as it is pretty when she sleeps. So I\nwant\nher to\n sleep. Her face is pretty now with the smile on her lips.\n\"Fourteen thousand Energi ceased to exist, spheroid ceased to exist,\n and another reproduction. Warpspace! How far will they go?\"\nIt has been hundreds of days. Faces keep appearing, but I continue to\nwant\nthem to go away. Diane has had eighteen babies. The oldest are\n swimming around and playing with the porpoises. Diane and I spend most\n of the time teaching the children by showing them things, and by giving\n them our thoughts by touching them.\nToday I found that none of the children have Voices. I could\nwant\nthem to have Voices, but the children's thoughts tell me that it is not\n right to have a Voice.", "\"Rest assured, peace,\nbeush\n.\n\n\n \"But his thoughts!\"\n\n\n \"Rest assured,\nhigher beush\n.\"\nThere is much blood in the water today. Diane is having a baby; sharks\n have come. I have never seen so many sharks, and as big as they are I\n have never seen. I am afraid, but still some sneak among us near Diane.\n\n\n We love the porpoises, so they help us now. They are chasing the\n sharks away, injuring and killing some.\n\"Entities, Warpspaced Entities! There has been reproduction.\"\n\n\n \"\nYorbeush\n,\" cried the assistant in defense. \"It is physically\n impossible. But they are mutants. It is negatively impossible that they\n possess Mind Force to a degree.\"", "But the cracked, flat things with small lights circling about them\n are not pretty like Diane's face. The Voice says that the Faces have\n bodies, like myself, and Diane. No body could be like Diane's. I think\n I should be quite sick if I saw the bodies of the Faces.", "\"To what degree? What degree could produce reproduction when it is\n physically impossible?\" The\nbeush\nwas sarcastic. \"How far can they\n go?\"\n\n\n \"There is negatively great amount they can do. Negative danger, because\n we have studied their instincts and emotions and found that they will\n not leave the 'aquarium,' their 'home'. Unless someone tells them to,\n but there is no one to do so.\"\nToday I damned the Faces nine times and finally\nwanted\nthem to go\n away. The \"view-ports\" went black. It was like the sharks leaving when\n I wanted them to. I still do not understand.", "They entered the well-illuminated closet and immediately slipped\n into the unwieldy metallic suits. Once again they took their seats,\n the\nbeush\nreflecting and saying, \"As your memory relates, that\n explosion was a bomb-drop concussion from the Rebellers. We must now\n wear anti-radiation protection. For that reason, and the danger of\n the Energi, you\ndo\nsee why we need the formulae of the Force Domes,\nimmediately\n.\"\n\n\n There was menace in his voice. The assistant trembled violently. Using\n the rare smile of that humanoid race, the\nbeush\ncontinued, \"Do\n negatively self-preoccupy. Resume your information, if contented.\"", "\"Contented,\" came the automatic reply, and the assistant began, \"The\n two humans were perfect for the Plan, I repeat. Before the Energi\n received the message of the race destruction, it was imperative that we\n establish an agent on Energa, near the Force Domes. We assumed that the\n 'aquarium' would be placed on Energa, in the greatest center. That was\n correct, but negatively yet knowing for certainty, we perpetuated the\n Plan, with the 'aquarium' as the basis.", "I must mate with her every day, when the water is brightest. The Voice\n says so. It also says that I am in a \"tank\", and that the water is\n brightest when the \"sun\" is over the \"tank\". I do not understand the\n meaning of \"sun\", but the Voice says that \"noon\" is when the \"Sun\" is\n over the \"tank\". I must mate with Diane every \"noon\".", "There has been much useless noise and senseless talk from the Voice\n these days. It is annoying because I must concentrate on loving Diane\n and caring for the baby. So I\nwanted\nthe Voice to leave it. It left.\n\"Entities Be Simply Damned! The spheroid ceased to exist, assistant.\n How far can they go, assistant?\" The\nbeush\nrose, screamed\n hysterically for three seconds and then fired the hand weapon point\n blank at the neck of his assistant.", "The\nbeush\nnodded in approval. \"Continue, but negatively hesitate\n frequently or it will be necessary to discuss this subject\n post-present.\"\nHis assistant trembled slightly. \"Unequivocally affirmative.\nBeush\n,\n your memory relates that five periods ante-present, when there\n existed the Truce inter Energi, Terrans and ourselves, there was a\n certain period during which gifts of the three nucleus-planets were\n exchanged in friendship. The Terrans were self-contented to donate\n to the Energi an immense 'aquarium'—an 'aquarium' consisting of a\n partly transparent cell in which was placed a collection of Terran\n life-forms that breathed their oxygen from the dense atmosphere of" ], [ "There has been much useless noise and senseless talk from the Voice\n these days. It is annoying because I must concentrate on loving Diane\n and caring for the baby. So I\nwanted\nthe Voice to leave it. It left.\n\"Entities Be Simply Damned! The spheroid ceased to exist, assistant.\n How far can they go, assistant?\" The\nbeush\nrose, screamed\n hysterically for three seconds and then fired the hand weapon point\n blank at the neck of his assistant.", "The Voice then says that the Faces are watching us, as we sometimes\n watch the porpoises. It took a very long time to grow used to having\n the Faces watch us, as Diane and I came together, but we learned to do\n it as simply as we swim and sleep.\n\n\n But Diane does not have babies. I am very sad when I see the porpoises\n and whales with their young. Diane and I sleep together in the Cave;\n Diane is very warm and soft. We sleep in happiness, but when we are\n awake, we are lonely. I question the Voice about a baby for Diane, but\n the Voice is always silent.", "But the cracked, flat things with small lights circling about them\n are not pretty like Diane's face. The Voice says that the Faces have\n bodies, like myself, and Diane. No body could be like Diane's. I think\n I should be quite sick if I saw the bodies of the Faces.", "I\ndo\nknow what the \"tank\" is. It is a very large thing filled with\n water, and having four \"corners\", one of which is the Cave where\n Diane and I sleep when the water is black like the ink of the squid\n and cold like dead fish. But we stay warm. There is the \"floor\" of\n the \"tank\", the \"floor\" being where all the rock and seaweed is, with\n all the crawling fish and crabs, where Diane and I walk and sleep.\n There are four \"sides\". \"Sides\" are smooth and blue walls, and have\n \"view-ports\"—round, transparent areas—on them. The Voice says that\n the things in the \"view-ports\" are Faces. I have a face, as does Diane.", "I grow to hate the Faces in the \"view-ports\". They are always watching,\n watching. The Voice says that they are enemies, and bad. The Faces have\n not tried to hurt me: but I must think of them as enemies because the\n Voice says so. I ask bad, like the shark? The Voice says, no, worse\n than the sharks and eels. It says that the Faces are evil.\n\n\n The \"tank\" must be high, because the water is high. I have gone once\n to the surface, and, although I could get used to it, the light was\n too much for my eyes. It took me two hundred and seventy kicks to the\n surface; it took me three thousand steps from our Cave to the opposite\n \"side\". The \"tank\" is very large, otherwise the whales would not be\n happy.", "The assistant continued without hesitation, embarrassed by his\n incompetency, \"A hyper-complex spheroid with radio interceptors,\n a-matter viewers and recorders and the general intelligence instruments\n of micro-size was placed in the cranium of the male mutant. The\n spheroid has negative direct control over the organism. Size was too\n scarce for use on trivialities. Then an agent was placed behind the\n larger controls at our end of the instruments.\"\n\n\n \"And you are the agent?\"\n\n\n \"Hyper-contentedly affirmative.\"\nI have done two things today. I have found the word for my hatred of\n the Faces. The Voice gave it to me. When I asked the Voice, it laughed\n and told me the word to use was \"damn\". So today I have thrice said,\n \"Damn the Faces. Damn them.\"", "The fish are many, but the dangers are few. I have seen the sharks\n kill. But the shark does not come near me if I see it and am afraid.\n Sometimes I have caught it sneaking up behind me, but when I turn it\n leaves quickly. I have questioned the Voice about why the sharks leave.\n It does not know. It has no one to ask.\nToday the \"sun\" must be very large, or powerful, or bright, because the\n water is brighter than most days.\n\n\n When I awoke Diane was not beside me. The rock of the Cave is jagged,\n so as I make my way from our bed of cool and slick seaweed, toward the\n entrance, I scrape my leg on the fifth kick. Not much blood comes from\n the cut. That is fortunate, because when there is blood the sharks come.", "Tomorrow I will explain to him that if he\nwants\nsomething, he will\n get it. So he must\nwant\na baby.\n\"Query? The Energi will bomb-drop the 'aquarium'? War declared against\n us? War declared? Entities be wholly damned! Negative! Negativvv!\" The\n disintegrator was fired once more, this time into the orange eye of the\nbeush\nhimself, by himself, and for the good of himself.\nWhen, if I ever do\nwant\nthe Voice to come back, it will be very\n surprised to know that Diane has had twenty-four babies; that the three\n eldest boys have mated twice, once and twice, and have had four babies.\n The Voice will also be surprised to know that it took all twenty-nine\n of us to\nwant\nall the Faces around the tank to die, as the eldest boy\n said to do. We could not tell, but the boy said that six million Faces\n were dead. That seems impossible to me, but the boy is always right.", "The sharks come today, because Diane is having another baby. Diane\n hurts, and there is more blood than last time. Her face is not pretty\n when she hurts, as it is pretty when she sleeps. So I\nwant\nher to\n sleep. Her face is pretty now with the smile on her lips.\n\"Fourteen thousand Energi ceased to exist, spheroid ceased to exist,\n and another reproduction. Warpspace! How far will they go?\"\nIt has been hundreds of days. Faces keep appearing, but I continue to\nwant\nthem to go away. Diane has had eighteen babies. The oldest are\n swimming around and playing with the porpoises. Diane and I spend most\n of the time teaching the children by showing them things, and by giving\n them our thoughts by touching them.\nToday I found that none of the children have Voices. I could\nwant\nthem to have Voices, but the children's thoughts tell me that it is not\n right to have a Voice.", "THE FACES OUTSIDE\nBY BRUCE McALLISTER\nThey were all that was left of\n\n humanity—if they were still human!\n\n\n [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1963.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nI wanted to call her Soft Breast, because she is soft when I hold her\n to me. But the Voice told me to call her Diane. When I call her Diane,\n I have a pleasant feeling, and she seems closer to me. She likes the\n name \"Diane\". The Voice knew what was best, of course, as it always\n does.", "The eldest boy says that we should leave the tank, that a greater\n \"tank\" is around us, and that it is easier to move around in that\n greater tank. He also says that we must guard ourselves against Faces\n outside. That is strange, but the boy is a good boy. Many times he\n knows that things will happen before they do. He is a good boy.\n\n\n He is almost as tall as I am. The eldest girl is pretty like Diane,\n her body very white and soft but, since I\nwanted\nit so, her hair is\n golden, instead of dark. The boy likes her very much, and I have seen\n them together, touching.", "I must mate with her every day, when the water is brightest. The Voice\n says so. It also says that I am in a \"tank\", and that the water is\n brightest when the \"sun\" is over the \"tank\". I do not understand the\n meaning of \"sun\", but the Voice says that \"noon\" is when the \"Sun\" is\n over the \"tank\". I must mate with Diane every \"noon\".", "\"Contented,\" came the automatic reply, and the assistant began, \"The\n two humans were perfect for the Plan, I repeat. Before the Energi\n received the message of the race destruction, it was imperative that we\n establish an agent on Energa, near the Force Domes. We assumed that the\n 'aquarium' would be placed on Energa, in the greatest center. That was\n correct, but negatively yet knowing for certainty, we perpetuated the\n Plan, with the 'aquarium' as the basis.", "They entered the well-illuminated closet and immediately slipped\n into the unwieldy metallic suits. Once again they took their seats,\n the\nbeush\nreflecting and saying, \"As your memory relates, that\n explosion was a bomb-drop concussion from the Rebellers. We must now\n wear anti-radiation protection. For that reason, and the danger of\n the Energi, you\ndo\nsee why we need the formulae of the Force Domes,\nimmediately\n.\"\n\n\n There was menace in his voice. The assistant trembled violently. Using\n the rare smile of that humanoid race, the\nbeush\ncontinued, \"Do\n negatively self-preoccupy. Resume your information, if contented.\"", "The room was hot, so the\nbeush\nlazily passed his hand over a faintly\n glowing panel.\n\n\n The room was cooled, and a large-eyed female with silky, ochrous\n fur—very desirable to the majority of humanoids—entered with two\n flared glasses of an odorless, transparent liquid—very desirable\n to the majority of humanoids. The lesser humanoid was being treated\n exceptionately well.\n\n\n The room was momentarily silent as the two sipped at their drinks with\n black lips. The\nbeush\n, as customary, spoke first. \"Inform me of the\n pre-espionage intelligence accomplishments contra-Energi. I have not\n been previously informed. Do not spare the details.\"", "\"To what degree? What degree could produce reproduction when it is\n physically impossible?\" The\nbeush\nwas sarcastic. \"How far can they\n go?\"\n\n\n \"There is negatively great amount they can do. Negative danger, because\n we have studied their instincts and emotions and found that they will\n not leave the 'aquarium,' their 'home'. Unless someone tells them to,\n but there is no one to do so.\"\nToday I damned the Faces nine times and finally\nwanted\nthem to go\n away. The \"view-ports\" went black. It was like the sharks leaving when\n I wanted them to. I still do not understand.", "\"One of our most competent protoplasmic computers stabilized the final\n steps of the Plan. We were to subject the two Terrans to radiation\n and have as a result two Terrans who could breathe their normal oxygen\n form H2O—the atmosphere of the 'aquarium', I repeat. We were then\n to deprive them of memory, except of the inter-attracting emotions,\n to allow them to live in harmony. Thirdly, we were to place them\n in the 'aquarium' and have them forwarded under the reference of\n semi-intelligent aqua-beings from Terran seas. A simple, but quite\n effective plan, your opinion,\nbeush\n?\"\n\n\n \"Quite,\" was the reply. \"And concerning the method of\n info-interception?\"", "I have caught a porpoise by his top fin. He knows my wish, so he speeds\n toward Diane, circles her and butts her soft thighs with his snout. She\n laughs, but continues to stay in a ball, her black hair waving. She is\n very beautiful.\n\n\n I try to pry her arms from around her legs gently, but she resists. I\n must use force. Diane does not mind when I do; because she knows I love\n her.\n\n\n I pull her arms away, and slip my arms under hers, kissing her on the\n lips for a long time. Struggling to free herself, laughing again, she\n pokes me sharply with her elbow and escapes my arms. I am surprised.\n She quickly puts her arms around my neck, pulls herself to my back and\n links her slim legs around my middle. She is pretending that I am a\n porpoise. I laugh. She pinches me to go ahead. I swim upward, but her\n thoughts tell me she wants to go to the Cave.", "The\nbeush\nnodded in approval. \"Continue, but negatively hesitate\n frequently or it will be necessary to discuss this subject\n post-present.\"\nHis assistant trembled slightly. \"Unequivocally affirmative.\nBeush\n,\n your memory relates that five periods ante-present, when there\n existed the Truce inter Energi, Terrans and ourselves, there was a\n certain period during which gifts of the three nucleus-planets were\n exchanged in friendship. The Terrans were self-contented to donate\n to the Energi an immense 'aquarium'—an 'aquarium' consisting of a\n partly transparent cell in which was placed a collection of Terran\n life-forms that breathed their oxygen from the dense atmosphere of", "\"Of certainty,\nbeush\n,\" began the assistant with all the grace of an\n informer. \"The Light and Force Research of the Energi is executed in\n one center of one planet, the planet being Energa, as our intelligence\n service has conveniently listed it. The Energi have negative necessity\n for secrecy in their Light and Force Research, because, first, all\n centers are crusted and protected by Force Domes. Second, it is near\n impossibility that one could so self-disguise that he would negatively\n be detectable.\" He hesitated.\n\n\n \"And these Energi,\" queried the\nbeush\n, \"are semi-telepathic or\n empathic?\"\n\n\n \"Affirmative,\" the assistant mumbled.\n\n\n \"Then you have there a third reason,\" offered the\nbeush\n.\n\n\n \"Graces be given you,\nbeush\n.\"" ], [ "There has been much useless noise and senseless talk from the Voice\n these days. It is annoying because I must concentrate on loving Diane\n and caring for the baby. So I\nwanted\nthe Voice to leave it. It left.\n\"Entities Be Simply Damned! The spheroid ceased to exist, assistant.\n How far can they go, assistant?\" The\nbeush\nrose, screamed\n hysterically for three seconds and then fired the hand weapon point\n blank at the neck of his assistant.", "They entered the well-illuminated closet and immediately slipped\n into the unwieldy metallic suits. Once again they took their seats,\n the\nbeush\nreflecting and saying, \"As your memory relates, that\n explosion was a bomb-drop concussion from the Rebellers. We must now\n wear anti-radiation protection. For that reason, and the danger of\n the Energi, you\ndo\nsee why we need the formulae of the Force Domes,\nimmediately\n.\"\n\n\n There was menace in his voice. The assistant trembled violently. Using\n the rare smile of that humanoid race, the\nbeush\ncontinued, \"Do\n negatively self-preoccupy. Resume your information, if contented.\"", "\"Unknown to you,\nbeush\n, or to the masses and highers, an\n insignificant pleasure craft was extracted from Terran Space and\n negatively consumed with a planet when the bombs were detonated. The\n ship accommodated two Terrans. Proper Terrans by birth, negatively\n by reference. One was male, other female. The two had been in\n their culture socially and religiously united in a ceremony called\n 'matrimony'. Emotions of sex, protection and an emotion we have\n negatively been able to analyze linked the two, and made them ideal for\n our purpose.\"\n\n\n The assistant looked at the\nbeush\n, picked up his partially full glass\n and, before he could sip it, was dashed to the floor beside the\nbeush\nhimself. The former helped the higher to his unstable legs, and was\n commented to by the same, \"Assistant, proceed to the protecroom.\"", "\"Of certainty,\nbeush\n,\" began the assistant with all the grace of an\n informer. \"The Light and Force Research of the Energi is executed in\n one center of one planet, the planet being Energa, as our intelligence\n service has conveniently listed it. The Energi have negative necessity\n for secrecy in their Light and Force Research, because, first, all\n centers are crusted and protected by Force Domes. Second, it is near\n impossibility that one could so self-disguise that he would negatively\n be detectable.\" He hesitated.\n\n\n \"And these Energi,\" queried the\nbeush\n, \"are semi-telepathic or\n empathic?\"\n\n\n \"Affirmative,\" the assistant mumbled.\n\n\n \"Then you have there a third reason,\" offered the\nbeush\n.\n\n\n \"Graces be given you,\nbeush\n.\"", "\"Rest assured, peace,\nbeush\n.\n\n\n \"But his thoughts!\"\n\n\n \"Rest assured,\nhigher beush\n.\"\nThere is much blood in the water today. Diane is having a baby; sharks\n have come. I have never seen so many sharks, and as big as they are I\n have never seen. I am afraid, but still some sneak among us near Diane.\n\n\n We love the porpoises, so they help us now. They are chasing the\n sharks away, injuring and killing some.\n\"Entities, Warpspaced Entities! There has been reproduction.\"\n\n\n \"\nYorbeush\n,\" cried the assistant in defense. \"It is physically\n impossible. But they are mutants. It is negatively impossible that they\n possess Mind Force to a degree.\"", "The room was hot, so the\nbeush\nlazily passed his hand over a faintly\n glowing panel.\n\n\n The room was cooled, and a large-eyed female with silky, ochrous\n fur—very desirable to the majority of humanoids—entered with two\n flared glasses of an odorless, transparent liquid—very desirable\n to the majority of humanoids. The lesser humanoid was being treated\n exceptionately well.\n\n\n The room was momentarily silent as the two sipped at their drinks with\n black lips. The\nbeush\n, as customary, spoke first. \"Inform me of the\n pre-espionage intelligence accomplishments contra-Energi. I have not\n been previously informed. Do not spare the details.\"", "Tomorrow I will explain to him that if he\nwants\nsomething, he will\n get it. So he must\nwant\na baby.\n\"Query? The Energi will bomb-drop the 'aquarium'? War declared against\n us? War declared? Entities be wholly damned! Negative! Negativvv!\" The\n disintegrator was fired once more, this time into the orange eye of the\nbeush\nhimself, by himself, and for the good of himself.\nWhen, if I ever do\nwant\nthe Voice to come back, it will be very\n surprised to know that Diane has had twenty-four babies; that the three\n eldest boys have mated twice, once and twice, and have had four babies.\n The Voice will also be surprised to know that it took all twenty-nine\n of us to\nwant\nall the Faces around the tank to die, as the eldest boy\n said to do. We could not tell, but the boy said that six million Faces\n were dead. That seems impossible to me, but the boy is always right.", "\"To what degree? What degree could produce reproduction when it is\n physically impossible?\" The\nbeush\nwas sarcastic. \"How far can they\n go?\"\n\n\n \"There is negatively great amount they can do. Negative danger, because\n we have studied their instincts and emotions and found that they will\n not leave the 'aquarium,' their 'home'. Unless someone tells them to,\n but there is no one to do so.\"\nToday I damned the Faces nine times and finally\nwanted\nthem to go\n away. The \"view-ports\" went black. It was like the sharks leaving when\n I wanted them to. I still do not understand.", "The\nbeush\nnodded in approval. \"Continue, but negatively hesitate\n frequently or it will be necessary to discuss this subject\n post-present.\"\nHis assistant trembled slightly. \"Unequivocally affirmative.\nBeush\n,\n your memory relates that five periods ante-present, when there\n existed the Truce inter Energi, Terrans and ourselves, there was a\n certain period during which gifts of the three nucleus-planets were\n exchanged in friendship. The Terrans were self-contented to donate\n to the Energi an immense 'aquarium'—an 'aquarium' consisting of a\n partly transparent cell in which was placed a collection of Terran\n life-forms that breathed their oxygen from the dense atmosphere of", "Diane and I have decided that we\nwant\na baby. Maybe the other fish\nwanted\nthem, so they got them. We\nwant\na baby.\n\"The two Terrans were so biologically mutated and are so nearly\n robotic, that it is physically impossible for reproduction on their\n part,\nbeush\n.\"\n\n\n The\nbeush\nignored the assistant's words and said, \"I have received\n copies of the thought-patterns and translations. There was something\n strange and very powerful about the meaning of the male's thought,\n 'want'. I query.\"\n\n\n \"Be assured without preoccupation that there exists negative danger of\n reproduction.\"\nThe name I wanted to call Diane was not good, because her breasts are\n hard and large, as is her stomach. I think she is sick.\nI do not think Diane is sick. I think she is going to have a baby.\n\"Entities, assistant! On your oath-body you proclaimed that there is\n negative danger of reproduction.\"", "\"One of our most competent protoplasmic computers stabilized the final\n steps of the Plan. We were to subject the two Terrans to radiation\n and have as a result two Terrans who could breathe their normal oxygen\n form H2O—the atmosphere of the 'aquarium', I repeat. We were then\n to deprive them of memory, except of the inter-attracting emotions,\n to allow them to live in harmony. Thirdly, we were to place them\n in the 'aquarium' and have them forwarded under the reference of\n semi-intelligent aqua-beings from Terran seas. A simple, but quite\n effective plan, your opinion,\nbeush\n?\"\n\n\n \"Quite,\" was the reply. \"And concerning the method of\n info-interception?\"", "\"Contented,\" came the automatic reply, and the assistant began, \"The\n two humans were perfect for the Plan, I repeat. Before the Energi\n received the message of the race destruction, it was imperative that we\n establish an agent on Energa, near the Force Domes. We assumed that the\n 'aquarium' would be placed on Energa, in the greatest center. That was\n correct, but negatively yet knowing for certainty, we perpetuated the\n Plan, with the 'aquarium' as the basis.", "I understand. I carry her through the water very slowly, feeling the\n warmth and nipples of her breasts pressed against my back as she rests\n her head on my shoulder and smiles.\n\n\n The Faces continue to stare. Many times I have searched for a word to\n show my hatred for them. I shall find it somehow, though. Sooner or\n later.\n\"What count of planets had the Terrans infested?\" The furry humanoid\n leaned over the desk and stared, unblinking, at the lesser humanoid in\n the only other chair in the room. His gaze was dropped as he scratched\n informally at the heavy fur at his wrist. He raised his gaze again.\n\n\n \"Forty-three is the count,\nbeush\n,\" replied the other.\n\n\n \"And the count of planets destroyed?\"\n\n\n \"Forty-three planetoid missiles were sent and detonated simultaneously\n without resistance or losses on our part,\nbeush\n,\" the assistant\nbeush\nanswered indirectly.", "The assistant continued without hesitation, embarrassed by his\n incompetency, \"A hyper-complex spheroid with radio interceptors,\n a-matter viewers and recorders and the general intelligence instruments\n of micro-size was placed in the cranium of the male mutant. The\n spheroid has negative direct control over the organism. Size was too\n scarce for use on trivialities. Then an agent was placed behind the\n larger controls at our end of the instruments.\"\n\n\n \"And you are the agent?\"\n\n\n \"Hyper-contentedly affirmative.\"\nI have done two things today. I have found the word for my hatred of\n the Faces. The Voice gave it to me. When I asked the Voice, it laughed\n and told me the word to use was \"damn\". So today I have thrice said,\n \"Damn the Faces. Damn them.\"", "Tomorrow we are leaving the tank. We will\nwant\nto leave it; it is\n getting crowded. The boy says that beyond the greater tank, which we\n will also leave, there is enough space for all the babies Diane could\n have if she lived forever.\n\n\n Forever, he said. It would be nice to live forever. I think I'll\nwant\n....", "The eldest boy says that we should leave the tank, that a greater\n \"tank\" is around us, and that it is easier to move around in that\n greater tank. He also says that we must guard ourselves against Faces\n outside. That is strange, but the boy is a good boy. Many times he\n knows that things will happen before they do. He is a good boy.\n\n\n He is almost as tall as I am. The eldest girl is pretty like Diane,\n her body very white and soft but, since I\nwanted\nit so, her hair is\n golden, instead of dark. The boy likes her very much, and I have seen\n them together, touching.", "Terran seas. But, as a warpspace message from the Terran Council\n indirectly proclaimed, the degenerate Terrans negatively possessed\n a ship of any Space type large or powerful enough to transport the\n 'aquarium' to Energa. Our ships being the largest of the Truce, we\n were petitioned by the Terrans to transport it. These events developed\n before the Terrans grew pestiferous to our cause. We obliged, but even\n our vastest ship was slow, because the physical power necessary to\n bring the weight of the cell through warpspace quickly was too great\n for the solitary four generators. It was imperative that the trip be on\n a longer trajectory arranged through norm-space. During the duration\n of the trip, feelings of suspicion arose inter Three Truce Races.\n As your memory also relates, the 'aquarium' was still in space when", "The Voice then says that the Faces are watching us, as we sometimes\n watch the porpoises. It took a very long time to grow used to having\n the Faces watch us, as Diane and I came together, but we learned to do\n it as simply as we swim and sleep.\n\n\n But Diane does not have babies. I am very sad when I see the porpoises\n and whales with their young. Diane and I sleep together in the Cave;\n Diane is very warm and soft. We sleep in happiness, but when we are\n awake, we are lonely. I question the Voice about a baby for Diane, but\n the Voice is always silent.", "The sharks come today, because Diane is having another baby. Diane\n hurts, and there is more blood than last time. Her face is not pretty\n when she hurts, as it is pretty when she sleeps. So I\nwant\nher to\n sleep. Her face is pretty now with the smile on her lips.\n\"Fourteen thousand Energi ceased to exist, spheroid ceased to exist,\n and another reproduction. Warpspace! How far will they go?\"\nIt has been hundreds of days. Faces keep appearing, but I continue to\nwant\nthem to go away. Diane has had eighteen babies. The oldest are\n swimming around and playing with the porpoises. Diane and I spend most\n of the time teaching the children by showing them things, and by giving\n them our thoughts by touching them.\nToday I found that none of the children have Voices. I could\nwant\nthem to have Voices, but the children's thoughts tell me that it is not\n right to have a Voice.", "I have caught a porpoise by his top fin. He knows my wish, so he speeds\n toward Diane, circles her and butts her soft thighs with his snout. She\n laughs, but continues to stay in a ball, her black hair waving. She is\n very beautiful.\n\n\n I try to pry her arms from around her legs gently, but she resists. I\n must use force. Diane does not mind when I do; because she knows I love\n her.\n\n\n I pull her arms away, and slip my arms under hers, kissing her on the\n lips for a long time. Struggling to free herself, laughing again, she\n pokes me sharply with her elbow and escapes my arms. I am surprised.\n She quickly puts her arms around my neck, pulls herself to my back and\n links her slim legs around my middle. She is pretending that I am a\n porpoise. I laugh. She pinches me to go ahead. I swim upward, but her\n thoughts tell me she wants to go to the Cave." ], [ "Terran seas. But, as a warpspace message from the Terran Council\n indirectly proclaimed, the degenerate Terrans negatively possessed\n a ship of any Space type large or powerful enough to transport the\n 'aquarium' to Energa. Our ships being the largest of the Truce, we\n were petitioned by the Terrans to transport it. These events developed\n before the Terrans grew pestiferous to our cause. We obliged, but even\n our vastest ship was slow, because the physical power necessary to\n bring the weight of the cell through warpspace quickly was too great\n for the solitary four generators. It was imperative that the trip be on\n a longer trajectory arranged through norm-space. During the duration\n of the trip, feelings of suspicion arose inter Three Truce Races.\n As your memory also relates, the 'aquarium' was still in space when", "\"Unknown to you,\nbeush\n, or to the masses and highers, an\n insignificant pleasure craft was extracted from Terran Space and\n negatively consumed with a planet when the bombs were detonated. The\n ship accommodated two Terrans. Proper Terrans by birth, negatively\n by reference. One was male, other female. The two had been in\n their culture socially and religiously united in a ceremony called\n 'matrimony'. Emotions of sex, protection and an emotion we have\n negatively been able to analyze linked the two, and made them ideal for\n our purpose.\"\n\n\n The assistant looked at the\nbeush\n, picked up his partially full glass\n and, before he could sip it, was dashed to the floor beside the\nbeush\nhimself. The former helped the higher to his unstable legs, and was\n commented to by the same, \"Assistant, proceed to the protecroom.\"", "we found it necessary to obliterate the total race of Terrans. The\n message of the annihilation arrived in retard to the Energi, so Time\n permitted us to devise a contra-Energi intelligence plan, a necessity\n since it was realized that the Energi would be disturbed by our action\n contra-Terrans and would, without doubt, take action contra-ourselves.", "\"One of our most competent protoplasmic computers stabilized the final\n steps of the Plan. We were to subject the two Terrans to radiation\n and have as a result two Terrans who could breathe their normal oxygen\n form H2O—the atmosphere of the 'aquarium', I repeat. We were then\n to deprive them of memory, except of the inter-attracting emotions,\n to allow them to live in harmony. Thirdly, we were to place them\n in the 'aquarium' and have them forwarded under the reference of\n semi-intelligent aqua-beings from Terran seas. A simple, but quite\n effective plan, your opinion,\nbeush\n?\"\n\n\n \"Quite,\" was the reply. \"And concerning the method of\n info-interception?\"", "I understand. I carry her through the water very slowly, feeling the\n warmth and nipples of her breasts pressed against my back as she rests\n her head on my shoulder and smiles.\n\n\n The Faces continue to stare. Many times I have searched for a word to\n show my hatred for them. I shall find it somehow, though. Sooner or\n later.\n\"What count of planets had the Terrans infested?\" The furry humanoid\n leaned over the desk and stared, unblinking, at the lesser humanoid in\n the only other chair in the room. His gaze was dropped as he scratched\n informally at the heavy fur at his wrist. He raised his gaze again.\n\n\n \"Forty-three is the count,\nbeush\n,\" replied the other.\n\n\n \"And the count of planets destroyed?\"\n\n\n \"Forty-three planetoid missiles were sent and detonated simultaneously\n without resistance or losses on our part,\nbeush\n,\" the assistant\nbeush\nanswered indirectly.", "The\nbeush\nnodded in approval. \"Continue, but negatively hesitate\n frequently or it will be necessary to discuss this subject\n post-present.\"\nHis assistant trembled slightly. \"Unequivocally affirmative.\nBeush\n,\n your memory relates that five periods ante-present, when there\n existed the Truce inter Energi, Terrans and ourselves, there was a\n certain period during which gifts of the three nucleus-planets were\n exchanged in friendship. The Terrans were self-contented to donate\n to the Energi an immense 'aquarium'—an 'aquarium' consisting of a\n partly transparent cell in which was placed a collection of Terran\n life-forms that breathed their oxygen from the dense atmosphere of", "\"Of certainty,\nbeush\n,\" began the assistant with all the grace of an\n informer. \"The Light and Force Research of the Energi is executed in\n one center of one planet, the planet being Energa, as our intelligence\n service has conveniently listed it. The Energi have negative necessity\n for secrecy in their Light and Force Research, because, first, all\n centers are crusted and protected by Force Domes. Second, it is near\n impossibility that one could so self-disguise that he would negatively\n be detectable.\" He hesitated.\n\n\n \"And these Energi,\" queried the\nbeush\n, \"are semi-telepathic or\n empathic?\"\n\n\n \"Affirmative,\" the assistant mumbled.\n\n\n \"Then you have there a third reason,\" offered the\nbeush\n.\n\n\n \"Graces be given you,\nbeush\n.\"", "\"Contented,\" came the automatic reply, and the assistant began, \"The\n two humans were perfect for the Plan, I repeat. Before the Energi\n received the message of the race destruction, it was imperative that we\n establish an agent on Energa, near the Force Domes. We assumed that the\n 'aquarium' would be placed on Energa, in the greatest center. That was\n correct, but negatively yet knowing for certainty, we perpetuated the\n Plan, with the 'aquarium' as the basis.", "They entered the well-illuminated closet and immediately slipped\n into the unwieldy metallic suits. Once again they took their seats,\n the\nbeush\nreflecting and saying, \"As your memory relates, that\n explosion was a bomb-drop concussion from the Rebellers. We must now\n wear anti-radiation protection. For that reason, and the danger of\n the Energi, you\ndo\nsee why we need the formulae of the Force Domes,\nimmediately\n.\"\n\n\n There was menace in his voice. The assistant trembled violently. Using\n the rare smile of that humanoid race, the\nbeush\ncontinued, \"Do\n negatively self-preoccupy. Resume your information, if contented.\"", "There has been much useless noise and senseless talk from the Voice\n these days. It is annoying because I must concentrate on loving Diane\n and caring for the baby. So I\nwanted\nthe Voice to leave it. It left.\n\"Entities Be Simply Damned! The spheroid ceased to exist, assistant.\n How far can they go, assistant?\" The\nbeush\nrose, screamed\n hysterically for three seconds and then fired the hand weapon point\n blank at the neck of his assistant.", "The sharks come today, because Diane is having another baby. Diane\n hurts, and there is more blood than last time. Her face is not pretty\n when she hurts, as it is pretty when she sleeps. So I\nwant\nher to\n sleep. Her face is pretty now with the smile on her lips.\n\"Fourteen thousand Energi ceased to exist, spheroid ceased to exist,\n and another reproduction. Warpspace! How far will they go?\"\nIt has been hundreds of days. Faces keep appearing, but I continue to\nwant\nthem to go away. Diane has had eighteen babies. The oldest are\n swimming around and playing with the porpoises. Diane and I spend most\n of the time teaching the children by showing them things, and by giving\n them our thoughts by touching them.\nToday I found that none of the children have Voices. I could\nwant\nthem to have Voices, but the children's thoughts tell me that it is not\n right to have a Voice.", "\"Rest assured, peace,\nbeush\n.\n\n\n \"But his thoughts!\"\n\n\n \"Rest assured,\nhigher beush\n.\"\nThere is much blood in the water today. Diane is having a baby; sharks\n have come. I have never seen so many sharks, and as big as they are I\n have never seen. I am afraid, but still some sneak among us near Diane.\n\n\n We love the porpoises, so they help us now. They are chasing the\n sharks away, injuring and killing some.\n\"Entities, Warpspaced Entities! There has been reproduction.\"\n\n\n \"\nYorbeush\n,\" cried the assistant in defense. \"It is physically\n impossible. But they are mutants. It is negatively impossible that they\n possess Mind Force to a degree.\"", "Diane and I have decided that we\nwant\na baby. Maybe the other fish\nwanted\nthem, so they got them. We\nwant\na baby.\n\"The two Terrans were so biologically mutated and are so nearly\n robotic, that it is physically impossible for reproduction on their\n part,\nbeush\n.\"\n\n\n The\nbeush\nignored the assistant's words and said, \"I have received\n copies of the thought-patterns and translations. There was something\n strange and very powerful about the meaning of the male's thought,\n 'want'. I query.\"\n\n\n \"Be assured without preoccupation that there exists negative danger of\n reproduction.\"\nThe name I wanted to call Diane was not good, because her breasts are\n hard and large, as is her stomach. I think she is sick.\nI do not think Diane is sick. I think she is going to have a baby.\n\"Entities, assistant! On your oath-body you proclaimed that there is\n negative danger of reproduction.\"", "Tomorrow we are leaving the tank. We will\nwant\nto leave it; it is\n getting crowded. The boy says that beyond the greater tank, which we\n will also leave, there is enough space for all the babies Diane could\n have if she lived forever.\n\n\n Forever, he said. It would be nice to live forever. I think I'll\nwant\n....", "The eldest boy says that we should leave the tank, that a greater\n \"tank\" is around us, and that it is easier to move around in that\n greater tank. He also says that we must guard ourselves against Faces\n outside. That is strange, but the boy is a good boy. Many times he\n knows that things will happen before they do. He is a good boy.\n\n\n He is almost as tall as I am. The eldest girl is pretty like Diane,\n her body very white and soft but, since I\nwanted\nit so, her hair is\n golden, instead of dark. The boy likes her very much, and I have seen\n them together, touching.", "Tomorrow I will explain to him that if he\nwants\nsomething, he will\n get it. So he must\nwant\na baby.\n\"Query? The Energi will bomb-drop the 'aquarium'? War declared against\n us? War declared? Entities be wholly damned! Negative! Negativvv!\" The\n disintegrator was fired once more, this time into the orange eye of the\nbeush\nhimself, by himself, and for the good of himself.\nWhen, if I ever do\nwant\nthe Voice to come back, it will be very\n surprised to know that Diane has had twenty-four babies; that the three\n eldest boys have mated twice, once and twice, and have had four babies.\n The Voice will also be surprised to know that it took all twenty-nine\n of us to\nwant\nall the Faces around the tank to die, as the eldest boy\n said to do. We could not tell, but the boy said that six million Faces\n were dead. That seems impossible to me, but the boy is always right.", "The room was hot, so the\nbeush\nlazily passed his hand over a faintly\n glowing panel.\n\n\n The room was cooled, and a large-eyed female with silky, ochrous\n fur—very desirable to the majority of humanoids—entered with two\n flared glasses of an odorless, transparent liquid—very desirable\n to the majority of humanoids. The lesser humanoid was being treated\n exceptionately well.\n\n\n The room was momentarily silent as the two sipped at their drinks with\n black lips. The\nbeush\n, as customary, spoke first. \"Inform me of the\n pre-espionage intelligence accomplishments contra-Energi. I have not\n been previously informed. Do not spare the details.\"", "The assistant continued without hesitation, embarrassed by his\n incompetency, \"A hyper-complex spheroid with radio interceptors,\n a-matter viewers and recorders and the general intelligence instruments\n of micro-size was placed in the cranium of the male mutant. The\n spheroid has negative direct control over the organism. Size was too\n scarce for use on trivialities. Then an agent was placed behind the\n larger controls at our end of the instruments.\"\n\n\n \"And you are the agent?\"\n\n\n \"Hyper-contentedly affirmative.\"\nI have done two things today. I have found the word for my hatred of\n the Faces. The Voice gave it to me. When I asked the Voice, it laughed\n and told me the word to use was \"damn\". So today I have thrice said,\n \"Damn the Faces. Damn them.\"", "But the cracked, flat things with small lights circling about them\n are not pretty like Diane's face. The Voice says that the Faces have\n bodies, like myself, and Diane. No body could be like Diane's. I think\n I should be quite sick if I saw the bodies of the Faces.", "\"To what degree? What degree could produce reproduction when it is\n physically impossible?\" The\nbeush\nwas sarcastic. \"How far can they\n go?\"\n\n\n \"There is negatively great amount they can do. Negative danger, because\n we have studied their instincts and emotions and found that they will\n not leave the 'aquarium,' their 'home'. Unless someone tells them to,\n but there is no one to do so.\"\nToday I damned the Faces nine times and finally\nwanted\nthem to go\n away. The \"view-ports\" went black. It was like the sharks leaving when\n I wanted them to. I still do not understand." ], [ "\"Contented,\" came the automatic reply, and the assistant began, \"The\n two humans were perfect for the Plan, I repeat. Before the Energi\n received the message of the race destruction, it was imperative that we\n establish an agent on Energa, near the Force Domes. We assumed that the\n 'aquarium' would be placed on Energa, in the greatest center. That was\n correct, but negatively yet knowing for certainty, we perpetuated the\n Plan, with the 'aquarium' as the basis.", "Terran seas. But, as a warpspace message from the Terran Council\n indirectly proclaimed, the degenerate Terrans negatively possessed\n a ship of any Space type large or powerful enough to transport the\n 'aquarium' to Energa. Our ships being the largest of the Truce, we\n were petitioned by the Terrans to transport it. These events developed\n before the Terrans grew pestiferous to our cause. We obliged, but even\n our vastest ship was slow, because the physical power necessary to\n bring the weight of the cell through warpspace quickly was too great\n for the solitary four generators. It was imperative that the trip be on\n a longer trajectory arranged through norm-space. During the duration\n of the trip, feelings of suspicion arose inter Three Truce Races.\n As your memory also relates, the 'aquarium' was still in space when", "\"One of our most competent protoplasmic computers stabilized the final\n steps of the Plan. We were to subject the two Terrans to radiation\n and have as a result two Terrans who could breathe their normal oxygen\n form H2O—the atmosphere of the 'aquarium', I repeat. We were then\n to deprive them of memory, except of the inter-attracting emotions,\n to allow them to live in harmony. Thirdly, we were to place them\n in the 'aquarium' and have them forwarded under the reference of\n semi-intelligent aqua-beings from Terran seas. A simple, but quite\n effective plan, your opinion,\nbeush\n?\"\n\n\n \"Quite,\" was the reply. \"And concerning the method of\n info-interception?\"", "They entered the well-illuminated closet and immediately slipped\n into the unwieldy metallic suits. Once again they took their seats,\n the\nbeush\nreflecting and saying, \"As your memory relates, that\n explosion was a bomb-drop concussion from the Rebellers. We must now\n wear anti-radiation protection. For that reason, and the danger of\n the Energi, you\ndo\nsee why we need the formulae of the Force Domes,\nimmediately\n.\"\n\n\n There was menace in his voice. The assistant trembled violently. Using\n the rare smile of that humanoid race, the\nbeush\ncontinued, \"Do\n negatively self-preoccupy. Resume your information, if contented.\"", "\"Of certainty,\nbeush\n,\" began the assistant with all the grace of an\n informer. \"The Light and Force Research of the Energi is executed in\n one center of one planet, the planet being Energa, as our intelligence\n service has conveniently listed it. The Energi have negative necessity\n for secrecy in their Light and Force Research, because, first, all\n centers are crusted and protected by Force Domes. Second, it is near\n impossibility that one could so self-disguise that he would negatively\n be detectable.\" He hesitated.\n\n\n \"And these Energi,\" queried the\nbeush\n, \"are semi-telepathic or\n empathic?\"\n\n\n \"Affirmative,\" the assistant mumbled.\n\n\n \"Then you have there a third reason,\" offered the\nbeush\n.\n\n\n \"Graces be given you,\nbeush\n.\"", "The\nbeush\nnodded in approval. \"Continue, but negatively hesitate\n frequently or it will be necessary to discuss this subject\n post-present.\"\nHis assistant trembled slightly. \"Unequivocally affirmative.\nBeush\n,\n your memory relates that five periods ante-present, when there\n existed the Truce inter Energi, Terrans and ourselves, there was a\n certain period during which gifts of the three nucleus-planets were\n exchanged in friendship. The Terrans were self-contented to donate\n to the Energi an immense 'aquarium'—an 'aquarium' consisting of a\n partly transparent cell in which was placed a collection of Terran\n life-forms that breathed their oxygen from the dense atmosphere of", "we found it necessary to obliterate the total race of Terrans. The\n message of the annihilation arrived in retard to the Energi, so Time\n permitted us to devise a contra-Energi intelligence plan, a necessity\n since it was realized that the Energi would be disturbed by our action\n contra-Terrans and would, without doubt, take action contra-ourselves.", "The room was hot, so the\nbeush\nlazily passed his hand over a faintly\n glowing panel.\n\n\n The room was cooled, and a large-eyed female with silky, ochrous\n fur—very desirable to the majority of humanoids—entered with two\n flared glasses of an odorless, transparent liquid—very desirable\n to the majority of humanoids. The lesser humanoid was being treated\n exceptionately well.\n\n\n The room was momentarily silent as the two sipped at their drinks with\n black lips. The\nbeush\n, as customary, spoke first. \"Inform me of the\n pre-espionage intelligence accomplishments contra-Energi. I have not\n been previously informed. Do not spare the details.\"", "Tomorrow I will explain to him that if he\nwants\nsomething, he will\n get it. So he must\nwant\na baby.\n\"Query? The Energi will bomb-drop the 'aquarium'? War declared against\n us? War declared? Entities be wholly damned! Negative! Negativvv!\" The\n disintegrator was fired once more, this time into the orange eye of the\nbeush\nhimself, by himself, and for the good of himself.\nWhen, if I ever do\nwant\nthe Voice to come back, it will be very\n surprised to know that Diane has had twenty-four babies; that the three\n eldest boys have mated twice, once and twice, and have had four babies.\n The Voice will also be surprised to know that it took all twenty-nine\n of us to\nwant\nall the Faces around the tank to die, as the eldest boy\n said to do. We could not tell, but the boy said that six million Faces\n were dead. That seems impossible to me, but the boy is always right.", "\"Unknown to you,\nbeush\n, or to the masses and highers, an\n insignificant pleasure craft was extracted from Terran Space and\n negatively consumed with a planet when the bombs were detonated. The\n ship accommodated two Terrans. Proper Terrans by birth, negatively\n by reference. One was male, other female. The two had been in\n their culture socially and religiously united in a ceremony called\n 'matrimony'. Emotions of sex, protection and an emotion we have\n negatively been able to analyze linked the two, and made them ideal for\n our purpose.\"\n\n\n The assistant looked at the\nbeush\n, picked up his partially full glass\n and, before he could sip it, was dashed to the floor beside the\nbeush\nhimself. The former helped the higher to his unstable legs, and was\n commented to by the same, \"Assistant, proceed to the protecroom.\"", "I\ndo\nknow what the \"tank\" is. It is a very large thing filled with\n water, and having four \"corners\", one of which is the Cave where\n Diane and I sleep when the water is black like the ink of the squid\n and cold like dead fish. But we stay warm. There is the \"floor\" of\n the \"tank\", the \"floor\" being where all the rock and seaweed is, with\n all the crawling fish and crabs, where Diane and I walk and sleep.\n There are four \"sides\". \"Sides\" are smooth and blue walls, and have\n \"view-ports\"—round, transparent areas—on them. The Voice says that\n the things in the \"view-ports\" are Faces. I have a face, as does Diane.", "Diane and I have decided that we\nwant\na baby. Maybe the other fish\nwanted\nthem, so they got them. We\nwant\na baby.\n\"The two Terrans were so biologically mutated and are so nearly\n robotic, that it is physically impossible for reproduction on their\n part,\nbeush\n.\"\n\n\n The\nbeush\nignored the assistant's words and said, \"I have received\n copies of the thought-patterns and translations. There was something\n strange and very powerful about the meaning of the male's thought,\n 'want'. I query.\"\n\n\n \"Be assured without preoccupation that there exists negative danger of\n reproduction.\"\nThe name I wanted to call Diane was not good, because her breasts are\n hard and large, as is her stomach. I think she is sick.\nI do not think Diane is sick. I think she is going to have a baby.\n\"Entities, assistant! On your oath-body you proclaimed that there is\n negative danger of reproduction.\"", "The sharks come today, because Diane is having another baby. Diane\n hurts, and there is more blood than last time. Her face is not pretty\n when she hurts, as it is pretty when she sleeps. So I\nwant\nher to\n sleep. Her face is pretty now with the smile on her lips.\n\"Fourteen thousand Energi ceased to exist, spheroid ceased to exist,\n and another reproduction. Warpspace! How far will they go?\"\nIt has been hundreds of days. Faces keep appearing, but I continue to\nwant\nthem to go away. Diane has had eighteen babies. The oldest are\n swimming around and playing with the porpoises. Diane and I spend most\n of the time teaching the children by showing them things, and by giving\n them our thoughts by touching them.\nToday I found that none of the children have Voices. I could\nwant\nthem to have Voices, but the children's thoughts tell me that it is not\n right to have a Voice.", "I grow to hate the Faces in the \"view-ports\". They are always watching,\n watching. The Voice says that they are enemies, and bad. The Faces have\n not tried to hurt me: but I must think of them as enemies because the\n Voice says so. I ask bad, like the shark? The Voice says, no, worse\n than the sharks and eels. It says that the Faces are evil.\n\n\n The \"tank\" must be high, because the water is high. I have gone once\n to the surface, and, although I could get used to it, the light was\n too much for my eyes. It took me two hundred and seventy kicks to the\n surface; it took me three thousand steps from our Cave to the opposite\n \"side\". The \"tank\" is very large, otherwise the whales would not be\n happy.", "\"To what degree? What degree could produce reproduction when it is\n physically impossible?\" The\nbeush\nwas sarcastic. \"How far can they\n go?\"\n\n\n \"There is negatively great amount they can do. Negative danger, because\n we have studied their instincts and emotions and found that they will\n not leave the 'aquarium,' their 'home'. Unless someone tells them to,\n but there is no one to do so.\"\nToday I damned the Faces nine times and finally\nwanted\nthem to go\n away. The \"view-ports\" went black. It was like the sharks leaving when\n I wanted them to. I still do not understand.", "I understand. I carry her through the water very slowly, feeling the\n warmth and nipples of her breasts pressed against my back as she rests\n her head on my shoulder and smiles.\n\n\n The Faces continue to stare. Many times I have searched for a word to\n show my hatred for them. I shall find it somehow, though. Sooner or\n later.\n\"What count of planets had the Terrans infested?\" The furry humanoid\n leaned over the desk and stared, unblinking, at the lesser humanoid in\n the only other chair in the room. His gaze was dropped as he scratched\n informally at the heavy fur at his wrist. He raised his gaze again.\n\n\n \"Forty-three is the count,\nbeush\n,\" replied the other.\n\n\n \"And the count of planets destroyed?\"\n\n\n \"Forty-three planetoid missiles were sent and detonated simultaneously\n without resistance or losses on our part,\nbeush\n,\" the assistant\nbeush\nanswered indirectly.", "Tomorrow we are leaving the tank. We will\nwant\nto leave it; it is\n getting crowded. The boy says that beyond the greater tank, which we\n will also leave, there is enough space for all the babies Diane could\n have if she lived forever.\n\n\n Forever, he said. It would be nice to live forever. I think I'll\nwant\n....", "The eldest boy says that we should leave the tank, that a greater\n \"tank\" is around us, and that it is easier to move around in that\n greater tank. He also says that we must guard ourselves against Faces\n outside. That is strange, but the boy is a good boy. Many times he\n knows that things will happen before they do. He is a good boy.\n\n\n He is almost as tall as I am. The eldest girl is pretty like Diane,\n her body very white and soft but, since I\nwanted\nit so, her hair is\n golden, instead of dark. The boy likes her very much, and I have seen\n them together, touching.", "\"Rest assured, peace,\nbeush\n.\n\n\n \"But his thoughts!\"\n\n\n \"Rest assured,\nhigher beush\n.\"\nThere is much blood in the water today. Diane is having a baby; sharks\n have come. I have never seen so many sharks, and as big as they are I\n have never seen. I am afraid, but still some sneak among us near Diane.\n\n\n We love the porpoises, so they help us now. They are chasing the\n sharks away, injuring and killing some.\n\"Entities, Warpspaced Entities! There has been reproduction.\"\n\n\n \"\nYorbeush\n,\" cried the assistant in defense. \"It is physically\n impossible. But they are mutants. It is negatively impossible that they\n possess Mind Force to a degree.\"", "The fish are many, but the dangers are few. I have seen the sharks\n kill. But the shark does not come near me if I see it and am afraid.\n Sometimes I have caught it sneaking up behind me, but when I turn it\n leaves quickly. I have questioned the Voice about why the sharks leave.\n It does not know. It has no one to ask.\nToday the \"sun\" must be very large, or powerful, or bright, because the\n water is brighter than most days.\n\n\n When I awoke Diane was not beside me. The rock of the Cave is jagged,\n so as I make my way from our bed of cool and slick seaweed, toward the\n entrance, I scrape my leg on the fifth kick. Not much blood comes from\n the cut. That is fortunate, because when there is blood the sharks come." ], [ "The assistant continued without hesitation, embarrassed by his\n incompetency, \"A hyper-complex spheroid with radio interceptors,\n a-matter viewers and recorders and the general intelligence instruments\n of micro-size was placed in the cranium of the male mutant. The\n spheroid has negative direct control over the organism. Size was too\n scarce for use on trivialities. Then an agent was placed behind the\n larger controls at our end of the instruments.\"\n\n\n \"And you are the agent?\"\n\n\n \"Hyper-contentedly affirmative.\"\nI have done two things today. I have found the word for my hatred of\n the Faces. The Voice gave it to me. When I asked the Voice, it laughed\n and told me the word to use was \"damn\". So today I have thrice said,\n \"Damn the Faces. Damn them.\"", "But the cracked, flat things with small lights circling about them\n are not pretty like Diane's face. The Voice says that the Faces have\n bodies, like myself, and Diane. No body could be like Diane's. I think\n I should be quite sick if I saw the bodies of the Faces.", "The eldest boy says that we should leave the tank, that a greater\n \"tank\" is around us, and that it is easier to move around in that\n greater tank. He also says that we must guard ourselves against Faces\n outside. That is strange, but the boy is a good boy. Many times he\n knows that things will happen before they do. He is a good boy.\n\n\n He is almost as tall as I am. The eldest girl is pretty like Diane,\n her body very white and soft but, since I\nwanted\nit so, her hair is\n golden, instead of dark. The boy likes her very much, and I have seen\n them together, touching.", "Tomorrow I will explain to him that if he\nwants\nsomething, he will\n get it. So he must\nwant\na baby.\n\"Query? The Energi will bomb-drop the 'aquarium'? War declared against\n us? War declared? Entities be wholly damned! Negative! Negativvv!\" The\n disintegrator was fired once more, this time into the orange eye of the\nbeush\nhimself, by himself, and for the good of himself.\nWhen, if I ever do\nwant\nthe Voice to come back, it will be very\n surprised to know that Diane has had twenty-four babies; that the three\n eldest boys have mated twice, once and twice, and have had four babies.\n The Voice will also be surprised to know that it took all twenty-nine\n of us to\nwant\nall the Faces around the tank to die, as the eldest boy\n said to do. We could not tell, but the boy said that six million Faces\n were dead. That seems impossible to me, but the boy is always right.", "I grow to hate the Faces in the \"view-ports\". They are always watching,\n watching. The Voice says that they are enemies, and bad. The Faces have\n not tried to hurt me: but I must think of them as enemies because the\n Voice says so. I ask bad, like the shark? The Voice says, no, worse\n than the sharks and eels. It says that the Faces are evil.\n\n\n The \"tank\" must be high, because the water is high. I have gone once\n to the surface, and, although I could get used to it, the light was\n too much for my eyes. It took me two hundred and seventy kicks to the\n surface; it took me three thousand steps from our Cave to the opposite\n \"side\". The \"tank\" is very large, otherwise the whales would not be\n happy.", "I understand. I carry her through the water very slowly, feeling the\n warmth and nipples of her breasts pressed against my back as she rests\n her head on my shoulder and smiles.\n\n\n The Faces continue to stare. Many times I have searched for a word to\n show my hatred for them. I shall find it somehow, though. Sooner or\n later.\n\"What count of planets had the Terrans infested?\" The furry humanoid\n leaned over the desk and stared, unblinking, at the lesser humanoid in\n the only other chair in the room. His gaze was dropped as he scratched\n informally at the heavy fur at his wrist. He raised his gaze again.\n\n\n \"Forty-three is the count,\nbeush\n,\" replied the other.\n\n\n \"And the count of planets destroyed?\"\n\n\n \"Forty-three planetoid missiles were sent and detonated simultaneously\n without resistance or losses on our part,\nbeush\n,\" the assistant\nbeush\nanswered indirectly.", "THE FACES OUTSIDE\nBY BRUCE McALLISTER\nThey were all that was left of\n\n humanity—if they were still human!\n\n\n [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1963.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nI wanted to call her Soft Breast, because she is soft when I hold her\n to me. But the Voice told me to call her Diane. When I call her Diane,\n I have a pleasant feeling, and she seems closer to me. She likes the\n name \"Diane\". The Voice knew what was best, of course, as it always\n does.", "The Voice then says that the Faces are watching us, as we sometimes\n watch the porpoises. It took a very long time to grow used to having\n the Faces watch us, as Diane and I came together, but we learned to do\n it as simply as we swim and sleep.\n\n\n But Diane does not have babies. I am very sad when I see the porpoises\n and whales with their young. Diane and I sleep together in the Cave;\n Diane is very warm and soft. We sleep in happiness, but when we are\n awake, we are lonely. I question the Voice about a baby for Diane, but\n the Voice is always silent.", "\"To what degree? What degree could produce reproduction when it is\n physically impossible?\" The\nbeush\nwas sarcastic. \"How far can they\n go?\"\n\n\n \"There is negatively great amount they can do. Negative danger, because\n we have studied their instincts and emotions and found that they will\n not leave the 'aquarium,' their 'home'. Unless someone tells them to,\n but there is no one to do so.\"\nToday I damned the Faces nine times and finally\nwanted\nthem to go\n away. The \"view-ports\" went black. It was like the sharks leaving when\n I wanted them to. I still do not understand.", "There has been much useless noise and senseless talk from the Voice\n these days. It is annoying because I must concentrate on loving Diane\n and caring for the baby. So I\nwanted\nthe Voice to leave it. It left.\n\"Entities Be Simply Damned! The spheroid ceased to exist, assistant.\n How far can they go, assistant?\" The\nbeush\nrose, screamed\n hysterically for three seconds and then fired the hand weapon point\n blank at the neck of his assistant.", "I\ndo\nknow what the \"tank\" is. It is a very large thing filled with\n water, and having four \"corners\", one of which is the Cave where\n Diane and I sleep when the water is black like the ink of the squid\n and cold like dead fish. But we stay warm. There is the \"floor\" of\n the \"tank\", the \"floor\" being where all the rock and seaweed is, with\n all the crawling fish and crabs, where Diane and I walk and sleep.\n There are four \"sides\". \"Sides\" are smooth and blue walls, and have\n \"view-ports\"—round, transparent areas—on them. The Voice says that\n the things in the \"view-ports\" are Faces. I have a face, as does Diane.", "The sharks come today, because Diane is having another baby. Diane\n hurts, and there is more blood than last time. Her face is not pretty\n when she hurts, as it is pretty when she sleeps. So I\nwant\nher to\n sleep. Her face is pretty now with the smile on her lips.\n\"Fourteen thousand Energi ceased to exist, spheroid ceased to exist,\n and another reproduction. Warpspace! How far will they go?\"\nIt has been hundreds of days. Faces keep appearing, but I continue to\nwant\nthem to go away. Diane has had eighteen babies. The oldest are\n swimming around and playing with the porpoises. Diane and I spend most\n of the time teaching the children by showing them things, and by giving\n them our thoughts by touching them.\nToday I found that none of the children have Voices. I could\nwant\nthem to have Voices, but the children's thoughts tell me that it is not\n right to have a Voice.", "They entered the well-illuminated closet and immediately slipped\n into the unwieldy metallic suits. Once again they took their seats,\n the\nbeush\nreflecting and saying, \"As your memory relates, that\n explosion was a bomb-drop concussion from the Rebellers. We must now\n wear anti-radiation protection. For that reason, and the danger of\n the Energi, you\ndo\nsee why we need the formulae of the Force Domes,\nimmediately\n.\"\n\n\n There was menace in his voice. The assistant trembled violently. Using\n the rare smile of that humanoid race, the\nbeush\ncontinued, \"Do\n negatively self-preoccupy. Resume your information, if contented.\"", "\"Rest assured, peace,\nbeush\n.\n\n\n \"But his thoughts!\"\n\n\n \"Rest assured,\nhigher beush\n.\"\nThere is much blood in the water today. Diane is having a baby; sharks\n have come. I have never seen so many sharks, and as big as they are I\n have never seen. I am afraid, but still some sneak among us near Diane.\n\n\n We love the porpoises, so they help us now. They are chasing the\n sharks away, injuring and killing some.\n\"Entities, Warpspaced Entities! There has been reproduction.\"\n\n\n \"\nYorbeush\n,\" cried the assistant in defense. \"It is physically\n impossible. But they are mutants. It is negatively impossible that they\n possess Mind Force to a degree.\"", "\"One of our most competent protoplasmic computers stabilized the final\n steps of the Plan. We were to subject the two Terrans to radiation\n and have as a result two Terrans who could breathe their normal oxygen\n form H2O—the atmosphere of the 'aquarium', I repeat. We were then\n to deprive them of memory, except of the inter-attracting emotions,\n to allow them to live in harmony. Thirdly, we were to place them\n in the 'aquarium' and have them forwarded under the reference of\n semi-intelligent aqua-beings from Terran seas. A simple, but quite\n effective plan, your opinion,\nbeush\n?\"\n\n\n \"Quite,\" was the reply. \"And concerning the method of\n info-interception?\"", "we found it necessary to obliterate the total race of Terrans. The\n message of the annihilation arrived in retard to the Energi, so Time\n permitted us to devise a contra-Energi intelligence plan, a necessity\n since it was realized that the Energi would be disturbed by our action\n contra-Terrans and would, without doubt, take action contra-ourselves.", "The fish are many, but the dangers are few. I have seen the sharks\n kill. But the shark does not come near me if I see it and am afraid.\n Sometimes I have caught it sneaking up behind me, but when I turn it\n leaves quickly. I have questioned the Voice about why the sharks leave.\n It does not know. It has no one to ask.\nToday the \"sun\" must be very large, or powerful, or bright, because the\n water is brighter than most days.\n\n\n When I awoke Diane was not beside me. The rock of the Cave is jagged,\n so as I make my way from our bed of cool and slick seaweed, toward the\n entrance, I scrape my leg on the fifth kick. Not much blood comes from\n the cut. That is fortunate, because when there is blood the sharks come.", "\"Unknown to you,\nbeush\n, or to the masses and highers, an\n insignificant pleasure craft was extracted from Terran Space and\n negatively consumed with a planet when the bombs were detonated. The\n ship accommodated two Terrans. Proper Terrans by birth, negatively\n by reference. One was male, other female. The two had been in\n their culture socially and religiously united in a ceremony called\n 'matrimony'. Emotions of sex, protection and an emotion we have\n negatively been able to analyze linked the two, and made them ideal for\n our purpose.\"\n\n\n The assistant looked at the\nbeush\n, picked up his partially full glass\n and, before he could sip it, was dashed to the floor beside the\nbeush\nhimself. The former helped the higher to his unstable legs, and was\n commented to by the same, \"Assistant, proceed to the protecroom.\"", "\"Of certainty,\nbeush\n,\" began the assistant with all the grace of an\n informer. \"The Light and Force Research of the Energi is executed in\n one center of one planet, the planet being Energa, as our intelligence\n service has conveniently listed it. The Energi have negative necessity\n for secrecy in their Light and Force Research, because, first, all\n centers are crusted and protected by Force Domes. Second, it is near\n impossibility that one could so self-disguise that he would negatively\n be detectable.\" He hesitated.\n\n\n \"And these Energi,\" queried the\nbeush\n, \"are semi-telepathic or\n empathic?\"\n\n\n \"Affirmative,\" the assistant mumbled.\n\n\n \"Then you have there a third reason,\" offered the\nbeush\n.\n\n\n \"Graces be given you,\nbeush\n.\"", "Terran seas. But, as a warpspace message from the Terran Council\n indirectly proclaimed, the degenerate Terrans negatively possessed\n a ship of any Space type large or powerful enough to transport the\n 'aquarium' to Energa. Our ships being the largest of the Truce, we\n were petitioned by the Terrans to transport it. These events developed\n before the Terrans grew pestiferous to our cause. We obliged, but even\n our vastest ship was slow, because the physical power necessary to\n bring the weight of the cell through warpspace quickly was too great\n for the solitary four generators. It was imperative that the trip be on\n a longer trajectory arranged through norm-space. During the duration\n of the trip, feelings of suspicion arose inter Three Truce Races.\n As your memory also relates, the 'aquarium' was still in space when" ] ]
test	41562	[ "The time Ed Loyce spent digging in his basement could be symbolic of", "Once Loyce discovers what is hanging from the lamppost, he is outraged. The other citizens he encounters ", "Loyce is completely perplexed \n", "How does Loyce explain that he missed out on understanding the reason for the man being hung in the town square?", "Loyce knows that the police officers who attempt to take him in are not actually town police officers because", "What does Loyce notice about the City Hall?", "Later, Loyce realizes he killed", "When Loyce makes his way to the next town over, his appearance is akin to", "The town Commissioner points out to Loyce that" ]	[ [ "Him digging up dirt on the people of the town.", "Him digging up dirt on his family's secrets.", "Him ultimately digging his own grave.", "Him digging up dirt on the town's officials." ], [ "Are not concerned and feel there is a reason for what is transpiring. ", "Are currently headed to get the police involved in the situation at hand.", "Try to tell Loyce about what is going on, but Loyce will not listen.", "Share in his outrage and go on a mission to get to the bottom of the issue." ], [ "That his wife had not called to tell him about what had happened during the day.", "By the fact that no one cares that there is a body hanging in the town square.", "That the Chamber of Commerce has no concern for how the hanging stranger will affect his business.", "By the fact that he was not made aware of the plan to hang the man, as he is always involved in this sort of decision-making." ], [ "He did not attend the Chamber of Commerce meeting that discussed the event.", "He was at a meeting at his sons' school.", "He was at work and missed the radio announcement.", "He missed the announcement when he was digging in his basement." ], [ "Their badges show they are actually from another town.", "As a businessman in the town, he knows everyone on the police force, and he does not know those two men.", "They are not wearing uniforms, nor do they follow police procedures. ", "They cannot produce a badge to show their identity." ], [ "The Chamber of Commerce is hosting a meeting to discuss the transpiring events.", "There is a bomb located on the steps of the building, and it is set to go off at midnight.", "Alien insects appear to be descending on the building.", "It has become the town's refuge against the alien invaders." ], [ "An alien leader, thus why Loyce is a target of this invading race.", "A man who was like him and had escaped the initial wave of the invasion.", "His wife in his attempt to escape.", "An alien who was disguised as a friend." ], [ "The other aliens.", "A normal businessman with an appointment to meet with the town's Commissioner.", "A man who was completely insane.", "The man who was hanging in his town square." ], [ "Resistance against the aliens is futile.", "He did the right thing by coming to him so that they can stop the alien invasion.", "Loyce is insane, and there are no alien invaders. He lets Loyce know that he will be arrested for murder.", "The hanging man was simply a trap to capture those like Loyce." ] ]	[ -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1 ]	[ 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 1, 0 ]	[ [ "Loyce opened the door. For a brief second he looked back at his wife and\n son. Then he slammed the door behind him and raced down the porch steps.\n\n\n A moment later he was on his way, hurrying swiftly through the darkness\n toward the edge of town.\nThe early morning sunlight was blinding. Loyce halted, gasping for\n breath, swaying back and forth. Sweat ran down in his eyes. His clothing\n was torn, shredded by the brush and thorns through which he had crawled.\n Ten miles—on his hands and knees. Crawling, creeping through the night.\n His shoes were mud-caked. He was scratched and limping, utterly\n exhausted.\n\n\n But ahead of him lay Oak Grove.", "\"Digging. A new foundation. Getting out the dirt to pour a cement frame.\n Why? What has that to do with—\"\n\n\n \"Was anybody else down there with you?\"\n\n\n \"No. My wife was downtown. My kids were at school.\" Loyce looked from\n one heavy-set cop to the other. Hope flicked across his face, wild hope.\n \"You mean because I was down there I missed—the explanation? I didn't\n get in on it? Like everybody else?\"\n\n\n After a pause the cop with the notebook said: \"That's right. You missed\n the explanation.\"\n\n\n \"Then it's official? The body—it's\nsupposed\nto be hanging there?\"\n\n\n \"It's supposed to be hanging there. For everybody to see.\"", "Ed Loyce grinned weakly. \"Good Lord. I guess I sort of went off the deep\n end. I thought maybe something had happened. You know, something like\n the Ku Klux Klan. Some kind of violence. Communists or Fascists taking\n over.\" He wiped his face with his breast-pocket handkerchief, his hands\n shaking. \"I'm glad to know it's on the level.\"\n\n\n \"It's on the level.\" The police car was getting near the Hall of\n Justice. The sun had set. The streets were gloomy and dark. The lights\n had not yet come on.\n\n\n \"I feel better,\" Loyce said. \"I was pretty excited there, for a minute.\n I guess I got all stirred up. Now that I understand, there's no need to\n take me in, is there?\"\n\n\n The two cops said nothing.", "Margaret Henderson from the jewelry store joined them. \"Something\n wrong?\"\n\n\n \"Ed's not feeling well.\"\n\n\n Loyce yanked himself free. \"How can you stand here? Don't you see it?\n For God's sake—\"\n\n\n \"What's he talking about?\" Margaret asked nervously.\n\n\n \"The body!\" Ed shouted. \"The body hanging there!\"\n\n\n More people collected. \"Is he sick? It's Ed Loyce. You okay, Ed?\"\n\n\n \"The body!\" Loyce screamed, struggling to get past them. Hands caught at\n him. He tore loose. \"Let me go! The police! Get the police!\"\n\n\n \"Ed—\"\n\n\n \"Better get a doctor!\"\n\n\n \"He must be sick.\"\n\n\n \"Or drunk.\"", "Loyce fought his way through the people. He stumbled and half fell.\n Through a blur he saw rows of faces, curious, concerned, anxious. Men\n and women halting to see what the disturbance was. He fought past them\n toward his store. He could see Fergusson inside talking to a man,\n showing him an Emerson TV set. Pete Foley in the back at the service\n counter, setting up a new Philco. Loyce shouted at them frantically.\n His voice was lost in the roar of traffic and the murmur around him.\n\n\n \"Do something!\" he screamed. \"Don't stand there! Do something!\n Something's wrong! Something's happened! Things are going on!\"\n\n\n The crowd melted respectfully for the two heavy-set cops moving\n efficiently toward Loyce.\n\"Name?\" the cop with the notebook murmured.\n\n\n \"Loyce.\" He mopped his forehead wearily. \"Edward C. Loyce. Listen to me.\n Back there—\"", "He was at the entrance of an alley, dark and strewn with boards and\n ruined boxes and tires. He could see the street at the far end. A street\n light wavered and came on. Men and women. Stores. Neon signs. Cars.\n\n\n And to his right—the police station.\n\n\n He was close, terribly close. Past the loading platform of a grocery\n store rose the white concrete side of the Hall of Justice. Barred\n windows. The police antenna. A great concrete wall rising up in the\n darkness. A bad place for him to be near. He was too close. He had to\n keep moving, get farther away from them.\nThem?\nLoyce moved cautiously down the alley. Beyond the police station was the\n City Hall, the old-fashioned yellow structure of wood and gilded brass\n and broad cement steps. He could see the endless rows of offices, dark\n windows, the cedars and beds of flowers on each side of the entrance.\n\n\n And—something else.", "\"You don't believe me,\" Loyce said.\n\n\n The Commissioner offered him a cigarette. Loyce pushed it impatiently\n away. \"Suit yourself.\" The Commissioner moved over to the window and\n stood for a time looking out at the town of Oak Grove. \"I believe you,\"\n he said abruptly.\n\n\n Loyce sagged. \"Thank God.\"\n\n\n \"So you got away.\" The Commissioner shook his head. \"You were down in\n your cellar instead of at work. A freak chance. One in a million.\"\n\n\n Loyce sipped some of the black coffee they had brought him. \"I have a\n theory,\" he murmured.\n\n\n \"What is it?\"", "It was getting dark. The setting sun cast long rays over the scurrying\n commuters, tired and grim-faced, women loaded down with bundles and\n packages, students swarming home from the university, mixing with clerks\n and businessmen and drab secretaries. He stopped his Packard for a red\n light and then started it up again. The store had been open without him;\n he'd arrive just in time to spell the help for dinner, go over the\n records of the day, maybe even close a couple of sales himself. He drove\n slowly past the small square of green in the center of the street, the\n town park. There were no parking places in front of LOYCE TV SALES AND\n SERVICE. He cursed under his breath and swung the car in a U-turn. Again\n he passed the little square of green with its lonely drinking fountain\n and bench and single lamppost.", "He struck again. A hideous crunching sound. The man's voice cut off and\n dissolved in a bubbling wail. Loyce scrambled up and back. The others\n were there, now. All around him. He ran, awkwardly, down the sidewalk,\n up a driveway. None of them followed him. They had stopped and were\n bending over the inert body of the man with the book, the bright-eyed\n man who had come after him.\n\n\n Had he made a mistake?\n\n\n But it was too late to worry about that. He had to get out—away from\n them. Out of Pikeville, beyond the crack of darkness, the rent between\n their world and his.\n\"Ed!\" Janet Loyce backed away nervously. \"What is it? What—\"\n\n\n Ed Loyce slammed the door behind him and came into the living room.\n \"Pull down the shades. Quick.\"\n\n\n Janet moved toward the window. \"But—\"", "\"For Heaven's sake,\" Loyce muttered, sickened. He pushed down his nausea\n and made his way back to the sidewalk. He was shaking all over, with\n revulsion—and fear.\nWhy?\nWho was the man? Why was he hanging there? What did it mean?\n\n\n And—why didn't anybody notice?\n\n\n He bumped into a small man hurrying along the sidewalk. \"Watch it!\" the\n man grated, \"Oh, it's you, Ed.\"\n\n\n Ed nodded dazedly. \"Hello, Jenkins.\"\n\n\n \"What's the matter?\" The stationery clerk caught Ed's arm. \"You look\n sick.\"\n\n\n \"The body. There in the park.\"\n\n\n \"Sure, Ed.\" Jenkins led him into the alcove of LOYCE TV SALES AND\n SERVICE. \"Take it easy.\"", "\"I'm going nuts,\" Loyce whispered. He made his way to the curb and\n crossed out into traffic, among the cars. Horns honked angrily at him.\n He gained the curb and stepped up onto the little square of green.\n\n\n The man had been middle-aged. His clothing was ripped and torn, a gray\n suit, splashed and caked with dried mud. A stranger. Loyce had never\n seen him before. Not a local man. His face was partly turned, away, and\n in the evening wind he spun a little, turning gently, silently. His skin\n was gouged and cut. Red gashes, deep scratches of congealed blood. A\n pair of steel-rimmed glasses hung from one ear, dangling foolishly. His\n eyes bulged. His mouth was open, tongue thick and ugly blue.", "THE HANGING STRANGER\nBY PHILIP K. DICK\nILLUSTRATED BY SMITH\n[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Science Fiction\n Adventures Magazine December 1953. Extensive research did not uncover\n any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nEd had always been a practical man, when he saw something was\n wrong he tried to correct it. Then one day he saw\nit\nhanging in the\n town square.\n\n Five o'clock Ed Loyce washed up, tossed on his hat and coat, got his car\n out and headed across town toward his TV sales store. He was tired. His\n back and shoulders ached from digging dirt out of the basement and\n wheeling it into the back yard. But for a forty-year-old man he had done\n okay. Janet could get a new vase with the money he had saved; and he\n liked the idea of repairing the foundations himself!", "From the lamppost something was hanging. A shapeless dark bundle,\n swinging a little with the wind. Like a dummy of some sort. Loyce rolled\n down his window and peered out. What the hell was it? A display of\n some kind? Sometimes the Chamber of Commerce put up displays in the\n square.\n\n\n Again he made a U-turn and brought his car around. He passed the park\n and concentrated on the dark bundle. It wasn't a dummy. And if it was a\n display it was a strange kind. The hackles on his neck rose and he\n swallowed uneasily. Sweat slid out on his face and hands.\n\n\n It was a body. A human body.\n\"Look at it!\" Loyce snapped. \"Come on out here!\"\n\n\n Don Fergusson came slowly out of the store, buttoning his pin-stripe\n coat with dignity. \"This is a big deal, Ed. I can't just leave the guy\n standing there.\"", "\"Address?\" the cop demanded. The police car moved swiftly through\n traffic, shooting among the cars and buses. Loyce sagged against the\n seat, exhausted and confused. He took a deep shuddering breath.\n\n\n \"1368 Hurst Road.\"\n\n\n \"That's here in Pikeville?\"\n\n\n \"That's right.\" Loyce pulled himself up with a violent effort. \"Listen\n to me. Back there. In the square. Hanging from the lamppost—\"\n\n\n \"Where were you today?\" the cop behind the wheel demanded.\n\n\n \"Where?\" Loyce echoed.\n\n\n \"You weren't in your shop, were you?\"\n\n\n \"No.\" He shook his head. \"No, I was home. Down in the basement.\"\n\n\n \"In the\nbasement\n?\"", "The bus halted. An elderly man got on slowly and dropped his token into\n the box. He moved down the aisle and took a seat opposite Loyce.\n\n\n The elderly man caught the sharp-eyed man's gaze. For a split second\n something passed between them.\n\n\n A look rich with meaning.\n\n\n Loyce got to his feet. The bus was moving. He ran to the door. One step\n down into the well. He yanked the emergency door release. The rubber\n door swung open.\n\n\n \"Hey!\" the driver shouted, jamming on the brakes. \"What the hell—\"\n\n\n Loyce squirmed through. The bus was slowing down. Houses on all sides. A\n residential district, lawns and tall apartment buildings. Behind him,\n the bright-eyed man had leaped up. The elderly man was also on his feet.\n They were coming after him.", "\"Not everything. The hanging man. The dead man hanging from the\n lamppost. I don't understand that.\nWhy?\nWhy did they deliberately hang\n him there?\"\n\n\n \"That would seem simple.\" The Commissioner smiled faintly. \"\nBait.\n\"\n\n\n Loyce stiffened. His heart stopped beating. \"Bait? What do you mean?\"\n\n\n \"To draw you out. Make you declare yourself. So they'd know who was\n under control—and who had escaped.\"\n\n\n Loyce recoiled with horror. \"Then they\nexpected\nfailures! They\n anticipated—\" He broke off. \"They were ready with a trap.\"\n\n\n \"And you showed yourself. You reacted. You made yourself known.\" The\n Commissioner abruptly moved toward the door. \"Come along, Loyce. There's\n a lot to do. We must get moving. There's no time to waste.\"", "Loyce moved forward. He pushed his way among those waiting and when the\n bus halted he boarded it and took a seat in the rear, by the door. A\n moment later the bus moved into life and rumbled down the street.\nLoyce relaxed a little. He studied the people around him. Dulled, tired\n faces. People going home from work. Quite ordinary faces. None of them\n paid any attention to him. All sat quietly, sunk down in their seats,\n jiggling with the motion of the bus.\n\n\n The man sitting next to him unfolded a newspaper. He began to read the\n sports section, his lips moving. An ordinary man. Blue suit. Tie. A\n businessman, or a salesman. On his way home to his wife and family.\n\n\n Across the aisle a young woman, perhaps twenty. Dark eyes and hair, a\n package on her lap. Nylons and heels. Red coat and white angora sweater.\n Gazing absently ahead of her.", "He took a deep breath and started down the hill. Twice he stumbled and\n fell, picking himself up and trudging on. His ears rang. Everything\n receded and wavered. But he was there. He had got out, away from\n Pikeville.\n\n\n A farmer in a field gaped at him. From a house a young woman watched in\n wonder. Loyce reached the road and turned onto it. Ahead of him was a\n gasoline station and a drive-in. A couple of trucks, some chickens\n pecking in the dirt, a dog tied with a string.\n\n\n The white-clad attendant watched suspiciously as he dragged himself up\n to the station. \"Thank God.\" He caught hold of the wall. \"I didn't think\n I was going to make it. They followed me most of the way. I could hear\n them buzzing. Buzzing and flitting around behind me.\"\n\n\n \"What happened?\" the attendant demanded. \"You in a wreck? A hold-up?\"", "\"See it?\" Ed pointed into the gathering gloom. The lamppost jutted up\n against the sky—the post and the bundle swinging from it. \"There it is.\n How the hell long has it been there?\" His voice rose excitedly. \"What's\n wrong with everybody? They just walk on past!\"\n\n\n Don Fergusson lit a cigarette slowly. \"Take it easy, old man. There must\n be a good reason, or it wouldn't be there.\"\n\n\n \"A reason! What kind of a reason?\"\n\n\n Fergusson shrugged. \"Like the time the Traffic Safety Council put that\n wrecked Buick there. Some sort of civic thing. How would I know?\"\n\n\n Jack Potter from the shoe shop joined them. \"What's up, boys?\"\n\n\n \"There's a body hanging from the lamppost,\" Loyce said. \"I'm going to\n call the cops.\"", "Loyce leaped. He hit the pavement with terrific force and rolled against\n the curb. Pain lapped over him. Pain and a vast tide of blackness.\n Desperately, he fought it off. He struggled to his knees and then slid\n down again. The bus had stopped. People were getting off.\n\n\n Loyce groped around. His fingers closed over something. A rock, lying in\n the gutter. He crawled to his feet, grunting with pain. A shape loomed\n before him. A man, the bright-eyed man with the book.\n\n\n Loyce kicked. The man gasped and fell. Loyce brought the rock down. The\n man screamed and tried to roll away. \"\nStop!\nFor God's sake listen—\"" ], [ "From the lamppost something was hanging. A shapeless dark bundle,\n swinging a little with the wind. Like a dummy of some sort. Loyce rolled\n down his window and peered out. What the hell was it? A display of\n some kind? Sometimes the Chamber of Commerce put up displays in the\n square.\n\n\n Again he made a U-turn and brought his car around. He passed the park\n and concentrated on the dark bundle. It wasn't a dummy. And if it was a\n display it was a strange kind. The hackles on his neck rose and he\n swallowed uneasily. Sweat slid out on his face and hands.\n\n\n It was a body. A human body.\n\"Look at it!\" Loyce snapped. \"Come on out here!\"\n\n\n Don Fergusson came slowly out of the store, buttoning his pin-stripe\n coat with dignity. \"This is a big deal, Ed. I can't just leave the guy\n standing there.\"", "Margaret Henderson from the jewelry store joined them. \"Something\n wrong?\"\n\n\n \"Ed's not feeling well.\"\n\n\n Loyce yanked himself free. \"How can you stand here? Don't you see it?\n For God's sake—\"\n\n\n \"What's he talking about?\" Margaret asked nervously.\n\n\n \"The body!\" Ed shouted. \"The body hanging there!\"\n\n\n More people collected. \"Is he sick? It's Ed Loyce. You okay, Ed?\"\n\n\n \"The body!\" Loyce screamed, struggling to get past them. Hands caught at\n him. He tore loose. \"Let me go! The police! Get the police!\"\n\n\n \"Ed—\"\n\n\n \"Better get a doctor!\"\n\n\n \"He must be sick.\"\n\n\n \"Or drunk.\"", "\"See it?\" Ed pointed into the gathering gloom. The lamppost jutted up\n against the sky—the post and the bundle swinging from it. \"There it is.\n How the hell long has it been there?\" His voice rose excitedly. \"What's\n wrong with everybody? They just walk on past!\"\n\n\n Don Fergusson lit a cigarette slowly. \"Take it easy, old man. There must\n be a good reason, or it wouldn't be there.\"\n\n\n \"A reason! What kind of a reason?\"\n\n\n Fergusson shrugged. \"Like the time the Traffic Safety Council put that\n wrecked Buick there. Some sort of civic thing. How would I know?\"\n\n\n Jack Potter from the shoe shop joined them. \"What's up, boys?\"\n\n\n \"There's a body hanging from the lamppost,\" Loyce said. \"I'm going to\n call the cops.\"", "\"For Heaven's sake,\" Loyce muttered, sickened. He pushed down his nausea\n and made his way back to the sidewalk. He was shaking all over, with\n revulsion—and fear.\nWhy?\nWho was the man? Why was he hanging there? What did it mean?\n\n\n And—why didn't anybody notice?\n\n\n He bumped into a small man hurrying along the sidewalk. \"Watch it!\" the\n man grated, \"Oh, it's you, Ed.\"\n\n\n Ed nodded dazedly. \"Hello, Jenkins.\"\n\n\n \"What's the matter?\" The stationery clerk caught Ed's arm. \"You look\n sick.\"\n\n\n \"The body. There in the park.\"\n\n\n \"Sure, Ed.\" Jenkins led him into the alcove of LOYCE TV SALES AND\n SERVICE. \"Take it easy.\"", "\"Not everything. The hanging man. The dead man hanging from the\n lamppost. I don't understand that.\nWhy?\nWhy did they deliberately hang\n him there?\"\n\n\n \"That would seem simple.\" The Commissioner smiled faintly. \"\nBait.\n\"\n\n\n Loyce stiffened. His heart stopped beating. \"Bait? What do you mean?\"\n\n\n \"To draw you out. Make you declare yourself. So they'd know who was\n under control—and who had escaped.\"\n\n\n Loyce recoiled with horror. \"Then they\nexpected\nfailures! They\n anticipated—\" He broke off. \"They were ready with a trap.\"\n\n\n \"And you showed yourself. You reacted. You made yourself known.\" The\n Commissioner abruptly moved toward the door. \"Come along, Loyce. There's\n a lot to do. We must get moving. There's no time to waste.\"", "\"I'm going nuts,\" Loyce whispered. He made his way to the curb and\n crossed out into traffic, among the cars. Horns honked angrily at him.\n He gained the curb and stepped up onto the little square of green.\n\n\n The man had been middle-aged. His clothing was ripped and torn, a gray\n suit, splashed and caked with dried mud. A stranger. Loyce had never\n seen him before. Not a local man. His face was partly turned, away, and\n in the evening wind he spun a little, turning gently, silently. His skin\n was gouged and cut. Red gashes, deep scratches of congealed blood. A\n pair of steel-rimmed glasses hung from one ear, dangling foolishly. His\n eyes bulged. His mouth was open, tongue thick and ugly blue.", "Loyce started slowly to his feet, numbed. \"And the man.\nWho was the\n man?\nI never saw him before. He wasn't a local man. He was a stranger.\n All muddy and dirty, his face cut, slashed—\"\n\n\n There was a strange look on the Commissioner's face as he answered.\n \"Maybe,\" he said softly, \"you'll understand that, too. Come along with\n me, Mr. Loyce.\" He held the door open, his eyes gleaming. Loyce caught a\n glimpse of the street in front of the police station. Policemen, a\n platform of some sort. A telephone pole—and a rope! \"Right this way,\"\n the Commissioner said, smiling coldly.\nAs the sun set, the vice-president of the Oak Grove Merchants' Bank came\n up out of the vault, threw the heavy time locks, put on his hat and\n coat, and hurried outside onto the sidewalk. Only a few people were\n there, hurrying home to dinner.", "\"Digging. A new foundation. Getting out the dirt to pour a cement frame.\n Why? What has that to do with—\"\n\n\n \"Was anybody else down there with you?\"\n\n\n \"No. My wife was downtown. My kids were at school.\" Loyce looked from\n one heavy-set cop to the other. Hope flicked across his face, wild hope.\n \"You mean because I was down there I missed—the explanation? I didn't\n get in on it? Like everybody else?\"\n\n\n After a pause the cop with the notebook said: \"That's right. You missed\n the explanation.\"\n\n\n \"Then it's official? The body—it's\nsupposed\nto be hanging there?\"\n\n\n \"It's supposed to be hanging there. For everybody to see.\"", "\"Address?\" the cop demanded. The police car moved swiftly through\n traffic, shooting among the cars and buses. Loyce sagged against the\n seat, exhausted and confused. He took a deep shuddering breath.\n\n\n \"1368 Hurst Road.\"\n\n\n \"That's here in Pikeville?\"\n\n\n \"That's right.\" Loyce pulled himself up with a violent effort. \"Listen\n to me. Back there. In the square. Hanging from the lamppost—\"\n\n\n \"Where were you today?\" the cop behind the wheel demanded.\n\n\n \"Where?\" Loyce echoed.\n\n\n \"You weren't in your shop, were you?\"\n\n\n \"No.\" He shook his head. \"No, I was home. Down in the basement.\"\n\n\n \"In the\nbasement\n?\"", "Loyce shook his head wearily. \"They have the whole town. The City Hall\n and the police station. They hung a man from the lamppost. That was the\n first thing I saw. They've got all the roads blocked. I saw them\n hovering over the cars coming in. About four this morning I got beyond\n them. I knew it right away. I could feel them leave. And then the sun\n came up.\"\n\n\n The attendant licked his lip nervously. \"You're out of your head. I\n better get a doctor.\"\n\n\n \"Get me into Oak Grove,\" Loyce gasped. He sank down on the gravel.\n \"We've got to get started—cleaning them out. Got to get started right\n away.\"\nThey kept a tape recorder going all the time he talked. When he had\n finished the Commissioner snapped off the recorder and got to his feet.\n He stood for a moment, deep in thought. Finally he got out his\n cigarettes and lit up slowly, a frown on his beefy face.", "\"They must know about it,\" Potter said. \"Or otherwise it wouldn't be\n there.\"\n\n\n \"I got to get back in.\" Fergusson headed back into the store. \"Business\n before pleasure.\"\n\n\n Loyce began to get hysterical. \"You see it? You see it hanging there? A\n man's body! A dead man!\"\n\n\n \"Sure, Ed. I saw it this afternoon when I went out for coffee.\"\n\n\n \"You mean it's been there all afternoon?\"\n\n\n \"Sure. What's the matter?\" Potter glanced at his watch. \"Have to run.\n See you later, Ed.\"\n\n\n Potter hurried off, joining the flow of people moving along the\n sidewalk. Men and women, passing by the park. A few glanced up curiously\n at the dark bundle—and then went on. Nobody stopped. Nobody paid any\n attention.", "Loyce fought his way through the people. He stumbled and half fell.\n Through a blur he saw rows of faces, curious, concerned, anxious. Men\n and women halting to see what the disturbance was. He fought past them\n toward his store. He could see Fergusson inside talking to a man,\n showing him an Emerson TV set. Pete Foley in the back at the service\n counter, setting up a new Philco. Loyce shouted at them frantically.\n His voice was lost in the roar of traffic and the murmur around him.\n\n\n \"Do something!\" he screamed. \"Don't stand there! Do something!\n Something's wrong! Something's happened! Things are going on!\"\n\n\n The crowd melted respectfully for the two heavy-set cops moving\n efficiently toward Loyce.\n\"Name?\" the cop with the notebook murmured.\n\n\n \"Loyce.\" He mopped his forehead wearily. \"Edward C. Loyce. Listen to me.\n Back there—\"", "Loyce opened the door. For a brief second he looked back at his wife and\n son. Then he slammed the door behind him and raced down the porch steps.\n\n\n A moment later he was on his way, hurrying swiftly through the darkness\n toward the edge of town.\nThe early morning sunlight was blinding. Loyce halted, gasping for\n breath, swaying back and forth. Sweat ran down in his eyes. His clothing\n was torn, shredded by the brush and thorns through which he had crawled.\n Ten miles—on his hands and knees. Crawling, creeping through the night.\n His shoes were mud-caked. He was scratched and limping, utterly\n exhausted.\n\n\n But ahead of him lay Oak Grove.", "\"Good night,\" the guard said, locking the door after him.\n\n\n \"Good night,\" Clarence Mason murmured. He started along the street\n toward his car. He was tired. He had been working all day down in the\n vault, examining the lay-out of the safety deposit boxes to see if there\n was room for another tier. He was glad to be finished.\n\n\n At the corner he halted. The street lights had not yet come on. The\n street was dim. Everything was vague. He looked around—and froze.\n\n\n From the telephone pole in front of the police station, something large\n and shapeless hung. It moved a little with the wind.\n\n\n What the hell was it?", "He took a deep breath and started down the hill. Twice he stumbled and\n fell, picking himself up and trudging on. His ears rang. Everything\n receded and wavered. But he was there. He had got out, away from\n Pikeville.\n\n\n A farmer in a field gaped at him. From a house a young woman watched in\n wonder. Loyce reached the road and turned onto it. Ahead of him was a\n gasoline station and a drive-in. A couple of trucks, some chickens\n pecking in the dirt, a dog tied with a string.\n\n\n The white-clad attendant watched suspiciously as he dragged himself up\n to the station. \"Thank God.\" He caught hold of the wall. \"I didn't think\n I was going to make it. They followed me most of the way. I could hear\n them buzzing. Buzzing and flitting around behind me.\"\n\n\n \"What happened?\" the attendant demanded. \"You in a wreck? A hold-up?\"", "He was at the entrance of an alley, dark and strewn with boards and\n ruined boxes and tires. He could see the street at the far end. A street\n light wavered and came on. Men and women. Stores. Neon signs. Cars.\n\n\n And to his right—the police station.\n\n\n He was close, terribly close. Past the loading platform of a grocery\n store rose the white concrete side of the Hall of Justice. Barred\n windows. The police antenna. A great concrete wall rising up in the\n darkness. A bad place for him to be near. He was too close. He had to\n keep moving, get farther away from them.\nThem?\nLoyce moved cautiously down the alley. Beyond the police station was the\n City Hall, the old-fashioned yellow structure of wood and gilded brass\n and broad cement steps. He could see the endless rows of offices, dark\n windows, the cedars and beds of flowers on each side of the entrance.\n\n\n And—something else.", "Loyce leaped. He hit the pavement with terrific force and rolled against\n the curb. Pain lapped over him. Pain and a vast tide of blackness.\n Desperately, he fought it off. He struggled to his knees and then slid\n down again. The bus had stopped. People were getting off.\n\n\n Loyce groped around. His fingers closed over something. A rock, lying in\n the gutter. He crawled to his feet, grunting with pain. A shape loomed\n before him. A man, the bright-eyed man with the book.\n\n\n Loyce kicked. The man gasped and fell. Loyce brought the rock down. The\n man screamed and tried to roll away. \"\nStop!\nFor God's sake listen—\"", "It was getting dark. The setting sun cast long rays over the scurrying\n commuters, tired and grim-faced, women loaded down with bundles and\n packages, students swarming home from the university, mixing with clerks\n and businessmen and drab secretaries. He stopped his Packard for a red\n light and then started it up again. The store had been open without him;\n he'd arrive just in time to spell the help for dinner, go over the\n records of the day, maybe even close a couple of sales himself. He drove\n slowly past the small square of green in the center of the street, the\n town park. There were no parking places in front of LOYCE TV SALES AND\n SERVICE. He cursed under his breath and swung the car in a U-turn. Again\n he passed the little square of green with its lonely drinking fountain\n and bench and single lamppost.", "\"I should be back at my store. The boys haven't had dinner. I'm all\n right, now. No more trouble. Is there any need of—\"\n\n\n \"This won't take long,\" the cop behind the wheel interrupted. \"A short\n process. Only a few minutes.\"\n\n\n \"I hope it's short,\" Loyce muttered. The car slowed down for a\n stoplight. \"I guess I sort of disturbed the peace. Funny, getting\n excited like that and—\"\n\n\n Loyce yanked the door open. He sprawled out into the street and rolled\n to his feet. Cars were moving all around him, gaining speed as the light\n changed. Loyce leaped onto the curb and raced among the people,\n burrowing into the swarming crowds. Behind him he heard sounds, shouts,\n people running.", "He struck again. A hideous crunching sound. The man's voice cut off and\n dissolved in a bubbling wail. Loyce scrambled up and back. The others\n were there, now. All around him. He ran, awkwardly, down the sidewalk,\n up a driveway. None of them followed him. They had stopped and were\n bending over the inert body of the man with the book, the bright-eyed\n man who had come after him.\n\n\n Had he made a mistake?\n\n\n But it was too late to worry about that. He had to get out—away from\n them. Out of Pikeville, beyond the crack of darkness, the rent between\n their world and his.\n\"Ed!\" Janet Loyce backed away nervously. \"What is it? What—\"\n\n\n Ed Loyce slammed the door behind him and came into the living room.\n \"Pull down the shades. Quick.\"\n\n\n Janet moved toward the window. \"But—\"" ], [ "Loyce moved forward. He pushed his way among those waiting and when the\n bus halted he boarded it and took a seat in the rear, by the door. A\n moment later the bus moved into life and rumbled down the street.\nLoyce relaxed a little. He studied the people around him. Dulled, tired\n faces. People going home from work. Quite ordinary faces. None of them\n paid any attention to him. All sat quietly, sunk down in their seats,\n jiggling with the motion of the bus.\n\n\n The man sitting next to him unfolded a newspaper. He began to read the\n sports section, his lips moving. An ordinary man. Blue suit. Tie. A\n businessman, or a salesman. On his way home to his wife and family.\n\n\n Across the aisle a young woman, perhaps twenty. Dark eyes and hair, a\n package on her lap. Nylons and heels. Red coat and white angora sweater.\n Gazing absently ahead of her.", "Loyce leaped. He hit the pavement with terrific force and rolled against\n the curb. Pain lapped over him. Pain and a vast tide of blackness.\n Desperately, he fought it off. He struggled to his knees and then slid\n down again. The bus had stopped. People were getting off.\n\n\n Loyce groped around. His fingers closed over something. A rock, lying in\n the gutter. He crawled to his feet, grunting with pain. A shape loomed\n before him. A man, the bright-eyed man with the book.\n\n\n Loyce kicked. The man gasped and fell. Loyce brought the rock down. The\n man screamed and tried to roll away. \"\nStop!\nFor God's sake listen—\"", "\"I'm going nuts,\" Loyce whispered. He made his way to the curb and\n crossed out into traffic, among the cars. Horns honked angrily at him.\n He gained the curb and stepped up onto the little square of green.\n\n\n The man had been middle-aged. His clothing was ripped and torn, a gray\n suit, splashed and caked with dried mud. A stranger. Loyce had never\n seen him before. Not a local man. His face was partly turned, away, and\n in the evening wind he spun a little, turning gently, silently. His skin\n was gouged and cut. Red gashes, deep scratches of congealed blood. A\n pair of steel-rimmed glasses hung from one ear, dangling foolishly. His\n eyes bulged. His mouth was open, tongue thick and ugly blue.", "Loyce opened the door. For a brief second he looked back at his wife and\n son. Then he slammed the door behind him and raced down the porch steps.\n\n\n A moment later he was on his way, hurrying swiftly through the darkness\n toward the edge of town.\nThe early morning sunlight was blinding. Loyce halted, gasping for\n breath, swaying back and forth. Sweat ran down in his eyes. His clothing\n was torn, shredded by the brush and thorns through which he had crawled.\n Ten miles—on his hands and knees. Crawling, creeping through the night.\n His shoes were mud-caked. He was scratched and limping, utterly\n exhausted.\n\n\n But ahead of him lay Oak Grove.", "\"I should be back at my store. The boys haven't had dinner. I'm all\n right, now. No more trouble. Is there any need of—\"\n\n\n \"This won't take long,\" the cop behind the wheel interrupted. \"A short\n process. Only a few minutes.\"\n\n\n \"I hope it's short,\" Loyce muttered. The car slowed down for a\n stoplight. \"I guess I sort of disturbed the peace. Funny, getting\n excited like that and—\"\n\n\n Loyce yanked the door open. He sprawled out into the street and rolled\n to his feet. Cars were moving all around him, gaining speed as the light\n changed. Loyce leaped onto the curb and raced among the people,\n burrowing into the swarming crowds. Behind him he heard sounds, shouts,\n people running.", "\"Not everything. The hanging man. The dead man hanging from the\n lamppost. I don't understand that.\nWhy?\nWhy did they deliberately hang\n him there?\"\n\n\n \"That would seem simple.\" The Commissioner smiled faintly. \"\nBait.\n\"\n\n\n Loyce stiffened. His heart stopped beating. \"Bait? What do you mean?\"\n\n\n \"To draw you out. Make you declare yourself. So they'd know who was\n under control—and who had escaped.\"\n\n\n Loyce recoiled with horror. \"Then they\nexpected\nfailures! They\n anticipated—\" He broke off. \"They were ready with a trap.\"\n\n\n \"And you showed yourself. You reacted. You made yourself known.\" The\n Commissioner abruptly moved toward the door. \"Come along, Loyce. There's\n a lot to do. We must get moving. There's no time to waste.\"", "Loyce fought his way through the people. He stumbled and half fell.\n Through a blur he saw rows of faces, curious, concerned, anxious. Men\n and women halting to see what the disturbance was. He fought past them\n toward his store. He could see Fergusson inside talking to a man,\n showing him an Emerson TV set. Pete Foley in the back at the service\n counter, setting up a new Philco. Loyce shouted at them frantically.\n His voice was lost in the roar of traffic and the murmur around him.\n\n\n \"Do something!\" he screamed. \"Don't stand there! Do something!\n Something's wrong! Something's happened! Things are going on!\"\n\n\n The crowd melted respectfully for the two heavy-set cops moving\n efficiently toward Loyce.\n\"Name?\" the cop with the notebook murmured.\n\n\n \"Loyce.\" He mopped his forehead wearily. \"Edward C. Loyce. Listen to me.\n Back there—\"", "He was at the entrance of an alley, dark and strewn with boards and\n ruined boxes and tires. He could see the street at the far end. A street\n light wavered and came on. Men and women. Stores. Neon signs. Cars.\n\n\n And to his right—the police station.\n\n\n He was close, terribly close. Past the loading platform of a grocery\n store rose the white concrete side of the Hall of Justice. Barred\n windows. The police antenna. A great concrete wall rising up in the\n darkness. A bad place for him to be near. He was too close. He had to\n keep moving, get farther away from them.\nThem?\nLoyce moved cautiously down the alley. Beyond the police station was the\n City Hall, the old-fashioned yellow structure of wood and gilded brass\n and broad cement steps. He could see the endless rows of offices, dark\n windows, the cedars and beds of flowers on each side of the entrance.\n\n\n And—something else.", "Ed Loyce grinned weakly. \"Good Lord. I guess I sort of went off the deep\n end. I thought maybe something had happened. You know, something like\n the Ku Klux Klan. Some kind of violence. Communists or Fascists taking\n over.\" He wiped his face with his breast-pocket handkerchief, his hands\n shaking. \"I'm glad to know it's on the level.\"\n\n\n \"It's on the level.\" The police car was getting near the Hall of\n Justice. The sun had set. The streets were gloomy and dark. The lights\n had not yet come on.\n\n\n \"I feel better,\" Loyce said. \"I was pretty excited there, for a minute.\n I guess I got all stirred up. Now that I understand, there's no need to\n take me in, is there?\"\n\n\n The two cops said nothing.", "Margaret Henderson from the jewelry store joined them. \"Something\n wrong?\"\n\n\n \"Ed's not feeling well.\"\n\n\n Loyce yanked himself free. \"How can you stand here? Don't you see it?\n For God's sake—\"\n\n\n \"What's he talking about?\" Margaret asked nervously.\n\n\n \"The body!\" Ed shouted. \"The body hanging there!\"\n\n\n More people collected. \"Is he sick? It's Ed Loyce. You okay, Ed?\"\n\n\n \"The body!\" Loyce screamed, struggling to get past them. Hands caught at\n him. He tore loose. \"Let me go! The police! Get the police!\"\n\n\n \"Ed—\"\n\n\n \"Better get a doctor!\"\n\n\n \"He must be sick.\"\n\n\n \"Or drunk.\"", "\"You don't believe me,\" Loyce said.\n\n\n The Commissioner offered him a cigarette. Loyce pushed it impatiently\n away. \"Suit yourself.\" The Commissioner moved over to the window and\n stood for a time looking out at the town of Oak Grove. \"I believe you,\"\n he said abruptly.\n\n\n Loyce sagged. \"Thank God.\"\n\n\n \"So you got away.\" The Commissioner shook his head. \"You were down in\n your cellar instead of at work. A freak chance. One in a million.\"\n\n\n Loyce sipped some of the black coffee they had brought him. \"I have a\n theory,\" he murmured.\n\n\n \"What is it?\"", "He took a deep breath and started down the hill. Twice he stumbled and\n fell, picking himself up and trudging on. His ears rang. Everything\n receded and wavered. But he was there. He had got out, away from\n Pikeville.\n\n\n A farmer in a field gaped at him. From a house a young woman watched in\n wonder. Loyce reached the road and turned onto it. Ahead of him was a\n gasoline station and a drive-in. A couple of trucks, some chickens\n pecking in the dirt, a dog tied with a string.\n\n\n The white-clad attendant watched suspiciously as he dragged himself up\n to the station. \"Thank God.\" He caught hold of the wall. \"I didn't think\n I was going to make it. They followed me most of the way. I could hear\n them buzzing. Buzzing and flitting around behind me.\"\n\n\n \"What happened?\" the attendant demanded. \"You in a wreck? A hold-up?\"", "\"Address?\" the cop demanded. The police car moved swiftly through\n traffic, shooting among the cars and buses. Loyce sagged against the\n seat, exhausted and confused. He took a deep shuddering breath.\n\n\n \"1368 Hurst Road.\"\n\n\n \"That's here in Pikeville?\"\n\n\n \"That's right.\" Loyce pulled himself up with a violent effort. \"Listen\n to me. Back there. In the square. Hanging from the lamppost—\"\n\n\n \"Where were you today?\" the cop behind the wheel demanded.\n\n\n \"Where?\" Loyce echoed.\n\n\n \"You weren't in your shop, were you?\"\n\n\n \"No.\" He shook his head. \"No, I was home. Down in the basement.\"\n\n\n \"In the\nbasement\n?\"", "Hope flickered in Loyce. They weren't omnipotent. They had made a\n mistake, not got control of him. Their net, their field of control, had\n passed over him. He had emerged from his cellar as he had gone down.\n Apparently their power-zone was limited.\n\n\n A few seats down the aisle a man was watching him. Loyce broke off his\n chain of thought. A slender man, with dark hair and a small mustache.\n Well-dressed, brown suit and shiny shoes. A book between his small\n hands. He was watching Loyce, studying him intently. He turned quickly\n away.\n\n\n Loyce tensed. One of\nthem\n? Or—another they had missed?\n\n\n The man was watching him again. Small dark eyes, alive and clever.\n Shrewd. A man too shrewd for them—or one of the things itself, an alien\n insect from beyond.", "He was seeing—them.\nFor a long time Loyce watched, crouched behind a sagging fence in a pool\n of scummy water.\n\n\n They were landing. Coming down in groups, landing on the roof of the\n City Hall and disappearing inside. They had wings. Like giant insects of\n some kind. They flew and fluttered and came to rest—and then crawled\n crab-fashion, sideways, across the roof and into the building.\n\n\n He was sickened. And fascinated. Cold night wind blew around him and he\n shuddered. He was tired, dazed with shock. On the front steps of the\n City Hall were men, standing here and there. Groups of men coming out of\n the building and halting for a moment before going on.\n\n\n Were there more of them?", "He struck again. A hideous crunching sound. The man's voice cut off and\n dissolved in a bubbling wail. Loyce scrambled up and back. The others\n were there, now. All around him. He ran, awkwardly, down the sidewalk,\n up a driveway. None of them followed him. They had stopped and were\n bending over the inert body of the man with the book, the bright-eyed\n man who had come after him.\n\n\n Had he made a mistake?\n\n\n But it was too late to worry about that. He had to get out—away from\n them. Out of Pikeville, beyond the crack of darkness, the rent between\n their world and his.\n\"Ed!\" Janet Loyce backed away nervously. \"What is it? What—\"\n\n\n Ed Loyce slammed the door behind him and came into the living room.\n \"Pull down the shades. Quick.\"\n\n\n Janet moved toward the window. \"But—\"", "The Commissioner grunted. \"An old struggle.\"\n\n\n \"They've been defeated. The Bible is an account of their defeats. They\n make gains—but finally they're defeated.\"\n\n\n \"Why defeated?\"\n\n\n \"They can't get everyone. They didn't get me. And they never got the\n Hebrews. The Hebrews carried the message to the whole world. The\n realization of the danger. The two men on the bus. I think they\n understood. Had escaped, like I did.\" He clenched his fists. \"I killed\n one of them. I made a mistake. I was afraid to take a chance.\"\n\n\n The Commissioner nodded. \"Yes, they undoubtedly had escaped, as you did.\n Freak accidents. But the rest of the town was firmly in control.\" He\n turned from the window. \"Well, Mr. Loyce. You seem to have figured\n everything out.\"", "The bus halted. An elderly man got on slowly and dropped his token into\n the box. He moved down the aisle and took a seat opposite Loyce.\n\n\n The elderly man caught the sharp-eyed man's gaze. For a split second\n something passed between them.\n\n\n A look rich with meaning.\n\n\n Loyce got to his feet. The bus was moving. He ran to the door. One step\n down into the well. He yanked the emergency door release. The rubber\n door swung open.\n\n\n \"Hey!\" the driver shouted, jamming on the brakes. \"What the hell—\"\n\n\n Loyce squirmed through. The bus was slowing down. Houses on all sides. A\n residential district, lawns and tall apartment buildings. Behind him,\n the bright-eyed man had leaped up. The elderly man was also on his feet.\n They were coming after him.", "Loyce started slowly to his feet, numbed. \"And the man.\nWho was the\n man?\nI never saw him before. He wasn't a local man. He was a stranger.\n All muddy and dirty, his face cut, slashed—\"\n\n\n There was a strange look on the Commissioner's face as he answered.\n \"Maybe,\" he said softly, \"you'll understand that, too. Come along with\n me, Mr. Loyce.\" He held the door open, his eyes gleaming. Loyce caught a\n glimpse of the street in front of the police station. Policemen, a\n platform of some sort. A telephone pole—and a rope! \"Right this way,\"\n the Commissioner said, smiling coldly.\nAs the sun set, the vice-president of the Oak Grove Merchants' Bank came\n up out of the vault, threw the heavy time locks, put on his hat and\n coat, and hurried outside onto the sidewalk. Only a few people were\n there, hurrying home to dinner.", "\"For Heaven's sake,\" Loyce muttered, sickened. He pushed down his nausea\n and made his way back to the sidewalk. He was shaking all over, with\n revulsion—and fear.\nWhy?\nWho was the man? Why was he hanging there? What did it mean?\n\n\n And—why didn't anybody notice?\n\n\n He bumped into a small man hurrying along the sidewalk. \"Watch it!\" the\n man grated, \"Oh, it's you, Ed.\"\n\n\n Ed nodded dazedly. \"Hello, Jenkins.\"\n\n\n \"What's the matter?\" The stationery clerk caught Ed's arm. \"You look\n sick.\"\n\n\n \"The body. There in the park.\"\n\n\n \"Sure, Ed.\" Jenkins led him into the alcove of LOYCE TV SALES AND\n SERVICE. \"Take it easy.\"" ], [ "\"Not everything. The hanging man. The dead man hanging from the\n lamppost. I don't understand that.\nWhy?\nWhy did they deliberately hang\n him there?\"\n\n\n \"That would seem simple.\" The Commissioner smiled faintly. \"\nBait.\n\"\n\n\n Loyce stiffened. His heart stopped beating. \"Bait? What do you mean?\"\n\n\n \"To draw you out. Make you declare yourself. So they'd know who was\n under control—and who had escaped.\"\n\n\n Loyce recoiled with horror. \"Then they\nexpected\nfailures! They\n anticipated—\" He broke off. \"They were ready with a trap.\"\n\n\n \"And you showed yourself. You reacted. You made yourself known.\" The\n Commissioner abruptly moved toward the door. \"Come along, Loyce. There's\n a lot to do. We must get moving. There's no time to waste.\"", "\"Digging. A new foundation. Getting out the dirt to pour a cement frame.\n Why? What has that to do with—\"\n\n\n \"Was anybody else down there with you?\"\n\n\n \"No. My wife was downtown. My kids were at school.\" Loyce looked from\n one heavy-set cop to the other. Hope flicked across his face, wild hope.\n \"You mean because I was down there I missed—the explanation? I didn't\n get in on it? Like everybody else?\"\n\n\n After a pause the cop with the notebook said: \"That's right. You missed\n the explanation.\"\n\n\n \"Then it's official? The body—it's\nsupposed\nto be hanging there?\"\n\n\n \"It's supposed to be hanging there. For everybody to see.\"", "Margaret Henderson from the jewelry store joined them. \"Something\n wrong?\"\n\n\n \"Ed's not feeling well.\"\n\n\n Loyce yanked himself free. \"How can you stand here? Don't you see it?\n For God's sake—\"\n\n\n \"What's he talking about?\" Margaret asked nervously.\n\n\n \"The body!\" Ed shouted. \"The body hanging there!\"\n\n\n More people collected. \"Is he sick? It's Ed Loyce. You okay, Ed?\"\n\n\n \"The body!\" Loyce screamed, struggling to get past them. Hands caught at\n him. He tore loose. \"Let me go! The police! Get the police!\"\n\n\n \"Ed—\"\n\n\n \"Better get a doctor!\"\n\n\n \"He must be sick.\"\n\n\n \"Or drunk.\"", "\"Address?\" the cop demanded. The police car moved swiftly through\n traffic, shooting among the cars and buses. Loyce sagged against the\n seat, exhausted and confused. He took a deep shuddering breath.\n\n\n \"1368 Hurst Road.\"\n\n\n \"That's here in Pikeville?\"\n\n\n \"That's right.\" Loyce pulled himself up with a violent effort. \"Listen\n to me. Back there. In the square. Hanging from the lamppost—\"\n\n\n \"Where were you today?\" the cop behind the wheel demanded.\n\n\n \"Where?\" Loyce echoed.\n\n\n \"You weren't in your shop, were you?\"\n\n\n \"No.\" He shook his head. \"No, I was home. Down in the basement.\"\n\n\n \"In the\nbasement\n?\"", "From the lamppost something was hanging. A shapeless dark bundle,\n swinging a little with the wind. Like a dummy of some sort. Loyce rolled\n down his window and peered out. What the hell was it? A display of\n some kind? Sometimes the Chamber of Commerce put up displays in the\n square.\n\n\n Again he made a U-turn and brought his car around. He passed the park\n and concentrated on the dark bundle. It wasn't a dummy. And if it was a\n display it was a strange kind. The hackles on his neck rose and he\n swallowed uneasily. Sweat slid out on his face and hands.\n\n\n It was a body. A human body.\n\"Look at it!\" Loyce snapped. \"Come on out here!\"\n\n\n Don Fergusson came slowly out of the store, buttoning his pin-stripe\n coat with dignity. \"This is a big deal, Ed. I can't just leave the guy\n standing there.\"", "\"For Heaven's sake,\" Loyce muttered, sickened. He pushed down his nausea\n and made his way back to the sidewalk. He was shaking all over, with\n revulsion—and fear.\nWhy?\nWho was the man? Why was he hanging there? What did it mean?\n\n\n And—why didn't anybody notice?\n\n\n He bumped into a small man hurrying along the sidewalk. \"Watch it!\" the\n man grated, \"Oh, it's you, Ed.\"\n\n\n Ed nodded dazedly. \"Hello, Jenkins.\"\n\n\n \"What's the matter?\" The stationery clerk caught Ed's arm. \"You look\n sick.\"\n\n\n \"The body. There in the park.\"\n\n\n \"Sure, Ed.\" Jenkins led him into the alcove of LOYCE TV SALES AND\n SERVICE. \"Take it easy.\"", "\"You don't believe me,\" Loyce said.\n\n\n The Commissioner offered him a cigarette. Loyce pushed it impatiently\n away. \"Suit yourself.\" The Commissioner moved over to the window and\n stood for a time looking out at the town of Oak Grove. \"I believe you,\"\n he said abruptly.\n\n\n Loyce sagged. \"Thank God.\"\n\n\n \"So you got away.\" The Commissioner shook his head. \"You were down in\n your cellar instead of at work. A freak chance. One in a million.\"\n\n\n Loyce sipped some of the black coffee they had brought him. \"I have a\n theory,\" he murmured.\n\n\n \"What is it?\"", "Loyce opened the door. For a brief second he looked back at his wife and\n son. Then he slammed the door behind him and raced down the porch steps.\n\n\n A moment later he was on his way, hurrying swiftly through the darkness\n toward the edge of town.\nThe early morning sunlight was blinding. Loyce halted, gasping for\n breath, swaying back and forth. Sweat ran down in his eyes. His clothing\n was torn, shredded by the brush and thorns through which he had crawled.\n Ten miles—on his hands and knees. Crawling, creeping through the night.\n His shoes were mud-caked. He was scratched and limping, utterly\n exhausted.\n\n\n But ahead of him lay Oak Grove.", "Loyce shook his head wearily. \"They have the whole town. The City Hall\n and the police station. They hung a man from the lamppost. That was the\n first thing I saw. They've got all the roads blocked. I saw them\n hovering over the cars coming in. About four this morning I got beyond\n them. I knew it right away. I could feel them leave. And then the sun\n came up.\"\n\n\n The attendant licked his lip nervously. \"You're out of your head. I\n better get a doctor.\"\n\n\n \"Get me into Oak Grove,\" Loyce gasped. He sank down on the gravel.\n \"We've got to get started—cleaning them out. Got to get started right\n away.\"\nThey kept a tape recorder going all the time he talked. When he had\n finished the Commissioner snapped off the recorder and got to his feet.\n He stood for a moment, deep in thought. Finally he got out his\n cigarettes and lit up slowly, a frown on his beefy face.", "Loyce fought his way through the people. He stumbled and half fell.\n Through a blur he saw rows of faces, curious, concerned, anxious. Men\n and women halting to see what the disturbance was. He fought past them\n toward his store. He could see Fergusson inside talking to a man,\n showing him an Emerson TV set. Pete Foley in the back at the service\n counter, setting up a new Philco. Loyce shouted at them frantically.\n His voice was lost in the roar of traffic and the murmur around him.\n\n\n \"Do something!\" he screamed. \"Don't stand there! Do something!\n Something's wrong! Something's happened! Things are going on!\"\n\n\n The crowd melted respectfully for the two heavy-set cops moving\n efficiently toward Loyce.\n\"Name?\" the cop with the notebook murmured.\n\n\n \"Loyce.\" He mopped his forehead wearily. \"Edward C. Loyce. Listen to me.\n Back there—\"", "\"I'm going nuts,\" Loyce whispered. He made his way to the curb and\n crossed out into traffic, among the cars. Horns honked angrily at him.\n He gained the curb and stepped up onto the little square of green.\n\n\n The man had been middle-aged. His clothing was ripped and torn, a gray\n suit, splashed and caked with dried mud. A stranger. Loyce had never\n seen him before. Not a local man. His face was partly turned, away, and\n in the evening wind he spun a little, turning gently, silently. His skin\n was gouged and cut. Red gashes, deep scratches of congealed blood. A\n pair of steel-rimmed glasses hung from one ear, dangling foolishly. His\n eyes bulged. His mouth was open, tongue thick and ugly blue.", "He took a deep breath and started down the hill. Twice he stumbled and\n fell, picking himself up and trudging on. His ears rang. Everything\n receded and wavered. But he was there. He had got out, away from\n Pikeville.\n\n\n A farmer in a field gaped at him. From a house a young woman watched in\n wonder. Loyce reached the road and turned onto it. Ahead of him was a\n gasoline station and a drive-in. A couple of trucks, some chickens\n pecking in the dirt, a dog tied with a string.\n\n\n The white-clad attendant watched suspiciously as he dragged himself up\n to the station. \"Thank God.\" He caught hold of the wall. \"I didn't think\n I was going to make it. They followed me most of the way. I could hear\n them buzzing. Buzzing and flitting around behind me.\"\n\n\n \"What happened?\" the attendant demanded. \"You in a wreck? A hold-up?\"", "Loyce started slowly to his feet, numbed. \"And the man.\nWho was the\n man?\nI never saw him before. He wasn't a local man. He was a stranger.\n All muddy and dirty, his face cut, slashed—\"\n\n\n There was a strange look on the Commissioner's face as he answered.\n \"Maybe,\" he said softly, \"you'll understand that, too. Come along with\n me, Mr. Loyce.\" He held the door open, his eyes gleaming. Loyce caught a\n glimpse of the street in front of the police station. Policemen, a\n platform of some sort. A telephone pole—and a rope! \"Right this way,\"\n the Commissioner said, smiling coldly.\nAs the sun set, the vice-president of the Oak Grove Merchants' Bank came\n up out of the vault, threw the heavy time locks, put on his hat and\n coat, and hurried outside onto the sidewalk. Only a few people were\n there, hurrying home to dinner.", "The Commissioner grunted. \"An old struggle.\"\n\n\n \"They've been defeated. The Bible is an account of their defeats. They\n make gains—but finally they're defeated.\"\n\n\n \"Why defeated?\"\n\n\n \"They can't get everyone. They didn't get me. And they never got the\n Hebrews. The Hebrews carried the message to the whole world. The\n realization of the danger. The two men on the bus. I think they\n understood. Had escaped, like I did.\" He clenched his fists. \"I killed\n one of them. I made a mistake. I was afraid to take a chance.\"\n\n\n The Commissioner nodded. \"Yes, they undoubtedly had escaped, as you did.\n Freak accidents. But the rest of the town was firmly in control.\" He\n turned from the window. \"Well, Mr. Loyce. You seem to have figured\n everything out.\"", "\"They must know about it,\" Potter said. \"Or otherwise it wouldn't be\n there.\"\n\n\n \"I got to get back in.\" Fergusson headed back into the store. \"Business\n before pleasure.\"\n\n\n Loyce began to get hysterical. \"You see it? You see it hanging there? A\n man's body! A dead man!\"\n\n\n \"Sure, Ed. I saw it this afternoon when I went out for coffee.\"\n\n\n \"You mean it's been there all afternoon?\"\n\n\n \"Sure. What's the matter?\" Potter glanced at his watch. \"Have to run.\n See you later, Ed.\"\n\n\n Potter hurried off, joining the flow of people moving along the\n sidewalk. Men and women, passing by the park. A few glanced up curiously\n at the dark bundle—and then went on. Nobody stopped. Nobody paid any\n attention.", "\"See it?\" Ed pointed into the gathering gloom. The lamppost jutted up\n against the sky—the post and the bundle swinging from it. \"There it is.\n How the hell long has it been there?\" His voice rose excitedly. \"What's\n wrong with everybody? They just walk on past!\"\n\n\n Don Fergusson lit a cigarette slowly. \"Take it easy, old man. There must\n be a good reason, or it wouldn't be there.\"\n\n\n \"A reason! What kind of a reason?\"\n\n\n Fergusson shrugged. \"Like the time the Traffic Safety Council put that\n wrecked Buick there. Some sort of civic thing. How would I know?\"\n\n\n Jack Potter from the shoe shop joined them. \"What's up, boys?\"\n\n\n \"There's a body hanging from the lamppost,\" Loyce said. \"I'm going to\n call the cops.\"", "Loyce leaped. He hit the pavement with terrific force and rolled against\n the curb. Pain lapped over him. Pain and a vast tide of blackness.\n Desperately, he fought it off. He struggled to his knees and then slid\n down again. The bus had stopped. People were getting off.\n\n\n Loyce groped around. His fingers closed over something. A rock, lying in\n the gutter. He crawled to his feet, grunting with pain. A shape loomed\n before him. A man, the bright-eyed man with the book.\n\n\n Loyce kicked. The man gasped and fell. Loyce brought the rock down. The\n man screamed and tried to roll away. \"\nStop!\nFor God's sake listen—\"", "He was at the entrance of an alley, dark and strewn with boards and\n ruined boxes and tires. He could see the street at the far end. A street\n light wavered and came on. Men and women. Stores. Neon signs. Cars.\n\n\n And to his right—the police station.\n\n\n He was close, terribly close. Past the loading platform of a grocery\n store rose the white concrete side of the Hall of Justice. Barred\n windows. The police antenna. A great concrete wall rising up in the\n darkness. A bad place for him to be near. He was too close. He had to\n keep moving, get farther away from them.\nThem?\nLoyce moved cautiously down the alley. Beyond the police station was the\n City Hall, the old-fashioned yellow structure of wood and gilded brass\n and broad cement steps. He could see the endless rows of offices, dark\n windows, the cedars and beds of flowers on each side of the entrance.\n\n\n And—something else.", "THE HANGING STRANGER\nBY PHILIP K. DICK\nILLUSTRATED BY SMITH\n[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Science Fiction\n Adventures Magazine December 1953. Extensive research did not uncover\n any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nEd had always been a practical man, when he saw something was\n wrong he tried to correct it. Then one day he saw\nit\nhanging in the\n town square.\n\n Five o'clock Ed Loyce washed up, tossed on his hat and coat, got his car\n out and headed across town toward his TV sales store. He was tired. His\n back and shoulders ached from digging dirt out of the basement and\n wheeling it into the back yard. But for a forty-year-old man he had done\n okay. Janet could get a new vase with the money he had saved; and he\n liked the idea of repairing the foundations himself!", "Ed Loyce grinned weakly. \"Good Lord. I guess I sort of went off the deep\n end. I thought maybe something had happened. You know, something like\n the Ku Klux Klan. Some kind of violence. Communists or Fascists taking\n over.\" He wiped his face with his breast-pocket handkerchief, his hands\n shaking. \"I'm glad to know it's on the level.\"\n\n\n \"It's on the level.\" The police car was getting near the Hall of\n Justice. The sun had set. The streets were gloomy and dark. The lights\n had not yet come on.\n\n\n \"I feel better,\" Loyce said. \"I was pretty excited there, for a minute.\n I guess I got all stirred up. Now that I understand, there's no need to\n take me in, is there?\"\n\n\n The two cops said nothing." ], [ "Ed Loyce grinned weakly. \"Good Lord. I guess I sort of went off the deep\n end. I thought maybe something had happened. You know, something like\n the Ku Klux Klan. Some kind of violence. Communists or Fascists taking\n over.\" He wiped his face with his breast-pocket handkerchief, his hands\n shaking. \"I'm glad to know it's on the level.\"\n\n\n \"It's on the level.\" The police car was getting near the Hall of\n Justice. The sun had set. The streets were gloomy and dark. The lights\n had not yet come on.\n\n\n \"I feel better,\" Loyce said. \"I was pretty excited there, for a minute.\n I guess I got all stirred up. Now that I understand, there's no need to\n take me in, is there?\"\n\n\n The two cops said nothing.", "He was at the entrance of an alley, dark and strewn with boards and\n ruined boxes and tires. He could see the street at the far end. A street\n light wavered and came on. Men and women. Stores. Neon signs. Cars.\n\n\n And to his right—the police station.\n\n\n He was close, terribly close. Past the loading platform of a grocery\n store rose the white concrete side of the Hall of Justice. Barred\n windows. The police antenna. A great concrete wall rising up in the\n darkness. A bad place for him to be near. He was too close. He had to\n keep moving, get farther away from them.\nThem?\nLoyce moved cautiously down the alley. Beyond the police station was the\n City Hall, the old-fashioned yellow structure of wood and gilded brass\n and broad cement steps. He could see the endless rows of offices, dark\n windows, the cedars and beds of flowers on each side of the entrance.\n\n\n And—something else.", "They weren't cops. He had realized that right away. He knew every cop in\n Pikeville. A man couldn't own a store, operate a business in a small\n town for twenty-five years without getting to know all the cops.\n\n\n They weren't cops—and there hadn't been any explanation. Potter,\n Fergusson, Jenkins, none of them knew why it was there. They didn't\n know—and they didn't care.\nThat\nwas the strange part.\n\n\n Loyce ducked into a hardware store. He raced toward the back, past the\n startled clerks and customers, into the shipping room and through the\n back door. He tripped over a garbage can and ran up a flight of concrete\n steps. He climbed over a fence and jumped down on the other side,\n gasping and panting.\n\n\n There was no sound behind him. He had got away.", "Loyce opened the door. For a brief second he looked back at his wife and\n son. Then he slammed the door behind him and raced down the porch steps.\n\n\n A moment later he was on his way, hurrying swiftly through the darkness\n toward the edge of town.\nThe early morning sunlight was blinding. Loyce halted, gasping for\n breath, swaying back and forth. Sweat ran down in his eyes. His clothing\n was torn, shredded by the brush and thorns through which he had crawled.\n Ten miles—on his hands and knees. Crawling, creeping through the night.\n His shoes were mud-caked. He was scratched and limping, utterly\n exhausted.\n\n\n But ahead of him lay Oak Grove.", "\"I should be back at my store. The boys haven't had dinner. I'm all\n right, now. No more trouble. Is there any need of—\"\n\n\n \"This won't take long,\" the cop behind the wheel interrupted. \"A short\n process. Only a few minutes.\"\n\n\n \"I hope it's short,\" Loyce muttered. The car slowed down for a\n stoplight. \"I guess I sort of disturbed the peace. Funny, getting\n excited like that and—\"\n\n\n Loyce yanked the door open. He sprawled out into the street and rolled\n to his feet. Cars were moving all around him, gaining speed as the light\n changed. Loyce leaped onto the curb and raced among the people,\n burrowing into the swarming crowds. Behind him he heard sounds, shouts,\n people running.", "\"Address?\" the cop demanded. The police car moved swiftly through\n traffic, shooting among the cars and buses. Loyce sagged against the\n seat, exhausted and confused. He took a deep shuddering breath.\n\n\n \"1368 Hurst Road.\"\n\n\n \"That's here in Pikeville?\"\n\n\n \"That's right.\" Loyce pulled himself up with a violent effort. \"Listen\n to me. Back there. In the square. Hanging from the lamppost—\"\n\n\n \"Where were you today?\" the cop behind the wheel demanded.\n\n\n \"Where?\" Loyce echoed.\n\n\n \"You weren't in your shop, were you?\"\n\n\n \"No.\" He shook his head. \"No, I was home. Down in the basement.\"\n\n\n \"In the\nbasement\n?\"", "Loyce shook his head wearily. \"They have the whole town. The City Hall\n and the police station. They hung a man from the lamppost. That was the\n first thing I saw. They've got all the roads blocked. I saw them\n hovering over the cars coming in. About four this morning I got beyond\n them. I knew it right away. I could feel them leave. And then the sun\n came up.\"\n\n\n The attendant licked his lip nervously. \"You're out of your head. I\n better get a doctor.\"\n\n\n \"Get me into Oak Grove,\" Loyce gasped. He sank down on the gravel.\n \"We've got to get started—cleaning them out. Got to get started right\n away.\"\nThey kept a tape recorder going all the time he talked. When he had\n finished the Commissioner snapped off the recorder and got to his feet.\n He stood for a moment, deep in thought. Finally he got out his\n cigarettes and lit up slowly, a frown on his beefy face.", "Loyce fought his way through the people. He stumbled and half fell.\n Through a blur he saw rows of faces, curious, concerned, anxious. Men\n and women halting to see what the disturbance was. He fought past them\n toward his store. He could see Fergusson inside talking to a man,\n showing him an Emerson TV set. Pete Foley in the back at the service\n counter, setting up a new Philco. Loyce shouted at them frantically.\n His voice was lost in the roar of traffic and the murmur around him.\n\n\n \"Do something!\" he screamed. \"Don't stand there! Do something!\n Something's wrong! Something's happened! Things are going on!\"\n\n\n The crowd melted respectfully for the two heavy-set cops moving\n efficiently toward Loyce.\n\"Name?\" the cop with the notebook murmured.\n\n\n \"Loyce.\" He mopped his forehead wearily. \"Edward C. Loyce. Listen to me.\n Back there—\"", "\"You don't believe me,\" Loyce said.\n\n\n The Commissioner offered him a cigarette. Loyce pushed it impatiently\n away. \"Suit yourself.\" The Commissioner moved over to the window and\n stood for a time looking out at the town of Oak Grove. \"I believe you,\"\n he said abruptly.\n\n\n Loyce sagged. \"Thank God.\"\n\n\n \"So you got away.\" The Commissioner shook his head. \"You were down in\n your cellar instead of at work. A freak chance. One in a million.\"\n\n\n Loyce sipped some of the black coffee they had brought him. \"I have a\n theory,\" he murmured.\n\n\n \"What is it?\"", "The Commissioner grunted. \"An old struggle.\"\n\n\n \"They've been defeated. The Bible is an account of their defeats. They\n make gains—but finally they're defeated.\"\n\n\n \"Why defeated?\"\n\n\n \"They can't get everyone. They didn't get me. And they never got the\n Hebrews. The Hebrews carried the message to the whole world. The\n realization of the danger. The two men on the bus. I think they\n understood. Had escaped, like I did.\" He clenched his fists. \"I killed\n one of them. I made a mistake. I was afraid to take a chance.\"\n\n\n The Commissioner nodded. \"Yes, they undoubtedly had escaped, as you did.\n Freak accidents. But the rest of the town was firmly in control.\" He\n turned from the window. \"Well, Mr. Loyce. You seem to have figured\n everything out.\"", "\"Not everything. The hanging man. The dead man hanging from the\n lamppost. I don't understand that.\nWhy?\nWhy did they deliberately hang\n him there?\"\n\n\n \"That would seem simple.\" The Commissioner smiled faintly. \"\nBait.\n\"\n\n\n Loyce stiffened. His heart stopped beating. \"Bait? What do you mean?\"\n\n\n \"To draw you out. Make you declare yourself. So they'd know who was\n under control—and who had escaped.\"\n\n\n Loyce recoiled with horror. \"Then they\nexpected\nfailures! They\n anticipated—\" He broke off. \"They were ready with a trap.\"\n\n\n \"And you showed yourself. You reacted. You made yourself known.\" The\n Commissioner abruptly moved toward the door. \"Come along, Loyce. There's\n a lot to do. We must get moving. There's no time to waste.\"", "Loyce started slowly to his feet, numbed. \"And the man.\nWho was the\n man?\nI never saw him before. He wasn't a local man. He was a stranger.\n All muddy and dirty, his face cut, slashed—\"\n\n\n There was a strange look on the Commissioner's face as he answered.\n \"Maybe,\" he said softly, \"you'll understand that, too. Come along with\n me, Mr. Loyce.\" He held the door open, his eyes gleaming. Loyce caught a\n glimpse of the street in front of the police station. Policemen, a\n platform of some sort. A telephone pole—and a rope! \"Right this way,\"\n the Commissioner said, smiling coldly.\nAs the sun set, the vice-president of the Oak Grove Merchants' Bank came\n up out of the vault, threw the heavy time locks, put on his hat and\n coat, and hurried outside onto the sidewalk. Only a few people were\n there, hurrying home to dinner.", "Margaret Henderson from the jewelry store joined them. \"Something\n wrong?\"\n\n\n \"Ed's not feeling well.\"\n\n\n Loyce yanked himself free. \"How can you stand here? Don't you see it?\n For God's sake—\"\n\n\n \"What's he talking about?\" Margaret asked nervously.\n\n\n \"The body!\" Ed shouted. \"The body hanging there!\"\n\n\n More people collected. \"Is he sick? It's Ed Loyce. You okay, Ed?\"\n\n\n \"The body!\" Loyce screamed, struggling to get past them. Hands caught at\n him. He tore loose. \"Let me go! The police! Get the police!\"\n\n\n \"Ed—\"\n\n\n \"Better get a doctor!\"\n\n\n \"He must be sick.\"\n\n\n \"Or drunk.\"", "Loyce moved forward. He pushed his way among those waiting and when the\n bus halted he boarded it and took a seat in the rear, by the door. A\n moment later the bus moved into life and rumbled down the street.\nLoyce relaxed a little. He studied the people around him. Dulled, tired\n faces. People going home from work. Quite ordinary faces. None of them\n paid any attention to him. All sat quietly, sunk down in their seats,\n jiggling with the motion of the bus.\n\n\n The man sitting next to him unfolded a newspaper. He began to read the\n sports section, his lips moving. An ordinary man. Blue suit. Tie. A\n businessman, or a salesman. On his way home to his wife and family.\n\n\n Across the aisle a young woman, perhaps twenty. Dark eyes and hair, a\n package on her lap. Nylons and heels. Red coat and white angora sweater.\n Gazing absently ahead of her.", "He struck again. A hideous crunching sound. The man's voice cut off and\n dissolved in a bubbling wail. Loyce scrambled up and back. The others\n were there, now. All around him. He ran, awkwardly, down the sidewalk,\n up a driveway. None of them followed him. They had stopped and were\n bending over the inert body of the man with the book, the bright-eyed\n man who had come after him.\n\n\n Had he made a mistake?\n\n\n But it was too late to worry about that. He had to get out—away from\n them. Out of Pikeville, beyond the crack of darkness, the rent between\n their world and his.\n\"Ed!\" Janet Loyce backed away nervously. \"What is it? What—\"\n\n\n Ed Loyce slammed the door behind him and came into the living room.\n \"Pull down the shades. Quick.\"\n\n\n Janet moved toward the window. \"But—\"", "He was seeing—them.\nFor a long time Loyce watched, crouched behind a sagging fence in a pool\n of scummy water.\n\n\n They were landing. Coming down in groups, landing on the roof of the\n City Hall and disappearing inside. They had wings. Like giant insects of\n some kind. They flew and fluttered and came to rest—and then crawled\n crab-fashion, sideways, across the roof and into the building.\n\n\n He was sickened. And fascinated. Cold night wind blew around him and he\n shuddered. He was tired, dazed with shock. On the front steps of the\n City Hall were men, standing here and there. Groups of men coming out of\n the building and halting for a moment before going on.\n\n\n Were there more of them?", "Loyce leaped. He hit the pavement with terrific force and rolled against\n the curb. Pain lapped over him. Pain and a vast tide of blackness.\n Desperately, he fought it off. He struggled to his knees and then slid\n down again. The bus had stopped. People were getting off.\n\n\n Loyce groped around. His fingers closed over something. A rock, lying in\n the gutter. He crawled to his feet, grunting with pain. A shape loomed\n before him. A man, the bright-eyed man with the book.\n\n\n Loyce kicked. The man gasped and fell. Loyce brought the rock down. The\n man screamed and tried to roll away. \"\nStop!\nFor God's sake listen—\"", "From the lamppost something was hanging. A shapeless dark bundle,\n swinging a little with the wind. Like a dummy of some sort. Loyce rolled\n down his window and peered out. What the hell was it? A display of\n some kind? Sometimes the Chamber of Commerce put up displays in the\n square.\n\n\n Again he made a U-turn and brought his car around. He passed the park\n and concentrated on the dark bundle. It wasn't a dummy. And if it was a\n display it was a strange kind. The hackles on his neck rose and he\n swallowed uneasily. Sweat slid out on his face and hands.\n\n\n It was a body. A human body.\n\"Look at it!\" Loyce snapped. \"Come on out here!\"\n\n\n Don Fergusson came slowly out of the store, buttoning his pin-stripe\n coat with dignity. \"This is a big deal, Ed. I can't just leave the guy\n standing there.\"", "\"I'm going nuts,\" Loyce whispered. He made his way to the curb and\n crossed out into traffic, among the cars. Horns honked angrily at him.\n He gained the curb and stepped up onto the little square of green.\n\n\n The man had been middle-aged. His clothing was ripped and torn, a gray\n suit, splashed and caked with dried mud. A stranger. Loyce had never\n seen him before. Not a local man. His face was partly turned, away, and\n in the evening wind he spun a little, turning gently, silently. His skin\n was gouged and cut. Red gashes, deep scratches of congealed blood. A\n pair of steel-rimmed glasses hung from one ear, dangling foolishly. His\n eyes bulged. His mouth was open, tongue thick and ugly blue.", "\"About them. Who they are. They take over one area at a time. Starting\n at the top—the highest level of authority. Working down from there in a\n widening circle. When they're firmly in control they go on to the next\n town. They spread, slowly, very gradually. I think it's been going on\n for a long time.\"\n\n\n \"A long time?\"\n\n\n \"Thousands of years. I don't think it's new.\"\n\n\n \"Why do you say that?\"\n\n\n \"When I was a kid.... A picture they showed us in Bible League. A\n religious picture—an old print. The enemy gods, defeated by Jehovah.\n Moloch, Beelzebub, Moab, Baalin, Ashtaroth—\"\n\n\n \"So?\"\n\n\n \"They were all represented by figures.\" Loyce looked up at the\n Commissioner. \"Beelzebub was represented as—a giant fly.\"" ], [ "He was at the entrance of an alley, dark and strewn with boards and\n ruined boxes and tires. He could see the street at the far end. A street\n light wavered and came on. Men and women. Stores. Neon signs. Cars.\n\n\n And to his right—the police station.\n\n\n He was close, terribly close. Past the loading platform of a grocery\n store rose the white concrete side of the Hall of Justice. Barred\n windows. The police antenna. A great concrete wall rising up in the\n darkness. A bad place for him to be near. He was too close. He had to\n keep moving, get farther away from them.\nThem?\nLoyce moved cautiously down the alley. Beyond the police station was the\n City Hall, the old-fashioned yellow structure of wood and gilded brass\n and broad cement steps. He could see the endless rows of offices, dark\n windows, the cedars and beds of flowers on each side of the entrance.\n\n\n And—something else.", "He was seeing—them.\nFor a long time Loyce watched, crouched behind a sagging fence in a pool\n of scummy water.\n\n\n They were landing. Coming down in groups, landing on the roof of the\n City Hall and disappearing inside. They had wings. Like giant insects of\n some kind. They flew and fluttered and came to rest—and then crawled\n crab-fashion, sideways, across the roof and into the building.\n\n\n He was sickened. And fascinated. Cold night wind blew around him and he\n shuddered. He was tired, dazed with shock. On the front steps of the\n City Hall were men, standing here and there. Groups of men coming out of\n the building and halting for a moment before going on.\n\n\n Were there more of them?", "Above the City Hall was a patch of darkness, a cone of gloom denser than\n the surrounding night. A prism of black that spread out and was lost\n into the sky.\n\n\n He listened. Good God, he could hear something. Something that made him\n struggle frantically to close his ears, his mind, to shut out the sound.\n A buzzing. A distant, muted hum like a great swarm of bees.\n\n\n Loyce gazed up, rigid with horror. The splotch of darkness, hanging over\n the City Hall. Darkness so thick it seemed almost solid.\nIn the vortex\n something moved.\nFlickering shapes. Things, descending from the sky,\n pausing momentarily above the City Hall, fluttering over it in a dense\n swarm and then dropping silently onto the roof.\n\n\n Shapes. Fluttering shapes from the sky. From the crack of darkness that\n hung above him.", "Margaret Henderson from the jewelry store joined them. \"Something\n wrong?\"\n\n\n \"Ed's not feeling well.\"\n\n\n Loyce yanked himself free. \"How can you stand here? Don't you see it?\n For God's sake—\"\n\n\n \"What's he talking about?\" Margaret asked nervously.\n\n\n \"The body!\" Ed shouted. \"The body hanging there!\"\n\n\n More people collected. \"Is he sick? It's Ed Loyce. You okay, Ed?\"\n\n\n \"The body!\" Loyce screamed, struggling to get past them. Hands caught at\n him. He tore loose. \"Let me go! The police! Get the police!\"\n\n\n \"Ed—\"\n\n\n \"Better get a doctor!\"\n\n\n \"He must be sick.\"\n\n\n \"Or drunk.\"", "Loyce moved forward. He pushed his way among those waiting and when the\n bus halted he boarded it and took a seat in the rear, by the door. A\n moment later the bus moved into life and rumbled down the street.\nLoyce relaxed a little. He studied the people around him. Dulled, tired\n faces. People going home from work. Quite ordinary faces. None of them\n paid any attention to him. All sat quietly, sunk down in their seats,\n jiggling with the motion of the bus.\n\n\n The man sitting next to him unfolded a newspaper. He began to read the\n sports section, his lips moving. An ordinary man. Blue suit. Tie. A\n businessman, or a salesman. On his way home to his wife and family.\n\n\n Across the aisle a young woman, perhaps twenty. Dark eyes and hair, a\n package on her lap. Nylons and heels. Red coat and white angora sweater.\n Gazing absently ahead of her.", "Loyce shook his head wearily. \"They have the whole town. The City Hall\n and the police station. They hung a man from the lamppost. That was the\n first thing I saw. They've got all the roads blocked. I saw them\n hovering over the cars coming in. About four this morning I got beyond\n them. I knew it right away. I could feel them leave. And then the sun\n came up.\"\n\n\n The attendant licked his lip nervously. \"You're out of your head. I\n better get a doctor.\"\n\n\n \"Get me into Oak Grove,\" Loyce gasped. He sank down on the gravel.\n \"We've got to get started—cleaning them out. Got to get started right\n away.\"\nThey kept a tape recorder going all the time he talked. When he had\n finished the Commissioner snapped off the recorder and got to his feet.\n He stood for a moment, deep in thought. Finally he got out his\n cigarettes and lit up slowly, a frown on his beefy face.", "Ed Loyce grinned weakly. \"Good Lord. I guess I sort of went off the deep\n end. I thought maybe something had happened. You know, something like\n the Ku Klux Klan. Some kind of violence. Communists or Fascists taking\n over.\" He wiped his face with his breast-pocket handkerchief, his hands\n shaking. \"I'm glad to know it's on the level.\"\n\n\n \"It's on the level.\" The police car was getting near the Hall of\n Justice. The sun had set. The streets were gloomy and dark. The lights\n had not yet come on.\n\n\n \"I feel better,\" Loyce said. \"I was pretty excited there, for a minute.\n I guess I got all stirred up. Now that I understand, there's no need to\n take me in, is there?\"\n\n\n The two cops said nothing.", "Loyce fought his way through the people. He stumbled and half fell.\n Through a blur he saw rows of faces, curious, concerned, anxious. Men\n and women halting to see what the disturbance was. He fought past them\n toward his store. He could see Fergusson inside talking to a man,\n showing him an Emerson TV set. Pete Foley in the back at the service\n counter, setting up a new Philco. Loyce shouted at them frantically.\n His voice was lost in the roar of traffic and the murmur around him.\n\n\n \"Do something!\" he screamed. \"Don't stand there! Do something!\n Something's wrong! Something's happened! Things are going on!\"\n\n\n The crowd melted respectfully for the two heavy-set cops moving\n efficiently toward Loyce.\n\"Name?\" the cop with the notebook murmured.\n\n\n \"Loyce.\" He mopped his forehead wearily. \"Edward C. Loyce. Listen to me.\n Back there—\"", "Loyce opened the door. For a brief second he looked back at his wife and\n son. Then he slammed the door behind him and raced down the porch steps.\n\n\n A moment later he was on his way, hurrying swiftly through the darkness\n toward the edge of town.\nThe early morning sunlight was blinding. Loyce halted, gasping for\n breath, swaying back and forth. Sweat ran down in his eyes. His clothing\n was torn, shredded by the brush and thorns through which he had crawled.\n Ten miles—on his hands and knees. Crawling, creeping through the night.\n His shoes were mud-caked. He was scratched and limping, utterly\n exhausted.\n\n\n But ahead of him lay Oak Grove.", "It didn't seem possible. What he saw descending from the black chasm\n weren't men. They were alien—from some other world, some other\n dimension. Sliding through this slit, this break in the shell of the\n universe. Entering through this gap, winged insects from another realm\n of being.\n\n\n On the steps of the City Hall a group of men broke up. A few moved\n toward a waiting car. One of the remaining shapes started to re-enter\n the City Hall. It changed its mind and turned to follow the others.\n\n\n Loyce closed his eyes in horror. His senses reeled. He hung on tight,\n clutching at the sagging fence. The shape, the man-shape, had abruptly\n fluttered up and flapped after the others. It flew to the sidewalk and\n came to rest among them.", "\"I'm going nuts,\" Loyce whispered. He made his way to the curb and\n crossed out into traffic, among the cars. Horns honked angrily at him.\n He gained the curb and stepped up onto the little square of green.\n\n\n The man had been middle-aged. His clothing was ripped and torn, a gray\n suit, splashed and caked with dried mud. A stranger. Loyce had never\n seen him before. Not a local man. His face was partly turned, away, and\n in the evening wind he spun a little, turning gently, silently. His skin\n was gouged and cut. Red gashes, deep scratches of congealed blood. A\n pair of steel-rimmed glasses hung from one ear, dangling foolishly. His\n eyes bulged. His mouth was open, tongue thick and ugly blue.", "\"I should be back at my store. The boys haven't had dinner. I'm all\n right, now. No more trouble. Is there any need of—\"\n\n\n \"This won't take long,\" the cop behind the wheel interrupted. \"A short\n process. Only a few minutes.\"\n\n\n \"I hope it's short,\" Loyce muttered. The car slowed down for a\n stoplight. \"I guess I sort of disturbed the peace. Funny, getting\n excited like that and—\"\n\n\n Loyce yanked the door open. He sprawled out into the street and rolled\n to his feet. Cars were moving all around him, gaining speed as the light\n changed. Loyce leaped onto the curb and raced among the people,\n burrowing into the swarming crowds. Behind him he heard sounds, shouts,\n people running.", "\"Address?\" the cop demanded. The police car moved swiftly through\n traffic, shooting among the cars and buses. Loyce sagged against the\n seat, exhausted and confused. He took a deep shuddering breath.\n\n\n \"1368 Hurst Road.\"\n\n\n \"That's here in Pikeville?\"\n\n\n \"That's right.\" Loyce pulled himself up with a violent effort. \"Listen\n to me. Back there. In the square. Hanging from the lamppost—\"\n\n\n \"Where were you today?\" the cop behind the wheel demanded.\n\n\n \"Where?\" Loyce echoed.\n\n\n \"You weren't in your shop, were you?\"\n\n\n \"No.\" He shook his head. \"No, I was home. Down in the basement.\"\n\n\n \"In the\nbasement\n?\"", "\"Not everything. The hanging man. The dead man hanging from the\n lamppost. I don't understand that.\nWhy?\nWhy did they deliberately hang\n him there?\"\n\n\n \"That would seem simple.\" The Commissioner smiled faintly. \"\nBait.\n\"\n\n\n Loyce stiffened. His heart stopped beating. \"Bait? What do you mean?\"\n\n\n \"To draw you out. Make you declare yourself. So they'd know who was\n under control—and who had escaped.\"\n\n\n Loyce recoiled with horror. \"Then they\nexpected\nfailures! They\n anticipated—\" He broke off. \"They were ready with a trap.\"\n\n\n \"And you showed yourself. You reacted. You made yourself known.\" The\n Commissioner abruptly moved toward the door. \"Come along, Loyce. There's\n a lot to do. We must get moving. There's no time to waste.\"", "Loyce leaped. He hit the pavement with terrific force and rolled against\n the curb. Pain lapped over him. Pain and a vast tide of blackness.\n Desperately, he fought it off. He struggled to his knees and then slid\n down again. The bus had stopped. People were getting off.\n\n\n Loyce groped around. His fingers closed over something. A rock, lying in\n the gutter. He crawled to his feet, grunting with pain. A shape loomed\n before him. A man, the bright-eyed man with the book.\n\n\n Loyce kicked. The man gasped and fell. Loyce brought the rock down. The\n man screamed and tried to roll away. \"\nStop!\nFor God's sake listen—\"", "The bus halted. An elderly man got on slowly and dropped his token into\n the box. He moved down the aisle and took a seat opposite Loyce.\n\n\n The elderly man caught the sharp-eyed man's gaze. For a split second\n something passed between them.\n\n\n A look rich with meaning.\n\n\n Loyce got to his feet. The bus was moving. He ran to the door. One step\n down into the well. He yanked the emergency door release. The rubber\n door swung open.\n\n\n \"Hey!\" the driver shouted, jamming on the brakes. \"What the hell—\"\n\n\n Loyce squirmed through. The bus was slowing down. Houses on all sides. A\n residential district, lawns and tall apartment buildings. Behind him,\n the bright-eyed man had leaped up. The elderly man was also on his feet.\n They were coming after him.", "\"For Heaven's sake,\" Loyce muttered, sickened. He pushed down his nausea\n and made his way back to the sidewalk. He was shaking all over, with\n revulsion—and fear.\nWhy?\nWho was the man? Why was he hanging there? What did it mean?\n\n\n And—why didn't anybody notice?\n\n\n He bumped into a small man hurrying along the sidewalk. \"Watch it!\" the\n man grated, \"Oh, it's you, Ed.\"\n\n\n Ed nodded dazedly. \"Hello, Jenkins.\"\n\n\n \"What's the matter?\" The stationery clerk caught Ed's arm. \"You look\n sick.\"\n\n\n \"The body. There in the park.\"\n\n\n \"Sure, Ed.\" Jenkins led him into the alcove of LOYCE TV SALES AND\n SERVICE. \"Take it easy.\"", "It was getting dark. The setting sun cast long rays over the scurrying\n commuters, tired and grim-faced, women loaded down with bundles and\n packages, students swarming home from the university, mixing with clerks\n and businessmen and drab secretaries. He stopped his Packard for a red\n light and then started it up again. The store had been open without him;\n he'd arrive just in time to spell the help for dinner, go over the\n records of the day, maybe even close a couple of sales himself. He drove\n slowly past the small square of green in the center of the street, the\n town park. There were no parking places in front of LOYCE TV SALES AND\n SERVICE. He cursed under his breath and swung the car in a U-turn. Again\n he passed the little square of green with its lonely drinking fountain\n and bench and single lamppost.", "From the lamppost something was hanging. A shapeless dark bundle,\n swinging a little with the wind. Like a dummy of some sort. Loyce rolled\n down his window and peered out. What the hell was it? A display of\n some kind? Sometimes the Chamber of Commerce put up displays in the\n square.\n\n\n Again he made a U-turn and brought his car around. He passed the park\n and concentrated on the dark bundle. It wasn't a dummy. And if it was a\n display it was a strange kind. The hackles on his neck rose and he\n swallowed uneasily. Sweat slid out on his face and hands.\n\n\n It was a body. A human body.\n\"Look at it!\" Loyce snapped. \"Come on out here!\"\n\n\n Don Fergusson came slowly out of the store, buttoning his pin-stripe\n coat with dignity. \"This is a big deal, Ed. I can't just leave the guy\n standing there.\"", "\"You don't believe me,\" Loyce said.\n\n\n The Commissioner offered him a cigarette. Loyce pushed it impatiently\n away. \"Suit yourself.\" The Commissioner moved over to the window and\n stood for a time looking out at the town of Oak Grove. \"I believe you,\"\n he said abruptly.\n\n\n Loyce sagged. \"Thank God.\"\n\n\n \"So you got away.\" The Commissioner shook his head. \"You were down in\n your cellar instead of at work. A freak chance. One in a million.\"\n\n\n Loyce sipped some of the black coffee they had brought him. \"I have a\n theory,\" he murmured.\n\n\n \"What is it?\"" ], [ "Loyce moved forward. He pushed his way among those waiting and when the\n bus halted he boarded it and took a seat in the rear, by the door. A\n moment later the bus moved into life and rumbled down the street.\nLoyce relaxed a little. He studied the people around him. Dulled, tired\n faces. People going home from work. Quite ordinary faces. None of them\n paid any attention to him. All sat quietly, sunk down in their seats,\n jiggling with the motion of the bus.\n\n\n The man sitting next to him unfolded a newspaper. He began to read the\n sports section, his lips moving. An ordinary man. Blue suit. Tie. A\n businessman, or a salesman. On his way home to his wife and family.\n\n\n Across the aisle a young woman, perhaps twenty. Dark eyes and hair, a\n package on her lap. Nylons and heels. Red coat and white angora sweater.\n Gazing absently ahead of her.", "Loyce leaped. He hit the pavement with terrific force and rolled against\n the curb. Pain lapped over him. Pain and a vast tide of blackness.\n Desperately, he fought it off. He struggled to his knees and then slid\n down again. The bus had stopped. People were getting off.\n\n\n Loyce groped around. His fingers closed over something. A rock, lying in\n the gutter. He crawled to his feet, grunting with pain. A shape loomed\n before him. A man, the bright-eyed man with the book.\n\n\n Loyce kicked. The man gasped and fell. Loyce brought the rock down. The\n man screamed and tried to roll away. \"\nStop!\nFor God's sake listen—\"", "Margaret Henderson from the jewelry store joined them. \"Something\n wrong?\"\n\n\n \"Ed's not feeling well.\"\n\n\n Loyce yanked himself free. \"How can you stand here? Don't you see it?\n For God's sake—\"\n\n\n \"What's he talking about?\" Margaret asked nervously.\n\n\n \"The body!\" Ed shouted. \"The body hanging there!\"\n\n\n More people collected. \"Is he sick? It's Ed Loyce. You okay, Ed?\"\n\n\n \"The body!\" Loyce screamed, struggling to get past them. Hands caught at\n him. He tore loose. \"Let me go! The police! Get the police!\"\n\n\n \"Ed—\"\n\n\n \"Better get a doctor!\"\n\n\n \"He must be sick.\"\n\n\n \"Or drunk.\"", "\"I'm going nuts,\" Loyce whispered. He made his way to the curb and\n crossed out into traffic, among the cars. Horns honked angrily at him.\n He gained the curb and stepped up onto the little square of green.\n\n\n The man had been middle-aged. His clothing was ripped and torn, a gray\n suit, splashed and caked with dried mud. A stranger. Loyce had never\n seen him before. Not a local man. His face was partly turned, away, and\n in the evening wind he spun a little, turning gently, silently. His skin\n was gouged and cut. Red gashes, deep scratches of congealed blood. A\n pair of steel-rimmed glasses hung from one ear, dangling foolishly. His\n eyes bulged. His mouth was open, tongue thick and ugly blue.", "Loyce opened the door. For a brief second he looked back at his wife and\n son. Then he slammed the door behind him and raced down the porch steps.\n\n\n A moment later he was on his way, hurrying swiftly through the darkness\n toward the edge of town.\nThe early morning sunlight was blinding. Loyce halted, gasping for\n breath, swaying back and forth. Sweat ran down in his eyes. His clothing\n was torn, shredded by the brush and thorns through which he had crawled.\n Ten miles—on his hands and knees. Crawling, creeping through the night.\n His shoes were mud-caked. He was scratched and limping, utterly\n exhausted.\n\n\n But ahead of him lay Oak Grove.", "\"Not everything. The hanging man. The dead man hanging from the\n lamppost. I don't understand that.\nWhy?\nWhy did they deliberately hang\n him there?\"\n\n\n \"That would seem simple.\" The Commissioner smiled faintly. \"\nBait.\n\"\n\n\n Loyce stiffened. His heart stopped beating. \"Bait? What do you mean?\"\n\n\n \"To draw you out. Make you declare yourself. So they'd know who was\n under control—and who had escaped.\"\n\n\n Loyce recoiled with horror. \"Then they\nexpected\nfailures! They\n anticipated—\" He broke off. \"They were ready with a trap.\"\n\n\n \"And you showed yourself. You reacted. You made yourself known.\" The\n Commissioner abruptly moved toward the door. \"Come along, Loyce. There's\n a lot to do. We must get moving. There's no time to waste.\"", "He was at the entrance of an alley, dark and strewn with boards and\n ruined boxes and tires. He could see the street at the far end. A street\n light wavered and came on. Men and women. Stores. Neon signs. Cars.\n\n\n And to his right—the police station.\n\n\n He was close, terribly close. Past the loading platform of a grocery\n store rose the white concrete side of the Hall of Justice. Barred\n windows. The police antenna. A great concrete wall rising up in the\n darkness. A bad place for him to be near. He was too close. He had to\n keep moving, get farther away from them.\nThem?\nLoyce moved cautiously down the alley. Beyond the police station was the\n City Hall, the old-fashioned yellow structure of wood and gilded brass\n and broad cement steps. He could see the endless rows of offices, dark\n windows, the cedars and beds of flowers on each side of the entrance.\n\n\n And—something else.", "\"You don't believe me,\" Loyce said.\n\n\n The Commissioner offered him a cigarette. Loyce pushed it impatiently\n away. \"Suit yourself.\" The Commissioner moved over to the window and\n stood for a time looking out at the town of Oak Grove. \"I believe you,\"\n he said abruptly.\n\n\n Loyce sagged. \"Thank God.\"\n\n\n \"So you got away.\" The Commissioner shook his head. \"You were down in\n your cellar instead of at work. A freak chance. One in a million.\"\n\n\n Loyce sipped some of the black coffee they had brought him. \"I have a\n theory,\" he murmured.\n\n\n \"What is it?\"", "Loyce fought his way through the people. He stumbled and half fell.\n Through a blur he saw rows of faces, curious, concerned, anxious. Men\n and women halting to see what the disturbance was. He fought past them\n toward his store. He could see Fergusson inside talking to a man,\n showing him an Emerson TV set. Pete Foley in the back at the service\n counter, setting up a new Philco. Loyce shouted at them frantically.\n His voice was lost in the roar of traffic and the murmur around him.\n\n\n \"Do something!\" he screamed. \"Don't stand there! Do something!\n Something's wrong! Something's happened! Things are going on!\"\n\n\n The crowd melted respectfully for the two heavy-set cops moving\n efficiently toward Loyce.\n\"Name?\" the cop with the notebook murmured.\n\n\n \"Loyce.\" He mopped his forehead wearily. \"Edward C. Loyce. Listen to me.\n Back there—\"", "He struck again. A hideous crunching sound. The man's voice cut off and\n dissolved in a bubbling wail. Loyce scrambled up and back. The others\n were there, now. All around him. He ran, awkwardly, down the sidewalk,\n up a driveway. None of them followed him. They had stopped and were\n bending over the inert body of the man with the book, the bright-eyed\n man who had come after him.\n\n\n Had he made a mistake?\n\n\n But it was too late to worry about that. He had to get out—away from\n them. Out of Pikeville, beyond the crack of darkness, the rent between\n their world and his.\n\"Ed!\" Janet Loyce backed away nervously. \"What is it? What—\"\n\n\n Ed Loyce slammed the door behind him and came into the living room.\n \"Pull down the shades. Quick.\"\n\n\n Janet moved toward the window. \"But—\"", "From the lamppost something was hanging. A shapeless dark bundle,\n swinging a little with the wind. Like a dummy of some sort. Loyce rolled\n down his window and peered out. What the hell was it? A display of\n some kind? Sometimes the Chamber of Commerce put up displays in the\n square.\n\n\n Again he made a U-turn and brought his car around. He passed the park\n and concentrated on the dark bundle. It wasn't a dummy. And if it was a\n display it was a strange kind. The hackles on his neck rose and he\n swallowed uneasily. Sweat slid out on his face and hands.\n\n\n It was a body. A human body.\n\"Look at it!\" Loyce snapped. \"Come on out here!\"\n\n\n Don Fergusson came slowly out of the store, buttoning his pin-stripe\n coat with dignity. \"This is a big deal, Ed. I can't just leave the guy\n standing there.\"", "\"Address?\" the cop demanded. The police car moved swiftly through\n traffic, shooting among the cars and buses. Loyce sagged against the\n seat, exhausted and confused. He took a deep shuddering breath.\n\n\n \"1368 Hurst Road.\"\n\n\n \"That's here in Pikeville?\"\n\n\n \"That's right.\" Loyce pulled himself up with a violent effort. \"Listen\n to me. Back there. In the square. Hanging from the lamppost—\"\n\n\n \"Where were you today?\" the cop behind the wheel demanded.\n\n\n \"Where?\" Loyce echoed.\n\n\n \"You weren't in your shop, were you?\"\n\n\n \"No.\" He shook his head. \"No, I was home. Down in the basement.\"\n\n\n \"In the\nbasement\n?\"", "\"For Heaven's sake,\" Loyce muttered, sickened. He pushed down his nausea\n and made his way back to the sidewalk. He was shaking all over, with\n revulsion—and fear.\nWhy?\nWho was the man? Why was he hanging there? What did it mean?\n\n\n And—why didn't anybody notice?\n\n\n He bumped into a small man hurrying along the sidewalk. \"Watch it!\" the\n man grated, \"Oh, it's you, Ed.\"\n\n\n Ed nodded dazedly. \"Hello, Jenkins.\"\n\n\n \"What's the matter?\" The stationery clerk caught Ed's arm. \"You look\n sick.\"\n\n\n \"The body. There in the park.\"\n\n\n \"Sure, Ed.\" Jenkins led him into the alcove of LOYCE TV SALES AND\n SERVICE. \"Take it easy.\"", "Loyce started slowly to his feet, numbed. \"And the man.\nWho was the\n man?\nI never saw him before. He wasn't a local man. He was a stranger.\n All muddy and dirty, his face cut, slashed—\"\n\n\n There was a strange look on the Commissioner's face as he answered.\n \"Maybe,\" he said softly, \"you'll understand that, too. Come along with\n me, Mr. Loyce.\" He held the door open, his eyes gleaming. Loyce caught a\n glimpse of the street in front of the police station. Policemen, a\n platform of some sort. A telephone pole—and a rope! \"Right this way,\"\n the Commissioner said, smiling coldly.\nAs the sun set, the vice-president of the Oak Grove Merchants' Bank came\n up out of the vault, threw the heavy time locks, put on his hat and\n coat, and hurried outside onto the sidewalk. Only a few people were\n there, hurrying home to dinner.", "He took a deep breath and started down the hill. Twice he stumbled and\n fell, picking himself up and trudging on. His ears rang. Everything\n receded and wavered. But he was there. He had got out, away from\n Pikeville.\n\n\n A farmer in a field gaped at him. From a house a young woman watched in\n wonder. Loyce reached the road and turned onto it. Ahead of him was a\n gasoline station and a drive-in. A couple of trucks, some chickens\n pecking in the dirt, a dog tied with a string.\n\n\n The white-clad attendant watched suspiciously as he dragged himself up\n to the station. \"Thank God.\" He caught hold of the wall. \"I didn't think\n I was going to make it. They followed me most of the way. I could hear\n them buzzing. Buzzing and flitting around behind me.\"\n\n\n \"What happened?\" the attendant demanded. \"You in a wreck? A hold-up?\"", "\"I should be back at my store. The boys haven't had dinner. I'm all\n right, now. No more trouble. Is there any need of—\"\n\n\n \"This won't take long,\" the cop behind the wheel interrupted. \"A short\n process. Only a few minutes.\"\n\n\n \"I hope it's short,\" Loyce muttered. The car slowed down for a\n stoplight. \"I guess I sort of disturbed the peace. Funny, getting\n excited like that and—\"\n\n\n Loyce yanked the door open. He sprawled out into the street and rolled\n to his feet. Cars were moving all around him, gaining speed as the light\n changed. Loyce leaped onto the curb and raced among the people,\n burrowing into the swarming crowds. Behind him he heard sounds, shouts,\n people running.", "Ed Loyce grinned weakly. \"Good Lord. I guess I sort of went off the deep\n end. I thought maybe something had happened. You know, something like\n the Ku Klux Klan. Some kind of violence. Communists or Fascists taking\n over.\" He wiped his face with his breast-pocket handkerchief, his hands\n shaking. \"I'm glad to know it's on the level.\"\n\n\n \"It's on the level.\" The police car was getting near the Hall of\n Justice. The sun had set. The streets were gloomy and dark. The lights\n had not yet come on.\n\n\n \"I feel better,\" Loyce said. \"I was pretty excited there, for a minute.\n I guess I got all stirred up. Now that I understand, there's no need to\n take me in, is there?\"\n\n\n The two cops said nothing.", "The Commissioner grunted. \"An old struggle.\"\n\n\n \"They've been defeated. The Bible is an account of their defeats. They\n make gains—but finally they're defeated.\"\n\n\n \"Why defeated?\"\n\n\n \"They can't get everyone. They didn't get me. And they never got the\n Hebrews. The Hebrews carried the message to the whole world. The\n realization of the danger. The two men on the bus. I think they\n understood. Had escaped, like I did.\" He clenched his fists. \"I killed\n one of them. I made a mistake. I was afraid to take a chance.\"\n\n\n The Commissioner nodded. \"Yes, they undoubtedly had escaped, as you did.\n Freak accidents. But the rest of the town was firmly in control.\" He\n turned from the window. \"Well, Mr. Loyce. You seem to have figured\n everything out.\"", "The bus halted. An elderly man got on slowly and dropped his token into\n the box. He moved down the aisle and took a seat opposite Loyce.\n\n\n The elderly man caught the sharp-eyed man's gaze. For a split second\n something passed between them.\n\n\n A look rich with meaning.\n\n\n Loyce got to his feet. The bus was moving. He ran to the door. One step\n down into the well. He yanked the emergency door release. The rubber\n door swung open.\n\n\n \"Hey!\" the driver shouted, jamming on the brakes. \"What the hell—\"\n\n\n Loyce squirmed through. The bus was slowing down. Houses on all sides. A\n residential district, lawns and tall apartment buildings. Behind him,\n the bright-eyed man had leaped up. The elderly man was also on his feet.\n They were coming after him.", "\"Digging. A new foundation. Getting out the dirt to pour a cement frame.\n Why? What has that to do with—\"\n\n\n \"Was anybody else down there with you?\"\n\n\n \"No. My wife was downtown. My kids were at school.\" Loyce looked from\n one heavy-set cop to the other. Hope flicked across his face, wild hope.\n \"You mean because I was down there I missed—the explanation? I didn't\n get in on it? Like everybody else?\"\n\n\n After a pause the cop with the notebook said: \"That's right. You missed\n the explanation.\"\n\n\n \"Then it's official? The body—it's\nsupposed\nto be hanging there?\"\n\n\n \"It's supposed to be hanging there. For everybody to see.\"" ], [ "Loyce opened the door. For a brief second he looked back at his wife and\n son. Then he slammed the door behind him and raced down the porch steps.\n\n\n A moment later he was on his way, hurrying swiftly through the darkness\n toward the edge of town.\nThe early morning sunlight was blinding. Loyce halted, gasping for\n breath, swaying back and forth. Sweat ran down in his eyes. His clothing\n was torn, shredded by the brush and thorns through which he had crawled.\n Ten miles—on his hands and knees. Crawling, creeping through the night.\n His shoes were mud-caked. He was scratched and limping, utterly\n exhausted.\n\n\n But ahead of him lay Oak Grove.", "\"I'm going nuts,\" Loyce whispered. He made his way to the curb and\n crossed out into traffic, among the cars. Horns honked angrily at him.\n He gained the curb and stepped up onto the little square of green.\n\n\n The man had been middle-aged. His clothing was ripped and torn, a gray\n suit, splashed and caked with dried mud. A stranger. Loyce had never\n seen him before. Not a local man. His face was partly turned, away, and\n in the evening wind he spun a little, turning gently, silently. His skin\n was gouged and cut. Red gashes, deep scratches of congealed blood. A\n pair of steel-rimmed glasses hung from one ear, dangling foolishly. His\n eyes bulged. His mouth was open, tongue thick and ugly blue.", "Loyce moved forward. He pushed his way among those waiting and when the\n bus halted he boarded it and took a seat in the rear, by the door. A\n moment later the bus moved into life and rumbled down the street.\nLoyce relaxed a little. He studied the people around him. Dulled, tired\n faces. People going home from work. Quite ordinary faces. None of them\n paid any attention to him. All sat quietly, sunk down in their seats,\n jiggling with the motion of the bus.\n\n\n The man sitting next to him unfolded a newspaper. He began to read the\n sports section, his lips moving. An ordinary man. Blue suit. Tie. A\n businessman, or a salesman. On his way home to his wife and family.\n\n\n Across the aisle a young woman, perhaps twenty. Dark eyes and hair, a\n package on her lap. Nylons and heels. Red coat and white angora sweater.\n Gazing absently ahead of her.", "He was at the entrance of an alley, dark and strewn with boards and\n ruined boxes and tires. He could see the street at the far end. A street\n light wavered and came on. Men and women. Stores. Neon signs. Cars.\n\n\n And to his right—the police station.\n\n\n He was close, terribly close. Past the loading platform of a grocery\n store rose the white concrete side of the Hall of Justice. Barred\n windows. The police antenna. A great concrete wall rising up in the\n darkness. A bad place for him to be near. He was too close. He had to\n keep moving, get farther away from them.\nThem?\nLoyce moved cautiously down the alley. Beyond the police station was the\n City Hall, the old-fashioned yellow structure of wood and gilded brass\n and broad cement steps. He could see the endless rows of offices, dark\n windows, the cedars and beds of flowers on each side of the entrance.\n\n\n And—something else.", "He took a deep breath and started down the hill. Twice he stumbled and\n fell, picking himself up and trudging on. His ears rang. Everything\n receded and wavered. But he was there. He had got out, away from\n Pikeville.\n\n\n A farmer in a field gaped at him. From a house a young woman watched in\n wonder. Loyce reached the road and turned onto it. Ahead of him was a\n gasoline station and a drive-in. A couple of trucks, some chickens\n pecking in the dirt, a dog tied with a string.\n\n\n The white-clad attendant watched suspiciously as he dragged himself up\n to the station. \"Thank God.\" He caught hold of the wall. \"I didn't think\n I was going to make it. They followed me most of the way. I could hear\n them buzzing. Buzzing and flitting around behind me.\"\n\n\n \"What happened?\" the attendant demanded. \"You in a wreck? A hold-up?\"", "Loyce leaped. He hit the pavement with terrific force and rolled against\n the curb. Pain lapped over him. Pain and a vast tide of blackness.\n Desperately, he fought it off. He struggled to his knees and then slid\n down again. The bus had stopped. People were getting off.\n\n\n Loyce groped around. His fingers closed over something. A rock, lying in\n the gutter. He crawled to his feet, grunting with pain. A shape loomed\n before him. A man, the bright-eyed man with the book.\n\n\n Loyce kicked. The man gasped and fell. Loyce brought the rock down. The\n man screamed and tried to roll away. \"\nStop!\nFor God's sake listen—\"", "From the lamppost something was hanging. A shapeless dark bundle,\n swinging a little with the wind. Like a dummy of some sort. Loyce rolled\n down his window and peered out. What the hell was it? A display of\n some kind? Sometimes the Chamber of Commerce put up displays in the\n square.\n\n\n Again he made a U-turn and brought his car around. He passed the park\n and concentrated on the dark bundle. It wasn't a dummy. And if it was a\n display it was a strange kind. The hackles on his neck rose and he\n swallowed uneasily. Sweat slid out on his face and hands.\n\n\n It was a body. A human body.\n\"Look at it!\" Loyce snapped. \"Come on out here!\"\n\n\n Don Fergusson came slowly out of the store, buttoning his pin-stripe\n coat with dignity. \"This is a big deal, Ed. I can't just leave the guy\n standing there.\"", "He struck again. A hideous crunching sound. The man's voice cut off and\n dissolved in a bubbling wail. Loyce scrambled up and back. The others\n were there, now. All around him. He ran, awkwardly, down the sidewalk,\n up a driveway. None of them followed him. They had stopped and were\n bending over the inert body of the man with the book, the bright-eyed\n man who had come after him.\n\n\n Had he made a mistake?\n\n\n But it was too late to worry about that. He had to get out—away from\n them. Out of Pikeville, beyond the crack of darkness, the rent between\n their world and his.\n\"Ed!\" Janet Loyce backed away nervously. \"What is it? What—\"\n\n\n Ed Loyce slammed the door behind him and came into the living room.\n \"Pull down the shades. Quick.\"\n\n\n Janet moved toward the window. \"But—\"", "It was getting dark. The setting sun cast long rays over the scurrying\n commuters, tired and grim-faced, women loaded down with bundles and\n packages, students swarming home from the university, mixing with clerks\n and businessmen and drab secretaries. He stopped his Packard for a red\n light and then started it up again. The store had been open without him;\n he'd arrive just in time to spell the help for dinner, go over the\n records of the day, maybe even close a couple of sales himself. He drove\n slowly past the small square of green in the center of the street, the\n town park. There were no parking places in front of LOYCE TV SALES AND\n SERVICE. He cursed under his breath and swung the car in a U-turn. Again\n he passed the little square of green with its lonely drinking fountain\n and bench and single lamppost.", "Margaret Henderson from the jewelry store joined them. \"Something\n wrong?\"\n\n\n \"Ed's not feeling well.\"\n\n\n Loyce yanked himself free. \"How can you stand here? Don't you see it?\n For God's sake—\"\n\n\n \"What's he talking about?\" Margaret asked nervously.\n\n\n \"The body!\" Ed shouted. \"The body hanging there!\"\n\n\n More people collected. \"Is he sick? It's Ed Loyce. You okay, Ed?\"\n\n\n \"The body!\" Loyce screamed, struggling to get past them. Hands caught at\n him. He tore loose. \"Let me go! The police! Get the police!\"\n\n\n \"Ed—\"\n\n\n \"Better get a doctor!\"\n\n\n \"He must be sick.\"\n\n\n \"Or drunk.\"", "\"You don't believe me,\" Loyce said.\n\n\n The Commissioner offered him a cigarette. Loyce pushed it impatiently\n away. \"Suit yourself.\" The Commissioner moved over to the window and\n stood for a time looking out at the town of Oak Grove. \"I believe you,\"\n he said abruptly.\n\n\n Loyce sagged. \"Thank God.\"\n\n\n \"So you got away.\" The Commissioner shook his head. \"You were down in\n your cellar instead of at work. A freak chance. One in a million.\"\n\n\n Loyce sipped some of the black coffee they had brought him. \"I have a\n theory,\" he murmured.\n\n\n \"What is it?\"", "\"I should be back at my store. The boys haven't had dinner. I'm all\n right, now. No more trouble. Is there any need of—\"\n\n\n \"This won't take long,\" the cop behind the wheel interrupted. \"A short\n process. Only a few minutes.\"\n\n\n \"I hope it's short,\" Loyce muttered. The car slowed down for a\n stoplight. \"I guess I sort of disturbed the peace. Funny, getting\n excited like that and—\"\n\n\n Loyce yanked the door open. He sprawled out into the street and rolled\n to his feet. Cars were moving all around him, gaining speed as the light\n changed. Loyce leaped onto the curb and raced among the people,\n burrowing into the swarming crowds. Behind him he heard sounds, shouts,\n people running.", "He was seeing—them.\nFor a long time Loyce watched, crouched behind a sagging fence in a pool\n of scummy water.\n\n\n They were landing. Coming down in groups, landing on the roof of the\n City Hall and disappearing inside. They had wings. Like giant insects of\n some kind. They flew and fluttered and came to rest—and then crawled\n crab-fashion, sideways, across the roof and into the building.\n\n\n He was sickened. And fascinated. Cold night wind blew around him and he\n shuddered. He was tired, dazed with shock. On the front steps of the\n City Hall were men, standing here and there. Groups of men coming out of\n the building and halting for a moment before going on.\n\n\n Were there more of them?", "Loyce shook his head wearily. \"They have the whole town. The City Hall\n and the police station. They hung a man from the lamppost. That was the\n first thing I saw. They've got all the roads blocked. I saw them\n hovering over the cars coming in. About four this morning I got beyond\n them. I knew it right away. I could feel them leave. And then the sun\n came up.\"\n\n\n The attendant licked his lip nervously. \"You're out of your head. I\n better get a doctor.\"\n\n\n \"Get me into Oak Grove,\" Loyce gasped. He sank down on the gravel.\n \"We've got to get started—cleaning them out. Got to get started right\n away.\"\nThey kept a tape recorder going all the time he talked. When he had\n finished the Commissioner snapped off the recorder and got to his feet.\n He stood for a moment, deep in thought. Finally he got out his\n cigarettes and lit up slowly, a frown on his beefy face.", "Loyce fought his way through the people. He stumbled and half fell.\n Through a blur he saw rows of faces, curious, concerned, anxious. Men\n and women halting to see what the disturbance was. He fought past them\n toward his store. He could see Fergusson inside talking to a man,\n showing him an Emerson TV set. Pete Foley in the back at the service\n counter, setting up a new Philco. Loyce shouted at them frantically.\n His voice was lost in the roar of traffic and the murmur around him.\n\n\n \"Do something!\" he screamed. \"Don't stand there! Do something!\n Something's wrong! Something's happened! Things are going on!\"\n\n\n The crowd melted respectfully for the two heavy-set cops moving\n efficiently toward Loyce.\n\"Name?\" the cop with the notebook murmured.\n\n\n \"Loyce.\" He mopped his forehead wearily. \"Edward C. Loyce. Listen to me.\n Back there—\"", "The bus halted. An elderly man got on slowly and dropped his token into\n the box. He moved down the aisle and took a seat opposite Loyce.\n\n\n The elderly man caught the sharp-eyed man's gaze. For a split second\n something passed between them.\n\n\n A look rich with meaning.\n\n\n Loyce got to his feet. The bus was moving. He ran to the door. One step\n down into the well. He yanked the emergency door release. The rubber\n door swung open.\n\n\n \"Hey!\" the driver shouted, jamming on the brakes. \"What the hell—\"\n\n\n Loyce squirmed through. The bus was slowing down. Houses on all sides. A\n residential district, lawns and tall apartment buildings. Behind him,\n the bright-eyed man had leaped up. The elderly man was also on his feet.\n They were coming after him.", "\"Address?\" the cop demanded. The police car moved swiftly through\n traffic, shooting among the cars and buses. Loyce sagged against the\n seat, exhausted and confused. He took a deep shuddering breath.\n\n\n \"1368 Hurst Road.\"\n\n\n \"That's here in Pikeville?\"\n\n\n \"That's right.\" Loyce pulled himself up with a violent effort. \"Listen\n to me. Back there. In the square. Hanging from the lamppost—\"\n\n\n \"Where were you today?\" the cop behind the wheel demanded.\n\n\n \"Where?\" Loyce echoed.\n\n\n \"You weren't in your shop, were you?\"\n\n\n \"No.\" He shook his head. \"No, I was home. Down in the basement.\"\n\n\n \"In the\nbasement\n?\"", "\"For Heaven's sake,\" Loyce muttered, sickened. He pushed down his nausea\n and made his way back to the sidewalk. He was shaking all over, with\n revulsion—and fear.\nWhy?\nWho was the man? Why was he hanging there? What did it mean?\n\n\n And—why didn't anybody notice?\n\n\n He bumped into a small man hurrying along the sidewalk. \"Watch it!\" the\n man grated, \"Oh, it's you, Ed.\"\n\n\n Ed nodded dazedly. \"Hello, Jenkins.\"\n\n\n \"What's the matter?\" The stationery clerk caught Ed's arm. \"You look\n sick.\"\n\n\n \"The body. There in the park.\"\n\n\n \"Sure, Ed.\" Jenkins led him into the alcove of LOYCE TV SALES AND\n SERVICE. \"Take it easy.\"", "Hope flickered in Loyce. They weren't omnipotent. They had made a\n mistake, not got control of him. Their net, their field of control, had\n passed over him. He had emerged from his cellar as he had gone down.\n Apparently their power-zone was limited.\n\n\n A few seats down the aisle a man was watching him. Loyce broke off his\n chain of thought. A slender man, with dark hair and a small mustache.\n Well-dressed, brown suit and shiny shoes. A book between his small\n hands. He was watching Loyce, studying him intently. He turned quickly\n away.\n\n\n Loyce tensed. One of\nthem\n? Or—another they had missed?\n\n\n The man was watching him again. Small dark eyes, alive and clever.\n Shrewd. A man too shrewd for them—or one of the things itself, an alien\n insect from beyond.", "Loyce started slowly to his feet, numbed. \"And the man.\nWho was the\n man?\nI never saw him before. He wasn't a local man. He was a stranger.\n All muddy and dirty, his face cut, slashed—\"\n\n\n There was a strange look on the Commissioner's face as he answered.\n \"Maybe,\" he said softly, \"you'll understand that, too. Come along with\n me, Mr. Loyce.\" He held the door open, his eyes gleaming. Loyce caught a\n glimpse of the street in front of the police station. Policemen, a\n platform of some sort. A telephone pole—and a rope! \"Right this way,\"\n the Commissioner said, smiling coldly.\nAs the sun set, the vice-president of the Oak Grove Merchants' Bank came\n up out of the vault, threw the heavy time locks, put on his hat and\n coat, and hurried outside onto the sidewalk. Only a few people were\n there, hurrying home to dinner." ], [ "\"You don't believe me,\" Loyce said.\n\n\n The Commissioner offered him a cigarette. Loyce pushed it impatiently\n away. \"Suit yourself.\" The Commissioner moved over to the window and\n stood for a time looking out at the town of Oak Grove. \"I believe you,\"\n he said abruptly.\n\n\n Loyce sagged. \"Thank God.\"\n\n\n \"So you got away.\" The Commissioner shook his head. \"You were down in\n your cellar instead of at work. A freak chance. One in a million.\"\n\n\n Loyce sipped some of the black coffee they had brought him. \"I have a\n theory,\" he murmured.\n\n\n \"What is it?\"", "The Commissioner grunted. \"An old struggle.\"\n\n\n \"They've been defeated. The Bible is an account of their defeats. They\n make gains—but finally they're defeated.\"\n\n\n \"Why defeated?\"\n\n\n \"They can't get everyone. They didn't get me. And they never got the\n Hebrews. The Hebrews carried the message to the whole world. The\n realization of the danger. The two men on the bus. I think they\n understood. Had escaped, like I did.\" He clenched his fists. \"I killed\n one of them. I made a mistake. I was afraid to take a chance.\"\n\n\n The Commissioner nodded. \"Yes, they undoubtedly had escaped, as you did.\n Freak accidents. But the rest of the town was firmly in control.\" He\n turned from the window. \"Well, Mr. Loyce. You seem to have figured\n everything out.\"", "\"Not everything. The hanging man. The dead man hanging from the\n lamppost. I don't understand that.\nWhy?\nWhy did they deliberately hang\n him there?\"\n\n\n \"That would seem simple.\" The Commissioner smiled faintly. \"\nBait.\n\"\n\n\n Loyce stiffened. His heart stopped beating. \"Bait? What do you mean?\"\n\n\n \"To draw you out. Make you declare yourself. So they'd know who was\n under control—and who had escaped.\"\n\n\n Loyce recoiled with horror. \"Then they\nexpected\nfailures! They\n anticipated—\" He broke off. \"They were ready with a trap.\"\n\n\n \"And you showed yourself. You reacted. You made yourself known.\" The\n Commissioner abruptly moved toward the door. \"Come along, Loyce. There's\n a lot to do. We must get moving. There's no time to waste.\"", "Loyce shook his head wearily. \"They have the whole town. The City Hall\n and the police station. They hung a man from the lamppost. That was the\n first thing I saw. They've got all the roads blocked. I saw them\n hovering over the cars coming in. About four this morning I got beyond\n them. I knew it right away. I could feel them leave. And then the sun\n came up.\"\n\n\n The attendant licked his lip nervously. \"You're out of your head. I\n better get a doctor.\"\n\n\n \"Get me into Oak Grove,\" Loyce gasped. He sank down on the gravel.\n \"We've got to get started—cleaning them out. Got to get started right\n away.\"\nThey kept a tape recorder going all the time he talked. When he had\n finished the Commissioner snapped off the recorder and got to his feet.\n He stood for a moment, deep in thought. Finally he got out his\n cigarettes and lit up slowly, a frown on his beefy face.", "Loyce opened the door. For a brief second he looked back at his wife and\n son. Then he slammed the door behind him and raced down the porch steps.\n\n\n A moment later he was on his way, hurrying swiftly through the darkness\n toward the edge of town.\nThe early morning sunlight was blinding. Loyce halted, gasping for\n breath, swaying back and forth. Sweat ran down in his eyes. His clothing\n was torn, shredded by the brush and thorns through which he had crawled.\n Ten miles—on his hands and knees. Crawling, creeping through the night.\n His shoes were mud-caked. He was scratched and limping, utterly\n exhausted.\n\n\n But ahead of him lay Oak Grove.", "Ed Loyce grinned weakly. \"Good Lord. I guess I sort of went off the deep\n end. I thought maybe something had happened. You know, something like\n the Ku Klux Klan. Some kind of violence. Communists or Fascists taking\n over.\" He wiped his face with his breast-pocket handkerchief, his hands\n shaking. \"I'm glad to know it's on the level.\"\n\n\n \"It's on the level.\" The police car was getting near the Hall of\n Justice. The sun had set. The streets were gloomy and dark. The lights\n had not yet come on.\n\n\n \"I feel better,\" Loyce said. \"I was pretty excited there, for a minute.\n I guess I got all stirred up. Now that I understand, there's no need to\n take me in, is there?\"\n\n\n The two cops said nothing.", "Loyce started slowly to his feet, numbed. \"And the man.\nWho was the\n man?\nI never saw him before. He wasn't a local man. He was a stranger.\n All muddy and dirty, his face cut, slashed—\"\n\n\n There was a strange look on the Commissioner's face as he answered.\n \"Maybe,\" he said softly, \"you'll understand that, too. Come along with\n me, Mr. Loyce.\" He held the door open, his eyes gleaming. Loyce caught a\n glimpse of the street in front of the police station. Policemen, a\n platform of some sort. A telephone pole—and a rope! \"Right this way,\"\n the Commissioner said, smiling coldly.\nAs the sun set, the vice-president of the Oak Grove Merchants' Bank came\n up out of the vault, threw the heavy time locks, put on his hat and\n coat, and hurried outside onto the sidewalk. Only a few people were\n there, hurrying home to dinner.", "Loyce fought his way through the people. He stumbled and half fell.\n Through a blur he saw rows of faces, curious, concerned, anxious. Men\n and women halting to see what the disturbance was. He fought past them\n toward his store. He could see Fergusson inside talking to a man,\n showing him an Emerson TV set. Pete Foley in the back at the service\n counter, setting up a new Philco. Loyce shouted at them frantically.\n His voice was lost in the roar of traffic and the murmur around him.\n\n\n \"Do something!\" he screamed. \"Don't stand there! Do something!\n Something's wrong! Something's happened! Things are going on!\"\n\n\n The crowd melted respectfully for the two heavy-set cops moving\n efficiently toward Loyce.\n\"Name?\" the cop with the notebook murmured.\n\n\n \"Loyce.\" He mopped his forehead wearily. \"Edward C. Loyce. Listen to me.\n Back there—\"", "It was getting dark. The setting sun cast long rays over the scurrying\n commuters, tired and grim-faced, women loaded down with bundles and\n packages, students swarming home from the university, mixing with clerks\n and businessmen and drab secretaries. He stopped his Packard for a red\n light and then started it up again. The store had been open without him;\n he'd arrive just in time to spell the help for dinner, go over the\n records of the day, maybe even close a couple of sales himself. He drove\n slowly past the small square of green in the center of the street, the\n town park. There were no parking places in front of LOYCE TV SALES AND\n SERVICE. He cursed under his breath and swung the car in a U-turn. Again\n he passed the little square of green with its lonely drinking fountain\n and bench and single lamppost.", "He was at the entrance of an alley, dark and strewn with boards and\n ruined boxes and tires. He could see the street at the far end. A street\n light wavered and came on. Men and women. Stores. Neon signs. Cars.\n\n\n And to his right—the police station.\n\n\n He was close, terribly close. Past the loading platform of a grocery\n store rose the white concrete side of the Hall of Justice. Barred\n windows. The police antenna. A great concrete wall rising up in the\n darkness. A bad place for him to be near. He was too close. He had to\n keep moving, get farther away from them.\nThem?\nLoyce moved cautiously down the alley. Beyond the police station was the\n City Hall, the old-fashioned yellow structure of wood and gilded brass\n and broad cement steps. He could see the endless rows of offices, dark\n windows, the cedars and beds of flowers on each side of the entrance.\n\n\n And—something else.", "Margaret Henderson from the jewelry store joined them. \"Something\n wrong?\"\n\n\n \"Ed's not feeling well.\"\n\n\n Loyce yanked himself free. \"How can you stand here? Don't you see it?\n For God's sake—\"\n\n\n \"What's he talking about?\" Margaret asked nervously.\n\n\n \"The body!\" Ed shouted. \"The body hanging there!\"\n\n\n More people collected. \"Is he sick? It's Ed Loyce. You okay, Ed?\"\n\n\n \"The body!\" Loyce screamed, struggling to get past them. Hands caught at\n him. He tore loose. \"Let me go! The police! Get the police!\"\n\n\n \"Ed—\"\n\n\n \"Better get a doctor!\"\n\n\n \"He must be sick.\"\n\n\n \"Or drunk.\"", "From the lamppost something was hanging. A shapeless dark bundle,\n swinging a little with the wind. Like a dummy of some sort. Loyce rolled\n down his window and peered out. What the hell was it? A display of\n some kind? Sometimes the Chamber of Commerce put up displays in the\n square.\n\n\n Again he made a U-turn and brought his car around. He passed the park\n and concentrated on the dark bundle. It wasn't a dummy. And if it was a\n display it was a strange kind. The hackles on his neck rose and he\n swallowed uneasily. Sweat slid out on his face and hands.\n\n\n It was a body. A human body.\n\"Look at it!\" Loyce snapped. \"Come on out here!\"\n\n\n Don Fergusson came slowly out of the store, buttoning his pin-stripe\n coat with dignity. \"This is a big deal, Ed. I can't just leave the guy\n standing there.\"", "\"About them. Who they are. They take over one area at a time. Starting\n at the top—the highest level of authority. Working down from there in a\n widening circle. When they're firmly in control they go on to the next\n town. They spread, slowly, very gradually. I think it's been going on\n for a long time.\"\n\n\n \"A long time?\"\n\n\n \"Thousands of years. I don't think it's new.\"\n\n\n \"Why do you say that?\"\n\n\n \"When I was a kid.... A picture they showed us in Bible League. A\n religious picture—an old print. The enemy gods, defeated by Jehovah.\n Moloch, Beelzebub, Moab, Baalin, Ashtaroth—\"\n\n\n \"So?\"\n\n\n \"They were all represented by figures.\" Loyce looked up at the\n Commissioner. \"Beelzebub was represented as—a giant fly.\"", "Loyce moved forward. He pushed his way among those waiting and when the\n bus halted he boarded it and took a seat in the rear, by the door. A\n moment later the bus moved into life and rumbled down the street.\nLoyce relaxed a little. He studied the people around him. Dulled, tired\n faces. People going home from work. Quite ordinary faces. None of them\n paid any attention to him. All sat quietly, sunk down in their seats,\n jiggling with the motion of the bus.\n\n\n The man sitting next to him unfolded a newspaper. He began to read the\n sports section, his lips moving. An ordinary man. Blue suit. Tie. A\n businessman, or a salesman. On his way home to his wife and family.\n\n\n Across the aisle a young woman, perhaps twenty. Dark eyes and hair, a\n package on her lap. Nylons and heels. Red coat and white angora sweater.\n Gazing absently ahead of her.", "\"I'm going nuts,\" Loyce whispered. He made his way to the curb and\n crossed out into traffic, among the cars. Horns honked angrily at him.\n He gained the curb and stepped up onto the little square of green.\n\n\n The man had been middle-aged. His clothing was ripped and torn, a gray\n suit, splashed and caked with dried mud. A stranger. Loyce had never\n seen him before. Not a local man. His face was partly turned, away, and\n in the evening wind he spun a little, turning gently, silently. His skin\n was gouged and cut. Red gashes, deep scratches of congealed blood. A\n pair of steel-rimmed glasses hung from one ear, dangling foolishly. His\n eyes bulged. His mouth was open, tongue thick and ugly blue.", "\"I should be back at my store. The boys haven't had dinner. I'm all\n right, now. No more trouble. Is there any need of—\"\n\n\n \"This won't take long,\" the cop behind the wheel interrupted. \"A short\n process. Only a few minutes.\"\n\n\n \"I hope it's short,\" Loyce muttered. The car slowed down for a\n stoplight. \"I guess I sort of disturbed the peace. Funny, getting\n excited like that and—\"\n\n\n Loyce yanked the door open. He sprawled out into the street and rolled\n to his feet. Cars were moving all around him, gaining speed as the light\n changed. Loyce leaped onto the curb and raced among the people,\n burrowing into the swarming crowds. Behind him he heard sounds, shouts,\n people running.", "\"Address?\" the cop demanded. The police car moved swiftly through\n traffic, shooting among the cars and buses. Loyce sagged against the\n seat, exhausted and confused. He took a deep shuddering breath.\n\n\n \"1368 Hurst Road.\"\n\n\n \"That's here in Pikeville?\"\n\n\n \"That's right.\" Loyce pulled himself up with a violent effort. \"Listen\n to me. Back there. In the square. Hanging from the lamppost—\"\n\n\n \"Where were you today?\" the cop behind the wheel demanded.\n\n\n \"Where?\" Loyce echoed.\n\n\n \"You weren't in your shop, were you?\"\n\n\n \"No.\" He shook his head. \"No, I was home. Down in the basement.\"\n\n\n \"In the\nbasement\n?\"", "He was seeing—them.\nFor a long time Loyce watched, crouched behind a sagging fence in a pool\n of scummy water.\n\n\n They were landing. Coming down in groups, landing on the roof of the\n City Hall and disappearing inside. They had wings. Like giant insects of\n some kind. They flew and fluttered and came to rest—and then crawled\n crab-fashion, sideways, across the roof and into the building.\n\n\n He was sickened. And fascinated. Cold night wind blew around him and he\n shuddered. He was tired, dazed with shock. On the front steps of the\n City Hall were men, standing here and there. Groups of men coming out of\n the building and halting for a moment before going on.\n\n\n Were there more of them?", "\"See it?\" Ed pointed into the gathering gloom. The lamppost jutted up\n against the sky—the post and the bundle swinging from it. \"There it is.\n How the hell long has it been there?\" His voice rose excitedly. \"What's\n wrong with everybody? They just walk on past!\"\n\n\n Don Fergusson lit a cigarette slowly. \"Take it easy, old man. There must\n be a good reason, or it wouldn't be there.\"\n\n\n \"A reason! What kind of a reason?\"\n\n\n Fergusson shrugged. \"Like the time the Traffic Safety Council put that\n wrecked Buick there. Some sort of civic thing. How would I know?\"\n\n\n Jack Potter from the shoe shop joined them. \"What's up, boys?\"\n\n\n \"There's a body hanging from the lamppost,\" Loyce said. \"I'm going to\n call the cops.\"", "Loyce leaped. He hit the pavement with terrific force and rolled against\n the curb. Pain lapped over him. Pain and a vast tide of blackness.\n Desperately, he fought it off. He struggled to his knees and then slid\n down again. The bus had stopped. People were getting off.\n\n\n Loyce groped around. His fingers closed over something. A rock, lying in\n the gutter. He crawled to his feet, grunting with pain. A shape loomed\n before him. A man, the bright-eyed man with the book.\n\n\n Loyce kicked. The man gasped and fell. Loyce brought the rock down. The\n man screamed and tried to roll away. \"\nStop!\nFor God's sake listen—\"" ] ]
test	50449	[ "What traits best describe Kit?", "What of the following is not true of the draft?", "What is the Nowhere Journey?", "Which of the following best describe Stephanie?", "Which of the following best describe Sophia?", "Why might Kit actually want to go on Nowhere Journey?", "What's the deal with Alaric Arkalion III?", "What is not true of the Riots?", "Of all of the characters in this story, which two confuse those around them?" ]	[ [ "Pragmatic and kind", "Rebellious and handsome", "Cowardly and humorous", "Bold and intelligent" ], [ "It's done in a public announcement", "It happens every year", "It only selects men", "It selects 200 individuals each time" ], [ "The drafted individuals are predicted to go to Mars each time", "The drafted individuals go to a new planet each time", "The drafted individuals go to a new solar system each time", "The drafted individuals are predicted to head toward the sun each time" ], [ "Her character is focused on Kit's character", "Her character is focused on Arkalion's character", "Her character is multidimensional", "Her character is focused on Sophia's character" ], [ "She's been coerced into signing up for the voyage", "She's going on the same voyage as Arkalion", "She's going on the same voyage as Kit", "She's volunteered to go on a voyage" ], [ "To investigate the disappearance of his cousin", "To avenge the death of his brother", "To try to find his cousin on the planet", "To get answers to whether his brother's alive" ], [ "He's been paid to stop the Nowhere Journey from within", "He's been paid to take another man's place", "He's so wealthy that he's avoiding the draft and escaping Earth for fun", "He's been paid to investigate the draft" ], [ "They're a response to the draft", "They cause many injuries", "They cause a lot of private property damage", "They cause a lot of public property damage" ], [ "Arkalion and Kit", "Stephanie and Sophia", "Kit and Stephanie", "Sophia and Arkalion" ] ]	[ -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1 ]	[ 1, 0, 1, 0, 0, 0, 1, 1, 1 ]	[ [ "\"Kit, I love you. I love you. How can I forget you?\"\n\n\n \"It's happened before. It will happen again.\" That hurt, too. He was\n talking about a couple of statistics, not about himself and Stephanie.\n\n\n \"We're different, Kit. I'll love you forever. And—Kit ... I know\n you'll come back to me. I'll wait, Kit. We're different. You'll come\n back.\"\n\n\n \"How many people do you think said\nthat\nbefore?\"\n\n\n \"You don't want to come back, even if you could. You're not thinking of\n us at all. You're thinking of your brother.\"", "\"Where are we going, Kit?\"\n\n\n \"Search me. Just driving.\"\n\n\n \"I'm glad they let you come out this once. I don't know what they would\n have done to me if they didn't. I had to see you this once. I—\"\n\n\n Temple smiled. He had absented himself without leave. It had been\n difficult enough and he might yet be in a lot of hot water, but it\n would be senseless to worry Stephanie. \"It's just for a few hours,\" he\n said.\n\n\n \"Hours. When we want a whole lifetime. Kit. Oh, Kit—why don't we run\n away? Just the two of us, someplace where they'll never find you. I\n could be packed and ready and—\"\n\n\n \"Don't talk like that. We can't.\"\n\n\n \"You want to go where they're sending you. You want to go.\"", "\"Something tells me we'll be seeing a lot of each other,\" Arkalion\n went on. The voice was that of an older man, too, belying the youthful\n complexion, the almost childish features, the soft fuzz of a beard.\n\n\n \"I'm Kit Temple,\" said Temple, extending his hand. \"Arkalion, a strange\n name. I know it from somewhere.... Say! Aren't you—don't you have\n something to do with carpets or something?\"\n\n\n \"Here and now, no. I am a number. A-92-6417. But my father is—perhaps\n I had better say was—my father is Alaric Arkalion II. Yes, that is\n right, the carpet king.\"\n\n\n \"I'll be darned,\" said Temple.\n\n\n \"Why?\"\n\n\n \"Well,\" Temple laughed. \"I never met a billionaire before.\"", "\"It isn't forever,\" Temple reminded her. \"Not officially.\"\n\n\n \"Officially, my foot. If they never return, they never return. If\n there's a rotation system on paper, but it's never used, that's not a\n rotation system at all. Kit, it's forever.\"\n\n\n \"... to thank the following sponsors for relinquishing their time....\"\n\n\n \"No one would want to sponsor\nthat\n,\" Temple whispered cheerfully.\n\n\n \"Kit,\" said Stephanie, \"I—I suddenly have a hunch we have nothing to\n worry about. They missed you all along and they'll miss you this time,\n too. The last time, and then you'll be too old. That's funny, too old\n at twenty-six. But we'll be free, Kit. Free.\"\n\n\n \"He's starting,\" Temple told her.", "Kit's fellow-draftee Arkalion, the young man with the strange, old-man\n eyes, seemed to know more than he should. So when Kit twisted the tail\n of fate and followed Arkalion to the ends of space and time, he found\n the secret behind \"Nowhere\" and a personal challenge upon which the\n entire future of Earth depended.\nContents\nCHAPTER I\nWhen the first strong sunlight of May covered the tree-arched avenues\n of Center City with green, the riots started.\n\n\n The people gathered in angry knots outside the city hall, met in the\n park and littered its walks with newspapers and magazines as they\n gobbled up editorial comment at a furious rate, slipped with dark of\n night through back alleys and planned things with furious futility.\n Center City's finest knew when to make themselves scarce: their\n uniforms stood for everything objectionable at this time and they might\n be subjected to clubs, stones, taunts, threats, leers—and knives.", "But Center City, like most communities in United North America,\n had survived the Riots before and would survive them again. On\n past performances, the damage could be estimated, too. Two-hundred\n fifty-seven plate glass windows would be broken, three-hundred twelve\n limbs fractured. Several thousand people would be treated for minor\n bruises and abrasions, Center City would receive half that many damage\n suits. The list had been drawn clearly and accurately; it hardly ever\n deviated.\n\n\n And Center City would meet its quota. With a demonstration of\n reluctance, of course. The healthy approved way to get over social\n trauma once every seven-hundred eighty days.\n\"Shut it off, Kit. Kit, please.\"\n\n\n The telio blared in a cheaply feminine voice, \"Oh, it's a long way\n to nowhere, forever. And your honey's not coming back, never, never,\n never....\" A wailing trumpet represented flight.\n\n\n \"They'll exploit anything, Kit.\"", "\"I'm scared.\"\n\n\n \"You and everyone else in North America, Steffy.\"\n\n\n She was trembling against him. \"It's cold for June.\"\n\n\n \"It's warm in here.\" He kissed her moist eyes, her nose, her lips.\n\n\n \"Oh God, Kit. Five minutes.\"\n\n\n \"Five minutes to freedom,\" he said jauntily. He did not feel that way\n at all. Apprehension clutched at his chest with tight, painful fingers,\n almost making it difficult for him to breathe.\n\n\n \"Turn it on, Kit.\"\n\n\n He dialed the telio in time to see the announcer's insincere smile.\n Smile seventeen, Kit thought wryly. Patriotic sacrifice.", "A large drum filled the entire telio screen. It rotated slowly from\n bottom to top. In twenty seconds, the letter A appeared, followed by\n about a dozen names. Abercrombie, Harold. Abner, Eugene. Adams, Gerald.\n Sorrow in the Abercrombie household. Despair for the Abners. Black\n horror for Adams.\n\n\n The drum rotated.\n\n\n \"They're up to F, Kit.\"\n\n\n Fabian, Gregory G....\n\n\n Names circled the drum slowly, live viscous alphabet soup. Meaningless,\n unless you happened to know them.\n\n\n \"Kit, I knew Thomas Mulvany.\"\n\n\n N, O, P....\n\n\n \"It's hot in here.\"\n\n\n \"I thought you were cold.\"\n\n\n \"I'm suffocating now.\"", "\"This going wasn't my idea. I wanted to stay with you. I wanted to\n marry you. I can't now. None of it. Forget me, Steffy. Forget you ever\n knew me. Jase said that to our folks before he was taken.\" Almost five\n years before Jason Temple had been selected for the Nowhere Journey.\n He'd been young, though older than his brother Kit. Young, unattached,\n almost cheerful he was. Naturally, they never saw him again.\n\n\n \"Hold me, Kit. I'm sorry ... carrying on like this.\"", "\"And nothing.\" Temple stopped the ground-jet, climbed out, opened the\n door for Stephanie. \"Don't you see? There's no place to hide. Wherever\n you go, they'd look. You wouldn't want to spend the rest of your life\n running, Steffy. Not with me or anyone else.\"\n\n\n \"I would. I would!\"\n\n\n \"Know what would happen after a few years? We'd hate each other. You'd\n look at me and say 'I wouldn't be hiding like this, except for you. I'm\n young and—'\"\n\n\n \"Kit, that's cruel! I would not.\"", "\"For God's sake, how can you talk like that? I don't want to go\n anyplace, except with you. But we can't run away, Steffy. I've got to\n face it, whatever it is.\"\n\n\n \"No you don't. It's noble to be patriotic, sure. It always was. But\n this is different, Kit. They don't ask for part of your life. Not for\n two years, or three, or a gamble because maybe you won't ever come\n back. They ask for all of you, for the rest of your life, forever, and\n they don't even tell you why. Kit, don't go! We'll hide someplace and\n get married and—\"", "\"Tell me again, Kit.\"\n\n\n \"What.\"\n\n\n \"You know what.\"\n\n\n He let her come to him, let her hug him fiercely and whimper against\n his chest. He remained passive although it hurt, occasionally stroking\n her hair. He could not assert himself for another—he looked at his\n strap chrono—for another eight minutes. He might regret it, if he did,\n for a lifetime.\n\n\n \"Tell me, Kit.\"\n\n\n \"I'll marry you, Steffy. In eight minutes, less than eight minutes,\n I'll go down and get the license. We'll marry as soon as it's legal.\"\n\n\n \"This is the last time they have a chance for you. I mean, they won't\n change the law?\"\n\n\n Temple shook his head. \"They don't have to. They meet their quota this\n way.\"", "\"You know that isn't true. Sometimes I wonder about Jase, sure. But if\n I thought there was a chance to return—I'm a selfish cuss, Steffy. If\n I thought there was a chance, you know I'd want you all for myself. I'd\n brand you, and that's the truth.\"\n\n\n \"You do love me!\"\n\n\n \"I loved you, Steffy. Kit Temple loved you.\"\n\n\n \"Loved?\"\n\n\n \"Loved. Past tense. When I leave tonight, it's as if I don't exist\n anymore. As if I never existed. It's got to be that way, Steffy. In\n thirty years, no one ever returned.\"\n\n\n \"Including your brother, Jase. So now you want to find him. What do I\n count for? What....\"", "But there, behind that desk, was part of the reason. The Comrade. The\n bright sharp Comrade, with his depth of reasoning, his fountain of\n gushing emotions, his worldliness.\nPfooey!\nIt was as if she had been in a cocoon all her life, stifled, starved,\n the cottony inner lining choking her whenever she opened her mouth,\n the leathery outer covering restricting her when she tried to move.\n No one had ever returned from the Stalintrek. She then had to assume\n no one would. Including Sophia Androvna Petrovitch. But then, there\n was nothing she would miss, nothing to which she particularly wanted\n to return. Not the stark, foul streets of Stalingrad, not the workers", "SECOND MAN: Yeah, well I mean it. Forever. We're going away,\n someplace—forever. We're not coming back, ever. No one comes back.\n It's for good, for keeps.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: Tell it to your congressman. Or maybe you want to pull a\n sick act, too?\n\n\n THIRD MAN: (Hits First Man, who, surprised, crashes back against a\n table and falls down) It isn't an act, damn you!\n\n\n GUARD: All right, break it up. Come on, break it up....\n\n\n ALARIC ARKALION: (To himself) I wish I saw that ten million dollars\n already—\nif\nI ever get to see it.\nThey drove for hours through the fresh country air, feeling the wind\n against their faces, listening to the roar their ground-jet made, all\n alone on the rimrock highway.", "\"Yes, you would. Steffy, I—\" A lump rose in his throat. He'd tell her\n goodbye, permanently. He had to do it that way, did not want her to\n wait endlessly and hopelessly for a return that would not materialize.\n \"I didn't get permission to leave, Steffy.\" He hadn't meant to tell her\n that, but suddenly it seemed an easy way to break into goodbye.\n\n\n \"What do you mean? No—you didn't....\"\n\n\n \"I had to see you. What can they do, send me for longer than forever?\"\n\n\n \"Then you do want to run away with me!\"\n\n\n \"Steffy, no. When I leave you tonight, Steffy, it's for good. That's\n it. The last of Kit Temple. Stop thinking about me. I don't exist.\n I—never was.\" It sounded ridiculous, even to him.", "\"Then I was here,\" Temple said, very seriously.\n\n\n Arkalion smiled. \"By George, of course. Then you were here. Temple,\n we'll get along fine.\"\n\n\n Temple said that was swell.\n\n\n \"Anyway, we'd better. Forever is a long time.\"\n\n\n Three minutes later, the jet took off and soared on eager wings toward\n the setting sun.", "He bent and kissed her, knowing it was all wrong. This was not goodbye,\n not the way he wanted it. Quickly, definitely, for once and all. With\n a tear, perhaps, a lot of tears. But permanent goodbye. This was all\n wrong. The whole idea was to be business-like, objective. It had to\n be done that way, or no way at all. Briefly, he regretted leaving the\n encampment.\n\n\n This wasn't goodbye the way he wanted it. The way it had to be. This\n was\nauf weidersen\n.\n\n\n And then he forgot everything but Stephanie....\n\"I am Alaric Arkalion III,\" said the extremely young-looking man with\n the old, wise eyes.\n\n\n How incongruous, Temple thought. The eyes look almost middle-aged. The\n rest of him—a boy.", "\"It's just a song.\"\n\n\n \"Turn it off, please.\"\n\n\n Christopher Temple turned off the telio, smiling. \"They'll announce the\n names in ten minutes,\" he said, and felt the corners of his mouth draw\n taut.\n\n\n \"Tell me again, Kit,\" Stephanie pleaded. \"How old are you?\"\n\n\n \"You know I'm twenty-six.\"\n\n\n \"Twenty-six. Yes, twenty-six, so if they don't call you this time,\n you'll be safe. Safe, I can hardly believe it.\"\n\n\n \"Nine minutes,\" said Temple in the darkness. Stephanie had drawn the\n blinds earlier, had dialed for sound-proofing. The screaming in the\n streets came to them as not the faintest whisper. But the song which\n became briefly, masochistically popular every two years and two months\n had spoiled their feeling of seclusion.", "She signed her name with such vehemence and ferocity that she almost\n tore through the paper.\nCHAPTER II\nThree-score men sit in the crowded, smoke-filled room. Some drink\n beer, some squat in moody silence, some talk in an animated fashion\n about nothing very urgent. At the one small door, two guards pace back\n and forth slowly, creating a gentle swaying of smoke-patterns in the\n hazy room. The guards, in simple military uniform, carry small, deadly\n looking weapons.\nFIRST MAN: Fight City Hall? Are you kidding? They took you, bud. Don't\n try to fight it, I know. I know.\n\n\n SECOND MAN: I'm telling you, there was a mistake in the records.\n I'm over twenty-six. Two weeks and two days. Already I wrote to my\n Congressman. Hell, that's why I voted for him, he better go to bat for\n me." ], [ "She signed her name with such vehemence and ferocity that she almost\n tore through the paper.\nCHAPTER II\nThree-score men sit in the crowded, smoke-filled room. Some drink\n beer, some squat in moody silence, some talk in an animated fashion\n about nothing very urgent. At the one small door, two guards pace back\n and forth slowly, creating a gentle swaying of smoke-patterns in the\n hazy room. The guards, in simple military uniform, carry small, deadly\n looking weapons.\nFIRST MAN: Fight City Hall? Are you kidding? They took you, bud. Don't\n try to fight it, I know. I know.\n\n\n SECOND MAN: I'm telling you, there was a mistake in the records.\n I'm over twenty-six. Two weeks and two days. Already I wrote to my\n Congressman. Hell, that's why I voted for him, he better go to bat for\n me.", "SECOND MAN: Yeah, well I mean it. Forever. We're going away,\n someplace—forever. We're not coming back, ever. No one comes back.\n It's for good, for keeps.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: Tell it to your congressman. Or maybe you want to pull a\n sick act, too?\n\n\n THIRD MAN: (Hits First Man, who, surprised, crashes back against a\n table and falls down) It isn't an act, damn you!\n\n\n GUARD: All right, break it up. Come on, break it up....\n\n\n ALARIC ARKALION: (To himself) I wish I saw that ten million dollars\n already—\nif\nI ever get to see it.\nThey drove for hours through the fresh country air, feeling the wind\n against their faces, listening to the roar their ground-jet made, all\n alone on the rimrock highway.", "\"Every seven-hundred eighty days,\" said the announcer, \"two-hundred\n of Center City's young men are selected to serve their country for an\n indeterminate period regulated rigidly by a rotation system.\"\n\n\n \"Liar!\" Stephanie cried. \"No one ever comes back. It's been thirty\n years since the first group and not one of them....\"\n\n\n \"Shh,\" Temple raised a finger to his lips.\n\n\n \"This is the thirteenth call since the inception of what is popularly\n referred to as the Nowhere Journey,\" said the announcer. \"Obviously,\n the two hundred young men from Center City and the thousands from all\n over this hemisphere do not in reality embark on a Journey to Nowhere.\n That is quite meaningless.\"\n\n\n \"Hooray for him,\" Temple laughed.\n\n\n \"I wish he'd get on with it.\"", "\"No, ladies and gentlemen, we use the word Nowhere merely because we\n are not aware of the ultimate destination. Security reasons make it\n impossible to....\"\n\n\n \"Yes, yes,\" said Stephanie impatiently. \"Go on.\"\n\n\n \"... therefore, the Nowhere Journey. With a maximum security lid on\n the whole project, we don't even know why our men are sent, or by what\n means. We know only that they go somewhere and not nowhere, bravely and\n not fearfully, for a purpose vital to the security of this nation and\n not to slake the thirst of a chessman of regiments and divisions.\n\n\n \"If Center City's contribution helps keep our country strong, Center\n City is naturally obligated....\"\n\n\n \"No one ever said it isn't our duty,\" Stephanie argued, as if the\n announcer could indeed hear her. \"We only wish we knew something about\n it—and we wish it weren't forever.\"", "As a party member she had access to the law and she read it three times\n from start to finish (in her dingy flat by the light of a smoking,\n foul-smelling, soft-wax candle) but could find nothing barring women\n from the Stalintrek.\n\n\n Had Fyodor Rasnikov volunteered? Naturally. Everyone volunteered,\n although when your name was called you had no choice. There had been\n no draft in Russia since the days of the Second War of the People's\n Liberation. Volunteer? What, precisely, did the word mean?\n\n\n She, Sophia Androvna Petrovitch would volunteer, without being told.\n Thus it was she found herself at 616 Stalin Avenue, and thus the\n balding, myopic, bull-necked Comrade thrust the papers across his desk\n at her.", "\"It isn't forever,\" Temple reminded her. \"Not officially.\"\n\n\n \"Officially, my foot. If they never return, they never return. If\n there's a rotation system on paper, but it's never used, that's not a\n rotation system at all. Kit, it's forever.\"\n\n\n \"... to thank the following sponsors for relinquishing their time....\"\n\n\n \"No one would want to sponsor\nthat\n,\" Temple whispered cheerfully.\n\n\n \"Kit,\" said Stephanie, \"I—I suddenly have a hunch we have nothing to\n worry about. They missed you all along and they'll miss you this time,\n too. The last time, and then you'll be too old. That's funny, too old\n at twenty-six. But we'll be free, Kit. Free.\"\n\n\n \"He's starting,\" Temple told her.", "Kit's fellow-draftee Arkalion, the young man with the strange, old-man\n eyes, seemed to know more than he should. So when Kit twisted the tail\n of fate and followed Arkalion to the ends of space and time, he found\n the secret behind \"Nowhere\" and a personal challenge upon which the\n entire future of Earth depended.\nContents\nCHAPTER I\nWhen the first strong sunlight of May covered the tree-arched avenues\n of Center City with green, the riots started.\n\n\n The people gathered in angry knots outside the city hall, met in the\n park and littered its walks with newspapers and magazines as they\n gobbled up editorial comment at a furious rate, slipped with dark of\n night through back alleys and planned things with furious futility.\n Center City's finest knew when to make themselves scarce: their\n uniforms stood for everything objectionable at this time and they might\n be subjected to clubs, stones, taunts, threats, leers—and knives.", "A large drum filled the entire telio screen. It rotated slowly from\n bottom to top. In twenty seconds, the letter A appeared, followed by\n about a dozen names. Abercrombie, Harold. Abner, Eugene. Adams, Gerald.\n Sorrow in the Abercrombie household. Despair for the Abners. Black\n horror for Adams.\n\n\n The drum rotated.\n\n\n \"They're up to F, Kit.\"\n\n\n Fabian, Gregory G....\n\n\n Names circled the drum slowly, live viscous alphabet soup. Meaningless,\n unless you happened to know them.\n\n\n \"Kit, I knew Thomas Mulvany.\"\n\n\n N, O, P....\n\n\n \"It's hot in here.\"\n\n\n \"I thought you were cold.\"\n\n\n \"I'm suffocating now.\"", "\"For God's sake, how can you talk like that? I don't want to go\n anyplace, except with you. But we can't run away, Steffy. I've got to\n face it, whatever it is.\"\n\n\n \"No you don't. It's noble to be patriotic, sure. It always was. But\n this is different, Kit. They don't ask for part of your life. Not for\n two years, or three, or a gamble because maybe you won't ever come\n back. They ask for all of you, for the rest of your life, forever, and\n they don't even tell you why. Kit, don't go! We'll hide someplace and\n get married and—\"", "SECOND MAN: I wish my Congressman....\n\n\n FIRST MAN: You and your Congressman. The way you talk, it was your vote\n got him in office.\n\n\n SECOND MAN: If only I could get out and talk to him.\n\n\n ALARIC ARKALION: No one is permitted to leave.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: Punishable by a prison term, the law says.\n\n\n SECOND MAN: Oh yeah? Prison, shmision. Or else go on the Nowhere\n Journey. Well, I don't see the difference.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: So, go ahead. Try to escape.\n\n\n SECOND MAN: (Looking at the guards) They got them all over. All over. I\n think our mail is censored.\n\n\n ALARIC ARKALION: It is.", "They had reached the head of the line, found themselves entering a\n huge, double-decker jet-transport. They found two seats together,\n followed the instructions printed at the head of the aisle by strapping\n themselves in and not smoking. Talking all around them was subdued.\n\n\n \"Contrariness has given way to fear,\" Arkalion observed. \"You should\n have seen them the last few days, waiting around the induction center,\n a two-ton chip on each shoulder. Say, where\nwere\nyou?\"\n\n\n \"I—what do you mean?\"\n\n\n \"I didn't see you until last evening. Suddenly, you were here.\"\n\n\n \"Did anyone else miss me?\"\n\n\n \"But I remember you the first day.\"\n\n\n \"Did anyone else miss me? Any of the officials?\"\n\n\n \"No. Not that I know of.\"", "\"We don't force women to volunteer.\" The man scratched some more.\n\n\n \"Oh, really,\" said Sophia. \"This is 1992, not mid-century, Comrade. Did\n not Stalin say, 'Woman was created to share the glorious destiny of\n Mother Russia with her mate?'\" Sophia created the quote randomly.\n\n\n \"Yes, if Stalin said—\"\n\n\n \"He did.\"\n\n\n \"Still, I do not recall—\"\n\n\n \"What?\" Sophia cried. \"Stalin dead these thirty-nine years and you\n don't recall his speeches? What is your name, Comrade?\"\n\n\n \"Please, Comrade. Now that you remind me, I remember.\"\n\n\n \"What is your name.\"", "\"It's just a song.\"\n\n\n \"Turn it off, please.\"\n\n\n Christopher Temple turned off the telio, smiling. \"They'll announce the\n names in ten minutes,\" he said, and felt the corners of his mouth draw\n taut.\n\n\n \"Tell me again, Kit,\" Stephanie pleaded. \"How old are you?\"\n\n\n \"You know I'm twenty-six.\"\n\n\n \"Twenty-six. Yes, twenty-six, so if they don't call you this time,\n you'll be safe. Safe, I can hardly believe it.\"\n\n\n \"Nine minutes,\" said Temple in the darkness. Stephanie had drawn the\n blinds earlier, had dialed for sound-proofing. The screaming in the\n streets came to them as not the faintest whisper. But the song which\n became briefly, masochistically popular every two years and two months\n had spoiled their feeling of seclusion.", "But Center City, like most communities in United North America,\n had survived the Riots before and would survive them again. On\n past performances, the damage could be estimated, too. Two-hundred\n fifty-seven plate glass windows would be broken, three-hundred twelve\n limbs fractured. Several thousand people would be treated for minor\n bruises and abrasions, Center City would receive half that many damage\n suits. The list had been drawn clearly and accurately; it hardly ever\n deviated.\n\n\n And Center City would meet its quota. With a demonstration of\n reluctance, of course. The healthy approved way to get over social\n trauma once every seven-hundred eighty days.\n\"Shut it off, Kit. Kit, please.\"\n\n\n The telio blared in a cheaply feminine voice, \"Oh, it's a long way\n to nowhere, forever. And your honey's not coming back, never, never,\n never....\" A wailing trumpet represented flight.\n\n\n \"They'll exploit anything, Kit.\"", "\"Oh, Comrade. Still, you are a woman.\"\n\n\n \"You're terribly observant, Comrade,\" said Sophia coldly. \"I am here to\n volunteer.\"\n\n\n \"But a woman.\"\n\n\n \"There is nothing in the law which says a woman cannot volunteer.\"\n\n\n \"We don't make women volunteer.\"\n\n\n \"I mean really volunteer, of her own free will.\"\n\n\n \"Her—own—free will?\" The bull-necked man removed his spectacles,\n scratched his balding head with the ear-pieces. \"You mean volunteer\n without—\"\n\n\n \"Without coercion. I want to volunteer. I am here to volunteer. I want\n to sign on for the next Stalintrek.\"\n\n\n \"Stalintrek, a woman?\"\n\n\n \"That is what I said.\"", "They had walked some distance from the ground-jet, through scrub\n oak and bramble bushes. They found a clearing, fragrant-scented,\n soft-floored still from last autumn, melodic with the chirping of\n nameless birds. They sat, not talking. Stephanie wore a gay summer\n dress, full-skirted, cut deep beneath the throat. She swayed toward him\n from the waist, nestled her head on his shoulder. He could smell the\n soft, sweet fragrance of her hair, of the skin at the nape of her neck.\n \"If you want to say goodbye ...\" she said.\n\n\n \"Stop it,\" he told her.\n\n\n \"If you want to say goodbye....\"\n\n\n Her head rolled against his chest. She turned, cradled herself in his\n arms, smiled up at him, squirmed some more and had her head pillowed on\n his lap. She smiled tremulously, misty-eyed. Her lips parted.", "\"When I saw your ad,\" said not-Smith, \"I said to myself, 'now here must\n be a very rich, influential man.' It only remained for me to study a\n series of photographs readily obtainable—I have a fine memory for\n that, Mr. Arkalion—and here you are; here is Arkalion the Carpet King.\"\n\n\n \"What will you do with the ten million dollars?\" demanded Arkalion,\n not minding the loss nearly so much as the ultimate disposition of his\n fortune.\n\n\n \"Why, what does anyone do with ten million dollars? Treasure it. Invest\n it. Spend it.\"\n\n\n \"I mean, what will you do with it if you are going in place of my—\"\n Arkalion bit his tongue.\n\n\n \"Your son, were you saying, Mr. Arkalion? Alaric Arkalion the Third.\n Did you know that I was able to boil my list of men down to thirty when\n I studied their family ties?\"", "\"Kit, I love you. I love you. How can I forget you?\"\n\n\n \"It's happened before. It will happen again.\" That hurt, too. He was\n talking about a couple of statistics, not about himself and Stephanie.\n\n\n \"We're different, Kit. I'll love you forever. And—Kit ... I know\n you'll come back to me. I'll wait, Kit. We're different. You'll come\n back.\"\n\n\n \"How many people do you think said\nthat\nbefore?\"\n\n\n \"You don't want to come back, even if you could. You're not thinking of\n us at all. You're thinking of your brother.\"", "R, S....\n\n\n \"T!\" Stephanie shrieked as the names began to float slowly up from the\n bottom of the drum.\n\n\n Tabor, Tebbets, Teddley....\n\n\n Temple's mouth felt dry as a ball of cotton. Stephanie laughed\n nervously. Now—or never. Never?\n\n\n Now.\n\n\n Stephanie whimpered despairingly.\n\n\n TEMPLE, CHRISTOPHER.\n\"Sorry I'm late, Mr. Jones.\"\n\n\n \"Hardly, Mr. Smith. Hardly. Three minutes late.\"\n\n\n \"I've come in response to your ad.\"\n\n\n \"I know. You look old.\"\n\n\n \"I am over twenty-six. Do you mind?\"", "\"Brilliant, Mr. Smith. Alaric is so young—\"\n\n\n \"Aren't they all? Twenty-one to twenty-six. Who was it who once said\n something about the flower of our young manhood?\"\n\n\n \"Shakespeare?\" said Mr. Arkalion realizing that most quotes of lasting\n importance came from the bard.\n\n\n \"Sophocles,\" said Smith. \"But no matter. I will take young Alaric's\n place for ten million dollars.\"\n\n\n Motives always troubled Mr. Arkalion, and thus he pursued what might\n have been a dangerous conversation. \"You'll never get a chance to spend\n it on the Nowhere Journey.\"\n\n\n \"Let me worry about that.\"\n\n\n \"No one ever returns.\"\n\n\n \"My worry, not yours.\"" ], [ "\"No, ladies and gentlemen, we use the word Nowhere merely because we\n are not aware of the ultimate destination. Security reasons make it\n impossible to....\"\n\n\n \"Yes, yes,\" said Stephanie impatiently. \"Go on.\"\n\n\n \"... therefore, the Nowhere Journey. With a maximum security lid on\n the whole project, we don't even know why our men are sent, or by what\n means. We know only that they go somewhere and not nowhere, bravely and\n not fearfully, for a purpose vital to the security of this nation and\n not to slake the thirst of a chessman of regiments and divisions.\n\n\n \"If Center City's contribution helps keep our country strong, Center\n City is naturally obligated....\"\n\n\n \"No one ever said it isn't our duty,\" Stephanie argued, as if the\n announcer could indeed hear her. \"We only wish we knew something about\n it—and we wish it weren't forever.\"", "THIRD MAN: You think that's something? I wouldn't be here only those\n doctors are crazy. I mean, crazy. Me, with a cyst big as a golf ball on\n the base of my spine.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: You too. Don't try to fight it.\n\n\n FOURTH MAN: (Newly named Alaric Arkalion III) I look forward to this\n as a stimulating adventure. Does the fact that they select men for the\n Nowhere Journey once every seven hundred and eighty days strike anyone\n as significant?\n\n\n SECOND MAN: I got my own problems.\n\n\n ALARIC ARKALION: This is not a thalamic problem, young man. Not\n thalamic at all.\n\n\n THIRD MAN: Young man? Who are you kidding?", "\"Brilliant, Mr. Smith. Alaric is so young—\"\n\n\n \"Aren't they all? Twenty-one to twenty-six. Who was it who once said\n something about the flower of our young manhood?\"\n\n\n \"Shakespeare?\" said Mr. Arkalion realizing that most quotes of lasting\n importance came from the bard.\n\n\n \"Sophocles,\" said Smith. \"But no matter. I will take young Alaric's\n place for ten million dollars.\"\n\n\n Motives always troubled Mr. Arkalion, and thus he pursued what might\n have been a dangerous conversation. \"You'll never get a chance to spend\n it on the Nowhere Journey.\"\n\n\n \"Let me worry about that.\"\n\n\n \"No one ever returns.\"\n\n\n \"My worry, not yours.\"", "\"Every seven-hundred eighty days,\" said the announcer, \"two-hundred\n of Center City's young men are selected to serve their country for an\n indeterminate period regulated rigidly by a rotation system.\"\n\n\n \"Liar!\" Stephanie cried. \"No one ever comes back. It's been thirty\n years since the first group and not one of them....\"\n\n\n \"Shh,\" Temple raised a finger to his lips.\n\n\n \"This is the thirteenth call since the inception of what is popularly\n referred to as the Nowhere Journey,\" said the announcer. \"Obviously,\n the two hundred young men from Center City and the thousands from all\n over this hemisphere do not in reality embark on a Journey to Nowhere.\n That is quite meaningless.\"\n\n\n \"Hooray for him,\" Temple laughed.\n\n\n \"I wish he'd get on with it.\"", "SECOND MAN: I wish my Congressman....\n\n\n FIRST MAN: You and your Congressman. The way you talk, it was your vote\n got him in office.\n\n\n SECOND MAN: If only I could get out and talk to him.\n\n\n ALARIC ARKALION: No one is permitted to leave.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: Punishable by a prison term, the law says.\n\n\n SECOND MAN: Oh yeah? Prison, shmision. Or else go on the Nowhere\n Journey. Well, I don't see the difference.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: So, go ahead. Try to escape.\n\n\n SECOND MAN: (Looking at the guards) They got them all over. All over. I\n think our mail is censored.\n\n\n ALARIC ARKALION: It is.", "\"This going wasn't my idea. I wanted to stay with you. I wanted to\n marry you. I can't now. None of it. Forget me, Steffy. Forget you ever\n knew me. Jase said that to our folks before he was taken.\" Almost five\n years before Jason Temple had been selected for the Nowhere Journey.\n He'd been young, though older than his brother Kit. Young, unattached,\n almost cheerful he was. Naturally, they never saw him again.\n\n\n \"Hold me, Kit. I'm sorry ... carrying on like this.\"", "Kit's fellow-draftee Arkalion, the young man with the strange, old-man\n eyes, seemed to know more than he should. So when Kit twisted the tail\n of fate and followed Arkalion to the ends of space and time, he found\n the secret behind \"Nowhere\" and a personal challenge upon which the\n entire future of Earth depended.\nContents\nCHAPTER I\nWhen the first strong sunlight of May covered the tree-arched avenues\n of Center City with green, the riots started.\n\n\n The people gathered in angry knots outside the city hall, met in the\n park and littered its walks with newspapers and magazines as they\n gobbled up editorial comment at a furious rate, slipped with dark of\n night through back alleys and planned things with furious futility.\n Center City's finest knew when to make themselves scarce: their\n uniforms stood for everything objectionable at this time and they might\n be subjected to clubs, stones, taunts, threats, leers—and knives.", "Wrong with the Stalintrek was its name alone, a name one associated\n with everything else in Russia for an obvious, post-Stalin reason. But\n everything else about the Stalintrek shrieked mystery and adventure.\n Where did you go? How did you get there? What did you do? Why?\n\n\n A million questions which had kept her awake at night and, if\n she thought about them hard enough, satisfied her deep longing\n for something different. And then one day when stolid Mrs.\n Ivanovna-Rasnikov had said, \"It is a joke, a terrible, terrible joke\n they are taking my husband Fyodor on the Stalintrek when he lacks\n sufficient imagination to go from here to Leningrad or even Tula. Can\n you picture Fyodor on the Stalintrek? Better they should have taken me.\n Better they should have taken his wife.\" That day Sophia could hardly\n contain herself.", "SECOND MAN: They better watch out. I'm losing my temper. I get violent\n when I lose my temper.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: See? See how the guards are trembling.\n\n\n SECOND MAN: Very funny. Maybe you didn't have a good job or something?\n Maybe you don't care. I care. I had a job with a future. Didn't pay\n much, but a real blue chip future. So they send me to Nowhere.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: You're not there yet.\n\n\n SECOND MAN: Yeah, but I'm going.\n\n\n THIRD MAN: If only they let you know when. My back is killing me. I'm\n waiting to pull a sick act. Just waiting, that's all.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: Go ahead and wait, a lot of good it will do you.", "SECOND MAN: Yeah, well I mean it. Forever. We're going away,\n someplace—forever. We're not coming back, ever. No one comes back.\n It's for good, for keeps.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: Tell it to your congressman. Or maybe you want to pull a\n sick act, too?\n\n\n THIRD MAN: (Hits First Man, who, surprised, crashes back against a\n table and falls down) It isn't an act, damn you!\n\n\n GUARD: All right, break it up. Come on, break it up....\n\n\n ALARIC ARKALION: (To himself) I wish I saw that ten million dollars\n already—\nif\nI ever get to see it.\nThey drove for hours through the fresh country air, feeling the wind\n against their faces, listening to the roar their ground-jet made, all\n alone on the rimrock highway.", "\"Then I was here,\" Temple said, very seriously.\n\n\n Arkalion smiled. \"By George, of course. Then you were here. Temple,\n we'll get along fine.\"\n\n\n Temple said that was swell.\n\n\n \"Anyway, we'd better. Forever is a long time.\"\n\n\n Three minutes later, the jet took off and soared on eager wings toward\n the setting sun.", "\"It isn't forever,\" Temple reminded her. \"Not officially.\"\n\n\n \"Officially, my foot. If they never return, they never return. If\n there's a rotation system on paper, but it's never used, that's not a\n rotation system at all. Kit, it's forever.\"\n\n\n \"... to thank the following sponsors for relinquishing their time....\"\n\n\n \"No one would want to sponsor\nthat\n,\" Temple whispered cheerfully.\n\n\n \"Kit,\" said Stephanie, \"I—I suddenly have a hunch we have nothing to\n worry about. They missed you all along and they'll miss you this time,\n too. The last time, and then you'll be too old. That's funny, too old\n at twenty-six. But we'll be free, Kit. Free.\"\n\n\n \"He's starting,\" Temple told her.", "\"Here I am not a billionaire, nor will I ever be one again. A-92-6417,\n a number. On his way to Mars with a bunch of other numbers.\"\n\n\n \"Mars? You sound sure of yourself.\"\n\n\n \"Reasonably. Ah, it is a pleasure to talk with a gentleman. I am\n reasonably certain it will be Mars.\"\n\n\n Temple nodded in agreement. \"That's what the Sunday supplements say,\n all right.\"\n\n\n \"And doubtless you have observed no one denies it.\"\n\n\n \"But what on Earth do we want on Mars?\"\n\n\n \"That in itself is a contradiction,\" laughed Arkalion. \"We'll find out,\n though, Temple.\"", "They had reached the head of the line, found themselves entering a\n huge, double-decker jet-transport. They found two seats together,\n followed the instructions printed at the head of the aisle by strapping\n themselves in and not smoking. Talking all around them was subdued.\n\n\n \"Contrariness has given way to fear,\" Arkalion observed. \"You should\n have seen them the last few days, waiting around the induction center,\n a two-ton chip on each shoulder. Say, where\nwere\nyou?\"\n\n\n \"I—what do you mean?\"\n\n\n \"I didn't see you until last evening. Suddenly, you were here.\"\n\n\n \"Did anyone else miss me?\"\n\n\n \"But I remember you the first day.\"\n\n\n \"Did anyone else miss me? Any of the officials?\"\n\n\n \"No. Not that I know of.\"", "Recruit for Andromeda\nby MILTON LESSER\n\n\n ACE BOOKS, INC.\n\n 23 West 47th Street, New York 36, N. Y.\n\n\n RECRUIT FOR ANDROMEDA\n\n\n Copyright 1959, by Ace Books, Inc.\n\n\n All Rights Reserved\n\n\n Printed in U.S.A.\n\n\n [Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any evidence\n\n that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nTOURNAMENT UNDER NIGHTMARE SKIES\n\n\n When Kit Temple was drafted for the Nowhere Journey, he figured that\n he'd left his home, his girl, and the Earth for good. For though those\n called were always promised \"rotation,\" not a man had ever returned\n from that mysterious flight into the unknown.", "\"Where are we going, Kit?\"\n\n\n \"Search me. Just driving.\"\n\n\n \"I'm glad they let you come out this once. I don't know what they would\n have done to me if they didn't. I had to see you this once. I—\"\n\n\n Temple smiled. He had absented himself without leave. It had been\n difficult enough and he might yet be in a lot of hot water, but it\n would be senseless to worry Stephanie. \"It's just for a few hours,\" he\n said.\n\n\n \"Hours. When we want a whole lifetime. Kit. Oh, Kit—why don't we run\n away? Just the two of us, someplace where they'll never find you. I\n could be packed and ready and—\"\n\n\n \"Don't talk like that. We can't.\"\n\n\n \"You want to go where they're sending you. You want to go.\"", "ALARIC ARKALION: (Who realizes, thanks to the plastic surgeon, he is\n the youngest looking of all, with red cheeks and peachfuzz whiskers) It\n is a problem of the intellect. Why seven hundred and eighty days?\n\n\n FIRST MAN: I read the magazine, too, chief. You think we're all going\n to the planet Mars. How original.\n\n\n ALARIC ARKALION: As a matter of fact, that is exactly what I think.\n\n\n SECOND MAN: Mars?\n\n\n FIRST MAN: (Laughing) It's a long way from Mars to City Hall, doc.\n\n\n SECOND MAN: You mean, through space to Mars?\n\n\n ALARIC ARKALION: Exactly, exactly. Quite a coincidence, otherwise.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: You're telling me.", "But there, behind that desk, was part of the reason. The Comrade. The\n bright sharp Comrade, with his depth of reasoning, his fountain of\n gushing emotions, his worldliness.\nPfooey!\nIt was as if she had been in a cocoon all her life, stifled, starved,\n the cottony inner lining choking her whenever she opened her mouth,\n the leathery outer covering restricting her when she tried to move.\n No one had ever returned from the Stalintrek. She then had to assume\n no one would. Including Sophia Androvna Petrovitch. But then, there\n was nothing she would miss, nothing to which she particularly wanted\n to return. Not the stark, foul streets of Stalingrad, not the workers", "THIRD MAN: You mind your own business.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: I am, doc. You brought the whole thing up.\n\n\n SECOND MAN: He's looking for trouble.\n\n\n THIRD MAN: He'll get it.\n\n\n ALARIC ARKALION: We're going to be together a long time. A long time.\n Why don't you all relax?\n\n\n SECOND MAN: You mind your own business.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: Nuts, aren't they. They're nuts. A sick act, yet.\n\n\n SECOND MAN: Look how it doesn't bother him. A failure, he was. I can\n just see it. What does he care if he goes away forever and doesn't come\n back? One bread line is as good as another.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: Ha-ha.", "\"It is forever—as if you dropped out of existence. Alaric is so young.\"\n\n\n \"I have always gambled, Mr. Arkalion. If I do not return in five\n years, you are to put the money in a trust fund for certain designated\n individuals, said fund to be terminated the moment I return. If I come\n back within the five years, you are merely to give the money over to\n me. Is that clear?\"\n\n\n \"Yes.\"\n\n\n \"I'll want it in writing, of course.\"\n\n\n \"Of course. A plastic surgeon is due here in about ten minutes, Mr.\n Smith, and we can get on with.... But if I don't know your name, how\n can I put it in writing?\"\n\n\n Smith smiled. \"I changed my name to Smith for the occasion. Perfectly\n legal. My name is John X. Smith—now!\"" ], [ "He bent and kissed her, knowing it was all wrong. This was not goodbye,\n not the way he wanted it. Quickly, definitely, for once and all. With\n a tear, perhaps, a lot of tears. But permanent goodbye. This was all\n wrong. The whole idea was to be business-like, objective. It had to\n be done that way, or no way at all. Briefly, he regretted leaving the\n encampment.\n\n\n This wasn't goodbye the way he wanted it. The way it had to be. This\n was\nauf weidersen\n.\n\n\n And then he forgot everything but Stephanie....\n\"I am Alaric Arkalion III,\" said the extremely young-looking man with\n the old, wise eyes.\n\n\n How incongruous, Temple thought. The eyes look almost middle-aged. The\n rest of him—a boy.", "They had walked some distance from the ground-jet, through scrub\n oak and bramble bushes. They found a clearing, fragrant-scented,\n soft-floored still from last autumn, melodic with the chirping of\n nameless birds. They sat, not talking. Stephanie wore a gay summer\n dress, full-skirted, cut deep beneath the throat. She swayed toward him\n from the waist, nestled her head on his shoulder. He could smell the\n soft, sweet fragrance of her hair, of the skin at the nape of her neck.\n \"If you want to say goodbye ...\" she said.\n\n\n \"Stop it,\" he told her.\n\n\n \"If you want to say goodbye....\"\n\n\n Her head rolled against his chest. She turned, cradled herself in his\n arms, smiled up at him, squirmed some more and had her head pillowed on\n his lap. She smiled tremulously, misty-eyed. Her lips parted.", "\"And nothing.\" Temple stopped the ground-jet, climbed out, opened the\n door for Stephanie. \"Don't you see? There's no place to hide. Wherever\n you go, they'd look. You wouldn't want to spend the rest of your life\n running, Steffy. Not with me or anyone else.\"\n\n\n \"I would. I would!\"\n\n\n \"Know what would happen after a few years? We'd hate each other. You'd\n look at me and say 'I wouldn't be hiding like this, except for you. I'm\n young and—'\"\n\n\n \"Kit, that's cruel! I would not.\"", "\"Kit, I love you. I love you. How can I forget you?\"\n\n\n \"It's happened before. It will happen again.\" That hurt, too. He was\n talking about a couple of statistics, not about himself and Stephanie.\n\n\n \"We're different, Kit. I'll love you forever. And—Kit ... I know\n you'll come back to me. I'll wait, Kit. We're different. You'll come\n back.\"\n\n\n \"How many people do you think said\nthat\nbefore?\"\n\n\n \"You don't want to come back, even if you could. You're not thinking of\n us at all. You're thinking of your brother.\"", "\"Where are we going, Kit?\"\n\n\n \"Search me. Just driving.\"\n\n\n \"I'm glad they let you come out this once. I don't know what they would\n have done to me if they didn't. I had to see you this once. I—\"\n\n\n Temple smiled. He had absented himself without leave. It had been\n difficult enough and he might yet be in a lot of hot water, but it\n would be senseless to worry Stephanie. \"It's just for a few hours,\" he\n said.\n\n\n \"Hours. When we want a whole lifetime. Kit. Oh, Kit—why don't we run\n away? Just the two of us, someplace where they'll never find you. I\n could be packed and ready and—\"\n\n\n \"Don't talk like that. We can't.\"\n\n\n \"You want to go where they're sending you. You want to go.\"", "R, S....\n\n\n \"T!\" Stephanie shrieked as the names began to float slowly up from the\n bottom of the drum.\n\n\n Tabor, Tebbets, Teddley....\n\n\n Temple's mouth felt dry as a ball of cotton. Stephanie laughed\n nervously. Now—or never. Never?\n\n\n Now.\n\n\n Stephanie whimpered despairingly.\n\n\n TEMPLE, CHRISTOPHER.\n\"Sorry I'm late, Mr. Jones.\"\n\n\n \"Hardly, Mr. Smith. Hardly. Three minutes late.\"\n\n\n \"I've come in response to your ad.\"\n\n\n \"I know. You look old.\"\n\n\n \"I am over twenty-six. Do you mind?\"", "\"For God's sake, how can you talk like that? I don't want to go\n anyplace, except with you. But we can't run away, Steffy. I've got to\n face it, whatever it is.\"\n\n\n \"No you don't. It's noble to be patriotic, sure. It always was. But\n this is different, Kit. They don't ask for part of your life. Not for\n two years, or three, or a gamble because maybe you won't ever come\n back. They ask for all of you, for the rest of your life, forever, and\n they don't even tell you why. Kit, don't go! We'll hide someplace and\n get married and—\"", "\"You know that isn't true. Sometimes I wonder about Jase, sure. But if\n I thought there was a chance to return—I'm a selfish cuss, Steffy. If\n I thought there was a chance, you know I'd want you all for myself. I'd\n brand you, and that's the truth.\"\n\n\n \"You do love me!\"\n\n\n \"I loved you, Steffy. Kit Temple loved you.\"\n\n\n \"Loved?\"\n\n\n \"Loved. Past tense. When I leave tonight, it's as if I don't exist\n anymore. As if I never existed. It's got to be that way, Steffy. In\n thirty years, no one ever returned.\"\n\n\n \"Including your brother, Jase. So now you want to find him. What do I\n count for? What....\"", "\"No, ladies and gentlemen, we use the word Nowhere merely because we\n are not aware of the ultimate destination. Security reasons make it\n impossible to....\"\n\n\n \"Yes, yes,\" said Stephanie impatiently. \"Go on.\"\n\n\n \"... therefore, the Nowhere Journey. With a maximum security lid on\n the whole project, we don't even know why our men are sent, or by what\n means. We know only that they go somewhere and not nowhere, bravely and\n not fearfully, for a purpose vital to the security of this nation and\n not to slake the thirst of a chessman of regiments and divisions.\n\n\n \"If Center City's contribution helps keep our country strong, Center\n City is naturally obligated....\"\n\n\n \"No one ever said it isn't our duty,\" Stephanie argued, as if the\n announcer could indeed hear her. \"We only wish we knew something about\n it—and we wish it weren't forever.\"", "But there, behind that desk, was part of the reason. The Comrade. The\n bright sharp Comrade, with his depth of reasoning, his fountain of\n gushing emotions, his worldliness.\nPfooey!\nIt was as if she had been in a cocoon all her life, stifled, starved,\n the cottony inner lining choking her whenever she opened her mouth,\n the leathery outer covering restricting her when she tried to move.\n No one had ever returned from the Stalintrek. She then had to assume\n no one would. Including Sophia Androvna Petrovitch. But then, there\n was nothing she would miss, nothing to which she particularly wanted\n to return. Not the stark, foul streets of Stalingrad, not the workers", "\"Every seven-hundred eighty days,\" said the announcer, \"two-hundred\n of Center City's young men are selected to serve their country for an\n indeterminate period regulated rigidly by a rotation system.\"\n\n\n \"Liar!\" Stephanie cried. \"No one ever comes back. It's been thirty\n years since the first group and not one of them....\"\n\n\n \"Shh,\" Temple raised a finger to his lips.\n\n\n \"This is the thirteenth call since the inception of what is popularly\n referred to as the Nowhere Journey,\" said the announcer. \"Obviously,\n the two hundred young men from Center City and the thousands from all\n over this hemisphere do not in reality embark on a Journey to Nowhere.\n That is quite meaningless.\"\n\n\n \"Hooray for him,\" Temple laughed.\n\n\n \"I wish he'd get on with it.\"", "\"It isn't forever,\" Temple reminded her. \"Not officially.\"\n\n\n \"Officially, my foot. If they never return, they never return. If\n there's a rotation system on paper, but it's never used, that's not a\n rotation system at all. Kit, it's forever.\"\n\n\n \"... to thank the following sponsors for relinquishing their time....\"\n\n\n \"No one would want to sponsor\nthat\n,\" Temple whispered cheerfully.\n\n\n \"Kit,\" said Stephanie, \"I—I suddenly have a hunch we have nothing to\n worry about. They missed you all along and they'll miss you this time,\n too. The last time, and then you'll be too old. That's funny, too old\n at twenty-six. But we'll be free, Kit. Free.\"\n\n\n \"He's starting,\" Temple told her.", "\"Here, I will give you the volunteer papers to sign. If you pass the\n exams, you will embark on the next Stalintrek, though why a beautiful\n young woman like you—\"\n\n\n \"Shut your mouth and hand me those papers.\"\n\n\n There, sitting behind that desk, was precisely why. Why should she,\n Sophia Androvna Petrovitch, wish to volunteer for the Stalintrek?\n Better to ask why a bird flies south in the winter, one day ahead of\n the first icy gale. Or why a lemming plunges recklessly into the sea\n with his multitudes of fellows, if, indeed, the venture were to turn\n out grimly.", "\"I'm scared.\"\n\n\n \"You and everyone else in North America, Steffy.\"\n\n\n She was trembling against him. \"It's cold for June.\"\n\n\n \"It's warm in here.\" He kissed her moist eyes, her nose, her lips.\n\n\n \"Oh God, Kit. Five minutes.\"\n\n\n \"Five minutes to freedom,\" he said jauntily. He did not feel that way\n at all. Apprehension clutched at his chest with tight, painful fingers,\n almost making it difficult for him to breathe.\n\n\n \"Turn it on, Kit.\"\n\n\n He dialed the telio in time to see the announcer's insincere smile.\n Smile seventeen, Kit thought wryly. Patriotic sacrifice.", "\"This going wasn't my idea. I wanted to stay with you. I wanted to\n marry you. I can't now. None of it. Forget me, Steffy. Forget you ever\n knew me. Jase said that to our folks before he was taken.\" Almost five\n years before Jason Temple had been selected for the Nowhere Journey.\n He'd been young, though older than his brother Kit. Young, unattached,\n almost cheerful he was. Naturally, they never saw him again.\n\n\n \"Hold me, Kit. I'm sorry ... carrying on like this.\"", "As a party member she had access to the law and she read it three times\n from start to finish (in her dingy flat by the light of a smoking,\n foul-smelling, soft-wax candle) but could find nothing barring women\n from the Stalintrek.\n\n\n Had Fyodor Rasnikov volunteered? Naturally. Everyone volunteered,\n although when your name was called you had no choice. There had been\n no draft in Russia since the days of the Second War of the People's\n Liberation. Volunteer? What, precisely, did the word mean?\n\n\n She, Sophia Androvna Petrovitch would volunteer, without being told.\n Thus it was she found herself at 616 Stalin Avenue, and thus the\n balding, myopic, bull-necked Comrade thrust the papers across his desk\n at her.", "with their vapid faces or the Comrades with their cautious, sweating,\n trembling, fearful non-decisions, not the higher echelon of Comrades,\n more frightened but showing it less, who would love the beauty of\n her breasts and loins but not herself for you never love anything\n but the Stalinimage and Mother Russia herself, not those terrified\n martinet-marionettes who would love the parts of her if she permitted\n but not her or any other person for that matter.", "She signed her name with such vehemence and ferocity that she almost\n tore through the paper.\nCHAPTER II\nThree-score men sit in the crowded, smoke-filled room. Some drink\n beer, some squat in moody silence, some talk in an animated fashion\n about nothing very urgent. At the one small door, two guards pace back\n and forth slowly, creating a gentle swaying of smoke-patterns in the\n hazy room. The guards, in simple military uniform, carry small, deadly\n looking weapons.\nFIRST MAN: Fight City Hall? Are you kidding? They took you, bud. Don't\n try to fight it, I know. I know.\n\n\n SECOND MAN: I'm telling you, there was a mistake in the records.\n I'm over twenty-six. Two weeks and two days. Already I wrote to my\n Congressman. Hell, that's why I voted for him, he better go to bat for\n me.", "\"Oh, Comrade. Still, you are a woman.\"\n\n\n \"You're terribly observant, Comrade,\" said Sophia coldly. \"I am here to\n volunteer.\"\n\n\n \"But a woman.\"\n\n\n \"There is nothing in the law which says a woman cannot volunteer.\"\n\n\n \"We don't make women volunteer.\"\n\n\n \"I mean really volunteer, of her own free will.\"\n\n\n \"Her—own—free will?\" The bull-necked man removed his spectacles,\n scratched his balding head with the ear-pieces. \"You mean volunteer\n without—\"\n\n\n \"Without coercion. I want to volunteer. I am here to volunteer. I want\n to sign on for the next Stalintrek.\"\n\n\n \"Stalintrek, a woman?\"\n\n\n \"That is what I said.\"", "\"Yes, you would. Steffy, I—\" A lump rose in his throat. He'd tell her\n goodbye, permanently. He had to do it that way, did not want her to\n wait endlessly and hopelessly for a return that would not materialize.\n \"I didn't get permission to leave, Steffy.\" He hadn't meant to tell her\n that, but suddenly it seemed an easy way to break into goodbye.\n\n\n \"What do you mean? No—you didn't....\"\n\n\n \"I had to see you. What can they do, send me for longer than forever?\"\n\n\n \"Then you do want to run away with me!\"\n\n\n \"Steffy, no. When I leave you tonight, Steffy, it's for good. That's\n it. The last of Kit Temple. Stop thinking about me. I don't exist.\n I—never was.\" It sounded ridiculous, even to him." ], [ "But there, behind that desk, was part of the reason. The Comrade. The\n bright sharp Comrade, with his depth of reasoning, his fountain of\n gushing emotions, his worldliness.\nPfooey!\nIt was as if she had been in a cocoon all her life, stifled, starved,\n the cottony inner lining choking her whenever she opened her mouth,\n the leathery outer covering restricting her when she tried to move.\n No one had ever returned from the Stalintrek. She then had to assume\n no one would. Including Sophia Androvna Petrovitch. But then, there\n was nothing she would miss, nothing to which she particularly wanted\n to return. Not the stark, foul streets of Stalingrad, not the workers", "\"We don't force women to volunteer.\" The man scratched some more.\n\n\n \"Oh, really,\" said Sophia. \"This is 1992, not mid-century, Comrade. Did\n not Stalin say, 'Woman was created to share the glorious destiny of\n Mother Russia with her mate?'\" Sophia created the quote randomly.\n\n\n \"Yes, if Stalin said—\"\n\n\n \"He did.\"\n\n\n \"Still, I do not recall—\"\n\n\n \"What?\" Sophia cried. \"Stalin dead these thirty-nine years and you\n don't recall his speeches? What is your name, Comrade?\"\n\n\n \"Please, Comrade. Now that you remind me, I remember.\"\n\n\n \"What is your name.\"", "\"Oh, Comrade. Still, you are a woman.\"\n\n\n \"You're terribly observant, Comrade,\" said Sophia coldly. \"I am here to\n volunteer.\"\n\n\n \"But a woman.\"\n\n\n \"There is nothing in the law which says a woman cannot volunteer.\"\n\n\n \"We don't make women volunteer.\"\n\n\n \"I mean really volunteer, of her own free will.\"\n\n\n \"Her—own—free will?\" The bull-necked man removed his spectacles,\n scratched his balding head with the ear-pieces. \"You mean volunteer\n without—\"\n\n\n \"Without coercion. I want to volunteer. I am here to volunteer. I want\n to sign on for the next Stalintrek.\"\n\n\n \"Stalintrek, a woman?\"\n\n\n \"That is what I said.\"", "As a party member she had access to the law and she read it three times\n from start to finish (in her dingy flat by the light of a smoking,\n foul-smelling, soft-wax candle) but could find nothing barring women\n from the Stalintrek.\n\n\n Had Fyodor Rasnikov volunteered? Naturally. Everyone volunteered,\n although when your name was called you had no choice. There had been\n no draft in Russia since the days of the Second War of the People's\n Liberation. Volunteer? What, precisely, did the word mean?\n\n\n She, Sophia Androvna Petrovitch would volunteer, without being told.\n Thus it was she found herself at 616 Stalin Avenue, and thus the\n balding, myopic, bull-necked Comrade thrust the papers across his desk\n at her.", "\"Here, I will give you the volunteer papers to sign. If you pass the\n exams, you will embark on the next Stalintrek, though why a beautiful\n young woman like you—\"\n\n\n \"Shut your mouth and hand me those papers.\"\n\n\n There, sitting behind that desk, was precisely why. Why should she,\n Sophia Androvna Petrovitch, wish to volunteer for the Stalintrek?\n Better to ask why a bird flies south in the winter, one day ahead of\n the first icy gale. Or why a lemming plunges recklessly into the sea\n with his multitudes of fellows, if, indeed, the venture were to turn\n out grimly.", "Wrong with the Stalintrek was its name alone, a name one associated\n with everything else in Russia for an obvious, post-Stalin reason. But\n everything else about the Stalintrek shrieked mystery and adventure.\n Where did you go? How did you get there? What did you do? Why?\n\n\n A million questions which had kept her awake at night and, if\n she thought about them hard enough, satisfied her deep longing\n for something different. And then one day when stolid Mrs.\n Ivanovna-Rasnikov had said, \"It is a joke, a terrible, terrible joke\n they are taking my husband Fyodor on the Stalintrek when he lacks\n sufficient imagination to go from here to Leningrad or even Tula. Can\n you picture Fyodor on the Stalintrek? Better they should have taken me.\n Better they should have taken his wife.\" That day Sophia could hardly\n contain herself.", "\"That's where you're wrong,\" said Mr. Arkalion as the plastic surgeon\n entered. \"Your name is Alaric Arkalion III—\nnow\n.\"\n\n\n The plastic surgeon skittered around Smith, examining him minutely with\n the casual expertness that comes with experience.\n\n\n \"Have to shorten the cheek bones.\"\n\n\n \"For ten million dollars,\" said Smith, \"you can take the damned things\n out altogether and hang them on your wall.\"\nSophia Androvna Petrovitch made her way downtown through the bustle of\n tired workers and the occasional sprinkling of Comrades. She crushed\n her\nersatz\ncigarette underfoot at number 616 Stalin Avenue, paused\n for the space of five heartbeats at the door, went inside.\n\n\n \"What do you want?\" The man at the desk was myopic but bull-necked.\n\n\n Sophia showed her party card.", "with their vapid faces or the Comrades with their cautious, sweating,\n trembling, fearful non-decisions, not the higher echelon of Comrades,\n more frightened but showing it less, who would love the beauty of\n her breasts and loins but not herself for you never love anything\n but the Stalinimage and Mother Russia herself, not those terrified\n martinet-marionettes who would love the parts of her if she permitted\n but not her or any other person for that matter.", "He bent and kissed her, knowing it was all wrong. This was not goodbye,\n not the way he wanted it. Quickly, definitely, for once and all. With\n a tear, perhaps, a lot of tears. But permanent goodbye. This was all\n wrong. The whole idea was to be business-like, objective. It had to\n be done that way, or no way at all. Briefly, he regretted leaving the\n encampment.\n\n\n This wasn't goodbye the way he wanted it. The way it had to be. This\n was\nauf weidersen\n.\n\n\n And then he forgot everything but Stephanie....\n\"I am Alaric Arkalion III,\" said the extremely young-looking man with\n the old, wise eyes.\n\n\n How incongruous, Temple thought. The eyes look almost middle-aged. The\n rest of him—a boy.", "They had walked some distance from the ground-jet, through scrub\n oak and bramble bushes. They found a clearing, fragrant-scented,\n soft-floored still from last autumn, melodic with the chirping of\n nameless birds. They sat, not talking. Stephanie wore a gay summer\n dress, full-skirted, cut deep beneath the throat. She swayed toward him\n from the waist, nestled her head on his shoulder. He could smell the\n soft, sweet fragrance of her hair, of the skin at the nape of her neck.\n \"If you want to say goodbye ...\" she said.\n\n\n \"Stop it,\" he told her.\n\n\n \"If you want to say goodbye....\"\n\n\n Her head rolled against his chest. She turned, cradled herself in his\n arms, smiled up at him, squirmed some more and had her head pillowed on\n his lap. She smiled tremulously, misty-eyed. Her lips parted.", "\"Brilliant, Mr. Smith. Alaric is so young—\"\n\n\n \"Aren't they all? Twenty-one to twenty-six. Who was it who once said\n something about the flower of our young manhood?\"\n\n\n \"Shakespeare?\" said Mr. Arkalion realizing that most quotes of lasting\n importance came from the bard.\n\n\n \"Sophocles,\" said Smith. \"But no matter. I will take young Alaric's\n place for ten million dollars.\"\n\n\n Motives always troubled Mr. Arkalion, and thus he pursued what might\n have been a dangerous conversation. \"You'll never get a chance to spend\n it on the Nowhere Journey.\"\n\n\n \"Let me worry about that.\"\n\n\n \"No one ever returns.\"\n\n\n \"My worry, not yours.\"", "She signed her name with such vehemence and ferocity that she almost\n tore through the paper.\nCHAPTER II\nThree-score men sit in the crowded, smoke-filled room. Some drink\n beer, some squat in moody silence, some talk in an animated fashion\n about nothing very urgent. At the one small door, two guards pace back\n and forth slowly, creating a gentle swaying of smoke-patterns in the\n hazy room. The guards, in simple military uniform, carry small, deadly\n looking weapons.\nFIRST MAN: Fight City Hall? Are you kidding? They took you, bud. Don't\n try to fight it, I know. I know.\n\n\n SECOND MAN: I'm telling you, there was a mistake in the records.\n I'm over twenty-six. Two weeks and two days. Already I wrote to my\n Congressman. Hell, that's why I voted for him, he better go to bat for\n me.", "\"It isn't forever,\" Temple reminded her. \"Not officially.\"\n\n\n \"Officially, my foot. If they never return, they never return. If\n there's a rotation system on paper, but it's never used, that's not a\n rotation system at all. Kit, it's forever.\"\n\n\n \"... to thank the following sponsors for relinquishing their time....\"\n\n\n \"No one would want to sponsor\nthat\n,\" Temple whispered cheerfully.\n\n\n \"Kit,\" said Stephanie, \"I—I suddenly have a hunch we have nothing to\n worry about. They missed you all along and they'll miss you this time,\n too. The last time, and then you'll be too old. That's funny, too old\n at twenty-six. But we'll be free, Kit. Free.\"\n\n\n \"He's starting,\" Temple told her.", "THIRD MAN: You mind your own business.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: I am, doc. You brought the whole thing up.\n\n\n SECOND MAN: He's looking for trouble.\n\n\n THIRD MAN: He'll get it.\n\n\n ALARIC ARKALION: We're going to be together a long time. A long time.\n Why don't you all relax?\n\n\n SECOND MAN: You mind your own business.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: Nuts, aren't they. They're nuts. A sick act, yet.\n\n\n SECOND MAN: Look how it doesn't bother him. A failure, he was. I can\n just see it. What does he care if he goes away forever and doesn't come\n back? One bread line is as good as another.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: Ha-ha.", "\"Kit, I love you. I love you. How can I forget you?\"\n\n\n \"It's happened before. It will happen again.\" That hurt, too. He was\n talking about a couple of statistics, not about himself and Stephanie.\n\n\n \"We're different, Kit. I'll love you forever. And—Kit ... I know\n you'll come back to me. I'll wait, Kit. We're different. You'll come\n back.\"\n\n\n \"How many people do you think said\nthat\nbefore?\"\n\n\n \"You don't want to come back, even if you could. You're not thinking of\n us at all. You're thinking of your brother.\"", "\"Something tells me we'll be seeing a lot of each other,\" Arkalion\n went on. The voice was that of an older man, too, belying the youthful\n complexion, the almost childish features, the soft fuzz of a beard.\n\n\n \"I'm Kit Temple,\" said Temple, extending his hand. \"Arkalion, a strange\n name. I know it from somewhere.... Say! Aren't you—don't you have\n something to do with carpets or something?\"\n\n\n \"Here and now, no. I am a number. A-92-6417. But my father is—perhaps\n I had better say was—my father is Alaric Arkalion II. Yes, that is\n right, the carpet king.\"\n\n\n \"I'll be darned,\" said Temple.\n\n\n \"Why?\"\n\n\n \"Well,\" Temple laughed. \"I never met a billionaire before.\"", "\"Then I was here,\" Temple said, very seriously.\n\n\n Arkalion smiled. \"By George, of course. Then you were here. Temple,\n we'll get along fine.\"\n\n\n Temple said that was swell.\n\n\n \"Anyway, we'd better. Forever is a long time.\"\n\n\n Three minutes later, the jet took off and soared on eager wings toward\n the setting sun.", "\"For God's sake, how can you talk like that? I don't want to go\n anyplace, except with you. But we can't run away, Steffy. I've got to\n face it, whatever it is.\"\n\n\n \"No you don't. It's noble to be patriotic, sure. It always was. But\n this is different, Kit. They don't ask for part of your life. Not for\n two years, or three, or a gamble because maybe you won't ever come\n back. They ask for all of you, for the rest of your life, forever, and\n they don't even tell you why. Kit, don't go! We'll hide someplace and\n get married and—\"", "\"And nothing.\" Temple stopped the ground-jet, climbed out, opened the\n door for Stephanie. \"Don't you see? There's no place to hide. Wherever\n you go, they'd look. You wouldn't want to spend the rest of your life\n running, Steffy. Not with me or anyone else.\"\n\n\n \"I would. I would!\"\n\n\n \"Know what would happen after a few years? We'd hate each other. You'd\n look at me and say 'I wouldn't be hiding like this, except for you. I'm\n young and—'\"\n\n\n \"Kit, that's cruel! I would not.\"", "\"No, ladies and gentlemen, we use the word Nowhere merely because we\n are not aware of the ultimate destination. Security reasons make it\n impossible to....\"\n\n\n \"Yes, yes,\" said Stephanie impatiently. \"Go on.\"\n\n\n \"... therefore, the Nowhere Journey. With a maximum security lid on\n the whole project, we don't even know why our men are sent, or by what\n means. We know only that they go somewhere and not nowhere, bravely and\n not fearfully, for a purpose vital to the security of this nation and\n not to slake the thirst of a chessman of regiments and divisions.\n\n\n \"If Center City's contribution helps keep our country strong, Center\n City is naturally obligated....\"\n\n\n \"No one ever said it isn't our duty,\" Stephanie argued, as if the\n announcer could indeed hear her. \"We only wish we knew something about\n it—and we wish it weren't forever.\"" ], [ "\"This going wasn't my idea. I wanted to stay with you. I wanted to\n marry you. I can't now. None of it. Forget me, Steffy. Forget you ever\n knew me. Jase said that to our folks before he was taken.\" Almost five\n years before Jason Temple had been selected for the Nowhere Journey.\n He'd been young, though older than his brother Kit. Young, unattached,\n almost cheerful he was. Naturally, they never saw him again.\n\n\n \"Hold me, Kit. I'm sorry ... carrying on like this.\"", "\"No, ladies and gentlemen, we use the word Nowhere merely because we\n are not aware of the ultimate destination. Security reasons make it\n impossible to....\"\n\n\n \"Yes, yes,\" said Stephanie impatiently. \"Go on.\"\n\n\n \"... therefore, the Nowhere Journey. With a maximum security lid on\n the whole project, we don't even know why our men are sent, or by what\n means. We know only that they go somewhere and not nowhere, bravely and\n not fearfully, for a purpose vital to the security of this nation and\n not to slake the thirst of a chessman of regiments and divisions.\n\n\n \"If Center City's contribution helps keep our country strong, Center\n City is naturally obligated....\"\n\n\n \"No one ever said it isn't our duty,\" Stephanie argued, as if the\n announcer could indeed hear her. \"We only wish we knew something about\n it—and we wish it weren't forever.\"", "\"Where are we going, Kit?\"\n\n\n \"Search me. Just driving.\"\n\n\n \"I'm glad they let you come out this once. I don't know what they would\n have done to me if they didn't. I had to see you this once. I—\"\n\n\n Temple smiled. He had absented himself without leave. It had been\n difficult enough and he might yet be in a lot of hot water, but it\n would be senseless to worry Stephanie. \"It's just for a few hours,\" he\n said.\n\n\n \"Hours. When we want a whole lifetime. Kit. Oh, Kit—why don't we run\n away? Just the two of us, someplace where they'll never find you. I\n could be packed and ready and—\"\n\n\n \"Don't talk like that. We can't.\"\n\n\n \"You want to go where they're sending you. You want to go.\"", "\"Brilliant, Mr. Smith. Alaric is so young—\"\n\n\n \"Aren't they all? Twenty-one to twenty-six. Who was it who once said\n something about the flower of our young manhood?\"\n\n\n \"Shakespeare?\" said Mr. Arkalion realizing that most quotes of lasting\n importance came from the bard.\n\n\n \"Sophocles,\" said Smith. \"But no matter. I will take young Alaric's\n place for ten million dollars.\"\n\n\n Motives always troubled Mr. Arkalion, and thus he pursued what might\n have been a dangerous conversation. \"You'll never get a chance to spend\n it on the Nowhere Journey.\"\n\n\n \"Let me worry about that.\"\n\n\n \"No one ever returns.\"\n\n\n \"My worry, not yours.\"", "\"It isn't forever,\" Temple reminded her. \"Not officially.\"\n\n\n \"Officially, my foot. If they never return, they never return. If\n there's a rotation system on paper, but it's never used, that's not a\n rotation system at all. Kit, it's forever.\"\n\n\n \"... to thank the following sponsors for relinquishing their time....\"\n\n\n \"No one would want to sponsor\nthat\n,\" Temple whispered cheerfully.\n\n\n \"Kit,\" said Stephanie, \"I—I suddenly have a hunch we have nothing to\n worry about. They missed you all along and they'll miss you this time,\n too. The last time, and then you'll be too old. That's funny, too old\n at twenty-six. But we'll be free, Kit. Free.\"\n\n\n \"He's starting,\" Temple told her.", "Kit's fellow-draftee Arkalion, the young man with the strange, old-man\n eyes, seemed to know more than he should. So when Kit twisted the tail\n of fate and followed Arkalion to the ends of space and time, he found\n the secret behind \"Nowhere\" and a personal challenge upon which the\n entire future of Earth depended.\nContents\nCHAPTER I\nWhen the first strong sunlight of May covered the tree-arched avenues\n of Center City with green, the riots started.\n\n\n The people gathered in angry knots outside the city hall, met in the\n park and littered its walks with newspapers and magazines as they\n gobbled up editorial comment at a furious rate, slipped with dark of\n night through back alleys and planned things with furious futility.\n Center City's finest knew when to make themselves scarce: their\n uniforms stood for everything objectionable at this time and they might\n be subjected to clubs, stones, taunts, threats, leers—and knives.", "SECOND MAN: I wish my Congressman....\n\n\n FIRST MAN: You and your Congressman. The way you talk, it was your vote\n got him in office.\n\n\n SECOND MAN: If only I could get out and talk to him.\n\n\n ALARIC ARKALION: No one is permitted to leave.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: Punishable by a prison term, the law says.\n\n\n SECOND MAN: Oh yeah? Prison, shmision. Or else go on the Nowhere\n Journey. Well, I don't see the difference.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: So, go ahead. Try to escape.\n\n\n SECOND MAN: (Looking at the guards) They got them all over. All over. I\n think our mail is censored.\n\n\n ALARIC ARKALION: It is.", "\"Kit, I love you. I love you. How can I forget you?\"\n\n\n \"It's happened before. It will happen again.\" That hurt, too. He was\n talking about a couple of statistics, not about himself and Stephanie.\n\n\n \"We're different, Kit. I'll love you forever. And—Kit ... I know\n you'll come back to me. I'll wait, Kit. We're different. You'll come\n back.\"\n\n\n \"How many people do you think said\nthat\nbefore?\"\n\n\n \"You don't want to come back, even if you could. You're not thinking of\n us at all. You're thinking of your brother.\"", "\"Every seven-hundred eighty days,\" said the announcer, \"two-hundred\n of Center City's young men are selected to serve their country for an\n indeterminate period regulated rigidly by a rotation system.\"\n\n\n \"Liar!\" Stephanie cried. \"No one ever comes back. It's been thirty\n years since the first group and not one of them....\"\n\n\n \"Shh,\" Temple raised a finger to his lips.\n\n\n \"This is the thirteenth call since the inception of what is popularly\n referred to as the Nowhere Journey,\" said the announcer. \"Obviously,\n the two hundred young men from Center City and the thousands from all\n over this hemisphere do not in reality embark on a Journey to Nowhere.\n That is quite meaningless.\"\n\n\n \"Hooray for him,\" Temple laughed.\n\n\n \"I wish he'd get on with it.\"", "THIRD MAN: You think that's something? I wouldn't be here only those\n doctors are crazy. I mean, crazy. Me, with a cyst big as a golf ball on\n the base of my spine.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: You too. Don't try to fight it.\n\n\n FOURTH MAN: (Newly named Alaric Arkalion III) I look forward to this\n as a stimulating adventure. Does the fact that they select men for the\n Nowhere Journey once every seven hundred and eighty days strike anyone\n as significant?\n\n\n SECOND MAN: I got my own problems.\n\n\n ALARIC ARKALION: This is not a thalamic problem, young man. Not\n thalamic at all.\n\n\n THIRD MAN: Young man? Who are you kidding?", "\"And nothing.\" Temple stopped the ground-jet, climbed out, opened the\n door for Stephanie. \"Don't you see? There's no place to hide. Wherever\n you go, they'd look. You wouldn't want to spend the rest of your life\n running, Steffy. Not with me or anyone else.\"\n\n\n \"I would. I would!\"\n\n\n \"Know what would happen after a few years? We'd hate each other. You'd\n look at me and say 'I wouldn't be hiding like this, except for you. I'm\n young and—'\"\n\n\n \"Kit, that's cruel! I would not.\"", "Wrong with the Stalintrek was its name alone, a name one associated\n with everything else in Russia for an obvious, post-Stalin reason. But\n everything else about the Stalintrek shrieked mystery and adventure.\n Where did you go? How did you get there? What did you do? Why?\n\n\n A million questions which had kept her awake at night and, if\n she thought about them hard enough, satisfied her deep longing\n for something different. And then one day when stolid Mrs.\n Ivanovna-Rasnikov had said, \"It is a joke, a terrible, terrible joke\n they are taking my husband Fyodor on the Stalintrek when he lacks\n sufficient imagination to go from here to Leningrad or even Tula. Can\n you picture Fyodor on the Stalintrek? Better they should have taken me.\n Better they should have taken his wife.\" That day Sophia could hardly\n contain herself.", "\"For God's sake, how can you talk like that? I don't want to go\n anyplace, except with you. But we can't run away, Steffy. I've got to\n face it, whatever it is.\"\n\n\n \"No you don't. It's noble to be patriotic, sure. It always was. But\n this is different, Kit. They don't ask for part of your life. Not for\n two years, or three, or a gamble because maybe you won't ever come\n back. They ask for all of you, for the rest of your life, forever, and\n they don't even tell you why. Kit, don't go! We'll hide someplace and\n get married and—\"", "SECOND MAN: Yeah, well I mean it. Forever. We're going away,\n someplace—forever. We're not coming back, ever. No one comes back.\n It's for good, for keeps.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: Tell it to your congressman. Or maybe you want to pull a\n sick act, too?\n\n\n THIRD MAN: (Hits First Man, who, surprised, crashes back against a\n table and falls down) It isn't an act, damn you!\n\n\n GUARD: All right, break it up. Come on, break it up....\n\n\n ALARIC ARKALION: (To himself) I wish I saw that ten million dollars\n already—\nif\nI ever get to see it.\nThey drove for hours through the fresh country air, feeling the wind\n against their faces, listening to the roar their ground-jet made, all\n alone on the rimrock highway.", "\"I'm scared.\"\n\n\n \"You and everyone else in North America, Steffy.\"\n\n\n She was trembling against him. \"It's cold for June.\"\n\n\n \"It's warm in here.\" He kissed her moist eyes, her nose, her lips.\n\n\n \"Oh God, Kit. Five minutes.\"\n\n\n \"Five minutes to freedom,\" he said jauntily. He did not feel that way\n at all. Apprehension clutched at his chest with tight, painful fingers,\n almost making it difficult for him to breathe.\n\n\n \"Turn it on, Kit.\"\n\n\n He dialed the telio in time to see the announcer's insincere smile.\n Smile seventeen, Kit thought wryly. Patriotic sacrifice.", "\"Here, I will give you the volunteer papers to sign. If you pass the\n exams, you will embark on the next Stalintrek, though why a beautiful\n young woman like you—\"\n\n\n \"Shut your mouth and hand me those papers.\"\n\n\n There, sitting behind that desk, was precisely why. Why should she,\n Sophia Androvna Petrovitch, wish to volunteer for the Stalintrek?\n Better to ask why a bird flies south in the winter, one day ahead of\n the first icy gale. Or why a lemming plunges recklessly into the sea\n with his multitudes of fellows, if, indeed, the venture were to turn\n out grimly.", "\"Here I am not a billionaire, nor will I ever be one again. A-92-6417,\n a number. On his way to Mars with a bunch of other numbers.\"\n\n\n \"Mars? You sound sure of yourself.\"\n\n\n \"Reasonably. Ah, it is a pleasure to talk with a gentleman. I am\n reasonably certain it will be Mars.\"\n\n\n Temple nodded in agreement. \"That's what the Sunday supplements say,\n all right.\"\n\n\n \"And doubtless you have observed no one denies it.\"\n\n\n \"But what on Earth do we want on Mars?\"\n\n\n \"That in itself is a contradiction,\" laughed Arkalion. \"We'll find out,\n though, Temple.\"", "\"Yes, you would. Steffy, I—\" A lump rose in his throat. He'd tell her\n goodbye, permanently. He had to do it that way, did not want her to\n wait endlessly and hopelessly for a return that would not materialize.\n \"I didn't get permission to leave, Steffy.\" He hadn't meant to tell her\n that, but suddenly it seemed an easy way to break into goodbye.\n\n\n \"What do you mean? No—you didn't....\"\n\n\n \"I had to see you. What can they do, send me for longer than forever?\"\n\n\n \"Then you do want to run away with me!\"\n\n\n \"Steffy, no. When I leave you tonight, Steffy, it's for good. That's\n it. The last of Kit Temple. Stop thinking about me. I don't exist.\n I—never was.\" It sounded ridiculous, even to him.", "SECOND MAN: They better watch out. I'm losing my temper. I get violent\n when I lose my temper.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: See? See how the guards are trembling.\n\n\n SECOND MAN: Very funny. Maybe you didn't have a good job or something?\n Maybe you don't care. I care. I had a job with a future. Didn't pay\n much, but a real blue chip future. So they send me to Nowhere.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: You're not there yet.\n\n\n SECOND MAN: Yeah, but I'm going.\n\n\n THIRD MAN: If only they let you know when. My back is killing me. I'm\n waiting to pull a sick act. Just waiting, that's all.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: Go ahead and wait, a lot of good it will do you.", "\"Then I was here,\" Temple said, very seriously.\n\n\n Arkalion smiled. \"By George, of course. Then you were here. Temple,\n we'll get along fine.\"\n\n\n Temple said that was swell.\n\n\n \"Anyway, we'd better. Forever is a long time.\"\n\n\n Three minutes later, the jet took off and soared on eager wings toward\n the setting sun." ], [ "He bent and kissed her, knowing it was all wrong. This was not goodbye,\n not the way he wanted it. Quickly, definitely, for once and all. With\n a tear, perhaps, a lot of tears. But permanent goodbye. This was all\n wrong. The whole idea was to be business-like, objective. It had to\n be done that way, or no way at all. Briefly, he regretted leaving the\n encampment.\n\n\n This wasn't goodbye the way he wanted it. The way it had to be. This\n was\nauf weidersen\n.\n\n\n And then he forgot everything but Stephanie....\n\"I am Alaric Arkalion III,\" said the extremely young-looking man with\n the old, wise eyes.\n\n\n How incongruous, Temple thought. The eyes look almost middle-aged. The\n rest of him—a boy.", "\"Something tells me we'll be seeing a lot of each other,\" Arkalion\n went on. The voice was that of an older man, too, belying the youthful\n complexion, the almost childish features, the soft fuzz of a beard.\n\n\n \"I'm Kit Temple,\" said Temple, extending his hand. \"Arkalion, a strange\n name. I know it from somewhere.... Say! Aren't you—don't you have\n something to do with carpets or something?\"\n\n\n \"Here and now, no. I am a number. A-92-6417. But my father is—perhaps\n I had better say was—my father is Alaric Arkalion II. Yes, that is\n right, the carpet king.\"\n\n\n \"I'll be darned,\" said Temple.\n\n\n \"Why?\"\n\n\n \"Well,\" Temple laughed. \"I never met a billionaire before.\"", "THIRD MAN: You think that's something? I wouldn't be here only those\n doctors are crazy. I mean, crazy. Me, with a cyst big as a golf ball on\n the base of my spine.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: You too. Don't try to fight it.\n\n\n FOURTH MAN: (Newly named Alaric Arkalion III) I look forward to this\n as a stimulating adventure. Does the fact that they select men for the\n Nowhere Journey once every seven hundred and eighty days strike anyone\n as significant?\n\n\n SECOND MAN: I got my own problems.\n\n\n ALARIC ARKALION: This is not a thalamic problem, young man. Not\n thalamic at all.\n\n\n THIRD MAN: Young man? Who are you kidding?", "\"When I saw your ad,\" said not-Smith, \"I said to myself, 'now here must\n be a very rich, influential man.' It only remained for me to study a\n series of photographs readily obtainable—I have a fine memory for\n that, Mr. Arkalion—and here you are; here is Arkalion the Carpet King.\"\n\n\n \"What will you do with the ten million dollars?\" demanded Arkalion,\n not minding the loss nearly so much as the ultimate disposition of his\n fortune.\n\n\n \"Why, what does anyone do with ten million dollars? Treasure it. Invest\n it. Spend it.\"\n\n\n \"I mean, what will you do with it if you are going in place of my—\"\n Arkalion bit his tongue.\n\n\n \"Your son, were you saying, Mr. Arkalion? Alaric Arkalion the Third.\n Did you know that I was able to boil my list of men down to thirty when\n I studied their family ties?\"", "\"It is forever—as if you dropped out of existence. Alaric is so young.\"\n\n\n \"I have always gambled, Mr. Arkalion. If I do not return in five\n years, you are to put the money in a trust fund for certain designated\n individuals, said fund to be terminated the moment I return. If I come\n back within the five years, you are merely to give the money over to\n me. Is that clear?\"\n\n\n \"Yes.\"\n\n\n \"I'll want it in writing, of course.\"\n\n\n \"Of course. A plastic surgeon is due here in about ten minutes, Mr.\n Smith, and we can get on with.... But if I don't know your name, how\n can I put it in writing?\"\n\n\n Smith smiled. \"I changed my name to Smith for the occasion. Perfectly\n legal. My name is John X. Smith—now!\"", "THIRD MAN: You mind your own business.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: I am, doc. You brought the whole thing up.\n\n\n SECOND MAN: He's looking for trouble.\n\n\n THIRD MAN: He'll get it.\n\n\n ALARIC ARKALION: We're going to be together a long time. A long time.\n Why don't you all relax?\n\n\n SECOND MAN: You mind your own business.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: Nuts, aren't they. They're nuts. A sick act, yet.\n\n\n SECOND MAN: Look how it doesn't bother him. A failure, he was. I can\n just see it. What does he care if he goes away forever and doesn't come\n back? One bread line is as good as another.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: Ha-ha.", "\"That's where you're wrong,\" said Mr. Arkalion as the plastic surgeon\n entered. \"Your name is Alaric Arkalion III—\nnow\n.\"\n\n\n The plastic surgeon skittered around Smith, examining him minutely with\n the casual expertness that comes with experience.\n\n\n \"Have to shorten the cheek bones.\"\n\n\n \"For ten million dollars,\" said Smith, \"you can take the damned things\n out altogether and hang them on your wall.\"\nSophia Androvna Petrovitch made her way downtown through the bustle of\n tired workers and the occasional sprinkling of Comrades. She crushed\n her\nersatz\ncigarette underfoot at number 616 Stalin Avenue, paused\n for the space of five heartbeats at the door, went inside.\n\n\n \"What do you want?\" The man at the desk was myopic but bull-necked.\n\n\n Sophia showed her party card.", "\"Brilliant, Mr. Smith. Alaric is so young—\"\n\n\n \"Aren't they all? Twenty-one to twenty-six. Who was it who once said\n something about the flower of our young manhood?\"\n\n\n \"Shakespeare?\" said Mr. Arkalion realizing that most quotes of lasting\n importance came from the bard.\n\n\n \"Sophocles,\" said Smith. \"But no matter. I will take young Alaric's\n place for ten million dollars.\"\n\n\n Motives always troubled Mr. Arkalion, and thus he pursued what might\n have been a dangerous conversation. \"You'll never get a chance to spend\n it on the Nowhere Journey.\"\n\n\n \"Let me worry about that.\"\n\n\n \"No one ever returns.\"\n\n\n \"My worry, not yours.\"", "ALARIC ARKALION: (Who realizes, thanks to the plastic surgeon, he is\n the youngest looking of all, with red cheeks and peachfuzz whiskers) It\n is a problem of the intellect. Why seven hundred and eighty days?\n\n\n FIRST MAN: I read the magazine, too, chief. You think we're all going\n to the planet Mars. How original.\n\n\n ALARIC ARKALION: As a matter of fact, that is exactly what I think.\n\n\n SECOND MAN: Mars?\n\n\n FIRST MAN: (Laughing) It's a long way from Mars to City Hall, doc.\n\n\n SECOND MAN: You mean, through space to Mars?\n\n\n ALARIC ARKALION: Exactly, exactly. Quite a coincidence, otherwise.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: You're telling me.", "SECOND MAN: I wish my Congressman....\n\n\n FIRST MAN: You and your Congressman. The way you talk, it was your vote\n got him in office.\n\n\n SECOND MAN: If only I could get out and talk to him.\n\n\n ALARIC ARKALION: No one is permitted to leave.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: Punishable by a prison term, the law says.\n\n\n SECOND MAN: Oh yeah? Prison, shmision. Or else go on the Nowhere\n Journey. Well, I don't see the difference.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: So, go ahead. Try to escape.\n\n\n SECOND MAN: (Looking at the guards) They got them all over. All over. I\n think our mail is censored.\n\n\n ALARIC ARKALION: It is.", "SECOND MAN: Yeah, well I mean it. Forever. We're going away,\n someplace—forever. We're not coming back, ever. No one comes back.\n It's for good, for keeps.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: Tell it to your congressman. Or maybe you want to pull a\n sick act, too?\n\n\n THIRD MAN: (Hits First Man, who, surprised, crashes back against a\n table and falls down) It isn't an act, damn you!\n\n\n GUARD: All right, break it up. Come on, break it up....\n\n\n ALARIC ARKALION: (To himself) I wish I saw that ten million dollars\n already—\nif\nI ever get to see it.\nThey drove for hours through the fresh country air, feeling the wind\n against their faces, listening to the roar their ground-jet made, all\n alone on the rimrock highway.", "\"Then I was here,\" Temple said, very seriously.\n\n\n Arkalion smiled. \"By George, of course. Then you were here. Temple,\n we'll get along fine.\"\n\n\n Temple said that was swell.\n\n\n \"Anyway, we'd better. Forever is a long time.\"\n\n\n Three minutes later, the jet took off and soared on eager wings toward\n the setting sun.", "Kit's fellow-draftee Arkalion, the young man with the strange, old-man\n eyes, seemed to know more than he should. So when Kit twisted the tail\n of fate and followed Arkalion to the ends of space and time, he found\n the secret behind \"Nowhere\" and a personal challenge upon which the\n entire future of Earth depended.\nContents\nCHAPTER I\nWhen the first strong sunlight of May covered the tree-arched avenues\n of Center City with green, the riots started.\n\n\n The people gathered in angry knots outside the city hall, met in the\n park and littered its walks with newspapers and magazines as they\n gobbled up editorial comment at a furious rate, slipped with dark of\n night through back alleys and planned things with furious futility.\n Center City's finest knew when to make themselves scarce: their\n uniforms stood for everything objectionable at this time and they might\n be subjected to clubs, stones, taunts, threats, leers—and knives.", "FIRST MAN: You think we'd broadcast it or something, stupid? It's part\n of a big, important scientific experiment, only we're the hamsters.\n\n\n ALARIC ARKALION: Ridiculous. You're forgetting all about the Cold War.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: He thinks we're fighting a war with the Martians. (Laughs)\n Orson Wells stuff, huh?\n\n\n ALARIC ARKALION: With the Russians. The Russians. We developed A bombs.\n They developed A bombs. We came up with the H bomb. So did they. We\n placed a station up in space, a fifth of the way to the moon. So did\n they. Then—nothing more about scientific developments. For over twenty\n years. I ask you, doesn't it seem peculiar?\n\n\n FIRST MAN: Peculiar, he says.\n\n\n ALARIC ARKALION: Peculiar.", "\"Ten million dollars,\" said Jones, \"is quite a price. Admittedly, I\n haven't dealt in this sort of traffic before, but—\"\n\n\n \"But nothing. Were your name Jones, really and truly Jones, I might ask\n less.\"\n\n\n \"Sir?\"\n\n\n \"You are Jones exactly as much as I am Smith.\"\n\n\n \"Sir?\" Jones gasped again.\n\n\n Smith coughed discreetly. \"But I have one advantage. I know you. You\n don't know me, Mr. Arkalion.\"\n\n\n \"Eh? Eh?\"\n\n\n \"Arkalion. The North American Carpet King. Right?\"\n\n\n \"How did you know?\" the man whose name was not Jones but Arkalion asked\n the man whose name was not Smith but might as well have been.", "ALARIC ARKALION: (Coldly) Would you care to explain it?\n\n\n FIRST MAN: Why, sure. You see, Mars is—uh, I don't want to steal your\n thunder, chief. Go ahead.\n\n\n ALARIC ARKALION: Once every seven hundred and eighty days Mars and the\n Earth find themselves in the same orbital position with respect to the\n sun. In other words, Mars and Earth are closest then. Were there such a\n thing as space travel, new, costly, not thoroughly tested, they would\n want to make each journey as brief as possible. Hence the seven hundred\n and eighty days.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: Not bad, chief. You got most of it.\n\n\n THIRD MAN: No one ever said anything about space travel.", "They had reached the head of the line, found themselves entering a\n huge, double-decker jet-transport. They found two seats together,\n followed the instructions printed at the head of the aisle by strapping\n themselves in and not smoking. Talking all around them was subdued.\n\n\n \"Contrariness has given way to fear,\" Arkalion observed. \"You should\n have seen them the last few days, waiting around the induction center,\n a two-ton chip on each shoulder. Say, where\nwere\nyou?\"\n\n\n \"I—what do you mean?\"\n\n\n \"I didn't see you until last evening. Suddenly, you were here.\"\n\n\n \"Did anyone else miss me?\"\n\n\n \"But I remember you the first day.\"\n\n\n \"Did anyone else miss me? Any of the officials?\"\n\n\n \"No. Not that I know of.\"", "\"Here I am not a billionaire, nor will I ever be one again. A-92-6417,\n a number. On his way to Mars with a bunch of other numbers.\"\n\n\n \"Mars? You sound sure of yourself.\"\n\n\n \"Reasonably. Ah, it is a pleasure to talk with a gentleman. I am\n reasonably certain it will be Mars.\"\n\n\n Temple nodded in agreement. \"That's what the Sunday supplements say,\n all right.\"\n\n\n \"And doubtless you have observed no one denies it.\"\n\n\n \"But what on Earth do we want on Mars?\"\n\n\n \"That in itself is a contradiction,\" laughed Arkalion. \"We'll find out,\n though, Temple.\"", "She signed her name with such vehemence and ferocity that she almost\n tore through the paper.\nCHAPTER II\nThree-score men sit in the crowded, smoke-filled room. Some drink\n beer, some squat in moody silence, some talk in an animated fashion\n about nothing very urgent. At the one small door, two guards pace back\n and forth slowly, creating a gentle swaying of smoke-patterns in the\n hazy room. The guards, in simple military uniform, carry small, deadly\n looking weapons.\nFIRST MAN: Fight City Hall? Are you kidding? They took you, bud. Don't\n try to fight it, I know. I know.\n\n\n SECOND MAN: I'm telling you, there was a mistake in the records.\n I'm over twenty-six. Two weeks and two days. Already I wrote to my\n Congressman. Hell, that's why I voted for him, he better go to bat for\n me.", "But there, behind that desk, was part of the reason. The Comrade. The\n bright sharp Comrade, with his depth of reasoning, his fountain of\n gushing emotions, his worldliness.\nPfooey!\nIt was as if she had been in a cocoon all her life, stifled, starved,\n the cottony inner lining choking her whenever she opened her mouth,\n the leathery outer covering restricting her when she tried to move.\n No one had ever returned from the Stalintrek. She then had to assume\n no one would. Including Sophia Androvna Petrovitch. But then, there\n was nothing she would miss, nothing to which she particularly wanted\n to return. Not the stark, foul streets of Stalingrad, not the workers" ], [ "But Center City, like most communities in United North America,\n had survived the Riots before and would survive them again. On\n past performances, the damage could be estimated, too. Two-hundred\n fifty-seven plate glass windows would be broken, three-hundred twelve\n limbs fractured. Several thousand people would be treated for minor\n bruises and abrasions, Center City would receive half that many damage\n suits. The list had been drawn clearly and accurately; it hardly ever\n deviated.\n\n\n And Center City would meet its quota. With a demonstration of\n reluctance, of course. The healthy approved way to get over social\n trauma once every seven-hundred eighty days.\n\"Shut it off, Kit. Kit, please.\"\n\n\n The telio blared in a cheaply feminine voice, \"Oh, it's a long way\n to nowhere, forever. And your honey's not coming back, never, never,\n never....\" A wailing trumpet represented flight.\n\n\n \"They'll exploit anything, Kit.\"", "Kit's fellow-draftee Arkalion, the young man with the strange, old-man\n eyes, seemed to know more than he should. So when Kit twisted the tail\n of fate and followed Arkalion to the ends of space and time, he found\n the secret behind \"Nowhere\" and a personal challenge upon which the\n entire future of Earth depended.\nContents\nCHAPTER I\nWhen the first strong sunlight of May covered the tree-arched avenues\n of Center City with green, the riots started.\n\n\n The people gathered in angry knots outside the city hall, met in the\n park and littered its walks with newspapers and magazines as they\n gobbled up editorial comment at a furious rate, slipped with dark of\n night through back alleys and planned things with furious futility.\n Center City's finest knew when to make themselves scarce: their\n uniforms stood for everything objectionable at this time and they might\n be subjected to clubs, stones, taunts, threats, leers—and knives.", "She signed her name with such vehemence and ferocity that she almost\n tore through the paper.\nCHAPTER II\nThree-score men sit in the crowded, smoke-filled room. Some drink\n beer, some squat in moody silence, some talk in an animated fashion\n about nothing very urgent. At the one small door, two guards pace back\n and forth slowly, creating a gentle swaying of smoke-patterns in the\n hazy room. The guards, in simple military uniform, carry small, deadly\n looking weapons.\nFIRST MAN: Fight City Hall? Are you kidding? They took you, bud. Don't\n try to fight it, I know. I know.\n\n\n SECOND MAN: I'm telling you, there was a mistake in the records.\n I'm over twenty-six. Two weeks and two days. Already I wrote to my\n Congressman. Hell, that's why I voted for him, he better go to bat for\n me.", "\"Every seven-hundred eighty days,\" said the announcer, \"two-hundred\n of Center City's young men are selected to serve their country for an\n indeterminate period regulated rigidly by a rotation system.\"\n\n\n \"Liar!\" Stephanie cried. \"No one ever comes back. It's been thirty\n years since the first group and not one of them....\"\n\n\n \"Shh,\" Temple raised a finger to his lips.\n\n\n \"This is the thirteenth call since the inception of what is popularly\n referred to as the Nowhere Journey,\" said the announcer. \"Obviously,\n the two hundred young men from Center City and the thousands from all\n over this hemisphere do not in reality embark on a Journey to Nowhere.\n That is quite meaningless.\"\n\n\n \"Hooray for him,\" Temple laughed.\n\n\n \"I wish he'd get on with it.\"", "SECOND MAN: They better watch out. I'm losing my temper. I get violent\n when I lose my temper.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: See? See how the guards are trembling.\n\n\n SECOND MAN: Very funny. Maybe you didn't have a good job or something?\n Maybe you don't care. I care. I had a job with a future. Didn't pay\n much, but a real blue chip future. So they send me to Nowhere.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: You're not there yet.\n\n\n SECOND MAN: Yeah, but I'm going.\n\n\n THIRD MAN: If only they let you know when. My back is killing me. I'm\n waiting to pull a sick act. Just waiting, that's all.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: Go ahead and wait, a lot of good it will do you.", "SECOND MAN: Yeah, well I mean it. Forever. We're going away,\n someplace—forever. We're not coming back, ever. No one comes back.\n It's for good, for keeps.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: Tell it to your congressman. Or maybe you want to pull a\n sick act, too?\n\n\n THIRD MAN: (Hits First Man, who, surprised, crashes back against a\n table and falls down) It isn't an act, damn you!\n\n\n GUARD: All right, break it up. Come on, break it up....\n\n\n ALARIC ARKALION: (To himself) I wish I saw that ten million dollars\n already—\nif\nI ever get to see it.\nThey drove for hours through the fresh country air, feeling the wind\n against their faces, listening to the roar their ground-jet made, all\n alone on the rimrock highway.", "with their vapid faces or the Comrades with their cautious, sweating,\n trembling, fearful non-decisions, not the higher echelon of Comrades,\n more frightened but showing it less, who would love the beauty of\n her breasts and loins but not herself for you never love anything\n but the Stalinimage and Mother Russia herself, not those terrified\n martinet-marionettes who would love the parts of her if she permitted\n but not her or any other person for that matter.", "\"We don't force women to volunteer.\" The man scratched some more.\n\n\n \"Oh, really,\" said Sophia. \"This is 1992, not mid-century, Comrade. Did\n not Stalin say, 'Woman was created to share the glorious destiny of\n Mother Russia with her mate?'\" Sophia created the quote randomly.\n\n\n \"Yes, if Stalin said—\"\n\n\n \"He did.\"\n\n\n \"Still, I do not recall—\"\n\n\n \"What?\" Sophia cried. \"Stalin dead these thirty-nine years and you\n don't recall his speeches? What is your name, Comrade?\"\n\n\n \"Please, Comrade. Now that you remind me, I remember.\"\n\n\n \"What is your name.\"", "THIRD MAN: You mind your own business.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: I am, doc. You brought the whole thing up.\n\n\n SECOND MAN: He's looking for trouble.\n\n\n THIRD MAN: He'll get it.\n\n\n ALARIC ARKALION: We're going to be together a long time. A long time.\n Why don't you all relax?\n\n\n SECOND MAN: You mind your own business.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: Nuts, aren't they. They're nuts. A sick act, yet.\n\n\n SECOND MAN: Look how it doesn't bother him. A failure, he was. I can\n just see it. What does he care if he goes away forever and doesn't come\n back? One bread line is as good as another.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: Ha-ha.", "As a party member she had access to the law and she read it three times\n from start to finish (in her dingy flat by the light of a smoking,\n foul-smelling, soft-wax candle) but could find nothing barring women\n from the Stalintrek.\n\n\n Had Fyodor Rasnikov volunteered? Naturally. Everyone volunteered,\n although when your name was called you had no choice. There had been\n no draft in Russia since the days of the Second War of the People's\n Liberation. Volunteer? What, precisely, did the word mean?\n\n\n She, Sophia Androvna Petrovitch would volunteer, without being told.\n Thus it was she found herself at 616 Stalin Avenue, and thus the\n balding, myopic, bull-necked Comrade thrust the papers across his desk\n at her.", "\"It's just a song.\"\n\n\n \"Turn it off, please.\"\n\n\n Christopher Temple turned off the telio, smiling. \"They'll announce the\n names in ten minutes,\" he said, and felt the corners of his mouth draw\n taut.\n\n\n \"Tell me again, Kit,\" Stephanie pleaded. \"How old are you?\"\n\n\n \"You know I'm twenty-six.\"\n\n\n \"Twenty-six. Yes, twenty-six, so if they don't call you this time,\n you'll be safe. Safe, I can hardly believe it.\"\n\n\n \"Nine minutes,\" said Temple in the darkness. Stephanie had drawn the\n blinds earlier, had dialed for sound-proofing. The screaming in the\n streets came to them as not the faintest whisper. But the song which\n became briefly, masochistically popular every two years and two months\n had spoiled their feeling of seclusion.", "\"It isn't forever,\" Temple reminded her. \"Not officially.\"\n\n\n \"Officially, my foot. If they never return, they never return. If\n there's a rotation system on paper, but it's never used, that's not a\n rotation system at all. Kit, it's forever.\"\n\n\n \"... to thank the following sponsors for relinquishing their time....\"\n\n\n \"No one would want to sponsor\nthat\n,\" Temple whispered cheerfully.\n\n\n \"Kit,\" said Stephanie, \"I—I suddenly have a hunch we have nothing to\n worry about. They missed you all along and they'll miss you this time,\n too. The last time, and then you'll be too old. That's funny, too old\n at twenty-six. But we'll be free, Kit. Free.\"\n\n\n \"He's starting,\" Temple told her.", "SECOND MAN: I wish my Congressman....\n\n\n FIRST MAN: You and your Congressman. The way you talk, it was your vote\n got him in office.\n\n\n SECOND MAN: If only I could get out and talk to him.\n\n\n ALARIC ARKALION: No one is permitted to leave.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: Punishable by a prison term, the law says.\n\n\n SECOND MAN: Oh yeah? Prison, shmision. Or else go on the Nowhere\n Journey. Well, I don't see the difference.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: So, go ahead. Try to escape.\n\n\n SECOND MAN: (Looking at the guards) They got them all over. All over. I\n think our mail is censored.\n\n\n ALARIC ARKALION: It is.", "\"No, ladies and gentlemen, we use the word Nowhere merely because we\n are not aware of the ultimate destination. Security reasons make it\n impossible to....\"\n\n\n \"Yes, yes,\" said Stephanie impatiently. \"Go on.\"\n\n\n \"... therefore, the Nowhere Journey. With a maximum security lid on\n the whole project, we don't even know why our men are sent, or by what\n means. We know only that they go somewhere and not nowhere, bravely and\n not fearfully, for a purpose vital to the security of this nation and\n not to slake the thirst of a chessman of regiments and divisions.\n\n\n \"If Center City's contribution helps keep our country strong, Center\n City is naturally obligated....\"\n\n\n \"No one ever said it isn't our duty,\" Stephanie argued, as if the\n announcer could indeed hear her. \"We only wish we knew something about\n it—and we wish it weren't forever.\"", "A large drum filled the entire telio screen. It rotated slowly from\n bottom to top. In twenty seconds, the letter A appeared, followed by\n about a dozen names. Abercrombie, Harold. Abner, Eugene. Adams, Gerald.\n Sorrow in the Abercrombie household. Despair for the Abners. Black\n horror for Adams.\n\n\n The drum rotated.\n\n\n \"They're up to F, Kit.\"\n\n\n Fabian, Gregory G....\n\n\n Names circled the drum slowly, live viscous alphabet soup. Meaningless,\n unless you happened to know them.\n\n\n \"Kit, I knew Thomas Mulvany.\"\n\n\n N, O, P....\n\n\n \"It's hot in here.\"\n\n\n \"I thought you were cold.\"\n\n\n \"I'm suffocating now.\"", "But there, behind that desk, was part of the reason. The Comrade. The\n bright sharp Comrade, with his depth of reasoning, his fountain of\n gushing emotions, his worldliness.\nPfooey!\nIt was as if she had been in a cocoon all her life, stifled, starved,\n the cottony inner lining choking her whenever she opened her mouth,\n the leathery outer covering restricting her when she tried to move.\n No one had ever returned from the Stalintrek. She then had to assume\n no one would. Including Sophia Androvna Petrovitch. But then, there\n was nothing she would miss, nothing to which she particularly wanted\n to return. Not the stark, foul streets of Stalingrad, not the workers", "\"Oh, Comrade. Still, you are a woman.\"\n\n\n \"You're terribly observant, Comrade,\" said Sophia coldly. \"I am here to\n volunteer.\"\n\n\n \"But a woman.\"\n\n\n \"There is nothing in the law which says a woman cannot volunteer.\"\n\n\n \"We don't make women volunteer.\"\n\n\n \"I mean really volunteer, of her own free will.\"\n\n\n \"Her—own—free will?\" The bull-necked man removed his spectacles,\n scratched his balding head with the ear-pieces. \"You mean volunteer\n without—\"\n\n\n \"Without coercion. I want to volunteer. I am here to volunteer. I want\n to sign on for the next Stalintrek.\"\n\n\n \"Stalintrek, a woman?\"\n\n\n \"That is what I said.\"", "\"Kit, I love you. I love you. How can I forget you?\"\n\n\n \"It's happened before. It will happen again.\" That hurt, too. He was\n talking about a couple of statistics, not about himself and Stephanie.\n\n\n \"We're different, Kit. I'll love you forever. And—Kit ... I know\n you'll come back to me. I'll wait, Kit. We're different. You'll come\n back.\"\n\n\n \"How many people do you think said\nthat\nbefore?\"\n\n\n \"You don't want to come back, even if you could. You're not thinking of\n us at all. You're thinking of your brother.\"", "\"And nothing.\" Temple stopped the ground-jet, climbed out, opened the\n door for Stephanie. \"Don't you see? There's no place to hide. Wherever\n you go, they'd look. You wouldn't want to spend the rest of your life\n running, Steffy. Not with me or anyone else.\"\n\n\n \"I would. I would!\"\n\n\n \"Know what would happen after a few years? We'd hate each other. You'd\n look at me and say 'I wouldn't be hiding like this, except for you. I'm\n young and—'\"\n\n\n \"Kit, that's cruel! I would not.\"", "Wrong with the Stalintrek was its name alone, a name one associated\n with everything else in Russia for an obvious, post-Stalin reason. But\n everything else about the Stalintrek shrieked mystery and adventure.\n Where did you go? How did you get there? What did you do? Why?\n\n\n A million questions which had kept her awake at night and, if\n she thought about them hard enough, satisfied her deep longing\n for something different. And then one day when stolid Mrs.\n Ivanovna-Rasnikov had said, \"It is a joke, a terrible, terrible joke\n they are taking my husband Fyodor on the Stalintrek when he lacks\n sufficient imagination to go from here to Leningrad or even Tula. Can\n you picture Fyodor on the Stalintrek? Better they should have taken me.\n Better they should have taken his wife.\" That day Sophia could hardly\n contain herself." ], [ "THIRD MAN: You think that's something? I wouldn't be here only those\n doctors are crazy. I mean, crazy. Me, with a cyst big as a golf ball on\n the base of my spine.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: You too. Don't try to fight it.\n\n\n FOURTH MAN: (Newly named Alaric Arkalion III) I look forward to this\n as a stimulating adventure. Does the fact that they select men for the\n Nowhere Journey once every seven hundred and eighty days strike anyone\n as significant?\n\n\n SECOND MAN: I got my own problems.\n\n\n ALARIC ARKALION: This is not a thalamic problem, young man. Not\n thalamic at all.\n\n\n THIRD MAN: Young man? Who are you kidding?", "THIRD MAN: You mind your own business.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: I am, doc. You brought the whole thing up.\n\n\n SECOND MAN: He's looking for trouble.\n\n\n THIRD MAN: He'll get it.\n\n\n ALARIC ARKALION: We're going to be together a long time. A long time.\n Why don't you all relax?\n\n\n SECOND MAN: You mind your own business.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: Nuts, aren't they. They're nuts. A sick act, yet.\n\n\n SECOND MAN: Look how it doesn't bother him. A failure, he was. I can\n just see it. What does he care if he goes away forever and doesn't come\n back? One bread line is as good as another.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: Ha-ha.", "\"Something tells me we'll be seeing a lot of each other,\" Arkalion\n went on. The voice was that of an older man, too, belying the youthful\n complexion, the almost childish features, the soft fuzz of a beard.\n\n\n \"I'm Kit Temple,\" said Temple, extending his hand. \"Arkalion, a strange\n name. I know it from somewhere.... Say! Aren't you—don't you have\n something to do with carpets or something?\"\n\n\n \"Here and now, no. I am a number. A-92-6417. But my father is—perhaps\n I had better say was—my father is Alaric Arkalion II. Yes, that is\n right, the carpet king.\"\n\n\n \"I'll be darned,\" said Temple.\n\n\n \"Why?\"\n\n\n \"Well,\" Temple laughed. \"I never met a billionaire before.\"", "R, S....\n\n\n \"T!\" Stephanie shrieked as the names began to float slowly up from the\n bottom of the drum.\n\n\n Tabor, Tebbets, Teddley....\n\n\n Temple's mouth felt dry as a ball of cotton. Stephanie laughed\n nervously. Now—or never. Never?\n\n\n Now.\n\n\n Stephanie whimpered despairingly.\n\n\n TEMPLE, CHRISTOPHER.\n\"Sorry I'm late, Mr. Jones.\"\n\n\n \"Hardly, Mr. Smith. Hardly. Three minutes late.\"\n\n\n \"I've come in response to your ad.\"\n\n\n \"I know. You look old.\"\n\n\n \"I am over twenty-six. Do you mind?\"", "He bent and kissed her, knowing it was all wrong. This was not goodbye,\n not the way he wanted it. Quickly, definitely, for once and all. With\n a tear, perhaps, a lot of tears. But permanent goodbye. This was all\n wrong. The whole idea was to be business-like, objective. It had to\n be done that way, or no way at all. Briefly, he regretted leaving the\n encampment.\n\n\n This wasn't goodbye the way he wanted it. The way it had to be. This\n was\nauf weidersen\n.\n\n\n And then he forgot everything but Stephanie....\n\"I am Alaric Arkalion III,\" said the extremely young-looking man with\n the old, wise eyes.\n\n\n How incongruous, Temple thought. The eyes look almost middle-aged. The\n rest of him—a boy.", "with their vapid faces or the Comrades with their cautious, sweating,\n trembling, fearful non-decisions, not the higher echelon of Comrades,\n more frightened but showing it less, who would love the beauty of\n her breasts and loins but not herself for you never love anything\n but the Stalinimage and Mother Russia herself, not those terrified\n martinet-marionettes who would love the parts of her if she permitted\n but not her or any other person for that matter.", "A large drum filled the entire telio screen. It rotated slowly from\n bottom to top. In twenty seconds, the letter A appeared, followed by\n about a dozen names. Abercrombie, Harold. Abner, Eugene. Adams, Gerald.\n Sorrow in the Abercrombie household. Despair for the Abners. Black\n horror for Adams.\n\n\n The drum rotated.\n\n\n \"They're up to F, Kit.\"\n\n\n Fabian, Gregory G....\n\n\n Names circled the drum slowly, live viscous alphabet soup. Meaningless,\n unless you happened to know them.\n\n\n \"Kit, I knew Thomas Mulvany.\"\n\n\n N, O, P....\n\n\n \"It's hot in here.\"\n\n\n \"I thought you were cold.\"\n\n\n \"I'm suffocating now.\"", "But there, behind that desk, was part of the reason. The Comrade. The\n bright sharp Comrade, with his depth of reasoning, his fountain of\n gushing emotions, his worldliness.\nPfooey!\nIt was as if she had been in a cocoon all her life, stifled, starved,\n the cottony inner lining choking her whenever she opened her mouth,\n the leathery outer covering restricting her when she tried to move.\n No one had ever returned from the Stalintrek. She then had to assume\n no one would. Including Sophia Androvna Petrovitch. But then, there\n was nothing she would miss, nothing to which she particularly wanted\n to return. Not the stark, foul streets of Stalingrad, not the workers", "They had reached the head of the line, found themselves entering a\n huge, double-decker jet-transport. They found two seats together,\n followed the instructions printed at the head of the aisle by strapping\n themselves in and not smoking. Talking all around them was subdued.\n\n\n \"Contrariness has given way to fear,\" Arkalion observed. \"You should\n have seen them the last few days, waiting around the induction center,\n a two-ton chip on each shoulder. Say, where\nwere\nyou?\"\n\n\n \"I—what do you mean?\"\n\n\n \"I didn't see you until last evening. Suddenly, you were here.\"\n\n\n \"Did anyone else miss me?\"\n\n\n \"But I remember you the first day.\"\n\n\n \"Did anyone else miss me? Any of the officials?\"\n\n\n \"No. Not that I know of.\"", "She signed her name with such vehemence and ferocity that she almost\n tore through the paper.\nCHAPTER II\nThree-score men sit in the crowded, smoke-filled room. Some drink\n beer, some squat in moody silence, some talk in an animated fashion\n about nothing very urgent. At the one small door, two guards pace back\n and forth slowly, creating a gentle swaying of smoke-patterns in the\n hazy room. The guards, in simple military uniform, carry small, deadly\n looking weapons.\nFIRST MAN: Fight City Hall? Are you kidding? They took you, bud. Don't\n try to fight it, I know. I know.\n\n\n SECOND MAN: I'm telling you, there was a mistake in the records.\n I'm over twenty-six. Two weeks and two days. Already I wrote to my\n Congressman. Hell, that's why I voted for him, he better go to bat for\n me.", "\"Ten million dollars,\" said Jones, \"is quite a price. Admittedly, I\n haven't dealt in this sort of traffic before, but—\"\n\n\n \"But nothing. Were your name Jones, really and truly Jones, I might ask\n less.\"\n\n\n \"Sir?\"\n\n\n \"You are Jones exactly as much as I am Smith.\"\n\n\n \"Sir?\" Jones gasped again.\n\n\n Smith coughed discreetly. \"But I have one advantage. I know you. You\n don't know me, Mr. Arkalion.\"\n\n\n \"Eh? Eh?\"\n\n\n \"Arkalion. The North American Carpet King. Right?\"\n\n\n \"How did you know?\" the man whose name was not Jones but Arkalion asked\n the man whose name was not Smith but might as well have been.", "SECOND MAN: They better watch out. I'm losing my temper. I get violent\n when I lose my temper.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: See? See how the guards are trembling.\n\n\n SECOND MAN: Very funny. Maybe you didn't have a good job or something?\n Maybe you don't care. I care. I had a job with a future. Didn't pay\n much, but a real blue chip future. So they send me to Nowhere.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: You're not there yet.\n\n\n SECOND MAN: Yeah, but I'm going.\n\n\n THIRD MAN: If only they let you know when. My back is killing me. I'm\n waiting to pull a sick act. Just waiting, that's all.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: Go ahead and wait, a lot of good it will do you.", "\"Kit, I love you. I love you. How can I forget you?\"\n\n\n \"It's happened before. It will happen again.\" That hurt, too. He was\n talking about a couple of statistics, not about himself and Stephanie.\n\n\n \"We're different, Kit. I'll love you forever. And—Kit ... I know\n you'll come back to me. I'll wait, Kit. We're different. You'll come\n back.\"\n\n\n \"How many people do you think said\nthat\nbefore?\"\n\n\n \"You don't want to come back, even if you could. You're not thinking of\n us at all. You're thinking of your brother.\"", "\"That's where you're wrong,\" said Mr. Arkalion as the plastic surgeon\n entered. \"Your name is Alaric Arkalion III—\nnow\n.\"\n\n\n The plastic surgeon skittered around Smith, examining him minutely with\n the casual expertness that comes with experience.\n\n\n \"Have to shorten the cheek bones.\"\n\n\n \"For ten million dollars,\" said Smith, \"you can take the damned things\n out altogether and hang them on your wall.\"\nSophia Androvna Petrovitch made her way downtown through the bustle of\n tired workers and the occasional sprinkling of Comrades. She crushed\n her\nersatz\ncigarette underfoot at number 616 Stalin Avenue, paused\n for the space of five heartbeats at the door, went inside.\n\n\n \"What do you want?\" The man at the desk was myopic but bull-necked.\n\n\n Sophia showed her party card.", "\"Then I was here,\" Temple said, very seriously.\n\n\n Arkalion smiled. \"By George, of course. Then you were here. Temple,\n we'll get along fine.\"\n\n\n Temple said that was swell.\n\n\n \"Anyway, we'd better. Forever is a long time.\"\n\n\n Three minutes later, the jet took off and soared on eager wings toward\n the setting sun.", "SECOND MAN: I wish my Congressman....\n\n\n FIRST MAN: You and your Congressman. The way you talk, it was your vote\n got him in office.\n\n\n SECOND MAN: If only I could get out and talk to him.\n\n\n ALARIC ARKALION: No one is permitted to leave.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: Punishable by a prison term, the law says.\n\n\n SECOND MAN: Oh yeah? Prison, shmision. Or else go on the Nowhere\n Journey. Well, I don't see the difference.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: So, go ahead. Try to escape.\n\n\n SECOND MAN: (Looking at the guards) They got them all over. All over. I\n think our mail is censored.\n\n\n ALARIC ARKALION: It is.", "SECOND MAN: Yeah, well I mean it. Forever. We're going away,\n someplace—forever. We're not coming back, ever. No one comes back.\n It's for good, for keeps.\n\n\n FIRST MAN: Tell it to your congressman. Or maybe you want to pull a\n sick act, too?\n\n\n THIRD MAN: (Hits First Man, who, surprised, crashes back against a\n table and falls down) It isn't an act, damn you!\n\n\n GUARD: All right, break it up. Come on, break it up....\n\n\n ALARIC ARKALION: (To himself) I wish I saw that ten million dollars\n already—\nif\nI ever get to see it.\nThey drove for hours through the fresh country air, feeling the wind\n against their faces, listening to the roar their ground-jet made, all\n alone on the rimrock highway.", "They had walked some distance from the ground-jet, through scrub\n oak and bramble bushes. They found a clearing, fragrant-scented,\n soft-floored still from last autumn, melodic with the chirping of\n nameless birds. They sat, not talking. Stephanie wore a gay summer\n dress, full-skirted, cut deep beneath the throat. She swayed toward him\n from the waist, nestled her head on his shoulder. He could smell the\n soft, sweet fragrance of her hair, of the skin at the nape of her neck.\n \"If you want to say goodbye ...\" she said.\n\n\n \"Stop it,\" he told her.\n\n\n \"If you want to say goodbye....\"\n\n\n Her head rolled against his chest. She turned, cradled herself in his\n arms, smiled up at him, squirmed some more and had her head pillowed on\n his lap. She smiled tremulously, misty-eyed. Her lips parted.", "Wrong with the Stalintrek was its name alone, a name one associated\n with everything else in Russia for an obvious, post-Stalin reason. But\n everything else about the Stalintrek shrieked mystery and adventure.\n Where did you go? How did you get there? What did you do? Why?\n\n\n A million questions which had kept her awake at night and, if\n she thought about them hard enough, satisfied her deep longing\n for something different. And then one day when stolid Mrs.\n Ivanovna-Rasnikov had said, \"It is a joke, a terrible, terrible joke\n they are taking my husband Fyodor on the Stalintrek when he lacks\n sufficient imagination to go from here to Leningrad or even Tula. Can\n you picture Fyodor on the Stalintrek? Better they should have taken me.\n Better they should have taken his wife.\" That day Sophia could hardly\n contain herself.", "\"No, ladies and gentlemen, we use the word Nowhere merely because we\n are not aware of the ultimate destination. Security reasons make it\n impossible to....\"\n\n\n \"Yes, yes,\" said Stephanie impatiently. \"Go on.\"\n\n\n \"... therefore, the Nowhere Journey. With a maximum security lid on\n the whole project, we don't even know why our men are sent, or by what\n means. We know only that they go somewhere and not nowhere, bravely and\n not fearfully, for a purpose vital to the security of this nation and\n not to slake the thirst of a chessman of regiments and divisions.\n\n\n \"If Center City's contribution helps keep our country strong, Center\n City is naturally obligated....\"\n\n\n \"No one ever said it isn't our duty,\" Stephanie argued, as if the\n announcer could indeed hear her. \"We only wish we knew something about\n it—and we wish it weren't forever.\"" ] ]
test	20053	[ "Which of these traits best describes Darger's personality (not discussing his work)?", "According to the article, what is the inspiration of Darger's work?", "How much recognition did Darger receive throughout his lifetime as he produced his works?", "What is the deal with the Vivian Girls? (Which of these is the most accurate description?)", "Of the following options, who would most likely enjoy reading this article?", "Which of the following is true of Darger's work?", "What was the overall tone of the passage?", "Which of the following is NOT true of Darger as an artist?" ]	[ [ "Outgoing", "None of the three descriptions really apply", "Humorous", "Immodest" ], [ "His opinions on sexism in America", "His strained relationship with his younger sister", "The inspiration is unknown", "His strained relationship with his mother" ], [ "He was discovered in his elderly years", "He was only able to receive posthumous credit for his work, he never received any attention while alive", "He was discovered during his time at college", "He was discovered at a young age, so he was consistently in the limelight (in the art world)" ], [ "They're best friends who go on adventures together", "They're sisters who learn from each other in a dystopian world", "They're sisters who avoid certain death together", "They're best friends who escape a dangerous universe to return back to Earth" ], [ "A parent who loves reading Little Red Riding Hood to their child", "A young parent who loves reading Alice in Wonderland to their child", "An educator of young kids (a teacher, tutor, or after-school program supervisor)", "A professor who studies fairy tales" ], [ "He produced so much work that it's evident that each piece took him little time", "He only really cared about what his family thought of his work", "His work is not the type of art to hang around one's home", "The vast majority of people looking at it would agree that it is beautiful" ], [ "Vivid", "Detached", "Cautioned", "Inquisitive" ], [ "He probably had more time to focus as an artist because he pretty much always lived by himself", "Before he was discovered he consistently held a different job to support himself", "His work is good enough to sell for a decent amount of money", "He was trained by some of the best in his fields (collage-work and cartoon-based art training)" ] ]	[ -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1 ]	[ 0, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 1, 0 ]	[ [ "Darger is what is known as an \"outsider\" artist--which is to say that he didn't receive any formal art training; was not, during his lifetime, part of the art world; and was exposed", "Darger criticism. Despite the fact that virtually nothing is known about Darger's inner life, MacGregor (typically, for a critic of outsider art) writes confidently about how compulsive Darger was; how he couldn't control his urge to produce all that", "It's ironic, too, that critics such as MacGregor persist in seeing Darger as an unself-conscious obsessive, unable to separate his life from his created fantasy world, since in fact Darger's work is full of precisely the sort of self-referentiality that in a contemporary insider artist would be read as a rather ordinary example of postmodern detachment. Many of Darger's watercolors, for instance, include depictions of framed pictures whose images are indistinguishable from the images outside them. In the written epic, Darger himself appears as several different characters, on both sides of the conflict--private Darger, Darger the war correspondent, volcanology expert Hendro Dargar, etc. Darger's very title draws attention to the fact that the epic takes place \"in What is Known as the Realms of the Unreal.\" And the written version of Darger's epic even contains a number of amusing references to the strange task of drawing and writing about Darger's own grisly subject. To wit:", "What to make of this? Depending on your taste, you might conclude that Darger is indeed a deranged outsider confusing himself with his characters. Or you might see him as a latter-day Grimm, in whose macabre universe getting your intestines torn out and sketching other children's severed heads are regrettable but quite ordinary parts of life as a little girl. On either interpretation, though, the paintings remain extraordinary, and extraordinarily beautiful.", "very little, if at all, to traditional art in general. As such, he is presumed to have produced his work out of some unusually pure sort of inner compulsion, rather than in response to other art. Darger spent nearly all his", "trauma of [Darger's mother's] death was represented in his later life by an obsessional preoccupation with weather.\" \"Clearly,\" MacGregor wrote in a 1992 exhibition catalog, \"Darger was not free.\"", "Of the enormous quantity of material Darger produced, his watercolors have received the lion's share of attention. The Museum of American Folk Art did sponsor a reading of passages from the written version of Vivian Girls . Still, it's a pity there's none of Darger's writing in the exhibition itself, because it's marvelous, strange stuff, quite as startling as the paintings--in dizzying magnitude as well as vividness, since in the written version, Darger's gory battle scenes extend for hundreds of pages. Take this excerpt, for instance (don't read this if you're squeamish):", "Indeed the screams and pleads of the victims could not be described, and thousands of mothers went insane over the scene, or even committed suicide. ... About nearly 56,789 children were literally cut up like a butcher does a calf, after being strangled or slain, in all ways, indeed the sights of the bloody windrows [sic] , with their intestines exposed or gushed out, was a sight that no one could bear to witness without losing their reason. Hearts of children were hung up by strings to the walls of houses, so many of the bleeding bodies had been cut up that they looked as if they had gone through a machine of knives. \n\n The writing also complicates the naked-girl scenes in the pictures, since it combines vintage Darger bloodthirstiness with the gentlest, softest grandpa porn. For instance, \"The little girls were even glad to leave the building, which they hastily did after looking for their clothes which they could not find, having to leave in their nighties.\"", "eccentrically magnificent watercolors by the late painter and writer Henry Darger. If Darger were alive today, he would be fascinated by the story of JonBenet. Darger collected clippings on the subject of little girls, murdered and otherwise, and went", "the illustrations more or less intact; in others he stripped off the girls' clothes and added penises (all his naked girls have penises). Several images appear over and over again in Darger's work, often within the same painting--a girl mixing", "Chief culprit in Darger's case is one John MacGregor, an art historian to whom Darger's former landlord, now his executor, has bequeathed semi-exclusive access to some of the Darger material, and who is thus the main disseminator of", "It's true that Darger's more gruesome pictures can be a little disturbing. But think of Darger in the context either of children's books and cartoons (anything from Tom & Jerry to the terrifyingly brutal but also extremely popular German children's book Strumpelpeter ) or of contemporary art (Maggie Robbins' 1989 \"Barbie Fetish,\" for instance--a naked Barbie doll stuck all over with little nails), and it's MacGregor who begins to look like the outsider. Indeed, seen in a contemporary light, Darger begins to look like a progenitor of that rather common, campy sensibility--what might be called Mouseketeer Gothic--that sees angelic pop-culture figures as actually creepy and frightening. (Think \"It's a Small World\" or David Lynch.)", "crazy stuff; how he couldn't distinguish between fantasy and reality; how he was a potential serial killer; how he got sexually excited writing descriptions of burning forests. MacGregor careers from the vulgar Freudian to the idiosyncratically bizarre--for instance, \"The", "off. In the course of Darger's story--titled The Story of the Vivian Girls, in What is Known as the Realms of the Unreal, of the Glandeco-Angelinnean War Storm, Caused by the Child Slave Rebellion --the sisters (the", "The Darger watercolors on exhibit include both peacetime tableaux of tiny lassies, some naked, some in dresses, disporting themselves among butterflies and enormous flowers and odd little birds--and scenes of maniacal carnage, in which the same tiny lassies are strangled naked (distorted faces, tongues stuck out) and disemboweled by merciless Glandelinians. (Presumably in anticipation of a fainter-hearted audience, the gorier pictures were excluded from last year's Darger exhibition at the University of Iowa, of which this show is an expanded version.) Some paintings combine the two types of scenes, with comic nonchalance. In one, a group of placid girls jump rope while immediately behind them lie the severed heads of three men, horrified expressions on their faces, and pairs of disembodied hands (their own? their murderers?) still clenched around their necks. In all paintings, the colors are extraordinary and fantastical--a cross between Yellow Submarine and a pastel version of Matisse.", "Darger produced a lot of his little-girl pictures by tracing comic strips or magazine illustrations (on occasion he cut pictures out and stuck them on the paintings directly). In some works he transposed", "1892, sent to a Catholic boys home at 8, and then placed in an institution for the feebleminded, from which he escaped at the age of 16. Shortly before his death in 1973, after Darger moved out to a nursing", "The outsider-art movement responsible for raising Darger from obscurity to fame is a rapidly expanding niche of the art world that has come into its own in this country in the past decade or so: The fifth annual Outsider Art Fair took place a couple of weeks ago in New York; there is a new federally funded museum devoted to outsider art in Baltimore. These days, pieces by the most popular outsider artists, of which Darger is one, are priced in the mid to high five-figures.", "home, his landlord opened up his room and discovered, amid piles of presumably artistic debris (hundreds of pairs of smashed eyeglasses, balls of string, old pairs of shoes, scores of empty Pepto-Bismol bottles), one 2,600-page autobiography, an", "About noon, a frenzied mob of Glandelinians came swarming for the prison of Violet and her sisters. The standards they followed were the heads and even gashed bodies of six beautiful little children, with their intestines protruding from their bellies, and every one of these were on pikes dripping with blood. ... \n\n [When Violet and her sisters appeared] they thrust up on to their windows the heads and bodies of these lovely children, and managed to cast them inside amongst them. Then, bursting into the doors, they thrust the heads into their laps, ordering them to make a copy of them in pencil. \n\n Although it seems to them that they would die of horror, [Violet and her sisters] thought it best to obey. ... [T]hey started to draw the hideous bodies and heads, being good at drawing pictures in the most perfect form." ], [ "Darger is what is known as an \"outsider\" artist--which is to say that he didn't receive any formal art training; was not, during his lifetime, part of the art world; and was exposed", "What to make of this? Depending on your taste, you might conclude that Darger is indeed a deranged outsider confusing himself with his characters. Or you might see him as a latter-day Grimm, in whose macabre universe getting your intestines torn out and sketching other children's severed heads are regrettable but quite ordinary parts of life as a little girl. On either interpretation, though, the paintings remain extraordinary, and extraordinarily beautiful.", "It's ironic, too, that critics such as MacGregor persist in seeing Darger as an unself-conscious obsessive, unable to separate his life from his created fantasy world, since in fact Darger's work is full of precisely the sort of self-referentiality that in a contemporary insider artist would be read as a rather ordinary example of postmodern detachment. Many of Darger's watercolors, for instance, include depictions of framed pictures whose images are indistinguishable from the images outside them. In the written epic, Darger himself appears as several different characters, on both sides of the conflict--private Darger, Darger the war correspondent, volcanology expert Hendro Dargar, etc. Darger's very title draws attention to the fact that the epic takes place \"in What is Known as the Realms of the Unreal.\" And the written version of Darger's epic even contains a number of amusing references to the strange task of drawing and writing about Darger's own grisly subject. To wit:", "very little, if at all, to traditional art in general. As such, he is presumed to have produced his work out of some unusually pure sort of inner compulsion, rather than in response to other art. Darger spent nearly all his", "Darger criticism. Despite the fact that virtually nothing is known about Darger's inner life, MacGregor (typically, for a critic of outsider art) writes confidently about how compulsive Darger was; how he couldn't control his urge to produce all that", "eccentrically magnificent watercolors by the late painter and writer Henry Darger. If Darger were alive today, he would be fascinated by the story of JonBenet. Darger collected clippings on the subject of little girls, murdered and otherwise, and went", "Of the enormous quantity of material Darger produced, his watercolors have received the lion's share of attention. The Museum of American Folk Art did sponsor a reading of passages from the written version of Vivian Girls . Still, it's a pity there's none of Darger's writing in the exhibition itself, because it's marvelous, strange stuff, quite as startling as the paintings--in dizzying magnitude as well as vividness, since in the written version, Darger's gory battle scenes extend for hundreds of pages. Take this excerpt, for instance (don't read this if you're squeamish):", "off. In the course of Darger's story--titled The Story of the Vivian Girls, in What is Known as the Realms of the Unreal, of the Glandeco-Angelinnean War Storm, Caused by the Child Slave Rebellion --the sisters (the", "It's true that Darger's more gruesome pictures can be a little disturbing. But think of Darger in the context either of children's books and cartoons (anything from Tom & Jerry to the terrifyingly brutal but also extremely popular German children's book Strumpelpeter ) or of contemporary art (Maggie Robbins' 1989 \"Barbie Fetish,\" for instance--a naked Barbie doll stuck all over with little nails), and it's MacGregor who begins to look like the outsider. Indeed, seen in a contemporary light, Darger begins to look like a progenitor of that rather common, campy sensibility--what might be called Mouseketeer Gothic--that sees angelic pop-culture figures as actually creepy and frightening. (Think \"It's a Small World\" or David Lynch.)", "Darger produced a lot of his little-girl pictures by tracing comic strips or magazine illustrations (on occasion he cut pictures out and stuck them on the paintings directly). In some works he transposed", "Indeed the screams and pleads of the victims could not be described, and thousands of mothers went insane over the scene, or even committed suicide. ... About nearly 56,789 children were literally cut up like a butcher does a calf, after being strangled or slain, in all ways, indeed the sights of the bloody windrows [sic] , with their intestines exposed or gushed out, was a sight that no one could bear to witness without losing their reason. Hearts of children were hung up by strings to the walls of houses, so many of the bleeding bodies had been cut up that they looked as if they had gone through a machine of knives. \n\n The writing also complicates the naked-girl scenes in the pictures, since it combines vintage Darger bloodthirstiness with the gentlest, softest grandpa porn. For instance, \"The little girls were even glad to leave the building, which they hastily did after looking for their clothes which they could not find, having to leave in their nighties.\"", "the illustrations more or less intact; in others he stripped off the girls' clothes and added penises (all his naked girls have penises). Several images appear over and over again in Darger's work, often within the same painting--a girl mixing", "trauma of [Darger's mother's] death was represented in his later life by an obsessional preoccupation with weather.\" \"Clearly,\" MacGregor wrote in a 1992 exhibition catalog, \"Darger was not free.\"", "The Darger watercolors on exhibit include both peacetime tableaux of tiny lassies, some naked, some in dresses, disporting themselves among butterflies and enormous flowers and odd little birds--and scenes of maniacal carnage, in which the same tiny lassies are strangled naked (distorted faces, tongues stuck out) and disemboweled by merciless Glandelinians. (Presumably in anticipation of a fainter-hearted audience, the gorier pictures were excluded from last year's Darger exhibition at the University of Iowa, of which this show is an expanded version.) Some paintings combine the two types of scenes, with comic nonchalance. In one, a group of placid girls jump rope while immediately behind them lie the severed heads of three men, horrified expressions on their faces, and pairs of disembodied hands (their own? their murderers?) still clenched around their necks. In all paintings, the colors are extraordinary and fantastical--a cross between Yellow Submarine and a pastel version of Matisse.", "Chief culprit in Darger's case is one John MacGregor, an art historian to whom Darger's former landlord, now his executor, has bequeathed semi-exclusive access to some of the Darger material, and who is thus the main disseminator of", "The outsider-art movement responsible for raising Darger from obscurity to fame is a rapidly expanding niche of the art world that has come into its own in this country in the past decade or so: The fifth annual Outsider Art Fair took place a couple of weeks ago in New York; there is a new federally funded museum devoted to outsider art in Baltimore. These days, pieces by the most popular outsider artists, of which Darger is one, are priced in the mid to high five-figures.", "1892, sent to a Catholic boys home at 8, and then placed in an institution for the feebleminded, from which he escaped at the age of 16. Shortly before his death in 1973, after Darger moved out to a nursing", "home, his landlord opened up his room and discovered, amid piles of presumably artistic debris (hundreds of pairs of smashed eyeglasses, balls of string, old pairs of shoes, scores of empty Pepto-Bismol bottles), one 2,600-page autobiography, an", "crazy stuff; how he couldn't distinguish between fantasy and reality; how he was a potential serial killer; how he got sexually excited writing descriptions of burning forests. MacGregor careers from the vulgar Freudian to the idiosyncratically bizarre--for instance, \"The", "About noon, a frenzied mob of Glandelinians came swarming for the prison of Violet and her sisters. The standards they followed were the heads and even gashed bodies of six beautiful little children, with their intestines protruding from their bellies, and every one of these were on pikes dripping with blood. ... \n\n [When Violet and her sisters appeared] they thrust up on to their windows the heads and bodies of these lovely children, and managed to cast them inside amongst them. Then, bursting into the doors, they thrust the heads into their laps, ordering them to make a copy of them in pencil. \n\n Although it seems to them that they would die of horror, [Violet and her sisters] thought it best to obey. ... [T]hey started to draw the hideous bodies and heads, being good at drawing pictures in the most perfect form." ], [ "Darger is what is known as an \"outsider\" artist--which is to say that he didn't receive any formal art training; was not, during his lifetime, part of the art world; and was exposed", "Darger criticism. Despite the fact that virtually nothing is known about Darger's inner life, MacGregor (typically, for a critic of outsider art) writes confidently about how compulsive Darger was; how he couldn't control his urge to produce all that", "very little, if at all, to traditional art in general. As such, he is presumed to have produced his work out of some unusually pure sort of inner compulsion, rather than in response to other art. Darger spent nearly all his", "1892, sent to a Catholic boys home at 8, and then placed in an institution for the feebleminded, from which he escaped at the age of 16. Shortly before his death in 1973, after Darger moved out to a nursing", "The outsider-art movement responsible for raising Darger from obscurity to fame is a rapidly expanding niche of the art world that has come into its own in this country in the past decade or so: The fifth annual Outsider Art Fair took place a couple of weeks ago in New York; there is a new federally funded museum devoted to outsider art in Baltimore. These days, pieces by the most popular outsider artists, of which Darger is one, are priced in the mid to high five-figures.", "Of the enormous quantity of material Darger produced, his watercolors have received the lion's share of attention. The Museum of American Folk Art did sponsor a reading of passages from the written version of Vivian Girls . Still, it's a pity there's none of Darger's writing in the exhibition itself, because it's marvelous, strange stuff, quite as startling as the paintings--in dizzying magnitude as well as vividness, since in the written version, Darger's gory battle scenes extend for hundreds of pages. Take this excerpt, for instance (don't read this if you're squeamish):", "What to make of this? Depending on your taste, you might conclude that Darger is indeed a deranged outsider confusing himself with his characters. Or you might see him as a latter-day Grimm, in whose macabre universe getting your intestines torn out and sketching other children's severed heads are regrettable but quite ordinary parts of life as a little girl. On either interpretation, though, the paintings remain extraordinary, and extraordinarily beautiful.", "It's ironic, too, that critics such as MacGregor persist in seeing Darger as an unself-conscious obsessive, unable to separate his life from his created fantasy world, since in fact Darger's work is full of precisely the sort of self-referentiality that in a contemporary insider artist would be read as a rather ordinary example of postmodern detachment. Many of Darger's watercolors, for instance, include depictions of framed pictures whose images are indistinguishable from the images outside them. In the written epic, Darger himself appears as several different characters, on both sides of the conflict--private Darger, Darger the war correspondent, volcanology expert Hendro Dargar, etc. Darger's very title draws attention to the fact that the epic takes place \"in What is Known as the Realms of the Unreal.\" And the written version of Darger's epic even contains a number of amusing references to the strange task of drawing and writing about Darger's own grisly subject. To wit:", "eccentrically magnificent watercolors by the late painter and writer Henry Darger. If Darger were alive today, he would be fascinated by the story of JonBenet. Darger collected clippings on the subject of little girls, murdered and otherwise, and went", "trauma of [Darger's mother's] death was represented in his later life by an obsessional preoccupation with weather.\" \"Clearly,\" MacGregor wrote in a 1992 exhibition catalog, \"Darger was not free.\"", "Darger produced a lot of his little-girl pictures by tracing comic strips or magazine illustrations (on occasion he cut pictures out and stuck them on the paintings directly). In some works he transposed", "home, his landlord opened up his room and discovered, amid piles of presumably artistic debris (hundreds of pairs of smashed eyeglasses, balls of string, old pairs of shoes, scores of empty Pepto-Bismol bottles), one 2,600-page autobiography, an", "off. In the course of Darger's story--titled The Story of the Vivian Girls, in What is Known as the Realms of the Unreal, of the Glandeco-Angelinnean War Storm, Caused by the Child Slave Rebellion --the sisters (the", "life living alone in a rented room in Chicago, earning his living as a janitor in a hospital during the day, going to Mass frequently, and coming home at night to work on his paintings and his writing. He was born in", "It's true that Darger's more gruesome pictures can be a little disturbing. But think of Darger in the context either of children's books and cartoons (anything from Tom & Jerry to the terrifyingly brutal but also extremely popular German children's book Strumpelpeter ) or of contemporary art (Maggie Robbins' 1989 \"Barbie Fetish,\" for instance--a naked Barbie doll stuck all over with little nails), and it's MacGregor who begins to look like the outsider. Indeed, seen in a contemporary light, Darger begins to look like a progenitor of that rather common, campy sensibility--what might be called Mouseketeer Gothic--that sees angelic pop-culture figures as actually creepy and frightening. (Think \"It's a Small World\" or David Lynch.)", "the illustrations more or less intact; in others he stripped off the girls' clothes and added penises (all his naked girls have penises). Several images appear over and over again in Darger's work, often within the same painting--a girl mixing", "Indeed the screams and pleads of the victims could not be described, and thousands of mothers went insane over the scene, or even committed suicide. ... About nearly 56,789 children were literally cut up like a butcher does a calf, after being strangled or slain, in all ways, indeed the sights of the bloody windrows [sic] , with their intestines exposed or gushed out, was a sight that no one could bear to witness without losing their reason. Hearts of children were hung up by strings to the walls of houses, so many of the bleeding bodies had been cut up that they looked as if they had gone through a machine of knives. \n\n The writing also complicates the naked-girl scenes in the pictures, since it combines vintage Darger bloodthirstiness with the gentlest, softest grandpa porn. For instance, \"The little girls were even glad to leave the building, which they hastily did after looking for their clothes which they could not find, having to leave in their nighties.\"", "Chief culprit in Darger's case is one John MacGregor, an art historian to whom Darger's former landlord, now his executor, has bequeathed semi-exclusive access to some of the Darger material, and who is thus the main disseminator of", "The Darger watercolors on exhibit include both peacetime tableaux of tiny lassies, some naked, some in dresses, disporting themselves among butterflies and enormous flowers and odd little birds--and scenes of maniacal carnage, in which the same tiny lassies are strangled naked (distorted faces, tongues stuck out) and disemboweled by merciless Glandelinians. (Presumably in anticipation of a fainter-hearted audience, the gorier pictures were excluded from last year's Darger exhibition at the University of Iowa, of which this show is an expanded version.) Some paintings combine the two types of scenes, with comic nonchalance. In one, a group of placid girls jump rope while immediately behind them lie the severed heads of three men, horrified expressions on their faces, and pairs of disembodied hands (their own? their murderers?) still clenched around their necks. In all paintings, the colors are extraordinary and fantastical--a cross between Yellow Submarine and a pastel version of Matisse.", "crazy stuff; how he couldn't distinguish between fantasy and reality; how he was a potential serial killer; how he got sexually excited writing descriptions of burning forests. MacGregor careers from the vulgar Freudian to the idiosyncratically bizarre--for instance, \"The" ], [ "Vivian Girls) manage to escape from the men (the Glandelinians) time and time again, but countless less fortunate girl-slaves are spectacularly mutilated and slaughtered along the way.", "off. In the course of Darger's story--titled The Story of the Vivian Girls, in What is Known as the Realms of the Unreal, of the Glandeco-Angelinnean War Storm, Caused by the Child Slave Rebellion --the sisters (the", "About noon, a frenzied mob of Glandelinians came swarming for the prison of Violet and her sisters. The standards they followed were the heads and even gashed bodies of six beautiful little children, with their intestines protruding from their bellies, and every one of these were on pikes dripping with blood. ... \n\n [When Violet and her sisters appeared] they thrust up on to their windows the heads and bodies of these lovely children, and managed to cast them inside amongst them. Then, bursting into the doors, they thrust the heads into their laps, ordering them to make a copy of them in pencil. \n\n Although it seems to them that they would die of horror, [Violet and her sisters] thought it best to obey. ... [T]hey started to draw the hideous bodies and heads, being good at drawing pictures in the most perfect form.", "Indeed the screams and pleads of the victims could not be described, and thousands of mothers went insane over the scene, or even committed suicide. ... About nearly 56,789 children were literally cut up like a butcher does a calf, after being strangled or slain, in all ways, indeed the sights of the bloody windrows [sic] , with their intestines exposed or gushed out, was a sight that no one could bear to witness without losing their reason. Hearts of children were hung up by strings to the walls of houses, so many of the bleeding bodies had been cut up that they looked as if they had gone through a machine of knives. \n\n The writing also complicates the naked-girl scenes in the pictures, since it combines vintage Darger bloodthirstiness with the gentlest, softest grandpa porn. For instance, \"The little girls were even glad to leave the building, which they hastily did after looking for their clothes which they could not find, having to leave in their nighties.\"", "Of the enormous quantity of material Darger produced, his watercolors have received the lion's share of attention. The Museum of American Folk Art did sponsor a reading of passages from the written version of Vivian Girls . Still, it's a pity there's none of Darger's writing in the exhibition itself, because it's marvelous, strange stuff, quite as startling as the paintings--in dizzying magnitude as well as vividness, since in the written version, Darger's gory battle scenes extend for hundreds of pages. Take this excerpt, for instance (don't read this if you're squeamish):", "something in a bowl, a girl sitting on a fence, a girl running fearfully away from something, her school bag flying out behind her. Often these repeated images are rendered identically (same colors, no alterations in the pose), and sometimes they", "11-year weather log, 87 watercolors, 67 pencil drawings, and the tale of the Vivian Girls.", "Thank Heaven for Little Girls \n\n \n\n Is it tasteless to suggest of JonBenet Ramsey--the cute, blond 6-year-old from Colorado who was strangled to death a few weeks ago--that it is her grisly death, rather than her career as a juvenile beauty queen, that makes her so uncannily resemble a girl in a fairy tale? For while a pageant princess is merely tacky, a murdered pageant princess takes her place in the illustrious line of pretty young girls in what, pace multiculturalists, we might call our collective lore, to meet, or at least be threatened with, a gruesome end. Little Red Riding Hood, Goldilocks, Gretel, Alice--there is an intimate connection in our culture, it would seem, between being a sweet young miss and getting garroted.", "By curious coincidence, this fairy-tale conjunction of appealing nymphets and gory murder is currently the subject of an unusual show at the Museum of American Folk Art in New York: an exhibition of", "the illustrations more or less intact; in others he stripped off the girls' clothes and added penises (all his naked girls have penises). Several images appear over and over again in Darger's work, often within the same painting--a girl mixing", "The Darger watercolors on exhibit include both peacetime tableaux of tiny lassies, some naked, some in dresses, disporting themselves among butterflies and enormous flowers and odd little birds--and scenes of maniacal carnage, in which the same tiny lassies are strangled naked (distorted faces, tongues stuck out) and disemboweled by merciless Glandelinians. (Presumably in anticipation of a fainter-hearted audience, the gorier pictures were excluded from last year's Darger exhibition at the University of Iowa, of which this show is an expanded version.) Some paintings combine the two types of scenes, with comic nonchalance. In one, a group of placid girls jump rope while immediately behind them lie the severed heads of three men, horrified expressions on their faces, and pairs of disembodied hands (their own? their murderers?) still clenched around their necks. In all paintings, the colors are extraordinary and fantastical--a cross between Yellow Submarine and a pastel version of Matisse.", "What to make of this? Depending on your taste, you might conclude that Darger is indeed a deranged outsider confusing himself with his characters. Or you might see him as a latter-day Grimm, in whose macabre universe getting your intestines torn out and sketching other children's severed heads are regrettable but quite ordinary parts of life as a little girl. On either interpretation, though, the paintings remain extraordinary, and extraordinarily beautiful.", "It's ironic, too, that critics such as MacGregor persist in seeing Darger as an unself-conscious obsessive, unable to separate his life from his created fantasy world, since in fact Darger's work is full of precisely the sort of self-referentiality that in a contemporary insider artist would be read as a rather ordinary example of postmodern detachment. Many of Darger's watercolors, for instance, include depictions of framed pictures whose images are indistinguishable from the images outside them. In the written epic, Darger himself appears as several different characters, on both sides of the conflict--private Darger, Darger the war correspondent, volcanology expert Hendro Dargar, etc. Darger's very title draws attention to the fact that the epic takes place \"in What is Known as the Realms of the Unreal.\" And the written version of Darger's epic even contains a number of amusing references to the strange task of drawing and writing about Darger's own grisly subject. To wit:", "It's true that Darger's more gruesome pictures can be a little disturbing. But think of Darger in the context either of children's books and cartoons (anything from Tom & Jerry to the terrifyingly brutal but also extremely popular German children's book Strumpelpeter ) or of contemporary art (Maggie Robbins' 1989 \"Barbie Fetish,\" for instance--a naked Barbie doll stuck all over with little nails), and it's MacGregor who begins to look like the outsider. Indeed, seen in a contemporary light, Darger begins to look like a progenitor of that rather common, campy sensibility--what might be called Mouseketeer Gothic--that sees angelic pop-culture figures as actually creepy and frightening. (Think \"It's a Small World\" or David Lynch.)", "even appear next to each other in series of as many as eight. But the effect is not at all proto-Warhol. It's subtler, less programmatic. It's reminiscent, if anything, of those groups of angels or monks or soldiers in", "crazy stuff; how he couldn't distinguish between fantasy and reality; how he was a potential serial killer; how he got sexually excited writing descriptions of burning forests. MacGregor careers from the vulgar Freudian to the idiosyncratically bizarre--for instance, \"The", "on to write and illustrate a truly amazing, Scheherazadean 15,145-page epic about seven cute prepubescent sisters being tortured by brutish men who like to capture little girls in order to enslave them and torture them and take their clothes", "eccentrically magnificent watercolors by the late painter and writer Henry Darger. If Darger were alive today, he would be fascinated by the story of JonBenet. Darger collected clippings on the subject of little girls, murdered and otherwise, and went", "Darger produced a lot of his little-girl pictures by tracing comic strips or magazine illustrations (on occasion he cut pictures out and stuck them on the paintings directly). In some works he transposed", "Darger is what is known as an \"outsider\" artist--which is to say that he didn't receive any formal art training; was not, during his lifetime, part of the art world; and was exposed" ], [ "Indeed the screams and pleads of the victims could not be described, and thousands of mothers went insane over the scene, or even committed suicide. ... About nearly 56,789 children were literally cut up like a butcher does a calf, after being strangled or slain, in all ways, indeed the sights of the bloody windrows [sic] , with their intestines exposed or gushed out, was a sight that no one could bear to witness without losing their reason. Hearts of children were hung up by strings to the walls of houses, so many of the bleeding bodies had been cut up that they looked as if they had gone through a machine of knives. \n\n The writing also complicates the naked-girl scenes in the pictures, since it combines vintage Darger bloodthirstiness with the gentlest, softest grandpa porn. For instance, \"The little girls were even glad to leave the building, which they hastily did after looking for their clothes which they could not find, having to leave in their nighties.\"", "Of the enormous quantity of material Darger produced, his watercolors have received the lion's share of attention. The Museum of American Folk Art did sponsor a reading of passages from the written version of Vivian Girls . Still, it's a pity there's none of Darger's writing in the exhibition itself, because it's marvelous, strange stuff, quite as startling as the paintings--in dizzying magnitude as well as vividness, since in the written version, Darger's gory battle scenes extend for hundreds of pages. Take this excerpt, for instance (don't read this if you're squeamish):", "About noon, a frenzied mob of Glandelinians came swarming for the prison of Violet and her sisters. The standards they followed were the heads and even gashed bodies of six beautiful little children, with their intestines protruding from their bellies, and every one of these were on pikes dripping with blood. ... \n\n [When Violet and her sisters appeared] they thrust up on to their windows the heads and bodies of these lovely children, and managed to cast them inside amongst them. Then, bursting into the doors, they thrust the heads into their laps, ordering them to make a copy of them in pencil. \n\n Although it seems to them that they would die of horror, [Violet and her sisters] thought it best to obey. ... [T]hey started to draw the hideous bodies and heads, being good at drawing pictures in the most perfect form.", "on to write and illustrate a truly amazing, Scheherazadean 15,145-page epic about seven cute prepubescent sisters being tortured by brutish men who like to capture little girls in order to enslave them and torture them and take their clothes", "crazy stuff; how he couldn't distinguish between fantasy and reality; how he was a potential serial killer; how he got sexually excited writing descriptions of burning forests. MacGregor careers from the vulgar Freudian to the idiosyncratically bizarre--for instance, \"The", "eccentrically magnificent watercolors by the late painter and writer Henry Darger. If Darger were alive today, he would be fascinated by the story of JonBenet. Darger collected clippings on the subject of little girls, murdered and otherwise, and went", "even appear next to each other in series of as many as eight. But the effect is not at all proto-Warhol. It's subtler, less programmatic. It's reminiscent, if anything, of those groups of angels or monks or soldiers in", "By curious coincidence, this fairy-tale conjunction of appealing nymphets and gory murder is currently the subject of an unusual show at the Museum of American Folk Art in New York: an exhibition of", "home, his landlord opened up his room and discovered, amid piles of presumably artistic debris (hundreds of pairs of smashed eyeglasses, balls of string, old pairs of shoes, scores of empty Pepto-Bismol bottles), one 2,600-page autobiography, an", "What to make of this? Depending on your taste, you might conclude that Darger is indeed a deranged outsider confusing himself with his characters. Or you might see him as a latter-day Grimm, in whose macabre universe getting your intestines torn out and sketching other children's severed heads are regrettable but quite ordinary parts of life as a little girl. On either interpretation, though, the paintings remain extraordinary, and extraordinarily beautiful.", "It's ironic, too, that critics such as MacGregor persist in seeing Darger as an unself-conscious obsessive, unable to separate his life from his created fantasy world, since in fact Darger's work is full of precisely the sort of self-referentiality that in a contemporary insider artist would be read as a rather ordinary example of postmodern detachment. Many of Darger's watercolors, for instance, include depictions of framed pictures whose images are indistinguishable from the images outside them. In the written epic, Darger himself appears as several different characters, on both sides of the conflict--private Darger, Darger the war correspondent, volcanology expert Hendro Dargar, etc. Darger's very title draws attention to the fact that the epic takes place \"in What is Known as the Realms of the Unreal.\" And the written version of Darger's epic even contains a number of amusing references to the strange task of drawing and writing about Darger's own grisly subject. To wit:", "The outsider-art movement responsible for raising Darger from obscurity to fame is a rapidly expanding niche of the art world that has come into its own in this country in the past decade or so: The fifth annual Outsider Art Fair took place a couple of weeks ago in New York; there is a new federally funded museum devoted to outsider art in Baltimore. These days, pieces by the most popular outsider artists, of which Darger is one, are priced in the mid to high five-figures.", "But while the notion of outsider art has proved an effective marketing concept, it is often an unfortunate interpretive one--outsider artists tend to attract a particularly crude and irritating kind of psycho-biographical analysis.", "Thank Heaven for Little Girls \n\n \n\n Is it tasteless to suggest of JonBenet Ramsey--the cute, blond 6-year-old from Colorado who was strangled to death a few weeks ago--that it is her grisly death, rather than her career as a juvenile beauty queen, that makes her so uncannily resemble a girl in a fairy tale? For while a pageant princess is merely tacky, a murdered pageant princess takes her place in the illustrious line of pretty young girls in what, pace multiculturalists, we might call our collective lore, to meet, or at least be threatened with, a gruesome end. Little Red Riding Hood, Goldilocks, Gretel, Alice--there is an intimate connection in our culture, it would seem, between being a sweet young miss and getting garroted.", "something in a bowl, a girl sitting on a fence, a girl running fearfully away from something, her school bag flying out behind her. Often these repeated images are rendered identically (same colors, no alterations in the pose), and sometimes they", "It's true that Darger's more gruesome pictures can be a little disturbing. But think of Darger in the context either of children's books and cartoons (anything from Tom & Jerry to the terrifyingly brutal but also extremely popular German children's book Strumpelpeter ) or of contemporary art (Maggie Robbins' 1989 \"Barbie Fetish,\" for instance--a naked Barbie doll stuck all over with little nails), and it's MacGregor who begins to look like the outsider. Indeed, seen in a contemporary light, Darger begins to look like a progenitor of that rather common, campy sensibility--what might be called Mouseketeer Gothic--that sees angelic pop-culture figures as actually creepy and frightening. (Think \"It's a Small World\" or David Lynch.)", "The Darger watercolors on exhibit include both peacetime tableaux of tiny lassies, some naked, some in dresses, disporting themselves among butterflies and enormous flowers and odd little birds--and scenes of maniacal carnage, in which the same tiny lassies are strangled naked (distorted faces, tongues stuck out) and disemboweled by merciless Glandelinians. (Presumably in anticipation of a fainter-hearted audience, the gorier pictures were excluded from last year's Darger exhibition at the University of Iowa, of which this show is an expanded version.) Some paintings combine the two types of scenes, with comic nonchalance. In one, a group of placid girls jump rope while immediately behind them lie the severed heads of three men, horrified expressions on their faces, and pairs of disembodied hands (their own? their murderers?) still clenched around their necks. In all paintings, the colors are extraordinary and fantastical--a cross between Yellow Submarine and a pastel version of Matisse.", "Vivian Girls) manage to escape from the men (the Glandelinians) time and time again, but countless less fortunate girl-slaves are spectacularly mutilated and slaughtered along the way.", "life living alone in a rented room in Chicago, earning his living as a janitor in a hospital during the day, going to Mass frequently, and coming home at night to work on his paintings and his writing. He was born in", "very little, if at all, to traditional art in general. As such, he is presumed to have produced his work out of some unusually pure sort of inner compulsion, rather than in response to other art. Darger spent nearly all his" ], [ "Darger is what is known as an \"outsider\" artist--which is to say that he didn't receive any formal art training; was not, during his lifetime, part of the art world; and was exposed", "Darger criticism. Despite the fact that virtually nothing is known about Darger's inner life, MacGregor (typically, for a critic of outsider art) writes confidently about how compulsive Darger was; how he couldn't control his urge to produce all that", "What to make of this? Depending on your taste, you might conclude that Darger is indeed a deranged outsider confusing himself with his characters. Or you might see him as a latter-day Grimm, in whose macabre universe getting your intestines torn out and sketching other children's severed heads are regrettable but quite ordinary parts of life as a little girl. On either interpretation, though, the paintings remain extraordinary, and extraordinarily beautiful.", "It's ironic, too, that critics such as MacGregor persist in seeing Darger as an unself-conscious obsessive, unable to separate his life from his created fantasy world, since in fact Darger's work is full of precisely the sort of self-referentiality that in a contemporary insider artist would be read as a rather ordinary example of postmodern detachment. Many of Darger's watercolors, for instance, include depictions of framed pictures whose images are indistinguishable from the images outside them. In the written epic, Darger himself appears as several different characters, on both sides of the conflict--private Darger, Darger the war correspondent, volcanology expert Hendro Dargar, etc. Darger's very title draws attention to the fact that the epic takes place \"in What is Known as the Realms of the Unreal.\" And the written version of Darger's epic even contains a number of amusing references to the strange task of drawing and writing about Darger's own grisly subject. To wit:", "Of the enormous quantity of material Darger produced, his watercolors have received the lion's share of attention. The Museum of American Folk Art did sponsor a reading of passages from the written version of Vivian Girls . Still, it's a pity there's none of Darger's writing in the exhibition itself, because it's marvelous, strange stuff, quite as startling as the paintings--in dizzying magnitude as well as vividness, since in the written version, Darger's gory battle scenes extend for hundreds of pages. Take this excerpt, for instance (don't read this if you're squeamish):", "off. In the course of Darger's story--titled The Story of the Vivian Girls, in What is Known as the Realms of the Unreal, of the Glandeco-Angelinnean War Storm, Caused by the Child Slave Rebellion --the sisters (the", "It's true that Darger's more gruesome pictures can be a little disturbing. But think of Darger in the context either of children's books and cartoons (anything from Tom & Jerry to the terrifyingly brutal but also extremely popular German children's book Strumpelpeter ) or of contemporary art (Maggie Robbins' 1989 \"Barbie Fetish,\" for instance--a naked Barbie doll stuck all over with little nails), and it's MacGregor who begins to look like the outsider. Indeed, seen in a contemporary light, Darger begins to look like a progenitor of that rather common, campy sensibility--what might be called Mouseketeer Gothic--that sees angelic pop-culture figures as actually creepy and frightening. (Think \"It's a Small World\" or David Lynch.)", "the illustrations more or less intact; in others he stripped off the girls' clothes and added penises (all his naked girls have penises). Several images appear over and over again in Darger's work, often within the same painting--a girl mixing", "very little, if at all, to traditional art in general. As such, he is presumed to have produced his work out of some unusually pure sort of inner compulsion, rather than in response to other art. Darger spent nearly all his", "eccentrically magnificent watercolors by the late painter and writer Henry Darger. If Darger were alive today, he would be fascinated by the story of JonBenet. Darger collected clippings on the subject of little girls, murdered and otherwise, and went", "Indeed the screams and pleads of the victims could not be described, and thousands of mothers went insane over the scene, or even committed suicide. ... About nearly 56,789 children were literally cut up like a butcher does a calf, after being strangled or slain, in all ways, indeed the sights of the bloody windrows [sic] , with their intestines exposed or gushed out, was a sight that no one could bear to witness without losing their reason. Hearts of children were hung up by strings to the walls of houses, so many of the bleeding bodies had been cut up that they looked as if they had gone through a machine of knives. \n\n The writing also complicates the naked-girl scenes in the pictures, since it combines vintage Darger bloodthirstiness with the gentlest, softest grandpa porn. For instance, \"The little girls were even glad to leave the building, which they hastily did after looking for their clothes which they could not find, having to leave in their nighties.\"", "The Darger watercolors on exhibit include both peacetime tableaux of tiny lassies, some naked, some in dresses, disporting themselves among butterflies and enormous flowers and odd little birds--and scenes of maniacal carnage, in which the same tiny lassies are strangled naked (distorted faces, tongues stuck out) and disemboweled by merciless Glandelinians. (Presumably in anticipation of a fainter-hearted audience, the gorier pictures were excluded from last year's Darger exhibition at the University of Iowa, of which this show is an expanded version.) Some paintings combine the two types of scenes, with comic nonchalance. In one, a group of placid girls jump rope while immediately behind them lie the severed heads of three men, horrified expressions on their faces, and pairs of disembodied hands (their own? their murderers?) still clenched around their necks. In all paintings, the colors are extraordinary and fantastical--a cross between Yellow Submarine and a pastel version of Matisse.", "The outsider-art movement responsible for raising Darger from obscurity to fame is a rapidly expanding niche of the art world that has come into its own in this country in the past decade or so: The fifth annual Outsider Art Fair took place a couple of weeks ago in New York; there is a new federally funded museum devoted to outsider art in Baltimore. These days, pieces by the most popular outsider artists, of which Darger is one, are priced in the mid to high five-figures.", "trauma of [Darger's mother's] death was represented in his later life by an obsessional preoccupation with weather.\" \"Clearly,\" MacGregor wrote in a 1992 exhibition catalog, \"Darger was not free.\"", "Chief culprit in Darger's case is one John MacGregor, an art historian to whom Darger's former landlord, now his executor, has bequeathed semi-exclusive access to some of the Darger material, and who is thus the main disseminator of", "Darger produced a lot of his little-girl pictures by tracing comic strips or magazine illustrations (on occasion he cut pictures out and stuck them on the paintings directly). In some works he transposed", "1892, sent to a Catholic boys home at 8, and then placed in an institution for the feebleminded, from which he escaped at the age of 16. Shortly before his death in 1973, after Darger moved out to a nursing", "home, his landlord opened up his room and discovered, amid piles of presumably artistic debris (hundreds of pairs of smashed eyeglasses, balls of string, old pairs of shoes, scores of empty Pepto-Bismol bottles), one 2,600-page autobiography, an", "crazy stuff; how he couldn't distinguish between fantasy and reality; how he was a potential serial killer; how he got sexually excited writing descriptions of burning forests. MacGregor careers from the vulgar Freudian to the idiosyncratically bizarre--for instance, \"The", "About noon, a frenzied mob of Glandelinians came swarming for the prison of Violet and her sisters. The standards they followed were the heads and even gashed bodies of six beautiful little children, with their intestines protruding from their bellies, and every one of these were on pikes dripping with blood. ... \n\n [When Violet and her sisters appeared] they thrust up on to their windows the heads and bodies of these lovely children, and managed to cast them inside amongst them. Then, bursting into the doors, they thrust the heads into their laps, ordering them to make a copy of them in pencil. \n\n Although it seems to them that they would die of horror, [Violet and her sisters] thought it best to obey. ... [T]hey started to draw the hideous bodies and heads, being good at drawing pictures in the most perfect form." ], [ "Indeed the screams and pleads of the victims could not be described, and thousands of mothers went insane over the scene, or even committed suicide. ... About nearly 56,789 children were literally cut up like a butcher does a calf, after being strangled or slain, in all ways, indeed the sights of the bloody windrows [sic] , with their intestines exposed or gushed out, was a sight that no one could bear to witness without losing their reason. Hearts of children were hung up by strings to the walls of houses, so many of the bleeding bodies had been cut up that they looked as if they had gone through a machine of knives. \n\n The writing also complicates the naked-girl scenes in the pictures, since it combines vintage Darger bloodthirstiness with the gentlest, softest grandpa porn. For instance, \"The little girls were even glad to leave the building, which they hastily did after looking for their clothes which they could not find, having to leave in their nighties.\"", "About noon, a frenzied mob of Glandelinians came swarming for the prison of Violet and her sisters. The standards they followed were the heads and even gashed bodies of six beautiful little children, with their intestines protruding from their bellies, and every one of these were on pikes dripping with blood. ... \n\n [When Violet and her sisters appeared] they thrust up on to their windows the heads and bodies of these lovely children, and managed to cast them inside amongst them. Then, bursting into the doors, they thrust the heads into their laps, ordering them to make a copy of them in pencil. \n\n Although it seems to them that they would die of horror, [Violet and her sisters] thought it best to obey. ... [T]hey started to draw the hideous bodies and heads, being good at drawing pictures in the most perfect form.", "something in a bowl, a girl sitting on a fence, a girl running fearfully away from something, her school bag flying out behind her. Often these repeated images are rendered identically (same colors, no alterations in the pose), and sometimes they", "Of the enormous quantity of material Darger produced, his watercolors have received the lion's share of attention. The Museum of American Folk Art did sponsor a reading of passages from the written version of Vivian Girls . Still, it's a pity there's none of Darger's writing in the exhibition itself, because it's marvelous, strange stuff, quite as startling as the paintings--in dizzying magnitude as well as vividness, since in the written version, Darger's gory battle scenes extend for hundreds of pages. Take this excerpt, for instance (don't read this if you're squeamish):", "crazy stuff; how he couldn't distinguish between fantasy and reality; how he was a potential serial killer; how he got sexually excited writing descriptions of burning forests. MacGregor careers from the vulgar Freudian to the idiosyncratically bizarre--for instance, \"The", "home, his landlord opened up his room and discovered, amid piles of presumably artistic debris (hundreds of pairs of smashed eyeglasses, balls of string, old pairs of shoes, scores of empty Pepto-Bismol bottles), one 2,600-page autobiography, an", "The Darger watercolors on exhibit include both peacetime tableaux of tiny lassies, some naked, some in dresses, disporting themselves among butterflies and enormous flowers and odd little birds--and scenes of maniacal carnage, in which the same tiny lassies are strangled naked (distorted faces, tongues stuck out) and disemboweled by merciless Glandelinians. (Presumably in anticipation of a fainter-hearted audience, the gorier pictures were excluded from last year's Darger exhibition at the University of Iowa, of which this show is an expanded version.) Some paintings combine the two types of scenes, with comic nonchalance. In one, a group of placid girls jump rope while immediately behind them lie the severed heads of three men, horrified expressions on their faces, and pairs of disembodied hands (their own? their murderers?) still clenched around their necks. In all paintings, the colors are extraordinary and fantastical--a cross between Yellow Submarine and a pastel version of Matisse.", "What to make of this? Depending on your taste, you might conclude that Darger is indeed a deranged outsider confusing himself with his characters. Or you might see him as a latter-day Grimm, in whose macabre universe getting your intestines torn out and sketching other children's severed heads are regrettable but quite ordinary parts of life as a little girl. On either interpretation, though, the paintings remain extraordinary, and extraordinarily beautiful.", "Thank Heaven for Little Girls \n\n \n\n Is it tasteless to suggest of JonBenet Ramsey--the cute, blond 6-year-old from Colorado who was strangled to death a few weeks ago--that it is her grisly death, rather than her career as a juvenile beauty queen, that makes her so uncannily resemble a girl in a fairy tale? For while a pageant princess is merely tacky, a murdered pageant princess takes her place in the illustrious line of pretty young girls in what, pace multiculturalists, we might call our collective lore, to meet, or at least be threatened with, a gruesome end. Little Red Riding Hood, Goldilocks, Gretel, Alice--there is an intimate connection in our culture, it would seem, between being a sweet young miss and getting garroted.", "even appear next to each other in series of as many as eight. But the effect is not at all proto-Warhol. It's subtler, less programmatic. It's reminiscent, if anything, of those groups of angels or monks or soldiers in", "By curious coincidence, this fairy-tale conjunction of appealing nymphets and gory murder is currently the subject of an unusual show at the Museum of American Folk Art in New York: an exhibition of", "Vivian Girls) manage to escape from the men (the Glandelinians) time and time again, but countless less fortunate girl-slaves are spectacularly mutilated and slaughtered along the way.", "It's ironic, too, that critics such as MacGregor persist in seeing Darger as an unself-conscious obsessive, unable to separate his life from his created fantasy world, since in fact Darger's work is full of precisely the sort of self-referentiality that in a contemporary insider artist would be read as a rather ordinary example of postmodern detachment. Many of Darger's watercolors, for instance, include depictions of framed pictures whose images are indistinguishable from the images outside them. In the written epic, Darger himself appears as several different characters, on both sides of the conflict--private Darger, Darger the war correspondent, volcanology expert Hendro Dargar, etc. Darger's very title draws attention to the fact that the epic takes place \"in What is Known as the Realms of the Unreal.\" And the written version of Darger's epic even contains a number of amusing references to the strange task of drawing and writing about Darger's own grisly subject. To wit:", "on to write and illustrate a truly amazing, Scheherazadean 15,145-page epic about seven cute prepubescent sisters being tortured by brutish men who like to capture little girls in order to enslave them and torture them and take their clothes", "eccentrically magnificent watercolors by the late painter and writer Henry Darger. If Darger were alive today, he would be fascinated by the story of JonBenet. Darger collected clippings on the subject of little girls, murdered and otherwise, and went", "It's true that Darger's more gruesome pictures can be a little disturbing. But think of Darger in the context either of children's books and cartoons (anything from Tom & Jerry to the terrifyingly brutal but also extremely popular German children's book Strumpelpeter ) or of contemporary art (Maggie Robbins' 1989 \"Barbie Fetish,\" for instance--a naked Barbie doll stuck all over with little nails), and it's MacGregor who begins to look like the outsider. Indeed, seen in a contemporary light, Darger begins to look like a progenitor of that rather common, campy sensibility--what might be called Mouseketeer Gothic--that sees angelic pop-culture figures as actually creepy and frightening. (Think \"It's a Small World\" or David Lynch.)", "off. In the course of Darger's story--titled The Story of the Vivian Girls, in What is Known as the Realms of the Unreal, of the Glandeco-Angelinnean War Storm, Caused by the Child Slave Rebellion --the sisters (the", "11-year weather log, 87 watercolors, 67 pencil drawings, and the tale of the Vivian Girls.", "life living alone in a rented room in Chicago, earning his living as a janitor in a hospital during the day, going to Mass frequently, and coming home at night to work on his paintings and his writing. He was born in", "Darger criticism. Despite the fact that virtually nothing is known about Darger's inner life, MacGregor (typically, for a critic of outsider art) writes confidently about how compulsive Darger was; how he couldn't control his urge to produce all that" ], [ "Darger is what is known as an \"outsider\" artist--which is to say that he didn't receive any formal art training; was not, during his lifetime, part of the art world; and was exposed", "Darger criticism. Despite the fact that virtually nothing is known about Darger's inner life, MacGregor (typically, for a critic of outsider art) writes confidently about how compulsive Darger was; how he couldn't control his urge to produce all that", "very little, if at all, to traditional art in general. As such, he is presumed to have produced his work out of some unusually pure sort of inner compulsion, rather than in response to other art. Darger spent nearly all his", "What to make of this? Depending on your taste, you might conclude that Darger is indeed a deranged outsider confusing himself with his characters. Or you might see him as a latter-day Grimm, in whose macabre universe getting your intestines torn out and sketching other children's severed heads are regrettable but quite ordinary parts of life as a little girl. On either interpretation, though, the paintings remain extraordinary, and extraordinarily beautiful.", "It's ironic, too, that critics such as MacGregor persist in seeing Darger as an unself-conscious obsessive, unable to separate his life from his created fantasy world, since in fact Darger's work is full of precisely the sort of self-referentiality that in a contemporary insider artist would be read as a rather ordinary example of postmodern detachment. Many of Darger's watercolors, for instance, include depictions of framed pictures whose images are indistinguishable from the images outside them. In the written epic, Darger himself appears as several different characters, on both sides of the conflict--private Darger, Darger the war correspondent, volcanology expert Hendro Dargar, etc. Darger's very title draws attention to the fact that the epic takes place \"in What is Known as the Realms of the Unreal.\" And the written version of Darger's epic even contains a number of amusing references to the strange task of drawing and writing about Darger's own grisly subject. To wit:", "eccentrically magnificent watercolors by the late painter and writer Henry Darger. If Darger were alive today, he would be fascinated by the story of JonBenet. Darger collected clippings on the subject of little girls, murdered and otherwise, and went", "Of the enormous quantity of material Darger produced, his watercolors have received the lion's share of attention. The Museum of American Folk Art did sponsor a reading of passages from the written version of Vivian Girls . Still, it's a pity there's none of Darger's writing in the exhibition itself, because it's marvelous, strange stuff, quite as startling as the paintings--in dizzying magnitude as well as vividness, since in the written version, Darger's gory battle scenes extend for hundreds of pages. Take this excerpt, for instance (don't read this if you're squeamish):", "The outsider-art movement responsible for raising Darger from obscurity to fame is a rapidly expanding niche of the art world that has come into its own in this country in the past decade or so: The fifth annual Outsider Art Fair took place a couple of weeks ago in New York; there is a new federally funded museum devoted to outsider art in Baltimore. These days, pieces by the most popular outsider artists, of which Darger is one, are priced in the mid to high five-figures.", "It's true that Darger's more gruesome pictures can be a little disturbing. But think of Darger in the context either of children's books and cartoons (anything from Tom & Jerry to the terrifyingly brutal but also extremely popular German children's book Strumpelpeter ) or of contemporary art (Maggie Robbins' 1989 \"Barbie Fetish,\" for instance--a naked Barbie doll stuck all over with little nails), and it's MacGregor who begins to look like the outsider. Indeed, seen in a contemporary light, Darger begins to look like a progenitor of that rather common, campy sensibility--what might be called Mouseketeer Gothic--that sees angelic pop-culture figures as actually creepy and frightening. (Think \"It's a Small World\" or David Lynch.)", "Chief culprit in Darger's case is one John MacGregor, an art historian to whom Darger's former landlord, now his executor, has bequeathed semi-exclusive access to some of the Darger material, and who is thus the main disseminator of", "trauma of [Darger's mother's] death was represented in his later life by an obsessional preoccupation with weather.\" \"Clearly,\" MacGregor wrote in a 1992 exhibition catalog, \"Darger was not free.\"", "The Darger watercolors on exhibit include both peacetime tableaux of tiny lassies, some naked, some in dresses, disporting themselves among butterflies and enormous flowers and odd little birds--and scenes of maniacal carnage, in which the same tiny lassies are strangled naked (distorted faces, tongues stuck out) and disemboweled by merciless Glandelinians. (Presumably in anticipation of a fainter-hearted audience, the gorier pictures were excluded from last year's Darger exhibition at the University of Iowa, of which this show is an expanded version.) Some paintings combine the two types of scenes, with comic nonchalance. In one, a group of placid girls jump rope while immediately behind them lie the severed heads of three men, horrified expressions on their faces, and pairs of disembodied hands (their own? their murderers?) still clenched around their necks. In all paintings, the colors are extraordinary and fantastical--a cross between Yellow Submarine and a pastel version of Matisse.", "the illustrations more or less intact; in others he stripped off the girls' clothes and added penises (all his naked girls have penises). Several images appear over and over again in Darger's work, often within the same painting--a girl mixing", "Darger produced a lot of his little-girl pictures by tracing comic strips or magazine illustrations (on occasion he cut pictures out and stuck them on the paintings directly). In some works he transposed", "off. In the course of Darger's story--titled The Story of the Vivian Girls, in What is Known as the Realms of the Unreal, of the Glandeco-Angelinnean War Storm, Caused by the Child Slave Rebellion --the sisters (the", "1892, sent to a Catholic boys home at 8, and then placed in an institution for the feebleminded, from which he escaped at the age of 16. Shortly before his death in 1973, after Darger moved out to a nursing", "Indeed the screams and pleads of the victims could not be described, and thousands of mothers went insane over the scene, or even committed suicide. ... About nearly 56,789 children were literally cut up like a butcher does a calf, after being strangled or slain, in all ways, indeed the sights of the bloody windrows [sic] , with their intestines exposed or gushed out, was a sight that no one could bear to witness without losing their reason. Hearts of children were hung up by strings to the walls of houses, so many of the bleeding bodies had been cut up that they looked as if they had gone through a machine of knives. \n\n The writing also complicates the naked-girl scenes in the pictures, since it combines vintage Darger bloodthirstiness with the gentlest, softest grandpa porn. For instance, \"The little girls were even glad to leave the building, which they hastily did after looking for their clothes which they could not find, having to leave in their nighties.\"", "home, his landlord opened up his room and discovered, amid piles of presumably artistic debris (hundreds of pairs of smashed eyeglasses, balls of string, old pairs of shoes, scores of empty Pepto-Bismol bottles), one 2,600-page autobiography, an", "crazy stuff; how he couldn't distinguish between fantasy and reality; how he was a potential serial killer; how he got sexually excited writing descriptions of burning forests. MacGregor careers from the vulgar Freudian to the idiosyncratically bizarre--for instance, \"The", "But while the notion of outsider art has proved an effective marketing concept, it is often an unfortunate interpretive one--outsider artists tend to attract a particularly crude and irritating kind of psycho-biographical analysis." ] ]
test	20042	[ "Why does the author see a potential benefit from selling digital books on a website?", "Why would a \"Daily Me\" subscription potentially be beneficial to content creators?", "Why does the author disagree with Barlow's notion that in the future no one will buy writing because everything will be able to be had for free?", "Why does the author challenge Barlow's beliefs about property laws?", "Why does the author argue that people cheat?", "Why does Barlow argue that intellectual property will soon become a thing of the past?", "Who would the shift to digital journalism perhaps benefit the most?", "Why would the \"disaggregation of content\" hurt magazines?" ]	[ [ "Utilizing new technologies will make their own writing more attractive to a new generation of readers.", "The profit margins would be infinitely higher thanks to lower production costs of digital materials.", "The website has the potential to reach even larger audiences for famous and successful journalists.", "The net profit would be the same (and potentially higher) compared with paperback copies, and it would be difficult to sell on the black market." ], [ "This subscription method would create a consistent network of supporters so writers would have a reliable income stream.", "It would be easier to disseminate the material by e-mailing it to a large group of friends.", "Due to its low production cost, it would disincentivize cheaters and potentially earn more for the content creator.", "It would make life a lot more laid back for data brokers and those who make their living online." ], [ "The author makes the argument that nothing is free including the cost of stealing.", "Content creators will pursue innovations such as the \"Daily Me\" to ensure a profit from their work.", "The author delineates specific ways in which writers may profit from the digitization of journalism.", "The author believes that intellectual property rights are strong enough to protect the writer's assets even in the digital age." ], [ "Because the people who first created the parameters of property laws are long dead and gone.", "The author believes that information is not necessarily physical and that value is not dependent upon a physical incarnation anyway.", "The author believes that value is dependent upon a particular physical incarnation and cannot exist without it.", "The author believes information is always physical, and the fact that value is not dependent upon physical manifestation anyway only refutes Barlow's point." ], [ "Because they are gluttons for punishment.", "Because they are risk-takers and get a thrill from the enterprise.", "Because they want to claim intellectual property as their own.", "Because it saves money to do so." ], [ "As original material becomes easier to copy, so does its dissemination amongst the masses.", "Once information becomes digital, it loses its significance to the majority of consumers.", "With the advent of digitization, intellectual property law loses its grounding in physical reality. This will make it more difficult to enforce.", "Once information becomes digital, the creator of that content automatically loses the rights to that material." ], [ "Lesser-known journalists with small audiences.", "Rich and famous journalists with large audiences.", "The developers of search engines.", "The data brokers that distribute \"Daily Me\" updates." ], [ "It would break the content down into individual articles and writeres would profit based on their own output.", "It would result in fewer subscribers in the long run.", "It would have to contend with brokerage prices which could account for almost 90% of fees.", "It would result in rock-bottom pricing that would create lower profit margins for the magazines." ] ]	[ -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1 ]	[ 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 1, 1, 0 ]	[ [ "Now imagine being at my Web site, reading my promotional materials, and deciding you'd like to read the book. (Thank you.) A single keystroke will give you the book, drain your bank account of five shiny quarters, and leave you feeling like an honest, upstanding citizen. Do you think you'll choose, instead, to call a few friends in hopes of scoring an illegal copy? And don't imagine that you can just traipse on over to the \"black-market book store\" section of the Web and find a hot copy of my book. As in the regular world, the easier it is for Joe Consumer to track down an illegal distributor, the easier it is for cops to do the same. Black marketeers will have to charge enough to make up for this risk, making it hard to undersell my $1.25 by much. And there are , too, why the cost of cheating will be nontrivial.", "Barlow and Dyson do have a solution. In the future people like me, having cultivated a following by providing free content on the Web, will charge our devotees for services that are hard to replicate en masse. We will answer individual questions online, say, or go around giving speeches, or spew out insights at private seminars, or (this one is actually my idea) have sex with young readers. The key, writes Barlow, will be not content but \"performance.\" Barlow, a former lyricist for the Grateful Dead, offers this analogy: The Dead let people tape concerts, and the tapes then led more people to pay for the concerts.", "In their writings, Barlow and Dyson make clear they're aware of this fact. But they seems unaware of its fatal impact on their larger thesis. How could cybersages have such a blind spot? One theory: Because they're cyber sages. You have to be a career paleohack like me, getting paid for putting ink on paper, to appreciate how much of the cost of legally acquiring bits of information goes into the ink and paper and allied anachronisms, like shipping, warehousing, and displaying the inky paper. I wrote a book that costs $14 in paperback. For each copy sold, I get $1. The day may well come, as Barlow and Dyson seem to believe, when book publishers as we know them will disappear. People will download books from Web sites and either print them out on new, cool printers or read them on superlight wireless computers. But if so, it will then cost you only $1--oh hell, make it $1.25--to get a copy of my book legally from my Web site.", "Of course, this \"disaggregation of content\" may be ruinous for magazines like Slate. But consider the upside. Not only will the efficiency of the system permit rock-bottom pricing that discourages cheating, but the fluidity of content will disrupt channels of potential cheating. If you subscribe to a regular, old-fashioned online magazine, it's easy to split the cost of a subscription with a few friends and furtively make copies. (You wretched scum.) But if you subscribe to the \"Daily Me,\" this arrangement makes no sense, because every Me is different. Sure, you may e-mail a friend the occasional article from your \"Me.\" (You wretched scum.) And, in general, this sort of \"leakage\" will be higher than in pre-Web days. But it would have to reach massive proportions to negate the overall gains in efficiency that will keep people like me in business.", "One much-discussed cybertrend is especially relevant here: the scenario in which various data brokers offer a \"Daily Me,\" a batch of articles tailored to your tastes, cheaply gleaned from all over the Web. When this happens, guys like me will be living the life of Riley. We will wake up at noon, stumble over to the keyboard in our pajamas, hammer out 1,000 words, and then--without talking to a single bothersome editor--make our work available to all data brokers. Likely fans of my article will be shown, say, the first couple of paragraphs. If they want to read more, they deposit a quarter. Will you try to steal a copy instead? Do you steal Tootsie pops at checkout counters? The broker and the electronic cash service will pocket a dime of that. I take my 15 cents and head for the liquor store.", "M >eanwhile, on the other side of the ledger, there's another reason for the cost of legal copies to drop. Many journalists will reach a much larger audience on the Web than they do now. The \"magazine\" model of bringing information to the attention of readers is stunningly inefficient. I hope it's not egotistical of me to think that when I write an article for, say, the New Republic , I am not reaching nearly everyone who might have an interest in it. Granted, the Web is not yet a picture of efficiency itself. Search engines, for example, are in the reptilian phase of their evolution. But most observers--certainly the Barlows of the world--expect radical improvement. (I'm not saying all journalists will see their audiences grow. The likely trend, when you , will be for many obscure and semiobscure journalists to see their audiences grow, while the few rich and famous journalists will see their audiences shrink. Cool.)", "Dead Head \n\n Back when I was a journalist--before I became a provider of digital content--I thought life would always be simple: I would write articles, and people would pay to read them. But then I heard about the impending death of intellectual property, a scenario painted by cyberfuturists John Perry Barlow and Esther Dyson. As all media move online, they say, content will be so freely available that getting paid to produce it will be hard, if not impossible. At first, I dismissed this as garden-variety, breathless overextrapolation from digerati social theorists. But even as I scoffed, the Barlow-Dyson scenario climbed steadily toward the rank of conventional wisdom.", "Barlow's argument begins with a cosmic premise: \"Digital technology is detaching information from the physical plane, where property law of all sorts has always found definition.\" This is wrong on two counts. First, all information does take physical form. Whether digital or analog, whether in ink or sound waves or synaptic firings or electrons, information always resides in patterns of matter or energy (which, as Einstein noted, are interchangeable manifestations of the physical world). \n\n To be sure, the significance of information is independent of its particular physical incarnation. So is its value. You download this article from Slate's servers and copy it onto your own hard disk, and it's still worth--well, nothing, but that's a . Suppose it were a Madonna video: You'd get just as much enjoyment out of it regardless of which particular bunch of electrons embodied it.", "If you somehow forced Barlow to articulate his thesis without the wacky metaphysics, he'd probably say something like this: The cost of copying and distributing information is plummeting--for many purposes, even approaching zero. Millions of people can now do it right at their desks. So in principle, content can multiply like fruit flies. Why should anyone buy an article when a copy can be had for nothing?", "Barlow's insistence that intellectual property will soon be worthless is especially puzzling since he is one of the biggest troubadours of the Third Wave information economy. Sometimes he seem to think it's possible for a sector of a market economy to get bigger and bigger even while the connection between work and reward in that sector breaks down. He writes: \"Humanity now seems bent on creating a world economy primarily based on goods that take no material form. In doing so, we may be eliminating any predictable connection between creators and a fair reward for the utility or pleasure others may find in their works.\" Far out, man.", "This argument, like all arguments about the future, is speculative. It may even be wrong. But it is consistent with the history of the world. The last half-millennium has seen 1) data getting cheaper and easier to copy; and 2) data-creation occupying a larger and larger fraction of all economic activity. Thus far, in other words, as the realm of information has gotten more lubricated, it has become easier , not harder, to make a living by generating information. Cyberspace is essentially a quantum leap in lubrication.", "whole reason intellectual-property law exists is that people can acquire your information without acquiring the particular physical version of it that you created. Thus Barlow's belief that \"property law of all sorts\" has always \"found definition\" on the \"physical plane\"", "Answer: Because it can't. The total cost of acquiring a \"free\" copy includes more than just the copying-and-transmitting costs. There's 1) the cost--in time and/or money--of finding someone who already has a copy, and will give it to you for free or for cheap; 2) the risk of getting caught stealing intellectual property; 3) any premiums you pay to others for incurring such risks (as when you get copies from bootleggers); and 4) informal punishments such as being labeled a cheat or a cheapskate. The size of this last cost will depend on how norms in this area evolve.", "B >ut this independence of meaning and value from physical incarnation is nothing new. It is as old as Sumerian tablets, to say nothing of the Gutenberg press. Indeed, the", "not only fails to make intellectual-property rights obsolete; it's the very insight that led to intellectual-property rights in the first place! Barlow announces from the mountaintop: \"It's fairly paradigm warping to look at information through fresh eyes--to see how", "The seminal version of the Barlow-Dyson thesis is Barlow's 10,000-word 1994 essay in Wired . It is with some trepidation that I challenge the logic of this argument. Barlow is a noted visionary, and he is famously derisive of people less insightful than himself (a group which, in his opinion, includes roughly everyone). He says, for example, that the ability of courts to deal correctly with cyberissues depends on the \"depth of the presiding judge's clue-impairment.\" Well, at the risk of joining Barlow's long roster of the clue-impaired, here goes.", "signals a distressing confusion on his part. The one sense in which it's true that information is \"detached\" from the \"physical plane\"--the fact that information's value transcends its physical incarnation--not only fails to qualify as an original insight, and", "Even in the distant future, the total cost of cheating on the system, thus figured, will almost never be zero. Yes, it will be way, way closer to zero than it used to be. But the Barlow-Dyson scenario still is wrong. Why? Because whether people cheat doesn't depend on the absolute cost of cheating. It depends on the cost of cheating compared with the cost of not cheating. And the cost of getting data legally will plummet roughly as fast as the cost of getting it illegally--maybe faster.", "very little it is like pig iron or pork bellies.\" Maybe so, but it's hard to say for sure, since the people who really did take that fresh look have been dead for centuries." ], [ "Of course, this \"disaggregation of content\" may be ruinous for magazines like Slate. But consider the upside. Not only will the efficiency of the system permit rock-bottom pricing that discourages cheating, but the fluidity of content will disrupt channels of potential cheating. If you subscribe to a regular, old-fashioned online magazine, it's easy to split the cost of a subscription with a few friends and furtively make copies. (You wretched scum.) But if you subscribe to the \"Daily Me,\" this arrangement makes no sense, because every Me is different. Sure, you may e-mail a friend the occasional article from your \"Me.\" (You wretched scum.) And, in general, this sort of \"leakage\" will be higher than in pre-Web days. But it would have to reach massive proportions to negate the overall gains in efficiency that will keep people like me in business.", "One much-discussed cybertrend is especially relevant here: the scenario in which various data brokers offer a \"Daily Me,\" a batch of articles tailored to your tastes, cheaply gleaned from all over the Web. When this happens, guys like me will be living the life of Riley. We will wake up at noon, stumble over to the keyboard in our pajamas, hammer out 1,000 words, and then--without talking to a single bothersome editor--make our work available to all data brokers. Likely fans of my article will be shown, say, the first couple of paragraphs. If they want to read more, they deposit a quarter. Will you try to steal a copy instead? Do you steal Tootsie pops at checkout counters? The broker and the electronic cash service will pocket a dime of that. I take my 15 cents and head for the liquor store.", "Barlow and Dyson do have a solution. In the future people like me, having cultivated a following by providing free content on the Web, will charge our devotees for services that are hard to replicate en masse. We will answer individual questions online, say, or go around giving speeches, or spew out insights at private seminars, or (this one is actually my idea) have sex with young readers. The key, writes Barlow, will be not content but \"performance.\" Barlow, a former lyricist for the Grateful Dead, offers this analogy: The Dead let people tape concerts, and the tapes then led more people to pay for the concerts.", "Dead Head \n\n Back when I was a journalist--before I became a provider of digital content--I thought life would always be simple: I would write articles, and people would pay to read them. But then I heard about the impending death of intellectual property, a scenario painted by cyberfuturists John Perry Barlow and Esther Dyson. As all media move online, they say, content will be so freely available that getting paid to produce it will be hard, if not impossible. At first, I dismissed this as garden-variety, breathless overextrapolation from digerati social theorists. But even as I scoffed, the Barlow-Dyson scenario climbed steadily toward the rank of conventional wisdom.", "M >eanwhile, on the other side of the ledger, there's another reason for the cost of legal copies to drop. Many journalists will reach a much larger audience on the Web than they do now. The \"magazine\" model of bringing information to the attention of readers is stunningly inefficient. I hope it's not egotistical of me to think that when I write an article for, say, the New Republic , I am not reaching nearly everyone who might have an interest in it. Granted, the Web is not yet a picture of efficiency itself. Search engines, for example, are in the reptilian phase of their evolution. But most observers--certainly the Barlows of the world--expect radical improvement. (I'm not saying all journalists will see their audiences grow. The likely trend, when you , will be for many obscure and semiobscure journalists to see their audiences grow, while the few rich and famous journalists will see their audiences shrink. Cool.)", "If you somehow forced Barlow to articulate his thesis without the wacky metaphysics, he'd probably say something like this: The cost of copying and distributing information is plummeting--for many purposes, even approaching zero. Millions of people can now do it right at their desks. So in principle, content can multiply like fruit flies. Why should anyone buy an article when a copy can be had for nothing?", "In their writings, Barlow and Dyson make clear they're aware of this fact. But they seems unaware of its fatal impact on their larger thesis. How could cybersages have such a blind spot? One theory: Because they're cyber sages. You have to be a career paleohack like me, getting paid for putting ink on paper, to appreciate how much of the cost of legally acquiring bits of information goes into the ink and paper and allied anachronisms, like shipping, warehousing, and displaying the inky paper. I wrote a book that costs $14 in paperback. For each copy sold, I get $1. The day may well come, as Barlow and Dyson seem to believe, when book publishers as we know them will disappear. People will download books from Web sites and either print them out on new, cool printers or read them on superlight wireless computers. But if so, it will then cost you only $1--oh hell, make it $1.25--to get a copy of my book legally from my Web site.", "This argument, like all arguments about the future, is speculative. It may even be wrong. But it is consistent with the history of the world. The last half-millennium has seen 1) data getting cheaper and easier to copy; and 2) data-creation occupying a larger and larger fraction of all economic activity. Thus far, in other words, as the realm of information has gotten more lubricated, it has become easier , not harder, to make a living by generating information. Cyberspace is essentially a quantum leap in lubrication.", "Now imagine being at my Web site, reading my promotional materials, and deciding you'd like to read the book. (Thank you.) A single keystroke will give you the book, drain your bank account of five shiny quarters, and leave you feeling like an honest, upstanding citizen. Do you think you'll choose, instead, to call a few friends in hopes of scoring an illegal copy? And don't imagine that you can just traipse on over to the \"black-market book store\" section of the Web and find a hot copy of my book. As in the regular world, the easier it is for Joe Consumer to track down an illegal distributor, the easier it is for cops to do the same. Black marketeers will have to charge enough to make up for this risk, making it hard to undersell my $1.25 by much. And there are , too, why the cost of cheating will be nontrivial.", "Barlow's insistence that intellectual property will soon be worthless is especially puzzling since he is one of the biggest troubadours of the Third Wave information economy. Sometimes he seem to think it's possible for a sector of a market economy to get bigger and bigger even while the connection between work and reward in that sector breaks down. He writes: \"Humanity now seems bent on creating a world economy primarily based on goods that take no material form. In doing so, we may be eliminating any predictable connection between creators and a fair reward for the utility or pleasure others may find in their works.\" Far out, man.", "Barlow's argument begins with a cosmic premise: \"Digital technology is detaching information from the physical plane, where property law of all sorts has always found definition.\" This is wrong on two counts. First, all information does take physical form. Whether digital or analog, whether in ink or sound waves or synaptic firings or electrons, information always resides in patterns of matter or energy (which, as Einstein noted, are interchangeable manifestations of the physical world). \n\n To be sure, the significance of information is independent of its particular physical incarnation. So is its value. You download this article from Slate's servers and copy it onto your own hard disk, and it's still worth--well, nothing, but that's a . Suppose it were a Madonna video: You'd get just as much enjoyment out of it regardless of which particular bunch of electrons embodied it.", "Even in the distant future, the total cost of cheating on the system, thus figured, will almost never be zero. Yes, it will be way, way closer to zero than it used to be. But the Barlow-Dyson scenario still is wrong. Why? Because whether people cheat doesn't depend on the absolute cost of cheating. It depends on the cost of cheating compared with the cost of not cheating. And the cost of getting data legally will plummet roughly as fast as the cost of getting it illegally--maybe faster.", "whole reason intellectual-property law exists is that people can acquire your information without acquiring the particular physical version of it that you created. Thus Barlow's belief that \"property law of all sorts\" has always \"found definition\" on the \"physical plane\"", "Answer: Because it can't. The total cost of acquiring a \"free\" copy includes more than just the copying-and-transmitting costs. There's 1) the cost--in time and/or money--of finding someone who already has a copy, and will give it to you for free or for cheap; 2) the risk of getting caught stealing intellectual property; 3) any premiums you pay to others for incurring such risks (as when you get copies from bootleggers); and 4) informal punishments such as being labeled a cheat or a cheapskate. The size of this last cost will depend on how norms in this area evolve.", "not only fails to make intellectual-property rights obsolete; it's the very insight that led to intellectual-property rights in the first place! Barlow announces from the mountaintop: \"It's fairly paradigm warping to look at information through fresh eyes--to see how", "B >ut this independence of meaning and value from physical incarnation is nothing new. It is as old as Sumerian tablets, to say nothing of the Gutenberg press. Indeed, the", "The seminal version of the Barlow-Dyson thesis is Barlow's 10,000-word 1994 essay in Wired . It is with some trepidation that I challenge the logic of this argument. Barlow is a noted visionary, and he is famously derisive of people less insightful than himself (a group which, in his opinion, includes roughly everyone). He says, for example, that the ability of courts to deal correctly with cyberissues depends on the \"depth of the presiding judge's clue-impairment.\" Well, at the risk of joining Barlow's long roster of the clue-impaired, here goes.", "signals a distressing confusion on his part. The one sense in which it's true that information is \"detached\" from the \"physical plane\"--the fact that information's value transcends its physical incarnation--not only fails to qualify as an original insight, and", "very little it is like pig iron or pork bellies.\" Maybe so, but it's hard to say for sure, since the people who really did take that fresh look have been dead for centuries." ], [ "If you somehow forced Barlow to articulate his thesis without the wacky metaphysics, he'd probably say something like this: The cost of copying and distributing information is plummeting--for many purposes, even approaching zero. Millions of people can now do it right at their desks. So in principle, content can multiply like fruit flies. Why should anyone buy an article when a copy can be had for nothing?", "Barlow and Dyson do have a solution. In the future people like me, having cultivated a following by providing free content on the Web, will charge our devotees for services that are hard to replicate en masse. We will answer individual questions online, say, or go around giving speeches, or spew out insights at private seminars, or (this one is actually my idea) have sex with young readers. The key, writes Barlow, will be not content but \"performance.\" Barlow, a former lyricist for the Grateful Dead, offers this analogy: The Dead let people tape concerts, and the tapes then led more people to pay for the concerts.", "Barlow's insistence that intellectual property will soon be worthless is especially puzzling since he is one of the biggest troubadours of the Third Wave information economy. Sometimes he seem to think it's possible for a sector of a market economy to get bigger and bigger even while the connection between work and reward in that sector breaks down. He writes: \"Humanity now seems bent on creating a world economy primarily based on goods that take no material form. In doing so, we may be eliminating any predictable connection between creators and a fair reward for the utility or pleasure others may find in their works.\" Far out, man.", "In their writings, Barlow and Dyson make clear they're aware of this fact. But they seems unaware of its fatal impact on their larger thesis. How could cybersages have such a blind spot? One theory: Because they're cyber sages. You have to be a career paleohack like me, getting paid for putting ink on paper, to appreciate how much of the cost of legally acquiring bits of information goes into the ink and paper and allied anachronisms, like shipping, warehousing, and displaying the inky paper. I wrote a book that costs $14 in paperback. For each copy sold, I get $1. The day may well come, as Barlow and Dyson seem to believe, when book publishers as we know them will disappear. People will download books from Web sites and either print them out on new, cool printers or read them on superlight wireless computers. But if so, it will then cost you only $1--oh hell, make it $1.25--to get a copy of my book legally from my Web site.", "Dead Head \n\n Back when I was a journalist--before I became a provider of digital content--I thought life would always be simple: I would write articles, and people would pay to read them. But then I heard about the impending death of intellectual property, a scenario painted by cyberfuturists John Perry Barlow and Esther Dyson. As all media move online, they say, content will be so freely available that getting paid to produce it will be hard, if not impossible. At first, I dismissed this as garden-variety, breathless overextrapolation from digerati social theorists. But even as I scoffed, the Barlow-Dyson scenario climbed steadily toward the rank of conventional wisdom.", "Barlow's argument begins with a cosmic premise: \"Digital technology is detaching information from the physical plane, where property law of all sorts has always found definition.\" This is wrong on two counts. First, all information does take physical form. Whether digital or analog, whether in ink or sound waves or synaptic firings or electrons, information always resides in patterns of matter or energy (which, as Einstein noted, are interchangeable manifestations of the physical world). \n\n To be sure, the significance of information is independent of its particular physical incarnation. So is its value. You download this article from Slate's servers and copy it onto your own hard disk, and it's still worth--well, nothing, but that's a . Suppose it were a Madonna video: You'd get just as much enjoyment out of it regardless of which particular bunch of electrons embodied it.", "whole reason intellectual-property law exists is that people can acquire your information without acquiring the particular physical version of it that you created. Thus Barlow's belief that \"property law of all sorts\" has always \"found definition\" on the \"physical plane\"", "Even in the distant future, the total cost of cheating on the system, thus figured, will almost never be zero. Yes, it will be way, way closer to zero than it used to be. But the Barlow-Dyson scenario still is wrong. Why? Because whether people cheat doesn't depend on the absolute cost of cheating. It depends on the cost of cheating compared with the cost of not cheating. And the cost of getting data legally will plummet roughly as fast as the cost of getting it illegally--maybe faster.", "M >eanwhile, on the other side of the ledger, there's another reason for the cost of legal copies to drop. Many journalists will reach a much larger audience on the Web than they do now. The \"magazine\" model of bringing information to the attention of readers is stunningly inefficient. I hope it's not egotistical of me to think that when I write an article for, say, the New Republic , I am not reaching nearly everyone who might have an interest in it. Granted, the Web is not yet a picture of efficiency itself. Search engines, for example, are in the reptilian phase of their evolution. But most observers--certainly the Barlows of the world--expect radical improvement. (I'm not saying all journalists will see their audiences grow. The likely trend, when you , will be for many obscure and semiobscure journalists to see their audiences grow, while the few rich and famous journalists will see their audiences shrink. Cool.)", "The seminal version of the Barlow-Dyson thesis is Barlow's 10,000-word 1994 essay in Wired . It is with some trepidation that I challenge the logic of this argument. Barlow is a noted visionary, and he is famously derisive of people less insightful than himself (a group which, in his opinion, includes roughly everyone). He says, for example, that the ability of courts to deal correctly with cyberissues depends on the \"depth of the presiding judge's clue-impairment.\" Well, at the risk of joining Barlow's long roster of the clue-impaired, here goes.", "This argument, like all arguments about the future, is speculative. It may even be wrong. But it is consistent with the history of the world. The last half-millennium has seen 1) data getting cheaper and easier to copy; and 2) data-creation occupying a larger and larger fraction of all economic activity. Thus far, in other words, as the realm of information has gotten more lubricated, it has become easier , not harder, to make a living by generating information. Cyberspace is essentially a quantum leap in lubrication.", "One much-discussed cybertrend is especially relevant here: the scenario in which various data brokers offer a \"Daily Me,\" a batch of articles tailored to your tastes, cheaply gleaned from all over the Web. When this happens, guys like me will be living the life of Riley. We will wake up at noon, stumble over to the keyboard in our pajamas, hammer out 1,000 words, and then--without talking to a single bothersome editor--make our work available to all data brokers. Likely fans of my article will be shown, say, the first couple of paragraphs. If they want to read more, they deposit a quarter. Will you try to steal a copy instead? Do you steal Tootsie pops at checkout counters? The broker and the electronic cash service will pocket a dime of that. I take my 15 cents and head for the liquor store.", "not only fails to make intellectual-property rights obsolete; it's the very insight that led to intellectual-property rights in the first place! Barlow announces from the mountaintop: \"It's fairly paradigm warping to look at information through fresh eyes--to see how", "Of course, this \"disaggregation of content\" may be ruinous for magazines like Slate. But consider the upside. Not only will the efficiency of the system permit rock-bottom pricing that discourages cheating, but the fluidity of content will disrupt channels of potential cheating. If you subscribe to a regular, old-fashioned online magazine, it's easy to split the cost of a subscription with a few friends and furtively make copies. (You wretched scum.) But if you subscribe to the \"Daily Me,\" this arrangement makes no sense, because every Me is different. Sure, you may e-mail a friend the occasional article from your \"Me.\" (You wretched scum.) And, in general, this sort of \"leakage\" will be higher than in pre-Web days. But it would have to reach massive proportions to negate the overall gains in efficiency that will keep people like me in business.", "Now imagine being at my Web site, reading my promotional materials, and deciding you'd like to read the book. (Thank you.) A single keystroke will give you the book, drain your bank account of five shiny quarters, and leave you feeling like an honest, upstanding citizen. Do you think you'll choose, instead, to call a few friends in hopes of scoring an illegal copy? And don't imagine that you can just traipse on over to the \"black-market book store\" section of the Web and find a hot copy of my book. As in the regular world, the easier it is for Joe Consumer to track down an illegal distributor, the easier it is for cops to do the same. Black marketeers will have to charge enough to make up for this risk, making it hard to undersell my $1.25 by much. And there are , too, why the cost of cheating will be nontrivial.", "Answer: Because it can't. The total cost of acquiring a \"free\" copy includes more than just the copying-and-transmitting costs. There's 1) the cost--in time and/or money--of finding someone who already has a copy, and will give it to you for free or for cheap; 2) the risk of getting caught stealing intellectual property; 3) any premiums you pay to others for incurring such risks (as when you get copies from bootleggers); and 4) informal punishments such as being labeled a cheat or a cheapskate. The size of this last cost will depend on how norms in this area evolve.", "B >ut this independence of meaning and value from physical incarnation is nothing new. It is as old as Sumerian tablets, to say nothing of the Gutenberg press. Indeed, the", "signals a distressing confusion on his part. The one sense in which it's true that information is \"detached\" from the \"physical plane\"--the fact that information's value transcends its physical incarnation--not only fails to qualify as an original insight, and", "very little it is like pig iron or pork bellies.\" Maybe so, but it's hard to say for sure, since the people who really did take that fresh look have been dead for centuries." ], [ "whole reason intellectual-property law exists is that people can acquire your information without acquiring the particular physical version of it that you created. Thus Barlow's belief that \"property law of all sorts\" has always \"found definition\" on the \"physical plane\"", "Barlow's insistence that intellectual property will soon be worthless is especially puzzling since he is one of the biggest troubadours of the Third Wave information economy. Sometimes he seem to think it's possible for a sector of a market economy to get bigger and bigger even while the connection between work and reward in that sector breaks down. He writes: \"Humanity now seems bent on creating a world economy primarily based on goods that take no material form. In doing so, we may be eliminating any predictable connection between creators and a fair reward for the utility or pleasure others may find in their works.\" Far out, man.", "Barlow's argument begins with a cosmic premise: \"Digital technology is detaching information from the physical plane, where property law of all sorts has always found definition.\" This is wrong on two counts. First, all information does take physical form. Whether digital or analog, whether in ink or sound waves or synaptic firings or electrons, information always resides in patterns of matter or energy (which, as Einstein noted, are interchangeable manifestations of the physical world). \n\n To be sure, the significance of information is independent of its particular physical incarnation. So is its value. You download this article from Slate's servers and copy it onto your own hard disk, and it's still worth--well, nothing, but that's a . Suppose it were a Madonna video: You'd get just as much enjoyment out of it regardless of which particular bunch of electrons embodied it.", "The seminal version of the Barlow-Dyson thesis is Barlow's 10,000-word 1994 essay in Wired . It is with some trepidation that I challenge the logic of this argument. Barlow is a noted visionary, and he is famously derisive of people less insightful than himself (a group which, in his opinion, includes roughly everyone). He says, for example, that the ability of courts to deal correctly with cyberissues depends on the \"depth of the presiding judge's clue-impairment.\" Well, at the risk of joining Barlow's long roster of the clue-impaired, here goes.", "If you somehow forced Barlow to articulate his thesis without the wacky metaphysics, he'd probably say something like this: The cost of copying and distributing information is plummeting--for many purposes, even approaching zero. Millions of people can now do it right at their desks. So in principle, content can multiply like fruit flies. Why should anyone buy an article when a copy can be had for nothing?", "not only fails to make intellectual-property rights obsolete; it's the very insight that led to intellectual-property rights in the first place! Barlow announces from the mountaintop: \"It's fairly paradigm warping to look at information through fresh eyes--to see how", "Barlow and Dyson do have a solution. In the future people like me, having cultivated a following by providing free content on the Web, will charge our devotees for services that are hard to replicate en masse. We will answer individual questions online, say, or go around giving speeches, or spew out insights at private seminars, or (this one is actually my idea) have sex with young readers. The key, writes Barlow, will be not content but \"performance.\" Barlow, a former lyricist for the Grateful Dead, offers this analogy: The Dead let people tape concerts, and the tapes then led more people to pay for the concerts.", "In their writings, Barlow and Dyson make clear they're aware of this fact. But they seems unaware of its fatal impact on their larger thesis. How could cybersages have such a blind spot? One theory: Because they're cyber sages. You have to be a career paleohack like me, getting paid for putting ink on paper, to appreciate how much of the cost of legally acquiring bits of information goes into the ink and paper and allied anachronisms, like shipping, warehousing, and displaying the inky paper. I wrote a book that costs $14 in paperback. For each copy sold, I get $1. The day may well come, as Barlow and Dyson seem to believe, when book publishers as we know them will disappear. People will download books from Web sites and either print them out on new, cool printers or read them on superlight wireless computers. But if so, it will then cost you only $1--oh hell, make it $1.25--to get a copy of my book legally from my Web site.", "Dead Head \n\n Back when I was a journalist--before I became a provider of digital content--I thought life would always be simple: I would write articles, and people would pay to read them. But then I heard about the impending death of intellectual property, a scenario painted by cyberfuturists John Perry Barlow and Esther Dyson. As all media move online, they say, content will be so freely available that getting paid to produce it will be hard, if not impossible. At first, I dismissed this as garden-variety, breathless overextrapolation from digerati social theorists. But even as I scoffed, the Barlow-Dyson scenario climbed steadily toward the rank of conventional wisdom.", "Even in the distant future, the total cost of cheating on the system, thus figured, will almost never be zero. Yes, it will be way, way closer to zero than it used to be. But the Barlow-Dyson scenario still is wrong. Why? Because whether people cheat doesn't depend on the absolute cost of cheating. It depends on the cost of cheating compared with the cost of not cheating. And the cost of getting data legally will plummet roughly as fast as the cost of getting it illegally--maybe faster.", "signals a distressing confusion on his part. The one sense in which it's true that information is \"detached\" from the \"physical plane\"--the fact that information's value transcends its physical incarnation--not only fails to qualify as an original insight, and", "B >ut this independence of meaning and value from physical incarnation is nothing new. It is as old as Sumerian tablets, to say nothing of the Gutenberg press. Indeed, the", "very little it is like pig iron or pork bellies.\" Maybe so, but it's hard to say for sure, since the people who really did take that fresh look have been dead for centuries.", "M >eanwhile, on the other side of the ledger, there's another reason for the cost of legal copies to drop. Many journalists will reach a much larger audience on the Web than they do now. The \"magazine\" model of bringing information to the attention of readers is stunningly inefficient. I hope it's not egotistical of me to think that when I write an article for, say, the New Republic , I am not reaching nearly everyone who might have an interest in it. Granted, the Web is not yet a picture of efficiency itself. Search engines, for example, are in the reptilian phase of their evolution. But most observers--certainly the Barlows of the world--expect radical improvement. (I'm not saying all journalists will see their audiences grow. The likely trend, when you , will be for many obscure and semiobscure journalists to see their audiences grow, while the few rich and famous journalists will see their audiences shrink. Cool.)", "This argument, like all arguments about the future, is speculative. It may even be wrong. But it is consistent with the history of the world. The last half-millennium has seen 1) data getting cheaper and easier to copy; and 2) data-creation occupying a larger and larger fraction of all economic activity. Thus far, in other words, as the realm of information has gotten more lubricated, it has become easier , not harder, to make a living by generating information. Cyberspace is essentially a quantum leap in lubrication.", "Answer: Because it can't. The total cost of acquiring a \"free\" copy includes more than just the copying-and-transmitting costs. There's 1) the cost--in time and/or money--of finding someone who already has a copy, and will give it to you for free or for cheap; 2) the risk of getting caught stealing intellectual property; 3) any premiums you pay to others for incurring such risks (as when you get copies from bootleggers); and 4) informal punishments such as being labeled a cheat or a cheapskate. The size of this last cost will depend on how norms in this area evolve.", "Of course, this \"disaggregation of content\" may be ruinous for magazines like Slate. But consider the upside. Not only will the efficiency of the system permit rock-bottom pricing that discourages cheating, but the fluidity of content will disrupt channels of potential cheating. If you subscribe to a regular, old-fashioned online magazine, it's easy to split the cost of a subscription with a few friends and furtively make copies. (You wretched scum.) But if you subscribe to the \"Daily Me,\" this arrangement makes no sense, because every Me is different. Sure, you may e-mail a friend the occasional article from your \"Me.\" (You wretched scum.) And, in general, this sort of \"leakage\" will be higher than in pre-Web days. But it would have to reach massive proportions to negate the overall gains in efficiency that will keep people like me in business.", "Now imagine being at my Web site, reading my promotional materials, and deciding you'd like to read the book. (Thank you.) A single keystroke will give you the book, drain your bank account of five shiny quarters, and leave you feeling like an honest, upstanding citizen. Do you think you'll choose, instead, to call a few friends in hopes of scoring an illegal copy? And don't imagine that you can just traipse on over to the \"black-market book store\" section of the Web and find a hot copy of my book. As in the regular world, the easier it is for Joe Consumer to track down an illegal distributor, the easier it is for cops to do the same. Black marketeers will have to charge enough to make up for this risk, making it hard to undersell my $1.25 by much. And there are , too, why the cost of cheating will be nontrivial.", "One much-discussed cybertrend is especially relevant here: the scenario in which various data brokers offer a \"Daily Me,\" a batch of articles tailored to your tastes, cheaply gleaned from all over the Web. When this happens, guys like me will be living the life of Riley. We will wake up at noon, stumble over to the keyboard in our pajamas, hammer out 1,000 words, and then--without talking to a single bothersome editor--make our work available to all data brokers. Likely fans of my article will be shown, say, the first couple of paragraphs. If they want to read more, they deposit a quarter. Will you try to steal a copy instead? Do you steal Tootsie pops at checkout counters? The broker and the electronic cash service will pocket a dime of that. I take my 15 cents and head for the liquor store." ], [ "Even in the distant future, the total cost of cheating on the system, thus figured, will almost never be zero. Yes, it will be way, way closer to zero than it used to be. But the Barlow-Dyson scenario still is wrong. Why? Because whether people cheat doesn't depend on the absolute cost of cheating. It depends on the cost of cheating compared with the cost of not cheating. And the cost of getting data legally will plummet roughly as fast as the cost of getting it illegally--maybe faster.", "If you somehow forced Barlow to articulate his thesis without the wacky metaphysics, he'd probably say something like this: The cost of copying and distributing information is plummeting--for many purposes, even approaching zero. Millions of people can now do it right at their desks. So in principle, content can multiply like fruit flies. Why should anyone buy an article when a copy can be had for nothing?", "Answer: Because it can't. The total cost of acquiring a \"free\" copy includes more than just the copying-and-transmitting costs. There's 1) the cost--in time and/or money--of finding someone who already has a copy, and will give it to you for free or for cheap; 2) the risk of getting caught stealing intellectual property; 3) any premiums you pay to others for incurring such risks (as when you get copies from bootleggers); and 4) informal punishments such as being labeled a cheat or a cheapskate. The size of this last cost will depend on how norms in this area evolve.", "This argument, like all arguments about the future, is speculative. It may even be wrong. But it is consistent with the history of the world. The last half-millennium has seen 1) data getting cheaper and easier to copy; and 2) data-creation occupying a larger and larger fraction of all economic activity. Thus far, in other words, as the realm of information has gotten more lubricated, it has become easier , not harder, to make a living by generating information. Cyberspace is essentially a quantum leap in lubrication.", "Barlow's insistence that intellectual property will soon be worthless is especially puzzling since he is one of the biggest troubadours of the Third Wave information economy. Sometimes he seem to think it's possible for a sector of a market economy to get bigger and bigger even while the connection between work and reward in that sector breaks down. He writes: \"Humanity now seems bent on creating a world economy primarily based on goods that take no material form. In doing so, we may be eliminating any predictable connection between creators and a fair reward for the utility or pleasure others may find in their works.\" Far out, man.", "Now imagine being at my Web site, reading my promotional materials, and deciding you'd like to read the book. (Thank you.) A single keystroke will give you the book, drain your bank account of five shiny quarters, and leave you feeling like an honest, upstanding citizen. Do you think you'll choose, instead, to call a few friends in hopes of scoring an illegal copy? And don't imagine that you can just traipse on over to the \"black-market book store\" section of the Web and find a hot copy of my book. As in the regular world, the easier it is for Joe Consumer to track down an illegal distributor, the easier it is for cops to do the same. Black marketeers will have to charge enough to make up for this risk, making it hard to undersell my $1.25 by much. And there are , too, why the cost of cheating will be nontrivial.", "Of course, this \"disaggregation of content\" may be ruinous for magazines like Slate. But consider the upside. Not only will the efficiency of the system permit rock-bottom pricing that discourages cheating, but the fluidity of content will disrupt channels of potential cheating. If you subscribe to a regular, old-fashioned online magazine, it's easy to split the cost of a subscription with a few friends and furtively make copies. (You wretched scum.) But if you subscribe to the \"Daily Me,\" this arrangement makes no sense, because every Me is different. Sure, you may e-mail a friend the occasional article from your \"Me.\" (You wretched scum.) And, in general, this sort of \"leakage\" will be higher than in pre-Web days. But it would have to reach massive proportions to negate the overall gains in efficiency that will keep people like me in business.", "whole reason intellectual-property law exists is that people can acquire your information without acquiring the particular physical version of it that you created. Thus Barlow's belief that \"property law of all sorts\" has always \"found definition\" on the \"physical plane\"", "Barlow and Dyson do have a solution. In the future people like me, having cultivated a following by providing free content on the Web, will charge our devotees for services that are hard to replicate en masse. We will answer individual questions online, say, or go around giving speeches, or spew out insights at private seminars, or (this one is actually my idea) have sex with young readers. The key, writes Barlow, will be not content but \"performance.\" Barlow, a former lyricist for the Grateful Dead, offers this analogy: The Dead let people tape concerts, and the tapes then led more people to pay for the concerts.", "Barlow's argument begins with a cosmic premise: \"Digital technology is detaching information from the physical plane, where property law of all sorts has always found definition.\" This is wrong on two counts. First, all information does take physical form. Whether digital or analog, whether in ink or sound waves or synaptic firings or electrons, information always resides in patterns of matter or energy (which, as Einstein noted, are interchangeable manifestations of the physical world). \n\n To be sure, the significance of information is independent of its particular physical incarnation. So is its value. You download this article from Slate's servers and copy it onto your own hard disk, and it's still worth--well, nothing, but that's a . Suppose it were a Madonna video: You'd get just as much enjoyment out of it regardless of which particular bunch of electrons embodied it.", "signals a distressing confusion on his part. The one sense in which it's true that information is \"detached\" from the \"physical plane\"--the fact that information's value transcends its physical incarnation--not only fails to qualify as an original insight, and", "The seminal version of the Barlow-Dyson thesis is Barlow's 10,000-word 1994 essay in Wired . It is with some trepidation that I challenge the logic of this argument. Barlow is a noted visionary, and he is famously derisive of people less insightful than himself (a group which, in his opinion, includes roughly everyone). He says, for example, that the ability of courts to deal correctly with cyberissues depends on the \"depth of the presiding judge's clue-impairment.\" Well, at the risk of joining Barlow's long roster of the clue-impaired, here goes.", "Dead Head \n\n Back when I was a journalist--before I became a provider of digital content--I thought life would always be simple: I would write articles, and people would pay to read them. But then I heard about the impending death of intellectual property, a scenario painted by cyberfuturists John Perry Barlow and Esther Dyson. As all media move online, they say, content will be so freely available that getting paid to produce it will be hard, if not impossible. At first, I dismissed this as garden-variety, breathless overextrapolation from digerati social theorists. But even as I scoffed, the Barlow-Dyson scenario climbed steadily toward the rank of conventional wisdom.", "One much-discussed cybertrend is especially relevant here: the scenario in which various data brokers offer a \"Daily Me,\" a batch of articles tailored to your tastes, cheaply gleaned from all over the Web. When this happens, guys like me will be living the life of Riley. We will wake up at noon, stumble over to the keyboard in our pajamas, hammer out 1,000 words, and then--without talking to a single bothersome editor--make our work available to all data brokers. Likely fans of my article will be shown, say, the first couple of paragraphs. If they want to read more, they deposit a quarter. Will you try to steal a copy instead? Do you steal Tootsie pops at checkout counters? The broker and the electronic cash service will pocket a dime of that. I take my 15 cents and head for the liquor store.", "In their writings, Barlow and Dyson make clear they're aware of this fact. But they seems unaware of its fatal impact on their larger thesis. How could cybersages have such a blind spot? One theory: Because they're cyber sages. You have to be a career paleohack like me, getting paid for putting ink on paper, to appreciate how much of the cost of legally acquiring bits of information goes into the ink and paper and allied anachronisms, like shipping, warehousing, and displaying the inky paper. I wrote a book that costs $14 in paperback. For each copy sold, I get $1. The day may well come, as Barlow and Dyson seem to believe, when book publishers as we know them will disappear. People will download books from Web sites and either print them out on new, cool printers or read them on superlight wireless computers. But if so, it will then cost you only $1--oh hell, make it $1.25--to get a copy of my book legally from my Web site.", "very little it is like pig iron or pork bellies.\" Maybe so, but it's hard to say for sure, since the people who really did take that fresh look have been dead for centuries.", "B >ut this independence of meaning and value from physical incarnation is nothing new. It is as old as Sumerian tablets, to say nothing of the Gutenberg press. Indeed, the", "not only fails to make intellectual-property rights obsolete; it's the very insight that led to intellectual-property rights in the first place! Barlow announces from the mountaintop: \"It's fairly paradigm warping to look at information through fresh eyes--to see how", "M >eanwhile, on the other side of the ledger, there's another reason for the cost of legal copies to drop. Many journalists will reach a much larger audience on the Web than they do now. The \"magazine\" model of bringing information to the attention of readers is stunningly inefficient. I hope it's not egotistical of me to think that when I write an article for, say, the New Republic , I am not reaching nearly everyone who might have an interest in it. Granted, the Web is not yet a picture of efficiency itself. Search engines, for example, are in the reptilian phase of their evolution. But most observers--certainly the Barlows of the world--expect radical improvement. (I'm not saying all journalists will see their audiences grow. The likely trend, when you , will be for many obscure and semiobscure journalists to see their audiences grow, while the few rich and famous journalists will see their audiences shrink. Cool.)" ], [ "Barlow's insistence that intellectual property will soon be worthless is especially puzzling since he is one of the biggest troubadours of the Third Wave information economy. Sometimes he seem to think it's possible for a sector of a market economy to get bigger and bigger even while the connection between work and reward in that sector breaks down. He writes: \"Humanity now seems bent on creating a world economy primarily based on goods that take no material form. In doing so, we may be eliminating any predictable connection between creators and a fair reward for the utility or pleasure others may find in their works.\" Far out, man.", "If you somehow forced Barlow to articulate his thesis without the wacky metaphysics, he'd probably say something like this: The cost of copying and distributing information is plummeting--for many purposes, even approaching zero. Millions of people can now do it right at their desks. So in principle, content can multiply like fruit flies. Why should anyone buy an article when a copy can be had for nothing?", "Barlow's argument begins with a cosmic premise: \"Digital technology is detaching information from the physical plane, where property law of all sorts has always found definition.\" This is wrong on two counts. First, all information does take physical form. Whether digital or analog, whether in ink or sound waves or synaptic firings or electrons, information always resides in patterns of matter or energy (which, as Einstein noted, are interchangeable manifestations of the physical world). \n\n To be sure, the significance of information is independent of its particular physical incarnation. So is its value. You download this article from Slate's servers and copy it onto your own hard disk, and it's still worth--well, nothing, but that's a . Suppose it were a Madonna video: You'd get just as much enjoyment out of it regardless of which particular bunch of electrons embodied it.", "whole reason intellectual-property law exists is that people can acquire your information without acquiring the particular physical version of it that you created. Thus Barlow's belief that \"property law of all sorts\" has always \"found definition\" on the \"physical plane\"", "not only fails to make intellectual-property rights obsolete; it's the very insight that led to intellectual-property rights in the first place! Barlow announces from the mountaintop: \"It's fairly paradigm warping to look at information through fresh eyes--to see how", "Dead Head \n\n Back when I was a journalist--before I became a provider of digital content--I thought life would always be simple: I would write articles, and people would pay to read them. But then I heard about the impending death of intellectual property, a scenario painted by cyberfuturists John Perry Barlow and Esther Dyson. As all media move online, they say, content will be so freely available that getting paid to produce it will be hard, if not impossible. At first, I dismissed this as garden-variety, breathless overextrapolation from digerati social theorists. But even as I scoffed, the Barlow-Dyson scenario climbed steadily toward the rank of conventional wisdom.", "Barlow and Dyson do have a solution. In the future people like me, having cultivated a following by providing free content on the Web, will charge our devotees for services that are hard to replicate en masse. We will answer individual questions online, say, or go around giving speeches, or spew out insights at private seminars, or (this one is actually my idea) have sex with young readers. The key, writes Barlow, will be not content but \"performance.\" Barlow, a former lyricist for the Grateful Dead, offers this analogy: The Dead let people tape concerts, and the tapes then led more people to pay for the concerts.", "In their writings, Barlow and Dyson make clear they're aware of this fact. But they seems unaware of its fatal impact on their larger thesis. How could cybersages have such a blind spot? One theory: Because they're cyber sages. You have to be a career paleohack like me, getting paid for putting ink on paper, to appreciate how much of the cost of legally acquiring bits of information goes into the ink and paper and allied anachronisms, like shipping, warehousing, and displaying the inky paper. I wrote a book that costs $14 in paperback. For each copy sold, I get $1. The day may well come, as Barlow and Dyson seem to believe, when book publishers as we know them will disappear. People will download books from Web sites and either print them out on new, cool printers or read them on superlight wireless computers. But if so, it will then cost you only $1--oh hell, make it $1.25--to get a copy of my book legally from my Web site.", "The seminal version of the Barlow-Dyson thesis is Barlow's 10,000-word 1994 essay in Wired . It is with some trepidation that I challenge the logic of this argument. Barlow is a noted visionary, and he is famously derisive of people less insightful than himself (a group which, in his opinion, includes roughly everyone). He says, for example, that the ability of courts to deal correctly with cyberissues depends on the \"depth of the presiding judge's clue-impairment.\" Well, at the risk of joining Barlow's long roster of the clue-impaired, here goes.", "Even in the distant future, the total cost of cheating on the system, thus figured, will almost never be zero. Yes, it will be way, way closer to zero than it used to be. But the Barlow-Dyson scenario still is wrong. Why? Because whether people cheat doesn't depend on the absolute cost of cheating. It depends on the cost of cheating compared with the cost of not cheating. And the cost of getting data legally will plummet roughly as fast as the cost of getting it illegally--maybe faster.", "This argument, like all arguments about the future, is speculative. It may even be wrong. But it is consistent with the history of the world. The last half-millennium has seen 1) data getting cheaper and easier to copy; and 2) data-creation occupying a larger and larger fraction of all economic activity. Thus far, in other words, as the realm of information has gotten more lubricated, it has become easier , not harder, to make a living by generating information. Cyberspace is essentially a quantum leap in lubrication.", "M >eanwhile, on the other side of the ledger, there's another reason for the cost of legal copies to drop. Many journalists will reach a much larger audience on the Web than they do now. The \"magazine\" model of bringing information to the attention of readers is stunningly inefficient. I hope it's not egotistical of me to think that when I write an article for, say, the New Republic , I am not reaching nearly everyone who might have an interest in it. Granted, the Web is not yet a picture of efficiency itself. Search engines, for example, are in the reptilian phase of their evolution. But most observers--certainly the Barlows of the world--expect radical improvement. (I'm not saying all journalists will see their audiences grow. The likely trend, when you , will be for many obscure and semiobscure journalists to see their audiences grow, while the few rich and famous journalists will see their audiences shrink. Cool.)", "Answer: Because it can't. The total cost of acquiring a \"free\" copy includes more than just the copying-and-transmitting costs. There's 1) the cost--in time and/or money--of finding someone who already has a copy, and will give it to you for free or for cheap; 2) the risk of getting caught stealing intellectual property; 3) any premiums you pay to others for incurring such risks (as when you get copies from bootleggers); and 4) informal punishments such as being labeled a cheat or a cheapskate. The size of this last cost will depend on how norms in this area evolve.", "Now imagine being at my Web site, reading my promotional materials, and deciding you'd like to read the book. (Thank you.) A single keystroke will give you the book, drain your bank account of five shiny quarters, and leave you feeling like an honest, upstanding citizen. Do you think you'll choose, instead, to call a few friends in hopes of scoring an illegal copy? And don't imagine that you can just traipse on over to the \"black-market book store\" section of the Web and find a hot copy of my book. As in the regular world, the easier it is for Joe Consumer to track down an illegal distributor, the easier it is for cops to do the same. Black marketeers will have to charge enough to make up for this risk, making it hard to undersell my $1.25 by much. And there are , too, why the cost of cheating will be nontrivial.", "Of course, this \"disaggregation of content\" may be ruinous for magazines like Slate. But consider the upside. Not only will the efficiency of the system permit rock-bottom pricing that discourages cheating, but the fluidity of content will disrupt channels of potential cheating. If you subscribe to a regular, old-fashioned online magazine, it's easy to split the cost of a subscription with a few friends and furtively make copies. (You wretched scum.) But if you subscribe to the \"Daily Me,\" this arrangement makes no sense, because every Me is different. Sure, you may e-mail a friend the occasional article from your \"Me.\" (You wretched scum.) And, in general, this sort of \"leakage\" will be higher than in pre-Web days. But it would have to reach massive proportions to negate the overall gains in efficiency that will keep people like me in business.", "One much-discussed cybertrend is especially relevant here: the scenario in which various data brokers offer a \"Daily Me,\" a batch of articles tailored to your tastes, cheaply gleaned from all over the Web. When this happens, guys like me will be living the life of Riley. We will wake up at noon, stumble over to the keyboard in our pajamas, hammer out 1,000 words, and then--without talking to a single bothersome editor--make our work available to all data brokers. Likely fans of my article will be shown, say, the first couple of paragraphs. If they want to read more, they deposit a quarter. Will you try to steal a copy instead? Do you steal Tootsie pops at checkout counters? The broker and the electronic cash service will pocket a dime of that. I take my 15 cents and head for the liquor store.", "B >ut this independence of meaning and value from physical incarnation is nothing new. It is as old as Sumerian tablets, to say nothing of the Gutenberg press. Indeed, the", "signals a distressing confusion on his part. The one sense in which it's true that information is \"detached\" from the \"physical plane\"--the fact that information's value transcends its physical incarnation--not only fails to qualify as an original insight, and", "very little it is like pig iron or pork bellies.\" Maybe so, but it's hard to say for sure, since the people who really did take that fresh look have been dead for centuries." ], [ "M >eanwhile, on the other side of the ledger, there's another reason for the cost of legal copies to drop. Many journalists will reach a much larger audience on the Web than they do now. The \"magazine\" model of bringing information to the attention of readers is stunningly inefficient. I hope it's not egotistical of me to think that when I write an article for, say, the New Republic , I am not reaching nearly everyone who might have an interest in it. Granted, the Web is not yet a picture of efficiency itself. Search engines, for example, are in the reptilian phase of their evolution. But most observers--certainly the Barlows of the world--expect radical improvement. (I'm not saying all journalists will see their audiences grow. The likely trend, when you , will be for many obscure and semiobscure journalists to see their audiences grow, while the few rich and famous journalists will see their audiences shrink. Cool.)", "Dead Head \n\n Back when I was a journalist--before I became a provider of digital content--I thought life would always be simple: I would write articles, and people would pay to read them. But then I heard about the impending death of intellectual property, a scenario painted by cyberfuturists John Perry Barlow and Esther Dyson. As all media move online, they say, content will be so freely available that getting paid to produce it will be hard, if not impossible. At first, I dismissed this as garden-variety, breathless overextrapolation from digerati social theorists. But even as I scoffed, the Barlow-Dyson scenario climbed steadily toward the rank of conventional wisdom.", "Of course, this \"disaggregation of content\" may be ruinous for magazines like Slate. But consider the upside. Not only will the efficiency of the system permit rock-bottom pricing that discourages cheating, but the fluidity of content will disrupt channels of potential cheating. If you subscribe to a regular, old-fashioned online magazine, it's easy to split the cost of a subscription with a few friends and furtively make copies. (You wretched scum.) But if you subscribe to the \"Daily Me,\" this arrangement makes no sense, because every Me is different. Sure, you may e-mail a friend the occasional article from your \"Me.\" (You wretched scum.) And, in general, this sort of \"leakage\" will be higher than in pre-Web days. But it would have to reach massive proportions to negate the overall gains in efficiency that will keep people like me in business.", "If you somehow forced Barlow to articulate his thesis without the wacky metaphysics, he'd probably say something like this: The cost of copying and distributing information is plummeting--for many purposes, even approaching zero. Millions of people can now do it right at their desks. So in principle, content can multiply like fruit flies. Why should anyone buy an article when a copy can be had for nothing?", "One much-discussed cybertrend is especially relevant here: the scenario in which various data brokers offer a \"Daily Me,\" a batch of articles tailored to your tastes, cheaply gleaned from all over the Web. When this happens, guys like me will be living the life of Riley. We will wake up at noon, stumble over to the keyboard in our pajamas, hammer out 1,000 words, and then--without talking to a single bothersome editor--make our work available to all data brokers. Likely fans of my article will be shown, say, the first couple of paragraphs. If they want to read more, they deposit a quarter. Will you try to steal a copy instead? Do you steal Tootsie pops at checkout counters? The broker and the electronic cash service will pocket a dime of that. I take my 15 cents and head for the liquor store.", "Barlow and Dyson do have a solution. In the future people like me, having cultivated a following by providing free content on the Web, will charge our devotees for services that are hard to replicate en masse. We will answer individual questions online, say, or go around giving speeches, or spew out insights at private seminars, or (this one is actually my idea) have sex with young readers. The key, writes Barlow, will be not content but \"performance.\" Barlow, a former lyricist for the Grateful Dead, offers this analogy: The Dead let people tape concerts, and the tapes then led more people to pay for the concerts.", "In their writings, Barlow and Dyson make clear they're aware of this fact. But they seems unaware of its fatal impact on their larger thesis. How could cybersages have such a blind spot? One theory: Because they're cyber sages. You have to be a career paleohack like me, getting paid for putting ink on paper, to appreciate how much of the cost of legally acquiring bits of information goes into the ink and paper and allied anachronisms, like shipping, warehousing, and displaying the inky paper. I wrote a book that costs $14 in paperback. For each copy sold, I get $1. The day may well come, as Barlow and Dyson seem to believe, when book publishers as we know them will disappear. People will download books from Web sites and either print them out on new, cool printers or read them on superlight wireless computers. But if so, it will then cost you only $1--oh hell, make it $1.25--to get a copy of my book legally from my Web site.", "This argument, like all arguments about the future, is speculative. It may even be wrong. But it is consistent with the history of the world. The last half-millennium has seen 1) data getting cheaper and easier to copy; and 2) data-creation occupying a larger and larger fraction of all economic activity. Thus far, in other words, as the realm of information has gotten more lubricated, it has become easier , not harder, to make a living by generating information. Cyberspace is essentially a quantum leap in lubrication.", "Barlow's argument begins with a cosmic premise: \"Digital technology is detaching information from the physical plane, where property law of all sorts has always found definition.\" This is wrong on two counts. First, all information does take physical form. Whether digital or analog, whether in ink or sound waves or synaptic firings or electrons, information always resides in patterns of matter or energy (which, as Einstein noted, are interchangeable manifestations of the physical world). \n\n To be sure, the significance of information is independent of its particular physical incarnation. So is its value. You download this article from Slate's servers and copy it onto your own hard disk, and it's still worth--well, nothing, but that's a . Suppose it were a Madonna video: You'd get just as much enjoyment out of it regardless of which particular bunch of electrons embodied it.", "Barlow's insistence that intellectual property will soon be worthless is especially puzzling since he is one of the biggest troubadours of the Third Wave information economy. Sometimes he seem to think it's possible for a sector of a market economy to get bigger and bigger even while the connection between work and reward in that sector breaks down. He writes: \"Humanity now seems bent on creating a world economy primarily based on goods that take no material form. In doing so, we may be eliminating any predictable connection between creators and a fair reward for the utility or pleasure others may find in their works.\" Far out, man.", "The seminal version of the Barlow-Dyson thesis is Barlow's 10,000-word 1994 essay in Wired . It is with some trepidation that I challenge the logic of this argument. Barlow is a noted visionary, and he is famously derisive of people less insightful than himself (a group which, in his opinion, includes roughly everyone). He says, for example, that the ability of courts to deal correctly with cyberissues depends on the \"depth of the presiding judge's clue-impairment.\" Well, at the risk of joining Barlow's long roster of the clue-impaired, here goes.", "B >ut this independence of meaning and value from physical incarnation is nothing new. It is as old as Sumerian tablets, to say nothing of the Gutenberg press. Indeed, the", "Now imagine being at my Web site, reading my promotional materials, and deciding you'd like to read the book. (Thank you.) A single keystroke will give you the book, drain your bank account of five shiny quarters, and leave you feeling like an honest, upstanding citizen. Do you think you'll choose, instead, to call a few friends in hopes of scoring an illegal copy? And don't imagine that you can just traipse on over to the \"black-market book store\" section of the Web and find a hot copy of my book. As in the regular world, the easier it is for Joe Consumer to track down an illegal distributor, the easier it is for cops to do the same. Black marketeers will have to charge enough to make up for this risk, making it hard to undersell my $1.25 by much. And there are , too, why the cost of cheating will be nontrivial.", "not only fails to make intellectual-property rights obsolete; it's the very insight that led to intellectual-property rights in the first place! Barlow announces from the mountaintop: \"It's fairly paradigm warping to look at information through fresh eyes--to see how", "signals a distressing confusion on his part. The one sense in which it's true that information is \"detached\" from the \"physical plane\"--the fact that information's value transcends its physical incarnation--not only fails to qualify as an original insight, and", "Even in the distant future, the total cost of cheating on the system, thus figured, will almost never be zero. Yes, it will be way, way closer to zero than it used to be. But the Barlow-Dyson scenario still is wrong. Why? Because whether people cheat doesn't depend on the absolute cost of cheating. It depends on the cost of cheating compared with the cost of not cheating. And the cost of getting data legally will plummet roughly as fast as the cost of getting it illegally--maybe faster.", "whole reason intellectual-property law exists is that people can acquire your information without acquiring the particular physical version of it that you created. Thus Barlow's belief that \"property law of all sorts\" has always \"found definition\" on the \"physical plane\"", "Answer: Because it can't. The total cost of acquiring a \"free\" copy includes more than just the copying-and-transmitting costs. There's 1) the cost--in time and/or money--of finding someone who already has a copy, and will give it to you for free or for cheap; 2) the risk of getting caught stealing intellectual property; 3) any premiums you pay to others for incurring such risks (as when you get copies from bootleggers); and 4) informal punishments such as being labeled a cheat or a cheapskate. The size of this last cost will depend on how norms in this area evolve.", "very little it is like pig iron or pork bellies.\" Maybe so, but it's hard to say for sure, since the people who really did take that fresh look have been dead for centuries." ], [ "Of course, this \"disaggregation of content\" may be ruinous for magazines like Slate. But consider the upside. Not only will the efficiency of the system permit rock-bottom pricing that discourages cheating, but the fluidity of content will disrupt channels of potential cheating. If you subscribe to a regular, old-fashioned online magazine, it's easy to split the cost of a subscription with a few friends and furtively make copies. (You wretched scum.) But if you subscribe to the \"Daily Me,\" this arrangement makes no sense, because every Me is different. Sure, you may e-mail a friend the occasional article from your \"Me.\" (You wretched scum.) And, in general, this sort of \"leakage\" will be higher than in pre-Web days. But it would have to reach massive proportions to negate the overall gains in efficiency that will keep people like me in business.", "If you somehow forced Barlow to articulate his thesis without the wacky metaphysics, he'd probably say something like this: The cost of copying and distributing information is plummeting--for many purposes, even approaching zero. Millions of people can now do it right at their desks. So in principle, content can multiply like fruit flies. Why should anyone buy an article when a copy can be had for nothing?", "Barlow and Dyson do have a solution. In the future people like me, having cultivated a following by providing free content on the Web, will charge our devotees for services that are hard to replicate en masse. We will answer individual questions online, say, or go around giving speeches, or spew out insights at private seminars, or (this one is actually my idea) have sex with young readers. The key, writes Barlow, will be not content but \"performance.\" Barlow, a former lyricist for the Grateful Dead, offers this analogy: The Dead let people tape concerts, and the tapes then led more people to pay for the concerts.", "Dead Head \n\n Back when I was a journalist--before I became a provider of digital content--I thought life would always be simple: I would write articles, and people would pay to read them. But then I heard about the impending death of intellectual property, a scenario painted by cyberfuturists John Perry Barlow and Esther Dyson. As all media move online, they say, content will be so freely available that getting paid to produce it will be hard, if not impossible. At first, I dismissed this as garden-variety, breathless overextrapolation from digerati social theorists. But even as I scoffed, the Barlow-Dyson scenario climbed steadily toward the rank of conventional wisdom.", "One much-discussed cybertrend is especially relevant here: the scenario in which various data brokers offer a \"Daily Me,\" a batch of articles tailored to your tastes, cheaply gleaned from all over the Web. When this happens, guys like me will be living the life of Riley. We will wake up at noon, stumble over to the keyboard in our pajamas, hammer out 1,000 words, and then--without talking to a single bothersome editor--make our work available to all data brokers. Likely fans of my article will be shown, say, the first couple of paragraphs. If they want to read more, they deposit a quarter. Will you try to steal a copy instead? Do you steal Tootsie pops at checkout counters? The broker and the electronic cash service will pocket a dime of that. I take my 15 cents and head for the liquor store.", "M >eanwhile, on the other side of the ledger, there's another reason for the cost of legal copies to drop. Many journalists will reach a much larger audience on the Web than they do now. The \"magazine\" model of bringing information to the attention of readers is stunningly inefficient. I hope it's not egotistical of me to think that when I write an article for, say, the New Republic , I am not reaching nearly everyone who might have an interest in it. Granted, the Web is not yet a picture of efficiency itself. Search engines, for example, are in the reptilian phase of their evolution. But most observers--certainly the Barlows of the world--expect radical improvement. (I'm not saying all journalists will see their audiences grow. The likely trend, when you , will be for many obscure and semiobscure journalists to see their audiences grow, while the few rich and famous journalists will see their audiences shrink. Cool.)", "Barlow's argument begins with a cosmic premise: \"Digital technology is detaching information from the physical plane, where property law of all sorts has always found definition.\" This is wrong on two counts. First, all information does take physical form. Whether digital or analog, whether in ink or sound waves or synaptic firings or electrons, information always resides in patterns of matter or energy (which, as Einstein noted, are interchangeable manifestations of the physical world). \n\n To be sure, the significance of information is independent of its particular physical incarnation. So is its value. You download this article from Slate's servers and copy it onto your own hard disk, and it's still worth--well, nothing, but that's a . Suppose it were a Madonna video: You'd get just as much enjoyment out of it regardless of which particular bunch of electrons embodied it.", "In their writings, Barlow and Dyson make clear they're aware of this fact. But they seems unaware of its fatal impact on their larger thesis. How could cybersages have such a blind spot? One theory: Because they're cyber sages. You have to be a career paleohack like me, getting paid for putting ink on paper, to appreciate how much of the cost of legally acquiring bits of information goes into the ink and paper and allied anachronisms, like shipping, warehousing, and displaying the inky paper. I wrote a book that costs $14 in paperback. For each copy sold, I get $1. The day may well come, as Barlow and Dyson seem to believe, when book publishers as we know them will disappear. People will download books from Web sites and either print them out on new, cool printers or read them on superlight wireless computers. But if so, it will then cost you only $1--oh hell, make it $1.25--to get a copy of my book legally from my Web site.", "Barlow's insistence that intellectual property will soon be worthless is especially puzzling since he is one of the biggest troubadours of the Third Wave information economy. Sometimes he seem to think it's possible for a sector of a market economy to get bigger and bigger even while the connection between work and reward in that sector breaks down. He writes: \"Humanity now seems bent on creating a world economy primarily based on goods that take no material form. In doing so, we may be eliminating any predictable connection between creators and a fair reward for the utility or pleasure others may find in their works.\" Far out, man.", "signals a distressing confusion on his part. The one sense in which it's true that information is \"detached\" from the \"physical plane\"--the fact that information's value transcends its physical incarnation--not only fails to qualify as an original insight, and", "The seminal version of the Barlow-Dyson thesis is Barlow's 10,000-word 1994 essay in Wired . It is with some trepidation that I challenge the logic of this argument. Barlow is a noted visionary, and he is famously derisive of people less insightful than himself (a group which, in his opinion, includes roughly everyone). He says, for example, that the ability of courts to deal correctly with cyberissues depends on the \"depth of the presiding judge's clue-impairment.\" Well, at the risk of joining Barlow's long roster of the clue-impaired, here goes.", "B >ut this independence of meaning and value from physical incarnation is nothing new. It is as old as Sumerian tablets, to say nothing of the Gutenberg press. Indeed, the", "whole reason intellectual-property law exists is that people can acquire your information without acquiring the particular physical version of it that you created. Thus Barlow's belief that \"property law of all sorts\" has always \"found definition\" on the \"physical plane\"", "This argument, like all arguments about the future, is speculative. It may even be wrong. But it is consistent with the history of the world. The last half-millennium has seen 1) data getting cheaper and easier to copy; and 2) data-creation occupying a larger and larger fraction of all economic activity. Thus far, in other words, as the realm of information has gotten more lubricated, it has become easier , not harder, to make a living by generating information. Cyberspace is essentially a quantum leap in lubrication.", "Now imagine being at my Web site, reading my promotional materials, and deciding you'd like to read the book. (Thank you.) A single keystroke will give you the book, drain your bank account of five shiny quarters, and leave you feeling like an honest, upstanding citizen. Do you think you'll choose, instead, to call a few friends in hopes of scoring an illegal copy? And don't imagine that you can just traipse on over to the \"black-market book store\" section of the Web and find a hot copy of my book. As in the regular world, the easier it is for Joe Consumer to track down an illegal distributor, the easier it is for cops to do the same. Black marketeers will have to charge enough to make up for this risk, making it hard to undersell my $1.25 by much. And there are , too, why the cost of cheating will be nontrivial.", "not only fails to make intellectual-property rights obsolete; it's the very insight that led to intellectual-property rights in the first place! Barlow announces from the mountaintop: \"It's fairly paradigm warping to look at information through fresh eyes--to see how", "Answer: Because it can't. The total cost of acquiring a \"free\" copy includes more than just the copying-and-transmitting costs. There's 1) the cost--in time and/or money--of finding someone who already has a copy, and will give it to you for free or for cheap; 2) the risk of getting caught stealing intellectual property; 3) any premiums you pay to others for incurring such risks (as when you get copies from bootleggers); and 4) informal punishments such as being labeled a cheat or a cheapskate. The size of this last cost will depend on how norms in this area evolve.", "Even in the distant future, the total cost of cheating on the system, thus figured, will almost never be zero. Yes, it will be way, way closer to zero than it used to be. But the Barlow-Dyson scenario still is wrong. Why? Because whether people cheat doesn't depend on the absolute cost of cheating. It depends on the cost of cheating compared with the cost of not cheating. And the cost of getting data legally will plummet roughly as fast as the cost of getting it illegally--maybe faster.", "very little it is like pig iron or pork bellies.\" Maybe so, but it's hard to say for sure, since the people who really did take that fresh look have been dead for centuries." ] ]
test	51075	[ "What is one of the problems with chemical warfare in Dell's opinion?", "Why do Brown and his confederates look so haggard and unhealthy?", "What was the goal of the travelers from the future?", "Why does Dr. Dell send packages of choice fruits and vegetables to former colleages at Camp Detrick and universities and research centers across the country?", "What is Johnson's purpose in visiting Dell's truck farm?", "Who is the farmhand that Curt and Louise first meet when they arrive at Dell's farm?", "What is the real purpose of the ominously heavy truck attached by a hose to an underground tank that Curt and Louise notice?", "What is the role of Curt's wife in this story?", "Does Dr. Dell want to be saved?" ]	[ [ "It creates vast toxic wastelands where nothing can grow.", "It is a tool of tyranny, available only to the rich and powerful who can then keep their power over the little guy.", "It causes genetic mutations that will affect the people of Earth for generations to come.", "It removes the direct \"bash your enemy in the head with the biggest rock you can find\" immediacy of being confronted with the results of your own violence." ], [ "Smoking was a very common activity, especially among men, at the time of the story. Their lungs were already vulnerable, and working around both military grade and agricultural chemicals has made it worse.", "There was neither a vaccine nor an effective treatment for tuberculosis at the time of this story, and these men had been sent to the country to isolate them, and to wait while they recovered or died.", "The men were living as fugitives, and it was hard for them to get enough food or medical care, which took a toll on their healht over time.", "They come from a future when a massive chemical weapons attack was unleashed. They are the debilitated survivors." ], [ "They were studying the pure science of time travel.", "To take revenge on the inventor of the chemical toxin that ruined their lives and their world.", "To invent an antidote to the chemical toxin that they could take back to the future before the chemical attack so that everyone could be saved.", "To prevent the war that unleashed the chemical holocaust on them." ], [ "Dell is a truck farmer now, and he is proud of the healthy produce he grows, and wants to advertise his skill. Better living through chemistry!", "Dell has poisoned the fruits and vegetables in a subtle way, and is trying to kill off scientists.", "Dell's truck farm has a mail order component, and he is trying to drum up business among people he knows, at their far-flung locations.", "Dell is part of the effort to prevent the war that leads to the chemical devastation of Earth. To prevent it, he needs to try to reduce the likelihood that the next toxin will be invented in the future by recruiting more scientists to his point of view. Gifts help." ], [ " To get a good look at the techniques Dell uses to grow such lush and appealing produce.", "He is considering quitting Camp Detrick himself, and he wants to understand what life might be like if he does that.", "To attempt to persuade him return to his career as a chemical weapons developer.", "To renew the friendship they had when they both worked at Camp Detrick." ], [ "He is Mr. Brown, a worker who has served generations of Dells on this farm.", "He is a vagrant that Dell has kindly taken in, giving him food for work. ", "He is Mr. Brown, one of the people who returned from the future. ", "He's a former crab fisherman in Cheseapeake Bay, working on farms now that the Bay is fished out." ], [ "Curt and Louis observe a dead rabbit in the vicinity of a small leak near the hose and realize that Dell is working on bioweapons secretly at the truck farm.", "According to the farmhand, Brown, it is a special chemical of Dell's devising that gives the fields their greenish cast and makes them grow so well.", "The heavy liquid being pumped is the coolant loop for the time machine that transported survivors from the future back to Dell's farm.", "According to Dell, it is just liquid fertilizer being transferred from underground tank to truck, to then fertilize the fields. " ], [ "Her insight helps Curt realize that war is evil.", "She doesn't really have a role. She is just a decoration.", "She makes the key observation that Dr Dell's and Mr. Brown's afflictions must be related, a clue that they both came from the future.", "She is there as eye candy for Dr. Dell, who was a noted womanizer in his Camp Detrick days." ], [ "Yes. Like so many suffering from chronic pain, there are times he wants to die, but with a little support, he finds the courage to get help and go on.", "Yes. He realizes that he needs help, and he sends Curt to bring Dr. Wilson from Towson.", "No. He purposely sends Curt the wrong direction because he knows he needs to die to prevent a future war.", "No. He has been in pain for so long now that he just wants an end to it all." ] ]	[ -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1 ]	[ 1, 0, 1, 1, 0, 1, 0, 1, 1 ]	[ [ "\"Oh, Dell, it's not as simple as that.\" Curt raised a hand and let it\n fall wearily. They had been over this so many times before. \"Weapon\n designers are no more responsible than any other agents of society.\n It's pure neurosis to absorb the whole guilt of wars yet unfought\n merely because you happened to have developed a potential weapon.\"\n\n\n Dell touched the massive dome of his skull. \"Here within this brain of\n mine has been conceived a thing which will probably destroy a billion\n human lives in the coming years. D. triconus toxin in a suitable\n aerosol requires only a countable number of molecules in the lungs of\n a man to kill him. My brain and mine alone is responsible for that\n vicious, murderous discovery.\"", "Louise's smile grew tight and thin. \"Don't any of you ever think of\n anything but the next war—\nany\nof you?\"\n\n\n \"How can we? We're fighting it right now.\"\n\n\n \"You make it sound so hopeless.\"\n\n\n \"That's what Dell said in the days just before he quit. He said we\n didn't\nhave\nto stay at Detrick producing the toxins and aerosols that\n will destroy millions of lives. But he never showed us how we could\n quit—and be sure of staying alive. His own walking out was no more\n than a futile gesture.\"\n\n\n \"I just can't understand him, Curt. I think he's right in a way, but\n what brought\nhim\nto that viewpoint?\"", "\"But doesn't this sense of guilt—unwarranted as it is—make you\nwant\nto find an antitoxin?\"\n\n\n \"Suppose I succeeded? I would have canceled the weapon of an enemy.\n The military would know he could nullify ours in time. Then they would\n command me to work out still another toxin. It's a vicious and insane\n circle, which must be broken somewhere. The purpose of the entire\n remainder of my life is to break it.\"\n\n\n \"When you are fighting for your life and the enemy already has his\n hands about your throat,\" Curt argued, \"you reach for the biggest rock\n you can get your hands on and beat his brains in. You don't try to\n persuade him that killing is unethical.\"\n\n\n For an instant it seemed to Curt that a flicker of humor touched the\n corners of Dell's mouth. Then the lines tightened down again.", "\"When are\nyou\ncoming back?\" Curt demanded instead of answering.\n\n\n \"So they still want me, even after the things I said when I left.\"\n\n\n \"You're needed badly. When I told Hansen I was coming down, he said it\n would be worth five years of my own work to bring you back.\"\n\n\n \"They want me to produce even deadlier toxins than those I gave them,\"\n Dell said viciously. \"They want some that can kill ten million people\n in four minutes instead of only one million—\"\n\n\n \"Any man would go insane if he looked at it that way. It would be the\n same as gun-makers being tormented by the vision of torn men destroyed\n by their bullets, the sorrowing families—\"\n\n\n \"And why shouldn't the gun-makers be tormented?\" Dell's voice was\n low with controlled hate. \"They are men like you and me who give the\nwar\n-makers new tools for their trade.\"", "\"Then what are we to do?\" Curt demanded fiercely. \"What are we to do\n while enemy scientists prepare these same weapons to exterminate\nus\n?\n Sure, it's one hell of a mess. Science is already dead. The kind you\n talk about has been dead for twenty years. All our fine ideals are\n worthless until the politicians find a solution to their quarrels.\"\n\n\n \"Politicians? Since when did men of science have to wait upon\n politicians for solutions of human problems?\" Dell passed a hand over\n his brow, and suddenly his face contorted in pain.\n\n\n \"What is it?\" Curt exclaimed, rising.\n\n\n \"Nothing—nothing, my boy. Some minor trouble I've had lately. It will\n pass in a moment.\"", "\"Hard to tell,\" Curt said, unconsciously speeding up again. \"After\n the war, when the atomic scientists were publicly examining their\n consciences, Dell told them to examine their own guts first. That\n was typical of him then, but soon after, he swung just as strongly\n pacifist and walked out of Detrick.\"\n\n\n \"It still seems strange that he abandoned his whole career. The world's\n foremost biochemist giving up the laboratory for a\ntruck farm\n!\"\n Louise glanced down at the lunch basket between them. In it were\n tomatoes that Dr. Hamon Dell had sent along with his invitation to\n visit him.\nFor nearly a year Dr. Dell had been sending packages of choice fruit\n and vegetables to his former colleagues, not only at the biological\n warfare center at Camp Detrick but at the universities and other\n research centers throughout the country.\n\n\n \"I wish we knew exactly why he asked us to come out,\" said Louise.", "\"You might say that we would be in the rock business,\" replied Dell.\n \"Fighting is no longer on the level of one man with his hands about\n another's throat, but it\nshould\nbe. Those who want power and\n domination should have to fight for it personally. But it has been a\n long time since they had to.\n\"Even in the old days, kings and emperors hired mercenaries to fight\n their wars. The militarists don't buy swords now. They buy brains.\n We're the mercenaries of the new day, Curt, you and I. Once there was\n honor in our profession. We searched for truth for its own sake, and\n because it was our way of life. Once we were the hope of the world\n because science was a universal language.", "Beside him, his wife, Louise, held her blowing hair away from her face\n and laughed into the warm air. \"Dr. Dell isn't going to run away.\n Besides, you said we could call this a weekend vacation as well as a\n business trip.\"\n\n\n Curt glanced at the speedometer and eased the pressure on the pedal. He\n grinned. \"Wool-gathering again.\"\n\n\n \"What about?\"\n\n\n \"I was just wondering who said it first—one of the fellows at Detrick,\n or that lieutenant at Bikini, or—\"\n\n\n \"Said\nwhat\n? What are you talking about?\"\n\n\n \"That crack about the weapons after the next war. He—whoever it\n was—said there may be some doubt about what the weapons of the next\n war will be like, but there is absolutely no doubt about the weapons of\n World War IV. It will be fought with stones and spears. I guess any one\n of us could have said it.\"", "\"Egotism! Any scientist's work is built upon the pyramid of past\n knowledge.\"\n\"The weapon I have described exists. If I had not created it, it would\n not exist. It is as simple as that. No one shares my guilt and my\n responsibility. And what more do they want of me now? What greater\n dream of mass slaughter and destruction have they dreamed?\"\n\n\n \"They want you,\" said Curt quietly, \"because they believe we are not\n the only ones possessing the toxin. They need you to come back and help\n find the antitoxin for D. triconus.\"\n\n\n Dell shook his head. \"That's a blind hope. The action of D. triconus is\n like a match set to a powder train. The instant its molecules contact\n protoplasm, they start a chain reaction that rips apart the cell\n structure. It spreads like fire from one cell to the next, and nothing\n can stop it once it's started operating within a given organism.\"", "\"Perhaps you are one of those who regard your accomplishments with\n pride,\" Sark went on savagely, ignoring or unaware of Curt's fear and\n horror. \"That the hydrogen bombs smashed the cities, and the aerosols\n destroyed the remnants of humanity seems insignificant to you beside\n the high technical achievement these things represent.\"\n\n\n Curt's throat was dry with panic. Irrelevantly, he recalled the\n pain-fired eyes of Dell and the dying scientist's words: \"The\n responsibility for the coming destruction of civilization lies at the\n doors of the scientist mercenaries—\"", "\"Exactly,\" he said. \"You reach for a rock and beat his brains in. You\n don't wipe human life off the face of the Earth in order to reach that\n enemy. I asked you to come down here to help me break this circle of\n which I spoke. There has to be someone here—after I'm gone—\"\n\n\n Dell's eyes shifted to the depths of shadows beyond the firelight and\n remained fixed on unseen images.\n\n\n \"Me? Help you?\" Curt asked incredulously. \"What could I do? Give up\n science and become a truck gardener, too?\"", "\"Do you remember me five years ago?\" Dell's face became more haggard,\n as if the memory shamed him. \"Do you remember when I told the atomic\n scientists to examine their guts instead of their consciences?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. You certainly\nhave\nchanged.\"\n\n\n \"And so can other men. There is a way. I need your help desperately,\n Curt—\"\n\n\n The face of the aging biochemist contorted again with unbearable pain.\n His forehead beaded with sweat as he clenched his skull between his\n vein-knotted hands.\n\n\n \"Dell! What is it?\"\n\n\n \"It will pass,\" Dr. Dell breathed through clenched teeth. \"I have some\n medicine—in my bedroom. I'm afraid I'll have to excuse myself tonight.\n There's so much more I have to say to you, but we'll continue our talk\n in the morning, Curt. I'm sorry—\"", "\"It\nis\nhush-hush, top-secret stuff,\" said Curt, his eyes once more on\n the road. \"The Army doesn't want it to leak, but they need Dell, need\n him badly. Anyone knowing bio-war developments would understand. They\n wanted to send me before. Dell's invitation was the break we needed.\n I may be the one with sufficient influence to bring him back. I hope\n so. But keep it under your permanent and forget your guessing games.\n There's more to it than you know.\"\n\n\n The car passed through a cool, wooded section and Louise leaned back\n and drank in the beauty of it.\n\n\n \"Hush-hush, top secret stuff,\" she said. \"Grown men playing children's\n games.\"\n\n\n \"Pretty deadly games for children, darling.\"\nIn the late afternoon they by-passed the central part of Baltimore and\n headed north beyond the suburb of Towson toward Dell's truck farm.", "\"What a horrible joke that turned out to be! Today we are the terror of\n the world. The war-makers built us fine laboratories, shining palaces,\n and granted every whim—for a price. They took us up to the hills and\n showed us the whole world and we sold our souls for it.\n\n\n \"Look what happened after the last war. Invading armies carried off\n prize Nazi brains like so much loot, set the scientists up in big new\n laboratories, and these new mercenaries keep right on pouring out\n knowledge for other kings and emperors.\n\n\n \"Their loyalty is only to their science. But they can't experiment for\n knowledge any more, only weapons and counter-weapons. You'll say I'm\n anti-war, even, perhaps, anti-American or pro-Russian. I am not against\n just wars, but I am against unjust slaughter. And I love America too\n much to let her destroy herself along with the enemy.\"", "His sign was visible for a half mile:\nYOU ARE WHAT YOU EAT\n\n Eat the Best\n\n EAT DELL'S VEGETABLES\n\n\n \"Dr. Hamon Dell, world's foremost biochemist—and truck farmer,\" Curt\n muttered as he swung the car off the highway.\n\n\n Louise stepped out when the tires ceased crunching on the gravel lane.\n She scanned the fields and old woods beyond the ancient but preserved\n farmhouse. \"It's so unearthly.\"\n\n\n Curt followed. The song of birds, which had been so noticeable before,\n seemed strangely muted. The land itself was an alien, faintly greenish\n hue, a color repulsive to more than just the eyes.\n\n\n \"It must be something in this particular soil,\" said Curt, \"something\n that gives it that color and produces such wonderful crops. I'll have\n to remember to ask Dell about it.\"", "With effort, he went on. \"I wanted to say that already you have come\n to think of science being divided into armed camps by the artificial\n boundaries of the politicians. Has it been so long ago that it was\n not even in your lifetime, when scientists regarded themselves as one\n international brotherhood?\"\n\n\n \"I can't quarrel with your ideals,\" said Curt softly. \"But national\n boundary lines do, actually, divide the scientists of the world into\n armed camps.\"\n\"Your premises are still incorrect. They do not deliberately war on\n each other. It is only that they have blindly sold themselves as\n mercenaries. And they can be called upon to redeem themselves. They can\n break their unholy contracts.\"\n\n\n \"There would have to be simultaneous agreement among the scientists of\n all nations. And they are men, influenced by national ideals. They are\n not merely ivory-tower dabblers and searchers after truth.\"", "\"Curt, my boy! And Louise! I thought you weren't going to show up at\n all.\"\n\n\n Curt's hand was almost lost in Dell's enormous grip, but it wasn't\n because of that that his grip was passive. It was his shocked reaction\n to Dell's haggard appearance. The fierce eyes looked merely old and\n tired now. The ageless, leathery hide of Dell's face seemed to have\n collapsed before some overpowering decay, its bronze smoothness\n shattered by deep lines that were like tool marks of pain.\n\n\n Curt spoke in a subdued voice. \"It's hard to get away from Detrick.\n Always one more experiment to try—\"\n\n\n \"—And the brass riding you as if they expected you to win another war\n for them tomorrow afternoon,\" said Dell. \"I remember.\"\n\n\n \"We wondered about this truck,\" Louise commented brightly, trying to\n change the subject. \"We finally gave up on it.\"", "He stumbled out, refusing Curt's offer of aid with a grim headshake.\n The fire crackled loudly within the otherwise silent room. Curt\n felt cold at the descending chill of the night, his mind bewildered\n at Dell's barrage, some of it so reasonable, some of it so utterly\n confused. And there was no clue to the identity of the powerful force\n that had made so great a change in the once militant scientist.\n\n\n Slowly Curt mounted the staircase of the old house and went to the room\n Dell had assigned them. Louise was in bed reading a murder mystery.\n\n\n \"Secret mission completed?\" she asked.\n\n\n Curt sat down on the edge of the bed. \"I'm afraid something terrible\n is wrong with Dell. Besides the neurotic guilt complex because of his\n war work, he showed signs of a terrific and apparently habitual pain in\n his head. If that should be brain tumor, it might explain his erratic\n notions, his abandonment of his career.\"", "Dell raised a lock of steel-gray hair in his fingers and dismissed the\n question with a wan smile. \"We all wear out sometime,\" he said. \"My\n turn had to come.\"\nInside, some of the oppressiveness vanished as the evening passed. It\n was cool enough for lighting the fireplace, and they settled before it\n after dinner. While they watched the flickering light that whipped the\n beamed ceiling, Dell entertained them with stories of his neighbors,\n whose histories he knew clear back to Revolutionary times.\n\n\n Early, however, Louise excused herself. She knew they would want\n privacy to thresh out the purposes behind Dell's invitation—and Curt's\n acceptance.\n\n\n When she was gone, there was a moment's silence. The logs crackled with\n shocking pistol shots in the fireplace. The scientist moved to stir the\n coals and then turned abruptly to Curt.\n\n\n \"When are you going to leave Detrick?\"", "From somewhere behind the house came the sound of a truck engine. Curt\n took Louise's arm and led her around the trim, graveled path.\n\n\n The old farmhouse had been very carefully renovated. Everywhere was\n evidence of exquisite care, yet the cumulative atmosphere remained\n uninviting, almost oppressive. Curt told himself it was the utter\n silence, made even more tense by the lonely chugging of the engine in\n back, and the incredible harsh color of the soil beneath their feet.\nRounding the corner, they came in sight of a massive tank truck. From\n it a hose led to an underground storage tank and pulsed slowly under\n the force of the liquid gushing through it. No one was in sight.\n\n\n \"What could that be for?\" asked Louise.\n\n\n \"You've got me. Could be gasoline, but Dell hasn't any reason for\n storing that much here.\"" ], [ "He was a bony creature, even more cadaverous than Brown. He caught\n sight of Curt's almost indecently robust face. He gasped and swore.\n\n\n \"Who is this? What's he doing here?\"\n\n\n The entire montage of skull faces turned upon Curt. He heard a sharp\n collective intake of breath, as if his presence were some unforeseen\n calamity that had shaken the course of their incomprehensible lives.\n\n\n \"This is Curtis Johnson,\" said Brown. \"He got lost looking for a doctor\n for Dell.\"\n\n\n A mummylike figure rose from a seat before the instrument. \"Your coming\n is tremendously unfortunate, but for the moment we can do nothing about\n it. Sit here beside me. My name is Tarron Sark.\"\n\n\n The man indicated a chair.", "As if unable to comprehend, the hired man stared dumbly for a long\n moment. His hollow-cheeked face was almost skeletal in the light that\n flooded out from behind him.\n\n\n Then from somewhere within the building came a voice, sharp with\n tension. \"Brown! What the devil are you doing? Shut that door!\"\n\n\n That brought the figure to life. He whipped out a gun and motioned Curt\n inward. \"Step inside. We'll have to decide what to do with you when\n Carlson finds you're here.\"\n\n\n \"What's the matter with you?\" Curt asked, stupefied. \"Dell's dying. He\n needs help.\"\n\n\n \"Get in here!\"", "Curt frantically got dressed, ran down the stairs and out to the car.\n He wondered absently what had become of the cadaverous Brown, who\n seemed to have vanished from the premises.\nThe wheels spun gravel as he started the car and whipped it out of\n the driveway. Then he was on the stretch of lane leading through the\n grove. The moonless night was utterly dark, and the stream of light\n ahead of the car seemed the only living thing upon the whole landscape.\n He almost wished he had taken the more familiar road. To get lost now\n might mean death for Dell.\n\n\n No traffic flowed past him in either direction. There were no buildings\n showing lights. Overwhelming desolation seemed to possess the\n countryside and seep into his soul. It seemed impossible that this lay\n close to the other highway with which he was familiar.", "\"What will we do with him?\" Brown asked abruptly.\n\n\n \"If Dell is dead, you murdered him!\" Curt shouted.\n\n\n A rising personal fear grew within him. They could not release him now,\n even though his story would make no sense to anybody. But they had\n somehow killed Dell, or thought they had, and they wouldn't hesitate\n to kill Curt. He thought of Louise in the great house with the corpse\n of Haman Dell—if, of course, he was actually dead. But that was\n nonsense....\n\n\n \"Dell must have sent you to us!\" Sark said, as if a great mystery had\n suddenly been lifted from his mind. \"He did not have time to tell you\n everything. Did he tell you to take the road behind the farm?\"\n\n\n Curt nodded bitterly. \"He told me it was the quickest way to get to a\n doctor.\"", "\"Oh, that. It brings liquid fertilizer to pump into my irrigation\n water, that's all. No mystery. Let's go on to the house. After you're\n settled we can catch up on everything and I'll tell you about the\n things I'm doing here.\"\n\n\n \"Who's the man we saw?\" asked Curt. \"He looks as if his health is\n pretty precarious.\"\n\n\n \"That's Brown. He came with the place—farmed it for years for my uncle\n before I inherited it. He could grow a garden on a granite slab. In\n spite of appearances, he's well enough physically.\"\n\n\n \"How has your own health been? You have—changed—since you were at\n Detrick.\"", "Curt moved slowly forward. Brown closed the door behind him and\n motioned toward a closed door at the other end of a short hall. They\n opened it and stepped into a dimly lighted room.\nCurt's eyes slowly adjusted and he saw what seemed to be a laboratory.\n It was so packed with equipment that there was scarcely room for the\n group of twelve or fifteen men jammed closely about some object with\n their backs to Curt and Brown.\nBrown shambled forward like an agitated skeleton, breaking the circle.\n Then Curt saw that the object of the men's attention was a large\n cathode ray screen occupied by a single green line. There was a pip on\n it rising sharply near one side of the two-foot tube. The pip moved\n almost imperceptibly toward a vertical red marker over the face of the\n screen. The men stared as if hypnotized by it.\nThe newcomers' arrival, however, disturbed their attention. One man\n turned with an irritable growl. \"Brown, for heaven's sake—\"", "\"Curt—I thought I had time left, but this is as far as I can go—Just\n remember all I said tonight. Don't forget a word of it.\" He sat up\n rigidly, hardly breathing in the effort of control. \"The responsibility\n for the coming destruction of civilization lies at the doors of the\n scientist mercenaries. Don't allow it, Curt. Get them to abandon the\n laboratories of the warriors. Get them to reclaim their honor—\"\n\n\n He fell back upon the pillow, his face white with pain and shining with\n sweat. \"Brown—see Brown. He can tell you the—the rest.\"\n\n\n \"I'll go for a doctor,\" said Curt. \"Who have you had? Louise will stay\n with you.\"\n\n\n \"Don't bring a doctor. There's no escaping this. I've known it for\n months. Wait here with me, Curt. I'll be gone soon.\"", "He strained his eyes into the darkness for signs of an all-night gas\n station or store from which he could phone. Finally, he resigned\n himself to going all the way to Towson. At that moment he glimpsed a\n spark of light far ahead.\n\n\n Encouraged, Curt stepped on the gas. In less than ten minutes he was at\n the spot. He braked the car to a stop, and surveyed the building as he\n got out. It seemed more like a power substation than anything else. But\n there should be a telephone, at least.\n\n\n He knocked on the door. Almost instantly, footsteps sounded within.\n\n\n The door swung wide.\n\n\n \"I wonder if I could use your—\" Curt began. He gasped. \"Brown! Dell's\n dying—we've got to get a doctor for him—\"", "\"You want Dr. Dell?\"\n\n\n They whirled at the sound of an unfamiliar voice. Louise uttered a\n startled cry.\n\n\n The gaunt figure behind them coughed asthmatically and pointed with an\n arm that seemed composed only of bones and brownish skin, so thin as to\n be almost translucent.\n\n\n \"Yes,\" said Curt shakenly. \"We're friends of his.\"\n\n\n \"Dell's in back. I'll tell him you're here.\"\n\n\n The figure shambled away and Louise shook herself as if to rid her mind\n of the vision. \"If our grandchildren ever ask about zombies, I can\n tell them. Who in the world do you suppose he is?\"\n\n\n \"Hired man, I suppose. Sounds as if he should be in a lung sanitarium.\n Funny that Dell would keep him around in that condition.\"", "\"Curt, my boy! And Louise! I thought you weren't going to show up at\n all.\"\n\n\n Curt's hand was almost lost in Dell's enormous grip, but it wasn't\n because of that that his grip was passive. It was his shocked reaction\n to Dell's haggard appearance. The fierce eyes looked merely old and\n tired now. The ageless, leathery hide of Dell's face seemed to have\n collapsed before some overpowering decay, its bronze smoothness\n shattered by deep lines that were like tool marks of pain.\n\n\n Curt spoke in a subdued voice. \"It's hard to get away from Detrick.\n Always one more experiment to try—\"\n\n\n \"—And the brass riding you as if they expected you to win another war\n for them tomorrow afternoon,\" said Dell. \"I remember.\"\n\n\n \"We wondered about this truck,\" Louise commented brightly, trying to\n change the subject. \"We finally gave up on it.\"", "\"I'm not staying,\" Curt insisted. \"You can't prevent me from helping\n Dell without assuming responsibility for his death. I demand you let me\n call.\"\n\n\n \"You're not going to call,\" said Sark wearily. \"And we assumed\n responsibility for Dell's death long ago. Sit down!\"\n\n\n Slowly Curt sank down upon the chair beside the stranger. There was\n nothing else to do. He was powerless against Brown's gun. But he'd\n bring them to justice somehow, he swore.\n\n\n He didn't understand the meaning of the slowly moving pattern on the\n 'scope face, yet, as his eyes followed that pip, he sensed tension in\n the watching men that seemed sinister, almost murderous. How?\n\n\n What did the inexorably advancing pip signify?\nNo one spoke. The room was stifling hot and the breathing of the circle\n of men was a dull, rattling sound in Curt's ears.", "\"Do you remember me five years ago?\" Dell's face became more haggard,\n as if the memory shamed him. \"Do you remember when I told the atomic\n scientists to examine their guts instead of their consciences?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. You certainly\nhave\nchanged.\"\n\n\n \"And so can other men. There is a way. I need your help desperately,\n Curt—\"\n\n\n The face of the aging biochemist contorted again with unbearable pain.\n His forehead beaded with sweat as he clenched his skull between his\n vein-knotted hands.\n\n\n \"Dell! What is it?\"\n\n\n \"It will pass,\" Dr. Dell breathed through clenched teeth. \"I have some\n medicine—in my bedroom. I'm afraid I'll have to excuse myself tonight.\n There's so much more I have to say to you, but we'll continue our talk\n in the morning, Curt. I'm sorry—\"", "Dell raised a lock of steel-gray hair in his fingers and dismissed the\n question with a wan smile. \"We all wear out sometime,\" he said. \"My\n turn had to come.\"\nInside, some of the oppressiveness vanished as the evening passed. It\n was cool enough for lighting the fireplace, and they settled before it\n after dinner. While they watched the flickering light that whipped the\n beamed ceiling, Dell entertained them with stories of his neighbors,\n whose histories he knew clear back to Revolutionary times.\n\n\n Early, however, Louise excused herself. She knew they would want\n privacy to thresh out the purposes behind Dell's invitation—and Curt's\n acceptance.\n\n\n When she was gone, there was a moment's silence. The logs crackled with\n shocking pistol shots in the fireplace. The scientist moved to stir the\n coals and then turned abruptly to Curt.\n\n\n \"When are you going to leave Detrick?\"", "His sign was visible for a half mile:\nYOU ARE WHAT YOU EAT\n\n Eat the Best\n\n EAT DELL'S VEGETABLES\n\n\n \"Dr. Hamon Dell, world's foremost biochemist—and truck farmer,\" Curt\n muttered as he swung the car off the highway.\n\n\n Louise stepped out when the tires ceased crunching on the gravel lane.\n She scanned the fields and old woods beyond the ancient but preserved\n farmhouse. \"It's so unearthly.\"\n\n\n Curt followed. The song of birds, which had been so noticeable before,\n seemed strangely muted. The land itself was an alien, faintly greenish\n hue, a color repulsive to more than just the eyes.\n\n\n \"It must be something in this particular soil,\" said Curt, \"something\n that gives it that color and produces such wonderful crops. I'll have\n to remember to ask Dell about it.\"", "He stumbled out, refusing Curt's offer of aid with a grim headshake.\n The fire crackled loudly within the otherwise silent room. Curt\n felt cold at the descending chill of the night, his mind bewildered\n at Dell's barrage, some of it so reasonable, some of it so utterly\n confused. And there was no clue to the identity of the powerful force\n that had made so great a change in the once militant scientist.\n\n\n Slowly Curt mounted the staircase of the old house and went to the room\n Dell had assigned them. Louise was in bed reading a murder mystery.\n\n\n \"Secret mission completed?\" she asked.\n\n\n Curt sat down on the edge of the bed. \"I'm afraid something terrible\n is wrong with Dell. Besides the neurotic guilt complex because of his\n war work, he showed signs of a terrific and apparently habitual pain in\n his head. If that should be brain tumor, it might explain his erratic\n notions, his abandonment of his career.\"", "\"Nobody claims to have figured him out. They laugh a little at him now.\n They eat his gifts willingly enough, but consider him slightly off his\n rocker. He still has all his biological talents, though. I've never\n seen or tasted vegetables like the ones he grows.\"\n\n\n \"And the brass at Detrick doesn't think he's gone soft in the head,\n either,\" she added much too innocently. \"So they ordered you to take\n advantage of his invitation and try to persuade him to come back.\"\n\n\n Curt turned his head so sharply that Louise laughed.\n\n\n \"No, I didn't read any secret, hush-hush papers,\" she said. \"But it's\n pretty obvious, isn't it, the way you rushed right over to General\n Hansen after you got the invitation?\"", "\"Hard to tell,\" Curt said, unconsciously speeding up again. \"After\n the war, when the atomic scientists were publicly examining their\n consciences, Dell told them to examine their own guts first. That\n was typical of him then, but soon after, he swung just as strongly\n pacifist and walked out of Detrick.\"\n\n\n \"It still seems strange that he abandoned his whole career. The world's\n foremost biochemist giving up the laboratory for a\ntruck farm\n!\"\n Louise glanced down at the lunch basket between them. In it were\n tomatoes that Dr. Hamon Dell had sent along with his invitation to\n visit him.\nFor nearly a year Dr. Dell had been sending packages of choice fruit\n and vegetables to his former colleagues, not only at the biological\n warfare center at Camp Detrick but at the universities and other\n research centers throughout the country.\n\n\n \"I wish we knew exactly why he asked us to come out,\" said Louise.", "\"It\nis\nhush-hush, top-secret stuff,\" said Curt, his eyes once more on\n the road. \"The Army doesn't want it to leak, but they need Dell, need\n him badly. Anyone knowing bio-war developments would understand. They\n wanted to send me before. Dell's invitation was the break we needed.\n I may be the one with sufficient influence to bring him back. I hope\n so. But keep it under your permanent and forget your guessing games.\n There's more to it than you know.\"\n\n\n The car passed through a cool, wooded section and Louise leaned back\n and drank in the beauty of it.\n\n\n \"Hush-hush, top secret stuff,\" she said. \"Grown men playing children's\n games.\"\n\n\n \"Pretty deadly games for children, darling.\"\nIn the late afternoon they by-passed the central part of Baltimore and\n headed north beyond the suburb of Towson toward Dell's truck farm.", "Louise's smile grew tight and thin. \"Don't any of you ever think of\n anything but the next war—\nany\nof you?\"\n\n\n \"How can we? We're fighting it right now.\"\n\n\n \"You make it sound so hopeless.\"\n\n\n \"That's what Dell said in the days just before he quit. He said we\n didn't\nhave\nto stay at Detrick producing the toxins and aerosols that\n will destroy millions of lives. But he never showed us how we could\n quit—and be sure of staying alive. His own walking out was no more\n than a futile gesture.\"\n\n\n \"I just can't understand him, Curt. I think he's right in a way, but\n what brought\nhim\nto that viewpoint?\"", "Beside him, his wife, Louise, held her blowing hair away from her face\n and laughed into the warm air. \"Dr. Dell isn't going to run away.\n Besides, you said we could call this a weekend vacation as well as a\n business trip.\"\n\n\n Curt glanced at the speedometer and eased the pressure on the pedal. He\n grinned. \"Wool-gathering again.\"\n\n\n \"What about?\"\n\n\n \"I was just wondering who said it first—one of the fellows at Detrick,\n or that lieutenant at Bikini, or—\"\n\n\n \"Said\nwhat\n? What are you talking about?\"\n\n\n \"That crack about the weapons after the next war. He—whoever it\n was—said there may be some doubt about what the weapons of the next\n war will be like, but there is absolutely no doubt about the weapons of\n World War IV. It will be fought with stones and spears. I guess any one\n of us could have said it.\"" ], [ "\"Some of us\ndid\nmanage to survive,\" said Sark, glaring at the scene\n of gaunt rubble. Curt could see the veins pounding beneath the thin\n flesh of his forehead. \"We lived for twenty years with the dream of\n rebuilding a world, the same dream that has followed all wars. But at\n last we knew that the dream was truly vain this time. We survivors\n lived in hermetically sealed caverns, trying to exist and recover our\n lost science and technology.\n\n\n \"We could not emerge into the Earth's atmosphere. Its pollution with\n virulent aerosols would persist for another hundred years. We could\n not bear a new race out of these famished and rickety bodies of ours.\n Unless Man was to vanish completely from the face of the Earth, we had\n only a single hope. That hope was to prevent the destruction from ever\n occurring!\"", "Sark's eyes were burning now. \"Do you understand what that means? We\n had to go\nback\n, not forward. We had to arm to fight a new war, a war\n to prevent the final war that destroyed Mankind.\"\n\n\n \"Back? How could you go back?\" Curt hesitated, grasping now the full\n insanity of the scene about him. \"How have you\ncome\nback?\" He waited\n tautly for the answer. It would be gibberish, of course, like all the\n mad conversation before it.", "\"An American city,\" said Sark, hurrying his words now. \"Any city. They\n are all alike. Ruin. Death. This one died thirty years ago.\"\n\n\n \"I don't understand,\" Curt complained, bewildered. \"Thirty years—\"\n\n\n \"At another point in the Time Continuum,\" said Sark. \"The future. Your\n future, you understand. Or, rather,\nour\npresent, the one you created\n for us.\"\n\n\n Curt recoiled at the sudden venom in Sark's voice. \"The\nfuture\n?\" That\n was what they had in common with Dell—psychosis, systematic delusions.\n He had suspected danger before; now it was imminent and terrifying.", "\"You might say that we would be in the rock business,\" replied Dell.\n \"Fighting is no longer on the level of one man with his hands about\n another's throat, but it\nshould\nbe. Those who want power and\n domination should have to fight for it personally. But it has been a\n long time since they had to.\n\"Even in the old days, kings and emperors hired mercenaries to fight\n their wars. The militarists don't buy swords now. They buy brains.\n We're the mercenaries of the new day, Curt, you and I. Once there was\n honor in our profession. We searched for truth for its own sake, and\n because it was our way of life. Once we were the hope of the world\n because science was a universal language.", "\"My friend, Dr. Dell, is dying,\" Curt snapped out, refusing to sit\n down. \"I've got to get help. I saw your light and hoped you'd allow me\n to use your phone. I don't know who you are nor what Dell's hired man\n is doing here with you. But you've got to let me go for help!\"\n\n\n \"No.\" The man, Sark, shook his head. \"Dell is reconciled. He has to go.\n We are awaiting precisely the event you would halt—his death.\"\n\n\n He had known it, Curt thought, from the moment he entered that room.\n Like vultures sitting on cliffs waiting for the death of their prey,\n these fantastic men let their glance slip back to the screen. The green\n line was a third of the way toward the red marker now, and moving more\n rapidly.\n\n\n It was nightmare—meaningless—", "Curt moved slowly forward. Brown closed the door behind him and\n motioned toward a closed door at the other end of a short hall. They\n opened it and stepped into a dimly lighted room.\nCurt's eyes slowly adjusted and he saw what seemed to be a laboratory.\n It was so packed with equipment that there was scarcely room for the\n group of twelve or fifteen men jammed closely about some object with\n their backs to Curt and Brown.\nBrown shambled forward like an agitated skeleton, breaking the circle.\n Then Curt saw that the object of the men's attention was a large\n cathode ray screen occupied by a single green line. There was a pip on\n it rising sharply near one side of the two-foot tube. The pip moved\n almost imperceptibly toward a vertical red marker over the face of the\n screen. The men stared as if hypnotized by it.\nThe newcomers' arrival, however, disturbed their attention. One man\n turned with an irritable growl. \"Brown, for heaven's sake—\"", "\"He did? Then he knew even better than we did how rapidly he was\n slipping. Yes, this was the quickest way.\"\n\n\n \"What are you talking about?\" Curt demanded.\n\n\n \"Did Dell say anything at all about what he wanted of you?\"\n\n\n \"It was all wild. Something about helping with some crazy plans to\n retreat from the scientific world. He was going to finish talking in\n the morning, but I guess it wouldn't have mattered. I realize now that\n he was sick and irrational.\"\n\n\n \"Too sick to explain everything, but not irrational,\" Sark said\n thoughtfully. \"He left it to us to tell you, since you are to succeed\n him.\"\n\n\n \"Succeed Dell? In what?\"\nSark suddenly flipped a switch on a panel at his right. A screen\n lighted with some fuzzy image. It cleared with a slight dial\n adjustment, and Curt seemed to be looking at some oddly familiar\n moonlit ruin.", "\"Curt—I thought I had time left, but this is as far as I can go—Just\n remember all I said tonight. Don't forget a word of it.\" He sat up\n rigidly, hardly breathing in the effort of control. \"The responsibility\n for the coming destruction of civilization lies at the doors of the\n scientist mercenaries. Don't allow it, Curt. Get them to abandon the\n laboratories of the warriors. Get them to reclaim their honor—\"\n\n\n He fell back upon the pillow, his face white with pain and shining with\n sweat. \"Brown—see Brown. He can tell you the—the rest.\"\n\n\n \"I'll go for a doctor,\" said Curt. \"Who have you had? Louise will stay\n with you.\"\n\n\n \"Don't bring a doctor. There's no escaping this. I've known it for\n months. Wait here with me, Curt. I'll be gone soon.\"", "\"Exactly,\" he said. \"You reach for a rock and beat his brains in. You\n don't wipe human life off the face of the Earth in order to reach that\n enemy. I asked you to come down here to help me break this circle of\n which I spoke. There has to be someone here—after I'm gone—\"\n\n\n Dell's eyes shifted to the depths of shadows beyond the firelight and\n remained fixed on unseen images.\n\n\n \"Me? Help you?\" Curt asked incredulously. \"What could I do? Give up\n science and become a truck gardener, too?\"", "Quickly then, gathering sudden momentum, the pip accelerated. The\n circle of men grew taut.\n\n\n The pip crossed the red line—and vanished.\n\n\n Only the smooth green trace remained, motionless and without meaning.\n\n\n With hesitant shuffling of feet, the circle expanded. The men glanced\n uncertainly at one another.\n\n\n One said, \"Well, that's the end of Dell. We'll soon know now if we're\n on the right track, or if we've botched it. Carlson will call when he's\n computed it.\"\n\n\n \"The end of Dell?\" Curt repeated slowly, as if trying to convince\n himself of what he knew had happened. \"The pip on the screen—that\n showed his life leaving him?\"\n\n\n \"Yes,\" said Sark. \"He knew he had to go. And there are perhaps hundreds\n more like him. But Dell couldn't have told you of that—\"", "\"Perhaps you are one of those who regard your accomplishments with\n pride,\" Sark went on savagely, ignoring or unaware of Curt's fear and\n horror. \"That the hydrogen bombs smashed the cities, and the aerosols\n destroyed the remnants of humanity seems insignificant to you beside\n the high technical achievement these things represent.\"\n\n\n Curt's throat was dry with panic. Irrelevantly, he recalled the\n pain-fired eyes of Dell and the dying scientist's words: \"The\n responsibility for the coming destruction of civilization lies at the\n doors of the scientist mercenaries—\"", "\"I'm not staying,\" Curt insisted. \"You can't prevent me from helping\n Dell without assuming responsibility for his death. I demand you let me\n call.\"\n\n\n \"You're not going to call,\" said Sark wearily. \"And we assumed\n responsibility for Dell's death long ago. Sit down!\"\n\n\n Slowly Curt sank down upon the chair beside the stranger. There was\n nothing else to do. He was powerless against Brown's gun. But he'd\n bring them to justice somehow, he swore.\n\n\n He didn't understand the meaning of the slowly moving pattern on the\n 'scope face, yet, as his eyes followed that pip, he sensed tension in\n the watching men that seemed sinister, almost murderous. How?\n\n\n What did the inexorably advancing pip signify?\nNo one spoke. The room was stifling hot and the breathing of the circle\n of men was a dull, rattling sound in Curt's ears.", "\"Egotism! Any scientist's work is built upon the pyramid of past\n knowledge.\"\n\"The weapon I have described exists. If I had not created it, it would\n not exist. It is as simple as that. No one shares my guilt and my\n responsibility. And what more do they want of me now? What greater\n dream of mass slaughter and destruction have they dreamed?\"\n\n\n \"They want you,\" said Curt quietly, \"because they believe we are not\n the only ones possessing the toxin. They need you to come back and help\n find the antitoxin for D. triconus.\"\n\n\n Dell shook his head. \"That's a blind hope. The action of D. triconus is\n like a match set to a powder train. The instant its molecules contact\n protoplasm, they start a chain reaction that rips apart the cell\n structure. It spreads like fire from one cell to the next, and nothing\n can stop it once it's started operating within a given organism.\"", "\"Then what are we to do?\" Curt demanded fiercely. \"What are we to do\n while enemy scientists prepare these same weapons to exterminate\nus\n?\n Sure, it's one hell of a mess. Science is already dead. The kind you\n talk about has been dead for twenty years. All our fine ideals are\n worthless until the politicians find a solution to their quarrels.\"\n\n\n \"Politicians? Since when did men of science have to wait upon\n politicians for solutions of human problems?\" Dell passed a hand over\n his brow, and suddenly his face contorted in pain.\n\n\n \"What is it?\" Curt exclaimed, rising.\n\n\n \"Nothing—nothing, my boy. Some minor trouble I've had lately. It will\n pass in a moment.\"", "They advanced slowly and amazement crept over Curt as he comprehended\n the massiveness of the machine. The tank was of elliptical cross\n section, over ten feet on its major axis. Six double wheels supported\n the rear; even the front ones were double. In spite of such wide weight\n distribution, the tires were pressing down the utterly dry ground to a\n depth of an inch or more.\n\n\n \"They must haul liquid lead in that thing,\" said Curt.\n\n\n \"It's getting cool. I wish Dell would show up.\" Louise glanced out\n over the twenty-acre expanse of truck farm. Thick rows of robust\n plants covered the area. Tomatoes, carrots, beets, lettuce, and other\n vegetables—a hundred or so fruit trees were at the far end. Between\n them ran the road over which the massive truck had apparently entered\n the farm from the rear.\n\n\n A heavy step sounded abruptly and Dell's shaggy head appeared from\n around the end of the truck. His face lighted with pleasure.", "\"Curt, my boy! And Louise! I thought you weren't going to show up at\n all.\"\n\n\n Curt's hand was almost lost in Dell's enormous grip, but it wasn't\n because of that that his grip was passive. It was his shocked reaction\n to Dell's haggard appearance. The fierce eyes looked merely old and\n tired now. The ageless, leathery hide of Dell's face seemed to have\n collapsed before some overpowering decay, its bronze smoothness\n shattered by deep lines that were like tool marks of pain.\n\n\n Curt spoke in a subdued voice. \"It's hard to get away from Detrick.\n Always one more experiment to try—\"\n\n\n \"—And the brass riding you as if they expected you to win another war\n for them tomorrow afternoon,\" said Dell. \"I remember.\"\n\n\n \"We wondered about this truck,\" Louise commented brightly, trying to\n change the subject. \"We finally gave up on it.\"", "Beside him, his wife, Louise, held her blowing hair away from her face\n and laughed into the warm air. \"Dr. Dell isn't going to run away.\n Besides, you said we could call this a weekend vacation as well as a\n business trip.\"\n\n\n Curt glanced at the speedometer and eased the pressure on the pedal. He\n grinned. \"Wool-gathering again.\"\n\n\n \"What about?\"\n\n\n \"I was just wondering who said it first—one of the fellows at Detrick,\n or that lieutenant at Bikini, or—\"\n\n\n \"Said\nwhat\n? What are you talking about?\"\n\n\n \"That crack about the weapons after the next war. He—whoever it\n was—said there may be some doubt about what the weapons of the next\n war will be like, but there is absolutely no doubt about the weapons of\n World War IV. It will be fought with stones and spears. I guess any one\n of us could have said it.\"", "A Stone and a Spear\nBY RAYMOND F. JONES\n\n\n Illustrated by JOHN BUNCH\n\n\n [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Galaxy Science Fiction December 1950.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nGiven: The future is probabilities merging into one certainty.\n\n Proposition: Can the probabilities be made improbables\n\n so that the certainty becomes impossible?\nFrom Frederick to Baltimore, the rolling Maryland countryside lay under\n a fresh blanket of green. Wholly unaware of the summer glory, Dr.\n Curtis Johnson drove swiftly on the undulating highway, stirring clouds\n of dust and dried grasses.", "With effort, he went on. \"I wanted to say that already you have come\n to think of science being divided into armed camps by the artificial\n boundaries of the politicians. Has it been so long ago that it was\n not even in your lifetime, when scientists regarded themselves as one\n international brotherhood?\"\n\n\n \"I can't quarrel with your ideals,\" said Curt softly. \"But national\n boundary lines do, actually, divide the scientists of the world into\n armed camps.\"\n\"Your premises are still incorrect. They do not deliberately war on\n each other. It is only that they have blindly sold themselves as\n mercenaries. And they can be called upon to redeem themselves. They can\n break their unholy contracts.\"\n\n\n \"There would have to be simultaneous agreement among the scientists of\n all nations. And they are men, influenced by national ideals. They are\n not merely ivory-tower dabblers and searchers after truth.\"", "\"When are\nyou\ncoming back?\" Curt demanded instead of answering.\n\n\n \"So they still want me, even after the things I said when I left.\"\n\n\n \"You're needed badly. When I told Hansen I was coming down, he said it\n would be worth five years of my own work to bring you back.\"\n\n\n \"They want me to produce even deadlier toxins than those I gave them,\"\n Dell said viciously. \"They want some that can kill ten million people\n in four minutes instead of only one million—\"\n\n\n \"Any man would go insane if he looked at it that way. It would be the\n same as gun-makers being tormented by the vision of torn men destroyed\n by their bullets, the sorrowing families—\"\n\n\n \"And why shouldn't the gun-makers be tormented?\" Dell's voice was\n low with controlled hate. \"They are men like you and me who give the\nwar\n-makers new tools for their trade.\"" ], [ "\"Hard to tell,\" Curt said, unconsciously speeding up again. \"After\n the war, when the atomic scientists were publicly examining their\n consciences, Dell told them to examine their own guts first. That\n was typical of him then, but soon after, he swung just as strongly\n pacifist and walked out of Detrick.\"\n\n\n \"It still seems strange that he abandoned his whole career. The world's\n foremost biochemist giving up the laboratory for a\ntruck farm\n!\"\n Louise glanced down at the lunch basket between them. In it were\n tomatoes that Dr. Hamon Dell had sent along with his invitation to\n visit him.\nFor nearly a year Dr. Dell had been sending packages of choice fruit\n and vegetables to his former colleagues, not only at the biological\n warfare center at Camp Detrick but at the universities and other\n research centers throughout the country.\n\n\n \"I wish we knew exactly why he asked us to come out,\" said Louise.", "\"Nobody claims to have figured him out. They laugh a little at him now.\n They eat his gifts willingly enough, but consider him slightly off his\n rocker. He still has all his biological talents, though. I've never\n seen or tasted vegetables like the ones he grows.\"\n\n\n \"And the brass at Detrick doesn't think he's gone soft in the head,\n either,\" she added much too innocently. \"So they ordered you to take\n advantage of his invitation and try to persuade him to come back.\"\n\n\n Curt turned his head so sharply that Louise laughed.\n\n\n \"No, I didn't read any secret, hush-hush papers,\" she said. \"But it's\n pretty obvious, isn't it, the way you rushed right over to General\n Hansen after you got the invitation?\"", "\"It\nis\nhush-hush, top-secret stuff,\" said Curt, his eyes once more on\n the road. \"The Army doesn't want it to leak, but they need Dell, need\n him badly. Anyone knowing bio-war developments would understand. They\n wanted to send me before. Dell's invitation was the break we needed.\n I may be the one with sufficient influence to bring him back. I hope\n so. But keep it under your permanent and forget your guessing games.\n There's more to it than you know.\"\n\n\n The car passed through a cool, wooded section and Louise leaned back\n and drank in the beauty of it.\n\n\n \"Hush-hush, top secret stuff,\" she said. \"Grown men playing children's\n games.\"\n\n\n \"Pretty deadly games for children, darling.\"\nIn the late afternoon they by-passed the central part of Baltimore and\n headed north beyond the suburb of Towson toward Dell's truck farm.", "His sign was visible for a half mile:\nYOU ARE WHAT YOU EAT\n\n Eat the Best\n\n EAT DELL'S VEGETABLES\n\n\n \"Dr. Hamon Dell, world's foremost biochemist—and truck farmer,\" Curt\n muttered as he swung the car off the highway.\n\n\n Louise stepped out when the tires ceased crunching on the gravel lane.\n She scanned the fields and old woods beyond the ancient but preserved\n farmhouse. \"It's so unearthly.\"\n\n\n Curt followed. The song of birds, which had been so noticeable before,\n seemed strangely muted. The land itself was an alien, faintly greenish\n hue, a color repulsive to more than just the eyes.\n\n\n \"It must be something in this particular soil,\" said Curt, \"something\n that gives it that color and produces such wonderful crops. I'll have\n to remember to ask Dell about it.\"", "Dell raised a lock of steel-gray hair in his fingers and dismissed the\n question with a wan smile. \"We all wear out sometime,\" he said. \"My\n turn had to come.\"\nInside, some of the oppressiveness vanished as the evening passed. It\n was cool enough for lighting the fireplace, and they settled before it\n after dinner. While they watched the flickering light that whipped the\n beamed ceiling, Dell entertained them with stories of his neighbors,\n whose histories he knew clear back to Revolutionary times.\n\n\n Early, however, Louise excused herself. She knew they would want\n privacy to thresh out the purposes behind Dell's invitation—and Curt's\n acceptance.\n\n\n When she was gone, there was a moment's silence. The logs crackled with\n shocking pistol shots in the fireplace. The scientist moved to stir the\n coals and then turned abruptly to Curt.\n\n\n \"When are you going to leave Detrick?\"", "Louise's smile grew tight and thin. \"Don't any of you ever think of\n anything but the next war—\nany\nof you?\"\n\n\n \"How can we? We're fighting it right now.\"\n\n\n \"You make it sound so hopeless.\"\n\n\n \"That's what Dell said in the days just before he quit. He said we\n didn't\nhave\nto stay at Detrick producing the toxins and aerosols that\n will destroy millions of lives. But he never showed us how we could\n quit—and be sure of staying alive. His own walking out was no more\n than a futile gesture.\"\n\n\n \"I just can't understand him, Curt. I think he's right in a way, but\n what brought\nhim\nto that viewpoint?\"", "\"Oh, that. It brings liquid fertilizer to pump into my irrigation\n water, that's all. No mystery. Let's go on to the house. After you're\n settled we can catch up on everything and I'll tell you about the\n things I'm doing here.\"\n\n\n \"Who's the man we saw?\" asked Curt. \"He looks as if his health is\n pretty precarious.\"\n\n\n \"That's Brown. He came with the place—farmed it for years for my uncle\n before I inherited it. He could grow a garden on a granite slab. In\n spite of appearances, he's well enough physically.\"\n\n\n \"How has your own health been? You have—changed—since you were at\n Detrick.\"", "\"You want Dr. Dell?\"\n\n\n They whirled at the sound of an unfamiliar voice. Louise uttered a\n startled cry.\n\n\n The gaunt figure behind them coughed asthmatically and pointed with an\n arm that seemed composed only of bones and brownish skin, so thin as to\n be almost translucent.\n\n\n \"Yes,\" said Curt shakenly. \"We're friends of his.\"\n\n\n \"Dell's in back. I'll tell him you're here.\"\n\n\n The figure shambled away and Louise shook herself as if to rid her mind\n of the vision. \"If our grandchildren ever ask about zombies, I can\n tell them. Who in the world do you suppose he is?\"\n\n\n \"Hired man, I suppose. Sounds as if he should be in a lung sanitarium.\n Funny that Dell would keep him around in that condition.\"", "\"Do you remember me five years ago?\" Dell's face became more haggard,\n as if the memory shamed him. \"Do you remember when I told the atomic\n scientists to examine their guts instead of their consciences?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. You certainly\nhave\nchanged.\"\n\n\n \"And so can other men. There is a way. I need your help desperately,\n Curt—\"\n\n\n The face of the aging biochemist contorted again with unbearable pain.\n His forehead beaded with sweat as he clenched his skull between his\n vein-knotted hands.\n\n\n \"Dell! What is it?\"\n\n\n \"It will pass,\" Dr. Dell breathed through clenched teeth. \"I have some\n medicine—in my bedroom. I'm afraid I'll have to excuse myself tonight.\n There's so much more I have to say to you, but we'll continue our talk\n in the morning, Curt. I'm sorry—\"", "\"Exactly,\" he said. \"You reach for a rock and beat his brains in. You\n don't wipe human life off the face of the Earth in order to reach that\n enemy. I asked you to come down here to help me break this circle of\n which I spoke. There has to be someone here—after I'm gone—\"\n\n\n Dell's eyes shifted to the depths of shadows beyond the firelight and\n remained fixed on unseen images.\n\n\n \"Me? Help you?\" Curt asked incredulously. \"What could I do? Give up\n science and become a truck gardener, too?\"", "Beside him, his wife, Louise, held her blowing hair away from her face\n and laughed into the warm air. \"Dr. Dell isn't going to run away.\n Besides, you said we could call this a weekend vacation as well as a\n business trip.\"\n\n\n Curt glanced at the speedometer and eased the pressure on the pedal. He\n grinned. \"Wool-gathering again.\"\n\n\n \"What about?\"\n\n\n \"I was just wondering who said it first—one of the fellows at Detrick,\n or that lieutenant at Bikini, or—\"\n\n\n \"Said\nwhat\n? What are you talking about?\"\n\n\n \"That crack about the weapons after the next war. He—whoever it\n was—said there may be some doubt about what the weapons of the next\n war will be like, but there is absolutely no doubt about the weapons of\n World War IV. It will be fought with stones and spears. I guess any one\n of us could have said it.\"", "\"He did? Then he knew even better than we did how rapidly he was\n slipping. Yes, this was the quickest way.\"\n\n\n \"What are you talking about?\" Curt demanded.\n\n\n \"Did Dell say anything at all about what he wanted of you?\"\n\n\n \"It was all wild. Something about helping with some crazy plans to\n retreat from the scientific world. He was going to finish talking in\n the morning, but I guess it wouldn't have mattered. I realize now that\n he was sick and irrational.\"\n\n\n \"Too sick to explain everything, but not irrational,\" Sark said\n thoughtfully. \"He left it to us to tell you, since you are to succeed\n him.\"\n\n\n \"Succeed Dell? In what?\"\nSark suddenly flipped a switch on a panel at his right. A screen\n lighted with some fuzzy image. It cleared with a slight dial\n adjustment, and Curt seemed to be looking at some oddly familiar\n moonlit ruin.", "\"When are\nyou\ncoming back?\" Curt demanded instead of answering.\n\n\n \"So they still want me, even after the things I said when I left.\"\n\n\n \"You're needed badly. When I told Hansen I was coming down, he said it\n would be worth five years of my own work to bring you back.\"\n\n\n \"They want me to produce even deadlier toxins than those I gave them,\"\n Dell said viciously. \"They want some that can kill ten million people\n in four minutes instead of only one million—\"\n\n\n \"Any man would go insane if he looked at it that way. It would be the\n same as gun-makers being tormented by the vision of torn men destroyed\n by their bullets, the sorrowing families—\"\n\n\n \"And why shouldn't the gun-makers be tormented?\" Dell's voice was\n low with controlled hate. \"They are men like you and me who give the\nwar\n-makers new tools for their trade.\"", "Curt stared with pity at the great scientist whose mind had so\n disintegrated. \"You need a doctor. I'll call a hospital, Johns Hopkins,\n if you want.\"\n\n\n \"Wait, maybe you're right. I have no phone here. Get Dr. Wilson—the\n Judge Building, Towson—find his home address in a phone book.\"\n\n\n \"Fine. I'll only be a little while.\"\n\n\n He stepped to the door.\n\n\n \"Curt! Take the lane down to the new road—behind the farm. Quicker—it\n cuts off a mile or so—go down through the orchard—\"\n\n\n \"All right. Take it easy now. I'll be right back.\"", "\"Egotism! Any scientist's work is built upon the pyramid of past\n knowledge.\"\n\"The weapon I have described exists. If I had not created it, it would\n not exist. It is as simple as that. No one shares my guilt and my\n responsibility. And what more do they want of me now? What greater\n dream of mass slaughter and destruction have they dreamed?\"\n\n\n \"They want you,\" said Curt quietly, \"because they believe we are not\n the only ones possessing the toxin. They need you to come back and help\n find the antitoxin for D. triconus.\"\n\n\n Dell shook his head. \"That's a blind hope. The action of D. triconus is\n like a match set to a powder train. The instant its molecules contact\n protoplasm, they start a chain reaction that rips apart the cell\n structure. It spreads like fire from one cell to the next, and nothing\n can stop it once it's started operating within a given organism.\"", "They advanced slowly and amazement crept over Curt as he comprehended\n the massiveness of the machine. The tank was of elliptical cross\n section, over ten feet on its major axis. Six double wheels supported\n the rear; even the front ones were double. In spite of such wide weight\n distribution, the tires were pressing down the utterly dry ground to a\n depth of an inch or more.\n\n\n \"They must haul liquid lead in that thing,\" said Curt.\n\n\n \"It's getting cool. I wish Dell would show up.\" Louise glanced out\n over the twenty-acre expanse of truck farm. Thick rows of robust\n plants covered the area. Tomatoes, carrots, beets, lettuce, and other\n vegetables—a hundred or so fruit trees were at the far end. Between\n them ran the road over which the massive truck had apparently entered\n the farm from the rear.\n\n\n A heavy step sounded abruptly and Dell's shaggy head appeared from\n around the end of the truck. His face lighted with pleasure.", "\"My friend, Dr. Dell, is dying,\" Curt snapped out, refusing to sit\n down. \"I've got to get help. I saw your light and hoped you'd allow me\n to use your phone. I don't know who you are nor what Dell's hired man\n is doing here with you. But you've got to let me go for help!\"\n\n\n \"No.\" The man, Sark, shook his head. \"Dell is reconciled. He has to go.\n We are awaiting precisely the event you would halt—his death.\"\n\n\n He had known it, Curt thought, from the moment he entered that room.\n Like vultures sitting on cliffs waiting for the death of their prey,\n these fantastic men let their glance slip back to the screen. The green\n line was a third of the way toward the red marker now, and moving more\n rapidly.\n\n\n It was nightmare—meaningless—", "\"Curt, my boy! And Louise! I thought you weren't going to show up at\n all.\"\n\n\n Curt's hand was almost lost in Dell's enormous grip, but it wasn't\n because of that that his grip was passive. It was his shocked reaction\n to Dell's haggard appearance. The fierce eyes looked merely old and\n tired now. The ageless, leathery hide of Dell's face seemed to have\n collapsed before some overpowering decay, its bronze smoothness\n shattered by deep lines that were like tool marks of pain.\n\n\n Curt spoke in a subdued voice. \"It's hard to get away from Detrick.\n Always one more experiment to try—\"\n\n\n \"—And the brass riding you as if they expected you to win another war\n for them tomorrow afternoon,\" said Dell. \"I remember.\"\n\n\n \"We wondered about this truck,\" Louise commented brightly, trying to\n change the subject. \"We finally gave up on it.\"", "\"Oh, Dell, it's not as simple as that.\" Curt raised a hand and let it\n fall wearily. They had been over this so many times before. \"Weapon\n designers are no more responsible than any other agents of society.\n It's pure neurosis to absorb the whole guilt of wars yet unfought\n merely because you happened to have developed a potential weapon.\"\n\n\n Dell touched the massive dome of his skull. \"Here within this brain of\n mine has been conceived a thing which will probably destroy a billion\n human lives in the coming years. D. triconus toxin in a suitable\n aerosol requires only a countable number of molecules in the lungs of\n a man to kill him. My brain and mine alone is responsible for that\n vicious, murderous discovery.\"", "\"You might say that we would be in the rock business,\" replied Dell.\n \"Fighting is no longer on the level of one man with his hands about\n another's throat, but it\nshould\nbe. Those who want power and\n domination should have to fight for it personally. But it has been a\n long time since they had to.\n\"Even in the old days, kings and emperors hired mercenaries to fight\n their wars. The militarists don't buy swords now. They buy brains.\n We're the mercenaries of the new day, Curt, you and I. Once there was\n honor in our profession. We searched for truth for its own sake, and\n because it was our way of life. Once we were the hope of the world\n because science was a universal language." ], [ "\"It\nis\nhush-hush, top-secret stuff,\" said Curt, his eyes once more on\n the road. \"The Army doesn't want it to leak, but they need Dell, need\n him badly. Anyone knowing bio-war developments would understand. They\n wanted to send me before. Dell's invitation was the break we needed.\n I may be the one with sufficient influence to bring him back. I hope\n so. But keep it under your permanent and forget your guessing games.\n There's more to it than you know.\"\n\n\n The car passed through a cool, wooded section and Louise leaned back\n and drank in the beauty of it.\n\n\n \"Hush-hush, top secret stuff,\" she said. \"Grown men playing children's\n games.\"\n\n\n \"Pretty deadly games for children, darling.\"\nIn the late afternoon they by-passed the central part of Baltimore and\n headed north beyond the suburb of Towson toward Dell's truck farm.", "They advanced slowly and amazement crept over Curt as he comprehended\n the massiveness of the machine. The tank was of elliptical cross\n section, over ten feet on its major axis. Six double wheels supported\n the rear; even the front ones were double. In spite of such wide weight\n distribution, the tires were pressing down the utterly dry ground to a\n depth of an inch or more.\n\n\n \"They must haul liquid lead in that thing,\" said Curt.\n\n\n \"It's getting cool. I wish Dell would show up.\" Louise glanced out\n over the twenty-acre expanse of truck farm. Thick rows of robust\n plants covered the area. Tomatoes, carrots, beets, lettuce, and other\n vegetables—a hundred or so fruit trees were at the far end. Between\n them ran the road over which the massive truck had apparently entered\n the farm from the rear.\n\n\n A heavy step sounded abruptly and Dell's shaggy head appeared from\n around the end of the truck. His face lighted with pleasure.", "\"Hard to tell,\" Curt said, unconsciously speeding up again. \"After\n the war, when the atomic scientists were publicly examining their\n consciences, Dell told them to examine their own guts first. That\n was typical of him then, but soon after, he swung just as strongly\n pacifist and walked out of Detrick.\"\n\n\n \"It still seems strange that he abandoned his whole career. The world's\n foremost biochemist giving up the laboratory for a\ntruck farm\n!\"\n Louise glanced down at the lunch basket between them. In it were\n tomatoes that Dr. Hamon Dell had sent along with his invitation to\n visit him.\nFor nearly a year Dr. Dell had been sending packages of choice fruit\n and vegetables to his former colleagues, not only at the biological\n warfare center at Camp Detrick but at the universities and other\n research centers throughout the country.\n\n\n \"I wish we knew exactly why he asked us to come out,\" said Louise.", "His sign was visible for a half mile:\nYOU ARE WHAT YOU EAT\n\n Eat the Best\n\n EAT DELL'S VEGETABLES\n\n\n \"Dr. Hamon Dell, world's foremost biochemist—and truck farmer,\" Curt\n muttered as he swung the car off the highway.\n\n\n Louise stepped out when the tires ceased crunching on the gravel lane.\n She scanned the fields and old woods beyond the ancient but preserved\n farmhouse. \"It's so unearthly.\"\n\n\n Curt followed. The song of birds, which had been so noticeable before,\n seemed strangely muted. The land itself was an alien, faintly greenish\n hue, a color repulsive to more than just the eyes.\n\n\n \"It must be something in this particular soil,\" said Curt, \"something\n that gives it that color and produces such wonderful crops. I'll have\n to remember to ask Dell about it.\"", "From somewhere behind the house came the sound of a truck engine. Curt\n took Louise's arm and led her around the trim, graveled path.\n\n\n The old farmhouse had been very carefully renovated. Everywhere was\n evidence of exquisite care, yet the cumulative atmosphere remained\n uninviting, almost oppressive. Curt told himself it was the utter\n silence, made even more tense by the lonely chugging of the engine in\n back, and the incredible harsh color of the soil beneath their feet.\nRounding the corner, they came in sight of a massive tank truck. From\n it a hose led to an underground storage tank and pulsed slowly under\n the force of the liquid gushing through it. No one was in sight.\n\n\n \"What could that be for?\" asked Louise.\n\n\n \"You've got me. Could be gasoline, but Dell hasn't any reason for\n storing that much here.\"", "\"Curt, my boy! And Louise! I thought you weren't going to show up at\n all.\"\n\n\n Curt's hand was almost lost in Dell's enormous grip, but it wasn't\n because of that that his grip was passive. It was his shocked reaction\n to Dell's haggard appearance. The fierce eyes looked merely old and\n tired now. The ageless, leathery hide of Dell's face seemed to have\n collapsed before some overpowering decay, its bronze smoothness\n shattered by deep lines that were like tool marks of pain.\n\n\n Curt spoke in a subdued voice. \"It's hard to get away from Detrick.\n Always one more experiment to try—\"\n\n\n \"—And the brass riding you as if they expected you to win another war\n for them tomorrow afternoon,\" said Dell. \"I remember.\"\n\n\n \"We wondered about this truck,\" Louise commented brightly, trying to\n change the subject. \"We finally gave up on it.\"", "As if unable to comprehend, the hired man stared dumbly for a long\n moment. His hollow-cheeked face was almost skeletal in the light that\n flooded out from behind him.\n\n\n Then from somewhere within the building came a voice, sharp with\n tension. \"Brown! What the devil are you doing? Shut that door!\"\n\n\n That brought the figure to life. He whipped out a gun and motioned Curt\n inward. \"Step inside. We'll have to decide what to do with you when\n Carlson finds you're here.\"\n\n\n \"What's the matter with you?\" Curt asked, stupefied. \"Dell's dying. He\n needs help.\"\n\n\n \"Get in here!\"", "Dell raised a lock of steel-gray hair in his fingers and dismissed the\n question with a wan smile. \"We all wear out sometime,\" he said. \"My\n turn had to come.\"\nInside, some of the oppressiveness vanished as the evening passed. It\n was cool enough for lighting the fireplace, and they settled before it\n after dinner. While they watched the flickering light that whipped the\n beamed ceiling, Dell entertained them with stories of his neighbors,\n whose histories he knew clear back to Revolutionary times.\n\n\n Early, however, Louise excused herself. She knew they would want\n privacy to thresh out the purposes behind Dell's invitation—and Curt's\n acceptance.\n\n\n When she was gone, there was a moment's silence. The logs crackled with\n shocking pistol shots in the fireplace. The scientist moved to stir the\n coals and then turned abruptly to Curt.\n\n\n \"When are you going to leave Detrick?\"", "He was a bony creature, even more cadaverous than Brown. He caught\n sight of Curt's almost indecently robust face. He gasped and swore.\n\n\n \"Who is this? What's he doing here?\"\n\n\n The entire montage of skull faces turned upon Curt. He heard a sharp\n collective intake of breath, as if his presence were some unforeseen\n calamity that had shaken the course of their incomprehensible lives.\n\n\n \"This is Curtis Johnson,\" said Brown. \"He got lost looking for a doctor\n for Dell.\"\n\n\n A mummylike figure rose from a seat before the instrument. \"Your coming\n is tremendously unfortunate, but for the moment we can do nothing about\n it. Sit here beside me. My name is Tarron Sark.\"\n\n\n The man indicated a chair.", "\"What will we do with him?\" Brown asked abruptly.\n\n\n \"If Dell is dead, you murdered him!\" Curt shouted.\n\n\n A rising personal fear grew within him. They could not release him now,\n even though his story would make no sense to anybody. But they had\n somehow killed Dell, or thought they had, and they wouldn't hesitate\n to kill Curt. He thought of Louise in the great house with the corpse\n of Haman Dell—if, of course, he was actually dead. But that was\n nonsense....\n\n\n \"Dell must have sent you to us!\" Sark said, as if a great mystery had\n suddenly been lifted from his mind. \"He did not have time to tell you\n everything. Did he tell you to take the road behind the farm?\"\n\n\n Curt nodded bitterly. \"He told me it was the quickest way to get to a\n doctor.\"", "\"Exactly,\" he said. \"You reach for a rock and beat his brains in. You\n don't wipe human life off the face of the Earth in order to reach that\n enemy. I asked you to come down here to help me break this circle of\n which I spoke. There has to be someone here—after I'm gone—\"\n\n\n Dell's eyes shifted to the depths of shadows beyond the firelight and\n remained fixed on unseen images.\n\n\n \"Me? Help you?\" Curt asked incredulously. \"What could I do? Give up\n science and become a truck gardener, too?\"", "\"Oh, that. It brings liquid fertilizer to pump into my irrigation\n water, that's all. No mystery. Let's go on to the house. After you're\n settled we can catch up on everything and I'll tell you about the\n things I'm doing here.\"\n\n\n \"Who's the man we saw?\" asked Curt. \"He looks as if his health is\n pretty precarious.\"\n\n\n \"That's Brown. He came with the place—farmed it for years for my uncle\n before I inherited it. He could grow a garden on a granite slab. In\n spite of appearances, he's well enough physically.\"\n\n\n \"How has your own health been? You have—changed—since you were at\n Detrick.\"", "\"You want Dr. Dell?\"\n\n\n They whirled at the sound of an unfamiliar voice. Louise uttered a\n startled cry.\n\n\n The gaunt figure behind them coughed asthmatically and pointed with an\n arm that seemed composed only of bones and brownish skin, so thin as to\n be almost translucent.\n\n\n \"Yes,\" said Curt shakenly. \"We're friends of his.\"\n\n\n \"Dell's in back. I'll tell him you're here.\"\n\n\n The figure shambled away and Louise shook herself as if to rid her mind\n of the vision. \"If our grandchildren ever ask about zombies, I can\n tell them. Who in the world do you suppose he is?\"\n\n\n \"Hired man, I suppose. Sounds as if he should be in a lung sanitarium.\n Funny that Dell would keep him around in that condition.\"", "Curt frantically got dressed, ran down the stairs and out to the car.\n He wondered absently what had become of the cadaverous Brown, who\n seemed to have vanished from the premises.\nThe wheels spun gravel as he started the car and whipped it out of\n the driveway. Then he was on the stretch of lane leading through the\n grove. The moonless night was utterly dark, and the stream of light\n ahead of the car seemed the only living thing upon the whole landscape.\n He almost wished he had taken the more familiar road. To get lost now\n might mean death for Dell.\n\n\n No traffic flowed past him in either direction. There were no buildings\n showing lights. Overwhelming desolation seemed to possess the\n countryside and seep into his soul. It seemed impossible that this lay\n close to the other highway with which he was familiar.", "Curt stared with pity at the great scientist whose mind had so\n disintegrated. \"You need a doctor. I'll call a hospital, Johns Hopkins,\n if you want.\"\n\n\n \"Wait, maybe you're right. I have no phone here. Get Dr. Wilson—the\n Judge Building, Towson—find his home address in a phone book.\"\n\n\n \"Fine. I'll only be a little while.\"\n\n\n He stepped to the door.\n\n\n \"Curt! Take the lane down to the new road—behind the farm. Quicker—it\n cuts off a mile or so—go down through the orchard—\"\n\n\n \"All right. Take it easy now. I'll be right back.\"", "\"My friend, Dr. Dell, is dying,\" Curt snapped out, refusing to sit\n down. \"I've got to get help. I saw your light and hoped you'd allow me\n to use your phone. I don't know who you are nor what Dell's hired man\n is doing here with you. But you've got to let me go for help!\"\n\n\n \"No.\" The man, Sark, shook his head. \"Dell is reconciled. He has to go.\n We are awaiting precisely the event you would halt—his death.\"\n\n\n He had known it, Curt thought, from the moment he entered that room.\n Like vultures sitting on cliffs waiting for the death of their prey,\n these fantastic men let their glance slip back to the screen. The green\n line was a third of the way toward the red marker now, and moving more\n rapidly.\n\n\n It was nightmare—meaningless—", "\"He did? Then he knew even better than we did how rapidly he was\n slipping. Yes, this was the quickest way.\"\n\n\n \"What are you talking about?\" Curt demanded.\n\n\n \"Did Dell say anything at all about what he wanted of you?\"\n\n\n \"It was all wild. Something about helping with some crazy plans to\n retreat from the scientific world. He was going to finish talking in\n the morning, but I guess it wouldn't have mattered. I realize now that\n he was sick and irrational.\"\n\n\n \"Too sick to explain everything, but not irrational,\" Sark said\n thoughtfully. \"He left it to us to tell you, since you are to succeed\n him.\"\n\n\n \"Succeed Dell? In what?\"\nSark suddenly flipped a switch on a panel at his right. A screen\n lighted with some fuzzy image. It cleared with a slight dial\n adjustment, and Curt seemed to be looking at some oddly familiar\n moonlit ruin.", "He strained his eyes into the darkness for signs of an all-night gas\n station or store from which he could phone. Finally, he resigned\n himself to going all the way to Towson. At that moment he glimpsed a\n spark of light far ahead.\n\n\n Encouraged, Curt stepped on the gas. In less than ten minutes he was at\n the spot. He braked the car to a stop, and surveyed the building as he\n got out. It seemed more like a power substation than anything else. But\n there should be a telephone, at least.\n\n\n He knocked on the door. Almost instantly, footsteps sounded within.\n\n\n The door swung wide.\n\n\n \"I wonder if I could use your—\" Curt began. He gasped. \"Brown! Dell's\n dying—we've got to get a doctor for him—\"", "\"Nobody claims to have figured him out. They laugh a little at him now.\n They eat his gifts willingly enough, but consider him slightly off his\n rocker. He still has all his biological talents, though. I've never\n seen or tasted vegetables like the ones he grows.\"\n\n\n \"And the brass at Detrick doesn't think he's gone soft in the head,\n either,\" she added much too innocently. \"So they ordered you to take\n advantage of his invitation and try to persuade him to come back.\"\n\n\n Curt turned his head so sharply that Louise laughed.\n\n\n \"No, I didn't read any secret, hush-hush papers,\" she said. \"But it's\n pretty obvious, isn't it, the way you rushed right over to General\n Hansen after you got the invitation?\"", "\"When are\nyou\ncoming back?\" Curt demanded instead of answering.\n\n\n \"So they still want me, even after the things I said when I left.\"\n\n\n \"You're needed badly. When I told Hansen I was coming down, he said it\n would be worth five years of my own work to bring you back.\"\n\n\n \"They want me to produce even deadlier toxins than those I gave them,\"\n Dell said viciously. \"They want some that can kill ten million people\n in four minutes instead of only one million—\"\n\n\n \"Any man would go insane if he looked at it that way. It would be the\n same as gun-makers being tormented by the vision of torn men destroyed\n by their bullets, the sorrowing families—\"\n\n\n \"And why shouldn't the gun-makers be tormented?\" Dell's voice was\n low with controlled hate. \"They are men like you and me who give the\nwar\n-makers new tools for their trade.\"" ], [ "\"It\nis\nhush-hush, top-secret stuff,\" said Curt, his eyes once more on\n the road. \"The Army doesn't want it to leak, but they need Dell, need\n him badly. Anyone knowing bio-war developments would understand. They\n wanted to send me before. Dell's invitation was the break we needed.\n I may be the one with sufficient influence to bring him back. I hope\n so. But keep it under your permanent and forget your guessing games.\n There's more to it than you know.\"\n\n\n The car passed through a cool, wooded section and Louise leaned back\n and drank in the beauty of it.\n\n\n \"Hush-hush, top secret stuff,\" she said. \"Grown men playing children's\n games.\"\n\n\n \"Pretty deadly games for children, darling.\"\nIn the late afternoon they by-passed the central part of Baltimore and\n headed north beyond the suburb of Towson toward Dell's truck farm.", "\"Curt, my boy! And Louise! I thought you weren't going to show up at\n all.\"\n\n\n Curt's hand was almost lost in Dell's enormous grip, but it wasn't\n because of that that his grip was passive. It was his shocked reaction\n to Dell's haggard appearance. The fierce eyes looked merely old and\n tired now. The ageless, leathery hide of Dell's face seemed to have\n collapsed before some overpowering decay, its bronze smoothness\n shattered by deep lines that were like tool marks of pain.\n\n\n Curt spoke in a subdued voice. \"It's hard to get away from Detrick.\n Always one more experiment to try—\"\n\n\n \"—And the brass riding you as if they expected you to win another war\n for them tomorrow afternoon,\" said Dell. \"I remember.\"\n\n\n \"We wondered about this truck,\" Louise commented brightly, trying to\n change the subject. \"We finally gave up on it.\"", "They advanced slowly and amazement crept over Curt as he comprehended\n the massiveness of the machine. The tank was of elliptical cross\n section, over ten feet on its major axis. Six double wheels supported\n the rear; even the front ones were double. In spite of such wide weight\n distribution, the tires were pressing down the utterly dry ground to a\n depth of an inch or more.\n\n\n \"They must haul liquid lead in that thing,\" said Curt.\n\n\n \"It's getting cool. I wish Dell would show up.\" Louise glanced out\n over the twenty-acre expanse of truck farm. Thick rows of robust\n plants covered the area. Tomatoes, carrots, beets, lettuce, and other\n vegetables—a hundred or so fruit trees were at the far end. Between\n them ran the road over which the massive truck had apparently entered\n the farm from the rear.\n\n\n A heavy step sounded abruptly and Dell's shaggy head appeared from\n around the end of the truck. His face lighted with pleasure.", "\"What will we do with him?\" Brown asked abruptly.\n\n\n \"If Dell is dead, you murdered him!\" Curt shouted.\n\n\n A rising personal fear grew within him. They could not release him now,\n even though his story would make no sense to anybody. But they had\n somehow killed Dell, or thought they had, and they wouldn't hesitate\n to kill Curt. He thought of Louise in the great house with the corpse\n of Haman Dell—if, of course, he was actually dead. But that was\n nonsense....\n\n\n \"Dell must have sent you to us!\" Sark said, as if a great mystery had\n suddenly been lifted from his mind. \"He did not have time to tell you\n everything. Did he tell you to take the road behind the farm?\"\n\n\n Curt nodded bitterly. \"He told me it was the quickest way to get to a\n doctor.\"", "\"You want Dr. Dell?\"\n\n\n They whirled at the sound of an unfamiliar voice. Louise uttered a\n startled cry.\n\n\n The gaunt figure behind them coughed asthmatically and pointed with an\n arm that seemed composed only of bones and brownish skin, so thin as to\n be almost translucent.\n\n\n \"Yes,\" said Curt shakenly. \"We're friends of his.\"\n\n\n \"Dell's in back. I'll tell him you're here.\"\n\n\n The figure shambled away and Louise shook herself as if to rid her mind\n of the vision. \"If our grandchildren ever ask about zombies, I can\n tell them. Who in the world do you suppose he is?\"\n\n\n \"Hired man, I suppose. Sounds as if he should be in a lung sanitarium.\n Funny that Dell would keep him around in that condition.\"", "As if unable to comprehend, the hired man stared dumbly for a long\n moment. His hollow-cheeked face was almost skeletal in the light that\n flooded out from behind him.\n\n\n Then from somewhere within the building came a voice, sharp with\n tension. \"Brown! What the devil are you doing? Shut that door!\"\n\n\n That brought the figure to life. He whipped out a gun and motioned Curt\n inward. \"Step inside. We'll have to decide what to do with you when\n Carlson finds you're here.\"\n\n\n \"What's the matter with you?\" Curt asked, stupefied. \"Dell's dying. He\n needs help.\"\n\n\n \"Get in here!\"", "From somewhere behind the house came the sound of a truck engine. Curt\n took Louise's arm and led her around the trim, graveled path.\n\n\n The old farmhouse had been very carefully renovated. Everywhere was\n evidence of exquisite care, yet the cumulative atmosphere remained\n uninviting, almost oppressive. Curt told himself it was the utter\n silence, made even more tense by the lonely chugging of the engine in\n back, and the incredible harsh color of the soil beneath their feet.\nRounding the corner, they came in sight of a massive tank truck. From\n it a hose led to an underground storage tank and pulsed slowly under\n the force of the liquid gushing through it. No one was in sight.\n\n\n \"What could that be for?\" asked Louise.\n\n\n \"You've got me. Could be gasoline, but Dell hasn't any reason for\n storing that much here.\"", "Dell raised a lock of steel-gray hair in his fingers and dismissed the\n question with a wan smile. \"We all wear out sometime,\" he said. \"My\n turn had to come.\"\nInside, some of the oppressiveness vanished as the evening passed. It\n was cool enough for lighting the fireplace, and they settled before it\n after dinner. While they watched the flickering light that whipped the\n beamed ceiling, Dell entertained them with stories of his neighbors,\n whose histories he knew clear back to Revolutionary times.\n\n\n Early, however, Louise excused herself. She knew they would want\n privacy to thresh out the purposes behind Dell's invitation—and Curt's\n acceptance.\n\n\n When she was gone, there was a moment's silence. The logs crackled with\n shocking pistol shots in the fireplace. The scientist moved to stir the\n coals and then turned abruptly to Curt.\n\n\n \"When are you going to leave Detrick?\"", "\"Hard to tell,\" Curt said, unconsciously speeding up again. \"After\n the war, when the atomic scientists were publicly examining their\n consciences, Dell told them to examine their own guts first. That\n was typical of him then, but soon after, he swung just as strongly\n pacifist and walked out of Detrick.\"\n\n\n \"It still seems strange that he abandoned his whole career. The world's\n foremost biochemist giving up the laboratory for a\ntruck farm\n!\"\n Louise glanced down at the lunch basket between them. In it were\n tomatoes that Dr. Hamon Dell had sent along with his invitation to\n visit him.\nFor nearly a year Dr. Dell had been sending packages of choice fruit\n and vegetables to his former colleagues, not only at the biological\n warfare center at Camp Detrick but at the universities and other\n research centers throughout the country.\n\n\n \"I wish we knew exactly why he asked us to come out,\" said Louise.", "He was a bony creature, even more cadaverous than Brown. He caught\n sight of Curt's almost indecently robust face. He gasped and swore.\n\n\n \"Who is this? What's he doing here?\"\n\n\n The entire montage of skull faces turned upon Curt. He heard a sharp\n collective intake of breath, as if his presence were some unforeseen\n calamity that had shaken the course of their incomprehensible lives.\n\n\n \"This is Curtis Johnson,\" said Brown. \"He got lost looking for a doctor\n for Dell.\"\n\n\n A mummylike figure rose from a seat before the instrument. \"Your coming\n is tremendously unfortunate, but for the moment we can do nothing about\n it. Sit here beside me. My name is Tarron Sark.\"\n\n\n The man indicated a chair.", "His sign was visible for a half mile:\nYOU ARE WHAT YOU EAT\n\n Eat the Best\n\n EAT DELL'S VEGETABLES\n\n\n \"Dr. Hamon Dell, world's foremost biochemist—and truck farmer,\" Curt\n muttered as he swung the car off the highway.\n\n\n Louise stepped out when the tires ceased crunching on the gravel lane.\n She scanned the fields and old woods beyond the ancient but preserved\n farmhouse. \"It's so unearthly.\"\n\n\n Curt followed. The song of birds, which had been so noticeable before,\n seemed strangely muted. The land itself was an alien, faintly greenish\n hue, a color repulsive to more than just the eyes.\n\n\n \"It must be something in this particular soil,\" said Curt, \"something\n that gives it that color and produces such wonderful crops. I'll have\n to remember to ask Dell about it.\"", "Louise's smile grew tight and thin. \"Don't any of you ever think of\n anything but the next war—\nany\nof you?\"\n\n\n \"How can we? We're fighting it right now.\"\n\n\n \"You make it sound so hopeless.\"\n\n\n \"That's what Dell said in the days just before he quit. He said we\n didn't\nhave\nto stay at Detrick producing the toxins and aerosols that\n will destroy millions of lives. But he never showed us how we could\n quit—and be sure of staying alive. His own walking out was no more\n than a futile gesture.\"\n\n\n \"I just can't understand him, Curt. I think he's right in a way, but\n what brought\nhim\nto that viewpoint?\"", "Curt frantically got dressed, ran down the stairs and out to the car.\n He wondered absently what had become of the cadaverous Brown, who\n seemed to have vanished from the premises.\nThe wheels spun gravel as he started the car and whipped it out of\n the driveway. Then he was on the stretch of lane leading through the\n grove. The moonless night was utterly dark, and the stream of light\n ahead of the car seemed the only living thing upon the whole landscape.\n He almost wished he had taken the more familiar road. To get lost now\n might mean death for Dell.\n\n\n No traffic flowed past him in either direction. There were no buildings\n showing lights. Overwhelming desolation seemed to possess the\n countryside and seep into his soul. It seemed impossible that this lay\n close to the other highway with which he was familiar.", "\"Oh, that. It brings liquid fertilizer to pump into my irrigation\n water, that's all. No mystery. Let's go on to the house. After you're\n settled we can catch up on everything and I'll tell you about the\n things I'm doing here.\"\n\n\n \"Who's the man we saw?\" asked Curt. \"He looks as if his health is\n pretty precarious.\"\n\n\n \"That's Brown. He came with the place—farmed it for years for my uncle\n before I inherited it. He could grow a garden on a granite slab. In\n spite of appearances, he's well enough physically.\"\n\n\n \"How has your own health been? You have—changed—since you were at\n Detrick.\"", "\"My friend, Dr. Dell, is dying,\" Curt snapped out, refusing to sit\n down. \"I've got to get help. I saw your light and hoped you'd allow me\n to use your phone. I don't know who you are nor what Dell's hired man\n is doing here with you. But you've got to let me go for help!\"\n\n\n \"No.\" The man, Sark, shook his head. \"Dell is reconciled. He has to go.\n We are awaiting precisely the event you would halt—his death.\"\n\n\n He had known it, Curt thought, from the moment he entered that room.\n Like vultures sitting on cliffs waiting for the death of their prey,\n these fantastic men let their glance slip back to the screen. The green\n line was a third of the way toward the red marker now, and moving more\n rapidly.\n\n\n It was nightmare—meaningless—", "Beside him, his wife, Louise, held her blowing hair away from her face\n and laughed into the warm air. \"Dr. Dell isn't going to run away.\n Besides, you said we could call this a weekend vacation as well as a\n business trip.\"\n\n\n Curt glanced at the speedometer and eased the pressure on the pedal. He\n grinned. \"Wool-gathering again.\"\n\n\n \"What about?\"\n\n\n \"I was just wondering who said it first—one of the fellows at Detrick,\n or that lieutenant at Bikini, or—\"\n\n\n \"Said\nwhat\n? What are you talking about?\"\n\n\n \"That crack about the weapons after the next war. He—whoever it\n was—said there may be some doubt about what the weapons of the next\n war will be like, but there is absolutely no doubt about the weapons of\n World War IV. It will be fought with stones and spears. I guess any one\n of us could have said it.\"", "Curt stared with pity at the great scientist whose mind had so\n disintegrated. \"You need a doctor. I'll call a hospital, Johns Hopkins,\n if you want.\"\n\n\n \"Wait, maybe you're right. I have no phone here. Get Dr. Wilson—the\n Judge Building, Towson—find his home address in a phone book.\"\n\n\n \"Fine. I'll only be a little while.\"\n\n\n He stepped to the door.\n\n\n \"Curt! Take the lane down to the new road—behind the farm. Quicker—it\n cuts off a mile or so—go down through the orchard—\"\n\n\n \"All right. Take it easy now. I'll be right back.\"", "He stumbled out, refusing Curt's offer of aid with a grim headshake.\n The fire crackled loudly within the otherwise silent room. Curt\n felt cold at the descending chill of the night, his mind bewildered\n at Dell's barrage, some of it so reasonable, some of it so utterly\n confused. And there was no clue to the identity of the powerful force\n that had made so great a change in the once militant scientist.\n\n\n Slowly Curt mounted the staircase of the old house and went to the room\n Dell had assigned them. Louise was in bed reading a murder mystery.\n\n\n \"Secret mission completed?\" she asked.\n\n\n Curt sat down on the edge of the bed. \"I'm afraid something terrible\n is wrong with Dell. Besides the neurotic guilt complex because of his\n war work, he showed signs of a terrific and apparently habitual pain in\n his head. If that should be brain tumor, it might explain his erratic\n notions, his abandonment of his career.\"", "He strained his eyes into the darkness for signs of an all-night gas\n station or store from which he could phone. Finally, he resigned\n himself to going all the way to Towson. At that moment he glimpsed a\n spark of light far ahead.\n\n\n Encouraged, Curt stepped on the gas. In less than ten minutes he was at\n the spot. He braked the car to a stop, and surveyed the building as he\n got out. It seemed more like a power substation than anything else. But\n there should be a telephone, at least.\n\n\n He knocked on the door. Almost instantly, footsteps sounded within.\n\n\n The door swung wide.\n\n\n \"I wonder if I could use your—\" Curt began. He gasped. \"Brown! Dell's\n dying—we've got to get a doctor for him—\"", "\"Nobody claims to have figured him out. They laugh a little at him now.\n They eat his gifts willingly enough, but consider him slightly off his\n rocker. He still has all his biological talents, though. I've never\n seen or tasted vegetables like the ones he grows.\"\n\n\n \"And the brass at Detrick doesn't think he's gone soft in the head,\n either,\" she added much too innocently. \"So they ordered you to take\n advantage of his invitation and try to persuade him to come back.\"\n\n\n Curt turned his head so sharply that Louise laughed.\n\n\n \"No, I didn't read any secret, hush-hush papers,\" she said. \"But it's\n pretty obvious, isn't it, the way you rushed right over to General\n Hansen after you got the invitation?\"" ], [ "From somewhere behind the house came the sound of a truck engine. Curt\n took Louise's arm and led her around the trim, graveled path.\n\n\n The old farmhouse had been very carefully renovated. Everywhere was\n evidence of exquisite care, yet the cumulative atmosphere remained\n uninviting, almost oppressive. Curt told himself it was the utter\n silence, made even more tense by the lonely chugging of the engine in\n back, and the incredible harsh color of the soil beneath their feet.\nRounding the corner, they came in sight of a massive tank truck. From\n it a hose led to an underground storage tank and pulsed slowly under\n the force of the liquid gushing through it. No one was in sight.\n\n\n \"What could that be for?\" asked Louise.\n\n\n \"You've got me. Could be gasoline, but Dell hasn't any reason for\n storing that much here.\"", "They advanced slowly and amazement crept over Curt as he comprehended\n the massiveness of the machine. The tank was of elliptical cross\n section, over ten feet on its major axis. Six double wheels supported\n the rear; even the front ones were double. In spite of such wide weight\n distribution, the tires were pressing down the utterly dry ground to a\n depth of an inch or more.\n\n\n \"They must haul liquid lead in that thing,\" said Curt.\n\n\n \"It's getting cool. I wish Dell would show up.\" Louise glanced out\n over the twenty-acre expanse of truck farm. Thick rows of robust\n plants covered the area. Tomatoes, carrots, beets, lettuce, and other\n vegetables—a hundred or so fruit trees were at the far end. Between\n them ran the road over which the massive truck had apparently entered\n the farm from the rear.\n\n\n A heavy step sounded abruptly and Dell's shaggy head appeared from\n around the end of the truck. His face lighted with pleasure.", "\"Curt, my boy! And Louise! I thought you weren't going to show up at\n all.\"\n\n\n Curt's hand was almost lost in Dell's enormous grip, but it wasn't\n because of that that his grip was passive. It was his shocked reaction\n to Dell's haggard appearance. The fierce eyes looked merely old and\n tired now. The ageless, leathery hide of Dell's face seemed to have\n collapsed before some overpowering decay, its bronze smoothness\n shattered by deep lines that were like tool marks of pain.\n\n\n Curt spoke in a subdued voice. \"It's hard to get away from Detrick.\n Always one more experiment to try—\"\n\n\n \"—And the brass riding you as if they expected you to win another war\n for them tomorrow afternoon,\" said Dell. \"I remember.\"\n\n\n \"We wondered about this truck,\" Louise commented brightly, trying to\n change the subject. \"We finally gave up on it.\"", "\"It\nis\nhush-hush, top-secret stuff,\" said Curt, his eyes once more on\n the road. \"The Army doesn't want it to leak, but they need Dell, need\n him badly. Anyone knowing bio-war developments would understand. They\n wanted to send me before. Dell's invitation was the break we needed.\n I may be the one with sufficient influence to bring him back. I hope\n so. But keep it under your permanent and forget your guessing games.\n There's more to it than you know.\"\n\n\n The car passed through a cool, wooded section and Louise leaned back\n and drank in the beauty of it.\n\n\n \"Hush-hush, top secret stuff,\" she said. \"Grown men playing children's\n games.\"\n\n\n \"Pretty deadly games for children, darling.\"\nIn the late afternoon they by-passed the central part of Baltimore and\n headed north beyond the suburb of Towson toward Dell's truck farm.", "Louise's smile grew tight and thin. \"Don't any of you ever think of\n anything but the next war—\nany\nof you?\"\n\n\n \"How can we? We're fighting it right now.\"\n\n\n \"You make it sound so hopeless.\"\n\n\n \"That's what Dell said in the days just before he quit. He said we\n didn't\nhave\nto stay at Detrick producing the toxins and aerosols that\n will destroy millions of lives. But he never showed us how we could\n quit—and be sure of staying alive. His own walking out was no more\n than a futile gesture.\"\n\n\n \"I just can't understand him, Curt. I think he's right in a way, but\n what brought\nhim\nto that viewpoint?\"", "\"What will we do with him?\" Brown asked abruptly.\n\n\n \"If Dell is dead, you murdered him!\" Curt shouted.\n\n\n A rising personal fear grew within him. They could not release him now,\n even though his story would make no sense to anybody. But they had\n somehow killed Dell, or thought they had, and they wouldn't hesitate\n to kill Curt. He thought of Louise in the great house with the corpse\n of Haman Dell—if, of course, he was actually dead. But that was\n nonsense....\n\n\n \"Dell must have sent you to us!\" Sark said, as if a great mystery had\n suddenly been lifted from his mind. \"He did not have time to tell you\n everything. Did he tell you to take the road behind the farm?\"\n\n\n Curt nodded bitterly. \"He told me it was the quickest way to get to a\n doctor.\"", "His sign was visible for a half mile:\nYOU ARE WHAT YOU EAT\n\n Eat the Best\n\n EAT DELL'S VEGETABLES\n\n\n \"Dr. Hamon Dell, world's foremost biochemist—and truck farmer,\" Curt\n muttered as he swung the car off the highway.\n\n\n Louise stepped out when the tires ceased crunching on the gravel lane.\n She scanned the fields and old woods beyond the ancient but preserved\n farmhouse. \"It's so unearthly.\"\n\n\n Curt followed. The song of birds, which had been so noticeable before,\n seemed strangely muted. The land itself was an alien, faintly greenish\n hue, a color repulsive to more than just the eyes.\n\n\n \"It must be something in this particular soil,\" said Curt, \"something\n that gives it that color and produces such wonderful crops. I'll have\n to remember to ask Dell about it.\"", "Dell raised a lock of steel-gray hair in his fingers and dismissed the\n question with a wan smile. \"We all wear out sometime,\" he said. \"My\n turn had to come.\"\nInside, some of the oppressiveness vanished as the evening passed. It\n was cool enough for lighting the fireplace, and they settled before it\n after dinner. While they watched the flickering light that whipped the\n beamed ceiling, Dell entertained them with stories of his neighbors,\n whose histories he knew clear back to Revolutionary times.\n\n\n Early, however, Louise excused herself. She knew they would want\n privacy to thresh out the purposes behind Dell's invitation—and Curt's\n acceptance.\n\n\n When she was gone, there was a moment's silence. The logs crackled with\n shocking pistol shots in the fireplace. The scientist moved to stir the\n coals and then turned abruptly to Curt.\n\n\n \"When are you going to leave Detrick?\"", "Curt moved slowly forward. Brown closed the door behind him and\n motioned toward a closed door at the other end of a short hall. They\n opened it and stepped into a dimly lighted room.\nCurt's eyes slowly adjusted and he saw what seemed to be a laboratory.\n It was so packed with equipment that there was scarcely room for the\n group of twelve or fifteen men jammed closely about some object with\n their backs to Curt and Brown.\nBrown shambled forward like an agitated skeleton, breaking the circle.\n Then Curt saw that the object of the men's attention was a large\n cathode ray screen occupied by a single green line. There was a pip on\n it rising sharply near one side of the two-foot tube. The pip moved\n almost imperceptibly toward a vertical red marker over the face of the\n screen. The men stared as if hypnotized by it.\nThe newcomers' arrival, however, disturbed their attention. One man\n turned with an irritable growl. \"Brown, for heaven's sake—\"", "\"Oh, that. It brings liquid fertilizer to pump into my irrigation\n water, that's all. No mystery. Let's go on to the house. After you're\n settled we can catch up on everything and I'll tell you about the\n things I'm doing here.\"\n\n\n \"Who's the man we saw?\" asked Curt. \"He looks as if his health is\n pretty precarious.\"\n\n\n \"That's Brown. He came with the place—farmed it for years for my uncle\n before I inherited it. He could grow a garden on a granite slab. In\n spite of appearances, he's well enough physically.\"\n\n\n \"How has your own health been? You have—changed—since you were at\n Detrick.\"", "\"Hard to tell,\" Curt said, unconsciously speeding up again. \"After\n the war, when the atomic scientists were publicly examining their\n consciences, Dell told them to examine their own guts first. That\n was typical of him then, but soon after, he swung just as strongly\n pacifist and walked out of Detrick.\"\n\n\n \"It still seems strange that he abandoned his whole career. The world's\n foremost biochemist giving up the laboratory for a\ntruck farm\n!\"\n Louise glanced down at the lunch basket between them. In it were\n tomatoes that Dr. Hamon Dell had sent along with his invitation to\n visit him.\nFor nearly a year Dr. Dell had been sending packages of choice fruit\n and vegetables to his former colleagues, not only at the biological\n warfare center at Camp Detrick but at the universities and other\n research centers throughout the country.\n\n\n \"I wish we knew exactly why he asked us to come out,\" said Louise.", "As if unable to comprehend, the hired man stared dumbly for a long\n moment. His hollow-cheeked face was almost skeletal in the light that\n flooded out from behind him.\n\n\n Then from somewhere within the building came a voice, sharp with\n tension. \"Brown! What the devil are you doing? Shut that door!\"\n\n\n That brought the figure to life. He whipped out a gun and motioned Curt\n inward. \"Step inside. We'll have to decide what to do with you when\n Carlson finds you're here.\"\n\n\n \"What's the matter with you?\" Curt asked, stupefied. \"Dell's dying. He\n needs help.\"\n\n\n \"Get in here!\"", "Curt frantically got dressed, ran down the stairs and out to the car.\n He wondered absently what had become of the cadaverous Brown, who\n seemed to have vanished from the premises.\nThe wheels spun gravel as he started the car and whipped it out of\n the driveway. Then he was on the stretch of lane leading through the\n grove. The moonless night was utterly dark, and the stream of light\n ahead of the car seemed the only living thing upon the whole landscape.\n He almost wished he had taken the more familiar road. To get lost now\n might mean death for Dell.\n\n\n No traffic flowed past him in either direction. There were no buildings\n showing lights. Overwhelming desolation seemed to possess the\n countryside and seep into his soul. It seemed impossible that this lay\n close to the other highway with which he was familiar.", "Beside him, his wife, Louise, held her blowing hair away from her face\n and laughed into the warm air. \"Dr. Dell isn't going to run away.\n Besides, you said we could call this a weekend vacation as well as a\n business trip.\"\n\n\n Curt glanced at the speedometer and eased the pressure on the pedal. He\n grinned. \"Wool-gathering again.\"\n\n\n \"What about?\"\n\n\n \"I was just wondering who said it first—one of the fellows at Detrick,\n or that lieutenant at Bikini, or—\"\n\n\n \"Said\nwhat\n? What are you talking about?\"\n\n\n \"That crack about the weapons after the next war. He—whoever it\n was—said there may be some doubt about what the weapons of the next\n war will be like, but there is absolutely no doubt about the weapons of\n World War IV. It will be fought with stones and spears. I guess any one\n of us could have said it.\"", "He was a bony creature, even more cadaverous than Brown. He caught\n sight of Curt's almost indecently robust face. He gasped and swore.\n\n\n \"Who is this? What's he doing here?\"\n\n\n The entire montage of skull faces turned upon Curt. He heard a sharp\n collective intake of breath, as if his presence were some unforeseen\n calamity that had shaken the course of their incomprehensible lives.\n\n\n \"This is Curtis Johnson,\" said Brown. \"He got lost looking for a doctor\n for Dell.\"\n\n\n A mummylike figure rose from a seat before the instrument. \"Your coming\n is tremendously unfortunate, but for the moment we can do nothing about\n it. Sit here beside me. My name is Tarron Sark.\"\n\n\n The man indicated a chair.", "\"Nobody claims to have figured him out. They laugh a little at him now.\n They eat his gifts willingly enough, but consider him slightly off his\n rocker. He still has all his biological talents, though. I've never\n seen or tasted vegetables like the ones he grows.\"\n\n\n \"And the brass at Detrick doesn't think he's gone soft in the head,\n either,\" she added much too innocently. \"So they ordered you to take\n advantage of his invitation and try to persuade him to come back.\"\n\n\n Curt turned his head so sharply that Louise laughed.\n\n\n \"No, I didn't read any secret, hush-hush papers,\" she said. \"But it's\n pretty obvious, isn't it, the way you rushed right over to General\n Hansen after you got the invitation?\"", "\"My friend, Dr. Dell, is dying,\" Curt snapped out, refusing to sit\n down. \"I've got to get help. I saw your light and hoped you'd allow me\n to use your phone. I don't know who you are nor what Dell's hired man\n is doing here with you. But you've got to let me go for help!\"\n\n\n \"No.\" The man, Sark, shook his head. \"Dell is reconciled. He has to go.\n We are awaiting precisely the event you would halt—his death.\"\n\n\n He had known it, Curt thought, from the moment he entered that room.\n Like vultures sitting on cliffs waiting for the death of their prey,\n these fantastic men let their glance slip back to the screen. The green\n line was a third of the way toward the red marker now, and moving more\n rapidly.\n\n\n It was nightmare—meaningless—", "\"I'm not staying,\" Curt insisted. \"You can't prevent me from helping\n Dell without assuming responsibility for his death. I demand you let me\n call.\"\n\n\n \"You're not going to call,\" said Sark wearily. \"And we assumed\n responsibility for Dell's death long ago. Sit down!\"\n\n\n Slowly Curt sank down upon the chair beside the stranger. There was\n nothing else to do. He was powerless against Brown's gun. But he'd\n bring them to justice somehow, he swore.\n\n\n He didn't understand the meaning of the slowly moving pattern on the\n 'scope face, yet, as his eyes followed that pip, he sensed tension in\n the watching men that seemed sinister, almost murderous. How?\n\n\n What did the inexorably advancing pip signify?\nNo one spoke. The room was stifling hot and the breathing of the circle\n of men was a dull, rattling sound in Curt's ears.", "\"You want Dr. Dell?\"\n\n\n They whirled at the sound of an unfamiliar voice. Louise uttered a\n startled cry.\n\n\n The gaunt figure behind them coughed asthmatically and pointed with an\n arm that seemed composed only of bones and brownish skin, so thin as to\n be almost translucent.\n\n\n \"Yes,\" said Curt shakenly. \"We're friends of his.\"\n\n\n \"Dell's in back. I'll tell him you're here.\"\n\n\n The figure shambled away and Louise shook herself as if to rid her mind\n of the vision. \"If our grandchildren ever ask about zombies, I can\n tell them. Who in the world do you suppose he is?\"\n\n\n \"Hired man, I suppose. Sounds as if he should be in a lung sanitarium.\n Funny that Dell would keep him around in that condition.\"", "He stumbled out, refusing Curt's offer of aid with a grim headshake.\n The fire crackled loudly within the otherwise silent room. Curt\n felt cold at the descending chill of the night, his mind bewildered\n at Dell's barrage, some of it so reasonable, some of it so utterly\n confused. And there was no clue to the identity of the powerful force\n that had made so great a change in the once militant scientist.\n\n\n Slowly Curt mounted the staircase of the old house and went to the room\n Dell had assigned them. Louise was in bed reading a murder mystery.\n\n\n \"Secret mission completed?\" she asked.\n\n\n Curt sat down on the edge of the bed. \"I'm afraid something terrible\n is wrong with Dell. Besides the neurotic guilt complex because of his\n war work, he showed signs of a terrific and apparently habitual pain in\n his head. If that should be brain tumor, it might explain his erratic\n notions, his abandonment of his career.\"" ], [ "As if unable to comprehend, the hired man stared dumbly for a long\n moment. His hollow-cheeked face was almost skeletal in the light that\n flooded out from behind him.\n\n\n Then from somewhere within the building came a voice, sharp with\n tension. \"Brown! What the devil are you doing? Shut that door!\"\n\n\n That brought the figure to life. He whipped out a gun and motioned Curt\n inward. \"Step inside. We'll have to decide what to do with you when\n Carlson finds you're here.\"\n\n\n \"What's the matter with you?\" Curt asked, stupefied. \"Dell's dying. He\n needs help.\"\n\n\n \"Get in here!\"", "Dell raised a lock of steel-gray hair in his fingers and dismissed the\n question with a wan smile. \"We all wear out sometime,\" he said. \"My\n turn had to come.\"\nInside, some of the oppressiveness vanished as the evening passed. It\n was cool enough for lighting the fireplace, and they settled before it\n after dinner. While they watched the flickering light that whipped the\n beamed ceiling, Dell entertained them with stories of his neighbors,\n whose histories he knew clear back to Revolutionary times.\n\n\n Early, however, Louise excused herself. She knew they would want\n privacy to thresh out the purposes behind Dell's invitation—and Curt's\n acceptance.\n\n\n When she was gone, there was a moment's silence. The logs crackled with\n shocking pistol shots in the fireplace. The scientist moved to stir the\n coals and then turned abruptly to Curt.\n\n\n \"When are you going to leave Detrick?\"", "\"What will we do with him?\" Brown asked abruptly.\n\n\n \"If Dell is dead, you murdered him!\" Curt shouted.\n\n\n A rising personal fear grew within him. They could not release him now,\n even though his story would make no sense to anybody. But they had\n somehow killed Dell, or thought they had, and they wouldn't hesitate\n to kill Curt. He thought of Louise in the great house with the corpse\n of Haman Dell—if, of course, he was actually dead. But that was\n nonsense....\n\n\n \"Dell must have sent you to us!\" Sark said, as if a great mystery had\n suddenly been lifted from his mind. \"He did not have time to tell you\n everything. Did he tell you to take the road behind the farm?\"\n\n\n Curt nodded bitterly. \"He told me it was the quickest way to get to a\n doctor.\"", "\"Curt, my boy! And Louise! I thought you weren't going to show up at\n all.\"\n\n\n Curt's hand was almost lost in Dell's enormous grip, but it wasn't\n because of that that his grip was passive. It was his shocked reaction\n to Dell's haggard appearance. The fierce eyes looked merely old and\n tired now. The ageless, leathery hide of Dell's face seemed to have\n collapsed before some overpowering decay, its bronze smoothness\n shattered by deep lines that were like tool marks of pain.\n\n\n Curt spoke in a subdued voice. \"It's hard to get away from Detrick.\n Always one more experiment to try—\"\n\n\n \"—And the brass riding you as if they expected you to win another war\n for them tomorrow afternoon,\" said Dell. \"I remember.\"\n\n\n \"We wondered about this truck,\" Louise commented brightly, trying to\n change the subject. \"We finally gave up on it.\"", "\"It\nis\nhush-hush, top-secret stuff,\" said Curt, his eyes once more on\n the road. \"The Army doesn't want it to leak, but they need Dell, need\n him badly. Anyone knowing bio-war developments would understand. They\n wanted to send me before. Dell's invitation was the break we needed.\n I may be the one with sufficient influence to bring him back. I hope\n so. But keep it under your permanent and forget your guessing games.\n There's more to it than you know.\"\n\n\n The car passed through a cool, wooded section and Louise leaned back\n and drank in the beauty of it.\n\n\n \"Hush-hush, top secret stuff,\" she said. \"Grown men playing children's\n games.\"\n\n\n \"Pretty deadly games for children, darling.\"\nIn the late afternoon they by-passed the central part of Baltimore and\n headed north beyond the suburb of Towson toward Dell's truck farm.", "Curt stared with pity at the great scientist whose mind had so\n disintegrated. \"You need a doctor. I'll call a hospital, Johns Hopkins,\n if you want.\"\n\n\n \"Wait, maybe you're right. I have no phone here. Get Dr. Wilson—the\n Judge Building, Towson—find his home address in a phone book.\"\n\n\n \"Fine. I'll only be a little while.\"\n\n\n He stepped to the door.\n\n\n \"Curt! Take the lane down to the new road—behind the farm. Quicker—it\n cuts off a mile or so—go down through the orchard—\"\n\n\n \"All right. Take it easy now. I'll be right back.\"", "Louise's smile grew tight and thin. \"Don't any of you ever think of\n anything but the next war—\nany\nof you?\"\n\n\n \"How can we? We're fighting it right now.\"\n\n\n \"You make it sound so hopeless.\"\n\n\n \"That's what Dell said in the days just before he quit. He said we\n didn't\nhave\nto stay at Detrick producing the toxins and aerosols that\n will destroy millions of lives. But he never showed us how we could\n quit—and be sure of staying alive. His own walking out was no more\n than a futile gesture.\"\n\n\n \"I just can't understand him, Curt. I think he's right in a way, but\n what brought\nhim\nto that viewpoint?\"", "He was a bony creature, even more cadaverous than Brown. He caught\n sight of Curt's almost indecently robust face. He gasped and swore.\n\n\n \"Who is this? What's he doing here?\"\n\n\n The entire montage of skull faces turned upon Curt. He heard a sharp\n collective intake of breath, as if his presence were some unforeseen\n calamity that had shaken the course of their incomprehensible lives.\n\n\n \"This is Curtis Johnson,\" said Brown. \"He got lost looking for a doctor\n for Dell.\"\n\n\n A mummylike figure rose from a seat before the instrument. \"Your coming\n is tremendously unfortunate, but for the moment we can do nothing about\n it. Sit here beside me. My name is Tarron Sark.\"\n\n\n The man indicated a chair.", "Curt frantically got dressed, ran down the stairs and out to the car.\n He wondered absently what had become of the cadaverous Brown, who\n seemed to have vanished from the premises.\nThe wheels spun gravel as he started the car and whipped it out of\n the driveway. Then he was on the stretch of lane leading through the\n grove. The moonless night was utterly dark, and the stream of light\n ahead of the car seemed the only living thing upon the whole landscape.\n He almost wished he had taken the more familiar road. To get lost now\n might mean death for Dell.\n\n\n No traffic flowed past him in either direction. There were no buildings\n showing lights. Overwhelming desolation seemed to possess the\n countryside and seep into his soul. It seemed impossible that this lay\n close to the other highway with which he was familiar.", "From somewhere behind the house came the sound of a truck engine. Curt\n took Louise's arm and led her around the trim, graveled path.\n\n\n The old farmhouse had been very carefully renovated. Everywhere was\n evidence of exquisite care, yet the cumulative atmosphere remained\n uninviting, almost oppressive. Curt told himself it was the utter\n silence, made even more tense by the lonely chugging of the engine in\n back, and the incredible harsh color of the soil beneath their feet.\nRounding the corner, they came in sight of a massive tank truck. From\n it a hose led to an underground storage tank and pulsed slowly under\n the force of the liquid gushing through it. No one was in sight.\n\n\n \"What could that be for?\" asked Louise.\n\n\n \"You've got me. Could be gasoline, but Dell hasn't any reason for\n storing that much here.\"", "He stumbled out, refusing Curt's offer of aid with a grim headshake.\n The fire crackled loudly within the otherwise silent room. Curt\n felt cold at the descending chill of the night, his mind bewildered\n at Dell's barrage, some of it so reasonable, some of it so utterly\n confused. And there was no clue to the identity of the powerful force\n that had made so great a change in the once militant scientist.\n\n\n Slowly Curt mounted the staircase of the old house and went to the room\n Dell had assigned them. Louise was in bed reading a murder mystery.\n\n\n \"Secret mission completed?\" she asked.\n\n\n Curt sat down on the edge of the bed. \"I'm afraid something terrible\n is wrong with Dell. Besides the neurotic guilt complex because of his\n war work, he showed signs of a terrific and apparently habitual pain in\n his head. If that should be brain tumor, it might explain his erratic\n notions, his abandonment of his career.\"", "\"My friend, Dr. Dell, is dying,\" Curt snapped out, refusing to sit\n down. \"I've got to get help. I saw your light and hoped you'd allow me\n to use your phone. I don't know who you are nor what Dell's hired man\n is doing here with you. But you've got to let me go for help!\"\n\n\n \"No.\" The man, Sark, shook his head. \"Dell is reconciled. He has to go.\n We are awaiting precisely the event you would halt—his death.\"\n\n\n He had known it, Curt thought, from the moment he entered that room.\n Like vultures sitting on cliffs waiting for the death of their prey,\n these fantastic men let their glance slip back to the screen. The green\n line was a third of the way toward the red marker now, and moving more\n rapidly.\n\n\n It was nightmare—meaningless—", "Beside him, his wife, Louise, held her blowing hair away from her face\n and laughed into the warm air. \"Dr. Dell isn't going to run away.\n Besides, you said we could call this a weekend vacation as well as a\n business trip.\"\n\n\n Curt glanced at the speedometer and eased the pressure on the pedal. He\n grinned. \"Wool-gathering again.\"\n\n\n \"What about?\"\n\n\n \"I was just wondering who said it first—one of the fellows at Detrick,\n or that lieutenant at Bikini, or—\"\n\n\n \"Said\nwhat\n? What are you talking about?\"\n\n\n \"That crack about the weapons after the next war. He—whoever it\n was—said there may be some doubt about what the weapons of the next\n war will be like, but there is absolutely no doubt about the weapons of\n World War IV. It will be fought with stones and spears. I guess any one\n of us could have said it.\"", "\"When are\nyou\ncoming back?\" Curt demanded instead of answering.\n\n\n \"So they still want me, even after the things I said when I left.\"\n\n\n \"You're needed badly. When I told Hansen I was coming down, he said it\n would be worth five years of my own work to bring you back.\"\n\n\n \"They want me to produce even deadlier toxins than those I gave them,\"\n Dell said viciously. \"They want some that can kill ten million people\n in four minutes instead of only one million—\"\n\n\n \"Any man would go insane if he looked at it that way. It would be the\n same as gun-makers being tormented by the vision of torn men destroyed\n by their bullets, the sorrowing families—\"\n\n\n \"And why shouldn't the gun-makers be tormented?\" Dell's voice was\n low with controlled hate. \"They are men like you and me who give the\nwar\n-makers new tools for their trade.\"", "\"Curt—I thought I had time left, but this is as far as I can go—Just\n remember all I said tonight. Don't forget a word of it.\" He sat up\n rigidly, hardly breathing in the effort of control. \"The responsibility\n for the coming destruction of civilization lies at the doors of the\n scientist mercenaries. Don't allow it, Curt. Get them to abandon the\n laboratories of the warriors. Get them to reclaim their honor—\"\n\n\n He fell back upon the pillow, his face white with pain and shining with\n sweat. \"Brown—see Brown. He can tell you the—the rest.\"\n\n\n \"I'll go for a doctor,\" said Curt. \"Who have you had? Louise will stay\n with you.\"\n\n\n \"Don't bring a doctor. There's no escaping this. I've known it for\n months. Wait here with me, Curt. I'll be gone soon.\"", "\"Exactly,\" he said. \"You reach for a rock and beat his brains in. You\n don't wipe human life off the face of the Earth in order to reach that\n enemy. I asked you to come down here to help me break this circle of\n which I spoke. There has to be someone here—after I'm gone—\"\n\n\n Dell's eyes shifted to the depths of shadows beyond the firelight and\n remained fixed on unseen images.\n\n\n \"Me? Help you?\" Curt asked incredulously. \"What could I do? Give up\n science and become a truck gardener, too?\"", "\"Oh, that. It brings liquid fertilizer to pump into my irrigation\n water, that's all. No mystery. Let's go on to the house. After you're\n settled we can catch up on everything and I'll tell you about the\n things I'm doing here.\"\n\n\n \"Who's the man we saw?\" asked Curt. \"He looks as if his health is\n pretty precarious.\"\n\n\n \"That's Brown. He came with the place—farmed it for years for my uncle\n before I inherited it. He could grow a garden on a granite slab. In\n spite of appearances, he's well enough physically.\"\n\n\n \"How has your own health been? You have—changed—since you were at\n Detrick.\"", "He strained his eyes into the darkness for signs of an all-night gas\n station or store from which he could phone. Finally, he resigned\n himself to going all the way to Towson. At that moment he glimpsed a\n spark of light far ahead.\n\n\n Encouraged, Curt stepped on the gas. In less than ten minutes he was at\n the spot. He braked the car to a stop, and surveyed the building as he\n got out. It seemed more like a power substation than anything else. But\n there should be a telephone, at least.\n\n\n He knocked on the door. Almost instantly, footsteps sounded within.\n\n\n The door swung wide.\n\n\n \"I wonder if I could use your—\" Curt began. He gasped. \"Brown! Dell's\n dying—we've got to get a doctor for him—\"", "They advanced slowly and amazement crept over Curt as he comprehended\n the massiveness of the machine. The tank was of elliptical cross\n section, over ten feet on its major axis. Six double wheels supported\n the rear; even the front ones were double. In spite of such wide weight\n distribution, the tires were pressing down the utterly dry ground to a\n depth of an inch or more.\n\n\n \"They must haul liquid lead in that thing,\" said Curt.\n\n\n \"It's getting cool. I wish Dell would show up.\" Louise glanced out\n over the twenty-acre expanse of truck farm. Thick rows of robust\n plants covered the area. Tomatoes, carrots, beets, lettuce, and other\n vegetables—a hundred or so fruit trees were at the far end. Between\n them ran the road over which the massive truck had apparently entered\n the farm from the rear.\n\n\n A heavy step sounded abruptly and Dell's shaggy head appeared from\n around the end of the truck. His face lighted with pleasure.", "\"Nobody claims to have figured him out. They laugh a little at him now.\n They eat his gifts willingly enough, but consider him slightly off his\n rocker. He still has all his biological talents, though. I've never\n seen or tasted vegetables like the ones he grows.\"\n\n\n \"And the brass at Detrick doesn't think he's gone soft in the head,\n either,\" she added much too innocently. \"So they ordered you to take\n advantage of his invitation and try to persuade him to come back.\"\n\n\n Curt turned his head so sharply that Louise laughed.\n\n\n \"No, I didn't read any secret, hush-hush papers,\" she said. \"But it's\n pretty obvious, isn't it, the way you rushed right over to General\n Hansen after you got the invitation?\"" ], [ "\"My friend, Dr. Dell, is dying,\" Curt snapped out, refusing to sit\n down. \"I've got to get help. I saw your light and hoped you'd allow me\n to use your phone. I don't know who you are nor what Dell's hired man\n is doing here with you. But you've got to let me go for help!\"\n\n\n \"No.\" The man, Sark, shook his head. \"Dell is reconciled. He has to go.\n We are awaiting precisely the event you would halt—his death.\"\n\n\n He had known it, Curt thought, from the moment he entered that room.\n Like vultures sitting on cliffs waiting for the death of their prey,\n these fantastic men let their glance slip back to the screen. The green\n line was a third of the way toward the red marker now, and moving more\n rapidly.\n\n\n It was nightmare—meaningless—", "\"Exactly,\" he said. \"You reach for a rock and beat his brains in. You\n don't wipe human life off the face of the Earth in order to reach that\n enemy. I asked you to come down here to help me break this circle of\n which I spoke. There has to be someone here—after I'm gone—\"\n\n\n Dell's eyes shifted to the depths of shadows beyond the firelight and\n remained fixed on unseen images.\n\n\n \"Me? Help you?\" Curt asked incredulously. \"What could I do? Give up\n science and become a truck gardener, too?\"", "\"You want Dr. Dell?\"\n\n\n They whirled at the sound of an unfamiliar voice. Louise uttered a\n startled cry.\n\n\n The gaunt figure behind them coughed asthmatically and pointed with an\n arm that seemed composed only of bones and brownish skin, so thin as to\n be almost translucent.\n\n\n \"Yes,\" said Curt shakenly. \"We're friends of his.\"\n\n\n \"Dell's in back. I'll tell him you're here.\"\n\n\n The figure shambled away and Louise shook herself as if to rid her mind\n of the vision. \"If our grandchildren ever ask about zombies, I can\n tell them. Who in the world do you suppose he is?\"\n\n\n \"Hired man, I suppose. Sounds as if he should be in a lung sanitarium.\n Funny that Dell would keep him around in that condition.\"", "As if unable to comprehend, the hired man stared dumbly for a long\n moment. His hollow-cheeked face was almost skeletal in the light that\n flooded out from behind him.\n\n\n Then from somewhere within the building came a voice, sharp with\n tension. \"Brown! What the devil are you doing? Shut that door!\"\n\n\n That brought the figure to life. He whipped out a gun and motioned Curt\n inward. \"Step inside. We'll have to decide what to do with you when\n Carlson finds you're here.\"\n\n\n \"What's the matter with you?\" Curt asked, stupefied. \"Dell's dying. He\n needs help.\"\n\n\n \"Get in here!\"", "He was a bony creature, even more cadaverous than Brown. He caught\n sight of Curt's almost indecently robust face. He gasped and swore.\n\n\n \"Who is this? What's he doing here?\"\n\n\n The entire montage of skull faces turned upon Curt. He heard a sharp\n collective intake of breath, as if his presence were some unforeseen\n calamity that had shaken the course of their incomprehensible lives.\n\n\n \"This is Curtis Johnson,\" said Brown. \"He got lost looking for a doctor\n for Dell.\"\n\n\n A mummylike figure rose from a seat before the instrument. \"Your coming\n is tremendously unfortunate, but for the moment we can do nothing about\n it. Sit here beside me. My name is Tarron Sark.\"\n\n\n The man indicated a chair.", "\"He did? Then he knew even better than we did how rapidly he was\n slipping. Yes, this was the quickest way.\"\n\n\n \"What are you talking about?\" Curt demanded.\n\n\n \"Did Dell say anything at all about what he wanted of you?\"\n\n\n \"It was all wild. Something about helping with some crazy plans to\n retreat from the scientific world. He was going to finish talking in\n the morning, but I guess it wouldn't have mattered. I realize now that\n he was sick and irrational.\"\n\n\n \"Too sick to explain everything, but not irrational,\" Sark said\n thoughtfully. \"He left it to us to tell you, since you are to succeed\n him.\"\n\n\n \"Succeed Dell? In what?\"\nSark suddenly flipped a switch on a panel at his right. A screen\n lighted with some fuzzy image. It cleared with a slight dial\n adjustment, and Curt seemed to be looking at some oddly familiar\n moonlit ruin.", "\"What will we do with him?\" Brown asked abruptly.\n\n\n \"If Dell is dead, you murdered him!\" Curt shouted.\n\n\n A rising personal fear grew within him. They could not release him now,\n even though his story would make no sense to anybody. But they had\n somehow killed Dell, or thought they had, and they wouldn't hesitate\n to kill Curt. He thought of Louise in the great house with the corpse\n of Haman Dell—if, of course, he was actually dead. But that was\n nonsense....\n\n\n \"Dell must have sent you to us!\" Sark said, as if a great mystery had\n suddenly been lifted from his mind. \"He did not have time to tell you\n everything. Did he tell you to take the road behind the farm?\"\n\n\n Curt nodded bitterly. \"He told me it was the quickest way to get to a\n doctor.\"", "\"Do you remember me five years ago?\" Dell's face became more haggard,\n as if the memory shamed him. \"Do you remember when I told the atomic\n scientists to examine their guts instead of their consciences?\"\n\n\n \"Yes. You certainly\nhave\nchanged.\"\n\n\n \"And so can other men. There is a way. I need your help desperately,\n Curt—\"\n\n\n The face of the aging biochemist contorted again with unbearable pain.\n His forehead beaded with sweat as he clenched his skull between his\n vein-knotted hands.\n\n\n \"Dell! What is it?\"\n\n\n \"It will pass,\" Dr. Dell breathed through clenched teeth. \"I have some\n medicine—in my bedroom. I'm afraid I'll have to excuse myself tonight.\n There's so much more I have to say to you, but we'll continue our talk\n in the morning, Curt. I'm sorry—\"", "Dell raised a lock of steel-gray hair in his fingers and dismissed the\n question with a wan smile. \"We all wear out sometime,\" he said. \"My\n turn had to come.\"\nInside, some of the oppressiveness vanished as the evening passed. It\n was cool enough for lighting the fireplace, and they settled before it\n after dinner. While they watched the flickering light that whipped the\n beamed ceiling, Dell entertained them with stories of his neighbors,\n whose histories he knew clear back to Revolutionary times.\n\n\n Early, however, Louise excused herself. She knew they would want\n privacy to thresh out the purposes behind Dell's invitation—and Curt's\n acceptance.\n\n\n When she was gone, there was a moment's silence. The logs crackled with\n shocking pistol shots in the fireplace. The scientist moved to stir the\n coals and then turned abruptly to Curt.\n\n\n \"When are you going to leave Detrick?\"", "\"But doesn't this sense of guilt—unwarranted as it is—make you\nwant\nto find an antitoxin?\"\n\n\n \"Suppose I succeeded? I would have canceled the weapon of an enemy.\n The military would know he could nullify ours in time. Then they would\n command me to work out still another toxin. It's a vicious and insane\n circle, which must be broken somewhere. The purpose of the entire\n remainder of my life is to break it.\"\n\n\n \"When you are fighting for your life and the enemy already has his\n hands about your throat,\" Curt argued, \"you reach for the biggest rock\n you can get your hands on and beat his brains in. You don't try to\n persuade him that killing is unethical.\"\n\n\n For an instant it seemed to Curt that a flicker of humor touched the\n corners of Dell's mouth. Then the lines tightened down again.", "He strained his eyes into the darkness for signs of an all-night gas\n station or store from which he could phone. Finally, he resigned\n himself to going all the way to Towson. At that moment he glimpsed a\n spark of light far ahead.\n\n\n Encouraged, Curt stepped on the gas. In less than ten minutes he was at\n the spot. He braked the car to a stop, and surveyed the building as he\n got out. It seemed more like a power substation than anything else. But\n there should be a telephone, at least.\n\n\n He knocked on the door. Almost instantly, footsteps sounded within.\n\n\n The door swung wide.\n\n\n \"I wonder if I could use your—\" Curt began. He gasped. \"Brown! Dell's\n dying—we've got to get a doctor for him—\"", "\"Hard to tell,\" Curt said, unconsciously speeding up again. \"After\n the war, when the atomic scientists were publicly examining their\n consciences, Dell told them to examine their own guts first. That\n was typical of him then, but soon after, he swung just as strongly\n pacifist and walked out of Detrick.\"\n\n\n \"It still seems strange that he abandoned his whole career. The world's\n foremost biochemist giving up the laboratory for a\ntruck farm\n!\"\n Louise glanced down at the lunch basket between them. In it were\n tomatoes that Dr. Hamon Dell had sent along with his invitation to\n visit him.\nFor nearly a year Dr. Dell had been sending packages of choice fruit\n and vegetables to his former colleagues, not only at the biological\n warfare center at Camp Detrick but at the universities and other\n research centers throughout the country.\n\n\n \"I wish we knew exactly why he asked us to come out,\" said Louise.", "He stumbled out, refusing Curt's offer of aid with a grim headshake.\n The fire crackled loudly within the otherwise silent room. Curt\n felt cold at the descending chill of the night, his mind bewildered\n at Dell's barrage, some of it so reasonable, some of it so utterly\n confused. And there was no clue to the identity of the powerful force\n that had made so great a change in the once militant scientist.\n\n\n Slowly Curt mounted the staircase of the old house and went to the room\n Dell had assigned them. Louise was in bed reading a murder mystery.\n\n\n \"Secret mission completed?\" she asked.\n\n\n Curt sat down on the edge of the bed. \"I'm afraid something terrible\n is wrong with Dell. Besides the neurotic guilt complex because of his\n war work, he showed signs of a terrific and apparently habitual pain in\n his head. If that should be brain tumor, it might explain his erratic\n notions, his abandonment of his career.\"", "\"When are\nyou\ncoming back?\" Curt demanded instead of answering.\n\n\n \"So they still want me, even after the things I said when I left.\"\n\n\n \"You're needed badly. When I told Hansen I was coming down, he said it\n would be worth five years of my own work to bring you back.\"\n\n\n \"They want me to produce even deadlier toxins than those I gave them,\"\n Dell said viciously. \"They want some that can kill ten million people\n in four minutes instead of only one million—\"\n\n\n \"Any man would go insane if he looked at it that way. It would be the\n same as gun-makers being tormented by the vision of torn men destroyed\n by their bullets, the sorrowing families—\"\n\n\n \"And why shouldn't the gun-makers be tormented?\" Dell's voice was\n low with controlled hate. \"They are men like you and me who give the\nwar\n-makers new tools for their trade.\"", "\"Oh, I hope it's not that!\"\nIt seemed to Curt that he had slept only minutes before he was roused\n by sounds in the night. He rolled over and switched on the light. His\n watch said two o'clock. Louise raised up in sharp alarm.\n\n\n \"What is it?\" she whispered.\n\n\n \"I thought I heard something. There it is again!\"\n\n\n \"It sounds like someone in pain. It must be Dell!\"\n\n\n Curt leaped from the bed and wrestled into his bathrobe. As he hurried\n toward Dell's room, there was another deep groan that ended in a\n shuddering sob of unbearable agony.\n\n\n He burst into the scientist's room and switched on the light. Dell\n looked up, eyes glazed with pain.\n\n\n \"Dr. Dell!\"", "Louise's smile grew tight and thin. \"Don't any of you ever think of\n anything but the next war—\nany\nof you?\"\n\n\n \"How can we? We're fighting it right now.\"\n\n\n \"You make it sound so hopeless.\"\n\n\n \"That's what Dell said in the days just before he quit. He said we\n didn't\nhave\nto stay at Detrick producing the toxins and aerosols that\n will destroy millions of lives. But he never showed us how we could\n quit—and be sure of staying alive. His own walking out was no more\n than a futile gesture.\"\n\n\n \"I just can't understand him, Curt. I think he's right in a way, but\n what brought\nhim\nto that viewpoint?\"", "\"You might say that we would be in the rock business,\" replied Dell.\n \"Fighting is no longer on the level of one man with his hands about\n another's throat, but it\nshould\nbe. Those who want power and\n domination should have to fight for it personally. But it has been a\n long time since they had to.\n\"Even in the old days, kings and emperors hired mercenaries to fight\n their wars. The militarists don't buy swords now. They buy brains.\n We're the mercenaries of the new day, Curt, you and I. Once there was\n honor in our profession. We searched for truth for its own sake, and\n because it was our way of life. Once we were the hope of the world\n because science was a universal language.", "Quickly then, gathering sudden momentum, the pip accelerated. The\n circle of men grew taut.\n\n\n The pip crossed the red line—and vanished.\n\n\n Only the smooth green trace remained, motionless and without meaning.\n\n\n With hesitant shuffling of feet, the circle expanded. The men glanced\n uncertainly at one another.\n\n\n One said, \"Well, that's the end of Dell. We'll soon know now if we're\n on the right track, or if we've botched it. Carlson will call when he's\n computed it.\"\n\n\n \"The end of Dell?\" Curt repeated slowly, as if trying to convince\n himself of what he knew had happened. \"The pip on the screen—that\n showed his life leaving him?\"\n\n\n \"Yes,\" said Sark. \"He knew he had to go. And there are perhaps hundreds\n more like him. But Dell couldn't have told you of that—\"", "\"Curt, my boy! And Louise! I thought you weren't going to show up at\n all.\"\n\n\n Curt's hand was almost lost in Dell's enormous grip, but it wasn't\n because of that that his grip was passive. It was his shocked reaction\n to Dell's haggard appearance. The fierce eyes looked merely old and\n tired now. The ageless, leathery hide of Dell's face seemed to have\n collapsed before some overpowering decay, its bronze smoothness\n shattered by deep lines that were like tool marks of pain.\n\n\n Curt spoke in a subdued voice. \"It's hard to get away from Detrick.\n Always one more experiment to try—\"\n\n\n \"—And the brass riding you as if they expected you to win another war\n for them tomorrow afternoon,\" said Dell. \"I remember.\"\n\n\n \"We wondered about this truck,\" Louise commented brightly, trying to\n change the subject. \"We finally gave up on it.\"", "\"Perhaps you are one of those who regard your accomplishments with\n pride,\" Sark went on savagely, ignoring or unaware of Curt's fear and\n horror. \"That the hydrogen bombs smashed the cities, and the aerosols\n destroyed the remnants of humanity seems insignificant to you beside\n the high technical achievement these things represent.\"\n\n\n Curt's throat was dry with panic. Irrelevantly, he recalled the\n pain-fired eyes of Dell and the dying scientist's words: \"The\n responsibility for the coming destruction of civilization lies at the\n doors of the scientist mercenaries—\"" ] ]
test	51398	[ "Why was Kaiser unable to find someone to help him repair his ship?", "When Kaiser recovers from his illness, what is he surprised to have found?", "Initially, what type of interactions does Kaiser have with the seal people?", "What was Kaiser's main motivation for becoming a space pilot?", "What was one indicator to Kaiser that the seal people were below average intelligence?", "Kaiser is truly disappointed at his own inability to prepare the ship because", "What do the people from the home base tell Kaiser that should have alarmed him?", "What ultimately is the cause of Kaiser speaking baby talk while he was sick?", "When Kaiser still cannot fix the ship, he decides to", "The second group of seal people" ]	[ [ "All of the other mechanics have moved to other places.", "No one on that planet speaks the common language used to repair interplanetary divices.", "He is the only person alive who knows how to fix this ship.", "He is the closest thing to intelligent life, he feels, on the planet." ], [ "The seal people took care of him.", "He had been recorded speaking baby talk to no one in particular.", "Another crew came to take him home.", "He repaired the ship in his sleep;" ], [ "He inquires as to whether or not one of them can help repair his ship.", "He simply observes them, and he is not overly impressed.", "He has no interaction with this, and he knows there is something off about them", "He was embraced by them, and they spent lots of time together during his time on their planet." ], [ "It was space pilot or die, as he committed adulty.", "His sense of adventure.", "He knew if he didn't leave he was going to have an affair.", "He wanted away from his bad marriage." ], [ "They smelled and never took baths.", "They did not know how to fix his ship.", "They had yet to discover fire.", "They had not invented the wheel." ], [ "He now wishes he had always listened in class.", "It was one of those problems that were so simple, that coming up with a solution should have been an elementary task.", "One of the seal people eventually fixed it. and he knew he was a superior lifeform.", "He took an entire training session on this particular issue." ], [ "His wife had filed for divorce while he was away.", "He had been invaded by another lifeform.", "He was speaking baby talk while he was sick because it reminded him of his mother.", "The seal people were planning to attack him." ], [ "His symbiote did it thinking it would bring him comfort.", "Someone was playing a joke on him.", "He was reverting to his childhood to self-soothe.", "He had a fever that made him partially insane." ], [ "Ask the seal people for help anyway.", "give up.", "go on the hunt for more intelligent life on the planet.", "see if he can find any literature hidden on the ship that could help him figure the dilemma out." ], [ "are the ones who damaged Kaiser's ship without his knowledge.", "are just like the initial group of seal people: they smell offensive and they seem to have the intelligence of a small child.", "seem to be more intelligent than the second group, even to the point where the anti-social Kaiser wants to spend time with them.", "are much more aggressive and hostile." ] ]	[ -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1 ]	[ 0, 1, 0, 1, 1, 0, 0, 1, 1, 0 ]	[ [ "At last Kaiser could bear the futility of his efforts no longer. He\n sent out a terse message to the\nSoscites II\n:\n\n\n TAKING SHORT TRIP TO ANOTHER LOCATION ON RIVER. HOPE TO FIND MORE\n INTELLIGENT NATIVES. COULD BE THAT THE SETTLEMENT I FOUND HERE IS\n ANALOGOUS TO TRIBE OF MONKEYS ON EARTH. I KNOW THE CHANCE IS SMALL,\n BUT WHAT HAVE I TO LOSE? I CAN'T FIX SCOUT WITHOUT BETTER TOOLS, AND\n IF MY GUESS IS RIGHT, I MAY BE ABLE TO GET EQUIPMENT. EXPECT TO RETURN\n IN TEN OR TWELVE HOURS. PLEASE KEEP CONTACT WITH SCOUT.\nSMOKY", "VERY PLEASED TO HEAR OF PROGRESS ON REPAIR OF SCOUT. COMPLETE AS\n QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE AND RETURN HERE IMMEDIATELY.\nSS II\nKaiser wondered about the abrupt recall. Could the\nSoscites II\nbe\n experiencing some difficulty? He shrugged the thought aside. If they\n were, they would have told him. The last notes had had more than just a\n suggestion of urgency—there appeared to be a deliberate concealing of\n information.\n\n\n Strangely, the messages indicated need for haste did not prod Kaiser.\n He knew now that the job could be done, perhaps in a few hours' time.\n And the\nSoscites II\nwould not complete its orbit of the planet for\n two weeks yet.\n\n\n Without putting on more than the shirt and trousers he had grown used\n to wearing, Kaiser went outside and wandered listlessly about the\n vicinity of the ship for several hours. When he became hungry, he went\n back inside.", "As he stood on the bank, getting his breath, the natives were quiet and\n seemed to be looking at him reproachfully. He stood for a time, trying\n to think of a way to explain the necessity of what he had done, but\n there was none. He shrugged helplessly.\n\n\n There was no longer anything to be gained by staying here—if they\n had the tools he needed, he had no way of finding out or asking for\n them—and he packed and started back to the scout.\n\n\n Kaiser's good spirits returned on his return journey. He had enjoyed\n the relief from the tedium of spending day after day in the scout, and\n now he enjoyed the exercise of pulling the mudsled. Above the waist,\n he wore only the harness and the large, soft drops of rain against his\n bare skin were pleasant to feel.", "The job appeared maddeningly simply. As the scout had glided in for\n a soft landing, its metal bottom had ridden a concealed rock and bent\n inward. The bent metal had carried up with it the tube supplying the\n fuel pump and flattened it against the motor casing.\nOpening the tube again would not have been difficult, but first it had\n to be freed from under the ship. Kaiser had tried forcing the sheet\n metal back into place with a small crowbar—the best leverage he had on\n hand—but it resisted his best efforts. He still could think of no way\n to do the job, simple as it was, though he gave his concentration to it\n the rest of the day.\n\n\n That evening, Kaiser received information from the\nSoscites II\nthat\n was at least definite:", "As a double check, he looked at the ship's thermometer. Temperature\n 102, humidity 113—just about the same as it had been on earlier\n readings.\nDuring the next twenty-four hours, Kaiser and the mother ship exchanged\n messages at regular six-hour intervals. In between, he worked at\n repairing the damaged scout. He had no more success than before.\n\n\n He tired easily and lay on the cot often to rest. Each time he seemed\n to drop off to sleep immediately—and awake at the exact times he\n had decided on beforehand. At first, despite the lack of success in\n straightening the bent metal of the scout bottom, there had been a\n subdued exhilaration in reporting each new discovery concerning the\n symbiote, but as time passed, his enthusiasm ebbed. His one really\n important problem was how to repair the scout and he was fast becoming\n discouraged.", "SAM CAME UP WITH A FEW MORE IDEAS, BUT WE WANT TO WORK ON THEM A BIT\n BEFORE WE SEND THEM THROUGH. SLEEP ON THIS.\nSS II\nKaiser could imagine that most of the crew were not too concerned about\n the trouble he was in. He was not the gregarious type and had no close\n friends on board. He had hoped to find the solitude he liked best in\n space, but he had been disappointed. True, there were fewer people\n here, but he was brought into such intimate contact with them that he\n would have been more contented living in a crowded city.\n\n\n His naturally unsociable nature was more irksome to the crew because\n he was more intelligent and efficient than they were. He did his work\n well and painstakingly and was seldom in error. They would have liked\n him better had he been more prone to mistakes. He was certain that they\n respected him, but they did not like him. And he returned the dislike.", "Listlessly he reached for the towel at his elbow and wiped the moisture\n from his face and bare shoulders. The air conditioning had gone out\n when the scout ship cracked up. He'd have to repair the scout or he\n was stuck here for good. He remembered now that he had gone over the\n job very carefully and thoroughly, and had found it too big to handle\n alone—or without better equipment, at least. Yet there was little or\n no chance of his being able to find either here.\n\n\n Calmly, deliberately, Kaiser collected his thoughts, his memories, and\n brought them out where he could look at them:\n\n\n The mother ship,\nSoscites II\n, had been on the last leg of its\n planet-mapping tour. It had dropped Kaiser in the one remaining scout\n ship—the other seven had all been lost one way or another during the\n exploring of new worlds—and set itself into a giant orbit about this\n planet that Kaiser had named Big Muddy.", "He pondered mildly, as he packed his equipment, why he was disregarding\n the captain's message. For some reason, it seemed too trivial for\n serious consideration. He placated his slightly uneasy conscience only\n to the extent of packing the communicator in with his other equipment.\n It was a self-contained unit and he'd be able to receive messages from\n the ship on his trip.\nThe tracks of his earlier journey had been erased by the soft rain, and\n when Kaiser reached the river, he found that he had not returned to\n the village he had visited the day before. However, there were other\n seal-people here.\n\n\n And they were almost human!\n\n\n The resemblance was still not so much in their physical makeup—that\n was little changed from the first he had found—as in their obviously\n greater intelligence.", "By now, Kaiser had accepted what had happened to him. His distress and\n anxiety were gone and he was impatient to do what he could to establish\n better contact with his uninvited tenant. With eager anticipation, he\n set to thinking how it could be done. After a few minutes, an idea\n occurred to him.\n\n\n Taking a small scalpel from a medical kit, he made a shallow cut in\n his arm, just deep enough to bleed freely. He knew that the pain would\n supply the necessary glandular reaction. The cut bled a few slow\n drops—and as Kaiser watched, a shiny film formed and the bleeding\n stopped.\n\n\n That checked pretty well with the ship's theory.", "The domes' construction was based on a series of four arches built in a\n circle. When the base covering the periphery had been laid, four others\n were built on and between them, and continued in successive tiers until\n the top was reached. Each tier thus furnished support for the next\n above. No other framework was needed. The final tier formed the roof.\n They made sound shelters, but Kaiser had peered into several and found\n them dark and dank—and as smelly as the natives themselves.\n\n\n The few loungers in the village paid little attention to Kaiser and\n he wandered through the irregular streets until he became bored and\n returned to the scout.\n\n\n The\nSoscites II\nsent little that helped during the next twelve hours\n and Kaiser occupied his time trying again to repair the damage to the\n scout.", "Another message came in as he finished eating. This one was from the\n captain himself:\n\n\n WHY HAVE WE RECEIVED NO VERIFICATION OF LAST INSTRUCTIONS? REPAIR\n SCOUT IMMEDIATELY AND RETURN WITHOUT FURTHER DELAY. THIS IS AN ORDER!\nH. A. HESSE, CAPT.\n\n\n Kaiser pushed the last of his meal—which he had been eating with his\n fingers—into his mouth, crumpled the tape, wiped the grease from his\n hands with it and dropped it to the floor.", "They made small noises while he went about his work. After a time, he\n understood that they were trying to give names to his paraphernalia. He\n tried saying \"tent\" and \"wire\" and \"tarp\" as he handled each object,\n but their piping voices could not repeat the words. Kaiser amused\n himself by trying to imitate their sounds for the articles. He was\n fairly successful. He was certain that he could soon learn enough to\n carry on a limited conversation.\n\n\n The male became bored after a time and left, but the girl stayed until\n Kaiser finished. She motioned to him then to follow. When they reached\n the river bank, he saw that she wanted him to go into the water.\nBefore he had time to decide, Kaiser heard the small bell of the\n communicator from the tent behind him. He stood undecided for a moment,\n then returned and read the message on the tape:\n\n\n STILL ANXIOUSLY AWAITING WORD FROM YOU.", "When he reached the scout, Kaiser began to unload the sled. The\n tarpaulin caught on the edge of a runner and he gave it a tug to free\n it. To his amazement, the heavy sled turned completely over, spilling\n the equipment to the ground.\n\n\n Perplexed, Kaiser stooped and began replacing the spilled articles in\n the tarp. They felt exceptionally light. He paused again, and suddenly\n his eyes widened.\nMoving quickly to the door of the scout, he shoved his equipment\n through and crawled in behind it. He did not consult the communicator,\n as he customarily did on entering, but went directly to the warped\n place on the floor and picked up the crowbar he had laid there.", "The ship must have answered immediately, for the return message time\n was six hours later than his own, the minimum interval necessary for\n two-way exchange.\n\n\n DOING OUR BEST, SMOKY. YOUR IMMEDIATE PROBLEM, AS WE SEE IT, IS TO\n KEEP WELL. WE FED ALL THE INFORMATION YOU GAVE US INTO SAM, BUT YOU\n DIDN'T HAVE MUCH EXCEPT THE STING IN YOUR ARM. AS EXPECTED, ALL THAT\n CAME OUT WAS \"DATA INSUFFICIENT.\" TRY TO GIVE US MORE. ALSO DETAIL\n ALL SYMPTOMS SINCE YOUR LAST REPORT. IN THE MEANTIME, WE'RE DOING\n EVERYTHING WE CAN AT THIS END. GOOD LUCK.\nSS II\n\n\n Sam, Kaiser knew, was the ship's mechanical diagnostician. His report\n followed:", "Kaiser observed that it was working well and turned toward a wide,\n sluggish river, perhaps two hundred yards from the scout. Once there,\n he headed upstream. He could hear the pipings, and now and then a\n higher whistling, of the seal-people before he reached a bend and saw\n them. As usual, most were swimming in the river.\nOne old fellow, whose chocolate-brown fur showed a heavy intermixture\n of gray, was sitting on the bank of the river just at the bend. Perhaps\n a lookout. He pulled himself to his feet as he spied Kaiser and his\n toothless, hard-gummed mouth opened and emitted a long whistle that\n might have been a greeting—or a warning to the others that a stranger\n approached.", "GIVE US ANY NEW INFORMATION YOU MIGHT HAVE ON NATIVES.\nSS II\n\n\n The second report was not so routine. Kaiser thought he detected a note\n of uneasiness in it.\n\n\n SUGGEST YOU DEVOTE ALL TIME AND EFFORT TO REPAIR OF SCOUT. INFORMATION\n ON SEAL-PEOPLE ADEQUATE FOR OUR PURPOSES.\nSS II\n\n\n Kaiser did not answer either communication. His earlier report had\n covered all that he had learned lately. He lay on his cot and went to\n sleep.\n\n\n In the morning, another message was waiting:", "This was mainly noticeable in their facile expressions as they talked.\n Kaiser was even certain that he read smiles on their faces when he\n slipped on a particularly slick mud patch as he hurried toward them.\n Where the members of the first tribes had all looked almost exactly\n alike, these had very marked individual characteristics. Also, these\n had no odor—only a mild, rather pleasing scent. When they came to meet\n him, Kaiser could detect distinct syllabism in their pipings.\n\n\n Most of the natives returned to the river after the first ten minutes\n of curious inspection, but two stayed behind as Kaiser set up his tent.\n\n\n One was a female.", "SEEM TO BE FULLY RECOVERED. FEELING FINE. ANYTHING NEW FROM SAM? AND\n HOW ABOUT THE DAMAGE TO SCOUT? GIVE ME ANYTHING YOU HAVE ON EITHER OR\n BOTH.\nSMOKY\n\n\n Kaiser felt suddenly weary. He lay on the scout's bunk and tried\n to sleep. Soon he was in that phantasm land between sleep and\n wakefulness—he knew he was not sleeping, yet he did dream.", "The\nSoscites II\nhad to maintain its constant speed; it had no means\n of slowing, except to stop, and no way to start again once it did stop.\n Its limited range of maneuverability made it necessary to set up an\n orbit that would take it approximately one month, Earth time, to circle\n a pinpointed planet. And now its fuel was low.\n\n\n Kaiser had that one month to repair his scout or be stranded here\n forever.\n\n\n That was all he could remember. Nothing of what he had been doing\n recently.\n\n\n A small shiver passed through his body as he glanced once again at the\n tape in his hand. Baby talk....\nOne thing he could find out: how long this had been going on. He\n turned to the communicator and unhooked the paper receptacle on its\n bottom. It held about a yard and a half of tape, probably his last\n several messages—both those sent and those received. He pulled it out\n impatiently and began reading.", "Kaiser sank to his ankles in soft mud before his feet reached solid\n ground. He half walked and half slid to the rear of the scout. Beside\n the ship, the \"octopus\" was busily at work. Tentacles and antennae,\n extending from the yard-high box of its body, tested and recorded\n temperature, atmosphere, soil, and all other pertinent planetary\n conditions. The octopus was connected to the ship's communicator and\n all its findings were being transmitted to the mother ship for study." ], [ "At last Kaiser could bear the futility of his efforts no longer. He\n sent out a terse message to the\nSoscites II\n:\n\n\n TAKING SHORT TRIP TO ANOTHER LOCATION ON RIVER. HOPE TO FIND MORE\n INTELLIGENT NATIVES. COULD BE THAT THE SETTLEMENT I FOUND HERE IS\n ANALOGOUS TO TRIBE OF MONKEYS ON EARTH. I KNOW THE CHANCE IS SMALL,\n BUT WHAT HAVE I TO LOSE? I CAN'T FIX SCOUT WITHOUT BETTER TOOLS, AND\n IF MY GUESS IS RIGHT, I MAY BE ABLE TO GET EQUIPMENT. EXPECT TO RETURN\n IN TEN OR TWELVE HOURS. PLEASE KEEP CONTACT WITH SCOUT.\nSMOKY", "SEEM TO BE FULLY RECOVERED. FEELING FINE. ANYTHING NEW FROM SAM? AND\n HOW ABOUT THE DAMAGE TO SCOUT? GIVE ME ANYTHING YOU HAVE ON EITHER OR\n BOTH.\nSMOKY\n\n\n Kaiser felt suddenly weary. He lay on the scout's bunk and tried\n to sleep. Soon he was in that phantasm land between sleep and\n wakefulness—he knew he was not sleeping, yet he did dream.", "As he stood on the bank, getting his breath, the natives were quiet and\n seemed to be looking at him reproachfully. He stood for a time, trying\n to think of a way to explain the necessity of what he had done, but\n there was none. He shrugged helplessly.\n\n\n There was no longer anything to be gained by staying here—if they\n had the tools he needed, he had no way of finding out or asking for\n them—and he packed and started back to the scout.\n\n\n Kaiser's good spirits returned on his return journey. He had enjoyed\n the relief from the tedium of spending day after day in the scout, and\n now he enjoyed the exercise of pulling the mudsled. Above the waist,\n he wore only the harness and the large, soft drops of rain against his\n bare skin were pleasant to feel.", "ARM SWOLLEN. UNABLE TO KEEP DOWN FOOD LAST TWELVE HOURS. ABOUT TWO\n HOURS AGO, ENTIRE BODY TURNED LIVID RED. BRIEF PERIODS OF BLANKNESS.\n THINGS KEEP COMING AND GOING. SICK AS HELL. HURRY.\nSMOKY\n\n\n The ship's next message read:\n\n\n INFECTION QUITE DEFINITE. BUT SOMETHING STRANGE THERE. GIVE US\n ANYTHING MORE YOU HAVE.\nSS II\n\n\n His own reply perplexed Kaiser:\n\n\n LAST LETTER FUNNY. I NOT UNDERSTAND. WHY IS OO SENDING GARBLE TALK?\n DID USNS MAKE UP SECRET MESSAGES?\nSMOKY\n\n\n The expedition, apparently, was as puzzled as he:", "Kaiser did not answer. The news was so startling, so unforeseen, that\n his mind refused to accept the actuality. He lay on the scout's bunk\n and stared at the ceiling without conscious attention, and with very\n little clear thought, for several hours—until the next communication\n came in:\n\n\n WELL, THIS IS WHAT SAM HAS TO SAY, SMOKY. SYMBIOTE AMICABLE AND\n APPARENTLY SWIFTLY ADAPTABLE. YOUR CHANGING COLOR, DIFFICULTY IN\n EATING AND EVEN BABY TALK WERE THE RESULT OF ITS EFFORTS TO GIVE YOU\n WHAT IT BELIEVED YOU NEEDED OR WANTED.", "When he finished, he returned to the waiting girl on the river bank.\n She pointed at his plastic trousers and made laughing sounds in her\n throat. Kaiser returned the laugh and stripped off the trousers. They\n ran, still laughing, into the water.\n\n\n Already the long pink hair that had been growing on his body during the\n past week was beginning to turn brown at the roots.", "VERY PLEASED TO HEAR OF PROGRESS ON REPAIR OF SCOUT. COMPLETE AS\n QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE AND RETURN HERE IMMEDIATELY.\nSS II\nKaiser wondered about the abrupt recall. Could the\nSoscites II\nbe\n experiencing some difficulty? He shrugged the thought aside. If they\n were, they would have told him. The last notes had had more than just a\n suggestion of urgency—there appeared to be a deliberate concealing of\n information.\n\n\n Strangely, the messages indicated need for haste did not prod Kaiser.\n He knew now that the job could be done, perhaps in a few hours' time.\n And the\nSoscites II\nwould not complete its orbit of the planet for\n two weeks yet.\n\n\n Without putting on more than the shirt and trousers he had grown used\n to wearing, Kaiser went outside and wandered listlessly about the\n vicinity of the ship for several hours. When he became hungry, he went\n back inside.", "By now, Kaiser had accepted what had happened to him. His distress and\n anxiety were gone and he was impatient to do what he could to establish\n better contact with his uninvited tenant. With eager anticipation, he\n set to thinking how it could be done. After a few minutes, an idea\n occurred to him.\n\n\n Taking a small scalpel from a medical kit, he made a shallow cut in\n his arm, just deep enough to bleed freely. He knew that the pain would\n supply the necessary glandular reaction. The cut bled a few slow\n drops—and as Kaiser watched, a shiny film formed and the bleeding\n stopped.\n\n\n That checked pretty well with the ship's theory.", "He pondered mildly, as he packed his equipment, why he was disregarding\n the captain's message. For some reason, it seemed too trivial for\n serious consideration. He placated his slightly uneasy conscience only\n to the extent of packing the communicator in with his other equipment.\n It was a self-contained unit and he'd be able to receive messages from\n the ship on his trip.\nThe tracks of his earlier journey had been erased by the soft rain, and\n when Kaiser reached the river, he found that he had not returned to\n the village he had visited the day before. However, there were other\n seal-people here.\n\n\n And they were almost human!\n\n\n The resemblance was still not so much in their physical makeup—that\n was little changed from the first he had found—as in their obviously\n greater intelligence.", "Inserting the bar between the metal of the scout bottom and the engine\n casing, he lifted. Nothing happened. He rested a minute and tried\n again, this time concentrating on his desire to raise the bar. The\n metal beneath yielded slightly—but he felt the palms of his hands\n bruise against the lever.\n\n\n Only after he dropped the bar did he realize the force he had exerted.\n His hands ached and tingled. His strength must have been increased\n tremendously. With his plastic coat wrapped around the lever, he tried\n again. The metal of the scout bottom gave slowly—until the fuel pump\n hung free!\n\n\n Kaiser did not repair the tube immediately. He let the solution\n rest in his hands, like a package to be opened, the pleasure of its\n anticipation to be enjoyed as much as the final act.\n\n\n He transmitted the news of what he had been able to do and sat down to\n read the two messages waiting for him.\n\n\n The first was quite routine:", "This was mainly noticeable in their facile expressions as they talked.\n Kaiser was even certain that he read smiles on their faces when he\n slipped on a particularly slick mud patch as he hurried toward them.\n Where the members of the first tribes had all looked almost exactly\n alike, these had very marked individual characteristics. Also, these\n had no odor—only a mild, rather pleasing scent. When they came to meet\n him, Kaiser could detect distinct syllabism in their pipings.\n\n\n Most of the natives returned to the river after the first ten minutes\n of curious inspection, but two stayed behind as Kaiser set up his tent.\n\n\n One was a female.", "When he reached the scout, Kaiser began to unload the sled. The\n tarpaulin caught on the edge of a runner and he gave it a tug to free\n it. To his amazement, the heavy sled turned completely over, spilling\n the equipment to the ground.\n\n\n Perplexed, Kaiser stooped and began replacing the spilled articles in\n the tarp. They felt exceptionally light. He paused again, and suddenly\n his eyes widened.\nMoving quickly to the door of the scout, he shoved his equipment\n through and crawled in behind it. He did not consult the communicator,\n as he customarily did on entering, but went directly to the warped\n place on the floor and picked up the crowbar he had laid there.", "The weed had a slight iron taste, but was not unpalatable. He swallowed\n the mouthful and tried another. He ate most of what had been given him\n and waited with some trepidation for a reaction.\nAs dusk fell, Kaiser set up his tent a few hundred yards back from the\n native settlement. All apprehension about how his stomach would react\n to the river weed had left him. Apparently it could be assimilated by\n his digestive system. Lying on his air mattress, he felt thoroughly at\n peace with this world.\n\n\n Once, just before dropping off to sleep, he heard the snuffling noise\n of some large animal outside his tent and picked up a pistol, just in\n case. However, the first jolt of the guard-wire charge discouraged the\n beast and Kaiser heard it shuffle away, making puzzled mewing sounds as\n it went.\n\n\n The next morning, Kaiser left off all his clothes except a pair of\n shorts and went swimming in the river. The seal-people were already in\n the water when he arrived and were very friendly.", "Kaiser packed a mudsled with tent, portable generator and guard wires,\n a spare sidearm and ammunition, and food for two days. He had noticed\n that a range of high hills, which caused the bend in the river at\n the native settlement, seemed to continue its long curve, and he\n wondered if the hills might not turn the river in the shape of a giant\n horseshoe. He intended to find out.\n\n\n Wrapping his equipment in a plastic tarp, Kaiser eased it out the\n doorway and tied it on the sled. He hooked a towline to a harness on\n his shoulders and began his journey—in the opposite direction from the\n first native settlement.\n\n\n He walked for more than seven hours before he found that his surmise\n had been correct. And a second cluster of huts, and seal-people in the\n river, greeted his sight. He received a further pleasant surprise. This\n group was decidedly more advanced than the first!", "Kaiser observed that it was working well and turned toward a wide,\n sluggish river, perhaps two hundred yards from the scout. Once there,\n he headed upstream. He could hear the pipings, and now and then a\n higher whistling, of the seal-people before he reached a bend and saw\n them. As usual, most were swimming in the river.\nOne old fellow, whose chocolate-brown fur showed a heavy intermixture\n of gray, was sitting on the bank of the river just at the bend. Perhaps\n a lookout. He pulled himself to his feet as he spied Kaiser and his\n toothless, hard-gummed mouth opened and emitted a long whistle that\n might have been a greeting—or a warning to the others that a stranger\n approached.", "They were little different in actual physical appearance; the change\n was mainly noticeable in their actions and demeanor. And their odor was\n more subdued, less repugnant.\n\n\n By signs, Kaiser indicated that he came in peace, and they seemed to\n understand. A thick-bodied male went solemnly to the river bank and\n called to a second, who dived and brought up a mouthful of weed. The\n first male took the weed and brought it to Kaiser. This was obviously a\n gesture of friendship.\n\n\n The weed had a white starchy core and looked edible. Kaiser cleaned\n part of it with his handkerchief, bit and chewed it.", "OO IS SICK, SMOKY. DO TO BEDDY-BY. KEEP UM WARM. WHEN UM FEELS BETTER,\n LET USNS KNOW.\nSS II\n\n\n Kaiser let himself ease back in the pilot chair and rolled the tape\n thoughtfully between his fingers. Overhead and to each side, large\n drops of rain thudded softly against the transparent walls of the scout\n ship and dripped wearily from the bottom ledge to the ground.\n\n\n \"Damn this climate!\" Kaiser muttered irrelevantly. \"Doesn't it ever do\n anything here except rain?\"\n\n\n His attention returned to the matter at hand. Why the baby talk? And\n why was his memory so hazy? How long had he been here? What had he been\n doing during that time?", "They made small noises while he went about his work. After a time, he\n understood that they were trying to give names to his paraphernalia. He\n tried saying \"tent\" and \"wire\" and \"tarp\" as he handled each object,\n but their piping voices could not repeat the words. Kaiser amused\n himself by trying to imitate their sounds for the articles. He was\n fairly successful. He was certain that he could soon learn enough to\n carry on a limited conversation.\n\n\n The male became bored after a time and left, but the girl stayed until\n Kaiser finished. She motioned to him then to follow. When they reached\n the river bank, he saw that she wanted him to go into the water.\nBefore he had time to decide, Kaiser heard the small bell of the\n communicator from the tent behind him. He stood undecided for a moment,\n then returned and read the message on the tape:\n\n\n STILL ANXIOUSLY AWAITING WORD FROM YOU.", "Several of the bolder males climbed up beside Kaiser and began pawing\n his plastic clothing. Kaiser stood still and tried to keep his\n breathing shallow, for their odor was almost more than he could bear.\n One native smeared Kaiser's face with an exploring paw and Kaiser\n gagged and pushed him roughly away. He was bound by regulations to\n display no hostility to newly discovered natives, but he couldn't take\n much more of this.\n\n\n A young female splashed water on two young males who stood near and\n they turned with shrill pipings and chased her into the water. The\n entire group seemed to lose interest in Kaiser and joined in the chase,\n or went back to other diversions of their own. Kaiser's inspectors\n followed.\n\n\n They were a mindless lot, Kaiser observed. The river supplied them with\n an easy existence, with food and living space, and apparently they had\n few natural enemies.", "The\nSoscites II\nhad to maintain its constant speed; it had no means\n of slowing, except to stop, and no way to start again once it did stop.\n Its limited range of maneuverability made it necessary to set up an\n orbit that would take it approximately one month, Earth time, to circle\n a pinpointed planet. And now its fuel was low.\n\n\n Kaiser had that one month to repair his scout or be stranded here\n forever.\n\n\n That was all he could remember. Nothing of what he had been doing\n recently.\n\n\n A small shiver passed through his body as he glanced once again at the\n tape in his hand. Baby talk....\nOne thing he could find out: how long this had been going on. He\n turned to the communicator and unhooked the paper receptacle on its\n bottom. It held about a yard and a half of tape, probably his last\n several messages—both those sent and those received. He pulled it out\n impatiently and began reading." ], [ "Kaiser observed that it was working well and turned toward a wide,\n sluggish river, perhaps two hundred yards from the scout. Once there,\n he headed upstream. He could hear the pipings, and now and then a\n higher whistling, of the seal-people before he reached a bend and saw\n them. As usual, most were swimming in the river.\nOne old fellow, whose chocolate-brown fur showed a heavy intermixture\n of gray, was sitting on the bank of the river just at the bend. Perhaps\n a lookout. He pulled himself to his feet as he spied Kaiser and his\n toothless, hard-gummed mouth opened and emitted a long whistle that\n might have been a greeting—or a warning to the others that a stranger\n approached.", "He pondered mildly, as he packed his equipment, why he was disregarding\n the captain's message. For some reason, it seemed too trivial for\n serious consideration. He placated his slightly uneasy conscience only\n to the extent of packing the communicator in with his other equipment.\n It was a self-contained unit and he'd be able to receive messages from\n the ship on his trip.\nThe tracks of his earlier journey had been erased by the soft rain, and\n when Kaiser reached the river, he found that he had not returned to\n the village he had visited the day before. However, there were other\n seal-people here.\n\n\n And they were almost human!\n\n\n The resemblance was still not so much in their physical makeup—that\n was little changed from the first he had found—as in their obviously\n greater intelligence.", "The weed had a slight iron taste, but was not unpalatable. He swallowed\n the mouthful and tried another. He ate most of what had been given him\n and waited with some trepidation for a reaction.\nAs dusk fell, Kaiser set up his tent a few hundred yards back from the\n native settlement. All apprehension about how his stomach would react\n to the river weed had left him. Apparently it could be assimilated by\n his digestive system. Lying on his air mattress, he felt thoroughly at\n peace with this world.\n\n\n Once, just before dropping off to sleep, he heard the snuffling noise\n of some large animal outside his tent and picked up a pistol, just in\n case. However, the first jolt of the guard-wire charge discouraged the\n beast and Kaiser heard it shuffle away, making puzzled mewing sounds as\n it went.\n\n\n The next morning, Kaiser left off all his clothes except a pair of\n shorts and went swimming in the river. The seal-people were already in\n the water when he arrived and were very friendly.", "They were little different in actual physical appearance; the change\n was mainly noticeable in their actions and demeanor. And their odor was\n more subdued, less repugnant.\n\n\n By signs, Kaiser indicated that he came in peace, and they seemed to\n understand. A thick-bodied male went solemnly to the river bank and\n called to a second, who dived and brought up a mouthful of weed. The\n first male took the weed and brought it to Kaiser. This was obviously a\n gesture of friendship.\n\n\n The weed had a white starchy core and looked edible. Kaiser cleaned\n part of it with his handkerchief, bit and chewed it.", "Kaiser packed a mudsled with tent, portable generator and guard wires,\n a spare sidearm and ammunition, and food for two days. He had noticed\n that a range of high hills, which caused the bend in the river at\n the native settlement, seemed to continue its long curve, and he\n wondered if the hills might not turn the river in the shape of a giant\n horseshoe. He intended to find out.\n\n\n Wrapping his equipment in a plastic tarp, Kaiser eased it out the\n doorway and tied it on the sled. He hooked a towline to a harness on\n his shoulders and began his journey—in the opposite direction from the\n first native settlement.\n\n\n He walked for more than seven hours before he found that his surmise\n had been correct. And a second cluster of huts, and seal-people in the\n river, greeted his sight. He received a further pleasant surprise. This\n group was decidedly more advanced than the first!", "This was mainly noticeable in their facile expressions as they talked.\n Kaiser was even certain that he read smiles on their faces when he\n slipped on a particularly slick mud patch as he hurried toward them.\n Where the members of the first tribes had all looked almost exactly\n alike, these had very marked individual characteristics. Also, these\n had no odor—only a mild, rather pleasing scent. When they came to meet\n him, Kaiser could detect distinct syllabism in their pipings.\n\n\n Most of the natives returned to the river after the first ten minutes\n of curious inspection, but two stayed behind as Kaiser set up his tent.\n\n\n One was a female.", "The native stood perhaps five feet tall, with the heavy, blubbery\n body of a seal, and short, thick arms. Membranes connected the arms\n to his body from shoulder-pits to mid-biceps. The arms ended in\n three-fingered, thumbless hands. His legs also were short and thick,\n with footpads that splayed out at forty-five-degree angles. They gave\n his legs the appearance of a split tail. About him hung a rank-fish\n smell that made Kaiser's stomach squirm.", "That friendliness nearly resulted in disaster. The natives crowded\n around as he swam—they maneuvered with an otter-like proficiency—and\n often nudged him with their bodies when they came too close. He had\n difficulty keeping afloat and soon turned and started back. As he\n neared the river edge, a playful female grabbed him by the ankle and\n pulled him under.\n\n\n Kaiser tried to break her hold, but she evidently thought he was\n clowning and wrapped her warm furred arms around him and held him\n helpless. They sank deeper.\n\n\n When his breath threatened to burst from his lungs in a stream of\n bubbles, and he still could not free himself, Kaiser brought his knee\n up into her stomach and her grip loosened abruptly. He reached the\n surface, choking and coughing, and swam blindly toward shore until his\n feet hit the river bottom.", "Several of the bolder males climbed up beside Kaiser and began pawing\n his plastic clothing. Kaiser stood still and tried to keep his\n breathing shallow, for their odor was almost more than he could bear.\n One native smeared Kaiser's face with an exploring paw and Kaiser\n gagged and pushed him roughly away. He was bound by regulations to\n display no hostility to newly discovered natives, but he couldn't take\n much more of this.\n\n\n A young female splashed water on two young males who stood near and\n they turned with shrill pipings and chased her into the water. The\n entire group seemed to lose interest in Kaiser and joined in the chase,\n or went back to other diversions of their own. Kaiser's inspectors\n followed.\n\n\n They were a mindless lot, Kaiser observed. The river supplied them with\n an easy existence, with food and living space, and apparently they had\n few natural enemies.", "The old fellow sounded a cheerful chirp as Kaiser came near. Feeling\n slightly ineffectual, Kaiser raised both hands and held them palm\n forward. The other chirped again and Kaiser went on toward the main\n group.\nThey had stopped their play and eating as Kaiser approached and now\n most of them swam in to shore and stood in the water, staring and\n piping. They varied in size from small seal-pups to full-grown adults.\n Some chewed on bunches of water weed, which they manipulated with their\n lips and drew into their mouths.\n\n\n They had mammalian characteristics, Kaiser had noted before, so it\n was not difficult to distinguish the females from the males. The\n proportion was roughly fifty-fifty.", "They made small noises while he went about his work. After a time, he\n understood that they were trying to give names to his paraphernalia. He\n tried saying \"tent\" and \"wire\" and \"tarp\" as he handled each object,\n but their piping voices could not repeat the words. Kaiser amused\n himself by trying to imitate their sounds for the articles. He was\n fairly successful. He was certain that he could soon learn enough to\n carry on a limited conversation.\n\n\n The male became bored after a time and left, but the girl stayed until\n Kaiser finished. She motioned to him then to follow. When they reached\n the river bank, he saw that she wanted him to go into the water.\nBefore he had time to decide, Kaiser heard the small bell of the\n communicator from the tent behind him. He stood undecided for a moment,\n then returned and read the message on the tape:\n\n\n STILL ANXIOUSLY AWAITING WORD FROM YOU.", "THE DANGER, WHICH WE HESITATED TO MENTION UNTIL NOW—WHEN YOU HAVE\n FORCED US BY YOUR OBSTINATE SILENCE—IS THAT IT CAN ALTER YOUR\n MIND ALSO. YOUR REPORT ON SECOND TRIBE OF SEAL-PEOPLE STRONGLY\n INDICATES THAT THIS IS ALREADY HAPPENING. THEY WERE PROBABLY NOT MORE\n INTELLIGENT AND HUMANLIKE THAN THE OTHERS. ON THE CONTRARY, YOU ARE\n BECOMING MORE LIKE THEM.\n\n\n DANGER ACUTE. RETURN IMMEDIATELY. REPEAT: IMMEDIATELY!\nSS II\n\n\n Kaiser picked up a large rock and slowly, methodically pounded the\n communicator into a flattened jumble of metal and loose parts.", "GIVE US ANY NEW INFORMATION YOU MIGHT HAVE ON NATIVES.\nSS II\n\n\n The second report was not so routine. Kaiser thought he detected a note\n of uneasiness in it.\n\n\n SUGGEST YOU DEVOTE ALL TIME AND EFFORT TO REPAIR OF SCOUT. INFORMATION\n ON SEAL-PEOPLE ADEQUATE FOR OUR PURPOSES.\nSS II\n\n\n Kaiser did not answer either communication. His earlier report had\n covered all that he had learned lately. He lay on his cot and went to\n sleep.\n\n\n In the morning, another message was waiting:", "By now, Kaiser had accepted what had happened to him. His distress and\n anxiety were gone and he was impatient to do what he could to establish\n better contact with his uninvited tenant. With eager anticipation, he\n set to thinking how it could be done. After a few minutes, an idea\n occurred to him.\n\n\n Taking a small scalpel from a medical kit, he made a shallow cut in\n his arm, just deep enough to bleed freely. He knew that the pain would\n supply the necessary glandular reaction. The cut bled a few slow\n drops—and as Kaiser watched, a shiny film formed and the bleeding\n stopped.\n\n\n That checked pretty well with the ship's theory.", "Kaiser did not answer. The news was so startling, so unforeseen, that\n his mind refused to accept the actuality. He lay on the scout's bunk\n and stared at the ceiling without conscious attention, and with very\n little clear thought, for several hours—until the next communication\n came in:\n\n\n WELL, THIS IS WHAT SAM HAS TO SAY, SMOKY. SYMBIOTE AMICABLE AND\n APPARENTLY SWIFTLY ADAPTABLE. YOUR CHANGING COLOR, DIFFICULTY IN\n EATING AND EVEN BABY TALK WERE THE RESULT OF ITS EFFORTS TO GIVE YOU\n WHAT IT BELIEVED YOU NEEDED OR WANTED.", "As he stood on the bank, getting his breath, the natives were quiet and\n seemed to be looking at him reproachfully. He stood for a time, trying\n to think of a way to explain the necessity of what he had done, but\n there was none. He shrugged helplessly.\n\n\n There was no longer anything to be gained by staying here—if they\n had the tools he needed, he had no way of finding out or asking for\n them—and he packed and started back to the scout.\n\n\n Kaiser's good spirits returned on his return journey. He had enjoyed\n the relief from the tedium of spending day after day in the scout, and\n now he enjoyed the exercise of pulling the mudsled. Above the waist,\n he wore only the harness and the large, soft drops of rain against his\n bare skin were pleasant to feel.", "Kaiser walked away, following the long slow bend of the river, and\n came to a collection of perhaps two hundred dwellings built in three\n haphazard rows along the river bank. He took time to study their\n construction more closely this time.\n\n\n They were all round domes, little more than the height of a man, built\n of blocks that appeared to be mud, packed with river weed and sand. How\n they were able to dry these to give them the necessary solidity, Kaiser\n did not know. He had found no signs that they knew how to use fire, and\n all apparent evidence was against their having it. They then had to\n have sunlight. Maybe it rained less during certain seasons.", "At last Kaiser could bear the futility of his efforts no longer. He\n sent out a terse message to the\nSoscites II\n:\n\n\n TAKING SHORT TRIP TO ANOTHER LOCATION ON RIVER. HOPE TO FIND MORE\n INTELLIGENT NATIVES. COULD BE THAT THE SETTLEMENT I FOUND HERE IS\n ANALOGOUS TO TRIBE OF MONKEYS ON EARTH. I KNOW THE CHANCE IS SMALL,\n BUT WHAT HAVE I TO LOSE? I CAN'T FIX SCOUT WITHOUT BETTER TOOLS, AND\n IF MY GUESS IS RIGHT, I MAY BE ABLE TO GET EQUIPMENT. EXPECT TO RETURN\n IN TEN OR TWELVE HOURS. PLEASE KEEP CONTACT WITH SCOUT.\nSMOKY", "When he finished, he returned to the waiting girl on the river bank.\n She pointed at his plastic trousers and made laughing sounds in her\n throat. Kaiser returned the laugh and stripped off the trousers. They\n ran, still laughing, into the water.\n\n\n Already the long pink hair that had been growing on his body during the\n past week was beginning to turn brown at the roots.", "VISITED SEAL-PEOPLE AGAIN TODAY. STILL HAVE THEIR STINK IN MY NOSE.\n FOUND HUTS ALONG RIVER BANK, SO I GUESS THEY DON'T LIVE IN WATER.\n BUT THEY DO SPEND MOST OF THEIR TIME THERE. NO, I HAVE NO WAY OF\n ESTIMATING THEIR INTELLIGENCE. I WOULD JUDGE IT AVERAGES NO HIGHER\n THAN SEVEN-YEAR-OLD HUMAN. THEY DEFINITELY DO TALK TO ONE ANOTHER.\n WILL TRY TO FIND OUT MORE ABOUT THEM, BUT YOU GET TO WORK FAST ON HOW\n I REPAIR SCOUT.\n\n\n SWELLING IN ARM WORSE AND AM DEVELOPING A FEVER. TEMPERATURE 102.7 AN\n HOUR AGO.\nSMOKY" ], [ "At last Kaiser could bear the futility of his efforts no longer. He\n sent out a terse message to the\nSoscites II\n:\n\n\n TAKING SHORT TRIP TO ANOTHER LOCATION ON RIVER. HOPE TO FIND MORE\n INTELLIGENT NATIVES. COULD BE THAT THE SETTLEMENT I FOUND HERE IS\n ANALOGOUS TO TRIBE OF MONKEYS ON EARTH. I KNOW THE CHANCE IS SMALL,\n BUT WHAT HAVE I TO LOSE? I CAN'T FIX SCOUT WITHOUT BETTER TOOLS, AND\n IF MY GUESS IS RIGHT, I MAY BE ABLE TO GET EQUIPMENT. EXPECT TO RETURN\n IN TEN OR TWELVE HOURS. PLEASE KEEP CONTACT WITH SCOUT.\nSMOKY", "It was the same dream he had had many times before. In it, he was back\n home again, the home he had joined the space service to escape. He had\n realized soon after his marriage that his wife, Helene, did not love\n him. She had married him for the security his pay check provided. And\n though it soon became evident that she, too, regretted her bargain,\n she would not divorce him. Instead, she had her revenge on him by\n persistent nagging, by letting herself grow fat and querulous, and by\n caring for their house only in a slovenly way.\n\n\n Her crippled brother had moved in with them the day they were married.\n His mind was as crippled as his body and he took an unhealthy delight\n in helping his sister torment Kaiser.\nKaiser came wide awake in a cold sweat. The clock showed that only an\n hour had passed since he had sent his last message to the ship. Still\n five more long hours to wait. He rose and wiped the sweat from his neck\n and shoulders and restlessly paced the small corridor of the scout.", "SAM CAME UP WITH A FEW MORE IDEAS, BUT WE WANT TO WORK ON THEM A BIT\n BEFORE WE SEND THEM THROUGH. SLEEP ON THIS.\nSS II\nKaiser could imagine that most of the crew were not too concerned about\n the trouble he was in. He was not the gregarious type and had no close\n friends on board. He had hoped to find the solitude he liked best in\n space, but he had been disappointed. True, there were fewer people\n here, but he was brought into such intimate contact with them that he\n would have been more contented living in a crowded city.\n\n\n His naturally unsociable nature was more irksome to the crew because\n he was more intelligent and efficient than they were. He did his work\n well and painstakingly and was seldom in error. They would have liked\n him better had he been more prone to mistakes. He was certain that they\n respected him, but they did not like him. And he returned the dislike.", "VERY PLEASED TO HEAR OF PROGRESS ON REPAIR OF SCOUT. COMPLETE AS\n QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE AND RETURN HERE IMMEDIATELY.\nSS II\nKaiser wondered about the abrupt recall. Could the\nSoscites II\nbe\n experiencing some difficulty? He shrugged the thought aside. If they\n were, they would have told him. The last notes had had more than just a\n suggestion of urgency—there appeared to be a deliberate concealing of\n information.\n\n\n Strangely, the messages indicated need for haste did not prod Kaiser.\n He knew now that the job could be done, perhaps in a few hours' time.\n And the\nSoscites II\nwould not complete its orbit of the planet for\n two weeks yet.\n\n\n Without putting on more than the shirt and trousers he had grown used\n to wearing, Kaiser went outside and wandered listlessly about the\n vicinity of the ship for several hours. When he became hungry, he went\n back inside.", "Listlessly he reached for the towel at his elbow and wiped the moisture\n from his face and bare shoulders. The air conditioning had gone out\n when the scout ship cracked up. He'd have to repair the scout or he\n was stuck here for good. He remembered now that he had gone over the\n job very carefully and thoroughly, and had found it too big to handle\n alone—or without better equipment, at least. Yet there was little or\n no chance of his being able to find either here.\n\n\n Calmly, deliberately, Kaiser collected his thoughts, his memories, and\n brought them out where he could look at them:\n\n\n The mother ship,\nSoscites II\n, had been on the last leg of its\n planet-mapping tour. It had dropped Kaiser in the one remaining scout\n ship—the other seven had all been lost one way or another during the\n exploring of new worlds—and set itself into a giant orbit about this\n planet that Kaiser had named Big Muddy.", "The job appeared maddeningly simply. As the scout had glided in for\n a soft landing, its metal bottom had ridden a concealed rock and bent\n inward. The bent metal had carried up with it the tube supplying the\n fuel pump and flattened it against the motor casing.\nOpening the tube again would not have been difficult, but first it had\n to be freed from under the ship. Kaiser had tried forcing the sheet\n metal back into place with a small crowbar—the best leverage he had on\n hand—but it resisted his best efforts. He still could think of no way\n to do the job, simple as it was, though he gave his concentration to it\n the rest of the day.\n\n\n That evening, Kaiser received information from the\nSoscites II\nthat\n was at least definite:", "Another message came in as he finished eating. This one was from the\n captain himself:\n\n\n WHY HAVE WE RECEIVED NO VERIFICATION OF LAST INSTRUCTIONS? REPAIR\n SCOUT IMMEDIATELY AND RETURN WITHOUT FURTHER DELAY. THIS IS AN ORDER!\nH. A. HESSE, CAPT.\n\n\n Kaiser pushed the last of his meal—which he had been eating with his\n fingers—into his mouth, crumpled the tape, wiped the grease from his\n hands with it and dropped it to the floor.", "Kaiser did not answer. The news was so startling, so unforeseen, that\n his mind refused to accept the actuality. He lay on the scout's bunk\n and stared at the ceiling without conscious attention, and with very\n little clear thought, for several hours—until the next communication\n came in:\n\n\n WELL, THIS IS WHAT SAM HAS TO SAY, SMOKY. SYMBIOTE AMICABLE AND\n APPARENTLY SWIFTLY ADAPTABLE. YOUR CHANGING COLOR, DIFFICULTY IN\n EATING AND EVEN BABY TALK WERE THE RESULT OF ITS EFFORTS TO GIVE YOU\n WHAT IT BELIEVED YOU NEEDED OR WANTED.", "He pondered mildly, as he packed his equipment, why he was disregarding\n the captain's message. For some reason, it seemed too trivial for\n serious consideration. He placated his slightly uneasy conscience only\n to the extent of packing the communicator in with his other equipment.\n It was a self-contained unit and he'd be able to receive messages from\n the ship on his trip.\nThe tracks of his earlier journey had been erased by the soft rain, and\n when Kaiser reached the river, he found that he had not returned to\n the village he had visited the day before. However, there were other\n seal-people here.\n\n\n And they were almost human!\n\n\n The resemblance was still not so much in their physical makeup—that\n was little changed from the first he had found—as in their obviously\n greater intelligence.", "Kaiser sank to his ankles in soft mud before his feet reached solid\n ground. He half walked and half slid to the rear of the scout. Beside\n the ship, the \"octopus\" was busily at work. Tentacles and antennae,\n extending from the yard-high box of its body, tested and recorded\n temperature, atmosphere, soil, and all other pertinent planetary\n conditions. The octopus was connected to the ship's communicator and\n all its findings were being transmitted to the mother ship for study.", "The\nSoscites II\nhad to maintain its constant speed; it had no means\n of slowing, except to stop, and no way to start again once it did stop.\n Its limited range of maneuverability made it necessary to set up an\n orbit that would take it approximately one month, Earth time, to circle\n a pinpointed planet. And now its fuel was low.\n\n\n Kaiser had that one month to repair his scout or be stranded here\n forever.\n\n\n That was all he could remember. Nothing of what he had been doing\n recently.\n\n\n A small shiver passed through his body as he glanced once again at the\n tape in his hand. Baby talk....\nOne thing he could find out: how long this had been going on. He\n turned to the communicator and unhooked the paper receptacle on its\n bottom. It held about a yard and a half of tape, probably his last\n several messages—both those sent and those received. He pulled it out\n impatiently and began reading.", "When he reached the scout, Kaiser began to unload the sled. The\n tarpaulin caught on the edge of a runner and he gave it a tug to free\n it. To his amazement, the heavy sled turned completely over, spilling\n the equipment to the ground.\n\n\n Perplexed, Kaiser stooped and began replacing the spilled articles in\n the tarp. They felt exceptionally light. He paused again, and suddenly\n his eyes widened.\nMoving quickly to the door of the scout, he shoved his equipment\n through and crawled in behind it. He did not consult the communicator,\n as he customarily did on entering, but went directly to the warped\n place on the floor and picked up the crowbar he had laid there.", "Well, naturally Kaiser would transmit baby\n\n talk messages to his mother ship! He was—\nGROWING UP ON BIG MUDDY\nBy CHARLES V. DE VET\n\n\n Illustrated by TURPIN\n\n\n [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Galaxy Science Fiction July 1957.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nKaiser stared at the tape in his hand for a long uncomprehending\n minute. How long had the stuff been coming through in this inane baby\n talk? And why hadn't he noticed it before? Why had he had to read this\n last communication a third time before he recognized anything unusual\n about it?\n\n\n He went over the words again, as though maybe this time they'd read as\n they should.", "They made small noises while he went about his work. After a time, he\n understood that they were trying to give names to his paraphernalia. He\n tried saying \"tent\" and \"wire\" and \"tarp\" as he handled each object,\n but their piping voices could not repeat the words. Kaiser amused\n himself by trying to imitate their sounds for the articles. He was\n fairly successful. He was certain that he could soon learn enough to\n carry on a limited conversation.\n\n\n The male became bored after a time and left, but the girl stayed until\n Kaiser finished. She motioned to him then to follow. When they reached\n the river bank, he saw that she wanted him to go into the water.\nBefore he had time to decide, Kaiser heard the small bell of the\n communicator from the tent behind him. He stood undecided for a moment,\n then returned and read the message on the tape:\n\n\n STILL ANXIOUSLY AWAITING WORD FROM YOU.", "Several of the bolder males climbed up beside Kaiser and began pawing\n his plastic clothing. Kaiser stood still and tried to keep his\n breathing shallow, for their odor was almost more than he could bear.\n One native smeared Kaiser's face with an exploring paw and Kaiser\n gagged and pushed him roughly away. He was bound by regulations to\n display no hostility to newly discovered natives, but he couldn't take\n much more of this.\n\n\n A young female splashed water on two young males who stood near and\n they turned with shrill pipings and chased her into the water. The\n entire group seemed to lose interest in Kaiser and joined in the chase,\n or went back to other diversions of their own. Kaiser's inspectors\n followed.\n\n\n They were a mindless lot, Kaiser observed. The river supplied them with\n an easy existence, with food and living space, and apparently they had\n few natural enemies.", "By now, Kaiser had accepted what had happened to him. His distress and\n anxiety were gone and he was impatient to do what he could to establish\n better contact with his uninvited tenant. With eager anticipation, he\n set to thinking how it could be done. After a few minutes, an idea\n occurred to him.\n\n\n Taking a small scalpel from a medical kit, he made a shallow cut in\n his arm, just deep enough to bleed freely. He knew that the pain would\n supply the necessary glandular reaction. The cut bled a few slow\n drops—and as Kaiser watched, a shiny film formed and the bleeding\n stopped.\n\n\n That checked pretty well with the ship's theory.", "As a double check, he looked at the ship's thermometer. Temperature\n 102, humidity 113—just about the same as it had been on earlier\n readings.\nDuring the next twenty-four hours, Kaiser and the mother ship exchanged\n messages at regular six-hour intervals. In between, he worked at\n repairing the damaged scout. He had no more success than before.\n\n\n He tired easily and lay on the cot often to rest. Each time he seemed\n to drop off to sleep immediately—and awake at the exact times he\n had decided on beforehand. At first, despite the lack of success in\n straightening the bent metal of the scout bottom, there had been a\n subdued exhilaration in reporting each new discovery concerning the\n symbiote, but as time passed, his enthusiasm ebbed. His one really\n important problem was how to repair the scout and he was fast becoming\n discouraged.", "Inserting the bar between the metal of the scout bottom and the engine\n casing, he lifted. Nothing happened. He rested a minute and tried\n again, this time concentrating on his desire to raise the bar. The\n metal beneath yielded slightly—but he felt the palms of his hands\n bruise against the lever.\n\n\n Only after he dropped the bar did he realize the force he had exerted.\n His hands ached and tingled. His strength must have been increased\n tremendously. With his plastic coat wrapped around the lever, he tried\n again. The metal of the scout bottom gave slowly—until the fuel pump\n hung free!\n\n\n Kaiser did not repair the tube immediately. He let the solution\n rest in his hands, like a package to be opened, the pleasure of its\n anticipation to be enjoyed as much as the final act.\n\n\n He transmitted the news of what he had been able to do and sat down to\n read the two messages waiting for him.\n\n\n The first was quite routine:", "This was mainly noticeable in their facile expressions as they talked.\n Kaiser was even certain that he read smiles on their faces when he\n slipped on a particularly slick mud patch as he hurried toward them.\n Where the members of the first tribes had all looked almost exactly\n alike, these had very marked individual characteristics. Also, these\n had no odor—only a mild, rather pleasing scent. When they came to meet\n him, Kaiser could detect distinct syllabism in their pipings.\n\n\n Most of the natives returned to the river after the first ten minutes\n of curious inspection, but two stayed behind as Kaiser set up his tent.\n\n\n One was a female.", "SEEM TO BE FULLY RECOVERED. FEELING FINE. ANYTHING NEW FROM SAM? AND\n HOW ABOUT THE DAMAGE TO SCOUT? GIVE ME ANYTHING YOU HAVE ON EITHER OR\n BOTH.\nSMOKY\n\n\n Kaiser felt suddenly weary. He lay on the scout's bunk and tried\n to sleep. Soon he was in that phantasm land between sleep and\n wakefulness—he knew he was not sleeping, yet he did dream." ], [ "Kaiser observed that it was working well and turned toward a wide,\n sluggish river, perhaps two hundred yards from the scout. Once there,\n he headed upstream. He could hear the pipings, and now and then a\n higher whistling, of the seal-people before he reached a bend and saw\n them. As usual, most were swimming in the river.\nOne old fellow, whose chocolate-brown fur showed a heavy intermixture\n of gray, was sitting on the bank of the river just at the bend. Perhaps\n a lookout. He pulled himself to his feet as he spied Kaiser and his\n toothless, hard-gummed mouth opened and emitted a long whistle that\n might have been a greeting—or a warning to the others that a stranger\n approached.", "He pondered mildly, as he packed his equipment, why he was disregarding\n the captain's message. For some reason, it seemed too trivial for\n serious consideration. He placated his slightly uneasy conscience only\n to the extent of packing the communicator in with his other equipment.\n It was a self-contained unit and he'd be able to receive messages from\n the ship on his trip.\nThe tracks of his earlier journey had been erased by the soft rain, and\n when Kaiser reached the river, he found that he had not returned to\n the village he had visited the day before. However, there were other\n seal-people here.\n\n\n And they were almost human!\n\n\n The resemblance was still not so much in their physical makeup—that\n was little changed from the first he had found—as in their obviously\n greater intelligence.", "The native stood perhaps five feet tall, with the heavy, blubbery\n body of a seal, and short, thick arms. Membranes connected the arms\n to his body from shoulder-pits to mid-biceps. The arms ended in\n three-fingered, thumbless hands. His legs also were short and thick,\n with footpads that splayed out at forty-five-degree angles. They gave\n his legs the appearance of a split tail. About him hung a rank-fish\n smell that made Kaiser's stomach squirm.", "The old fellow sounded a cheerful chirp as Kaiser came near. Feeling\n slightly ineffectual, Kaiser raised both hands and held them palm\n forward. The other chirped again and Kaiser went on toward the main\n group.\nThey had stopped their play and eating as Kaiser approached and now\n most of them swam in to shore and stood in the water, staring and\n piping. They varied in size from small seal-pups to full-grown adults.\n Some chewed on bunches of water weed, which they manipulated with their\n lips and drew into their mouths.\n\n\n They had mammalian characteristics, Kaiser had noted before, so it\n was not difficult to distinguish the females from the males. The\n proportion was roughly fifty-fifty.", "Several of the bolder males climbed up beside Kaiser and began pawing\n his plastic clothing. Kaiser stood still and tried to keep his\n breathing shallow, for their odor was almost more than he could bear.\n One native smeared Kaiser's face with an exploring paw and Kaiser\n gagged and pushed him roughly away. He was bound by regulations to\n display no hostility to newly discovered natives, but he couldn't take\n much more of this.\n\n\n A young female splashed water on two young males who stood near and\n they turned with shrill pipings and chased her into the water. The\n entire group seemed to lose interest in Kaiser and joined in the chase,\n or went back to other diversions of their own. Kaiser's inspectors\n followed.\n\n\n They were a mindless lot, Kaiser observed. The river supplied them with\n an easy existence, with food and living space, and apparently they had\n few natural enemies.", "Kaiser packed a mudsled with tent, portable generator and guard wires,\n a spare sidearm and ammunition, and food for two days. He had noticed\n that a range of high hills, which caused the bend in the river at\n the native settlement, seemed to continue its long curve, and he\n wondered if the hills might not turn the river in the shape of a giant\n horseshoe. He intended to find out.\n\n\n Wrapping his equipment in a plastic tarp, Kaiser eased it out the\n doorway and tied it on the sled. He hooked a towline to a harness on\n his shoulders and began his journey—in the opposite direction from the\n first native settlement.\n\n\n He walked for more than seven hours before he found that his surmise\n had been correct. And a second cluster of huts, and seal-people in the\n river, greeted his sight. He received a further pleasant surprise. This\n group was decidedly more advanced than the first!", "This was mainly noticeable in their facile expressions as they talked.\n Kaiser was even certain that he read smiles on their faces when he\n slipped on a particularly slick mud patch as he hurried toward them.\n Where the members of the first tribes had all looked almost exactly\n alike, these had very marked individual characteristics. Also, these\n had no odor—only a mild, rather pleasing scent. When they came to meet\n him, Kaiser could detect distinct syllabism in their pipings.\n\n\n Most of the natives returned to the river after the first ten minutes\n of curious inspection, but two stayed behind as Kaiser set up his tent.\n\n\n One was a female.", "They were little different in actual physical appearance; the change\n was mainly noticeable in their actions and demeanor. And their odor was\n more subdued, less repugnant.\n\n\n By signs, Kaiser indicated that he came in peace, and they seemed to\n understand. A thick-bodied male went solemnly to the river bank and\n called to a second, who dived and brought up a mouthful of weed. The\n first male took the weed and brought it to Kaiser. This was obviously a\n gesture of friendship.\n\n\n The weed had a white starchy core and looked edible. Kaiser cleaned\n part of it with his handkerchief, bit and chewed it.", "THE DANGER, WHICH WE HESITATED TO MENTION UNTIL NOW—WHEN YOU HAVE\n FORCED US BY YOUR OBSTINATE SILENCE—IS THAT IT CAN ALTER YOUR\n MIND ALSO. YOUR REPORT ON SECOND TRIBE OF SEAL-PEOPLE STRONGLY\n INDICATES THAT THIS IS ALREADY HAPPENING. THEY WERE PROBABLY NOT MORE\n INTELLIGENT AND HUMANLIKE THAN THE OTHERS. ON THE CONTRARY, YOU ARE\n BECOMING MORE LIKE THEM.\n\n\n DANGER ACUTE. RETURN IMMEDIATELY. REPEAT: IMMEDIATELY!\nSS II\n\n\n Kaiser picked up a large rock and slowly, methodically pounded the\n communicator into a flattened jumble of metal and loose parts.", "The weed had a slight iron taste, but was not unpalatable. He swallowed\n the mouthful and tried another. He ate most of what had been given him\n and waited with some trepidation for a reaction.\nAs dusk fell, Kaiser set up his tent a few hundred yards back from the\n native settlement. All apprehension about how his stomach would react\n to the river weed had left him. Apparently it could be assimilated by\n his digestive system. Lying on his air mattress, he felt thoroughly at\n peace with this world.\n\n\n Once, just before dropping off to sleep, he heard the snuffling noise\n of some large animal outside his tent and picked up a pistol, just in\n case. However, the first jolt of the guard-wire charge discouraged the\n beast and Kaiser heard it shuffle away, making puzzled mewing sounds as\n it went.\n\n\n The next morning, Kaiser left off all his clothes except a pair of\n shorts and went swimming in the river. The seal-people were already in\n the water when he arrived and were very friendly.", "VISITED SEAL-PEOPLE AGAIN TODAY. STILL HAVE THEIR STINK IN MY NOSE.\n FOUND HUTS ALONG RIVER BANK, SO I GUESS THEY DON'T LIVE IN WATER.\n BUT THEY DO SPEND MOST OF THEIR TIME THERE. NO, I HAVE NO WAY OF\n ESTIMATING THEIR INTELLIGENCE. I WOULD JUDGE IT AVERAGES NO HIGHER\n THAN SEVEN-YEAR-OLD HUMAN. THEY DEFINITELY DO TALK TO ONE ANOTHER.\n WILL TRY TO FIND OUT MORE ABOUT THEM, BUT YOU GET TO WORK FAST ON HOW\n I REPAIR SCOUT.\n\n\n SWELLING IN ARM WORSE AND AM DEVELOPING A FEVER. TEMPERATURE 102.7 AN\n HOUR AGO.\nSMOKY", "Kaiser walked away, following the long slow bend of the river, and\n came to a collection of perhaps two hundred dwellings built in three\n haphazard rows along the river bank. He took time to study their\n construction more closely this time.\n\n\n They were all round domes, little more than the height of a man, built\n of blocks that appeared to be mud, packed with river weed and sand. How\n they were able to dry these to give them the necessary solidity, Kaiser\n did not know. He had found no signs that they knew how to use fire, and\n all apparent evidence was against their having it. They then had to\n have sunlight. Maybe it rained less during certain seasons.", "GIVE US ANY NEW INFORMATION YOU MIGHT HAVE ON NATIVES.\nSS II\n\n\n The second report was not so routine. Kaiser thought he detected a note\n of uneasiness in it.\n\n\n SUGGEST YOU DEVOTE ALL TIME AND EFFORT TO REPAIR OF SCOUT. INFORMATION\n ON SEAL-PEOPLE ADEQUATE FOR OUR PURPOSES.\nSS II\n\n\n Kaiser did not answer either communication. His earlier report had\n covered all that he had learned lately. He lay on his cot and went to\n sleep.\n\n\n In the morning, another message was waiting:", "They made small noises while he went about his work. After a time, he\n understood that they were trying to give names to his paraphernalia. He\n tried saying \"tent\" and \"wire\" and \"tarp\" as he handled each object,\n but their piping voices could not repeat the words. Kaiser amused\n himself by trying to imitate their sounds for the articles. He was\n fairly successful. He was certain that he could soon learn enough to\n carry on a limited conversation.\n\n\n The male became bored after a time and left, but the girl stayed until\n Kaiser finished. She motioned to him then to follow. When they reached\n the river bank, he saw that she wanted him to go into the water.\nBefore he had time to decide, Kaiser heard the small bell of the\n communicator from the tent behind him. He stood undecided for a moment,\n then returned and read the message on the tape:\n\n\n STILL ANXIOUSLY AWAITING WORD FROM YOU.", "At last Kaiser could bear the futility of his efforts no longer. He\n sent out a terse message to the\nSoscites II\n:\n\n\n TAKING SHORT TRIP TO ANOTHER LOCATION ON RIVER. HOPE TO FIND MORE\n INTELLIGENT NATIVES. COULD BE THAT THE SETTLEMENT I FOUND HERE IS\n ANALOGOUS TO TRIBE OF MONKEYS ON EARTH. I KNOW THE CHANCE IS SMALL,\n BUT WHAT HAVE I TO LOSE? I CAN'T FIX SCOUT WITHOUT BETTER TOOLS, AND\n IF MY GUESS IS RIGHT, I MAY BE ABLE TO GET EQUIPMENT. EXPECT TO RETURN\n IN TEN OR TWELVE HOURS. PLEASE KEEP CONTACT WITH SCOUT.\nSMOKY", "That friendliness nearly resulted in disaster. The natives crowded\n around as he swam—they maneuvered with an otter-like proficiency—and\n often nudged him with their bodies when they came too close. He had\n difficulty keeping afloat and soon turned and started back. As he\n neared the river edge, a playful female grabbed him by the ankle and\n pulled him under.\n\n\n Kaiser tried to break her hold, but she evidently thought he was\n clowning and wrapped her warm furred arms around him and held him\n helpless. They sank deeper.\n\n\n When his breath threatened to burst from his lungs in a stream of\n bubbles, and he still could not free himself, Kaiser brought his knee\n up into her stomach and her grip loosened abruptly. He reached the\n surface, choking and coughing, and swam blindly toward shore until his\n feet hit the river bottom.", "As he stood on the bank, getting his breath, the natives were quiet and\n seemed to be looking at him reproachfully. He stood for a time, trying\n to think of a way to explain the necessity of what he had done, but\n there was none. He shrugged helplessly.\n\n\n There was no longer anything to be gained by staying here—if they\n had the tools he needed, he had no way of finding out or asking for\n them—and he packed and started back to the scout.\n\n\n Kaiser's good spirits returned on his return journey. He had enjoyed\n the relief from the tedium of spending day after day in the scout, and\n now he enjoyed the exercise of pulling the mudsled. Above the waist,\n he wore only the harness and the large, soft drops of rain against his\n bare skin were pleasant to feel.", "By now, Kaiser had accepted what had happened to him. His distress and\n anxiety were gone and he was impatient to do what he could to establish\n better contact with his uninvited tenant. With eager anticipation, he\n set to thinking how it could be done. After a few minutes, an idea\n occurred to him.\n\n\n Taking a small scalpel from a medical kit, he made a shallow cut in\n his arm, just deep enough to bleed freely. He knew that the pain would\n supply the necessary glandular reaction. The cut bled a few slow\n drops—and as Kaiser watched, a shiny film formed and the bleeding\n stopped.\n\n\n That checked pretty well with the ship's theory.", "Kaiser did not answer. The news was so startling, so unforeseen, that\n his mind refused to accept the actuality. He lay on the scout's bunk\n and stared at the ceiling without conscious attention, and with very\n little clear thought, for several hours—until the next communication\n came in:\n\n\n WELL, THIS IS WHAT SAM HAS TO SAY, SMOKY. SYMBIOTE AMICABLE AND\n APPARENTLY SWIFTLY ADAPTABLE. YOUR CHANGING COLOR, DIFFICULTY IN\n EATING AND EVEN BABY TALK WERE THE RESULT OF ITS EFFORTS TO GIVE YOU\n WHAT IT BELIEVED YOU NEEDED OR WANTED.", "The domes' construction was based on a series of four arches built in a\n circle. When the base covering the periphery had been laid, four others\n were built on and between them, and continued in successive tiers until\n the top was reached. Each tier thus furnished support for the next\n above. No other framework was needed. The final tier formed the roof.\n They made sound shelters, but Kaiser had peered into several and found\n them dark and dank—and as smelly as the natives themselves.\n\n\n The few loungers in the village paid little attention to Kaiser and\n he wandered through the irregular streets until he became bored and\n returned to the scout.\n\n\n The\nSoscites II\nsent little that helped during the next twelve hours\n and Kaiser occupied his time trying again to repair the damage to the\n scout." ], [ "At last Kaiser could bear the futility of his efforts no longer. He\n sent out a terse message to the\nSoscites II\n:\n\n\n TAKING SHORT TRIP TO ANOTHER LOCATION ON RIVER. HOPE TO FIND MORE\n INTELLIGENT NATIVES. COULD BE THAT THE SETTLEMENT I FOUND HERE IS\n ANALOGOUS TO TRIBE OF MONKEYS ON EARTH. I KNOW THE CHANCE IS SMALL,\n BUT WHAT HAVE I TO LOSE? I CAN'T FIX SCOUT WITHOUT BETTER TOOLS, AND\n IF MY GUESS IS RIGHT, I MAY BE ABLE TO GET EQUIPMENT. EXPECT TO RETURN\n IN TEN OR TWELVE HOURS. PLEASE KEEP CONTACT WITH SCOUT.\nSMOKY", "VERY PLEASED TO HEAR OF PROGRESS ON REPAIR OF SCOUT. COMPLETE AS\n QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE AND RETURN HERE IMMEDIATELY.\nSS II\nKaiser wondered about the abrupt recall. Could the\nSoscites II\nbe\n experiencing some difficulty? He shrugged the thought aside. If they\n were, they would have told him. The last notes had had more than just a\n suggestion of urgency—there appeared to be a deliberate concealing of\n information.\n\n\n Strangely, the messages indicated need for haste did not prod Kaiser.\n He knew now that the job could be done, perhaps in a few hours' time.\n And the\nSoscites II\nwould not complete its orbit of the planet for\n two weeks yet.\n\n\n Without putting on more than the shirt and trousers he had grown used\n to wearing, Kaiser went outside and wandered listlessly about the\n vicinity of the ship for several hours. When he became hungry, he went\n back inside.", "SAM CAME UP WITH A FEW MORE IDEAS, BUT WE WANT TO WORK ON THEM A BIT\n BEFORE WE SEND THEM THROUGH. SLEEP ON THIS.\nSS II\nKaiser could imagine that most of the crew were not too concerned about\n the trouble he was in. He was not the gregarious type and had no close\n friends on board. He had hoped to find the solitude he liked best in\n space, but he had been disappointed. True, there were fewer people\n here, but he was brought into such intimate contact with them that he\n would have been more contented living in a crowded city.\n\n\n His naturally unsociable nature was more irksome to the crew because\n he was more intelligent and efficient than they were. He did his work\n well and painstakingly and was seldom in error. They would have liked\n him better had he been more prone to mistakes. He was certain that they\n respected him, but they did not like him. And he returned the dislike.", "Another message came in as he finished eating. This one was from the\n captain himself:\n\n\n WHY HAVE WE RECEIVED NO VERIFICATION OF LAST INSTRUCTIONS? REPAIR\n SCOUT IMMEDIATELY AND RETURN WITHOUT FURTHER DELAY. THIS IS AN ORDER!\nH. A. HESSE, CAPT.\n\n\n Kaiser pushed the last of his meal—which he had been eating with his\n fingers—into his mouth, crumpled the tape, wiped the grease from his\n hands with it and dropped it to the floor.", "He pondered mildly, as he packed his equipment, why he was disregarding\n the captain's message. For some reason, it seemed too trivial for\n serious consideration. He placated his slightly uneasy conscience only\n to the extent of packing the communicator in with his other equipment.\n It was a self-contained unit and he'd be able to receive messages from\n the ship on his trip.\nThe tracks of his earlier journey had been erased by the soft rain, and\n when Kaiser reached the river, he found that he had not returned to\n the village he had visited the day before. However, there were other\n seal-people here.\n\n\n And they were almost human!\n\n\n The resemblance was still not so much in their physical makeup—that\n was little changed from the first he had found—as in their obviously\n greater intelligence.", "As he stood on the bank, getting his breath, the natives were quiet and\n seemed to be looking at him reproachfully. He stood for a time, trying\n to think of a way to explain the necessity of what he had done, but\n there was none. He shrugged helplessly.\n\n\n There was no longer anything to be gained by staying here—if they\n had the tools he needed, he had no way of finding out or asking for\n them—and he packed and started back to the scout.\n\n\n Kaiser's good spirits returned on his return journey. He had enjoyed\n the relief from the tedium of spending day after day in the scout, and\n now he enjoyed the exercise of pulling the mudsled. Above the waist,\n he wore only the harness and the large, soft drops of rain against his\n bare skin were pleasant to feel.", "As a double check, he looked at the ship's thermometer. Temperature\n 102, humidity 113—just about the same as it had been on earlier\n readings.\nDuring the next twenty-four hours, Kaiser and the mother ship exchanged\n messages at regular six-hour intervals. In between, he worked at\n repairing the damaged scout. He had no more success than before.\n\n\n He tired easily and lay on the cot often to rest. Each time he seemed\n to drop off to sleep immediately—and awake at the exact times he\n had decided on beforehand. At first, despite the lack of success in\n straightening the bent metal of the scout bottom, there had been a\n subdued exhilaration in reporting each new discovery concerning the\n symbiote, but as time passed, his enthusiasm ebbed. His one really\n important problem was how to repair the scout and he was fast becoming\n discouraged.", "The job appeared maddeningly simply. As the scout had glided in for\n a soft landing, its metal bottom had ridden a concealed rock and bent\n inward. The bent metal had carried up with it the tube supplying the\n fuel pump and flattened it against the motor casing.\nOpening the tube again would not have been difficult, but first it had\n to be freed from under the ship. Kaiser had tried forcing the sheet\n metal back into place with a small crowbar—the best leverage he had on\n hand—but it resisted his best efforts. He still could think of no way\n to do the job, simple as it was, though he gave his concentration to it\n the rest of the day.\n\n\n That evening, Kaiser received information from the\nSoscites II\nthat\n was at least definite:", "When he reached the scout, Kaiser began to unload the sled. The\n tarpaulin caught on the edge of a runner and he gave it a tug to free\n it. To his amazement, the heavy sled turned completely over, spilling\n the equipment to the ground.\n\n\n Perplexed, Kaiser stooped and began replacing the spilled articles in\n the tarp. They felt exceptionally light. He paused again, and suddenly\n his eyes widened.\nMoving quickly to the door of the scout, he shoved his equipment\n through and crawled in behind it. He did not consult the communicator,\n as he customarily did on entering, but went directly to the warped\n place on the floor and picked up the crowbar he had laid there.", "Listlessly he reached for the towel at his elbow and wiped the moisture\n from his face and bare shoulders. The air conditioning had gone out\n when the scout ship cracked up. He'd have to repair the scout or he\n was stuck here for good. He remembered now that he had gone over the\n job very carefully and thoroughly, and had found it too big to handle\n alone—or without better equipment, at least. Yet there was little or\n no chance of his being able to find either here.\n\n\n Calmly, deliberately, Kaiser collected his thoughts, his memories, and\n brought them out where he could look at them:\n\n\n The mother ship,\nSoscites II\n, had been on the last leg of its\n planet-mapping tour. It had dropped Kaiser in the one remaining scout\n ship—the other seven had all been lost one way or another during the\n exploring of new worlds—and set itself into a giant orbit about this\n planet that Kaiser had named Big Muddy.", "By now, Kaiser had accepted what had happened to him. His distress and\n anxiety were gone and he was impatient to do what he could to establish\n better contact with his uninvited tenant. With eager anticipation, he\n set to thinking how it could be done. After a few minutes, an idea\n occurred to him.\n\n\n Taking a small scalpel from a medical kit, he made a shallow cut in\n his arm, just deep enough to bleed freely. He knew that the pain would\n supply the necessary glandular reaction. The cut bled a few slow\n drops—and as Kaiser watched, a shiny film formed and the bleeding\n stopped.\n\n\n That checked pretty well with the ship's theory.", "It was the same dream he had had many times before. In it, he was back\n home again, the home he had joined the space service to escape. He had\n realized soon after his marriage that his wife, Helene, did not love\n him. She had married him for the security his pay check provided. And\n though it soon became evident that she, too, regretted her bargain,\n she would not divorce him. Instead, she had her revenge on him by\n persistent nagging, by letting herself grow fat and querulous, and by\n caring for their house only in a slovenly way.\n\n\n Her crippled brother had moved in with them the day they were married.\n His mind was as crippled as his body and he took an unhealthy delight\n in helping his sister torment Kaiser.\nKaiser came wide awake in a cold sweat. The clock showed that only an\n hour had passed since he had sent his last message to the ship. Still\n five more long hours to wait. He rose and wiped the sweat from his neck\n and shoulders and restlessly paced the small corridor of the scout.", "They made small noises while he went about his work. After a time, he\n understood that they were trying to give names to his paraphernalia. He\n tried saying \"tent\" and \"wire\" and \"tarp\" as he handled each object,\n but their piping voices could not repeat the words. Kaiser amused\n himself by trying to imitate their sounds for the articles. He was\n fairly successful. He was certain that he could soon learn enough to\n carry on a limited conversation.\n\n\n The male became bored after a time and left, but the girl stayed until\n Kaiser finished. She motioned to him then to follow. When they reached\n the river bank, he saw that she wanted him to go into the water.\nBefore he had time to decide, Kaiser heard the small bell of the\n communicator from the tent behind him. He stood undecided for a moment,\n then returned and read the message on the tape:\n\n\n STILL ANXIOUSLY AWAITING WORD FROM YOU.", "The ship must have answered immediately, for the return message time\n was six hours later than his own, the minimum interval necessary for\n two-way exchange.\n\n\n DOING OUR BEST, SMOKY. YOUR IMMEDIATE PROBLEM, AS WE SEE IT, IS TO\n KEEP WELL. WE FED ALL THE INFORMATION YOU GAVE US INTO SAM, BUT YOU\n DIDN'T HAVE MUCH EXCEPT THE STING IN YOUR ARM. AS EXPECTED, ALL THAT\n CAME OUT WAS \"DATA INSUFFICIENT.\" TRY TO GIVE US MORE. ALSO DETAIL\n ALL SYMPTOMS SINCE YOUR LAST REPORT. IN THE MEANTIME, WE'RE DOING\n EVERYTHING WE CAN AT THIS END. GOOD LUCK.\nSS II\n\n\n Sam, Kaiser knew, was the ship's mechanical diagnostician. His report\n followed:", "ARM SWOLLEN. UNABLE TO KEEP DOWN FOOD LAST TWELVE HOURS. ABOUT TWO\n HOURS AGO, ENTIRE BODY TURNED LIVID RED. BRIEF PERIODS OF BLANKNESS.\n THINGS KEEP COMING AND GOING. SICK AS HELL. HURRY.\nSMOKY\n\n\n The ship's next message read:\n\n\n INFECTION QUITE DEFINITE. BUT SOMETHING STRANGE THERE. GIVE US\n ANYTHING MORE YOU HAVE.\nSS II\n\n\n His own reply perplexed Kaiser:\n\n\n LAST LETTER FUNNY. I NOT UNDERSTAND. WHY IS OO SENDING GARBLE TALK?\n DID USNS MAKE UP SECRET MESSAGES?\nSMOKY\n\n\n The expedition, apparently, was as puzzled as he:", "Kaiser did not answer. The news was so startling, so unforeseen, that\n his mind refused to accept the actuality. He lay on the scout's bunk\n and stared at the ceiling without conscious attention, and with very\n little clear thought, for several hours—until the next communication\n came in:\n\n\n WELL, THIS IS WHAT SAM HAS TO SAY, SMOKY. SYMBIOTE AMICABLE AND\n APPARENTLY SWIFTLY ADAPTABLE. YOUR CHANGING COLOR, DIFFICULTY IN\n EATING AND EVEN BABY TALK WERE THE RESULT OF ITS EFFORTS TO GIVE YOU\n WHAT IT BELIEVED YOU NEEDED OR WANTED.", "Kaiser sank to his ankles in soft mud before his feet reached solid\n ground. He half walked and half slid to the rear of the scout. Beside\n the ship, the \"octopus\" was busily at work. Tentacles and antennae,\n extending from the yard-high box of its body, tested and recorded\n temperature, atmosphere, soil, and all other pertinent planetary\n conditions. The octopus was connected to the ship's communicator and\n all its findings were being transmitted to the mother ship for study.", "Inserting the bar between the metal of the scout bottom and the engine\n casing, he lifted. Nothing happened. He rested a minute and tried\n again, this time concentrating on his desire to raise the bar. The\n metal beneath yielded slightly—but he felt the palms of his hands\n bruise against the lever.\n\n\n Only after he dropped the bar did he realize the force he had exerted.\n His hands ached and tingled. His strength must have been increased\n tremendously. With his plastic coat wrapped around the lever, he tried\n again. The metal of the scout bottom gave slowly—until the fuel pump\n hung free!\n\n\n Kaiser did not repair the tube immediately. He let the solution\n rest in his hands, like a package to be opened, the pleasure of its\n anticipation to be enjoyed as much as the final act.\n\n\n He transmitted the news of what he had been able to do and sat down to\n read the two messages waiting for him.\n\n\n The first was quite routine:", "Several of the bolder males climbed up beside Kaiser and began pawing\n his plastic clothing. Kaiser stood still and tried to keep his\n breathing shallow, for their odor was almost more than he could bear.\n One native smeared Kaiser's face with an exploring paw and Kaiser\n gagged and pushed him roughly away. He was bound by regulations to\n display no hostility to newly discovered natives, but he couldn't take\n much more of this.\n\n\n A young female splashed water on two young males who stood near and\n they turned with shrill pipings and chased her into the water. The\n entire group seemed to lose interest in Kaiser and joined in the chase,\n or went back to other diversions of their own. Kaiser's inspectors\n followed.\n\n\n They were a mindless lot, Kaiser observed. The river supplied them with\n an easy existence, with food and living space, and apparently they had\n few natural enemies.", "Well, naturally Kaiser would transmit baby\n\n talk messages to his mother ship! He was—\nGROWING UP ON BIG MUDDY\nBy CHARLES V. DE VET\n\n\n Illustrated by TURPIN\n\n\n [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Galaxy Science Fiction July 1957.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nKaiser stared at the tape in his hand for a long uncomprehending\n minute. How long had the stuff been coming through in this inane baby\n talk? And why hadn't he noticed it before? Why had he had to read this\n last communication a third time before he recognized anything unusual\n about it?\n\n\n He went over the words again, as though maybe this time they'd read as\n they should." ], [ "At last Kaiser could bear the futility of his efforts no longer. He\n sent out a terse message to the\nSoscites II\n:\n\n\n TAKING SHORT TRIP TO ANOTHER LOCATION ON RIVER. HOPE TO FIND MORE\n INTELLIGENT NATIVES. COULD BE THAT THE SETTLEMENT I FOUND HERE IS\n ANALOGOUS TO TRIBE OF MONKEYS ON EARTH. I KNOW THE CHANCE IS SMALL,\n BUT WHAT HAVE I TO LOSE? I CAN'T FIX SCOUT WITHOUT BETTER TOOLS, AND\n IF MY GUESS IS RIGHT, I MAY BE ABLE TO GET EQUIPMENT. EXPECT TO RETURN\n IN TEN OR TWELVE HOURS. PLEASE KEEP CONTACT WITH SCOUT.\nSMOKY", "They made small noises while he went about his work. After a time, he\n understood that they were trying to give names to his paraphernalia. He\n tried saying \"tent\" and \"wire\" and \"tarp\" as he handled each object,\n but their piping voices could not repeat the words. Kaiser amused\n himself by trying to imitate their sounds for the articles. He was\n fairly successful. He was certain that he could soon learn enough to\n carry on a limited conversation.\n\n\n The male became bored after a time and left, but the girl stayed until\n Kaiser finished. She motioned to him then to follow. When they reached\n the river bank, he saw that she wanted him to go into the water.\nBefore he had time to decide, Kaiser heard the small bell of the\n communicator from the tent behind him. He stood undecided for a moment,\n then returned and read the message on the tape:\n\n\n STILL ANXIOUSLY AWAITING WORD FROM YOU.", "THE DANGER, WHICH WE HESITATED TO MENTION UNTIL NOW—WHEN YOU HAVE\n FORCED US BY YOUR OBSTINATE SILENCE—IS THAT IT CAN ALTER YOUR\n MIND ALSO. YOUR REPORT ON SECOND TRIBE OF SEAL-PEOPLE STRONGLY\n INDICATES THAT THIS IS ALREADY HAPPENING. THEY WERE PROBABLY NOT MORE\n INTELLIGENT AND HUMANLIKE THAN THE OTHERS. ON THE CONTRARY, YOU ARE\n BECOMING MORE LIKE THEM.\n\n\n DANGER ACUTE. RETURN IMMEDIATELY. REPEAT: IMMEDIATELY!\nSS II\n\n\n Kaiser picked up a large rock and slowly, methodically pounded the\n communicator into a flattened jumble of metal and loose parts.", "He pondered mildly, as he packed his equipment, why he was disregarding\n the captain's message. For some reason, it seemed too trivial for\n serious consideration. He placated his slightly uneasy conscience only\n to the extent of packing the communicator in with his other equipment.\n It was a self-contained unit and he'd be able to receive messages from\n the ship on his trip.\nThe tracks of his earlier journey had been erased by the soft rain, and\n when Kaiser reached the river, he found that he had not returned to\n the village he had visited the day before. However, there were other\n seal-people here.\n\n\n And they were almost human!\n\n\n The resemblance was still not so much in their physical makeup—that\n was little changed from the first he had found—as in their obviously\n greater intelligence.", "VERY PLEASED TO HEAR OF PROGRESS ON REPAIR OF SCOUT. COMPLETE AS\n QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE AND RETURN HERE IMMEDIATELY.\nSS II\nKaiser wondered about the abrupt recall. Could the\nSoscites II\nbe\n experiencing some difficulty? He shrugged the thought aside. If they\n were, they would have told him. The last notes had had more than just a\n suggestion of urgency—there appeared to be a deliberate concealing of\n information.\n\n\n Strangely, the messages indicated need for haste did not prod Kaiser.\n He knew now that the job could be done, perhaps in a few hours' time.\n And the\nSoscites II\nwould not complete its orbit of the planet for\n two weeks yet.\n\n\n Without putting on more than the shirt and trousers he had grown used\n to wearing, Kaiser went outside and wandered listlessly about the\n vicinity of the ship for several hours. When he became hungry, he went\n back inside.", "Well, naturally Kaiser would transmit baby\n\n talk messages to his mother ship! He was—\nGROWING UP ON BIG MUDDY\nBy CHARLES V. DE VET\n\n\n Illustrated by TURPIN\n\n\n [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Galaxy Science Fiction July 1957.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nKaiser stared at the tape in his hand for a long uncomprehending\n minute. How long had the stuff been coming through in this inane baby\n talk? And why hadn't he noticed it before? Why had he had to read this\n last communication a third time before he recognized anything unusual\n about it?\n\n\n He went over the words again, as though maybe this time they'd read as\n they should.", "Kaiser observed that it was working well and turned toward a wide,\n sluggish river, perhaps two hundred yards from the scout. Once there,\n he headed upstream. He could hear the pipings, and now and then a\n higher whistling, of the seal-people before he reached a bend and saw\n them. As usual, most were swimming in the river.\nOne old fellow, whose chocolate-brown fur showed a heavy intermixture\n of gray, was sitting on the bank of the river just at the bend. Perhaps\n a lookout. He pulled himself to his feet as he spied Kaiser and his\n toothless, hard-gummed mouth opened and emitted a long whistle that\n might have been a greeting—or a warning to the others that a stranger\n approached.", "ARM SWOLLEN. UNABLE TO KEEP DOWN FOOD LAST TWELVE HOURS. ABOUT TWO\n HOURS AGO, ENTIRE BODY TURNED LIVID RED. BRIEF PERIODS OF BLANKNESS.\n THINGS KEEP COMING AND GOING. SICK AS HELL. HURRY.\nSMOKY\n\n\n The ship's next message read:\n\n\n INFECTION QUITE DEFINITE. BUT SOMETHING STRANGE THERE. GIVE US\n ANYTHING MORE YOU HAVE.\nSS II\n\n\n His own reply perplexed Kaiser:\n\n\n LAST LETTER FUNNY. I NOT UNDERSTAND. WHY IS OO SENDING GARBLE TALK?\n DID USNS MAKE UP SECRET MESSAGES?\nSMOKY\n\n\n The expedition, apparently, was as puzzled as he:", "Kaiser did not answer. The news was so startling, so unforeseen, that\n his mind refused to accept the actuality. He lay on the scout's bunk\n and stared at the ceiling without conscious attention, and with very\n little clear thought, for several hours—until the next communication\n came in:\n\n\n WELL, THIS IS WHAT SAM HAS TO SAY, SMOKY. SYMBIOTE AMICABLE AND\n APPARENTLY SWIFTLY ADAPTABLE. YOUR CHANGING COLOR, DIFFICULTY IN\n EATING AND EVEN BABY TALK WERE THE RESULT OF ITS EFFORTS TO GIVE YOU\n WHAT IT BELIEVED YOU NEEDED OR WANTED.", "This was mainly noticeable in their facile expressions as they talked.\n Kaiser was even certain that he read smiles on their faces when he\n slipped on a particularly slick mud patch as he hurried toward them.\n Where the members of the first tribes had all looked almost exactly\n alike, these had very marked individual characteristics. Also, these\n had no odor—only a mild, rather pleasing scent. When they came to meet\n him, Kaiser could detect distinct syllabism in their pipings.\n\n\n Most of the natives returned to the river after the first ten minutes\n of curious inspection, but two stayed behind as Kaiser set up his tent.\n\n\n One was a female.", "GIVE US ANY NEW INFORMATION YOU MIGHT HAVE ON NATIVES.\nSS II\n\n\n The second report was not so routine. Kaiser thought he detected a note\n of uneasiness in it.\n\n\n SUGGEST YOU DEVOTE ALL TIME AND EFFORT TO REPAIR OF SCOUT. INFORMATION\n ON SEAL-PEOPLE ADEQUATE FOR OUR PURPOSES.\nSS II\n\n\n Kaiser did not answer either communication. His earlier report had\n covered all that he had learned lately. He lay on his cot and went to\n sleep.\n\n\n In the morning, another message was waiting:", "Another message came in as he finished eating. This one was from the\n captain himself:\n\n\n WHY HAVE WE RECEIVED NO VERIFICATION OF LAST INSTRUCTIONS? REPAIR\n SCOUT IMMEDIATELY AND RETURN WITHOUT FURTHER DELAY. THIS IS AN ORDER!\nH. A. HESSE, CAPT.\n\n\n Kaiser pushed the last of his meal—which he had been eating with his\n fingers—into his mouth, crumpled the tape, wiped the grease from his\n hands with it and dropped it to the floor.", "Several of the bolder males climbed up beside Kaiser and began pawing\n his plastic clothing. Kaiser stood still and tried to keep his\n breathing shallow, for their odor was almost more than he could bear.\n One native smeared Kaiser's face with an exploring paw and Kaiser\n gagged and pushed him roughly away. He was bound by regulations to\n display no hostility to newly discovered natives, but he couldn't take\n much more of this.\n\n\n A young female splashed water on two young males who stood near and\n they turned with shrill pipings and chased her into the water. The\n entire group seemed to lose interest in Kaiser and joined in the chase,\n or went back to other diversions of their own. Kaiser's inspectors\n followed.\n\n\n They were a mindless lot, Kaiser observed. The river supplied them with\n an easy existence, with food and living space, and apparently they had\n few natural enemies.", "It was the same dream he had had many times before. In it, he was back\n home again, the home he had joined the space service to escape. He had\n realized soon after his marriage that his wife, Helene, did not love\n him. She had married him for the security his pay check provided. And\n though it soon became evident that she, too, regretted her bargain,\n she would not divorce him. Instead, she had her revenge on him by\n persistent nagging, by letting herself grow fat and querulous, and by\n caring for their house only in a slovenly way.\n\n\n Her crippled brother had moved in with them the day they were married.\n His mind was as crippled as his body and he took an unhealthy delight\n in helping his sister torment Kaiser.\nKaiser came wide awake in a cold sweat. The clock showed that only an\n hour had passed since he had sent his last message to the ship. Still\n five more long hours to wait. He rose and wiped the sweat from his neck\n and shoulders and restlessly paced the small corridor of the scout.", "SEEM TO BE FULLY RECOVERED. FEELING FINE. ANYTHING NEW FROM SAM? AND\n HOW ABOUT THE DAMAGE TO SCOUT? GIVE ME ANYTHING YOU HAVE ON EITHER OR\n BOTH.\nSMOKY\n\n\n Kaiser felt suddenly weary. He lay on the scout's bunk and tried\n to sleep. Soon he was in that phantasm land between sleep and\n wakefulness—he knew he was not sleeping, yet he did dream.", "When he reached the scout, Kaiser began to unload the sled. The\n tarpaulin caught on the edge of a runner and he gave it a tug to free\n it. To his amazement, the heavy sled turned completely over, spilling\n the equipment to the ground.\n\n\n Perplexed, Kaiser stooped and began replacing the spilled articles in\n the tarp. They felt exceptionally light. He paused again, and suddenly\n his eyes widened.\nMoving quickly to the door of the scout, he shoved his equipment\n through and crawled in behind it. He did not consult the communicator,\n as he customarily did on entering, but went directly to the warped\n place on the floor and picked up the crowbar he had laid there.", "The domes' construction was based on a series of four arches built in a\n circle. When the base covering the periphery had been laid, four others\n were built on and between them, and continued in successive tiers until\n the top was reached. Each tier thus furnished support for the next\n above. No other framework was needed. The final tier formed the roof.\n They made sound shelters, but Kaiser had peered into several and found\n them dark and dank—and as smelly as the natives themselves.\n\n\n The few loungers in the village paid little attention to Kaiser and\n he wandered through the irregular streets until he became bored and\n returned to the scout.\n\n\n The\nSoscites II\nsent little that helped during the next twelve hours\n and Kaiser occupied his time trying again to repair the damage to the\n scout.", "As he stood on the bank, getting his breath, the natives were quiet and\n seemed to be looking at him reproachfully. He stood for a time, trying\n to think of a way to explain the necessity of what he had done, but\n there was none. He shrugged helplessly.\n\n\n There was no longer anything to be gained by staying here—if they\n had the tools he needed, he had no way of finding out or asking for\n them—and he packed and started back to the scout.\n\n\n Kaiser's good spirits returned on his return journey. He had enjoyed\n the relief from the tedium of spending day after day in the scout, and\n now he enjoyed the exercise of pulling the mudsled. Above the waist,\n he wore only the harness and the large, soft drops of rain against his\n bare skin were pleasant to feel.", "SAM CAME UP WITH A FEW MORE IDEAS, BUT WE WANT TO WORK ON THEM A BIT\n BEFORE WE SEND THEM THROUGH. SLEEP ON THIS.\nSS II\nKaiser could imagine that most of the crew were not too concerned about\n the trouble he was in. He was not the gregarious type and had no close\n friends on board. He had hoped to find the solitude he liked best in\n space, but he had been disappointed. True, there were fewer people\n here, but he was brought into such intimate contact with them that he\n would have been more contented living in a crowded city.\n\n\n His naturally unsociable nature was more irksome to the crew because\n he was more intelligent and efficient than they were. He did his work\n well and painstakingly and was seldom in error. They would have liked\n him better had he been more prone to mistakes. He was certain that they\n respected him, but they did not like him. And he returned the dislike.", "By now, Kaiser had accepted what had happened to him. His distress and\n anxiety were gone and he was impatient to do what he could to establish\n better contact with his uninvited tenant. With eager anticipation, he\n set to thinking how it could be done. After a few minutes, an idea\n occurred to him.\n\n\n Taking a small scalpel from a medical kit, he made a shallow cut in\n his arm, just deep enough to bleed freely. He knew that the pain would\n supply the necessary glandular reaction. The cut bled a few slow\n drops—and as Kaiser watched, a shiny film formed and the bleeding\n stopped.\n\n\n That checked pretty well with the ship's theory." ], [ "OO IS SICK, SMOKY. DO TO BEDDY-BY. KEEP UM WARM. WHEN UM FEELS BETTER,\n LET USNS KNOW.\nSS II\n\n\n Kaiser let himself ease back in the pilot chair and rolled the tape\n thoughtfully between his fingers. Overhead and to each side, large\n drops of rain thudded softly against the transparent walls of the scout\n ship and dripped wearily from the bottom ledge to the ground.\n\n\n \"Damn this climate!\" Kaiser muttered irrelevantly. \"Doesn't it ever do\n anything here except rain?\"\n\n\n His attention returned to the matter at hand. Why the baby talk? And\n why was his memory so hazy? How long had he been here? What had he been\n doing during that time?", "Kaiser did not answer. The news was so startling, so unforeseen, that\n his mind refused to accept the actuality. He lay on the scout's bunk\n and stared at the ceiling without conscious attention, and with very\n little clear thought, for several hours—until the next communication\n came in:\n\n\n WELL, THIS IS WHAT SAM HAS TO SAY, SMOKY. SYMBIOTE AMICABLE AND\n APPARENTLY SWIFTLY ADAPTABLE. YOUR CHANGING COLOR, DIFFICULTY IN\n EATING AND EVEN BABY TALK WERE THE RESULT OF ITS EFFORTS TO GIVE YOU\n WHAT IT BELIEVED YOU NEEDED OR WANTED.", "WHAT'S THE MATTER, SMOKY? THAT LAST MESSAGE WAS IN PLAIN TERRAN. NO\n REASON WHY YOU COULDN'T READ IT. AND WHY THE BABY TALK? IF YOU'RE\n SPOOFING, STOP. GIVE US MORE SYMPTOMS. HOW ARE YOU FEELING NOW?\nSS II\n\n\n The baby talk was worse on Kaiser's next:\n\n\n TWAZY. WHAT FOR OO TENDING TWAZY LETTERS? FINK UM CAN WEAD TWAZY\n LETTERS? SKIN ALL YELLOW NOW. COLD. COLD. CO\n\n\n The ship's following communication was three hours late. It was the\n last on the tape—the one Kaiser had read earlier. Apparently they\n decided to humor him.", "Well, naturally Kaiser would transmit baby\n\n talk messages to his mother ship! He was—\nGROWING UP ON BIG MUDDY\nBy CHARLES V. DE VET\n\n\n Illustrated by TURPIN\n\n\n [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Galaxy Science Fiction July 1957.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nKaiser stared at the tape in his hand for a long uncomprehending\n minute. How long had the stuff been coming through in this inane baby\n talk? And why hadn't he noticed it before? Why had he had to read this\n last communication a third time before he recognized anything unusual\n about it?\n\n\n He went over the words again, as though maybe this time they'd read as\n they should.", "They made small noises while he went about his work. After a time, he\n understood that they were trying to give names to his paraphernalia. He\n tried saying \"tent\" and \"wire\" and \"tarp\" as he handled each object,\n but their piping voices could not repeat the words. Kaiser amused\n himself by trying to imitate their sounds for the articles. He was\n fairly successful. He was certain that he could soon learn enough to\n carry on a limited conversation.\n\n\n The male became bored after a time and left, but the girl stayed until\n Kaiser finished. She motioned to him then to follow. When they reached\n the river bank, he saw that she wanted him to go into the water.\nBefore he had time to decide, Kaiser heard the small bell of the\n communicator from the tent behind him. He stood undecided for a moment,\n then returned and read the message on the tape:\n\n\n STILL ANXIOUSLY AWAITING WORD FROM YOU.", "This was mainly noticeable in their facile expressions as they talked.\n Kaiser was even certain that he read smiles on their faces when he\n slipped on a particularly slick mud patch as he hurried toward them.\n Where the members of the first tribes had all looked almost exactly\n alike, these had very marked individual characteristics. Also, these\n had no odor—only a mild, rather pleasing scent. When they came to meet\n him, Kaiser could detect distinct syllabism in their pipings.\n\n\n Most of the natives returned to the river after the first ten minutes\n of curious inspection, but two stayed behind as Kaiser set up his tent.\n\n\n One was a female.", "ARM SWOLLEN. UNABLE TO KEEP DOWN FOOD LAST TWELVE HOURS. ABOUT TWO\n HOURS AGO, ENTIRE BODY TURNED LIVID RED. BRIEF PERIODS OF BLANKNESS.\n THINGS KEEP COMING AND GOING. SICK AS HELL. HURRY.\nSMOKY\n\n\n The ship's next message read:\n\n\n INFECTION QUITE DEFINITE. BUT SOMETHING STRANGE THERE. GIVE US\n ANYTHING MORE YOU HAVE.\nSS II\n\n\n His own reply perplexed Kaiser:\n\n\n LAST LETTER FUNNY. I NOT UNDERSTAND. WHY IS OO SENDING GARBLE TALK?\n DID USNS MAKE UP SECRET MESSAGES?\nSMOKY\n\n\n The expedition, apparently, was as puzzled as he:", "By now, Kaiser had accepted what had happened to him. His distress and\n anxiety were gone and he was impatient to do what he could to establish\n better contact with his uninvited tenant. With eager anticipation, he\n set to thinking how it could be done. After a few minutes, an idea\n occurred to him.\n\n\n Taking a small scalpel from a medical kit, he made a shallow cut in\n his arm, just deep enough to bleed freely. He knew that the pain would\n supply the necessary glandular reaction. The cut bled a few slow\n drops—and as Kaiser watched, a shiny film formed and the bleeding\n stopped.\n\n\n That checked pretty well with the ship's theory.", "They were little different in actual physical appearance; the change\n was mainly noticeable in their actions and demeanor. And their odor was\n more subdued, less repugnant.\n\n\n By signs, Kaiser indicated that he came in peace, and they seemed to\n understand. A thick-bodied male went solemnly to the river bank and\n called to a second, who dived and brought up a mouthful of weed. The\n first male took the weed and brought it to Kaiser. This was obviously a\n gesture of friendship.\n\n\n The weed had a white starchy core and looked edible. Kaiser cleaned\n part of it with his handkerchief, bit and chewed it.", "When he finished, he returned to the waiting girl on the river bank.\n She pointed at his plastic trousers and made laughing sounds in her\n throat. Kaiser returned the laugh and stripped off the trousers. They\n ran, still laughing, into the water.\n\n\n Already the long pink hair that had been growing on his body during the\n past week was beginning to turn brown at the roots.", "As he stood on the bank, getting his breath, the natives were quiet and\n seemed to be looking at him reproachfully. He stood for a time, trying\n to think of a way to explain the necessity of what he had done, but\n there was none. He shrugged helplessly.\n\n\n There was no longer anything to be gained by staying here—if they\n had the tools he needed, he had no way of finding out or asking for\n them—and he packed and started back to the scout.\n\n\n Kaiser's good spirits returned on his return journey. He had enjoyed\n the relief from the tedium of spending day after day in the scout, and\n now he enjoyed the exercise of pulling the mudsled. Above the waist,\n he wore only the harness and the large, soft drops of rain against his\n bare skin were pleasant to feel.", "He pondered mildly, as he packed his equipment, why he was disregarding\n the captain's message. For some reason, it seemed too trivial for\n serious consideration. He placated his slightly uneasy conscience only\n to the extent of packing the communicator in with his other equipment.\n It was a self-contained unit and he'd be able to receive messages from\n the ship on his trip.\nThe tracks of his earlier journey had been erased by the soft rain, and\n when Kaiser reached the river, he found that he had not returned to\n the village he had visited the day before. However, there were other\n seal-people here.\n\n\n And they were almost human!\n\n\n The resemblance was still not so much in their physical makeup—that\n was little changed from the first he had found—as in their obviously\n greater intelligence.", "At last Kaiser could bear the futility of his efforts no longer. He\n sent out a terse message to the\nSoscites II\n:\n\n\n TAKING SHORT TRIP TO ANOTHER LOCATION ON RIVER. HOPE TO FIND MORE\n INTELLIGENT NATIVES. COULD BE THAT THE SETTLEMENT I FOUND HERE IS\n ANALOGOUS TO TRIBE OF MONKEYS ON EARTH. I KNOW THE CHANCE IS SMALL,\n BUT WHAT HAVE I TO LOSE? I CAN'T FIX SCOUT WITHOUT BETTER TOOLS, AND\n IF MY GUESS IS RIGHT, I MAY BE ABLE TO GET EQUIPMENT. EXPECT TO RETURN\n IN TEN OR TWELVE HOURS. PLEASE KEEP CONTACT WITH SCOUT.\nSMOKY", "The\nSoscites II\nhad to maintain its constant speed; it had no means\n of slowing, except to stop, and no way to start again once it did stop.\n Its limited range of maneuverability made it necessary to set up an\n orbit that would take it approximately one month, Earth time, to circle\n a pinpointed planet. And now its fuel was low.\n\n\n Kaiser had that one month to repair his scout or be stranded here\n forever.\n\n\n That was all he could remember. Nothing of what he had been doing\n recently.\n\n\n A small shiver passed through his body as he glanced once again at the\n tape in his hand. Baby talk....\nOne thing he could find out: how long this had been going on. He\n turned to the communicator and unhooked the paper receptacle on its\n bottom. It held about a yard and a half of tape, probably his last\n several messages—both those sent and those received. He pulled it out\n impatiently and began reading.", "SEEM TO BE FULLY RECOVERED. FEELING FINE. ANYTHING NEW FROM SAM? AND\n HOW ABOUT THE DAMAGE TO SCOUT? GIVE ME ANYTHING YOU HAVE ON EITHER OR\n BOTH.\nSMOKY\n\n\n Kaiser felt suddenly weary. He lay on the scout's bunk and tried\n to sleep. Soon he was in that phantasm land between sleep and\n wakefulness—he knew he was not sleeping, yet he did dream.", "The native stood perhaps five feet tall, with the heavy, blubbery\n body of a seal, and short, thick arms. Membranes connected the arms\n to his body from shoulder-pits to mid-biceps. The arms ended in\n three-fingered, thumbless hands. His legs also were short and thick,\n with footpads that splayed out at forty-five-degree angles. They gave\n his legs the appearance of a split tail. About him hung a rank-fish\n smell that made Kaiser's stomach squirm.", "THE DANGER, WHICH WE HESITATED TO MENTION UNTIL NOW—WHEN YOU HAVE\n FORCED US BY YOUR OBSTINATE SILENCE—IS THAT IT CAN ALTER YOUR\n MIND ALSO. YOUR REPORT ON SECOND TRIBE OF SEAL-PEOPLE STRONGLY\n INDICATES THAT THIS IS ALREADY HAPPENING. THEY WERE PROBABLY NOT MORE\n INTELLIGENT AND HUMANLIKE THAN THE OTHERS. ON THE CONTRARY, YOU ARE\n BECOMING MORE LIKE THEM.\n\n\n DANGER ACUTE. RETURN IMMEDIATELY. REPEAT: IMMEDIATELY!\nSS II\n\n\n Kaiser picked up a large rock and slowly, methodically pounded the\n communicator into a flattened jumble of metal and loose parts.", "As a double check, he looked at the ship's thermometer. Temperature\n 102, humidity 113—just about the same as it had been on earlier\n readings.\nDuring the next twenty-four hours, Kaiser and the mother ship exchanged\n messages at regular six-hour intervals. In between, he worked at\n repairing the damaged scout. He had no more success than before.\n\n\n He tired easily and lay on the cot often to rest. Each time he seemed\n to drop off to sleep immediately—and awake at the exact times he\n had decided on beforehand. At first, despite the lack of success in\n straightening the bent metal of the scout bottom, there had been a\n subdued exhilaration in reporting each new discovery concerning the\n symbiote, but as time passed, his enthusiasm ebbed. His one really\n important problem was how to repair the scout and he was fast becoming\n discouraged.", "After a few minutes, he stopped pacing and peered out into the gloom of\n Big Muddy. The rain seemed to have eased off some. Not much more than a\n heavy drizzle now.\n\n\n Kaiser reached impulsively for the slicker he had thrown over a chest\n against one wall and put it on, then a pair of hip-high plastic boots\n and a plastic hat. He opened the door. The scout had come to rest with\n a slight tilt when it crashed, and Kaiser had to sit down and roll\n over onto his stomach to ease himself to the ground.\n\n\n The weather outside was normal for Big Muddy: wet, humid, and warm.", "Perhaps the symbiote had made his senses more acute. He tried closing\n his eyes and fingering several objects in the room. It seemed to him\n that he could determine the texture of each better than before, but\n the test was inconclusive. Walking to the rear of the scout, he tried\n reading the printed words on the instrument panel. Each letter stood\n out sharp and clear!\n\n\n Kaiser wondered if he might not make an immediate, practical use of the\n symbiote's apparent desire to help him. Concentrating on the discomfort\n of the high humidity and exaggerating his own displeasure with it, he\n waited. The result surprised and pleased him.\n\n\n The temperature within the scout cabin seemed to lower, the moisture\n on his body vanished, and he was more comfortable than he had yet been\n here." ], [ "At last Kaiser could bear the futility of his efforts no longer. He\n sent out a terse message to the\nSoscites II\n:\n\n\n TAKING SHORT TRIP TO ANOTHER LOCATION ON RIVER. HOPE TO FIND MORE\n INTELLIGENT NATIVES. COULD BE THAT THE SETTLEMENT I FOUND HERE IS\n ANALOGOUS TO TRIBE OF MONKEYS ON EARTH. I KNOW THE CHANCE IS SMALL,\n BUT WHAT HAVE I TO LOSE? I CAN'T FIX SCOUT WITHOUT BETTER TOOLS, AND\n IF MY GUESS IS RIGHT, I MAY BE ABLE TO GET EQUIPMENT. EXPECT TO RETURN\n IN TEN OR TWELVE HOURS. PLEASE KEEP CONTACT WITH SCOUT.\nSMOKY", "VERY PLEASED TO HEAR OF PROGRESS ON REPAIR OF SCOUT. COMPLETE AS\n QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE AND RETURN HERE IMMEDIATELY.\nSS II\nKaiser wondered about the abrupt recall. Could the\nSoscites II\nbe\n experiencing some difficulty? He shrugged the thought aside. If they\n were, they would have told him. The last notes had had more than just a\n suggestion of urgency—there appeared to be a deliberate concealing of\n information.\n\n\n Strangely, the messages indicated need for haste did not prod Kaiser.\n He knew now that the job could be done, perhaps in a few hours' time.\n And the\nSoscites II\nwould not complete its orbit of the planet for\n two weeks yet.\n\n\n Without putting on more than the shirt and trousers he had grown used\n to wearing, Kaiser went outside and wandered listlessly about the\n vicinity of the ship for several hours. When he became hungry, he went\n back inside.", "The job appeared maddeningly simply. As the scout had glided in for\n a soft landing, its metal bottom had ridden a concealed rock and bent\n inward. The bent metal had carried up with it the tube supplying the\n fuel pump and flattened it against the motor casing.\nOpening the tube again would not have been difficult, but first it had\n to be freed from under the ship. Kaiser had tried forcing the sheet\n metal back into place with a small crowbar—the best leverage he had on\n hand—but it resisted his best efforts. He still could think of no way\n to do the job, simple as it was, though he gave his concentration to it\n the rest of the day.\n\n\n That evening, Kaiser received information from the\nSoscites II\nthat\n was at least definite:", "As a double check, he looked at the ship's thermometer. Temperature\n 102, humidity 113—just about the same as it had been on earlier\n readings.\nDuring the next twenty-four hours, Kaiser and the mother ship exchanged\n messages at regular six-hour intervals. In between, he worked at\n repairing the damaged scout. He had no more success than before.\n\n\n He tired easily and lay on the cot often to rest. Each time he seemed\n to drop off to sleep immediately—and awake at the exact times he\n had decided on beforehand. At first, despite the lack of success in\n straightening the bent metal of the scout bottom, there had been a\n subdued exhilaration in reporting each new discovery concerning the\n symbiote, but as time passed, his enthusiasm ebbed. His one really\n important problem was how to repair the scout and he was fast becoming\n discouraged.", "By now, Kaiser had accepted what had happened to him. His distress and\n anxiety were gone and he was impatient to do what he could to establish\n better contact with his uninvited tenant. With eager anticipation, he\n set to thinking how it could be done. After a few minutes, an idea\n occurred to him.\n\n\n Taking a small scalpel from a medical kit, he made a shallow cut in\n his arm, just deep enough to bleed freely. He knew that the pain would\n supply the necessary glandular reaction. The cut bled a few slow\n drops—and as Kaiser watched, a shiny film formed and the bleeding\n stopped.\n\n\n That checked pretty well with the ship's theory.", "Another message came in as he finished eating. This one was from the\n captain himself:\n\n\n WHY HAVE WE RECEIVED NO VERIFICATION OF LAST INSTRUCTIONS? REPAIR\n SCOUT IMMEDIATELY AND RETURN WITHOUT FURTHER DELAY. THIS IS AN ORDER!\nH. A. HESSE, CAPT.\n\n\n Kaiser pushed the last of his meal—which he had been eating with his\n fingers—into his mouth, crumpled the tape, wiped the grease from his\n hands with it and dropped it to the floor.", "He pondered mildly, as he packed his equipment, why he was disregarding\n the captain's message. For some reason, it seemed too trivial for\n serious consideration. He placated his slightly uneasy conscience only\n to the extent of packing the communicator in with his other equipment.\n It was a self-contained unit and he'd be able to receive messages from\n the ship on his trip.\nThe tracks of his earlier journey had been erased by the soft rain, and\n when Kaiser reached the river, he found that he had not returned to\n the village he had visited the day before. However, there were other\n seal-people here.\n\n\n And they were almost human!\n\n\n The resemblance was still not so much in their physical makeup—that\n was little changed from the first he had found—as in their obviously\n greater intelligence.", "Listlessly he reached for the towel at his elbow and wiped the moisture\n from his face and bare shoulders. The air conditioning had gone out\n when the scout ship cracked up. He'd have to repair the scout or he\n was stuck here for good. He remembered now that he had gone over the\n job very carefully and thoroughly, and had found it too big to handle\n alone—or without better equipment, at least. Yet there was little or\n no chance of his being able to find either here.\n\n\n Calmly, deliberately, Kaiser collected his thoughts, his memories, and\n brought them out where he could look at them:\n\n\n The mother ship,\nSoscites II\n, had been on the last leg of its\n planet-mapping tour. It had dropped Kaiser in the one remaining scout\n ship—the other seven had all been lost one way or another during the\n exploring of new worlds—and set itself into a giant orbit about this\n planet that Kaiser had named Big Muddy.", "As he stood on the bank, getting his breath, the natives were quiet and\n seemed to be looking at him reproachfully. He stood for a time, trying\n to think of a way to explain the necessity of what he had done, but\n there was none. He shrugged helplessly.\n\n\n There was no longer anything to be gained by staying here—if they\n had the tools he needed, he had no way of finding out or asking for\n them—and he packed and started back to the scout.\n\n\n Kaiser's good spirits returned on his return journey. He had enjoyed\n the relief from the tedium of spending day after day in the scout, and\n now he enjoyed the exercise of pulling the mudsled. Above the waist,\n he wore only the harness and the large, soft drops of rain against his\n bare skin were pleasant to feel.", "SAM CAME UP WITH A FEW MORE IDEAS, BUT WE WANT TO WORK ON THEM A BIT\n BEFORE WE SEND THEM THROUGH. SLEEP ON THIS.\nSS II\nKaiser could imagine that most of the crew were not too concerned about\n the trouble he was in. He was not the gregarious type and had no close\n friends on board. He had hoped to find the solitude he liked best in\n space, but he had been disappointed. True, there were fewer people\n here, but he was brought into such intimate contact with them that he\n would have been more contented living in a crowded city.\n\n\n His naturally unsociable nature was more irksome to the crew because\n he was more intelligent and efficient than they were. He did his work\n well and painstakingly and was seldom in error. They would have liked\n him better had he been more prone to mistakes. He was certain that they\n respected him, but they did not like him. And he returned the dislike.", "The ship must have answered immediately, for the return message time\n was six hours later than his own, the minimum interval necessary for\n two-way exchange.\n\n\n DOING OUR BEST, SMOKY. YOUR IMMEDIATE PROBLEM, AS WE SEE IT, IS TO\n KEEP WELL. WE FED ALL THE INFORMATION YOU GAVE US INTO SAM, BUT YOU\n DIDN'T HAVE MUCH EXCEPT THE STING IN YOUR ARM. AS EXPECTED, ALL THAT\n CAME OUT WAS \"DATA INSUFFICIENT.\" TRY TO GIVE US MORE. ALSO DETAIL\n ALL SYMPTOMS SINCE YOUR LAST REPORT. IN THE MEANTIME, WE'RE DOING\n EVERYTHING WE CAN AT THIS END. GOOD LUCK.\nSS II\n\n\n Sam, Kaiser knew, was the ship's mechanical diagnostician. His report\n followed:", "They made small noises while he went about his work. After a time, he\n understood that they were trying to give names to his paraphernalia. He\n tried saying \"tent\" and \"wire\" and \"tarp\" as he handled each object,\n but their piping voices could not repeat the words. Kaiser amused\n himself by trying to imitate their sounds for the articles. He was\n fairly successful. He was certain that he could soon learn enough to\n carry on a limited conversation.\n\n\n The male became bored after a time and left, but the girl stayed until\n Kaiser finished. She motioned to him then to follow. When they reached\n the river bank, he saw that she wanted him to go into the water.\nBefore he had time to decide, Kaiser heard the small bell of the\n communicator from the tent behind him. He stood undecided for a moment,\n then returned and read the message on the tape:\n\n\n STILL ANXIOUSLY AWAITING WORD FROM YOU.", "When he reached the scout, Kaiser began to unload the sled. The\n tarpaulin caught on the edge of a runner and he gave it a tug to free\n it. To his amazement, the heavy sled turned completely over, spilling\n the equipment to the ground.\n\n\n Perplexed, Kaiser stooped and began replacing the spilled articles in\n the tarp. They felt exceptionally light. He paused again, and suddenly\n his eyes widened.\nMoving quickly to the door of the scout, he shoved his equipment\n through and crawled in behind it. He did not consult the communicator,\n as he customarily did on entering, but went directly to the warped\n place on the floor and picked up the crowbar he had laid there.", "It was the same dream he had had many times before. In it, he was back\n home again, the home he had joined the space service to escape. He had\n realized soon after his marriage that his wife, Helene, did not love\n him. She had married him for the security his pay check provided. And\n though it soon became evident that she, too, regretted her bargain,\n she would not divorce him. Instead, she had her revenge on him by\n persistent nagging, by letting herself grow fat and querulous, and by\n caring for their house only in a slovenly way.\n\n\n Her crippled brother had moved in with them the day they were married.\n His mind was as crippled as his body and he took an unhealthy delight\n in helping his sister torment Kaiser.\nKaiser came wide awake in a cold sweat. The clock showed that only an\n hour had passed since he had sent his last message to the ship. Still\n five more long hours to wait. He rose and wiped the sweat from his neck\n and shoulders and restlessly paced the small corridor of the scout.", "THE DANGER, WHICH WE HESITATED TO MENTION UNTIL NOW—WHEN YOU HAVE\n FORCED US BY YOUR OBSTINATE SILENCE—IS THAT IT CAN ALTER YOUR\n MIND ALSO. YOUR REPORT ON SECOND TRIBE OF SEAL-PEOPLE STRONGLY\n INDICATES THAT THIS IS ALREADY HAPPENING. THEY WERE PROBABLY NOT MORE\n INTELLIGENT AND HUMANLIKE THAN THE OTHERS. ON THE CONTRARY, YOU ARE\n BECOMING MORE LIKE THEM.\n\n\n DANGER ACUTE. RETURN IMMEDIATELY. REPEAT: IMMEDIATELY!\nSS II\n\n\n Kaiser picked up a large rock and slowly, methodically pounded the\n communicator into a flattened jumble of metal and loose parts.", "Inserting the bar between the metal of the scout bottom and the engine\n casing, he lifted. Nothing happened. He rested a minute and tried\n again, this time concentrating on his desire to raise the bar. The\n metal beneath yielded slightly—but he felt the palms of his hands\n bruise against the lever.\n\n\n Only after he dropped the bar did he realize the force he had exerted.\n His hands ached and tingled. His strength must have been increased\n tremendously. With his plastic coat wrapped around the lever, he tried\n again. The metal of the scout bottom gave slowly—until the fuel pump\n hung free!\n\n\n Kaiser did not repair the tube immediately. He let the solution\n rest in his hands, like a package to be opened, the pleasure of its\n anticipation to be enjoyed as much as the final act.\n\n\n He transmitted the news of what he had been able to do and sat down to\n read the two messages waiting for him.\n\n\n The first was quite routine:", "ARM SWOLLEN. UNABLE TO KEEP DOWN FOOD LAST TWELVE HOURS. ABOUT TWO\n HOURS AGO, ENTIRE BODY TURNED LIVID RED. BRIEF PERIODS OF BLANKNESS.\n THINGS KEEP COMING AND GOING. SICK AS HELL. HURRY.\nSMOKY\n\n\n The ship's next message read:\n\n\n INFECTION QUITE DEFINITE. BUT SOMETHING STRANGE THERE. GIVE US\n ANYTHING MORE YOU HAVE.\nSS II\n\n\n His own reply perplexed Kaiser:\n\n\n LAST LETTER FUNNY. I NOT UNDERSTAND. WHY IS OO SENDING GARBLE TALK?\n DID USNS MAKE UP SECRET MESSAGES?\nSMOKY\n\n\n The expedition, apparently, was as puzzled as he:", "The domes' construction was based on a series of four arches built in a\n circle. When the base covering the periphery had been laid, four others\n were built on and between them, and continued in successive tiers until\n the top was reached. Each tier thus furnished support for the next\n above. No other framework was needed. The final tier formed the roof.\n They made sound shelters, but Kaiser had peered into several and found\n them dark and dank—and as smelly as the natives themselves.\n\n\n The few loungers in the village paid little attention to Kaiser and\n he wandered through the irregular streets until he became bored and\n returned to the scout.\n\n\n The\nSoscites II\nsent little that helped during the next twelve hours\n and Kaiser occupied his time trying again to repair the damage to the\n scout.", "GIVE US ANY NEW INFORMATION YOU MIGHT HAVE ON NATIVES.\nSS II\n\n\n The second report was not so routine. Kaiser thought he detected a note\n of uneasiness in it.\n\n\n SUGGEST YOU DEVOTE ALL TIME AND EFFORT TO REPAIR OF SCOUT. INFORMATION\n ON SEAL-PEOPLE ADEQUATE FOR OUR PURPOSES.\nSS II\n\n\n Kaiser did not answer either communication. His earlier report had\n covered all that he had learned lately. He lay on his cot and went to\n sleep.\n\n\n In the morning, another message was waiting:", "SEEM TO BE FULLY RECOVERED. FEELING FINE. ANYTHING NEW FROM SAM? AND\n HOW ABOUT THE DAMAGE TO SCOUT? GIVE ME ANYTHING YOU HAVE ON EITHER OR\n BOTH.\nSMOKY\n\n\n Kaiser felt suddenly weary. He lay on the scout's bunk and tried\n to sleep. Soon he was in that phantasm land between sleep and\n wakefulness—he knew he was not sleeping, yet he did dream." ], [ "Kaiser observed that it was working well and turned toward a wide,\n sluggish river, perhaps two hundred yards from the scout. Once there,\n he headed upstream. He could hear the pipings, and now and then a\n higher whistling, of the seal-people before he reached a bend and saw\n them. As usual, most were swimming in the river.\nOne old fellow, whose chocolate-brown fur showed a heavy intermixture\n of gray, was sitting on the bank of the river just at the bend. Perhaps\n a lookout. He pulled himself to his feet as he spied Kaiser and his\n toothless, hard-gummed mouth opened and emitted a long whistle that\n might have been a greeting—or a warning to the others that a stranger\n approached.", "He pondered mildly, as he packed his equipment, why he was disregarding\n the captain's message. For some reason, it seemed too trivial for\n serious consideration. He placated his slightly uneasy conscience only\n to the extent of packing the communicator in with his other equipment.\n It was a self-contained unit and he'd be able to receive messages from\n the ship on his trip.\nThe tracks of his earlier journey had been erased by the soft rain, and\n when Kaiser reached the river, he found that he had not returned to\n the village he had visited the day before. However, there were other\n seal-people here.\n\n\n And they were almost human!\n\n\n The resemblance was still not so much in their physical makeup—that\n was little changed from the first he had found—as in their obviously\n greater intelligence.", "Kaiser packed a mudsled with tent, portable generator and guard wires,\n a spare sidearm and ammunition, and food for two days. He had noticed\n that a range of high hills, which caused the bend in the river at\n the native settlement, seemed to continue its long curve, and he\n wondered if the hills might not turn the river in the shape of a giant\n horseshoe. He intended to find out.\n\n\n Wrapping his equipment in a plastic tarp, Kaiser eased it out the\n doorway and tied it on the sled. He hooked a towline to a harness on\n his shoulders and began his journey—in the opposite direction from the\n first native settlement.\n\n\n He walked for more than seven hours before he found that his surmise\n had been correct. And a second cluster of huts, and seal-people in the\n river, greeted his sight. He received a further pleasant surprise. This\n group was decidedly more advanced than the first!", "THE DANGER, WHICH WE HESITATED TO MENTION UNTIL NOW—WHEN YOU HAVE\n FORCED US BY YOUR OBSTINATE SILENCE—IS THAT IT CAN ALTER YOUR\n MIND ALSO. YOUR REPORT ON SECOND TRIBE OF SEAL-PEOPLE STRONGLY\n INDICATES THAT THIS IS ALREADY HAPPENING. THEY WERE PROBABLY NOT MORE\n INTELLIGENT AND HUMANLIKE THAN THE OTHERS. ON THE CONTRARY, YOU ARE\n BECOMING MORE LIKE THEM.\n\n\n DANGER ACUTE. RETURN IMMEDIATELY. REPEAT: IMMEDIATELY!\nSS II\n\n\n Kaiser picked up a large rock and slowly, methodically pounded the\n communicator into a flattened jumble of metal and loose parts.", "The old fellow sounded a cheerful chirp as Kaiser came near. Feeling\n slightly ineffectual, Kaiser raised both hands and held them palm\n forward. The other chirped again and Kaiser went on toward the main\n group.\nThey had stopped their play and eating as Kaiser approached and now\n most of them swam in to shore and stood in the water, staring and\n piping. They varied in size from small seal-pups to full-grown adults.\n Some chewed on bunches of water weed, which they manipulated with their\n lips and drew into their mouths.\n\n\n They had mammalian characteristics, Kaiser had noted before, so it\n was not difficult to distinguish the females from the males. The\n proportion was roughly fifty-fifty.", "The native stood perhaps five feet tall, with the heavy, blubbery\n body of a seal, and short, thick arms. Membranes connected the arms\n to his body from shoulder-pits to mid-biceps. The arms ended in\n three-fingered, thumbless hands. His legs also were short and thick,\n with footpads that splayed out at forty-five-degree angles. They gave\n his legs the appearance of a split tail. About him hung a rank-fish\n smell that made Kaiser's stomach squirm.", "GIVE US ANY NEW INFORMATION YOU MIGHT HAVE ON NATIVES.\nSS II\n\n\n The second report was not so routine. Kaiser thought he detected a note\n of uneasiness in it.\n\n\n SUGGEST YOU DEVOTE ALL TIME AND EFFORT TO REPAIR OF SCOUT. INFORMATION\n ON SEAL-PEOPLE ADEQUATE FOR OUR PURPOSES.\nSS II\n\n\n Kaiser did not answer either communication. His earlier report had\n covered all that he had learned lately. He lay on his cot and went to\n sleep.\n\n\n In the morning, another message was waiting:", "The weed had a slight iron taste, but was not unpalatable. He swallowed\n the mouthful and tried another. He ate most of what had been given him\n and waited with some trepidation for a reaction.\nAs dusk fell, Kaiser set up his tent a few hundred yards back from the\n native settlement. All apprehension about how his stomach would react\n to the river weed had left him. Apparently it could be assimilated by\n his digestive system. Lying on his air mattress, he felt thoroughly at\n peace with this world.\n\n\n Once, just before dropping off to sleep, he heard the snuffling noise\n of some large animal outside his tent and picked up a pistol, just in\n case. However, the first jolt of the guard-wire charge discouraged the\n beast and Kaiser heard it shuffle away, making puzzled mewing sounds as\n it went.\n\n\n The next morning, Kaiser left off all his clothes except a pair of\n shorts and went swimming in the river. The seal-people were already in\n the water when he arrived and were very friendly.", "VISITED SEAL-PEOPLE AGAIN TODAY. STILL HAVE THEIR STINK IN MY NOSE.\n FOUND HUTS ALONG RIVER BANK, SO I GUESS THEY DON'T LIVE IN WATER.\n BUT THEY DO SPEND MOST OF THEIR TIME THERE. NO, I HAVE NO WAY OF\n ESTIMATING THEIR INTELLIGENCE. I WOULD JUDGE IT AVERAGES NO HIGHER\n THAN SEVEN-YEAR-OLD HUMAN. THEY DEFINITELY DO TALK TO ONE ANOTHER.\n WILL TRY TO FIND OUT MORE ABOUT THEM, BUT YOU GET TO WORK FAST ON HOW\n I REPAIR SCOUT.\n\n\n SWELLING IN ARM WORSE AND AM DEVELOPING A FEVER. TEMPERATURE 102.7 AN\n HOUR AGO.\nSMOKY", "This was mainly noticeable in their facile expressions as they talked.\n Kaiser was even certain that he read smiles on their faces when he\n slipped on a particularly slick mud patch as he hurried toward them.\n Where the members of the first tribes had all looked almost exactly\n alike, these had very marked individual characteristics. Also, these\n had no odor—only a mild, rather pleasing scent. When they came to meet\n him, Kaiser could detect distinct syllabism in their pipings.\n\n\n Most of the natives returned to the river after the first ten minutes\n of curious inspection, but two stayed behind as Kaiser set up his tent.\n\n\n One was a female.", "They were little different in actual physical appearance; the change\n was mainly noticeable in their actions and demeanor. And their odor was\n more subdued, less repugnant.\n\n\n By signs, Kaiser indicated that he came in peace, and they seemed to\n understand. A thick-bodied male went solemnly to the river bank and\n called to a second, who dived and brought up a mouthful of weed. The\n first male took the weed and brought it to Kaiser. This was obviously a\n gesture of friendship.\n\n\n The weed had a white starchy core and looked edible. Kaiser cleaned\n part of it with his handkerchief, bit and chewed it.", "Several of the bolder males climbed up beside Kaiser and began pawing\n his plastic clothing. Kaiser stood still and tried to keep his\n breathing shallow, for their odor was almost more than he could bear.\n One native smeared Kaiser's face with an exploring paw and Kaiser\n gagged and pushed him roughly away. He was bound by regulations to\n display no hostility to newly discovered natives, but he couldn't take\n much more of this.\n\n\n A young female splashed water on two young males who stood near and\n they turned with shrill pipings and chased her into the water. The\n entire group seemed to lose interest in Kaiser and joined in the chase,\n or went back to other diversions of their own. Kaiser's inspectors\n followed.\n\n\n They were a mindless lot, Kaiser observed. The river supplied them with\n an easy existence, with food and living space, and apparently they had\n few natural enemies.", "That friendliness nearly resulted in disaster. The natives crowded\n around as he swam—they maneuvered with an otter-like proficiency—and\n often nudged him with their bodies when they came too close. He had\n difficulty keeping afloat and soon turned and started back. As he\n neared the river edge, a playful female grabbed him by the ankle and\n pulled him under.\n\n\n Kaiser tried to break her hold, but she evidently thought he was\n clowning and wrapped her warm furred arms around him and held him\n helpless. They sank deeper.\n\n\n When his breath threatened to burst from his lungs in a stream of\n bubbles, and he still could not free himself, Kaiser brought his knee\n up into her stomach and her grip loosened abruptly. He reached the\n surface, choking and coughing, and swam blindly toward shore until his\n feet hit the river bottom.", "They made small noises while he went about his work. After a time, he\n understood that they were trying to give names to his paraphernalia. He\n tried saying \"tent\" and \"wire\" and \"tarp\" as he handled each object,\n but their piping voices could not repeat the words. Kaiser amused\n himself by trying to imitate their sounds for the articles. He was\n fairly successful. He was certain that he could soon learn enough to\n carry on a limited conversation.\n\n\n The male became bored after a time and left, but the girl stayed until\n Kaiser finished. She motioned to him then to follow. When they reached\n the river bank, he saw that she wanted him to go into the water.\nBefore he had time to decide, Kaiser heard the small bell of the\n communicator from the tent behind him. He stood undecided for a moment,\n then returned and read the message on the tape:\n\n\n STILL ANXIOUSLY AWAITING WORD FROM YOU.", "Kaiser walked away, following the long slow bend of the river, and\n came to a collection of perhaps two hundred dwellings built in three\n haphazard rows along the river bank. He took time to study their\n construction more closely this time.\n\n\n They were all round domes, little more than the height of a man, built\n of blocks that appeared to be mud, packed with river weed and sand. How\n they were able to dry these to give them the necessary solidity, Kaiser\n did not know. He had found no signs that they knew how to use fire, and\n all apparent evidence was against their having it. They then had to\n have sunlight. Maybe it rained less during certain seasons.", "As he stood on the bank, getting his breath, the natives were quiet and\n seemed to be looking at him reproachfully. He stood for a time, trying\n to think of a way to explain the necessity of what he had done, but\n there was none. He shrugged helplessly.\n\n\n There was no longer anything to be gained by staying here—if they\n had the tools he needed, he had no way of finding out or asking for\n them—and he packed and started back to the scout.\n\n\n Kaiser's good spirits returned on his return journey. He had enjoyed\n the relief from the tedium of spending day after day in the scout, and\n now he enjoyed the exercise of pulling the mudsled. Above the waist,\n he wore only the harness and the large, soft drops of rain against his\n bare skin were pleasant to feel.", "When he finished, he returned to the waiting girl on the river bank.\n She pointed at his plastic trousers and made laughing sounds in her\n throat. Kaiser returned the laugh and stripped off the trousers. They\n ran, still laughing, into the water.\n\n\n Already the long pink hair that had been growing on his body during the\n past week was beginning to turn brown at the roots.", "REPORTS FROM THE OCTOPUS INDICATE THAT BIG MUDDY UNDERGOES RADICAL\n WEATHER-CYCLE CHANGES DURING SPRING AND FALL SEASONS, FROM EXTREME\n MOISTURE TO EXTREME ARIDITY. AT HEIGHT OF DRY SEASON, PLANET MUST BE\n COMPLETELY DEVOID OF SURFACE LIQUID.\n\n\n TO SURVIVE THESE UNUSUAL EXTREMES, SEAL-PEOPLE WOULD NEED EXTREME\n ADAPTABILITY. THIS VERIFIES OUR EARLIER GUESS THAT NATIVES HAVE\n SYMBIOSIS WITH THE SAME VIRUS FORM THAT INVADED YOU. WITH SYMBIOTES'\n AID, SUCH RADICAL PHYSICAL CHANGE COULD BE POSSIBLE. WILL KEEP YOU\n INFORMED.", "By now, Kaiser had accepted what had happened to him. His distress and\n anxiety were gone and he was impatient to do what he could to establish\n better contact with his uninvited tenant. With eager anticipation, he\n set to thinking how it could be done. After a few minutes, an idea\n occurred to him.\n\n\n Taking a small scalpel from a medical kit, he made a shallow cut in\n his arm, just deep enough to bleed freely. He knew that the pain would\n supply the necessary glandular reaction. The cut bled a few slow\n drops—and as Kaiser watched, a shiny film formed and the bleeding\n stopped.\n\n\n That checked pretty well with the ship's theory.", "The domes' construction was based on a series of four arches built in a\n circle. When the base covering the periphery had been laid, four others\n were built on and between them, and continued in successive tiers until\n the top was reached. Each tier thus furnished support for the next\n above. No other framework was needed. The final tier formed the roof.\n They made sound shelters, but Kaiser had peered into several and found\n them dark and dank—and as smelly as the natives themselves.\n\n\n The few loungers in the village paid little attention to Kaiser and\n he wandered through the irregular streets until he became bored and\n returned to the scout.\n\n\n The\nSoscites II\nsent little that helped during the next twelve hours\n and Kaiser occupied his time trying again to repair the damage to the\n scout." ] ]
test	51662	[ "Even upon the story's climax, what's the one question Harry wants to be answered more than any other?", "In virtually every \"memory' Harry has of his farm, how does it consistently differ from this reality?", "Harry is won't ride Plum on the street because ", "At what point in Harry's journey do things start to feel odd?", "During his journey, Harry becomes more alarmed each time ___ changes.", "On his return journey, Harry", "For a moment, Harry believes \"everyone in the world\" included", "Why does the doctor take a few minutes to talk to Harry?", "For the doctor, the irony of being a survivor ", "The doctor knows Harry will be ok" ]	[ [ "He want to know who was responsible for brainwashing his wife.", "He wants to understand why he is the only one who seems to grasp something \"not right\" in the world.", "He wants to know whose memories he continues to intercept.", "He wants to know Davie's fate, good or bad." ], [ "He recalls the wife he had, but she is totally different from his current wife.", "He consistently remembers his farm to be on a much grander scale, and now there are fewer animals, less equipment, and less production.", "He remembers all of the workers he used to have on the farm, and they are no longer there. ", "He consistently remembers his farm being desolate and unsuccessful, and now, his farm is prosperous." ], [ "he is fearful of being run down by another vehicle.", "he knows it's against the law, and though he doesn't know the punishment, he knows that sentence is to be feared.", "he is fearful his neighbors will report him.", "he knows it's against the law, and he is ashamed to break the law." ], [ "When he crosses to Grotten's farm, he feels things are off because the the Grottens, who were friends of his in the past, reported him for trespassing to the police.", "When he crosses to Grotten's farm, he feels things are off, but he is unsure why.", "When he crosses to Grotten's farm, he feels things are off because that's where his farm should be.", "When he crosses to Grotten's farm, he feels things are off due to the drastic change in terrain." ], [ "the day ", "the terrain", "his breathing", "the sky" ], [ "turns himself in to the police.", "realizes he needs to see the doctor if he ever expects to feel better.", "makes the mistake of trying to return by way of town, setting him on a collision course with the police.", "meets new people from his county and shares his returning memories with them." ], [ "only this direct next-door neighbors and his wife.", "everyone but himself because he didn't reside in the same realm.", "no one.", "people and animals." ], [ "Harry's earnestness made the doctor want to hear him out before administering the treatment that would alter him forever.", "He knows Harry is the only other sane person in the world aside from him and his two sons, so he wants a conversation with him, even if it's brief.", "The doctor feels the conversation will absolve him of the guilt that accompanies executing lawbreakers.", "Regardless of the consensus, the doctor wants to make sure that Harry is actually insane before giving him shock therapy. " ], [ "is that it was all for nothing.", "is sacrificing his life as a member of society before the \"big event\" occurred.", "is being forced to kill so many others who survived so he and his sons can live.", "causes so much guilt he takes his own" ], [ "temporarily. Once memories begin to return, keeping them at bay forever is impossible.", "because his treatments always work.", "when he reveals their location is on an arc, and he is perplexed.", "when he asks about Davie just as he leaves." ] ]	[ -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1 ]	[ 1, 0, 0, 0, 1, 0, 0, 0, 1, 0 ]	[ [ "He didn't resist. He went through the second door into the room with\n the big chair. He sat down and let them strap his arms and legs and let\n them lower the metal thing over his head. He felt needles pierce his\n scalp and the back of his neck. He let them do what they wanted; he\n would let them kill him if they wanted. All he asked was one answer so\n as to know whether or not he was insane.\n\n\n \"What happened to my son Davie?\"\n\n\n The old man walked across the room and examined what looked like the\n insides of a dozen big radios. He turned, his hand on a switch.\n\n\n \"Please,\" Harry whispered. \"Just tell me about my son.\"", "He nodded. He wanted to. He wanted to be taken care of. He turned\n toward Plum.\n\n\n The other officer was walking around the horse. \"Rode her hard,\" he\n said, and he sounded real worried. \"Shouldn't have done that, Mr. Burr.\n We have so very few now....\"\n\n\n The officer holding Harry's arm said, \"Pete.\"\n\n\n The officer examining Plum said, \"It won't make any difference in a\n while.\"\n\n\n Harry looked at both of them, and felt sharp, personal fear.\n\n\n \"Take the horse back to his farm,\" the officer holding Harry said. He\n opened the door of the little car and pushed Harry inside. He went\n around to the driver's side and got behind the wheel and drove away.\n Harry looked back. Pete was leading Plum after them; not riding him,\n walking him. \"He sure must like horses,\" he said.\n\n\n \"Yes.\"", "He got up. \"I'm going out. I might even sleep out!\"\n\n\n \"But why, Harry, why?\"\n\n\n He couldn't stand to see her crying. He went to her, kissed her wet\n cheek, spoke more softly. \"It'll do me good, like when I was a kid.\"\n\n\n \"If you say so, Harry.\"\n\n\n He left quickly. He went outside and across the yard to the road. He\n looked up it and down it, to the north and to the south. It was a\n bright night with moon and stars, but he saw nothing, no one. The road\n was empty. It was always empty, except when Walt and Gloria walked over\n from their place a mile or so south. But once it hadn't been empty.\n Once there'd been cars, people....\n\n\n He had to do something. Just sitting and looking at the sky wouldn't\n help him. He had to go somewhere, see someone.", "The doctor blinked behind his glasses, and then his hand left the\n switch. \"Dead,\" he said, his voice a rustling of dried leaves. \"Like so\n many millions of others. Dead, when the bombs fell. Dead, as everyone\n knew they would be and no one did anything to prevent. Dead. Perhaps\n the whole world is dead—except for us.\"\n\n\n Harry stared at him.\n\"I can't take the time to explain it all. I have too much to do. Just\n three of us—myself and my two sons. My wife lost her mind. I should\n have helped her as I'm helping you.\"\n\n\n \"I don't understand,\" Harry said. \"I remember people, and things, and\n where are they now? Dead? People can die, but farms, cities....\"", "\"I haven't the time,\" the doctor repeated, voice rising. \"I have to run\n a world. Three of us, to run a world! I built it as best I could, but\n how large could I make it? The money. The years and years of work. The\n people calling me insane when they found out ... but a few giving me\n more money, and the work going on. And those few caught like everyone\n else, unprepared when the holocaust started, unprepared and unable to\n reach my world. So they died. As I knew they would. As they should have\n known they would.\"\n\n\n Harry felt the rumbling beneath him. Engines?\n\n\n \"You survived,\" the doctor said. \"Your wife. A few hundred others in\n the rural areas. One other family in your area. I survived because\n I lived for survival, like a mole deep in the earth, expecting the\n catastrophe every minute. I survived because I gave up living to\n survive.\" He laughed, high and thin.", "He remembered then, or thought he did. The headache was back. He went\n upstairs and slept again, but this time he had dreams, many of them,\n and all confused and all frightening. He was glad to get up. And he was\n glad to hear Walt and Gloria talking to Edna downstairs.\n\n\n He washed his face, combed his hair and went down. Walt and Gloria were\n sitting on the sofa, Edna in the blue armchair. Walt was saying he'd\n gotten the new TV picture tube he'd ordered. \"Found it in the supply\n bin this morning. Spent the whole day installing it according to the\n book of directions.\"\n\n\n Harry said hi and they all said hi and he sat down and they talked\n about TV and gardens and livestock. Then Harry said, \"How's Penny?\"\n\n\n \"Fine,\" Gloria answered. \"I'm starting her on the kindergarten book\n next week.\"\n\n\n \"She's five already?\" Harry asked.", "\"Am I going to jail?\"\n\n\n \"No.\"\n\n\n \"Where then?\"\n\n\n \"The doctor's place.\"\n\n\n They stopped in front of the new house two miles past Dugan's farm.\n Except he'd never seen it before. Or had he? Everyone seemed to know\n about it—or was everyone only Edna and the Shanks?\n\n\n He got out of the car. The officer took his arm and led him up the\n path. Harry noticed that the new house was big.", "\"No! I want to talk to someone\nsane\n! You and Petey and I—we're all\n insane, you know. Three years now, playing God, waiting for some land,\n any land, to become habitable. And knowing everything, and surrounded\n by people who are sane only because I made sure they would know\n nothing.\" He stepped forward, glaring at Harry. \"Now do you understand?\n I went across the country, picking up a few of the few left alive. Most\n were farmers, and even where some weren't I picked the farmers anyway.\n Because farmers are what we'll need, and all the rest can evolve later.\n I put you and the others, eighty-six all told, from every section of\n the country, on my world, the only uncontaminated land left. I gave", "\"Pete's all right, Dad. Just leading a horse back to Burr's farm.\"\n\n\n The old man sighed. \"I didn't know what form it would take. I expected\n one or two cases, but I couldn't predict whether it would be gradual or\n sudden, whether or not it would lead to violence.\"\n\n\n \"No violence, Dad.\"\n\n\n \"Fine, Stan.\" He looked at Harry. \"I'm going to give you a little\n treatment, Mr. Burr. It'll settle your nerves and make everything....\"\n\n\n \"What happened to Davie?\" Harry asked, things pushing at his brain\n again.\n\n\n Stan helped him up. \"Just step this way, Mr. Burr.\"", "Much later, he got up and went to the fence and climbed it. He came\n down on the other side and looked around and saw Plum. He walked to\n her, mounted her, sat still. The thoughts, or dreams, or whatever they\n were which had been torturing him these past few weeks began torturing\n him again.\n\n\n It was getting light. His head was splitting.\n\n\n Davie. His son Davie. Fourteen years old. Going to high school in\n town....\nTown!\nHe should've gone there in the first place! He would ride east,\n to the road, then head south, back toward home. That would bring him\n right down Main Street. Regulations or not, he'd talk to people, find\n out what was happening.\n\n\n He kicked Plum's sides. The mare began to move. He kept kicking until\n she broke into a brisk canter. He held on with hands and legs.", "\"Almost six,\" Walt said. \"Emergency Education Regulations state that\n the child should be five years nine months old before embarking on\n kindergarten book.\"\n\n\n \"And Frances?\" Harry asked. \"Your oldest? She must be starting\n high....\" He stopped, because they were all staring at him, and because\n he couldn't remember Frances clearly. \"Just a joke,\" he said, laughing\n and rising. \"Let's eat. I'm starved.\"\nThey ate in the kitchen. They talked—or rather Edna, Gloria and Walt\n did. Harry nodded and said uh-huh and used his mouth for chewing.\n\n\n Walt and Gloria went home at ten-fifteen. They said goodbye at the\n door and Harry walked away. He heard Gloria whispering something about\n Doctor Hamming.\n\n\n He was sitting in the living room when Edna came in. She was crying.\n \"Harry, please see the doctor.\"", "Harry went home. He told Edna he felt just great! She said she'd been\n worried when an officer found Plum wandering on the road; she thought\n maybe Harry had gone off somewhere and broken travel regulations.\n\n\n \"Me?\" he exclaimed, amazed. \"Break travel regulations? I'd as soon kill\n a pig!\"", "Harry gave him a five-dollar bill. The doctor gave him two singles in\n change. \"That's certainly reasonable enough,\" Harry said.\n\n\n The doctor nodded. \"There's a police officer in the hall. He'll drive\n you home so there won't be any trouble with the travel regulations.\"\n\n\n Harry said, \"Thanks. Think we'll ever see the end of travel regulations\n and rationing and all the rest of the emergency?\"\n\n\n \"You will, Mr. Burr.\"\n\n\n Harry walked to the door.\n\n\n \"We're on an ark,\" the doctor said.\n\n\n Harry turned around, smiling. \"What?\"\n\n\n \"A test, Mr. Burr. You passed it. Goodbye.\"", "He choked and stopped.\n\n\n Stan ran across the room to the switch. Harry watched him, and his\n brain struggled with an impossible concept. He heard the engines and\n remembered the ocean on two sides; on four sides had he bothered to\n check south and east; on\nall\nsides if that fence continued to curve\n inward. Ocean, and there was no ocean in Iowa.", "His head weighed an agonized ton. He put it down again. Plum went\n sedately forward. After a while she stopped. Harry looked up. Another\n fence. And what a fence! About ten feet of heavy steel mesh, topped by\n three feet of barbed-wire—five separate strands. What in the world had\n Sam Pangborn been thinking of to put up a monster like this?\n\n\n He looked around. The gate should be further west. He rode that way.\n He found no gate. He turned back, heading east. No gate. Nothing but\n fence. And wasn't the fence gradually curving inward? He looked back.\n Yes, there\nwas\na slight inward curve.\n\n\n He dismounted and tied Plum to the fence, then stepped back and figured\n the best way to get to the other side.", "He rubbed his hard hands together and said aloud, \"Get down to the\n patch. Them tomatoes need fertilizer for tang.\" He walked outside and\n took a deep breath. Air was different, wasn't it? Sweet and pure and\n clean, like country air always was and always would be; but still,\n different somehow. Maybe sharper. Or was sharp the word? Maybe....\n\n\n He went quickly across the yard, past the pig-pen—he'd had twelve\n pigs, hadn't he? Now he had four—behind the house to where the\n half-acre truck farm lay greening in the sun. He got to work. Sometime\n later, Edna called to him. \"Delivery last night, Harry. I took some.\n Pick up rest?\"\n\n\n \"Yes,\" he shouted.\n\n\n She disappeared.", "The best way, the only way, was to claw, clutch and clamber, as they\n used to say back when he was a kid.\nIt took some doing. He tore his shirt on the barbed wire, but he got\n over and began walking, straight ahead, due north. The earth changed\n beneath his feet. He stooped and touched it. Sand. Hard-packed sand.\n He'd never seen the like of it in this county.\n\n\n He walked on. A sound came to him; a rising-falling whisper. He\n listened to it, and looked up every so often at the sky, to make sure\n he was heading in the right direction.\n\n\n And the sand ended. His shoes plunked over flooring.\n\n\n Flooring!\n\n\n He knelt to make sure, and his hand felt wooden planks. He rose, and\n glanced up to see if he was still outdoors. Then he laughed. It was a\n sick laugh, so he stopped it.", "And this wasn't Iowa.\nThe explosions had ripped the world, and he'd tried to get to town to\n save Davie, and there'd been no town and there'd been no people and\n there'd been only death and poison in the air and even those few people\n left had begun to die, and then the truck with the huge trailer had\n come, the gleaming trailer with the little man and his trembling wife\n and his two sons....\nSuddenly, he understood. And understanding brought not peace but the\n greatest terror he'd ever known. He screamed, \"We're on....\" but the\n switch was thrown and there was no more speech. For an hour. Then he\n got out of the chair and said, \"Sure glad I took my wife's advice and\n came to see you, Doctor Hamming. I feel better already, and after only\n one.... What do you call these treatments?\"\n\n\n \"Diathermy,\" the little doctor muttered.", "She cleared her throat, mumbled, \"Huh? What happened to who?\"\n\n\n \"I said, what....\" But then it slipped away. Davie? No, that was part\n of a dream he'd had last week. He and Edna had no children.\n\n\n He felt the fear again, and got up fast to escape it. Edna opened her\n eyes as soon as his weight left the bed. \"Like hotcakes for breakfast?\"\n\n\n \"Eggs,\" he said. \"Bacon.\" And then, seeing her face change, he\n remembered. \"Course,\" he muttered. \"Can't have bacon. Rationed.\"\n\n\n She was fully awake now. \"If you'd only go see Dr. Hamming, Harry. Just\n for a checkup. Or let me call him so he could—\"", "Of course, a man could grow forgetful. He had to admit there were\n moments when he had all sorts of mixed-up memories and thoughts in his\n mind. And sometimes—like right now, lying in bed beside Edna, watching\n the first hint of light touch the windows—he began sweating with fear.\n A horrible, gut-wrenching fear, all the more horrible because it was\n based on nothing.\n\n\n The chicken-run came alive; the barn followed minutes later. There were\n chores to do, the same chores he'd done all his forty-one years. Except\n that now, with the new regulations about wheat and corn, he had only\n a vegetable patch to farm. Sure, he got paid for letting the fields\n remain empty. But it just didn't seem right, all that land going to\n waste....\nDavie. Blond hair and a round, tanned face and strong arms growing\n stronger each day from helping out after school.\nHe turned and shook Edna. \"What happened to Davie?\"" ], [ "He rubbed his hard hands together and said aloud, \"Get down to the\n patch. Them tomatoes need fertilizer for tang.\" He walked outside and\n took a deep breath. Air was different, wasn't it? Sweet and pure and\n clean, like country air always was and always would be; but still,\n different somehow. Maybe sharper. Or was sharp the word? Maybe....\n\n\n He went quickly across the yard, past the pig-pen—he'd had twelve\n pigs, hadn't he? Now he had four—behind the house to where the\n half-acre truck farm lay greening in the sun. He got to work. Sometime\n later, Edna called to him. \"Delivery last night, Harry. I took some.\n Pick up rest?\"\n\n\n \"Yes,\" he shouted.\n\n\n She disappeared.", "He milked and curried and fed and cleaned, and still was done inside\n of two hours. Then he walked slowly, head down, across the hay-strewn\n floor. He stopped, put out his hand as if to find a pole or beam that\n was too familiar to require raising his eyes, and almost fell as he\n leaned in that direction. Regaining his balance after a sideward\n staggering shuffle, he looked around, startled. \"Why, this ain't the\n way I had my barn....\"\n\n\n He heard his own voice, and stopped. He fought the flash of senseless\n panic. Of course this was the way he'd had his barn built, because it\nwas\nhis barn!", "He remembered then, or thought he did. The headache was back. He went\n upstairs and slept again, but this time he had dreams, many of them,\n and all confused and all frightening. He was glad to get up. And he was\n glad to hear Walt and Gloria talking to Edna downstairs.\n\n\n He washed his face, combed his hair and went down. Walt and Gloria were\n sitting on the sofa, Edna in the blue armchair. Walt was saying he'd\n gotten the new TV picture tube he'd ordered. \"Found it in the supply\n bin this morning. Spent the whole day installing it according to the\n book of directions.\"\n\n\n Harry said hi and they all said hi and he sat down and they talked\n about TV and gardens and livestock. Then Harry said, \"How's Penny?\"\n\n\n \"Fine,\" Gloria answered. \"I'm starting her on the kindergarten book\n next week.\"\n\n\n \"She's five already?\" Harry asked.", "He nodded. He wanted to. He wanted to be taken care of. He turned\n toward Plum.\n\n\n The other officer was walking around the horse. \"Rode her hard,\" he\n said, and he sounded real worried. \"Shouldn't have done that, Mr. Burr.\n We have so very few now....\"\n\n\n The officer holding Harry's arm said, \"Pete.\"\n\n\n The officer examining Plum said, \"It won't make any difference in a\n while.\"\n\n\n Harry looked at both of them, and felt sharp, personal fear.\n\n\n \"Take the horse back to his farm,\" the officer holding Harry said. He\n opened the door of the little car and pushed Harry inside. He went\n around to the driver's side and got behind the wheel and drove away.\n Harry looked back. Pete was leading Plum after them; not riding him,\n walking him. \"He sure must like horses,\" he said.\n\n\n \"Yes.\"", "The doctor blinked behind his glasses, and then his hand left the\n switch. \"Dead,\" he said, his voice a rustling of dried leaves. \"Like so\n many millions of others. Dead, when the bombs fell. Dead, as everyone\n knew they would be and no one did anything to prevent. Dead. Perhaps\n the whole world is dead—except for us.\"\n\n\n Harry stared at him.\n\"I can't take the time to explain it all. I have too much to do. Just\n three of us—myself and my two sons. My wife lost her mind. I should\n have helped her as I'm helping you.\"\n\n\n \"I don't understand,\" Harry said. \"I remember people, and things, and\n where are they now? Dead? People can die, but farms, cities....\"", "Of course, a man could grow forgetful. He had to admit there were\n moments when he had all sorts of mixed-up memories and thoughts in his\n mind. And sometimes—like right now, lying in bed beside Edna, watching\n the first hint of light touch the windows—he began sweating with fear.\n A horrible, gut-wrenching fear, all the more horrible because it was\n based on nothing.\n\n\n The chicken-run came alive; the barn followed minutes later. There were\n chores to do, the same chores he'd done all his forty-one years. Except\n that now, with the new regulations about wheat and corn, he had only\n a vegetable patch to farm. Sure, he got paid for letting the fields\n remain empty. But it just didn't seem right, all that land going to\n waste....\nDavie. Blond hair and a round, tanned face and strong arms growing\n stronger each day from helping out after school.\nHe turned and shook Edna. \"What happened to Davie?\"", "He got up. \"I'm going out. I might even sleep out!\"\n\n\n \"But why, Harry, why?\"\n\n\n He couldn't stand to see her crying. He went to her, kissed her wet\n cheek, spoke more softly. \"It'll do me good, like when I was a kid.\"\n\n\n \"If you say so, Harry.\"\n\n\n He left quickly. He went outside and across the yard to the road. He\n looked up it and down it, to the north and to the south. It was a\n bright night with moon and stars, but he saw nothing, no one. The road\n was empty. It was always empty, except when Walt and Gloria walked over\n from their place a mile or so south. But once it hadn't been empty.\n Once there'd been cars, people....\n\n\n He had to do something. Just sitting and looking at the sky wouldn't\n help him. He had to go somewhere, see someone.", "\"I'm gonna lie down,\" he said flatly. He turned and stepped forward,\n and found himself facing the stove. Not the door to the hall; the\n stove. \"But the door....\" he began. He cut himself short. He turned and\n saw the door a few feet to the left, beside the table. He went there\n and out and up the stairs (they too had moved; they too weren't right)\n and into the bedroom and lay down. The bedroom was wrong. The bed was\n wrong. The windows were wrong.\n\n\n The world was wrong! Lord, the whole damned world was wrong!\nEdna didn't wake him, so they had a late lunch. Then he went back to\n the barn and let the four cows and four sheep and two horses into the\n pastures. Then he checked to see that Edna had fed the chickens right.\n They had only a dozen or so now.\n\n\n When had he sold the rest? And when had he sold his other livestock?", "\"Pete's all right, Dad. Just leading a horse back to Burr's farm.\"\n\n\n The old man sighed. \"I didn't know what form it would take. I expected\n one or two cases, but I couldn't predict whether it would be gradual or\n sudden, whether or not it would lead to violence.\"\n\n\n \"No violence, Dad.\"\n\n\n \"Fine, Stan.\" He looked at Harry. \"I'm going to give you a little\n treatment, Mr. Burr. It'll settle your nerves and make everything....\"\n\n\n \"What happened to Davie?\" Harry asked, things pushing at his brain\n again.\n\n\n Stan helped him up. \"Just step this way, Mr. Burr.\"", "Was he forgetting again?\nWell, no matter. Mr. Grotton would have to excuse his trespass. He\n opened the gate, led Plum through it, closed the gate. He mounted and\n rode forward, still north, toward the small Pangborn place and after\n the Pangborns the biggest farm in the county—old Wallace Elverton's\n place. The fields here, as everywhere in the county, lay fallow. Seemed\n as if the government had so much grain stored up they'd be able to get\n along without crops for years more.\n\n\n He looked around. Somehow, the country bothered him. He wasn't sure\n why, but ... everything was wrong.", "\"I haven't the time,\" the doctor repeated, voice rising. \"I have to run\n a world. Three of us, to run a world! I built it as best I could, but\n how large could I make it? The money. The years and years of work. The\n people calling me insane when they found out ... but a few giving me\n more money, and the work going on. And those few caught like everyone\n else, unprepared when the holocaust started, unprepared and unable to\n reach my world. So they died. As I knew they would. As they should have\n known they would.\"\n\n\n Harry felt the rumbling beneath him. Engines?\n\n\n \"You survived,\" the doctor said. \"Your wife. A few hundred others in\n the rural areas. One other family in your area. I survived because\n I lived for survival, like a mole deep in the earth, expecting the\n catastrophe every minute. I survived because I gave up living to\n survive.\" He laughed, high and thin.", "you back your old lives. I couldn't give you big crops because we\n don't need big crops. We would only exhaust our limited soil with big\n crops. But I gave you vegetable gardens and livestock and, best of all,\nsanity\n! I wiped the insane moments from your minds. I gave you peace\n and consigned myself, my sons, my own wife....\"", "He hauled out a sack of flour, half the amount of sugar Edna had\n ordered, some dried fruit, a new Homekit Medicine Shelf. He carried it\n into the house, and noticed a slip of paper pinned to the sugar bag. A\n television program guide.\n\n\n Edna hustled over excitedly. \"Anything good on this week, Harry?\"\n\n\n He looked down the listings, and frowned. \"All old movies. Still only\n one channel. Still only from nine to eleven at night.\" He gave it to\n her, turned away; then stopped and waited. He'd said the same thing\n last week. And she had said the films were all new to her.\n\n\n She said it now. \"Why Harry, I've never seen this movie with Clark\n Gable. Nor the comedy with Red Skeleton. Nor the other five neither.\"", "Much later, he got up and went to the fence and climbed it. He came\n down on the other side and looked around and saw Plum. He walked to\n her, mounted her, sat still. The thoughts, or dreams, or whatever they\n were which had been torturing him these past few weeks began torturing\n him again.\n\n\n It was getting light. His head was splitting.\n\n\n Davie. His son Davie. Fourteen years old. Going to high school in\n town....\nTown!\nHe should've gone there in the first place! He would ride east,\n to the road, then head south, back toward home. That would bring him\n right down Main Street. Regulations or not, he'd talk to people, find\n out what was happening.\n\n\n He kicked Plum's sides. The mare began to move. He kept kicking until\n she broke into a brisk canter. He held on with hands and legs.", "Why hadn't he seen the Pangborns and Elvertons lately—a long time\n lately?\nThe ocean. He'd seen the ocean. Not a reservoir or lake made by\n flooding and by damming, but salt water and enormous. An ocean, where\n there could be no ocean. The Pangborns and Elvertons had been where\n that ocean was now. And after the Elvertons had come the Dobsons.\n And after them the new plastics plant. And after that the city of\n Crossville. And after that....\nHe was passing his own farm. He hadn't come through town, and yet here\n he was at his own farm. Could he have forgotten where town was? Could\n it be north of his home, not south? Could a man get so confused as to\n forget things he'd known all his life?", "He went to the bed and sat down beside her. \"Sorry. That was just a\n dream I had. I'm still half asleep this morning. Couldn't fall off last\n night, not till real late. Guess I'm a little nervous, what with all\n the new regulations and not working regular. I never meant we had a\n son.\" He waited then, hoping she'd say they\nhad\nhad a son, and he'd\n died or gone away. But of course she didn't.\nHe went to the bathroom and washed. By the time he came to the kitchen,\n Edna had hotcakes on a plate and coffee in a cup. He sat down and ate.\n Part way through the meal, he paused. \"Got an awful craving for meat,\"\n he said. \"Goddam those rations! Man can't even butcher his own stock\n for his own table!\"\n\n\n \"We're having meat for lunch,\" she said placatingly. \"Nice cut of\n multi-pro.\"", "He walked slowly back to the house. As he came into the front yard,\n moving toward the road and the supply bin, something occurred to him.\nThe car.\nHe hadn't seen the old Chevvy in ... how long? It'd be nice\n to take a ride to town, see a movie, maybe have a few beers.\n\n\n No. It was against the travel regulations. He couldn't go further than\n Walt and Gloria Shanks' place. They couldn't go further than his. And\n the gas rationing. Besides, he'd sold the car, hadn't he? Because it\n was no use to him lying in the tractor shed.\nHe whirled, staring out across the fields to his left. Why, the tractor\n shed had stood just fifty feet from the house!\n\n\n No, he'd torn it down. The tractor was in town, being overhauled and\n all. He was leaving it there until he had use for it.", "He choked and stopped.\n\n\n Stan ran across the room to the switch. Harry watched him, and his\n brain struggled with an impossible concept. He heard the engines and\n remembered the ocean on two sides; on four sides had he bothered to\n check south and east; on\nall\nsides if that fence continued to curve\n inward. Ocean, and there was no ocean in Iowa.", "\"Almost six,\" Walt said. \"Emergency Education Regulations state that\n the child should be five years nine months old before embarking on\n kindergarten book.\"\n\n\n \"And Frances?\" Harry asked. \"Your oldest? She must be starting\n high....\" He stopped, because they were all staring at him, and because\n he couldn't remember Frances clearly. \"Just a joke,\" he said, laughing\n and rising. \"Let's eat. I'm starved.\"\nThey ate in the kitchen. They talked—or rather Edna, Gloria and Walt\n did. Harry nodded and said uh-huh and used his mouth for chewing.\n\n\n Walt and Gloria went home at ten-fifteen. They said goodbye at the\n door and Harry walked away. He heard Gloria whispering something about\n Doctor Hamming.\n\n\n He was sitting in the living room when Edna came in. She was crying.\n \"Harry, please see the doctor.\"", "His head weighed an agonized ton. He put it down again. Plum went\n sedately forward. After a while she stopped. Harry looked up. Another\n fence. And what a fence! About ten feet of heavy steel mesh, topped by\n three feet of barbed-wire—five separate strands. What in the world had\n Sam Pangborn been thinking of to put up a monster like this?\n\n\n He looked around. The gate should be further west. He rode that way.\n He found no gate. He turned back, heading east. No gate. Nothing but\n fence. And wasn't the fence gradually curving inward? He looked back.\n Yes, there\nwas\na slight inward curve.\n\n\n He dismounted and tied Plum to the fence, then stepped back and figured\n the best way to get to the other side." ], [ "He nodded. He wanted to. He wanted to be taken care of. He turned\n toward Plum.\n\n\n The other officer was walking around the horse. \"Rode her hard,\" he\n said, and he sounded real worried. \"Shouldn't have done that, Mr. Burr.\n We have so very few now....\"\n\n\n The officer holding Harry's arm said, \"Pete.\"\n\n\n The officer examining Plum said, \"It won't make any difference in a\n while.\"\n\n\n Harry looked at both of them, and felt sharp, personal fear.\n\n\n \"Take the horse back to his farm,\" the officer holding Harry said. He\n opened the door of the little car and pushed Harry inside. He went\n around to the driver's side and got behind the wheel and drove away.\n Harry looked back. Pete was leading Plum after them; not riding him,\n walking him. \"He sure must like horses,\" he said.\n\n\n \"Yes.\"", "Harry went home. He told Edna he felt just great! She said she'd been\n worried when an officer found Plum wandering on the road; she thought\n maybe Harry had gone off somewhere and broken travel regulations.\n\n\n \"Me?\" he exclaimed, amazed. \"Break travel regulations? I'd as soon kill\n a pig!\"", "Much later, he got up and went to the fence and climbed it. He came\n down on the other side and looked around and saw Plum. He walked to\n her, mounted her, sat still. The thoughts, or dreams, or whatever they\n were which had been torturing him these past few weeks began torturing\n him again.\n\n\n It was getting light. His head was splitting.\n\n\n Davie. His son Davie. Fourteen years old. Going to high school in\n town....\nTown!\nHe should've gone there in the first place! He would ride east,\n to the road, then head south, back toward home. That would bring him\n right down Main Street. Regulations or not, he'd talk to people, find\n out what was happening.\n\n\n He kicked Plum's sides. The mare began to move. He kept kicking until\n she broke into a brisk canter. He held on with hands and legs.", "His head weighed an agonized ton. He put it down again. Plum went\n sedately forward. After a while she stopped. Harry looked up. Another\n fence. And what a fence! About ten feet of heavy steel mesh, topped by\n three feet of barbed-wire—five separate strands. What in the world had\n Sam Pangborn been thinking of to put up a monster like this?\n\n\n He looked around. The gate should be further west. He rode that way.\n He found no gate. He turned back, heading east. No gate. Nothing but\n fence. And wasn't the fence gradually curving inward? He looked back.\n Yes, there\nwas\na slight inward curve.\n\n\n He dismounted and tied Plum to the fence, then stepped back and figured\n the best way to get to the other side.", "He went to the barn and looked for his saddle. There was no saddle. But\n he'd had one hanging right behind the door. Or had he?\n\n\n He threw a blanket over Plum, the big mare, and tied it with a piece of\n wash line. He used another piece for a bridle, since he couldn't find\n that either, and didn't bother making a bit. He mounted, and Plum moved\n out of the barn and onto the road. He headed north, toward town.\n\n\n Then he realized he couldn't go along the road this way. He'd be\n reported. Breaking travel regulations was a serious offense. He didn't\n know what they did to you, but it wasn't anything easy like a fine.\n\n\n He cut into an unfenced, unplanted field.", "His headache was back, worse now than it had ever been. His entire\n head throbbed, and he leaned forward and put his cheek against Plum's\n mane. The mare whinnied uneasily, but he kicked her sides and she moved\n forward. He lay there, just wanting to go somewhere, just wanting to\n leave his headache and confusion behind.", "He reached the Shanks' place, and passed it at a trot. Then he was\n beyond their boundaries and breaking regulations again. He stayed on\n the road. He went by a small house and saw colored folks in the yard.\n There'd been no colored folks here. There'd been Eli Bergen and his\n family and his mother, in a bigger, newer house. The colored folks\n heard Plum's hooves and looked up and stared. Then a man raised his\n voice. \"Mistah, you breakin' regulations! Mistah, the police gonnah get\n you!\"\nHe rode on. He came to another house, neat and white, with three\n children playing on a grassy lawn. They saw him and ran inside. A\n moment later, adult voices yelled after him:\n\n\n \"You theah! Stop!\"\n\n\n \"Call the sheriff! He's headin' foah Piney Woods!\"\n\n\n There was no place called Piney Woods in this county.", "He didn't know how long it was, but Plum was moving cautiously now. He\n raised his head. They were approaching a fence. He noticed a gate off\n to the right, and pulled the rope so Plum went that way. They reached\n the gate and he got down to open it, and saw the sign. \"Phineas Grotton\n Farm.\" He looked up at the sky, found the constellations, turned his\n head, and nodded. He'd started north, and Plum had continued north.\n He'd crossed land belonging both to himself and the Franklins. Now he\n was leaving the Franklin farm. North of the Franklins were the Bessers.\n Who was this Phineas Grotton? Had he bought out Lon Besser? But\n anything like that would've gotten around.", "He rode on. He never did come to town. He came to a ten-foot fence with\n a three-foot barbed-wire extension. He got off Plum and ripped his\n clothing climbing. He walked over hard-packed sand, and then wood,\n and came to a low metal railing. He looked out at the ocean, gleaming\n in bright sunlight, surging and seething endlessly. He felt the earth\n sway beneath him. He staggered, and dropped to his hands and knees, and\n shook his head like a fighter hit too many times. Then he got up and\n went back to the fence and heard a sound. It was a familiar sound, yet\n strange too. He shaded his eyes against the climbing sun. Then he saw\n it—a car.\nA car!\nIt was one of those tiny foreign jobs that run on practically no gas at\n all. It stopped beside him and two men got out. Young men with lined,\n tired faces; they wore policemen's uniforms. \"You broke regulations,\n Mr. Burr. You'll have to come with us.\"", "He got up. \"I'm going out. I might even sleep out!\"\n\n\n \"But why, Harry, why?\"\n\n\n He couldn't stand to see her crying. He went to her, kissed her wet\n cheek, spoke more softly. \"It'll do me good, like when I was a kid.\"\n\n\n \"If you say so, Harry.\"\n\n\n He left quickly. He went outside and across the yard to the road. He\n looked up it and down it, to the north and to the south. It was a\n bright night with moon and stars, but he saw nothing, no one. The road\n was empty. It was always empty, except when Walt and Gloria walked over\n from their place a mile or so south. But once it hadn't been empty.\n Once there'd been cars, people....\n\n\n He had to do something. Just sitting and looking at the sky wouldn't\n help him. He had to go somewhere, see someone.", "\"Am I going to jail?\"\n\n\n \"No.\"\n\n\n \"Where then?\"\n\n\n \"The doctor's place.\"\n\n\n They stopped in front of the new house two miles past Dugan's farm.\n Except he'd never seen it before. Or had he? Everyone seemed to know\n about it—or was everyone only Edna and the Shanks?\n\n\n He got out of the car. The officer took his arm and led him up the\n path. Harry noticed that the new house was big.", "\"I haven't the time,\" the doctor repeated, voice rising. \"I have to run\n a world. Three of us, to run a world! I built it as best I could, but\n how large could I make it? The money. The years and years of work. The\n people calling me insane when they found out ... but a few giving me\n more money, and the work going on. And those few caught like everyone\n else, unprepared when the holocaust started, unprepared and unable to\n reach my world. So they died. As I knew they would. As they should have\n known they would.\"\n\n\n Harry felt the rumbling beneath him. Engines?\n\n\n \"You survived,\" the doctor said. \"Your wife. A few hundred others in\n the rural areas. One other family in your area. I survived because\n I lived for survival, like a mole deep in the earth, expecting the\n catastrophe every minute. I survived because I gave up living to\n survive.\" He laughed, high and thin.", "\"Pete's all right, Dad. Just leading a horse back to Burr's farm.\"\n\n\n The old man sighed. \"I didn't know what form it would take. I expected\n one or two cases, but I couldn't predict whether it would be gradual or\n sudden, whether or not it would lead to violence.\"\n\n\n \"No violence, Dad.\"\n\n\n \"Fine, Stan.\" He looked at Harry. \"I'm going to give you a little\n treatment, Mr. Burr. It'll settle your nerves and make everything....\"\n\n\n \"What happened to Davie?\" Harry asked, things pushing at his brain\n again.\n\n\n Stan helped him up. \"Just step this way, Mr. Burr.\"", "He rubbed his hard hands together and said aloud, \"Get down to the\n patch. Them tomatoes need fertilizer for tang.\" He walked outside and\n took a deep breath. Air was different, wasn't it? Sweet and pure and\n clean, like country air always was and always would be; but still,\n different somehow. Maybe sharper. Or was sharp the word? Maybe....\n\n\n He went quickly across the yard, past the pig-pen—he'd had twelve\n pigs, hadn't he? Now he had four—behind the house to where the\n half-acre truck farm lay greening in the sun. He got to work. Sometime\n later, Edna called to him. \"Delivery last night, Harry. I took some.\n Pick up rest?\"\n\n\n \"Yes,\" he shouted.\n\n\n She disappeared.", "\"Almost six,\" Walt said. \"Emergency Education Regulations state that\n the child should be five years nine months old before embarking on\n kindergarten book.\"\n\n\n \"And Frances?\" Harry asked. \"Your oldest? She must be starting\n high....\" He stopped, because they were all staring at him, and because\n he couldn't remember Frances clearly. \"Just a joke,\" he said, laughing\n and rising. \"Let's eat. I'm starved.\"\nThey ate in the kitchen. They talked—or rather Edna, Gloria and Walt\n did. Harry nodded and said uh-huh and used his mouth for chewing.\n\n\n Walt and Gloria went home at ten-fifteen. They said goodbye at the\n door and Harry walked away. He heard Gloria whispering something about\n Doctor Hamming.\n\n\n He was sitting in the living room when Edna came in. She was crying.\n \"Harry, please see the doctor.\"", "He remembered then, or thought he did. The headache was back. He went\n upstairs and slept again, but this time he had dreams, many of them,\n and all confused and all frightening. He was glad to get up. And he was\n glad to hear Walt and Gloria talking to Edna downstairs.\n\n\n He washed his face, combed his hair and went down. Walt and Gloria were\n sitting on the sofa, Edna in the blue armchair. Walt was saying he'd\n gotten the new TV picture tube he'd ordered. \"Found it in the supply\n bin this morning. Spent the whole day installing it according to the\n book of directions.\"\n\n\n Harry said hi and they all said hi and he sat down and they talked\n about TV and gardens and livestock. Then Harry said, \"How's Penny?\"\n\n\n \"Fine,\" Gloria answered. \"I'm starting her on the kindergarten book\n next week.\"\n\n\n \"She's five already?\" Harry asked.", "Was he forgetting again?\nWell, no matter. Mr. Grotton would have to excuse his trespass. He\n opened the gate, led Plum through it, closed the gate. He mounted and\n rode forward, still north, toward the small Pangborn place and after\n the Pangborns the biggest farm in the county—old Wallace Elverton's\n place. The fields here, as everywhere in the county, lay fallow. Seemed\n as if the government had so much grain stored up they'd be able to get\n along without crops for years more.\n\n\n He looked around. Somehow, the country bothered him. He wasn't sure\n why, but ... everything was wrong.", "\"No! I want to talk to someone\nsane\n! You and Petey and I—we're all\n insane, you know. Three years now, playing God, waiting for some land,\n any land, to become habitable. And knowing everything, and surrounded\n by people who are sane only because I made sure they would know\n nothing.\" He stepped forward, glaring at Harry. \"Now do you understand?\n I went across the country, picking up a few of the few left alive. Most\n were farmers, and even where some weren't I picked the farmers anyway.\n Because farmers are what we'll need, and all the rest can evolve later.\n I put you and the others, eighty-six all told, from every section of\n the country, on my world, the only uncontaminated land left. I gave", "Harry gave him a five-dollar bill. The doctor gave him two singles in\n change. \"That's certainly reasonable enough,\" Harry said.\n\n\n The doctor nodded. \"There's a police officer in the hall. He'll drive\n you home so there won't be any trouble with the travel regulations.\"\n\n\n Harry said, \"Thanks. Think we'll ever see the end of travel regulations\n and rationing and all the rest of the emergency?\"\n\n\n \"You will, Mr. Burr.\"\n\n\n Harry walked to the door.\n\n\n \"We're on an ark,\" the doctor said.\n\n\n Harry turned around, smiling. \"What?\"\n\n\n \"A test, Mr. Burr. You passed it. Goodbye.\"", "The doctor blinked behind his glasses, and then his hand left the\n switch. \"Dead,\" he said, his voice a rustling of dried leaves. \"Like so\n many millions of others. Dead, when the bombs fell. Dead, as everyone\n knew they would be and no one did anything to prevent. Dead. Perhaps\n the whole world is dead—except for us.\"\n\n\n Harry stared at him.\n\"I can't take the time to explain it all. I have too much to do. Just\n three of us—myself and my two sons. My wife lost her mind. I should\n have helped her as I'm helping you.\"\n\n\n \"I don't understand,\" Harry said. \"I remember people, and things, and\n where are they now? Dead? People can die, but farms, cities....\"" ], [ "He got up. \"I'm going out. I might even sleep out!\"\n\n\n \"But why, Harry, why?\"\n\n\n He couldn't stand to see her crying. He went to her, kissed her wet\n cheek, spoke more softly. \"It'll do me good, like when I was a kid.\"\n\n\n \"If you say so, Harry.\"\n\n\n He left quickly. He went outside and across the yard to the road. He\n looked up it and down it, to the north and to the south. It was a\n bright night with moon and stars, but he saw nothing, no one. The road\n was empty. It was always empty, except when Walt and Gloria walked over\n from their place a mile or so south. But once it hadn't been empty.\n Once there'd been cars, people....\n\n\n He had to do something. Just sitting and looking at the sky wouldn't\n help him. He had to go somewhere, see someone.", "He choked and stopped.\n\n\n Stan ran across the room to the switch. Harry watched him, and his\n brain struggled with an impossible concept. He heard the engines and\n remembered the ocean on two sides; on four sides had he bothered to\n check south and east; on\nall\nsides if that fence continued to curve\n inward. Ocean, and there was no ocean in Iowa.", "The best way, the only way, was to claw, clutch and clamber, as they\n used to say back when he was a kid.\nIt took some doing. He tore his shirt on the barbed wire, but he got\n over and began walking, straight ahead, due north. The earth changed\n beneath his feet. He stooped and touched it. Sand. Hard-packed sand.\n He'd never seen the like of it in this county.\n\n\n He walked on. A sound came to him; a rising-falling whisper. He\n listened to it, and looked up every so often at the sky, to make sure\n he was heading in the right direction.\n\n\n And the sand ended. His shoes plunked over flooring.\n\n\n Flooring!\n\n\n He knelt to make sure, and his hand felt wooden planks. He rose, and\n glanced up to see if he was still outdoors. Then he laughed. It was a\n sick laugh, so he stopped it.", "When they came inside, he knew it wasn't like any house he'd ever seen\n or heard of. There was this long central passageway, and dozens of\n doors branched off it on both sides, and stairways went down from it in\n at least three places that he could see, and at the far end—a good two\n hundred yards away—a big ramp led upward. And it was all gray plaster\n walls and dull black floors and cold white lighting, like a hospital,\n or a modern factory, or maybe a government building. Except that he\n didn't see or hear people.\n\n\n He did hear\nsomething\n; a low, rumbling noise. The further they came\n along the hall, the louder the rumbling grew. It seemed to be deep down\n somewhere.\nThey went through one of the doors on the right, into a windowless\n room. A thin little man with bald head and frameless glasses was there,\n putting on a white coat. His veiny hands shook. He looked a hundred\n years old. \"Where's Petey?\" he asked.", "He nodded. He wanted to. He wanted to be taken care of. He turned\n toward Plum.\n\n\n The other officer was walking around the horse. \"Rode her hard,\" he\n said, and he sounded real worried. \"Shouldn't have done that, Mr. Burr.\n We have so very few now....\"\n\n\n The officer holding Harry's arm said, \"Pete.\"\n\n\n The officer examining Plum said, \"It won't make any difference in a\n while.\"\n\n\n Harry looked at both of them, and felt sharp, personal fear.\n\n\n \"Take the horse back to his farm,\" the officer holding Harry said. He\n opened the door of the little car and pushed Harry inside. He went\n around to the driver's side and got behind the wheel and drove away.\n Harry looked back. Pete was leading Plum after them; not riding him,\n walking him. \"He sure must like horses,\" he said.\n\n\n \"Yes.\"", "He remembered then, or thought he did. The headache was back. He went\n upstairs and slept again, but this time he had dreams, many of them,\n and all confused and all frightening. He was glad to get up. And he was\n glad to hear Walt and Gloria talking to Edna downstairs.\n\n\n He washed his face, combed his hair and went down. Walt and Gloria were\n sitting on the sofa, Edna in the blue armchair. Walt was saying he'd\n gotten the new TV picture tube he'd ordered. \"Found it in the supply\n bin this morning. Spent the whole day installing it according to the\n book of directions.\"\n\n\n Harry said hi and they all said hi and he sat down and they talked\n about TV and gardens and livestock. Then Harry said, \"How's Penny?\"\n\n\n \"Fine,\" Gloria answered. \"I'm starting her on the kindergarten book\n next week.\"\n\n\n \"She's five already?\" Harry asked.", "He took another step. His shoes sounded against the wood. He walked.\n More wood. Wood that went on, as the sand had. And the roaring sound\n growing louder. And the air changing, smelling like air never had\n before in Cultwait County.\nHis entire body trembled. His mind trembled too. He walked, and came to\n a waist-high metal railing, and made a tiny sound deep in his throat.\n He looked out over water, endless water rolling in endless waves under\n the night sky. Crashing water, topped with reflected silver from the\n moon. Pounding water, filling the air with spray.\n\n\n He put out his hands and grasped the railing. It was wet. He raised\n damp fingers to his mouth. Salt.\n\n\n He stepped back, back, and turned and ran. He ran wildly, blindly,\n until he could run no more. Then he fell, feeling the sand beneath him,\n and shut his eyes and mind to everything.", "\"I'm gonna lie down,\" he said flatly. He turned and stepped forward,\n and found himself facing the stove. Not the door to the hall; the\n stove. \"But the door....\" he began. He cut himself short. He turned and\n saw the door a few feet to the left, beside the table. He went there\n and out and up the stairs (they too had moved; they too weren't right)\n and into the bedroom and lay down. The bedroom was wrong. The bed was\n wrong. The windows were wrong.\n\n\n The world was wrong! Lord, the whole damned world was wrong!\nEdna didn't wake him, so they had a late lunch. Then he went back to\n the barn and let the four cows and four sheep and two horses into the\n pastures. Then he checked to see that Edna had fed the chickens right.\n They had only a dozen or so now.\n\n\n When had he sold the rest? And when had he sold his other livestock?", "He rubbed his hard hands together and said aloud, \"Get down to the\n patch. Them tomatoes need fertilizer for tang.\" He walked outside and\n took a deep breath. Air was different, wasn't it? Sweet and pure and\n clean, like country air always was and always would be; but still,\n different somehow. Maybe sharper. Or was sharp the word? Maybe....\n\n\n He went quickly across the yard, past the pig-pen—he'd had twelve\n pigs, hadn't he? Now he had four—behind the house to where the\n half-acre truck farm lay greening in the sun. He got to work. Sometime\n later, Edna called to him. \"Delivery last night, Harry. I took some.\n Pick up rest?\"\n\n\n \"Yes,\" he shouted.\n\n\n She disappeared.", "\"Am I going to jail?\"\n\n\n \"No.\"\n\n\n \"Where then?\"\n\n\n \"The doctor's place.\"\n\n\n They stopped in front of the new house two miles past Dugan's farm.\n Except he'd never seen it before. Or had he? Everyone seemed to know\n about it—or was everyone only Edna and the Shanks?\n\n\n He got out of the car. The officer took his arm and led him up the\n path. Harry noticed that the new house was big.", "\"I haven't the time,\" the doctor repeated, voice rising. \"I have to run\n a world. Three of us, to run a world! I built it as best I could, but\n how large could I make it? The money. The years and years of work. The\n people calling me insane when they found out ... but a few giving me\n more money, and the work going on. And those few caught like everyone\n else, unprepared when the holocaust started, unprepared and unable to\n reach my world. So they died. As I knew they would. As they should have\n known they would.\"\n\n\n Harry felt the rumbling beneath him. Engines?\n\n\n \"You survived,\" the doctor said. \"Your wife. A few hundred others in\n the rural areas. One other family in your area. I survived because\n I lived for survival, like a mole deep in the earth, expecting the\n catastrophe every minute. I survived because I gave up living to\n survive.\" He laughed, high and thin.", "He didn't know how long it was, but Plum was moving cautiously now. He\n raised his head. They were approaching a fence. He noticed a gate off\n to the right, and pulled the rope so Plum went that way. They reached\n the gate and he got down to open it, and saw the sign. \"Phineas Grotton\n Farm.\" He looked up at the sky, found the constellations, turned his\n head, and nodded. He'd started north, and Plum had continued north.\n He'd crossed land belonging both to himself and the Franklins. Now he\n was leaving the Franklin farm. North of the Franklins were the Bessers.\n Who was this Phineas Grotton? Had he bought out Lon Besser? But\n anything like that would've gotten around.", "Harry went home. He told Edna he felt just great! She said she'd been\n worried when an officer found Plum wandering on the road; she thought\n maybe Harry had gone off somewhere and broken travel regulations.\n\n\n \"Me?\" he exclaimed, amazed. \"Break travel regulations? I'd as soon kill\n a pig!\"", "Was he forgetting again?\nWell, no matter. Mr. Grotton would have to excuse his trespass. He\n opened the gate, led Plum through it, closed the gate. He mounted and\n rode forward, still north, toward the small Pangborn place and after\n the Pangborns the biggest farm in the county—old Wallace Elverton's\n place. The fields here, as everywhere in the county, lay fallow. Seemed\n as if the government had so much grain stored up they'd be able to get\n along without crops for years more.\n\n\n He looked around. Somehow, the country bothered him. He wasn't sure\n why, but ... everything was wrong.", "He milked and curried and fed and cleaned, and still was done inside\n of two hours. Then he walked slowly, head down, across the hay-strewn\n floor. He stopped, put out his hand as if to find a pole or beam that\n was too familiar to require raising his eyes, and almost fell as he\n leaned in that direction. Regaining his balance after a sideward\n staggering shuffle, he looked around, startled. \"Why, this ain't the\n way I had my barn....\"\n\n\n He heard his own voice, and stopped. He fought the flash of senseless\n panic. Of course this was the way he'd had his barn built, because it\nwas\nhis barn!", "The doctor blinked behind his glasses, and then his hand left the\n switch. \"Dead,\" he said, his voice a rustling of dried leaves. \"Like so\n many millions of others. Dead, when the bombs fell. Dead, as everyone\n knew they would be and no one did anything to prevent. Dead. Perhaps\n the whole world is dead—except for us.\"\n\n\n Harry stared at him.\n\"I can't take the time to explain it all. I have too much to do. Just\n three of us—myself and my two sons. My wife lost her mind. I should\n have helped her as I'm helping you.\"\n\n\n \"I don't understand,\" Harry said. \"I remember people, and things, and\n where are they now? Dead? People can die, but farms, cities....\"", "His head weighed an agonized ton. He put it down again. Plum went\n sedately forward. After a while she stopped. Harry looked up. Another\n fence. And what a fence! About ten feet of heavy steel mesh, topped by\n three feet of barbed-wire—five separate strands. What in the world had\n Sam Pangborn been thinking of to put up a monster like this?\n\n\n He looked around. The gate should be further west. He rode that way.\n He found no gate. He turned back, heading east. No gate. Nothing but\n fence. And wasn't the fence gradually curving inward? He looked back.\n Yes, there\nwas\na slight inward curve.\n\n\n He dismounted and tied Plum to the fence, then stepped back and figured\n the best way to get to the other side.", "He didn't resist. He went through the second door into the room with\n the big chair. He sat down and let them strap his arms and legs and let\n them lower the metal thing over his head. He felt needles pierce his\n scalp and the back of his neck. He let them do what they wanted; he\n would let them kill him if they wanted. All he asked was one answer so\n as to know whether or not he was insane.\n\n\n \"What happened to my son Davie?\"\n\n\n The old man walked across the room and examined what looked like the\n insides of a dozen big radios. He turned, his hand on a switch.\n\n\n \"Please,\" Harry whispered. \"Just tell me about my son.\"", "\"Pete's all right, Dad. Just leading a horse back to Burr's farm.\"\n\n\n The old man sighed. \"I didn't know what form it would take. I expected\n one or two cases, but I couldn't predict whether it would be gradual or\n sudden, whether or not it would lead to violence.\"\n\n\n \"No violence, Dad.\"\n\n\n \"Fine, Stan.\" He looked at Harry. \"I'm going to give you a little\n treatment, Mr. Burr. It'll settle your nerves and make everything....\"\n\n\n \"What happened to Davie?\" Harry asked, things pushing at his brain\n again.\n\n\n Stan helped him up. \"Just step this way, Mr. Burr.\"", "Harry gave him a five-dollar bill. The doctor gave him two singles in\n change. \"That's certainly reasonable enough,\" Harry said.\n\n\n The doctor nodded. \"There's a police officer in the hall. He'll drive\n you home so there won't be any trouble with the travel regulations.\"\n\n\n Harry said, \"Thanks. Think we'll ever see the end of travel regulations\n and rationing and all the rest of the emergency?\"\n\n\n \"You will, Mr. Burr.\"\n\n\n Harry walked to the door.\n\n\n \"We're on an ark,\" the doctor said.\n\n\n Harry turned around, smiling. \"What?\"\n\n\n \"A test, Mr. Burr. You passed it. Goodbye.\"" ], [ "He got up. \"I'm going out. I might even sleep out!\"\n\n\n \"But why, Harry, why?\"\n\n\n He couldn't stand to see her crying. He went to her, kissed her wet\n cheek, spoke more softly. \"It'll do me good, like when I was a kid.\"\n\n\n \"If you say so, Harry.\"\n\n\n He left quickly. He went outside and across the yard to the road. He\n looked up it and down it, to the north and to the south. It was a\n bright night with moon and stars, but he saw nothing, no one. The road\n was empty. It was always empty, except when Walt and Gloria walked over\n from their place a mile or so south. But once it hadn't been empty.\n Once there'd been cars, people....\n\n\n He had to do something. Just sitting and looking at the sky wouldn't\n help him. He had to go somewhere, see someone.", "He choked and stopped.\n\n\n Stan ran across the room to the switch. Harry watched him, and his\n brain struggled with an impossible concept. He heard the engines and\n remembered the ocean on two sides; on four sides had he bothered to\n check south and east; on\nall\nsides if that fence continued to curve\n inward. Ocean, and there was no ocean in Iowa.", "He remembered then, or thought he did. The headache was back. He went\n upstairs and slept again, but this time he had dreams, many of them,\n and all confused and all frightening. He was glad to get up. And he was\n glad to hear Walt and Gloria talking to Edna downstairs.\n\n\n He washed his face, combed his hair and went down. Walt and Gloria were\n sitting on the sofa, Edna in the blue armchair. Walt was saying he'd\n gotten the new TV picture tube he'd ordered. \"Found it in the supply\n bin this morning. Spent the whole day installing it according to the\n book of directions.\"\n\n\n Harry said hi and they all said hi and he sat down and they talked\n about TV and gardens and livestock. Then Harry said, \"How's Penny?\"\n\n\n \"Fine,\" Gloria answered. \"I'm starting her on the kindergarten book\n next week.\"\n\n\n \"She's five already?\" Harry asked.", "He nodded. He wanted to. He wanted to be taken care of. He turned\n toward Plum.\n\n\n The other officer was walking around the horse. \"Rode her hard,\" he\n said, and he sounded real worried. \"Shouldn't have done that, Mr. Burr.\n We have so very few now....\"\n\n\n The officer holding Harry's arm said, \"Pete.\"\n\n\n The officer examining Plum said, \"It won't make any difference in a\n while.\"\n\n\n Harry looked at both of them, and felt sharp, personal fear.\n\n\n \"Take the horse back to his farm,\" the officer holding Harry said. He\n opened the door of the little car and pushed Harry inside. He went\n around to the driver's side and got behind the wheel and drove away.\n Harry looked back. Pete was leading Plum after them; not riding him,\n walking him. \"He sure must like horses,\" he said.\n\n\n \"Yes.\"", "He took another step. His shoes sounded against the wood. He walked.\n More wood. Wood that went on, as the sand had. And the roaring sound\n growing louder. And the air changing, smelling like air never had\n before in Cultwait County.\nHis entire body trembled. His mind trembled too. He walked, and came to\n a waist-high metal railing, and made a tiny sound deep in his throat.\n He looked out over water, endless water rolling in endless waves under\n the night sky. Crashing water, topped with reflected silver from the\n moon. Pounding water, filling the air with spray.\n\n\n He put out his hands and grasped the railing. It was wet. He raised\n damp fingers to his mouth. Salt.\n\n\n He stepped back, back, and turned and ran. He ran wildly, blindly,\n until he could run no more. Then he fell, feeling the sand beneath him,\n and shut his eyes and mind to everything.", "The best way, the only way, was to claw, clutch and clamber, as they\n used to say back when he was a kid.\nIt took some doing. He tore his shirt on the barbed wire, but he got\n over and began walking, straight ahead, due north. The earth changed\n beneath his feet. He stooped and touched it. Sand. Hard-packed sand.\n He'd never seen the like of it in this county.\n\n\n He walked on. A sound came to him; a rising-falling whisper. He\n listened to it, and looked up every so often at the sky, to make sure\n he was heading in the right direction.\n\n\n And the sand ended. His shoes plunked over flooring.\n\n\n Flooring!\n\n\n He knelt to make sure, and his hand felt wooden planks. He rose, and\n glanced up to see if he was still outdoors. Then he laughed. It was a\n sick laugh, so he stopped it.", "\"I'm gonna lie down,\" he said flatly. He turned and stepped forward,\n and found himself facing the stove. Not the door to the hall; the\n stove. \"But the door....\" he began. He cut himself short. He turned and\n saw the door a few feet to the left, beside the table. He went there\n and out and up the stairs (they too had moved; they too weren't right)\n and into the bedroom and lay down. The bedroom was wrong. The bed was\n wrong. The windows were wrong.\n\n\n The world was wrong! Lord, the whole damned world was wrong!\nEdna didn't wake him, so they had a late lunch. Then he went back to\n the barn and let the four cows and four sheep and two horses into the\n pastures. Then he checked to see that Edna had fed the chickens right.\n They had only a dozen or so now.\n\n\n When had he sold the rest? And when had he sold his other livestock?", "\"I haven't the time,\" the doctor repeated, voice rising. \"I have to run\n a world. Three of us, to run a world! I built it as best I could, but\n how large could I make it? The money. The years and years of work. The\n people calling me insane when they found out ... but a few giving me\n more money, and the work going on. And those few caught like everyone\n else, unprepared when the holocaust started, unprepared and unable to\n reach my world. So they died. As I knew they would. As they should have\n known they would.\"\n\n\n Harry felt the rumbling beneath him. Engines?\n\n\n \"You survived,\" the doctor said. \"Your wife. A few hundred others in\n the rural areas. One other family in your area. I survived because\n I lived for survival, like a mole deep in the earth, expecting the\n catastrophe every minute. I survived because I gave up living to\n survive.\" He laughed, high and thin.", "When they came inside, he knew it wasn't like any house he'd ever seen\n or heard of. There was this long central passageway, and dozens of\n doors branched off it on both sides, and stairways went down from it in\n at least three places that he could see, and at the far end—a good two\n hundred yards away—a big ramp led upward. And it was all gray plaster\n walls and dull black floors and cold white lighting, like a hospital,\n or a modern factory, or maybe a government building. Except that he\n didn't see or hear people.\n\n\n He did hear\nsomething\n; a low, rumbling noise. The further they came\n along the hall, the louder the rumbling grew. It seemed to be deep down\n somewhere.\nThey went through one of the doors on the right, into a windowless\n room. A thin little man with bald head and frameless glasses was there,\n putting on a white coat. His veiny hands shook. He looked a hundred\n years old. \"Where's Petey?\" he asked.", "His head weighed an agonized ton. He put it down again. Plum went\n sedately forward. After a while she stopped. Harry looked up. Another\n fence. And what a fence! About ten feet of heavy steel mesh, topped by\n three feet of barbed-wire—five separate strands. What in the world had\n Sam Pangborn been thinking of to put up a monster like this?\n\n\n He looked around. The gate should be further west. He rode that way.\n He found no gate. He turned back, heading east. No gate. Nothing but\n fence. And wasn't the fence gradually curving inward? He looked back.\n Yes, there\nwas\na slight inward curve.\n\n\n He dismounted and tied Plum to the fence, then stepped back and figured\n the best way to get to the other side.", "He rubbed his hard hands together and said aloud, \"Get down to the\n patch. Them tomatoes need fertilizer for tang.\" He walked outside and\n took a deep breath. Air was different, wasn't it? Sweet and pure and\n clean, like country air always was and always would be; but still,\n different somehow. Maybe sharper. Or was sharp the word? Maybe....\n\n\n He went quickly across the yard, past the pig-pen—he'd had twelve\n pigs, hadn't he? Now he had four—behind the house to where the\n half-acre truck farm lay greening in the sun. He got to work. Sometime\n later, Edna called to him. \"Delivery last night, Harry. I took some.\n Pick up rest?\"\n\n\n \"Yes,\" he shouted.\n\n\n She disappeared.", "He milked and curried and fed and cleaned, and still was done inside\n of two hours. Then he walked slowly, head down, across the hay-strewn\n floor. He stopped, put out his hand as if to find a pole or beam that\n was too familiar to require raising his eyes, and almost fell as he\n leaned in that direction. Regaining his balance after a sideward\n staggering shuffle, he looked around, startled. \"Why, this ain't the\n way I had my barn....\"\n\n\n He heard his own voice, and stopped. He fought the flash of senseless\n panic. Of course this was the way he'd had his barn built, because it\nwas\nhis barn!", "\"Pete's all right, Dad. Just leading a horse back to Burr's farm.\"\n\n\n The old man sighed. \"I didn't know what form it would take. I expected\n one or two cases, but I couldn't predict whether it would be gradual or\n sudden, whether or not it would lead to violence.\"\n\n\n \"No violence, Dad.\"\n\n\n \"Fine, Stan.\" He looked at Harry. \"I'm going to give you a little\n treatment, Mr. Burr. It'll settle your nerves and make everything....\"\n\n\n \"What happened to Davie?\" Harry asked, things pushing at his brain\n again.\n\n\n Stan helped him up. \"Just step this way, Mr. Burr.\"", "Harry went home. He told Edna he felt just great! She said she'd been\n worried when an officer found Plum wandering on the road; she thought\n maybe Harry had gone off somewhere and broken travel regulations.\n\n\n \"Me?\" he exclaimed, amazed. \"Break travel regulations? I'd as soon kill\n a pig!\"", "\"Almost six,\" Walt said. \"Emergency Education Regulations state that\n the child should be five years nine months old before embarking on\n kindergarten book.\"\n\n\n \"And Frances?\" Harry asked. \"Your oldest? She must be starting\n high....\" He stopped, because they were all staring at him, and because\n he couldn't remember Frances clearly. \"Just a joke,\" he said, laughing\n and rising. \"Let's eat. I'm starved.\"\nThey ate in the kitchen. They talked—or rather Edna, Gloria and Walt\n did. Harry nodded and said uh-huh and used his mouth for chewing.\n\n\n Walt and Gloria went home at ten-fifteen. They said goodbye at the\n door and Harry walked away. He heard Gloria whispering something about\n Doctor Hamming.\n\n\n He was sitting in the living room when Edna came in. She was crying.\n \"Harry, please see the doctor.\"", "Much later, he got up and went to the fence and climbed it. He came\n down on the other side and looked around and saw Plum. He walked to\n her, mounted her, sat still. The thoughts, or dreams, or whatever they\n were which had been torturing him these past few weeks began torturing\n him again.\n\n\n It was getting light. His head was splitting.\n\n\n Davie. His son Davie. Fourteen years old. Going to high school in\n town....\nTown!\nHe should've gone there in the first place! He would ride east,\n to the road, then head south, back toward home. That would bring him\n right down Main Street. Regulations or not, he'd talk to people, find\n out what was happening.\n\n\n He kicked Plum's sides. The mare began to move. He kept kicking until\n she broke into a brisk canter. He held on with hands and legs.", "Was he forgetting again?\nWell, no matter. Mr. Grotton would have to excuse his trespass. He\n opened the gate, led Plum through it, closed the gate. He mounted and\n rode forward, still north, toward the small Pangborn place and after\n the Pangborns the biggest farm in the county—old Wallace Elverton's\n place. The fields here, as everywhere in the county, lay fallow. Seemed\n as if the government had so much grain stored up they'd be able to get\n along without crops for years more.\n\n\n He looked around. Somehow, the country bothered him. He wasn't sure\n why, but ... everything was wrong.", "He didn't resist. He went through the second door into the room with\n the big chair. He sat down and let them strap his arms and legs and let\n them lower the metal thing over his head. He felt needles pierce his\n scalp and the back of his neck. He let them do what they wanted; he\n would let them kill him if they wanted. All he asked was one answer so\n as to know whether or not he was insane.\n\n\n \"What happened to my son Davie?\"\n\n\n The old man walked across the room and examined what looked like the\n insides of a dozen big radios. He turned, his hand on a switch.\n\n\n \"Please,\" Harry whispered. \"Just tell me about my son.\"", "The doctor blinked behind his glasses, and then his hand left the\n switch. \"Dead,\" he said, his voice a rustling of dried leaves. \"Like so\n many millions of others. Dead, when the bombs fell. Dead, as everyone\n knew they would be and no one did anything to prevent. Dead. Perhaps\n the whole world is dead—except for us.\"\n\n\n Harry stared at him.\n\"I can't take the time to explain it all. I have too much to do. Just\n three of us—myself and my two sons. My wife lost her mind. I should\n have helped her as I'm helping you.\"\n\n\n \"I don't understand,\" Harry said. \"I remember people, and things, and\n where are they now? Dead? People can die, but farms, cities....\"", "Of course, a man could grow forgetful. He had to admit there were\n moments when he had all sorts of mixed-up memories and thoughts in his\n mind. And sometimes—like right now, lying in bed beside Edna, watching\n the first hint of light touch the windows—he began sweating with fear.\n A horrible, gut-wrenching fear, all the more horrible because it was\n based on nothing.\n\n\n The chicken-run came alive; the barn followed minutes later. There were\n chores to do, the same chores he'd done all his forty-one years. Except\n that now, with the new regulations about wheat and corn, he had only\n a vegetable patch to farm. Sure, he got paid for letting the fields\n remain empty. But it just didn't seem right, all that land going to\n waste....\nDavie. Blond hair and a round, tanned face and strong arms growing\n stronger each day from helping out after school.\nHe turned and shook Edna. \"What happened to Davie?\"" ], [ "Harry went home. He told Edna he felt just great! She said she'd been\n worried when an officer found Plum wandering on the road; she thought\n maybe Harry had gone off somewhere and broken travel regulations.\n\n\n \"Me?\" he exclaimed, amazed. \"Break travel regulations? I'd as soon kill\n a pig!\"", "He got up. \"I'm going out. I might even sleep out!\"\n\n\n \"But why, Harry, why?\"\n\n\n He couldn't stand to see her crying. He went to her, kissed her wet\n cheek, spoke more softly. \"It'll do me good, like when I was a kid.\"\n\n\n \"If you say so, Harry.\"\n\n\n He left quickly. He went outside and across the yard to the road. He\n looked up it and down it, to the north and to the south. It was a\n bright night with moon and stars, but he saw nothing, no one. The road\n was empty. It was always empty, except when Walt and Gloria walked over\n from their place a mile or so south. But once it hadn't been empty.\n Once there'd been cars, people....\n\n\n He had to do something. Just sitting and looking at the sky wouldn't\n help him. He had to go somewhere, see someone.", "He nodded. He wanted to. He wanted to be taken care of. He turned\n toward Plum.\n\n\n The other officer was walking around the horse. \"Rode her hard,\" he\n said, and he sounded real worried. \"Shouldn't have done that, Mr. Burr.\n We have so very few now....\"\n\n\n The officer holding Harry's arm said, \"Pete.\"\n\n\n The officer examining Plum said, \"It won't make any difference in a\n while.\"\n\n\n Harry looked at both of them, and felt sharp, personal fear.\n\n\n \"Take the horse back to his farm,\" the officer holding Harry said. He\n opened the door of the little car and pushed Harry inside. He went\n around to the driver's side and got behind the wheel and drove away.\n Harry looked back. Pete was leading Plum after them; not riding him,\n walking him. \"He sure must like horses,\" he said.\n\n\n \"Yes.\"", "Much later, he got up and went to the fence and climbed it. He came\n down on the other side and looked around and saw Plum. He walked to\n her, mounted her, sat still. The thoughts, or dreams, or whatever they\n were which had been torturing him these past few weeks began torturing\n him again.\n\n\n It was getting light. His head was splitting.\n\n\n Davie. His son Davie. Fourteen years old. Going to high school in\n town....\nTown!\nHe should've gone there in the first place! He would ride east,\n to the road, then head south, back toward home. That would bring him\n right down Main Street. Regulations or not, he'd talk to people, find\n out what was happening.\n\n\n He kicked Plum's sides. The mare began to move. He kept kicking until\n she broke into a brisk canter. He held on with hands and legs.", "He remembered then, or thought he did. The headache was back. He went\n upstairs and slept again, but this time he had dreams, many of them,\n and all confused and all frightening. He was glad to get up. And he was\n glad to hear Walt and Gloria talking to Edna downstairs.\n\n\n He washed his face, combed his hair and went down. Walt and Gloria were\n sitting on the sofa, Edna in the blue armchair. Walt was saying he'd\n gotten the new TV picture tube he'd ordered. \"Found it in the supply\n bin this morning. Spent the whole day installing it according to the\n book of directions.\"\n\n\n Harry said hi and they all said hi and he sat down and they talked\n about TV and gardens and livestock. Then Harry said, \"How's Penny?\"\n\n\n \"Fine,\" Gloria answered. \"I'm starting her on the kindergarten book\n next week.\"\n\n\n \"She's five already?\" Harry asked.", "His head weighed an agonized ton. He put it down again. Plum went\n sedately forward. After a while she stopped. Harry looked up. Another\n fence. And what a fence! About ten feet of heavy steel mesh, topped by\n three feet of barbed-wire—five separate strands. What in the world had\n Sam Pangborn been thinking of to put up a monster like this?\n\n\n He looked around. The gate should be further west. He rode that way.\n He found no gate. He turned back, heading east. No gate. Nothing but\n fence. And wasn't the fence gradually curving inward? He looked back.\n Yes, there\nwas\na slight inward curve.\n\n\n He dismounted and tied Plum to the fence, then stepped back and figured\n the best way to get to the other side.", "He didn't resist. He went through the second door into the room with\n the big chair. He sat down and let them strap his arms and legs and let\n them lower the metal thing over his head. He felt needles pierce his\n scalp and the back of his neck. He let them do what they wanted; he\n would let them kill him if they wanted. All he asked was one answer so\n as to know whether or not he was insane.\n\n\n \"What happened to my son Davie?\"\n\n\n The old man walked across the room and examined what looked like the\n insides of a dozen big radios. He turned, his hand on a switch.\n\n\n \"Please,\" Harry whispered. \"Just tell me about my son.\"", "He rubbed his hard hands together and said aloud, \"Get down to the\n patch. Them tomatoes need fertilizer for tang.\" He walked outside and\n took a deep breath. Air was different, wasn't it? Sweet and pure and\n clean, like country air always was and always would be; but still,\n different somehow. Maybe sharper. Or was sharp the word? Maybe....\n\n\n He went quickly across the yard, past the pig-pen—he'd had twelve\n pigs, hadn't he? Now he had four—behind the house to where the\n half-acre truck farm lay greening in the sun. He got to work. Sometime\n later, Edna called to him. \"Delivery last night, Harry. I took some.\n Pick up rest?\"\n\n\n \"Yes,\" he shouted.\n\n\n She disappeared.", "\"I haven't the time,\" the doctor repeated, voice rising. \"I have to run\n a world. Three of us, to run a world! I built it as best I could, but\n how large could I make it? The money. The years and years of work. The\n people calling me insane when they found out ... but a few giving me\n more money, and the work going on. And those few caught like everyone\n else, unprepared when the holocaust started, unprepared and unable to\n reach my world. So they died. As I knew they would. As they should have\n known they would.\"\n\n\n Harry felt the rumbling beneath him. Engines?\n\n\n \"You survived,\" the doctor said. \"Your wife. A few hundred others in\n the rural areas. One other family in your area. I survived because\n I lived for survival, like a mole deep in the earth, expecting the\n catastrophe every minute. I survived because I gave up living to\n survive.\" He laughed, high and thin.", "Harry gave him a five-dollar bill. The doctor gave him two singles in\n change. \"That's certainly reasonable enough,\" Harry said.\n\n\n The doctor nodded. \"There's a police officer in the hall. He'll drive\n you home so there won't be any trouble with the travel regulations.\"\n\n\n Harry said, \"Thanks. Think we'll ever see the end of travel regulations\n and rationing and all the rest of the emergency?\"\n\n\n \"You will, Mr. Burr.\"\n\n\n Harry walked to the door.\n\n\n \"We're on an ark,\" the doctor said.\n\n\n Harry turned around, smiling. \"What?\"\n\n\n \"A test, Mr. Burr. You passed it. Goodbye.\"", "The best way, the only way, was to claw, clutch and clamber, as they\n used to say back when he was a kid.\nIt took some doing. He tore his shirt on the barbed wire, but he got\n over and began walking, straight ahead, due north. The earth changed\n beneath his feet. He stooped and touched it. Sand. Hard-packed sand.\n He'd never seen the like of it in this county.\n\n\n He walked on. A sound came to him; a rising-falling whisper. He\n listened to it, and looked up every so often at the sky, to make sure\n he was heading in the right direction.\n\n\n And the sand ended. His shoes plunked over flooring.\n\n\n Flooring!\n\n\n He knelt to make sure, and his hand felt wooden planks. He rose, and\n glanced up to see if he was still outdoors. Then he laughed. It was a\n sick laugh, so he stopped it.", "He rode on. He never did come to town. He came to a ten-foot fence with\n a three-foot barbed-wire extension. He got off Plum and ripped his\n clothing climbing. He walked over hard-packed sand, and then wood,\n and came to a low metal railing. He looked out at the ocean, gleaming\n in bright sunlight, surging and seething endlessly. He felt the earth\n sway beneath him. He staggered, and dropped to his hands and knees, and\n shook his head like a fighter hit too many times. Then he got up and\n went back to the fence and heard a sound. It was a familiar sound, yet\n strange too. He shaded his eyes against the climbing sun. Then he saw\n it—a car.\nA car!\nIt was one of those tiny foreign jobs that run on practically no gas at\n all. It stopped beside him and two men got out. Young men with lined,\n tired faces; they wore policemen's uniforms. \"You broke regulations,\n Mr. Burr. You'll have to come with us.\"", "\"Am I going to jail?\"\n\n\n \"No.\"\n\n\n \"Where then?\"\n\n\n \"The doctor's place.\"\n\n\n They stopped in front of the new house two miles past Dugan's farm.\n Except he'd never seen it before. Or had he? Everyone seemed to know\n about it—or was everyone only Edna and the Shanks?\n\n\n He got out of the car. The officer took his arm and led him up the\n path. Harry noticed that the new house was big.", "He milked and curried and fed and cleaned, and still was done inside\n of two hours. Then he walked slowly, head down, across the hay-strewn\n floor. He stopped, put out his hand as if to find a pole or beam that\n was too familiar to require raising his eyes, and almost fell as he\n leaned in that direction. Regaining his balance after a sideward\n staggering shuffle, he looked around, startled. \"Why, this ain't the\n way I had my barn....\"\n\n\n He heard his own voice, and stopped. He fought the flash of senseless\n panic. Of course this was the way he'd had his barn built, because it\nwas\nhis barn!", "He choked and stopped.\n\n\n Stan ran across the room to the switch. Harry watched him, and his\n brain struggled with an impossible concept. He heard the engines and\n remembered the ocean on two sides; on four sides had he bothered to\n check south and east; on\nall\nsides if that fence continued to curve\n inward. Ocean, and there was no ocean in Iowa.", "His headache was back, worse now than it had ever been. His entire\n head throbbed, and he leaned forward and put his cheek against Plum's\n mane. The mare whinnied uneasily, but he kicked her sides and she moved\n forward. He lay there, just wanting to go somewhere, just wanting to\n leave his headache and confusion behind.", "He didn't know how long it was, but Plum was moving cautiously now. He\n raised his head. They were approaching a fence. He noticed a gate off\n to the right, and pulled the rope so Plum went that way. They reached\n the gate and he got down to open it, and saw the sign. \"Phineas Grotton\n Farm.\" He looked up at the sky, found the constellations, turned his\n head, and nodded. He'd started north, and Plum had continued north.\n He'd crossed land belonging both to himself and the Franklins. Now he\n was leaving the Franklin farm. North of the Franklins were the Bessers.\n Who was this Phineas Grotton? Had he bought out Lon Besser? But\n anything like that would've gotten around.", "He took another step. His shoes sounded against the wood. He walked.\n More wood. Wood that went on, as the sand had. And the roaring sound\n growing louder. And the air changing, smelling like air never had\n before in Cultwait County.\nHis entire body trembled. His mind trembled too. He walked, and came to\n a waist-high metal railing, and made a tiny sound deep in his throat.\n He looked out over water, endless water rolling in endless waves under\n the night sky. Crashing water, topped with reflected silver from the\n moon. Pounding water, filling the air with spray.\n\n\n He put out his hands and grasped the railing. It was wet. He raised\n damp fingers to his mouth. Salt.\n\n\n He stepped back, back, and turned and ran. He ran wildly, blindly,\n until he could run no more. Then he fell, feeling the sand beneath him,\n and shut his eyes and mind to everything.", "\"No! I want to talk to someone\nsane\n! You and Petey and I—we're all\n insane, you know. Three years now, playing God, waiting for some land,\n any land, to become habitable. And knowing everything, and surrounded\n by people who are sane only because I made sure they would know\n nothing.\" He stepped forward, glaring at Harry. \"Now do you understand?\n I went across the country, picking up a few of the few left alive. Most\n were farmers, and even where some weren't I picked the farmers anyway.\n Because farmers are what we'll need, and all the rest can evolve later.\n I put you and the others, eighty-six all told, from every section of\n the country, on my world, the only uncontaminated land left. I gave", "The doctor blinked behind his glasses, and then his hand left the\n switch. \"Dead,\" he said, his voice a rustling of dried leaves. \"Like so\n many millions of others. Dead, when the bombs fell. Dead, as everyone\n knew they would be and no one did anything to prevent. Dead. Perhaps\n the whole world is dead—except for us.\"\n\n\n Harry stared at him.\n\"I can't take the time to explain it all. I have too much to do. Just\n three of us—myself and my two sons. My wife lost her mind. I should\n have helped her as I'm helping you.\"\n\n\n \"I don't understand,\" Harry said. \"I remember people, and things, and\n where are they now? Dead? People can die, but farms, cities....\"" ], [ "\"I haven't the time,\" the doctor repeated, voice rising. \"I have to run\n a world. Three of us, to run a world! I built it as best I could, but\n how large could I make it? The money. The years and years of work. The\n people calling me insane when they found out ... but a few giving me\n more money, and the work going on. And those few caught like everyone\n else, unprepared when the holocaust started, unprepared and unable to\n reach my world. So they died. As I knew they would. As they should have\n known they would.\"\n\n\n Harry felt the rumbling beneath him. Engines?\n\n\n \"You survived,\" the doctor said. \"Your wife. A few hundred others in\n the rural areas. One other family in your area. I survived because\n I lived for survival, like a mole deep in the earth, expecting the\n catastrophe every minute. I survived because I gave up living to\n survive.\" He laughed, high and thin.", "The doctor blinked behind his glasses, and then his hand left the\n switch. \"Dead,\" he said, his voice a rustling of dried leaves. \"Like so\n many millions of others. Dead, when the bombs fell. Dead, as everyone\n knew they would be and no one did anything to prevent. Dead. Perhaps\n the whole world is dead—except for us.\"\n\n\n Harry stared at him.\n\"I can't take the time to explain it all. I have too much to do. Just\n three of us—myself and my two sons. My wife lost her mind. I should\n have helped her as I'm helping you.\"\n\n\n \"I don't understand,\" Harry said. \"I remember people, and things, and\n where are they now? Dead? People can die, but farms, cities....\"", "\"No! I want to talk to someone\nsane\n! You and Petey and I—we're all\n insane, you know. Three years now, playing God, waiting for some land,\n any land, to become habitable. And knowing everything, and surrounded\n by people who are sane only because I made sure they would know\n nothing.\" He stepped forward, glaring at Harry. \"Now do you understand?\n I went across the country, picking up a few of the few left alive. Most\n were farmers, and even where some weren't I picked the farmers anyway.\n Because farmers are what we'll need, and all the rest can evolve later.\n I put you and the others, eighty-six all told, from every section of\n the country, on my world, the only uncontaminated land left. I gave", "He got up. \"I'm going out. I might even sleep out!\"\n\n\n \"But why, Harry, why?\"\n\n\n He couldn't stand to see her crying. He went to her, kissed her wet\n cheek, spoke more softly. \"It'll do me good, like when I was a kid.\"\n\n\n \"If you say so, Harry.\"\n\n\n He left quickly. He went outside and across the yard to the road. He\n looked up it and down it, to the north and to the south. It was a\n bright night with moon and stars, but he saw nothing, no one. The road\n was empty. It was always empty, except when Walt and Gloria walked over\n from their place a mile or so south. But once it hadn't been empty.\n Once there'd been cars, people....\n\n\n He had to do something. Just sitting and looking at the sky wouldn't\n help him. He had to go somewhere, see someone.", "He nodded. He wanted to. He wanted to be taken care of. He turned\n toward Plum.\n\n\n The other officer was walking around the horse. \"Rode her hard,\" he\n said, and he sounded real worried. \"Shouldn't have done that, Mr. Burr.\n We have so very few now....\"\n\n\n The officer holding Harry's arm said, \"Pete.\"\n\n\n The officer examining Plum said, \"It won't make any difference in a\n while.\"\n\n\n Harry looked at both of them, and felt sharp, personal fear.\n\n\n \"Take the horse back to his farm,\" the officer holding Harry said. He\n opened the door of the little car and pushed Harry inside. He went\n around to the driver's side and got behind the wheel and drove away.\n Harry looked back. Pete was leading Plum after them; not riding him,\n walking him. \"He sure must like horses,\" he said.\n\n\n \"Yes.\"", "He remembered then, or thought he did. The headache was back. He went\n upstairs and slept again, but this time he had dreams, many of them,\n and all confused and all frightening. He was glad to get up. And he was\n glad to hear Walt and Gloria talking to Edna downstairs.\n\n\n He washed his face, combed his hair and went down. Walt and Gloria were\n sitting on the sofa, Edna in the blue armchair. Walt was saying he'd\n gotten the new TV picture tube he'd ordered. \"Found it in the supply\n bin this morning. Spent the whole day installing it according to the\n book of directions.\"\n\n\n Harry said hi and they all said hi and he sat down and they talked\n about TV and gardens and livestock. Then Harry said, \"How's Penny?\"\n\n\n \"Fine,\" Gloria answered. \"I'm starting her on the kindergarten book\n next week.\"\n\n\n \"She's five already?\" Harry asked.", "\"Almost six,\" Walt said. \"Emergency Education Regulations state that\n the child should be five years nine months old before embarking on\n kindergarten book.\"\n\n\n \"And Frances?\" Harry asked. \"Your oldest? She must be starting\n high....\" He stopped, because they were all staring at him, and because\n he couldn't remember Frances clearly. \"Just a joke,\" he said, laughing\n and rising. \"Let's eat. I'm starved.\"\nThey ate in the kitchen. They talked—or rather Edna, Gloria and Walt\n did. Harry nodded and said uh-huh and used his mouth for chewing.\n\n\n Walt and Gloria went home at ten-fifteen. They said goodbye at the\n door and Harry walked away. He heard Gloria whispering something about\n Doctor Hamming.\n\n\n He was sitting in the living room when Edna came in. She was crying.\n \"Harry, please see the doctor.\"", "He rubbed his hard hands together and said aloud, \"Get down to the\n patch. Them tomatoes need fertilizer for tang.\" He walked outside and\n took a deep breath. Air was different, wasn't it? Sweet and pure and\n clean, like country air always was and always would be; but still,\n different somehow. Maybe sharper. Or was sharp the word? Maybe....\n\n\n He went quickly across the yard, past the pig-pen—he'd had twelve\n pigs, hadn't he? Now he had four—behind the house to where the\n half-acre truck farm lay greening in the sun. He got to work. Sometime\n later, Edna called to him. \"Delivery last night, Harry. I took some.\n Pick up rest?\"\n\n\n \"Yes,\" he shouted.\n\n\n She disappeared.", "He didn't resist. He went through the second door into the room with\n the big chair. He sat down and let them strap his arms and legs and let\n them lower the metal thing over his head. He felt needles pierce his\n scalp and the back of his neck. He let them do what they wanted; he\n would let them kill him if they wanted. All he asked was one answer so\n as to know whether or not he was insane.\n\n\n \"What happened to my son Davie?\"\n\n\n The old man walked across the room and examined what looked like the\n insides of a dozen big radios. He turned, his hand on a switch.\n\n\n \"Please,\" Harry whispered. \"Just tell me about my son.\"", "\"Pete's all right, Dad. Just leading a horse back to Burr's farm.\"\n\n\n The old man sighed. \"I didn't know what form it would take. I expected\n one or two cases, but I couldn't predict whether it would be gradual or\n sudden, whether or not it would lead to violence.\"\n\n\n \"No violence, Dad.\"\n\n\n \"Fine, Stan.\" He looked at Harry. \"I'm going to give you a little\n treatment, Mr. Burr. It'll settle your nerves and make everything....\"\n\n\n \"What happened to Davie?\" Harry asked, things pushing at his brain\n again.\n\n\n Stan helped him up. \"Just step this way, Mr. Burr.\"", "Harry gave him a five-dollar bill. The doctor gave him two singles in\n change. \"That's certainly reasonable enough,\" Harry said.\n\n\n The doctor nodded. \"There's a police officer in the hall. He'll drive\n you home so there won't be any trouble with the travel regulations.\"\n\n\n Harry said, \"Thanks. Think we'll ever see the end of travel regulations\n and rationing and all the rest of the emergency?\"\n\n\n \"You will, Mr. Burr.\"\n\n\n Harry walked to the door.\n\n\n \"We're on an ark,\" the doctor said.\n\n\n Harry turned around, smiling. \"What?\"\n\n\n \"A test, Mr. Burr. You passed it. Goodbye.\"", "Harry went home. He told Edna he felt just great! She said she'd been\n worried when an officer found Plum wandering on the road; she thought\n maybe Harry had gone off somewhere and broken travel regulations.\n\n\n \"Me?\" he exclaimed, amazed. \"Break travel regulations? I'd as soon kill\n a pig!\"", "\"Am I going to jail?\"\n\n\n \"No.\"\n\n\n \"Where then?\"\n\n\n \"The doctor's place.\"\n\n\n They stopped in front of the new house two miles past Dugan's farm.\n Except he'd never seen it before. Or had he? Everyone seemed to know\n about it—or was everyone only Edna and the Shanks?\n\n\n He got out of the car. The officer took his arm and led him up the\n path. Harry noticed that the new house was big.", "He choked and stopped.\n\n\n Stan ran across the room to the switch. Harry watched him, and his\n brain struggled with an impossible concept. He heard the engines and\n remembered the ocean on two sides; on four sides had he bothered to\n check south and east; on\nall\nsides if that fence continued to curve\n inward. Ocean, and there was no ocean in Iowa.", "She cleared her throat, mumbled, \"Huh? What happened to who?\"\n\n\n \"I said, what....\" But then it slipped away. Davie? No, that was part\n of a dream he'd had last week. He and Edna had no children.\n\n\n He felt the fear again, and got up fast to escape it. Edna opened her\n eyes as soon as his weight left the bed. \"Like hotcakes for breakfast?\"\n\n\n \"Eggs,\" he said. \"Bacon.\" And then, seeing her face change, he\n remembered. \"Course,\" he muttered. \"Can't have bacon. Rationed.\"\n\n\n She was fully awake now. \"If you'd only go see Dr. Hamming, Harry. Just\n for a checkup. Or let me call him so he could—\"", "you back your old lives. I couldn't give you big crops because we\n don't need big crops. We would only exhaust our limited soil with big\n crops. But I gave you vegetable gardens and livestock and, best of all,\nsanity\n! I wiped the insane moments from your minds. I gave you peace\n and consigned myself, my sons, my own wife....\"", "Of course, a man could grow forgetful. He had to admit there were\n moments when he had all sorts of mixed-up memories and thoughts in his\n mind. And sometimes—like right now, lying in bed beside Edna, watching\n the first hint of light touch the windows—he began sweating with fear.\n A horrible, gut-wrenching fear, all the more horrible because it was\n based on nothing.\n\n\n The chicken-run came alive; the barn followed minutes later. There were\n chores to do, the same chores he'd done all his forty-one years. Except\n that now, with the new regulations about wheat and corn, he had only\n a vegetable patch to farm. Sure, he got paid for letting the fields\n remain empty. But it just didn't seem right, all that land going to\n waste....\nDavie. Blond hair and a round, tanned face and strong arms growing\n stronger each day from helping out after school.\nHe turned and shook Edna. \"What happened to Davie?\"", "And this wasn't Iowa.\nThe explosions had ripped the world, and he'd tried to get to town to\n save Davie, and there'd been no town and there'd been no people and\n there'd been only death and poison in the air and even those few people\n left had begun to die, and then the truck with the huge trailer had\n come, the gleaming trailer with the little man and his trembling wife\n and his two sons....\nSuddenly, he understood. And understanding brought not peace but the\n greatest terror he'd ever known. He screamed, \"We're on....\" but the\n switch was thrown and there was no more speech. For an hour. Then he\n got out of the chair and said, \"Sure glad I took my wife's advice and\n came to see you, Doctor Hamming. I feel better already, and after only\n one.... What do you call these treatments?\"\n\n\n \"Diathermy,\" the little doctor muttered.", "He hauled out a sack of flour, half the amount of sugar Edna had\n ordered, some dried fruit, a new Homekit Medicine Shelf. He carried it\n into the house, and noticed a slip of paper pinned to the sugar bag. A\n television program guide.\n\n\n Edna hustled over excitedly. \"Anything good on this week, Harry?\"\n\n\n He looked down the listings, and frowned. \"All old movies. Still only\n one channel. Still only from nine to eleven at night.\" He gave it to\n her, turned away; then stopped and waited. He'd said the same thing\n last week. And she had said the films were all new to her.\n\n\n She said it now. \"Why Harry, I've never seen this movie with Clark\n Gable. Nor the comedy with Red Skeleton. Nor the other five neither.\"", "He milked and curried and fed and cleaned, and still was done inside\n of two hours. Then he walked slowly, head down, across the hay-strewn\n floor. He stopped, put out his hand as if to find a pole or beam that\n was too familiar to require raising his eyes, and almost fell as he\n leaned in that direction. Regaining his balance after a sideward\n staggering shuffle, he looked around, startled. \"Why, this ain't the\n way I had my barn....\"\n\n\n He heard his own voice, and stopped. He fought the flash of senseless\n panic. Of course this was the way he'd had his barn built, because it\nwas\nhis barn!" ], [ "\"I haven't the time,\" the doctor repeated, voice rising. \"I have to run\n a world. Three of us, to run a world! I built it as best I could, but\n how large could I make it? The money. The years and years of work. The\n people calling me insane when they found out ... but a few giving me\n more money, and the work going on. And those few caught like everyone\n else, unprepared when the holocaust started, unprepared and unable to\n reach my world. So they died. As I knew they would. As they should have\n known they would.\"\n\n\n Harry felt the rumbling beneath him. Engines?\n\n\n \"You survived,\" the doctor said. \"Your wife. A few hundred others in\n the rural areas. One other family in your area. I survived because\n I lived for survival, like a mole deep in the earth, expecting the\n catastrophe every minute. I survived because I gave up living to\n survive.\" He laughed, high and thin.", "\"Almost six,\" Walt said. \"Emergency Education Regulations state that\n the child should be five years nine months old before embarking on\n kindergarten book.\"\n\n\n \"And Frances?\" Harry asked. \"Your oldest? She must be starting\n high....\" He stopped, because they were all staring at him, and because\n he couldn't remember Frances clearly. \"Just a joke,\" he said, laughing\n and rising. \"Let's eat. I'm starved.\"\nThey ate in the kitchen. They talked—or rather Edna, Gloria and Walt\n did. Harry nodded and said uh-huh and used his mouth for chewing.\n\n\n Walt and Gloria went home at ten-fifteen. They said goodbye at the\n door and Harry walked away. He heard Gloria whispering something about\n Doctor Hamming.\n\n\n He was sitting in the living room when Edna came in. She was crying.\n \"Harry, please see the doctor.\"", "Harry gave him a five-dollar bill. The doctor gave him two singles in\n change. \"That's certainly reasonable enough,\" Harry said.\n\n\n The doctor nodded. \"There's a police officer in the hall. He'll drive\n you home so there won't be any trouble with the travel regulations.\"\n\n\n Harry said, \"Thanks. Think we'll ever see the end of travel regulations\n and rationing and all the rest of the emergency?\"\n\n\n \"You will, Mr. Burr.\"\n\n\n Harry walked to the door.\n\n\n \"We're on an ark,\" the doctor said.\n\n\n Harry turned around, smiling. \"What?\"\n\n\n \"A test, Mr. Burr. You passed it. Goodbye.\"", "He nodded. He wanted to. He wanted to be taken care of. He turned\n toward Plum.\n\n\n The other officer was walking around the horse. \"Rode her hard,\" he\n said, and he sounded real worried. \"Shouldn't have done that, Mr. Burr.\n We have so very few now....\"\n\n\n The officer holding Harry's arm said, \"Pete.\"\n\n\n The officer examining Plum said, \"It won't make any difference in a\n while.\"\n\n\n Harry looked at both of them, and felt sharp, personal fear.\n\n\n \"Take the horse back to his farm,\" the officer holding Harry said. He\n opened the door of the little car and pushed Harry inside. He went\n around to the driver's side and got behind the wheel and drove away.\n Harry looked back. Pete was leading Plum after them; not riding him,\n walking him. \"He sure must like horses,\" he said.\n\n\n \"Yes.\"", "He didn't resist. He went through the second door into the room with\n the big chair. He sat down and let them strap his arms and legs and let\n them lower the metal thing over his head. He felt needles pierce his\n scalp and the back of his neck. He let them do what they wanted; he\n would let them kill him if they wanted. All he asked was one answer so\n as to know whether or not he was insane.\n\n\n \"What happened to my son Davie?\"\n\n\n The old man walked across the room and examined what looked like the\n insides of a dozen big radios. He turned, his hand on a switch.\n\n\n \"Please,\" Harry whispered. \"Just tell me about my son.\"", "The doctor blinked behind his glasses, and then his hand left the\n switch. \"Dead,\" he said, his voice a rustling of dried leaves. \"Like so\n many millions of others. Dead, when the bombs fell. Dead, as everyone\n knew they would be and no one did anything to prevent. Dead. Perhaps\n the whole world is dead—except for us.\"\n\n\n Harry stared at him.\n\"I can't take the time to explain it all. I have too much to do. Just\n three of us—myself and my two sons. My wife lost her mind. I should\n have helped her as I'm helping you.\"\n\n\n \"I don't understand,\" Harry said. \"I remember people, and things, and\n where are they now? Dead? People can die, but farms, cities....\"", "\"Am I going to jail?\"\n\n\n \"No.\"\n\n\n \"Where then?\"\n\n\n \"The doctor's place.\"\n\n\n They stopped in front of the new house two miles past Dugan's farm.\n Except he'd never seen it before. Or had he? Everyone seemed to know\n about it—or was everyone only Edna and the Shanks?\n\n\n He got out of the car. The officer took his arm and led him up the\n path. Harry noticed that the new house was big.", "He got up. \"I'm going out. I might even sleep out!\"\n\n\n \"But why, Harry, why?\"\n\n\n He couldn't stand to see her crying. He went to her, kissed her wet\n cheek, spoke more softly. \"It'll do me good, like when I was a kid.\"\n\n\n \"If you say so, Harry.\"\n\n\n He left quickly. He went outside and across the yard to the road. He\n looked up it and down it, to the north and to the south. It was a\n bright night with moon and stars, but he saw nothing, no one. The road\n was empty. It was always empty, except when Walt and Gloria walked over\n from their place a mile or so south. But once it hadn't been empty.\n Once there'd been cars, people....\n\n\n He had to do something. Just sitting and looking at the sky wouldn't\n help him. He had to go somewhere, see someone.", "He remembered then, or thought he did. The headache was back. He went\n upstairs and slept again, but this time he had dreams, many of them,\n and all confused and all frightening. He was glad to get up. And he was\n glad to hear Walt and Gloria talking to Edna downstairs.\n\n\n He washed his face, combed his hair and went down. Walt and Gloria were\n sitting on the sofa, Edna in the blue armchair. Walt was saying he'd\n gotten the new TV picture tube he'd ordered. \"Found it in the supply\n bin this morning. Spent the whole day installing it according to the\n book of directions.\"\n\n\n Harry said hi and they all said hi and he sat down and they talked\n about TV and gardens and livestock. Then Harry said, \"How's Penny?\"\n\n\n \"Fine,\" Gloria answered. \"I'm starting her on the kindergarten book\n next week.\"\n\n\n \"She's five already?\" Harry asked.", "And this wasn't Iowa.\nThe explosions had ripped the world, and he'd tried to get to town to\n save Davie, and there'd been no town and there'd been no people and\n there'd been only death and poison in the air and even those few people\n left had begun to die, and then the truck with the huge trailer had\n come, the gleaming trailer with the little man and his trembling wife\n and his two sons....\nSuddenly, he understood. And understanding brought not peace but the\n greatest terror he'd ever known. He screamed, \"We're on....\" but the\n switch was thrown and there was no more speech. For an hour. Then he\n got out of the chair and said, \"Sure glad I took my wife's advice and\n came to see you, Doctor Hamming. I feel better already, and after only\n one.... What do you call these treatments?\"\n\n\n \"Diathermy,\" the little doctor muttered.", "When they came inside, he knew it wasn't like any house he'd ever seen\n or heard of. There was this long central passageway, and dozens of\n doors branched off it on both sides, and stairways went down from it in\n at least three places that he could see, and at the far end—a good two\n hundred yards away—a big ramp led upward. And it was all gray plaster\n walls and dull black floors and cold white lighting, like a hospital,\n or a modern factory, or maybe a government building. Except that he\n didn't see or hear people.\n\n\n He did hear\nsomething\n; a low, rumbling noise. The further they came\n along the hall, the louder the rumbling grew. It seemed to be deep down\n somewhere.\nThey went through one of the doors on the right, into a windowless\n room. A thin little man with bald head and frameless glasses was there,\n putting on a white coat. His veiny hands shook. He looked a hundred\n years old. \"Where's Petey?\" he asked.", "\"Pete's all right, Dad. Just leading a horse back to Burr's farm.\"\n\n\n The old man sighed. \"I didn't know what form it would take. I expected\n one or two cases, but I couldn't predict whether it would be gradual or\n sudden, whether or not it would lead to violence.\"\n\n\n \"No violence, Dad.\"\n\n\n \"Fine, Stan.\" He looked at Harry. \"I'm going to give you a little\n treatment, Mr. Burr. It'll settle your nerves and make everything....\"\n\n\n \"What happened to Davie?\" Harry asked, things pushing at his brain\n again.\n\n\n Stan helped him up. \"Just step this way, Mr. Burr.\"", "\"You stop that! You stop that right now, and for good! I don't want to\n hear no more about doctors. I get laid up, I'll call one. And it won't\n be that Hamming who I ain't never seen in my life! It'll be Timkins,\n who took care'n us and brought our son into the world and....\"\n\n\n She began to cry, and he realized he'd said something crazy again. They\n had no son, never had a son. And Timkins—he'd died and they'd gone to\n his funeral. Or so Edna said.\n\n\n He himself just couldn't remember it.", "\"No! I want to talk to someone\nsane\n! You and Petey and I—we're all\n insane, you know. Three years now, playing God, waiting for some land,\n any land, to become habitable. And knowing everything, and surrounded\n by people who are sane only because I made sure they would know\n nothing.\" He stepped forward, glaring at Harry. \"Now do you understand?\n I went across the country, picking up a few of the few left alive. Most\n were farmers, and even where some weren't I picked the farmers anyway.\n Because farmers are what we'll need, and all the rest can evolve later.\n I put you and the others, eighty-six all told, from every section of\n the country, on my world, the only uncontaminated land left. I gave", "He rubbed his hard hands together and said aloud, \"Get down to the\n patch. Them tomatoes need fertilizer for tang.\" He walked outside and\n took a deep breath. Air was different, wasn't it? Sweet and pure and\n clean, like country air always was and always would be; but still,\n different somehow. Maybe sharper. Or was sharp the word? Maybe....\n\n\n He went quickly across the yard, past the pig-pen—he'd had twelve\n pigs, hadn't he? Now he had four—behind the house to where the\n half-acre truck farm lay greening in the sun. He got to work. Sometime\n later, Edna called to him. \"Delivery last night, Harry. I took some.\n Pick up rest?\"\n\n\n \"Yes,\" he shouted.\n\n\n She disappeared.", "Harry went home. He told Edna he felt just great! She said she'd been\n worried when an officer found Plum wandering on the road; she thought\n maybe Harry had gone off somewhere and broken travel regulations.\n\n\n \"Me?\" he exclaimed, amazed. \"Break travel regulations? I'd as soon kill\n a pig!\"", "She cleared her throat, mumbled, \"Huh? What happened to who?\"\n\n\n \"I said, what....\" But then it slipped away. Davie? No, that was part\n of a dream he'd had last week. He and Edna had no children.\n\n\n He felt the fear again, and got up fast to escape it. Edna opened her\n eyes as soon as his weight left the bed. \"Like hotcakes for breakfast?\"\n\n\n \"Eggs,\" he said. \"Bacon.\" And then, seeing her face change, he\n remembered. \"Course,\" he muttered. \"Can't have bacon. Rationed.\"\n\n\n She was fully awake now. \"If you'd only go see Dr. Hamming, Harry. Just\n for a checkup. Or let me call him so he could—\"", "Much later, he got up and went to the fence and climbed it. He came\n down on the other side and looked around and saw Plum. He walked to\n her, mounted her, sat still. The thoughts, or dreams, or whatever they\n were which had been torturing him these past few weeks began torturing\n him again.\n\n\n It was getting light. His head was splitting.\n\n\n Davie. His son Davie. Fourteen years old. Going to high school in\n town....\nTown!\nHe should've gone there in the first place! He would ride east,\n to the road, then head south, back toward home. That would bring him\n right down Main Street. Regulations or not, he'd talk to people, find\n out what was happening.\n\n\n He kicked Plum's sides. The mare began to move. He kept kicking until\n she broke into a brisk canter. He held on with hands and legs.", "He milked and curried and fed and cleaned, and still was done inside\n of two hours. Then he walked slowly, head down, across the hay-strewn\n floor. He stopped, put out his hand as if to find a pole or beam that\n was too familiar to require raising his eyes, and almost fell as he\n leaned in that direction. Regaining his balance after a sideward\n staggering shuffle, he looked around, startled. \"Why, this ain't the\n way I had my barn....\"\n\n\n He heard his own voice, and stopped. He fought the flash of senseless\n panic. Of course this was the way he'd had his barn built, because it\nwas\nhis barn!", "His head weighed an agonized ton. He put it down again. Plum went\n sedately forward. After a while she stopped. Harry looked up. Another\n fence. And what a fence! About ten feet of heavy steel mesh, topped by\n three feet of barbed-wire—five separate strands. What in the world had\n Sam Pangborn been thinking of to put up a monster like this?\n\n\n He looked around. The gate should be further west. He rode that way.\n He found no gate. He turned back, heading east. No gate. Nothing but\n fence. And wasn't the fence gradually curving inward? He looked back.\n Yes, there\nwas\na slight inward curve.\n\n\n He dismounted and tied Plum to the fence, then stepped back and figured\n the best way to get to the other side." ], [ "\"I haven't the time,\" the doctor repeated, voice rising. \"I have to run\n a world. Three of us, to run a world! I built it as best I could, but\n how large could I make it? The money. The years and years of work. The\n people calling me insane when they found out ... but a few giving me\n more money, and the work going on. And those few caught like everyone\n else, unprepared when the holocaust started, unprepared and unable to\n reach my world. So they died. As I knew they would. As they should have\n known they would.\"\n\n\n Harry felt the rumbling beneath him. Engines?\n\n\n \"You survived,\" the doctor said. \"Your wife. A few hundred others in\n the rural areas. One other family in your area. I survived because\n I lived for survival, like a mole deep in the earth, expecting the\n catastrophe every minute. I survived because I gave up living to\n survive.\" He laughed, high and thin.", "And this wasn't Iowa.\nThe explosions had ripped the world, and he'd tried to get to town to\n save Davie, and there'd been no town and there'd been no people and\n there'd been only death and poison in the air and even those few people\n left had begun to die, and then the truck with the huge trailer had\n come, the gleaming trailer with the little man and his trembling wife\n and his two sons....\nSuddenly, he understood. And understanding brought not peace but the\n greatest terror he'd ever known. He screamed, \"We're on....\" but the\n switch was thrown and there was no more speech. For an hour. Then he\n got out of the chair and said, \"Sure glad I took my wife's advice and\n came to see you, Doctor Hamming. I feel better already, and after only\n one.... What do you call these treatments?\"\n\n\n \"Diathermy,\" the little doctor muttered.", "The doctor blinked behind his glasses, and then his hand left the\n switch. \"Dead,\" he said, his voice a rustling of dried leaves. \"Like so\n many millions of others. Dead, when the bombs fell. Dead, as everyone\n knew they would be and no one did anything to prevent. Dead. Perhaps\n the whole world is dead—except for us.\"\n\n\n Harry stared at him.\n\"I can't take the time to explain it all. I have too much to do. Just\n three of us—myself and my two sons. My wife lost her mind. I should\n have helped her as I'm helping you.\"\n\n\n \"I don't understand,\" Harry said. \"I remember people, and things, and\n where are they now? Dead? People can die, but farms, cities....\"", "Harry gave him a five-dollar bill. The doctor gave him two singles in\n change. \"That's certainly reasonable enough,\" Harry said.\n\n\n The doctor nodded. \"There's a police officer in the hall. He'll drive\n you home so there won't be any trouble with the travel regulations.\"\n\n\n Harry said, \"Thanks. Think we'll ever see the end of travel regulations\n and rationing and all the rest of the emergency?\"\n\n\n \"You will, Mr. Burr.\"\n\n\n Harry walked to the door.\n\n\n \"We're on an ark,\" the doctor said.\n\n\n Harry turned around, smiling. \"What?\"\n\n\n \"A test, Mr. Burr. You passed it. Goodbye.\"", "\"You stop that! You stop that right now, and for good! I don't want to\n hear no more about doctors. I get laid up, I'll call one. And it won't\n be that Hamming who I ain't never seen in my life! It'll be Timkins,\n who took care'n us and brought our son into the world and....\"\n\n\n She began to cry, and he realized he'd said something crazy again. They\n had no son, never had a son. And Timkins—he'd died and they'd gone to\n his funeral. Or so Edna said.\n\n\n He himself just couldn't remember it.", "\"Almost six,\" Walt said. \"Emergency Education Regulations state that\n the child should be five years nine months old before embarking on\n kindergarten book.\"\n\n\n \"And Frances?\" Harry asked. \"Your oldest? She must be starting\n high....\" He stopped, because they were all staring at him, and because\n he couldn't remember Frances clearly. \"Just a joke,\" he said, laughing\n and rising. \"Let's eat. I'm starved.\"\nThey ate in the kitchen. They talked—or rather Edna, Gloria and Walt\n did. Harry nodded and said uh-huh and used his mouth for chewing.\n\n\n Walt and Gloria went home at ten-fifteen. They said goodbye at the\n door and Harry walked away. He heard Gloria whispering something about\n Doctor Hamming.\n\n\n He was sitting in the living room when Edna came in. She was crying.\n \"Harry, please see the doctor.\"", "\"Am I going to jail?\"\n\n\n \"No.\"\n\n\n \"Where then?\"\n\n\n \"The doctor's place.\"\n\n\n They stopped in front of the new house two miles past Dugan's farm.\n Except he'd never seen it before. Or had he? Everyone seemed to know\n about it—or was everyone only Edna and the Shanks?\n\n\n He got out of the car. The officer took his arm and led him up the\n path. Harry noticed that the new house was big.", "you back your old lives. I couldn't give you big crops because we\n don't need big crops. We would only exhaust our limited soil with big\n crops. But I gave you vegetable gardens and livestock and, best of all,\nsanity\n! I wiped the insane moments from your minds. I gave you peace\n and consigned myself, my sons, my own wife....\"", "He didn't resist. He went through the second door into the room with\n the big chair. He sat down and let them strap his arms and legs and let\n them lower the metal thing over his head. He felt needles pierce his\n scalp and the back of his neck. He let them do what they wanted; he\n would let them kill him if they wanted. All he asked was one answer so\n as to know whether or not he was insane.\n\n\n \"What happened to my son Davie?\"\n\n\n The old man walked across the room and examined what looked like the\n insides of a dozen big radios. He turned, his hand on a switch.\n\n\n \"Please,\" Harry whispered. \"Just tell me about my son.\"", "Much later, he got up and went to the fence and climbed it. He came\n down on the other side and looked around and saw Plum. He walked to\n her, mounted her, sat still. The thoughts, or dreams, or whatever they\n were which had been torturing him these past few weeks began torturing\n him again.\n\n\n It was getting light. His head was splitting.\n\n\n Davie. His son Davie. Fourteen years old. Going to high school in\n town....\nTown!\nHe should've gone there in the first place! He would ride east,\n to the road, then head south, back toward home. That would bring him\n right down Main Street. Regulations or not, he'd talk to people, find\n out what was happening.\n\n\n He kicked Plum's sides. The mare began to move. He kept kicking until\n she broke into a brisk canter. He held on with hands and legs.", "He remembered then, or thought he did. The headache was back. He went\n upstairs and slept again, but this time he had dreams, many of them,\n and all confused and all frightening. He was glad to get up. And he was\n glad to hear Walt and Gloria talking to Edna downstairs.\n\n\n He washed his face, combed his hair and went down. Walt and Gloria were\n sitting on the sofa, Edna in the blue armchair. Walt was saying he'd\n gotten the new TV picture tube he'd ordered. \"Found it in the supply\n bin this morning. Spent the whole day installing it according to the\n book of directions.\"\n\n\n Harry said hi and they all said hi and he sat down and they talked\n about TV and gardens and livestock. Then Harry said, \"How's Penny?\"\n\n\n \"Fine,\" Gloria answered. \"I'm starting her on the kindergarten book\n next week.\"\n\n\n \"She's five already?\" Harry asked.", "She cleared her throat, mumbled, \"Huh? What happened to who?\"\n\n\n \"I said, what....\" But then it slipped away. Davie? No, that was part\n of a dream he'd had last week. He and Edna had no children.\n\n\n He felt the fear again, and got up fast to escape it. Edna opened her\n eyes as soon as his weight left the bed. \"Like hotcakes for breakfast?\"\n\n\n \"Eggs,\" he said. \"Bacon.\" And then, seeing her face change, he\n remembered. \"Course,\" he muttered. \"Can't have bacon. Rationed.\"\n\n\n She was fully awake now. \"If you'd only go see Dr. Hamming, Harry. Just\n for a checkup. Or let me call him so he could—\"", "He rubbed his hard hands together and said aloud, \"Get down to the\n patch. Them tomatoes need fertilizer for tang.\" He walked outside and\n took a deep breath. Air was different, wasn't it? Sweet and pure and\n clean, like country air always was and always would be; but still,\n different somehow. Maybe sharper. Or was sharp the word? Maybe....\n\n\n He went quickly across the yard, past the pig-pen—he'd had twelve\n pigs, hadn't he? Now he had four—behind the house to where the\n half-acre truck farm lay greening in the sun. He got to work. Sometime\n later, Edna called to him. \"Delivery last night, Harry. I took some.\n Pick up rest?\"\n\n\n \"Yes,\" he shouted.\n\n\n She disappeared.", "He went to the bed and sat down beside her. \"Sorry. That was just a\n dream I had. I'm still half asleep this morning. Couldn't fall off last\n night, not till real late. Guess I'm a little nervous, what with all\n the new regulations and not working regular. I never meant we had a\n son.\" He waited then, hoping she'd say they\nhad\nhad a son, and he'd\n died or gone away. But of course she didn't.\nHe went to the bathroom and washed. By the time he came to the kitchen,\n Edna had hotcakes on a plate and coffee in a cup. He sat down and ate.\n Part way through the meal, he paused. \"Got an awful craving for meat,\"\n he said. \"Goddam those rations! Man can't even butcher his own stock\n for his own table!\"\n\n\n \"We're having meat for lunch,\" she said placatingly. \"Nice cut of\n multi-pro.\"", "He milked and curried and fed and cleaned, and still was done inside\n of two hours. Then he walked slowly, head down, across the hay-strewn\n floor. He stopped, put out his hand as if to find a pole or beam that\n was too familiar to require raising his eyes, and almost fell as he\n leaned in that direction. Regaining his balance after a sideward\n staggering shuffle, he looked around, startled. \"Why, this ain't the\n way I had my barn....\"\n\n\n He heard his own voice, and stopped. He fought the flash of senseless\n panic. Of course this was the way he'd had his barn built, because it\nwas\nhis barn!", "He rode on. He never did come to town. He came to a ten-foot fence with\n a three-foot barbed-wire extension. He got off Plum and ripped his\n clothing climbing. He walked over hard-packed sand, and then wood,\n and came to a low metal railing. He looked out at the ocean, gleaming\n in bright sunlight, surging and seething endlessly. He felt the earth\n sway beneath him. He staggered, and dropped to his hands and knees, and\n shook his head like a fighter hit too many times. Then he got up and\n went back to the fence and heard a sound. It was a familiar sound, yet\n strange too. He shaded his eyes against the climbing sun. Then he saw\n it—a car.\nA car!\nIt was one of those tiny foreign jobs that run on practically no gas at\n all. It stopped beside him and two men got out. Young men with lined,\n tired faces; they wore policemen's uniforms. \"You broke regulations,\n Mr. Burr. You'll have to come with us.\"", "He nodded. He wanted to. He wanted to be taken care of. He turned\n toward Plum.\n\n\n The other officer was walking around the horse. \"Rode her hard,\" he\n said, and he sounded real worried. \"Shouldn't have done that, Mr. Burr.\n We have so very few now....\"\n\n\n The officer holding Harry's arm said, \"Pete.\"\n\n\n The officer examining Plum said, \"It won't make any difference in a\n while.\"\n\n\n Harry looked at both of them, and felt sharp, personal fear.\n\n\n \"Take the horse back to his farm,\" the officer holding Harry said. He\n opened the door of the little car and pushed Harry inside. He went\n around to the driver's side and got behind the wheel and drove away.\n Harry looked back. Pete was leading Plum after them; not riding him,\n walking him. \"He sure must like horses,\" he said.\n\n\n \"Yes.\"", "When they came inside, he knew it wasn't like any house he'd ever seen\n or heard of. There was this long central passageway, and dozens of\n doors branched off it on both sides, and stairways went down from it in\n at least three places that he could see, and at the far end—a good two\n hundred yards away—a big ramp led upward. And it was all gray plaster\n walls and dull black floors and cold white lighting, like a hospital,\n or a modern factory, or maybe a government building. Except that he\n didn't see or hear people.\n\n\n He did hear\nsomething\n; a low, rumbling noise. The further they came\n along the hall, the louder the rumbling grew. It seemed to be deep down\n somewhere.\nThey went through one of the doors on the right, into a windowless\n room. A thin little man with bald head and frameless glasses was there,\n putting on a white coat. His veiny hands shook. He looked a hundred\n years old. \"Where's Petey?\" he asked.", "He got up. \"I'm going out. I might even sleep out!\"\n\n\n \"But why, Harry, why?\"\n\n\n He couldn't stand to see her crying. He went to her, kissed her wet\n cheek, spoke more softly. \"It'll do me good, like when I was a kid.\"\n\n\n \"If you say so, Harry.\"\n\n\n He left quickly. He went outside and across the yard to the road. He\n looked up it and down it, to the north and to the south. It was a\n bright night with moon and stars, but he saw nothing, no one. The road\n was empty. It was always empty, except when Walt and Gloria walked over\n from their place a mile or so south. But once it hadn't been empty.\n Once there'd been cars, people....\n\n\n He had to do something. Just sitting and looking at the sky wouldn't\n help him. He had to go somewhere, see someone.", "\"No! I want to talk to someone\nsane\n! You and Petey and I—we're all\n insane, you know. Three years now, playing God, waiting for some land,\n any land, to become habitable. And knowing everything, and surrounded\n by people who are sane only because I made sure they would know\n nothing.\" He stepped forward, glaring at Harry. \"Now do you understand?\n I went across the country, picking up a few of the few left alive. Most\n were farmers, and even where some weren't I picked the farmers anyway.\n Because farmers are what we'll need, and all the rest can evolve later.\n I put you and the others, eighty-six all told, from every section of\n the country, on my world, the only uncontaminated land left. I gave" ], [ "Harry gave him a five-dollar bill. The doctor gave him two singles in\n change. \"That's certainly reasonable enough,\" Harry said.\n\n\n The doctor nodded. \"There's a police officer in the hall. He'll drive\n you home so there won't be any trouble with the travel regulations.\"\n\n\n Harry said, \"Thanks. Think we'll ever see the end of travel regulations\n and rationing and all the rest of the emergency?\"\n\n\n \"You will, Mr. Burr.\"\n\n\n Harry walked to the door.\n\n\n \"We're on an ark,\" the doctor said.\n\n\n Harry turned around, smiling. \"What?\"\n\n\n \"A test, Mr. Burr. You passed it. Goodbye.\"", "\"I haven't the time,\" the doctor repeated, voice rising. \"I have to run\n a world. Three of us, to run a world! I built it as best I could, but\n how large could I make it? The money. The years and years of work. The\n people calling me insane when they found out ... but a few giving me\n more money, and the work going on. And those few caught like everyone\n else, unprepared when the holocaust started, unprepared and unable to\n reach my world. So they died. As I knew they would. As they should have\n known they would.\"\n\n\n Harry felt the rumbling beneath him. Engines?\n\n\n \"You survived,\" the doctor said. \"Your wife. A few hundred others in\n the rural areas. One other family in your area. I survived because\n I lived for survival, like a mole deep in the earth, expecting the\n catastrophe every minute. I survived because I gave up living to\n survive.\" He laughed, high and thin.", "\"Almost six,\" Walt said. \"Emergency Education Regulations state that\n the child should be five years nine months old before embarking on\n kindergarten book.\"\n\n\n \"And Frances?\" Harry asked. \"Your oldest? She must be starting\n high....\" He stopped, because they were all staring at him, and because\n he couldn't remember Frances clearly. \"Just a joke,\" he said, laughing\n and rising. \"Let's eat. I'm starved.\"\nThey ate in the kitchen. They talked—or rather Edna, Gloria and Walt\n did. Harry nodded and said uh-huh and used his mouth for chewing.\n\n\n Walt and Gloria went home at ten-fifteen. They said goodbye at the\n door and Harry walked away. He heard Gloria whispering something about\n Doctor Hamming.\n\n\n He was sitting in the living room when Edna came in. She was crying.\n \"Harry, please see the doctor.\"", "\"Am I going to jail?\"\n\n\n \"No.\"\n\n\n \"Where then?\"\n\n\n \"The doctor's place.\"\n\n\n They stopped in front of the new house two miles past Dugan's farm.\n Except he'd never seen it before. Or had he? Everyone seemed to know\n about it—or was everyone only Edna and the Shanks?\n\n\n He got out of the car. The officer took his arm and led him up the\n path. Harry noticed that the new house was big.", "The doctor blinked behind his glasses, and then his hand left the\n switch. \"Dead,\" he said, his voice a rustling of dried leaves. \"Like so\n many millions of others. Dead, when the bombs fell. Dead, as everyone\n knew they would be and no one did anything to prevent. Dead. Perhaps\n the whole world is dead—except for us.\"\n\n\n Harry stared at him.\n\"I can't take the time to explain it all. I have too much to do. Just\n three of us—myself and my two sons. My wife lost her mind. I should\n have helped her as I'm helping you.\"\n\n\n \"I don't understand,\" Harry said. \"I remember people, and things, and\n where are they now? Dead? People can die, but farms, cities....\"", "He nodded. He wanted to. He wanted to be taken care of. He turned\n toward Plum.\n\n\n The other officer was walking around the horse. \"Rode her hard,\" he\n said, and he sounded real worried. \"Shouldn't have done that, Mr. Burr.\n We have so very few now....\"\n\n\n The officer holding Harry's arm said, \"Pete.\"\n\n\n The officer examining Plum said, \"It won't make any difference in a\n while.\"\n\n\n Harry looked at both of them, and felt sharp, personal fear.\n\n\n \"Take the horse back to his farm,\" the officer holding Harry said. He\n opened the door of the little car and pushed Harry inside. He went\n around to the driver's side and got behind the wheel and drove away.\n Harry looked back. Pete was leading Plum after them; not riding him,\n walking him. \"He sure must like horses,\" he said.\n\n\n \"Yes.\"", "He didn't resist. He went through the second door into the room with\n the big chair. He sat down and let them strap his arms and legs and let\n them lower the metal thing over his head. He felt needles pierce his\n scalp and the back of his neck. He let them do what they wanted; he\n would let them kill him if they wanted. All he asked was one answer so\n as to know whether or not he was insane.\n\n\n \"What happened to my son Davie?\"\n\n\n The old man walked across the room and examined what looked like the\n insides of a dozen big radios. He turned, his hand on a switch.\n\n\n \"Please,\" Harry whispered. \"Just tell me about my son.\"", "\"Pete's all right, Dad. Just leading a horse back to Burr's farm.\"\n\n\n The old man sighed. \"I didn't know what form it would take. I expected\n one or two cases, but I couldn't predict whether it would be gradual or\n sudden, whether or not it would lead to violence.\"\n\n\n \"No violence, Dad.\"\n\n\n \"Fine, Stan.\" He looked at Harry. \"I'm going to give you a little\n treatment, Mr. Burr. It'll settle your nerves and make everything....\"\n\n\n \"What happened to Davie?\" Harry asked, things pushing at his brain\n again.\n\n\n Stan helped him up. \"Just step this way, Mr. Burr.\"", "He got up. \"I'm going out. I might even sleep out!\"\n\n\n \"But why, Harry, why?\"\n\n\n He couldn't stand to see her crying. He went to her, kissed her wet\n cheek, spoke more softly. \"It'll do me good, like when I was a kid.\"\n\n\n \"If you say so, Harry.\"\n\n\n He left quickly. He went outside and across the yard to the road. He\n looked up it and down it, to the north and to the south. It was a\n bright night with moon and stars, but he saw nothing, no one. The road\n was empty. It was always empty, except when Walt and Gloria walked over\n from their place a mile or so south. But once it hadn't been empty.\n Once there'd been cars, people....\n\n\n He had to do something. Just sitting and looking at the sky wouldn't\n help him. He had to go somewhere, see someone.", "He remembered then, or thought he did. The headache was back. He went\n upstairs and slept again, but this time he had dreams, many of them,\n and all confused and all frightening. He was glad to get up. And he was\n glad to hear Walt and Gloria talking to Edna downstairs.\n\n\n He washed his face, combed his hair and went down. Walt and Gloria were\n sitting on the sofa, Edna in the blue armchair. Walt was saying he'd\n gotten the new TV picture tube he'd ordered. \"Found it in the supply\n bin this morning. Spent the whole day installing it according to the\n book of directions.\"\n\n\n Harry said hi and they all said hi and he sat down and they talked\n about TV and gardens and livestock. Then Harry said, \"How's Penny?\"\n\n\n \"Fine,\" Gloria answered. \"I'm starting her on the kindergarten book\n next week.\"\n\n\n \"She's five already?\" Harry asked.", "\"No! I want to talk to someone\nsane\n! You and Petey and I—we're all\n insane, you know. Three years now, playing God, waiting for some land,\n any land, to become habitable. And knowing everything, and surrounded\n by people who are sane only because I made sure they would know\n nothing.\" He stepped forward, glaring at Harry. \"Now do you understand?\n I went across the country, picking up a few of the few left alive. Most\n were farmers, and even where some weren't I picked the farmers anyway.\n Because farmers are what we'll need, and all the rest can evolve later.\n I put you and the others, eighty-six all told, from every section of\n the country, on my world, the only uncontaminated land left. I gave", "And this wasn't Iowa.\nThe explosions had ripped the world, and he'd tried to get to town to\n save Davie, and there'd been no town and there'd been no people and\n there'd been only death and poison in the air and even those few people\n left had begun to die, and then the truck with the huge trailer had\n come, the gleaming trailer with the little man and his trembling wife\n and his two sons....\nSuddenly, he understood. And understanding brought not peace but the\n greatest terror he'd ever known. He screamed, \"We're on....\" but the\n switch was thrown and there was no more speech. For an hour. Then he\n got out of the chair and said, \"Sure glad I took my wife's advice and\n came to see you, Doctor Hamming. I feel better already, and after only\n one.... What do you call these treatments?\"\n\n\n \"Diathermy,\" the little doctor muttered.", "Harry went home. He told Edna he felt just great! She said she'd been\n worried when an officer found Plum wandering on the road; she thought\n maybe Harry had gone off somewhere and broken travel regulations.\n\n\n \"Me?\" he exclaimed, amazed. \"Break travel regulations? I'd as soon kill\n a pig!\"", "\"You stop that! You stop that right now, and for good! I don't want to\n hear no more about doctors. I get laid up, I'll call one. And it won't\n be that Hamming who I ain't never seen in my life! It'll be Timkins,\n who took care'n us and brought our son into the world and....\"\n\n\n She began to cry, and he realized he'd said something crazy again. They\n had no son, never had a son. And Timkins—he'd died and they'd gone to\n his funeral. Or so Edna said.\n\n\n He himself just couldn't remember it.", "He rubbed his hard hands together and said aloud, \"Get down to the\n patch. Them tomatoes need fertilizer for tang.\" He walked outside and\n took a deep breath. Air was different, wasn't it? Sweet and pure and\n clean, like country air always was and always would be; but still,\n different somehow. Maybe sharper. Or was sharp the word? Maybe....\n\n\n He went quickly across the yard, past the pig-pen—he'd had twelve\n pigs, hadn't he? Now he had four—behind the house to where the\n half-acre truck farm lay greening in the sun. He got to work. Sometime\n later, Edna called to him. \"Delivery last night, Harry. I took some.\n Pick up rest?\"\n\n\n \"Yes,\" he shouted.\n\n\n She disappeared.", "She cleared her throat, mumbled, \"Huh? What happened to who?\"\n\n\n \"I said, what....\" But then it slipped away. Davie? No, that was part\n of a dream he'd had last week. He and Edna had no children.\n\n\n He felt the fear again, and got up fast to escape it. Edna opened her\n eyes as soon as his weight left the bed. \"Like hotcakes for breakfast?\"\n\n\n \"Eggs,\" he said. \"Bacon.\" And then, seeing her face change, he\n remembered. \"Course,\" he muttered. \"Can't have bacon. Rationed.\"\n\n\n She was fully awake now. \"If you'd only go see Dr. Hamming, Harry. Just\n for a checkup. Or let me call him so he could—\"", "When they came inside, he knew it wasn't like any house he'd ever seen\n or heard of. There was this long central passageway, and dozens of\n doors branched off it on both sides, and stairways went down from it in\n at least three places that he could see, and at the far end—a good two\n hundred yards away—a big ramp led upward. And it was all gray plaster\n walls and dull black floors and cold white lighting, like a hospital,\n or a modern factory, or maybe a government building. Except that he\n didn't see or hear people.\n\n\n He did hear\nsomething\n; a low, rumbling noise. The further they came\n along the hall, the louder the rumbling grew. It seemed to be deep down\n somewhere.\nThey went through one of the doors on the right, into a windowless\n room. A thin little man with bald head and frameless glasses was there,\n putting on a white coat. His veiny hands shook. He looked a hundred\n years old. \"Where's Petey?\" he asked.", "Much later, he got up and went to the fence and climbed it. He came\n down on the other side and looked around and saw Plum. He walked to\n her, mounted her, sat still. The thoughts, or dreams, or whatever they\n were which had been torturing him these past few weeks began torturing\n him again.\n\n\n It was getting light. His head was splitting.\n\n\n Davie. His son Davie. Fourteen years old. Going to high school in\n town....\nTown!\nHe should've gone there in the first place! He would ride east,\n to the road, then head south, back toward home. That would bring him\n right down Main Street. Regulations or not, he'd talk to people, find\n out what was happening.\n\n\n He kicked Plum's sides. The mare began to move. He kept kicking until\n she broke into a brisk canter. He held on with hands and legs.", "Of course, a man could grow forgetful. He had to admit there were\n moments when he had all sorts of mixed-up memories and thoughts in his\n mind. And sometimes—like right now, lying in bed beside Edna, watching\n the first hint of light touch the windows—he began sweating with fear.\n A horrible, gut-wrenching fear, all the more horrible because it was\n based on nothing.\n\n\n The chicken-run came alive; the barn followed minutes later. There were\n chores to do, the same chores he'd done all his forty-one years. Except\n that now, with the new regulations about wheat and corn, he had only\n a vegetable patch to farm. Sure, he got paid for letting the fields\n remain empty. But it just didn't seem right, all that land going to\n waste....\nDavie. Blond hair and a round, tanned face and strong arms growing\n stronger each day from helping out after school.\nHe turned and shook Edna. \"What happened to Davie?\"", "He milked and curried and fed and cleaned, and still was done inside\n of two hours. Then he walked slowly, head down, across the hay-strewn\n floor. He stopped, put out his hand as if to find a pole or beam that\n was too familiar to require raising his eyes, and almost fell as he\n leaned in that direction. Regaining his balance after a sideward\n staggering shuffle, he looked around, startled. \"Why, this ain't the\n way I had my barn....\"\n\n\n He heard his own voice, and stopped. He fought the flash of senseless\n panic. Of course this was the way he'd had his barn built, because it\nwas\nhis barn!" ] ]
test	59418	[ "What is a Steyner?", "How is Steven different?", "What is the relationship between Steven and Denise?", "What is ironic about the story?", "What happens to Steven?", "Which words best describe Steven’s society?", "What is a theme of the story?", "What happens during Denise’s appendicitis surgery?", "Why does Steven sleep on the floor as a child?", "What is significant about the Happy Clown?" ]	[ [ "A surgery to remove the appendix. ", "The car Steven drives. ", "A lobotomy to make a person complacent. ", "A form of therapy for anxiety. " ], [ "He is addicted to television.", "He collects silver. ", "He is an actor. ", "He dislikes the lifestyle of his society and, therefore, does not fit in. " ], [ "They are friends. ", "They were in love and engaged to be married.", "They dated casually. ", "They were married." ], [ "Steven marries Denise. ", "A 5 year old dislikes television.", "Steven becomes the Happy Clown even though he despises it. ", "Steven breaks up with Denise after her surgery. " ], [ "Doctors change his brain to make him happily ignorant. ", "He decides to conform so he can marry Franny.", "He lives in the countryside away from the rest of society. ", "He becomes the best Happy Clown there ever was." ], [ "natural and healthy ", "blind conformity and sameness ", "unequal and unhappy ", "happy utopia" ], [ "Ignorance is bliss. ", "Consumerism leads to a decline in intellect.", "Plastic is ruining society. ", "Extreme pressure to conform is oppressive. " ], [ "There were complications and she nearly died.", "Under anesthesia, she unknowingly discloses her true feelings about the society.", "She has a reaction to anesthesia and loses her memory.", "Her personality changes after the surgery, and she becomes nonconformist and difficult. " ], [ "He doesn't like that his bed rocks back and forth. ", "His parents cannot afford a bed for Steven.", "He is afraid of the Happy Clown decorations on his bed.", "He doesn’t like the television attached to the bed that is always on. " ], [ "The Happy Clown is a show for children that teaches them to eat healthy. ", "The Happy Clown gives adults nostalgia for their happy childhoods. ", "The Happy Clown is propaganda to get people to buy more and think less. ", "The Happy Clown is mayor of the town. " ] ]	[ -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1, -1 ]	[ 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0 ]	[ [ "At the end of the tests the Director said seriously to Steven's\n parents, \"I'll be frank with you. You have a brilliant kiddie\n here—right now he has the intelligence of a twelve-year-old—but\n brilliance has to be channeled in the right direction. Just now—well,\n frankly, it's channeled in the wrong direction. We'll give it a year or\n so, and then if things don't clear up I'm afraid we'll have to correct\n him.\"\n\n\n Richard said through dry lips, \"You mean a Steyner?\"\n\n\n The Director nodded. \"The only thing.\"\n\n\n Harriet shuddered and began to cry. \"But there's never been anything\n like that in our family! The disgrace—oh, Dickie, it would kill me!\"", "The Director said kindly, \"There's no disgrace, Mrs. Russell.\n That's a mistaken idea many people have. These things happen\n occasionally—nobody knows why—and there's absolutely no disgrace in a\n Steyner. Nothing is altered but the personality, and afterward you have\n a happy normal kiddie who hardly remembers that anything was ever wrong\n with him. Naturally nobody ever mentions it.... But there's no hurry;\n in the case of a kiddie we can wait a while. Bring Stevie in once a\n week; we'll try therapy first.\"", "He managed his life well enough. He had a few affairs with girls, it\n was expected of one, and he did not have to work very hard at it since\n they always threw themselves at him; and he got along well with other\n young men, who forgave him for being so handsome because he did not\n work at it except on camera; but he was lonely. Surrounded by people,\n intruded and trespassed upon, continually touched in ways other than\n physical, he was yet lonely.\nDuring his life he had met a few other nonconformists, shy, like him,\n wary of revealing themselves, but something always seemed to happen\n to them. Some were miserable being nonconformists and asked pitifully\n for the Steyner, some were detected, as Steven had been, and some\n were unfortunately surprised in hospitals. Under the anesthetic they\n sometimes talked, and then, if they were adults, they were immediately\n corrected by means of Steyner's lobotomy. It had been learned that\n adults did not respond to therapy.", "At last the doctor came out to him and said what was always said in\n such cases. \"It was necessary to do something—you understand, no\n mention—\" and for a moment Steven felt so ill that he was grateful\n for the little ampoule the doctor broke and held under his nose. They\n always carried those when they had to give news of a Steyner to\n relatives or sweethearts or friends.\n\n\n The doctor said, \"All right now? Good .... You'll be careful, of\n course. She may be conscious for a minute; there's no harm in it yet,\n she won't move or touch the—\"\n\n\n Steven said, \"I'll be careful.\"\n\n\n He was still feeling ill when they let him in to see Denise. He sat\n down beside her bed and spoke to her urgently. \"Denise, talk to me.\n Please, Denise!\"", "There was never any organization, any underground, of misfits. An\n underground presupposes injustice to be fought, cruelty to be resisted,\n and there was no injustice and no cruelty. The mass of people were\n kind, and their leaders, duly and fairly elected, were kind. They\n all sincerely believed in the gospel of efficiency and conformity\n and kindness. It had made the world a wonderful place to live in,\n full of wonderful things to make and buy and consume (all wonderfully\n advertised), and if one were a misfit and the doctors found it out and\n gave one a Steyner, it was only to make one happy, so that one could\n appreciate what a wonderful world it was.", "Fortunately nobody heard the last three sentences. The paralyzed\n engineer had recovered in time to cut him off during the pause, and\n had signalled the stagehand to draw the curtain and the sound man to\n play the Happy Clown sign-off record—loud. Steven finished himself\n thoroughly, however, by repeating the same sentiments, with some others\n he happened to think of, to Denise and the sponsors, when they all came\n pouring out of the booth. Then he collapsed.\nSteven's Steyner was a complete success. He recovered from it a\n subdued, agreeable and thoroughly conventional young man, who had the\n impression that he had suffered a nervous breakdown. He was discharged\n from the Happy Hour at the end of January, innocently leaving behind", "Denise was lost to him. The outburst in the studio, and the Steyner,\n and the loss of the Happy Clown part were cumulatively too much for\n her. She broke the engagement and was heard to say that Stevie Russell\n had proved himself an absolute fool. He was miserable over it, though\n he had only a hazy idea of what he had done or why Denny should\n suddenly be so unkind to him.", "But, around the studios Steven was dead. Steyner or no Steyner—and\n of course that part of it was never openly discussed—sponsors had\n long memories, and the consensus seemed to be that it was best to\n let sleeping sheep lie. Steven did not care. He no longer had any\n particular desire to be an actor.\n\n\n Steven went to work in his father's supermarket and was happy among\n the shelves of Oatsies and Cornsies and Jellsies. He got over Denise\n after a while and met a girl named Frances—Franny—whom he loved and\n who loved him. They were married in the summer and had a little house\n with as much furniture in it as they could afford. The first thing they\n bought was a television set. After all, as Stevie said, he would not\n want to miss the Happy Clown.", "The psychiatrist said, \"Oh, but we're going to be friends, Stevie,\n and friends always use nicknames, don't they? My name's William, but\n everybody calls me Willie. You can call me Uncle Willie.\"\n\n\n The boy said politely, \"I'd rather not, please.\"\n\n\n The doctor was undismayed. \"I want to help you. You believe that, don't\n you, Stevie?\"\n\n\n The child said, \"Steven. Do I have to lie down?\"\n\n\n The doctor said agreeably, \"It's more usual to lie down, but you may\n sit up if you want to. Why don't you like kiddie-garden, Steven?\"", "Being, as the Director had said, a brilliant kiddie, Steven soon\n understood much of what was kept from him. It did not take him long\n to learn what was making his Dadsie look stern and white and what was\n making his Mumsie cry. He loved his parents and did not want them to be\n unhappy, and he certainly did not want to have his head cut open, and\n so he began to act. Even at five, Steven discovered in himself a fine\n talent for acting. He began to conform, to adjust, to merge. He became\n social and cooperative and acquired the proper attitudes for successful\n community living. He gave up the old silver voluntarily, he accepted\n the Youth Bed, he looked at the Happy Clown, and he did much better in\n kiddie-garden. He even joined in the group experimentation and was not\n sick any more, though he could not keep himself from losing color.", "The psychiatrist said reasonably, \"But nobody can live by himself,\n Stevie.\" He had apparently forgotten Steven, and the boy did not\n correct him again. \"You have to learn to live with other people, to\n work and play with them, to know them, and the only way you can learn\n is by being with them. When you can't be with them personally, there's\n always television. That's how you learn, Stevie. You can't be by\n yourself.\"\n\n\n The boy looked up and said starkly, \"Never?\"\n\n\n The gleaming teeth showed. \"But why should you want to?\"\n\n\n Steven said, \"I don't know.\"\n\n\n The doctor said, slowly and with emphasis, \"Stevie, long before you\n were born the world was a very bad place. There were wars all the time.\n Do you know why?\"\n\n\n The boy shook his head.", "The boy sat up and regarded him warily. The doctor had a kind face, a\n really kind face in spite of all those shining teeth, and Steven was\n only five years old, after all, and there was nobody to talk to, and he\n was desperately unhappy. Perhaps.... He said, \"You'll tell them.\"\n\n\n The doctor shook his head. \"Nothing goes farther than this room,\n Stevie—Steven.\"\n\n\n The child leaned forward, pressing his knees together, hugging himself\n with his arms, bowing his head. His position was almost foetal. He\n said, \"I'm never by myself. They never let me be by myself.\"", "\"Ap-pendicitis. Happy Hour.\" Polly began to cry. \"Oh, Stevie, I feel\n so—\"\n\n\n \"I'll go right over.\" He cut her off abruptly and went.\n\n\n The doctors caught Denise's appendix in time to avoid the necessary but\n rarely fatal complications ... but under the anesthetic she talked,\n revealing enough about her opinion of television, and the Happy Clown\n cult, and the state of society in general, to cause her doctors to\n raise their eyebrows pityingly and perform the Steyner at once. While\n Steven sat unknowing in the waiting room, smoking a full pack of\n Marquis cigarettes, the thing was done.", "His parents thought it was very cunning of him to look at the printing\n like that, so wisely, as if he could read it! He said once to Harriet,\n \"I can read it,\" but she said, \"Oh, Stevie, you're teasing Mumsie!\"\n and looked so frightened at this fresh peculiarity that the child said\n gravely, \"Yes, teasing.\" He wished he had a silent book. He knew there\n were such things, but there were none at home. There were few silent\n books anywhere. There were none in kiddie-garden.", "He rehearsed feverishly for the part of the Happy Clown, and because he\n was a fine craftsman and a conscientious artist he continued to give\n it all he had. The sponsors were pleased. A week before Christmas the\n current Happy Clown retired and hobbled off to a nursing home. There\n was no fanfare—the public was not to realize that the Happy Clown was\n mortal—and Steven took over with no visible change. For five days he\n played the part to perfection.\n\n\n On the sixth day he performed as usual, perhaps a little better. His\n commercials had a special fervor, and the sponsors exchanged happy\n glances. Denise was sitting in the booth with them; she smiled at\n Steven lovingly through the glass.", "\"It was because people were different from each other, and didn't\n understand each other, and didn't know each other. They had to learn\n how to be alike, and understand, and know, so that they would be able\n to live together. They learned in many ways, Stevie. One way was by\n visiting each other—you've heard about the visitors who come from—\"\n\n\n Steven said, \"You mean the Happy Tours.\"\n\n\n \"Yes. When you're twelve years old you can go on a Happy Tour. Won't\n that be fun?\"\n\n\n Steven said, \"If I could go alone.\"\n\n\n The doctor looked at him sharply. \"But you can't. Try to understand,\n Stevie, you can't. Now tell me—why don't you like to be with other\n people?\"\n\n\n Steven said, \"All the time—not all the\ntime\n.\"\n\n\n The doctor repeated patiently, \"Why?\"", "Steven did not like the Happy Clown or the Jolly Kitten or the\n Dancing Dogsie. Sometimes he began to grow interested in the cowboys\n or spacemen, but when they stopped in the middle of an adventure to\n talk about how they could not possibly rope the steers or shoot the\n asteroids without a good breakfast of Cornsies and Choko-Milko, which\n everybody ate, just everybody, Steven climbed out of bed and slept on\n the floor.\n\n\n Steven did not like the records or the talking books, and when he went\n to kiddie-garden he viewed the televised lessons with a cold eye. For\n some reason which he could not have explained, he wanted to learn to\n read, but they would not teach him till he was seven, and so he taught\n himself, from the letters on the jarsies. But then there was nothing\n to read except the newspapers and the magazines, which he puzzled over\n patiently, getting most of the words right after a while. The many\n advertisements were easiest; they used pictures and the simplest of\n language.", "Steven did not like his Rockabye Crib, that joggled him gently and sang\n him songs about the Happy Clown all night long; and he howled until\n they turned it off. He was a clean boy, and to his mother's amazement\n trained himself to be dry day and night by the age of fourteen months,\n without the aid of the Singing Toidey or the Happy Clown Alarm; so she\n bought him a Little Folks Youth Bed, with a built-in joggler, and Happy\n Clowns on the corners, and a television set in the footboard. It was a\n smaller copy of his parents' bed, even to the Happy Clowns. Steven did\n not like that either, and if his parents persisted in turning the bed\n on after he had learned to turn it off, he climbed out and slept on the\n floor.\nHarriet said worriedly to her husband, \"I don't know what could be the\n matter with him. Dickie, he's peculiar!\"", "Richard said firmly, \"We'll take him to the clinic. They'll know what\n to do.\"\nThe first thing they did to Steven was to talk to him. The psychiatrist\n made him lie down on a foam rubber couch, kiddies' model, with the\n Happy Clown motif on the slip-cover, and said with a beaming face,\n \"Now, Stevie, what seems to be the trouble?\"\n\n\n The boy turned his head away from the psychiatrist's shining teeth and\n said, \"My name's not Stevie. It's Steven.\" He was a thin little boy,\n rather undersized. The baby fat had melted away fast when he began\n to be exposed to kiddie-garden. He had dark hair and big eyes and an\n uncommonly precise way of speaking for a child of five.", "This year Steven cried, \"Ma!\" stretching out his hands toward the\n silver and uttering a string of determined sounds which were perfectly\n clear to his mother. She smiled at him lovingly but shook her head.\n \"No, Stevie. Mumsie's precious baby doesn't want those nasty old\n things, no he doesn't! Play with your Happy Clown, sweetheart.\"\n\n\n Steven's face got red, and he squeezed his eyes shut, opened his mouth\n and howled until his mother passed him the dish and cup and curly\n spoon to play with. At meal-time he would not be parted from them, and\n Harriet had to put away the plastic dish and spoon. Thereafter, for the\n sake of the container, he tolerated the thing contained, and thrived\n and grew fat." ], [ "Steven was not happy in kiddie-garden. The enthusiasm the other kiddies\n showed for the lessons appalled him. The kiddies themselves appalled\n him. They joined so passionately in the group play, clutching each\n other with their hot moist hands, panting and grinning into each\n others' faces. They were always clutching and panting and grinning, in\n large noisy groups, with large community smiles. They confused him; he\n could not tell them apart. Steven retired to a corner and turned his\n back, and when they clutched and panted and grinned at him he hit them.", "At the end of the tests the Director said seriously to Steven's\n parents, \"I'll be frank with you. You have a brilliant kiddie\n here—right now he has the intelligence of a twelve-year-old—but\n brilliance has to be channeled in the right direction. Just now—well,\n frankly, it's channeled in the wrong direction. We'll give it a year or\n so, and then if things don't clear up I'm afraid we'll have to correct\n him.\"\n\n\n Richard said through dry lips, \"You mean a Steyner?\"\n\n\n The Director nodded. \"The only thing.\"\n\n\n Harriet shuddered and began to cry. \"But there's never been anything\n like that in our family! The disgrace—oh, Dickie, it would kill me!\"", "\"It was because people were different from each other, and didn't\n understand each other, and didn't know each other. They had to learn\n how to be alike, and understand, and know, so that they would be able\n to live together. They learned in many ways, Stevie. One way was by\n visiting each other—you've heard about the visitors who come from—\"\n\n\n Steven said, \"You mean the Happy Tours.\"\n\n\n \"Yes. When you're twelve years old you can go on a Happy Tour. Won't\n that be fun?\"\n\n\n Steven said, \"If I could go alone.\"\n\n\n The doctor looked at him sharply. \"But you can't. Try to understand,\n Stevie, you can't. Now tell me—why don't you like to be with other\n people?\"\n\n\n Steven said, \"All the time—not all the\ntime\n.\"\n\n\n The doctor repeated patiently, \"Why?\"", "Being, as the Director had said, a brilliant kiddie, Steven soon\n understood much of what was kept from him. It did not take him long\n to learn what was making his Dadsie look stern and white and what was\n making his Mumsie cry. He loved his parents and did not want them to be\n unhappy, and he certainly did not want to have his head cut open, and\n so he began to act. Even at five, Steven discovered in himself a fine\n talent for acting. He began to conform, to adjust, to merge. He became\n social and cooperative and acquired the proper attitudes for successful\n community living. He gave up the old silver voluntarily, he accepted\n the Youth Bed, he looked at the Happy Clown, and he did much better in\n kiddie-garden. He even joined in the group experimentation and was not\n sick any more, though he could not keep himself from losing color.", "Steven did not like the Happy Clown or the Jolly Kitten or the\n Dancing Dogsie. Sometimes he began to grow interested in the cowboys\n or spacemen, but when they stopped in the middle of an adventure to\n talk about how they could not possibly rope the steers or shoot the\n asteroids without a good breakfast of Cornsies and Choko-Milko, which\n everybody ate, just everybody, Steven climbed out of bed and slept on\n the floor.\n\n\n Steven did not like the records or the talking books, and when he went\n to kiddie-garden he viewed the televised lessons with a cold eye. For\n some reason which he could not have explained, he wanted to learn to\n read, but they would not teach him till he was seven, and so he taught\n himself, from the letters on the jarsies. But then there was nothing\n to read except the newspapers and the magazines, which he puzzled over\n patiently, getting most of the words right after a while. The many\n advertisements were easiest; they used pictures and the simplest of\n language.", "The boy sat up and regarded him warily. The doctor had a kind face, a\n really kind face in spite of all those shining teeth, and Steven was\n only five years old, after all, and there was nobody to talk to, and he\n was desperately unhappy. Perhaps.... He said, \"You'll tell them.\"\n\n\n The doctor shook his head. \"Nothing goes farther than this room,\n Stevie—Steven.\"\n\n\n The child leaned forward, pressing his knees together, hugging himself\n with his arms, bowing his head. His position was almost foetal. He\n said, \"I'm never by myself. They never let me be by myself.\"", "He managed his life well enough. He had a few affairs with girls, it\n was expected of one, and he did not have to work very hard at it since\n they always threw themselves at him; and he got along well with other\n young men, who forgave him for being so handsome because he did not\n work at it except on camera; but he was lonely. Surrounded by people,\n intruded and trespassed upon, continually touched in ways other than\n physical, he was yet lonely.\nDuring his life he had met a few other nonconformists, shy, like him,\n wary of revealing themselves, but something always seemed to happen\n to them. Some were miserable being nonconformists and asked pitifully\n for the Steyner, some were detected, as Steven had been, and some\n were unfortunately surprised in hospitals. Under the anesthetic they\n sometimes talked, and then, if they were adults, they were immediately\n corrected by means of Steyner's lobotomy. It had been learned that\n adults did not respond to therapy.", "Richard tried to comfort her. \"Never mind, Harry, he'll outgrow it.\"\nSteven did not outgrow it. When he became too big for the curly spoon\n and dish and cup he demanded a knife and fork and spoon from the bureau\n drawer and ate his meals from the plainest dish he could find. He ate\n them with his back stubbornly turned to the television set, away from\n the morning cartoons and the noontime Kiddies' Lunch Club and the\n evening Happy Clown.", "For a while Steven considered confessing to somebody that he was\n a—what?—an unacceptable member of society. Then they would make him\n like Denise. He shuddered. Did he really want to be like Denise? Some\n stubborn pride in him refused it.\n\n\n When Denise left the hospital for the hotel where she would stay until\n the wedding, Steven was more gentle with her than ever, kinder and\n more loving. He made her very happy. He made love to her again, and it\n was like loving a ghost—no, it was like loving a fine beautiful body\n without the ghost, without the spirit. He returned to the HYM to lie\n sleepless amid the breathings and mutterings of the other young men,\n turning restlessly in his bed, feeling oppressed, tormented, strung on\n wires.", "He took her to meet his family—Denise's family lived three thousand\n miles away—and she behaved with such perfect decorum and charm that\n Richard and Harriet were delighted and as eager as Steven for the\n wedding. Steven had agreed reluctantly to put it off until Denise\n had a chance to introduce him to her parents; they were coming East\n at Christmas. She laughed over it and said, \"I'm being terribly\n conventional, darling, but that's one convention I like.\"\nWhile they waited, Steven's agent secured a really unprecedented\n opportunity for so young and relatively untried an actor. The current\n Happy Clown was unhappily retiring, by reason of age and infirmity, and\n Steven's agent arranged a tryout for the part. He said, \"Give it all\n you got, kid; it's the chance of the century.\"", "The psychiatrist said reasonably, \"But nobody can live by himself,\n Stevie.\" He had apparently forgotten Steven, and the boy did not\n correct him again. \"You have to learn to live with other people, to\n work and play with them, to know them, and the only way you can learn\n is by being with them. When you can't be with them personally, there's\n always television. That's how you learn, Stevie. You can't be by\n yourself.\"\n\n\n The boy looked up and said starkly, \"Never?\"\n\n\n The gleaming teeth showed. \"But why should you want to?\"\n\n\n Steven said, \"I don't know.\"\n\n\n The doctor said, slowly and with emphasis, \"Stevie, long before you\n were born the world was a very bad place. There were wars all the time.\n Do you know why?\"\n\n\n The boy shook his head.", "Richard said firmly, \"We'll take him to the clinic. They'll know what\n to do.\"\nThe first thing they did to Steven was to talk to him. The psychiatrist\n made him lie down on a foam rubber couch, kiddies' model, with the\n Happy Clown motif on the slip-cover, and said with a beaming face,\n \"Now, Stevie, what seems to be the trouble?\"\n\n\n The boy turned his head away from the psychiatrist's shining teeth and\n said, \"My name's not Stevie. It's Steven.\" He was a thin little boy,\n rather undersized. The baby fat had melted away fast when he began\n to be exposed to kiddie-garden. He had dark hair and big eyes and an\n uncommonly precise way of speaking for a child of five.", "Steven met no nonconformists at the School of Television Arts, and none\n while he was acting in \"The Happy Life\" until Denise Cottrell joined\n the cast. Denise—called Denny, of course—was a pleasantly plain young\n woman with a whimsical face which photographed pretty, and remarkable\n dark blue eyes. It was her eyes which first made Steven wonder. They\n mirrored his own hope, and longing, and the desperate loneliness of the\n exile.\n\n\n For two months they were together as often as they could be, talking\n intellectual treason in public under cover of conventional faces,\n and talking intellectual treason in private with excitement and\n laughter and sometimes tears—falling in love. They planned, after\n much discussion, to be married and to bring up a dozen clever rebel\n children. Denise said soberly, \"They'd better be clever, because\n they'll have to learn to hide.\"", "They were pleased with him at the clinic and after a few months\n discharged him. By the time Steven was twelve and had made the Happy\n Tour and joined the Happy Scouts and had a happy affair, involving\n experimentation, with a neighbor's daughter, Harriet and Richard ceased\n to worry about him. If sometimes he felt so tightly strung-up that a\n storm of tears was his only relief, he kept the tears quiet.\nHe was graduated from high school at sixteen and from college at\n twenty, having read all he could of the silent books in the scant high\n school library and the more ample university one, and having wisely\n elected to appear more stupid than he was. Even his I.Q. was now\n judged to be only slightly above normal. He left college with honors,", "Steven looked at the doctor and said a very strange thing. \"They touch\n me.\" He seemed to shrink into himself. \"Not just with their hands.\"\n\n\n The doctor shook his head sadly. \"Of course they do, that's just—well,\n maybe you're too young to understand.\"\n\n\n The interview went on for quite a while, and at the end of it Steven\n was given a series of tests which took a week. The psychiatrist had\n not told the truth; what the boy said, during the first interview and\n all the tests, was fully recorded on concealed machines. The complete\n transcript made a fat dossier in the office of the Clinic Director.", "Steven did well at Television Arts, soon taking more leads than was\n customary in School productions, which were organized on a strictly\n repertory basis. He did not stay to graduate, being snatched away in\n his first year by a talent scout for a popular daytime serial, \"The\n Happy Life.\"", "popularity and a reputation as an actor. He took the lead in all the\n dramatic club plays, having particular success in the reproduction\n of a Happy Clown program. Steven, of course, was the Happy Clown. He\n enrolled at once in the New York School of Television Arts, and his\n mother cried when he left home to live in the School dormitory.", "The psychiatrist said, \"Oh, but we're going to be friends, Stevie,\n and friends always use nicknames, don't they? My name's William, but\n everybody calls me Willie. You can call me Uncle Willie.\"\n\n\n The boy said politely, \"I'd rather not, please.\"\n\n\n The doctor was undismayed. \"I want to help you. You believe that, don't\n you, Stevie?\"\n\n\n The child said, \"Steven. Do I have to lie down?\"\n\n\n The doctor said agreeably, \"It's more usual to lie down, but you may\n sit up if you want to. Why don't you like kiddie-garden, Steven?\"", "Steven said, \"Sure, Joey,\" and allowed his sensitive face to register\n all the proper emotions. Actually his emotions were, in the vernacular\n of a previous century, mixed. He loathed the whole concept of the Happy\n Clown—but there was money in it, and Steven was not rebel enough to\n despise money. With money he could retire early, go away somewhere with\n Denise, to some country place where they could be relatively free of\n pressure.\n\n\n Over staggering competition he got the part. He called Denise up at\n once from a booth at the studio to tell her. Polly answered the phone,\n looking pale and frightened over the viewer, and said rapidly, \"Oh,\n Stevie, I've been trying to get you for an hour. Denny's sick. They\n took her to the hospital!\"\n\n\n Steven sat back against the hard wall of the booth, feeling cold, the\n receiver slack in his hand. He said, \"What's the matter with her? Which\n hospital?\"", "He rehearsed feverishly for the part of the Happy Clown, and because he\n was a fine craftsman and a conscientious artist he continued to give\n it all he had. The sponsors were pleased. A week before Christmas the\n current Happy Clown retired and hobbled off to a nursing home. There\n was no fanfare—the public was not to realize that the Happy Clown was\n mortal—and Steven took over with no visible change. For five days he\n played the part to perfection.\n\n\n On the sixth day he performed as usual, perhaps a little better. His\n commercials had a special fervor, and the sponsors exchanged happy\n glances. Denise was sitting in the booth with them; she smiled at\n Steven lovingly through the glass." ], [ "For a while Steven considered confessing to somebody that he was\n a—what?—an unacceptable member of society. Then they would make him\n like Denise. He shuddered. Did he really want to be like Denise? Some\n stubborn pride in him refused it.\n\n\n When Denise left the hospital for the hotel where she would stay until\n the wedding, Steven was more gentle with her than ever, kinder and\n more loving. He made her very happy. He made love to her again, and it\n was like loving a ghost—no, it was like loving a fine beautiful body\n without the ghost, without the spirit. He returned to the HYM to lie\n sleepless amid the breathings and mutterings of the other young men,\n turning restlessly in his bed, feeling oppressed, tormented, strung on\n wires.", "At last the doctor came out to him and said what was always said in\n such cases. \"It was necessary to do something—you understand, no\n mention—\" and for a moment Steven felt so ill that he was grateful\n for the little ampoule the doctor broke and held under his nose. They\n always carried those when they had to give news of a Steyner to\n relatives or sweethearts or friends.\n\n\n The doctor said, \"All right now? Good .... You'll be careful, of\n course. She may be conscious for a minute; there's no harm in it yet,\n she won't move or touch the—\"\n\n\n Steven said, \"I'll be careful.\"\n\n\n He was still feeling ill when they let him in to see Denise. He sat\n down beside her bed and spoke to her urgently. \"Denise, talk to me.\n Please, Denise!\"", "That night in the HYM dormitory Steven did not sleep. He lay quiet,\n tense, hoping for the relief of tears, but it did not come.\nSteven went to see Denise every day though after the first time she\n was not awake to know him. The doctors were keeping her under sedation\n until the head bandage could be removed. So far as Denise was to\n know, she had gone to the hospital simply for a rather protracted\n appendectomy. Looking at her, Steven knew that he could never leave\n her. He had loved her completely; he would love her now with as much of\n himself as she would need or understand.\n\n\n For a while he waited to be kindly questioned, to be thoroughly\n examined, to be tenderly given the shot in the arm and to awake like\n her, but nobody came. Denise had apparently said nothing about him.\n Some censor or other—perhaps it was the censor of love—had kept her\n from even saying his name.", "He took her to meet his family—Denise's family lived three thousand\n miles away—and she behaved with such perfect decorum and charm that\n Richard and Harriet were delighted and as eager as Steven for the\n wedding. Steven had agreed reluctantly to put it off until Denise\n had a chance to introduce him to her parents; they were coming East\n at Christmas. She laughed over it and said, \"I'm being terribly\n conventional, darling, but that's one convention I like.\"\nWhile they waited, Steven's agent secured a really unprecedented\n opportunity for so young and relatively untried an actor. The current\n Happy Clown was unhappily retiring, by reason of age and infirmity, and\n Steven's agent arranged a tryout for the part. He said, \"Give it all\n you got, kid; it's the chance of the century.\"", "They made love in Denise's apartment when her roommate\n Pauline—Polly—was out, as awkwardly as if there had never been any\n group experimentation or happy affairs. Denise said wonderingly, \"When\n you really love someone it's all new. Isn't that strange?\" and Steven\n said, kissing her, \"No, not strange at all.\"", "Steven met no nonconformists at the School of Television Arts, and none\n while he was acting in \"The Happy Life\" until Denise Cottrell joined\n the cast. Denise—called Denny, of course—was a pleasantly plain young\n woman with a whimsical face which photographed pretty, and remarkable\n dark blue eyes. It was her eyes which first made Steven wonder. They\n mirrored his own hope, and longing, and the desperate loneliness of the\n exile.\n\n\n For two months they were together as often as they could be, talking\n intellectual treason in public under cover of conventional faces,\n and talking intellectual treason in private with excitement and\n laughter and sometimes tears—falling in love. They planned, after\n much discussion, to be married and to bring up a dozen clever rebel\n children. Denise said soberly, \"They'd better be clever, because\n they'll have to learn to hide.\"", "Steven said, \"Sure, Joey,\" and allowed his sensitive face to register\n all the proper emotions. Actually his emotions were, in the vernacular\n of a previous century, mixed. He loathed the whole concept of the Happy\n Clown—but there was money in it, and Steven was not rebel enough to\n despise money. With money he could retire early, go away somewhere with\n Denise, to some country place where they could be relatively free of\n pressure.\n\n\n Over staggering competition he got the part. He called Denise up at\n once from a booth at the studio to tell her. Polly answered the phone,\n looking pale and frightened over the viewer, and said rapidly, \"Oh,\n Stevie, I've been trying to get you for an hour. Denny's sick. They\n took her to the hospital!\"\n\n\n Steven sat back against the hard wall of the booth, feeling cold, the\n receiver slack in his hand. He said, \"What's the matter with her? Which\n hospital?\"", "She opened her eyes, looked at him drowsily and smiled. \"Oh, Stevie,\n I'm so glad you came. I've been wanting you, darling.\"\n\n\n Steven said, \"Denise—\"\n\n\n She frowned. \"Why do you call me that? Call me Denny. Did you get the\n part, darling?\"\n\n\n He drew back a little. \"Yes, I got it.\"\n\n\n She gave him a radiant smile. \"That's wonderful! I'm so proud of you,\n Stevie.\" She slept again.", "Denise was lost to him. The outburst in the studio, and the Steyner,\n and the loss of the Happy Clown part were cumulatively too much for\n her. She broke the engagement and was heard to say that Stevie Russell\n had proved himself an absolute fool. He was miserable over it, though\n he had only a hazy idea of what he had done or why Denny should\n suddenly be so unkind to him.", "But, around the studios Steven was dead. Steyner or no Steyner—and\n of course that part of it was never openly discussed—sponsors had\n long memories, and the consensus seemed to be that it was best to\n let sleeping sheep lie. Steven did not care. He no longer had any\n particular desire to be an actor.\n\n\n Steven went to work in his father's supermarket and was happy among\n the shelves of Oatsies and Cornsies and Jellsies. He got over Denise\n after a while and met a girl named Frances—Franny—whom he loved and\n who loved him. They were married in the summer and had a little house\n with as much furniture in it as they could afford. The first thing they\n bought was a television set. After all, as Stevie said, he would not\n want to miss the Happy Clown.", "He rehearsed feverishly for the part of the Happy Clown, and because he\n was a fine craftsman and a conscientious artist he continued to give\n it all he had. The sponsors were pleased. A week before Christmas the\n current Happy Clown retired and hobbled off to a nursing home. There\n was no fanfare—the public was not to realize that the Happy Clown was\n mortal—and Steven took over with no visible change. For five days he\n played the part to perfection.\n\n\n On the sixth day he performed as usual, perhaps a little better. His\n commercials had a special fervor, and the sponsors exchanged happy\n glances. Denise was sitting in the booth with them; she smiled at\n Steven lovingly through the glass.", "\"Ap-pendicitis. Happy Hour.\" Polly began to cry. \"Oh, Stevie, I feel\n so—\"\n\n\n \"I'll go right over.\" He cut her off abruptly and went.\n\n\n The doctors caught Denise's appendix in time to avoid the necessary but\n rarely fatal complications ... but under the anesthetic she talked,\n revealing enough about her opinion of television, and the Happy Clown\n cult, and the state of society in general, to cause her doctors to\n raise their eyebrows pityingly and perform the Steyner at once. While\n Steven sat unknowing in the waiting room, smoking a full pack of\n Marquis cigarettes, the thing was done.", "Steven was not happy in kiddie-garden. The enthusiasm the other kiddies\n showed for the lessons appalled him. The kiddies themselves appalled\n him. They joined so passionately in the group play, clutching each\n other with their hot moist hands, panting and grinning into each\n others' faces. They were always clutching and panting and grinning, in\n large noisy groups, with large community smiles. They confused him; he\n could not tell them apart. Steven retired to a corner and turned his\n back, and when they clutched and panted and grinned at him he hit them.", "The boy sat up and regarded him warily. The doctor had a kind face, a\n really kind face in spite of all those shining teeth, and Steven was\n only five years old, after all, and there was nobody to talk to, and he\n was desperately unhappy. Perhaps.... He said, \"You'll tell them.\"\n\n\n The doctor shook his head. \"Nothing goes farther than this room,\n Stevie—Steven.\"\n\n\n The child leaned forward, pressing his knees together, hugging himself\n with his arms, bowing his head. His position was almost foetal. He\n said, \"I'm never by myself. They never let me be by myself.\"", "The psychiatrist said, \"Oh, but we're going to be friends, Stevie,\n and friends always use nicknames, don't they? My name's William, but\n everybody calls me Willie. You can call me Uncle Willie.\"\n\n\n The boy said politely, \"I'd rather not, please.\"\n\n\n The doctor was undismayed. \"I want to help you. You believe that, don't\n you, Stevie?\"\n\n\n The child said, \"Steven. Do I have to lie down?\"\n\n\n The doctor said agreeably, \"It's more usual to lie down, but you may\n sit up if you want to. Why don't you like kiddie-garden, Steven?\"", "At the end of the tests the Director said seriously to Steven's\n parents, \"I'll be frank with you. You have a brilliant kiddie\n here—right now he has the intelligence of a twelve-year-old—but\n brilliance has to be channeled in the right direction. Just now—well,\n frankly, it's channeled in the wrong direction. We'll give it a year or\n so, and then if things don't clear up I'm afraid we'll have to correct\n him.\"\n\n\n Richard said through dry lips, \"You mean a Steyner?\"\n\n\n The Director nodded. \"The only thing.\"\n\n\n Harriet shuddered and began to cry. \"But there's never been anything\n like that in our family! The disgrace—oh, Dickie, it would kill me!\"", "Richard said firmly, \"We'll take him to the clinic. They'll know what\n to do.\"\nThe first thing they did to Steven was to talk to him. The psychiatrist\n made him lie down on a foam rubber couch, kiddies' model, with the\n Happy Clown motif on the slip-cover, and said with a beaming face,\n \"Now, Stevie, what seems to be the trouble?\"\n\n\n The boy turned his head away from the psychiatrist's shining teeth and\n said, \"My name's not Stevie. It's Steven.\" He was a thin little boy,\n rather undersized. The baby fat had melted away fast when he began\n to be exposed to kiddie-garden. He had dark hair and big eyes and an\n uncommonly precise way of speaking for a child of five.", "Being, as the Director had said, a brilliant kiddie, Steven soon\n understood much of what was kept from him. It did not take him long\n to learn what was making his Dadsie look stern and white and what was\n making his Mumsie cry. He loved his parents and did not want them to be\n unhappy, and he certainly did not want to have his head cut open, and\n so he began to act. Even at five, Steven discovered in himself a fine\n talent for acting. He began to conform, to adjust, to merge. He became\n social and cooperative and acquired the proper attitudes for successful\n community living. He gave up the old silver voluntarily, he accepted\n the Youth Bed, he looked at the Happy Clown, and he did much better in\n kiddie-garden. He even joined in the group experimentation and was not\n sick any more, though he could not keep himself from losing color.", "Fortunately nobody heard the last three sentences. The paralyzed\n engineer had recovered in time to cut him off during the pause, and\n had signalled the stagehand to draw the curtain and the sound man to\n play the Happy Clown sign-off record—loud. Steven finished himself\n thoroughly, however, by repeating the same sentiments, with some others\n he happened to think of, to Denise and the sponsors, when they all came\n pouring out of the booth. Then he collapsed.\nSteven's Steyner was a complete success. He recovered from it a\n subdued, agreeable and thoroughly conventional young man, who had the\n impression that he had suffered a nervous breakdown. He was discharged\n from the Happy Hour at the end of January, innocently leaving behind", "Steven looked at the doctor and said a very strange thing. \"They touch\n me.\" He seemed to shrink into himself. \"Not just with their hands.\"\n\n\n The doctor shook his head sadly. \"Of course they do, that's just—well,\n maybe you're too young to understand.\"\n\n\n The interview went on for quite a while, and at the end of it Steven\n was given a series of tests which took a week. The psychiatrist had\n not told the truth; what the boy said, during the first interview and\n all the tests, was fully recorded on concealed machines. The complete\n transcript made a fat dossier in the office of the Clinic Director." ], [ "He rehearsed feverishly for the part of the Happy Clown, and because he\n was a fine craftsman and a conscientious artist he continued to give\n it all he had. The sponsors were pleased. A week before Christmas the\n current Happy Clown retired and hobbled off to a nursing home. There\n was no fanfare—the public was not to realize that the Happy Clown was\n mortal—and Steven took over with no visible change. For five days he\n played the part to perfection.\n\n\n On the sixth day he performed as usual, perhaps a little better. His\n commercials had a special fervor, and the sponsors exchanged happy\n glances. Denise was sitting in the booth with them; she smiled at\n Steven lovingly through the glass.", "They were pleased with him at the clinic and after a few months\n discharged him. By the time Steven was twelve and had made the Happy\n Tour and joined the Happy Scouts and had a happy affair, involving\n experimentation, with a neighbor's daughter, Harriet and Richard ceased\n to worry about him. If sometimes he felt so tightly strung-up that a\n storm of tears was his only relief, he kept the tears quiet.\nHe was graduated from high school at sixteen and from college at\n twenty, having read all he could of the silent books in the scant high\n school library and the more ample university one, and having wisely\n elected to appear more stupid than he was. Even his I.Q. was now\n judged to be only slightly above normal. He left college with honors,", "Steven did not like his Rockabye Crib, that joggled him gently and sang\n him songs about the Happy Clown all night long; and he howled until\n they turned it off. He was a clean boy, and to his mother's amazement\n trained himself to be dry day and night by the age of fourteen months,\n without the aid of the Singing Toidey or the Happy Clown Alarm; so she\n bought him a Little Folks Youth Bed, with a built-in joggler, and Happy\n Clowns on the corners, and a television set in the footboard. It was a\n smaller copy of his parents' bed, even to the Happy Clowns. Steven did\n not like that either, and if his parents persisted in turning the bed\n on after he had learned to turn it off, he climbed out and slept on the\n floor.\nHarriet said worriedly to her husband, \"I don't know what could be the\n matter with him. Dickie, he's peculiar!\"", "The doctor said cheerily, \"There's nothing the matter with him. He'll\n eat when he gets hungry enough,\" and Steven did, to a degree, but not\n as if he enjoyed it.\n\n\n One day when he was nearly a year old, his mother carried his Kiddie\n Korner with the Dancing Dogsies on the pad into her bedroom, put him in\n it, and began to take things out of the bottom bureau drawer. They were\n old things, and Harriet Russell was ashamed of them. She had said more\n than once to her husband Richard, only half joking, \"I couldn't give\n them away, and I'd be ashamed for anybody to see them in our trash!\"\n They were old silver, knives and forks and spoons that looked like what\n they were, unadorned, and a child's plain silver dish and cup, and one\n small spoon with a useful curly handle. They had belonged to Harriet's\n great-grandmother. Once a year Harriet took the things out and polished\n them and furtively put them back.", "Richard said firmly, \"We'll take him to the clinic. They'll know what\n to do.\"\nThe first thing they did to Steven was to talk to him. The psychiatrist\n made him lie down on a foam rubber couch, kiddies' model, with the\n Happy Clown motif on the slip-cover, and said with a beaming face,\n \"Now, Stevie, what seems to be the trouble?\"\n\n\n The boy turned his head away from the psychiatrist's shining teeth and\n said, \"My name's not Stevie. It's Steven.\" He was a thin little boy,\n rather undersized. The baby fat had melted away fast when he began\n to be exposed to kiddie-garden. He had dark hair and big eyes and an\n uncommonly precise way of speaking for a child of five.", "him the broken hearts of three nurses and one female physician, and\n went home to his parents. During his convalescence they were patient\n with him and passionately kind. In spite of the disgrace they felt, a\n disgrace that would never be mentioned, they loved him even better than\n before, because now he was irrevocably like them.", "At last the doctor came out to him and said what was always said in\n such cases. \"It was necessary to do something—you understand, no\n mention—\" and for a moment Steven felt so ill that he was grateful\n for the little ampoule the doctor broke and held under his nose. They\n always carried those when they had to give news of a Steyner to\n relatives or sweethearts or friends.\n\n\n The doctor said, \"All right now? Good .... You'll be careful, of\n course. She may be conscious for a minute; there's no harm in it yet,\n she won't move or touch the—\"\n\n\n Steven said, \"I'll be careful.\"\n\n\n He was still feeling ill when they let him in to see Denise. He sat\n down beside her bed and spoke to her urgently. \"Denise, talk to me.\n Please, Denise!\"", "He said, \"Are you all happy? You are, aren't you?—everybody's happy,\n because you're all sheep! All sheep, in a nice safe pasture. All\n alike—you eat alike and dress alike and think alike. If any of you has\n an original thought you'd better suppress it, or they'll cut it out of\n you with a knife.\" He leaned forward and made a horrible face at the\n camera. Under the jolly makeup and the artful padding, his mouth was\n shockingly twisted, and tears were running out of his eyes. \"A long\n sharp knife, folks!\" He paused momentarily to recover his voice, which\n had begun to shake. \"Go on being happy, go on being sheep. Wear the\n clothesies, and eat the foodsies, and don't dare think! Me—I'd rather\n be dead, and damned, and in hell!\"", "Fortunately nobody heard the last three sentences. The paralyzed\n engineer had recovered in time to cut him off during the pause, and\n had signalled the stagehand to draw the curtain and the sound man to\n play the Happy Clown sign-off record—loud. Steven finished himself\n thoroughly, however, by repeating the same sentiments, with some others\n he happened to think of, to Denise and the sponsors, when they all came\n pouring out of the booth. Then he collapsed.\nSteven's Steyner was a complete success. He recovered from it a\n subdued, agreeable and thoroughly conventional young man, who had the\n impression that he had suffered a nervous breakdown. He was discharged\n from the Happy Hour at the end of January, innocently leaving behind", "He took her to meet his family—Denise's family lived three thousand\n miles away—and she behaved with such perfect decorum and charm that\n Richard and Harriet were delighted and as eager as Steven for the\n wedding. Steven had agreed reluctantly to put it off until Denise\n had a chance to introduce him to her parents; they were coming East\n at Christmas. She laughed over it and said, \"I'm being terribly\n conventional, darling, but that's one convention I like.\"\nWhile they waited, Steven's agent secured a really unprecedented\n opportunity for so young and relatively untried an actor. The current\n Happy Clown was unhappily retiring, by reason of age and infirmity, and\n Steven's agent arranged a tryout for the part. He said, \"Give it all\n you got, kid; it's the chance of the century.\"", "But, around the studios Steven was dead. Steyner or no Steyner—and\n of course that part of it was never openly discussed—sponsors had\n long memories, and the consensus seemed to be that it was best to\n let sleeping sheep lie. Steven did not care. He no longer had any\n particular desire to be an actor.\n\n\n Steven went to work in his father's supermarket and was happy among\n the shelves of Oatsies and Cornsies and Jellsies. He got over Denise\n after a while and met a girl named Frances—Franny—whom he loved and\n who loved him. They were married in the summer and had a little house\n with as much furniture in it as they could afford. The first thing they\n bought was a television set. After all, as Stevie said, he would not\n want to miss the Happy Clown.", "He managed his life well enough. He had a few affairs with girls, it\n was expected of one, and he did not have to work very hard at it since\n they always threw themselves at him; and he got along well with other\n young men, who forgave him for being so handsome because he did not\n work at it except on camera; but he was lonely. Surrounded by people,\n intruded and trespassed upon, continually touched in ways other than\n physical, he was yet lonely.\nDuring his life he had met a few other nonconformists, shy, like him,\n wary of revealing themselves, but something always seemed to happen\n to them. Some were miserable being nonconformists and asked pitifully\n for the Steyner, some were detected, as Steven had been, and some\n were unfortunately surprised in hospitals. Under the anesthetic they\n sometimes talked, and then, if they were adults, they were immediately\n corrected by means of Steyner's lobotomy. It had been learned that\n adults did not respond to therapy.", "The Happy Clown incident had passed off well—immediately after\n it occurred, a powerful battery of comedians, including the Jolly\n Kitten and the Dancing Dogsie, forgetting rivalries to rally 'round\n in a crisis, went on the air to insure that it passed off well. They\n made certain that every viewer should regard the whole thing as a\n tremendously funny if rather mystifying joke. The viewers fell in with\n this opinion easily and laughed about the sheep joke a good deal,\n admiring the Happy Clown's sense of humor—a little sharp, to be sure,\n not so folksy and down-to-earth as usual, but the Happy Clown could do\n no wrong. They said to each other, \"He laughed till he cried, did you\n notice? So did I!\" For a while teenagers addressed each other as, \"Hi,\n sheep!\" (girls were, \"Hi, lamb!\"), and a novelty company in Des Moines\n made a quick killing with scatter pins fashioned like sheep and/or\n lambs.", "\"Ap-pendicitis. Happy Hour.\" Polly began to cry. \"Oh, Stevie, I feel\n so—\"\n\n\n \"I'll go right over.\" He cut her off abruptly and went.\n\n\n The doctors caught Denise's appendix in time to avoid the necessary but\n rarely fatal complications ... but under the anesthetic she talked,\n revealing enough about her opinion of television, and the Happy Clown\n cult, and the state of society in general, to cause her doctors to\n raise their eyebrows pityingly and perform the Steyner at once. While\n Steven sat unknowing in the waiting room, smoking a full pack of\n Marquis cigarettes, the thing was done.", "Steven did not like the Happy Clown or the Jolly Kitten or the\n Dancing Dogsie. Sometimes he began to grow interested in the cowboys\n or spacemen, but when they stopped in the middle of an adventure to\n talk about how they could not possibly rope the steers or shoot the\n asteroids without a good breakfast of Cornsies and Choko-Milko, which\n everybody ate, just everybody, Steven climbed out of bed and slept on\n the floor.\n\n\n Steven did not like the records or the talking books, and when he went\n to kiddie-garden he viewed the televised lessons with a cold eye. For\n some reason which he could not have explained, he wanted to learn to\n read, but they would not teach him till he was seven, and so he taught\n himself, from the letters on the jarsies. But then there was nothing\n to read except the newspapers and the magazines, which he puzzled over\n patiently, getting most of the words right after a while. The many\n advertisements were easiest; they used pictures and the simplest of\n language.", "Steven said, \"Sure, Joey,\" and allowed his sensitive face to register\n all the proper emotions. Actually his emotions were, in the vernacular\n of a previous century, mixed. He loathed the whole concept of the Happy\n Clown—but there was money in it, and Steven was not rebel enough to\n despise money. With money he could retire early, go away somewhere with\n Denise, to some country place where they could be relatively free of\n pressure.\n\n\n Over staggering competition he got the part. He called Denise up at\n once from a booth at the studio to tell her. Polly answered the phone,\n looking pale and frightened over the viewer, and said rapidly, \"Oh,\n Stevie, I've been trying to get you for an hour. Denny's sick. They\n took her to the hospital!\"\n\n\n Steven sat back against the hard wall of the booth, feeling cold, the\n receiver slack in his hand. He said, \"What's the matter with her? Which\n hospital?\"", "Being, as the Director had said, a brilliant kiddie, Steven soon\n understood much of what was kept from him. It did not take him long\n to learn what was making his Dadsie look stern and white and what was\n making his Mumsie cry. He loved his parents and did not want them to be\n unhappy, and he certainly did not want to have his head cut open, and\n so he began to act. Even at five, Steven discovered in himself a fine\n talent for acting. He began to conform, to adjust, to merge. He became\n social and cooperative and acquired the proper attitudes for successful\n community living. He gave up the old silver voluntarily, he accepted\n the Youth Bed, he looked at the Happy Clown, and he did much better in\n kiddie-garden. He even joined in the group experimentation and was not\n sick any more, though he could not keep himself from losing color.", "The boy sat up and regarded him warily. The doctor had a kind face, a\n really kind face in spite of all those shining teeth, and Steven was\n only five years old, after all, and there was nobody to talk to, and he\n was desperately unhappy. Perhaps.... He said, \"You'll tell them.\"\n\n\n The doctor shook his head. \"Nothing goes farther than this room,\n Stevie—Steven.\"\n\n\n The child leaned forward, pressing his knees together, hugging himself\n with his arms, bowing his head. His position was almost foetal. He\n said, \"I'm never by myself. They never let me be by myself.\"", "The psychiatrist said, \"Oh, but we're going to be friends, Stevie,\n and friends always use nicknames, don't they? My name's William, but\n everybody calls me Willie. You can call me Uncle Willie.\"\n\n\n The boy said politely, \"I'd rather not, please.\"\n\n\n The doctor was undismayed. \"I want to help you. You believe that, don't\n you, Stevie?\"\n\n\n The child said, \"Steven. Do I have to lie down?\"\n\n\n The doctor said agreeably, \"It's more usual to lie down, but you may\n sit up if you want to. Why don't you like kiddie-garden, Steven?\"", "This year Steven cried, \"Ma!\" stretching out his hands toward the\n silver and uttering a string of determined sounds which were perfectly\n clear to his mother. She smiled at him lovingly but shook her head.\n \"No, Stevie. Mumsie's precious baby doesn't want those nasty old\n things, no he doesn't! Play with your Happy Clown, sweetheart.\"\n\n\n Steven's face got red, and he squeezed his eyes shut, opened his mouth\n and howled until his mother passed him the dish and cup and curly\n spoon to play with. At meal-time he would not be parted from them, and\n Harriet had to put away the plastic dish and spoon. Thereafter, for the\n sake of the container, he tolerated the thing contained, and thrived\n and grew fat." ], [ "For a while Steven considered confessing to somebody that he was\n a—what?—an unacceptable member of society. Then they would make him\n like Denise. He shuddered. Did he really want to be like Denise? Some\n stubborn pride in him refused it.\n\n\n When Denise left the hospital for the hotel where she would stay until\n the wedding, Steven was more gentle with her than ever, kinder and\n more loving. He made her very happy. He made love to her again, and it\n was like loving a ghost—no, it was like loving a fine beautiful body\n without the ghost, without the spirit. He returned to the HYM to lie\n sleepless amid the breathings and mutterings of the other young men,\n turning restlessly in his bed, feeling oppressed, tormented, strung on\n wires.", "Being, as the Director had said, a brilliant kiddie, Steven soon\n understood much of what was kept from him. It did not take him long\n to learn what was making his Dadsie look stern and white and what was\n making his Mumsie cry. He loved his parents and did not want them to be\n unhappy, and he certainly did not want to have his head cut open, and\n so he began to act. Even at five, Steven discovered in himself a fine\n talent for acting. He began to conform, to adjust, to merge. He became\n social and cooperative and acquired the proper attitudes for successful\n community living. He gave up the old silver voluntarily, he accepted\n the Youth Bed, he looked at the Happy Clown, and he did much better in\n kiddie-garden. He even joined in the group experimentation and was not\n sick any more, though he could not keep himself from losing color.", "Fortunately nobody heard the last three sentences. The paralyzed\n engineer had recovered in time to cut him off during the pause, and\n had signalled the stagehand to draw the curtain and the sound man to\n play the Happy Clown sign-off record—loud. Steven finished himself\n thoroughly, however, by repeating the same sentiments, with some others\n he happened to think of, to Denise and the sponsors, when they all came\n pouring out of the booth. Then he collapsed.\nSteven's Steyner was a complete success. He recovered from it a\n subdued, agreeable and thoroughly conventional young man, who had the\n impression that he had suffered a nervous breakdown. He was discharged\n from the Happy Hour at the end of January, innocently leaving behind", "But, around the studios Steven was dead. Steyner or no Steyner—and\n of course that part of it was never openly discussed—sponsors had\n long memories, and the consensus seemed to be that it was best to\n let sleeping sheep lie. Steven did not care. He no longer had any\n particular desire to be an actor.\n\n\n Steven went to work in his father's supermarket and was happy among\n the shelves of Oatsies and Cornsies and Jellsies. He got over Denise\n after a while and met a girl named Frances—Franny—whom he loved and\n who loved him. They were married in the summer and had a little house\n with as much furniture in it as they could afford. The first thing they\n bought was a television set. After all, as Stevie said, he would not\n want to miss the Happy Clown.", "That night in the HYM dormitory Steven did not sleep. He lay quiet,\n tense, hoping for the relief of tears, but it did not come.\nSteven went to see Denise every day though after the first time she\n was not awake to know him. The doctors were keeping her under sedation\n until the head bandage could be removed. So far as Denise was to\n know, she had gone to the hospital simply for a rather protracted\n appendectomy. Looking at her, Steven knew that he could never leave\n her. He had loved her completely; he would love her now with as much of\n himself as she would need or understand.\n\n\n For a while he waited to be kindly questioned, to be thoroughly\n examined, to be tenderly given the shot in the arm and to awake like\n her, but nobody came. Denise had apparently said nothing about him.\n Some censor or other—perhaps it was the censor of love—had kept her\n from even saying his name.", "Steven said, \"Sure, Joey,\" and allowed his sensitive face to register\n all the proper emotions. Actually his emotions were, in the vernacular\n of a previous century, mixed. He loathed the whole concept of the Happy\n Clown—but there was money in it, and Steven was not rebel enough to\n despise money. With money he could retire early, go away somewhere with\n Denise, to some country place where they could be relatively free of\n pressure.\n\n\n Over staggering competition he got the part. He called Denise up at\n once from a booth at the studio to tell her. Polly answered the phone,\n looking pale and frightened over the viewer, and said rapidly, \"Oh,\n Stevie, I've been trying to get you for an hour. Denny's sick. They\n took her to the hospital!\"\n\n\n Steven sat back against the hard wall of the booth, feeling cold, the\n receiver slack in his hand. He said, \"What's the matter with her? Which\n hospital?\"", "At last the doctor came out to him and said what was always said in\n such cases. \"It was necessary to do something—you understand, no\n mention—\" and for a moment Steven felt so ill that he was grateful\n for the little ampoule the doctor broke and held under his nose. They\n always carried those when they had to give news of a Steyner to\n relatives or sweethearts or friends.\n\n\n The doctor said, \"All right now? Good .... You'll be careful, of\n course. She may be conscious for a minute; there's no harm in it yet,\n she won't move or touch the—\"\n\n\n Steven said, \"I'll be careful.\"\n\n\n He was still feeling ill when they let him in to see Denise. He sat\n down beside her bed and spoke to her urgently. \"Denise, talk to me.\n Please, Denise!\"", "He managed his life well enough. He had a few affairs with girls, it\n was expected of one, and he did not have to work very hard at it since\n they always threw themselves at him; and he got along well with other\n young men, who forgave him for being so handsome because he did not\n work at it except on camera; but he was lonely. Surrounded by people,\n intruded and trespassed upon, continually touched in ways other than\n physical, he was yet lonely.\nDuring his life he had met a few other nonconformists, shy, like him,\n wary of revealing themselves, but something always seemed to happen\n to them. Some were miserable being nonconformists and asked pitifully\n for the Steyner, some were detected, as Steven had been, and some\n were unfortunately surprised in hospitals. Under the anesthetic they\n sometimes talked, and then, if they were adults, they were immediately\n corrected by means of Steyner's lobotomy. It had been learned that\n adults did not respond to therapy.", "Steven was not happy in kiddie-garden. The enthusiasm the other kiddies\n showed for the lessons appalled him. The kiddies themselves appalled\n him. They joined so passionately in the group play, clutching each\n other with their hot moist hands, panting and grinning into each\n others' faces. They were always clutching and panting and grinning, in\n large noisy groups, with large community smiles. They confused him; he\n could not tell them apart. Steven retired to a corner and turned his\n back, and when they clutched and panted and grinned at him he hit them.", "The boy sat up and regarded him warily. The doctor had a kind face, a\n really kind face in spite of all those shining teeth, and Steven was\n only five years old, after all, and there was nobody to talk to, and he\n was desperately unhappy. Perhaps.... He said, \"You'll tell them.\"\n\n\n The doctor shook his head. \"Nothing goes farther than this room,\n Stevie—Steven.\"\n\n\n The child leaned forward, pressing his knees together, hugging himself\n with his arms, bowing his head. His position was almost foetal. He\n said, \"I'm never by myself. They never let me be by myself.\"", "He rehearsed feverishly for the part of the Happy Clown, and because he\n was a fine craftsman and a conscientious artist he continued to give\n it all he had. The sponsors were pleased. A week before Christmas the\n current Happy Clown retired and hobbled off to a nursing home. There\n was no fanfare—the public was not to realize that the Happy Clown was\n mortal—and Steven took over with no visible change. For five days he\n played the part to perfection.\n\n\n On the sixth day he performed as usual, perhaps a little better. His\n commercials had a special fervor, and the sponsors exchanged happy\n glances. Denise was sitting in the booth with them; she smiled at\n Steven lovingly through the glass.", "At the end of the tests the Director said seriously to Steven's\n parents, \"I'll be frank with you. You have a brilliant kiddie\n here—right now he has the intelligence of a twelve-year-old—but\n brilliance has to be channeled in the right direction. Just now—well,\n frankly, it's channeled in the wrong direction. We'll give it a year or\n so, and then if things don't clear up I'm afraid we'll have to correct\n him.\"\n\n\n Richard said through dry lips, \"You mean a Steyner?\"\n\n\n The Director nodded. \"The only thing.\"\n\n\n Harriet shuddered and began to cry. \"But there's never been anything\n like that in our family! The disgrace—oh, Dickie, it would kill me!\"", "He took her to meet his family—Denise's family lived three thousand\n miles away—and she behaved with such perfect decorum and charm that\n Richard and Harriet were delighted and as eager as Steven for the\n wedding. Steven had agreed reluctantly to put it off until Denise\n had a chance to introduce him to her parents; they were coming East\n at Christmas. She laughed over it and said, \"I'm being terribly\n conventional, darling, but that's one convention I like.\"\nWhile they waited, Steven's agent secured a really unprecedented\n opportunity for so young and relatively untried an actor. The current\n Happy Clown was unhappily retiring, by reason of age and infirmity, and\n Steven's agent arranged a tryout for the part. He said, \"Give it all\n you got, kid; it's the chance of the century.\"", "They were pleased with him at the clinic and after a few months\n discharged him. By the time Steven was twelve and had made the Happy\n Tour and joined the Happy Scouts and had a happy affair, involving\n experimentation, with a neighbor's daughter, Harriet and Richard ceased\n to worry about him. If sometimes he felt so tightly strung-up that a\n storm of tears was his only relief, he kept the tears quiet.\nHe was graduated from high school at sixteen and from college at\n twenty, having read all he could of the silent books in the scant high\n school library and the more ample university one, and having wisely\n elected to appear more stupid than he was. Even his I.Q. was now\n judged to be only slightly above normal. He left college with honors,", "Richard said firmly, \"We'll take him to the clinic. They'll know what\n to do.\"\nThe first thing they did to Steven was to talk to him. The psychiatrist\n made him lie down on a foam rubber couch, kiddies' model, with the\n Happy Clown motif on the slip-cover, and said with a beaming face,\n \"Now, Stevie, what seems to be the trouble?\"\n\n\n The boy turned his head away from the psychiatrist's shining teeth and\n said, \"My name's not Stevie. It's Steven.\" He was a thin little boy,\n rather undersized. The baby fat had melted away fast when he began\n to be exposed to kiddie-garden. He had dark hair and big eyes and an\n uncommonly precise way of speaking for a child of five.", "The doctor said cheerily, \"There's nothing the matter with him. He'll\n eat when he gets hungry enough,\" and Steven did, to a degree, but not\n as if he enjoyed it.\n\n\n One day when he was nearly a year old, his mother carried his Kiddie\n Korner with the Dancing Dogsies on the pad into her bedroom, put him in\n it, and began to take things out of the bottom bureau drawer. They were\n old things, and Harriet Russell was ashamed of them. She had said more\n than once to her husband Richard, only half joking, \"I couldn't give\n them away, and I'd be ashamed for anybody to see them in our trash!\"\n They were old silver, knives and forks and spoons that looked like what\n they were, unadorned, and a child's plain silver dish and cup, and one\n small spoon with a useful curly handle. They had belonged to Harriet's\n great-grandmother. Once a year Harriet took the things out and polished\n them and furtively put them back.", "The psychiatrist said reasonably, \"But nobody can live by himself,\n Stevie.\" He had apparently forgotten Steven, and the boy did not\n correct him again. \"You have to learn to live with other people, to\n work and play with them, to know them, and the only way you can learn\n is by being with them. When you can't be with them personally, there's\n always television. That's how you learn, Stevie. You can't be by\n yourself.\"\n\n\n The boy looked up and said starkly, \"Never?\"\n\n\n The gleaming teeth showed. \"But why should you want to?\"\n\n\n Steven said, \"I don't know.\"\n\n\n The doctor said, slowly and with emphasis, \"Stevie, long before you\n were born the world was a very bad place. There were wars all the time.\n Do you know why?\"\n\n\n The boy shook his head.", "\"Ap-pendicitis. Happy Hour.\" Polly began to cry. \"Oh, Stevie, I feel\n so—\"\n\n\n \"I'll go right over.\" He cut her off abruptly and went.\n\n\n The doctors caught Denise's appendix in time to avoid the necessary but\n rarely fatal complications ... but under the anesthetic she talked,\n revealing enough about her opinion of television, and the Happy Clown\n cult, and the state of society in general, to cause her doctors to\n raise their eyebrows pityingly and perform the Steyner at once. While\n Steven sat unknowing in the waiting room, smoking a full pack of\n Marquis cigarettes, the thing was done.", "Steven met no nonconformists at the School of Television Arts, and none\n while he was acting in \"The Happy Life\" until Denise Cottrell joined\n the cast. Denise—called Denny, of course—was a pleasantly plain young\n woman with a whimsical face which photographed pretty, and remarkable\n dark blue eyes. It was her eyes which first made Steven wonder. They\n mirrored his own hope, and longing, and the desperate loneliness of the\n exile.\n\n\n For two months they were together as often as they could be, talking\n intellectual treason in public under cover of conventional faces,\n and talking intellectual treason in private with excitement and\n laughter and sometimes tears—falling in love. They planned, after\n much discussion, to be married and to bring up a dozen clever rebel\n children. Denise said soberly, \"They'd better be clever, because\n they'll have to learn to hide.\"", "If Steven had moments of bewilderment, of self-loathing, of despair,\n when the tears were real and the jaw muscles jumped to keep the mouth\n from screaming, no one in the Happy Young Men's dormitory where he\n slept ever knew it." ], [ "Being, as the Director had said, a brilliant kiddie, Steven soon\n understood much of what was kept from him. It did not take him long\n to learn what was making his Dadsie look stern and white and what was\n making his Mumsie cry. He loved his parents and did not want them to be\n unhappy, and he certainly did not want to have his head cut open, and\n so he began to act. Even at five, Steven discovered in himself a fine\n talent for acting. He began to conform, to adjust, to merge. He became\n social and cooperative and acquired the proper attitudes for successful\n community living. He gave up the old silver voluntarily, he accepted\n the Youth Bed, he looked at the Happy Clown, and he did much better in\n kiddie-garden. He even joined in the group experimentation and was not\n sick any more, though he could not keep himself from losing color.", "Steven did not like the Happy Clown or the Jolly Kitten or the\n Dancing Dogsie. Sometimes he began to grow interested in the cowboys\n or spacemen, but when they stopped in the middle of an adventure to\n talk about how they could not possibly rope the steers or shoot the\n asteroids without a good breakfast of Cornsies and Choko-Milko, which\n everybody ate, just everybody, Steven climbed out of bed and slept on\n the floor.\n\n\n Steven did not like the records or the talking books, and when he went\n to kiddie-garden he viewed the televised lessons with a cold eye. For\n some reason which he could not have explained, he wanted to learn to\n read, but they would not teach him till he was seven, and so he taught\n himself, from the letters on the jarsies. But then there was nothing\n to read except the newspapers and the magazines, which he puzzled over\n patiently, getting most of the words right after a while. The many\n advertisements were easiest; they used pictures and the simplest of\n language.", "Steven was not happy in kiddie-garden. The enthusiasm the other kiddies\n showed for the lessons appalled him. The kiddies themselves appalled\n him. They joined so passionately in the group play, clutching each\n other with their hot moist hands, panting and grinning into each\n others' faces. They were always clutching and panting and grinning, in\n large noisy groups, with large community smiles. They confused him; he\n could not tell them apart. Steven retired to a corner and turned his\n back, and when they clutched and panted and grinned at him he hit them.", "The psychiatrist said reasonably, \"But nobody can live by himself,\n Stevie.\" He had apparently forgotten Steven, and the boy did not\n correct him again. \"You have to learn to live with other people, to\n work and play with them, to know them, and the only way you can learn\n is by being with them. When you can't be with them personally, there's\n always television. That's how you learn, Stevie. You can't be by\n yourself.\"\n\n\n The boy looked up and said starkly, \"Never?\"\n\n\n The gleaming teeth showed. \"But why should you want to?\"\n\n\n Steven said, \"I don't know.\"\n\n\n The doctor said, slowly and with emphasis, \"Stevie, long before you\n were born the world was a very bad place. There were wars all the time.\n Do you know why?\"\n\n\n The boy shook his head.", "They were pleased with him at the clinic and after a few months\n discharged him. By the time Steven was twelve and had made the Happy\n Tour and joined the Happy Scouts and had a happy affair, involving\n experimentation, with a neighbor's daughter, Harriet and Richard ceased\n to worry about him. If sometimes he felt so tightly strung-up that a\n storm of tears was his only relief, he kept the tears quiet.\nHe was graduated from high school at sixteen and from college at\n twenty, having read all he could of the silent books in the scant high\n school library and the more ample university one, and having wisely\n elected to appear more stupid than he was. Even his I.Q. was now\n judged to be only slightly above normal. He left college with honors,", "\"It was because people were different from each other, and didn't\n understand each other, and didn't know each other. They had to learn\n how to be alike, and understand, and know, so that they would be able\n to live together. They learned in many ways, Stevie. One way was by\n visiting each other—you've heard about the visitors who come from—\"\n\n\n Steven said, \"You mean the Happy Tours.\"\n\n\n \"Yes. When you're twelve years old you can go on a Happy Tour. Won't\n that be fun?\"\n\n\n Steven said, \"If I could go alone.\"\n\n\n The doctor looked at him sharply. \"But you can't. Try to understand,\n Stevie, you can't. Now tell me—why don't you like to be with other\n people?\"\n\n\n Steven said, \"All the time—not all the\ntime\n.\"\n\n\n The doctor repeated patiently, \"Why?\"", "He managed his life well enough. He had a few affairs with girls, it\n was expected of one, and he did not have to work very hard at it since\n they always threw themselves at him; and he got along well with other\n young men, who forgave him for being so handsome because he did not\n work at it except on camera; but he was lonely. Surrounded by people,\n intruded and trespassed upon, continually touched in ways other than\n physical, he was yet lonely.\nDuring his life he had met a few other nonconformists, shy, like him,\n wary of revealing themselves, but something always seemed to happen\n to them. Some were miserable being nonconformists and asked pitifully\n for the Steyner, some were detected, as Steven had been, and some\n were unfortunately surprised in hospitals. Under the anesthetic they\n sometimes talked, and then, if they were adults, they were immediately\n corrected by means of Steyner's lobotomy. It had been learned that\n adults did not respond to therapy.", "The boy sat up and regarded him warily. The doctor had a kind face, a\n really kind face in spite of all those shining teeth, and Steven was\n only five years old, after all, and there was nobody to talk to, and he\n was desperately unhappy. Perhaps.... He said, \"You'll tell them.\"\n\n\n The doctor shook his head. \"Nothing goes farther than this room,\n Stevie—Steven.\"\n\n\n The child leaned forward, pressing his knees together, hugging himself\n with his arms, bowing his head. His position was almost foetal. He\n said, \"I'm never by myself. They never let me be by myself.\"", "For a while Steven considered confessing to somebody that he was\n a—what?—an unacceptable member of society. Then they would make him\n like Denise. He shuddered. Did he really want to be like Denise? Some\n stubborn pride in him refused it.\n\n\n When Denise left the hospital for the hotel where she would stay until\n the wedding, Steven was more gentle with her than ever, kinder and\n more loving. He made her very happy. He made love to her again, and it\n was like loving a ghost—no, it was like loving a fine beautiful body\n without the ghost, without the spirit. He returned to the HYM to lie\n sleepless amid the breathings and mutterings of the other young men,\n turning restlessly in his bed, feeling oppressed, tormented, strung on\n wires.", "Richard said firmly, \"We'll take him to the clinic. They'll know what\n to do.\"\nThe first thing they did to Steven was to talk to him. The psychiatrist\n made him lie down on a foam rubber couch, kiddies' model, with the\n Happy Clown motif on the slip-cover, and said with a beaming face,\n \"Now, Stevie, what seems to be the trouble?\"\n\n\n The boy turned his head away from the psychiatrist's shining teeth and\n said, \"My name's not Stevie. It's Steven.\" He was a thin little boy,\n rather undersized. The baby fat had melted away fast when he began\n to be exposed to kiddie-garden. He had dark hair and big eyes and an\n uncommonly precise way of speaking for a child of five.", "At the end of the tests the Director said seriously to Steven's\n parents, \"I'll be frank with you. You have a brilliant kiddie\n here—right now he has the intelligence of a twelve-year-old—but\n brilliance has to be channeled in the right direction. Just now—well,\n frankly, it's channeled in the wrong direction. We'll give it a year or\n so, and then if things don't clear up I'm afraid we'll have to correct\n him.\"\n\n\n Richard said through dry lips, \"You mean a Steyner?\"\n\n\n The Director nodded. \"The only thing.\"\n\n\n Harriet shuddered and began to cry. \"But there's never been anything\n like that in our family! The disgrace—oh, Dickie, it would kill me!\"", "There was never any organization, any underground, of misfits. An\n underground presupposes injustice to be fought, cruelty to be resisted,\n and there was no injustice and no cruelty. The mass of people were\n kind, and their leaders, duly and fairly elected, were kind. They\n all sincerely believed in the gospel of efficiency and conformity\n and kindness. It had made the world a wonderful place to live in,\n full of wonderful things to make and buy and consume (all wonderfully\n advertised), and if one were a misfit and the doctors found it out and\n gave one a Steyner, it was only to make one happy, so that one could\n appreciate what a wonderful world it was.", "This year Steven cried, \"Ma!\" stretching out his hands toward the\n silver and uttering a string of determined sounds which were perfectly\n clear to his mother. She smiled at him lovingly but shook her head.\n \"No, Stevie. Mumsie's precious baby doesn't want those nasty old\n things, no he doesn't! Play with your Happy Clown, sweetheart.\"\n\n\n Steven's face got red, and he squeezed his eyes shut, opened his mouth\n and howled until his mother passed him the dish and cup and curly\n spoon to play with. At meal-time he would not be parted from them, and\n Harriet had to put away the plastic dish and spoon. Thereafter, for the\n sake of the container, he tolerated the thing contained, and thrived\n and grew fat.", "Steven met no nonconformists at the School of Television Arts, and none\n while he was acting in \"The Happy Life\" until Denise Cottrell joined\n the cast. Denise—called Denny, of course—was a pleasantly plain young\n woman with a whimsical face which photographed pretty, and remarkable\n dark blue eyes. It was her eyes which first made Steven wonder. They\n mirrored his own hope, and longing, and the desperate loneliness of the\n exile.\n\n\n For two months they were together as often as they could be, talking\n intellectual treason in public under cover of conventional faces,\n and talking intellectual treason in private with excitement and\n laughter and sometimes tears—falling in love. They planned, after\n much discussion, to be married and to bring up a dozen clever rebel\n children. Denise said soberly, \"They'd better be clever, because\n they'll have to learn to hide.\"", "popularity and a reputation as an actor. He took the lead in all the\n dramatic club plays, having particular success in the reproduction\n of a Happy Clown program. Steven, of course, was the Happy Clown. He\n enrolled at once in the New York School of Television Arts, and his\n mother cried when he left home to live in the School dormitory.", "If Steven had moments of bewilderment, of self-loathing, of despair,\n when the tears were real and the jaw muscles jumped to keep the mouth\n from screaming, no one in the Happy Young Men's dormitory where he\n slept ever knew it.", "Fortunately nobody heard the last three sentences. The paralyzed\n engineer had recovered in time to cut him off during the pause, and\n had signalled the stagehand to draw the curtain and the sound man to\n play the Happy Clown sign-off record—loud. Steven finished himself\n thoroughly, however, by repeating the same sentiments, with some others\n he happened to think of, to Denise and the sponsors, when they all came\n pouring out of the booth. Then he collapsed.\nSteven's Steyner was a complete success. He recovered from it a\n subdued, agreeable and thoroughly conventional young man, who had the\n impression that he had suffered a nervous breakdown. He was discharged\n from the Happy Hour at the end of January, innocently leaving behind", "Steven said, \"Sure, Joey,\" and allowed his sensitive face to register\n all the proper emotions. Actually his emotions were, in the vernacular\n of a previous century, mixed. He loathed the whole concept of the Happy\n Clown—but there was money in it, and Steven was not rebel enough to\n despise money. With money he could retire early, go away somewhere with\n Denise, to some country place where they could be relatively free of\n pressure.\n\n\n Over staggering competition he got the part. He called Denise up at\n once from a booth at the studio to tell her. Polly answered the phone,\n looking pale and frightened over the viewer, and said rapidly, \"Oh,\n Stevie, I've been trying to get you for an hour. Denny's sick. They\n took her to the hospital!\"\n\n\n Steven sat back against the hard wall of the booth, feeling cold, the\n receiver slack in his hand. He said, \"What's the matter with her? Which\n hospital?\"", "Steven looked at the doctor and said a very strange thing. \"They touch\n me.\" He seemed to shrink into himself. \"Not just with their hands.\"\n\n\n The doctor shook his head sadly. \"Of course they do, that's just—well,\n maybe you're too young to understand.\"\n\n\n The interview went on for quite a while, and at the end of it Steven\n was given a series of tests which took a week. The psychiatrist had\n not told the truth; what the boy said, during the first interview and\n all the tests, was fully recorded on concealed machines. The complete\n transcript made a fat dossier in the office of the Clinic Director.", "The Happy Clown\nBY ALICE ELEANOR JONES\nThis was a century of peace, plethora and\n \nperfection, and little Steven was a misfit,\n \na nonconformist, who hated perfection.\n \nHe had to learn the hard way....\n[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Worlds of If Science Fiction, December 1955.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nSteven Russell was born a misfit, a nonconformist, and for the first\n five years of his life he made himself and his parents extremely\n unhappy. The twenty-first century was perfect, and this inexplicable\n child did not like perfection." ], [ "He rehearsed feverishly for the part of the Happy Clown, and because he\n was a fine craftsman and a conscientious artist he continued to give\n it all he had. The sponsors were pleased. A week before Christmas the\n current Happy Clown retired and hobbled off to a nursing home. There\n was no fanfare—the public was not to realize that the Happy Clown was\n mortal—and Steven took over with no visible change. For five days he\n played the part to perfection.\n\n\n On the sixth day he performed as usual, perhaps a little better. His\n commercials had a special fervor, and the sponsors exchanged happy\n glances. Denise was sitting in the booth with them; she smiled at\n Steven lovingly through the glass.", "He managed his life well enough. He had a few affairs with girls, it\n was expected of one, and he did not have to work very hard at it since\n they always threw themselves at him; and he got along well with other\n young men, who forgave him for being so handsome because he did not\n work at it except on camera; but he was lonely. Surrounded by people,\n intruded and trespassed upon, continually touched in ways other than\n physical, he was yet lonely.\nDuring his life he had met a few other nonconformists, shy, like him,\n wary of revealing themselves, but something always seemed to happen\n to them. Some were miserable being nonconformists and asked pitifully\n for the Steyner, some were detected, as Steven had been, and some\n were unfortunately surprised in hospitals. Under the anesthetic they\n sometimes talked, and then, if they were adults, they were immediately\n corrected by means of Steyner's lobotomy. It had been learned that\n adults did not respond to therapy.", "The doctor said cheerily, \"There's nothing the matter with him. He'll\n eat when he gets hungry enough,\" and Steven did, to a degree, but not\n as if he enjoyed it.\n\n\n One day when he was nearly a year old, his mother carried his Kiddie\n Korner with the Dancing Dogsies on the pad into her bedroom, put him in\n it, and began to take things out of the bottom bureau drawer. They were\n old things, and Harriet Russell was ashamed of them. She had said more\n than once to her husband Richard, only half joking, \"I couldn't give\n them away, and I'd be ashamed for anybody to see them in our trash!\"\n They were old silver, knives and forks and spoons that looked like what\n they were, unadorned, and a child's plain silver dish and cup, and one\n small spoon with a useful curly handle. They had belonged to Harriet's\n great-grandmother. Once a year Harriet took the things out and polished\n them and furtively put them back.", "him the broken hearts of three nurses and one female physician, and\n went home to his parents. During his convalescence they were patient\n with him and passionately kind. In spite of the disgrace they felt, a\n disgrace that would never be mentioned, they loved him even better than\n before, because now he was irrevocably like them.", "Steven did not like his Rockabye Crib, that joggled him gently and sang\n him songs about the Happy Clown all night long; and he howled until\n they turned it off. He was a clean boy, and to his mother's amazement\n trained himself to be dry day and night by the age of fourteen months,\n without the aid of the Singing Toidey or the Happy Clown Alarm; so she\n bought him a Little Folks Youth Bed, with a built-in joggler, and Happy\n Clowns on the corners, and a television set in the footboard. It was a\n smaller copy of his parents' bed, even to the Happy Clowns. Steven did\n not like that either, and if his parents persisted in turning the bed\n on after he had learned to turn it off, he climbed out and slept on the\n floor.\nHarriet said worriedly to her husband, \"I don't know what could be the\n matter with him. Dickie, he's peculiar!\"", "Steven did not like the Happy Clown or the Jolly Kitten or the\n Dancing Dogsie. Sometimes he began to grow interested in the cowboys\n or spacemen, but when they stopped in the middle of an adventure to\n talk about how they could not possibly rope the steers or shoot the\n asteroids without a good breakfast of Cornsies and Choko-Milko, which\n everybody ate, just everybody, Steven climbed out of bed and slept on\n the floor.\n\n\n Steven did not like the records or the talking books, and when he went\n to kiddie-garden he viewed the televised lessons with a cold eye. For\n some reason which he could not have explained, he wanted to learn to\n read, but they would not teach him till he was seven, and so he taught\n himself, from the letters on the jarsies. But then there was nothing\n to read except the newspapers and the magazines, which he puzzled over\n patiently, getting most of the words right after a while. The many\n advertisements were easiest; they used pictures and the simplest of\n language.", "Richard said firmly, \"We'll take him to the clinic. They'll know what\n to do.\"\nThe first thing they did to Steven was to talk to him. The psychiatrist\n made him lie down on a foam rubber couch, kiddies' model, with the\n Happy Clown motif on the slip-cover, and said with a beaming face,\n \"Now, Stevie, what seems to be the trouble?\"\n\n\n The boy turned his head away from the psychiatrist's shining teeth and\n said, \"My name's not Stevie. It's Steven.\" He was a thin little boy,\n rather undersized. The baby fat had melted away fast when he began\n to be exposed to kiddie-garden. He had dark hair and big eyes and an\n uncommonly precise way of speaking for a child of five.", "They were pleased with him at the clinic and after a few months\n discharged him. By the time Steven was twelve and had made the Happy\n Tour and joined the Happy Scouts and had a happy affair, involving\n experimentation, with a neighbor's daughter, Harriet and Richard ceased\n to worry about him. If sometimes he felt so tightly strung-up that a\n storm of tears was his only relief, he kept the tears quiet.\nHe was graduated from high school at sixteen and from college at\n twenty, having read all he could of the silent books in the scant high\n school library and the more ample university one, and having wisely\n elected to appear more stupid than he was. Even his I.Q. was now\n judged to be only slightly above normal. He left college with honors,", "He said, \"Are you all happy? You are, aren't you?—everybody's happy,\n because you're all sheep! All sheep, in a nice safe pasture. All\n alike—you eat alike and dress alike and think alike. If any of you has\n an original thought you'd better suppress it, or they'll cut it out of\n you with a knife.\" He leaned forward and made a horrible face at the\n camera. Under the jolly makeup and the artful padding, his mouth was\n shockingly twisted, and tears were running out of his eyes. \"A long\n sharp knife, folks!\" He paused momentarily to recover his voice, which\n had begun to shake. \"Go on being happy, go on being sheep. Wear the\n clothesies, and eat the foodsies, and don't dare think! Me—I'd rather\n be dead, and damned, and in hell!\"", "The boy sat up and regarded him warily. The doctor had a kind face, a\n really kind face in spite of all those shining teeth, and Steven was\n only five years old, after all, and there was nobody to talk to, and he\n was desperately unhappy. Perhaps.... He said, \"You'll tell them.\"\n\n\n The doctor shook his head. \"Nothing goes farther than this room,\n Stevie—Steven.\"\n\n\n The child leaned forward, pressing his knees together, hugging himself\n with his arms, bowing his head. His position was almost foetal. He\n said, \"I'm never by myself. They never let me be by myself.\"", "Being, as the Director had said, a brilliant kiddie, Steven soon\n understood much of what was kept from him. It did not take him long\n to learn what was making his Dadsie look stern and white and what was\n making his Mumsie cry. He loved his parents and did not want them to be\n unhappy, and he certainly did not want to have his head cut open, and\n so he began to act. Even at five, Steven discovered in himself a fine\n talent for acting. He began to conform, to adjust, to merge. He became\n social and cooperative and acquired the proper attitudes for successful\n community living. He gave up the old silver voluntarily, he accepted\n the Youth Bed, he looked at the Happy Clown, and he did much better in\n kiddie-garden. He even joined in the group experimentation and was not\n sick any more, though he could not keep himself from losing color.", "At last the doctor came out to him and said what was always said in\n such cases. \"It was necessary to do something—you understand, no\n mention—\" and for a moment Steven felt so ill that he was grateful\n for the little ampoule the doctor broke and held under his nose. They\n always carried those when they had to give news of a Steyner to\n relatives or sweethearts or friends.\n\n\n The doctor said, \"All right now? Good .... You'll be careful, of\n course. She may be conscious for a minute; there's no harm in it yet,\n she won't move or touch the—\"\n\n\n Steven said, \"I'll be careful.\"\n\n\n He was still feeling ill when they let him in to see Denise. He sat\n down beside her bed and spoke to her urgently. \"Denise, talk to me.\n Please, Denise!\"", "\"It was because people were different from each other, and didn't\n understand each other, and didn't know each other. They had to learn\n how to be alike, and understand, and know, so that they would be able\n to live together. They learned in many ways, Stevie. One way was by\n visiting each other—you've heard about the visitors who come from—\"\n\n\n Steven said, \"You mean the Happy Tours.\"\n\n\n \"Yes. When you're twelve years old you can go on a Happy Tour. Won't\n that be fun?\"\n\n\n Steven said, \"If I could go alone.\"\n\n\n The doctor looked at him sharply. \"But you can't. Try to understand,\n Stevie, you can't. Now tell me—why don't you like to be with other\n people?\"\n\n\n Steven said, \"All the time—not all the\ntime\n.\"\n\n\n The doctor repeated patiently, \"Why?\"", "Steven said, \"Sure, Joey,\" and allowed his sensitive face to register\n all the proper emotions. Actually his emotions were, in the vernacular\n of a previous century, mixed. He loathed the whole concept of the Happy\n Clown—but there was money in it, and Steven was not rebel enough to\n despise money. With money he could retire early, go away somewhere with\n Denise, to some country place where they could be relatively free of\n pressure.\n\n\n Over staggering competition he got the part. He called Denise up at\n once from a booth at the studio to tell her. Polly answered the phone,\n looking pale and frightened over the viewer, and said rapidly, \"Oh,\n Stevie, I've been trying to get you for an hour. Denny's sick. They\n took her to the hospital!\"\n\n\n Steven sat back against the hard wall of the booth, feeling cold, the\n receiver slack in his hand. He said, \"What's the matter with her? Which\n hospital?\"", "The psychiatrist said reasonably, \"But nobody can live by himself,\n Stevie.\" He had apparently forgotten Steven, and the boy did not\n correct him again. \"You have to learn to live with other people, to\n work and play with them, to know them, and the only way you can learn\n is by being with them. When you can't be with them personally, there's\n always television. That's how you learn, Stevie. You can't be by\n yourself.\"\n\n\n The boy looked up and said starkly, \"Never?\"\n\n\n The gleaming teeth showed. \"But why should you want to?\"\n\n\n Steven said, \"I don't know.\"\n\n\n The doctor said, slowly and with emphasis, \"Stevie, long before you\n were born the world was a very bad place. There were wars all the time.\n Do you know why?\"\n\n\n The boy shook his head.", "Steven was not happy in kiddie-garden. The enthusiasm the other kiddies\n showed for the lessons appalled him. The kiddies themselves appalled\n him. They joined so passionately in the group play, clutching each\n other with their hot moist hands, panting and grinning into each\n others' faces. They were always clutching and panting and grinning, in\n large noisy groups, with large community smiles. They confused him; he\n could not tell them apart. Steven retired to a corner and turned his\n back, and when they clutched and panted and grinned at him he hit them.", "The kiddie-garden monitor had to report of him to his unhappy parents\n that he was uncooperative and anti-social. He would not merge with\n the group, he would not acquire the proper attitudes for successful\n community living, he would not adjust. Most shocking of all, when the\n lesson about the birdsies and beesies was telecast, he not only refused\n to participate in the ensuing period of group experimentation, but lost\n color and disgraced himself by being sick in his corner. It was a\n painful interview. At the end of it the monitor recommended the clinic.\n Richard appreciated her delicacy. The clinic would be less expensive\n than private psychiatry, and after all, the manager of a supermarket\n was no millionaire.\n\n\n Harriet said to Richard when they were alone, \"Dickie, he isn't\n outgrowing it, he's getting worse! What are we going to do?\" It was a\n special tragedy, since Harriet was unable to have any more kiddies, and\n if this one turned out wrong ...", "This year Steven cried, \"Ma!\" stretching out his hands toward the\n silver and uttering a string of determined sounds which were perfectly\n clear to his mother. She smiled at him lovingly but shook her head.\n \"No, Stevie. Mumsie's precious baby doesn't want those nasty old\n things, no he doesn't! Play with your Happy Clown, sweetheart.\"\n\n\n Steven's face got red, and he squeezed his eyes shut, opened his mouth\n and howled until his mother passed him the dish and cup and curly\n spoon to play with. At meal-time he would not be parted from them, and\n Harriet had to put away the plastic dish and spoon. Thereafter, for the\n sake of the container, he tolerated the thing contained, and thrived\n and grew fat.", "For a while Steven considered confessing to somebody that he was\n a—what?—an unacceptable member of society. Then they would make him\n like Denise. He shuddered. Did he really want to be like Denise? Some\n stubborn pride in him refused it.\n\n\n When Denise left the hospital for the hotel where she would stay until\n the wedding, Steven was more gentle with her than ever, kinder and\n more loving. He made her very happy. He made love to her again, and it\n was like loving a ghost—no, it was like loving a fine beautiful body\n without the ghost, without the spirit. He returned to the HYM to lie\n sleepless amid the breathings and mutterings of the other young men,\n turning restlessly in his bed, feeling oppressed, tormented, strung on\n wires.", "Richard tried to comfort her. \"Never mind, Harry, he'll outgrow it.\"\nSteven did not outgrow it. When he became too big for the curly spoon\n and dish and cup he demanded a knife and fork and spoon from the bureau\n drawer and ate his meals from the plainest dish he could find. He ate\n them with his back stubbornly turned to the television set, away from\n the morning cartoons and the noontime Kiddies' Lunch Club and the\n evening Happy Clown." ], [ "\"Ap-pendicitis. Happy Hour.\" Polly began to cry. \"Oh, Stevie, I feel\n so—\"\n\n\n \"I'll go right over.\" He cut her off abruptly and went.\n\n\n The doctors caught Denise's appendix in time to avoid the necessary but\n rarely fatal complications ... but under the anesthetic she talked,\n revealing enough about her opinion of television, and the Happy Clown\n cult, and the state of society in general, to cause her doctors to\n raise their eyebrows pityingly and perform the Steyner at once. While\n Steven sat unknowing in the waiting room, smoking a full pack of\n Marquis cigarettes, the thing was done.", "At last the doctor came out to him and said what was always said in\n such cases. \"It was necessary to do something—you understand, no\n mention—\" and for a moment Steven felt so ill that he was grateful\n for the little ampoule the doctor broke and held under his nose. They\n always carried those when they had to give news of a Steyner to\n relatives or sweethearts or friends.\n\n\n The doctor said, \"All right now? Good .... You'll be careful, of\n course. She may be conscious for a minute; there's no harm in it yet,\n she won't move or touch the—\"\n\n\n Steven said, \"I'll be careful.\"\n\n\n He was still feeling ill when they let him in to see Denise. He sat\n down beside her bed and spoke to her urgently. \"Denise, talk to me.\n Please, Denise!\"", "That night in the HYM dormitory Steven did not sleep. He lay quiet,\n tense, hoping for the relief of tears, but it did not come.\nSteven went to see Denise every day though after the first time she\n was not awake to know him. The doctors were keeping her under sedation\n until the head bandage could be removed. So far as Denise was to\n know, she had gone to the hospital simply for a rather protracted\n appendectomy. Looking at her, Steven knew that he could never leave\n her. He had loved her completely; he would love her now with as much of\n himself as she would need or understand.\n\n\n For a while he waited to be kindly questioned, to be thoroughly\n examined, to be tenderly given the shot in the arm and to awake like\n her, but nobody came. Denise had apparently said nothing about him.\n Some censor or other—perhaps it was the censor of love—had kept her\n from even saying his name.", "For a while Steven considered confessing to somebody that he was\n a—what?—an unacceptable member of society. Then they would make him\n like Denise. He shuddered. Did he really want to be like Denise? Some\n stubborn pride in him refused it.\n\n\n When Denise left the hospital for the hotel where she would stay until\n the wedding, Steven was more gentle with her than ever, kinder and\n more loving. He made her very happy. He made love to her again, and it\n was like loving a ghost—no, it was like loving a fine beautiful body\n without the ghost, without the spirit. He returned to the HYM to lie\n sleepless amid the breathings and mutterings of the other young men,\n turning restlessly in his bed, feeling oppressed, tormented, strung on\n wires.", "They made love in Denise's apartment when her roommate\n Pauline—Polly—was out, as awkwardly as if there had never been any\n group experimentation or happy affairs. Denise said wonderingly, \"When\n you really love someone it's all new. Isn't that strange?\" and Steven\n said, kissing her, \"No, not strange at all.\"", "him the broken hearts of three nurses and one female physician, and\n went home to his parents. During his convalescence they were patient\n with him and passionately kind. In spite of the disgrace they felt, a\n disgrace that would never be mentioned, they loved him even better than\n before, because now he was irrevocably like them.", "Steven said, \"Sure, Joey,\" and allowed his sensitive face to register\n all the proper emotions. Actually his emotions were, in the vernacular\n of a previous century, mixed. He loathed the whole concept of the Happy\n Clown—but there was money in it, and Steven was not rebel enough to\n despise money. With money he could retire early, go away somewhere with\n Denise, to some country place where they could be relatively free of\n pressure.\n\n\n Over staggering competition he got the part. He called Denise up at\n once from a booth at the studio to tell her. Polly answered the phone,\n looking pale and frightened over the viewer, and said rapidly, \"Oh,\n Stevie, I've been trying to get you for an hour. Denny's sick. They\n took her to the hospital!\"\n\n\n Steven sat back against the hard wall of the booth, feeling cold, the\n receiver slack in his hand. He said, \"What's the matter with her? Which\n hospital?\"", "Being, as the Director had said, a brilliant kiddie, Steven soon\n understood much of what was kept from him. It did not take him long\n to learn what was making his Dadsie look stern and white and what was\n making his Mumsie cry. He loved his parents and did not want them to be\n unhappy, and he certainly did not want to have his head cut open, and\n so he began to act. Even at five, Steven discovered in himself a fine\n talent for acting. He began to conform, to adjust, to merge. He became\n social and cooperative and acquired the proper attitudes for successful\n community living. He gave up the old silver voluntarily, he accepted\n the Youth Bed, he looked at the Happy Clown, and he did much better in\n kiddie-garden. He even joined in the group experimentation and was not\n sick any more, though he could not keep himself from losing color.", "The doctor said cheerily, \"There's nothing the matter with him. He'll\n eat when he gets hungry enough,\" and Steven did, to a degree, but not\n as if he enjoyed it.\n\n\n One day when he was nearly a year old, his mother carried his Kiddie\n Korner with the Dancing Dogsies on the pad into her bedroom, put him in\n it, and began to take things out of the bottom bureau drawer. They were\n old things, and Harriet Russell was ashamed of them. She had said more\n than once to her husband Richard, only half joking, \"I couldn't give\n them away, and I'd be ashamed for anybody to see them in our trash!\"\n They were old silver, knives and forks and spoons that looked like what\n they were, unadorned, and a child's plain silver dish and cup, and one\n small spoon with a useful curly handle. They had belonged to Harriet's\n great-grandmother. Once a year Harriet took the things out and polished\n them and furtively put them back.", "He rehearsed feverishly for the part of the Happy Clown, and because he\n was a fine craftsman and a conscientious artist he continued to give\n it all he had. The sponsors were pleased. A week before Christmas the\n current Happy Clown retired and hobbled off to a nursing home. There\n was no fanfare—the public was not to realize that the Happy Clown was\n mortal—and Steven took over with no visible change. For five days he\n played the part to perfection.\n\n\n On the sixth day he performed as usual, perhaps a little better. His\n commercials had a special fervor, and the sponsors exchanged happy\n glances. Denise was sitting in the booth with them; she smiled at\n Steven lovingly through the glass.", "He took her to meet his family—Denise's family lived three thousand\n miles away—and she behaved with such perfect decorum and charm that\n Richard and Harriet were delighted and as eager as Steven for the\n wedding. Steven had agreed reluctantly to put it off until Denise\n had a chance to introduce him to her parents; they were coming East\n at Christmas. She laughed over it and said, \"I'm being terribly\n conventional, darling, but that's one convention I like.\"\nWhile they waited, Steven's agent secured a really unprecedented\n opportunity for so young and relatively untried an actor. The current\n Happy Clown was unhappily retiring, by reason of age and infirmity, and\n Steven's agent arranged a tryout for the part. He said, \"Give it all\n you got, kid; it's the chance of the century.\"", "The boy sat up and regarded him warily. The doctor had a kind face, a\n really kind face in spite of all those shining teeth, and Steven was\n only five years old, after all, and there was nobody to talk to, and he\n was desperately unhappy. Perhaps.... He said, \"You'll tell them.\"\n\n\n The doctor shook his head. \"Nothing goes farther than this room,\n Stevie—Steven.\"\n\n\n The child leaned forward, pressing his knees together, hugging himself\n with his arms, bowing his head. His position was almost foetal. He\n said, \"I'm never by myself. They never let me be by myself.\"", "He managed his life well enough. He had a few affairs with girls, it\n was expected of one, and he did not have to work very hard at it since\n they always threw themselves at him; and he got along well with other\n young men, who forgave him for being so handsome because he did not\n work at it except on camera; but he was lonely. Surrounded by people,\n intruded and trespassed upon, continually touched in ways other than\n physical, he was yet lonely.\nDuring his life he had met a few other nonconformists, shy, like him,\n wary of revealing themselves, but something always seemed to happen\n to them. Some were miserable being nonconformists and asked pitifully\n for the Steyner, some were detected, as Steven had been, and some\n were unfortunately surprised in hospitals. Under the anesthetic they\n sometimes talked, and then, if they were adults, they were immediately\n corrected by means of Steyner's lobotomy. It had been learned that\n adults did not respond to therapy.", "Richard said firmly, \"We'll take him to the clinic. They'll know what\n to do.\"\nThe first thing they did to Steven was to talk to him. The psychiatrist\n made him lie down on a foam rubber couch, kiddies' model, with the\n Happy Clown motif on the slip-cover, and said with a beaming face,\n \"Now, Stevie, what seems to be the trouble?\"\n\n\n The boy turned his head away from the psychiatrist's shining teeth and\n said, \"My name's not Stevie. It's Steven.\" He was a thin little boy,\n rather undersized. The baby fat had melted away fast when he began\n to be exposed to kiddie-garden. He had dark hair and big eyes and an\n uncommonly precise way of speaking for a child of five.", "They were pleased with him at the clinic and after a few months\n discharged him. By the time Steven was twelve and had made the Happy\n Tour and joined the Happy Scouts and had a happy affair, involving\n experimentation, with a neighbor's daughter, Harriet and Richard ceased\n to worry about him. If sometimes he felt so tightly strung-up that a\n storm of tears was his only relief, he kept the tears quiet.\nHe was graduated from high school at sixteen and from college at\n twenty, having read all he could of the silent books in the scant high\n school library and the more ample university one, and having wisely\n elected to appear more stupid than he was. Even his I.Q. was now\n judged to be only slightly above normal. He left college with honors,", "Fortunately nobody heard the last three sentences. The paralyzed\n engineer had recovered in time to cut him off during the pause, and\n had signalled the stagehand to draw the curtain and the sound man to\n play the Happy Clown sign-off record—loud. Steven finished himself\n thoroughly, however, by repeating the same sentiments, with some others\n he happened to think of, to Denise and the sponsors, when they all came\n pouring out of the booth. Then he collapsed.\nSteven's Steyner was a complete success. He recovered from it a\n subdued, agreeable and thoroughly conventional young man, who had the\n impression that he had suffered a nervous breakdown. He was discharged\n from the Happy Hour at the end of January, innocently leaving behind", "She opened her eyes, looked at him drowsily and smiled. \"Oh, Stevie,\n I'm so glad you came. I've been wanting you, darling.\"\n\n\n Steven said, \"Denise—\"\n\n\n She frowned. \"Why do you call me that? Call me Denny. Did you get the\n part, darling?\"\n\n\n He drew back a little. \"Yes, I got it.\"\n\n\n She gave him a radiant smile. \"That's wonderful! I'm so proud of you,\n Stevie.\" She slept again.", "The Director said kindly, \"There's no disgrace, Mrs. Russell.\n That's a mistaken idea many people have. These things happen\n occasionally—nobody knows why—and there's absolutely no disgrace in a\n Steyner. Nothing is altered but the personality, and afterward you have\n a happy normal kiddie who hardly remembers that anything was ever wrong\n with him. Naturally nobody ever mentions it.... But there's no hurry;\n in the case of a kiddie we can wait a while. Bring Stevie in once a\n week; we'll try therapy first.\"", "The psychiatrist said, \"Oh, but we're going to be friends, Stevie,\n and friends always use nicknames, don't they? My name's William, but\n everybody calls me Willie. You can call me Uncle Willie.\"\n\n\n The boy said politely, \"I'd rather not, please.\"\n\n\n The doctor was undismayed. \"I want to help you. You believe that, don't\n you, Stevie?\"\n\n\n The child said, \"Steven. Do I have to lie down?\"\n\n\n The doctor said agreeably, \"It's more usual to lie down, but you may\n sit up if you want to. Why don't you like kiddie-garden, Steven?\"", "Steven met no nonconformists at the School of Television Arts, and none\n while he was acting in \"The Happy Life\" until Denise Cottrell joined\n the cast. Denise—called Denny, of course—was a pleasantly plain young\n woman with a whimsical face which photographed pretty, and remarkable\n dark blue eyes. It was her eyes which first made Steven wonder. They\n mirrored his own hope, and longing, and the desperate loneliness of the\n exile.\n\n\n For two months they were together as often as they could be, talking\n intellectual treason in public under cover of conventional faces,\n and talking intellectual treason in private with excitement and\n laughter and sometimes tears—falling in love. They planned, after\n much discussion, to be married and to bring up a dozen clever rebel\n children. Denise said soberly, \"They'd better be clever, because\n they'll have to learn to hide.\"" ], [ "Steven did not like his Rockabye Crib, that joggled him gently and sang\n him songs about the Happy Clown all night long; and he howled until\n they turned it off. He was a clean boy, and to his mother's amazement\n trained himself to be dry day and night by the age of fourteen months,\n without the aid of the Singing Toidey or the Happy Clown Alarm; so she\n bought him a Little Folks Youth Bed, with a built-in joggler, and Happy\n Clowns on the corners, and a television set in the footboard. It was a\n smaller copy of his parents' bed, even to the Happy Clowns. Steven did\n not like that either, and if his parents persisted in turning the bed\n on after he had learned to turn it off, he climbed out and slept on the\n floor.\nHarriet said worriedly to her husband, \"I don't know what could be the\n matter with him. Dickie, he's peculiar!\"", "Steven did not like the Happy Clown or the Jolly Kitten or the\n Dancing Dogsie. Sometimes he began to grow interested in the cowboys\n or spacemen, but when they stopped in the middle of an adventure to\n talk about how they could not possibly rope the steers or shoot the\n asteroids without a good breakfast of Cornsies and Choko-Milko, which\n everybody ate, just everybody, Steven climbed out of bed and slept on\n the floor.\n\n\n Steven did not like the records or the talking books, and when he went\n to kiddie-garden he viewed the televised lessons with a cold eye. For\n some reason which he could not have explained, he wanted to learn to\n read, but they would not teach him till he was seven, and so he taught\n himself, from the letters on the jarsies. But then there was nothing\n to read except the newspapers and the magazines, which he puzzled over\n patiently, getting most of the words right after a while. The many\n advertisements were easiest; they used pictures and the simplest of\n language.", "The boy sat up and regarded him warily. The doctor had a kind face, a\n really kind face in spite of all those shining teeth, and Steven was\n only five years old, after all, and there was nobody to talk to, and he\n was desperately unhappy. Perhaps.... He said, \"You'll tell them.\"\n\n\n The doctor shook his head. \"Nothing goes farther than this room,\n Stevie—Steven.\"\n\n\n The child leaned forward, pressing his knees together, hugging himself\n with his arms, bowing his head. His position was almost foetal. He\n said, \"I'm never by myself. They never let me be by myself.\"", "The doctor said cheerily, \"There's nothing the matter with him. He'll\n eat when he gets hungry enough,\" and Steven did, to a degree, but not\n as if he enjoyed it.\n\n\n One day when he was nearly a year old, his mother carried his Kiddie\n Korner with the Dancing Dogsies on the pad into her bedroom, put him in\n it, and began to take things out of the bottom bureau drawer. They were\n old things, and Harriet Russell was ashamed of them. She had said more\n than once to her husband Richard, only half joking, \"I couldn't give\n them away, and I'd be ashamed for anybody to see them in our trash!\"\n They were old silver, knives and forks and spoons that looked like what\n they were, unadorned, and a child's plain silver dish and cup, and one\n small spoon with a useful curly handle. They had belonged to Harriet's\n great-grandmother. Once a year Harriet took the things out and polished\n them and furtively put them back.", "Being, as the Director had said, a brilliant kiddie, Steven soon\n understood much of what was kept from him. It did not take him long\n to learn what was making his Dadsie look stern and white and what was\n making his Mumsie cry. He loved his parents and did not want them to be\n unhappy, and he certainly did not want to have his head cut open, and\n so he began to act. Even at five, Steven discovered in himself a fine\n talent for acting. He began to conform, to adjust, to merge. He became\n social and cooperative and acquired the proper attitudes for successful\n community living. He gave up the old silver voluntarily, he accepted\n the Youth Bed, he looked at the Happy Clown, and he did much better in\n kiddie-garden. He even joined in the group experimentation and was not\n sick any more, though he could not keep himself from losing color.", "The psychiatrist said reasonably, \"But nobody can live by himself,\n Stevie.\" He had apparently forgotten Steven, and the boy did not\n correct him again. \"You have to learn to live with other people, to\n work and play with them, to know them, and the only way you can learn\n is by being with them. When you can't be with them personally, there's\n always television. That's how you learn, Stevie. You can't be by\n yourself.\"\n\n\n The boy looked up and said starkly, \"Never?\"\n\n\n The gleaming teeth showed. \"But why should you want to?\"\n\n\n Steven said, \"I don't know.\"\n\n\n The doctor said, slowly and with emphasis, \"Stevie, long before you\n were born the world was a very bad place. There were wars all the time.\n Do you know why?\"\n\n\n The boy shook his head.", "That night in the HYM dormitory Steven did not sleep. He lay quiet,\n tense, hoping for the relief of tears, but it did not come.\nSteven went to see Denise every day though after the first time she\n was not awake to know him. The doctors were keeping her under sedation\n until the head bandage could be removed. So far as Denise was to\n know, she had gone to the hospital simply for a rather protracted\n appendectomy. Looking at her, Steven knew that he could never leave\n her. He had loved her completely; he would love her now with as much of\n himself as she would need or understand.\n\n\n For a while he waited to be kindly questioned, to be thoroughly\n examined, to be tenderly given the shot in the arm and to awake like\n her, but nobody came. Denise had apparently said nothing about him.\n Some censor or other—perhaps it was the censor of love—had kept her\n from even saying his name.", "For a while Steven considered confessing to somebody that he was\n a—what?—an unacceptable member of society. Then they would make him\n like Denise. He shuddered. Did he really want to be like Denise? Some\n stubborn pride in him refused it.\n\n\n When Denise left the hospital for the hotel where she would stay until\n the wedding, Steven was more gentle with her than ever, kinder and\n more loving. He made her very happy. He made love to her again, and it\n was like loving a ghost—no, it was like loving a fine beautiful body\n without the ghost, without the spirit. He returned to the HYM to lie\n sleepless amid the breathings and mutterings of the other young men,\n turning restlessly in his bed, feeling oppressed, tormented, strung on\n wires.", "Steven was not happy in kiddie-garden. The enthusiasm the other kiddies\n showed for the lessons appalled him. The kiddies themselves appalled\n him. They joined so passionately in the group play, clutching each\n other with their hot moist hands, panting and grinning into each\n others' faces. They were always clutching and panting and grinning, in\n large noisy groups, with large community smiles. They confused him; he\n could not tell them apart. Steven retired to a corner and turned his\n back, and when they clutched and panted and grinned at him he hit them.", "Richard tried to comfort her. \"Never mind, Harry, he'll outgrow it.\"\nSteven did not outgrow it. When he became too big for the curly spoon\n and dish and cup he demanded a knife and fork and spoon from the bureau\n drawer and ate his meals from the plainest dish he could find. He ate\n them with his back stubbornly turned to the television set, away from\n the morning cartoons and the noontime Kiddies' Lunch Club and the\n evening Happy Clown.", "Richard said firmly, \"We'll take him to the clinic. They'll know what\n to do.\"\nThe first thing they did to Steven was to talk to him. The psychiatrist\n made him lie down on a foam rubber couch, kiddies' model, with the\n Happy Clown motif on the slip-cover, and said with a beaming face,\n \"Now, Stevie, what seems to be the trouble?\"\n\n\n The boy turned his head away from the psychiatrist's shining teeth and\n said, \"My name's not Stevie. It's Steven.\" He was a thin little boy,\n rather undersized. The baby fat had melted away fast when he began\n to be exposed to kiddie-garden. He had dark hair and big eyes and an\n uncommonly precise way of speaking for a child of five.", "If Steven had moments of bewilderment, of self-loathing, of despair,\n when the tears were real and the jaw muscles jumped to keep the mouth\n from screaming, no one in the Happy Young Men's dormitory where he\n slept ever knew it.", "He managed his life well enough. He had a few affairs with girls, it\n was expected of one, and he did not have to work very hard at it since\n they always threw themselves at him; and he got along well with other\n young men, who forgave him for being so handsome because he did not\n work at it except on camera; but he was lonely. Surrounded by people,\n intruded and trespassed upon, continually touched in ways other than\n physical, he was yet lonely.\nDuring his life he had met a few other nonconformists, shy, like him,\n wary of revealing themselves, but something always seemed to happen\n to them. Some were miserable being nonconformists and asked pitifully\n for the Steyner, some were detected, as Steven had been, and some\n were unfortunately surprised in hospitals. Under the anesthetic they\n sometimes talked, and then, if they were adults, they were immediately\n corrected by means of Steyner's lobotomy. It had been learned that\n adults did not respond to therapy.", "The psychiatrist said, \"Oh, but we're going to be friends, Stevie,\n and friends always use nicknames, don't they? My name's William, but\n everybody calls me Willie. You can call me Uncle Willie.\"\n\n\n The boy said politely, \"I'd rather not, please.\"\n\n\n The doctor was undismayed. \"I want to help you. You believe that, don't\n you, Stevie?\"\n\n\n The child said, \"Steven. Do I have to lie down?\"\n\n\n The doctor said agreeably, \"It's more usual to lie down, but you may\n sit up if you want to. Why don't you like kiddie-garden, Steven?\"", "\"It was because people were different from each other, and didn't\n understand each other, and didn't know each other. They had to learn\n how to be alike, and understand, and know, so that they would be able\n to live together. They learned in many ways, Stevie. One way was by\n visiting each other—you've heard about the visitors who come from—\"\n\n\n Steven said, \"You mean the Happy Tours.\"\n\n\n \"Yes. When you're twelve years old you can go on a Happy Tour. Won't\n that be fun?\"\n\n\n Steven said, \"If I could go alone.\"\n\n\n The doctor looked at him sharply. \"But you can't. Try to understand,\n Stevie, you can't. Now tell me—why don't you like to be with other\n people?\"\n\n\n Steven said, \"All the time—not all the\ntime\n.\"\n\n\n The doctor repeated patiently, \"Why?\"", "They were pleased with him at the clinic and after a few months\n discharged him. By the time Steven was twelve and had made the Happy\n Tour and joined the Happy Scouts and had a happy affair, involving\n experimentation, with a neighbor's daughter, Harriet and Richard ceased\n to worry about him. If sometimes he felt so tightly strung-up that a\n storm of tears was his only relief, he kept the tears quiet.\nHe was graduated from high school at sixteen and from college at\n twenty, having read all he could of the silent books in the scant high\n school library and the more ample university one, and having wisely\n elected to appear more stupid than he was. Even his I.Q. was now\n judged to be only slightly above normal. He left college with honors,", "But, around the studios Steven was dead. Steyner or no Steyner—and\n of course that part of it was never openly discussed—sponsors had\n long memories, and the consensus seemed to be that it was best to\n let sleeping sheep lie. Steven did not care. He no longer had any\n particular desire to be an actor.\n\n\n Steven went to work in his father's supermarket and was happy among\n the shelves of Oatsies and Cornsies and Jellsies. He got over Denise\n after a while and met a girl named Frances—Franny—whom he loved and\n who loved him. They were married in the summer and had a little house\n with as much furniture in it as they could afford. The first thing they\n bought was a television set. After all, as Stevie said, he would not\n want to miss the Happy Clown.", "His parents thought it was very cunning of him to look at the printing\n like that, so wisely, as if he could read it! He said once to Harriet,\n \"I can read it,\" but she said, \"Oh, Stevie, you're teasing Mumsie!\"\n and looked so frightened at this fresh peculiarity that the child said\n gravely, \"Yes, teasing.\" He wished he had a silent book. He knew there\n were such things, but there were none at home. There were few silent\n books anywhere. There were none in kiddie-garden.", "This year Steven cried, \"Ma!\" stretching out his hands toward the\n silver and uttering a string of determined sounds which were perfectly\n clear to his mother. She smiled at him lovingly but shook her head.\n \"No, Stevie. Mumsie's precious baby doesn't want those nasty old\n things, no he doesn't! Play with your Happy Clown, sweetheart.\"\n\n\n Steven's face got red, and he squeezed his eyes shut, opened his mouth\n and howled until his mother passed him the dish and cup and curly\n spoon to play with. At meal-time he would not be parted from them, and\n Harriet had to put away the plastic dish and spoon. Thereafter, for the\n sake of the container, he tolerated the thing contained, and thrived\n and grew fat.", "He took her to meet his family—Denise's family lived three thousand\n miles away—and she behaved with such perfect decorum and charm that\n Richard and Harriet were delighted and as eager as Steven for the\n wedding. Steven had agreed reluctantly to put it off until Denise\n had a chance to introduce him to her parents; they were coming East\n at Christmas. She laughed over it and said, \"I'm being terribly\n conventional, darling, but that's one convention I like.\"\nWhile they waited, Steven's agent secured a really unprecedented\n opportunity for so young and relatively untried an actor. The current\n Happy Clown was unhappily retiring, by reason of age and infirmity, and\n Steven's agent arranged a tryout for the part. He said, \"Give it all\n you got, kid; it's the chance of the century.\"" ], [ "The Happy Clown had been an American institution for thirty years. He\n was on television for an hour every night at dinner time, with puppets\n and movies and live singers and dancers and his own inimitable brand\n of philosophy and humor. Everybody loved the Happy Clown. He had been\n several different actors in thirty years, but his makeup never changed:\n the beaming face drawn in vivid colors, the rotund body that shook when\n he laughed like a bowlful of Jellsies, and the chuckling infectious\n laugh. The Happy Clown was always so cheerful and folksy and sincere.\n He believed passionately in all the products he instructed his viewers\n to buy, and one was entirely certain that he used them all himself.", "He rehearsed feverishly for the part of the Happy Clown, and because he\n was a fine craftsman and a conscientious artist he continued to give\n it all he had. The sponsors were pleased. A week before Christmas the\n current Happy Clown retired and hobbled off to a nursing home. There\n was no fanfare—the public was not to realize that the Happy Clown was\n mortal—and Steven took over with no visible change. For five days he\n played the part to perfection.\n\n\n On the sixth day he performed as usual, perhaps a little better. His\n commercials had a special fervor, and the sponsors exchanged happy\n glances. Denise was sitting in the booth with them; she smiled at\n Steven lovingly through the glass.", "The Happy Clown incident had passed off well—immediately after\n it occurred, a powerful battery of comedians, including the Jolly\n Kitten and the Dancing Dogsie, forgetting rivalries to rally 'round\n in a crisis, went on the air to insure that it passed off well. They\n made certain that every viewer should regard the whole thing as a\n tremendously funny if rather mystifying joke. The viewers fell in with\n this opinion easily and laughed about the sheep joke a good deal,\n admiring the Happy Clown's sense of humor—a little sharp, to be sure,\n not so folksy and down-to-earth as usual, but the Happy Clown could do\n no wrong. They said to each other, \"He laughed till he cried, did you\n notice? So did I!\" For a while teenagers addressed each other as, \"Hi,\n sheep!\" (girls were, \"Hi, lamb!\"), and a novelty company in Des Moines\n made a quick killing with scatter pins fashioned like sheep and/or\n lambs.", "Steven said, \"Sure, Joey,\" and allowed his sensitive face to register\n all the proper emotions. Actually his emotions were, in the vernacular\n of a previous century, mixed. He loathed the whole concept of the Happy\n Clown—but there was money in it, and Steven was not rebel enough to\n despise money. With money he could retire early, go away somewhere with\n Denise, to some country place where they could be relatively free of\n pressure.\n\n\n Over staggering competition he got the part. He called Denise up at\n once from a booth at the studio to tell her. Polly answered the phone,\n looking pale and frightened over the viewer, and said rapidly, \"Oh,\n Stevie, I've been trying to get you for an hour. Denny's sick. They\n took her to the hospital!\"\n\n\n Steven sat back against the hard wall of the booth, feeling cold, the\n receiver slack in his hand. He said, \"What's the matter with her? Which\n hospital?\"", "The Happy Clown\nBY ALICE ELEANOR JONES\nThis was a century of peace, plethora and\n \nperfection, and little Steven was a misfit,\n \na nonconformist, who hated perfection.\n \nHe had to learn the hard way....\n[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from\n\n Worlds of If Science Fiction, December 1955.\n\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\n\n the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\nSteven Russell was born a misfit, a nonconformist, and for the first\n five years of his life he made himself and his parents extremely\n unhappy. The twenty-first century was perfect, and this inexplicable\n child did not like perfection.", "He gave one much more than advertising, though. Some of his nightly\n gems of wisdom (he called them nuggets) were really wonderful; they\n made one think. A favorite nugget, which people were always writing\n in and asking him to repeat, went like this: \"We're all alike inside,\n folks, and we ought to be all alike outside.\" The Happy Clown's\n viewers were not children and adults, they were kiddies and folks.\n\n\n After the Happy Clown went off the air the happy kiddies went to bed,\n to lie for a while looking at the Jolly Kitten and the Dancing Dogsie,\n until, lulled by the joggler, they went gently to sleep. After that\n came the cowboys and spacemen, carryovers for any happy kiddies with\n insomnia. For really meaty programs one had to stay up past ten.\n Then the spectaculars began, and the quiz shows, and the boxing and\n wrestling.", "Fortunately nobody heard the last three sentences. The paralyzed\n engineer had recovered in time to cut him off during the pause, and\n had signalled the stagehand to draw the curtain and the sound man to\n play the Happy Clown sign-off record—loud. Steven finished himself\n thoroughly, however, by repeating the same sentiments, with some others\n he happened to think of, to Denise and the sponsors, when they all came\n pouring out of the booth. Then he collapsed.\nSteven's Steyner was a complete success. He recovered from it a\n subdued, agreeable and thoroughly conventional young man, who had the\n impression that he had suffered a nervous breakdown. He was discharged\n from the Happy Hour at the end of January, innocently leaving behind", "popularity and a reputation as an actor. He took the lead in all the\n dramatic club plays, having particular success in the reproduction\n of a Happy Clown program. Steven, of course, was the Happy Clown. He\n enrolled at once in the New York School of Television Arts, and his\n mother cried when he left home to live in the School dormitory.", "He took her to meet his family—Denise's family lived three thousand\n miles away—and she behaved with such perfect decorum and charm that\n Richard and Harriet were delighted and as eager as Steven for the\n wedding. Steven had agreed reluctantly to put it off until Denise\n had a chance to introduce him to her parents; they were coming East\n at Christmas. She laughed over it and said, \"I'm being terribly\n conventional, darling, but that's one convention I like.\"\nWhile they waited, Steven's agent secured a really unprecedented\n opportunity for so young and relatively untried an actor. The current\n Happy Clown was unhappily retiring, by reason of age and infirmity, and\n Steven's agent arranged a tryout for the part. He said, \"Give it all\n you got, kid; it's the chance of the century.\"", "He said, \"Are you all happy? You are, aren't you?—everybody's happy,\n because you're all sheep! All sheep, in a nice safe pasture. All\n alike—you eat alike and dress alike and think alike. If any of you has\n an original thought you'd better suppress it, or they'll cut it out of\n you with a knife.\" He leaned forward and made a horrible face at the\n camera. Under the jolly makeup and the artful padding, his mouth was\n shockingly twisted, and tears were running out of his eyes. \"A long\n sharp knife, folks!\" He paused momentarily to recover his voice, which\n had begun to shake. \"Go on being happy, go on being sheep. Wear the\n clothesies, and eat the foodsies, and don't dare think! Me—I'd rather\n be dead, and damned, and in hell!\"", "But, around the studios Steven was dead. Steyner or no Steyner—and\n of course that part of it was never openly discussed—sponsors had\n long memories, and the consensus seemed to be that it was best to\n let sleeping sheep lie. Steven did not care. He no longer had any\n particular desire to be an actor.\n\n\n Steven went to work in his father's supermarket and was happy among\n the shelves of Oatsies and Cornsies and Jellsies. He got over Denise\n after a while and met a girl named Frances—Franny—whom he loved and\n who loved him. They were married in the summer and had a little house\n with as much furniture in it as they could afford. The first thing they\n bought was a television set. After all, as Stevie said, he would not\n want to miss the Happy Clown.", "Steven did not like his Rockabye Crib, that joggled him gently and sang\n him songs about the Happy Clown all night long; and he howled until\n they turned it off. He was a clean boy, and to his mother's amazement\n trained himself to be dry day and night by the age of fourteen months,\n without the aid of the Singing Toidey or the Happy Clown Alarm; so she\n bought him a Little Folks Youth Bed, with a built-in joggler, and Happy\n Clowns on the corners, and a television set in the footboard. It was a\n smaller copy of his parents' bed, even to the Happy Clowns. Steven did\n not like that either, and if his parents persisted in turning the bed\n on after he had learned to turn it off, he climbed out and slept on the\n floor.\nHarriet said worriedly to her husband, \"I don't know what could be the\n matter with him. Dickie, he's peculiar!\"", "Steven did not like the Happy Clown or the Jolly Kitten or the\n Dancing Dogsie. Sometimes he began to grow interested in the cowboys\n or spacemen, but when they stopped in the middle of an adventure to\n talk about how they could not possibly rope the steers or shoot the\n asteroids without a good breakfast of Cornsies and Choko-Milko, which\n everybody ate, just everybody, Steven climbed out of bed and slept on\n the floor.\n\n\n Steven did not like the records or the talking books, and when he went\n to kiddie-garden he viewed the televised lessons with a cold eye. For\n some reason which he could not have explained, he wanted to learn to\n read, but they would not teach him till he was seven, and so he taught\n himself, from the letters on the jarsies. But then there was nothing\n to read except the newspapers and the magazines, which he puzzled over\n patiently, getting most of the words right after a while. The many\n advertisements were easiest; they used pictures and the simplest of\n language.", "Richard said firmly, \"We'll take him to the clinic. They'll know what\n to do.\"\nThe first thing they did to Steven was to talk to him. The psychiatrist\n made him lie down on a foam rubber couch, kiddies' model, with the\n Happy Clown motif on the slip-cover, and said with a beaming face,\n \"Now, Stevie, what seems to be the trouble?\"\n\n\n The boy turned his head away from the psychiatrist's shining teeth and\n said, \"My name's not Stevie. It's Steven.\" He was a thin little boy,\n rather undersized. The baby fat had melted away fast when he began\n to be exposed to kiddie-garden. He had dark hair and big eyes and an\n uncommonly precise way of speaking for a child of five.", "\"Ap-pendicitis. Happy Hour.\" Polly began to cry. \"Oh, Stevie, I feel\n so—\"\n\n\n \"I'll go right over.\" He cut her off abruptly and went.\n\n\n The doctors caught Denise's appendix in time to avoid the necessary but\n rarely fatal complications ... but under the anesthetic she talked,\n revealing enough about her opinion of television, and the Happy Clown\n cult, and the state of society in general, to cause her doctors to\n raise their eyebrows pityingly and perform the Steyner at once. While\n Steven sat unknowing in the waiting room, smoking a full pack of\n Marquis cigarettes, the thing was done.", "Denise was lost to him. The outburst in the studio, and the Steyner,\n and the loss of the Happy Clown part were cumulatively too much for\n her. She broke the engagement and was heard to say that Stevie Russell\n had proved himself an absolute fool. He was miserable over it, though\n he had only a hazy idea of what he had done or why Denny should\n suddenly be so unkind to him.", "They were pleased with him at the clinic and after a few months\n discharged him. By the time Steven was twelve and had made the Happy\n Tour and joined the Happy Scouts and had a happy affair, involving\n experimentation, with a neighbor's daughter, Harriet and Richard ceased\n to worry about him. If sometimes he felt so tightly strung-up that a\n storm of tears was his only relief, he kept the tears quiet.\nHe was graduated from high school at sixteen and from college at\n twenty, having read all he could of the silent books in the scant high\n school library and the more ample university one, and having wisely\n elected to appear more stupid than he was. Even his I.Q. was now\n judged to be only slightly above normal. He left college with honors,", "Being, as the Director had said, a brilliant kiddie, Steven soon\n understood much of what was kept from him. It did not take him long\n to learn what was making his Dadsie look stern and white and what was\n making his Mumsie cry. He loved his parents and did not want them to be\n unhappy, and he certainly did not want to have his head cut open, and\n so he began to act. Even at five, Steven discovered in himself a fine\n talent for acting. He began to conform, to adjust, to merge. He became\n social and cooperative and acquired the proper attitudes for successful\n community living. He gave up the old silver voluntarily, he accepted\n the Youth Bed, he looked at the Happy Clown, and he did much better in\n kiddie-garden. He even joined in the group experimentation and was not\n sick any more, though he could not keep himself from losing color.", "This year Steven cried, \"Ma!\" stretching out his hands toward the\n silver and uttering a string of determined sounds which were perfectly\n clear to his mother. She smiled at him lovingly but shook her head.\n \"No, Stevie. Mumsie's precious baby doesn't want those nasty old\n things, no he doesn't! Play with your Happy Clown, sweetheart.\"\n\n\n Steven's face got red, and he squeezed his eyes shut, opened his mouth\n and howled until his mother passed him the dish and cup and curly\n spoon to play with. At meal-time he would not be parted from them, and\n Harriet had to put away the plastic dish and spoon. Thereafter, for the\n sake of the container, he tolerated the thing contained, and thrived\n and grew fat.", "\"The Happy Life\" recounted the trials of a young physician, too\n beautiful for his own good, who became involved in endless romantic\n complications. Steven was given the lead, the preceding actor having\n moved up to a job as understudy for the Jolly Kitten, and was an\n immediate success. For one thing he looked the part. He was singularly\n handsome in a lean dark-browed way and did not need flattering makeup\n or special camera angles. He had a deep vibrant voice and perfect\n timing. He could say, \"Darling, this is tearing me to pieces!\" with\n precisely the right intonation, and let tears come into his magnificent\n eyes, and make his jaw muscles jump appealingly, and hold the pose\n easily for the five minutes between the ten-minute pitch for Marquis\n cigarettes which constituted one episode of \"The Happy Life.\" His fan\n mail was prodigious." ] ]

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